Steve is a trucker from Bloomington, Indiana. He is also a graphic artist, and he listened when his friends suggested that while unloading in Elizabeth, he check out the Olafur Eliasson exhibit at PS1. He came into the Redhead the other night, high on the experience. We had a great conversation about installation art; I told him about Eliasson's waterfalls in the East River, and his recent installation at the Tate that simulated the movement of the sun across the sky. We talked about his son, who studied fashion at FIT, and he joined us outside as we admired the awesome thunderstorm that rolled through that night. He has a website, which is kind of great: The Reluctant Trucker.

The first person to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge was Robert Odlum, a swimming teacher from Washington, at 5:45 PM, May 19th, 1885. Interestingly, Mr. Odlum had publicly made known his plans to jump from the bridge, and there was a surplus of NYPD bluecoats patrolling the bridge that evening to prevent the successful completion of the stunt. Only through the deployment of an elaborate ruse, involving a horse-drawn cab and a blue-shirted gentleman acting conspicuously nervous, which drew the attention of the police officers and the thousands gathered on the bridge that day, was Odlum able to get close enough to the rail to jump. He emerged from the back of a black wagon, wearing a red shirt and gray swimming tights, raised his right hand straight into the air as if to signal to the boat carrying supporters in the river below, and without hesitation, threw himself off the bridge. Here's how the Times described what happened next:

Whether he jumped too quick after leaving the wagon, or destroyed his balance from some movement on the rail or in jumping cannot be known; but during the descent of the body to the water, swift as it was, those on the boat could see that it turned slightly and that it would not strike the water with the feet squarely down. The splash was heard rods away. Eyes turned toward the small rescue boat. The men in it, overcome by excitement or fright, began to shout for help. In a few seconds, which seemed long enough in that predicament, Odlum rose to the surface. He was motionless.

Only the action of his friend, one Captain Boyton, who dove into the river and, swimming against the current pulled Odlum back to the rescue boat, prevented his drowning. The damage had been done, however. Odlum regained consciousness just long enough to ask what kind of jump he had made. He died approximately 45 minutes after the jump, having broken the lower ribs on both sides of his body.

At its highest point, the span clears 135 feet over the East River. A leap off the bridge, therefore, is not necessarily fatal. In 1895 Clare MacArthur became the first woman to attempt the stunt, weighting her stockings with 20 pounds of sand so that she would fall feet first. She survived the fall. In 1960 Ed Quigley wagered $100 with his drinking buddies that he would survive a jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. He won the bet.

Just last week, a despondent woman bent on suicide lept from the Manhattan side of the bridge. In an ironic twist of fate, she survived without a scratch. 'Michelle', as she identified herself, suffered nothing more damaging than some water in the lungs, and was admitted into Bellevue Hospital. In March 2004, a 24-year-old man survived a 135-foot jump from the center of the bridge, and in August of the same year, a 16-year-old girl jumped and lived.


There is debate over whether the most famous of the Brooklyn Bridge jumpers, the barkeep Steve Brodie, actually completed the jump. In 1886, he said he jumped off the bridge to win a bet with a pal, inspiring the 1933 movie "The Bowery" as well as the phrase, "Take a Brodie." But some skeptics believe Brodie actually tricked his buddy by throwing a weighted dummy off the bridge.

While I scour my past and present for something interesting to blog about, check out this great site: On The Inside

In memoriam: Siberia. Alternately called an oasis of lawlessness, physically revolting, a celebration of self-loathing, and a high-school reunion of nasty, it was actually one of the first bars I went to in NYC. The downstairs was downright scary. Thought maybe they would all be like that.

I figure we've got a month, max, before it starts to get hot. Until then, I resolve to walk home from work whenever possible. But instead of just walking home, I'm gonna to walk a different route everyday, and maybe walk a bit slower, and pay attention to what I see. Today, which was an amazing day, I walked down 11th St to the Hudson River. 11th St between Hudson and Greenwich features both New York's first gastropub, Mario Batali's The Spotted Pig, and the legendary tavern where legendary drunk Dylan Thomas had his last, The White Horse. There's also a nice looking wine bar, Turks and Frogs, and a nice looking coffee shop, The 11th St. Cafe. Magnolia Bakery is on 11th and Bleeker, as is Biography Bookstore, where a friend bought the book, Rats. There's a barbershop, a dry-cleaners, a drugstore; really, a complete little town on one street. There's even a quaint little French bistro, Tartine, which I noticed was BYOB. That got me thinking. WTF with BYOB?

Initially, the idea seems appealing: Bring Your Own Bottle. How could you go wrong? But wait. Is it kosher to bring a six-pack of Bud to Tartine? How about a bottle of Charles Shaw? Regarding Tartine, we can assume that unless one wishes to endure stink-eye from the wait staff throughout the night, a decent bottle of wine is expected. But how many bottles? I mean, the whole effing point is to bring a bunch of booze to dinner, right? Two bottles for a table of two? Three? So at a minimum of $20/bottle, we're talking $60.00, and we haven't even factored in corkage fee!

According to the New York State Liquor Authority, BYOB is only allowable if the bottle being brought is covered under the liquor license in effect; Massachusets, on the other hand, only allows BYOB at establishments without liquor licenses. But if New York restaurants must be licensed for there to be any liquor consumed on the premises - for example - then why even give customers the chance to bring their own? It only makes sense if the corkage fee makes up for income lost. In Manhattan, corkage fees can be as high as $250.00/bottle; the city-wide average is $25.00/bottle. Now I, for one, am incredibly adept at moderating my liquor consumption when drinking at a restaurant; you know how inflated the prices are. I can't imagine a drink tab for two reaching $75.00 (3 corks; yes, I can imagine it). But give me the option to bring my own, hell, not only will I pay for the wine, but will happily pay you to open it.

I called Tartine and inquired into their corkage fee:
Me, feigning indignity: "Yes, how much is your corkage fee?"
Cute hostess, giggling: "We don't have a corkage fee."
Me, truly stupefied: "Ah, yes, well, thank you very much."
Cute hostess, with longing in her voice: "You're welcome."

There's also a Sufi church on 11th St.

On the trail of the elusive three-sided French Fry: Joseph Ades, aka The Gentleman Peeler, courtesy of The Villager.

For the third year in a row, Times Square's Hotel Carter has been named the filthiest, most disgusting hotel in America. Reasons given include the expected: bed bugs, cockroaches, hair and fingernail clippings, the occasional dead hooker... Offering rooms that can be had for as cheap as 122.00 USD a night(!), Hotel Carter calls themselves the best value in New York city - just don't make eye-contact with the trannies in the elevator!

Normal folk across the country are outraged. One man recalls a youthful trip to New York city:

I checked into this hotel alone about 6:00 pm, put my suitcase in the room and left to have dinner. When I returned at 10:00 pm, I noticed that in my absence someone had been in my bathroom and defecated in the toilet and left without flushing!! When I told the desk clerk, his response was, "Why was someone in your room?" (Exactly my question to you, Hotel Carter). When I told the "security guard", his response was "What do you want me to do? It's late."

How can a place like this be allowed to remain open?!?! Only in New York! they say.

Only in New York, indeed. Only in New York is there a collective sigh of relief when a hotel in Manhattan is named the grittiest, most disturbing establishment of its kind. Only in New York, where gentrification is considered a sign of the end times, can the Hotel Carter emerge as a source of civic pride.




In the spirit of Kellogg and all those Borscht Belt vacationers in their Nash Ramblers invading the Catskills, I propose a vacation - a staycation - to Midtown, to the Hotel Carter, for some of the grimy hospitality and seedy charms that characterized the Times Square of old. After all, what goods a vacation if it doesn't get a little dirty?

Eddie Boros (1934-2007) lived and died in the same small apartment at the corner of E. 5th St. and Ave. B in which he was welcomed into this world. The second of three sons raised by Hungarian immigrant parents, young Eddie delivered ice in the East Village before moving on to house painting, which he did professionally for the remainder of his life. His passion, however, was art - woodworking - and soon much of his time was spent adding to, subtracting from, forever improving upon what would become his greatest work: the Toy Tower at garden 6B.


Boros was a character. Renowned for his strength, it is said that in a liquor and testosterone fueled display of his masculinity, he carried a manhole cover from Sophie's bar back to his apartment. He was unable to move it when he awoke in the morning. This guy was old-school, a character even in the old East Village, a guy who had a friend named Gray Wolf, and is remembered for walking the streets shirtless in just an old pair of cut-off jean shorts and a string of pearls.

Ornamented with found toys and other discovered jewels from the detritus of the city, the Toy Tower grew to surpass a height of 60' feet, occupied 8 plots in the small community garden, and perhaps due to Eddie's love of late-night climbs to the top, where he would bang on drums and blow on horns, was a continuous object of chagrin for his neighbors. He called the tower 'My Baby', and had dreams of building it high enough such that from its tip he could see the United Nations. Sometime during the 25 years Eddie worked on it, it became the centerpiece of the garden and a symbol of what the East Village was all about.


Boros' reappropriation of waste, his dependence upon found goods and bits of trash for his work, brings to mind Richard Rauschenberg. Rauschenberg once said, "I really feel sorry for people who thinks things like soap dishes and mirrors and Coke bottles are ugly, because they are surrounded by things like that all day long, and it makes them miserable." Thus it is fitting that in the same week in which Rauschenberg meets his death, so too does Eddie Boros' Toy Tower. Rotting, and a danger to the garden, the Parks Department began dismantling the tower on Monday.

For the eulogy: Jeremiah's Vanishing New York.

There are 20 gates to Central Park, 20 breaks in the low stone wall that otherwise prevents pedestrians from crossing into its quiet confines. 20 gates that are hardly noticeable, for they are unadorned but for a name carved into the stone. But the names! What names! At Central Park South and 6th Ave. there is the Artist's Gate. The Explorer's Gate, at 77th St., is a few blocks south of the Hunter's Gate, at 81st St; a bit further up Central Park West the curious will find Mariner's Gate and All Saint's Gate.

The Boy's Gate and the Girl's Gate are located across the park from one another, the latter at E. 102nd St., while the former lies at W. 100th St. The Women's Gate is at the corner of Central Park West and 72nd St. Curiously, there is no Men's Gate.

The stripped down aesthetic of the gates, along with the low stone wall they interrupt, are both elements in the designer's original vision of the park. Olmsted and Vaux saw the park as a symbol of the American republic, a pastoral and truly democratic space where one could escape the madness of the city. Their design, however, encountered resistance from the wealthy citizens who lived along the park, and felt their presence should be marked by tall, European-style gates. One proposal would have replaced the simplicity of the Artisan's Gate, at Central Park South and 7th Ave., with an enormous plaza inspired by French urbanist-style gates. Olmsted, for his part, declared that "an iron railing always means thieves outside or bedlam inside," and he was outraged by this attempt to go against the park's original design.

The names of the gates were chosen by the Parks Commission in 1862, and are meant to represent the kinds of people who might utilize the new park. There is Farmer's Gate, Warrior's Gate, and Scholar's Gate. There is Children's Gate, beyond the entrance of which lies a playground. My favorite is Stranger's Gate, which sits at 106th St. and Central Park West.












Christo and Jean-Claude's 'The Gates', completed in 2005, consisted of 7500 'gates', standing 16' and festooned with saffron-colored fabric. 'The Gates' marked the path for 23 miles in Central Park, took 25+ years to complete, and stood for a total of 16 days. One imagines Christo and Jean-Claude were perfectly aware of the 20 gates opening onto Central Park from the metropolis beyond. The shimmering beauty of their short-lived creation offered a glamorous counterpoint to the restrained sublimity of the original Central Park Gates. Vaux suggested that it would be wonderful if there could be no gates. Perhaps, but 'The Gates', the gates, of Central Park remind us that gates are only the names we give them.