Come Back For Jupiter

If you spend enough time on the streets of New York City and mingle, you are going to experience a depth and breadth of humanity that boggles the mind. Not only will you find an absolutely astonishing number of people with incredible talent, but likely, you will on occasion find the serendipitous meetings to be even more amazing.

On Saturday night, I ate dinner at my favorite local Italian restaurant, Trattoria Spaghetto (as mentioned in my story, Donato), conveniently located on Father Demo Square. It was an exquisite evening. Strolling out and through the small park, I saw a man with an enormous telescope, welcoming all to observe and partake in the wonders of the universe for free. There were no shortage of lookers.

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Don't Bet Against Many Goods

In the 1980s, I was introduced to a man who had worked various outdoor markets and planned to open a large magic/costume store in a prime Greenwich Village location. I found it a ludicrous concept, really, for such a limited clientele for the products in a very high-rent district of Manhattan. I was also not very impressed with this man overall. He was really quite crass, unsophisticated, and very oriented to making a buck. A huckster.

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War for Your Mind

I can't imagine a subject deeper, thornier, more impassioned, more complex, and more contentious in New York City than anything involving Judaism or Israel.

So, if you want to INFLAME some New Yorkers, set up in Times Square and claim to be the only authentic descendants of the ancient Israelites.

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Crusties are People Too?

Part 2 (see Part 1 here)





I had hoped to learn a little more about Morgan and her background. In a way, one could say I had made her acquaintance. When I approached her lying in the grass on Sunday, greeting her with "Morgan Maginnis," she jumped and ran as if she had seen the devil incarnate. It took some conversation and persuasion to convince her that I was the man who had photographed her only a few days earlier.

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Crusties are People Too, Part 1

Christian Meets Chaucer and Crusties


Let's create an impossible scenario. Start with a Bible-thumping preacher standing on a small stool, screaming scripture aloud in a park using amplification. The police arrive after a noise complaint by a hostile man with a long white beard and hair - the incarnation of Mr. Natural ala R. Crumb. He also complains that he does not believe the preaching is biblically accurate (not an arrestable offense). The preacher informs the police that there is case law that says preaching with amplification is not illegal and that only volume can be regulated. He looks for the court ruling on his iPhone and will fax it to the police precinct. The police back off.

Another preacher begins, his voice volume greater than that generated by the small amplifier used previously. Simultaneously, a young man is reading loudly from a text, directed at the preacher. I cannot recognize the language - I assume it is a religious text, perhaps in Hebrew and ask him about it. He is an English literature student and is reading the Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English at full volume. It's a war of words...

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It's Perfect

I was once led to visit an artist on Broadway, only a few blocks from my office. Not knowing whether my destination would be of interest, I paid no mind to exactly where I was going or who I was visiting. I have no idea what her name was to this day, but we had a conversation that left an indelible imprint in my mind.

Her work was quite unique - furniture as art. What particularly struck me was her use of machinist's tools and equipment. Her work was impeccable - I had never seen anything crafted so perfectly and I told her so. She did not take the complement but instead corrected my choice of words. Precision she said, not Perfection.

Touché. A distinction very well made. We had a conversation about it, but she was preaching to the choir. I have reflected on her comment a myriad of times - often when I work or whenever the word "perfect" is used emphatically in praise of a product well made.

When it comes to man made articles, it is quite true. Perfection does not exist, only tolerances and precision. Given measuring devices accurate enough, anything manufactured will vary from its specifications. Certainly the eye or hand will be unable to perceive variations within tolerances in a finely crafted article, but the lack of perfection is there nonetheless.

I'm not sure what surprises people most - what I do for a living or that I do it in Manhattan in a prime SoHo location. I do maintain a machine shop on Broadway. In the photo, I am machining a part on a 1951 LeBlond lathe.The machine is a real workhorse, made at a time when American machinery was built to last. This machine will likely outlive me.

I often wonder how many lathes are left in New York City, particularly Manhattan. I only know of a couple of machine shops. In the 1990s, there was a small machinist who occupied an entire one story building on Crosby Street around the corner from me. At one time, numerous other small manufacturers dotted the area, even entire buildings were occupied. I never appreciated the luxury of strolling to a machine shop and in minutes discussing a project, leaving drawings and picking up parts in hours or a day. The place is now a carpet shop.

My lathe was purchased at Grand Machinery Exchange on Lafayette Street in a area once known as machine shop row. There were 40 machinery dealers in the area north of Canal Street. Grand Machinery was the last of these dealers and relocated to Long Island in 2006. I very much would have loved to do a story on them, however, I only learned of their closing a few days after their move. My visit there was only to press my face against dirty windows and peer into an empty industrial ground floor space.

I do love machining a metal part. It is so satisfying to produce something with a high level of precision in a world of the unpredictable, uncertain or mutable and riddled with poorly made articles. When I take a beautiful gleaming metal part off that lathe, check it with my Mitutoyo digital caliper and find that the diameter is exactly what I wanted, there are no thoughts about that artist on Broadway and the nuances of perfection versus precision. It's perfect.

Related Posts: Brawling Over Brands, In Industry, Because I'm the Best, Released From Captivity, Space Surplus Metals, Canal Rubber

Grace of a Boombox God

Those of us who lived in New York City in the 1970s and 80s can testify to the very serious quality of life issues - graffiti covered subways, vandalism, garbage, crime, noise, drugs. The streets were minefields of dog poop just waiting for the next victim - those unfamiliar with the terrain or seasoned New Yorkers who had a momentary lapse of attention to the sidewalks. It was a very rough time and not the promised land at all. The most common question I was asked at the time about my choice to live in New York City was "Why?"

In hindsight, those times are examined at arms length, analyzed, discussed, debated, romanticized and even missed. A case in point is a recent book reviewed in the New York Times:

Mr. Owerko’s interest grew into a book, “The Boombox Project: The Machines, the Music, and the Urban Underground,” published this month by Abrams Image. It features his lovingly detailed close-up photographs of vintage portable stereos, as well as commentary by Spike Lee, L L Cool J and members of the Beastie Boys and the Fugees about the role the devices played in New York’s street culture from the late 1970s to the mid-’80s.

In shot after full-page shot, Mr. Owerko — best known for his image of the smashed World Trade Center on the cover of Time magazine on Sept. 14, 2001 — venerates an audio technology that, to eyes accustomed to the iPod’s futuristic smoothness, seems practically steampunk: hard, square-edged metal casing; wheel-size speakers protected by silvery-black grilles; lots of clunky knobs and buttons. And at the heart of every boombox is a cassette deck.

Many who bemoan the loss of the edge, grit, authenticity, lack of over gentrification, etc., were either not there or perhaps with selective memory, forget that living in that environment was in numerous ways quite awful. Many of the pleasant memories of that era often have more to do with the youthful enthusiasm and a spirit of reckless abandon and fearless adventure of young urban cowboys than any inherent charm of the city. New York City provided its own flavor of the lawless wild west.

One of the most annoying and dreadful elements of the late 1970s and 1980s was the boombox. This portable party machine could be cranked to deafening levels, even outdoors against the ambient din of the city. At times it felt like there was no escaping it - the ghetto blasters were everywhere to be found including spaces where one expected quiet enjoyment like parks. To make matters worse, the music played was very limited, typically disco, a genre I quickly grew to abhor, or hip hop. You would not hear anything else, certainly not classical, country, blues or classic rock. We prayed for the death of disco and these infernal machines. Our wishes were eventually granted but it was an interminable wait of a decade.

Boomboxes were HEAVY. It was a job to carry them all day. Some required as many as 20 D-cell batteries, which, allowing for continuous play and volumes, would only last the day. The cost of these batteries became major budgetary items for those who carried their boxes daily. They were essentially the Walkmans or iPods of their day, but as a broadcast device, they could hardly be considered personal audio players.

On Monday, while walking on Broadway, I encountered what had to be the largest boombox I have ever seen. A pedestrian nearby commented to me "I feel like its the 90s again." Perhaps he was not aware that if his only experience of boomboxes was the in the 90s, then he had not enjoyed true noise pollution.

The owner was walking very briskly. I fumbled for my camera and ran after him, asking if he would permit a photo. With a pompous attitude and only a side glance, he made a beckoning motion with one hand, indicating I follow him as we both ran through Broadway traffic. He stopped for a second, giving me no time to compose a decent photo. I was a bit frustrated, however, I had to remind myself, that even though it was only for a brief moment, I had gotten a free trip in time and had been granted the Grace of a Boombox God :)

Related Posts: Float Master, Part 1, Too Too New York, Deaf Jam, I've Got a Feeling, 5 Pointz, Columbo, Monk and CSI, Men Making Noise, New York State of Mind

Stopped In My Tracks

In New York City, vagaries define the special. There is nothing more appealing than the lack of specific information or the secret. We just love "there's this guy" or "there's this place" with a lack of precise information as to where. Particularly in our current time, nothing is more unappealing to a New Yorker than a place that is part of a national brand or regional chain and has been marketed and branded to death.

No one wants what everyone else has or wants to shop at places everyone knows about. This is at the heart of "being the best," an obsession in New York City. How can something be one of New York's best if it is part of a national franchise? Street cred for a business has to start with a minimum requirement of existing only in New York. The problem, however, is that unique places and services are fast disappearing. In the span of this website's existence, many iconic places I have written about have gone out of business.

I have even experienced a holding back of information, as if to be worthy of the knowledge, one must venture forth and ferret out a person or place's whereabouts on one's own. No pain, no gain. This holding back is often justified in that overexposure may ruin a business's character. Although this may be true, I think the real motive stems more from selfishness - those desiring the special want if for themselves. After all, how special can it be if everyone knows about it?

The shoe shiner is a perfect candidate for the New Yorker's lust for "there's this guy." By their nature, those involved in the business are sole operators and are often transient. In New York City, one should never underestimate the potential of any activity if done by an astute, aggressive, streetwise individual that can promote him or herself. Transient does not equal unsuccessful. Don Ward is a good example (not the man in today's photo). Located at 47th Street and 6th Avenue, Don has been shining shoes for over 20 years. He does an average of 50 customers per day at $5 per shine plus tips. This man has interesting insights*, aggressive solicitation and clever patter. He is quite the character and a bit of a celebrity, reminiscent of the Gentlemen Peeler (see my story here).

I have never felt comfortable with shoe shining. Although it is, perhaps, no worse than someone doing your laundry, shining shoes seems so transparently servile, too close to kissing someone's feet. Perhaps it is my French ancestry rearing its head. In an article from the New York Times in 2008, The Politics of the Shoe Shine, Roger Cohen writes:

Broadly speaking, there are two kinds of societies: those where you can get a shoe shine and those where you can’t. France falls into the latter category. Search Paris high and low for a seat to kick back and se faire cirer les bottes: you’ll search in vain. There’s something about the idea of having someone stooped at the feet of a client applying polish to his or her boots that rubs the Gallic egalitarian spirit the wrong way. It’s just not what 1789 was about.

In the United States, of course, it’s a different story. Unlike humor, which is in short supply, or banned, a shoe shine is freely available at U.S. airports. Walk a few Manhattan or Chicago blocks and someone will be there to make your shoes gleam. There’s something about having someone applying polish to a blithe client’s boots that comforts American notions of free enterprise, make-a-buck opportunism, and the survival of the fittest.

Nonetheless, on my way to the Metro North train on Saturday, I could not help but be stunned by what I saw entering Grand Central Terminal. It was like a still frame from an old film set in New York City. Everything was perfect - two men alone on a quiet morning, the customer reading a paper while the shiner plied his trade, both basking in the yellow-orange sunlight streaming in. The whole scene gave me chills. Like the train that awaited me on track 24, I was Stopped In My Tracks ...

* From Don: "Ninety-nine percent of the time, women will look at your shoes and immediately dismiss you if they’re below standard. If you can’t keep your shoes looking decent, you can’t do anything else." "If you can’t take care of this one small detail, I’d hate to see your living conditions."

Related Posts: One Size Too Small, Urban Road Warrior, Very Resilient, Entombed, Uggly or Not, Mania, Just Passing Through, Camper, Grand Central

Grace Under Fire

Once privileges are given, they are soon seen as rights - taking them away will not be well received. This scenario is common in New York City, such as in quality of life campaigns when circumstances beg for attention and there is a broader and stricter enforcement of existing laws. This, of course, invariably precipitates public outcry, particularly from those who are more politically active and vigilant concerning civil rights.

Recently, there was a small show of force and ticketing of street performers in Washington Square Park. This is an extremely contentious issue for a number of reasons, particularly since the area has a history of musical performance, one of the dominant reasons many visit this area. The Village has been known as a center for artists and musicians for a century. Apart from the rights to free speech and expression, however, there are nuances of other laws coming into play regarding busking, solicitation, noise, public disturbance and unlawful assembly.

Shutting down and ticketing performers was met with hostile reaction ranging from anger to outrage. After the recent sweep, the park personnel who had done the ticketing were nowhere to be found - a smart and understandable move. Two officers were on hand however, Alberto Alicea (photo rear) and Tom Grace of the 6th Precinct. The flurry of fury was constant, with a crowd of individuals venting and fuming. Being on the receiving end of a barrage of angry music lovers requires composure because hell hath no fury like an artist warned.

As is the case with many police actions and the law, most citizens are inadequately informed, misinformed or just too angry to have thought the situation through. I knew I was not dealing with the typical "cop" as I first approached the group where Tom was at work explaining a broad number of concepts including exigent circumstance in United States law.

I was extremely impressed not only with Tom's composure and patience, but with his knowledge of the fine details of the law, its intent and interpretation. In addition to his understanding of the academic side of the law, he has a good working knowledge as to its application and the use of common sense and discretion. I spoke with Tom's partner, Alberto Alicea, during these goings on. Al assured me that Tom's intellect and talents at interpretation and explanation of the law were well known. Tom told me he loved to read and also informed me that policemen were now required to have at least 60 university credits to become an officer. Born in New Jersey, Tom now lives in Brooklyn and has been on the police force for 8 years.

He was the perfect spokesperson to have on hand after an event of this nature. I saw one individual after another arrive angry and leave unwillingly satisfied. Tom's approach was not one of debate, but of discussion with calm and clear explanation of the law, the circumstances and police response, always addressing the individual's questions directly.

Being an officer in the New York Police Department is not an easy challenge. Here we have every variant of lawbreaker imaginable, from the innocent tourist committing a minor infraction to seasoned criminals and scam artists who have as good a working knowledge of the law as the police themselves and are often able to ply their trade and evade arrest. Disrespect and defiance is common. I have spent hours conversing with police officers in Washington Square Park. Bicycling in the park is common but a violation, which is clearly stated on numerous signs. Officers typically ask riders to dismount and walk their bikes. Responses vary from polite complicity to open hostile remarks.

Tom quickly volunteered that he saw a police uniform as clothing, behind which were a broad range of individuals like that seen in the population at large. He was not a man to defend the actions or character of any man in uniform and acknowledged that laws are often improperly or unevenly applied.

In the case of the ticketing of the street performers by park officers, many felt that quotas may have been a factor and that many performers were unfairly and unjustly targeted in the action. A few may have been overly zealous and aggressive in their solicitation. Others, however, performed as they always had and were exercising their rights, not enjoying privilege. I'm glad I did not have to defend the actions of the park personnel. To stand amongst an angry mob takes composure and guts. By guts, I mean Grace under Fire :)

Note: Some comments for this posting were lost due to a blogger outage.

Bamboo Big as Pipe

I have had a small obsession with bamboo for decades. Like palm trees and tropical islands, they are things rarely associated with New York City, so I have had to travel and explore to feed the passion. In the 1980s, my fascination with bamboo reached its apex. I purchased a hard cover coffee table book on bamboo, helped my father fabricate bamboo fly fishing rods and sought out bamboo bonsai at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens.

The pièce de résistance was a trip to the island of Nevis in the West Indies, where I sought out my ultimate dream - a bamboo forest. My sister and her husband, who were traveling with me at the time, however, did not share my dream, but tolerated it, hoping that after an excursion, I may regain my sanity and normalcy. I did.

On such a small island, networking to find services is virtually an effortless process. Shortly after arrival, I was able to find a local guide who would take me to a tropical jungle. This was easy, but the most imperative for me was whether or not we would see bamboo in its native habitat. He assured me yes, I would see "Bamboo Big as Pipe."

Bamboo is a remarkably versatile material and is used in furniture, flooring, molding, fencing, textiles (I have a bamboo t-shirt), paper, as a food, musical instruments, to build homes, scaffolding, even bamboo bicycles. All taking advantage of many unique properties of the wood - it is denser than oak, harder and lighter than maple. It is very attractive, distinctive and maintains well. It is stronger than wood, brick, concrete and steel and less expensive than many other woods. Unlike many trees, which can take 20-50 years to mature, bamboo takes only about five years, making it environmentally sustainable - this is the big plus from a marketing and consumer perspective. Some are calling this wonder grass the super material of the future.

The appreciation and use of bamboo with related imagery permeates Asian cultures. This is true to a much lesser degree in the United States, however, I am not the only New Yorker to enjoy the symbolism of bamboo - scores of restaurants, spas and other shops use the word bamboo in their name.

Recently, I found a retail store display of bamboo cutting boards. Nearby were two signs - one promoting bamboo as eco-friendly and the other, "why use bamboo?", featured 5 bullet points: renewable resource, resists odors and bacteria, naturally beautiful finish, harder and lighter than maple, stronger than steel. At a number of home furnishing shops I am seeing more bamboo furniture.

I am happy to finally see bamboo sprout all over the city in so many ways, helping to complete the overused but apt metaphor of New York City as the concrete jungle. No need to travel to the forests of Nevis - just look up and imagine Bamboo Big as Pipe :)

Sidewalk University

Many years ago, a number of us were on the street in the East Village talking to a bookseller. In one of many spontaneous outdoor forums on the streets of New York, the conversation was nothing less than extraordinary. When I volunteered how impressed I was with the evening's classroom, the bookseller showed little surprise. He pointed out that this was not just any place, it was in fact the streets of New York City, aka Sidewalk University.

Not a substitute for the institutions of higher learning, but, for those unable to attend or perhaps as post grad work, nothing beats the streets of New York City as a place to learn. Not to suggest that every person or conversation will be one of erudition, but with some discrimination, a person can ferret out some worthy engagements.

Saturday, my family was en route for a weekend stay in the city and was however, delayed due to traffic. Learning of this when I was already outdoors on my way uptown to their hotel, I now had some free time - why not spend it in Union Square before jumping on the train? The farmer's market is always a pleasurable stroll and opportunity to grab a healthy snack and/or beverage.

On this excursion, I was particularly drawn to a table of enormous eggs - some filled, some empty to be used decoratively. The stand was run by Roaming Acres, an ostrich farm in Andover, New Jersey. Todd Applebaum, pointed out to me that the farm made use of nearly 100% of the ostrich - its eggs, meat, bones, skin (as wallets).

However, the eggs whose color and size drew my attention were that of the emu, an Australian relative. Todd gave me a short lesson on the emu - my appetite was so whetted that, like any good student, I followed up the lecture with reading. I learned that the emu was a remarkable bird, with some of the best design features I have seen in any animal. They can go a day or two without water, weeks without food, sprint at over 30 mph if necessary. A nail on their toes serves as a knife to kick away predators and other emus. They thermoregulate and can tolerate a wide range of temperatures. Their legs are among the strongest of any animals and can tear down wire fences. Their eyes, as would be expected, are equipped with a translucent secondary eyelid. Read more here.

The eggs are highly prized - the emu only produces one every few days. When I asked Todd why I saw no emu meat or products, he smiled and said that you don't kill the goose that lays the golden egg. We joked and I suggested that perhaps the emu knew its coveted status and was rather a diva. And so it was, on Saturday, March 12, 2011, that I was privileged to another tuition-free seminar on the streets at New York's Sidewalk University :)

None For Me, Please

When I came to this city, there were so many things new to me. 24 hour delis, bagels, ethnic foods other than Italian, tall buildings, subways, men who were openly gay, pizza by the slice, egg creams, Macy's and all the other icons I had seen on TV now come to life.

And prostitutes. This was a big curiosity for me and other friends. That women would openly flaunt their bodies and market their wares on the streets for all to behold. In the desolate area around the Lincoln Tunnel (shown in the photo), street walkers could be seen any evening, openly soliciting and discussing specifics and pricing.

Sex for money has now moved off the streets of the city. Targeted by the Guiliani administration and contained by Bloomberg, little can be found on the streets. I have been told there is some activity in Hunt's Point, Bronx, and recently there has also been trafficking in child prostitution. But most activity has gone online to places like the erotic services on Craigslist, escort services websites, Facebook and Twitter.

In spite of having lived in a city where such services were readily available, I have never sought out the services of a prostitute. Even though New York City is extremely liberal and permissive, the idea of being with a woman, even a consenting adult, in such an act of intimacy for money has always been disturbing and not right to me and everyone I know. I never have forgotten the one scene in the film Klute where Jane Fonda plays a prostitute. While faking an orgasm, unbeknownst to the man she is with, she looks at her watch - the ultimate graphic depiction of the harsh reality of prostitution and the business of sex.

On the streets or online - neither arena has been a temptation. Nor have the transgressions of former New York governor Eliot Spitzer with Kristen served as any fuel for justifying this behavior. None for me, please ...

A Slice of Cheesecake, Part 2

The Brittany - Temple of the Gods of Debauchery

It was clear after moving into Brittany Residence Hall and a brief visit to NYU's primary other residence at the time, Weinstein, that fortune has bestowed us with a better choice.

The Brittany, as it was known at the time, is located at 55 East 10th Street and Broadway. It is a former hotel, built in 1929. The structure has larger, airier rooms and a prewar ambiance.

The Brittany penthouse was a speak-easy at one time with many well known guests like Walter Winchell, Al Pacino and Grateful Dead's Jerry Garcia. The ground floor currently functions as a gallery, Broadway Windows, with displays of student art.

At the time of my stay there, the Brittany was a truly a temple to the gods of debauchery. It was a coed dormitory and in many cases, the rooms themselves became coed with couples living together in suites. Drugs were rampant as were drug dealers, even selling to those outside the student body. One evening, while sitting in a hallway, I had a jacket bloodied by someone who, half asleep on the way to the bathroom, had smashed his hand through a glass door and was running and screaming. I was told by a close friend of a first hand account of a group of students in the nude, high on Quaaludes, playing Frisbee in a hallway.

One of my earliest memories there was visiting a room completely outfitted in UV blacklight for the entertainment of visitors. One fellow student represented himself as a cat burglar and demonstrated his skills by walking on window ledges of this high rise building. Brittany Residence Hall is also where I resided at the time of one of my favorite stories, involving Jimi Hendrix - see Crime Scene here.

Somewhat controversial, The Princeton Review not only provides its well known university ratings in a Best College guide, but also provides a "Top 20 Party School List." NYU has typically made the list. Today however, the university is better known for its coveted #1 Dream School status, rising prominence and the strength of many departments - Courant Institute of Mathematics, NYU Law School, the Film School and Stern School of Business. According to Forbes Magazine, in 2008, NYU was ranked 7th among universities that have produced the largest number of living billionaires.

I recently visited the dorm for the first time since 1970, escorted by an NYU student currently residing there. There were changes of course, most notably increased security - turnstiles requiring student ID card swipes. Things appeared to be much more subdued. However, I did learn that Brittany Hall is considered haunted with reports of unexplained music, lights, footsteps and claims from people who believe that others are watching them. Perhaps the final stirrings of the gods of debauchery ...

A Slice of Cheesecake

Part 1 - The Arrival

I knew nothing of the world and almost nothing about New York City. I had only visited twice on day trips. I had never spent one night away from home alone. There were no ATM machines and I had no bank account. Only some cash.

I had one suitcase and arrived at Port Authority bus terminal, never a beautiful or inviting place for the newcomer. I was excited and scared. This is where I had dreamed of living for some time, but now I was really here and it was big.

I was neither homeless nor on the road. It was 1969, I was 18 and had been accepted to New York University. I had chosen a dorm and was very disappointed that my first choice, Weinstein Hall (the most modern), had been rejected. I was to stay at the older Brittany Residence, a former hotel, under renovation and not quite completed. As an interim measure, for a few weeks, we were housed at the Penn Garden Hotel* on 7th Avenue at 31st Street. I was later to learn that the Brittany, with its prewar ambiance and much larger rooms, was actually highly preferable.

I entered my hotel room and met my roommates. I had never shared a room before either, having grown up with two sisters, so this was another adjustment to be made. We chatted a bit.

It was evening and I was hungry. I had never eaten out alone, had little money to spend on dinner, and I did not want to stray far from the hotel. I recall going to a place resembling a diner and eating at the counter.

Things were expensive here. I could not afford a real dinner, so I ordered cheesecake and a soda. Although a poor meal, on reflection, a slice of New York style cheesecake was quite befitting. My first day trips to the city involved more notable restaurants such as the Albert French Restaurant at 65 University Place, dating to 1868 and once a haven for writers including Thomas Wolfe, Nathan's at Times Square or Luchow's on 14th Street. This place, however, was of no import and as is often the case for a New Yorker, decided on the basis of proximity.

The identity of the restaurant where I first ate on that evening in 1969 shall remain unknown to me and assuredly it was not the "best cheesecake in New York City." But it was only my first night and there would be plenty of time to ferret out the good, the better and the bests in Gotham City. Street cred would come in time and for the newbie in New York, I could have done worse than a slice of cheesecake ...

*The Penn Garden Hotel has gone through numerous incarnations in the last 40 years. The thirty-two story structure was designed by the architects Murgatroyd & Ogden and built in 1929. It was originally called the Hotel Governor Clinton, named for George Clinton (1739-1812), the first governor of New York State. In 1967, the name was changed to the Penn Garden Hotel. In 1971, it became Southgate Tower and in 2004 the Affinia.

Because It's Not

With luggage in hand, I always walk by or through Washington Square Park on Thanksgiving day as I journey to New England to visit my family. On a bleak, gray morning, I find it particularly saddening, as invariably I see people alone in a deserted space, knowing that for many, this will be how they spend their day.

When I was much younger, many of us espoused how a holiday or birthday was "just another day" and really meant nothing. Foolish to me now - on the occasions I did have to spend a holiday away from family, I worked hard to dismiss my sadness - who can really swim against a tide of a major national holiday that is defined by the family meal and is so emotionally charged with signs and reminders at every turn? Not I.

I have featured the classic New York City celebratory events on this website in the past - you can see them here: Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, the inflation ritual before the night of the parade (here and here), natural ornamentation found around the city and displays of abundant foods. Retail promotions are everywhere to be seen, here in the city as elsewhere. Today, Macy's opened at 4AM for what is now being called Black Thursday. The tree at Rockefeller Center has been installed, ready for the annual lighting ceremony. This is the New York City we see in the media and the one that visitors expect.

But not everyone is enjoying the Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving family dinner.

I left my home this morning at 6:50 AM with camera in hand to see and show a different side.

A food vendor was already set up with his cart readied for the day. There were partially eaten containers of food and discarded clothing scattered about. Typical early morning sights before the park cleanup staff completes their rounds. I met Yusef, who was resting his feet, sitting alone on a park bench. He asked me about the time of the parade.

I gave him my card. He noticed and identified the red-tailed hawk. I told him the story of how I came to get that photo. He was familiar with the famed hawks on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park. He asked what I was doing today and I told him of my family and that I would be visiting in Connecticut.

When I asked about his family, he told me he has only met his father twice and his mother was shot by her boyfriend some years ago. I did not ask what he was doing for Thanksgiving, and I was not going to insult him by telling him not to worry, it was just another day. Because it's not...

Note: Today, along with the good fortune I have had in my life, I would also like to thank all readers of this blog for your patronage and uplifting comments. Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Waiting to be Sold

The door to door salesman has never been a welcome visitor, but somewhere around 1963, a knock on my family's door changed my life. Whoever and wherever he is, I thank that salesman for selling and my parents for being either too easy, very astute, or both, and for buying.

He was selling the World Book Encyclopedia - a big thing for a family with essentially no books and little money. I have no recollection of the event, really, only the result. As a promotion, we were given a mechanical learning device. This is how I learned to play chess, a game I still enjoy to this day.

I devoured those books as a child. There were, of course, school books and an occasional jaunt to the public library. But nothing could compare to that mountain of information. It felt that I had all the world's knowledge at my fingertips.

As an adult around 1980, living in New York City, I made a phone call and invited a Britannica salesman to my home. I had no idea that unless you are ready to buy, that man is not leaving your house. It was quite an evening. I did eventually buy a copy - the cost for the 30 volumes was nearly $1000, a major investment. But I did love those books, and until the Internet became commonly used, the Britannica was my primary source for research. I also purchased the CD-ROM version. I recently gave the printed set away.

Until recently, at most trade shows, somewhere in the last rows where fees were cheapest, there was typically a nondescript booth, a spartan table and a hungry Britannica salesman with no prospects. Who would voluntarily subject themselves to an encyclopedia salesman or even walk closely enough to be ensnared? Whether the show theme was conducive to selling encyclopedias was no matter. There was always a Britannica booth - an outpost in the far reaches of the trade show tundra.

I now see the same phenomena with The New York Times. Their booths can be found at trade shows and street festivals all over the city. The Internet boom has had an expected impact on all print media. Many are worried about the survival of the New York Times. This would be quite sad to lose them. They also have a special place for me - see my story here. The publisher, Arthur Sulzberger, announced in September: "We will stop printing the New York Times sometime in the future, date TBD." Revenue will come from their online version. In 2011, the Times will begin charging for some content based on a metered model.

On a recent visit to the Madison Square outdoor market, I came across a New York Times booth. It was a beautiful day and the other vendors were quite busy with shoppers (lower photo). Transfixed with his smartphone, the lone salesman did not notice that before him stood his best hope for the day. A dinosaur. A man with a love of print, just waiting to be sold :)

Martin Luther King, Jr.

If you travel through Harlem and observe the street signs, you will notice a number with dual names - an older and more familiar on top and a newer below. The city renames streets for a variety of reasons. Subsequent to 9/11, many streets were renamed to honor those firefighters and police officers who lost their lives in service to the city during that tragedy.

Other streets are renamed for groups or individuals that are honored for their lifetime accomplishments. This can be most readily seen in Harlem, where many major thoroughfares have been renamed to honor prominent black Americans. These names include major black activists and entertainers. On my recent excursion to the neighborhood, I caught some of the heavyweights and photographed the signs.

On December 29, 2008, Mayor Bloomberg signed legislations renaming 49 streets and public places in the five boroughs. Some of the prominent blacks include James Brown, Drs. Kenneth and Mamie Phipps Clark, Zora Neale Hurston, Samuel J. Battle, Ella Baker, Charles Hamilton Houston, Billie Holiday, Paul Robeson, Count Basie, A. Philip Randolph, Susan Smith McKinney-Steward, Shirley Chisholm, and Marcus Garvey.

There is one glaring omission in today's photo collage. While traveling down 125th Street, Harlem's main crosstown street, I was distracted while observing all the people, places, and things, and neglected to look up and photograph a street sign conamed with a man virtually synonymous with African-American civil rights. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Can't Argue With That

One thing that comes as a surprise in Manhattan are public gatherings of various Christian groups. I have seen congregations of Mennonites singing gospel in Washington Square Park. We now have two Christian groups that come to the park weekly - one group on Monday nights, the other on Wednesdays. And on a regular but infrequent basis, I see the Quakers in a silent vigil under the Washington Square Arch in the Village.

In our current society, particularly in a city such as New York, one has to admire any effort to make a statement through silence. This city is just screaming with competition for the eye and ear - what is the likelihood that anyone will pay attention to four Quakers in a silent peace vigil?

This Quaker group is based in nearby Stuyvesant Square. The brochure being made available is titled Quaker Silent Witness for Peace and Nonviolence. In it, they make their antiwar case with quotes from Gandhi and Martin Luther King, two leaders both charismatic enough to effect tremendous change through nonviolent activism. In a violent world, the gentle demeanor and unprogrammed tradition of the Quakers is refreshing and appealing to many.

I recall seeing a fundamentalist evangelical Christian on a regular basis in Washington Square Park on Sunday afternoons, where he would set up an easel with various pages of information, tables, and charts, building an argument for the existence of God. He came well-armed, not only with the Bible but also with books from many spheres of study, including works such as those by evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould. This may come as surprising, but this man knew that to have any credibility here, he would have to come with a knowledge of contemporary science and skills for lively debate.

Regardless of preparation, however, he was in the center of an intellectual community and the NYU "campus." He had his work cut out for him - I saw him battle once with two theology students. (I also once saw a group of Christians who encountered a rabbinical scholar.)

On one occasion, I approached him, told him I admired his courage, but asked why he would proselytize in an area known for its iconoclasm and extremism - one where he would likely encounter many agnostics, the non-religious, or atheists. Certainly he had chosen the worst place to go. To the contrary, his response was that his mission was to save souls and, in considering where he would be most needed, Greenwich Village would be one of the best places. You can't argue with that...

Mr. Wizard

As a child, I loved science experiments. If you read this website regularly, however, you know that my efforts were not always successful :)
Source materials were limited to an occasional viewing of Mr. Wizard, books I could cull from the local library, and whatever primitive experiments I could cook up from my own mind. A chemistry set, received as a Christmas gift, was a rare and highly coveted possession.

Hence, at the time, the appeal of DIY (do-it-yourself) was huge, long before the phrase was co-opted and marketed. To take household items and create novel effects is magic, for a child as well as an adult. Many counter-intuitive results can be had from ordinary ingredients. Let a child do it themselves, and you have a formula for wonder and awe.

Unlike the San Gennaro festival, e.g., many of New York City's most interesting events do not have a centralized location. You could be in a neighborhood where numerous concurrent events are going on and not even be aware that they are part of a major festival. See Math Midway, part of the World Science Festival, here.

This scenario replayed itself on Sunday afternoon, when I discovered that the annual 3-day Conflux festival was essentially over. Produced by Glowlab in New York since 2003, "Conflux is an art and technology festival for the creative exploration of urban public space."
So I was quite pleased to run into a DNA Extraction Party while strolling through Tompkins Square Park farmer's market. I was not aware that DNA could be extracted from fruit (or other living things) using common household ingredients - meat tenderizer, dish washing detergent, salt, alcohol and a coffee filter. Note the clump of DNA between the fork and chopstick in the photo. This experimental display was produced by DIYBio NYC.

A very young child would likely not fully appreciate the outcome. In the experiments I did as a child, results were immediately obvious and did not require an understanding of deoxyribonucleic acid, genetic instructions, and a double helix. However, this is 2009, and the bar has been raised. But the spirit of Mr. Wizard lives on :)

Note: Mr. Wizard (Donald Jeffrey Herbert, July 10, 1917 – June 12, 2007),  hosted the Watch Mr. Wizard TV program, which ran on NBC from 1951 to 1965. In 1983, Herbert created Mr. Wizard's World, a faster-paced show on the cable channel Nickelodeon, running until 1990 and in reruns until 2000.

Trash and Treasure

What, in most places, would be an occasional chore or the domain of established businesses often becomes a cottage industry in New York City for the poor, homeless, disenfranchised, unemployed, or those living an alternative lifestyle: selling umbrellas on rainy days, sidewalk book selling, street vending, dumpster diving, and can/bottle collecting. Many of our problems or unfortunate circumstances in New York City become an Opportunity.

Contrary to one's intuition, can/bottle collecting is not necessarily the exclusive realm of the homeless. After reading about a man living in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, supporting himself and maintaining a small apartment on bottle/can collecting, I will no longer assume anything about those pursuing this activity. And those who are homeless can not so easily be characterized as a class of human which is insolent and indolent. Many are quite hardworking and ambitious. I would venture to say that "keeping busy" keeps a person sane and also gives a sense of self-respect, societal value, and entrepreneurial independence.

I caught this older woman on Spring Street in SoHo during rush hour, her bags of bottles balanced on poles across her shoulders. This mode of transport is not often seen in the city - can collectors typically have smaller caches or use carts when their booties grow.

At one time, recycling in New York City was threatened - analysis showed that recycling was a net loser from a financial point of view. A well-known cover article appeared in the New York Times in 1996 - Recycling is Garbage by Jack Tierney.

In 2002, Mayor Bloomberg suspended plastic and glass recycling, which, of course, incited outrage. In 2004, the decision was reversed. Since 2008, NYC has passed a number of recycling bills, making the city's recycling program one of the most comprehensive and aggressive in the nation, including electronics and plastic bags. Rag picking, can collecting, dumpster diving, or eBay trading - times and techniques may change, but opportunity always lurks for those who seek it. For now, bottle/can collecting looks secure - as always, one man's trash is another man's treasure...

Note: In researching this article, I came across a very interesting blog: invisiblepeople.tv. Here, you will find the stories of many homeless who have startling stories and backgrounds which may challenge stereotypical views of the homeless.