Sometime in the early 1970s, I found myself in the unenviable position of being in New York City with no place to live. For a time, I lived, or, better said, crashed, with a number of people in a variety of scenarios, living out of a suitcase.
One brief stay was as the guest of four women, at least one of whom was clearly not a New Yorker. One evening, this girl was busy finishing her shower in the bathroom and overheard the Yiddish expression, Oy Vey iz mir, I’m chalishing (oh my, I’m fainting). Unfamiliar to her, we attempted to teach her how to say it. Her interpretation went something like: Ova schmear, allava hallashing. I wondered whether an ova schmear was some medical procedure unfamiliar to me. From the living room, we urged her to repeat it over and over. On each telling, she popped her head out of the bathroom and proudly volunteered, “Ova schmear, allava hallashing.”
As she retreated, we laughed hysterically and secretly, never revealing how severely crippled her mispronunciation was, perhaps the worst bastardization of Yiddish I have ever heard. The scene was hilarious and reminiscent of a sophomoric prank in Wayne’s World where Mike Myers and Dana Carvey trick their mother to repeatedly announce a phone call from a mythical “Mr. Sphincter.”
Some Yiddish is a rite of passage in New York City. Certainly a working knowledge of basic words and phrases is a necessity. The lack of familiarity is a dead giveaway that an individual is an out-of-towner. If you doubt how much Yiddish is part of the fabric of the city, note the sign on the Williamsburg Bridge which proclaims, Leaving Brooklyn, Oy Vey!, below which one finds the names of the Borough President, Marty Markowitz, and Mayor Michael Bloomberg, both Jewish. Williamsburg, Brooklyn, has the world’s largest enclave of Satmar Hasidic Jews, estimated at 60,000 of the world’s 150,000.
The sign leaves no doubt of where you are. You should know that iz mir bears no connection to a schmear, which is a thin coating of cream cheese on a bagel, and that ova are eggs. And if you don’t, we New Yorkers can only say in despair, Oy Vey!
There are numerous guidebooks to NYC that purport to be not for tourists, offering an insider’s view or secrets of the city. But the aforementioned places are the REAL secrets of the city – places that are inaccessible, on private property that will require trespassing, or just very remote and little known, like Dead Horse Bay, The Hole, or Willets Point. Urban explorers daring and brazen enough to risk arrest or mishaps have visited all these spots, and their travails are documented on the handful of websites inclined to cover such as undercity.org, gothamist.com, and forgotten-ny.com.
One of the most intriguing to me is the ship graveyard in the Rossville section of Staten Island. The area is largely abandoned and sits quietly, secretly, and out of plain view behind a long strip of corrugated metal fence on Arthur Kill Road. From the New York Times in 1990:
As with the fabled elephants’ graveyard, ships go to die at Rossville on Staten Island. For decades the Witte Marine Equipment Company, the lone remaining commercial marine-salvage yard in the city, has given mothballed, scuttled, abandoned and wrecked ships of all sizes a final port. Through the years it has become, an “accidental marine museum,” as a nautical magazine described it, with one of the world’s largest collections of historic ships.
After hearing about this place for the first time, I viewed numerous photo galleries online of those who had visited and documented the adventure. The images of decaying ships with weathering wood and rusting metal were beautifully striking and haunting. I immediately made a trip to the area. However, an impenetrable fence, a barking dog, stories of a mean man, and no obvious coastal access kept me from exploring.
On a recent visit to this area of Staten Island, I noted a patch of yard where some ships were visible – a teaser to the real shipyard. I respected the no trespassing sign and took a handful of photos from the roadside. My good behavior was rewarded – the owner of the property introduced himself as Tony and welcomed me to access his private property if I wanted to take photos of the famed tugboat/ship graveyard. He said many photographers had come before me, even that very day, and he was always happy to accommodate those who respected his property in advance. I was elated at the opportunity and told him that I would return soon when I had more time to make a full excursion. He pointed out his home nearby and told me to just knock. I have done my research as to where and how and examined maps and aerial views. Soon, courtesy of Tony, I will go back to explore for the first time and bring you those images here. And that’s No False Promise
It was some years ago when an employee came into my office with very bad news. Our shop vac appeared seriously damaged and was no longer working. When I asked about the nature of the damage, I was told that there appeared to be a problem with the wire connection near the plug. This was laughable, and I responded that I would just pick up a new plug for a couple dollars and rewire it. To which my employee was so impressed, he commented, “Wow, I have to see that.” I asked where he had grown up – the suburbs of Miami. I joked how he was a sad man, that he would be stupefied with such a simple repair. He watched, fascinated, as I replaced the plug in just a few minutes’ time.
The whole affair was indicative of how many Americans are estranged from even the most basic repairs. With such a strong emphasis on white-collar work and getting a college education (both laudable goals) and such a lack of dignity for blue-collar work, fewer and fewer people use their hands. My high school was very well equipped in the industrial arts, but, being tracked for college, I never set foot in the school’s tech wing. A disappointment to me now – I would have enjoyed a few classes in machining.
The situation in New York City is much worse. Without space for storage of tools and workspace to use them, most urbanites have limited ability to do their own repairs. Most handiwork in apartment buildings is done by superintendents who wear many hats and do repairs in a variety of trades, none of which they are qualified to do. Most of the work ranges from mediocre to horrific. This is sad to me for so many reasons. There is a real shortage of labor doing quality work and great difficulty in finding someone to do small jobs. On the flip side, there are pluses to the do-it-yourself approach – a cost savings and satisfaction of working with your own hands.
At one time, I ran into a number of fudge shops in shopping malls that made fudge on the premises. The process of pouring, cooling, cutting, and serving was such a big attraction to shoppers that the shops turned the making into theater. Just before pouring, employees would run through the mall ringing a bell and announcing, “Fudge time!” Shoppers would run and flock, much like sheep, to witness the remarkable event – someone pouring hot fudge into a tray. They remained entranced, as if witnessing the height of artisanship.
Certainly there is value in seeing quality demonstrations of skilled craft, and there seems to be no dearth of fascination with the watching of things made. However, the audiences are often undiscriminating, watching virtually anything, regardless of how unskilled or inane. People will stand fixated as if watching the miraculous.
On the streets of New York City, you will from time to time find individuals spray painting works using objects as stencils and tools. I have waited some years to photograph one for this website. On Easter Sunday, returning from the parade, I had the good fortune to run across the spray paint artist in today’s photo. He was surrounded by a flock of tourists, admiring his command of schlock art. Watching, I could almost hear a bell and the cry of “Fudge Time”
‘Tis a bit unfair, but among close friends, the town where I grew up, Bristol, CT, has become the butt of a private joke – a metaphor for all things boring, a place devoid of culture and nightlife. Whenever I see something particularly unusual, crowded (as I wrote in 212 and 2:12), or abuzz, I sometimes remark that it is certainly something you’re not gonna find in Bristol.
In this town of 60,000, there is little to do but visit strip malls and eat fast food. My family never ate in Bristol, opting instead to travel for our infrequent restaurant outings. Although it does have a surprising number of claims to fame – Lake Compounce (the oldest amusement park in continuous operation in the US), national headquarters for ESPN, hos of Little League New England, a Clock Museum ( one of a very few museums in the United States dedicated solely to horology), the New England Carousel Museum, and the Otis Elevator Company test tower – the largest in the United States. Nonetheless, these are things of little import on a day-to-day basis, and most residents will only partake of these places once or twice in a lifetime, if at all. But for culture or shopping quality merchandise, most residents will find themselves traveling. My high school English teacher, a rebel, advised us not to read the local paper, something he found tantamount to trash. He recommended that we leave Bristol altogether. There are staunch supporters of my hometown, I am sure. In my lifetime, I have seen Bristol alternately on lists of best and worst places to live in America. But I yearned to live in New York City and, in 1969, undeterred by my guidance counselor (as I wrote about in Jungle Lovers), I came to the big city.
In the 7 years that I have written for the pages of this website, I have featured many unusual and remarkable people, places, and things – people such as Mark Birnbaum or pianist Colin Huggins, who performs with a baby grand in Washington Square Park. But, as typifies the New Yorker, I have become inured to the lunacy of a man assembling and disassembling a baby grand piano daily, hauling it many city blocks to and from storage, setting it up, and playing for hours, even in the most inhospitable weather. Most recently, Colin upped the ante considerably by performing during the winter months in frigid weather. Neither biting cold nor a slim audience deters him from his daily grind.
As I traversed the park on the morning of Friday, February 15, the bar for novelty in New York City was raised again – a piano turner wearing roller blades was busy tuning Colin’s baby grand piano, with banks of snow as backdrop. It was decidedly a scene uniquely New York and certainly something You’re Not Gonna Find in Bristol
Given the real estate values in New York City, it is completely baffling to see properties unoccupied for years. Perhaps some of the best examples in Manhattan are properties in the estate of Bill Gottlieb. I had the privilege of meeting this eccentric man in the 1980s when I was looking for commercial space for my business. I had been enamored with the prospect of renting a small one-story garage and was intrigued that all of them bore the name of Bill Gottlieb as agent/owner. I met him and toured a number of properties in his signature old station wagon with cracked windows taped together. Little did I know that this man’s estate was valued in the hundreds of millions.
Recently, I read about the Spook House of Williamsburg on the Forgotten New York website. So, curious to see the place for myself, I took an excursion to 539 Driggs Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The storefront appears to have been abandoned for some time and is framed with a weathered wood exterior. A flag graces the front door and venetian blinds cover all the windows. Little seems to be known about the property, and most online searches trace back to the Forgotten New York website, where information is sketchy. It’s another mysterious case in New York City real estate of unexplained Vacancy…
There is great comfort in the familiar – the worn shoe, the daily routines. Here in New York, creature comforts provide a balm, soothing the scratches from a city that can be jarring and stressful. For the resident, there are many comforting icons of the familiar, whether it be a neighborhood diner like the Waverly, or those things recognized around the world, like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.
I find great comfort in these enduring icons, particularly after living in this city for over four decades, a place where change is ever present – sometimes welcome but also often the enemy. As Professor Gurland once said in a lecture at NYU, people are driven to look for stability in a world of change. At another time, a close friend who knew me well, suggested that I needed a country home, not to seek country in the city. Certainly both individuals made good points – my ability to survive in this city has been enabled by seeking peace, tranquility, comfort, the durable, and the classic. Finding secluded spots, such as community gardens or Dead Horse Bay, is what I seek here, not the over-animated urban environments of clubs, bars, or other scenes.
Certainly I must not be alone. How else to explain, at least partially, the success of a restaurant like the Meatball Shop? There you will find many reasons for a thriving business, not the least of which is a cuisine that revolves around an American comfort food, meatballs. For me, the deepest and most profound comforts are those which draw on connections to places, experiences, and things of my childhood.
My father was one of the most dependable, predictable people I have ever known. He had a creative side, but essentially he was a man who lived by habit and routine. He loved pastries, crackers, and breadstuffs. At many meals, a box of saltine crackers appeared. But not just any box – a metal can sporting the Nabisco logo in one corner and proclaiming Premium in large type in the center with smaller type below it, Saltine Crackers. Newly purchased boxes of saltines were opened and the four sleeves of crackers were slid into that tin, keeping them fresh. We stored our crackers in that can for decades.
Driven by my family’s obsession to modernize, minimize, and sanitize, that can is no longer. Apparently they neither had interest in keeping nor found charm in an old can. I recall once advising my folks that they should consider keeping such a container, that perhaps it may be of value some day. My instincts were right – these Nabisco tins have become collectible, and recently while at the indoor flea market at One Hanson Place, I spotted one – the word Premium leaped out from a table of goods.
It was only recently that I learned that the Nabisco conglomerate was formed in New York City and occupied what is now the Chelsea Market building. I am sure that these cans evoke different things to its numerous collectors, but to me, that tin is a link between New York City, home of the National Biscuit Company (later Nabisco), and meals in New England with my father as I sat ruminating and fixated on that word Premium
I once met a Brooklynite who insisted that Brooklyn was a city. The central defense of his argument was a sign on the Belt Parkway that proclaimed, “Welcome to Brooklyn 4th Largest City in America.” I explained to him that the sign was meant to say that IF Brooklyn was an independent municipality (which it was until 1898), it WOULD be the 4th largest, but that Brooklyn was a borough of New York City. Unfortunately, my words fell on deaf ears. The individual’s belief was resolute and like the fundamentalist Christian, he was taking a literal interpretation of the words. Metaphors were apparently not part of this man’s world, particularly in this case of civic pride which clouded all reason and his ability to see Brooklyn as anything other than the greatest place on earth.
However, his pride is understandable. Brooklyn has some of the richest history in New York City and many of its most enduring icons, notable history, and contributions to American culture, whether film, TV, literature, music, art, or architecture. Coney Island, the waterfront, Brooklyn Heights, the Dodgers, the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, the Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn Academy of Music, DUMBO, Prospect Park, Green-Wood Cemetery, Pratt Institute. Brooklyn is also a badge of honor for many who have achieved worldly success and risen from inner city working-class roots. It’s a place that many are proud to be from.
The legendary sign, which greeted motorists on the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn in the 1970s, achieved its iconic status in the opening title sequence of the popular TV series Welcome Back, Kotter. The show also launched the career of John Travolta, later to star in Saturday Night Fever, based in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. The last remaining of the three versions of this sign found a home in Gargiulo’s restaurant after the retirement of Brooklyn Borough President Sebastian Leone. Gargiulo’s owner Nino Russo was persuaded by Borough President Marty Markowitz to donate the sign to the city. It now hangs in Brooklyn Borough Hall.
I have seen street performers cleverly play on this borough pride and rivalry. While taking a contribution, the performer would ask and announce the borough from which the audience member was from, the amount, and also brandish the currency, taunting the audience and challenging someone from a rival borough to make a greater contribution. This would escalate to a virtual bidding war with single contributions going to $5, $10, or more. Some may say this is all in good fun, and certainly all participants are willing victims. However, I find this aggressive money pitch highly manipulative, akin to creating a bidding frenzy like that found in an auction, where bidders lose control. Nonetheless, it certainly illustrates the civic pride in the boroughs of New York City and that some are willing to pay hard cash for one-upmanship.
Recently, I spotted the vanity license plate shown in today’s photo. I’ve got the KNGOFQNS here. Certainly there is someone from Brooklyn who can do better than that. Isn’t there anyone from the 4th Largest City in America who wants to Up the Ante?
I recall a conversation with my sister about children and a viewpoint expressed by Polly Platt in French or Foe. In this book, various aspects of French culture are laid out by the author, an American living in France married to a Frenchman. According to Platt, the French, who believe that they brought the world civilization, see the importance of discipline in child rearing as well, with children viewed as “little savages” who must be civilized in order to enter society. Children are expected at a very young age to behave like adults, even, for example, sitting well behaved throughout an entire meal in a restaurant.
I summarized for my sister the discipline imposed on children by the French and their expectations. My sister concluded that this type of child rearing was cruel. Strict discipline of children is certainly a contentious subject, however, with what I have seen in the subways of New York City which at times can appear to be like Lord of the Flies with children and teens acting out and even cursing their parents in public, perhaps a bit of French thinking might serve us well in the taming of children.
The conversation with my sister regarding wild children was appropriate coming from a French perspective – not only is my family of French ancestry, but also, perhaps the most well-known case of feral children is that of Victor, the Wild Boy of Aveyron. The story is the basis for Truffaut’s film L’Enfant Sauvage.
In 1797, a boy was first discovered and captured by hunters near Saint-Sernin, France. He was taken in and studied by a young medical student, Jean Marc Gaspard Itard, who named him Victor. At the time of Victor’s capture, he was estimated to be about 12 years old and was naked, filthy, had numerous scars on his body, and was wild, unsocialized, and unable to speak other than guttural sounds and squeals. It was speculated that he been raised by animals and was a true “feral child.” Although there were many hypotheses regarding his origin, nothing was ever substantiated, including any rearing by wild animals. His interests were very basic, and he was highly attuned to activities, sounds etc. During his time with Itard, he wore no clothing, eliminated by squatting on the ground, and would neither use utensils to eat nor sit on a chair. Little progress was made with his socialization, and Victor died in Paris in 1828. You can read more here.
I have always been fascinated with stories of feral children, and on a raw, cold, bleak November day nearly a decade ago, I got as close as I ever have at meeting someone who certainly appeared untamed. I was passing through Washington Square Park, which was deserted, excepting one lone musician who was sitting on a concrete bench playing guitar, seemingly oblivious to the cold. I recognized him, having seen him previously a handful of times playing in the park, often with a wild, disheveled appearance. He was playing blues with occasional use of a slide, which I love. His raw, edgy style and interpretations of blues classics were very engaging – I listened to a few songs standing in the cold and left a dollar in his open guitar case. When I asked his name and he said Feral, I confirmed the spelling, lest he had thought that I had asked about his disposition or temperament.
Years passed and I had not seen him since that period. Recently, at the Folk Festival, I scanned the program and was excited to see Feral Foster listed as the closing act. He played and sang an original composition, The Whole Wide World. I really liked it and after his set, introduced myself. He gave me one of his CDs, all original songs, i.e. no covers – a difficult road to travel for any musician, but a necessary path for anyone looking to make their mark. I saw him a few days later at The Gaslight, a club on MacDougal Street in the Village. His music still has a rawness and his playing style and persona has an idiosyncratic and untamed look and feel, befitting a man named Feral. Whether it is a film like L’Enfant Sauvage, the rearing of children in France, or my meeting of Matt Foster, from early on, there has been a thread in my life of All Things Feral
New York City was home to one of the most astonishing things to those unfamiliar – the real flea circus. Most are familiar with the phrase, however, there are only a handful of flea circuses at the time and fewer yet that employ actual fleas, so it is very unlikely that any given individual has seen one of these performances first hand.
Yes, real human fleas, pulex irritans, were trained to pull miniature chariots and perform circus acts, rotate ferris wheels, and kick balls. Minuscule harnesses made from thin gold wire were wrapped around the neck of the flea. The harnesses were then attached to a variety of objects. Fleas are renowned for their incredible strength and are able to pull up to 160,000 times their own weight and jump 150 times their own size. Their lifespan, however is typically only months, and so new recruits must be found and trained. And, they must be provided a diet of human blood. Typically, owners of flea circuses just let fleas feed from their arms.
The flea circus flourished in the Victorian age, however, the harnessing of fleas goes back much further. The first to harness fleas were watch makers who demonstrated their skills in fine metal working skills. Mark Scaliot is 1578 is credited with locking a flea to a chain with “a lock consisting of eleven different pieces of steel, iron, and brass which, together with the key belonging to it, weighed only one grain.”
One of New York City’s great institutions was Hubert’s Dime Museum, which occupied 228-232 West 42nd Street near Times Square from the mid-1920′s until 1965. The building which housed Hubert’s was a schoolhouse, designed in the 1880′s by McKim, Mead & White. Hubert’s was a phantasmagoria of some of the greatest novelty, freak, sideshow, and variety acts and the home of the last working flea circus in the United States – Heckler’s Flea Circus. Heckler’s occupied a section of the basement and required an additional admission. It was here that the Heckler family plied their trade. The circus was started by native Swiss William Hecker circa 1923 and sons William Jr and Leroy (“Roy”). Roy took over the operation in 1933 and continued to operate the flea circus until he retired in 1957.
So, when I attended the World Maker Faire on September 29, 2012 and happened upon the Acme Flea Circus very unexpectedly, you can easily understand why I was stopped in my tracks and jubilant that I would at last be able to see a real flea circus. Adding to the serendipitous encounter was that the performer, Adam Gertsacov, already knew me, having been a previous customer of my business. I stood alone at his booth and it was a good 30 minutes to showtime. However, I was very passionate about seeing a flea circus in person and close up, so I stood and chatted with Adam while he prepared for his show. He told me all the details of the flea circus. I was later to learn that Adam was one of the most educated clowns in America – not only was he an alumnus of Barnum and Bailey’s Clown College, but he was also a graduate from the University of Pennsylvania and held a master’s in theater and communications from Rhode Island College.
Adam assured me that I need not be concerned about having a “front row seat” since his show was designed to insure that all audience members were guaranteed to see all the details of his performers. This perplexed me, since I had learned that flea circuses like Heckler’s typically provided audience members with magnifying glasses. Historical photos showed him surrounded closely by a small number of viewers. How would Adam accomplish this at a distance? Theater.
Adam’s show involves a lot of theater, history, and clever quips and bits, including a “flea market” where small items are sold to the audience, whom he then proclaims has been adequately fleeced. The act consists of his two fleas, Midge and Madge, who engage in a chariot race and a tight-wire act. Children laughed and squealed, however, credulity was strained when the fleas were shot from a cannon through a hoop of fire to land inside a miniature Airstream trailer.
I became intrigued and through a little research learned that a number of flea circuses currently working do not use fleas. At least one, Hans Mathes’s flea circus at Oktoberfest (you can see an actual video below), has real fleas. As to Adam Gerstacov and his Acme Flea Circus, in the end, I just decided to suspend and see it as an enjoyable piece of theater, not worry whether I had seen trained Fleas or had just been Teased
I worked for years on a 4,000 year history of juggling, to be published by my company. The original manuscript ran hundreds of pages and was accompanied by thousands of archival photos. The author was German and had written the text in English. The work was understandably very Eurocentric and, understandably, many jugglers were missing or had sketchy bios that needed fleshing out. The text was badly in need of editing. I, along with others whom I recruited for the task, took it upon ourselves to contact every living juggler of merit to ensure that their entries and photos were as accurate and complete as possible. The book was virtually rewritten over the course of 10 years and, sadly, was never completed.
One of the entries was a man named Fritz Grobe. As was the original author’s style, his entry in the book focused almost exclusively on his juggling talents. However, I was interested in knowing more about the man and his life. I quickly learned that I was not dealing with an ordinary individual at all. Fritz was born into a family of academics – his mother and father were both math professors at Bowdoin College in Maine. Here is what Bill Giduz from the International Jugglers Association wrote in 1993:
As a high school student at Brunswick High, he had the second highest score in North America on the American High School Math Exam, qualifying him for the American Invitational Math Exam. The national average of the 3,700 students invited to take that test was a 3.6. Fritz scored a 10! That qualified him for the 1986 U.S.A. Mathematics Olympiad, the highest honor for a math student in the country. He finished 14th out of the 93 students invited to that trial, a feat he considered his finest hour in the discipline.
Fritz was admitted to Yale University and became involved with the school’s juggling club. With a bout of mononeucleosis, Fritz went back home to Maine. He took a few math classes at Bowdoin. He never returned to Yale, instead following his passion for juggling. As a former mathematics major myself who had a brief and harrowing experience at NYU’s Courant Institute, I was a bit jealous of someone so gifted mathematically, yet would toss those talents aside to become a juggler. But, such is life and just as one man’s meat is another man’s poison, one person’s dream is often another person’s boredom.
In 2002, I attended the International Jugglers Convention in Reading, PA. As I crossed the street one evening on the way to the public performance, someone caught my eye who I thought maybe Fritz Grobe. I barked out – “hey, you’re that guy, right?” Absurdly cryptic, but Fritz understood that I was asking if he was the subject of our phone and mail correspondence for the juggling history book. It was he.
Nearly forgotten, I was shocked to run across Fritz completely by accident 5 years later, nearly at my front door in Washington Square Park. He was there for the YouTube gathering on 7/07/07 – his YouTube videos have gone viral with over 60 million views. I was more stunned to learn that he would not be juggling, but that his genius had been redirected to experimentation and exploitation of the Coke and Mentos effect. Unfortunately, I was not to see his act in 2007 – permit problems prevented him from performing.
In 2005, his first experiments were done, as well as the creation of the entertainment company, Eepybird, with his partner Stephen Voltz (an attorney and grad from NYU Law). They have developed nothing short of an operatic theater piece using hundreds of bottles of Diet Coke. The act has won four Webby Awards and have been nominated for two Emmys. They had been featured on TV – David Letterman, The Today Show. Only days after EepyBird released their first video, “The Extreme Diet Coke and Mentos Experiments”, the Wall Street Journal reported that Mentos had already received over $10 million worth of publicity. The video generated a 5-10% spike in the sales of 2 litre bottles of Diet Coke and a 20% spike in U.S. Mentos sales, the biggest sales increase in company history. In the first 9 months, 10,000 copycat videos were posted online.
So, I was surprised but not perplexed to find Eepybird as a featured act at the 2012 World Maker Faire in New York City. I spoke with Fritz briefly while he was setting up for the show. When I returned, I was joined by a massive shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. Fritz and Voltz appear dressed as scientists in lab coats, explain the chemistry of Coke and Mentos, describe the bottle cap technology they developed for optimal geysers, and then the show begins – a well-choreographed and syncopated shower of geysers set to music. I took video and still images overhead in Hail Mary style.*
Eepybird’s act is a roaring success and brings out the child in everyone. They perform the act worldwide, full-time, doing an average of 12 shows per year. But these are not childhood antics nor cheap tricks – a lot of creative thinking has gone into this act. Never underestimate Fritz Grobe. His geysers are merely metaphors for genius gushing forth and fountains of success
*A Hail Mary is a photo taken blind, without using the viewfinder, typically overhead in a crowded situation. The term “Hail Mary” is used owing to the idea a prayer is needed to get a good photo.
I vividly recall a statement made by my uncle, a voracious reader of the classics. The subject of hopelessness came up, and he quoted from the inscription in Dante’s Inferno over the gate of hell – “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate”, or “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” My uncle ruminated how he could imagine nothing worse than a life without hope. Over the years, I have reflected many times over his statement and that hope is indeed the fuel that keeps the human spirit running in the face of adversity and misfortune.
Nothing frightens me more than the idea of prison. Here, with this fate, we have at least two abhorrent conditions – number one, taking away a fundamental right of a human being, something that most individuals hold most dear: freedom, the cornerstone of American society and government. And, number two, given a serious crime and a lifetime sentence without parole, is the prospect of experiencing Dante’s promise here on earth – a life without hope. I have watched numerous prison documentaries on television, hoping to get an understanding of how a prison inmate can get through day to day life, knowing that there is no hope of regaining the freedom they once had and that the average citizen enjoys.
Recently, Gothamist ran a story on the relatively unknown Vernon C. Bain jail barge – a prison floating in the East River off the South Bronx. I read the article, perused the photos, and located the prison via an aerial map view online. The Department of Corrections built the barge in 1992 for $161 million to deal with overcrowding in the Rikers Island jail complex. The jail barge houses approximately 800 inmates, medium to maximum security. There are 100 cells within 16 dormitories, a law library, recreation rooms, and a basketball court on top of the barge’s deck. The place seemed fascinating, so I corralled a friend to join me on an excursion to see the place firsthand with the hopes of getting a few photos.
When we arrived near our destination in the Bronx, my map indicated only one street leading to the prison – Halleck Road. It did not appear that one could park on this street, which reached a dead end at the prison entrance gate. So, we chose to park around the corner on Ryawa Avenue and walk down Halleck Street towards the prison.
On the way, we met a man sitting alone at the side of the road, who introduced himself as Glenn Mercado. I asked if he was familiar with the prison and any possible restrictions regarding photography. He had been inside – he was there to visit an inmate he knew. He assured me that it was permissible to walk to the fence and take a photo of the prison.
We also learned that Glenn had intimate first hand knowledge of prison life. He had served 15 years from age 13 to 28. I was very heartened to learn that he had, however, turned his life around. He was now married with a family and employed as a union carpenter making a substantial wage. We bid our farewells and continued walking towards the end of Halleck Road.
I pressed my camera against the chain link fence. Unfortunately, I was very close to the entrance/exit gate and security booth. The attending police officer was not pleased with my behavior and barked at me from afar that I was not to take photos, adding, “That camera has got to go.” I was not sure of the exact meaning of his statement, quite worried that perhaps he was threatening confiscation of my equipment.
I was also terrified that my activity might lead to arrest and that I would no longer have to watch programs on prison life but I would learn first hand what a place like the Vernon C. Bain jail barge was really like. My friend and I scurried away from the fenced area without any response to the corrections officer. Silence was my only prayer. Unlike psychic mediums such as John Edward, I was not interested in learning what was on the other side by Crossing Over
It is just after sunrise at 6:00 AM as I write this with an open window facing Washington Square Park. Incredible as it may seem, in the most densely populated city in the United States, apart from the occasional auto passing, the dominant and only sound is a chorus of crickets. This is one of the many joys in store for the early riser in New York City, or perhaps for those who have yet to sleep. Yes, even in Manhattan, amidst concrete, glass, and steel, we got insects. Many a night I have been plagued by mosquitoes, both in parks and even in my apartment.
One summer evening in Washington Square Park in 2006, I was curious as to what insect it might be that was making a particular clicking sound that I had heard many times before. Friend Bill Shatto, an avid photographer of insects, told me he was relatively sure that it was a katydid. I had heard the word, but was completely unfamiliar with its appearance or anything else about it. In the most miraculous and serendipitous moment during that very discussion, a large green insect lighted in the central plaza of the park, away from any foliage, and sat unfettered. Using online images, we confirmed that it was a katydid (lower photo) – the only one I have seen in my entire life. It appeared to be injured – one leg was missing. It was capable of flying yet seemed uninterested in such. In fact, Bill was actually able to pick it up and place it more strategically on his hand. I took a number of photos, which have laid in my archives for the last 6 years.
Recently, conversation turned to a much louder insect which as a child we commonly referred to as heat bugs. The cicada. The lone buzzing song, increasing in volume, was never pleasant to me as it typically dominates the air waves on hot, humid summer days in July and August.* The sunnier, hotter, and more blistering the day, the louder the cicada seemed to buzz. Recently, in the very same park, a conversation ensued about a very audible background noise which I recognized and confirmed with my friends was assuredly the sound of the cicada. As miraculously and serendipitously as six years before, a large insect lighted on the central plaza. A cicada. Seemingly unbothered by our presence as we approached it, I was able to get a number of photos, even with supplementary illumination using an iPhone. Even in Manhattan, a shrine to concrete and the manmade, here and there at the right time and place, if you listen closely, you can hear the Sounds of Summer
*Male cicadas have loud noisemakers called “tymbals” on the sides of the abdominal base, using to produce a mating song. Some cicadas produce sounds up to 120 dB (SPL), among the loudest of all insect-produced sounds. Their song is technically loud enough to cause permanent hearing loss in humans, should the cicada sing just outside the listener’s ear. Conversely, some small species have songs so high in pitch that the noise is inaudible to humans. Species have different mating songs to ensure they attract the appropriate mate. In addition to the mating song, many species also have a distinct distress call, usually a somewhat broken and erratic sound emitted when an individual is seized. A number of species also have a courtship song, which is often a quieter call and is produced after a female has been drawn by the calling song.
I once handcrafted leather products. It was at this time that I met Jim Murnak, someone who invoked such awe that I featured him in a two-part story (see Part 1 here and Part 2 here). I sold my wares to a number of retailers, some with an upscale clientele. One husband and wife team owned two locations in the West Village, each managing their own shop. The husband, Walter, hailed from Great Britain and was a mentor of sorts to me. I was young, very impressionable, and knew nothing about the world. My mind was like a sponge for all the wisdom he could impart.
I would make deliveries of product in person to the wife’s shop, and often, I would take the opportunity to visit Walter’s shop around the corner. I looked forward to my visits with great anticipation, as invariably we would become engaged in some conversation regarding craftsmanship, quality, or international travel, of which I knew nothing. He often contrasted the American versus the European mindset. He did much to foster the concept of the ugly American, the archetype that I profiled in So Where’s David? One day, he made a statement which echoes to this day. “Brian, you are seeing the first generation grow up that does not know quality because they have never seen it.”
A bit harsh perhaps, but with some elements of truth. In an age of branding, merchandising, marketing, and with a tidal wave of product, who can really understand materials and design and, hence, know quality? Who would recognize elements of shoddy design, like the use of sheet metal screws in plastic, machined metal versus castings, or brass plated versus solid brass buckles? The degradation and cheapening of product is well illustrated by wood veneers, where the surface layer has gone from 1/8″ thick to 1/64″ or even less, giving the very word veneer an unwarranted bad name.
Saddest to me are those with buckets of money, particularly the nouveau riche, who suddenly have the means to purchase anything they desire. I recall a TV tour of a rap star’s home where an extraordinary kitchen had only drawers of candy and a refrigerator with shelves of soda and beer. For these nouveau riche, quality is frequently defined strictly by brand and what costs more. Conspicuous consumption is the order of the day. I find it sad, because as a manufacturer, I see that those with extraordinary means often seek the “best” with little regard or knowledge of what it really means, often just parroting back some key buzz words regarding the product specifications. Manufacturers fine tune down to minute detail, yet most goes without care or appreciation, only to be tossed aside for the next new toy. However, I suppose there is no need to look under the hood of a car if you don’t know understand what you are looking at.
There are things whose mere existence scream finest and most expensive, such as the Lamborghini, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars. Even in New York City, the sight of one of these vehicles raises eyebrows. In a virtual sequel to my story, “Who See the Red”, I spotted the bright red Lamborghini in today’s photo on West Broadway in the heart of SoHo. Heads turned, and some even had photos taken of them with the vehicle.
For the New Yorker, it is also perhaps the audacity and the height of deliberateness to park a Lamborghini in the streets – even a convertible left open. It not only says the obvious, that someone can afford such a luxury, but also that the owner is so cavalier about money that he or she is perfectly comfortable leaving an asset of this size on the streets of New York City, subject to theft or vandalism.
But here perhaps, beyond image and panache, there at least may be some good news. I want to believe that a Lamborghini is a product that is more than just an expensive brand and that there is real Quality Under the Hood…
I had read that it was the dream of many Parisians to retire in Aix-en-Provence in the south of France, sometimes referred to as the city of a thousand fountains. It is also a city known for its many educational institutions. Its idyllic Mediterranean climate befits the Cours Mirabeau, the central artery running through the town. The wide street is beautifully shaded with double rows of plane-trees and flanked by elegant mansions built by nobility in the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries.
This tunnel of greenery is accented by fountains and lined with cafes. It was here, on one visit to France, that I witnessed what I told was a tradition in town among students. A group of recent grads was cavorting along the Cours near a fountain. Soon it became a virtual water park, with boys grabbing girls, shrieking and writhing, and dowsing them in the fountain pool. I had mixed feelings about the entire happening, which tasted a bit like involuntary fraternity hazing. Were they really having fun or bending to peer pressure? But I make an effort to be as non-critical as I can of cultural differences when traveling, lest I become another ugly American, like the man I featured in So Where’s David?
The last two days have been intolerably hot, with daytime temperatures near 100 degrees. There is little escape from summer heat in the city – New Yorkers find themselves shopping or staying indoors until the heat passes. Many, whether owing to lack of air conditioning or cabin fever, take to the streets and parks, invariably gravitating towards water. Such was the case last night in Washington Square Park.
I was taken by surprise to see an enormous group of teenagers replaying the Aix tradition. Although cavorting in the fountain in Washington Square Park becomes de rigueur during heat waves, I have rarely seen instances of forced dunking and certainly not like Thursday night. Soon, dunked or not, virtually everyone was soaking wet. I was also surprised that in 2012, it was still a guy-gets-girl thing, owing perhaps to France’s greater tenacity to customs rather than cultural change.
I was intrigued at the grouping and asked a number where they were from. I was told Monaco. I learned, however, that this was said as a matter of convenience, since they expected few to know the smaller town they were actually from. I met Christophe Boule, a teacher of English, who was one of the four adults supervising this group of high school students. The students had finished their academic year and were on a class trip to New York City – an annual tradition for their school. They were staying at the youth hostel in Manhattan on the Upper West Side. They were in fact not from Monaco but from Menton, near the Italian border. Menton is a delightful small city on the coast which boasts the warmest climate in France. I had passed through it once and always wished to attend their annual lemon festival.
When I initially approached Christophe and the other adults, they were understandably reticent and suspect of a stranger in New York City asking many questions. Their fears became slowly assuaged – my business card did a lot to establish credibility as a writer and photographer. After all, these things are often claimed by miscreants looking to get over on the innocent. One adult noticed that my last name was French. I confirmed that heritage. Now the attitude was rapidly changing.Our discussion turned to my enthusiasms about France, particularly my obsessions with medieval perched villages in the south. Now I appeared to be sérieux and truly interested in French culture.
Soon, all was well. The Cours Mirabeau in Aix, the customary fountain dunkings, my passion for all things French, my obsession with French villages, my visit to Menton. How serendipitous and fortuitous. New York City is such a befitting set for a remake of The French Connection
I moved to New York City in 1969 to attend NYU as a mathematics major. It took very little time to realize that a career as a mathematician would be a high road, reserved for the crème de la crème and not for a boy from a small town in Connecticut who fancied himself to be a math whiz. I dabbled in other curricula, and in my third year, disillusioned, I dropped out.
I did various odd jobs, and by 1975, I was very underemployed. And bored. My Siamese cats were bored also. I purchased three small hollow plastic golf balls sold as cat toys. My cats, as they are prone to do, showed no interest in commercial cat toys, preferring to play with anything else, particularly things verboten.
Frustrated with my useless purchase, I decide to try and JUGGLE the three balls, but to no avail, reminiscent of my childhood, when I would occasionally try to juggle batteries taken out of a toy. But I was curious and decided to put closure to this childhood fascination. I purchased the only book in print on juggling at the time. In its pages, I was informed that a juggling ball needed proper size and weight and that, in a pinch, even the clichéd oranges would suffice. A trip to the refrigerator, and voila – my efforts at learning three were met with an immediate improvement.
Soon, I located the only juggler listing himself in the yellow pages: Jay Green, a jewelry engraver and professional juggler. I visited his studio in midtown Manhattan. There, he demonstrated his extraordinary juggling talents. Right there, on that day, my love and romance for the art of juggling began.
Before leaving, he informed about an ongoing workshop in Wall Street. I attended the workshop regularly and discovered that there was a dearth of readily available equipment for juggling. I began making for myself, and soon a business was born. You can read the entire story here.
In a way however, I find that success stories, including my own, can be a bit boring; behind every success, there is always a story, and unless one comes from money, traced back far enough, behind every example of someone with more, there was a time with less, usually much less – Warren Buffett delivering newspapers, or Steve Jobs as an adopted child and college drop out.
In New York City, there are many failures, infinitely more than the successes. The city is built atop business failures. The plethora of retail store closings boggles the mind. Heartbreaking efforts, determination, and stamina against all odds with closures and bankruptcies nonetheless. Millions invested, millions lost. Beautiful retail spaces created, only to be ripped out months later. I see it every day. Often, the road to failure is as interesting and harrowing as that to success. But people need inspiration, not discouragement, and the details behind the failures, unless part of a longer road to success, largely remain untold.
Recently, rummaging through my desk at my office on lower Broadway, I found one of the original cat toy balls, shown in the photo. Sadly, it is the only one remaining of the original set of three, the other two lost or misplaced and not seen in years, a reminder that material success and personal good fortune are fragile and fleeting, as easily lost as gained. Perhaps a metaphor for tenacity and good luck in business, I have been hanging on tight to That Last Ball…
