Folks – For the two of you who still check this site, my apologies for not writing in awhile. I’ll be working on a new website which tells other people’s stories. This will be coupled with some photos as well. While it’ll be a more grandiose endeavor, it’ll be fun and informative. As soon as it’s up, the link will be supplied in the last Singapore Dreams post…
Here’s to where it all started, 2½ years ago…
26-10-2009 – Brooklyn, NY
It’s that time of year again, folks.
The drive to promote men’s health issues by growing funny face whiskers has begun. Once again, there is a pretty website to manage your donations and ensure that you get a nice tax break come April. If you need the tax form, please let me know and I’ll send it your way.
For all those who donate to the cause, I will be holding soiree at a local bar come November month-end. Hopefully you can all spare a few sheckles for our team.
There are two methods of donation:
1. Click THIS LINK and donate online using your credit card or PayPal account, or
2. Write a check payable to ‘The Movember Foundation’, referencing my Registration Number 118887 and mailing it to:
The Movember Foundation
P.O. BOX 2726
Venice, CA, 90294-2726
All donations are tax-deductible!
The Prostate Cancer Foundation will use the money raised by Movember to fund research to find better treatments and a cure for prostate cancer.
The Lance Armstrong Foundation will use the money raised by Movember to fund:
• The LIVESTRONG Young Adult Alliance program which has the goal of improving survival rates and quality of life for young adults with cancer between the ages of 15 and 40.
• Research initiatives to further understand the biology of adolescent and young adult cancers.
For more details on how the funds raised from previous campaigns have been used and the impact Movember is having please go to http://us.movemberfoundation.com/research-and-programs.
Thanks in advance,
Wilhelm
08-09-1987 Brooklyn, NY
The streets in the early morning are still. Cobblestones breathe slowly after a long, hot summer. Their sighs form a layer of dust that hover just above the hubcaps. It smells like history – a mix of dust, crumbling concrete, and slowly corroding metal. Off in the distance, sirens come and go. A shortwave radio rests on the third floor window sill, serenading the alleyways with macabre tales from the night before.
New York was on a positive path in the early 60’s, but by the end of the decade the city began a slow decline that lasted for over 30 years. For the most part, drug epidemics were to blame. Heroin struck in the 70’s, cocaine and crack took the 80’s and early 90’s. The Bronx burned. People in Bed-Stuy looted their own stores when the lights went out. Runners in Central Park were raped. In Crown Heights, long heated feuds between Hasidic Jews and Blacks erupted. It wasn’t uncommon to hear about muggings, rapes, shootings and stabbings during that era. Violence was part of life, almost an expected thing. There were always wild tales floating through the papers and people’s conversations.
There was an overall feeling of danger and grittiness present in the city back then. So many memories linger, but like pictures, become yellow and fade with time. This post is an attempt to preserve a few of them:
Field Day
Coming into school that morning, there was a feeling of excitement knowing that this day was different from all others. It was an all-day gym session whose only intermission was a brief stint in the odd-smelling cafeteria. Before we began the relays, one of the fourth grade classes began to taunt us, implying we weren’t nearly as athletic as they were. Instead of proving my worth on the field of battle, I stood up and shouted something at the group. While the teachers didn’t notice, one of the larger members of the class did. I can see his face now – fat jowls with a large afro flaring out behind his ears. He approached me fast, and before I knew it hand were thrusted into my back and I went barreling to the floor. The skin on my knees peeled back and the tears immediately began to well up. Despite the pain racking my legs, I staggered to my feet and faced my foe who, to my surprise, was standing there completely unguarded. Almost without thinking, I threw out my right leg with every inch of power into his groin. He dropped right away and the kids started screaming with jeers and laughter. While sitting in the principal’s office, the smell of pencil lead and stale wood hung heavy in the air. I felt small streams of blood trickling down from the saturated band aids, rolling gently down my shins and spreading horizontally across my white socks. My mother would be upset, but it didn’t seem to matter. The first battle of field day had been decided. 3rd grade – 1; 4th grade – 0.
Peibald
George Carlin said in one of his routines that “Life is a series of dogs.” Such was true during my childhood, but hamsters were the constant instead. After the “DJ” era had ended, another hamster was ushered in to take his place, Peibald. I remember him being a spritely little fellow with golden hair and black beady eyes. He adhered to a hamster’s usual nocturnal routine of spinning endlessly on the metal wheel during the evening hours. As soon as the lights went out, you would hear the tat-tat-tat of little feet on the metal bars as he ran in vain through the black night. Peibald had so much energy, that he would sometimes spin during the day as well. To give him some space outside of the cage, my mother bought him a plastic ball that we could enclose him in. He ended up loving this thing, it enabled him to see different parts of the apartment and give him the assurance that his physical efforts were getting him somewhere in this world. What we didn’t know was that our dog at the time, Barney, had been staking this ball out the whole time. He would watch the rodent roll around the house with impunity, waiting for the day where he could strike at the little beast. Just three weeks after we got Peibald, Barney enacted his plan. There wasn’t even a squeak, just the sound of the plastic ball’s lid rolling around the floor as Barney vigorously shook the poor creature. It was over in seconds.
I lined an empty lightbulb box with tissue and dropped Peibald in. His golden fur was matted, his once nimble body was stiff after the rigour mortis set in, his eyes looked like two black pinheads. I went across the street to the park and toiled over digging a grave in the frozen earth. After the makeshift coffin was placed in the shallow hole, I swept some dust onto it and covered what I could. The Peibald era was short-lived, but his tragic end ensured that he wouldn’t be forgotten. When I got back to the apartment, Barney licked the tears off my face, as if he was somewhat sorry for what he’d done.
The Bowels of 151
My family’s restaurant, Woerner’s, moved from Livingston St. to 151 Remsen St. in 1971. It was an old building that reeked of history whenever you walked through the doors. As a child, I would work there for a few weeks, helping clean tables, make deliveries and help with odds and ends around the restaurant. In the early morning, I was usually sent downstairs to make fresh orange juice. There was only one other person who spent time working down in the basement, Big Tom. He was one hulking beast of a man who stood at 6’5 and was easily 300 lbs. Tom had big thick glasses and (maybe) ten teeth. His voice sounded like a tuba – Deep, gruffy and somewhat melodic. All day long, he sat in the basement and peeled potatoes, stocked the freezers and shelves, and washed the dishes. Big Tom loved his jazz music and Lucky Strike cigarettes, too. All day long he would work methodically, washing dish after dish as smoky-soft saxophone notes drifted around the basement.
Instead of taking the steps, I would often take the old dumb-waiter down into the depths. Big Tom would inevitably be waiting for a load of dishes and would always let out a bellowing yell when he saw a small six year-old crawling out instead. “I tol’ ya to take dem damn steahs, boy! You gon’ give big old Tom a heart attacks doin’ dat!”. The joke never got old. To return the favor, Tom would ask me to get something out of the freezer every so often. When I went in, the door would shut and the lights would go out. He would always leave me in there for a good ten minutes, letting me bang and scream, before letting me out. I can still hear his deep-bellied laugh echoing around the dark recesses.
Making the orange juice was always a painful chore. This old electric juicer would catch the rind as soon as the orange was cashed. All of a sudden, there would be no orange and nothing between the spinning metal blade and your fingers. Before you felt the dull pain, there was the tinkling sound of bone against blade, it was NOT fun. Even so, bringing a full pitcher of fresh orange juice back upstairs to my father was always a rewarding experience…
I often think of going back into the restaurant, but freeze before going through the doors. I wonder if the basement still looks the same, if it still smells like dish soap, wet rags, pipe tobacco and ginger snaps? I suppose it will just have to remain a mystery, lingering with the ghosts of the past, mingling with the old New York that lives on only in memory.
11-08-2009 Brooklyn, NY
As most of you know, I love subways. Even the odd smells that frequently emanate during summertime, squealing brakes, malfunctioning doors, scratchy intercoms, noisy panhandlers, rush-hour cars packed like sardine cans, sticky floors, wet seats and arrogant Jesus freaks that suddenly start preaching at the top of their lungs. Despite all of this, riding the subway from A to B is usually one of the very few moments of solace I get during hectic work weeks. It’s the one time to quietly listen to music, read a book or simply ponder the past, present and future.
During the early 70’s, Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) was having somewhat of a renaissance. After years of neglect, the city decided to revamp the system by renovating stations, introducing new trains, and adding employees to assist riders during their trips. Less than ten years later, these changes became an after thought. The city had lost too much money during the economic downturn and couldn’t fund the MTA. Most projects fell by the wayside and the subways began a slow downturn that has continued into today’s era.
Today, we have a system that is a shell of its former self. Not only has the MTA raised prices, but the service is an absolute mess. If customers want to travel after dark on weeknights or during the weekends, they should expect to take numerous trains where they usually need just one. Express trains run local and most lines have been bastardized to run on others. Basically, all transit maps are null and void because they serve no purpose. I’ve gotten calls from friends who have lived here for years and ended up in odd places because the maps weren’t sound. In a nutshell, nothing can be trusted in the New York City subway system.
To top it off, pension plans for MTA employees have sunk the organization so far in debt, it’s nearly impossible to get out of the red. I hate seeing 70 year-old people standing on a crowded, delayed train, paying more so that 55 year-old MTA employees can live like kings on the city’s arm. The budgets are also terribly faulty, with strange surpluses coming here and there while statements come back bloody during budgeting season. Corruption is rampant. One example I wrote about earlier this year concerned the Atlantic Yards project. For land that was appraised at $214 million, the MTA took the absolute lowest bid of $100 million. When that wasn’t paid, they didn’t break contract and try to negotiate with other parties, they lowered the original amount to $20 million upfront (with the remaining 80 million to be paid over the course of 22 years)!! Who ends up paying for that difference? The commuters who rely on the subways every day. As long as buffoons like Howard H. Roberts continue to head the Authority, the downward spiral will not cease.
Il Boca Al Lupo is an Italian phrase that means “Good Luck”, but literally translates as “into the wolf’s mouth”. The appropriate response to this is Crepi Lupo, or “May the wolf die”. In all my years of riding the subways, I’ve never seen this much chaos and disruption in service. Every time you ride the subways after dark or on a weekend, you’re literally going into the wolf’s mouth and need as much luck as possible to reach your destination without a service change sabotaging your trip. These recent pitfalls have literally turned the NYCTS into a dangerous place… a reeking, craggy, unreliable cesspool of kickbacks and faulty budgets. Considering this, I only have one thing to say about them… Crepi Lupo!
17-07-2009 Brooklyn, NY
It has not unfrequently been seen that two powerful men would wrestle together and one bring the other down with a heavy fall. The two would quickly rise again, but instead of renewing the struggle, one would turn away in silence from the ring. To the eye it might seem at the moment that no hurt was done, but that a like contest might any day be renewed between them.
All a mistake, it has often proved. Follow the retiring contestant and learn perhaps his singular and unexplained withdrawal from the struggle was his involuntary obedience to the summons of death – that the shock of the fall had ruptured a vital blood-vessel, or stunned the brain with a death-blow; and he was moving off literally a dead man, in sole and silent procession to his fore-doomed funeral.
We believe it is such a case we witness on the Upper Potomac to-day. It was a battle of the giants we had there on Wednesday last. The victorious heroes of Fair Oaks and Malvern Hill, where the Union cause was baptized in fire and blood, met the battle-tired hosts that carried Gaines Hill by storm, and twice sowed with out dead the plains of Manassas. Each army had its best loved leaders, each had its ranks full, each felt that the world watched the struggle, and that all mankind had an interest in the result. Never in all history was a more honorable battle fought. No stragglers limped or crept to the rear. No column gave way save when blown back by the whirlwind of flame from the cannon’s mouth. No regiment, however stript by leaden hail of its officers, was left without a man still worthy to lead it, and no officer was left alone in the field to deplore that he had led cowards to the fight. From sunrise to sunsetting, with encroachment at each end of the day on darkness, the earth shook under the mighty battle, and at night the panting combatants rested on the field. The day after, the Union heroes were the declared victors; and in the shades of evening, the vanquished rebels retired from the ground whereon they had provoked the contest, and which they had advertised their own people and the world they meant permanently to hold!
The retreat of the revel army is not its defeat only: it is its demoralization and its death-blow. It marches away as the doomed wrestler does – not to study a renewal of his grapple, but because his heart is sick of the arena from which death summons him; he would “turn his face to the wall” and die! How can the flower of Southern chivalry – the aggregation of Southern strength – the personification of its enthusiasm and daring – meet its appalled Government and people, in its retreat from its supposed victorious invasion? What “spring” is there in all the Southern resources for war to “take up the recoil” of this terrible disaster? An advancing army may gather food and forage from an extended agricultural district, for it commands its own time and rate of progress. A beaten and retreating army can do no such thing; for its movements are compulsory. The goading of artillery in pursuit gives no rest; it has no regard to hunger of horses or men; its order is that of a cruel master, “Onward – onward – to the death!”
We have citizens who bewailed the war for freedom as almost lost, a short time ago, so much did they distrust the skill and power of our armed resistance to rebellion. Some of them revived but little when the news of Wednesday stirred the hearts of patriots with confidence and joy. When Thursday night found the enemy defeated and flying, the doubters became suddenly fierce to desperation. They demanded, in the name of an outraged country, why the fruits of the grandest victory of modern wars had not been reaped in the capture of 150,000 prisoners, with arms in their hands!
We shall now argue this matter. We have the confidence to declare the battle of Antietam one of the greatest ever fought – its victory substantial and its fruits imperishable. Its effects will be seen and felt in the destinies of the Nation for centuries to come.
~Anonymous Editorial; NY Times; September 21, 1862
I often think about what life would be like as a soldier during the civil war. Marching twenty miles or more each day, subsiding on meager rations of stale biscuits and gruel, constantly waiting for the next battle. I imagine what the battlefields must have looked like, with such devastation contrasted against the beautiful backdrop of an American landscape.
Most men who fought weren’t trained soldiers, but they fought with amazing voracity. During battles, traditional English methods of fighting were often used even though artillery had evolved over time. The rifles used during the war between the states had become more accurate, so when two lines of soldiers faced off each volley produced disastrous results.
Men made these suicidal sacrifices using their profound belief in a heavenly paradise that awaited them in the afterlife. There was a notion of a Good Death, or ars Moriendi, that was instilled amongst both Union and Confederate armies. As death was so prevalent, faith and repentance became a strong part of civil war culture, both on the battlefield and within the families of soldiers that had passed on.
The concept of ars Moriendi was never more prevalent than when Robert E. Lee’s Confederate Army of 51,800 men entered the 13th day of its Maryland campaign. It was the rebels’ first advance into Northern territory, and when it was over the Confederate army would never fully regain its power. Upon hearing of the Northern invasion, president Lincoln sent General George B. McLellan and his Union army of 87,100 to repulse Lee’s advances. The two armies clashed near Antietam creek in the small town of Sharpsburg, Maryland on September 17th.
For over twelve hours, the battle roared. It was so fierce at one point that a Union general complained he could not hear shouted orders. Another said his soldiers gave and received ”the most deadly fire it has ever been my lot to witness.” A Confederate general said that ”this fearful storm raged a few feet above their heads, tearing the trees asunder, lopping off huge branches, and filling the air with shrieks and explosions.”
The fighting (which was actually three battles rolled into one day) went on from before dusk until after dawn. When it was over, 22,807 casualties would be recorded on both sides – almost four times the amount on D-Day. That Wednesday remains the bloodiest day in American history. A correspondent who visited the field after battle described the scene:
Mangled humanity in all its ghastly forms could be seen on this field; to the left, to the right, behind and before, on every hand the eye beheld the horrors of the field. Mingled with the dead came up to the ear groans of those whose breasts there yet remained a spark of vitality, but whose lamp had nearly expired; the hopeful cases, so far as possible, were removed for medical assistance before midnight of Wednesday; the hopeless cases were allowed to remain upon the field. Some in a perfectly conscious, other in a half conscious state, while more were insensible to all worldly affairs. One of the latter class – a rebel soldier – while we were walking over the field at night, vainly attempted to rise; he had received a wound upon the temple from which the brain protruded; he clutched at the air and a helping hand was extended to him and words of sympathy were spoken, but no sign of recognition followed, and in a moment more the helpless victim fell over upon his face and was numbered with the dead. God grant that we may never witness another such a scene.
As terrible as it was, the carnage inflicted that day was not done in vain. To capitalize on the victory, Lincoln decided to issue the emancipation proclamation as a strategic move. The French and British were considering an offer of support for the rebels as their textile businesses were suffering due to the lack of exported cotton. As outspoken abolitionists, the two countries couldn’t ally themselves with the rebel cause after the proclamation was issued (the issuance essentially differentiated the North as abolitionists as well). This was essentially the “death blow” that crippled the confederacy.
In light of all this, September 17th, 1862 is one of the most important and underrated days in American history. Hopefully we can raise a glass to all of the Union soldiers who gave their lives that day on the battle’s 147th anniversary this year.
02-07-2009 Brooklyn, NY
Let’s be honest, it’s fun to daydream at work. Instead of worrying about bills, what detours the F train will take on the way home, or the endless deluge of rain the city has been hit with, it is more productive focusing on positive things. One of my favorite daydreaming topics is where my next trip will be (if money were no object). Below are places that are currently in my top 5:
5. Bhutan – Land of the thunder dragon
Of all the places, this might be the most remote. Located at the doorstep of the Himalayan Mountain range, this landlocked kingdom has maintained a strong sense of culture and history due to little foreign intervention and lack of travel within its borders. In 2006, Businessweek named it “the happiest country in Asia”. The main drawback is that tourists are not permitted to travel within Bhutanese borders alone. Tour guides are mandatory and cost around $200/day. The best option for traveling would be to take a flight into Paro (via Druk air) and take a land route out to visit Darjeeling and Sikkim en route to India. So exotic.
4. The Galápagos Islands
As many of you know, I’m a big fan of animals, especially animals that do stupid things for no reason. With a wonderful combination of seals, penguins, turtles, and blue-footed boobies, this place has more potential for senseless animal comedy than any. To top it off, the SCUBA diving there is supposed to be magnificent. You can stay in tree-top suites, looking out over the vast volcanic expanse of green and black while iguanas lazily take in the equatorial sunshine.
3. Samoa
This place always seemed like the ultimate tropical paradise. Like the Galápagos, the landscape is lush, volcanic and ridiculously dramatic. The port of Apia is also completely unprotected which has set the stage for numerous shipwrecks over the years. This means tons of fun wreck and reef diving can be had during a visit.
2. Nicaragua
This Central American country is roughly the size of New York state, but contains some amazing ecological diversity within its borders. Contained within lake Nicaragua is the Nicaraguan shark. I know what you’re saying – Wait a minute! Sharks can’t enter fresh water because their blood is normally at least as salty (in terms of osmotic strength) as seawater, through the accumulation of urea and trimethylamine oxide! In rare instances though, some species can reduce the concentration of these solutes by up to 50%. Initially, biologists thought that Nicaraguan sharks (which are identical to man-eating bull sharks) had become trapped in the lake and couldn’t escape, but, as usual, they were mistaken. After tagging the evil critters, they found that the sharks were able to jump along the rapids of the San Juan river (which connects Lake Nicaragua to the Caribbean Sea). Imagine crossing a river and having your leg bitten off by a jumping shark?? Anything can happen in Nicaragua.
1. Missoula, Montana
Yep, you heard it, this place is #1 on my list. Mainly because my good friend (Pugs) and I will be heading out to this remote mountain outpost one week from now. Little is known about this place, but mystery tends to spur the best kind of adventure. I’ve heard wild tales of fierce drunken miners, scowling moose, blood-thirsty badgers and road-raging soccer moms… it’s truly not for the faint of heart. With some luck, Pugs and I will navigate the tricky waters of this rugged wilderness by tracking it’s environs during the 3rd annual Missoula marathon. Hopefully, all of the obstacles mentioned above will be avoided and we’ll get out in one piece!
Vic has inspired me to write some broken poetry. Check out his blog if you get the chance (on the right side with the links). Just a few contemplations from the past week…
Dead Bird Blues:
A gentle flap, then a glide
so graceful, cutting through the thick haze
cool as a cucumber, ice veins pulsing
beak curves into a smirk, it cannot rid the crescent shape
the toothed arrow is quicker, anticipates every feather’s move
quickly it punctures the breast, a puff silences the horns
dead stop and a fall from grace, hoping dashed haze will cushion the fall
to no avail, only hard concrete and soft rubber tires
not soft enough though
the beak rolls to the gutter, still smirking
7th Avenue
Steps echo as heels clip the concrete
Rats wake me from a beautiful slumber, they gnaw at my sneakers
Bastards
The cave-like existence is swell
Amarous only towards those who lick crumbs from their beards
Malodorous? Me!?
This is what a real man smells like
Dirt. Sweat. Urine. Dust. Tears. Booze.
Body is swelling in this seat, wooden nursery school box
Does the MTA try and make them uncomfortable?
Spit lands on Armani shoes
Sorry? Watch where you’re stepping, man
The long lost breeze twirls newspaper into an avant garde dance
E and B come at the same time, a lover’s waltz
Must be rush hour again
Alert, Nunavut
Up, up, up
Past the snow and grass
Only grey skies and quick clouds visit the compound
The wind speaks in an alien tongue, unsure of its predictable mood swings
Skin is never caressed, only bitten by its lashing tongue
Ten minutes of sunlight break through the darkness
Hundred foot swells of gold wash over the jagged hills and rusting oil cans
Rays bathe the glistening permafrost, crunching lightly under the fox’s foot
It’s a long way down from here
08-06-2009 Brooklyn, NY
As great as summer in NYC is, sometimes certain things can wear on you during the warmer months. Shimmering walls close in around you, your shoes melt to the concrete, exhaust from city buses blows in your face, clothes drench through with sweat and relentlessly stick to your skin, horns blare, kids yell and dogs bark. You need someplace that is completely devoid of people. A place where there is a respite from the heat, where cool waters constantly flow. A place where strong breezes tickle the senses, carrying with them the sounds and smells of the natural mystic.
New York has plenty to offer in terms of amazing summer escapes. After a four hour drive up North, you can find yourself in the largest national park in the continental US. I first explored this place after graduating from Miami University in the spring of 2003. Rob (one of my best friends) and I charted a grand excursion through two sections of remote Adirondack wilderness. Being recent college graduates, we thought we had the world at our fingertips and could conquer any obstacle thrown our way. In reality, we had no clue what the heck we were doing. Our preparation was minimal, our food supplies were lacking, our maps were outdated and our cars were one pothole away from falling to pieces. After rendezvousing in Ithaca, we set out into the wilds of Adirondack Park for our week-long adventure.
Almost immediately, the trip began with a calamity. Rob and I had planned on making our first hike an easy one, so we set our sights on the Wolf Lake trail in the southwest sector of the park. In our respective hoopties (my 1992 Mercury Sable and Rob’s 1997 Hyundai Accent), we continued off-road towards the trail-head. The road went from mud to gravel to rocks to boulders and logs. Still, we prodded on into the woods, dodging rocks and sticks as the bottom of our cars scraped along. When we’d finally had enough and pulled into a clearing, we had gone eighteen miles into one of the deepest parts of Adirondack Park. As Rob and I exited our battered vehicles, we were bombarded with swarms of biting black flies. While dodging the swarms, we quickly set up our tents and cooked with the little bit of water we still had. It was at that time Rob looked at me quizzically and asked “What’s that hissing sound?“. The next morning, we would try and make it out of the woods to repair his ailing Hyundai Accent.
Miraculously, we managed to drive 40 miles in my Sable, bumping, scraping, and shimmying our way to Indian Lake and back to get some fix-a-flat. Not only did his tire hold up on the way out of Wolf Lake hell, but managed to last the remainder of the trip until we circled back to Burlington, Vermont, four days later!
After our failed attempt at hiking to Wolf lake, we took a stab at our second planned location – the Pharaoh Mountain wilderness. Here we planned on hiking the entire 19.2 mile loop over the course of three days. We had thought the first spot had tons of dreaded biting black flies, but this place was completely swarmed. Everywhere you turned they were buzzing in your ears, nose, mouth and eyes, biting every bit of skin that lay exposed. We trudged through the muddy trails and decided to go off-trail and make our camp on the banks of a pristine lake. Once the sun went down, we finally got respite from the evil flies. Bowls of steaming hot ramen warmed our bellies as the temperatures dropped. We finished up the meal with a cigar over a roaring fire and talked as the stars blew up the night sky. The haunting cry of loons in the lake lulled us into a fitful sleep. We didn’t know it yet, but we were on a completely different trail and were lost. Until this day we still don’t know where that lake was located.
Despite getting lost a few times and constantly battling the black fly menace, we completed the loop safely and made it out of the woods two days later. We crawled back to our cars, racked by fatigue, soreness, and bug bites, and continued on to Burlington. After finding a hotel with a fitting name (the Hobo), we took long hot showers and headed out to a local Irish pub for a few pints. It was paradise. We realized that most of our conversation during the hike was focused on the simple things we missed most. Pillows, clean clothes, subways, family, rocking chairs, steak, hot showers, cold beer, baseball games, soft beds and driving. One of the best things about being away from the things of man is appreciating the things you love most within the “civilized world”. That night, the beer was perfectly crisp, the steaks were succulent and perfectly charred and the sleep was blacker than an oil slick.
28-04-2009 Brooklyn, NY
Summer seemed to be back, if only for a few days.
Walking out into the unseasonable temperatures, a warm light bathed everything in a hazy yellow glow. The cars slowly passing by on 8th avenue spewed their endless exhaust, bumping the waves of heat to another level. Every memory from past heat waves collectively flooded my mind. It was almost as if summer had never left. I began to run up Mongomery Place towards the park to escape the gasoline fumes.
In the park, maple trees had exploded in a large green swath. The leaves seemed to have come in over night, yawning through fuzzy pods and stretching their fingers wide to embrace the weather. Their memory was long too, this was second nature to them. You burrow in for the winter, toughening up your bark. When the coast is clear and the last frost has dusted the city streets, you let fly the life within you. I tried keeping to the shaded sides of the path, but it provided little respite from the pulsing sun. People flooded every inch of the meadows and paths, floating along as if they were in a dream. We were all waking up again, shedding our thick layer of winter bark and letting our warm skin breathe life.
The memories became clearer now with each passing smell.
The smell of wet pavement took me back to my Nana’s backyard. During the dog days, she would fill up an inflatable pool she had tucked into the garage during the winter months. As she filled it the water would steam off hot cracked concrete and float over the green philodendrons. I could see her smile and perfect white teeth, her shining mahogany hair as the smell lingered for a moment, then faded as I ran on.
People were bar-b-queuing in the meadow, the smell of charred meat and cooked corn was everywhere, enveloping the runners and bikers in a lingering trail of smoke. I remembered my stepfather’s place in Queens. Steve had this hibachi that he and my brother used every weekend. Once a month during the summer I would go out there with my mother and we’d sit on his stoop and cook out all day. We would sit on cheap folding chairs, talk and laugh. Bob Murphy’s grainy voice filled in the gaps of silence as the Mets games blared on the radio. When it got dark, I would throw ants into the smoldering coals. They would sizzle and pop the instant their crumpled bodies hit the pile of hot ash. I didn’t think about what I was doing at the time, but years later I remember feeling terrible about doing that. As I approached the lake, the smell drifted and the memory gradually faded back through the rays of sunlight flooding the new Prospect Park canopy.
Then came the freshly cut grass on the hill overlooking the nethermead. Out of nowhere, the image of a long fairway came from the depths of my memory bank. I lived with my father out on Long Island during the summers in high school. My first job was as a golf caddy at the Hillcrest Country Club. I’m not sure how most country clubs are, but this one was full of snobby awful human beings who would yell at you any chance they got. The physical strain of carrying their heavy bags and keeping your eyes trained on their shanked balls wasn’t nearly as bad as the mental toughness caddies needed to maintain during constant barrages of insults and gripes. If the person you caddied for hit the ball in the water, it was your fault. If they missed a putt, it was your fault. If they hit a tree and you couldn’t find the ball, you didn’t get tipped. There was a great upside though… Mondays. Not only was the course closed, but caddies got to hit the links for free. Most times it felt as if I had the whole course to myself. There was no yelling, no pressure, just peaceful green all around. Even if I played lousy golf, it didn’t matter. After each shot, I would wipe the club face and rub the wet blades of grass between my fingers. It was the best smell… shredded grass, metal, and lingering leather from the club grips. I saw the ball hit crisply down the long verdant fairway, cutting through the morning mist towards the green.
I was at the top of lookout hill and the run was almost over. It was as if I had missed out on the grueling pain of the eight miles my legs had just covered. Those thoughts of summers past had whisked the aches and stitches away. I passed into the farmers market, past the smell of freshly baked bread. I was taken back to another place, my family’s restaurant on Remsen Street… to the summer mornings I would head into school with my uncle Arthur. There was always a sharp smell of freshly baked rolls and blueberry muffins coming from the restaurant in those early hours. I saw my Boopa standing in the kitchen wearing his red t-shirt, a white apron around his waist, thick tortoise-shell glasses hanging firmly on the bridge of his nose. He was smiling at me. I smiled back as I came back through the door of my building, happy that another summer would soon be here…
22-04-2009 Brooklyn, NY
I enjoy a nice stiff drink every so often. Whether it’s the taste of fine peaty scotch or the maple aroma of distilled bourbon, it’s tough to beat a tumbler of neat liquor after a long day at work. As drinking has been cut out of my diet since the marathon training has started, the simple act of having a glass of a choice spirit is one thing I’ve been missing since the ‘drought’ began. A few weeks back, I was over at Victor’s place playing Scrabble with some close friends (yeah, we act like 70 year-olds most of the time). At some point during the night, Victor brought out a bottle of (what looked like) tequila. I recoiled in disgust at the sight of the bottle, remembering nights where the vile nectar had thrown me into a completely unrecoverable stupor. Vic assured me that the bottle’s contents were nothing like Cuervo or Patrón, that it was Mezcal.
In researching the art of making Mezcal, I was taken back when I learned how labor intensive and intricate it was. First, the roots of the blue agave plant are dug up. Mezcaleros (farmers who make the Mezcal) call the roots “Piñas” after their likeness to pineapples. The roots are then buried under a pile of hot rocks and straw mats made of palm. As the mats burn, the smoke flavors the piñas which grow soft and absorbent under the hot rocks. After a day or so, they are dug up and crushed with a stone wheel (usually drawn by a horse). The resulting mash is put into wooden vats with water to ferment. In yet another step to the process, the mash is then cooked in round stills made of clay or copper and all alcoholic vapors are burned off. This last step is often repeated twice. To me, it seemed like the ultimate organic spirit.
Vic handed over the open bottle to nose it out, and it proved to be unlike anything I had smelled previously. A smoky, delicate, agave-like aroma with a hint of spice which took my senses south of the border. The taste proved equally as magnificent, so smooth and balanced with very little fire. Needless to say, I’ll have to add a bottle of Gusano Rojo to the old liquor cabinet for those cold winter nights.
13-04-2009 Brooklyn, NY
The wind blew hard from the north and made an odd whistling sound through the bars in the decaying fire escape. I took another step and felt my feet give weigh beneath me. My hands held fast to the railing and eventually I swung myself up onto the stairs above. The fragile rusty step couldn’t bear the weight and had broken off, clanging noisily along the crumbling framework three stories below. Luckily, there hadn’t been any people passing by and my presence had gone unnoticed. I jimmied one of the dusty windows open and tried to push open the wooden board which had been nailed over it. The thing wouldn’t budge. I would need to kick it open to get inside the abandoned building. That would make a ton of noise however, so I needed a distraction down below in order to complete the break-in. Less than a minute later, an old bag man came rumbling down the avenue with an overflowing shopping cart. He stopped at the corner and began rummaging through the garbage can, bottles clinking and clanking together as he emptied it. The stars were aligned! With three swift kicks, the wooden board pried loose with a loud squeak and I was able to squeeze into the darkness.
After shimmying through the narrow opening, I fell into a billowing pile, something soft. The smell inside the place was intense, an odd mixture of old books, dust, and bird droppings. Using the LCD light on my camera screen, I saw that I was laying on a huge mess of clothes. The whole room was filled waist-high with them! I walked toward the doorway on this layer of old cloth, it was like walking on a cloud. The low grey light from the LCD cast an eerie glow on everything in the room, shadows danced along the peeling walls as I moved towards the hallway. After walking from room to room, I noticed the place was filled with furniture, books, old records, toys, posters and boxes. Clothes were still neatly hung in the closets, toiletries still stocked the bathroom shelves, dried flower stems hung listlessly in dry vases, even beds were still made. It was as if whoever owned the place had just vanished one day and never returned. Signs of decay were pervasive. Paint peeled off the walls in large uneven swaths, water damage revealed piping in the ceilings and walls, tiles were ripped up and scattered all over the bathrooms, and staircases had splintered after years of neglect.
I wondered if the place was haunted. At various points during my journey through the house, I listened and closed my eyes, trying to feel some sort of presence. Sounds of the house settling and the occasional scurrying of rats was all I heard. If there were any wayward spirits, their intentions seemed to be benign. I imagined for a moment being a spirit trapped in that house, cowering in the darkness of one of the decrepit rooms, sick from the stench of bird shit and fading newspapers, looking out onto the avenue on a sunny day and watching the people pass by below, knowing all the while that I would never be noticed again.
After poking around the rooms, I eventually found my way onto the roof. The absolute stillness up there was incredible. Before my eyes, a beautiful sweeping view of Brooklyn and Manhattan spread out into an infinite matrix. When walking in the canyon between the buildings at street level, it’s hard to notice how residential Brooklyn is. From this vantage point, you see how few buildings rise above four stories. The Manhattan skyline looms like Mount Olympus over Thessaloniki. People once called Brooklyn ‘the bedroom of the city’, and from the roof it was easy to see why. The glow from all of the light pollution cast an orange aura over the buildings, bathing them in a soft haze. The distant street lights hummed and twinkled like stars. City dwellers have a virtual galaxy at our fingertips, we just need to get up above the lights to notice it.
The house moans beneath me, and it’s quite clear that I have overstayed my welcome. I am a flea on the back of a dying dog. I make my way back down from the roof, through the cracking hallways and crumbling staircases, through the room piled high with clothes and back out through the broken wooden plank. With my eyes fixed tight to the ground, I slowly creep down the old fire escape, careful not to step into the abyss my feet created on the way up.
25-03-2009 Brooklyn, NY
The walk began before dawn. My legs stretched down Flatbush avenue as the wind kicked up plastic cups and bales of crumpled newspaper. The pieces of garbage danced in an odd waltz near one of the subway grates. It was cold, but not that biting cold that eats through your marrow in January. This fine March morning, my nose detected the faint smell of spring – a mix of budding crocuses, rain clouds, and frayed grass fighting its way through the half-frozen earth. Soon the city would emerge from its wintry cocoon and come to life again.
I looked up and saw the long shadow of Brooklyn’s tallest building – the old Williamsburg Savings Bank – peering over the borough like a once proud Eagle watching over a sordid nest of brick and smoke. The lights had gone out in the clocktower again, which meant another day had officially begun. It was an odd time of the day. One when the night urchins and early risers passed each other in a complete haze, both parties looking half dead as they tiptoed through the early morning. After walking past the blinking bulbs of Junior’s restaurant, I saw the Manhattan bridge poking its majestic head above the Avenue’s final ridge.
It wasn’t until recently that I developed an appreciation for one of New York’s most forgotten (and most magnificent) structures. The Manhattan bridge will celebrate its centennial on New Year’s eve this year, but I doubt much fuss will be made. The peeling baby blue paint will simply endure another day in its history as one of the city’s finest work horses. This diligent span carries two car lanes, a walkway, a bikeway, and four train lines over it. Through the past century, it hasn’t commanded an inch of respect from the ants that crawl past on a daily basis.
As I entered the span through a slit in the fence on Jay street, the fading blue beauty stretched into the distance. A homeless man lay bundled near the train tracks, looking like a large paisley mummy on a cold concrete slab. He must have had enough to drink last night… The two small empty flasks of Hennessy laying nearby undoubtedly drowned out the constant rumbling of trains all night. I wondered what kind of dreams he was having. Perhaps a picture would capture them? I snapped a shot and walked on.
The walkway along the bridge is much slimmer than that of the Brooklyn bridge’s expansive boardwalk, only stretching 10 feet across. The bridge also isn’t for the acrophobic as there is no ‘safety net’ below the warped concrete walkway. The Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges both have roadways below their walkways so that, in an unfortunate incident of collapse, there’s at least something to break your fall. With this span, there’s only the cold green waters of the East River to break your fall. One gets the feeling of playing Russian roulette with every crossing. It’s quite an exciting trip, even if the fear is unfounded. The view that day was beautiful, with the sun gently rising above the clouds to the Northeast, painting the buildings of lower Manhattan a deep orange. Before reaching the bridge’s terminus on Canal Street in Chinatown, I saw something that made me take a second look – A half eaten pig’s head lay alongside the walkway. Its pink snout was all that was distinguishable in the mess of bone and tendon. I briefly thought of when I was a child. My cousins and I used to pick at the face of the roasted suckling pig my grandfather would make once a year. Remembering how good it tasted then, I couldn’t really blame whoever had indulged in the same savage act.
As I passed over the Bowery onto Canal Street, a young black girl approached me. It was quite windy that day and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Can I ask you a question, sir?”. I nodded yes. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ as your savior?”. I shook my head no. Even though I was still walking, she kept on about how she had been “saved” by the Jehovah’s witnesses and that the opportunity was there for me as well. Even though I told her that I had no interest, she kept following me to the train station, tears streaming down her cheeks onto her nice black dress. I wanted to wipe them off, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Oh my!” she gasped as we entered the stairwell on Broadway, “I didn’t realize how far I’d gone from my post!”. I told her that I was late for work, shook her hand, took one of her brochures and headed down the steps. It never ceases to amaze me how taking a simple walk through the city (at any hour) can be an adventure. The rest of the day, I was accompanied with beautiful visions of golden sunshine and glistening tears as I crunched numbers. Needless to say, walking to work will be a larger part of the routine as the weather warms up.
24-02-2009 Brooklyn, NY
If a person has lived within the confines of New York for some time, he or she could easily attest to the dynamic nature of the city’s many neighborhoods. One of the few exceptions might be Brooklyn’s little enclave called Gowanus. The name comes from the Delaware Indian language meaning “Small Pine” (which is ironic considering the complete lack of vegetation there now). It was one of the first areas of Breukelen settled by the Dutch as its marshland and brackish water provided the most fertile grounds for farming. In the 1850’s, the lake was dredged and a canal was formed to transport goods from nearby ports to serve Brooklyn’s exploding population. With increased commerce came a huge amount of pollution to the canal and the neighborhood surrounding it. By the turn of the 20th century, Gowanus became known as a fetid cesspool of raw sewage and chemical byproducts. Locals joked and called it the “Lavender Lake” after the brownish-purple color swirling around the ships and barges. The surrounding neighborhood remained as gritty as the water in the canal, with people routinely dumping guns and bodies into the rank depths where no detective would dare look. One character in Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn refered to the canal as “the only body of water in the world that is 90 percent guns”.
In one of my posts awhile back (West Side Glory?), I mentioned my irrational fear of murky, cold, polluted water. While I’m not sure of the phobia’s origins, the Gowanus canal might be the Everest of fright when it comes to dealing with this problem. As a child, I would stare out the window of the F or GG train (yes, there was one of those back then) at the remaining old cement factories, half sunken barges, crumbling docks and stagnant vomit-colored water. For whatever reason, I couldn’t help rid my mind of thoughts of falling into the canal and floundering helplessly amongst the detritus without anything to grab onto. The harrowing daydream always played out as follows –
While walking along the canal’s edge, I look up to see the graffiti covered shacks and seagulls with matted brown feathers. A slight layer of frost covers the old plastic bottles and condom wrappers underfoot. Ancient wood lining the sides of the canal has been stained black. It reeks overwhelmingly of tar and rusting metal. While walking the slick planks, I slip and try to gain my balance, but it’s too late.. The fall into lavender lake only takes a second, even though it seems like an eternity. I scream but only a raspy whisper escapes my mouth as it fills with salty muckwater. I can feel the grains of sediment and three centuries of decomposing metal gritting between my teeth. My eyes are open, but all they see is a light brown swirl of stinging bubbles, they become darker, I’m sinking. Fighting the weight of my clothes, I reach the surface and see an enormous barge slinking along next to me, chains and old tires banging against its rusty metal hulk. Gravel spills over the sides into my eyes. Every time I open my mouth to scream, the rank water fills my mouth, leaving me to choke on the grainy waves of freezing liquid. Eventually I succumb to the freezing temperatures and fall to the bottom, never to be heard from again.
The past few years have been relatively good to the old canal. Ten years ago, the city put some money into restoring the filtering pump at the far end of the Gowanus (near Douglass Street). For the first time in almost sixty years, the canal had clean water from the Atlantic flowing through its rusty veins. Since then, rock crabs, blue crabs, shrimp, three types of jellyfish and minnows have returned. There are new developments underway to put a scenic walkway on the edge of the canal to spur (no joking here) tourism. Despite all of these efforts, I was still scared to death of the place.
After getting my new camera equipment, I wanted to test it out on some long-range cityscape shots. As the 87 foot Smith & 9th St station above the canal is the tallest in the subway system, a walk down to Gowanus seemed inevitable. I throw the gear over my shoulder and head out reluctantly into the frigid swirling winds. After crossing over fourth avenue into Gowanus, the stillness is unmistakable. The warm life of Park Slope becomes completely devoid in this place. All that remains on the streets are dark factories, rusting shopping carts, the occasional homeless person cowering in the stiff winter breeze, and the lingering stench of the canal. I walk along the empty streets, catching good shots here and there. Eventually, after walking through the seemingly endless industrial maze, I come upon the banks of the canal. My hands shake with nervousness and I forget about the cold as beads of sweat form on my forehead. The water looks just like it did in that awful childhood daydream, cold, brown and swirling. The barges clink as small waves undulate gently beneath them. Gathering my wits, I lean over the edge and look into the water, all it takes is one little slip and the dream could become an actual nightmare. After leaning back, I steady my hands and take a few pictures. An air of calmness envelops me as I look at the reflections of the factories in the grimy waters. A small part of my irrational fear has subsided. In that instant, the boogie man in the closet of my borough has turned into a pesky little fly. I shoo-off the irrational fears and head up the endless staircase of Smith & 9th street to finish off the shoot.
12-02-2009 Brooklyn, NY
Has the pertinence of getting news out to the public destroyed the quality of how it’s presented? Has attention to certain details (like clothing and setting) vanished as time passed? Perhaps it has something to do with the level of closeness the press and public had with crime scenes back then?
One thing I enjoy doing with my free time is going to the library and reading through old newspapers. Looking at old microfische always has a certain 1960’s sleuth-like feeling that accompanies it. There was something about the way beat writers presented their pieces back then, it seemed to bring the reader directly to the scene of whatever incident had taken place. The papers today don’t seem to capture the same essence. For instance, there was an article in the papers today about a man who had been hit by one car, hooked by another passing car and dragged through the city for twenty miles. The driver of the second car thought he had hit a pothole and kept driving, all the while dragging this poor bedraggled corpse underneath. The articles on this event weren’t remarkable and were written rather blandly. Compare that to the article below about a crime that had been committed almost 120 years-ago. The people have long been forgotten, but in reading the article you get a more personal feel for those involved.
In the end, it turned out that McElvaine was after only $200 of Luca’s money that he intended to take to market that day to purchase goods for his store. I suppose people have been murdered for less since then. The perpetrator also had two accomplices who were summarily caught. All three were executed. In looking at further snippets related to the incident, this appeared to be the desired outcome of many of the residents who knew Mr. Luca. One doctor’s feelings seemed to have summed up the view of the whole city:
“When in front of Mr. Luca’s residence I saw his wife with her head out the window and she was begging some one to bring me to the house. I entered in the company of Dr. John E. Ensell, of 125 High Street, and we commenced giving the dying man whisky, but he expired in two minutes. It was the most diabolical murder I ever heard of, as poor Luca was literally cut to pieces about the arms and body, and there was not a gill of blood left in his frame after his death. He lost it all from the wound in his left arm, and I think that this particular case requires a little Southern justice. Those three murderers ought to be strung up to the nearest lamp post, and it would be a relief of Brooklyn to do so.”
22-01-2009 Brooklyn, NY
Complete Destruction
It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.
~William Carlos Williams
1958 was a terrible year for the borough of Brooklyn. The brittle glue that held this gritty city together had been violently chipped apart. The glue was one topic of interest that was spoken of in back alleys, subway trains, barber shops and on brownstone stoops. This one uniting factor that sent people into a collective tizzy was, of course, the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. After an ambitious plan by the team’s owner, Walter O’Malley, to build a state-of-the-art stadium over the Atlantic Avenue rail yards was squashed by Robert Moses (A.K.A. Bobby Kickback), the team was forced to relocate to Chávez Ravine in Los Angeles. Who knows what would have happened if the stadium had been built? Perhaps the borough wouldn’t have fell into economic decline? Perhaps the city’s center would have bustled with life? All we know for sure is that the rail yards have laid there like an old dying cat for some time. The fate of this pitiful animal has been the subject of intense debate over the last fifty years.
In 2004, the debate was once again aroused after a successful businessman by the name of Bruce Ratner acquired the New Jersey Nets basketball team. The main goal of this acquisition was to bring a professional team back to a place where Ratner had attempted other ventures, Brooklyn, NY. Ratner’s lofty goals not only included the arena over the Atlantic rail yards, but to also the construction of 16 Frank Gehry designed high rise condominiums (two of the largest buildings were set to offer “affordable” HUDD housing in an undisclosed amount of units) and a public green. The deal was promoted to local residents as a chance to put Brooklyn back on the map. It was a deal that would provide low-income housing, jobs to city workers, and a business center in Brooklyn that bustled with commerce. The plan initially had many high profile proponents: Mayor Bloomberg, Brooklyn borough president Marty Markowitz, and partial team owner and Brooklyn native, Jay Z.
As most things go, the promises seemed far fetched. Soon cracks in Ratner’s plan began to show. As the footprint for the Atlantic Terminal Urban Renewal Area (ATURA) developed, it became evident to residents of Prospect Heights and Fort Greene that their homes were either in the shadow of these huge edifices, or directly underfoot. Not only that, but the designs were hideous (in my opinion). I mean, look at these things:
As funding began to dry up for the project, the amount of affordable housing that was slated to be set aside suddenly dropped. It also became evident that the majority of this so-called low-income housing was relegated to families who made a “moderate” household income of $50-115k/year. Meanwhile, the average household income in Brooklyn is $32k. This begs the question, to whom are these units affordable to? The promises of jobs to local workers came into question as well. When Ratner’s first project (Metrotech) went up in downtown Brooklyn back in the 80’s, he’d promised scores of jobs for locals. His word proved unworthy, however, and he outsourced the jobs to his cronies outside of the city. What’s to say that he won’t do the same with this project?
Worst of all, the whole plan reeks of kickbacks and shady deals. The MTA, who owned the land over the rail yards, sold it to Ratner for $100 million. This seems odd that the land had been appraised for over $200 million and there was another bid on the table for $150 million. Why would the MTA willingly throw away that kind of money? Especially with the current budget crisis that has them raising fares and cutting service!! In short, who ends up paying the $50 million out? The residents of New York City. Additionally, people who own and rent in the footprint aren’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of having their beautiful brownstones completely demolished. If this was an endeavor set forth by the federal government or State of New York, then eminent domain could effectively be exercised. However, this is an attempt at a blatant land grab by an individual. Not only is it abuse of eminent domain but also a violation of the residents’ fifth amendment rights.
So what will become of the old cat laying in Brooklyn’s center?
As it currently stands, the shifting economy has also shifted the feasibility of the project. Ratner has not only scaled down the plans for the arena and surrounding buildings, but has also requested to cut funds given to the MTA (another slap in the face to commuters). As he still hasn’t paid the $100 million for the land, the space can technically go back on the auction block until a more sound investor comes along. Ratner seems to be back on his heels right now. With increased opposition from the community, he could be pushed off the rat’s nest he’s attempting to build in the heart of Brooklyn. For all those willing to further the opposition’s cause, you can sign the online petition and let your voice be heard…
http://dddb.net/php/petition.php
¡El Pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido!
14-01-2009 Brooklyn, NY
After finishing Goodbye, Darkness, I started reading up on the various battles in both the Pacific and European theaters. Eventually I came across stories of some medal of honor recipients, they were sobering tales to say the least. The gallantry and poise these men showed in the face of certain death is absolutely incredible. I’ve listed some examples below which were written by either Truman, FDR, or one of the recipients’ comrades:
Thomas A. Baker (June 25, 1916 – July 7, 1944)
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty at Saipan, Mariana Islands, June 19 to July 7 1944. When his entire company was held up by fire from automatic weapons and small-arms fire from strongly fortified enemy positions that commanded the view of the company, Sgt. (then Pvt.) Baker voluntarily took a bazooka and dashed alone to within 100 yards of the enemy. Through heavy rifle and machinegun fire that was directed at him by the enemy, he knocked out the strong point, enabling his company to assault the ridge. Some days later while his company advanced across the open field flanked with obstructions and places of concealment for the enemy, Sgt. Baker again voluntarily took up a position in the rear to protect the company against surprise attack and came upon 2 heavily fortified enemy pockets manned by 2 officers and 10 enlisted men which had been bypassed. Without regard for such superior numbers, he unhesitatingly attacked and killed all of them. Five hundred yards farther, he discovered 6 men of the enemy who had concealed themselves behind our lines and destroyed all of them. On 7 July 1944, the perimeter of which Sgt. Baker was a part was attacked from 3 sides by from 3,000 to 5,000 Japanese. During the early stages of this attack, Sgt. Baker was seriously wounded but he insisted on remaining in the line and fired at the enemy at ranges sometimes as close as 5 yards until his ammunition ran out. Without ammunition and with his own weapon battered to uselessness from hand-to-hand combat, he was carried about 50 yards to the rear by a comrade, who was then himself wounded. At this point Sgt. Baker refused to be moved any farther stating that he preferred to be left to die rather than risk the lives of any more of his friends. A short time later, at his request, he was placed in a sitting position against a small tree . Another comrade, withdrawing, offered assistance. Sgt. Baker refused, insisting that he be left alone and be given a soldier’s pistol with its remaining 8 rounds of ammunition. When last seen alive, Sgt. Baker was propped against a tree, pistol in hand, calmly facing the foe. Later Sgt. Baker’s body was found in the same position, gun empty, with 8 Japanese lying dead before him. His deeds were in keeping with the highest traditions of the U.S. Army.
Lewis Kenneth Bausell (April 17, 1924 – September 18, 1944)
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving with the First Battalion, Fifth Marines, First Marine Division, during action against enemy Japanese forces on Peleliu Island, Palau Group, September 15, 1944. Valiantly placing himself at the head of his squad, Corporal Bausell led the charge forward against a hostile pillbox which was covering a vital sector of the beach and, as the first to reach the emplacement, immediately started firing his automatic into the aperture while the remainder of his men closed in on the enemy. Swift to act a Japanese grenade was hurled into their midst, Corporal Bausell threw himself on the deadly weapon, taking the full blast of the explosion and sacrificing his own life to save his men. His unwavering loyalty and inspiring courage reflect the highest credit upon Corporal Bausell and the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.
Willibald C. Bianchi (March 12, 1915 − January 9, 1945)
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with the enemy on 3 February 1942, near Bagac, Province of Bataan, Philippine Islands. When the rifle platoon of another company was ordered to wipe out 2 strong enemy machinegun nests, 1st Lt. Bianchi voluntarily and of his own initiative, advanced with the platoon leading part of the men. When wounded early in the action by 2 bullets through the left hand, he did not stop for first aid but discarded his rifle and began firing a pistol. He located a machinegun nest and personally silenced it with grenades. When wounded the second time by 2 machinegun bullets through the chest muscles, 1st Lt. Bianchi climbed to the top of an American tank, manned its antiaircraft machinegun, and fired into strongly held enemy position until knocked completely off the tank by a third severe wound
Herbert F. Christian (June 18, 1912 – June 3, 1944)
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty. On 2-3 June 1944, at 1 a.m., Pvt. Christian elected to sacrifice his life in order that his comrades might extricate themselves from an ambush. Braving massed fire of about 60 riflemen, 3 machineguns, and 3 tanks from positions only 30 yards distant, he stood erect and signaled to the patrol to withdraw. The whole area was brightly illuminated by enemy flares. Although his right leg was severed above the knee by cannon fire, Pvt. Christian advanced on his left knee and the bloody stump of his right thigh, firing his submachinegun. Despite excruciating pain, Pvt. Christian continued on his self-assigned mission. He succeeded in distracting the enemy and enabled his 12 comrades to escape. He killed 3 enemy soldiers almost at once. Leaving a trail of blood behind him, he made his way forward 20 yards, halted at a point within 10 yards of the enemy, and despite intense fire killed a machine-pistol man. Reloading his weapon, he fired directly into the enemy position. The enemy appeared enraged at the success of his ruse, concentrated 20-mm., machine-pistol and rifle fire on him, yet he refused to seek cover. Maintaining his erect position, Pvt. Christian fired his weapon to the very last. Just as he emptied his submachinegun, the enemy bullets found their mark and Pvt. Christian slumped forward dead. The courage and spirit of self-sacrifice displayed by this soldier were an inspiration to his comrades and are in keeping with the highest traditions of the armed forces.
Joseph J. Cicchetti (June 8, 1923-February 9, 1945)
He was with troops assaulting the first important line of enemy defenses. The Japanese had converted the partially destroyed Manila Gas Works and adjacent buildings into a formidable system of mutually supporting strongpoints from which they were concentrating machinegun, mortar, and heavy artillery fire on the American forces. Casualties rapidly mounted, and the medical aid men, finding it increasingly difficult to evacuate the wounded, called for volunteer litter bearers. Pfc. Cicchetti immediately responded, organized a litter team and skillfully led it for more than 4 hours in rescuing 14 wounded men, constantly passing back and forth over a 400-yard route which was the impact area for a tremendous volume of the most intense enemy fire. On one return trip the path was blocked by machinegun fire, but Pfc. Cicchetti deliberately exposed himself to draw the automatic fire which he neutralized with his own rifle while ordering the rest of the team to rush past to safety with the wounded. While gallantly continuing his work, he noticed a group of wounded and helpless soldiers some distance away and ran to their rescue although the enemy fire had increased to new fury. As he approached the casualties, he was struck in the head by a shell fragment, but with complete disregard for his gaping wound he continued to his comrades, lifted one and carried him on his shoulders 50 yards to safety. He then collapsed and died. By his skilled leadership, indomitable will, and dauntless courage, Pfc. Cicchetti saved the lives of many of his fellow soldiers at the cost of his own.
William Adlebert Foster (February 17, 1917–May 2, 1945)
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as a Rifleman with Company K, Third Battalion, First Marines, First Marine Division, in action against enemy Japanese forces on Okinawa Shima in the Ryūkyū Chain, May 2, 1945. Dug in with another Marine on the point of the perimeter defense after waging a furious assault against a strongly fortified Japanese position, Private First Class Foster and comrade engaged in a fierce hand grenade duel with infiltrating enemy soldiers. Suddenly an enemy grenade landed beyond reach in the foxhole. Instantly diving on the deadly missile, Private First Class Foster absorbed the exploding charge in his own body, thereby protecting the other Marine from serious injury. Although mortally wounded as a result of his heroic action, he quickly rallied, handed his own remaining two grenades to his comrade and said, “Make them count.” Stouthearted and indomitable, he had unhesitatingly relinquished his own chance of survival that his fellow Marine might carry on the relentless fight against a fanatic enemy, and his dauntless determination, cool decision and valiant spirit of self-sacrifice in the face of certain death reflect the highest credit upon Private First Class Foster and in the United States Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life in the service of his country.
Elmer E. Fryar (born c. 1915 died December 8, 1944)
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty. Pvt. Fryar’s battalion encountered the enemy strongly entrenched in a position supported by mortars and automatic weapons. The battalion attacked, but in spite of repeated efforts was unable to take the position. Pvt. Fryar’s company was ordered to cover the battalion’s withdrawal to a more suitable point from which to attack, but the enemy launched a strong counterattack which threatened to cut off the company. Seeing an enemy platoon moving to outflank his company, he moved to higher ground and opened heavy and accurate fire. He was hit, and wounded, but continuing his attack he drove the enemy back with a loss of 27 killed. While withdrawing to overtake his squad, he found a seriously wounded comrade, helped him to the rear, and soon overtook his platoon leader, who was assisting another wounded. While these 4 were moving to rejoin their platoon, an enemy sniper appeared and aimed his weapon at the platoon leader. Pvt. Fryar instantly sprang forward, received the full burst of automatic fire in his own body and fell mortally wounded. With his remaining strength he threw a hand grenade and killed the sniper. Pvt. Fryar’s indomitable fighting spirit and extraordinary gallantry above and beyond the call of duty contributed outstandingly to the success of the battalion’s withdrawal and its subsequent attack and defeat of the enemy. His heroic action in unhesitatingly giving his own life for his comrade in arms exemplifies the highest tradition of the U.S. Armed Forces.
Joseph F. Merrell (August 21, 1926 – April 18, 1945)
He made a gallant, 1-man attack against vastly superior enemy forces near Lohe, Germany. His unit, attempting a quick conquest of hostile hill positions that would open the route to Nuremberg before the enemy could organize his defense of that city, was pinned down by brutal fire from rifles, machine pistols, and 2 heavy machineguns. Entirely on his own initiative, Pvt. Merrell began a single-handed assault. He ran 100 yards through concentrated fire, barely escaping death at each stride, and at pointblank range engaged 4 German machine pistolmen with his rifle, killing all of them while their bullets ripped his uniform. As he started forward again, his rifle was smashed by a sniper’s bullet, leaving him armed only with 3 grenades. But he did not hesitate. He zigzagged 200 yards through a hail of bullets to within 10 yards of the first machinegun, where he hurled 2 grenades and then rushed the position ready to fight with his bare hands if necessary. In the emplacement he seized a Luger pistoland killed what Germans had survived the grenade blast. Rearmed, he crawled toward the second machinegun located 30 yards away, killing 4 Germans in camouflaged foxholes on the way, but himself receiving a critical wound in the abdomen. And yet he went on, staggering, bleeding, disregarding bullets which tore through the folds of his clothing and glanced off his helmet. He threw his last grenade into the machinegun nest and stumbled on to wipe out the crew. He had completed this self-appointed task when a machine pistol burst killed him instantly. In his spectacular 1-man attack Pvt. Merrell killed 6 Germans in the first machinegun emplacement, 7 in the next, and an additional 10 infantrymen who were astride his path to the weapons which would have decimated his unit had he not assumed the burden of the assault and stormed the enemy positions with utter fearlessness, intrepidity of the highest order, and a willingness to sacrifice his own life so that his comrades could go on to victory.
08-01-09 Brooklyn, NY
My latest read is called Goodbye, Darkness by William Manchester. It’s a touching memoir about a former Marine Sergeant who fought throughout the Pacific in WWII. Aware that his mind has obscured war’s many traumas, he revisits the sites of major battles (Guadalcanal, Saipan, Betio, Guam, and Okinawa) almost forty years later to see what kind of memories and emotions can be stirred within.
Recently I realized where I got my macabre fascination with violent ends, last words, last actions, and the atrocities and tragedy of war. This came from my father, the one who gave me Goodbye, Darkness as a Christmas present. While we never fought in any wars, our curiosity on the subject of mortality is cat-like. Those who know me well enough know about my thoughts on plane crashes. When I’m old and grey, I wouldn’t mind if my number came up on a doomed commercial flight. I think of it as an opportunity to (literally) go down in a blaze of glory. Whenever I fly, the flight number will usually indicate how much I’ll think about actually going down. Some numbers just sound like ones you would hear in the headlines the day after a crash. Numbers that only have two or three digits, identical digits back-to-back, and consecutive digits are almost a sure-fire ticket for some kind of drama. This evening I’m flying down to Fort Lauderdale and have an excellent “crash number”, 151, god help us! During lulls at work, I will look at NTSB crash investigations, paying special attention to the blackbox recordings contained within them. Reading (and hearing) people’s last words is such a privilege to me. Here are a few actual examples from the archives…
Pete, Sorry… Oh gosh, we’ve lost a wing…
We’re hit man, we’re hit. Tower, we’re going down, this is PSA… Ma, I love you
Larry! We’re going down, Larry! … I know it!
Hit the water! Hit the water!… Hit the water!
Oh sh!t, this can’t be!
Amy, I love you…
Uh… where are we?
Aaaaah… Allah Akbar!
I rely on God
It’s an odd obsession, but one that helps me appreciate life a little bit more. Living each day as if it were your last is a tough thing to do, especially if you have a family. Death is not something that should constantly occupy your thoughts, that would be unhealthy. However, I’m a firm believer in focusing on thoughts of mortality as an inspiration to lead a fuller life.
As a soldier in WWII, death surrounded you, it was hard not to dwell on it. These men fought hard regardless, almost with wanton disregard for their own safety. “Our father’s” war might have been the last one that wasn’t mired in controversy and opposition. In almost everyone’s eyes back on the home-front the allied powers were good and the axis powers were evil. As a result, these men fought with amazing fervor and fierceness on the battlefields, even though they were often put through hellish conditions. America was different back then, and the author, William Manchester, describes the blissful ignorance that was entrenched in American culture perfectly:
The United States was a different country then, with half today’s population, a lordly father figure in the White House, and a tightly disciplined society. A counterculture didn’t exist, as a word or as a concept… Standards were rigid; everyone was determined to conform to them because the alternatives were unthinkable… The bastion of social stability was the family… There was plenty of time for the householders, the doughboys of 1918, to explain to their sons the indissoluble relationship between virility and valor… Violent death, including death on the battlefield, was unsparing on the next of kin. The man killed in action cannot observe the five stages, so those who loved him must do it for him, or at least try to. Those who succeed are fortunate, and few… It was bad form to weep for a fallen buddy. We moved on, each of us inching on the brink of our own extinction, never speaking of what we considered unspeakable. Today’s children are baffled by our acquiescence then in what, to them, appears to have been a monstrous conspiracy against our lives. They are bewildered by those waves of relentless young men who plodded patiently on and on towards Betio’s beach while their comrades were keeling over on all sides. They ask: Why? They are convinced that they couldn’t do it… and they are right.
I suppose the automatic thought of giving up your own mortality for the sake of patriotic duty just doesn’t cross many people’s minds today. I wondered after September 11th if I could do the same thing my grandfather did two generations earlier in joining the marines? Even though I do consider myself a patriot, I think it would take much more for me to die for this country. Perhaps that is the one thing about protesting that is beneficial to our world. I have never been a complete dove, but think that blindly stepping into conflict without weighing the consequences is a terrible and dangerous thing. Reading war books and envisioning the ravages of war through a soldier’s eyes is a sobering experience. It brings you to think about your own mortality, what you’re willing to lose, and at what cost? My only conclusion is an accordance with the old phrase war is hell. As far as I’m concerned, the less it happens, the better off we’ll all be.
18-12-2008 Brooklyn, NY
Suddenly, the formidable oak tree of time had been gashed, peeled back like an onion, leaving an old feeling of comfort, invincibility, and wonder that hadn’t been felt in years. I was recently informed of a new development that almost brought me to tears with happiness. Upon hearing the news, a feeling that is only felt in certain situations rushed over me.
…Crawling under the covers on a cold winter night, having coffee and bagels in bed while reading the paper and listening to jazz music, watching Saturday morning cartoons, puddle jumping in the midst of a summer downpour, and gazing at the stars from a soft cushion of warm grass…
The wonderful announcement was that one of my favorite books, sometimes called the “Koran of childhood”, was being made into a movie. I remember reading it aloud to my class in second grade during story-telling time, trying my best to impersonate the monsters depicted within its pages. I’m not sure how an adult managed to encapsulate the imagination of a child in this book, but where the wild things are was a nearly perfect adaptation.
Most children you speak with have an irrational fear of monsters. They’re a genetic manifestation of the real horrors our distant ancestors had to deal with thousands of years ago. With our poor night vision and no fire to light the way, we had good reason to fear beasts lurking in the darkness, hunting humans with superior senses after the sun went down. I firmly believe that instilled within every human is an age-old fear of the what we cannot see when the lights go out. What Maurice Sendack, the author of the book, did was create a character that was able to tame these imaginary beasts and soften their edges. Even though they “roared their terrible roars” and “gnashed their terrible teeth”, deep down they were just like a family pet. They could suddenly become part of the family (albeit contrived) that lived in the closet and only came out when the lights went out. While it will be odd to see these imaginary creatures on the big screen, being able to revisit those warm feelings of childhood is an experience I’m wholeheartedly looking forward to.
3-12-2008 Brooklyn, NY
My latest read is called Lies my teacher told me. The author, James Leowen, details the many fallacies present in the twelve most commonly used high school American history textbooks. Not only is it a fascinating perspective on the editing of school textbooks, but also gives a different twist to American history itself. Leowen’s attempt at illuminating revisionist history doesn’t seek to reinvent the wheel, only to establish widely accepted views on important historical events in completely outdated (Euro-centric) textbooks. Some of the things I’ve learned so far:
~Most explorers (including Columbus) knew that the world wasn’t flat. They had seen the curvature of the Earth plenty of times in calm seas as ships disappeared over the horizon hull first, then sails followed.
~It took Columbus only one month to reach Hispañola, not two. He sailed on mostly calm seas and there wasn’t any threat of mutiny.
~The people that landed on Plymouth Rock weren’t all pilgrims.
~The English who landed in Jamestown had no clue how to farm the land. They realized this only after they had massacred most of the local tribes. They had to resort to eating the bodies of the people they’d killed in order to survive the first winter.
~Without the Native Americans (the Pequots), the English that landed in Massachusetts most likely would have suffered the same fate as those in Jamestown. The first thanksgiving was celebrated when the Pequots brought the English immigrants food. A few years after learning these farming techniques, the English allied themselves with a rival tribe and were ordered to burn the Pequot village. William Bradford described the scene “It was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fire and the streams of blood quenching the same, and horrible was the stink and scent thereof; but the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave praise thereof to God, who had wrought so wonderfully for them.”
There are plenty more interesting events that high school history books omit, and it truly is a shame that this is the case. The main argument seeks to prove the old saying that if we don’t learn from history, we’re doomed to repeat it. Do young folks nowadays really care about history though? It seems as though our culture has been somewhat homogenized in the last twenty years. This is evident in my brother’s generation (X), a culture of complacency has developed. There is more of an emphasis on what goes on in the entertainment and financial worlds. It’s tough to have a conversation with kids my age when it comes to history and philosophical ideals. Are cash, fame and glory the kings of our new world?
We just went through an election that had so many implications, both historically and culturally, and I find myself wondering if most people are still just looking at skin color as the main factor for ‘change’? While his stump speeches focused on changing many of the current political agendas, Obama seems to have selected a cabinet of former Clintonites. Are we content as a people with trying to repeat the Clinton administration’s policies in the current environment? It seems to me that people think that now the election is over, there isn’t anything to worry about. How many people knew that, in a really disturbing move, Obama left Bush’s Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates, at his post for a time frame that was described as “open-ended”. What!!!??? Where’s the big change we asked for with you, Barack? Granted it’s still early, but if current picks like Gates and Hillary “Hawk” Clinton keep rolling in, I’ll be pissed at the direction this new administration is moving towards.
In conversations I’ve had with people about these developments, it doesn’t seem like people are paying attention. That worries me. There doesn’t seem to be any public outcry, perhaps because the general populace is too busy watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show? Now that the election is over and America begins to move forward as a ‘colorless’ state, will complacency become the norm once more? We still have troops abroad, we’re still one auto sector away from a depression, and we still haven’t seen the worst. Just as Leowen warns in his book, we cannot ignore the past and see the election as the saving grace. It’s a blip on the radar, a band-aid on a gaping wound that is our country at the end of 2008. If Obama looks to keep the status-quo of the Clinton and Bush administration, don’t expect change to come anytime soon.
My Dearest loved ones,
Last year, a few colleagues of mine embarked on a failed mission – maintaining a hideously ugly mustache during the month of November to support a good cause. This year, there is a nice website to manage your donations and ensure that you get a nice tax break come April. If you need the tax form, please let me know and I’ll send it your way.
For anyone who donates, you’re all welcome to join the team party at the end of the month. Details will follow.
There are two methods of donation:
1. Click THIS LINK and donate online using your credit card or PayPal account, or
2. Write a check payable to the ‘Prostate Cancer Foundation’, referencing my Registration Number 1357221 and mailing it to:
Prostate Cancer Foundation
Attn: Movember
1250 Fourth St
Santa Monica, CA, 90401
All donations are tax-deductible!
The money raised by the ‘Stache is donated directly to the Prostate Cancer Foundation which will use the funds for high-impact research to find better treatments and a cure for prostate cancer.
Thanks in advance,
Wilhelm
Singapore Dreams 