tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37215471755508566402024-03-14T05:30:24.350-07:00Our TownsMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-46438302695841448652010-09-18T11:51:00.000-07:002010-09-18T14:23:40.718-07:00Katrina, Five Years After<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqUckmvrebpEwPbe8vCgJQwf4nGtfh8ZMnthUtSpXBs5IqtBzUcKkzRlcYkIA3bFApsQd8u6Tnmr7N25um1skLcYZanOC5ThVeukdX6M_9K3UFO1S8iDkT_P-_5gv5ENyazJZwvM3LkqW/s1600/Katrina+2009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518365290341412706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 229px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqUckmvrebpEwPbe8vCgJQwf4nGtfh8ZMnthUtSpXBs5IqtBzUcKkzRlcYkIA3bFApsQd8u6Tnmr7N25um1skLcYZanOC5ThVeukdX6M_9K3UFO1S8iDkT_P-_5gv5ENyazJZwvM3LkqW/s320/Katrina+2009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>Amid the - forgive me - flood of media coverage marking the five year anniversary of Hurricance Katrina in late August, these three pieces caught my attention. Herewith:<br /><br />On August 20th, <a href="http://www.josh-levin.com/">Josh Levin</a>, a Senior Editor at Slate in charge of the sports and technology sections, who hails from New Orleans, wrote an article called <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2264406/">Five Years Later</a> detailing how Katrina has both changed the city and his perception of his hometown. "While the storm did alter New Orleans' physical landscape, " Levin writes, "its effects have been as much internal as external. Katrina was a collective disaster endured in private, a tragedy that caused a rupture in time for every New Orleanian. Lives are now divided into pre-Katrina and post-Katrina segments, with everything after the hurricane connected to the stuff before it by a jagged line, if it's connected at all." This last point about pre- and post-Katrina absolutely rang true during my visit to New Orleans in March. If a local began to tell a story and the narrative stretched back to an event that occured before the storm, without fail the phrase "before Katrina" would emerge. This parallels how many New Yorkers segment a time "before 9/11," too.<br /><br /><div><div>Following the "jagged line" extending out to New Orleanians in the aftermath of Katrina, one finds this insightful piece by <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/author/nicole-laporte/">Nicole LaPorte</a>, senior West Coast reporter for The Daily Beast, on the prevelance of divorces in the wake of the storm. As Katrina bore down, families and couples cobbled together plans to evacuate and prepare for exiles of undetermined length, "Katrina became a truth serum for a lot of folks," quotes Ray Cannata, a Presbyterian paster in New Orleans. If a relationship was rocky or lifeless (or both) pre-Katrina, it could hardly withstand the stress of this natural disaster. Simply put: physical separations caused by the storm made divorces less messy. As I read the piece, I began to think this is one of the more underreported outcomes of Katrina. It may well be, though LaPorte offers this reason: the large migration of people has made it difficult to pin down hard statistics on divorce patterns. </div><br /><div>While the effects of Katrina, five years on, have been "as much internal as external," as Levin writes, massive public works and recovery projects have taken effect on the physical side. From Google Earth's fascinating <a href="http://google-latlong.blogspot.com/">Lat Long Blog</a> comes a <a href="http://google-latlong.blogspot.com/2010/08/remembering-hurricane-katrina.html">slideshow</a> of aerial photos taken before and after the reconstruction of the Biloxi Bay Bridge, with time-stamped photos of the Lower Ninth Ward for good measure. As Google Earth team member and compiler of this slideshow, Kate Hurowtitz, writes, "these now-familiar images of the Lower Ninth Ward are no less heartbreaking today than they were when we first saw them." No less heartbreaking than the collage of photographs at the top of this page, taken in 2009, I'd hasten to add. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-87103774858081879452010-05-22T15:51:00.000-07:002013-05-07T12:27:28.265-07:00The Way of the World (NYRB), review<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0p_8SlVJCzCeo3q2FJRFAfVDUxQacel-pbQlNETxP3FqgIglTl4JN3Oo3W4FDJtoXM2lSb1xoj-avD18T6bJnkkuhMIRyEhDksbvzLW-jPcHiNKLR2OPlabWlKbNb0mI3Aao6KMrPwXi/s1600/Cover.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474256027124213266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0p_8SlVJCzCeo3q2FJRFAfVDUxQacel-pbQlNETxP3FqgIglTl4JN3Oo3W4FDJtoXM2lSb1xoj-avD18T6bJnkkuhMIRyEhDksbvzLW-jPcHiNKLR2OPlabWlKbNb0mI3Aao6KMrPwXi/s320/Cover.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Although <i>The Way of the World</i> centers around two young
male travelers—one, the scribe; the other, the philosopher-artist—<i>On the Road </i>it is not. The epigraph to <i>World </i>gives a clue to the motives behind
why the men in this book travel: "I shall be gone and live, or stay and
die." (Shakespeare) This is restlessness at its most basic. There is no
choice but to seek. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Nicholas
Bouvier, author of the book and journals on which <i>World</i> is based, and his companion, artist Thierry Vernet, set out
from Geneva in 1953, in the shadow of a world war that left its bloody prints
all over Europe. They drive east in a beat-up Fiat heading for the Kyhber Pass
into Afganistan. They plan to finance their trip as they go: through Bouvier’s
writing (in Istanbul he sells a "long piece on Lapland, with photos ...
for fifteen <i>lirettes</i>.") and with
sales of Thierry’s paintings and drawings—many of which, happily, illustrate
the book—at the seemingly infinite village markets on their route. They earn enough
only for the roughest accommodations, and so they get by on favors, bribes, and
no small amount of luck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474256865382157714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbC_j-Ys2fV0ZFBz8GrFdSwodB2bfa1gQqlT1-O3tooqN5cwsdICVj9v2TQqrG2dquiThPLWE3PL2fSLeqK2m09Q2R6NHtuBrg5VbA0JVr9Nr72PnRW__xh0gsrOloz1OwEhMjTvLr_K6_/s320/drawing+1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 237px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And music.
One night they stop at a gypsy encampment in Bojogevo, Serbia. After rounds of
wine and smoked fish, Bouvier records the gypsies as they play, "crude,
rousing, vociferous songs ... of ordinary life, poaching, small windfalls, the
winter moon and empty stomachs." Upon waking, Bouvier plays the recording
back for the gypsies and "it was excellent: their voices timid at first,
soon lapsing into rustic bellows, irresistibly gay. They listened with their
eyes closed in pleasure, smiles on their hatchet faces. Bojogevo had never
heard its music issuing from a machine." How better to make new friends?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">In
addition to his knack for winning people over, Bouvier writes remarkably well
about place. Take, for example, Belgrade. This is how it comes to life in
summer: "It is a morning city: at six o'clock the municipal watering cart
sweeps away the refuse left by the market-garden trucks and the shops' wooden
shutters bang open; at seven, all the cafes are jumping." Further, it is a
town "where horses bore children's names.” And when Bouvier would sit down
in a cafe to write, the owner "would bring a pot of purple ink and a rusty
pen."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474257176769610002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5IQ1u-dIVAwFpStdfGVwhcoqQ6b3R5SqwrDlTmWIv_xoUmDjWYBEb5AgFpTGrJhgCZIMlTKEwTnLdnyfRq0L9j1643s8XtKRxh1BJbyGCqeXa43wKH0buTXWDyhi28xFSU9VIq69gzF-O/s320/drawing+2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 237px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><br />
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The strength of Bouvier's prose is the care with which he lays out a
double commentary both on what he sees and how he interprets it. And it's this intimacy
to <i>The Way of the World</i> that hooks
the reader, gets him to believe, if only for a moment, he's rumbling in the
hatch of the Fiat, the scent of melons pouring out of the glove compartment.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-38674537041594996772010-03-14T19:45:00.001-07:002010-03-14T20:06:36.823-07:00What Cleveland Means To Joe PosnanskiHere's an excerpt from one of sportswriter and blogger Joe Posnanski's always literate and exploratory - when's the last time you saw "sportswriter" and "literate" in the same sentence? I'll tell you when: not since Mitch Albom - blog posts. A link to the full post is just below. I'll follow up soon with what Detroit / metro Detroit means to me. City-conscious juices are flowing ... <br /><br />http://joeposnanski.com/JoeBlog/2010/02/26/snuggies-on-parade<br /><br /><div><div><br /></div></div><div></div><blockquote type="cite"><div><p> See to me, Cleveland — and Cincinnati and Charlotte and Kansas City and every other place I have lived — has always been at its best when it was unapologetic and immune to what other people thought. Dance like no one is watching. One of my heroes, Calvin Trillin, writes all the time about coming to a place and trying to find the best restaurant in town. People will always insist on taking him to some ridiculous restaurant with four stars and continental cuisine, a place he began to call "La Maison de la Casa House." This is NEVER the best restaurant in town. Calvin Trillin would see about 20 better restaurants along the way. But people so rarely appreciate what make their own places wonderful. Often, they are EMBARRASSED by what makes their own places wonderful.</p> <div>This goes way beyond food. People in every city I go to will talk one minute how much they despise New York and in the next, when you ask where you should go out that night, they will inevitably try to send you to some little part of town that is supposed to trigger images of Greenwich Village or the Upper East Side in a minor key. Cleveland, for a long time, tried to sell itself as a little New York, which it very much is not. Cleveland is Cleveland. Cleveland is ethnic and sarcastic and covered in snow. Cleveland is optimistically-pessimistic (or pessimistically optimistic) and bigger than you think and smaller than it used to be. Cleveland has a great symphony, a great art museum, a great playhouse and the vast majority of people in town (including me) would rather watch the Browns. Cleveland has potholes and abandoned buildings and has not won a championship since 1964. Cleveland has brick houses and close-knit neighborhoods and a lot of ice cream shops. The sky is often gray.</div> <div> </div> <div>What I love about Cleveland has never been easy for me to put into words because it is something that comes from growing up there. Cleveland feels distinct to me, different from every other city in the world. Cleveland to me is my Uncle Lonka playing the accordion at weddings. Cleveland to me is the smell of bread while driving on Mayfield past Corbos Bakery. Cleveland to me is the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysmLA5TqbIY" target="_blank">Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video</a> on YouTube and the wildly different reactions it inspires in Clevelanders. Cleveland to me is the people playing chess at the Arabica Coffee House. Cleveland to me is a baseball game on a cold April afternoon under gray skies.</div> </div></blockquote>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-46210943417861425122010-01-24T10:00:00.000-08:002013-05-07T10:37:14.838-07:00A Team, A Town, A Tour<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvC0kItlyW2jPs9UMlrFdAuN9JbDK6R5CBcD4qJFk7m1b24_O9ehekT0HvlDMaVAhRD8wlsI3SjmrY0J9SwHC3_cHgbXu6ufHcgr4SWz2e6Ug_9GjkbhvKlVQdve4SG7Po-hahKQTMHS8/s1600-h/ebbets+overlay.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421954987720881730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvC0kItlyW2jPs9UMlrFdAuN9JbDK6R5CBcD4qJFk7m1b24_O9ehekT0HvlDMaVAhRD8wlsI3SjmrY0J9SwHC3_cHgbXu6ufHcgr4SWz2e6Ug_9GjkbhvKlVQdve4SG7Po-hahKQTMHS8/s320/ebbets+overlay.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a> <a href="http://nymag.com/news/sports/37643/index1.html">(Photo: Christopher Nesbet [Photo and Illustration])</a><br />
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EBBETS FIELD AUDIOWALK (script)<br />
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I didn't know much about audio documentary and production before starting this project but, with the help of a few tech-oriented friends and good old trial-and-error, I learned a few tricks -- how to pick up ambient noise on the sly, turn my phone into a recording device, even "cold-call" craigslist ads to set up interviews. I enjoyed all of it. But, in the end, I think what I liked most was writing the scripts, tagging where a bit a sound should go to embellish the composition, conducting the thing from start to finish. <br />
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Baseball fans, I know, I know: Ebbets and the Dodgers are no longer. The field was razed in the 60's and the Dodgers now play on the west coast. All true. This was the project's main conceit: to recreate an object, place, and / or a time that no longer exists. I decided that the tour should pass the perimeter of where the field once stood -- now the paleolithic and drab Ebbets Field Apartments -- touching on various sights and landmarks as points of entry to the field, the Dodgers, and a thick slab of Brooklyn history. So, I wrote the script, marked the tour out in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, and brought in some ambient street noise and old songs (Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," Sinatra's "There Used to Be a Ballpark") to round out the production and place it in its time.<br />
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Then I set about producing it. I used Audacity, a multi-track mixing program that's free online. Limited and clunky compared to ProTools, it works just fine for short projects like this. I recorded the narration in a storage closet at my office over a number of Saturday afternoons. The tour is broken into five parts and runs 9:40. Give yourself 20-30 minutes to complete the walk. Here's a <a href="http://ebbetsfieldtour.tumblr.com/">link</a> to the audio files, recorded and mixed October - December, 2009.</div>
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And here's the script--enjoy!</div>
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INTRO<br />
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Welcome to the Ebbets Field audio walk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEZXI3K-NGDXxABRx8BSiocUJnZqdQfliUMDI5t5mC0pwfRkILvCjafQY5l8ap7SoKomB3MMNdwESjJjEhTYuNIv7XteMhl02vAyZ08cmd5Yrgm-bYxnjX7ytd7yLZ16711Vyi52aPkNg/s1600-h/Ebbets+apts+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430155104329048562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEZXI3K-NGDXxABRx8BSiocUJnZqdQfliUMDI5t5mC0pwfRkILvCjafQY5l8ap7SoKomB3MMNdwESjJjEhTYuNIv7XteMhl02vAyZ08cmd5Yrgm-bYxnjX7ytd7yLZ16711Vyi52aPkNg/s200/Ebbets+apts+1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a>You should now be on the corner of McKeever Place & Sullivan Place in Brooklyn, NY. On April 15th, 1947, no more than fifty feet from where you’re standing, Jackie Robinson bounded out of the Brooklyn Dodgers dugout along the third base line – parallel to McKeever – to become the first African-American to play Major League Baseball. Of the 26,632 people who attended the game that day, 14,000 were African-American.</div>
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Imagine being there: you sit down in your seat, tip your fedora to a familiar face in the crowd, breathe in the smells of cut grass and spilled beer as cheers rise around you, cascading down Flatbush Avenue and out over Prospect Park. Robinson pounds his hand into his glove and bends into position at second base. You’re charged with an electricity bubbling in the crowd as it witnesses history, as it sheds the skin of an old, tired era.<br />
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On this tour of Ebbets Field, home of the Dodgers until 1957, you will not see the field, which was demolished in 1960. This tour will take you along the perimeter of where the field once stood, touching on what little remains here of the team and its short but memorable history. The field was built in 1912 on a 4 ½ acre plot in Brooklyn bordered by four streets – McKeever Place, Montgomery Street, Bedord Avenue and Sullivan Place. At the time, some referred to the parcel of land as “Pigtown” because the site was filled with makeshift trash dumps where pigs would go to feed on the waste each morning. Nonetheless, the first owner of the team, Charles Hercules Ebbets, gave his name to a field serviced by nine trolley lines and a stone’s throw from Brooklyn’s main drag, Flatbush Avenue, and watched a budding community take shape around it.</div>
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Stop #1 on the tour is in the very place you’re standing, the corner of McKeever and Sullivan. Please start Track #1.<br />
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TRACK #1<br />
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Jackie Robinson Intermediate School is ahead on your left. On April 15th, 1997, fifty years after Robinson broke the so-called “color barrier,” a mountain ash was planted in his honor at the school’s entrance. You’ll pass the tree, as well as a striking mural of Robinson painted on an outdoor wall in just a moment. But stay put for now. Position your body so when you hold our your left arm it’s flush with McKeever, and your right arm is flush with Sullivan. You’re facing where the main entrance to the field used to be, and if you were to take a few steps into the street – please DO NOT do this – you’d be inside the rotunda. And this was no ordinary rotunda: 80 feet wide, tiled with Italian marble decorated like the stiching on a baseball, and lit by a massive chandilier featuring twelve arms shaped like baseball bats. Nothing is left of the original rotunda, save a cornerstone donated to the Baseball Hall of Fame after the field was torn down. If you have a BlackBerry or iPhone, you may want to Google “Ebbets Field rotunda” to view some photos of the rotuduna in its time. For a live taste of the rotunda’s flash and elegance, you could go to CitiField in Queens , the new home of the New York Mets as of 2009, where a near-replica of the rotunda has been built.</div>
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Your next stop is on Montgomery Street, roughly halfway between McKeever Place and Bedord Avenue. You’ll simply walk along McKeever, make a right on Montgomery, then another right on Bedord until you begin to pass a row of parking spaces. As you do, you’re covering the entire breadth of the former outfield. Stop when you see a sign with familiar letter to your right. Find a way inside the parking lot, preferably through a gate. Then start Track #2. <br />
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TRACK #2 <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3NAiDiYMUmLbypQ6faCUzBeIkn0hik-uht0yf6EpCZKaM-JyqgnE2hwY2bQSnd20lGgEEq6fq5Vhfk2kbnYE997NEIDmko74wlnvlFj7WA9-06GXCTwE-jP1Zu4SnJAZBzMGz3nyG4n7/s1600-h/Ebbets+apts+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430157292609765474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3NAiDiYMUmLbypQ6faCUzBeIkn0hik-uht0yf6EpCZKaM-JyqgnE2hwY2bQSnd20lGgEEq6fq5Vhfk2kbnYE997NEIDmko74wlnvlFj7WA9-06GXCTwE-jP1Zu4SnJAZBzMGz3nyG4n7/s200/Ebbets+apts+2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a>You’ll notice the words “Ebbets Field” fitted on a wall in tall, white block letters. The words are there so plainly, without any supporting information, as if we’re to assume just beyond the words is THE Ebbets Field. Instead we see multi-storied, mammoth apartment complex with various wings and gates and walls, named Ebbets Field Apartments. All that's left of the park, in its former home, is a name and plaque (more on this shortly.)</div>
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Many of you may remember the apartments from Morgan Spurlock’s 2004 documentary, “Super Size Me,” about the health hazards of McDonald’s. Spurlock used the apartments as a backdrop when discussing the demographics McDonald’s targets with their ads. Let’s keep moving. Walk through the parking lot and stop in front of the numbers 1700 and 1720, on your right. Face them, and begin Track #3.<br />
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TRACK #3 <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMQmYaq2kfEntQYmSNNCrJMaL6ggKt5PUqqrFHMAATGnVN8rlr0Ns5GCm5vWvAWifbYOYBrDDAwWBXZIwdblfkV9TUE5sSRQq3jMvNy8he4e5yDb0PEEHt53Gbw_iwgNdvHmhqN2Uj2fB/s1600-h/Ebbets+st+%23%27s.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430157599199299586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMQmYaq2kfEntQYmSNNCrJMaL6ggKt5PUqqrFHMAATGnVN8rlr0Ns5GCm5vWvAWifbYOYBrDDAwWBXZIwdblfkV9TUE5sSRQq3jMvNy8he4e5yDb0PEEHt53Gbw_iwgNdvHmhqN2Uj2fB/s200/Ebbets+st+%23%27s.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a>Walk a little closer to the numbers and you’ll see a concrete plaque embedded in the brick, low to the ground. You may need to pin back a bush to see it clearly. On the slab is an engraving with a baseball and the words “1962: This is the former site of Ebbets Field.” Are you impressed by this plaque? Do you feel it honors the field or anything about the Dodgers and what they meant to this community? I, for one, don’t. It reminds me of the kind of half-finished tombstone you’d get if you defaulted on payment. You can listen to the rest of the audio for this section where you’re standing, or pass through the gate and stand on the street corner – your choice.</div>
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Ebbets Field was built on a sloping piece of land, moving downward from this point in what was the right field corner. Working with, and against, the uneven land, the wall in right field grew prodigiously. At its zenith in 1957, the wall towered 38 feet high. The top half was a black fence through which onlookers could watch the game from the rooftop of a neighboring building, and the bottom half was a patchwork collection of local ads. At the wall’s center was a scoreboard featuring two of the more idiosyncatic sights at Ebbets – the famous Abe Stark “Hit Sign, Win Suit” ad at bottom (nearly impossible to hit, of course) and the Shaefer Beer ad, which gave the official scorer’s ruling of “hit” or “error” by lighting up the letter H or E in the sign.</div>
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One last thing about the wall. With the ads competing for space and odd topography of the ground on which it was built, there were 289 different angles built into the wall. This played havoc with any ball that struck it: a very handy home-field advantage.</div>
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Unfortunately, the concession stands were thrown out with the park, as it were, so no hot dogs, beer or cotton candy on this tour. Be that as it may, the McDonald’s on Empire Boulevard just before Franklin Street will be our final stop. Simply head back toward the Jackie Robinson School on Sullivan. Turn left at McKeever and then right on Empire. If you’ve hit Franklin, you’ve gone to far. It shouldn’t take you more than a minute or two to get to the restaurant. When you enter, please start Track #4.<br />
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If you’re feeling peckish, by all means order some food. Mine’s on the way. <br />
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The first McDonald’s wasn’t opened in New York City until 1973, fanning out into the boroughs shortly thereafter. If you lived here in the 1950’s and wanted a bite before the Dodgers game but weren’t in the mood for a hot dog from the Stahl-Meyer stand, which stood directly in front of the stadium, McDonald’s wouldn’t have been an option. When you’re ready, or when your food arrives, pass the registers and make a left, heading toward the back of the restaurant.</div>
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This is last stop on the tour. I hope you found it enjoyable and informative. If you, like me, feel the Ebbets Field site isn’t outfitted with the proper memorabilia, statues or interactive means into Dodger history, petition your local politician, and do something about it. </div>
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Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-61199364078104876002009-12-30T11:40:00.000-08:002009-12-30T12:20:15.915-08:00O, AlbanyFrom semi-regular contributor Sheridan Dupre, here's a wonderful piece on Albany and the current of his family history that runs through it. In Dupre's words: "Blood has a strange way of binding you to a place, even if its past seems somehow unreal and unknowable."<br /><br />Dupre blogs at <a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/">Guard the Guardians</a> on cliches that need debunking, the missteps of the Town of Bedford Parking Authority and the 1970's.<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br />O, <a href="http://www.albanyny.org/home.aspx">Albany </a><br /><br />In March of 1972, years before I was born, a plane carrying 47 people crashed into a house two blocks from my grandparents’ house in Albany, New York. Seventeen people died, but miraculously many more survived, including the family unlucky enough just to be safely at home on a Friday night, watching TV, doing the dishes, reading the paper, children playing. The mother was found bloodied but OK, lying in the splintered shards of their house, amidst the improbable remains of a small jet. Her husband was discovered wandering around dazedly asking for his two children, both already safely rescued. When we would visit our grandparents who lived in that same house just blocks away from an event that terrified and enthralled me, I would ask about that night. Where were you? What did it sound like? What did you do? Did you know the people?<br /><br />*****<br /><br />My father grew up in Albany. He commuted to college from the house we would visit as children. We would drive up the winding Taconic to the New York Thruway where there was a magical moment when we would ascend a small hill, glimpse the city in the midst of the rolling hills by the wide Hudson River, before we dipped back down and out of view. And my father would ask the same three questions as we passed over the river: What river are we crossing? (The Hudson!) Who discovered it? (Henry Hudson!) What was the original name of Albany? (Fort Orange!)<br /><br />This house and this city were my family’s, but the history, and spirit, seemed as distant to me as Hudson’s explorations and the early Dutch Fort that became the Capitol of New York. To go to Albany was to visit a past I did not know. Time and memory here included decades that didn’t include me, a striking realization when one is young. And this was complicated by the fact that their move to this house happened when my father was already going into college, his sister already in high school. We would sometimes drive by the apartment of his childhood where he was – remarkably – once a boy like me, but it was untouchable. And we’d return to a house whose history now seemed even more incomplete and partial.<br /><br />This certain foreignness of family history seemed reflected in the city itself. In the 1950’s, Albany looked like this, almost medieval in its clustered downtown of Church spires and town houses:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilShTJSqnWehzK3UGfS4MLfspk05RbmysITY32qD_caW9wezJGPhVgaDWZGQL2a8XsIuOYKGLoS5GTXuA9vGiUtKDyxh17PWQScw-dIagLC0NHarpsPKL_HN65R9U5xwUTI-QZr_o0s9Eb/s1600-h/Albany+1"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421120722683213842" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 233px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilShTJSqnWehzK3UGfS4MLfspk05RbmysITY32qD_caW9wezJGPhVgaDWZGQL2a8XsIuOYKGLoS5GTXuA9vGiUtKDyxh17PWQScw-dIagLC0NHarpsPKL_HN65R9U5xwUTI-QZr_o0s9Eb/s320/Albany+1" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>In 1965, the city began construction on the Empire State Plaza, razing downtown neighborhoods and uprooting families:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIL7cAl7xpLSqk3yXbCRh7WAcuxQSFJUvf45xhI1HYo3ygOA8mkkCiWRLHviUwN3pE-QEX5PrI8EGTsfN61O7AULov9An23T6R7JRNFHj6b9dLzZHTgD2cj-xwSn6B4BJvEj30MP-gdiS/s1600-h/Albany+2"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421121492734196578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 243px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIL7cAl7xpLSqk3yXbCRh7WAcuxQSFJUvf45xhI1HYo3ygOA8mkkCiWRLHviUwN3pE-QEX5PrI8EGTsfN61O7AULov9An23T6R7JRNFHj6b9dLzZHTgD2cj-xwSn6B4BJvEj30MP-gdiS/s320/Albany+2" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>Rockefeller’s folly, as my family referred to it. But of course people were leaving the city, and the region, anyway. Between 1950 and 1978, when the Plaza was completed, Albany’s population fell from 135,000 to 100,000 and it would continue to decline, decade by decade. The ghosts of this past were everywhere. Albany’s very vitality seemed somehow drained to me. It was almost odd to see the city in color, not only because a great deal of the evidence of my father’s youth was in black and white, but the city itself, stone and severe, my grandparent’s neighborhood of grey sidewalks and modest white houses, seemed unprepared for the advent of color. Driving into Albany on a snowy day – and when wasn’t it snowing? - felt like driving into an old photo album. And we would eat square pizza at The Orchard, a neighborhood pizzeria no longer part of a neighborhood, isolated now in a barren stretch of the city. And we’d go to Jack’s, the kind of oak-paneled downtown bar that seemed as though it should be smoke-filled and bustling with newspaper types and well-dressed people having drinks on their way home or their way out; except, it wasn’t.<br /><br />But blood has a strange way of binding you to a place, even if its past seems somehow unreal and unknowable. Perhaps this is a common enough experience in visiting the places of one’s grandparents. Perhaps we assign their location the attributes we assign them. Like those black and white photos, I almost couldn’t believe that at one time the playground we’d play in off of Washington Avenue was filled with children; that their house was at one time filled by the commotion of my father and his sister; that downtown ever bustled; or that on one night a plane, for example, just fell out of the dark, snowy sky.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />When my Grandmother died two years after my grandfather, a strikingly tall strange man appeared at her wake. It turned out he was an old neighborhood kid who my father hadn’t seen in some fifty years. He saw my grandmother’s obituary in the paper and came to pay his respects. He told me and my brother that he had always liked our grandmother because she didn’t punish him when she caught him shooting a BB gun off of a garage roof out back. He reminded my father that when he was injured when they were playing football as eleven year olds, and subsequently had to have a kidney removed, it was our grandmother who was his nurse and saw him back to health.<br /><br />When I was young, I recall being impatient of a past which, because it didn’t include me, didn’t seem to matter. But as I got older I learned that things matter in surprising and lasting ways. The legacy of family and of place we all inherit - unwillingly, perhaps; without choice, certainly - has a way of lingering, linking to a history we might never fully know or understand but one that can be a deep and permanent part of who we are. </div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-18096506731997858682009-11-05T09:35:00.000-08:002009-11-06T15:27:03.146-08:00The SlabsI hardly need to endorse Jon Krakauer's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Into-Wild-Jon-Krakauer/dp/0307387178/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257547583&sr=8-1"><em>Into The Wild</em></a><em>. </em>I just finished it; you should have read it by now.<br /><br /> What started as a 9,000 word article in Outside Magazine called "<a href="http://outside.away.com/outside/features/1993/1993_into_the_wild_1.html">Death of an Innocent," </a>about a young man, Chris McCandless, who ventured "into the wild" of Alaska and died of starvation, eventually swelled to book-length in 1996 and was then adapted to a film directed by Sean Penn in 2007. The book, a gem of narrative non-fiction on its own merits, is a second draft of the magazine piece in many ways; it fills in gaps, rights assumptions and gives Krakauer a chance to tell in own story of reckless adventuring in parallel to Chris McCandless'. I'm not outdoorsy or adventurous in the least, and I found it all riveting. McCandless' story, imo, falls somewhere between tragedy and farce and adolescent thick-headedness. And it is a STORY in the classical sense, of the particular vintage where the ending is known as you begin (or before you begin), and this doesn't in the least stymie the drama. None of it feels inevitable -- which, of course, it all is.<br /><br /> Although <em>Into the Wild</em> revolves about McCandless, it's absurdly rich in place. It deals in, cautions of, and revels in the mythology of the American West ... where McCandless flees to after he graduates college. His journeys are many, as are his modes of transport: hitchhiking, a canoe, but mainly on foot. He rarely settles, and when he does it's only to raise funds for the next leg of tramping and exploration. The Slabs, though, a commune and refuge in the deserts on Niland, CA, caught my eye, I imagine, because it caught McCandless' eye, too. Note how the space is manipulated by those who inhabit it, converted by those who use it.<br /><br /> (It reminds me, in a sense and off-topic, of the lawn chairs arrayed in Times Square this summer. People moved them around, reclined in them, saved them for friends. For those few weeks, Times Square became something it had never been, both because of the chairs and the way people interacted with them. The people escaped from themselves, too, at least for a few minutes in the sun.)<br /><br /><br />Without further ado, Krakauer's passage on The Slabs:<br /><br /> "Jan and Bob were staying three miles outside of Niland (CA), at a place the locals call the Slabs, an old navy air base that had been abandoned and razed, leaving a grid of empty concrete foundations scattered far and wide across the desert. Come November, as the weather turns cold across the rest of the country, some five thousand snowbirds and drifters and sundry vagabonds congregate in this otherworldly setting to live on the cheap under the sun. The Slabs functions as a seasonal capital of a teeming itinerant society -- a tolerant, rubber-tired culture comprising the retired, the exiled, the destitute, the perpetually unemployed. Its constituents are men and women and children of all ages, folks on the dodge from collection agencies, relationships gone sour, the law or the IRS, Ohio winters, the middle-class grind."<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400675948193395026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumv3iaR8TfJISoiiu2rX1vsJYtj5eVimWiW7YgpoOWgLiJ6f1didvCiZupZ3XFdKkVx0_pvwogjsxiYbubKZar9epSAl67XP_EtC0M9MFelTrJTKvucnZVmgilPacwEgdAaqcV7sklkjY/s320/Slabs.jpg" border="0" />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-87962363205739761352009-10-22T19:33:00.001-07:002009-10-23T20:39:31.145-07:00Long Live The Highwaymen<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiupLZYbSzAjE3e9f7BG6AzA1s5VcEy03zmVXXAkD2f6Y28LLk68iGSSC0qhSfw8W6R0hRCmEGRLjfjkkRw9jT-vV5lJdtW4W4FTkhk11UbClvsYJqHlO27pP5wZwHLbKoALR_5f3K2RCb_/s1600-h/Highwaymen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395823719780825618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 203px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiupLZYbSzAjE3e9f7BG6AzA1s5VcEy03zmVXXAkD2f6Y28LLk68iGSSC0qhSfw8W6R0hRCmEGRLjfjkkRw9jT-vV5lJdtW4W4FTkhk11UbClvsYJqHlO27pP5wZwHLbKoALR_5f3K2RCb_/s320/Highwaymen.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Off-Season-Discovering-America-Winters-Shore/dp/1400049733">Off-Season</a>, Ken McAlpine's catalog (well, travelogue) of how towns along the east coast restore their natural order after tourist season concludes, revisits a fascinating piece of rural, racial and artistic history. Visiting Don George, a biologist and environmental planner for the U.S. Air Force, at his home in <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&q=sharpes+florida&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Sharpes,+FL&gl=us&ei=a-ThStz-Ic6n8AbowsD6AQ&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CAwQ8gEwAA">Sharpes, Florida</a>, McAlpine observes:<br /><p>"[t]he walls are covered with paintings. His closets are stacked with them, too. The paintings are oils. With the exceptions of a few imaginative twists, they all depict one of three basic scenes: waves breaking on a beach, a Florida swamp out of a which rises a stately mossy tree, or a riverbank. The scenes are idyllic: sunrises, empty beaches, frothing breakers, wind-whipped palms, and quiet swamps.<br /></p><p>Sage collectors like Don are well versed in the work of the Highwaymen, a loose association of twenty-five black men and one woman who, in the late 1950's, painted images of a very real Florida dream, slung the still wet paintings into the backs of their cars, and traveled the Florida coast peddling the paintings to restaurants, offices, motels, and banks. Curtis Arnett, Al "Blood" Black, Mary Ann Carroll, Alfred Hair, Harold Newman, and Livingston "Castro" Roberts were not finicky artisans. They painted fast and sold hard to avoid picking oranges for two dollars a day. They painted on Upson board, a product familiar to roofers, and framed the paintings with crown molding, a product familiar to anyone who has ever looked up at a ceiling. They painted so fast, they may have forgotten what they were painting. Don has one Highwaymen painting that he aptly describes as the 'ocean breaking in a swamp scene.' "</p>Who knew? In the early 1990's, the Highwaymen were rediscovered by art enthusiast and collector Jim Fitch, who declared them folk artists. This predictably shot up the market value of the paintings and allowed the artists to continue working. Mary Ann Caroll is one. The lone woman in the group, Caroll, in a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7oOaLYbUXpg">1998 interview</a> while taking stock of her oeuvre, nicely sums up the transcendence of art: "I always loved the dead trees and the density of the wood. It's just that I can't swim. So I paint." As a testament to both the longevity of interest in the paintings' and the speed at which the Highwaymen worked, there are an estimated 50,000 to 200,000 in circulation.<br /><br /><p>Check out this trailer to the 2008 PBS documentary, "The Highwaymen: Legends of the Road." Viewing session, anyone?<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wmrLY0wXLNk&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wmrLY0wXLNk&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-49632034709905088492009-10-15T06:56:00.000-07:002009-10-15T16:33:50.651-07:00Here Come The Dutch<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2TkNRWJm-0LtsKUBIn_EHotJBUaGUhKFr_icusiyVwZ0riFGItK81ofvIm-oTQzMV-nCMleak4A77JMn-EG3Pf-7X5vt2ahx7d30Q8OvPtCD3zDjJi8joyZ_d8cziIHa8Zv3r-uP1fC5/s1600-h/new+amsterdam+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392971574369031986" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 282px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2TkNRWJm-0LtsKUBIn_EHotJBUaGUhKFr_icusiyVwZ0riFGItK81ofvIm-oTQzMV-nCMleak4A77JMn-EG3Pf-7X5vt2ahx7d30Q8OvPtCD3zDjJi8joyZ_d8cziIHa8Zv3r-uP1fC5/s320/new+amsterdam+2.jpg" border="0" /></a> This week I took an audio tour of the <a href="http://www.henryhudson400.com/hh400_project.php?id=24">New Amsterdam Trail</a>, which spans from the southernmost tip of Battery Park to Wall Street in lower Manhattan, as part of a class. Put on by the New York Harbor Parks Conservancy, it's available as an mp3 -- just follow the above link -- and divided into ten tracks to allow for walking time between stops (thanks, guys.)<br /><br />I've organized my reactions in a Q&A format below. It must be said that I am both interviewer and interviewee, which is handy.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br />Let me know if there's anything I missed, or begs further explanation.<br /><br />__________________________________________________________________<br /><br />INTENDED AUDIENCE?<br />Although the tour has a great deal to offer curious residents, tourists are the true audience. Some of the early narration holds a clue, casting New York as “a place where Lady Liberty stands as a beacon on her shores,” etc. No one talks this way about New York to New Yorkers. </div><div><br /><br />OBJECTIVE OF THE TOUR<br />To honor the arc of early NY history, especially the role of the Dutch; to commemorate the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson’s landing in Manhattan; to drum up tourist business amid the “dynamism and renewal of downtown today.” </div><div><br /><br />HELPFUL TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THE SUBJECT / SETTING?<br />I wasn’t very familiar with the harbor or the financial district at all, which cut both ways. I backtracked once or twice because I was off the “grid,” but seeing <a href="http://www.nps.gov/cacl/index.htm">Castle Clinton</a> for the first time and picking out seals of Dutch trading companies on the façade of a modern building – pretty cool. </div><div><br /><br />WHAT'S THE NARRATION LIKE? ANYTHING NOTEWORTHY ABOUT THE STYLE/TONE<br />The narrator is never named – or, rather, he never announces himself. He might work for the National Park Service, or the New York Harbor Conservancy? Quite often he hands off the narration to historians, scientists and authors like <a href="http://www.russellshorto.com/">Russell Shorto</a> to provide insight and commentary.<br /><br />Authorial in tone, like a '50's nighttime newscaster. To be fair, it was clear from the outset we would be hearing from experts. Even so, it didn’t seem like the experts were reading from scripts; the commentary sounded loose and conversational. Hearing an excerpt from Hudson’s journal, or other first-hand accounts, helped to ground the tour. </div><div><br /><br />WHAT WAS THE PHYSICAL EXPERIENCE?<br />Cold! I made the mistake of under dressing for a waterside tour in the early evening, in October. But the length of the tour, in terms of walking, didn’t feel very long, and walking through Battery Park and lower Manhattan was pleasant. </div><div><br /><br />ATTENTION DURING THE TOUR: HELD OR WANDERED?<br />Mostly attentive. More so when there was a physical object anchoring the tour stop (a plaque, landmark, etc.), less so when there were long stretches of narration without a break. When my attention wandered, a sound effect – birds squawking, a shovel hitting dirt – always brought me back.</div><div><br /><br />ANY AWKWARD MOMENTS?<br />Well, belying the audio's cheerful tone, there were times when the issue of slaves and slavery (<a href="http://www.peterstuyvesant.org/">Peter Stuyvesant</a>, ahem, or building the wall of Wall Street's namesake, AHEM) couldn't be sidestepped. And no matter how benevolent and morally sophisticated the Dutch were for their time, they brought slaves to Manhattan, and they treated their slaves like slaves. End rant. </div><div><br /><br />HEAR FROM ANY LOCAL VOICES? <br />It was noted that park rangers, who added narration, work in <a href="http://www.nps.gov/feha/index.htm">Federal Hall</a>, the last stop on the tour. And maybe the writers and historians live in New York, but I didn’t feel like I was hearing from local voices, necessarily. </div><div><br /><br />ABOUT THE PAST, PRESENT OR BOTH? <br />Both. The tour was historical, of course, but it took great pains to acknowledge the lasting Dutch influence on American government and language (Harlem, cookie, etc.) </div><div><br /><br />RECOMMENDED FOR FRIENDS? FRENEMIES?<br />Friends, especially tourist-friends with a strong interest in history. Resident-friends in need of a new lends through which to see the financial district and / or who possess an abiding love of the Dutch, might also enjoy the tour.</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392972408532503298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 219px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLso75m8AAzS_aqHHoJZLqihVeBMVKXwrzYwidTSCRiK4yOtKXf2KKUlS3KNfwcHNYHU53Ahr0jnOcxu_cZ2R9f9VSLgRWu3WclMtEtCQpq4EoNxVnGoPDK0fxIeXZWwTw1wnW05TKyLdm/s320/New_Amsterdam_by_Johannes_Vingboons.jpg" border="0" /></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-49352658283704806012009-10-01T06:00:00.000-07:002009-10-01T07:53:12.291-07:00Placecasting with Jeff Jones, Pt. 2We're back with the second and last installment of the Q&A Jeff Jones. He works as a public radio producer and blogs about place-based audio at <a href="http://placecasting.blogspot.com/">Placecasting</a>, lately reporting on 3-D renderings from National Parks on Google Earth. (Don't look at the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfTKnoizQZeDzYLsJgpRvtzDt2mEkn97PbluCKhuB13eo-XulCk6hTYlgvrr3CXgFK1nycRLBLPegA2pVy-Bku5D7KtJqNqX1mwjUDpSyZFKFvXIkZP51YTz3NqaUCIFOBkWgFaHzZ7gSv/s1600-h/Rushmore+in+3D.jpg">digitized Mount Rushmore</a> for too long. It may keep you up at night.)<br /><span style="font-size:0;"></span><br /><p>In this installment, Jeff talks about how to launch your own audio projects, tools to embrace and pitfalls to avoid when putting a tour together, and bolsters the case for a visit to Ellis Island.</p><br /><p>Enjoy! Comments always welcome.</p><br /><p>_____________________________________________</p><br /><br /><div><b>OT: If I wanted to start Placecasting, how would I begin?</b><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">JJ: Boy, I wish this were easier. One irony of Web 2.0 is that it embraced video so fully that it mostly skipped over audio. Podcasting is still a relatively minor player in digital media. I work for a radio station, so I have audio equipment all around me, but good-quality audio recording gear isn't as ubiquitous (or affordable) as video cameras or digital cameras. Similarly, as far as I can tell, there's no easy and widely-accepted way to geotag audio files. But don't let technology stop you!<br /></span><br /><br /><b>OT: What tools would I need?</b><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">JJ: At its most basic, all you need is four things: a place that other people can visit; an expert in some aspect of that place (this may be a professor, or your granddad, or it may be you!); a recording device (your cell phone voice recorder, or a video camera's microphone maybe); a blog. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />Here's what you do: </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b>1.</b> Go to a place.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCQab4HOAPQ-4BEf7kayZO-CwGMztrJrxz54piUnMkxg95gZ-1axQsqBQEUM2w59SQHzfrozniVoBVQoaX0pwq-UDnKxudfGItAkYGz4TRVy3qESocc8D6hHbzOKxGKThMZ3QUYmIETr1/s1600-h/Audio+tour2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387635267309941618" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 218px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 159px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCQab4HOAPQ-4BEf7kayZO-CwGMztrJrxz54piUnMkxg95gZ-1axQsqBQEUM2w59SQHzfrozniVoBVQoaX0pwq-UDnKxudfGItAkYGz4TRVy3qESocc8D6hHbzOKxGKThMZ3QUYmIETr1/s200/Audio+tour2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b>2.</b> Start recording. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b>3.</b> Describe what you see and have your expert explain what they know about it. I</span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">f there is a story to tell about this place, by all means tell it. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b>4.</b> Edit the audio so it is clean, at least at the beginning and the end.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b>5.</b> Embed the audio (probably an .mp3 file) into your blog and spread the word about it.<br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b>6.</b> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geotagging">Geotag</a> your blog (most blogging programs these days include an easy way to add lattitude/longitude into your RSS feed for each post)<br /><br />Just like that, you've created a basic placecast that people can download before they go to the place or stream while they're there. Then, go make placecasts for more locations in the same neighborhood and start weaving them together into a walking tour. You could even use Google Maps to create a printable map for listeners to take with them with the stops numbered according to the track of your tour. </span><br /></div></span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><div><br /><b>OT: Any resources or communities, online or otherwise?</b> </div><br /><div>JJ: I'm seeking these out every chance I get. <a href="http://www.freesound.org/">Freesound.org</a> and <a href="http://www.opensoundneworleans.com/core/">Open Sound New Orleans</a> both have great sound-mapping projects going on, though they're not storytelling in the same way I'm talking about. Audiophiles and radio producers have communities to talk about audio gear and recording techniques. There are a ton of tutorials for how to create podcasts. Museum and historic site interpreters discuss audio tours in their own forums, but I haven't found an active community for people just placecasting on their own. So if you find one, let me know!</div><br /><div><br /><b>OT: What are the elements of a successful audio tour?</b><br /><br />JJ: Here are some of the qualities of a good placecast: </div><br /><div>- takes advantage of location by directing the user's senses ("look at the building in the distance", "notice the patterns in the artwork", "turn around and notice how the forest changes")<br /><br />- fits information into a larger narrative ("the story of the Minneapolis riverfront is the story of the power of wheat", "the uneven, rocky terrain around you is another reason this battle would claim so many lives") </div><br /><div>- keeps explanations brief, but interesting (respect the user's time) </div><br /><div>- puts numbers and statistics in perspective ("the river here is 1.5 miles across -- that's the widest at any point before the delta", "the clocktower is five stories tall, which made it the tallest building in town for nearly 80 years") </div><br /><div>- is written for voice (just reading text from a brochure or guidebook into a microphone is hard to listen to because it's not written to be spoken -- and understood -- out loud) </div><br /><div>- is narrated with energy and authenticity (no need to crack jokes or take on a phony persona ... let the story grab the audience) </div><br /><div>- uses music and sound effects deliberately and sparingly (remember the listener is already there, so you may not need to set a mood with music) </div><br /><div>- uses oral histories, either with real voices on tape or as read by actors<br /><br /></div>- gives clear, easy instructions for what to do next ("Now press pause and walk three blocks south. Stop for a crepe at one of the street vendors if you like. Then, when you see the cathedral on your left, go to the next track.")<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />- directs users to more information ("there is a visitor center in the first floor of the brown building across the plaza", "the tower's Web site features a time-lapse video of it's remarkable construction process", "english-speaking guides are often available for hire near the front of the cathedral -- but make sure they have an official badge")<br /><br /><br /><b>OT: How important are production and storytelling?</b><br /><br />JJ: Storytelling is the key to making memorable audio whether you are broadcasting, podcasting or placecasting. As a radio producer, I've edited a thousand one-on-one interviews ... leaving long rambling answers on the cutting room floor and highlighting moments of tension, surprise and delight that will make the interview memorable and enlightening. A successful audio tour takes advantage of the audio medium by embracing voice, story, pacing, music and even silence. It's easy to try to cram a lot of factoids and superlatives into an audio tour, but the best way to make information stick in the listener's brain is to make it part of a narrative they can connect with on a deeper level.<br /><br />Production is therefore secondary to story. Crummy production (poor audio quality, inconsistent audio levels, bad editing, etc.) can distract listeners from the story they're hearing and negate a lot of good writing and storytelling. BUT, a super-slick, sound-intense work of audio art can also distract from the real-world experience you mean to enhance.<br /><br /><br /><b>OT: Could you describe a great audio tour you've been on?</b><br /><br />JJ: In 2000, I visited <a href="http://www.nps.gov/elis/index.htm">Ellis Island</a> in New York Harbor. I knew as much about the place as anyone who's been through public school in this country...it was the place European immigrants passed through sometime in the past before they became our ancestors. That's about it. At the entrance, there was the option to buy an audio tour narrated by Tom Brokaw. I honestly may not have chosen it but not for the reputation of that name. I'm so glad I did.<br /><br />At the time, as I remember it, the huge entrance building on Ellis Island was intact, but barely furnished. Some rooms held exhibits, but mostly room after room was old and empty. Still, in room after room, the stories I heard on the audio tour filled the place with life. There were oral histories from former employees describing conditions in the infirmary, and from immigrants describing the entrance interview process, and from people who passed through as children describing their fear and excitement (I remember these voices more than anything Brokaw said, come to think of it.)<br /><br />The audio tour mentioned facts and statistics, to be sure, but its goal was to make visitors FEEL that immigrant experience. I remember looking down at the huge entrance hall as the tour directed me to look at one part of the room and then another. It knew where I was and pointed out aspects of the place I never would have noticed on my own. I don't remember if there was music on the tour, though I imagine there was. What I know is I left feeling a connection to the place I never would have felt otherwise.<br /><br /><br />_______________________<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8oAiU5zo8cIMPIPaqxazDfeusZWrKhliKqkK-u53T1cQDQTAIznet4ZADdKH_5x-gxJRhbZ7jc7sOsFL3B1YvplSkkX6so6A9f9PXCdkqx8_YIVoo41WMMGL5eEkkqyCPhMPmOSpB_Hmb/s1600-h/Jeff+Jones.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387629341944019522" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 162px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8oAiU5zo8cIMPIPaqxazDfeusZWrKhliKqkK-u53T1cQDQTAIznet4ZADdKH_5x-gxJRhbZ7jc7sOsFL3B1YvplSkkX6so6A9f9PXCdkqx8_YIVoo41WMMGL5eEkkqyCPhMPmOSpB_Hmb/s200/Jeff+Jones.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Jeff Jones is a producer for <a href="http://minnesota.publicradio.org/features/">Minnesota Public Radio News</a> in St. Paul. He blogs about audio tours and place-based media in his free time. He loves to travel and discover new places from small towns, to national parks to grand cityscapes all over the world. Jeff grew up near Chicago and graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul in 2001 with a degree in Urban Studies. He's also worked for The News Hour with Jim Lehrer on PBS and for Twin Cities Public Television. </span></span></span>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-82358909558694687742009-09-30T10:28:00.000-07:002009-09-30T07:33:32.802-07:00Placecasting with Jeff Jones, Pt. 1Have you ever surveyed the land around you, and the spot you're standing on, and asked, "Who was here before me? What were their lives like? What motivated them, hurt them, drove them from another place to be here, in this place above all others?"
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<br />Jeff Jones has, does and will continue to ask these questions. As a public radio producer and a blogger at <a href="http://placecasting.blogspot.com/">Placecasting</a>, he's constantly thinking about with how best we can connect and understand place through audio recording and documentation.
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<br />The following Q&A took place over email and will be split over two posts. While Jeff told me he appreciated the value of an editor, I couldn't bring myself to make cuts. There was just too much good, interesting material to share.
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<br />Today's post will deal with the "what" of placecasting and audio tours -- how are they defined now, and how has technology changed the form. Tomorrow Jeff digs deeper into the "how" angle, offering practical advice on creating audio, and what makes it great.
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<br />Enjoy! Comments are very welcome.
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<br /><b>OT: Can you explain a little bit about Placecasting?</b>
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<br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>JJ: Broadly, Placecasting is digital media that is created specifically to be consumed at a particular location. More specifically, I see placecasting as a new medium for helping people make sense of their world, while they're standing in that world. Anyone curious about the culture, history, nature or architecture around them can benefit from a placecast that answers simple questions like "why is that there?", "why does it look like that?", "how is it related to the landscape around me?", and "what was here before?" In my opinion, audio is the most logical medium for effective placecasting because it allows the rest of our senses to keep experiencing the real world around us. The advantage of knowing exactly where your audience is standing is that you don't have to put pictures or video in front of them.</span>
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<br /><b>OT: Is it part of a long tradition, or a fairly new phenomenon?</b>
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<br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>JJ: Audio tour guides have been around for a long time; I remember my family buying a cassette tape to guide us around the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/GETT/index.htm">Gettysburg battlefield</a> when I was a kid. It came with a little map. The voices of park rangers and historians were laid over battlefield sounds and period music to make the quiet landscape come alive...and to help us make sense of what we were seeing. Tour creators have mostly been museums, historic sites, chambers of commerce -- any institution wanting to help visitors understand the stories their particular place has to tell. But the fact is most places in our world don't have organizations advocating for them or spending money creating media about them. That doesn't make those places any less curious to visitors or residents alike...in fact, it can often make them more so.
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<br />This is where the new phenomenon comes in. There's a remarkable convergence of key technologies taking place that is unlocking the potential of placecasting both for consumers and creators. For example: my cell phone now knows exactly where I am (not to mention which direction I'm pointed in and how fast I'm travelling in that direction.) Not only that, my cell phone also has high-speed access to the most complete reference library ever created, the Internet. Not only THAT, but my cell phone also has speakers attached to my ears. The potential exists for a device in my pocket to cross-reference my location with my interests and deliver useful, interesting information about what I'm seeing...and to do it all with minimal distraction to me, the user, experiencing the world.</span>
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<br />In short, the convergence of GPS, the geospacial Web (Google Maps, etc.) and hand<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMYqFky4kTiLG3zhufpiqR8_OgeuQ8g29dU_C0e2R17LPVuOffxb-jeXLuFhUL-ELB-O6YFmmpso2IJEbBMkAtDgwrdHqSvxY5mGxOgox4MImbDVIcWK5JLnVbGBK06eivEph0lSELnQp/s1600-h/GPS+in+car.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387261093834804386" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 163px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 127px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMYqFky4kTiLG3zhufpiqR8_OgeuQ8g29dU_C0e2R17LPVuOffxb-jeXLuFhUL-ELB-O6YFmmpso2IJEbBMkAtDgwrdHqSvxY5mGxOgox4MImbDVIcWK5JLnVbGBK06eivEph0lSELnQp/s200/GPS+in+car.jpg" border="0" /></a>held computing is increasingly making place-based interpretation available to anyone, anywhere. The qualities of audio storytelling haven't really changed much in the digital era. What has changed the most is the technology for receiving and playing it back. Programs like Garage Band also allow producers to include photos, graphics and video along with their podcast, which can be handy enhancements to the placecast experience. Now all we have to do is create the content. </span>
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<br /><b>OT: Who is the true audience for audio tours: residents or tourists, or both?</b>
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<br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">JJ: This is a great question. The institutions that have traditionally created audio tours would say their placecasts are for the visitor...no matter where that visitor comes from. When we expand the medium beyond the walls of these institutions, the concept of "visitor" gets trickier. Is someone who exercises by riding their bike through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grant_Park_(Chicago)">Grant Park</a> a tourist? If I commute by bus down Broadway, am I a visitor? If your summer home is on Lake Tahoe, are you a resident? The answer shouldn't really matter as long as all three people want to know more about what they're seeing on their ride, their commute or their vacation. The successful placecast, using effective storytelling, will respond to the curiosity of the user, not to their status as newcomer or native.
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<br />Indeed, tourism is a HUGE market for placecasts -- and understandably so. But too many of the ones I've heard amount to an actor reading a guidebook into a microphone...with very little thought put into the user experience and even less into telling compelling stories.
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<br />I think placecasting holds amazing potential for community-building. People LOVE learning new information about their neighborhoods, and often the more they learn the more connected they feel to the places and people around them. I think neighborhood arts and culture organizations will be the next group to really embrace placecasting to enrich the residents around them (as well as any visitors who just happen to catch wind of a good walking tour.)
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<br />Check back tomorrow for Pt. 2 and learn how to placecast in six easy steps!
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<br />Jeff Jones is a producer for Minnesota Public Radio News in St. Paul. He blogs about audio tours and place-based media in his free time. He loves to travel and discover new places from small towns, to national parks to grand cityscapes all over the world. Jeff grew up near Chicago and graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul in 2001 with a degree in Urban Studies. He's also worked for The News Hour with Jim Lehrer on PBS and for Twin Cities Public Television.
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<br />Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-220180975442543342009-09-24T11:32:00.000-07:002009-09-25T07:32:06.334-07:00A Small Town On The Silver ScreenIn the following post, guest Sheridan Dupre investigates how a movie set in his hometown of Ridgefield, CT, channels the town's character -- its quiet depths and easy acquaintances -- and, in doing so, makes it anonymous except to those who know it well.<br /><br />Dupre blogs at <a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/">Guard the Guardians</a> on art, culture. and the 1970's. Of particular note are pieces on overlooked product opportunities (<a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/2009/08/idea.html">Manatea!</a>), the <a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/2009/07/jobs-are-just-not-that-into-me.html">vicissitudes of job hunting</a>, and, lately, a brilliant series on the <a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/2009/09/pyznarski-affair.html">recovered</a> <a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/2009/09/file-under-close-but-no-cigar-cross.html">items</a> of his <a href="http://guardtheguardians.blogspot.com/2009/09/here-is-stuffed-animal-i-had-as-kid-i.html">childhood</a>.<br /><br />____________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><div>What about movies or directors with a strong sense of place? There are a few working now who I think can be praised for their sensitivity to locality. David Gordon Green and Kelly Reichardt come to mind. Perhaps the great cinematic poet of place in my book is the Scottish director Bill Forsyth. But their worlds, the South, the Pacific Northwest, Scotland, are far removed from my own.<br /></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385157215713143986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxxOZpvyhmqx54Me60RQQfERdFvGGEjTPJ22Ltylef14MB-1qZFU7FRRz-qTGEabIhMHxAKdL_12z5axUuMj_kg8_bWVDy-6UwF5aiF1TqAhFgHFOLSeYGGPHzRbezyGsrUg5pxgPiauUb/s200/Lake_pierrepont_KTC.jpg" border="0" /><br />It’s something else to see your own town up there. Though the general area in Connecticut that I grew up in has had exteriors grace the screen, usually in movies about suburban dystopia, I know of only one movie that was actually filmed in what I still call my town: Tom Gilroy’s 1999 <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0156096/">Spring Forward</a>. It’s a lovely piece about the friendship between two parks department workers played by Liev Schreiber and Ned Beatty. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385155215853943522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXNp_cfvyib6YIzVTF2l4u63ytKbGPyCxZn_fjOi4fQ_7QvUcYbtooCcUI8cAJ13IaN5zBJyR-EvqUHZZrMmfExQcYHvzdPET-iASRxmHR134hjgJjI8ix54yY7gOU8r3cPkySyMMEz8x/s200/ballard_park_KTC.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The thing about the movie is that it doesn’t obviously set itself in the town of Ridgefield – there are no shots that I can recall of Town Hall, of the quaint Main Street, of the historic Community Center building, no references to the name. This reticence beautifully suits a film focused on two figures who seem to be both at the periphery of the town and central to its life. A very different movie could have been made about Ridgefield, and it wouldn’t be an less true. But Gilroy emphasizes the smallness. Things like the stock people put in family history, and lasting friendship by sheer circumstance, both of which seem not only to be more prevalent in smaller towns than in cosmopolitan cities or larger, more anonymous suburbs, but that have been part of my own life there. The movie is made with a small town pace -- the seasons pass from scene to scene but the conversations between the two men, months long in the making, continue unrushed. Filmed, as the two often are, alone, together, the characters sometimes seem forgotten in an otherwise anonymous, New England town that I just happen to recognize as my own. </div><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385155669098883666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbaf6xiGVu3OqtwDdFIuqn2vlNSp9T6jg6WO_NYNjMgVeBK4NetXdxet7d6rDTbqVT69Q4ixpDeedBgof_HNyKv4JFSUUIjU6VvwdCL1NveMPpIE9TnbkoYGVIsXWjrHqLWjUK2uxFzFl/s200/road_KTC.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-6396602148819078312009-09-21T11:27:00.001-07:002009-09-23T08:56:16.440-07:00The Safest PlaceYou've heard the old saw: there is no place safer than a cemetery because everyone there is already dead. Excepting <em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtyJbIOZjS8">Thriller</a></em>, <em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gUKvmOEGCU">Night of the Living Dead</a></em> and the recent glut of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Prejudice-Zombies-Classic-Ultraviolent/dp/1594743347">zombie</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/World-War-Oral-History-Zombie/dp/0307346617/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1253673131&sr=1-1">literature</a>, this pretty much holds up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP6188YtmCeUn4-zZi5R4B-zbKkiR6v2-A6sVlnrG4L2rGmY_NB9w76DeNtDTYKF4wBmUk1-lvfnOhXJF7Rztbg-AF-S9-pj5_kQkXWBT7Ud61rFTTShebCWIf7l672OZaOHK9-bSZzgD/s1600-h/Rosland+Park+Cemetery.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384503291248923746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP6188YtmCeUn4-zZi5R4B-zbKkiR6v2-A6sVlnrG4L2rGmY_NB9w76DeNtDTYKF4wBmUk1-lvfnOhXJF7Rztbg-AF-S9-pj5_kQkXWBT7Ud61rFTTShebCWIf7l672OZaOHK9-bSZzgD/s320/Rosland+Park+Cemetery.jpg" border="0" /></a>I grew up four blocks from a cemetery, Roseland Park. I didn’t find this to be at all creepy, or even usual. Living near a cemetery had become normative, my everyday. My dad taught my sister to drive on the twisting, all right-away roads; I threw stale bits of bread to Canadian geese near a shallow pond. It's always a curious process of being blindsided when places become our homes, or get in our blood -- no more or less so when those places are dangerous or unbecoming or extravagant. The sooner these unconventional places show up in our lives, the less likely we are to question them, to get spooked.<br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Because of the early initiation, I’ve always felt comfortable crossing the iron bars of a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/57664493@N00/">cemetery’s gates</a>. More than comfortable: I’ve often sought out cemeteries as zones of solace, cut-outs for quiet reflection and clean air. </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeKoos14o-zHe2FJ5afBhdENxTWlXI9BWjaSXCr61FnGuSWieAW2yMtQwK2m7PFZBKlbtjVuTcdQJxkvG7Zjt-IAzaMFNeq-edFCsbfzBC6-C_STUsMhnPijDMKWJCA1StpZVQOxDpgz8/s1600-h/Gwood+Angel.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384675028578465314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 149px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeKoos14o-zHe2FJ5afBhdENxTWlXI9BWjaSXCr61FnGuSWieAW2yMtQwK2m7PFZBKlbtjVuTcdQJxkvG7Zjt-IAzaMFNeq-edFCsbfzBC6-C_STUsMhnPijDMKWJCA1StpZVQOxDpgz8/s200/Gwood+Angel.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2wB97s8r8EJ3xsXQ1u7BCY2gYgO8MWM4t0nhq1TuITLvLPTTlZRyKlJ95nJfEzWiGpYViXeW8qjl-7cLqsZ0xCTWndAsU51P6MbEHVfMLMT9HMzCIQ_fRuRv4yZB4BxOwKHknSfoXezV/s1600-h/Obelisk.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384675695657691746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 118px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2wB97s8r8EJ3xsXQ1u7BCY2gYgO8MWM4t0nhq1TuITLvLPTTlZRyKlJ95nJfEzWiGpYViXeW8qjl-7cLqsZ0xCTWndAsU51P6MbEHVfMLMT9HMzCIQ_fRuRv4yZB4BxOwKHknSfoXezV/s200/Obelisk.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I spent a few hours alone at <a href="http://www.green-wood.com/">Greenwood Cemetery</a> in Brooklyn, recently, something shifted. Not that the grounds, headstones, and masoleums aren't beautiful, wonders of stone and landscape architecture (they are); not that I felt overwhelmed by the scores of anonymous dead (Boss Tweed and artist Jean-Michel Basquiat are buried there); not that the day was grim, overrun by shadows (it was gorgeous, breezy and fragrant, as evidenced below): </div><div><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='298' height='235' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxcdteU7F2SaKjqtdTC7uAuLeUccPZkXt1THiynNH0GP2N1-tcrfgKWXExsPUrT8au_MDDZPhQ7h96tk1py1A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><div></div><div>But for the first time, I felt like a trespasser. I wasn't there to grieve. That obelisk? Built in honor of no one I had heard of. This towering sculpture of an angel? Nightmarish with the sun setting behind it. The only sounds were my footsteps, and when I stopped walking, my pulse, and if you're anything like me, cursed by a nervous imagination, you start to think of silence as a precursor to noises you'd rather not hear, stirrings you'd prefer not to identify. I was alone but no longer felt alone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which pointed me, as luck would have it, to collegial memories of the <a href="http://www.hollywoodforever.com/Hollywood/">Hollywood Forever Cemetery</a> in Los Angeles, CA, where the wards get fat on cutting off solitude. Instead, pack a cooler, spread a blanket, and melt to the stylings of DJ Two-Tone's fusion of bossa-nova and house.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Cemeteries as centers of society, commerce, and entertainment? I'm game. I saw a screening of <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0053604/">The Apartment</a></em> at Hollywood Forever, and waded past revelers eating churros and buying <a href="http://www.thesunblog.com/gourmetgal/SugarSkullMound.jpg">skeleton trinkets</a> at the least threatening Day of the Dead festival imaginable. Hollywood Forever -- "the resting place for Hollywood's immortals" -- actually has a forward-thinking service called <a href="http://www.hollywoodforever.com/General/LifeStories.aspx">Forever LifeStories</a>, where loved ones -- digitally, with the help of a trained Biographer, and for a price -- compile photos, spoken descriptions, text, video clips, old film reels, awards, or other memoribilia to honor the deceased. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />Are cemeteries sacred, vast wastes of space, or perfect for a night out with a few friends, a bottle of Merlot, a pack of Clove cigarettes and a <a href="http://www.ghostvillage.com/legends/2002/legends3_10052002.shtml">Ouija board</a>? How do cemeteries fit into your towns?</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br />BONUS: </div><div></div><div></div><div>For the truly avid, check out the <a href="http://www.thegraveyardrabbit.com/">The Graveyard Rabbit</a>, an association and blog dedicated to the historical importance of cemeteries, grave markers, burial customs, burying grounds, and tombstones.</div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-34574659216375004222009-09-13T15:00:00.000-07:002009-09-13T15:40:13.838-07:00Exile in Novy BydzovThe following is a post from guest blogger and friend, Matt Corbin, reflecting on his first weeks as an ex-pat in the Czech Republic. For the next year, Matt will be teaching English in Novy Bydzov, a small town outside of Prague, and working on his first novel.<br /><br />He blogs about the perils of lesson plans, hotels with strict occupancy policies, and the strange pleasure of trading television for writing, at <a href="http://broadstudy.blogspot.com/">A Broad Study</a>.<br /><br />___________________________________________________________________<br /><br />Novy Bydzov – a town with a population of no more than 1,000, nearly 300 miles from where the once invisible Iron Curtain stood, where people get around with their legs and bikes rather than cars.<br /><br />As I take my daily walk to The Matrix, a friendly café/pub in town, I pass children smiling as they walk, and elderly men and women carrying groceries in baskets on the front of their handlebars and attached to the back of their seats. I see teenagers hidden slightly in the corners of dimly lit parks, smoking cigarettes and sipping on beers.<br /><br />Beer seems to be the drink of choice here. Since I don’t drink alcohol, I am surprised when my Coca-Cola Light costs more than my girlfriend’s 20-ounce or .5-liter beer. As proof of its abundance, this price difference between beer and Coca-Cola Light holds true no matter which café or pub we’re in.<br /><br />At night, I step out on the balcony of my fourth floor flat and look out at some of the most breathtaking sunsets I have ever seen. There is a strong smell of fertilizer in the air. As the sky grows darker, I watch a stray dog scamper back and forth across the field of maybe fifty yards below me, barking at anyone or anything that passes. On these nights I read instead of watching television, I play cards instead of watching television and I write instead of watching television.<br /><br />I think I could find no more peace here than anywhere. I had always said I could never imagine living in a small town, but I believe in this small town, that even many people in Prague have never heard of, I may have found a state of bliss.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-74179133349074465102009-09-08T20:35:00.001-07:002009-10-25T18:29:00.356-07:00All Signs Point To North CarolinaI spent the long Labor Day weekend visiting my wonderful sister in <a href="http://www.ci.mooresville.nc.us/portal/">Mooresville, North Carolina</a> -- taking pictures, playing <a href="http://www.boardgameratings.com/graphics/game_pictures/00094.jpg">Yahtzee</a>, chewing the fat. Mooresville tends to be more Southern than not (patrol cars are decorated with checkered flags, its alias is Race City, <a href="http://www.nascar.com/2004/news/features/conversation/06/14/dearnhardtjr_convo/?imw=Y">Dale Jr.</a> lives there, etc.,) so the Americana is bountiful. Since there's very little rain in Mooresville, or precipitation generally, outdoor signs and structures degrade very slowly. Old things appear new and they're not replaced. It's a photogenic place, in other words.<br /><br /><br /><br />The business signage in the following gallery is mostly drawn from Main Street in Mooresville. The Grand Overlook sign is taken from, well, the Grand Overlook.<br /><br /><br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Z7Ow7AHHu5bHeoLwi75wSYfOQSygQMAn6gy0mv7Tqhyphenhyphen6YzyVmUW-RS7kPpJ02LMJbL1hmL4JqShXbaz9poexQKKkGq3-tpNhfkrzqxZ0UnF1aTqhulcyqudl5L8kz2jE5b9Ljxk5b_7C/s1600-h/charlotte5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379527442510823906" style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Z7Ow7AHHu5bHeoLwi75wSYfOQSygQMAn6gy0mv7Tqhyphenhyphen6YzyVmUW-RS7kPpJ02LMJbL1hmL4JqShXbaz9poexQKKkGq3-tpNhfkrzqxZ0UnF1aTqhulcyqudl5L8kz2jE5b9Ljxk5b_7C/s320/charlotte5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Love that stencil work. It's how <a href="http://imgs.sfgate.com/c/pictures/2007/02/13/mn_falcon01.jpg">Sam Spade</a>'s name would have been detailed on the door to his office in <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The Maltese Falcon</span>.<br /><br /><br /><br />The D.E. Turner & Co. hardware store has been staple of Main Street for over 100 years, and it's still owned by the Turner family. Not only are the shelves stocked with the usual fare -- nails, lightbulbs, sandpaper -- but they also have vintage typewriters, Radio Flyer wagons and tin washtubs. The shelves also extend a good fifteen feet high.<br /><br /><br />You might do well to purchase a <a href="http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=27272908">watercolor of the storefront</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiygKbMMg54OA9U99S5Pp5tXjblrJDO2USZde6RRUh7CwDa8-i9Wu-09E81OQ1v_xvPtcbEPZpLuNTzhzbcGlz1P_z7Klrjwn0XIjjxMwjNKM0Dt10vOdkyngC3Ef8Of6Zx_q6R80UN5nvw/s1600-h/charlotte4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379527313677521058" style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiygKbMMg54OA9U99S5Pp5tXjblrJDO2USZde6RRUh7CwDa8-i9Wu-09E81OQ1v_xvPtcbEPZpLuNTzhzbcGlz1P_z7Klrjwn0XIjjxMwjNKM0Dt10vOdkyngC3Ef8Of6Zx_q6R80UN5nvw/s320/charlotte4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />You're looking out at the Yadkin Valley, by golly.<br /><br />The Grandview Overlook is one of the many scenic overlooks on the <a href="http://www.blueridgeparkway.org/">Blue Ridge Parkway</a>, reputed to be among the most beautiful drives in the States. Which it was, lodged in between construction detours. Alas.<br /><br /><br />Across the road were criss-crossing, rolling hills, green as Irish Spring. The sound of insects in the hills -- what I assumed to be cicadas but was later told were locusts -- outdid the passing cars. If ever asked, "How do you know when you're in the country?" this will be my answer.<br /><br /><br />Note the puffy, cloud-like theme to the sign's lettering. Fitting, since at 3,240 feet above sea level you practically stand in the clouds.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw6eVdN9hfjlSCv-Bbw7vWFvdzGaY4dfajn3eKmAJ-RRKL2XutY2QUtsBu2XUR6u48UiefV1a6ho6AZddJzMNQF9tGjPEUh5C9jgzx7Qcbqchu8HhzYwgkBif45ztzsccLy1hBHXYIZ1f-/s1600-h/charlotte3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379527198783783346" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw6eVdN9hfjlSCv-Bbw7vWFvdzGaY4dfajn3eKmAJ-RRKL2XutY2QUtsBu2XUR6u48UiefV1a6ho6AZddJzMNQF9tGjPEUh5C9jgzx7Qcbqchu8HhzYwgkBif45ztzsccLy1hBHXYIZ1f-/s320/charlotte3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A quiltery (new word for me), whose name I didn't record. I do know that Pfaff is the name of a brand of sewing machine. Banners of fabric, of all imaginable types, hung from all conceivable angles and spaces in the store.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyv3xix9wz0pEHIKzhzpz4iJ-IRM5ihkPp0wflfM15O94saWSEz8f7VabinEYBSVDoOVoGvkooW_lCwMmyPIQlrIQoGR0HhIF97gcQKc635ceN66jepHijyMgckj-7pQjAagDFYWF3djHr/s1600-h/charlotte2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379527024684411778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyv3xix9wz0pEHIKzhzpz4iJ-IRM5ihkPp0wflfM15O94saWSEz8f7VabinEYBSVDoOVoGvkooW_lCwMmyPIQlrIQoGR0HhIF97gcQKc635ceN66jepHijyMgckj-7pQjAagDFYWF3djHr/s320/charlotte2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It doesn't come through in the photograph, but the colors of both the Coca-Cola and Livery signs are incredibly vibrant. The "Relieves Fatigue" slogan dates back, I believe, to a time when Coca-Cola had traces of a narcotic other than caffeine. It's never stopped being "Delicious and Refreshing," of course. According to an artist's note in the bottom right corner of the sign, it was last touched up in 1995.<br /><br /><br /><br />If you're yearning for more vintage Coca-Cola wall ads, there's a great collection <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23711298@N07/sets/72157604349242277/">here</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgedCdkxXgqe7venIhglpilgtvH81eFYWK0FpRrNxpSGz35drXYEm2rKcHGC0VPFoUq6zwa5ttxIi_-swK_MNe8-aM9qW3GrE6nQmA0ftej7NeV4PHrZr_hYa9iwXwOWFQX3MwW7bsjtXvI/s1600-h/charlotte1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379526931324849442" style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgedCdkxXgqe7venIhglpilgtvH81eFYWK0FpRrNxpSGz35drXYEm2rKcHGC0VPFoUq6zwa5ttxIi_-swK_MNe8-aM9qW3GrE6nQmA0ftej7NeV4PHrZr_hYa9iwXwOWFQX3MwW7bsjtXvI/s320/charlotte1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Q: What's better than ice cream? A: De-Luxe Ice Cream!<br /><p class="mobile-photo"></p><br /><p class="mobile-photo"></p>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-67214016843204970282009-09-05T06:23:00.000-07:002009-09-08T09:37:46.337-07:00The Sound of the Suburbs: Serene, Or Eerie Pretext to a Slasher Film?<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='400' height='326' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzS--cNdvb9nXOVgv7a3r3PjSyKIj7S8hz14wzQI_eIHSaV_B1LU5hF7zvR10uOD4L2pBeZGxDh2dcmRWEGLA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />(courtesy of <a href="http://readingiseating.wordpress.com/">Meredith Lee</a>)Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-44259044949287946152009-09-03T15:06:00.000-07:002009-09-20T16:33:18.834-07:00Don't Live So Close To Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZbcWYfK2j0CeFaOVoJstaUc9kLJ9Iw82LhGPWuwgBKw5ZPkzsgOztpn_sbe2sNeTbB9DLKx5ge9l_42sIW3seiTAHUSFsg-lCu9Mxw4UeQYW65He535FA3qdm_BjBXhiyjPK6L1id40H/s1600-h/ergonomics.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377438789286546338" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZbcWYfK2j0CeFaOVoJstaUc9kLJ9Iw82LhGPWuwgBKw5ZPkzsgOztpn_sbe2sNeTbB9DLKx5ge9l_42sIW3seiTAHUSFsg-lCu9Mxw4UeQYW65He535FA3qdm_BjBXhiyjPK6L1id40H/s200/ergonomics.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>I've always had a passing interest in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ergonomics">Ergonomics</a>, the study of designing work spaces to lessen bodily strain. The irrepressible drive within science and scientists to tinker, uncover and fix-what-ails-ya is most impressive, to me, when it zeroes in on things like the angles of chair backs and the dimensions of cubby holes. When I think back to offices and conference rooms I felt happy in, the feeling had litte to do with people around me and everything to do the <em>sense</em> of the space, the light and the order of things. Spaces can seem to influence mood, and the longer we spend in comfortable places or in uncomfortable places, the more strongly our moods will tend.<br /><br /><br /><div>Can extremely uncomfortable spaces cause unrest? Psychologist <a href="http://colinellard.typepad.com/">Collin Ellard</a> thinks so. Ellard, who directs a program called <a href="http://virtualpsych.uwaterloo.ca/">RE.L.I.V.E</a> (Research Lab for Immersive Virtual Environments), recently came out with a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/You-Are-Here-Find-Moon/dp/038552806X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1252029807&sr=8-1">You Are Here</a>, explaining how over centuries of navigational innovation we've lost the ability to instinctively "find our way." </div><br /><div>In a section titled, "City Space," Ellard discusses the 2005 riots in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clichy-sous-Bois">Clichy-sous-Bois,</a> a predominately North African Muslim suburb of Paris, and what may have caused them. As was <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/flash/0,5860,1636443,00.html">widely</a> <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_depth/4417096.stm">reported</a>, two teenagers of North African descent were accidentally electrocuted as they hid from the police. This incident may have ignited the riots, Ellard suggests, but one key element that received little press was the "built environment occupied by those who participated in the violence -- that is, the ability of buildings or even neighborhoods to shape collective or individual human behavior." </div><br /><div>"At the time of the unrest," Ellard continues, "Clichy-sous-Bois was occupied by almost 30,000 people, among them some of the most impoverished in all of France." The area was isolated from the rest of the country due to a lack of access to public transport; <a href="http://nicooved.com/gallery/l%27habitat%20marginalise/pages/10banlieues04.htm">the streets were flanked by high, concrete buildings</a>; intersections and pedestrian traffic were rare. Furthermore, this cloistered setting couldn't have been more different from Muslim urban centers, "with their houses that face away from public thoroughfares and their graceful courtyard designs [that] emphasize privacy, family hierarchies, and clear lines of separation between public and private space." </div><br /><div>Photographer Nico Oved, in an exhibition called "<a href="http://nicooved.com/gallery/l%27habitat%20marginalise/index.htm">L'Habitat marginalisé</a>," documented the gloomy, concrete confines of Clichy-sous-Bois. In a caption to the photo at bottom, Oved underlines the failure of this type of regimented, highly modern design: "What were designed to be open public spaces have ended up becoming havens for all sorts of crime. With little or no traffic moving through these places, they become hidden enclaves that protect drug dealing and other nefarious activities from the eyes of police patrols."</div><br /><div>The mood-altering dwelling isn't an implication, or an excuse. But the suggestion is strong, and not to be ignored.</div><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377438485536544178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 189px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlUYcmAcqCQxecnDopjYh5RhgL2E_bZAdgULnRhuMj3jswqblg3FaRymneHW7Dl6-WU0vILKwiv0hnMAs4ANLFo2HhdKqQLcAVck2dyD7lLugTGFdxt3BYjGHaWfb8pGyH-Cqr1cye-k1/s400/nicooved2.jpg" border="0" /> </div></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-4755387555971533182009-08-30T17:18:00.000-07:002009-09-02T07:40:34.395-07:00Excuse Me, Is This Sugar Town?It's said that the second you arrive in New York to live, you're a New Yorker. Native-born New Yorkers will bristle.<br /><br />But beyond questions of relative nativeness lies the matter of who gets to speak for a place, whose interests are being served by such and such spokesperson, and how is this authority handed out. Do we trust the voice of an insider, easily corrupted, or an outsider, prone to puffery and drive-by logic? And what about writers, those great arbiters of culture and country? How long would one have to immerse before being taken seriously? Joan Didion, for example, spent two weeks in El Salvador in 1982 and wrote a pamplet-sized book called <em><a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780679751830&ref=rec&name=search">Salvador</a></em>, which begins, "Terror is a given of the place." Do we believe her?<br /><br />Traditionally, the "outsider's perspective" has, rightly or wrongly, been given an exalted seat on the spectrum of all possible perspectives. The outsider is objective, we think, and won't be swayed by nepotism or nostalgia; he can see a place as it is, not as it's advertised; she won't be caught in the cyclical wash of spin and hype. But these are unsure waters. No one likes a tourist with a megaphone.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.pen.org/author.php/prmAID/202/prmID/1373">John Yarbrough</a> wrote a poem in 2007 about New Orleans called <em><a href="http://www.pen.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/1465/prmID/1439">Knowing a Place</a></em>, which comments on NO's misrepresentation as a den of sin, colored in by too-ready shorthands like Zydeco, Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras. It opens:<br /><br />New Orleans never was a cream and sugar town<br />it was a poor place black coffee place<br />good place to visit if you didn’t dig too deep<br />hard place to live lots of folks went there<br />ordered up a plate of crawfish they didn’t eat<br /><br />However shallow it may be to think of New Orleans, post-Katrina, mainly as the place where the sky rains green and gold plastic beads once a year, I admit to being infected by the stereotypes. I've never been to New Orleans. If I ever go -- and I'd like to -- I'd want to access something real about the place, authentic, living alongside the stiff drinks and hurricane coverage. What sources should I look to?<br /><br /><div><div><div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/anthonyturducken/sets/72157603977636779/">Lester Carey</a>, for starters. <em>NYTM </em>columnist <a href="http://www.robwalker.net/">Rob Walker </a>writes in his blog <a href="http://nonotes.wordpress.com/2009/08/04/the-story-of-a-new-orleans-sign-painter-artist-lester-carey/">No Notes</a>:</div><div><br /></div><div>"A commercial sign-painter, Carey started in 1982 stencilling and painting on actual signs, sometimes on walls, but always at the behest (and in the service of) business owners, in New Orleans. Carey has painted signs for supermarkets, undertakers, restaurants, auto repair shops, among other shops."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"If you've lived in New Orleans in the past 10 or 15 years," Walker continues, "I think you'll recognize at least some of his creations." Calling out his ubiquity and undeserved obscurity, when asked which neighborhoods featured his work, Carey said, "I'm citywide!" </div></div><div> </div><div><div><br /></div><div>New Orleans isn't Sugar Town; it's Lester Carey's town. And he doesn't have to say a word.</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376722102265545522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAfK-rWQ4rB2aMvnv1IOBVu3i3RaVum_Np9bJpZFE3ErTdERXjYmo916HkqigXHjlb4Sr-vaqSxB9eJjK7Dg8wzwpqS7Y-GlXrfA8XQ89Fd91a6XHTCctKGQbq8HQ7ER8gkMm4U8wMj2V/s320/carey+two+sisters.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376722367035756354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIncfFB3haTfhkPygLX-aE_T-rrsYfmH1Dy1THkd_h_aqjiSbHVWBOIPdU2NG76x7mbwNxS0hhkK6GsNl5w0KhL91C27ilGwBcLF335gtfwh2T9VON-rfpRBFaE_RVZIl9nbAAbClxAEl/s320/carey+undertaker.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376722839915723874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDJnOnODE-fvm_QhG5EvHqQ-NzZ2XE4zZs7T2caOURmuYZawn0RDoSTI14sS7a3Yp-dRWF_5PoMdJXGvxvRJDTAL6Im0XxPXrfsdPS36pC9DHw1q1UCZTBewS-qR1rXIExmyBT83UiD3d/s320/carey+award+wall.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><p></p>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-1793087140995641622009-08-13T12:00:00.000-07:002009-08-14T09:55:45.720-07:00That's A Pretty Nice Haircut<em><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=4_ocfLBdl2kC&pg=PA15&dq=delillo+mirrors+everywhere&ei=LJOFStK6EKCGygSKl93UDQ#v=onepage&q=&f=false">A haircut has what. Association. Calendar on the wall. </a></em><div><em><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=4_ocfLBdl2kC&pg=PA15&dq=delillo+mirrors+everywhere&ei=LJOFStK6EKCGygSKl93UDQ#v=onepage&q=&f=false">Mirrors everywhere.</a></em></div><div>-Don DeLillo</div><div><br />It's that time of the month again, time to prune my ever-thinning locks of hair. Cheered on by the mid-August murk that's descended upon the eastern seaboard, I'm sporting, against my better instincts, a kind of ad-hoc <a href="http://thesixthseason.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/ducktail1.jpg">ducktail</a>. It needs to go.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Unlike the female lead in this summer's Wes Anderson knock-off, <a href="http://www.foxsearchlight.com/500daysofsummer/">(500) Days of Summer</a>, I've neither loved my "long dark hair," nor "how easily [I] could cut it off and not feel a thing." And not only because the window for growing my hair long has closed -- slammed -- shut.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Too often I've settled for the discount barbershops, your <a href="http://www.borics.com/">Bo Rics</a>, your <a href="http://www.supercuts.com/">Supercuts,</a> your <a href="http://www.fantasticsams.com/FantasticSams/Consumer/index.aspx">Fantastic Sams</a> (no apostrophe, fellas?). It's time to graduate to a full-blown (pun intended) experience, the real McCoy: mirrors edged with yellowed clippings of high school football triumphs not of the current decade; the lead barber, Gussie, who inherited the shop from his father, Big Gus, and wears matching rhinestone encrusted pinky rings; the dim hope that a shave with warm lotion and a straight razor is the fanning of a few GW's away.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Surely I'm being nostalgic, tracking back to <a href="http://www.newhavenadvocate.com/best/detail_08.cfm?pid=5798">"Y" (Yale) Haircutting,</a> a barber I frequented when living in downtown <a href="http://www.cityofnewhaven.com/">New Haven, CT</a>, where much of the above is still possible. Like the dive bar regulars who sit on a corner stool farthest from the door, at "Y" there were the local-friends-of-staff who sat in their designated chairs away from the haircutting, there to return the volleys of barber commentary ("Hot one today." "Sure is." "Can you believe what 'xyz public official' did now?" "It's beyond me. This country's in the shitter.") Repeat daily. They seemed to never leave.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>"A barber is a place where you can get a haircut," writes <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoff_Dyer">Geoff Dyer</a>. "That's the defining quality of the establishment but certain other elements are also essential: the availability of conversation (if required), reading matter and a task-specific seat (midway between the regular chairs provided for waiting customers and the frightening specialism of a dentist's chair.)" A suitable definition, but somewhat parochial. The photographer <a href="http://www.edward-weston.com/edward_weston.htm">Edward Weston</a> (no relation) got at something deeper: "I always feel denuded from the barber shop -- quite immodest: and seated in the chair I feel helpless -- anything may happen."</div><div></div><div><br />What do you think of when you think about barber shops? Is a trip to the salon one that elicits dread, that, like Samson, loss of hair is loss of life force? Or do you look forward to a haircut as a chance for renewal, that in the trusted hands of scissor-wielding men and women holds a new you?</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Gallery:</div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7yPDr6oYNC0M8hZeOR3VTARdsOsjdaaZw5ewbROoRHQgnn6uSuDPbydybZWzsIPVUBhWMCiDEI9NR6q9CDv0pDxog1oKHVLM4Gt07OA2MYMy7xzQonyf-DJCcjvCnIObOmGh1s4YKrKs/s1600-h/Brown_barber.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369856396194245138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 152px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7yPDr6oYNC0M8hZeOR3VTARdsOsjdaaZw5ewbROoRHQgnn6uSuDPbydybZWzsIPVUBhWMCiDEI9NR6q9CDv0pDxog1oKHVLM4Gt07OA2MYMy7xzQonyf-DJCcjvCnIObOmGh1s4YKrKs/s200/Brown_barber.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div>Peter Brown: <em>Barber Shop, <a href="http://www.ci.brownfield.tx.us/">Brownfield, Texas</a></em>, 1994.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDiqKIC0u8PnfS2ACMvmBfhJevvhmfkGqIxQXsUypuh0qeYRMVu8H2z9qfQ-ICduXzBItFKooaQv8Kyd8kJrlmaj7SuhEgVPYBKJPUEVE_ZLGFdxgeG7dJJj0QRzEOZebCFMr3l8EVmVH/s1600-h/Ormerod_barber.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369856720527971954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDiqKIC0u8PnfS2ACMvmBfhJevvhmfkGqIxQXsUypuh0qeYRMVu8H2z9qfQ-ICduXzBItFKooaQv8Kyd8kJrlmaj7SuhEgVPYBKJPUEVE_ZLGFdxgeG7dJJj0QRzEOZebCFMr3l8EVmVH/s200/Ormerod_barber.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div>Michael Ormerod: <em>Untitled</em>, Undated.</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><u><span style="color:#0000ff;"></span></u></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0cEPfdTpmmf9rgZprHTdvIiXefNqlD_oTdDu0PhlIqgF0UNW7sHMgBrDv6KXlpl6k7otKdJ0YLcztt_s00GvbxO-G6auIBYSE5nyneJZj_X2ePpJuLvtyCwzVz3Wwj5PPNewME4hT6pJ/s1600-h/spa_salon_masthead.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369857222643092418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0cEPfdTpmmf9rgZprHTdvIiXefNqlD_oTdDu0PhlIqgF0UNW7sHMgBrDv6KXlpl6k7otKdJ0YLcztt_s00GvbxO-G6auIBYSE5nyneJZj_X2ePpJuLvtyCwzVz3Wwj5PPNewME4hT6pJ/s200/spa_salon_masthead.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div>Christiaan Geirgio salon, Grand Hyatt Mumbai<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEkwWTKHKr8pMEz-LVBsKH3qqL30CF2dMp-RdDQ6PJhZPIHRWZBAtwqlVIcJ5pOhAkwWSgfq27kjqNhZ7ik3a1MwqMIU4PTt9DCoa-Hp8meQHGjK2wufafipgCZ9NXPd2ygGMl8mmS0_y/s1600-h/Brklyn+barber.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369857689718612050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEkwWTKHKr8pMEz-LVBsKH3qqL30CF2dMp-RdDQ6PJhZPIHRWZBAtwqlVIcJ5pOhAkwWSgfq27kjqNhZ7ik3a1MwqMIU4PTt9DCoa-Hp8meQHGjK2wufafipgCZ9NXPd2ygGMl8mmS0_y/s200/Brklyn+barber.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div>Sign, 5th Ave. btw 14th and 15th Streets, Brooklyn, NY<br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><p></p><div><br /><br /></div><div></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-75225354785799865662009-08-09T15:04:00.000-07:002009-08-09T15:36:44.098-07:00Surviving ChelseaFrom <a href="http://www.blogger.com/Bill%20Buford">Bill Buford</a>'s (highly recommended) <em><a href="http://www.brilliant-books.net/NASApp/store/Search;jsessionid=bacqnoBTcECn5hiO7mbms?s=results&initiate=yes&ks=q&qsselect=KQ&title=&author=&qstext=among+the+thugs">Among the Thugs</a></em>, describing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stamford_Bridge_(stadium)">Stamford Bridge stadium</a>, home of the <a href="http://www.chelseafc.com/page/Welcome">Chelsea Football Club</a>:<br /><br /><div>I entered the grounds and was frisked – my comb, because it had long teeth, was confiscated – and emerged from the turnstile to find people everywhere, on the steps, sitting atop fences on posts, suspended from bits of architecture. There was a narrow human alley, and I joined the mob pushing its way through for a place from which to watch the match.<br /><br />Except that there was no place. There was a movable crush. It was impossible, once inside, to change my mind – to decide that I didn’t want to see the game after all, that I wanted to go home – because I couldn’t move left or right, let alone turn around and walk back the way I came. There was only one direction: forward. For some reason, there was an advantage, an advantage worth defending, in being one step ahead of wherever it was that you happened to be. And that was where everybody was trying to go.<br /><br />There was a range of tactics for achieving this. The most common was the <em>simple squeeze</em>: by lifting your crushed arm from between the two bodies that had wedged you in place and slipping it in front and by then twisting yourself in such a way that your body, obeying natural principles, actually followed your arm, you could inch towards that mysterious spot just ahead of you. The simple squeeze was popular – I assume that most people had learned the technique trying to buy a drink in London pubs – and everybody did it, until interrupted by the <em>shove</em>.<br /><br />The principles of the shove was this: somebody, somewhere behind you, frustrated at not getting to this mysterious spot just one step ahead, would give up and throw his weight into the person in front of him; then, amid cries of “fuckin’ bastard,” everybody tumbled forward. Nobody fell if ony because each person was pressed so tightly against the one in front who was in turn pressed so tightly against the one in front of him that no one, apparently, was in any <em>real</em> danger. But I wondered about the person at the very front and was convinced that somebody must be feeling very frightened at the increasingly likely prospect of being vcrushed against a wall – for eventually there must be a wall. And it must have been this fear, felt by the panicked, slowly suffocating one at the front whose ribs were buckling painfully, which contributed to the <em>counter shove</em>, an effort of animal strength that seemed to occur shortly after you had abandoned the simple squeeze and, being unable to stop yourself from tumbling uncontrollably forwards, had resigned yourself to the authority of the shove, when suddenly, inexplicably, there was the counter shove and you were traveling uncontrollably backwards.<br /><br />The movement never ceased.</div><br /><br /><object height="364" width="445"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pCcUuj5fmEU&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pCcUuj5fmEU&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-38918862352175348062009-08-02T14:45:00.000-07:002009-08-09T15:02:52.135-07:00Rabbits in Logan, Rabbits in Flint<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzaOflg0QzAaCXrm506oG5-3eDeuc-Y3OM63-cHLYeh6P4Dngz3fRJUsdNncpkF9u1arae-ZQfRG-SwoZ6zbMe-WKlWPNYXNoSMuDvGsM7BtN0OPGxKVppy4ag0KyE2zyYrMY67fkOOE5Y/s1600-h/Rabbit+Hutch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367325964445374514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzaOflg0QzAaCXrm506oG5-3eDeuc-Y3OM63-cHLYeh6P4Dngz3fRJUsdNncpkF9u1arae-ZQfRG-SwoZ6zbMe-WKlWPNYXNoSMuDvGsM7BtN0OPGxKVppy4ag0KyE2zyYrMY67fkOOE5Y/s200/Rabbit+Hutch.jpg" border="0" /></a> Listening to the stellar <a href="http://bigshed.org/">Big Shed Audio </a>produced piece "<a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=106733223">Rabbit So Good</a>" on NPR, about the now defunct Venz Rabbit Hutch restaurant (<em>Ann Venz, pictured</em>) in Logan, AL, I was reminded of the infamous rabbit skinner, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wIsOZehMrw&feature=related">Rhonda Britton</a>, from Michael Moore's documentary <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/"><em>Roger & Me</em></a>. (Warning: a rabbit dies in the clip. It is not for the squeamish.) As Britton mentions, holding an especially cute, floppy-eared rabbit in front of her yard in <a href="http://cityofflint.com/">Flint, MI</a>, a health inspector has threatened to close her operation unless she, "builds [her] a building where there's washable walls, washable floors, and an unbreakable light." You have to feel for Rhonda. It's snowing. Her rabbits, packed in a cage, are yellowing their neighbors' fur with urine. These sanctions would significantly cut into the "ten to fifteen dollars a week" profit her business yielded. All lights are breakable.<br /><br /><em>Roger & Me </em>raised not a few hackles upon its release -- years later, those interviewed, including Britton, are <a href="http://www.wave3.com/Global/story.asp?S=2928401">still sore</a> over compensation -- but I suspect the rabbit butchery garnered by far the most outrage.<em> </em>If the reactions to the "Rabbit So Good" piece are any indication, poor Britton probably met quite a backlash. A small sampling of responses to "Rabbit So Good" on the NPR viewing page:<br /><br /><em>I am extraordinarily disappointed in NPR for devoting so much time and attention to a restaurant that specializes in the death and mockery of rabbits.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I’m surprised and disappointed that NPR would include such an insensitive contribution. I’m sickened by the general acceptance, insensitivity and up-beat nature in which this report was written about the tasteless way “dinner" was served at this “restaurant".</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>As a rabbit rescuer and vegetarian, my stomach churned hearing about this restaurant that serves what I know as beloved pets as the main course.</em><br /><br />To my mind, both the proprietors of the Rabbit Hutch and Rhonda Britton used a natural resource, rabbits, to maximize their livelihood, to get by -- especially in Britton's case. While the Rabbit Hutch, a restaurant structured to seat customers and, if inspired, seranade them with an organ and a sing-along, had the advantage of a group of loyal customers and community support, Britton acted alone because ... why, exactly? The answer, if there is one, says something about the state of these two very different towns at the time of these recordings. Ply Britton with, say, liberal small business loans for a year, or even six months, and watch her run the Flint outpost of the Venz Rabbit Hutch franchise.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-91229820670854815572009-07-26T18:41:00.000-07:002009-10-18T15:32:14.580-07:006 Things To Love About Detroit. (Because 5 Isn't Enough. Seriously.)1) The <a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1198/1225880104_ad1359a429.jpg">abandoned</a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_GNlJbWsgq5DbQMSxJcrwYSSk0SqT8sMHWW7fS3bdDwzDoKaRfDQlYPq20Rmg_YS2UWQeQprGi5zPEB0mKsnwkkENm-krU4ls4b9T-ZH3I0klYnNQV1iKQ2DTCXGmv7g_Pgx2h34zQ/s640/2259884719_80dc3a9fee_b.jpg">Michigan</a> <a href="http://sitemaker.umich.edu/stephen.mahler/files/train_station2.jpg">Central</a> <a href="http://weburbanist.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/abandoned-michigan-central-station-interior.jpg">Station</a>. Beautiful even in decay.<br />2) All America vs. Lafayette. In this battle for <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://http.cdnlayer.com/smoola/00/01/04/99327fdec1af601e_m.jpg&imgrefurl=http://biggestmenu.com/rdr/MI/Detroit/Lafayette-Coney-Island-1596758/Coney-Island-Dog-66703&usg=__N43k1Tecp2LeYp3DFcrcF1yXS3g=&h=375&w=500&sz=42&hl=en&start=9&sig2=c6mYOKW0inHSs2dLhDQCQw&um=1&tbnid=wti0Eb_n420rQM:&tbnh=98&tbnw=130&prev=/images%3Fq%3Ddetroit%2Bconey%2Bdog%26hl%3Den%26um%3D1&ei=AcdtSvH6D6WpmQez6MC6Cw">coney dog</a> supremacy, there are no losers.<br />3) <a href="http://transom.org/?p=113">Fake City, Real Dreams </a>podcast. A Utopian vision of Detroit as imagined by a mass transit employee of same. Why did the rebuilding project stop at casinos, again?<br />4) Diego Rivera's <em>Detroit Industry</em> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVrMQoTga6Ft0e0i6fxhBkfCOiumg5DT-QSZ67i8j4KVYp59lepVyA4UP9d3Oqdqr33JYv6bESEm2PDlwzY-aByuOdKo6AZnyuyQAkglM-sOoLP3slrfBaj37dj3-eVoyGSjiDtiJd8w/s400/Diego+Rivera+detroit_industry_south.jpg">mural</a> at the <a href="http://www.dia.org/">Detroit Institute of Arts</a>. Seen in person, the dread sets in at about the 30 second mark. But it feels good.<br />5) <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_H1bLBw-FYtg/ScxAy1oX9yI/AAAAAAAAFJ8/7GGKIjRxQQc/s800/IMG_2759.JPG">Gators</a>.<br />6) Detroit, 1984. Painter's caps. Prodigious hair above the upper lip. Boy George, <a href="http://socialbaron.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/jungle-bird-magnum1.jpg">Magnum, P.I.</a> Only one force could bring these elements together: Tiger baseball. Bless You Boys, indeed.<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CrJDAnhgQ_M&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CrJDAnhgQ_M&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-87602879080487792152009-07-24T15:55:00.001-07:002009-08-09T15:04:38.577-07:00The Prevalence of Vern<a href="http://www.creativelaserdesign.com/wp-content/images/verns%20repair%20ho%20scale.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 500px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 375px" alt="" src="http://www.creativelaserdesign.com/wp-content/images/verns%20repair%20ho%20scale.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />From <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/features/billbryson/">Bill Bryson</a>'s "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Continent-Travels-Small-Town-America/dp/0060920084/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1248643650&sr=8-1">The Lost Continent</a>," on driving through Iowa:<br /><br />Every fourth or fifth community will be a country town, built around a square. A handsome brick courthouse with a Civil War cannon and a monument to the dead of at least two wars will stand on one side of the square and on the other sides will be businesses: a five-and-dime, a luncheonette, two banks, a hardware store, a Christian bookstore, a barber's, a couple of hairsdressers, a place selling men's clothing that only someone from a small town would wear. At least two of the businesses will be called Vern's.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-32904967112225586832009-07-16T13:20:00.000-07:002009-07-17T05:43:02.108-07:00Your Town in Six WordsSeemingly out of nowhere, telling stories in six words has beccome all the rage. Blame the Internets (all of them).<br /><br />A nobler beginning can be traced to Ernest Hemingway's famous six word short story, <em>For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn ... </em>which then percolated for 40-50 years to the present moment, where everything from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Six-Word-Memoirs-Love-Heartbreak-Writers/dp/0061714623">love</a> to one's <a href="http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/">life story</a> is being told in short bursts.<br /><br />Is it possible to abbreviate a place in six words? Imagine all the history and personality you'd need to pack in. I tried it with a few towns I've known well. How'd I do?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.berkleymich.org/web/index.asp">Berkley, MI</a>: Just far enough away from Detroit.<br /><br />Santa Monica, CA: Not unemployed. "Working on a screenplay."<br /><br />Brooklyn, NY: The sidewalks are paved with strollers.<br /><br />Now, you go.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-66311388342031424072009-07-10T20:51:00.000-07:002009-07-15T16:23:53.869-07:00What Lies Beneath (Your Town)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAz4zBJJhMJZDiZbMIKpwnwKsmm6qKIYKPqA0tPQQhvinOBvHfw_qNUJ3GzNAFB7QDuxr6JRrGfIOZz-_DFaDp9ovdapBShrybHDImx4ujySxJjzs5vtD_aPep942PKb8AJlSG5yswRYK/s1600-h/The+Works.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 105px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAz4zBJJhMJZDiZbMIKpwnwKsmm6qKIYKPqA0tPQQhvinOBvHfw_qNUJ3GzNAFB7QDuxr6JRrGfIOZz-_DFaDp9ovdapBShrybHDImx4ujySxJjzs5vtD_aPep942PKb8AJlSG5yswRYK/s320/The+Works.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358831571252453874" /></a><br />If you've ever sat a stop light and wondered, Why won't this change? What the eff is going on? WHO'S BEHIND THIS?? You need Kate Ascher's, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0143112708/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=304485901&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=1594200718&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=1CH6DQS0E12K8TE8EEHV">The Works</a>. This amazing book explains, among other things, how mail is processed, how manholes are formed and why an 800-pound robot submarine was built to probe the Delaware Aqueduct. Think <a href="http://www.amazon.com/New-Way-Things-Work/dp/0395938473/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247698865&sr=1-1">The Way Things Work</a> for the urban set.<br /><br /><br />If The Works is New York City-centric, that's because NYC is the greatest city on earth. No. Well, maybe, but there's more to it. Ascher worked for NYC's <a href="http://www.panynj.gov/">Port Authority</a>, and, as she mentions in this <a href="http://us.penguingroup.com/static/html/blogs/guest-author/works-kate-ascher">blog post</a>, 9/11 and the subsequent infrastructure emergency inspired her to write the book. Regardless, it's sure to shed light on the many invisible machinations at play in your town.<br /><br />If words about parking meters and mines aren't your thing, you can glean oodles of helpful info from the many colorful charts, graphs and diagrams. This book does for railroad classification yards what this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBvaHZIrt0o">video</a> did for flow charts.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1Xhdy9zBEws&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1Xhdy9zBEws&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3721547175550856640.post-91528438332303848052009-07-09T08:57:00.000-07:002009-07-14T08:33:46.774-07:00Chicago: Sin City?W.T. Stead, British journalist and minister, came to Chicago in 1893 and convened a civic meeting to discuss the question, "What if Christ came to Chicago he wouldn't find anything in Chicago he would have altered?" You know the answer. Capitalizing on the subsequent outrage, later that year he published a pamphet, <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/If-Christ-Came-Chicago-Service/dp/0924772115/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1247178572&sr=8-1">If Christ Came to Chicago!</a></em> (emphasis his). This <a href="http://tinyurl.com/nl9tno">map</a> was the frontispiece. We can assume it wasn't always used as intended. Which begs the question: why doesn't Google maps have this functionality?<br /><br />Lest you think W.T. put a stop to the evildoing in Chicago ... he didn't. Check out these great bathroom scrawls on the Univ. of Chicago campus, courtesy of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/quinnanya/sets/72157602179427698/">Quinn Dombrowski</a>, a new tech. staffer and researcher there. (Via <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2009/07/library-graffiti-at-the-university-of-chicago.html">Jacket Copy, LAT</a>). Sample:<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHELkym16Nwhmybjgx2DztXKr_t_qHIkzwQhngmxwEbHDWP4_who-VIigQsFtcx5nD7efAjwY3uncLeA9hXpI9hfSoX577PHzO8voR3U4wzIJ3WAwt3ryRB_lbq-092zaSUw0YJWvhzkT9/s1600-h/Hell+is+Warmer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356590282152378162" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHELkym16Nwhmybjgx2DztXKr_t_qHIkzwQhngmxwEbHDWP4_who-VIigQsFtcx5nD7efAjwY3uncLeA9hXpI9hfSoX577PHzO8voR3U4wzIJ3WAwt3ryRB_lbq-092zaSUw0YJWvhzkT9/s320/Hell+is+Warmer.jpg" border="0" /></a>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04364214467461543861noreply@blogger.com0