Nobody Likes A Rat Redux

Last month, I was confronted by a large inflated rat on my way home from work. Two weeks or so ago, that rat, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, had followed me back to Brooklyn and planted itself in front of the construction site at 163 Washington Avenue, past which I walk every morning on my way to work. My commute is becoming rat-infested.

I still have no idea what the original rat was about but this rat appears connected to some sort of protest against the contractor running the construction site, one Pinmark Contracting. Indeed, this morning, I saw a couple of protestors with flyers and I took one:

According to the flyer, a rally is planned on Saturday, the 20th, at 10 AM. I looked the place up on Brownstoner and found nothing untoward. Google came up empty as well. If there is evil afoot here, it's been kept on the down-low. I'll be staying on top of things, mostly because I have to walk by there every day. My advice to these protestors: you need to get the word out better. And ditch the giant rat. Please.

Obama Wins, Brooklyn Celebrates

Congratulations to the new president, you've got a lot of work ahead of you and, goodness knows, it's not going to be easy.

Many observers and pundits wondered morbidly what might happen if Obama lost after having the comfortable lead in just about all the polls leading up to election night. Thankfully, we don't have to worry about that. What we will need to worry about is the poison of partisanship that is boiling in this country's life blood. It's endemic on both sides of the two-party fence and it has to stop.

In his speech, Obama inserted a plea to an end of partisanship in his speech but a glance at Politico.com or any other of the campaign-tracking websites will show that his campaign was as guilty as McCain's of playing dirty with spins, half-truths, and outright falsities. It remains to be seen if, having now won the office, he can put down the tools that helped get him there.

My fear has always been that Obama will prove to be an ordinary president, not much different than any other of recent history. However, one thing cannot be understated or forgotten: his election marks a sea change in what is demonstrably possible in the nation. And more, that the youth of this nation can be galvanized behind a cause that they believe in- that such a cause exists at all- and can, in ways that even eluded the promise of the generation of the 1960s, see that cause to conclusion.

My neighborhood has been pro-Obama almost from jump street. From my bedroom, I could here cheers and car horns reverberating from down the block. While I waited for Obama's speech, I snuck out to see what was up.

More Halloweenery

It looks like the spirit of... spirits is catching on the block. Just two doors down from the first building to undergo a fiendish face-lift arises another makeover of malevolent intent. At this rate the entire 'hood will be transformed into Halloween-Town before you know it.

Beware the Oogie Boogie!

Getting Into the Halloween Spirit

It's October, it's getting cold, and Halloween is fast approaching. One spot on Washington Ave. got a head start on the decoration rush. I hope this is just the start of things to come.

Anyone want to bet on how fast they'll get their Thanksgiving decorations up? I'm betting it's the day after Halloween.

We're Green, Baby, Green

I'd like give a brief doff of my cap to the Myrtle Avenue Brooklyn Partnership and volunteers for guiding three blocks in the 'hood to finish in the money in the Greenest Block in Brooklyn Competition. Kudos to all.

Saturday, Bloody Saturday

Matt, aka Max Power!, sent me an email about the next Bloody Battle, Saturday at the Pillow Cafe. The last Bloody Battle at Rope Bar featured Matt battling some Myrtle Ave. bars and restaurants in a Bloody Mary contest. This time, he's challenging spots on DeKalb. Here's the official marketing spiel:

You Are Invited To A BLOODY BATTLE!

WHEN: Saturday September 13th voting begins at 4pm ends at 9pm. Stop by just to vote or party all night! Winners will be posted for those who are unable to stay 'til the end.

WHERE: Pillow Cafe – 505 Myrtle Ave between Ryerson and Grand, Clinton Hill Brooklyn. Subways: C or G to Clinton/Washington -- walk to Myrtle and take a right.

WHO: Max Power VS Dekalb Ave

• Rustic
• Bonita
• Chez Oscar
• Madiba
• Alibi

WHAT: A bloody mary contest with a winner determined via a blind popular vote. Mixes are labeled A-F. The voting populous purchases a "Flight" of Bloodies, voting on their favorite mix without knowing the bloody identity. Each constituent turns in their ballot for a discount on the first order of their favorite mix. We calculate votes and number of each bloody sold to determine the winner. We announce the winner and which mix is whose after voting ends. It will also be posted afterwards for those who have to leave before voting ends. In case of a tie there is a special judges panel.

WHY: An ongoing battle to find the best bloody in Brooklyn! (aka The World!!) The Brooklyn Battle will culminate with all winners from each neighborhood competing for the Brooklyn Bloody Crown. Then it's on to Manhattan… with a brief stop in Costa Rica.

FAQ:

Q: How did the Bloody Battle start?

A: The first one started as a joke after months of shit talking amongst the bartenders on myrtle. I decided to have a throw down to prove I was the best. I came in 2nd by one vote – but I blame it on a chad!

Q: When will the Bloody Battles end?

A: Do you know how many places in the world make Bloody Mary's?

Q: How come you, Max Power, get to compete in each battle after not winning the first?

A: This seems like a really stupid question but people ask me all the time. The answer is simple really; it's my Battle and I can do what I want. Next Question!

Q: Likes?

A: Gouda

Q: Dislikes?

A: Non-pasteurized Gouda. Thank you, no more questions...

There you have it.

How to Eat Old Meat and Influence People

After a three week stay, my mother left for back home oversees on Tuesday. For a farewell dinner, I took her to the Peter Luger Steakhouse. At $83 for a finely aged steak for two, it's not a bargin but it is a damn good meal. The meat was buttery in that Food Network/Travel Channel talking-head foodie show sense and absolutely tasty. We made sure to leave enough room in our stomach for deserts. She went with the cheesecake and I went with the apple strudel, both with real shlag. Yeah, it was good.

If there was one low point to the meal, it was the service. Our waiter was nice enough but he didn't seem all there- we'd ask for something and he seemed to forget over, and over, and over again. It wasn't a big deal but it added an unneeded note of frustration to the meal.

---

It's not every day that I actually get a response to something I post (almost never) so I didn't want this comment, in response to my mini-rant to get buried in the ever-growing strata of blog posts. Here's what I said:

...A man in a suit was handing out pamphlets. Well, I assume that's what he was doing because he handed one to the man walking about fifteen feet ahead of me. However, he conspicuously turned his back as I approached and remained fixed, looking away, as I passed by him and down the stairs.

(See "Walter Mosley Doesn't Want Me" for the complete post.)

Here's the comment I received:

Todd,

I want to sincerely apologize if you believe my actions where intended to intentionally ignore you. When at a train station, one always tries to give campaign material to people leaving (for the "pm" rush hour traffic) the station and those who are entering (for the "am" rush hour") in order to maximize one's time and impact. So, again, I apologize if you believe I intentionally ignored you or if your feelings were hurt. Be well and have a productive remainder of the week.

Walter Mosley

I can't say that I understand exactly what he's saying. If he wants to give pamplets to people leaving and also to people entering, isn't that everyone who is accessing the station? Or, if he's saying he gives pamplets to people entering the station in the morning and then to those who are leaving the station in the evening, that doesn't wash either because I was entering the station in the morning. Therefore, I ought to have been targetted. I wasn't. Still, it's flattering that 1) he found my humble blog post and 2) responded. Dialog, people. That's how the healing starts.

The Strange Case of the Sick Hawk

A strange thing happened on the way to kickball yesterday, rather at kickball yesterday: a redtailed hawk had taken refuge in a tree in McCarren Park right off the playing fields.

Lots of people gathered around to take a look. One gentleman who seemed so sincere and serious that I could not help but believe him, shook his head sagely and said, quietly, "The hawk is very sick. It will die soon." I don't know how he knows this but it didn't take a trained eye to see the hawk looked more than a little under the weather.

Someone from Parks & Recreation did take a look at the poor bird of prey but I don't know if anything was done. I didn't go back to look for it when I left.

---

If the maybe-dying bird was an omen, it wasn't a good one. We lost narrowly 5-4 in game one and got crushed, 9-2, in game two. It was a bummer all around.

Working for the Weekend: Vacation Editon

My week ends here. Tomorrow I leave for Newport and the sea. Last night, I spent several hours perfecting a scowl and memorizing several hundred sea-shanties. I'll be gone for about twelve days and, thankfully, miss this weekend's G-train service change. At least this time it's much more straight forward than last weekend's debacle.

In other news, I got the final lens of my budding collection in from Amazon.com this morning: the Canon EF 50mm f/1.8 II lens.

---

As I prepare myself for the deep blue, I look back to my favorite marine character, the incomparable Quint. Let the Quint-isms begin!

Y'all know me. Know how I earn a livin'. I'll catch this bird for ya, but it ain't gonna be easy... Bad fish. It's not like going down to pond chasin' blue gills or tommy cots. This shark - swallow ya hole. L'il shakin', l'il tenderizin', down ya go. Now we gotta do it quick, that'll bring back the tourists, that'll put all your businesses on a payin' basis. But it's not gonna be pleasant! I value my neck a lot more than 3000 bucks chief! I'll find him for three, but I'll catch him... and kill him... for ten! Now you gotta make up your minds. Gonna stay alive and ante up? Or ya wanna play it cheap, be on welfare the whole winter. I don't want no volunteers; I don't want no mates. There's too many captains on this island. Ten thousand dollars for me by myself. For that you get the head, the tail, the whole damn thing.

. . .

Here's to swimmin' with bow legged women. Excuse me chief. Can't get a good man these days for under 60! They're all goin' at least 35 years! 45 year olds with women!

. . .

Break it up will ya chief! Daylight's wastin'! Front, bow, back, stern. You don't get it right, squirt, I throw your ass out the little round window on the side! Come on chief, this isn't no boy scout picnic! I see you got your rubbers! Ha ha ha! Here lies the fire Mary Lee, died at the age of a hundred and three, for fifteen years she kept her virginity. Not a bad record for this vicinity! All right commissioner, fasten your safety belts, ha ha ha! If you see a shark Hooper, swalla! Ha ha ha!

And, no Quint-a-thon can be complete without the classic:

Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, chief. It was comin' back, from the island of Tinian Delady, just delivered the bomb. The Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes. Didn't see the first shark for about a half an hour. Tiger. Thirteen footer. You know, you know that when you're in the water, chief? You tell by lookin' from the dorsal to the tail. Well, we didn't know. `Cause our bomb mission had been so secret, no distress signal had been sent. Huh huh. They didn't even list us overdue for a week. Very first light, chief. The sharks come cruisin'. So we formed ourselves into tight groups. You know it's... kinda like `ol squares in battle like a, you see on a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo. And the idea was, the shark nearest man and then he'd start poundin' and hollerin' and screamin' and sometimes the shark would go away. Sometimes he wouldn't go away. Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he's got... lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eye. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then, ah then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin' and the ocean turns red and spite of all the poundin' and the hollerin' they all come in and rip you to pieces. Y'know by the end of that first dawn, lost a hundred men! I don't know how many sharks, maybe a thousand! I don't know how many men, they averaged six an hour. On Thursday mornin' chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player, bosom's mate. I thought he was asleep, reached over to wake him up. Bobbed up and down in the water, just like a kinda top. Up ended. Well... he'd been bitten in half below the waist. Noon the fifth day, Mr. Hooper, a Lockheed Ventura saw us, he swung in low and he saw us. He'd a young pilot, a lot younger than Mr. Hooper, anyway he saw us and come in low. And three hours later a big fat PBY comes down and start to pick us up. You know that was the time I was most frightened? Waitin' for my turn. I'll never put on a lifejacket again. So, eleven hundred men went in the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out, the sharks took the rest, June the 29, 1945. Anyway, we delivered the bomb.

G, Thanks (With Extra Sarcasm)

I cut the G train a lot of slack because during the week, it's behaved very well. Particularly in the mornings, it's been running like clockwork. I can get from door to door in about 25-30 minutes. I can't complain about that. What I can complain about is the weirdness that overcomes the line on the weekends. Like a drunken hobo, it's unpredictable, sloppy, and smells of piss. This past Friday night, for my money, takes the cake.

Exhibit A in this case of temporary insanity was the service notice posted by the MTA: for the weekend, the F was replacing the C. The G was replacing the F. Left incomprehensively unsaid, however, was the fate of the G.

The uncertain fate of the G line proper came into play, as it must, right when I was least prepared to deal with it: at 11:30 on my way back home from Savalas in Williamsburg.

The platform was fairly crowded and only got more so as minutes began to drag by without sign from the G train. I kept reading the posted service notice over and over again and the one thing I kept thinking was: if the F is the C and the G is the F, what the hell is the G?

At one point, three G trains in a row came through the other side of the tracks. Also, at one point, a dark G train bolted through the station without slowing or stopping. People began to leave. In the pit of my stomach, a gnawing feeling surfaced: there would be no train tonight. But then why would they let us down here? Was this all a cruel joke? What the hell was going on?

By this time I was hot, I was tired, I was salty. It was 12:30. I'd been down in the bowels for an hour. I made a pact: if nothing showed up by 1, I would get out, even if that meant walking home. At 12:45 an F train trotted into the station. Less than fifteen minutes later I was home.

The rest of the weekend bore out the theory that nothing replaced the G, at least not on this side of Hoyt-Schermerhorn. The problem was that the service notice doesn't say on which side of that station the route switches. Since traffic runs through there in both directions, how is anyone supposed to know which side of that traffic has been shunted off?

Saturday, I did find this diagram of the action that concretized the idea that the MTA was gunning for:

Wouldn't this have made a handy addition to the rest of the service change signage at all the stations on the effected route? Yes, it would have. But the MTA didn't do it. Don't ask me why.

I don't know how many people Friday night gave up on the G and opted for a taxi or car service out of boredom, frustration, or whatever. I bet it was a good night for the car services. I was ready to walk. Thankfully, the whole thing didn't quite boil over that far. Not yet, anyway. Give it a few more weekends.

Stimulus Response

There's been an uptick in crime recently in my adopted 'hood lately. As the New York Times remarked a few days ago:

In recent months, an old crime has started to reappear... on the border of Clinton Hill and Bedford-Stuyvesant: a spate of muggings that has caught some in the neighborhood by surprise. People walking or biking alone have been attacked with punches, kicks — and in one case, a baseball bat — and then had their cellphones or purses stolen before they could recover.

Source: "Muggings Revive Memories of an Area’s Bad Old Days" by Kareem Fahim

Whether due to this unwanted attention from the city's leading paper or other pressures, I've noticed a much increased presence of NYPD in the area this week. From the mobile command center I spotted sitting on the corner of Myrtle and Steuben to the uniformed officers walking the beat, there is a clear show of force going on in the Hill.

Last night, I listened to a woman ask one cop what it was all about and he admitted it was about the aforementioned crime rise. Nice to know someone heard the calls to action.

My only concern is this: while flexing the law's muscles will surely drive the criminal element into hiding, this will only last as long as the force lasts. Unless progress in identifying, arresting, and prosecuting the criminals is made, all this force will be essentially futile. The cockroaches will come out as soon as the lights go out, so to speak. The lights are on now. How long they stay on, is anyone's guess.

...Clinton Hill, unlike any other NYC neighborhood I’ve lived in, is a place where people know their neighbors. Crime or no crime, let’s just watch out for one another. K?

Source: "Fear-Mongering and Crime" by lesterhead

Quoted for truth.

Let It Tree

It's Beetlemania! Except way more disturbing: nasty tree-killing beetles have invaded from China (let the consipracy theories begin... now!) via wooden crates and palettes. According to Parks & Recreation, these little buggers are nasty:

Tunneling by [Asian Longhorned Beetle] larvae damages the vascular system of the tree. Repeated attacks lead to dieback of the tree crown, and, eventually, death of the tree. The beetle presents a serious threat to the trees of New York City and has also infested parts of Long Island and Chicago.

The beetles are known to attack maple, horsechestnut, elm, willow, birch, poplar, and ash trees...

Maple? Elm? Birch? Nobody tunnels through the vascular system of a tree in my town!

As someone who enjoys a good tree, I'll be keeping my eyes open. Let's kick these tree-hating bugs back to the Pre-Cambrian!

Not-So-Random Detritus: Monday Edition

Weekend with cousin Paul came to an end. It was a good time but we didn't get to do a couple of things I wanted to do (the Unfancy Food Show and McCarren Park) and a couple of things he wanted to do (a Broadway show, a museum). I should have known some devilry was at work when Paul's flight got cancelled and he had to fight and claw to get into a later flight to Newark and ultimately arrive at my apartment at 3:30 AM.

Given that we didn't get to sleep until 4, I think we did well to get up and going at 11. After brunch at the Pillow Cafe, we took a jaunt around the 'hood and through Fort Greene Park.

It was about 2 PM when we finished there and headed down to Prospect Park with an eye for hitting up the museum. We got to the park and took a turn through the grounds but we began to tire and the weather began to sour. We turned back. A party in Prospect Heights ended the evening. The party was excellent except for a viscous, neverending conversation I got sucked into. By the end, I was praying for the Nothing to sweep me away into sweet oblivion. Where's Gmork when you need him?

Sunday, after brunch at Maggie Brown, we went perusing at the Brooklyn Flea. I came out a winner but, again, some grumpy weather turned us back. The afternoon was consumed by Metal Gear Solid IV. Dinner was pizza, followed by some of my British TV imports (The Smoking Room, Peep Show, assorted Mitchell & Webb) and, just like that, Sunday was in the books.

I liked that we stuck to Brooklyn this time around. He got to see a different flavor then he usual, something more unique, in some ways more quintessentially New York. I hope he enjoyed it and doesn't regret not seeing Manhattan. I think he did. I'm reasonably sure. Plus we got to avoid the G train over the weekend, bonus!

Talking About Clown Music

I took my cousin to the Brooklyn Flea today. As we wandered past the eclectic stalls, I caught sight of this old-timey music album: "Fairground Favorites: Music of the Circus Midway". I had to have it.

Look at the clown, how he shrugs, his "So, I'm a clown" expression confessing so much while saying so little, mostly because it's a picture. If only the old clown could talk.

The back cover of the album has some wonderful flavor text. It's too good not to post the whole thing:

The spashy colors, the smells and the nostalgic sounds of the circus midway are brought to life on this record! Featuring authentic old-time fairground instruments recorded by the latest in modern techniques you'll almost feel that you're there in person as you hear the melodies.

On its way into town the Tangley Calliope leads the circus parade. Its high-pressure tones are carried by the wind a mile away--and bring people in throngs to see the caged lions, the red and gold painted bandwagon, the jolly clowns and the ponderous elephants.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!," cries the circus barker. Before you try your luck at pitching rings you pause in front of the gay little (but very LOUD!!!) Wurlitzer brass trumpet organ. It then becomes silent for a few moments as the roll rewinds--and then the trumpets sound forth again! People come by the dozens to see what is making all the music!

Now we go for a ride on the merry-go-round. Climbing aboard our brightly paited steed we gallop up and down to the strains of the mighty Wurlitzer 165 band organ as it plays "Our Director" and "Skater's Waltz." All-too-soon the bell clangs and the carousel comes to a stop. We step down and, for a change of pace, head for a nearby pavilion for some soda and ice cream.

Music! Music! Music! In the circus the music is everywhere! As we pause to collect our thoughts we are fascinated by the mellow strains of the Jazz Orchestra which sounds just like a toe-tapping combo!

Before we realize it our day at the circus is over. Now we can hardly wait 'til it comes to town again next year!

The prose is so vivid, you can almost smell the carnies. Notice, they don't mention how the ring toss is probably rigged, the appalling conditions of the caaged lions, or the substandard working conditions. Maybe things were different then. Maybe.

Unfortunately, I do not presently own a turntable so I won't actually get to listen to the album for the moment. Until then, I'll just bask in sad-eyed stare of the old-timey clown. Jolly, indeed.

DEVO At the Pool

I mentioned yesterday that DEVO played the pool at McCarren Park while I was undergoing my strenous kickball training. BrooklynVegan got some montage video from the concert. Cue the video!

Port-A-Posse Flushes the Rule of Law

For $35. For $35, some dopes pistol-whipped, beat down, and stuffed two security guards in port-a-potties, then undressed them and left them lying on the ground. For $35. It would be funny accept for the beat-downs. Beat-downs just aren't funny, even if they involve portable toilets.

Three thugs forced their way into a Lombardy Street parking lot on June 22, confining the security guards in a portable toilet and beating them mercilessly with the butt of a handgun.

Source: "CANNED! A Port-A-Potty posse beats up a security guard" by Ben Muessig

read more

Not Food For Dandies

I've been keeping my eyes peeled for things to do this weekend with my cousin coming to town. This looks like a good one: the Unfancy Food Show. A bit of research revealed some info on the food fair:

This year nearly 20 producers, from Jasper Hill Farm in Vermont, where brothers Andy and Mateo Kehler make amazing cow’s milk cheeses, to Cut Brooklyn in Red Hook, where Joel Bukiewizc makes amazing knives (for cutting the farmstead cheese), will be hanging out at the East River Bar in Williamsburg all Sunday afternoon, beers in hand, courtesy of Sixpoint Craft Ales.

Source: "UnFancy Food Show and BBQ" by Annaliese (Brooklyn Based)

This sounds like a winner to me.

He Was the Walrus

I don't know precisely why, but this bummed me out:

The New York Aquarium is mourning the loss of a Pacific walrus named Ayveq. Ayveq was about 14. He died Sunday after a short illness.

Source: "Death of a Coney Walrus" from Gowanus Lounge

I almost went to the aquarium after watching the Mermaid Parade... but I didn't. Oh well.

A melancholy goo-goo-ga-choo to you too.

Kicking Ball and Taking Names

For the past month or so, I've been trying to get onto a kickball team. About a year ago to the week, my cousin and I were in Central Park and we saw a kickball game in progress. It looked like fun. He suggested I try to get in a league but I couldn't find anything open. That was last year.

It wasn't until last month that I remembered to try to get into a kickball team. At first, it was a replay of last year: everything was booked. I did get myself on a free agent player waiting list. I decided to wait to see what developed. I waited. Waited. And waited some more.

By sheer chance, I was checking my email when someone (the lovely Liz as it turned out) sent a message to the free agent pool looking for players. I rattled off a reply as fast as I could get one off. She responded quickly. I was in. That was yesterday. Today I met the team: Team Peavy.

We met at Radegast Hall in Billyburg. The team was in its bye-week but decided to get together for some bonding time, particularly in light of gaining quite a few new team-members. It was a smart play. Some intros, bratwurst, and assorted beverages later, we headed to American Apparel to look for team uni colors. Right now we're undecided. Judging from the color combos being bandied about, we'll be colorful, to say the least.

After that, we headed out to McCarren Park. There are a lot of kickball teams out there: playing, waiting, hanging out. My first thought was: I need practice, STAT. (We're talking about practice.) We spent the rest of the evening meeting a couple of folks from the team, The People's Court, eating a couple of street tacos, and nursing a few discreet alcoholic beverages in Styrofoam cups (water for me).

Coming home, I'm ready to play. I am ready to play. Well, I'm ready to go out there and kick some balls in the park. I think I can say that much. But I am intimidated. There are teams out there, teams of people in tank tops with their names (or at least a name) and numbers on the back. These are top players. Top. Players.

Thursday is practice. I need practice. I am ready for that. Well, I think I'm ready. I'll say I'm ready. I can say that. I think.

A Day at the Beach

I'm back from the Mermaid Parade and all I got was a couple of lousy t-shirts. And pictures. Lots of blurry, badly framed pictures:

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

I got some color, maybe a bit too much color. I guess I should have worn some sunscreen, especially up top but I'm trying to lose the duo-tone look of the newly bald man. We'll see what happens, besides skin cancer.

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