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 🙂

More prisons: The Tombs

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…

More on my juggling business: Luck of the Irish, Smile by Fire, Not Of Them, Please Rub Off on Me, Just Like Steve Mills, Think Big, On the Road, Really Smart Guys, Fish and Ponds, Kind Words, Signature, Spinning, Juggle This

This street sign was pointed out to me by a fellow friend and photographer. It has created a small stir and is the perfect fuel for those who like to believe that the age of Orwell’s Big Brother is coming soon or has already arrived. Civil liberties advocates are running with this, and the Internet is abuzz with articles and comments/opinions as to the seriousness of this intrusion into the privacy of civilians by the use of UAVs (Unoccupied Aerial Vehicles).

However, it is not clear that these signs are actually the work of the NYPD, and the stir is going as planned. According to an article in the New Yorker on January 23, 2012 by Nick Paumgarten, the signage is the work of a 28-year-old photographer in Manhattan who had served in Iraq as a geospatial analyst for the army. He’d worked with satellite and drone images to provide maps for troops on the ground.

After his discharge from the Army, he became a radical art school student who was dismayed with the Army’s use of drones to kills militants in Afghanistan and Pakistan which were being tested on home soil. From the article:

He found a municipal sign manufacturer in a state far from New York, so as not to raise any alarm, and ordered a series of drone-alert parking sings that he’d designed to look as if they’d been issued by the NYPD. Very late on several nights a few weeks ago he set out with a crew of five to install the signs in SoHo, the West Village, Chelsea, Dumbo, and Williamsburg. Two of them did the installing, the others were on the lookout. The had walkie-talkies and, since they were on an open frequency, communicated in military code.

Eleven such signs were installed – some have disappeared quickly, while others remain. References to the New Yorker article populate the Internet alongside assertions that the signs and threat of the use of drones for civilian monitoring is real. Comments are dominated by alarmist reactions, as would be expected.

If the work is not that of the NYPD and by an activist, I am puzzled as to why these signs would remain prominently posted. I called the local precinct, and they seemed unaware of the signs and not particularly alarmed. The community affairs officer said that if the sign bothered me, I should take it down. When I asked regarding the legality of posting signs appearing to be those of the NYPD, she mentioned freedom of speech. I have no intention of attempting to remove a sign prominently located on Washington Square North and 5th Avenue and test the law. But I will occasionally look up and Listen for the Drone 🙂

More signs: $57.50 (Part 1 and Part 2), Eyes on the Signs, Asbestos Sticks, Martin Luther King, Jr., No Students After 1, WFF ‘N PROOF, Small Achievements, ArtKraft Strauss, Dead or Alive, Store Policies, Advertising Gone Wild, Colossal Missbehavior, Pepsi-Cola in Neon, Vintage Mural, One Hour

The Anonymous Shoe

Perhaps I should have a rule: if something in New York City is enough to stop me dead in my tracks, no matter how trivial it may appear, it is worthy of a photo and story. After all, it would be rather stingy to seek out photo ops and then, when something truly piques the interest of denizens of the city, share it only with other fellow New Yorkers, would it not?

Yesterday, during the evening rush hour, on a highly trafficked intersection of Spring Street and Broadway, I encountered this woman’s dress boot and sock. Thousands just walked by it, leaving it completely undisturbed. But it was very, very perplexing. It seems unlikely that someone would lose one shoe and one sock. It seemed equally unlikely that someone would discard one shoe and sock.

This was not a monumental occurrence but rather something so deliberate that it begged for attention. Was this another example of Lost and Found – the Hanukkah star cat I discovered in 2008 which appeared to be more deliberately placed than lost? If lost and left for the owner, it was in the least likely of places, New York City, where the prospect of finding or recovering lost articles, seems about as remote as humanly possible (see Area Code 714, Part 1 and Part 2). On March 15, 2011, in Titillation of the Day, I wrote:

On December 26, 2008, in a story called Lost and Found, I told of my experience in Paris, where lost articles were often repositioned prominently in near where it was found, in hopes the original owner will return via that route and find it. Since that time, I have noticed this practice on the streets of New York City. It may come as somewhat surprising, but the more aware you are of this practice, the more likely you will notice it.

I approached a woman nearby purchasing a cupcake at the Melissa window bakeshop and asked her opinion. She appeared to be equally confused. Another passerby commented that someone was trying to make a statement. When I remarked that it may be the subject of a story, he suggested “The Anonymous Shoe.”

Related Posts: Front Window, One Size Too Small, Urban Road Warrior

There are big celebrities and small ones. If you’re big, perhaps you will have your name in lights on Broadway, on a movie theater marquee, the front page of the tabloids, magazines, your hand or footprints on Hollywood Boulevard, or a long page in Wikipedia.

If you’re a small celebrity or a big fish in a small pond, you take what you can get. If you are lucky, like I was, you may be asked to do a small indie documentary film (which remains in limbo). Or, you may find, like I did last night, your name on the mirror, upside down, in a dirty, graffiti-laden bathroom of a local cafe.

Yesterday, I agreed to meet a friend and photographer at Boyd Thai for dinner. I left 520 Broadway, where my office and factory are located, and walked through SoHo. On West Broadway, Peter Lik and his gallery struck a troubled chord. I crossed Houston Street – the setting for many photos I have taken and many stories I have written: The Honest Boy, The Wall, The Cable Building, Angelika Film Center, the traffic island where I first chatted with Mark Birnbaum, Time Landscape, St. Anthony’s Church (with its Christmas nativity), Raffetto’s, and Arturo’s.

Through the South Village, I crossed Bleecker Street – legendary and a destination in itself. I arrived at Boyd Restaurant, featuring Thai cuisine, where we had the early-bird specials. As is often the case, I was given a complementary dessert. After dinner, we agreed to extend our evening out and head for a regular haunt – Think Coffee.

Leaving Boyd, we strolled up Thompson Street, passing by the renowned Chess Shop. Heading east, we flanked Washington Square Park, a world unto its own. We passed by Kimmel, the new NYU student center, and the massive Bobst Library. Across from Courant Institute of Mathematical Sciences on Mercer Street, we arrived at our destination, Think Coffee, where we always find No Negativity.

Just before leaving, my friend used the bathroom. On his return, he told me that my name was stickered on a mirror, which was upside down over the sink. I was assured he was joking, but he assured me that he was not. I entered the bathroom to see for myself, and sure enough, a dubé sticker had been affixed to the mirror. In spite of being framed by graffiti and litter, I was pleasantly surprised. It certainly did not dominate an airspace like T for Trump, but it will likely give me at least 15 minutes of fame. I’ll Take It 🙂

It is no secret that New Yorkers top the list when it comes to arrogance and xenophobia. Perhaps one of the best visual representations is View of the World from 9th Avenue – if you are unfamiliar with it, see the photo and my story here. Even within New York City itself, you will find individuals who rarely go outside their neighborhood. For Village residents, there is a cliche: I never go north of 14th Street.

In today’s photo, you can see an example of this thinking in an ad by local storage giant Manhattan Mini-Storage. In a crowded marketplace, the company has been successful in creating provocative ads that actually get talked about. Here are some samples:

“Remember, if you leave the city, you’ll have to live in America.”

“Oh, yeah, you’ll fit right in in Connecticut.”

“Your closet’s so shallow, it makes Paris look deep.” [re: Paris Hilton]?”

“In my father’s house, there are many rooms.” – John 14:2.  Clearly, Jesus was not a New Yorker.

And from today’s photo: “Nobody becomes famous in Des Moines.” Slamming another city will certainly get attention, although the effect is most likely on the other city’s residents than on New Yorkers, who already believe that there is no other place worth living in, certainly not Des Moines, Iowa.

I found a response to the ad and comments on a blog called Des Moines is NOT Boring with a story title: Really New York!? As one would expect, the readers of the blog were not pleased with the ad. The writer of the story states, “Apparently, closest [sic] space is at a premium in New York, yet the relation to becoming famous and Des Moines is still pretty unclear.” I agree with the writer that the precise thinking behind the statement is somewhat hazy, but I surmise that the implication is that there is plenty of storage space outside New York City, but it would do one no good to live there. Des Moines was a good target since many see the Midwest as a place of pleasant, mild-mannered people but quintessentially BORING.

It is ironic that a blog and name would be predicated on a statement that Des Moines is not boring. Self-proclamations are typically indicative that the opposite is true. People who profess to be easygoing rarely are. And people who have to make preemptive defensive statements usually are what they claim to not be. When is the last time you saw a billboard stating that New York is NOT Boring or that Paris is NOT ugly?

I do respect the quality of life that must exist in small cities. I have often fantasized about moving to a place like Boulder, Colorado, San Francisco, or Portland, Maine. But once you live in New York City, it’s hard to scale back. Most of us are here not just for the lure of opportunity but are also trapped by the Sirens of Convenience. It matters not whether anyone becomes famous in New York City or in Des Moines 🙂

Related Posts: Uptown, Goin’ to Jersey

It may be hard to understand why anyone 12 years old would covet a book on calculus, but I did. I loved books and reading in general, but I also loved mathematics and was intrigued by the meaning of the long S of integral calculus. My eighth grade teacher explained succinctly that it meant sum. Not particularly satisfied, I desired the book to have for my own, however, I was told by my parents that if I wanted it, I would have to earn the money and buy it myself. It was $2.95 and published by Barnes and Noble. I saved my money and, in time, came to purchase that book. I still have it.

And so it is that I can never hate Barnes and Noble. And after all, they are a legacy business, founded in 1873, not an empire built on the latest fashion or frivolous merchandise. It is fashionable to hate Barnes and Noble, which is understandable. I do imagine that they have put many small independent book retailers out of business. However, I am doubtful that destroying small booksellers is corporate policy at Barnes and Noble but rather the unfortunate natural fallout when such a large retailer moves into an area.

But in New York City, as elsewhere, the consumer has become very spoiled. Although many bemoan the fate of the small independent retailer and demonize the retail giants/chains, we all want huge selection, late hours, 7-day operations, low prices, liberal return policies, and a plethora of convenient locations. Who but the giants can offer such a thing? Comedian Todd Barry does material on the ironies of the attitudes of New Yorkers towards the corporate behemoths. You can read it here.

My interest in books went beyond that first tome on calculus. I have always been comforted by books, magazines, and the stores selling them. So when I began discovering Hudson News shops in the airports and bus and train terminals around New York City (and eventually outside the city), I always found their neon signs a welcome beacon to reading materials.

I was shocked and fascinated to learn that Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones, known for a life of excess, was an avid reader. His personal library has been featured in a book of libraries. He once remarked how surprised he was that Americans read so little. He discussed the reality of touring and how much waiting and down time there was between concerts and how he filled much of his time with reading.

There’s a lot of waiting and down time in New York. In a city where most travel by public transportation, many fill their travel time with reading. Perhaps if I am lucky, someday I may meet Keith in Barnes and Noble or Hudson News as we fill our time in a World of Waiting.

Related Posts: Who Can Believe It?, We Read at Night, Book Wars, The Strand