I've been thinking bout my roots lately, and some of you may not be surprised to hear that my roots grow towards the shade.

Haddix. I get lots of compliments on my last name. H-A-D-D-I-X. Double D's and an X. Recently a Beautiful Young Lady informed me that it's kinda a rock star name. True.

I've always believed that the name derives from Haddock. The haddock is a medium-sized member of the cod family. A 'sad, English fish,' it is popular table fare througout the UK. The mating call of a male haddock sounds like a motor bike revving its engine.



Haddix. Haddock. Derived from the haddock, a handsome fish, I'd say. So I've got fisherman blood coursing through my veins. Swarthy genes. Like the mythical Archibald Haddock, Merchant Marine, whisky loving Captain of the Karaboudjan, and famous wit. Captain Haddock's talent lied in alliterative insults: Two-Timing Tartan Twisters, for instance.

The maritime connection abides. Haddix, Haddock. Good enough for a Navy submarine, good enough for me. That's right, the USS Haddock, "served her country in the effort to keep the world free of communist tyranny and helped bring about the demise of the Soviet Empire, 1967-1993." But a bit of a shining light for a Haddix, eh? Well, my uncle piloted a boat, mos def.

I don't feel the need to prove the point, but my people are down home folk. We've been around for a bit, but made our way west starting on the South Haddix Trail, West Virginia. South Haddix Trail runs parallel to the Cheat River, no shit. Follow that trail far enough, and maybe you'll end up in Haddix, Kentucky, that great, white beacon of rural poverty. But yo, this is where my people are buried, and we shan't talk ill of the dead.



The W.W. is for William Washington. William Washington Haddix. A strong Appalachian name, no? William Washington wed Orlena. These names! My grandmother's name is Virginia. She has sisters named Ruby, Wanda, Zell, Crystal, and probably eight or nine more I can't recall. Admittedly, she's a Stewart from Missouri, but the tradition for pastoral names is the same. My mother's name is Mary Jane. You'll recall from The Grapes of Wrath the Joad's daughter, Rose of Sharon. Rosasharn.

White, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant, indeed. But you'd never mistake a Haddix for a WASP. Hell, we got men named Moonchild and Leeland Ray, and we shoot on sight. Grifters, you say? Well, I don't disappoint. We came west along the Cheat River and set up shop in the Great Central Valley of California. Bankruptcy troubles in Modesto? Contact my brother at the Haddix Law Firm. This mope's got your back... for a price!

Maybe a bit rough around the edges, but our shining star's a softy. A kitten in fact. Harvey 'The Kitten' Haddix, lefty pitcher for several teams during the '50's and early '60's. He was a three-time all star, and won two games for the Pittsburgh Pirates against the Yankees in the 1960's World Series. Haddix got the victory in game seven on the back of Bill Mazeroski's 'Shot Heard Round The World.'



But Haddix's greatest moment was also his most heartbreaking. In 1959, against the Hank Aaron-led Milwaukee Braves, Haddix pitched what many have come to consider the greatest game in Major League Baseball history. The Kitten retired 36 consecutive Braves batters, 12 perfect innings, before giving up a hit and a run in 13th. His Pirates teammates, despite collecting 12 hits, were unable to score. He lost, 1-0, after 12 and 2/3 innings of one-hit baseball. Don't feel sorry for Harvey Haddix. Since his death in 1994, his legend has grown, and he has even been memorialized in song.

Are there people who don't appreciate the beauty of small things?

It strikes me that the surrounding surfaces of our everyday world are covered in a language most of us don't understand.





I don't think we could make it without a bit of mystery.

As you probably already know, Banksy's in town for a gallery opening by his dealer. I like Banksy's work, but I'd like to add an additional 'K' to his name: Banksky. It seems to roll off the tongue better, I think.

Had some time to kill before the debate last night, so I set off in search of clues.


Look familiar?

Last night was Thursday night, opening night at the galleries. I'm walking through Soho, Tribeca, looking in the corners, in the shadows, camera in hand, aware of the natty crowds getting drunk on free wine, wanting to ditch my backpack, wanting to join them, wanting to "hob-nob." But they're mainly poseurs, and they're missing the sublimity of finding an equation scrawled on a wall.



Wow, yesterday and last night were big in terms of the Search for Cieso. Checked out Artkraft Strauss in the afternoon, and though there was no new work, there was a flyer for Chashama, an organization that had opened the buiding last weekend as a space for artists to show their work. One of the artists featured on the flyer was El Celso. Holy Shit! Nobody ever suggests that the 'i' in 'ceiso' was, since it appears as a single line, an 'l'? Here's a link to his Flickr stream: celso nyc.

Well, I'm going to get together with El Celso soon. Maybe he can help me with these little robots I've been seeing everywhere. I hear they kill.

Last night it was suggested that what I'd been assuming is a backwards E in 'ceiso' - so that it appears as 'c3iso' - may indeed be a 3. The 3, then, is a clue, telling us to translate 'ceiso' from letters to numbers, e.g. A=1, B=2. Translating 'cieso' thus results in a phone number: 359-1915.


Discovered this yesterday on the corner of 13th and 5th, directly on top of a previously discussed piece involving the back pages of the Village Voice and a certain young lady. If you look closely, you can still make out an advertisement for the Grand Opening of Asian Dove Spa, 212-255-2780.

These are the words from 'Llorando,' the song being performed in Club Silencio when, in Mulholland Drive, Betty realizes it's all been a dream:

Yo estaba bien por un tiempo
volviendo a sonreir
luego anoche te vi
tu mano me toco
y el saludo de tu voz
te hable muy bien y tu
sin saber
que he estado llorando por tu amor
llorando por tu amor
llorando por tu amor
luego de tu adios
senti todo mi dolor
sola y llorando llorando llorando
no es facil de entender
que al verte otra vez
yo este llorando
Yo que pense que te olvide
pero es verdad es la verdad
que te quiero aun mas
mucho mas que ayer
dime tu que puedo hacer
no me quieres ya
y siempre estare
llorando por tu amor
llorando por tu amor
tu amor
se llevo
todo mi corazon
y quedo llorando
llorando
llorando
llorando
llorando
llorando
por tu amor

No hay banda. Everything is an illusion. Everything but the Time Travel Agency, that is.

Alright, then. I've got some phone numbers to call.

An update from Artkraft Strauss:





There appears to have been expeditionary forays.




You'll notice in the later photo the appearance of what are commonly called "infinity loops." These symbols also appeared on the piece I will call "Mutant Beef," which appeared on Johnson Ave in Bushwick. There is nothing on or around Johnson Ave in Bushwick. I'm going to level with you, folks. What began as idle curiosity has mutated into a quixotic pursuit for I don't know what. It is entirely possible I have stumbled across an underground mail delivery network. Or a time travel agency. Or aliens. This is the translational tableau I have to work with:



There may or may not be an artist going by the nom de guerre 'ceiso' - Ees reversed, of course. I may or may not be that artist. Before I get too caught up in this mystery of my own making, perhaps I should take heed of the graffiti.

Walking through the industrial zone that separates Williamsburg and Bushwick, I came across these kids all caught up in the urban jungle.



And then this kid. A bit petulant, no?



Check out these punks, courtesy of Swoon.





Veng Col Rok2. Epic.







I've read Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49. From what I recall, it told the story of Oedipa Maas as she becomes entangled in the dangerous world of mail delivery following her boyfriend's murder. See, in the story, there was the known deliverer of known mail, Thurn and Taxis, and the unknown deliverer of unknown mail, Trystero. Trystero exists and operates by communicating via signs, which appear unexpectedly in the most innocuous spaces. The Ee's on the following beauty are reversed. Just saying.

830 12th Ave may be one of the most desolate addresses in Manhattan. There are no pedestrians in this part of Hell's Kitchen. Here W 57th St empties onto the Henry Hudson. The intersection is generally crowded with cars bearing the license plate holders of some Westchester dealer.

The building at 830 12th Ave has been standing for at least 80 years, first as a garage, later as the home of the Artkraft Strauss Electric Sign Company. The first owner for which we have the paperwork was Mr. Vincent Valentine, resident of the Bronx. The building changed hands in 1935, becoming the property of De Rosa and Cavalieri, Architects, who kept it as an operating garage, but with a "shop for assembling signs of an incombustible material." The Artkraft Strauss Sign Corporation soon completely took over the space, and from there produced the spectacular neon signs that came to represent both New York City and the age of grand advertising. For over a century, Artkraft Strauss has been responsible for the iconic neon blanketing Times Square; it was their technicians who fashioned the images that reflected the strength of the post-war consumer economy. And in their claim to being the coolest motherfuckers ever, it was the employees at Artkraft Strauss who created the New Year's Eve ball, and flawlessly orchestrated the drop for the last 87 years.

The Camel Cigarette sign was awesome. Every few seconds, back when Times Square was raw, the sign would blow 'real' smoke rings at visitors. A drawing of the sign from a year before it was installed demanded thousands at auction.

Artkraft Strauss moved from the building at 830 12th Ave several years ago. Responding to the shift away from neon and towards LED, Artkraft Strauss sold of their billboard business and recast itself as a design consultancy agency. Their leadership was "instrumental" in the 1987 passage of a zoning regulation mandating bright lights from 43rd through 50th St, and a recent auction of old inventory drew more than $100,000 from rich people.

The iconic Artkraft Strauss sign still adorns the facade of 830 12th Ave, but these days the building is remarkable for hosting the newest iteration of signage.





Until recently there was a small sign announcing 830 12th Ave to be the new home of the Time Travel Agency. In the sign, all the Ees are turned backwards.






Who is Invalid? What is drizzle? Is that a Banksy?

I became interested in this building when I noticed a stylistic similarity between the creator of these images:





...and the aforementioned artistic rendering of a local girl on the back pages of the Village Voice, which hung on the corner of 13th and 5th for a minute. I believe it to be the same artist who created this lovely likeness, from the corner of Greenwich and Charlton (notice the Ees):



I took a picture with my phone of similar piece that hung around Greene street for a bit. She was a brunette. Here's a frog:




Who is Veng Col? Who is Billi Kid?

Summer in the city: Yesterday was the Siren Festival at Coney Island, and though there were a few bands I would have like to have seen, it was too damn hot to join the indie-themed masses gathered on the blacktop drinking warm beer and complaining about how damn hot it was. So a couple of friends and I decided to show our local stripes and hop the free Ikea ferry (awesome) to Red Hook (awesome), where we unhesitatingly bypassed the superstore and headed to the ballfields. To play ball, you ask? Hell no. For a Latin feast, natch.

Yesterday was opening day of the Red Hook Ballfield Food Vendors summer season, and it was phenomenal. Heaven is the innumerable vendors hawking ethnic variations of the pork-beans-cornmeal trifecta. There were Ecuadoreans selling pickled cabbage enchiladas, Salvadoreans papusas and plantains, Mexicans tacos and huaraches, and Colombians seeking revenge by sending their gringo customers away with plates loaded with enough steak and sausage to ensure an early death. There was corn on a stick and smoothies and horchata and fried sweet bean and plaintain donuts. There was Ballantine's in a brown paper bag sipped through a straw. And though there were times when, due to the deliberate pace of our Latin friends getting in line seemed akin to stepping into a Beckett novel, by and large everybody who had trekked to the Brooklyn hinterlands understood that their patience would be handsomely rewarded.

Word to the wise: you don't go to Red Hook just to pick up a taco or two and be on your way. This is a full day's worth of waiting and eating, and strategy is required if you're going to maximize your time. I would suggest beginning at the southernmost vendor, which yesterday was occupied by the Colombians, and ordering something to munch on while you get in line for the next vendor. Repeating this tactic 5 or 6 times will take 3 or 4 hours, but will result in a comprehensive tour of Central and South American street cuisine. If you need to there is plenty of shade in which to lay down and take a nap; alternatively, you could pop into the Ikea and pay penitence for your gluttony by walking the either delightfully confusing or maddeningly deceptive aisles which are themselves reminiscent of Managua.

Oh, and if you're keeping track: This is why I'm awesome.

What with the weather being nice - if hot - and the fact that I occasionally have somebody to walk with, I've taken to enjoying an evening constitutional as I make my way home from work. I take various routes, enjoying the sights and smells and sounds, and generally trying to lose myself in the sordid architecture of downtown. But even when I walk alone, I am not alone. Indeed, from the moment I leave work on 13th St, there are few moments when I am not being watched.

The NYPD operates 2,310 surveillance cameras on the streets of Manhattan alone. This is in addition to the approximately 2,000 cameras keeping watch in the subway system, and over 3,000 that supervise the goings-on in the city's housing projects. The project to install surveillance cameras throughout the city began in earnest in 2006, ostensibly as a response to the September 11 terrorist attacks. Ironically, September 7th, 2001 was An International Day of Action Against Video Surveillance.

There are 12 community districts in Manhattan. Walking home, I pass through districts 1, 2, and 3. Combined these districts boast 652 surveillance cameras of either the stationary, rotational, or globe variety. Additionally, there are innumerable cameras monitoring the exteriors of private businesses and residences. Just the other day, I counted 4 cameras directed on the sidewalk outside the Hell's Angels headquarters on E. 3rd. St. Invariably, there's a camera scanning the portico beyond the entrance to every apartment building. The doormen always know who you are before you walk in.

Leaving work, I'm picked up by the rotational camera on the north side of 13th St between University and Broadway. The cameras between Liberty and Maiden on William, between William and Nassau on Maiden, and right outside my building record my arriving home. In the elevator I am watched. As I do my laundry I am watched. Sometimes I dog-sit for some former clients, and help myself to a cocktail from the bar. I am never sure that I am not being watched.

As a child I struggled with bouts of insomnia. Unable to sleep, I would feel myself utterly alone in the world. To comfort myself I would conjure the image of the 24-hour Safeway just down the street. 24-hours: I knew there was always a cashier working the late shift, and as long as there was I wasn't alone. The refrain from a song I can't remember suggested that the city is the easiest place to be lonely. Surrounded by people, anonymity is default. I don't know, maybe it's narcissism, but the idea that maybe I'm being watched, that I have a witness...well, maybe it makes things a bit less trivial. That my actions are endowed with some degree of gravity by virtue of their being recorded...I don't know, guess I find the idea of voyeurism comforting.