New York can be a distracting place, a tough environment to imagine isolation and
silence, which is where my head is supposed to be these days. That said, New York is a very good place to find inspiration from others. While the constant flow of art and ideas can be numbing, it can also fit pieces in the puzzle as well. Last week, we attended the closing night screening of the New York Jewish Film Festival at Lincoln Center. The film was Hannah Arendt, an eponymous biopic directed by Margarethe von Trotta. 
The narrative is strong, as is the setting and atmosphere – more cigarettes smoked than in a season of Mad Men – but most memorable are the philosophical musings of Ms. Arendt. Credited with developing the idea of “the banality of evil”, Ms. Arendt’s pursuit of understanding is ferocious.
She argued that the Nazi leader Adolf Eichmann was not so much an evil-minded villain as an unthinking bureaucrat only doing his job. Viewers of the film witness Ms. Arendt espouse her theories to attentive students, argue her points with colleagues, and most interesting of all, contemplate the complexities of humankind as she sits and smokes at home, staring into oblivion. 
“The trouble with Eichmann was precisely that so many were like him, and that the many were neither perverted nor sadistic, that they were, and still are, terribly and terrifyingly normal. From the viewpoint of our legal institutions and of our moral standards of judgment, this normality was much more terrifying than all the atrocities put together.”
Category Archives: new york city
Ginger Ale: The Champagne of Soda
You can have your colas, un-colas and cream sodas, your spritely lemon limes and root beers…no soda matches a ginger ale. 
It doesn’t matter your age (5 or 105), the occasion (formal or on the sidewalk) or your state of being (puking or vibrant), a ginger ale is always crisp and delicious. I am no connoisseur, and I haven’t tasted them all, but Canada Dry is certainly the most reliable. 
Blenheim, of North Carolina, is hot and delicious, if you can find it. 
And for an incredibly gingery taste, there are always high-end options like the signature offering at En Japanese Brasserie in Tribeca. 
Just understand that it’s $9 a glass.
My Broken Hand, Tim Burton and Me.
I was biking today. And it was cold. -14 Celsius. 
It’s the same bitter cold as it was seven years ago in 2005 when the Metro Transit Authority (MTA) went on strike just before Christmas. I remember Mayor Bloomberg leading his entourage over the Brooklyn Bridge every morning to make sure that we all knew that we were in this together.
He’s always been good at doing that. And then they opened up Madison, an entire lane for biking, pyloned off and policed, which was amazing until a taxi door opened right in front of me, and I went heels over head, “No!” and banged flat upside down onto the curb. I lay, looking into the cold blue, police everywhere, and thought, “Yeah, I’m okay. I can feel everything. I’m okay.” I sat up. My helmet was cracked. My hand was bloody and sore. I shook it out. And then I stood. The cab driver was there, looking desperate. “Please, please, don’t sue me. You can’t do that.” I tried to calm him. And then I realized it was the passenger who had opened the door, and he was long gone. An ambulance arrived. I told the medic that I was fine. He told me I had a broken hand. I didn’t believe him. “You’re in shock, man. Look at your bike.” The front of it was entirely bent. He took us – me and my bike – to the hospital. I waited for the x-rays and read Gotham. 
They sewed up my hand and I suddenly felt sick. I hadn’t eaten all day. They gave me orange juice and wrapped my hand in a cast. I had to walk my bike to the shop. “Doored?” The bike guy asked. “How many stitches?” “It’s broken.” “Lucky you’re not dead.” I left the bike to be fixed and walked home, 45 blocks through densely crowded streets; the strike was still on. I didn’t take the prescribed codeine – I was too tired for that – and felt oddly content and adrift when I flew to England for Christmas. They gave me a business class seat because of my hand. I stayed at a Hyatt Resort south of London for Christmas with my sister and mother and found myself on the elevator with Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter. 
I said something inane and one of them smiled. I wrote every night in the hotel pub and thought I might run into them again and I did. They were at a table right behind me; they only had to glance over to see my words. Wouldn’t Mr. Burton like to chat with a writer who had a broken hand? That was kind of like Oyster Boy, right? 
He might even need a quick re-write or a scene conceived. I could do all of that so much the better with my crooked and lumpy claw. I wrote and drank and finally looked. He was gone. I knew it wouldn’t have worked anyway. I didn’t write like him; his stuff was too weird. I continued to write and edit until closing time every night and woke up late and then came back to New York, the transit strike resolved, the cold weather too. The only scar that remained was my inability to make a fist and the fact that Burton didn’t jump at his chance.
Christian Marclay’s “The Clock”: Artistic Insomnia
Late last night, we decided to visit Christian Marclay’s 24-hour art installation The Clock at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. It was a kind of insomnia, a filmic one, reminding us we were awake when most others weren’t.
Mastroianni in “8 1/2”
The piece chronicles moments in film in a full 24-hour loop, focusing on a specific time, thus operating as a virtual clock. We arrived at 10:45pm and expected to watch shortly thereafter until 2:00am or so; however we were told that it would be a three-hour wait. Unbelieving, we went ahead and were oddly heartened when we found the wait was to be only 2 1/2 hours. 
We moved slowly, very slowly and envied those in front of us who had planned ahead; they had magazines and books.
We mused, checked our messages – there were none – took turns going to the bathroom, thrilled at the incremental steps and stared at the slowly looming sign.
We finally arrived, yes, three hours later at 1:45am. We were sleepy as soon as we sat but the film was good. More than that. It was exhilarating. We were in a cinematic world at an alluring hour…trapped in the frame with lovers, drunks and confusion.
Fonda in “La Ronde”
Shue and Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas”
“Planes, Trains and Automobiles”
A woman beside us kept turning on her phone, and I had had enough. I leaned over, “Please stop playing with your phone.” She glared back. “I’m not playing. I’m texting my son.” What was she thinking? She was missing it! These were the witching hours of celluloid, the time of transition, from darkest night, lost in thought, to the realization of the approaching day. This was the time of winding clocks, standing naked by the window and watching emus walk through the bedroom.
“Tales of Ordinary Lives”
“Phantom of Liberty”
The man beside me, a vague mix between Andy Warhol and John Cale in pale sunglasses and what looked like a tea cosy draped on his head, was fully reclined and began to snore; it was 4:00am. 
We considered staying longer – until 5:00am and beyond – but thought it better to come back another time, whenever the event may be staged again. We would just have to go to bed early and have Marclay’s film as our virtual alarm clock for another day. 
New York Cranes
The New York Crane is not a rare bird. It can be see everywhere in the city, especially in Downtown Manhattan. 
As awkward and innocuous as they may appear, they have a tendency to collapse.
91st Street – May 2008
34th Street – April 2012
57th Street -October 2012
Long Island City – January 2013
It is nerving to see Downtown Manhattan resemble a nesting ground for these cranes.
Nassau and Anne Streets
John and Nassau Streets
World Trade Center Site
No matter how well these things might be functioning, I must admit to half-expecting one of them to “fall like a dinosaur” at any moment. I look forward to the day when they find another place to roost.
Manhattan Retreat
Downtown Manhattan is a noisy neighbourhood, making it hard finding a place to think. For example, while there is a park around the corner….
John Street Methodist Church Park
It is claustrophobic, more akin to a prison yard than a park. City Hall Park offers a beautiful fountain, festively decorated during the winter, for contemplation… 
But the traffic, on Park Row and Broadway, is a never-ending story. 
The East River Esplanade looks like it might have moments of quiet…
If not for the fact that the traffic on FDR Drive Overpass is worse.
The World Trade Memorial has potential as a place of solace…
Once the security checkpoints are gone and the construction is complete.
World Trade One projected completion date: 2014
Until then, I will have to accept that the only time silence comes anywhere around here is when a hurricane comes to town. 
But then the power is gone too…unless I get a generator. And there’s no quiet in that.
Writing about Distant Lands
There is a certain schizoid imbalance to writing about distant lands.
Battle Harbour, Labrador
My mind is half in the arctic, but when I walk the dog, I know that I am a long way from that.
John Street, Downtown Manhattan
I think of vast expanses, glacial winds, privation and suffering and remember that I need to get pecorino cheese and a nice Sicilian white for dinner.
Maiden Lane, Manhattan: 10 Weeks after Hurricane Sandy
The television cameras recently returned to the pier at the foot of Maiden Lane in Manhattan. 
This wasn’t for news on Hurricane Sandy, but a ferry accident in which 90 people were injured. 
It has now been over ten weeks since Hurricane Sandy, and this part of Manhattan, around Maiden Lane, remains much the same. 
The external generators and boilers are still in the streets. 
Many of the businesses remain closed. 
Yes, the Toyota Prius was removed, but it was just replaced by another external generator.
December 8, 2012
January 10, 2013
Now I am keeping watch on a pair of delivery bicycles which have been chained to the same spot since the storm.
November 15, 2012
January 10, 2013
It will be odd when all of these things are finally removed…by thieves or the city.
Coping with another Storm: Make a Fire
The miserable weather is back in New York.
Another storm, more rain and wind, and more flood warnings. Good God, enough already! Okay, well, at least we can make a fire, right? Not the crazy pyro-kind, kids, but the sensible lovely kind, the kind that soothes and makes all things right…for a little while anyway. First, you need your paper. 
Ball it up tight, page by page, and place those into the fireplace as your first layer. 
Then put in a layer of junk paper packaging things, whatever would be normally mounting toward more landfill. 
Next it’s the branches, the small and the big. And then a couple of small logs. 
The trick to a good fire is the oxygen. Make sure there’s gaps between everything. 
And then set it ablaze! Light as many places as you can without burning your fingers and make sure that the flue is open. 
Let it burn for a few minutes and then, once it has burned down, pile on another log or two cross-ways. Keep pushing the logs around. 
Make sure the oxygen gets inside. Once it’s going, it’s time to listen to the winds howl, the cold rain and snow batter against the windows or some favorite music. And, yeah, have a drink…ginger ale, tea, whatever. You deserve it. 
My goodness, we just made fire! Keep an eye on it. Stoke it. And get ready to do it all again soon. Another storm is forecast for Sunday.
Sufjan Stevens – Bowery Ballroom, 12/21/12
Sufjan Stevens played out the apocalypse at the Bowery Ballroom in New York last night. And I feel pretty good. 
It was a remarkably lovely show with Santa balloons, noisemakers and crazy costumes – a real X-Mess as Sufjan wrote on his shirt – but it was the music….my goodness, the music, that transfixed. He played many different things, many of them Christmas songs, some of them not, like one of the encores: To Be Alone With You. (Click for live clip of the song here.)
Sufjan Stevens is a remarkable presence with a profound sense of who he is, his mind working too fast, his talent radiating out, almost embarrassed about it…but not that at all.
Sufjan Stevens as the Christmas Unicorn.
Sufjan Stevens as the Christmas Unicorn
I’m the Christmas Unicorn! You’re the Christmas Unicorn too!
It’s a simple thing. It’s a wonderful thing. It doesn’t have to be a world full of guns, floods and death. It really can be something else. We just have to put on our damn balloon suits. That’s it.
Christmas unicorns and confetti for everyone.
And nominate Sufjan Stevens for President of the Inter-StellarCollective.