Sunday, October 29, 2017

Only The Dead Know Brooklyn

The Phantom stayed in Greenpoint, Brooklyn this weekend. 
Walked from a Polish Catholic neighborhood through Williamsburg, which is cheek by jowl to this Polish community and on to Brooklyn Heights.

The women at the bakery speak Polish, and some speak a little English, enough so you can order your bread and rolls, if you point a lot.
These are 20 something women. Did they just move to the States? 
Or do they simply not need to learn English in this part of Brooklyn?
They live in America, but separate and apart. In a way, they are a sect, if only by language segregation.
There are Polish churches, Polish newspapers, Polish convenience stores, where you hear only Polish, spoken by old people, young people, people who look just like any other New Yorker in Manhattan or Brooklyn, blue jeans, sweatshirts, but they speak Polish.





















It is easy to imagine you are walking through 1930's Warsaw, with all the Poles and Polish signs on the stores and Polish newspapers. 









And, then there's the Jewish ghetto. Time travel. Flash backs.

Williamsburg is home to another sort of sect, some very cult-ish Jews. These people do not look like other New Yorkers.  
The men walk around in the same black outfits they must have worn in 1930 Warsaw, the outfits which made them look so strange and foreign and forbidding to the local Catholic Poles back then, Poles who were only too happy to hand their Jews over to the invading German SS troops.



These Jews, who the Phantom was told are called "Hasidim" or "Hassidic"  or "Hasids" swarm all over these  Williamsburg blocks. 
They look happy enough.  
Women wear scarves over their wigs. 

The Phantom is told the women shave their heads, or maybe not, but their wigs are very fine looking, and uniform, brown hair with no grey or blonde streaks. 
The women wear what look like flesh tone thick compression stockings. The men wear white socks with their shiny black shoes and black trousers. They wear snow white shirts and white vests and some accouterments which are harder to describe, but look like white cummerbunds.

Most are very fair skinned. Lots of freckles, light blue eyes, lots of red heads. 

These Jews are every bit as fair skinned and blue eyed as the Poles down the street. It's easy to imagine there was some interbreeding, possibly by rape as the Cossack stormed through during pogroms back in the 19th century, although the Phantom was told the 23 and me genetic studies do not support the idea of a lot of interbreeding with non Jews. These Jews are simply inbred and show a lot of recessive traits.

Gorgeous children. And lots of them. He wanted to take photos but  the Phantom was told  this might frighten people, who would think he wanted to kidnap the children. Lots of ten or twelve year old children pushed infants in strollers, presumably siblings. 
The women have four to eight kids. 



These Jews are all on Medicaid, but they insist on going to Columbia University Children's Hospital, because they believe that's where the best care is.

The men, the Phantom was told, do not work, for the most part. Some own businesses, like 42nd St. Photo, but many, if not most, do not work. They spend their days reading, praying and arguing about the Torah. The Torah is the first five books of the Old Testament:Genesis, Exodus, Deuteronomy, Numbers, and Leviticus. 

The men often do not speak English. They spend all day every day in the religious schools. They do not fool around with trivial things like learning English or getting a job.

The Phantom is not exactly sure what they do speak. Hebrew is the language of the Bible and too holy to use in every day speech. So maybe they speak Yiddish. It's not clear.

The wives and girl children usually speak English. Women are not eligible for the study of the holy books, so they can deal with the mundane, trivial things, like learning English and shopping and cooking. 

Many, but by no means all, of the men are very gaunt. It is easy to imagine they do not eat all day, while they argue about the Torah. 



The Phantom is not sure exactly what there is to argue about in the Torah, although if Genesis has the story about how God created earth in 6 days and rested on the seventh, then maybe they argue about creationism vs Darwinism. The Phantom did not have the nerve to ask any of them.


The finances of these families is not clear to the Phantom. Rumor has it, the community takes care of a lot of needs through the synagogue or congregation or whatever they call it. But, for the most part, these large families are commonplace, and are wards of the state.

It was a Friday and people knew precisely when the sun set and were collecting children and headed home because once Sabbath began, they could do no work, which includes things like shopping or turning on and off electric lights.
Some men in prayer shawls stood outside smoking.
Some men in black hats talked on their cell phones.
They look a little like Amish, but they use all sorts of modern stuff, like cell phones and they drive automobiles.
Professor Google notes that the Hasids objected to the bicycle lanes the City of New York cordoned off, which ran through Williamsburg. The Hasids painted over the lanes and disrupted them. Apparently, they objected to New Yorkers on bicycles, who often dress in ways the Hasids consider sexually provocative, or at least immodest.  Hipsters, who live in Bushwick, painted the lanes back into existence. The Hipsters argued you can separate yourself from the rest of the world as you please, but you do not own the streets which run through Williamsburg, Brooklyn. 

                *** Past Williamsburg, the Phantom reached Brooklyn Heights, where he walked along the Promenade, a walkway above the East River. He looked out at lower Manhattan and Statue of Liberty.

Brooklyn is wondrous. It's America in all its diversity and tolerance. It's not Trumpland. 
Greenpoint townhouse entry

It would scare Trumpfolken silly.
They would not be worried by the Poles, who look like "real Americans" even though many do not speak English. They look very white.

It's likely it's  the Jews who would freak out the lumpen Trump folken. The Hassids are white, too, but they don't dress like real Americans. The Poles in Greenpoint, are actually just as un-assimilated, when you consider that they don't speak English. The Hasids, at least the women, speak English.  But there's the visual thing, the optics. 


The fact is, the Make America Great Again crowd, would likely have little problem with the Poles in Greenpoint.  They are white and Christian. Really, that's all you need to be for that 49.9% which elected Trump.

Saturday, October 21, 2017

New England, Indian Summer

Today I rode my bicycle to Exeter, then on to Hampton Falls and back to Hampton, and the whole way there were late autumn smells wafting up along the road, apples on the ground, bees dipping into open flowers, the sounds of lawn mowing. The pigs were out at the Hurd farm, and even the lamas were enjoying the sun.
Odd duck at Batchelder Pond

Grace Metalious's lovely opening paragraph kept floating up behind my eyes and rattling around my brain. She got the experience and nobody since has ever got it better:

“Indian Summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay. In northern New England, Indian summer puts up a scarlet-tipped hand to hold winter back for a little while. She brings with her the time of the last warm spell, an uncharted season which lives until winter moves in with its backbone of ice and accoutrements of leafless trees and hard frozen ground. Those grown old, who have had the youth bled from them by the jagged-edged winds of winter, know sorrowfully that Indian summer is a sham to be met with hard-eyed cynicism. But the young wait anxiously, scanning the chill autumn skies for the sign of her coming. And sometimes the old, against all the warnings of better judgement, wait with the young and hopeful, their tired, winter eyes turned heavenwards to seek the first traces of a false softening.”

That's what good literature is, I suppose.  Truth and style. 


Obadiah Youngblood, "Exeter Autumn"

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Climate Change?

My children roll their eyes and groan when I say I don't know what to think about climate change.

I hasten to add that as a working hypothesis, it seems practical to behave as if the climate is getting warmer and to do the things various scientists have suggested to not contribute to global warming--like moving to wind and solar power and away from coal, which is nasty in many other respects.

But read Wikipeda on geologic global temperature change and you see that over eons, hundreds of millions of years, the earth has warmed and cooled dramatically: There were times, I'm told, when palm trees and crocodiles lived north of the Artic circle and there were no polar ice caps.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geologic_temperature_record


I am loathe to align myself with Neanderthals like Robert Murray who owns coal mines and starts from the premise that nothing he could be doing could possible be hurting the planet, but I do recognize, I do not subscribe nor do I read the geologic equivalent of the New England Journal of Medicine. I cannot read this literature critically and analytically, the way I do for the NEJM.

Many of the arguments begin with "most scientists agree" and all I can say to that line of argument is I can remember many instances when most doctors agreed on "facts" which were later proved completely wrong. What other people think does not impress me. What I'd like to see is how do we measure what the climate of the planet has been and if we once had palm trees in Greenland, what does that mean for our dread of a warmer planet now?


And the Winner Is: Donald Dotard

"There's just something about that bitch."
--Judge at Westminster dog shoe on why she chose a dog for "Best in Show."

Can't explain it. 
You just know it when you see it, like pornography.
Dotard in Chief

But of all the thousands of submissions we got in the "Name the Donald" contest, "Donald Dotard" just has that certain something.
dottering

The grand prize will be delivered to Kim Jong Un in North Korea, just as soon as we can locate him.
Dotard: Hollow at the Core

The usual 4 AM phone call with the news has been difficult to achieve in Kim's case because, apparently, he changes locations frequently and those underground bunkers have only spotty cell phone reception.
Kim reacting to the news of his Prize

But we hope to have the winner here in Hampton for the white tie ceremony.  
The Nobel prizes got nothing on us--Stockholm, move over. Hampton is here now.


Monday, October 9, 2017

Garrison Keillor at the Music Hall: Elegy for a Generation

Recently, a friend sent me the galleys of his autobiography, which will be his sixth or seventh published book. He's an academic and he sees himself as one of a pantheon of deep thinkers in a long line stretching back to antiquity. And maybe he is, I wouldn't know about deep thinkers or antiquity.

But I do know about the experience of my generation, and Garrison Keillor can speak to that.

Seeing Keillor with a live audience after thirty years of listening to him on the radio, is a surprise. It's a different and better experience.  His voice is much better and more mellifluous than on the radio and he is much bigger and much more a stage presence than I expected. 

The audience reaction is also important, and the audience at the Music Hall in Portsmouth could hardly have been better. They knew all the words to all the songs he got them singing, from "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" to "We Shall Overcome" to "Amazing Grace" to various church hymns. The only one I didn't hear was "Onward Christian Soldiers."  

His memory is astonishingly prodigious, as he peels off Shakespeare and just about any poet with grace and fluidity. 

His brand of mordant humor, laced with sensuality, is a sort of blank verse, and it is by turns morose, macabre and sublime.

Of the many stories he spun, one captured me most:  There is no way to reproduce even its outline here, but suffice it to say it's about going to the funeral of his first girl friend, who was a neighbor, in a small town, so small he knew her laundry because it hung on a line in her back yard and he could see her underwear out there with the sheets.  She sits next to him on the lawn when they are 14 and at 17 she asks him to go to the prom with her and she shows up in her father's Pontiac (in a town where the Lutherans own Fords and the Baptists Chevy's) dressed in a satin gown that plunges to her sacrum, and afterwards drives him to the graveyard, where clearly the dress comes off and he is initiated into the wonders of womanhood. He is wearing the blue suit of a cousin, who died a few weeks before the prom--no sense in the suit going to waste.  Gasps arise from the audience when he mentions this, and he obliges the crowd by describing how the cousin died, a quintessential Garrison Keillor death, a foolish boy who could not swim, water skiing behind a boat in which the girl he is trying to impress is riding, next to her boyfriend. A stupid, impetuous, foolish youth, who dies a death which would have looked funny in a movie, but in real life is pathetic. And as Keillor is making love to his true love he sees the headstone of the boy in the graveyard and the headstones of all those young soldiers from the Civil War, who likely went off to war virgins, and he says, "I was doing it for all of them."
Now, Keillor is 77 and his girlfriend, who has not led a happy life, has died. And he meets her children and they produce the poem he wrote about that night, which she had clearly kept until her death, when it was unearthed by her children.


The only other time I've loved the Garrison Keillor thing more is during a brief scene in "The Wire" where Bodie is in a van on the way to Philadelphia and, never having been out of Baltimore, he is confused about the loss of the radio station's signal and he is madly fiddling with the dial. His driver tells him radio stations don't reach beyond each city,(unaware of National Public Radio) and Bodie stumbles on to Keillor, "A Prairie Home Companion" talking about the tomato harvest season in Minnesota and Bodie could not be more dumbfounded than if he had stumbled upon a broadcast from Mars.

"Why anyone would ever want to leave Baltimore?" Bodie asks, shaking his head. "That's what I want to know."

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Genius v Dilitante: Mozart v Saleri

I had a friend once who was connected to the Baltimore Orioles professional baseball team. He told me when pitchers tried out for the team they had them throw 10 pitches over the inside black margin of home plate and 10 over the outside stripe. 

The guys who made the grade got 20 pitches over the stripes. Those who did not might be off by a few inches. 
"That's all the difference between the guy who makes the big time: a few inches."
VanGogh

In the movie "Amadeus" Antonio Salieri, a composer who regarded Amadeus Mozart as a rival could just not manage those few inches difference between his talent and that of Mozart's.
Obadiah Youngblood, Occoee 

But when you look at Vincent Van Gogh, the difference between him and any other painter of his or any other generation is beyond inches. It's miles, light years, maybe.
Obadiah Youngblood, Feeder Canal
When you go to Auvers and see the church, you know that is Van Gogh's church. He has made it his own.
VanGogh!

The same cannot be said of other artists.


Obadiah Youngblood, Wrestlers

Obadiah Youngblood, Batter



What he does is so astonishing, you wonder how anyone else can have the temerity to even pick up a paint brush.

VanGogh



Creativity and execution remain, for the Phantom at least, one of life's ongoing mysteries.


Obadiah Youngblood, Reading the NYT