1847 says hello to 2011

In the midst of sheer exhaustion, I managed after several phone calls, to find myself on a train bouncing to a great uncles house in the middle of dense trees, and lots of grass that wasn't apart of Central Park.

In the midst of catching up face to face with my other 90 year old great-uncle, a large cloth was pulled from behind the couch and unwrapped until I found myself staring into a painted picture of grandparents five generations back that I had only heard about in fragmented conversations.

Another welcomed reminder in the chaos that appears to be my life these days that the past is always near by.

puzzlement and amusement

"Excuse me miss, do you work here?"

"No."

A puzzled look...

"But, you've been coming here everyday for the past three weeks."

" Research"

Still puzzlement as if it couldn't be comprehended that someone could be that dedicated and engrossed in something.

Then out of the blue:

"You read alot of books don't you? You don't look like you own one of those electronic readers."

I smiled back..yes I own alot of books, my bookcase hates me for it.

Guess I'm that strange of a cookie. Could be worse...

sound of silence

I had just concluded the week from hell and decided that the only way I would unwind from being a mouse on steroids would be by my favorite past time of walking. So under the Brooklyn Bridge I go, cut across Mott Street, sidestepping the shopping carts, displays of fish, fruits and bags, then Hester, then Orchard..looking for the Orchard Corset Shop, mainly to make sure it was still there. Forgot where it was, backtracked to the Manhattan Bridge, said fuck it, went back UP Orchard Street and passed the Tenement museum and clearly not caring how long it would take me to get home.

They crossed my path somewhere between Delancey and Houston. Didn't pay them any mind until I heard one of the men whistling. Then the other began singing in Hebrew with a shopping bag thrown over his shoulder like a knapsack. The woman remained silent and smiling with a bounce in her step.

I followed behind them, wondering how far they were going, but mostly because I wanted to hear the whistling and the Hebrew. Up First Avenue, past Third Street, Fifth, Ninth..past DeRobertis cafe, glance in at the tiled ceiling and desserts. They weave their way along Stuyvesant Town, before turning to disappear in a courtyard of that city unto itself. On the corner they turn and smile absentmindedly in my direction and I smile back.

And continue on my home, finally unwound.

Repost from My Private Coney

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Welcome To His New York. Got Kidney?

This is Juan.

And he needs a kidney.

He's New York Mitchell Lama houses on 95th and Amsterdam. When he was growing up there, you still could see New Jersey from Amsterdam. Never lived anywhere else but New York (and you can't count those 8 months in Kansas City). His high school job was opening-the- doors-closing-the-doors at the Planetarium. TWA flight attendants, then glamorous heroes of the sky, in full length fur coats taught him the difference between a silly drink of vodka and orange juice and the sophistication of a kir royale. Christmas finery in those days was skinny jeans and a shirt unbuttoned down to there. Well, after all it was the 70's.

Then Tom met him.



Tom is not from New York. He's from Missouri. He moved to New York and went to a Buddhist gathering. Took one look at Juan and that was that. And that was 26 years ago. Tom is the only reason Juan lived in Kansas City for eight months.

I ask Juan, "What about you is New York?"

"I experienced everything. We didn't grow up with money, but I experienced everything."

This is my friend, Juan. And what I want him to experience is something he hasn't before - a new kidney.

So if you are B+ or maybe even O or O+ or 0- and you got a kidney, my friend needs your help.

And if you are not any of those things, would you help and pass this post forward? Post it to your blog, post it to your facebook, send it out with your pigeons, let your friends know.

Spread the word. And welcome to His New York.

photos for an overworked brain to submerge in..

Confectory Store-1924

Bike Store-1912

Woolworth Building at Night-1913

all from Shorpy

thoughts on a rainy day

Character is determined more by the lack of certain experiences than by those one has had.

All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking.

One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.

When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.


-Nietzsche

34 going on 110

                 I'm a good pretzeler = I'm a good German ( in his slang)

It seems like only yesterday ( which it was.. literally and figuratively) that two German-Jewish immigrants in their Yorkville tenement apartment welcomed a cute little baby boy named Arthur. Of course, little Arthur was the apple of his mother's eye...could do no wrong. Except the usual slip ups like robbery, homicide with a gun, grand larceny, beer baron, and policy king to name a few of his achievements by the time he reached his final birthday at the age of 34. You may not recognize the name Arthur Flegenheimer, but you would recognize his adopted moniker of Dutch Schultz.

He has also been the cause of excitement, writer's block, bottles of aspirin within easy reach and ridiculous wild goose chases through archives and police stations ( see some of my posts from early last year) as I work on a biography on the man. Pat Downey, a swell fella and awesome crime historian gave me the honor of doing a guest blog for The Dutchman's birthday which you can read here.

Happy Birthday Dutch!