"We had a very large turnout from the 2 neighborhoods and almost everyone who spoke was positive. We left feeling that we made a favorable impression on the committee," reports Paula Paterniti, Fiske-Terrace Association Co-President. Although as yet there is no official word as to when the Landmarks Preservation Commission's final ruling will be made regarding granting of the historic status to the Fiske Terrace and Midwood Park neighborhoods, the community hopes that the LPC will release a decision "before the summer," said Ms. Paterniti.
But it would appear that major steps in the landmark designation application and review process have now been completed through the dedicated efforts of the Fiske Terrace Association and Midwood Park Homeowners Association and other public officials and members of the community, and it is now up to the LPC to deliberate and render a decision.
The event was covered on Cablevision's News 12 Wednesday night.
In a related item, Borough President Marty Markowitz will present a proclamation celebrating the 100th anniversary of Fiske Terrace Association to community members at a special Brooklyn Borough Hall celebration next week.
--Brooklyn Beat
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Coda: Norman Mailer in Hospital After Surgery
As a follow up to Deep in the Heart of Brooklyn's recent post on Norman Mailer, wire reports :
" Norman Mailer is recovering in a hospital after surgery to remove scar tissue around his lung, his daughter-in-law said Wednesday (10-17-07).
"He's been getting better every time I see him," Salina Mailer said. She didn't recall the date of the operation at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.
Mailer, 84, gained instant literary acclaim with his first book, "The Naked and the Dead," published in 1948 and based in part on his experience as an Army infantryman in the Philippines.
Mailer, 84, gained instant literary acclaim with his first book, "The Naked and the Dead," published in 1948 and based in part on his experience as an Army infantryman in the Philippines.
He won Pulitzer Prizes for "The Armies of the Night" and "The Executioner's Song." His latest book, "The Castle in the Forest," was published this year."
Monday, October 15, 2007
Is Proposed Landmarking of Fiske Terrace - Midwood Park Nigh ? ; LPC Public Meeting Scheduled for Tuesday, October 16
On Tuesday, October 16, the NYC Landmarks Preservation Commission (LPC) will hold a public hearing to review the Proposal for the Landmarking of the Fiske Terrace- Midwood Park neighborhood in Flatbush. Interested residents are invited to attend the public hearing at the LPC's headquarters in the Manhattan Municipal Building, One Centre Street, 9th floor at Chamber and Centre Streets. (The scheduled hearings begin at 9:30 AM)Fiske Terrace - Midwood Park is a unique, wooded suburban neighborhood within the predominently urban Brooklyn environment, with detached single family Victorian homes built around 1905-1906. Fiske Terrace runs from the Q train subway line to Ocean Avenue, between Avenue H and Glenwood Road. Midwood Park is adjacent, bordered by the Q train on the west, Glenwood Road on the south, Ocean Avenue on the east and Foster Avenue on the north. The two neighborhoods were developed as suburban communities.
The Historic Districts Council http://www.hdc.org/neighborhoodatriskmidwoodfiske.htm gives further detail on this unique historic area: At the turn of the 20th century, a number of real estate developers purchased large tracts of farmland and woods near the sleepy market town of Flatbush, Brooklyn, and began to develop a suburban oasis affording wide lawns and spacious Victorian houses at a convenient distance from the City. The historic neighborhoods of Flatbush retain to a remarkable degree their integrity as early 20th-century suburban developments more than 100 years later.
Midwood Park was constructed by developer John Corbin in the first decade of the 20th-century on what had previously been farmland. The houses were built using Corbin’s method of standardized construction. Buyers could choose from thirty distinct models, but uniform construction techniques, materials and assembly methods were employed to minimize cost and boost efficiency. The wood-shingled houses are relatively grand: set back from the street on large lawns, they have open porches and rich interior detailing in the style of the time. The streets have a landscaped median and are lined with mature trees. The neighborhood must have represented a striking alternative to city living. Midwood Park has undergone few inappropriate alterations. It remains a unified, coherent and harmonious suburban neighborhood in an urban context. The Midwood Park Homeowners Association is advocating in consultation with the Historic Districts Council for historic district designation for the neighborhood.The adjacent Fiske Terrace features more elegant houses but retains an intimate sense of place through its historical integrity. In 1905, T. B. Ackerson Company purchased a densely wooded tract of land and immediately cleared it, laid out streets and installed underground water, sewer, gas and electric lines. Eighteen months later, the former Fiske estate had been transformed by some 150 custom-built, detached, three-story suburban houses with heavy oak ornamental mantels, staircases, beamed ceilings and built-in bookcases, ornately bordered parquet floors and elaborate cabinetry. A landscaped median and hundreds of street trees planted at the time of development continue to contribute to the idyllic feeling of the neighborhood -- Historic Districts Council
Recent articles in the NY Times and local papers, which included interviews with Fred Baer, former Fiske Terrace Association president, who has helped to shepard this proposal through the Landmark Preservations Commission's Review process, indicates that very strong support from area residents and public officials suggest that the LPC may support a favorable decision on the application for historic-area designation. The Commission sent letters to area residents (including Brooklyn Beat) in August regarding the placement of the proposal on the Commission's calendar in September. The calendaring of the public hearing last month and the actual public hearing tomorrow are important steps toward designation. Fiske Terrace will mark its official centennial this year.
--Brooklyn Beat
This item also appeared in www.Onlytheblogknowsbrooklyn.com
The Historic Districts Council http://www.hdc.org/neighborhoodatriskmidwoodfiske.htm gives further detail on this unique historic area: At the turn of the 20th century, a number of real estate developers purchased large tracts of farmland and woods near the sleepy market town of Flatbush, Brooklyn, and began to develop a suburban oasis affording wide lawns and spacious Victorian houses at a convenient distance from the City. The historic neighborhoods of Flatbush retain to a remarkable degree their integrity as early 20th-century suburban developments more than 100 years later.
Midwood Park was constructed by developer John Corbin in the first decade of the 20th-century on what had previously been farmland. The houses were built using Corbin’s method of standardized construction. Buyers could choose from thirty distinct models, but uniform construction techniques, materials and assembly methods were employed to minimize cost and boost efficiency. The wood-shingled houses are relatively grand: set back from the street on large lawns, they have open porches and rich interior detailing in the style of the time. The streets have a landscaped median and are lined with mature trees. The neighborhood must have represented a striking alternative to city living. Midwood Park has undergone few inappropriate alterations. It remains a unified, coherent and harmonious suburban neighborhood in an urban context. The Midwood Park Homeowners Association is advocating in consultation with the Historic Districts Council for historic district designation for the neighborhood.The adjacent Fiske Terrace features more elegant houses but retains an intimate sense of place through its historical integrity. In 1905, T. B. Ackerson Company purchased a densely wooded tract of land and immediately cleared it, laid out streets and installed underground water, sewer, gas and electric lines. Eighteen months later, the former Fiske estate had been transformed by some 150 custom-built, detached, three-story suburban houses with heavy oak ornamental mantels, staircases, beamed ceilings and built-in bookcases, ornately bordered parquet floors and elaborate cabinetry. A landscaped median and hundreds of street trees planted at the time of development continue to contribute to the idyllic feeling of the neighborhood -- Historic Districts Council
Recent articles in the NY Times and local papers, which included interviews with Fred Baer, former Fiske Terrace Association president, who has helped to shepard this proposal through the Landmark Preservations Commission's Review process, indicates that very strong support from area residents and public officials suggest that the LPC may support a favorable decision on the application for historic-area designation. The Commission sent letters to area residents (including Brooklyn Beat) in August regarding the placement of the proposal on the Commission's calendar in September. The calendaring of the public hearing last month and the actual public hearing tomorrow are important steps toward designation. Fiske Terrace will mark its official centennial this year.
--Brooklyn Beat
This item also appeared in www.Onlytheblogknowsbrooklyn.com
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
You Gotta Serve Somebody: Norman Mailer on God, the Devil and the Human
This past summer I caught the film Maidstone, directed written and starring Brooklyn literary legend Norman Mailer. This film, http://imdb.com/title/tt0064625/ a genuine artifact of the era of Boomer Prime was released in 1970. Mailer stars as Norman T. Kingsley, a film director, author, and charismatic figure who decides to run for President of the United States. The film which appears loosely scripted, tosses in a lot of improvisation, most notably the conclusion. Rip Torn, who appears in the film as Kingsley's younger brother, approaches Mailer wildly as the film ends. Mailer is essentially using up remaining film after the actual film wrapped. Torn approaches Mailer and says that the film has no ending unless it includes the assasination of Kingsley. Torn proceeds to either break character -- or inhabit his character and himself or perhaps dive into some other unknown void--and attacks Mailer with a hammer in front of Mailer's wife and young children.
Mailer defends himself with a remarkable fury while wife and kids panic and weep in the background. Mind you, all of this appears on film. Mailer reputedly nearly bit Torn's ear off during the tussle. When they finally stop fighting, Torn says "You know I had to do that".
The film itself mixes the real and the surreal, reflecting Mailer's ability to let it all hang out on film and get others to do the same. There is somethng of Warhol's Factory or a John Cassavettes project to the film, but it is radically different than either of these as Mailer proceeds to let us wonder if he is Mailer the Megalomaniac or just (to borrow his term) The Whitest Negro on the block. The fact that Mailer would include the fight footage at the end, which is bizarre and riveting, suggests that he had found, amid all the character play and posturing, a nugget of the Real for which he appears always on the search.
His fearless, public battles with the feminist movement of the 70s, seemed so retro, out of touch and unreal at the time (kind of like Jack Kerouac, approaching his later years, ranting on about evil hippies and the like). But in retrospect, Norman Mailer was always doing battle against what he appeared to view as the moderating, suffocating, plasticizing, and corporatizing social forces that, through politics and consumerist culture seem to work so hard to rob us of our individuality and humanity. Certainly, there would be a shortsidedness to say that women should not have the same freedoms as men. I think what Mailer railed against were the political forces of feminism that he saw as threatening to dictate the behaviors of men through political correctness and the like. Mailer's vision I think was for a freer society for everyone, not necessarily a more polite, restrained or civil society. Women themselves would have to judge all of the gains (and perhaps losses) that may have resulted from the feminist movement. For instance, in The Prisoner of Sex (1971) Mailer ponders the unacceptability of a marriage agreement which dictated his required chores and housekeeping duties. Clearly, he is Norman Mailer and in his view, Mailer's work is too important and supersedes any chores or tasks that a relationship might impose. I don't know the answer but for example would feminist theorists Kate Millett or Shulamith Firestone, or artist Judy Chicago, or writer Germaine Greer, in whatever relationships they were engaged, agree to drop everything to do the dishes for equality's sake, or was the assumption that their work was too valuable for the Movement to suffer the distraction?
Anyway, the point of all of the above, besides declaring my lifelong literary interest in that rough and tumble genius, that beautiful literary stylist and essayist (his last novel, Castle in the Forest was a mysterious work of fiction and a relentless page turner), that sometimes ludicrous, wife-stabbing, wannabe Mayor of New York, whose appearance on the Dick Cavett show in which he argued and fought with Gore Vidal was a legendary moment of the Broadcast TV era, the point is that they don't come any more complicated or contradictory than Norman Mailer.
Mailer is approaching 85, so it is remarkable that although his extra-literary exploits appear on the wain, he remains a fascinating, engaging writer. So, it is no surprise that, this week, New York Magazine published an excerpt from Mailer's forthcoming book on God. http://nymag.com/news/features/38961/ Mailer , in a long form dialogue with Michael Lennon observes many mysteries and contradictions as he speculates on God, the Devil, and humanity. Mailer recasts it all in some form of his own philsophy. The Devil is in the technology and the plastic. The Lord God Almighty may be both unknowable and at the same time not knowledgable about eveyone and everything happening in this Earthly domain. Like the artist she/he is, God may really need a good agent to pull all of the details together for her/him (on this note, Mailer doesn't judge).
I am looking for the book, as it presents another opportunity to experience, tussle with and savor the deep thoughts and fascinating prose of one of Brooklyn's -- and America's -- foremost writers.
---Brooklyn Beat
Mailer defends himself with a remarkable fury while wife and kids panic and weep in the background. Mind you, all of this appears on film. Mailer reputedly nearly bit Torn's ear off during the tussle. When they finally stop fighting, Torn says "You know I had to do that".
The film itself mixes the real and the surreal, reflecting Mailer's ability to let it all hang out on film and get others to do the same. There is somethng of Warhol's Factory or a John Cassavettes project to the film, but it is radically different than either of these as Mailer proceeds to let us wonder if he is Mailer the Megalomaniac or just (to borrow his term) The Whitest Negro on the block. The fact that Mailer would include the fight footage at the end, which is bizarre and riveting, suggests that he had found, amid all the character play and posturing, a nugget of the Real for which he appears always on the search.
His fearless, public battles with the feminist movement of the 70s, seemed so retro, out of touch and unreal at the time (kind of like Jack Kerouac, approaching his later years, ranting on about evil hippies and the like). But in retrospect, Norman Mailer was always doing battle against what he appeared to view as the moderating, suffocating, plasticizing, and corporatizing social forces that, through politics and consumerist culture seem to work so hard to rob us of our individuality and humanity. Certainly, there would be a shortsidedness to say that women should not have the same freedoms as men. I think what Mailer railed against were the political forces of feminism that he saw as threatening to dictate the behaviors of men through political correctness and the like. Mailer's vision I think was for a freer society for everyone, not necessarily a more polite, restrained or civil society. Women themselves would have to judge all of the gains (and perhaps losses) that may have resulted from the feminist movement. For instance, in The Prisoner of Sex (1971) Mailer ponders the unacceptability of a marriage agreement which dictated his required chores and housekeeping duties. Clearly, he is Norman Mailer and in his view, Mailer's work is too important and supersedes any chores or tasks that a relationship might impose. I don't know the answer but for example would feminist theorists Kate Millett or Shulamith Firestone, or artist Judy Chicago, or writer Germaine Greer, in whatever relationships they were engaged, agree to drop everything to do the dishes for equality's sake, or was the assumption that their work was too valuable for the Movement to suffer the distraction?
Anyway, the point of all of the above, besides declaring my lifelong literary interest in that rough and tumble genius, that beautiful literary stylist and essayist (his last novel, Castle in the Forest was a mysterious work of fiction and a relentless page turner), that sometimes ludicrous, wife-stabbing, wannabe Mayor of New York, whose appearance on the Dick Cavett show in which he argued and fought with Gore Vidal was a legendary moment of the Broadcast TV era, the point is that they don't come any more complicated or contradictory than Norman Mailer.
Mailer is approaching 85, so it is remarkable that although his extra-literary exploits appear on the wain, he remains a fascinating, engaging writer. So, it is no surprise that, this week, New York Magazine published an excerpt from Mailer's forthcoming book on God. http://nymag.com/news/features/38961/ Mailer , in a long form dialogue with Michael Lennon observes many mysteries and contradictions as he speculates on God, the Devil, and humanity. Mailer recasts it all in some form of his own philsophy. The Devil is in the technology and the plastic. The Lord God Almighty may be both unknowable and at the same time not knowledgable about eveyone and everything happening in this Earthly domain. Like the artist she/he is, God may really need a good agent to pull all of the details together for her/him (on this note, Mailer doesn't judge).
I am looking for the book, as it presents another opportunity to experience, tussle with and savor the deep thoughts and fascinating prose of one of Brooklyn's -- and America's -- foremost writers.
---Brooklyn Beat
Gentrifyin' Days: "Culture Wars as Housing Boom Generates Culture Clash"(Crains NY)
Very interesting article in Crain's New York (October 8-15) regarding gentrification fallout in Williamsburgh and Greenpoint which is leading luxury coop - real estate buying parents to opt out of the public schools. Culture clashes with existing school administrations and long-time community residents over more traditional educational philosophy focusing on penmanship, test prep, with, in the words of one gentrifying parent "no room for fun", leads those parents who can afford it to send their kids to private schools or charter schools (some involving one hour commutes for the kids).
To quote from the article in Crain's New York by Erik Engquist:
"When parents come in and say a school's not good enough for their children, it's a very sensitive issue," says Kate Yourke, an activist parent who moved to Williamsburg from the Upper West Side in 1985. "Parents are quite naive about the implications."
The may 2005 rezoning of northern Brooklyn by the Bloomberg administration and the City Council has triggered a boom of luxury apartment projects. In the next few years, tens of thousands of affluent residents will plunk themselves down in what has long been a poor, heavily ethnic area.
The schoolyard fights of the last two years point to uglier times ahead for the administration's most ambitious experiment with accelerated gentrification.
Consider what happened to Brooke Park, who led an effort to increase arts education at PS 84 in Williamsburg. "I was running for the school leadership team, and I got heckled by faculty at a meeting," she says. "The faculty was trying to push out parents they didn't want."
It worked: Ms. Parker and the others pulled their kids from the school.
When we lived in Clinton Hill in the early 90s, there was a movement by some gentrifyin' parents to establish a "Gifted Program" which some of the long-term residents identified as a program for white students within schools predominently of students of color. Some of the parents behind this who were white had actually lived in the community since the time they were Pratt Institute students, having bought and renovated their homes when Clinton Hill real estate could bought for a song. Still, the program never took off. As the realtor who showed us our home said in a singsong fashion when we asked about schools in Clinton Hill at the time: "Frie-nds!"
Well, the bottom line is that although Easy Money may have made the idea of gentrification a simpler process, more like "Monopoly" than the Game of Life, moving into established less affluent neighborhoods and finding common ground can be a complex, challenging issue. However obvious it should seem, Gentrifyers may not always be welcome since they drive up prices and can serve as an unwelcome cultural wedge .
Interesting also, a recent issue of New York magazine http://nymag.com/realestate/features/37656/index3.html dealing with the bursting of the real estate bubble, observed that "Hipster Brooklyn: Williamsburgh/Greenpoint" rated 7 our of 10 (with 10 being the worst) in terms of risk in loss of real estate value. One imagines that that can only create more tension. Brownstone Brooklyn and other more traditionally established areas in the borough seem to be retaining their value, but that may remain true of areas that are currently established...moving into areas where much of the appeal is speculative and in the dreams of future perfect may quickly lose steam. That will require real vision, patience and courage, a willingness to homestead and help build the community, not count on a quick flip.
The willingness to engage in this level and type of commitment will be the real test and the determining factor on the future of surreal estate in post-Bubble Brooklyn.
--Brooklyn Beat
To quote from the article in Crain's New York by Erik Engquist:
"When parents come in and say a school's not good enough for their children, it's a very sensitive issue," says Kate Yourke, an activist parent who moved to Williamsburg from the Upper West Side in 1985. "Parents are quite naive about the implications."
The may 2005 rezoning of northern Brooklyn by the Bloomberg administration and the City Council has triggered a boom of luxury apartment projects. In the next few years, tens of thousands of affluent residents will plunk themselves down in what has long been a poor, heavily ethnic area.
The schoolyard fights of the last two years point to uglier times ahead for the administration's most ambitious experiment with accelerated gentrification.
Consider what happened to Brooke Park, who led an effort to increase arts education at PS 84 in Williamsburg. "I was running for the school leadership team, and I got heckled by faculty at a meeting," she says. "The faculty was trying to push out parents they didn't want."
It worked: Ms. Parker and the others pulled their kids from the school.
When we lived in Clinton Hill in the early 90s, there was a movement by some gentrifyin' parents to establish a "Gifted Program" which some of the long-term residents identified as a program for white students within schools predominently of students of color. Some of the parents behind this who were white had actually lived in the community since the time they were Pratt Institute students, having bought and renovated their homes when Clinton Hill real estate could bought for a song. Still, the program never took off. As the realtor who showed us our home said in a singsong fashion when we asked about schools in Clinton Hill at the time: "Frie-nds!"
Well, the bottom line is that although Easy Money may have made the idea of gentrification a simpler process, more like "Monopoly" than the Game of Life, moving into established less affluent neighborhoods and finding common ground can be a complex, challenging issue. However obvious it should seem, Gentrifyers may not always be welcome since they drive up prices and can serve as an unwelcome cultural wedge .
Interesting also, a recent issue of New York magazine http://nymag.com/realestate/features/37656/index3.html dealing with the bursting of the real estate bubble, observed that "Hipster Brooklyn: Williamsburgh/Greenpoint" rated 7 our of 10 (with 10 being the worst) in terms of risk in loss of real estate value. One imagines that that can only create more tension. Brownstone Brooklyn and other more traditionally established areas in the borough seem to be retaining their value, but that may remain true of areas that are currently established...moving into areas where much of the appeal is speculative and in the dreams of future perfect may quickly lose steam. That will require real vision, patience and courage, a willingness to homestead and help build the community, not count on a quick flip.
The willingness to engage in this level and type of commitment will be the real test and the determining factor on the future of surreal estate in post-Bubble Brooklyn.
--Brooklyn Beat
Friday, October 5, 2007
Did He or Didn't He ? My Heroic Landsman or Johnny-Come-Lately
Well, I guess he did arrive at, explore, and exploit America, but whether my landsman, Cristofero Columbus, was actually the Numero Uno non-resident explorer to reach the continent, well, that is another story. As my kids have learned, Zheng, of the Far East, aka China, which, ironically was of course what C2 was looking for when he discovered/stumbled upon/dropped by America, may have been first, although of course there are folks who think the Vikings reached here before the first millennium.
An "amateur" British historian has some interesting insights into this issue:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1421_hypothesis
This historian's vision of a fleet of 800 Chinese ships circumnavigating the Earth 70 years before Columbus sailed is certainly cinematic, if nothing else.
And of course you can imagine where the People's Daily of Beijing weighs in on this:
http://english.peopledaily.com.cn/200203/06/eng20020306_91553.shtml
So, from Brooklyn, in anticipation of the Columbus Day Weekend, hasta la vista, baby.
--Brooklyn Beat
An "amateur" British historian has some interesting insights into this issue:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1421_hypothesis
This historian's vision of a fleet of 800 Chinese ships circumnavigating the Earth 70 years before Columbus sailed is certainly cinematic, if nothing else.
And of course you can imagine where the People's Daily of Beijing weighs in on this:
http://english.peopledaily.com.cn/200203/06/eng20020306_91553.shtml
So, from Brooklyn, in anticipation of the Columbus Day Weekend, hasta la vista, baby.
--Brooklyn Beat
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Histoire Antique Pour Le Garçon D'anniversaire
I wish I could say I was born in a log cabin in the wilderness, but in truth, I was born 53 years ago today in Samaritan Hospital on President Street between 6th and 7th avenues, which, in that best Brownstone Brooklyn style, is now a cooperative apartment building. There is nothing remarkable about the passages of time marked by commercial and real estate changes in a community. More just the memory of 7th avenue and Park Slope in general in the 60s and 70s. I remember making a pilgrimage as a kid from Windsor Terrace where I lived with my family to see for my own eyes the Community Bookstore. I remember Bohacks and the furrier on 7th, but to me, I seem to recall a lot of non-descript stores and perhaps empty storefronts and I have always associated Community Books as one of the seeds that germinated to help establish Park Slope's 7th avenue as the mighty economic engine that it is today. Never underestimate the power of the arts, books and knowledge. My memory may be faulty, but I also seem to remember Back to the Land when it was a little organic/natural foods restaurant. Did it morph into a natural foods grocery ?
Well, it is my birthday, and as long as I can post and dream and continue to look forward to the future, I will just say --
Speak, memory.
--Brooklyn Beat
Well, it is my birthday, and as long as I can post and dream and continue to look forward to the future, I will just say --
Speak, memory.
--Brooklyn Beat
Friday, September 28, 2007
Bob Dylan & Jack White in Nashville: Meet Me in the Morning
Since weekend is here, I will trot out my obsessions, kick back and listen to Jack White of the White Stripes joining Bob Dylan on stage in Nashville to perform "Meet Me In the Morning" (Blood on the Tracks: 'look at the sun/sinking like a ship'); "One More Cup of Coffee for the Road" (Desire: The Pentateuch meets Sergio Leone: 'daddy he's an outlaw and a wanderer by trade') and "Outlaw Blues" (Bringing It All Back Home: 'I got a woman in Jackson/I ain't gone say her name') also recorded live hopefully soon to come..
http://fuelfriends.blogspot.com/2007/09/jack-white-wants-to-meet-you-and-bob-in.html
http://fuelfriends.blogspot.com/2007/09/jack-white-wants-to-meet-you-and-bob-in.html
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Wandering Stranger of Schermerhorn Street
He is a wandering stranger and here he is (once again) on Schermerhorn Street. If you want to get a sense of the NYC economy, visit Schermerhorn Street in downtown Brooklyn. The food stamp offices, the welfare offices, the unemployment offices, they all have their lines, their ennui, and their quiet desperation that spills onto the streets everyday. Until recently, a homeless shelter was there also, built under the parking garage on Bond Street. I have been passing through that neighborhood on foot for several years on my way to work in the Heights. Since last spring, I noticed a number of homeless folks camped outside along the side of the garage on Schermerhorn Street, sleeping on broken office furniture, with sleeping bags, rolling suitcases, some who looked as though they had lived on the streets for awhile, others who seemed new to that existence. I read recently that the homeless shelter, I think this one, had been closed. Suddenly, the homeless folks were once again gone.
This week however, the wandering stranger was back. I have seen him camped out, surrounded by a mass of ripped black trashbags with his possessions, sitting on the sidewalk, gazing off into space, or into mysterious universes that most of us will never see. Unlike even the most scruffy of the usual homeless crew on Schermerhorn Street, the wandering stranger inhabits another place altogether. He is incredibly unkempt and filthy. His hair black, matted, skin filthy through ripped clothes. I have seen him over and over again for the past several years. He must travel around the borough, or the city, perhaps the planet. Eventually making his way back to Schermerhorn Street, never bathing or changing his torn clothes. Carrying the same gear, only more tattered than the last time, looking like he is sitting in a pile of trash but actually surrounded by what seem to be his earthly possessions.
He is like a mountain man, surviving, he finds a spot. Once he returns, he will seem rooted to the same spot until he disappears and, hopefully for him, returns again. This time I wondered, is he was waiting for the homeless shelter to reopen ? Each time, in the early morning or evenings, he sits, barely moving, his back to the canyon of new coops and luxury rentals that have popped up on the other side of the street since his last visit, a season or two ago. He doesn't beg and avoids the glances of passersby, as we avoid him. As I passed yesterday, a man was berating the wandering stranger, how he is a disgrace, what is wrong with him, etc. He took no notice. Perhaps he is mentally ill, or perhaps he inhabits a place beyond the material, beyond the need for home or clean, comfortable clothes. Does he feel free, like Jeremiah Johnson, like a mountain man? Existentially free? Pitying us poor fools with our office-cubicle prisons or welfare humiliations? It is certainly beyond my ability to tell. But meanwhile he will remain rooted to his spot, with his trash and his visions, until it is time for him to move on again.
--Brooklyn Beat
This week however, the wandering stranger was back. I have seen him camped out, surrounded by a mass of ripped black trashbags with his possessions, sitting on the sidewalk, gazing off into space, or into mysterious universes that most of us will never see. Unlike even the most scruffy of the usual homeless crew on Schermerhorn Street, the wandering stranger inhabits another place altogether. He is incredibly unkempt and filthy. His hair black, matted, skin filthy through ripped clothes. I have seen him over and over again for the past several years. He must travel around the borough, or the city, perhaps the planet. Eventually making his way back to Schermerhorn Street, never bathing or changing his torn clothes. Carrying the same gear, only more tattered than the last time, looking like he is sitting in a pile of trash but actually surrounded by what seem to be his earthly possessions.
He is like a mountain man, surviving, he finds a spot. Once he returns, he will seem rooted to the same spot until he disappears and, hopefully for him, returns again. This time I wondered, is he was waiting for the homeless shelter to reopen ? Each time, in the early morning or evenings, he sits, barely moving, his back to the canyon of new coops and luxury rentals that have popped up on the other side of the street since his last visit, a season or two ago. He doesn't beg and avoids the glances of passersby, as we avoid him. As I passed yesterday, a man was berating the wandering stranger, how he is a disgrace, what is wrong with him, etc. He took no notice. Perhaps he is mentally ill, or perhaps he inhabits a place beyond the material, beyond the need for home or clean, comfortable clothes. Does he feel free, like Jeremiah Johnson, like a mountain man? Existentially free? Pitying us poor fools with our office-cubicle prisons or welfare humiliations? It is certainly beyond my ability to tell. But meanwhile he will remain rooted to his spot, with his trash and his visions, until it is time for him to move on again.
--Brooklyn Beat
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
"A Cup of Tea and a Think"
Connecticut Muffins, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, Ozzies, Vox Pop, the Tea Lounge. They all pass as places where you can get a cup of something caffeine, and a little nibble or nosh while you read the paper or plug in your notebook. And of course a place to see and be seen. But none seem to compare to the sheer earthy goodness portrayed in this web site by Brit Russell Davies, that positively glorifies the tea and sandwich-chip shop that seem to say "This is England" ...http://russelldavies.typepad.com/ateaandathink/
Maybe it is because I have been begun exercising again with a vengence and turning away from bread and desserts, but the charming and unpretentious ambience of these little restaurants and tea shops with their greasy foods, hearty teas, and humble comestibles seem to say "Here, you can relax and be yourself".... The above shop is on Marylebone Lane.
--Brooklyn Beat
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Coda: 9/11 -
Just a note: Interesting, how 9/11, by not becoming a public day of observance for the general public, has become a more private memorial -rememberance for the families of those who died. Which is of course reasonable since they have suffered the greatest losses. However, for the rest of us, I hope that we can see the Towers of Light this evening, weather permitting, since it is a certain kind of shared experience as 9/11 was a shared experience/ reaction. Strange how, for millions of us who were touched by the events of 9/11, most of us do not really observe it formally. We go to work, to school. Am I wrong or does even the Mayor seem to be pressing the idea of "Getting Beyond It"... But it seems to have so much personal meaning for most of us; even if it was only experienced through the media. Headlines around the world still reference it. And with due respect to all who observe all other holidays and memorial days, 9/11, although not an official holiday, seems to have more deeply felt personal meaning than say, Labor day, Columbus day, Veteran's Day, even Independence Day... perhaps the fact that it is not a public, official holiday gives it greater urgency or cogency....perhaps there is something about 9/11 that embodies all of these other holidays -- freedom, service, sacrifice, and the values and costs of liberty.
Even the Towers of Light suggest the Enlightenment..
en·light·en·ment Pronunciation: in-'lI-t&n-m&nt, en-Function: noun1 : the act or means of enlightening : the state of being enlightened : a philosophic movement of the 18th century marked by a rejection of traditional social, religious, and political ideas and an emphasis on rationalism
--Brooklyn Beat
9/11/07
Even the Towers of Light suggest the Enlightenment..
en·light·en·ment Pronunciation: in-'lI-t&n-m&nt, en-Function: noun1 : the act or means of enlightening : the state of being enlightened : a philosophic movement of the 18th century marked by a rejection of traditional social, religious, and political ideas and an emphasis on rationalism
--Brooklyn Beat
9/11/07
NEVER FORGET: Metaphors for Living: 9/11
8 years later. We never forget but the memory, and the pain, becomes slightly faded. Perhaps that is the blessing of the human condition. A colleague said the express bus that she takes through lower Manhattan was delayed today due to the 9/11 memorial. Our daughter, who attends high school in the Wall Street area was told to expect crowds on her way to school today. On 9/11, our older daughter, now a college senior, was in middle school on the West Side of Manhattan in sight of the World Trade Center. Time moves on. The NY Times published a story today about how NYC, which at first seemed irreparably damaged by the events of 9/11, in terms of NYFD casualties, changes in security, tourist fears, etc., has moved on and achieved a new normalcy of sorts. Is it better to remember or forget? I first posted this remembrance in 2007:
We had dropped our son, 11 years, and our daughters, who had just entered the first grade, at PS 321. Our older daughter had already left for her middle school in Chelsea, The Clinton School for Artists and Writers. My wife was driving as we headed down past the Gowanus; I was getting out near my office on Court Street; she was driving a little further to her school where she teaches. Somewhere, through the window, I heard two men on the street talking and one said something about a fire at the World Trade Center. As we drove a little further, that was when we first saw it, that iconographic image of a huge plume of smoke trailing out of the largest buildings in the world.We assumed, like everyone, that it was a fire, then heard on the radio that a jet plane had crashed into the Towers. We looked at each other dumbfounded. I remember in 1993, when the attempt had been made to bomb the WTC, I walked up to the Promenade in late afternoon, expecting to see some damage, smoke or shattered ruins attesting to a bombing attempt but in the cold winter day there had been nothing. Many of us assumed that it was a building that was too mighty, perhaps almost biblical in its proportions, simply too strong to be easily toppled.But here, with the first news, whatever had happened, here was a seriously damaged building. I thought about the plane that had slammed into the Empire State Building decades before, but the building had been virtually unfazed. How would they even begin to deal with what appeared to be an huge fire and the resulting damage? We drove a little further and couldn't see the WTC because of some trees but we heard another unmistakable boom. The radio told us that the second plane had hit the other tower. My wife said it first - it had to be intentional. Two planes could not accidentally smash into the World Trade Center within minutes of each other.My wife wisely said "maybe we should get the kids and go home" but I was operating within a sphere of unreality, as though this day, which would ultimately punch a gaping whole in the continuum of our lives, and which would forever demark a before and after in everyone's personal histories, was still just another day with a really insane blip in the news cycle. Plus, since it was the opening the school year, my wife's school was counting on her being there, and I had a lot going on at the office, it seemed as though the kids would be safe and OK at school. I was concerned about my older daughter, but her school was in Chelsea, a few miles north of the Trade Center. I got off on Clinton and Remsen and walked to my office. By the time I got there, it was already manifestly clear that this was the furthest thing imaginable from an ordinary day. I spoke to my wife who had arrived at her school. Shortly afterward, we spoke again, as the office building I work in was being evacuated and my wife was leaving school. I seem to remember a day where we were evacuating the building; there was some some pandemonium on the stairs, but a woman who had serious health problems and had difficulty walking, was hobbling downward slowly. Some people pushed and squeezed by. A couple of colleagues and I made our way down with her, making sure she arrived safely. How many times had this simple act of courtesy, nothing really to think about even, basic decency, been enacted in the smokey stairs of the WTC that day and in how many cases did a simple act of human kindness and decency prove fatal? Life is filled with mystery and wonder. Out on the street, people were already wearing masks, women on Court Street were in sneakers or out of their shoes, hurring through the streets, while the plume of smoke began to fill the air, traveling the short distance over the river. When my wife and I connected again in downtown Brooklyn, we learned that subways weren't operating. So we walked toward the Brooklyn Bridge where I planned to walk over to Manhattan to fetch my older daughter. Cell phones weren't working; I wasn't able to reach either school. Somehow I was able to exchange a text with my daughter to tell her I would get her as soon as I could. But when I got to the bridge, the NYPD were already telling people you could not cross to Manhattan. The masses of people trying to escape lower Manhattan were streaming over the bridge. We decided my daughter would be safe at school so we would pick up our younger kids and get them and my wife home, at which time I would figure out a way to cross back into Manhattan.We drove back to the Slope. I was still trying to reach my daughter's school by phone, but when I could find an available payphone, the school phone was busy. At other payphones on Seventh Avenue, long lines had already begun to form. I reached my mom, who is a master on "the horn" and asked her to keep trying to call the Clinton School from her home phone to find out where my daughter was waiting and let them know I would get there as soon as I could. I left my mom, who is a demon dialer in her own right, trying to reach the school and we went to 321.A lot of parents had already begun to appear at the office to fetch their kids. A couple of parents, desperate to be helpful, were making a list of kids and were about to release them to the parents who were there for them. I had a funny feeling about parents taking over what was the school's responsibility and sure enough, Liz Phillips appeared and said "What's going on?" She thanked the parents but announced firmly that no children would be released unless she or the 321 office staff confirmed who was there to fetch whom, which was very reassuring. Don't know why I remembered that anecdote.We got my son and younger daughters and brought them home to the relative calm of Flatbush. Nevertheless, the air was filled with the constant din of fire truck sirens and ambulance sirens. It was a sound I will never forget. The sound of calamity that I hope to never hear again in my lifetime. And as those of us with an affinity for remembering will recall, the alarum lasted for at least 24 hours or more, non stop. By the time we arrived home, my mother called to inform us that she had reached the school and my daughter had been picked up by a friends' mom and was at her home in Chelsea. I wasn't happy that I still did not know exactly where my daughter was but I trusted that she would be safe until we received further word.We turned on the news and began to watch the horrific iconography of the day unfold, the building, the smoke, the people leaping out of the buildings, the deaths, the huge dust cloud, the tragedy of the firemen and other rescuers lost. Finally, with tears of relief, we located my daughter when she called. Many of our neighbors gathered outside to talk and console. Around 3:00 PM I learned that the Q train was operating, so I decided to commence the operation to retrieve my daughter. Never in my long life as a New Yorker did taking the subway seem like such an odyssey, a journey into an unknown realm. I left my wife and kids with our neighbors and their kids on a blanket on the grass in front of our home; they were getting the kids McDonald's as a stab at normalcy.On the Q, when we exited the tunnel at Dekalb Avenue and started climbing the bridge, everyone in the subway car stood up as we could see the inferno, the absolute roaring fire maelstrom of the burning World Trade Center in the distance. I remember thinking "Should I take a camera?" and I didn't, feeling that my primary mission was retrieving my daughter. But personally, the image of the dense black smoke and intense burn of the Trade Center is forever etched in my mind's eye. It would not be too farfetched to say that there was something positively volcanic about the sight of the burning building in the distance, as though a fault had erupted and some intense steam and fire and brimstone from the bowels of the earth had been channelled to the surface.I debarked at Union Square and began to make my way north and west. My daughter was at a classmate's apartment on 28th and 7th avenue. When I arrived there were about a dozen girls hanging out, who this mom had wonderfully rescued from the boredom of waiting to be picked up at school. While there, I spoke to my wife and then my mother back in Brooklyn by phone. I knew the address was familiar. My mom has a cousin who lives in the same building. We managed to find her and check on her before my daughter and I embarked on the trek home.We went to one train station but it was closed. We walked further east but Union Square again had no trains running. The transit workers suggested we try West 4th Street. As we walked along the streets, the sky was filled with the huge plume of smoke. My ears rang with the desperate clamour of the rescue vehicles that would resound, non stop for what seemed like several days. There was virtually no traffic in the street except the occasional emergency vehicle.As we crossed Sixth Avenue, our faces were pelted with a fine mist of grit and dust blowing from the southern tip of Manhattan. I still don't want to think what was in that fine powder that we brushed from our faces and clothes. Miraculously, the F was running and we took it into Brooklyn to my old stop at 15th Street and Prospect Park West. A large crowd waited for the bus at Bartel Pritchard Square (or as we called it in days of the ancien regime, "The Circle"). A man saw me with my young daughter. I told him my daughter's story of the day and he kindly said his wife was picking him up, did we want a ride. We were so grateful that he drove us all the way home where we were greeted with an amazing amount of joy. After 9/11, at least for awhile the only pleasures were the simple pleasures. Coda: later that day, the first of the WTC debris incredibly blew across and made its way onto our lawn. My wife and I knew that nothing would be the same again, but why should it. Disaster, war, rumors of war, all the memory fragments of the day would fit together, eventually becoming just another metaphor for living.
Speak, memory.
--Brooklyn Beat 9/11/07
Posted by Brooklyn Beat
We had dropped our son, 11 years, and our daughters, who had just entered the first grade, at PS 321. Our older daughter had already left for her middle school in Chelsea, The Clinton School for Artists and Writers. My wife was driving as we headed down past the Gowanus; I was getting out near my office on Court Street; she was driving a little further to her school where she teaches. Somewhere, through the window, I heard two men on the street talking and one said something about a fire at the World Trade Center. As we drove a little further, that was when we first saw it, that iconographic image of a huge plume of smoke trailing out of the largest buildings in the world.We assumed, like everyone, that it was a fire, then heard on the radio that a jet plane had crashed into the Towers. We looked at each other dumbfounded. I remember in 1993, when the attempt had been made to bomb the WTC, I walked up to the Promenade in late afternoon, expecting to see some damage, smoke or shattered ruins attesting to a bombing attempt but in the cold winter day there had been nothing. Many of us assumed that it was a building that was too mighty, perhaps almost biblical in its proportions, simply too strong to be easily toppled.But here, with the first news, whatever had happened, here was a seriously damaged building. I thought about the plane that had slammed into the Empire State Building decades before, but the building had been virtually unfazed. How would they even begin to deal with what appeared to be an huge fire and the resulting damage? We drove a little further and couldn't see the WTC because of some trees but we heard another unmistakable boom. The radio told us that the second plane had hit the other tower. My wife said it first - it had to be intentional. Two planes could not accidentally smash into the World Trade Center within minutes of each other.My wife wisely said "maybe we should get the kids and go home" but I was operating within a sphere of unreality, as though this day, which would ultimately punch a gaping whole in the continuum of our lives, and which would forever demark a before and after in everyone's personal histories, was still just another day with a really insane blip in the news cycle. Plus, since it was the opening the school year, my wife's school was counting on her being there, and I had a lot going on at the office, it seemed as though the kids would be safe and OK at school. I was concerned about my older daughter, but her school was in Chelsea, a few miles north of the Trade Center. I got off on Clinton and Remsen and walked to my office. By the time I got there, it was already manifestly clear that this was the furthest thing imaginable from an ordinary day. I spoke to my wife who had arrived at her school. Shortly afterward, we spoke again, as the office building I work in was being evacuated and my wife was leaving school. I seem to remember a day where we were evacuating the building; there was some some pandemonium on the stairs, but a woman who had serious health problems and had difficulty walking, was hobbling downward slowly. Some people pushed and squeezed by. A couple of colleagues and I made our way down with her, making sure she arrived safely. How many times had this simple act of courtesy, nothing really to think about even, basic decency, been enacted in the smokey stairs of the WTC that day and in how many cases did a simple act of human kindness and decency prove fatal? Life is filled with mystery and wonder. Out on the street, people were already wearing masks, women on Court Street were in sneakers or out of their shoes, hurring through the streets, while the plume of smoke began to fill the air, traveling the short distance over the river. When my wife and I connected again in downtown Brooklyn, we learned that subways weren't operating. So we walked toward the Brooklyn Bridge where I planned to walk over to Manhattan to fetch my older daughter. Cell phones weren't working; I wasn't able to reach either school. Somehow I was able to exchange a text with my daughter to tell her I would get her as soon as I could. But when I got to the bridge, the NYPD were already telling people you could not cross to Manhattan. The masses of people trying to escape lower Manhattan were streaming over the bridge. We decided my daughter would be safe at school so we would pick up our younger kids and get them and my wife home, at which time I would figure out a way to cross back into Manhattan.We drove back to the Slope. I was still trying to reach my daughter's school by phone, but when I could find an available payphone, the school phone was busy. At other payphones on Seventh Avenue, long lines had already begun to form. I reached my mom, who is a master on "the horn" and asked her to keep trying to call the Clinton School from her home phone to find out where my daughter was waiting and let them know I would get there as soon as I could. I left my mom, who is a demon dialer in her own right, trying to reach the school and we went to 321.A lot of parents had already begun to appear at the office to fetch their kids. A couple of parents, desperate to be helpful, were making a list of kids and were about to release them to the parents who were there for them. I had a funny feeling about parents taking over what was the school's responsibility and sure enough, Liz Phillips appeared and said "What's going on?" She thanked the parents but announced firmly that no children would be released unless she or the 321 office staff confirmed who was there to fetch whom, which was very reassuring. Don't know why I remembered that anecdote.We got my son and younger daughters and brought them home to the relative calm of Flatbush. Nevertheless, the air was filled with the constant din of fire truck sirens and ambulance sirens. It was a sound I will never forget. The sound of calamity that I hope to never hear again in my lifetime. And as those of us with an affinity for remembering will recall, the alarum lasted for at least 24 hours or more, non stop. By the time we arrived home, my mother called to inform us that she had reached the school and my daughter had been picked up by a friends' mom and was at her home in Chelsea. I wasn't happy that I still did not know exactly where my daughter was but I trusted that she would be safe until we received further word.We turned on the news and began to watch the horrific iconography of the day unfold, the building, the smoke, the people leaping out of the buildings, the deaths, the huge dust cloud, the tragedy of the firemen and other rescuers lost. Finally, with tears of relief, we located my daughter when she called. Many of our neighbors gathered outside to talk and console. Around 3:00 PM I learned that the Q train was operating, so I decided to commence the operation to retrieve my daughter. Never in my long life as a New Yorker did taking the subway seem like such an odyssey, a journey into an unknown realm. I left my wife and kids with our neighbors and their kids on a blanket on the grass in front of our home; they were getting the kids McDonald's as a stab at normalcy.On the Q, when we exited the tunnel at Dekalb Avenue and started climbing the bridge, everyone in the subway car stood up as we could see the inferno, the absolute roaring fire maelstrom of the burning World Trade Center in the distance. I remember thinking "Should I take a camera?" and I didn't, feeling that my primary mission was retrieving my daughter. But personally, the image of the dense black smoke and intense burn of the Trade Center is forever etched in my mind's eye. It would not be too farfetched to say that there was something positively volcanic about the sight of the burning building in the distance, as though a fault had erupted and some intense steam and fire and brimstone from the bowels of the earth had been channelled to the surface.I debarked at Union Square and began to make my way north and west. My daughter was at a classmate's apartment on 28th and 7th avenue. When I arrived there were about a dozen girls hanging out, who this mom had wonderfully rescued from the boredom of waiting to be picked up at school. While there, I spoke to my wife and then my mother back in Brooklyn by phone. I knew the address was familiar. My mom has a cousin who lives in the same building. We managed to find her and check on her before my daughter and I embarked on the trek home.We went to one train station but it was closed. We walked further east but Union Square again had no trains running. The transit workers suggested we try West 4th Street. As we walked along the streets, the sky was filled with the huge plume of smoke. My ears rang with the desperate clamour of the rescue vehicles that would resound, non stop for what seemed like several days. There was virtually no traffic in the street except the occasional emergency vehicle.As we crossed Sixth Avenue, our faces were pelted with a fine mist of grit and dust blowing from the southern tip of Manhattan. I still don't want to think what was in that fine powder that we brushed from our faces and clothes. Miraculously, the F was running and we took it into Brooklyn to my old stop at 15th Street and Prospect Park West. A large crowd waited for the bus at Bartel Pritchard Square (or as we called it in days of the ancien regime, "The Circle"). A man saw me with my young daughter. I told him my daughter's story of the day and he kindly said his wife was picking him up, did we want a ride. We were so grateful that he drove us all the way home where we were greeted with an amazing amount of joy. After 9/11, at least for awhile the only pleasures were the simple pleasures. Coda: later that day, the first of the WTC debris incredibly blew across and made its way onto our lawn. My wife and I knew that nothing would be the same again, but why should it. Disaster, war, rumors of war, all the memory fragments of the day would fit together, eventually becoming just another metaphor for living.
Speak, memory.
--Brooklyn Beat 9/11/07
Posted by Brooklyn Beat
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Fear and Loathing on Court Street
A little before 1 PM I ran out of my office on Court Street to grab coffee and food. Court Street from Joralemon to Montague was closed off. A police officer said that a suspicious package was found on the subway. I went into Court Order, a nice take out food place with great soups and salads, when the NYPD came and stretched a yellow "Police Line - Do Not Cross" tape from one of the doors of the shop to opposite side of Court Street. I left the shop without getting anything as the police officers began moving people further and further west on Court Street. I have heard of a lot of "bomb scares" before, but this was the first time that I remember actually feeling concern based on the scale of the NYPD operation, and the precautions being taken. As I walked down Court Street, I saw a woman walking hand-in-hand with her little girl and I realized the awful potential posed by modern times, how we in the US have, in so many instances, been shielded from it, but how awful, violent and frightening life in reality is for so many people around the world, in the Middle Eastern world in particular, the continual carnage in Iraq specifically. I thought about the velocity of sharpnel, nails and glass, and the fragility of human flesh, particularly that of a child.
When we were kids, back in the 60s, we worried about Wars to End All Wars. We learned about duck and cover. But the enormity of that type of conflict seemed so all consuming that it appeared you couldn't really worry about it. While that threat of "mutually assured destruction" was also a form of mutual terror, still, "Toe-to-toe nucular combat with the Russkies" (to quote Slim Pickens) had only one logical outcome. Today, the dangers seem closer, more intimate.
I saw a clip of the forthcoming HBO special on "Alive Day" with wounded young military veterans, and thought about the continuing civilian carnage reports from Iraq, and the latest promise of a "special gift" to be given on the sixth anniversary of 9/11, while possibly more psych warfare, also suggests how real the fears and how intimate the dangers this lower-tech threat can bring.
We just received word that the suspicious package was nothing to worry about. No buildings were evacuated. The trains are again running. There is nothing to worry about...
--Brooklyn Beat
When we were kids, back in the 60s, we worried about Wars to End All Wars. We learned about duck and cover. But the enormity of that type of conflict seemed so all consuming that it appeared you couldn't really worry about it. While that threat of "mutually assured destruction" was also a form of mutual terror, still, "Toe-to-toe nucular combat with the Russkies" (to quote Slim Pickens) had only one logical outcome. Today, the dangers seem closer, more intimate.
I saw a clip of the forthcoming HBO special on "Alive Day" with wounded young military veterans, and thought about the continuing civilian carnage reports from Iraq, and the latest promise of a "special gift" to be given on the sixth anniversary of 9/11, while possibly more psych warfare, also suggests how real the fears and how intimate the dangers this lower-tech threat can bring.
We just received word that the suspicious package was nothing to worry about. No buildings were evacuated. The trains are again running. There is nothing to worry about...
--Brooklyn Beat
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Summer Days Summer Nights Are Gone
"Summer days, summer nights are gone..
I know a place where there's something going on"
--"Summer Days" by Bob Dylan from LOVE AND THEFT
We made our annual pre-first day of school pilgrimage to Staples to start loading up on school supplies and generally to begin our reality testing as to the fact that those lazy crazy hazy days of summer are dwindling down to a precious few..
Our younger kids got their school lists in June and this weekend we started to gather folders, notebooks, pens, graph paper, etc. I think we do this every year -- we like everyone else apparently, try to go the week before school begins to start to get some supplies (I think it helps the kids deal with some of their back-to-school anxiety), but so does eveyone else and the store was quite jammed. I always think of the Staples TV commercial that my late Dad adored, and I guess I do too, which is the middle aged guy whooping it up, swinging around the aisles with a shopping cart, while the holiday tune "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" plays in the background. He is followed by his drooping kids, despairing at the return of Fall and homework..
Since we are an edu-ma-cation centered home, my wife also begins to enter the mourning mode in mid August. She bought a copy of "How to Get Along at Work with People You Hate" and a magazine on ideas for starting home businesses..She is a special education art teacher who works with special needs kids (primarily autistic and emotionally disabled).. She loves the kids, but like anyone who is employed in an organization, the adults often leave a lot to be desired..
Anyway, we were remembering a fantastic summer a few years back. We had rented a place in Bearsville NY, a lovely little home with the Esopus running through the backyard. The kids were younger, 4 years through 11 years I guess. I work year round so we spent a few weeks up there and then went up every other weekend that we could. The kids had a great time. We were relaxing but in the process of selling our first home in Clinton Hill and buying our current place in Flatbush. But in between the phone calls, faxes and Fed Exes, we enjoyed our summer in the country. We went to a concert at the old Woodstock site near Monticello. We saw great outdoor theatre--- "Rip van Winkle" featuring giant puppets. My son and I searched the backroads nearby until we found Big Pink, where Bob Dylan and the Band recorded the legendary Basement Tapes in 1967. As a matter of fact, less than mile away, on Stoll Road, Bob Dylan had had his mythic motorpsycho accident in 1966. Our next door neighbors who included a volunteer fireman were wonderful and we went with them to the 4th of July parade in town. We loved that summer. Wading in the Esopus, visiting the town.
Speaking of puppets, one day that summer, we went to the Woodstock Library. I had a NYPL card and we were able to get a Woodstock Library Card and visited often. They always have amazing used booksales at the library and we have picked up many gems over the years. Everyone was very friendly. Anyway, we were browsing around the library and a young guy came in with his daughter. Our kids were in the childrens' room looking at books and playing with kids toys. The young dad, a little grungy but very friendly, started doing a puppet show for his daughter and our kids. Mostly kid-talk with puppets. I recognized the dad immediately. Suddenly, the mom shows up in a granny dress with heavy-framed glasses. "Ethan, we gotta go". And that's how our kids met Uma Thurman and Ethan Hawke. My wife and I were polite and cordial but frankly starstruck. The librarian lady said "Your kids had a very famous playmate". My son (you might remember him, the 16 year old autograph hound, who, by the way, this summer completed a film that was shown last week at the NYC Summer Arts Institute at the Tribeca Film Institute) still hocks me for not getting an autograph.
Speak, Memory.
--Brooklyn Beat
I know a place where there's something going on"
--"Summer Days" by Bob Dylan from LOVE AND THEFT
We made our annual pre-first day of school pilgrimage to Staples to start loading up on school supplies and generally to begin our reality testing as to the fact that those lazy crazy hazy days of summer are dwindling down to a precious few..
Our younger kids got their school lists in June and this weekend we started to gather folders, notebooks, pens, graph paper, etc. I think we do this every year -- we like everyone else apparently, try to go the week before school begins to start to get some supplies (I think it helps the kids deal with some of their back-to-school anxiety), but so does eveyone else and the store was quite jammed. I always think of the Staples TV commercial that my late Dad adored, and I guess I do too, which is the middle aged guy whooping it up, swinging around the aisles with a shopping cart, while the holiday tune "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" plays in the background. He is followed by his drooping kids, despairing at the return of Fall and homework..
Since we are an edu-ma-cation centered home, my wife also begins to enter the mourning mode in mid August. She bought a copy of "How to Get Along at Work with People You Hate" and a magazine on ideas for starting home businesses..She is a special education art teacher who works with special needs kids (primarily autistic and emotionally disabled).. She loves the kids, but like anyone who is employed in an organization, the adults often leave a lot to be desired..
Anyway, we were remembering a fantastic summer a few years back. We had rented a place in Bearsville NY, a lovely little home with the Esopus running through the backyard. The kids were younger, 4 years through 11 years I guess. I work year round so we spent a few weeks up there and then went up every other weekend that we could. The kids had a great time. We were relaxing but in the process of selling our first home in Clinton Hill and buying our current place in Flatbush. But in between the phone calls, faxes and Fed Exes, we enjoyed our summer in the country. We went to a concert at the old Woodstock site near Monticello. We saw great outdoor theatre--- "Rip van Winkle" featuring giant puppets. My son and I searched the backroads nearby until we found Big Pink, where Bob Dylan and the Band recorded the legendary Basement Tapes in 1967. As a matter of fact, less than mile away, on Stoll Road, Bob Dylan had had his mythic motorpsycho accident in 1966. Our next door neighbors who included a volunteer fireman were wonderful and we went with them to the 4th of July parade in town. We loved that summer. Wading in the Esopus, visiting the town.
Speaking of puppets, one day that summer, we went to the Woodstock Library. I had a NYPL card and we were able to get a Woodstock Library Card and visited often. They always have amazing used booksales at the library and we have picked up many gems over the years. Everyone was very friendly. Anyway, we were browsing around the library and a young guy came in with his daughter. Our kids were in the childrens' room looking at books and playing with kids toys. The young dad, a little grungy but very friendly, started doing a puppet show for his daughter and our kids. Mostly kid-talk with puppets. I recognized the dad immediately. Suddenly, the mom shows up in a granny dress with heavy-framed glasses. "Ethan, we gotta go". And that's how our kids met Uma Thurman and Ethan Hawke. My wife and I were polite and cordial but frankly starstruck. The librarian lady said "Your kids had a very famous playmate". My son (you might remember him, the 16 year old autograph hound, who, by the way, this summer completed a film that was shown last week at the NYC Summer Arts Institute at the Tribeca Film Institute) still hocks me for not getting an autograph.
Speak, Memory.
--Brooklyn Beat
Friday, July 27, 2007
Hippiefest: Nostalgia for the Future
When we arrived at the Seaside Summer Concert Series, I immediately sent a text to my kids who were at home recovering from day camp and summer jobs: "At HippieFest. Must be a mistake, everyone here is old."
The free Seaside Concert Series at Asser Levy park featured "Hippiefest", an excellent if unfortunately titled, creatively packaged, rolling festival of star acts from the wonder years: Felix Cavaliere's Rascals, The Turtles with Flo and Eddie, Rod Argent and Colin Blunstone leading The Zombies, Wings' Denny Laine, Melanie, and Country Joe McDonald. http://www.brooklynconcerts.com/hippiefest.html I hate the word "nostalgia" (the 60s and 70s weren't a fantasy, it was a period of struggle and change that had worldwide ramifications after all) but it was good to be at an event where "60s" wasn't someone's looming birthday.
Country Joe, especially, who also served as host, reminded us that the Sixties weren't just about the music and the funky clothes, bringing a strong thread of political consciousness to the proceedings with songs about "Support the Troops" and "Save the Whale..Save Ourselves". Melanie, who reported that she had just arrived from "Brooklyn, Maine", strong of voice, worked through some of her hits and did an excellent cover of Ruby Tuesday by the Stones. Accompanied by her son on guitar she said "I needed a sideman so I grew my own". Denny Laine, who got things off to a rousing start with Wings' "Band on the Run" , answered a call of "Where's Paul?" with "Paul Who?, but clearly the affection for Paul (and Linda) is there..
To the Mrs and me, the Zombies featuring Rod Argent on cosmic keyboards and soaring vocals by Colin Blunstone, really set the crowd in motion with "Time of the Season" and other hits plus Argent's anthemic "Hold Your Head Up". They were rather awesome. The singer noted that Brooklyn held special affection for them as they first appeared in America in 1964 (ahem) at the a Murray the K show at the Brooklyn Fox http://cinematreasures.org/theater/602/.
The Turtles, featuring the delightfully manic Flo and Eddie (Mark Vollman and Howard Kaylan), reminded us of why, post-Turtles, Flo and Eddie fit in so well as vocalists for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention. Their great humor and energy made their brief set seem even briefer. The show closed with Felix Cavaliere's Rascals. Cousin Brucie, formerly of CBS-FM now on Sirius Satellite, who served as series host Marty Markowitz's musical alter ego, noted that the Rock n Roll Hall of Famer Cavaliere had recently become a grandpa. Oy-vey, maybe so, but close your eyes, and he is still that soulful keyboardist and singer who created those rock radio classics : "Groovin'," and "People Got to be Free".
The series in its 29th year of free shows with major acts is in itself a work of art (produced by the Slope's own Debby Garcia http://onlytheblogknowsbrooklyn.typepad.com/the_park_slope_100/ ) Beep Markowitz who created and has hosted the event in white dinner jacket & jeans for lo these many years, holds court, thanking sponsors, welcoming show biz and political luminaries (including, last nite, Sid Bernstein, who brought the Beatles to America in 1964, and was in da house) along with other neighbors and just plain folks. I also saw Sopranos' Steven Schirippa (aka"Bobby Baccala") doing a little spot coverage for someone with a microphone. Still, at Seaside, it is Marty's world and we just get to live in it. Without getting into the inevitable heat that surrounds Markowitz (he is a politican after all), the free concert series at Coney and Wingate Field are cool institutions and 29 years isn't a bad legacy. But last night, the 1960s took center stage and reminded us that, at least while the boomer demographics are still prime, the zeitgeist was with us and the music will never die. Iraq may have replaced Viet Nam, but freedom and most of all love may still hold the key..
Peace Out.
--Brooklyn Beat
Note: This post also appeared at OnlytheBlogKnowsBrooklyn.com
The free Seaside Concert Series at Asser Levy park featured "Hippiefest", an excellent if unfortunately titled, creatively packaged, rolling festival of star acts from the wonder years: Felix Cavaliere's Rascals, The Turtles with Flo and Eddie, Rod Argent and Colin Blunstone leading The Zombies, Wings' Denny Laine, Melanie, and Country Joe McDonald. http://www.brooklynconcerts.com/hippiefest.html I hate the word "nostalgia" (the 60s and 70s weren't a fantasy, it was a period of struggle and change that had worldwide ramifications after all) but it was good to be at an event where "60s" wasn't someone's looming birthday.
Country Joe, especially, who also served as host, reminded us that the Sixties weren't just about the music and the funky clothes, bringing a strong thread of political consciousness to the proceedings with songs about "Support the Troops" and "Save the Whale..Save Ourselves". Melanie, who reported that she had just arrived from "Brooklyn, Maine", strong of voice, worked through some of her hits and did an excellent cover of Ruby Tuesday by the Stones. Accompanied by her son on guitar she said "I needed a sideman so I grew my own". Denny Laine, who got things off to a rousing start with Wings' "Band on the Run" , answered a call of "Where's Paul?" with "Paul Who?, but clearly the affection for Paul (and Linda) is there..
To the Mrs and me, the Zombies featuring Rod Argent on cosmic keyboards and soaring vocals by Colin Blunstone, really set the crowd in motion with "Time of the Season" and other hits plus Argent's anthemic "Hold Your Head Up". They were rather awesome. The singer noted that Brooklyn held special affection for them as they first appeared in America in 1964 (ahem) at the a Murray the K show at the Brooklyn Fox http://cinematreasures.org/theater/602/.
The Turtles, featuring the delightfully manic Flo and Eddie (Mark Vollman and Howard Kaylan), reminded us of why, post-Turtles, Flo and Eddie fit in so well as vocalists for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention. Their great humor and energy made their brief set seem even briefer. The show closed with Felix Cavaliere's Rascals. Cousin Brucie, formerly of CBS-FM now on Sirius Satellite, who served as series host Marty Markowitz's musical alter ego, noted that the Rock n Roll Hall of Famer Cavaliere had recently become a grandpa. Oy-vey, maybe so, but close your eyes, and he is still that soulful keyboardist and singer who created those rock radio classics : "Groovin'," and "People Got to be Free".
The series in its 29th year of free shows with major acts is in itself a work of art (produced by the Slope's own Debby Garcia http://onlytheblogknowsbrooklyn.typepad.com/the_park_slope_100/ ) Beep Markowitz who created and has hosted the event in white dinner jacket & jeans for lo these many years, holds court, thanking sponsors, welcoming show biz and political luminaries (including, last nite, Sid Bernstein, who brought the Beatles to America in 1964, and was in da house) along with other neighbors and just plain folks. I also saw Sopranos' Steven Schirippa (aka"Bobby Baccala") doing a little spot coverage for someone with a microphone. Still, at Seaside, it is Marty's world and we just get to live in it. Without getting into the inevitable heat that surrounds Markowitz (he is a politican after all), the free concert series at Coney and Wingate Field are cool institutions and 29 years isn't a bad legacy. But last night, the 1960s took center stage and reminded us that, at least while the boomer demographics are still prime, the zeitgeist was with us and the music will never die. Iraq may have replaced Viet Nam, but freedom and most of all love may still hold the key..
Peace Out.
--Brooklyn Beat
Note: This post also appeared at OnlytheBlogKnowsBrooklyn.com
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