A Water Falls in Brooklyn

First the telectroscope and now the waterfalls. New York's on a public art kick. Look out!

Some Danish guy who likes making fake weather environments decided that New York City could use some waterfalls. So the Public Art Fund and a bunch of private donors (Look, conservatives! No tax money for art!) got together to spend seven-and-a-half bajillion dollars to execute Hamlet's vision: four waterfalls along the East River, all south of the Manhattan Bridge.

From the Brooklyn Bridge portion of my daily commute, I can see three of the four waterfalls (Governor's Island, Brooklyn Heights, and the Manhattan Bridge). Naturally, the one I can't see is the one at the Brooklyn Bridge because I walk right over it. I thought it might be cool to look at it through the slats on the walkway of the Bridge, but it was decidedly underwhelming.

Which, frankly, is how I feel about the whole endeavor. The rendering posted above for your reference is, after all, a rendering. Maybe if the real thing looked a little bit like that it'd be impressive. As it is, we've got some weak-ass waterfalls trickling over scaffolding in a few locations.

A few years back, Christo and Jean-Claude did their "Gates" project in Central Park. Orange fabric floating along the pathways of the Park. It sounded sort of stupid, but I checked it out. And it was great. It drew people in and built a community around public art. It was aesthetically satisfying, and the experience of being there with New Yorkers and tourists, children and adults, black and white and brown was largely the point of the whole project.

The waterfalls have to be observed from afar. I mean, you can get relatively close to them, but you're never really sharing the experience with other people. At least not where I've been. Yes, they're terrific engineering feats. But all they do is remind me that it's been a while since I've seen a good waterfall in nature.

And maybe that's part of the point. But ultimately the waterfalls leave me feeling unsatisfied, and if that's part of the point, then there's something a little short on the "public" side of this public art.

Nothing Satisfies Like Jayson

I got a rare seat on the downtown number 5 train this morning and found myself in front of a homemade ad for Jayson the Massage Therapist.


I've doctored the photo only to get rid of the phone number. Other than that, it is exactly as I saw it.

But Jayson, I have some questions and comments for you:

First of all, Jayson, you need to think about your advertising strategy. Who is your target audience? Gay men? Lonely ladies? Anyone? I'm not sure who your target consumer is.

Second, you're not leaving a lot to the imagination. Sometimes, Jayson, the mind can conjure a better image than an image itself. Something to think about, Jayson.

Also, I'm surprised you have a 914 number. That's Westchester County, Jayson. I'm surprised and impressed, frankly.

Oh, Jayson... Has someone played a joke on you?

(By the way, the woman who saw me taking this photo on the subway this morning moved slowly away from me.)

I Have Low Expectations

The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) owns what might be the last undeveloped piece of land in Manhattan (if you consider rail track undeveloped). They recently sold it to a developer called Tishman Speyer. It was some sort of $1 billion deal. Well, Tishman Speyer backed out.

Now I'm not gonna pretend to know anything about New York City commercial real estate or the terms of the deal or who's to blame for what.

But I've been a consumer of the MTA's services for more than fifteen years now. I've marveled as they've raised fares and cut services. I've been astonished as they've cooked books and somehow gotten a free ride. I've been floored by their constant ability to redefine "incompetent management."

So no, I'm not surprised that a real estate deal involving the MTA fell apart.

The Nastiest Commuters

Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

New York City has had a bit of a bedbugs epidemic the past few years. Several people I know have had to deal with the nightmare, and I think an infestation ranks among the missus' biggest fears. They don't discriminate: housing projects, luxury hotels, working class neighborhoods, fashionable neighborhoods. They're everywhere. They're disgusting, annoying, and very difficult to get rid of.

Well, they're on the freakin' subways, too.

Don't sit on the wood benches on the subway platform, New Yorkers. At some point, they're no longer bedbugs, but... I don't know... everywherebugs.

This is Bad Even by MTA Standards

A Mets article in the New York Times leads with this:

The journey from Brooklyn to Queens is a short one geographically, but it took Nelson Figueroa 13 years to make the trip.

Looks like Nelson discovered the perils of the G train!

Zang! zzP-POW! Wocka-wocka-wocka!

Someone Needs to Blow Manhattan's Nose

I would normally have more to say on the matter, but for now, I'm just going to voice my displeasure at the brutal assassination of Mayor Bloomberg's congestion pricing plan. It works in London, and it could work here. I never thought I'd see the day that I'd agree with Joe Bruno about something. Shame on Sheldon Silver and the cowardly state assembly that wouldn't even bring the plan to a vote.

Heart

A moment of exposition for you non-NYC-dwelling B&E readers: One sees homeless people every day in New York City, on and off the subway. It's a semi-regular occurrence for one of those homeless people to be exceptionally stinky. Particularly potent cases can clear subway cars. That's a fact, not a judgment.

Today, on the platform at Grand Central sat two homeless men. One--or both--was particularly stinky in that way that clears space.

A hipster woman standing near me got that look--the look that says, "Where's that coming from?" She then did what I don't expect hipster ladies to do: She went over, gave each of them a dollar, and had a short chat with one of them. It wasn't forced, she wasn't making a show of it, and it wasn't remotely uncomfortable. I've seen hipsters (almost always men) strike up conversations with homeless people, and it's always seemed somehow... I don't know... false.

As the train arrived, she moseyed away from the homeless man to continue her commute. I noticed a button on her jacket: "I [heart] my cunt."

A New Approach to Hands-Free

Anyone who knows me knows I'm not the biggest fan of cellular telephones. The hands-free telephones freak me out. People in New York already walk around like lunatics, but when you see seemingly normal people talking to themselves, it's disconcerting. They gesticulate wildly while they talk and you can't tell they're talking to someone on their nearly invisible phones until they're upon you, at which point you're convinced that they're going to yell at you or throw punches. Everyone feels that way, right?

Anyway, since coming back from Scotland, I've seen an approach to this hands-free cellphone talking I can get behind. Most of you probably know what a hijab is. I've pictured one here for your reference, in case you don't. Don't worry, the woman wearing that one is not real.

Here in Queens, we've got a large Muslim population, and hijabs are pretty common. Ladies, if you're thinking of wearing the hijab, I can add to your list of pros. You can tuck a normal cellphone against your ear, and your hijab will hold it into place. Hands-free! And you won't look like a lunatic because a casual observer can see the phone!

I'd never seen this approach to hands-free talking prior to our trip to Scotland, and in the last two weeks I've seen three different women with cellphones tucked into their hijabs.

Hell, man, if I didn't hate talking on the phone in general and cellphones in particular, I'd get myself a hijab to leave my hands free for knitting, reading books, trying on pants, or any other of the plethora of subway activities I enjoy.

A Pervert on the 7

Apparently, over the weekend, some pervert exposed himself to a woman on the 7 train. This happens from time to time. There are millions of men living in NYC. A few are bound to be perverts. And ride the subway. And root for the Yankees.

That's right: the flasher was wearing a Yankees jersey, and the woman he flashed got a picture of him on her camera phone.

If it's 4:30am and the pervert's riding the 7 train, the pervert very likely lives in Queens on the subway line that goes to Shea Stadium, which, as we all know, is where the Mets play.

What the hell was that pervert doing in a Yankees' jersey? Fuck you, pervert.

A Tip For Commuters

Those of us that live in New York and ride the subway during rush hour know how crowded trains and platforms can get.

I learned something last night that I offer to you, dear B&E readers, for free:

If you throw up into one of those bomb-proof trashcans on the platform, your fellow riders will give you quite a wide berth.

All the space you could want. I recommend it.

Stupid Girl, They Have the Same Amount

My high school psychology book featured a series of photos in which a three- or four-year-old girl attempts to determine which glass of water has more water in it.

The first photo shows two glasses of water - the glasses are the same size and shape, and the water levels are even. She determines that they have the same amount of water. In the first photo, she is correct.

The second photo shows the girl watching one glass's water getting poured into a tall, thin glass.

The third photo shows the girl pointing at this taller, thinner glass because it's got more water in it. She's wrong.

I don't remember what these photographs were teaching us. Children are retarded?

What I do remember is the little girl's face.

I saw that little girl, now an adult, on the subway this morning. You're probably asking yourself how I know, and I have no rational explanation.

But I haven't thought of those photos in years. And I'm convinced that this 25-year-old -or-so woman was that retarded child.

My high school psychology teacher, by the way, eventually got canned for banging his students.

He did not bang me.

And My Civil Liberties Were Gone Before Lunch

I had occasion to be out and about yesterday morning, and between my commute and two meetings, I saw three men that I mistook for Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez.

The man haunts me.

Bridge, of the Brooklyn Sort

I've got a full-time job now. So I will no longer apologize for the lack of posting. I will instead internalize what I think the lack of posting says about me as a person, and concentrate on the feelings of insignificance and self-loathing.

Hello again, dear B&E readers!

I have a self-imposed rule that I won't write about my job. Not only do I like my job (and don't particularly feel like getting fired), but I don't want to become Dilbert.

I will, however, occasionally write about my commute. Commutes are infinitely interesting.

My commute takes me from Queens to Brooklyn every weekday. There's no quick way to make the trip. Even if my journey took me directly along the G train (and mine doesn't), it wouldn't be a quick trip. So instead I try to make it pleasant.

I walk the Brooklyn Bridge. Every day. In both directions. Only the rain keeps me from walking it. And even that I did once, which is why the rain now keeps me from walking it. Maybe - just maybe - in the summer I'll decide it's too hot for bridge walking. I have a slight penchant for sweating. But for now, I walk the Bridge.

It's easy to rave about the Brooklyn Bridge. But that's only because it's the coolest bridge in the world.

The morning sun lights up the bridge and the city just beautifully. I'm walking into the sun toward Brooklyn in the mornings, but I'm sure to turn around and check out the view at least once during my walk. Then on my way home, it's dark, and because it's winter(ish) and there's less haze, the view of city is crisp and clear.

The view of Manhattan itself is different than it was, of course. Until I was working in Brooklyn, I hadn't walked the Brooklyn Bridge since before 9/11. Downtown, from the bridge, doesn't look that interesting. It's impressive, yes. It's almost like one giant monolithic structure. The towers added a varied line to what is now just a lot of really tall buildings. From other angles (from the Staten Island Ferry, for example), downtown looks more varied than it does from the Brooklyn Bridge. But it's really the volume of large buildings downtown that seems impressive from the bridge.

Midtown at night looks like a theater set skyline. So quintessentially New York it's almost fake. The view of midtown from my 'hood in Queens features a prominently displayed Chrysler Building, and it's one of best the city has to offer. From the Brooklyn Bridge, though, the Chrysler Building looks tiny, and a little lonely, set off to the side. But midtown is full of color and flashing lights. And much better appreciated from a distance.

The view of Brooklyn is not uninteresting, but there's not as much to speak of (possibly because I'm not as familiar with Brooklyn). There's the Watchtower, of course, where the Jehovah's Witnesses live and print their magazines. But DUMBO (that's Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass for those of you not in the know) is mostly warehouse buildings and brand-spankin'-new condos. Brooklyn Heights looks like a neighborhood, which it is. The two-tiered BQE is a bit of a trip. And the ship-building in Red Hook offers a touch of the industrial.

My fellow pedestrians are mostly tourists. Those that aren't I see regularly. I tend to look at the faces of the people I pass on the street, and surprisingly few look back. The first month I was walking the bridge there was one woman that looked back every time. One morning she smiled at me. I smiled back. I haven't seen her since.

Boy, that sounded unnecessarily ominous.

Very few other people look back. There's the dude in the dark shades and Van Dyke with the unconnected mustache and goatee. There's the skinny chick with the fat face (only when you see it, do you realize how rare it is). There's the woman who looks like the older version of a college classmate. Come to think of it, maybe I'm an older version of her college classmate. Nah, I'm pretty sure it's not her. There's the middle-aged runner who wears pink shorts no matter how cold it is. If they looked at me, I'd probably be the bald guy who can sweat in any weather.

The cyclists go by a little quicker, but one guy rides by every morning with the child's attachment bike on the back. It's always empty. I've assumed he's a divorcee who keeps it there just in case he gets an unexpected day with his kid. Good luck, buddy.

The Brooklyn Bridge itself... Hell, it's the one thing a Norwegian will know about Brooklyn. It really is an impressive specimen. So much so, that I don't know what else to say about it. One morning, the NYPD was performing some sort of crazy-ass training exercise on the bridge. I've included a photo.

At night you can see through the planks in the pedestrian walkway down to the ground below (obviously, when you're above the water, it just looks like a dark abyss). If you're scared of heights that can be a bit disconcerting. But what the hell are you doing looking down, anyway, when you're surrounded by the most beautiful bridge in the most amazing city in the world?

They Are, After All, Typically Bald and Usually Effective

reading
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Generally speaking, when riding the subway, I catch up on my periodical reading. The Nation is really the only periodical to which I subscribe, and until recently, I rode on the subway just enough to get through the articles in The Nation I wanted to read. The next issue would arrive, and there I go.

Well, since going back to being a daily subway rider for the new job, one issue of The Nation per week is no longer satisfying my needs for reading and riding. So on Thursday, I was reading a book (not the one pictured).

I've been having mixed feelings about this particular piece of fiction, liking it just enough to continue working my way through it. But it's good for the subway, as it can be read in fits and starts without losing much in the experience. During Thursday's commute, I reached a part of the book that was actually quite riveting. I didn't miss my transfer point or anything, but I immediately went back to reading after switching trains and finished the chapter.

When I closed the book and looked up for the first time that morning on the southbound number 1 train, I came face-to-...well, tits... with cleavage.

I was raised in a household by a father who respected women and by a mother who taught me what that meant. I also have an older sister who made sure I turned out to be a sensitive man, even if it meant kicking my ass from time-to-time. So I know that I'm not supposed to stare at women's tits on the subway. It's this knowledge that made me turn my face away.

Right into more cleavage.

I'm married, of course, and if there's one thing that marriage teaches you, it's that a husband's eyes shouldn't wander to another woman's breasts. In fact, depending on one's wife's mood, a husband's eyes shouldn't necessarily wander to his wife's breasts. So with the understanding that there are very few circumstances during which it's appropriate to be staring at breasts, I once again turned my face away.

Right into the most impressive cleavage yet.

Without any other options, I began reading the next chapter in my book.

But, Wait. I Have Something to Say...

I really want to post a little ditty today, but I have to go to my job now. Hopefully, by the time I get around to writing what I want to write, the content won't be irrelevant.

Thanks for visiting. Sorry to disappoint. But there are some nonprofits that need me to write some shit for them today.

What Do You Really Want From Me?

I have one of those faces, and so people stop me to ask directions a lot. It happened again last night on the 7 train platform at Queensboro Plaza.

I try to shut off from the world when traveling. I'm not a big fan of strangers, and I don't like talking to them. Strangers are bad, nasty, evil people, as my mom used to tell me. So on planes, I listen to music. On trains, I write in a journal. On the subway, I read. And never -- never -- do I deviate. If I'm on a subway, I would never write in a journal. On a plane, I wouldn't dare read. And listen to music? On a train? Don't make me laugh. But I digress.

Last night I was reading my ever-trusty Nation magazine, when I was approached by one of these strangers I fear and loathe so much.

But I'm also unable to be rude to strangers, so if someone strikes up a conversation with me, I feel like I have to play along.

Right. So I'm in the middle of an article about how Latin America is getting all socialist, much to the chagrin of the Bush administration, when this Asian woman asks me, innocently enough, "Is the express train still running?"

"I don't know what time it is, but if it's not 10pm yet, you can still get an express."

"Good, it's not 10pm yet. What do you do?"

Shit, she wants a conversation.

"I'm a writer."

"Here's my card. If you want to buy an apartment, or if you have an apartment for sale, call me."

It takes her a long time to find her own card, while I try to figure out what my being a writer has to do with real estate. She's got a pocketful of other brokers' cards.

"Thanks."

"You must have a lot of wisdom if you're a writer."

"Well, I don't know about wisdom, but I do have a lot of thoughts."

"If those thoughts come from God, I'm sure there's a lot of wisdom."

"Gosh, I certainly hope so."

"If you have the love of God, you will be a successful writer."

"Gosh, I certainly hope that's true."

"If you have the love of God, it is already true. Express train!"

She got on the train, and I realized that this female stranger wanted three things from me in less than a minute: directions, real estate, and a conversion to Christ.

Stupid, demanding strangers.

A Strange Sighting

twins
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

Yesterday on the uptown 5 train, I saw identical twins.

The custom of dressing identical twins to be identical in every way has always struck me as strange. And yet, somehow, with children, Doublemint gum commercials, and those Coors models, I can understand the impulse.

These two women were in their 50s, I'd guess. They wore identical outfits - black pants, white shirts, and black leather jacket with the same stitched pattern across the shoulders. Their hair was cut in the same style (long with bangs) and they shared the same dyed black color, except that both had exactly a third of an inch of their brown and gray roots exposed. And I'm pretty sure they were both wearing dentures. Something about the perfection of the teeth, the color of the gums, and the shape of their mouths.

They didn't speak a word to each other the entire time I was around them, on either the platform or the train.

And I was a little freaked out.

I'm Just a Country Girl...

On the subway yesterday, I was standing next to a woman who had the look that all people unfamiliar with the New York City subway system have. It's an expression at the intersection of determination, fear, and anger. She was wearing a shitload of makeup, and even more jewelry. Rich suburbanite, I'd guess. She didn't look like a subway rider. I have one of "those faces," so she ended up asking me for directions, beginning with what train she was on.

"W."
"Oh, FUCK! It's not an N?"
"Well, the W goes along the N line through Manhattan, but runs local."
"OK, but will it take me to 34th Street?"
"Yes."
"OK, thank you."

I go back to reading The Nation.

"So this will get me to Penn Station?"
"Well, you'll need to walk one long block to 7th Avenue, but yes."
"I was given, like, twelve different routes to Penn Station. Why don't you New Yorkers just give the best way?"
"Because the best way depends on many factors."

I go back to reading The Nation. A thing about lobbyists.

"And how do I know which way is 7th Avenue when I get out of the subway?"
"You'll see the Empire State Building. Keep it at your back as you walk."
"That's funny. Somebody else told me that."
"That person also gave you sound directions."

I go back to The Nation.

"My company just moved to Long Island City from Downtown because the rent's cheaper. I hate Queens."
"I live in Queens."
"It's just that it takes me an hour and forty minutes to get to work now."
"Oh, well, that sucks."
"This is the first time I've made the trip. I'm just a country girl from New Jersey."