Twinship

Their first names seemed to be only a formality - they were always the twins. They lived in the same house and seemed to be forever destroying the same things, banging on the same drums or involved in equally uninteresting things. They were identical twins and to me, identical. They were my first cousins on my father's side and about my age. However, the truth of the matter is that I had little desire to know them well enough to tell them apart or know them as individuals.

I have a large extended family of aunts, uncles, and first cousins. My twin cousins had three other siblings. On the occasional visit to their home, invariably there were other families and cousins as well, so I had many options for socializing. I barely knew the twins.

Twins have a unique bond and relationship that most of us will never know. Many older school identical twins saw themselves as a unit even through adulthood, living together, wearing identical clothes, etc. My twin cousins were not that extreme, however, they were addressed and treated as a unit for as long as I can remember.

Recently on my way to a taping session of the Ferris Butler Program, I was taken aback by two women who just exuded twinship. I loved their hats - they were so striking. They both had very similarly styled full-length down jackets, one brown, one green. Everything was bathed in a yellow/green light. I did not get the opportunity to chat with these women on my short subway ride and learn about their relationship. We share a twinship on this one, because your guess is as good as mine :)

Note: I am very happy to report that I have begun to know the twins better as adults. I recently spent an afternoon chatting with one and found him to be one of the nicest, most thoughtful people I have met. Now that I think about it, I'm not absolutely sure which one it was and also, I think his brother might be really nice too :)

I'm Really Good at Paper Mache

It is slowly becoming abundantly clear to me how artistic abilities are little recognized or encouraged in young people. I have a story about a childhood friend so remarkable, that we are planning to write and publish a joint memoir as a book. But that's another story for another time.

I had another childhood friend, who shall remain nameless, who was quite sarcastic and cynical. Our community was doing a small performance of Alice In Wonderland. I was unaware of this production until it was nearly time for performance - hence I had no opportunity to audition or perform in the show. I took a last chance to ingratiate myself with the woman in charge and offered my services to make any figures needed from paper mache. I told her in front of my friend, "I'm really good with paper mache and working with wire."

Once we were alone, my friend was uproarious and quoted with great pleasure, "I'm really good with paper mache." Apparently, he found my skill set to be inconsequential and my statement of such, ridiculous. He took every opportunity subsequent to that incident to torture me with that quote. In hindsight, it does smack of a young boy desperately trying to win approval. But what is wrong with a young student who shows a creative interest?

Supporting a child who has an artistic temperament and abilities is a tough call. On my recent interview with Professor Gurland (see story Part 1 here and Part 2 here), he told me not only of his work as a jazz musician, but also of his son's interest. He made a deal with his boy - graduate from college and he can do anything he wants as far as pursuing music. A degree will provide a safety cushion for future employment. A reasonable compromise for the concerned parent.

For myself, it has taken the better part of my adult life to recognize my interest in creative pursuits - writing, photography, graphic arts. The evidence has been there throughout my life - building a darkroom as a child, crafting various objects and models, origami and designing products for my business.

I was however, steered towards a career in mathematics as is the case. My life might have been very different however, had someone just recognized that I'm Really Good at Paper Mache :)

Photo Note: Two Too Large Tables are located at Hudson River Park. The two works, designed by Allan and Ellen Wexler, were constructed from stainless steel and ipe wood and fabricated by Polich Art Works. One is comprised of 13 chairs, 7 feet tall, supporting a 16-foot-square plane. The other, also 16-feet-square, is 30 inches tall with integral seating areas. One serves as a shade pavilion and the other a community table.

“The seemingly random placement of chairs directs and focuses our views of the river, pathways and landscape. Pathways cut into the tabletop lead to clusters of chairs. When people sit they are completely surrounded. Their unconventional placement brings people together in unexpected groupings.”

Allan Wexler and Ellen Wexler are Chelsea residents and collaborate on public art projects; Allan teaches at Parsons The New School for Design.

Just Shades

If you want the flavor of New York City, I recommend watching Late Night with David Letterman. Here you will get comedy with an edge and a blend of the New Yorker's classic traits - smug indifference, elitism, cynicism, skepticism, sarcasm and impatience, applied to any and all topics, like the world of specialization, which we see more and more in all sectors of life whether business, occupation or recreation.

In retail, however, this is an extremely risky proposition. With a large product mix, a retailer can shift gears, i.e. inventory, as trends and consumer demands change. But to have a brick and mortar shop that specializes in a specific product leaves one at tremendous risk - a change in the tastes of the consumer and you are finished. A highly specialized retailer will typically require a very large population to keep a physical shop afloat financially selling one product. New York City offers the best opportunity for success.

For every specialty survivor, I have seen a hundred casualties - like the gelati craze of the 1980s. We now have a wave of Red Mango and Pinkberry shops seemingly everywhere. Although they may offer a higher quality product, it is reminiscent of TCBY in New York. Now, there is only one left in Manhattan. One has to deal with the not only the fickleness of the consumer but also that of the New Yorker who has their own particular taste.

The specialty shop sells only one product line, like Canal Rubber. The real specialty shop sells only one product - The Doughnut Plant, Kossar's Bialys, H&H Bagel. But food shops or chains specializing in one product are common. Hard goods much less so. This is the world that surprises. Like Bari pizza ovens. Perhaps the quintessential poster child for real specialization in New York City retail is Just Shades, which, along with Just Bulbs, were the subjects of a brilliant, classic David Letterman skit in 1983. In it, Letterman starts by visiting Just Bulbs, where he persists in asking a salesclerk if they carry anything other than bulbs. Here are excerpts of Letterman's brand of torture:

Letterman: Besides bulbs, what do you have here?
Clerk: Nothing.
Letterman: How about shades? Could you get shades here?
Clerk: NO, we are Just Bulbs. If you want shades, maybe you go in a place called Just Shades.

Then we cut away to a downtown retailer, Just Shades, where Letterman pursues the same relentless questioning with a little old lady:

Letterman: What is the name of this store?
Clerk: Just Shades.
Letterman: And what can you get in here?
Clerk: What can you get in here? Only shades. That's why our name is Just Shades.
Letterman: But seriously, what can you get besides shades here?

Letterman was able to poke some fun at the expense of extreme specialization, and for that, you need a New Yorker, New York and a place like Just Shades :)

The Curse of Trade

I carry two quotes with me in my wallet from Walden by Thoreau. One is quite well known and often cited - a portion was in fact used in the film Dead Poet Society (see it here). The other, concerning the nature of business, seems so often applicable to my daily life as to lead me to be frequently disturbed:

But I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.

I once witnessed an incident at the origami convention held annually at the Fashion Institute of Technology that illustrated this all too well and I have never forgotten it. I had a passion for origami at one time - as a young boy I borrowed the World of Origami from the local library. In the small blue collar town I grew up in, origami was virtually unknown and my folded creatures were as fascinating to others as they were to me. I once gifted a girl a small bag of origami animals. It made quite an impression.

There is a small area for vending at the origami convention. A married couple left their table, leaving their son in charge. While gone, this very young boy handled the sales quite adeptly, perhaps too much so. I sensed he had sold often and had learned his trade well, likely imitating his parents. I saw in him the desire to sell, irrespective of what was really being sold - selling to people who did not really want to buy anything, buy origami items or specific things he was trying to sell. I could sense that whether the things he was saying were true or not was secondary to the sale. Not a mortal sin, but it was just that he looked like a huckster hawking his wares. And so young. What was particularly upsetting was that I saw myself in that boy and that Thoreau quote reared its ugly head again and immediately came to mind.

That quote is a very strong assertion, one that many, particularly those in business, will bristle at. I have shown it to both business owners and non-owners and I have gotten a variety of reactions. One man, an owner of a prominent New York City architectural firm said "I don't agree with that at all." I was not surprised by his reaction. Architecture is a noble profession and the prospect that the work could be seriously compromised by commerce is, I am sure, quite distasteful.

I fully understand the sentiment, however, finding something distasteful or disagreeable does not make it untrue, much as the harsh tenets of a particular religious faith do not, in itself, make that faith or its doctrine invalid.

I have been in business or self-employed my entire adult life. I well understand the necessity of commerce and even some sales and marketing. How else to keep the machinery of businesses running to make the goods we actually do need? But as my business has grown, I have become aware how the nature of business shapes my decisions and my daily activities. When I first started and my business was more an adjunct to a hobby, I had the luxury of indulging my whims.

I reflect on this problem often, as I did on the subway recently when a group of Mexican musicians entered my car. Their playing and money collection was extremely routinized, virtually stripping any joy or entertainment from the process. Their playing seemed to be nothing other than a way of legitimizing their collection of money. See video here.

But these men need to make a living too and perhaps music is what they do best. As they moved hurriedly to the next car, only to repeat the process, I was saddened and could not help but think that they too, were doing their best to trade in songs from heaven but at least in some small way, their business of entertaining riders suffered from the curse of trade ...

Clement Clarke Moore

Chelsea is the former home of the man who brought Christmas to America with A Visit from St. Nicholas (also known as The Night Before Christmas and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas from the first line of the poem). This poem, first published anonymously in 1823, and now attributed to Clement Clarke Moore, is responsible for the conception of Santa Claus from the mid 1800s to today, including his physical appearance, the night of his visit, his transportation by sleigh, the number and names of his reindeer and the tradition of bringing toys to children.

Clement Clarke Moore, a graduate and professor at Columbia College, inherited a large family owned estate which lay north of Houston Street. This area of the city was mostly undeveloped countryside at the time. Clement fought development of New York City as it moved north from lower Manhattan. The proposed street grid in the Commissioner's Plan of 1811 would run through the Moore estate. In 1818, the city's Common Council agreed to spare the area from Houston to 14th Street, west of Sixth Avenue. This is the reason that this neighborhood, the West Village, has such a quaint mélange of narrow streets with curves and oblique angles.

Moore did, however, begin to develop Chelsea, dividing it into lots and selling them to prosperous New Yorkers. An apple orchard was donated to the Episcopal Diocese, now home of the General Theological Seminary, which spans an entire city block and where Moore served as the first professor of Oriental Languages.

Regarding the name Chelsea, according to the New York Times, "It was Moore's grandfather Thomas Clarke, a retired British naval officer, who had bought an old farm in 1750 for his retirement and named it Chelsea after the Royal Chelsea Hospital for veterans in London."

Chelsea is largely a residential enclave with streets lined with historic townhouses. This neighborhood was the location of my first apartment in New York City - you can see it here. The western area of Chelsea, along 10th and 11th Avenues was industrial and in the 1990s, there was a migration of galleries and art studios from SoHo to this area, where there are now several hundred galleries.

Apart from the gallery district, Chelsea is not heavily touristed. However, there are numerous places of interest - the Chelsea Market, Chelsea Piers, the High Line Park, Hotel Chelsea, London Terrace, the Empire Diner, the IAC Building designed by Frank Gehry, the Rubin Museum of Art, the Joyce Theater, Dance Theater Workshop and the Kitchen.

In today's photo you can see a small group of historic buildings on Ninth Avenue. The corner property at 183 Ninth Avenue at 21st Street) is the Royer-Wells House, the second oldest house in Chelsea. This Federal-style home was completed in 1832.

I owe the charm of my first residence and my love of the West Village to Clement Clarke Moore :)

Urban Elephants and Hydraulic Tusks

We have many many sounds in the city, some unique and some we share with our suburban and country brethren. For those whose apartments face the street, there is the unabated sound of street traffic, less or more depending on where one faces and the time of day. There are also birds, dogs barking or the occasional screams and shouts of children at play. At night there is the sound of taxis dropping off passengers - usually identifiable by the longer time between opening and closing of doors and the conversations that sometimes ensue between passengers and driver. There is the walk of the lone and confident woman with every step of her hard heels clearly audible.

Then there is the occasional late night revelry, screaming or fighting of the severely inebriated. The sounds of these individuals getting into vehicles is not a pleasant prospect. The vehicle often jettisons away with squealing tires.

In the early morning we have the trumpeting of urban Elephants, i.e. garbage trucks, and the crunching and groaning of debris caught in their hydraulic tusks.

In the case of new, substantial snow, there are giveaway sounds - the reduced frequency of cars, the telltale echo of snow shovels and the unmistakable grind of the snowplow against the pavement. In the event of rain, I can hear the spray of water against tires and the roadway.

I have windows facing a park which I have featured in the four seasons: Spring (Enchanted April), Signs of Summer, Fall (Wood, Glass, Brass and Trees), and Winter (White By Design 2). In the mornings, however, I often rise before sunrise and immediately go to my laptop, typically without even looking out the window. Instead I rely on the sounds of the city. - perhaps for any number of reasons, including a growing reliance on the Internet and also being out of tune with the outdoors and nature from living in such a high urbanized environment. This morning I had no idea we had another in a series of snowstorms until I heard a snow shovel.

On an Apple computer the F4 key immediately displays the dashboard, a group of widgets which can be custom configured. I currently have mine to include the weather which displays the current conditions and the week's weather forecast. I can see if the sun is shining without turning around.

But not everything can be experienced through the Internet, the F4 key or even the sounds of the city. You've got to look out your window if you want to see the snow and you have to step into the streets and follow the trumpeting if you want to see Urban Elephants and their Hydraulic Tusks :)

Ride to Hell

You think you know tenacity? You do not know tenacity until you are acquainted with the Hands On A Hard Body competition and men like Benny Perkins and Philip Calhoun. I do hold tenacity in high regard (see my story Perfect Attendance here) - but the Hands on a Hard Body competition is horrifying and extreme.

In 1997, a documentary film was made about this annual endurance contest in at a Nissan dealership in Longview, Texas, where 24 contestants see who can keep one hand on a Nissan pickup truck for the longest time. No leaning, no crouching. There are five minute breaks every hour and fifteen minute breaks every six hours. The last one standing wins the truck. There are many repercussions including hallucinations and worse.* The record was 92 hours and 40 minutes in 1998 by Calhoun.

Benny Perkins won in 1992. I first heard of Benny and this contest in a radio program and interview. A person that wins a contest like this is much more than just tenacious, perhaps a little frightening. This is best illustrated by Benny's remark to one remaining competitor:

"I told Dan, the guy I was with, I said 'You're standing next to the devil and this is the ride to hell. I'll stand here 'til the day you die, so you might as well drop out now."

When I heard him say this in his own voice, along with things like “You go slowly insane. Your mind has got to rest – the body can work 24 hours a day, but your mind has got to rest”, I had many thoughts including - just give him that truck.

If I had the tenacity of Perkins or Calhoun, perhaps I could have waited outside 125 Thompson Street with my hands on the door until someone came or left. For decades I have walked by this large nondescript building in SoHo, hoping for some human activity but only seeing the small brass plaque: 125 Thompson Street. Franciscan Friars. Province of the Immaculate Conception.

Some, who love a good mystery or conspiracy, might imagine something like the Illuminati, with a covert masterplan for a New World Order. Others, like my mother, would feel I am wasting my time and There's Nothing Here (see story here). A phone call confirmed the more reasonable - that 125 Thompson Street serves as a monastery and offices for the local Franciscan congregation, who have been in the area for 150 years. The Franciscan Brothers are a tenacious group, working hard and quietly, living a life in the manner of Francis of Assisi to bring their ministry around the world and, like Benny's admonition, trying to save others from the ride to hell...

*The contest was discontinued in 2005 because one contestant, Richard Thomas Vega II, crossed a street, broke into a Kmart store, took a gun from a case and shot himself. His wife sued and settled in 2008 with Patterson Nissan of Longview. His wife alleged that the dealership was negligent in organizing and conducting the contest and likened the stress and sleep deprivation to "brainwashing." She said the Nissan dealership failed to provide a safe environment for contestants who "temporarily lost their sanity."

I Got Caught

Closing time for bars in New York City is 4 AM. In the United States, only a handful of states or municipalities offer later closings. In those cases, there are typically no statewide mandated closing times at all, like in Nevada, where bars may remain open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. But the majority of bars in the United States close between 12-2 AM.

For many, party = alcohol and bars, so, the later the bars stay open, the better the party. For those where 4 AM is still too early, there are after hours clubs. For many, this is the biggest attraction of New York - at any moment, somewhere, it's party time.

A small band that I saw perform recently in the Village announced that they would be performing at Shrine NYC. I had heard of this bar/club, and in conversation with one of the musicians, he said that Shrine had some of the best music in the entire city. It is located in Harlem, at 2271 Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard near 134th Street. Visiting Shrine Bar & Restaurant sounded like a good way to broaden my horizons - for most Manhattan residents, Harlem is a remote outpost they will never visit. I asked two friends to accompany me on Saturday night for music.

The club serves food, and we had decided to eat there as well as go for the music. Hunger called and we arrived at 7PM - very early for a Saturday night bar scene, but already nearly every table was taken and a performance was in progress. Our waitresses were disarmingly friendly. I am not sure if this is typical at Shrine or not, but it was not the perfunctory type of service one might expect in a place so boisterous and busy.

A number of bands were booked there - soon the place was packed and we no longer had a line of sight to the music. I suggested moving into the throngs for a full immersion experience when the Body Electric Afrofunk Band* was on. From the Body Electric website:

We are a group of Students, 9 strong, with a shared passion for playing music. Like Fela Kuti, we believe music can invoke a trancelike state and convey meaning and emotion to the listener through the sheer auditory quality of the sound. One of the most important things about seeing live music is the interplay that takes place between audience and artist; we strive to break down the barrier created by "the stage" at every performance we can.

This was certainly true. We had moved forward towards the group until we were inches from the keyboard player. We were IN the band. Women nearby were dancing or writhing.

After their performance, I spoke with the trumpet player Will Healy (see story Deaf Jam here). I told him how I would never seek out any music described as funk. However, I absolutely loved Body Electric. They were superb technicians with entrancing music. When I told Will how much I enjoyed their set unexpectedly, he smiled and suggested "You got caught." Well put I thought, and with no resistance or regrets. Yes, I Got Caught. :)

*The band members are students at Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, NY. See their website here, Facebook page here and Myspace page here.

Deaf Jam

Some years ago I learned of a harmonica festival in New Jersey. This was to be a major event and I was very excited. The schedule was noon to midnight - a full twelve hours of the top players in the country with legends like Jason Ricci and Howard Levy. Upon arriving however, my companion and I were greeted with recorded music that was LOUD. So loud that we feared that we would actually have to leave before any performances even began. Desperate, I suggested that we ball up pieces of paper napkins and put them in our ears. It was so uncool, but we survived.

Following the festival, I discussed my experience with a working musician who said that excessive sound levels were common and often the fault of the sound crew, even against the wishes of the performers. Regardless of where the fault lies, LOUD and very loud seems to be part of the milieu of amplified music in performance. The most disturbing thing however, was that in speaking to rock musicians, all admitted to noise induced hearing loss.

I am happy to report, however, that in my experience, I see a change in climate and the stereotypical self destructive lifestyle of the musician is not necessarily a badge of honor. Awareness is growing of the irreparable damage done to hearing by excessive noise.

Recently, I visited Shrine NYC, a music club located in Harlem. During the performance of the Body Electric Afrofunk Band, I moved up to the group's staging area. I noticed that nearly all the musicians had hearing protectors. I had a good line of sight to the trumpet player, Will Healy, whose ear can be seen in today's photo.

Last night I called Will to discuss this. The conversation was short - Will was celebrating his 21st birthday. He did tell me that he had already suffered some hearing loss and was working with Dunshaw, an audiology center in New York City. Dunshaw Audiology and Hearing customizes musician earplugs - an actual impression of the ear is taken and custom molds made.

This morning, I spoke to Dr. Rhee Rosenman AuD, an audiologist at Dunshaw. I learned many things in our conversation, including the fact that the use of portable music devices like the iPod, at full volume, can deliver 100 db of noise - equivalent to an industrial environment or loud live music. Playing portable devices at full volume is common in New York in order to effectively mitigate ambient noise. This practice will result in hearing loss. Dunshaw works with many musicians and their specialized musician earplugs can attenuate sound by 25 db, but still allow music to be heard clearly with no muffling.

Early in the performance of the Body Electric, I also noticed Will's t-shirt with its very clever and ironic tagline: Beethoven - the original deaf jam*. Many things can be learned from Beethoven and one is that there is no romance in loss of hearing - it is one of the great tragedies that befell this man, one of the greatest composers of all time. By the premiere of his Ninth Symphony, he was completely deaf. During the end of his performance, he had to be turned around to see the tumultuous applause of the audience - hearing nothing, he cried. Sadly, it was the Original Deaf Jam :(

* Deaf used here is a play the older slang term, def, to describe a person or thing that is cool.

This Way for a Recharge ->

To say that electrical power is the backbone of modern industrial society is really an understatement. The world as we know it would grind to a halt without it. Our dependance on electricity only grows with technology leading the way.

As I write this, I am listening to a YouTube video with a musician playing electric guitar, delivered over the Internet on a laptop with a room illuminated by an electric light bulb. I am charging a number of portable electrical devices over the ConEd grid. Electrical power and devices permeate our world to such an extent that it is impossible to stand outside it and assess its importance. In New York, public transportation is critical and our subways also run electrically.

In the world of human interactions, we often speak using words like chemistry, with electricity as the ultimate metaphor to characterize positive current between people. The electricity generated by the friction of humans rubbing together is one of the biggest lures of New York City. Without the dynamism and synergy of its people, what do we have?

If you are seeking this type of energy, both literal and metaphorical, human and technological, perhaps no place in the United States better delivers the voltage then midtown Manhattan. This is the electrical generator that powers New York City and where most visitors first start to be properly charged.

One of most important things that electrical power has brought mankind is the ability to illuminate our world at night and make possible a 24-hour city. Koreatown is one of the best examples of this in the entire five boroughs. This neighborhood extends from 31st to 36th Streets between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenues with 32nd Street as its central artery. It's a 24 hour extravaganza.

Here you will find all things Korean - restaurants, tea shops, grocery stores, hair and nail salons, spas, karaoke clubs, internet cafes, banks and hotels. In the late 1970s, the redevelopment of West 32nd Street was led by Korean business owners - in 1995, Broadway between West 31st and 32nd was officially named Korea Way.

New York City is home to over 200,000 Korean-Americans - the second largest population outside Korea. Koreatown in Manhattan, is however, largely a commercial/business district with very few residents, although the residential population is growing (the largest Korean residential community is located in Flushing, Queens). K-Town Manhattan is attractive to the international business community and ideally suited to a growing number who want to live in Midtown. And those who just want to be energized know that it's this way for a recharge ->

Nice Move, Kid

I was sweating bullets. It was the road test for my driver's license, I was 16 and this was the major right of passage into a future of independence and adulthood. There were the responsibilities of driving a motor vehicle with the inherent risks of bodily harm to oneself and others but most important to a teenager, you now had wheels. And that meant a new found freedom. As long as you had access to a vehicle, of course.

A road test at that time in the suburbs was remarkably simple, virtually a formality. The expectation was that one would pass unless otherwise proven incompetent. My test consisted of driving a couple roads, a simple turn and parking in a wide open lot on return.

However, this still was a major event and it would be a tragedy to fail. When my examiner asked for a simple right turn, I drove over the curb. His response is engraved in my mind and I sometimes still hear it to this day: "Nice move, kid."

He might as well have said, "step out, you're finished." The rest of the very short road test was trying to live through the embarrassment and humiliation. Upon my return to Motor Vehicles, my instructor told me to go inside the office. He left without saying whether I had passed or failed. I assumed someone inside would be the harbinger of bad news. At the counter, I asked if I had failed. The clerk appeared perplexed and said that she was only told to process my license. Apparently examiners allowed for extreme nervousness.

Fortunately, parallel parking was not part of the exam. This is a skill that many living outside a city never learn or need to. I have watched many visitors to New York City try to parallel park in a very roomy spot, yet leave in frustration after repeated failed attempts to get in.

On a recent journey to Brooklyn, I had great difficulty finding a parking spot. The only thing available within blocks of my destination was a spot so tight that there was only an inch or two of additional space over the length of my car. But duty called. In these tight spots, the first cut you make steering is critical. The rest is finessing mixed with tedium. In a parking space this tight, gentle bumping the other vehicles with every move forward and back is required. Regardless of how gentle you are, best the owners of the neighboring cars are not there to witness this process.

More extreme circumstances arise where no spot large enough can be found. Can you park in a spot shorter than your vehicle? Yes. I have seen large heavy cars park in spaces like this by pushing and moving cars in front and in back with each iteration as they wedged themselves in.

A honed skill at parallel parking brings street cred and bespeaks of a seasoned New Yorker. Get it right with a perfect first cut, a minimum of jockeying, leaving your car within inches of the curb and perhaps you will hear from an observer what I once did, but without the sarcasm - "Nice Move, Kid." :)

Not An Office

A hamlet is a rural settlement that is considered too small to be a village. One distinction often made is that a hamlet does not have a church, where a village does. These details trouble me not, because I love hamlets and small villages. In England, the countryside abounds with small towns, villages and hamlets, some so picturesque as to be incredulous. Places like Snowshill in the Cotswolds.

However, I have never heard of anything in the confines of New York City referred to as a hamlet until I read an article in the New York Times about Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn. The very concept seems insane until you travel to this tiny enclave, only a few blocks in size, with cobblestone streets paved in Belgian Brick. See my full photo gallery here.

The neighborhood is bounded by Bridge Street, the Brooklyn Navy Yard, York Street and the river. The main thoroughfare is Hudson Avenue. There are virtually no shops, and one restaurant is open in the evening. At 54 Hudson, I ran across a business that identified itself as Not An Office. Peeking into the window, I did see evidence of a some sort of workplace.

In spite of the snowfall, the neighborhood did exude charm, and I can easily see how some would be attracted to this place, which abuts Dumbo and the East River, only one stop from Manhattan on the F train.

In 2010, the New York Times ran an article about Vinegar Hill called The Little Town That Prices (Almost) Forgot. Some readers were furious with all manner of accusations in the comments section, e.g. that the article would ruin the neighborhood and that the Times staff was out of touch with pricing.

I think articles are more of a barometer of trends and messenger than trendsetters. Anyone investigating the area carefully will realize this place is going to appeal to very few - the serious dearth of services and high prices of real estate there will be a deal breaker for nearly all who chose to live in a city.

Vinegar Hill feels almost like a hamlet. Almost, until you notice that the neighborhood is circumscribed by the Brooklyn Navy Yard, an huge Con Ed power generating plant and the BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway). But this is New York City, and Vinegar Hill comes awfully close to a hamlet. It has no church, only one restaurant and just when you think you have located a business, you find that it's Not An Office :)

Big Secret on Little Street

Streets, surprises and secrets come in different sizes. What better combination is there than a big surprise and secret at the end of a little street? And what if that street is literally named Little Street?

There is nothing wrong with the beautiful or wonderful that lies in plain view. But somehow it's the secret discovery that really piques one's interest and makes it even more special and its secretness feel like it is yours.

When traveling in Europe, I was often astounded when finding major historical sites located in the midst of contemporary suburban settings. This is common there and I imagine is not seen as particularly shocking. When I first visited Versailles, I could not get over the experience of driving through an ordinary town, turning down a street and seeing something as extraordinary as the palace of Versailles. Or the windmill in the neighborhood of Montmartre in Paris.

One does get inured to the juxtapositions one lives among and here too in New York City, I tend to overlook the outstanding architecture that I see daily - period homes dating 200 years old intermingled with buildings of every imaginable style and period. This city has a rich historical past, and the evidence is everywhere to be seen.

While carousing through Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn, I plied my way to what appeared on my map to be the outer limits of the neighborhood. I was quite shocked to make a final turn from Evans Street at Little Street and be confronted with a gated mansion. A photographer and male model were busy at work, using this little known cul de sac as backdrop for their photo session. These streets abut the Brooklyn Navy Yard and the large white Federal style residence is Quarters A, the former residence of the commander of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, home to Commodore Matthew C. Perry at the time of his opening of Japan. In 2006, Christopher Gray did a story on the home in Streetscapes for the New York Times. From the article:

In a New York of secret delights, the Commandant's House at the Brooklyn Navy Yard is a secret secret. Built early in the 19th century, the big white house, formally known as Quarters A, is the yard's oldest surviving structure, with exquisite Federal-style detailing.

In private ownership since the Navy Yard closed in 1964, the three-story house can be glimpsed only in bits and pieces — over walls, through gardens and, distantly, past high gates. Its broad lawn offers a summer fantasy above the East River.

Just don't spread the news - that in Vinegar Hill, at the end of Evans Street, there's a Big Secret on (a) Little Street :)

Zero Minutes!

Nothing can live up to years of expectation. I avoided going to Grimaldi's Pizzeria for eons, knowing that LINES were what it was best known for. Hours in line.

Recently however, I had a plan to explore Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn and schedule things around what I hoped would be the deadest time of day - the "lull" between lunch and dinner - 3:30 to 4 PM felt just about right. And better on a winter day, i.e., not a warm day (particularly not on a weekend in the summer). This formula worked well for my visit to Totonno's and Di Fara, two other legendary pizza emporiums in Brooklyn. I have been told both have tremendous lines in warmer weather as does John's in Manhattan (see Roots of Pizza here). Grimaldi's is one of New York City's few coal-fired brick-oven pizza parlors (John's on Bleecker Street is also.)

When you have this kind of following in New York City, like it or not, they set the terms and conditions. The signs on the door clearly proclaim the no nonsense attitude: "TAKE OUT IS THE SAME LINE" and "NO SLICES" "CASH ONLY." This type of scenario was well parodied on the TV series Seinfeld in an episode called the Soup Nazi - see my story here. Perhaps signs and policies like this may seem a bit harsh, but in New York City, mayhem would ensue were strict ground rules not enacted.

The pizza was excellent - much better than I expected from a place that was so highly trafficked, touristed and written about. Legacy businesses like this can easily thrive on name alone with deterioration of product or food quality. There are naysayers, of course, many of them just wanting to show their New York City culinary expertise. But do not be deterred. Along worth so many awards and accolades, the Zagat restaurant survey rates Grimaldi's as one of the top pizzerias in New York City. If you can avoid enormous lines, it is worth the visit. The location is quite scenic - at 19 Fulton Street, under the Brooklyn Bridge, steps from the East River and Fulton Ferry landing.

A New Yorker is often as or more elated with tales of successful navigation or mitigation of typical, known obstacles. I'm not sure what was better - the pizza or my timing coup: Date: January 30, 2011. Day of Week: Sunday. Time of Day: 3:37 PM. Wait in line: Zero Minutes!

Pecking for Pita

On April 27, 2010, I wrote Tired of Crumbs (see it here) about the plight of many street performers and other independent artists. However, for many other members of the animal kingdom, crumbs are more than a metaphor, and living off the discards of others is literally the means of survival. In a city with as large a population as New York, the amount of refuse disposed is enormous, affording life support for many.

A lover of Middle Eastern food, I was pleased to have the good fortune to run into Damascus Bakery while strolling through the Vinegar Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn. It was Sunday, so the business operation was closed, however, just outside the factory, there were a large number of pigeons busy atop dumpsters covered with heavy tarps. They seemed particularly industrious and I had suspicions as to what was going on. Lifting up a corner of one tarp revealed exactly what I expected - the dumpster was entirely filled with pita bread, all polybagged, which I assume had been disposed of for a good reason.

The pigeons were undaunted by the tarp and had successfully pecked holes through it and the plastic bags holding the pita. Perhaps not as dramatic as the Hawk Fest I witnessed on my window ledge in 2007 (see Hawk Fest here), but nonetheless, this was a food fest.

Damascus Bakeries is a 3rd generation business, currently run by Edward Mafoud, grandson of Hassan Halaby, who started the business on Atlantic Avenue in 1930 and introduced Syrian bread, aka pita, to America. In addition to a variety of flavors and sizes of pita, the bakery also produces Lavash Wraps, Panini and Roll Ups. I hope to visit and tour their factory in the future.

In New York City there are many means of survival. At the corner of Gold and Water Streets in Brooklyn, for these pigeons, it's Pecking for Pita :)

Number 1

The title of the book was so unusual, that I still see the words on the spine sitting in my library: Horary Numerology of the Turf.

For the gambler or, if you prefer, the person who enjoys the occasional wager, New York City has not been devoid of betting opportunities, licit or illicit. Off Track Betting was legalized in 1970 and in time, hundreds of betting parlors dotted the city (in December, 2010, the entire business operation closed). And although not on the hit list of most tourists or residents, the city is also home to a major race track: Aqueduct in Ozone Park, Queens, serviced by its own subway stop on the A train. It is a convenient, affordable and pleasant way to spend a sunny afternoon.

For a brief time I became very interested in horse handicapping, driven by my interest in mathematics and lured, like others, by the "easy money." I foolishly believed that somehow the entire endeavor could be stripped of any horse hide and reduced to numbers, akin to the dream of many investors with approaches like Elliot Wave theory, Fibonacci series etc. I was never a gambler at heart, so my interests remained more academic, driven by the challenge of finding a credible method to gain some advantage. My attendance at the racetrack was very infrequent and betting even less so.

My library of books on handicapping horses ran the gamut, but certainly the most intriguing and arcane was that volume, Horary Numerology of the Turf, by Rosajo, published and printed in 1979 in India. The book had a look and feel of biblical authority. I am sorry to report however, that Rosajo's treatise was not a key to the promised land and I soon learned that although a beatable game, betting horses was far from easy money and the few that were successful invested their lives. Andrew Beyer was one of these.*

My interest in numbers has become eclipsed by other life concerns and much more casual, piqued at idle moments, most often when confronted with the numbers of New York City - such as subways lines or the streets. There are only 12 avenues in Manhattan, hence, there are 12 possibilities of intersections where the number of an avenue and street could be the same. And in fact, there are only two such intersections: 1st Avenue and 1st Street and 2nd Avenue and 2nd Street.

I normally hate waiting for traffic lights in the city - I feel like each one steals 60, 90 or 120 seconds of my life. But here, at 1st and 1st, I can spend the time pondering the meaning or usefulness of the number 1. The unitary, solitary and primary significance of the number one always makes me pause and take notice when I am at this intersection. Let's see - both the first letter of Aqueduct and the A train stopping there share the first letter of the alphabet. Perhaps I should look at the the first race for horse number 1 :)

*In 1975, Beyer authored Picking Winners: A Horseplayer's Guide.

Beyer, a Harvard graduate and syndicated columnist since 1978, was however, not a man with a casual interest in racing. He became interested when he was 12 years old. Many consider him to be the most important and best handicapper in America, with a rare, if not singular ability to have profited consistently betting on the ponies using numbers. His once proprietary edge, now the Beyer Speed Figures, have become an industry standard, are incorporated into the odds - they are no longer adequate for beating the races.

View Master

I grew up with very few photographic images of any sort. We had no coffee table or travel books and few magazines. And of course we had no PCs or Internet, so moving images were limited to TV and movies. Our television reception was limited to 3 networks, one of which did not come in well at all. Programming was rather mundane from an imaging perspective - there was no Travel or Discovery Channel. There was no videotapes or DVDs. On rare occasion we went to a movie theater or drive-in (see With Six You Get Eggroll here).

There were a few family vacations to scenic destinations and the occasional family Sunday afternoon drive in the country. There was certainly nothing locally.

Primarily, we had imagination, the world children live in and it was a ripe fertile ground for me when growing up. And I had a View-Master.

The only memory I have of any inspiring photos were those from a set of paper disks for my View-Master, with its remarkable stereo 3D images. I never tired of this small device and its ability to awe me with those three dimensional photos. Our collection of disks was small and I remember viewing them repeatedly, particularly the disk of Switzerland and its alpine wonders.

The occasional movie, like Heidi with Shirley Temple, did much to cement my impressions of Switzerland as the dream alpine destination, only to be fulfilled much later in life on a whirlwind tour of Europe. In the 1980s, I made a number of trips to the West Indies, where I always looked for tropical mountains, explaining my obsession with the island of Dominica - see Miracles In Our Midst here. It was always mountains and vistas - best of course were mountain vistas.

On my recent excursion via the Manhattan Bridge to photograph the enigmatic 110 York Street, I decided to proceed across to the Brooklyn side, looping around and returning to Manhattan via the footpath on the south side of the bridge, affording spectacular views of the East River, Brooklyn Bridge, South Street Seaport, the Municipal and Woolworth buildings and the financial district (see more photos here) with American International Building and its mountain motif - see Magic Mountain here. If you enjoy panoramas, I do recommend a walk or bike ride across the Manhattan Bridge by day or night. You won't need your View-Master :)

New York Rockies

110 York Street - Part 2 (See Part 1 here.) (see complete photo gallery here)

For years, on return trips home from Brooklyn to Manhattan via the Manhattan Bridge, I have observed this rooftop structure both by day and night. I promised myself that one day I would get to the bottom of this - a literal pursuit since this structure was atop a building located in Brooklyn, meaning I would literally have to venture down and explore under the Manhattan Bridge.

What was particularly compelling about it was the four exposed white steel truss system on the roof of the building which was illuminated at night, bathed in blues, greens, purples and reds.

Recently, this came up in conversation with someone familiar with the structure - he told me that it was occupied by architects and located on York Street. This rekindled my interest to bring this mystery to a close. On my first excursion, I did a cursory drive-by to confirm its location - 110 York Street.

On Sunday, I made a trip to Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn with the intent of returning to Manhattan by foot over the Manhattan Bridge and take a series of photos. I intended to time my afternoon so that I would cross the bridge after dark when the rooftop was illuminated. My return, however, was too early.

I was on a mission, however, and decided that I would return the following day after work when dark to cross the bridge again by foot. I had a burning desire and intention with my own mantra: Neither snow, nor rain, nor ice, nor gloom of night stays this courageous ambassador from the swift completion of his appointed rounds. *

There was snow and ice and gloom of night. But was I courageous?

There are two pedestrian pathways on the Manhattan Bridge - the one the north side is for bicycles - this is the side I needed to view the York Street building. However, a chain link fence obstructs a clear line of sight most of the way, so I found it necessary to climb and stand on a railing for the taking of photos. The roar and vibration of vehicles and the elevated subway was bad enough, but worse was having to use two hands to stabilize the camera while balancing atop a 4" wide steel railing which may or may not have been icy. See this in better detail at my photo gallery here.

The building at 110 York Street serves as the offices for a number of construction firms and most notably, Robert Scarano Architects, who originally occupied the top floor of this 100-year-old former factory building in Vinegar Hill. For a needed expansion, a 5,200-square-foot rooftop two story addition was designed by a member of the Scarano firm, Dedy Blaustein. The addition was completed in 2005. The lights used are a Color Kinetics LED system.

Blaustein's inspiration for the rooftop structure was the bridge: "We’re not the main thing here,” he says, gesturing toward the bridge. “That is the main thing here. It’s so dynamic. I had to do something crazy.” Some have referred to it as the "Jetsons Building." In response to critics, he said: “I didn’t design it for people to like it, I designed it for people not to be able to ignore it.” The project received a 2005 Design Award from Metal Architecture magazine and a 2005 Certificate of Appreciation from the Brooklyn AIA. From the Sarano website:

The Manhattan Bridge is the most visibly striking element of the site, running parallel to it only 20 feet away. For this reason, we designed an exposed steel truss system for the skeleton to intensify the dialogue between the structures. The design embodies a strong sense of dynamics. The structural axis is separated from the building exterior finish, providing a sense of movement, which is enhanced by the flying roof, sharp angles, and horizontal texture on the surface.

My affair has finally come to a close. I feel quite worn, perhaps not unlike the mountain climber who finally tastes the bittersweet success of arriving at the summit. Driven by an illuminated outline not unlike that drawn by a friend to describe the mountains of Colorado (see Part 1), I found this journey's end at 110 York Street in the foothills of the New York Rockies...

*The original seen on the General Post Office building reads:

"Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."

The sentence appears in the works of Herodotus, describing the expedition of the Greeks against the Persians under Cyrus, about 500 B.C.

Note: The firm of Robert Sarano is the subject of much controversy - both acclaim and official censure. Robert Sarano is a New York City native, born in Brooklyn. He became a registered architect and started his own firm, Scarano Architects PLLC, in 1985. His academic credentials and awards are many. The firm has been responsible for over 600 buildings in New York City. However, sometimes referred to as the bad boy of architecture, Sarano has also seen a loss of self-certification privileges, loss of filing privileges, numerous lawsuits, worker deaths on 3 of his projects and has been charged with violation of zoning or building codes on 25 projects in Brooklyn.

New York Rockies

Colorado - Part 1

I do so love the mountains and here, in New York City, unlike perhaps San Francisco (a mountain lover's dream city), I must make do with the skyscrapers of glass and steel. 'Tis better I suppose than the lowlands of Holland. But it pales in comparison to the experience of the American West. I journeyed there in the early 1970s for the first time by car. I cannot imagine a more compelling road trip than going West by auto.

Before leaving, I discussed my trip with a close friend who vividly described what I would see. "Do you know the way you drew mountains as a kid?" He illustrated with his finger in the air a typical jagged outline. "That's what it will look like." "As you drive through Colorado, it will be flat. And suddenly, the Rockies will pop up." The whole image of a child's jagged outline and mountains popping into view was burned in my mind forever.

And it was all true. As we drove through eastern Colorado, the landscape was no different than the flats of Kansas which we had spent a day passing through. Heat waves rose from the road and landscape in a classic mirage. I squinted for hours for those Rocky Mountains, only to find an my eyes fooled in one way or another. It became very tiring. Then there appeared the faintest mountain outline, which did not disappear, but only grew in size, jagged and dramatic beyond belief.

The first night the wind howled in the trees with a certain sound only heard in the mountains. I still listen for that sound. Everything was so big and grand. Colorado was everything John Denver had promised in his song Rocky Mountain High.

We examined our maps the next morning for the steepest roads, the ones marked dangerous for what I assumed would offer the most dramatic views. We navigated the narrowest, most precipitous two lane mountain roads I have ever seen. The unobstructed views through crisp clean air were absolutely astonishing. It seemed unbelievable that motorists would even be allowed to travel such roads at altitudes over 10,000 feet - one tiny error in judgement and it was sayonara.

More remarkable was our conversation that night with two fellow campers who were Colorado residents. When we expressed our harrowing but exciting journey of the day, they only laughed as they told how they enjoyed riding at night, driving as fast as possible on the most treacherous of roads. To me, this was sheer lunacy. Not only did one have to contend with serpentine roads and hairpin turns, but also Colorado was PITCH BLACK at night - there were no street lights in those mountains. I certainly was a risk taker, but this couple was truly out of their minds.

We journeyed on through Wyoming, Oregon and California that summer in a 30-day, 10,000 mile trip. To this date, it was the longest I have been away from New York City since 1970. For the resident here, spending long periods away from the city really gives a new, fresh perspective. Returning from that trip I could see and feel its gritty, dirty and very hard character. The mountains of Manhattan were different now.

On November 5, 2007, I wrote Magic Mountain, about the American International Building: "It is famous for its motif of a snow capped mountain - the base of the building is clad in granite while the upper portion, clad in limestone, becomes lighter in color until one reaches the very top, where it is white." The upper and lower right photos are from that story. A bit of the Rockies, popping up from the canyon floor of lower Manhattan.

But the night vista from the Manhattan Bridge in today's photo was not the reason I went on a journey as a Mountain Man, high in the New York Rockies...

Pure Chocolate

My family members are savers - the classic, thrifty New Englanders who waste nothing, where the third R of the waste management triangle, Recycle, was virtually unknown because the first two (Reduce, Reuse) were maximized as much as humanly possible. We wear shoes too small or keep them in the closet in perpetuity (see One Size Too Small here.)

My father grew up picking potatoes and cutting wood in Maine, often in subzero temperatures. Even to this day, everything he does is defined by an extreme sense of survival. I have seen him scrape burnt toast and clean and fold aluminum foil for reuse.

In our home, for chocolate milk, we had Nestle's Quik, not Bosco or Nutella. I have a suspicion that this choice was driven both by compulsive neatness, another hallmark of many a spartan, Shaker-like New England household and the idea that it is easier to extract every last gram of powder from a can than syrup from a bottle. My father would watch our Nestle's Quik mixing ritual with a very keen eye. Regardless of how vigorously we stirred, there would always be some residue at the bottom of the glass. He would shake his head and in the most disapproving tone would say "Look at that. Pure chocolate."

To this day, on the occasions that I may have some dessert or beverage with chocolate sauce, memories of Nestle's Quik give me some agita, even in New York City where there is enormous waste. If every citizen practiced the most careful, frugal lifestyle, the sheer size of this metropolis still turns everything into a big thing, be it snow removal, traffic or the volume of trash. New York City produces an extraordinary 12,000 tons of garbage daily.

Seeing all the goods in this city along with all the trash, does give the sense that to be in New York is to live in the horn of plenty. Even the underprivileged or homeless will do better here than in a less populated environment. There are outreach programs, soup kitchens, shelters and just lots for the picking in the streets of the city. When offered food, I have seen many homeless ask what it is before accepting. On Wednesday nights in Washington Square Park, a Christian group brings free food. But I have seen many homeless turn down food offers from them, saying that they were either full or did not appear interested in the selection. I am not extolling the benefits of the homeless life nor diminishing its hardships. But opportunity is much greater in New York to get by.

Recently, I celebrated a friend's birthday at Mud (see here). The desserts are a little pricey but excellent. Three of us shared two desserts with chocolate sauce. As you can see from the photographic evidence, we did a respectable job of finishing what was served. However, looking at the finished plate with a scrutinizing eye, one can hear a haunting voice that says, "Look at that. Pure Chocolate" :)