Sunset on the Hudson River. Looking west by southwest from around West 96th Street on Manhattan. Wednesday evening. March 9. 2016. From a series by blogging comrade Philip Turner. You can see the rest of the photos and read Philip’s account of “Catching a Precious Part of the Day” at his blog, the Great Gray Bridge.
I'd forgotten. His full name was Oscar Fingal O'Flahrtie Wills Wilde. Probably wouldn't have fit on the menu but that's what I'd have liked to order: "I'll have the Oscar Fingal O'Flahrtie Wills Wilde Burger, please."
We’re here at Lillie’s---Lillie being, according to the menu, Lillie Langtry, the end of the Victorian era actress ---and I just got lied to by the maitre d’.
He’s a short, compact, middle-aged guy wearing a pressed white shirt with French cuffs and cufflinks, a purple tie with a clasp, and a permanent compressed lipped smile. His graying hair is combed neatly back. Cheerful, dapper, and happy to please, and I think he thought it would please me to be lied to.
Wasn’t much of a lie, really. More of a tall tale.
I had the Oscar Wilde Burger. Burger, bleu cheese, bacon, onions.
But why, I wanted to know, is it called the Oscar Wilde burger?
They serve a Judge Roy Bean cocktail here---Avion Reposado, Grapefruit Juice, Lime, Splash of soda, 12 dollars---and that makes sense, that there’s a cocktail, not the ingredients. Judge Bean styled himself the only Law West of the Pecos and, while the tequila’s appropriate, there weren’t a lot of grapefruits or limes in his southwestern part of Texas in those days. But he was infatuated with Lillie Langtry and named his saloon the Jersey Lilly after her. (So he spelled it wrong?) Wilde and Langtry knew each other through their work in the theater, although I can’t remember if they were close friends, but why was their connection being honored with a hamburger, let alone one made with “Angus beef, Oregon crumbled bleu cheese, applewood bacon, and crispy fried onions”?
The maitre d’-’s smile widened and his eyes danced more merrily. He glanced left, then right, as if checking that no one was listening in, then said in almost a whisper, “It’s because he and Lillie were lovers and whenever he came to New York and he stayed over at her place, that’s what she would serve him for dinner. It was his favorite meal.”
“Oscar Wilde and Lillie Langtry were lovers?”
“Huh.” I said. “Interesting.” I left it at that, and the maitre d’ bustled off to go lie to other customers.
Actually, there might have been two lies in what the maitre d’ said. Wilde visited America in 1882 and it’s not certain hamburgers as we know them had been invented yet by then. Wikipedia says maybe they were around in 1884 but more probably not until 1896, even 1900. If it was that late, Wilde may never have had a hamburger anywhere, let alone a favorite one served to him in New York City by Lillie Langtry. He died that year.
The other lie, of course, is that Wilde and Langtry were lovers.
They knew each other, like I said. They even met up in New York City once. But they weren’t lovers, unless her real name was Larry. Even if it was, I don’t think Wilde’s taste ran to transvestites. He preferred rough trade and very boyish young men.
Doesn’t matter. Again, like I said. Not much of a lie. More a bit of Bunburrying. Maybe the Oscar Wilde burger is named the Oscar Wilde burger just so the staff can give the customers a fun story to go with their meals.
Whatever the reason, it was, also like I said, very good.
And if the maitre d’ did think I’d enjoy being lied to, he was right.
I did enjoy being lied to, if only for the chance to refute the lie with a blog post.
Whether or not Wilde ever had a hamburger, he did like a good sandwich. He preferred watercress sandwiches, and he was very particular about them. From Wikipedia:
Wilde himself evidently took sandwiches with due seriousness. Max Beerbohm recounted in a letter to Reggie Turner Wilde's difficulty in obtaining a satisfactory offering: "He ordered a watercress sandwich: which in due course was brought to him: not a thin, diaphanous green thing such as he had meant but a very stout satisfying article of food. This he ate with assumed disgust (but evident relish) and when he paid the waiter, he said: 'Tell the cook of this restaurant with the compliments of Mr Oscar Wilde that these are the very worst sandwiches in the whole world and that, when I ask for a watercress sandwich, I do not mean a loaf with a field in the middle of it.'"
As for Wilde's sexual preferences, here's an excellent biographical sketch by Alex Ross at the New Yorker, centered around a comparison of the original version of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" as it appeared in a magazine and the expanded version later published as a complete novel: Deceptive Picture.
And, while we're on the subject of what Wilde was up to when he was in New York, in doing my homework for this post I Googled up the news that a book came out a couple years ago I'm surprised I missed and that I'm now going to read, Wilde in America by David M. Friedman.
Hurrying back up along Broadway, headed for the restaurant where we’re meeting up with Mrs M, Lillie’s over on East 17th, got intercepted by a couple of Orthodox Jews handing out pamphlets. Not Hassidic. Black fedoras and suits but no sidelocks or beards, although both had mustaches. Young guys. Late 20s, early 30s. Stern-faced. They’d set up an easel with a poster on it that had the words ATTENTION JEWS in big black letters at the top and what looked like a map of the West Bank just below, so I guessed they were recruiting settlers or looking for donations for the settlements already there, but I only got a quick look so maybe I was just assuming. Anyway the more sternly faced stern-faced young man stepped into my path and said:
Just like that. Almost more like an accusation than a question.
And I started laughing.
Well, I smiled broadly and chuckled.
“No,” I said, I hope in what sounded like a very friendly way. I didn’t want him thinking I was laughing at the idea he’d taken me for a fellow Jew and definitely not at the idea of being Jewish. What I wanted to say was, “Only honorarily,” but that would have required an explanation he wouldn’t have been interested in. (I grew up in a Jewish neighborhood. My best friends through high school were Jewish. My first job was as a shabbos goy at an orthodox synagogue.) Anyway, he had other gefilte fish to fry. I didn’t even get a pamphlet. As soon as I said no he moved on to approach another passer-by with the same question. “Jew?”
You know, I was having lunch with some guys from NBC, so I said, 'Did you eat yet or what?' And Tom Christie said, 'No, JEW?' Not 'Did you?'...JEW eat? JEW? You get it? JEW eat?
And from there, because this is how my mind works, while still thinking about Annie Hall, I started thinking about Ted Cruz and Donald Trump.
One of the things---one of the many things---I can’t stand about Ted Cruz is that he makes me root for Donald Trump to get the nomination.
And one of the things I can’t stand about Donald Trump is he makes me root for Ted Cruz.
I go back and forth.
Some days I’m rooting for Cruz. Some days I’m rooting for Trump.
Today it happens to be Cruz.
It’s not that I want either one to win. They’re both appalling. I’d like to see them both to lose in humiliating fashions. It’s just that I think that Cruz has the best chance against Trump at the moment and Trump has the best chance against Cruz.
No point in rooting for any of the others. None of them has much of a chance against either. They’re all marginally less appalling than Trump and Cruz but they’ll be gone after Super Tuesday unless Cruz puts some serious dents in Trump while Trump beats back Cruz.
So, basically, on any given day I’m for the one doing the most damage at the moment to the other and today that seems to be Cruz. Coincidentally I’m in New York while the media, traditional and social, are obsessing over this week’s non-issue we’ll all have forgotten about by next week, Cruz’s attack on Trump over Trump’s “New York Values.”
I’m thinking, Go get him, Ted!
I know. This is supposed to be backfiring on him.
What’s that even mean, people are asking. New York City values?
Some people think it’s code for “Jewish.” I suppose it could be, but in that it’s code for liberal which is code for commie which is code for probably Jewish too. I doubt Cruz meant it to go quite that far. No Republican with an eye on Florida is going to be as reckless about insulting the Jewish vote as they are about the Hispanic, black, and, well, everybody who isn’t white vote. Cruz is trying to use it to mean “Not Us. Not real Americans of the God-fearing kind.” That would include many Jews and honorary Jews, but it wouldn’t insult them specifically.
Folks are rising the the defense of New York. Defending New York seems to me an un-New Yorker thing to do. New Yorkers don’t need to defend themselves against the likes of yahoos like Ted Cruz. The proper New Yorker’s “defense” of New York values ought to go like this:
“You stand for New York values!”
“So? What’s it to you?”
But Trump himself gave Cruz a proper smacking around in the debate last night and in grand New Yorker style. His defense went more or less like this:
“You want New York values, pal? I’ll show you New York values. 9/11. How’s that for New York values?”
Cruz isn’t talking to us or anyone who cares about New York City and its values. He has no hope of winning in New York or its environs or neighboring states in the primaries or the general election, and he doesn’t need to. He’s talking to the Republican base. All the Republicans are always and only talking to the Republican base, and the message is all the same:
“We’re good. They’re bad.”
New Yorkers are They.
Boy, are we!
Cruz is trying to rally people who already hate and despise New York and everything it stands for. His plan for winning the nomination includes corralling the Evangelicals and other Right Wing Christians and they’re concentrated in the parts of the South and the Midwest where “New York Values” aren’t just hated, they’re feared as a threat to the good God-fearing Americans’ way of life. From the get-go, Cruz has been out to rile them up and keep them riled up, and I think he should be encouraged in that. However bad they think of us, I think they should be encouraged to think worse, if it will spur them to come out to vote for Cruz and against Trump.
And that’s why I was still thinking about Annie Hall after that stern-faced young Jewish guy went looking for a real Jew, as opposed to an honorary one, with his pamphlets. I was hearing Woody saying:
Don't you see the rest of the country looks upon New York like we're left-wing, communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers? I think of us that way sometimes and I live here.
If that’s what the Right Wing base sees Trump standing for with his evil New York values, if they see him as an honorary Jew, that’s a good thing.
New York City. Friday. January 15, 2016. Posted February 20.
Like I was saying, beautiful day here in the Mighty Metropolis. Too nice a day to stay cooped up in the B&N cafe. The Mannion guys and I decided to get out and enjoy the good weather until it was time to go meet Mrs M for lunch. Ken headed down to Forbidden Planet. Oliver and I browsed through the farmer’s market on the west side of Union Square. I tortured myself as we moseyed along by making a mental list of all the delicious-looking foodstuffs and drinkstuffs---breads, pies, pastries, cheeses, jams, jellies, wines, whiskies. Yep. Whiskies. At least one distillery has a stand.---I would buy if I was rich and not a diabetic and a much shorter list of things I didn’t have to be rich to buy and that wouldn’t play havoc with my blood sugar---mostly, boringly, fruits and vegetables. But, although we were looking for a snack, we passed it all up and like philistines bought pretzels from a push cart and sat down to eat them on the steps at the far end of the park while we alternated between watching the chess players off to our right and trying to figure out if what we took to be a giant digital clock on one of the buildings across East 14th Street was in fact a clock and what sort of time it was keeping.
On the left side of the display it was clearly telling the regular time but extremely precisely, to the hundredth of a second. At the other end, it appeared to be counting down to something. Numbers in-between changed in a blur, so fast I thought they might be measuring the passage of time in nanoseconds.
I Googled it later when we were having lunch. Turns out it’s an art installation. The point is to make observers think about “the nature of time. “ It didn’t work on me. I got bored silly and stopped thinking about the nature of anything until I happened to look lazily off to the right and remembered the chess players.
There were several games going on, but one would-be player had no one to play with and was looking for an opponent. He was a tall, lanky black man, standing---well, more like dancing in place, swaying and bouncing up and down on his toes---next to his board and table and singing out challenges to the passing crowds in hip-hop rhythms and rhymes. But it was the game and the players closest to me that caught my attention.
Actually, it was a backgammon game and the players were a middle-aged black man with a deeply furrowed brow and a slightly older white man, short and squat, wearing a camel-hair topcoat whose tails hung down to the ground, hiding his legs and feet, and a short-brimmed fedora, whom, for some reason I began to think of as the Russian.
I got to concentrating so intently on their game that I didn’t notice what was going on right in front of us until Oliver startled me with an elbow-nudge to my shoulder. I looked around and met the imploring gaze of a man in a high-backed, heavily padded motorized wheelchair.
He had a neuromuscular disease---Muscular dystrophy? Cerebral palsy?---His extremely thin legs were strapped to the chair, both his arms were pulled in tight to his torso and bent outward and upward at the elbows, and the fingers on both hands were curled towards his palms to the point his hands were practically fisted. He looked very young, possibly no more than twenty, but I couldn’t make a real guess at this age because his face was too contorted, his upper lip twisted far over and down to the left and his lower lip over and up to the right. Across his lap rested a rectangular handwritten cardboard sign requesting “donations” of $2.
I reached for my wallet but it was actually Oliver who gave him the money. I’d been about to hand the man just a single instead of the requested two dollars. Oliver grabbed my wallet and pulled out the second bill. I wasn’t being stingy. I just wasn’t thinking. My mind had run immediately to something else.
You probably know it. It’s one of Conan Doyle’s best. A respectable country gentleman named Neville St Clair disappears on one of his regular business trips to London. Foul-play is presumed. The police suspect a beggar with a gruesome scar that twists his lip grotesquely and a penchant for quoting Shakespeare and bantering wittily with passersby as he begs is involved and take him in for questioning. Meanwhile, Holmes has been consulted by St Clair’s wife and has taken the case. He solves it in pretty much no time. He and Watson arrive at the jail where the beggar, who calls himself Boone, is being held, Holmes takes out a sponge from a bag, fetches a jug of water, and sets to work washing the sleeping Boone’s face. A coat of dirt and grime come off in the scrubbing but so does Boone’s scar and twisted lip. Holmes yanks the wig from the man’s head and introduces Watson and Inspector Bradstreet to...Neville St Clair.
Turns out St Clair has been making his living begging while letting his wife think it’s through investments he manages on his trips into the city. He’s an educated man, a former journalist, who learned, while investigating a story for his newspaper, that he could take in more money in a day by putting his hand out than by taking his pen in hand. His begging act is practically performance art and he’s a popular street character. People are glad to give him money as a reward for his being so industriously entertaining. He doesn’t take in enough that it’s made him rich. But it has been enough for him to support his family in middle-class comfort and style.
Of course perpetrating a fraud. If he’s not legally guilty of a crime, he’s guilty of a moral wrong. He’s a con artist, tricking people out of their money. And, although it’s not explicit in the story, he’s taking money that might have gone to those who really need the help and are deserving of charity. Essentially, he’s a kind of thief.
No way am I suggesting the man in the wheelchair in Union Square was faking or that I even suspected he was. I suppose he could have been. I’m sure there are some out there, Neville St Clairs masquerading as Boones. I’m sure that some of the “Vietnam vets” never wore a uniform, let alone spent time in country. I’m sure plenty of panhandlers are liars and cheats in smaller ways, begging money for a meal or a place to sleep they’re going to use to buy booze or drugs. I’m sure that many of the unemployed claiming to need a handout because they’re out of work and can’t find a job are without work because they don’t want to work. I’m sure that many of the bums on the street are in fact bums.
But I don’t know which of the thousands and thousands and thousands of people out there are bums, con artists, cheats, and frauds. And I don’t need to know. I don’t ask. I don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter to me, anyway, how someone wound up out on the street asking passing strangers for a few bucks to help them survive the day. I don’t care if it was through bad luck or bad character. However they came there, they’re in need of help and I try to give them the help that I can, which, sadly, isn’t much. I figure that when people tell me a hard luck story odds are way in favor of its being because they’ve had some hard luck.
Besides, I’ve needed help and had to ask for it myself and I’m sure I will again. It happens to everybody. And, as Jesus said, what goes around, comes around.
Or something like that.
So, no, when the man in the wheelchair asked for help, I didn’t think of “The Man With the Twisted Lip” because I thought he was faking.
Actually, what I first thought was how is it in the goddamn richest country in the world, a country that boasts it’s a Christian nation, a person with a disability has to beg for help making ends meet from his fellow Americans on the streets?
How is that anyone has to?
But the reason I thought of “The Man With The Twisted Lip” wasn’t just that this beggar had a twisted lip either or, I should, say my thinking of the story didn’t stop with being reminded by that.
I got to thinking further about what happens to Neville St Clair after his con is busted.
It’s not just that the police can’t think of a specific crime to charge him with, although Inspector Bradstreet jokes that he’s guilty of his own murder. They could arrest him for begging or vagrancy. There are laws against both, punishable by fines and a few days in jail. But charging him with him would require bringing him before a magistrate and that in itself would be a severe punishment for St Clair because his secret would become known to his wife and children. But the police in the person of Bradstreet agree, at Holmes’ suggestion, that as long as St Clair promises to give up being Boone, they’ll keep his secret from the public and, more important to St Clair, from his family. So he faces no public consequences for his fraud and he’s not privately shamed for his lies and his sins.
But something else doesn’t happen to him.
He doesn’t get judged.
Particularly not by the character whose judgment we readers would most respect.
Holmes has nothing to say about the wrong St Clair has done. He doesn’t acknowledge having taken part in any legal or moral reckoning. In the end he seems satisfied only in having solved another puzzle.
This is consistent with Holmes’ behavior throughout the stories and novels. He almost never judges. Often he out and out rejects the idea that it’s up to him to judge.
Watson doesn’t judge very often either.
Neither man’s feelings run that way.
When Watson’s emotions are engaged, it’s usually in sympathy with the victims. Holmes’ attitude towards their cases is almost purely intellectual---although he’s far from as cold-blooded as he’s sometimes portrayed---and he tends to view the mysteries he’s asked to solve as problems rather than crimes. When he does pronounce on the evil of the villains he’s out to thwart, it often sounds more like a clinical diagnosis than a moral judgment. When he considers the fiendishness of a criminal plot, he often sounds more impressed by the intelligence that went into the plotting rather than the wickedness. At least once he implies that he believes the only reason he himself isn’t a criminal is the pure luck of the draw.
(The only exception Holmes makes that I can come up with is the master blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton. Holmes manages some grudging admiration for even Moriarty. But he despises Milverton and is utterly contemptuous of him.)
Of course it’s not Watson and Holmes who aren’t judgmental. It’s Sir Arthur Conan Doyle refusing to use them to be judgmental himself.
I can’t think of a story in which Doyle openly moralizes. Now, he thought of the Holmes stories as hack work and longed to be done with it, and it may simply have been that in his rush to complete a story and get it into print so he could get to back to work on the writing he thought of as his serious art, he couldn’t be bothered. But plenty of hack writers of detective stories and television shows can’t resist judging and moralizing, as if they don’t trust their readers and audiences to understand that criminals aren’t nice people. In fact, they often seem desperate to make sure we know that the bad guys are bad guys and even more desperate that we know that the good guys and gals aren’t just good but heroically so. I think some of this is due to their being hacks and they don’t have the talent to dramatize their moralizing and judging or the subtlety of thought and lightness of touch. But a lot of it is purely manipulative---also a sign of a hack at work. The object is to make us want to see the villain punished and punished violently, basically for the sadistic thrill of it. We’re meant to feel righteous in our bloodthirstiness.
Doyle doesn’t go in for that.
He’s content to make us glad to see that the crime is prevented and the villain thwarted, which is what Holmes does as often as he solves a crime that’s already been committed. Rather than stories ending in violence, they end with the intended victims saved from violence and the villains in custody. Most of the exceptions are stories in which Doyle uses Holmes and Watson’s parts in them to frame the romantic adventure yarns of the type he would rather have been writing. But, generally, Doyle’s interest in the cases he invents for Holmes is, like Holmes’ interest in the cases within the stories, as intellectual problems. It’s a given that the criminal will be caught and punished and the fun is in following along as Holmes picks up the clues and puts them together not in looking forward to the villains getting a bloody comeuppance.
And it happens that many of the criminals in the stories are criminals in the technical sense only: they commit a crime but opportunistically. They are driven to it or they give into a temptation. And they are evil only in that they are doing others an evil. This is a way of saying they are sinners rather than devils, demons, or monsters. And sinners can be forgiven.
In that one, Holmes tracks down and personally apprehends a jewel thief. The path he takes and the stratagems he uses are amusing and “The Blue Carbuncle” is really a comedy. In the end, the thief is shown to be a weak but normally honest man who gave into temptations, temptations that arise from his own weakness, but still his crime is opportunistic, an act of desperation rather than wickedness. When Holmes confronts him with the evidence, he breaks down and confesses and apologizes. And he begs for mercy.
And Holmes grants it.
He lets him go.
Watson doesn’t say anything, but Holmes seems to think he needs to explain what he’s done, and I have always loved his explanation and loved him for the explanation:
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies....I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to [jail] now, and you make him a [jail]-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.”
Well, it is a Christmas story.
What Holmes says there at the end of “The Blue Carbuncle,” in the place where the moral goes in other types of stories, contains what’s essential to the character of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, who is my Sherlock Holmes---I first got to know Holmes when I was a kid through the stories and to me none of the movie and TV Sherlock Holmeses have been the Sherlock Holmes, although Jeremy Brett comes closest and Benedict Cumberbatch is my sentimental favorite---including his coolly intellectual or, actually, scientific approach to his detective work, his emotional detachment, but also, in his looking forward to Christmas dinner with Watson, his humanity and his heart. He’s not a machine or an ascetic or without warmth. But it also includes an important statement about his professional ethics. He emphatically rejects the idea that he is an agent of the police.
One of the reasons I stopped watching Elementary is that their Holmes and Watson are agents of the police and aren’t just content with it. They’re enthusiastic about it. In fact, for all intents and purposes, they are the police. They’re cops. And pretty typical TV cops, at that. They’re as moralizing, judgmental, and self-righteous as any other TV cops.
But the real Sherlock Holmes would be insulted to be thought of as a kind of cop.
It’s not simply that he thinks of all policemen as incompetent blockheads and bumblers. He respects some of the detectives from Scotland Yard he works with, even Lestrade.
He doesn’t want to be bound by their codes and obligations. He doesn’t want his thinking about the nature of crime and notions of right and wrong limited by what’s merely legal. He’s not a cop. He’s not a judge or one-man jury either. He’s free to make up his mind according to his own lights. And because of that, he’s free to do something the Law and its official representatives can’t.
“The Man With the Twisted Lip” and “The Blue Carbuncle” are my favorites and I think the most exemplary---I also think it’s important they were published back to back in the first collection of stories, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes---but Holmes does this in several other stories, “The Abbey Grange” and “The Second Stain” being two of the best. He lets the “criminals” get away with it, and he does it without moralizing.
As long as they promise not to stray again and he’s convinced they mean it, he’s willing to look the other way.
What he says to Neville St Clair in “The Man With the Twisted Lip” pretty well sums it up:
“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.”
We’re in the cafe at the Barnes & Noble on Union Square, waiting to go meet Mrs M for lunch, and I’ve just been privy to two cell phone conversations it was none of my business and not my choice to be privy to, and what I want to know is why the conversations you really don’t want to overhear are the ones it’s hardest to avoid overhearing?
I’m a snoop and a spy but snoop and spy that I am I don’t like being forced by proximity or the raised or penetrating voices of the parties involved to listen to conversations that ought to be private because of the potential for embarrassment all around if the people talking realized they were being overheard. Arguments, someone pouring out their troubles, discussions about money particularly when there are problems with their personal finances, these are the types of conversations that most make me squirm. And they’re the hardest to tune out. I think it’s because the people involved are so involved they don’t think to modulate their voices. It’s not just that they don’t think to turn down the volume. They don’t think to tone down the emotions. I try not to listen but it’s often impossible. It’s as if they want an audience. It’s hard enough to ignore them when the parties are talking face to face. It’s worse when it’s one person talking on their cell phone. People in the habit of talking on their phones in public are also in the habit of shouting into their phones.
The two shouters this morning were both men. The first was young, no more than 30, with a pronounced Russian accent, and although he was loud and loquacious I really didn’t hear a word of what he was saying. Probably because he was good-natured and in a cheerful mood and he wasn’t having one of those conversations I wish I could ignore but can’t. Mainly he seemed to be reporting to a friend on his doings so far this morning and his plans for the rest of the day. And that’s what I heard, the friendliness in his voice. The words didn’t matter. It was like listening to some songs. The lyrics don’t matter. The music does. The song he was singing was that of a happy young man having fun that he wanted to share. That’s a song I could listen to all day.
But he finished his conversation and his coffee and left and along came the he second guy and his song was all sharp words and discordant tones. He was having an argument and it was over money.
It sounded like he was talking to a customer service rep at an online travel agency. He’d been charged for a plane ticket he hadn’t bought, hadn’t used, and could not have used because he was on another plane headed somewhere else that day. He was angry about that, of course, but he was angrier about something else and, from what I heard, with good reason. This was the third time he’d called to get the problem taken care of. But I just couldn’t root for him.
Besides that he was making me and everybody else in the cafe listen to an argument and that he thought making his case required him to detail his personal financial situation---which he seemed overly proud of to the point he really was boasting about how smart he was about money---he was bullying the customer service rep. He probably thought he was simply explaining the situation in terms she could understand, but everything he said had the subtext: “Why can’t you follow this? Are you stupid?”
As hard as I tried not to hear him and concentrate instead on the book I was reading, it got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. I wandered off to look for a magazine, hoping he’d be done and gone by the time I got back. And as luck would have it, he was.
But sorry I was to have overheard most of the conversation, he did say one thing that kind of makes me glad I didn’t escape sooner.
Like I said, he appears to have had good reason to be angry. The point he kept returning to is that the records on the service rep’s computer screen showed that on the day he supposedly bought the plane ticket in Germany and boarded the plane there he was in a hotel in the United States, still asleep in the room he’d reserved through this same travel agency.
How he wanted to know, could he have been in two places at the same time.
“I can’t bi-locate,” he said.
I like his neo-logism.
I plan to use it myself sometime.
Not now though. Now I’m going to re-locate. It’s a gorgeous day here in the Big City and the Mannion guys and I are going to go out and enjoy some of it before we uni-locate to the restaurant where we’re meeting up with Mrs M for lunch.
On our way into town passed a building under renovation with the construction crew doing the renovation out front on a morning coffee break. Seven or eight guys of a range of ages, in hard hats and work boots, sitting on the front steps or squatting against the wall. The building they’re renovating is a synagogue. All the guys in the crew are Asian-American.
How big a dinosaur? Really big. Titanic, in fact. As in Titanosaur. Its hind legs are 17 feet long and weigh over 700 pounds, each. It pelvis is 9 feet long, 9 feet wide. It’s so big, according to the New York Times, it almost didn’t make it into its new home at the American Museum of Natural History. As it is, it doesn’t fit in the space allotted to it. Its head sticks out the door. Which makes for a nice effect.
By Jan. 2, the titanosaur was ready to go, but without a head. With no skull, fossil paleontologists had initially estimated that the head was about four and a half feet long, Mr. May said, but subsequent study led to a last-minute revision, and the skull lost more than a quarter of its length.
Then there was another glitch. The truck carrying the metal base down from Canada was stopped at the border over a paperwork issue, pushing construction back by a day.
Last week, museum workers steered the huge components, like the femur, on wooden dollies, out from a garage and through the museum’s corridors. The pieces on parade were met with expressions of bewilderment and amazement in a variety of languages, though the lingua franca was the quick deployment of cellphones for photos and videos.
Then came an urgent call from the garage. The pelvis would not fit through the doors…
If coyotes and deer are surviving and thriving in the city, you’ve got to expect that raccoons are there and making a go of it too. After all, they’re wilier than coyotes and more dexterous and adaptable than deer and they like being around people. Not because they like us. They like our garbage. All that food we throw away makes any place where there are humans an all-night diner for raccoons. All night, please note. Raccoons are mainly nocturnal. See one out and about in the daylight, steer clear and call wildlife control. Odds are it’s rabid. One of the things about raccoons that makes them not as warm and cuddlesome as they appear and are often made out to be in movies, stories, songs, and cartoons---they’re a “rabies-vectors species”. They’re also mean and ornery and have chips on their shoulders. It’s having hands that does that. Makes them feel superior to other animals. The other thing they like about being around people is that people build shelters for them. We call those shelters houses or garden sheds or garages, et cetera. The raccoons call them home. And they long ago figured out that the foodstuff that’s easy pickings in the garbage cans outside is available with not much more effort inside.
Raccoons are often thought of as forest-dwelling creatures, but they can reach a very high density in cities, said Samuel I. Zeveloff, a professor of zoology at Weber State University in Utah and the author of “Raccoons, A Natural History.”
“They’re truly incredible in their adaptability,” Professor Zeveloff said. Raccoons are omnivorous and opportunistic, easily switching from eating grubs or bird eggs to devouring human and pet food, and from living in tree hollows to inhabiting attics and chimneys. This flexibility, combined with a relative lack of predators, can lead to rapid population growth.
But what experts call raccoons’ “synanthropic trend” — their capacity to thrive among humans — can also feel invasive. Female raccoons looking for a den to deliver their kits, as the offspring are called, can squeeze through vents and chimneys, tear through screens and lift up shingles with their dexterous forepaws.
So you really don’t want them in the neighborhood.
Folks in Brooklyn have learned that. Raccoons are moving in. And these aren’t hipster raccoons. They’re not there to hang out at coffee shops and talk about the novels they’re planning to write.
A truck pulled up at a small house with a brick porch and a garden on a recent afternoon, and a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt climbed out. A woman led him to the backyard. When they emerged a few minutes later, he was carrying a wire-mesh cage.
The woman handed the man a check, and he put the cage into his truck. As he drove away, he murmured comforting words in the direction of his cargo. On this day it was a male raccoon, lured into a trap with a handful of cat kibble.
Where, exactly, was the man taking the animal? “I’m not going to reveal that,” he said. “No one is going to reveal that.”
The episode did not happen in the countryside or the suburbs, but in the middle of Brooklyn, in South Park Slope.
The woman, Wendy Hooker, a retired designer of window displays, had first called the trapper in August after seeing a dozen raccoons “wilding” in her yard, as she put it. This one, caught in December, was among the last of the bunch.
“They were trashing my grapevine, beating my cat,” Ms. Hooker said. “It was like a frat party. They were insane.”
For a few years, William and Malya Levin could hear the loud movements of a raccoon above their Park Slope apartment. “It sounded like a large dog,” Mr. Levin said. Then they endured the stench of what they believed was a kit that had fallen into a cavity in a wall and died. Later, the Levins knocked a hole in their kitchen wall to extract another kit. (They called the exterminator Nice Jewish Boys Who Kill Bugs, which removed the raccoon and said it had been taken to a rehabilitator outside the city.)
Raccoons have mauled a chicken being raised in a Crown Heights backyard and frequently fight with feral cats. When threatened, they growl, hiss and screech.
In Sunset Park, when residents of a walk-up discovered a raccoon family living in an unused chimney, the mother fled down a fire escape, screeching, and then two of her kits hurled themselves off the roof. The kits survived, but “it was a traumatic night,” one resident, Michael Fleshman, said.
There’s another problem:
In Carroll Gardens last year, at least two raccoon families moved onto one block. Antonia Martinelli, who chronicled the invasion on her blog The Momtropolis, noted the animals’ unnerving habit of staring in people’s windows from fire escapes. But it was “the sheer amount of waste, mounds and mounds of it,” that Ms. Martinelli said drove her neighbors to contact Assemblywoman Jo Anne Simon. Raccoon feces can carry roundworm.
And once they’ve moved in, they’re hard to get rid of. Trap them---and it’s not recommended you do that yourself. Law sense you can’t, in fact. You’re supposed to hire a licensed trapper---and what do you with them? Laws says they’re to be euthanized “in a humane fashion”, a good idea if they’re showing signs of being rabid---outside in the daytime, staggering about, settling in one spot and not budging when challenged---or acting out dangerously’
But many trappers, as well as homeowners who do the job themselves, say they transport raccoons to parks or wilderness areas and set them free instead, because they don’t have the heart to do what is legally required.
Taking them to a park or out into the woods makes sense. They’re woodland creatures, after all, right?
The problem, experts say, is that from there, the animals tend to wander into the nearest neighborhood. People see wooded areas as the animals’ natural habitat, where they belong. But these are city raccoons that tend to make a U-turn for civilization when dropped off in nature, said Stanley D. Gehrt, a wildlife ecologist at Ohio State University who has studied urban raccoons for two decades. “When you take them and drop them off in a natural environment, they’re going to look for buildings,” he said. “It’s what they’re used to.”
And so, it appears, the spread of raccoons is being aided by the very people employed to combat it.
The Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge lies on the city’s southeast edge. Along with Floyd Bennett Field and the Marine Park Golf Course across the bay, it serves as perhaps the biggest raccoon dumping ground in the city.
“We don’t kill them,” said an exterminator from Queens who said he could not provide his name without his employer’s authorization. “We take it to the refuge.”
There is evidence of the consequences in Broad Channel, a Queens neighborhood of wooden homes on stilts, near the refuge. “The neighborhood has been invaded like crazy,” said Peter Perugini, a trapper with Above All Pest Management in Nassau County.
Mr. Perugini said he had removed raccoons from four Broad Channel homes last year and euthanized them. He described “lots of property damage.” One family, he said, had been forced to rip off their roof and pull out the insulation because it was caked in feces.
Even when they stay put, they cause trouble.
In the refuge, shore-nesting birds and diamondback terrapin turtles have suffered as a result of the raccoons’ arrival, said Russell L. Burke, a Hofstra University biology professor and terrapin expert.
Just three decades ago, there were no raccoons in the area, he said. He added that now, “the terrapin population is crashing.” Raccoons ate 95 percent of the terrapin eggs at the refuge in 2015, he said.
So, what’s to be done? This article by Annie Correal I’ve been mining at the New York Times, Raccoons Invade Brooklyn, has some examples. It’s a good long read as in good and long but more as in good with lots of anecdotes and information and sketches of city life. One on the many fun things I learned: there’s an exterminator business in the City called Nice Jewish Boys Who Kill Bugs.
The warehouse is something of a salon, a continual comic book colloquium that Mr. Koch calls “The Endless Convention.” He is constantly trading stories and arcana with both his customers and his staff members, who include a former Marvel Comics editor, a former employee at Village Comics in Greenwich Village, a former college professor and various other enthusiasts, who volunteer their time in exchange for comic books.
Sounds like a place I need to visit, if I can find it:
In classic Koch style, a Christmas tree was suspended from the ceiling, with a bloody, severed ghoul’s head hanging (by the eyelids, of course) from the side.
This passes as mistletoe for customers entering Mr. Koch’s world: a cavernous second-floor space that he has run for the past 30 years, in an industrial section of Sunset Park, Brooklyn.
It houses one of the largest collections of comic books in the country. Also on offer are memorabilia, action figures, books, records, posters and the like.
It is a back issue browsing paradise, with comics filling long white cardboard boxes, placed on shelves extending high overhead.
Mr. Koch, 66, refers to the place as his “Warehouse of Wonders,” with a vast inventory that he calls “The Avalanche.” It consists of “the largest assemblage of sci-fi, comics and fantasy genre-related ephemera on the planet,” according to Mr. Koch, whose trove nevertheless remains relatively obscure outside the world of hard-core comics lovers.
For one thing, Mr. Koch has run it as a mail-order service, limiting much of the browsing to customers with appointments.
For another, it can be bewildering simply to find the warehouse, which lies between the Gowanus Expressway and the waterfront. The surrounding streets bustle with forklifts, flatbeds and tractor-trailers.
The address is 206 41st Street, at Second Avenue, but there is no sign outside, and the entrance is an unmarked door around the corner from a live poultry shop…
In his office, a customer was now calling from the street, unable to find the entrance. “I know it’s a little confusing,” Mr. Koch said.
Waiting in line at the cab stand in front of Port Authority I took this picture to send a friend as a kind of Wish You Were Here post card. I wasn’t focusing on anything particular. I was just trying to quickly capture a sense of the street scene I was part of at that moment. It wasn’t until I’d put the camera away, burying it at the bottom of my briefcase, that the vertical blue-backgrounded sign on the side of the red brick building over there on the far corner of 8th Avenue and W. 40th really caught my attention and I took in what was on it.
A picture of one of the planes striking the World Trade Center on 9/11.
Then I read it.
Up top is this quote:
“We’ve not found any evidence so far to suggest that the building collapses were caused by anything other than the two airplanes.”
The quote’s identified as being from “David Sanger, New York Times Chief Correspondent,” although it sounds more like it’s from a government or law enforcement official Sanger was himself quoting in a story.
Below the quote, though, it large, screaming yellow letters, it says:
Clearly, you haven’t been looking.
And below that there’s a bullet-pointed list.
Near free fall descent
Total pulverization of concrete
Explosive hurtling of steel
Traces of incendiaries
Reports of explosions
“Total pulverization of concrete”? “Explosive hurtling of steel”? “Molten Metal”?
Can’t imagine what might have caused all that.
“Reports of explosions”? I would think there were.
This looks like a relatively new sign to me. Fourteen years later and someone’s still willing to pay to put this up, and down in the bottom right hand corner it tells who that is.
Architects & Engineers for 9/11 Truth
They have a website, but I don’t have the heart to go look.
Bryan Stephens, leader of the Cafe Wha? House Band with vocalist Mike Davis (left) and guitarist Amadou Gaye (right). Photo courtesy of Cafe Wha?
The Cafe Wha? House Band bills itself as “The Best Damn Band in New York City.” I wouldn't know. I’m just a tourist. From what I heard last night, for a band to be better, they’d have to be the second coming of the Asbury Jukes. They'd have to be the Asbury Jukes. The music ranged across eras and styles, mixing rock, funk, blues, soul, salsa, and pop standards with recent hits, band members taking turns fronting mostly covers but covers that to me often sounded better than the originals. It'd be blasphemy to suggest band leader Bryan Stephens' rendition of “Solsbury Hill” was at least as good as Peter Gabriel's original so let's pretend I'm not suggesting it. But after hearing his “Take Me to Church” I'm thinking who needs Hozier and his and Kim Summerson's duet on “Need You Now” killed me deader than any other version has killed me and I'm routinely killed by Adele's own duet with Darius Rucker.
Like all good bar bands, they want the crowd up and dancing. A good third a third of the crowd was happy to oblige. More might have joined in but there wasn't room. There's no dance floor. You want to dance you do it in the one aisle between the booths against the wall and the tables in front of the stage. That means you do it in a long double file line with other customers coming and going and the waiters and waitresses trying to get by with trays of drinks and food. Last night's crowd was mostly twenty and thirty-somethings with more than a few people in their forties and just enough geezers scattered here and there---including a boothful celebrating the birthday of the most geezerish member of their party---that the forty-somethings could relievedly observe to each other they weren't the oldest people in the joint. But it looked like only twenty-somethings got up to dance and all of them were women. They included a contingent of six tall blondes and one short brunette we'd had to wait to be seated before we could make our way to our own booth, a fact I mention to emphasize the narrowness of the aisle as much as for the lovely imagery. The blondes and the brunette danced right in front of us, singing along with songs that were hits when their parents were in grade school. Two of the blondes were wearing 70s vintage outfits they must have scavenged from the closets of their mother's old bedrooms at their grandparents' houses. One wore a flowered peasant mini dress over mustard orange tights, the other a white peasant blouse and a filmy pair of paisley bells.
Like I said, the waiters and waitresses had to work their way through the dancers, dodging and weaving, moving as quickly as they could while being careful with their trays. Most of them went about with a mixture of amusement, resignation, and detachment, treating getting around the dancers without spilling drinks or colliding with the paying customers or each other as just part of doing their jobs. A few seemed to think it was a fun and interesting challenge and a couple moved in time to the music with their heads bobbing as if they saw themselves as part of the dance. But one appeared to be taking it personally.
The dancers were to her what traffic is to a cabbie trying to get a pregnant passenger to the hospital before she gives birth in the back seat.
While the rest of the staff went about either expressionless, as if trying to pretend the dancers weren’t there, or with weak, apologetic smiles, silently signaling how sorry they were to have to do their jobs and get in the way of the dancers’ fun, she wore a no-nonsense frown that had such seriousness of purpose and concentrated force behind that if any of the dancers had taken their eyes off the band and met her gaze it would have thrown them out of the aisles in all directions to land in heaps on the tabletops and in seated customers’ laps. She was short and shapely, not heavy but solid, very pretty despite her frown, even because of it, with lots of soft, springy black curls that had probably been neatly in place when she started her shift but were now coming loose from their clips at all points. The wait staff wears the requisite New York City black, the men in t-shirts but the women in camisole tops so there’s plenty of smooth skin and hints of cleavage on display, but on this waitress the effect was more athletic than sexy, due, I think, to the way she carried herself as she charged back and forth through the crowd. The other waiters and waitresses clearly saw it as their duty to avoid bumping into the dancers. She clearly thought it was the dancers’ job to get out of her way if they knew what was good for them and on several of her fastbreak trips by us she looked like she was ready to start throwing elbows. That was when I could actually see her as she went past. Because of how short she was she was often lost from view in the crowd and the only way I knew where she was was to follow her tray when it floated by over the heads of the dancers as she carried it straight-armed and perfectly level high above her.
One other thing to note about her.
The staff and the band at Cafe Wha? are a fairly diverse bunch, the crowd somewhat less so, but besides being all women and all very young, the dancers were all white. She was black. Which doesn’t signify in Greenwich Village the way it might in other parts of Manhattan and the boroughs. What it did was call attention to the class differences generally inherent in all interactions between people with money to spend and the people paid to serve them while they’re spending it. That is between people who are there to play and people who are there because they have to work for their living. And within this dynamic as it played out on Cafe Wha?’s dance floor, this waitress did not see it as her role to be servile. It was her job to do her job and do it right and the dancers were getting in the way of her doing it. And as far as she was concerned, since they were old enough to know better, they were doing it either because they were careless and thoughtless or because they were frivolous and oblivious. Either way, they were butterflies and she was a honeybee who wasn’t about to put up with their flightiness if it meant she couldn’t get to the flowers to do her job.
I could almost hear her saying what I’m sure she wanted to say as she bore down on yet another oblivious butterfly, “Out of my way, girl. I’ve got tips to earn.”
Stop and go on the Henry Hudson on my way into the city tonight. More stop than go so I had plenty of opportunity and time to study the scenery which, traveling south on the parkway is all off to the right, looking across the Hudson River to New Jersey. Beautiful evening. The walkway busy with walkers, joggers, bikers, sitters on benches and the grass-ers, and stander-arounders. Among the stander-arounders was a man at the water’s edge, cradling his dog in his arms and holding him up to look out over a railing at some ducks riding pieces of driftwood close in to shore. I swear he was talking to the dog, explaining what they were looking at. “See the ducks, Spot? Spot, see the ducks!”
Before the reading. Chairs soon to be occupied by Farran Smith Nehme, Matt Zoller Sietz, Anne Helen Peterson, and James Wolcott who will gather to discuss Farran’s new novel, Missing Reels. Rare Book Room. Third Floor. Strand Bookstore. New York City. Seven p.m. tonight. Wednesday. January 7, 2015.