The Bottomless Well of Raw Stupidity

Last week, Verizon screwed up and wiped out service for my entire building. This being the Bronx, and Verizon being...well, Verizon, our phones and internet were out for four days or so, during which I was only able to access the internet through the generous offices of the New York Public Library.

Added to this, I am currently doing a temp job in the Human Resources department of a large advertising company. It's not bad work, per se, but I have to agree with Michael Malice, who once said that HR is what sorority girls do with their business degrees. Long story short, I can only get to the library about fifteen minutes before closing, which is why I've been absent lately.

By the way, I was great at making excuses in grade school.

There's a lot to write about, but one thing's been rolling around my head lately, and I need to get it out. Basically, I've been working on the proper epithet for the fine folks at Verizon. This is not as easy as it sounds.

As I mentioned, Verizon knocked out our telephone service then apparently failed to make the leap of logic to figure out that all the complaints that were coming in were all directed from the same building. They then claimed that they had come by for a service call and that our line was fine, when it was still not working. Subsequently, they fixed the problem, but not until we had called them repeatedly and complained until we were blue in the face.

Unfortunately, Verizon is the only company that offers phone service in our area of the Bronx, so we are caught in a difficult place. However, the wife and I have determined that we will switch as soon as possible.

Verizon supposedly is a combination of the words "veritas," which is Latin for "truth," and horizon, which is a popular term with business people who think that they are particularly forward thinking. After a great deal of thought, I have come to the conclusion that Verizon is actually short for "vertical horizon," a somewhat obscure euphemism for the rectal crease.

When I was thinking about the proper epithet for Verizon, my mind initially went to standard terms like "cocksuckers," "butt-pirates," "pillow biters," and "cum-guzzlers." However, I immediately realized that I was using these terms because I grew up in a homophobic environment and, on some level, I revert to form when I am upset. In a calmer moment, I decided that, were Verizon actually staffed with homosexuals, they would run much more smoothly, would take pride in their work, and would have a far more stylish logo.

I briefly played with terms like "idiots," "morons," and the ever-reliable "retards." However, thinking about my two retarded cousins, I recalled that mentally retarded people tend to take their jobs very seriously and do them quite well. In point of fact, calling Verizon "a bunch of drooling, inbred retards" was not only unfair to the many highly-conscientious retarded people out there, but was also giving Verizon too much credit. Even the inbred part was a little more than they deserved, as most of the inbreds that I've met at least have a strong work ethic.

I also played with terms like "dicks," "cocks," "fucksticks," "fuckholes," "stain-sticks," "mindless boobs," and "assholes," but realized that, like my earlier insults, these were unfair. Penises, vaginas, and anuses are fine, respectable organs, and do not deserve to be denegrated. Truth be told, they usually do their jobs to the best of their respective abilities, and comparing them to the folks at Verizon is patently unjust.

I also had a fair amount of completely illogical insults that I could add to the batch: "turd burglar," "butt muncher," "dipstick," and "ass-master." However, these terms were absurd. While they captured the surreal absurdity of Verizon, I think they missed the point somewhat. None of them really touched upon the certain something that makes Verizon the masters of their game.

It became apparent to me that my hatred of Verizon had become a sort of Rohrshak test, holding up a mirror to my own respective prejudices and vocabulary of slurs. To truly find the perfect insult for Verizon, I would need to dig deeper, to come face-to-face with my real problem with them, to dance with the demon, as it were.

And, oddly enough, a demon was a good place to start. When I imagined Verizon's phone employees sitting in a call center, I kept thinking of The Exorcist. Toward the end of the movie, after Father Merrin has had his heart attack, Father Karras is beating on the older priest's chest. The camera cuts to the demon, perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the tableau laid out before her.

In the book, the demon is brilliant, and regards Merrin's death as an unfair cheat. For the book demon, Merrin has escaped from the game, and the demon is infuriated. However, in the movie, William Friedkin took a different tack. As Karras tries to save Merrin, the demon's face is an unfeeling, empty mask of idiocy. It is clear that, denied an adversary to push against, the demon is nothing, a box of mirrors, an endless echo chamber of nothingness, a bottomless well of raw stupidity. It is, in short, the face of a pre-teen boy going into his seventh hour of an MTV Real World marathon.

I realized that I'd found the ultimate metaphor for Verizon. I imagine the soulless, empty stupidity of their call center, the employees staring vacuously out to the middle distance as they half-heartedly rub their genitalia and drool on themselves. These people are beyond humor, beyond sexuality, beyond argument, beyond redemption. I realize that the purest evil, as Friedkin no doubt argued, is the hopelessness of a truly empty mind.

Edison Arms

Recently, I was reading about my area of the Bronx, and I came across an interesting historical tidbit. It turns out that Thomas Edison's largest movie studio, which was built in 1907, was located on the corner of Decatur Avenue and Oliver Place, only a few blocks from my apartment.

In 1910, the Edison company filmed the first Frankenstein movie in this studio. Later, they used it to film the first serial movie. In 1915, Raoul Barre produced some of the first animated movies there. He was later followed by Walt Disney, who filmed Steamboat Willie in the building, and the Terry brothers, who made the first full-color cartoons, "Terrytoons," on the site.

According to McNamara's Old Bronx, the studio hosted some of the most famous Broadway stars of the day, and residents of the area would often be surprised by the famous people strolling down their streets. One of Ethel Merman's earliest films was made here, and Milton Berle used to hang around the place looking for a job.

By 1972, the studio had been razed. Since then, the building that replaced it, the Gramercy Boys Club, has also been destroyed. Today, the only reference to the landmark studios that once occupied this site is the "Edison Arms" Apartment building. Here's what it looks like (the studio site is on the left):



And here's what it looked like in its heyday:


Here's the interior:


And here's Steamboat Willie:

They Call Me the Wanderer

When I was preparing to move to New York, I raided the Virginia Tech library's collection of New York books. It was an eclectic selection, leaning heavily towards dense histories and scholarly treatises. After reading a few of these, I was overjoyed to discover David Yeadon's New York Nooks and Crannies. A strange and eclectic guidebook, it was a fun read, and I finished it quickly. I soon bought my own copy, and it has become a well-thumbed, heavily-attotated addition to my book collection. It's filled with pieces about various areas of the city, and directs the reader to all sorts of lesser-known spots that are absolutely amazing. Yeadon views his city with wonder, love, and awe, and passes those emotions on to his reader.

The only trouble is that the book is thirty years old.

There are good sides to this: using Yeadon, it is possible to travel not only across space, but also through time. He describes a New York that is caught in the grip of crime, but is still beautiful and proud. In his city, Fourteenth Street is loaded with meat markets and hookers, instead of chain stores and boutiques. Union Square is a dangerous cesspool, rather than a benign hangout for pseudo-hippies. With Yeadon, one can imagine the city that was, where ethnic enclaves brushed shoulders with each other, while danger and delight went hand in hand.

This isn't to say that there aren't dangers. However, the biggest threat is probably urban renewal. Many of Yeadon's hangouts have long since been replaced by chain stores or destroyed by wrecking balls. With some trepidation, I followed Yeadon's directions to Arthur Avenue, the Bronx's Little Italy, terrified that I would find a collection of vacant storefronts or, worse yet, a line of Forever 21s, Starbucks, and KFCs.

This quest was not just idle curiosity: I was genuinely interested in finding an authentic Italian enclave. Today, if you ask New Yorkers about Little Italy, they usually direct you to the South end of Manhattan, where three blocks of Mulberry Street between Broome and Canal are pretty much all that remains of what was once a sprawling Italian neighborhood. This is the famous face of Italy in New York, where Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello grew up, where Coppola shot The Godfather, and where numerous legends of murders, kidnappings, and assorted dirty deals were cemented in the public imagination.

Over the years, most of the Italian residents of Manhattan's Little Italy have moved on to greener pastures, leaving the area to an aggressive and rapacious Chinese population. All that remains is a small street, lined with great restaurants and little ethnic stores, that caters to tourists. Every night, the restaurants and stores wrap up, and the employees drive home to Long Island and New Jersey, leaving the street to the Chinese who now live there and who will one day swallow up Mulberry Street like a final, dry meatball. In the meantime, I wouldn't say that Manhattan's Little Italy isn't authentic; it's every bit as authentic as Busch Gardens, or Epcot, or The Olive Garden.

I was pleased to discover that, not only is Arthur Avenue still up and running, but it is also a genuine and authentic Italian enclave. Like Manhattan's Little Italy, it is filled with great restaurants and stores, some of which are definitely aimed at the tourist trade, but the difference lies in the people who populate it. For example, there is Ciccarone Park, at the corner of 187th Street and Arthur Avenue. In the summer, the park is often full of people playing bocci or chess or just watching their grandkids. As evening comes, they aren't rushing to get in the car and get home before the kids get out of hand. After a while, I started to realize that they weren't in a hurry to go because home was just a short walk away.

And this relaxation bleeds through everywhere. On my last visit to the community market on Arthur Avenue, the counterman proudly pointed out the "Arthur Avenue" olive oil that he named after his daughter. A few doors down, the guy in the cheese shop cut me a deal because he knew that I'd be back. Ditto the guy in the Calabria Pork Store, where aging sopressata sausages hang in clusters from the ceiling and my wife had to leave because she saw a greasy plastic container that was full of pig viscera. On another visit, my wife and I sat outside Giovanni's restaurant and pizzaria. I sipped on a limoncello while she drank a glass of wine and we both watched the people strolling down the street. It didn't take us long to realize that this is a neighborhood, and these people are invested in maintaining a friendly, comfortable space.

I'm not going to dig too deeply into the reasons that this place seems comfortable. This, after all, is the setting of A Bronx Tale. Chazz Palmintieri grew up near the corner of 187th Street and Arthur Avenue, in the heart of the district, and the movie details his childhood struggle to decide between mob life and the civilian world. Even now, there are little things that seem peculiar. For example, regardless of the time of day, the "North Bronx Athletic Club" on Arthur Avenue always seems to have a few heavy-set Italian gentlemen playing cards and smoking cigars. As far as I can tell, there isn't any working out happening.

(Incidentally, this is also the birthplace of Doo-wop. Among the residents, the area is known as Belmont, after Belmont Avenue, which runs through the neighborhood. Dion DiMucci, a local resident, borrowed the name for his group, Dion and the Belmonts.)

Regardless, the street feels safe. I've walked around late at night, but have never felt any danger or need to look over my shoulder. The people are nice, by and large, and generally seem willing to chat, answer questions, and fuss over George. In fact, the biggest danger, and the reason that we probably won't be moving to Arthur Avenue is the food. I haven't done a full accounting, but I think that there are roughly a dozen first-rate bakeries in a four or five block radius. I have done a little exploration of them, and have discovered that Madonia brothers has the best procuitto bread, onion bread, olive bread, and cannoli. Addeo is a close second on the prociutto bread. Egidio has amazing cream shells, and Morrone has cookies that will make you weep. Palombo is the most tourist-centered, with a large dining room and a selection of high-end pastries that are dazzling. Gino's, on the other hand, is very old-fashioned, with a few traditional offerings, like Osso di Morte (bones of the dead) cookies, which are great when dipped in cappucino.

This, of course, doesn't even go into the prociutto and melon appetizer that I've had at Giovanni's, the incredible roasted halibut with olives and capers at Enzo's, and the oysters on the half-shell that they sell on the street outside of Umberto's clam house. Suffice to say that my life on Arthur Avenue would be happy, but short, and might be punctuated with insulin injections. After all, it wouldn't really be fair to live in the area without sampling everything that it had to offer. Moreover, given my inclinations, I would have to compare the pastries at every bakery, the pizza at every pizzeria, and the pasta at every restaurant. Anything less would be unfair.

Before I leave, here's a shot of the scourge of Arthur Avenue, the fresh-filled mini cannoli at Madonia Brothers:

Live Nude Chickens

This summer, while in the process of moving to New York, I regularly stopped in to visit my friend John in Alexandria. John was an amazingly helpful resource: he once lived in the Bronx, had several other friends who had also made their homes in the blighted borough, and generally had a good feeling for how things worked in the City. Also, his home lay roughly halfway between New York and Southwest Virginia, which made it the perfect stopover if I was feeling particularly exhausted. Best of all, John's local bar, Kitty O'Shea's, is the home of the infamous Three Mile Island shot, not to mention a pretty impressive selection of more generic tipples.

Anyway, one evening, as we were drinking beer in Kitty's, John and some of his friends started telling stories about the Bronx. John's big tale of the night began with a train stoppage. Apparently, John was on his way home from work when his subway train randomly halted in the middle of the Bronx. The conductor kicked everyone off, leaving them to find their way home. Anyway, John had to walk a mile or two through some pretty skeevy neighborhoods. On the way, he passed a store. Sitting out front were two Muslim boys who were crying inconsolably while their mother was inside with the proprietor. Looking closer, John realized that the store was a live butcher, and that the mother was dropping off a goat.

John paused to take a sip of his beer and light a cigarette. As I waited for the conclusion, one of John's other listeners looked up from his drink and said, with beery gravitas, "They named it."

John laughed and said "they named it." The rest of his listeners nodded their heads like a jury confirming a verdict. "They named the goat." We all paused to reflect on the cruelties of youth, the hard-won wisdom of age, and the fact that a half-pint beer glass is pretty insufficient for anything more taxing than a urinalysis.

Flash forward a couple of months, and I now realize that every third or fourth butcher in my area has a sign outside his store that says "Vivero" or "Pollo Vivero." When I initially saw these signs, I felt a little thrill. The idea of live animals struck me as quaint and amusing, a sort of nod to the past. I liked the link to a simpler time, when healthy animals were fed by humans, not feed tubes, and killed by butchers, not machines. This, I thought, was infinitely more attractive than the concept of said animals being slaughtered, plucked, chopped, shrinkwrapped, shipped hundreds of miles, and rearranged in a grocery store to hide the scrapes, freezer burns, and assorted rotted spots.


The reality, I must admit, can sometimes be a little disturbing. As John and I were walking back from the Hall of Fame of Great Americans, we came upon a Pollo Vivero store. I was immediately disarmed by one of their signs, which read "Nobody Beats Our Prices: We Kill Halal."

I'm not sure how I'd advertise a live butcher, but I have a feeling that cute little pictures of rabbits, turkeys, chicks, and roosters isn't quite the way to go. On the bright side, it probably weeds out the squeamish, but it also might drive away customers who don't want to imagine their dinner posing for a Keane painting. In the painting, the animals appear prosaic, filled with barnyard dignity. They don't look like food so much as characters from Babe or Charlotte's Web. I don't mind eating real, live animals--in my opinion, we have canines and incisors for a reason. For that matter, most of the vegans that I've known have been passionless, weedy-looking people who did not look even remotely healthy. That having been said, I have also read The Chronicles of Narnia, and try to avoid eating animals that look like they have souls. The chicken, in particular, gets to me, as I can easily imagine her singing "One Day More" from Les Miserables.

Moving on...

The next sign was equally disturbing, in its own special way. It featured the name of the company above a picture of the World Trade Center. I'm not sure about the juxtaposition of the words "New York Live Poultry" and the scene of New York's greatest tragedy. I wondered if the idea was that patriotic Americans eat live chicken, or if the owners are somehow hinting that live killing keeps the terrorists at bay. Regardless, it seemed a little exploitative.

I'm guessing that Thanksgiving is a big time in the "Pollo Vivero" biz. After all, with the family coming by, every cook wants to do his or her best. And what, after all, is better than a freshly-killed turkey?

That having been said, I really could have done without the irony of a picture of a turkey, over the words "Holiday Special," with its head missing.

While we were hanging around outside, I peeked through the door. It looked like a vet clinic or a pound, with row after row of cages. Overall, it seemed pretty clean.

A little story about the woman in this picture: while John and I were looking inside the store, a young Dominican woman came out clutching a bag. As she exited, she opened the bag, glanced at its contents, and dry-heaved. John and I agreed that she was probably a first-generation American doing errands for her mom, and was unprepared to face the bloody realities of where dinner comes from. I'm not sure that I can blame her.

As a side note, it isn't always easy to get pictures of things in the Bronx. Usually I can get away with taking things from oblique angles, using the close-up function on my camera, or pretending that I'm taking pictures of my kid. On the occasions when these options aren't open to me, I do my best to be quick and subtle. On this particular day, I was neither, and one of the Pollo Vivero guys came out to express his displeasure with my photojournalism:

 

John and I went quickly on our way.

Deathstyles of the Rich and Famous

Woodlawn cemetery is about a mile north of my house. It's roughly 400 acres large, and is chock full of famous people, including Herman Mellville, Miles Davis, Fiorello LaGuardia, Duke Ellington, Countee Cullen, and many, many others. The most amazing graves, however, are the gargantuan crypts that New York's movers and shakers built for themselves in the late 19th and early 20th century.

In the early 1860's, the graveyards in lower Manhattan were almost full. Unfortunately, New Yorkers continued to die. There were cemeteries in Brooklyn and Queens, most notably Green-Wood, but the ferry passage across the East River was very hazardous. Women often weren't allowed, and quite a few people had impromptu (and unintended) burials at sea. When Woodlawn cemetery opened in 1863, the rich and powerful embraced it, and it soon became THE place to get buried.

Over the years, Woodlawn became the site of an ongoing contest between various rich people. The goal was to build the most opulent, outrageous mausoleum. I'm not sure who won; everyone I've brought to Woodlawn has his or her favorite crypt. However, I am pretty confident that Woodlawn is among the most beautiful outdoor art museums in the world.

One mausoleum theme was the "temple of antiquity." My favorite one of these is Frank Woolworth's crypt, which was funded by his chain of Five and Dime stores, and imitates an Egyptian temple.

Nothing says "classy" quite like nippled Sphinxes:

Another rich guy who went with the "ancient temple" theme was Jay Gould. He was a famous financier, speculator, and railroad developer. His tastes leaned more to the Greek than the Egyptian, hence his decision to build himself a copy of the Parthenon:

This doesn't seem all that impressive until you realize that Gould didn't just build himself a temple. He also bought an entire hill on which to place it:

In a move worthy of the Pharoahs, Gould also placed many of his cronies and hangers-on in crypts at the base of his little knoll. Here's my favorite of the bunch:

I forget who's buried here, but it's a relatively small crypt--only about twenty feet high--and it does a beautiful job of mixing various colors and textures of stone.

Another fun crypt is George Ehret's:

Ehret was a famous brewer, and his crypt is insane. It's over forty feet tall, has two huge stone lions, and has a secluded "yard."

Incidentally, I held the camera straight. The crypt is crooked. Honest.

Another awesome crypt is the Armour mausoleum. It's amazing what a meat packer could buy in the nineteenth century. The crypt looks like something from The Prisoner:

And here's a shot of it from the front:

It was straight when I lined it up, but then the crypt shifted. Seriously.

Another one of my favorites is the Foster crypt. It is a huge monument, complete with dome and narrow steps:

And here's a picture that gives you a sense of its scale:



And, lest you think that gaudy, audacious crypts were only a 19th century phenomenon, here's a crypt that dates from 1999:

Unfortunately, I can't show you the entire exterior, as it has the family name on it. However, I can tell you that this place is the size of a small cottage, constructed out of pink granite with black marble columns, and has two carved lions out front.

Inside, it looks like a cross between the Fortress of Solitude and a disco. I'm not sure why they included a mantle.



One of the most interesting things about the massive monuments that these people created for themselves is the fact that the mausoleums greatly outlasted their fame. Most of the once-famous occupants of the cemetery are now well past their fame. In some cases, they even seem to have outlasted the concern of their loved ones. A good example of this is the grave of John R. Hegeman, which I call "The Havisham House":

From this angle, you can see the faded curtains in the front door and the overgrown lawn that sits on top of the crypt's base. The sides of the crypt also have windows. These have tattered curtains, through which one can see an abandoned sitting room, with a dusty carpet, chair, table, and window-seat. On the table sits an abandoned Bible:

I used to think that this was the saddest, creepiest crypt. However, on our last visit, the wife discovered this one:

This crypt is almost completely overgrown. It has a short stairwell on either side. These lead to little vestibules that are also overgrown. The whole place smells like rot.

Deep in the Batcave

Thanks to my incredible friend Alex and the wonders of Picasa, I can now pepper my blog posts with pictures. This is particularly lucky, as I went exploring this weekend.

I went back to the Hall of Fame yesterday. My friend Justin was visiting, and he'd never been there, so we took a little walk. As always, it was deserted.

He chose to have his picture taken with Thomas Jefferson.

Here's a random picture of the Poe bust. I took it a few months ago, when I first visited the Hall of Fame:

Doesn't Poe have the coolest plinth? I love the little raven and (presumably black) cat. The rest of the plinths are unadorned.

I really like the word "plinth." Unfortunately, I can't use it very often.

As we were leaving, I noticed a pathway that led underneath the colonnade. Following it down, we came to an unmarked door that was open. As there were no "Keep Out" or "No Trespassing" signs posted, Justin and I assumed that we were permitted to look around. We went down a creepy hallway:

It was incredibly hot in the hallway, as the numerous radiators were all turned on full-strength. I was a little nervous about meeting a janitor or security guard, but figured that I could bluff may way through, if need be. My bigger worry was that we might meet a homeless person who had chosen to move in. However, the hallway was pretty clean, apart from the occasional empty water bottle or candy bar wrapper.

We soon came to to another hallway, which had cell-like doors:

We couldn't understand why this section looked like a prison or insane asylum. Some of the cells were filled with files:

While others looked like creepy musical practice rooms:

And still others looked like 19th-century court rooms, complete with gallery:

We eventually came to a huge auditorium. It was beautiful, and was in great shape. It was clear that it was used regularly. Access to the upper level was blocked with velvet ropes, so we stayed on the lower floor:

After we left, we wandered up another stairwell. This one was more ornate:

It led into the library. I'd been inside the library before, but hadn't wandered around too much, as it is a little forbidding.

From the outside, the library looks like the Pantheon. Inside, it is circular, with beautiful marble columns. It has four floors, and is capped with a rotunda, which features statues of the muses ringing the interior:

Behind the columns, the walls have compartments painted with the names of famous authors. Justin noticed that one of the compartments in the Ancient Roman literature section was pushed back, revealing a room behind it:

As there were no signs warning us to not trespass or keep out, Justin and I determined that this was a legitimate place to wander. On the other side of the door, we found room after room of empty bookshelves:



Some of them reminded me of the creepy gothic house in Edward Scissorhands:

We carefully watched our step. It was clear that there has been minimal maintenance in this library since NYU moved out in 1973. There were places where the wooden floor looked untrustworthy, and some of the glass brick tiles were cracked. Still, it was an amazing library, with little reading rooms and places in which the stacks continued through the floor:

There were also beautiful stained-glass walls:

For all of the deterioration, the library was in surprisingly good shape. Considering the fact that it has been neglected for the last 30+ years, it's amazing how well it has held together. Stanford White really knew what he was doing!

After walking from floor to floor, we finally found ourselves at the top of the library, in the rotunda:

Apparently, they have tours of the old library. I'm going to have to look into it, as I really want the wife to take a peek. I wonder if they'll let us walk all the way up to the rotunda.