Hot Weather In Cold Spring

Yesterday was Labor Day, the day set aside to lament the passing of the summer season and gird our loins to be kicked by working life for the rest of the year. This Labor Day, I decided to take an inexpensive ($7.75 each way on Metro North) trip to Cold Spring, New York, an hour’s train ride north of New York City to meet spend time with some family.

I met my mother, her husband and a friend of theirs at Foundry Dock Park, which sits across a parking lot from the Cold Spring Metro North train station. After lunch at a restaurant near the Hudson River, we began walking the West Point Foundry Preserve. This consisted of mostly un-preserved remains of buildings that once housed foundry works that were essential to the Union winning the Civil War. A historic marker informed us that President Abraham Lincoln visited the works during the War Between The States and witnessed a demonstration of one of the cannons that was made there. There are still reported to be unexploded munitions on the other side of the Hudson River.

Most of what was the foundry is now brick rubble that has been overgrown by woods. One building, an office building built in 1865, still remains mostly intact, though it is fenced off. The façade of another building sits nearby. Piles of bricks, low-lying brick and rock walls made for cumbersome hiking. Despite the difficult terrain and decrepit state of the remains, it was good to see evidence of things from the past. Visiting the surviving relics of things that happened long ago will give you both a greater appreciation for history and the fleeting nature of life. People working at the foundry during the Civil War probably never envisioned well-fed local tourists would be stumbling through rubble in the woods on the very spot where they worked smelting iron for the war effort.

After seeing the historic site and taking in some excellent views of the Hudson River, I walked on Main Street to see the shops and what else the town might have to offer. The first shop that caught my attention was a shoe store. Outside, all the men’s footwear on display were various forms of sandals. I walked inside to see if they had any footwear that a real man would wear. I did see some nice hiking boots, but at $190 they were priced for the rich and retarded shopper. Continuing up the street, there were many antique shops, each with its own character. The best one I saw had old 45 records stacked inside and inexpensive furniture in display outside. In the back corner, a female mannequin leaned against the wall in a vintage army uniform and a disheveled young man in long hair and large glasses discussed comic books and collectibles.

I patronized the Cold Spring Bake Shoppe and got some ice cream. I should normally stay away from such sweets, but I thought it was OK to indulge on the last day of the summer season. Some motorcycle convention or ride must have been happening, because people on motorcycles roared up Main Street at regular intervals. One man rode a colorful motorized tricycle and sported a long grey beard. Both real motorcycles and rice burners were represented.

But my brief stay in Cold Spring left me with the impression that it is a nice town that is being ruined by people with too much money moving in. While my mother went to buy a milkshake for my stepfather, a snide man with family in tow parked his white escalade in a ‘No Parking’ zone and sauntered away like it was no big deal. I got the impression from most of the people there that they had no interest in being a part of the good working-class American life that Cold Spring was built upon; they were just there to go shopping. While the people behind the counters in the places I visited were friendly, most of the patrons were out of towners (like me) who had too much money for their own good (not like me).

While I enjoy rustic environments and escaping the city for a while, Cold Spring is being transformed into a faux rustic town. It may be a Perrier Paradise for well-off city folk, but they are removing more charms then they are preserving.

When it was time for me to go, I headed back to the train station with other city people. I saw a man who looked like independent film director Jim Jarmusch waiting on the platform also. I’m a fan of his films, but I did not approach or attempt to photograph him for confirmation. If it was not him, then all I would achieve would be to photograph some guy who looks like Jim Jarmusch and embarrass myself as an incompetent celebrity stalker. If it was him, then I would be responsible for letting the world would know that Jarmusch is a pussy who goes antiquing in Cold Spring, and I love the cinema too much to do that. So it shall remain a mystery.

The Year of the “Staycation”

We are in summer’s home stretch headed toward the fall, and this year the new popular vacation spot among the masses is nowhere, meaning wherever you would normally be when not vacationing. This year, the term “staycation” was often (over)used to describe the vacation plans of ordinary working New Yorkers. The increased numbers of unemployed, high fuel prices and the general sad state of the economy have conspired to put the kibosh on many travel plans this summer. This Labor Day weekend I have joined the staycationing masses.

New York City has not been as deathly hot as it is known to get in August. We’ve lucked out this summer, at least heat-wise. We seemed to get our bad heat wave early, in June, and we had warmer-than-normal June and July weather. Where they have not received a reprieve is New Orleans. My good friend Voodoo Rue is currently holed up in a filthy hotel in Grenada, Mississippi. Hurricane Gustav is expected to reach Louisiana by Monday. We can only hope the levies hold. If New Orleans survives this latest hurricane, it will be luck and the preparedness of its citizens, not the work of our leaders.

Today I met my friend Mike Moosehead and his wife Christine for lunch and a movie. We all wanted to see Tropic Thunder. Everyone I know who has seen the film has raved about it, and I was eager to see it.

Walking through Union Square before the film started, we weaved through the crowds at the Farmer’s Market. Onions, apples, bread and all other manner of fresh food was available for sale under small tends and canopies. Other vendors, such as painters and people selling homemade crafts, were there as well. In the middle of this buzzing commercial space was a lone author, Michael De’Shazer. He was selling his books from a small table and handing out flyers, which request help in pressuring the Oprah Winfrey Show to book him as a guest author. I wanted to stop and tell him that Oprah Winfrey is a vapid egomaniac and the product of a declining culture and that I would respect him much more as an author if he avoided Oprah’s show like the plague, but I did not think a discussion with this author would be fruitful. He’s selling books in the middle of Union Square, and is determined to move units, as they say in the world of commerce.

The film did not disappoint. Tropic Thunder is a classic comical farce and expertly pillories the movie industry and the action film genre. My only regret is that I could not resist the concession stand and the resulting popcorn and soda cost almost as much as my $12 movie ticket.

Once the film was over and I bade farewell to my friends, it was on to the nearby Strand bookstore for more reckless spending. Sure enough, I found an armful of bargains in the 48-cent sidewalk bins before I even set foot in the store. I spent roughly an hour in the Strand, but could have spent hours more. It helped me clutter two successive New York apartments with books. I walked out of there with 12 books for $43.08.

I returned to Union Square Park as I chatted with my brother via cell phone, all the while looking for some speck of bench to park myself on. Finding a small, out of the way corner of the park is not possible on summer weekends, but I found a place to sit on a bench between an elderly man eating potato chips and a Chinese man waiting for a phone call. I paged through one of my books, The Complete Encyclopedia of Pistols and Revolvers (only $10), as city life buzzed around me. The Chinese man got his call and began speaking with someone in Chinese. The old man finished his potato chips and moved on. Soon, it was time for me to start heading home. I made my way through the crowds of people without losing my temper and caught the trains I needed back to Inwood.

My “staycation” is well under way.

East Village Then And Now

Twenty years ago, I marveled at the footage of the Tompkins Square Park Riots on television. The city was shamed by the sight of radicals smashing the lobby of a nearby condominium and hurling bottles at the police, and by the sight of police officers covering their names and badge numbers while they indiscriminately beat people. The police took down homeless encampments that had taken over large parts of the park.

The battle was, on the surface, waged over a curfew that may or may not have been legal. But it was an episode where East Village regulars rebelled against oncoming gentrification. Looking at the East Village and Lower East Side today, there’s no doubt that gentrification won.

More than 20 years later, I stood outside Manitoba’s on Avenue B and watched as police closed the park promptly at 1 a.m. The greenery of Tompkins Square Park is surrounded by iron fencing now. While people often jump over this to actually enjoy the park’s greenery, they never spend the night.

Our public parks cannot be open-air camps for drug addicts, the homeless and mentally ill, but neither can the character of the city survive if artists and musicians are replaced wholesale with stock brokers and lawyers. And there is no doubt that city government wants the rapidly increasing gentrification to keep happening; it increases property taxes which mean more revenue for the city. Also, many city political figures are in the pockets of developers.

And the authorities continue to Case in point: an open can of beer at a Tompkins Square Park punk show earns one a ticket, an open bottle of wine on the Great Lawn of central park during an orchestral performance does not warrant a second glance by New York’s Finest. This same selective enforcement was in vogue well before the Tompkins Square Park riots of 1988.

I remember going to the East Village when I was in high school. It was a scary place. Along St. Mark’s Place and The Bowery, homeless men sold junk and trinkets on blankets. It’s unreal how much the area has been transformed since then. Expensive hotels and wine bars permeate where destitute people once congregated. CBGB is now a store that sells overpriced designer clothing. While it’s good that the homeless aren’t crowding our sidewalks and the open-air heroine markets and rubble-strewn lots have gone, gone also are music venues, record stores, real artists’ lofts and a sense that the neighborhood was distinct. The Lower East Side looks more like the Upper East Side every day and I can’t stand it.

There have been some survivors in the yuppiefication of the East Village, and those were people who were working and creating things while others threw bottles at the cops (or at least between throwing bottles at the cops). C-Squat, a squat on Avenue C populated by punk rockers, endures, as does Umbrella House, a wrecked building that was taken over by squatters in the 1980s and renovated (it had been named “Umbrella House” because of its leaking roof). It was recognized as legal by the city in 2002.

This is the story of New York City today: a sense of great cultural loss that accompanied some welcome reductions in crime. It’s great that there are not homeless junkies crowded every other inch of sidewalk between Broadway and Avenue D, but a law-abiding person should be able to drink a beer on a park bench, and a small studio should not cost $2,000 a month unless it comes with a functioning glory hole attended to hourly by Scarlett Johansson.

The Conferences of Consequence

The best things at work, no matter where you work, are the things that break the mundane. When I worked at JFK airport, where most of my time was spent behind a counter indoors, one day that stands out above all others is the day that I spent driving people around the airport in a van. The times I was out and about are the ones that stick in my mind as pleasant and interesting.

I traded the mundane spot behind my desk downtown for a mundane spot at a conference in midtown. Still, being out of the office is good, even if the most enjoyable part of the day is walking to and from the subway, watching the city life up close and just being out and about during the workday.

For the past eight years, I have worked as a financial journalist. Working in financial journalism is like being a pornographic film star in a way. You get paid more than most people in the same position in your field, but you're stuck in that category forever. Ron Jeremy may do the best Hamlet we've ever seen, but we'll never see it at the Royal Shakespeare Company because no matter what other great work he might do, he'll forever be known as a porn star.

Being in the business of writing about business, one has to learn the lingo and use it, and also stay awake. Some of what we do is interesting. It's interesting, especially in times like these when the economy is hitting the shitter, to be able to explain to people what's happening and why. But most of the time we are trying to keep up with what's happening and interviewing people who know vastly more about our fields. We try not to sound like idiots on the phone and direct our fire at the printed page.

Disaster seems to follow me when I begin working in a given field of financial journalism. I began working in financial journalism in early 2000, when the dot-com era was reaching its peak. Dozens of companies that were selling pet food through the Internet were getting millions of dollars to develop their businesses.

This bubble began bursting with a stock market meltdown that April. After a bout of unemployment and several more years covering venture capital and private equity, I took the job where I am now, writing about credit markets. When I joined, in November of 2006, the credit markets were setting all kinds of new records and everything was coming up roses. Seven months later, the credit markets melted down and threw the economy into its latest tailspin.

Should I get another financial job, find out what sector that job covers and then get whatever investments you have in that area of finance out. Stuff your money in your mattress or buy gold (unless I'm covering the bedroom furniture or gold markets).

I arrive at the most recent conference at a midtown office building after a nice walk that lets me enjoy breast and leg season. I show my ID to a man behind a security desk and get a temporary pass that I'm supposed to stick to my jacket like a “Hello My Name Is…” nametag. I don't.

I take an elevator lined with ridged stainless steel to the appointed floor, get my materials, find the complimentary caffeinated beverages that will keep me awake for the next few hours and find a seat.

A discussion panel ends and people flood to the front of the room to speak to one or more of the speakers. I should be doing this, in order to meet important people in the field of finance I write about. But I refuse to join this bitch line. I tell myself that I will buttonhole one of these gentlemen (they are rarely women, but it makes no difference: the idea that women will bring more openness or more nurturing instincts to the business or political world is a myth) at one of the assigned coffee breaks, but most of them leave as soon as they are done speaking.

So I remain mostly in my seat, taking some notes and daydreaming, knowing that every day, in sterile hotels and banquet rooms, dozens of business conferences like this one are going on. There are conferences about real estate and the stock market and round table discussions on the credit crisis and private equity. There are breakfasts, briefings, conventions, forums, summits and symposiums. There are seminars, cocktail hours, lectures and lunches. There are bleary-eyed businessmen and women serving themselves coffee from the same stainless steel contraptions that in a few hours will be whisked away by a catering service to be refilled and sent out again to another and another and another.

And today I am one of those bleary-eyed men. Today it is my turn to try to make good use of this time, but it's time spent trying to be a better drone, to glad-hand yourself into the hearts of people who view you as another barnacle in a bountiful ocean.

You can only get so good at paying the bills. At a certain point, the paycheck job becomes just that, and you go through the motions and do what you have to do, all the while noticing younger, hungrier versions of the 10-years-younger you in action across the room or hall. You also see people 10 or 15 years older than you, with the light gone from their eyes, and you know you were not meant for this, and hope you can get out, do something else. But your thoughts drift back to the rent, the pile of bills.

But I’m supposed to enjoy these times away from the office. I’m supposed to use this time to clear my head, and I leave with a renewed sense of purpose: to get moving to where I want to be, and let the mundane conferences become a thing of memory. That’s what Ron Jeremy would do.

A New Kind Of Computer Hell

After dropping a not-so-cool $300 to squeeze more years of life out of my Dell computer, I find myself unable to print. I’m forwarding word documents to various email address so that I can print what I need to at work.

What led me to this computer hell? Buying a Dell again after my first one turned out to be such a piece of shit. I have any number of excuses: my girlfriend at the time may have had a discount, they were cheaper than anyone else and I convinced myself, like an abused wife, that things would be different this time around.

Though I understand that Dell is not alone in this regard, but Dell will refuse to help you with technical problems now if your computer is “out of warranty” unless you agree to pay them $39. I was desperate enough for help with my last computer a few years ago that I actually paid this money, though it was only $30 back then. Once they had my money, they transferred me to technical assistance where I was on hold for so long that I hung up and tried to call again. I was not able to get through, ever. I tried to call to get my money back, after I ended up fixing the problem with the help of some friends, and I was told they had no record of my paying $30 (funny, my bank had a record of the money I sent them).

I refused to be taken by Dell a fourth time, so I wound up paying NY Computer Express $300 to fix my computer. Dell’s technical assistance would have been no use anyway; I needed a new power supply. My computer runs fine now, except that I can’t seem to get my printer working again. I got it working last week, but now it doesn’t print anything. If you have a clue as to what could fix this, send it to me.

Me, The Jury...

Americans take great pride in our democracy and the duty that we have to preserve this democracy, until it's actually time to perform any of this duty. Even in close elections, the number of citizens who vote is usually a low percentage of eligible voters when compared to other democracies. So it is with jury duty.

Jury duty is an essential American right. The right to a trial by jury was one of the essential freedoms upon which the United States was founded. Still, like every other New Yorker who gets a jury duty notice, my thoughts turned not to our inalienable rights, but to my potential excuses.

I received a notice for jury duty late last year and sent a letter requesting another time when the court system's web site was not able to process my request online. I got no response to my written request but received another jury duty notice several months later for another date. I delayed looking over my second notice, thinking I had more time to delay my jury duty service. Once I actually looked at my form, I learned that you can't delay your jury duty service a second time unless you have some kind of written excuse from a doctor or some other accepted authority. Without any such intervention at my disposal, I informed my place of employment that I was going to have to be civically responsible at last.

When living in Queens in late 1999, I couldn't believe that I was picked to be on a jury in a criminal case. As much as I didn't want to be on a jury, I refused to debase myself the way I saw others doing. With a black defendant, several prospective white jurors said they were racist. A Spanish-speaking man, who had been living in the United States for decades, pretended not to understand English. Because I was the first juror picked, I was automatically the foreman. The judge in the case was New York State Supreme Court Justice Arthur Cooperman, who recently passed judgment on three police detectives charged in the Sean Bell shooting.

Now I was back at jury duty after almost six years. Arriving at 100 Centre Street early, I got through the metal detectors and found the Jury Room on the 15^th floor. It was a large room with a dozen or more rows of seats that faced a counter at the front of the room. On the wall behind the counter in a frame was the Flag of Honor, a special American flag inscribed with the names of September 11 victims.

A polite man in a shirt and tie behind the counter told people to have a seat, said there was a special room for eating that was connected to the large Jury Room, and pointed out where the bathrooms were.

"You remember the movie Groundhog Day?" he said. "Well, that's my life. I have to give the same introduction every day." The good news was that we had only two days to give to jury duty if we didn't get picked for a jury.

The routine of jury duty was established quickly: sit and read, wait to see if you get picked to possibly be on a jury, read some more, take a two-hour lunch, read some more, don't get picked for a jury again, go home.

And then it was over. All the second-day jurors were called into the room and dismissed in an orderly fashion by name. It was a different clerk this time, who gave us each a form letter stating that we had completed our jury duty obligation. We were to use these to placate employers and to ward off further jury duty for the next six years.

People eagerly grabbed their letters and left. "Run, before we change our minds," said the clerk.

"See you in six years," one fortunate dismissed non-juror told another outside. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor and made my way up Centre Street.

Deep down inside, I was disappointed that I never got to appear in a courtroom as a prospective juror. With two days sitting around, my ego wanted to be sated by proving my worthiness as a jurist to someone. I would have been happy to dissect the extent of my possible prejudices in relation to the case at hand, and prove my understanding of Constitutional law and proper jurisprudence. But I will have to wait six more years for this privilege.

I was free from jury duty and there were several more hours left in the workday. I was due on Rivington Street in a few hours. If I hurried, I could have gotten there and worked for a few hours. But of all the sins to commit in New York, or anywhere, returning to work when you don't need to has got to be one of the worst.

Downtown Manhattan is one of the best places to walk around and see things. In the financial district, you'll discover all kinds of interesting small streets and alleyways you've never heard of before. In Little Italy and Chinatown, you'll find real Italian and Chinese restaurants, historic buildings and a sense of what New York was like years ago.

I walked uptown, making my way through Mulberry Street in Little Italy. I passed by 247 Mulberry St. It is now a ridiculous designer shoe store called “Shoe,” but the address is more well known for being the address of the Ravenite Social Club, which John Gotti used as his headquarters after taking control of the Gambino Crime Family. When I first moved back to New York City, I lived in Ozone Park, Queens, right down the street from Gotti's original headquarters, the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club. Here was the juxtaposition of what had gone both right and wrong with New York. Whatever romantic visions you have of the Mafia, understand that John Gotti was a murderous thug and leech who profited from the misery of others. It is good that John Gotti was put out of business; the city is better for it. But these fanciful and gluttonous shops honor neither the spirit nor the architecture of the neighborhoods in which they dwell and are a blight on the city. I look forward to the day that overpriced boutiques and ugly condominiums are a sad chapter in New York's past.

I stopped by Old St. Patrick's Cathedral, which sits on Prince Street between Mott and Mulberry Streets. Old St. Patrick's is a beautiful church that has a walled-in cemetery around it. Inside, it looks like a smaller version of the St. Patrick's Cathedral on 5^th Avenue and 50^th Street. Unlike that more well-known St. Patrick's uptown, Old St. Patrick's is not teeming with tourists every afternoon. I decided to duck inside for a brief moment to view the inside of the church, where I had not been for some time.

Old St. Patrick's was as beautiful inside as I remember it. Even if you've never been to New York, you may be somewhat familiar with the inside of Old St. Patrick's Cathedral, as it was used as the church interior for the baptism scene in Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather (a church on Staten Island was used for the exterior shot). I sat in a pew and looked around at the amazing stained glass and statuary. It was nice to be alone in a peaceful, beautiful place.

I am fairly certain that Old St. Patrick's Cathedral will not be turned into condominiums for the wealthy. Then again, nothing is sacred in today's current theme park version of New York. But if the Catholic Church ever lowers its standards enough to give the likes of me a Catholic funeral, let them have it in Old St. Patrick's.

After a few minutes, a man came over to me and told me that the church was closing for the day. He was very friendly and spoke with what sounded to me like an Italian accent. He asked me to please return with some friends, that he would gladly give me a tour. He showed me to the door and locked the front gate behind me.

I continued down Prince Street, satisfied that if there is a God, He is still on top of things enough to keep me out of one of His churches. I savored the New York twilight, knowing that the next day I would be back behind a desk once more.

Pub Quiz For Liberty

Yesterday I participated in a special Activist Pub Quiz at Rocky Sullivan’s in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

My team, the Ron Paul Revolution, came in third place, which was a considerable achievement given that a) we were the smallest team in the entire pub quiz, with only two members and b) the pub quiz was very left-leaning. Neither of these factors was a surprise to me. I was warned by the most excellent quizmaster, Scott M.X. Turner, that the quiz would be dominated by lefty groups. His questions were appropriate and the quiz was a smashing success.

It would have been nice to have one question about Ayn Rand or Thomas Jefferson or someone else not popular among “progressives.” But we did well anyway, coming in third, and the questions involved people that Americans ought to know about anyway.

In first place was a team named ‘The Four Pillars’ representing the New York City Green Party. They had the prettiest women on their team and were jovial and fun-loving. When they won, they exclaimed, “It’s about time the Green Party won something!”

In second place was called the ‘7-Ups,’ and were a compendium of all that is wrong with leftist movements in the United States. They had one more team member than they were allowed, didn’t even know what cause they were going to donate their money to and were otherwise socially retarded. But even they still made the evening fun. When the quizmaster announced that one team (ours) had identified a photo of Sandino as “10-Gallon Pete,” one of their members wore an expression of disbelief that was amusing.

While we didn’t win, it was nice to meet my teammate, Luke, a fellow freedom-lover and Ron Paul supporter. He might bring more people to the pub quiz in the future also.

Afterwards, quizmaster Scott played guitar with Seanchai & The Unity Squad. It was late night, but a good time.

The Right To Bear (Stupid) Arms

In addition to giving his name to the multi-billion dollar company he founded, Mayor Michael Bloomberg has recently inadvertently given his name to a new line of colorful firearms decoration. A Wisconsin company that specializes in painting guns, typically camouflage for hunters, now offers a gun painting kit with our Mayor’s name on it. For less than $20, a gun owner can paint their rifle in a brick and graffiti pattern, or use a rainbow buffet of colors to paint handguns.

The company, Lauer Custom Weaponry, said through a press release that the bright colors are meant to help rescue workers and firing range operators locate guns more easily at nighttime or during bad weather etc. However, this doesn’t seem to apply to “Brooklyn Blue.” It rightfully took the mayor’s inflated rhetoric to task and made no apologies for its product line, though it couldn’t resist a shameful plug of its own merchandise in saying that if Bloomberg cared about the safety of police officers, he would mandate that their weapons be coated with products from their company.

No doubt the company is using its product name to criticize our mayor, who is notorious among firearms enthusiasts. Bloomberg’s contempt of the Second Amendment is legendary (his record on the First Amendment is not so hot, either). Bloomberg has railed for even tougher gun control measures, and even staged phony sting operations of lawful, out-of-state gun dealers.

While I count myself among the freedom-loving gun enthusiasts who find Bloomberg’s cockamamie anti-gun crusade disreputable, the company’s product line is a bad idea. Whatever serious uses there are for having guns colored in such a way is lost in the controversy of needling Bloomberg. Such loud colors are too easy a target, whether on the firing range or the more reckless shooting gallery of New York politics.

What’s Good About Good Friday

Today is Good Friday, the time of year when Christians commemorate the execution of Jesus Christ. Most New Yorkers look forward to Good Friday because it often means a day off from work or school. The city’s financial markets are mercifully closed today (and will not likely see a miraculous resurrection come Monday), which means I have the day off.

Recently, Muslim groups have asked for the New York City school calendar to be amended to allow days off for Muslim students on holy days. I agree with Mayor Bloomberg in opposing this. Adding more religious holidays to a school schedule that already has days off for Christian and Jewish holidays would send us on a slippery slope to infinite sectarian squabbling. New York taxpayers already make enough allowances to religious holidays and exemptions, probably more than we should. If you want to keep your children out of school for a religious observance, fine. Don’t expect the rest of the city to put everything on hold for you. That goes for Orthodox Christians and Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and any and all other superstitious kvetchers.

Infidel and heretic that I am, I spent today at home, avoiding work. Did I inadvertently participate in a religious observance? I don’t know, but it won’t keep me out of hell.

St. Patrick's Day Is For Amateur Drunks And Politicians

Another St. Patrick’s Day is upon us, and New York will be filled with amateur drunks drinking overpriced beer in crappy bars. I used to love St. Patrick’s Day, but I have yet to find something worthwhile and Irish to do on St. Patrick’s Day that you can’t do the rest of the year, other than watch or march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

Maybe this year, those people who come to the city to get drunk and wear tacky green gewgaws will instead visit the Irish Hunger Memorial or the Irish Arts Center, but I wouldn’t bet a pint of Guinness on it.

This St. Patrick’s Day in New York will be different in one way: there will be fewer politicians at this year’s parade. The reason: New York’s new Governor David Paterson is being sworn in. He’s sensible enough not to flush his career down the toilet on high-priced hookers, and that’s progress here in the Empire State.

Geraldine Ferraro: (Politically In)Correct New Yorker

The latest casualty in the Clinton vs. Obama war through campaign surrogates is former New York Congresswoman and Vice Presidential candidate Geraldine Ferraro. She resigned from her position on the Clinton campaign after coming under fire for an assertion that Barack Obama has been helped in his primary fight, in party, by his race.

The controversy stems from an interview Ferraro gave to The Daily Breeze, a small California newspaper. It is a fairly innocuous comment, not without its own bias in favor of Hillary Clinton, but certainly not controversial to the point of deserving attack or earning apology. Ferraro last ran for office in 1998 when she ran for the Democratic nomination for U.S. Senate but found herself losing to a younger, more ambitious and less experienced rival. She has been out of office long enough to speak her mind freely, and the controversy says more about the sorry state of today’s racial politics than it does about Ferraro.

Had Ferraro been an Obama supporter and not a Clinton supporter, we likely never would have heard of these remarks unless we perchance came across the interview and read it. But Ferraro is a Clinton supporter and was a member of her financing committee, and the Obama campaign trounced on her words. To believe the Obama devotees, a liberal Democrat who has supported every racial polemic of the American liberal left is a mean-spirited old coot trying to demean a fellow Democrat because of his race. It’s a preposterous proposal.

And Obama’s campaign doesn’t need these kinds of tactics. Obama has a broad base of support among Democratic voters anyway. Trying to depict a lifelong liberal like Geraldine Ferraro as a racist will only hurt them among the white, working-class voters that they theoretically want to win over from Clinton’s camp. Which makes me think that perhaps this was a Clinton tactic all along: was Ferraro sent to make those comments on purpose with the idea to get the Obama camp to pull another race card? I wouldn’t put anything past New York’s junior Senator.

It’s a sad day when Pat Buchanan is offering Democrats more sage analysis of their primary season then their own leaders, but everyone wanting to deny that the vote has and will likely continue to break along racial lines in diverse states is blind to the facts.

I Have Wet My Pants

The pants I wore when I met my mother and stepfather for lunch today are thoroughly soaked through. No, I did not forget myself and wet my pants in a pathetic display of infantile relief; I am simply a victim of today’s weather.

New York City was pounded by rain last night and today. In addition to the regular troubles of precipitation, the urban dweller contends with having to walk more frequently in a downpour than their suburban or rural counterparts, who more frequently bear the brunt of having to drive in the rain.

City pedestrians must be on the lookout for giant puddles, the umbrellas of fellow pedestrians, rain that is blown sideways by the wind, and, the dreaded puddle splashes by passing automobiles. I am glad to say I artfully dodged most of these obstacles, but have little to show for it in the way of dry articles of clothing. Wind-blown rain is the culprit of most of my unwanted moistness; and there is little that even the most astute New Yorker can do to avoid that.

It was perfect weather for staying indoors, watching DVDs, and catching up on work that’s been piling up. I’m sorry to say my progress in rainy day activities has been lacking.

But I did manage to walk into the Bronx and back in order to take Metro North trains to Yonkers for lunch with my mother et al. and back. That is the extent of my adventures today. I wouldn’t count on much more going out of doors tomorrow either.

In The Midst Of A Dry Month

This is not a dry month in terms of precipitation. In fact, March in New York started with a wet snow storm that had the face-wincing annoyance of rain with all the sidewalk slippery benefits of snow.

This is a dry month, or dry month and a half, for me. I decided in early February to not drink until St. Patrick’s Day. So far I’ve been doing well. I had a beer with friends on February 1 but since then I haven’t had any alcoholic beverages.

To be honest, as much as I enjoy drinking, I don’t really miss it. I still hang out with friends and go to and play punk rock shows, I’m saving a lot of money and I feel better the next day. I was able to drive people home from a show a few weeks ago because I wasn’t drinking and no one else had to worry about who was going to drive. The problem was solved.

I only hope I can continue to cut back. I tend to drink too much at times to the point of blacking out big portions of an evening. If this can teach me moderation, I’ll be happy, and hopefully have more money.

Please don’t think I’m going to become some kind of Alcoholics Anonymous member or Straight Edge devotee. No way. Alcoholics Anonymous is a cult for people who want to replace their dependency on alcohol with a dependency on other people. There’s nothing dignified about being ensnared in a religious organization that doesn’t have the balls to call itself a religious organization. And as for the Straight Edge scene: I’m not cutting out all alcohol, and if I was, I don’t see adopting an identity over not drinking alcohol any more sensible than adopting an identity over not eating anchovies.

Either way, I’ll still see you at the bar, but I may be sober for the evening.

Ron Paul For President

It has been a long time since I really liked a Presidential candidate and wanted them to win instead of wanting someone else to lose. I’m angered and horrified not only by both mainstream political parties’ march to war in Iraq but by their embrace of amnesty for illegal aliens (though none of them have the guts to call it that).

Enter Ron Paul. The New York Times calls the Texas Republican “the most radical member of Congress.” He’s drawn support from disaffected Democrats and Republicans alike. He’s against the war, in favor of restoring civil liberties, in favor of enforcing immigration laws and against amnesty. He’d also like to abolish the income tax and the I.R.S. He’s actually read the U.S. Constitution and wants to apply it to the federal government.

It has been about 14 years since I have worked for a Republican candidate. I became disillusioned with the mainstream Republican and Democratic parties over the course of the last few years and have become much more libertarian.

Ron Paul has been the thorn in the side of the Republican Party this year, calling the bluff of frauds like Giuliani and Mitt Romney and standing up to the smooth lies of John McCain.

I decided to help do my part to support the Ron Paul campaign, even though he is a long shot. I joined an online “meet-up” group in the city and spent a few hours this past Friday and Monday handing out campaign literature in Grand Central Terminal.

Because he has been outspoken against the Iraq war, there are a lot of Democrats who like and respect Ron Paul. As I was walking through Grand Central’s main concourse, an Obama supporter who was holding up a big campaign sign said he hoped Ron Paul got the nomination. One Clinton supporter whispered, “Hillary, Hillary!” at me as she walked by, but in good-natured fun.

There weren’t too many negative people. One man sneered at me and said, “I believe in the Federal Reserve system.” Another woman went to take a flyer and then drew her hand away as if she had touched a hot stove. A few people asked legitimate questions about the candidate, such as if he was pro-choice or pro-life (he’s considered pro-life but takes the strict Constitutionalist view that abortion should be decided by the states) and the smear that he is a racist.

Dr. Paul isn’t perfect, no candidate is, but without a doubt he’s the only candidate standing for the Constitution and for common sense. I hope that he runs as an independent in the general election. Either way, he’s got my support and if you have the chance, please vote for him.

My Mother Owes Me Brunch

Every year, I make a bet with my mother on the Super Bowl. Even though the New England Patriots were favored to win the Superbowl this year, I bet on the New York Giants to win. I had no other choice: my mother wouldn’t let me bet on whether or not the Patriots would beat the spread. Neither of us knew the spread. So I reluctantly bet on the Giants to win the game.

I wanted the Giants to win. I’m actually a New York Jets fan, which means that just about every year is miserable for me, professional football wise. But the Giants represent New York City, or at least the New York City area (they play in New Jersey). And the New England Patriots have earned by spite by being the mainstream media’s treasured darlings, from Boston and by their screwing over the state of Connecticut. I don’t hate the Patriots like I hate the Dallas Cowboys, but I rarely root for them

I actually pay very little attention to professional sports, though I do make a habit of watching the Super Bowl, because it’s an excuse to sit on the couch, eat food and maybe see some funny commercials.

So when my mother called a few hours before kickoff, I agreed to a bet out of deference to our family tradition. My mother has wanted to meet me in Yonkers for brunch at a nice restaurant by the Hudson River. If the Patriots win, I would have to pay. Should the Giants win, my mother would pay. The Giants upset the New England Patriots 17-14.

Congratulations to the Giants for their win, and to me for my fortuitous gambling.

Same Shit, Different Year

Last night’s State of the Union Address by George W. Bush was a typically meaningless exercise in boredom and banality. Perhaps because I’m looking forward to not seeing another George W. Bush State of the Union Address I was not angered to the point I usually am.

What angers me more than Bush’s predictable litany of applause lines is the response to him by the Congress.

I understand that it is customary to stand and applaud the President of the United States when he enters a room, but the audience at the State of the Union last night, like in previous years, stood and gave Mr. Bush a rousing ovation, then did it again after he was formally introduced by House Speaker Nancy Pelosi.

Honestly, I cannot think of anyone in that chamber less deserving of a standing ovation than George W. Bush. Yet, without fail, our elected leaders stand and clap like a bunch of trained seals.

I would prefer a parliamentary system, where a prime minister has to take hostile questions every week and report to the elected body every day. I would even prefer the chaos of the Taiwanese parliament to the disingenuous pageant we fake our way through every year.

One would also think that George W. Bush would want to make his last State of the Union Address one where he attempts to salvage something from his time in office with a graceful exit, perhaps striking a conciliatory tone, if not dropping to his knees and begging our forgiveness. Instead, Bush displayed his usual smirk and threatened vetoes like a smug and arrogant man heedless of his own disreputable presidency.

We should have seen a man humbled by his failures. Instead we saw a performance worthy of Bush’s infamy, and why so many are looking forward to his long overdue departure.

Happy New Year New York, From Connecticut...

This year will mark the 100^th anniversary of the large ball dropping in Times Square, a revered and joyous New York tradition. However, like many other New York traditions, the Times Square festivities are a shadow of what they once were. Visiting midtown has become an over-regulated morass of police power and inconvenience. Preparations have been going on for months.

While there will still be large crowds in midtown Manhattan to ring in the New Year, the very circumstances of being in Times Square this New Year’s Eve undercut the whole point of celebrating New Year’s Eve. Revelers will face a fascistic litany of regulations that will hamper any good times. People who turn up in Times Square for New Year’s Eve will not be allowed to bring bags or backpacks with them, nor will they be allowed to bring alcohol. Also, they will stand in the cold for hours without access to a public restroom.

It was once my goal to be in Times Square when the year 2000 came into being. I wisely abandoned that enterprise and instead celebrated nearby at Connolly’s at a Black 47 show. It was a good time. It was crowded and overpriced to the point that I refuse to see a show at Connolly’s again, but it was still a good time and a good show.

This year, like last year, I will be with friends in Connecticut. The beer will be cheaper, there will be a place to sit and go to the bathroom, and I’ll get to see some good friends; that’s the best way to ring in 2008, or any year.

Happy New Year!!

Ho, Ho, Ho...

A New York City police officer recently admitted to helping protect a brothel in Queens. While I’m against police corruption, I think this again calls for us to legalize prostitution.

Think about it: why should a woman not be allowed to sell her body for sexual favors? I agree that it’s unseemly, but how are porn stars, models or politicians on a higher moral plane? In fact, I would argue that a prostitute does less damage to society than an anorexic model or a politician. A politician who sells his or her vote (which is pretty much legal) is hurting all who are governed. An anorexic model helps destroy the self esteem of a generation of young girls.

A friend of mine was arrested a few years ago in a sting operation when he picked up what he thought was a prostitute on the street. “I knew she was too hot to be a real prostitute,” my friend told me, “but I couldn’t pass up the chance if she was for real.” He was arrested and was allowed to call his father to retrieve his car so it would not be impounded.

Like our “war on drugs,” keeping prostitution illegal helps pimps and other assorted scumbags. I’m well aware that legalizing prostitution will not eliminate the seedy element from an essentially seedy business, but not having to dodge the law would allow prostitutes the leverage to organize themselves and create a better environment for everyone.

An Irish Wake For Rocky Sullivan’s

Rocky Sullivan’s is the finest Irish Pub in New York City. But New York City is a different place than it was when Rocky’s opened in 1996. The outstanding pub recently had to relocate to the Red Hook area of Brooklyn. That testifies to not only the excellent staying power of Rocky Sullivan’s, but to the pathetic state of culture in Manhattan.

I managed to visit Rocky Sullivan’s on its last weekend in Manhattan. The “Irish Wake” that was held for it featured music and comedians and a lot of interesting characters at the bar that I had become accustomed to drinking with over the years.

Please make it a point to visit this most excellent establishment at its new home in Brooklyn. It will be well worth the trip.

(Another) Subway Disgrace

The latest column recounts one of the most miserable subway commutes ever. This was worse than being stuck on the train for three hours one afternoon when a moron on a C train ahead of us tried to surf on top of the train. He hit his head on the ceiling of the subway tunnel and was hit by a following E train. That was not the fault of the MTA, though I don’t doubt the loused up re-routing the trains that day because I saw numerous trains passing us by on other tracks.

This latest transit shame was brought to you by our failing infrastructure, the usual MTA incompetence, and less than two inches of rain.

I love New York City and always will, but we’re in a darker part if its history right now, and I don’t foresee things getting better anytime soon.