Beantown Beatdown

Don't let the happy face fool you. After waving to my entourage, I started looking for a wheelchair or something soft to land on. (photo: cole)

So I didn’t exactly "rock" Boston. In fact, it fairly kicked my @$$. I arrived at the starting line extremely fit (and still am) and my 3:06:43 finish, though substantially off my sub-3 goal, was a very respectable debut. So I’m proud but sore. Motivated to do better.

I ran a very solid 35K, right on target. But the marathon is 42K and those last four miles were extremely painful. I was blacking out on my feet and swaying toward the sidelines and about a half mile short of the finish line, the infamous Boston leg cramps set in, a consequence of Boston’s famous down hills in which quads and hamstrings seize up extremely painfully. I managed to walk them off and rally for a proud jog to the finish line.

I made some costly tactical errors that can be corrected so I’m fully confident that I will get under that 3-hour mark at a future race. I’m actually excited about the prospect. I never experienced that "never again" moment and I wanted another shot at the distance right after finishing, despite the suffering—and I’m still sore nearly a week later. The most important lesson I learned was humility. The marathon is serious business and no amount of toughness trumps preparation and smart execution.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. My body needs to heal, then we’ll think about the next attempt. I ran best when I focused on one step at a time and that’s how I’ll go forward: methodically, patiently, and for now, VERY slowly.

Primavera

Passerby: "You might ask yourself what happened to the kid wearing those shoes..."

Spring is in the air and Love is with it. Along with shoes and plastic bags, the trees are full of bloom. Before stirring my tea (three blossom green tea served by a goddess debuting her new leopard print skirt) I sneak myself a little extra demitasse spoonful of honey. Mainline pollen and I’m not the only one imbibing. Those who are not sneezing and wheezing are sneaking corner-of-the-eye glances at each other behind their cool shades. The sky is perfectly blue, the colors bright, and possibilities are everywhere.

Please! Don't Buy Our Art!

If the sterile art, unfriendly staff, industrial surroundings, long walks,

opaque business practices, instituional spaces, and general unpleasantness

of the neighborhood don't scare you away from this Chelsea gallery, perhaps a

mad dog will do the trick!

Following on our revelatory visit to the Lower East Side galleries, we were wondering how we would find the Chelsea Scene. Let’s just say that it did nothing to change our Bowery Bullishness into 10th Avenue Ballyhoo.

It’s not just that the spaces are cold, the art uber-commercial, the walks interminably long, the staff often quite frosty, and the neighborhood about as welcoming as the surface of the moon. All of that is beyond dispute. The new thing that I noticed, and I suppose that it’s always been there, is that many of the galleries actively don’t want most people to buy their art. Which seems kinda strange.

It just got to be a bit much as we were bombing through the galleries in the Chelsea Terminal Building and almost none of the galleries listed prices on the "price list." My companion had to ask for the version of the price list that actually includes prices. When she jokingly probed the reasons for this double-list phenomenon (which made me wonder if there was more than one set of price lists behind that white window-wall) the attendant (who was really quite friendly) said that the gallery didn’t want to offend anyone by being too out-front with the prices.

Offend who? The one naive in the universe who mistakes the gallery for a museum? The artist who thinks the work should cost more? The jealous artist who thinks it’s worth less? The collector who spent five times more for lesser work in Miami?

The coyness actually offended me alot more for two reasons. First, as an art collector, I want the process to be easy, invigorating, and I want to know that I’m not being $crewed. Secondly as an artist, I want to know that the galleries are out there trying to sell work. We [artists] cannot survive if they do not. So if a gallery’s mission is to get art out there and into people’s lives, making the act of collecting more difficult seems...counterintuitive.

Well, it turns out that my sense offense was correct. What those galleries were doing was more than annoying; it was illegal. As retail establishments, galleries are required to post "in plain sight" the prices of all works for sale. Not "on request" and not behind the desk. In plain sight.

Remember back in the 80’s, when galleries had to be sued into posting their prices? This is the same old $hit and presumably for the same reasons. After reading about the experiences people had back then, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were, in fact, multiple price lists for various "types" of customer. It used to happen all the time and probably still does.

I don’t wish to make sweeping judgements: many of the galleries in Chelsea do everything exactly right. Many have been pushing art into public life for longer than I have been drawing breath and we can be thankful for all of them. And, let’s be honest, I would be thrilled to be represented by many (though certainly not all of them). But speaking in general terms, the district has a cold, unfriendly, and even outwardly hostile feeling that is not helpful to the cultivation of growing class of art collectors.

It’s like the inexplicably angry stare of a supermodel on the runway. Don’t worry: I won’t offend by asking how much that skirt costs. I’ll visit someone who actually wants to do some business.

Sweet Virginia

Few spots are sweeter than the rolling hills of Central Virginia

I’m very excited to announce that I’ve been selected for a residency at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts (VCCA) for the month of August, 2008. Located in Amherst, VA, VCCA is just 40 miles from Springtree, the commune where Meredith grew up. It’s a double bonus: VCCA is a prestigious fellowship, and Meredith and Sebastian will be able to spend August nearby at Springtree, a place all three of us love—particularly in the summer. Meredith will be able to write in bucolic peace, Sebastian will run in fields and splash in creeks, and I will be able to look at many, many trees and have an amazing experience close to my family. Looks like you’ll be hearing a lot more from Countrymouse this summer!

Save THIS!

The leader of the faction fighting to keep the high-rises out of Domino Sugar site added a few extra stories to her own historic building when she renovated, to the detriment of the adjoining playground. She understandably would like to protect her view but is that our problem? Is her cause even helpful for the rest of us?

Now I see signs all over the place calling for us all to rise up and "save Grand Street" from a huge condo building slated for the NE corner of Driggs. But what real harm does that project portend? Even the flyer itself only argues for "context." The real concern for the group that is posting the flyers, based in the co-op building across the street is that it will block their view. It will not even really diminish their light because the zoning requires considerable upper-story setbacks, there is a wide avenue in between, and the complainants’ windows face north anyway so a glass tower of the type so in vogue might actually increase their natural light.

So why the fuss? Because that view is a magnificent selling point and its loss will diminish their units’ resale value without reducing their [likely undervaluated] property taxes. I’m sure the view is nice itself as well.

Of course they can and should fight to protect their interests but I don’t have a dog in that fight. I sometimes wonder if those NIMBY-driven battle cries are actually even contrary to my interests. It breaks my heart that we cannot buy a home in New York and will soon probably leave as a consequence. After all, once this apartment leaves the rent stabilization regime (about 5 years), we will not be able to continue renting in the neighborhood. Buying is the only way we can stay long-term.

Loads of new housing stock coming on line can only make spaces more affordable for purchase, even accounting for the strange dynamics of real estate in New York. I am well aware of the downsides, but we must at least consider the benefits. It could well be that my interests are opposite of this particular group of crusaders.

But the disingenuous and prejudicial tone is what really bothers me. It’s like the Boogyman is coming and I’ve been on the other side of that. The talk of "context" is the key.

All of the "Save such-and-such edifice" signs I’ve been seeing around lately remind me of the "Save our school" signs the PS 84 PTA used to block the new neighborhood charter school. They talked about the school’s "context" and "character" but that was code for race. They didn’t have any idea what they were talking about—after all the Board of Education had not finalized any plan. That did not stop them from rallying, holding a press conference, and raising a very passionate ruckus. End result: one fewer option for their (and my) children.

So I’ve been the imagined boogyman and the eventual loser in a NIMBY spat. I’m not sure that blocking the construction of more housing is a winning strategy for my family in this case either. Something to at least consider.

LES: YES!

"It’s official: I’m never going back to Chelsea." ] That’s what J-Dalt said after we finished touring the Lower East Side galleries. Of course, that very night she went to a performance in Chelsea, but never mind. I’ve decided to skip the Armory Show and related fairs this year because I’m bummed out about the hyper-inflated yet completely vacuous state of the blue chip art world but I’ve really been wanting/needing to see some great art. Figuring the local places would bring out their best for be well-washed masses in town for the various festivals, J-Dalt suggested that we check out the LES scene.

Boy, were we impressed!

Everything that has been written about how visitor- and art-friendly the neighborhood is exactly right. The galleries are easy to reach and it is interesting to walk from one to the next. In fact, there’s probably more inspiration outside the galleries as there is within. It is, after all, one of the most interesting neighborhoods in the world. The same can hardly be said of Chelsea.

The galleries themselves were terrific too. I found the art extremely interesting and relevant for the times we live in. It’s generally very sincere, conceptually interesting, and well executed. We visited nearly a dozen galleries and none disappointed. You’re not going to love everything, but I appreciated everything I saw. The galleries themselves were professionally managed with good facilities and professional and friendly(!) staff. The scale of both the galleries (cause) and the work (effect) were intimate. We both found the scene to be like Williamsburg back in the day—only with slightly better art and universally professional.

Standouts included Jen Bekman, Thierry Goldberg, Salon 94, Eleven Rivington, Fruit & Flower Deli, Sunday, Fusion Arts Museum and, of course, 31Grand. We also stopped by the New-squared Museum. Not so bolly-ho about that, but that’s subject for another post/rant.

Two of a Kind

Later that night I ran into Schmertzy and the Ankinator at the NurtureArt opening. They took me back to the LES for a Norwegian party. We walked in to a very civilized room with about a dozen statuesque blondes sitting around a coffee table full of cupcakes, cookies, and brownies. One of them apologized for there being so many Scandanavians. I tried to find a way to cope with the situation.

It was very fun. We ate chocolate, danced, and the hours went by very quickly. The oddest thing was this. The only person not of Northern-European extraction (including citymouse) was a pair of African American twins who dressed exactly alike. They were dating the two Norwegian women who lived in the apartment. One of the ladies started dating one of the brothers and found out that her friend was coming from Norway. She told her friend on the phone, "Don’t worry, I have everything lined up for you: a job, an apartment, even a boyfriend!"

The two guys together comprised one single being and they did everything together—like the party version of synchronized swimming. They went to get a beer in unison, the sulked on the couch side-by-side, they looked through the music together, and they simultaneously bust out their video handhelds for some mid-party gaming. Not sure if they took a leak together...

Love Knots

All untitled ink on paper 9"x12" 2008

Connections--often highly sensual--between trees and rocks. Much of my work is an interface between trees and the sky. Here it's trees and Earth.

Infinity's Crossing Point

The signs of Spring are everywhere!

The other night I attended a celebration in the East Village to welcome the Vernal Equinox and the amazing full moon that arrived on the same evening. That was not the first pagan ritual I have joined over there—I love the spirituality that is resident in that neighborhood. It feels plugged in to something really, really old. Lots to think about: seasonal renewal, new beginnings, and the interweaving of opposing forces, the male and female, the Hieros-gamos.

Of course the trip home was a nightmare due to construction on the L train. Took me over an hour, which is considerably longer than it would have taken had I walked home. About two miles as the crow flies. It was one of those things that make me hate the city. Those periodic (and frequent) indignities are a key part of the Williamsburg experience. Yet we cannot relocate within the city, leaving a stark choice between regular humiliation or departure.

The historical trend in the neighborhood (going back at least a hundred years) is for the ambitious to leave and for the broken to default to systematic degradation. I don’t feel like I can take that $h!t much longer. Couple that with the predictable longing one feels for green and growing things following a springtime rite and it is easy to ask oneself, "Why exactly am I doing this?"

I had lifted weights that day and it tends to make me ornery, so that explains the mood a little bit. The next day I took a train to Sleepy Hollow and went for a three hour run through the woods and fields and that certainly mellowed me out. Still, I feel like there is a clock ticking within me and the point is approaching when the alarm will ring and I will say, "I’ve had it."

BCI: Bloke Confidence Index

I heard about a guy who has a profile on match.com and it has a space where he specifies the age of his desired soul-mate. Apparently he changes it all the time; sometimes older, sometimes younger. With wild swings.

That number must be some kind of indicator, like the Dow, the price of gas, or the dollar versus the Euro. But wait: those indices only seem to go in one direction. A better comparison would be the Consumer Confidence Index (CCI).

We’ll call this new measure the BCI—Bloke Confidence Index. If the guy’s feeling really desperate, he raises the number, say to 85, allowing essentially any woman with a pulse to match his profile. If on the other hand he looks in the mirror and sees a randy stud-muffin looking back at him he may lower it enough to exclude anything but a recently graduated Tri-Delt. We'll keep an eye on that number and keep you posted.

Hedge Fund Traders and Nightmares, Revisited

"Good Greed" coming to our fair nabe?
Photo Stolen from 20th Century Fox via NY Times
PapaCole and MamaCole were in town this past weekend so that meant a [woohoo!] date night for Citymouse and Mrs. Mouse. We decided to try a new place in the neighborhood that we had heard about. One of our playground friends had told us that the food was really good and the prices exceptionally low, either because they were trying to grow the business or they simply didn’t know better. Either way, we were all over it.

It was true: excellent food, very reasonable prices, and outstanding service. A very nice experience and of course Citymouse is far too savvy to say where the place is, lest the hungry masses from Manhattan overwhelm the place. It’s a sad refrain of the City-savvy: when you find a good thing, keep your mouth shut.

Sadly, that ship already seems to have sailed. Notice that I didn't say anything about the atmosphere. As dinner progressed—the mouse family has an early bed time—the place filled up and we started to look around and be surprised and then horrified by what we saw. The place was full of suits and starched shirts—you know the blue ones with the white collars. I would not have been surprised to see Michael Douglas walk in to reprise his role in Wall Street.

And this on a Saturday!

Even more frightening were the trophy wives/girlfriends/escorts. All bleached out, made up, scarey thin and dressed to the nines. Yikes!

I should have known better. After all, the woman who recommended the place to me is married to a Wall Street type, though she’s a very down to earth. They’re both perfectly nice actually. But man, has this neighborhood really changed!

Let’s be honest though: every wave of immigrants tries to keep the next group out. My ranting is really not any more excusable than the ignorant mutters of "diablo blanco" I occasionally hear on the Southside. Still we’re getting it from both sides: Sebastian’s school wants desperately to stay frozen in a romantic Latinized past yet milk is pushing $10 a gallon at the local grocery stores. It’s an unpleasant way to be squeezed.

That’s the reality of the City though. Better to get past the prejudice and ignorant assumptions and treat each individual and every experience with a fresh mind and an openness to the good in each. That restaurant was excellent and we’ll go back. My friend is sweet and I would be glad to see her husband more if he didn’t work so much. And no one is asking me to leave my home. The rest is just stuff I have to get over. The world is too small to live any other way.

Eastward Ho?

Something's going to fill the block between Bedford, Berry, N3, and N4—but what?

There’s lots of speculation about what’s being built on the super-lot that fills the entire block between Bedford and Driggs and North 3rd and North 4th. From what I hear, the reality is going to be much more sane than the original 40-story plan—last I heard was 5 stories. There is a new wrench in the mix, one that poses an existential crisis that is uniquely Williamsburg.

Trader Joe’s.

That’s the rumor around the Met Pool locker room. It must be said that the building is a loooooooong way from complete—I would estimate at least a year—so all bets are off. Still, the notion does cause a quandary for Williamsburgers. It is a national chain—no two ways about that—and this neighborhood does not like and has almost entirely blocked national chain stores (with one minor exception).

Traitor Ho’s (as I call them) may be one that neighborhood long-timers may be inclined to accept. See, in a district with a zillion restaurants, there are shockingly few grocery stores. The two that exist—CTown on South 1st and Tops on North 6th—are ghetto (rotten produce) and corrupt (prices ring differently than what's marked on shelves), respectively. And like the many fancy or fancified bodegas that flourish on both the North and South Side, both retailers are radically over-priced. For example, milk (albeit organic) approaches $10/gallon.

So most Williamsburgers I know ride the subway that oft-quoted "five minutes to Manhattan," stopping at the first available grocery store: Traitor Ho’s. There we find consistent quality and reasonable prices. Plus their offerings are hip and exotic and well suited to the creative type’s idiosyncratic tastes. A neighborhood Joe may be a go.

We need to look at this thing in the larger context of what is happening in the neighborhood. National/International chains are certainly coming. The huge new buildings along the waterfront are slated to include retail footage measuring in the millions of square feet. Few mom-and-pops or boutiques will move into those spaces. Only chains. And the people who actually live in those buildings will most certainly want their starbucks and other suburban trappings. That had better include grocery stores or the the massive influx of people will lead to a food shortage on a scale not seen since the Great Hunger.

The most sensible plan (and the most likely) envisions the shops along the charming blocks around Bedford Avenue remaining low scale and local. The small size of the available spaces makes that outcome likely anyway. Meantime, big stores along Kent Avenue in the big buildings. It’s a delightful compromise for an urban planner and a winning sale for a politician, but I’m not sure I like even this idea.

Doesn’t that just create a microcosm of what killed American Cities? You know the story: Charming downtown; huge stores open on periphery; local stores cannot compete; local stores go out of business; national (but faux- or retro-boutique) chains also move into downtown; sponge away all local color and replace with a Disnified and neutered verion of one's own home town and life experience.

Not at all sure I like it.

But I would love to have a shorter trip to Traitor Ho’s.

Like so many things about this city, I love the idea and hate it. Passionately and simultaneously.

Monsters and Metaphors

The paths inward are alot scarier than those that lead outward.

In my dreams of ancestors, I imagine patrolling the remote pathways of some dark untamed forest, making them safe for travelers and abandoned orphans who lose themselves there.

As the years have passed, I’ve learned that it’s more complicated because the lost souls actually carry the wolves and witches and dragons within themselves. We’re both villains and victims. And we pose a greater danger to the forest than it does to us. The real danger then is not the darkness around us, but the darkness within.

When I was a kid, I used to like to chase the deer I sometimes encountered while playing in the woods. One time I actually caught one; cornered it in a thicket. I was completely unprepared for what happened next. Instead of fighting, she surrendered. I could have killed with a knife or, I suppose, my teeth. But the hopeless and terrified look in her eyes sent me staggering backward. All sport was gone and I realized how terrifyingly powerful I am. Suffering results when we underestimate our potency.

That was also when I realized that I’m a pretty decent runner.

---

I just saw the new Beowulf movie. It's horrid but fun. I think we can all agree that the visual effects are just ridiculous—the ultimate expression (so far) of what the motion-capture technique can do. It is however a thoroughly contemporary take on the seed tale of English literature and it doesn't let historical reverence interfere with straightforward story-telling. In spite of myself. I could not help but nod when the old king verbalized exactly what I had been thinking, "The age of heroes and monsters is ended. Now we are the monsters."

Hollywood truism? No doubt, but one that bears repeating over and over, lest we lose the world as we dream complacency and imagine that we are somehow victims.

Costa Rican Beer, White Wine, or Punch?

Those were the beverage choices at the LaGrange Biennial. And red wine. That was my choice. (I admit that I did try the punch too.)


General Lafeyette welcomes travellers to his empty square.

Here are some impressions from my trip to Georgia, in no particular order:

• A dog running in mad circles at the extreme frontier of his invisible paddock as I run by along a country road.
  
• Completely empty town square.
  
• I enter an army surplus/sporting goods store looking for Gu for tomorrow’s long run:
  
  Old timer, comes rushing over as soon as I enter the store. "May I help you?"
  Me: "I’m looking for Gu."
  Old Timer: [Quizzical look]
  Me: "You know, energy gel, like PowerGel...a liquid version of power bars."
  Old Timer: "What’s that?"
  Me: "It’s a high-calorie energy source for endurance sports..."
  Old Timer: "Like for diabetics?"
  Younger guy in store: [shakes head]
  Me: Thank you!
  Old Timer: My wife’s diabetic...
  
• Sierra Nevada listed as an import in the local art/cafe.
  
• College campus without a soul. Granted, it’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon (70 degrees) but wow!
  
• I’m coughing up (and spitting out) the last remnants of that flu bug everyone had.
  
• Evidence of the draught everywhere. Not a green blade of anything. Granted, it is winter, but again...wow!
  
• Daffodils (the one exception)
  
• Many, many lakes, all with boat launches.
  
• Cloudless cobalt sky drops in to a Peter Max gradient to yellow at the horizon made of bare trees like a comb.
  
• Sitting by the lake in a relaxed (or is it expectant?) quiet. The New Yorker in me keeps waiting for something to happen. The reality is more likely to be a sigh, then sleep, followed by more of the same.
  
• For some reason, the town on the hill reminds me of Noto, Sicily.
  
• Everyone I meet has been to New York at least once.
  
• The Bible is on a quarter of the radio stations.
  
• The more beautiful the woman, the sooner church seems to arise in the conversation.
  
• Every bite of food had been delicious. Even at the airport.
  
• At one point, when I parked for lunch, I actually rolled all the windows down to air out my stuff while I took a walk. In New York, that would be the source of a thousand jokes...

Neighborhood Updates

Photo: Sebastian

So here are a few notes from the neighborhood.

P.S. 84 PTA Slays Scary Beast of Change
So not only did the inflamed PTA at Sebastian's school block the charter school from opening within the school's walls, they killed it entirely. According the Board of Education, the neighborhood charter school will not open this coming year. One would be justified in wondering if it will ever happen. One fewer option for the children of Williamsburg. To quote the numerous fliers and emails, "Felicidades!"

The school administration has come up with a new idea that certainly will appeal to 84's overwhelmingly Puerto Rican parent body: a Spanish immersion program. Starting in kindergarten next year, two of the classes will be taught in Spanish.

That hits two birds with one stone. Since the arts magnet program is now over, they had to replace it with something innovative. And for a community under siege, what could be more comforting than to know that the local school is actively working to protect their culture?

I have to wonder, though, if it makes sense to teach in Spanish in a school where the failing test scores in reading are attributed to limited English comprehension. Maybe they'll raise test scores by attracting motivated, cosmopolitan parents. My guess, though, is that the plan is designed to appeal more to the "local" parents who do not want their children to to forget where they [the parents] came from.

There is one thing I really love about the idea, however. In this neighborhood so divided between Spanish and Anglo communities, perhaps this could be a bridge. Perhaps this is the school's way of saying, "We belong to both worlds. Not one or the other. Both."

Conicidentally, the PS 84 in Manhattan has already tried this. [NY Times]. I don't have time to do any more than quick reading on the subject but it would be very interesting to see how they did at their school.

Northside Health Food Closing
Citing "Too much competition" from the myriad pricey convenience stores that have popped up in the neighborhood, the owners of the health food shop just north of North 7th Street is having a clearance sale. I love that place so much that I am glad to walk past 8 or 9 of those afore-mentioned food boutiques to get there. I'm sad to see them go and as is so typical in the neighborhood, it is the trail-blazers who are pushed out.

I'm just glad those guys had the foresight to open their amazing falafel joint around the corner on N7. Goodbye Northside. You will be missed. [Foodmonkey bids Northside farewell]

Relocating The Read
I was equally depressed to see The Read shut its doors a few months ago. My sorrow was replaced with joy when I learned that it is reopening on the Southside, right across the street from my house. Woohoo! I love that place and will be so glad to have it a mere stumble away. So that's good news for us.

Shady Ladies

The recent snowfall set off a different
type of storm at the Metropolitan Pool
This "ladies swim" thing at the Met Pool is plain ridiculous.

As you may know, the Metropolitan Pool has four sessions per week reserved for "ladies" only—Hasidic ladies, that is. That’s roughly a quarter of the available swim time. Truth be told, the official policy is that all women are allowed but no gentile will go there anymore because the Hasidim are likely to abuse and/or beat them if they try. Not very lady-like.

The word on the street is that this arrangement came about as part of a back-room deal between the Parks Department and the Hasidic elders. In exchange for partially funding the Pool’s 1992 renovation (the Hasidim claim they did, Parks says they didn’t), the Hasidim asked that several sessions be reserved for them, so their women could exercise without their modesty being offended by the presence of men. One shudders to hypothesize that this might be their modern-day version of a niddah. Of course, Parks could not officially reserve one of their pools for religious ritual, but they compromised by keeping the men out. The ladies themselves maintain the religious homogeneity on their own through bullying.

The ladies swim in their long dresses (which trail clouds of dye) and have a special technique for quickly swapping their wigs for bathing caps. They used to have their own Hasidic (female) lifeguard who they paid cash on the sly in the locker room at the end of each session. Parks closed this corrupt window and agreed to furnish a female lifeguard who is a Parks employee and certified life-saver.

Yesterday’s snow storm threw a monkey wrench in the works. Not surprisingly, the weather prevented the special female lifeguard from making it to work, leaving just the regular male lifeguard. This met water safety requirements but was unacceptable to the ladies and they demanded that the Met Pool request that the Crown Heights pool send over their woman. Obviously, Met could not commandeer another pool’s lifeguard. Undaunted, one of the Hasidic women called Crown Heights pretending to be from Metropolitan to ask the same thing. Smelling kvelte fish, Crown Heights rang Met back to confirm and the two were able to unravel the subterfuge. Perhaps they shared a laugh about it.

It’s silly and it’s ridiculous but most importantly it’s inappropriate. I’m sorry but there’s no reason why a public facility should be set aside for a single ethnic group. Can you imagine there being a session reserved for Sicilians or Puerto Ricans? Please. This episode does however illuminate how and why such an absurdity can persist. When the system doesn’t serve their needs, some people are willing to subvert it. You would be surprised what a gang of angry ladies can achieve, witness the French Revolution. But this was not about Liberty, Equality, and Brotherhood. Quite the opposite.

I’m not sure which is more disgusting: this perversion of democracy or Meredith’s descriptions of the coat rack full of wigs with the furry hats still attached.

Nine Lives

Photo credit: Sebastian

There’s nothing worse than a blog about someone’s pet. They’re never nearly as interesting to the outside reader as they are for the writer. I beg you to make one exception for this story, however. Many people have told me that it’s important to share it.

A few weeks ago, our cat Creepers (famous to readers for his previous run-ins with the &*#%$& squirrel) just seemed to lose his interest in living. We could not figure out why but he lost all his [considerable] mojo and quit eating. He retreated into a cabinet and wouldn’t come out, which was the polar opposite of that outgoing cat’s standard routine. After a while we were sure it wasn’t some kitty version of a flu bug and he was literally wasting away, almost gone. We took him to the vet and they had no idea what had made him stop eating, but they could tell that his liver had stopped functioning. Since he had very little body fat to begin with, his body had started to consume its vital organs, beginning with his liver.

The vet said only two options were possible: off to a kitty hospital for tests and a feeding tube so he could be forcibly fed, or euthanasia. Money’s really tight, so kitty life support is not something we can manage. And he was over ten years old. The vet then looked us in the eye and said "I know where you’re going with this but he’s a good cat with a lot of years ahead of him if we can get the feeding on track."

So we took him to the animal hospital. None of the tests found any ultimate causes but they confirmed the liver thing, installed the feeding tube and wanted observe for several days (at the cost of about a grand a day). It broke our hearts but we couldn’t do that so we took him home.

We resolved to make a good-faith effort to not let him go without a fight but we were not optimistic.

Talk about a hassle. We had to force four big syringes of pudding-like food through a tube into a spirited cat. And we had to do that four times a day--a total of about two hours a day plus prep and cleanup and often required two people at a time. It was exhausting and dispiriting and we figured we would be able to keep it up for about two weeks. At least he was really sweet and relatively docile through the whole thing—or maybe too weak to fight.

After those two weeks, a surprise: he started getting better. Then much better. Now he is completely restored. In fact, as I started writing this, he jumped up from the floor and curled up on my shoulder (one of his many wacky habits). It’s really amazing. Just a few weeks ago, he was literally at death’s door and ready to go. Now he’s back and happy and full of life.

We can still hardly believe it and will think twice before giving up on anything. Or anyone.

Westside Wayside

Please wack me with a stick if you ever see me wearing one of those silly belts.
One of the great things about living in the City is that long runs don’t require loads of crap: just a few bucks in that little shorts pocket. In fact, I always laugh at people wearing hydration belts—they look like they’re trying to be Batman or something with his "utility belt." The inherent geekiness of running is made a thousand times worse by adding a teched-out version of a fanny pack. In the City, you can always find a bodega to buy gatorade. Better still, there are plentiful water fountains (in season).

That’s how I approached my latest long run: carry nothing. But there was a little flaw in my plan. My route took me over the Williamsburg Bridge, around the tip of Manhattan and up the West Side to 59th Street. That’s basically ten miles along greenways, which is beautiful, but completely devoid of bodegas (I guess that’s kind of the idea of a park, right?) and the winter weather meant that fountains were all turned off.

I was chugging up the West Side approaching Chelsea Piers and wondering if they might have a snack bar or something inside. Just before I got there, I noticed a little kiosk called "The Runner’s Station." I vaguely remembered that a certain shoe company had established the place for the New York City Half-Marathon but I had no idea that it was still in operation. It was perfect: they had everything I needed (and more) and at really reasonable prices. In fact, they gave me a free gel. Then I was on my way.

I hate to sing the praises of said shoe company but it’s a fabulous idea and an example of something that’s very important about New York City. The company obviously established the station as a marketing ploy to get into the consciousness of runners just out doing their thing. You could even rightly call it an inappropriate commercialization of the park. At the same time, it’s a great service, totally low-key and completely devoid of any sales pitch. It’s like a hotdog stand for runners, really. I’m a fan of the place (if not the company) and I applaud them for setting this thing up and running it at a perpetual loss. I’m savvy enough to accept the free gift without being suckered into buying something I don’t want or need.

The experience reminded me of something similar that happened at Burning Man a few years ago. We were walking blindly through a dust storm after the Man had burned and we had a serious case of the munchies. As if our thoughts had taken physical form, the fog suddenly parted to reveal a man grilling pop tarts on a hibachi out in the middle of the playa. (Only at Burning Man!) He asked if we would like one. Most certainly. Then we grooved our way to the next amusement, much satisfied.

I love when what we need is presented when we need it as if by gift from Heaven. That happens quite often in the City. Although the City certainly taketh her share and then some, she does present gifts, often when least expected.

Going Negative

Equinox Song and Solstice Song.
Oil Pastel on Stained Birch Plywood (24" x 24") 2008.

These two works combine what I like about the chairs and the trees. The material is back to the luscious Sennelier oil pastel, but on shellacked and stained birch plywood. The beauty of the wood itseld is very much in evidence, as are the geometric similarities between the trees and the wood itself. My project was to draw just the negative spaces and let physical shapes emerge from the support, which is quite visually active. I'm quite satisfied with the results.

The solstice piece is on its way to the LaGrange Biennial, while the other is so new that as of this writing, no one has seen it yet.

Out of Body

Image stolen from Wired New York.
Note that on this day, it was not snowy and the bridge was stuffed with traffic.

Ready for my surreal moment of the week? I was bombing (i.e. running real fast) though Old Calvary Cemetery (you might even say I was running like the Old Cavalry through Old Calvary) on a perfect clear afternoon. The light was perfect, photographic. When I really get rolling, time seems to stand still and my mind separates from my body. On easy days, I purposely slow my self down, but on my real workout days, I just let myself go to an "out of body" state where I feel nothing and my conscious mind goes to its own little place while my body does its thing. Like sleeping. That's when I run really fast and well and this was one of those days, fueled, no doubt by the three cups of coffee I had just consumed.

So I was cruising through the hills feeling all blissed out, when I looked up at the Kosciuszko Bridge, which looms overhead and to the south. I've crawled across that bridge a number of times on the way home from the beach, or just about every time I've driven on the BQE for that matter. But this time, the cars totally stopped. In fact, when I came around for my second lap (a mile and a half later), the cars were in the exact same positions. It was as if time was standing still. Combined with the runners high (who needs drugs, right?) and the beauty of the day, the effect was eerie. Not in an "oooooooooooo...spookey: we're in a graveyard" way (although I was) but in a Twighlight Zone way that made me look around for the inevitable Martian landers.

Then I headed home, changed clothes, picked Sebastian up from school, took him to the playground and enjoyed the nice day. Wonderful way to spend an afternoon in February.

McCarren Park Update

Rendering of finalized McCarren Park Pool Plan ( NYC Parks Department)

I've been given the green light to write a feature on McCarren Park for the summer issue of New York Runner. That means I'll have lots of reporting for the blog between now and then. How about this for starters:

It's Official: McCarren Park Pool to Re-Open
It's been reported in some neighborhood weeklies and on a few blogs (here and here for example). The compromise community plan was announced at a sparcely attended meeting yesterday to generaql acceptance. Work will start by the end the year and will run through 2011. Amenities include a surprisingly large swim area (75% of the original Olympic size) a diving area, ice skating in the winter, a gym (privately operated? we wonder based on this), and a recreation facility. No skate park, no concerts. Presumably, the adjacent wading area will be renovated as well. Good news for tots and millionaire condo owners. Bad news for club kids.