Marcus' World

The First Amendment. Like Share Comment

We're in Manhattan for a few days, and this morning I strolled through Alphabet City. On 14th St, between Avenues A and B, I saw a chalked version of the First Amendment (picture below).

The "Like|Share|Comment" options are quite striking. It's the Constitution, Facebook style!

If Facebook had been around when the Bill of Rights was crafted, would the result have been better, worse or just different? As things stand the Second Amendment has been co-opted by the NRA and--along with protecting the press--the First Amendment provides succor to sleazy pornographers. The language is stirring but the reality does not always match the rhetoric. I suppose this would still be true had the Bill of Rights had been crowdsourced by the people.

End comment.

Occupy Wall St at "Ground Zero"

Very soon after the September 11 attacks we took to calling the former World Trade Center site "Ground Zero." Ground Zero for what wasn't clear.  Brave souls like Susan Sontag pressed for a tough examination of why so many people hate America.  But most people, starting with President Bush, presented Ground Zero as the first front in a never-ending "War on Terror."  New York Governor George Pataki initially proposed calling the new building the "Freedom Tower," in a further statement of the moral correctness of the U.S.

Ten years later the jingoistic phrase Freedom Tower has been replaced by the more muted 1 World Trade Center.  1 World Trade is currently rising, and the 9/11 Memorial is now open to the public.  1 World Trade will peak at 1,776 feet, a symbolic height if there ever was one.  And it will be in the shadow of Wall St, where the vibrant occupation of Wall St continues.

We were downtown the other day, and the juxtaposition of the memorial, the new tower, and the protest--all within 1/10 of a mile--was jarring.  The protestors are taking aim at nothing less than the global capitalist system, which was formerly epitomized by the Twin Towers and is still symbolized by Wall St.

I have mixed feelings about the protests.  Their organization is impressive, right down to the weekly newspaper and the growing library. Their democratic ideals are admirable, even if it means that their assemblies--sans PA and mic--are hard to manage.  From the New York Observer: "The general assembly, which now attracts a thick crowd...is becoming comically inefficient. The group has no sound permit for a PA, so each committee's proposal must be amplified by the 'human mic,' in which a speaker says a few words at a time that are repeated by the audience seated immediately nearby, then echoed in concentric rings."  

On the other hand, utopian dreams often become dystopian realities.  Jim Jones promised an equitable world too, and his followers ended up literally drinking the koolaid.  Sad as it is to say, economic self-interest really does grease the skids of human societies.  Selfishness is ineradicable, so we might as well use the invisible hand to our advantage.  The protesters have presented a legitimate critique of capitalism but an unreasonable solution--redistributionism never lasts except under the iron heel of government.

Not that the Republican Presidential candidates, with their various flavors of regressive flat taxes, have the right answer either.  This is the same party that exploited the pain of New York City to justify a trumped up war in Iraq.  It's the same party that bandies about terms like "Freedom Tower" as a means of squashing dissent.  And it's the same party that now wants the rich to become even more fabulously wealthy, by trotting out lies about the supposed trickle down effect of supply side economics.

If the protesters are too radical, the Republicans are pernicious.  Meanwhile 1 World Trade rises defiantly, and we seem to have succeeded in avoiding a real conversation about America's vexing role in the world or of our economic polices.  In some ways the attacks at "Ground Zero" didn't change anything at all.

Clyde Haberman Says Farewell

Almost four years into my Bay Area adventure--with no end in sight--I continue to read the NY Times religiously, right down to the Metro columnists.  I've gradually made more of an effort to understand the local political scene, but if push came to shove I'd rather be quizzed on NYC happenings than on Bay Area doings. I left my heart in New York City, and letting go is a slow process.

And so I was sad this week to read Clyde Haberman's final NYC column. I always read Haberman when I lived in New York, and have sporadically done so since moving.  He has a wonderfully dry sense of humor, as revealed in his column soon after 9/11 stating that it was OK for the rest of the country to hate New York City again.  And he supported a seemingly quixotic crusade against excessive use of air conditioning in city stores, which actually made its way into city law.

But not all of Haberman's causes were realized. For example, he wrote eloquently about the case of Mark La Cloche, a rehabiliated convict who learned how to become a barber in prison and wanted to contribute to society after serving his time.  The same state that had trained him to become a barber refused to grant him a license once he was free, and Mr. La Cloche died at 40 without realizing his dream.

Haberman's final column is a bittersweet meditation about the limited power of the press to effect any real changes.  He returned to some themes repeatedly, from his perch as a well-known columnist at the word's most influential newspaper.  And yet, little changed.  Of course, this is not Haberman's fate alone--anyone who has tried to change an institution or a process, hopefully for the better, knows just how hard it is.  This is the disillusionment of the "real world," which all good parents warn their kids about.

And yet, we persevere.  We write blog posts. We organize boycotts of publishers.  We do this. We do that. All in hopes of making a huge difference in our chosen fields, while knowing at some level that a small difference would actually be plenty impressive.  Despair is always an option, as well as complete apathy and impotence.  But somehow that's unsatisfying, and thank goodness for that.  For as F. Scott Fitzgerald noted 75 years ago in Esquire (thanks to Uri for the quote), "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise."

New York Memories

I've been on the road for three weeks, with stops in Nashville, Columbus, and Washington DC.  Nashville was a particular delight--I haven't been in five years, and it was great to see family (especially my Aunt Linda, who was a big help in coping with the divorce last year.)  In Columbus my Dad and I hung out a lot, and I stayed with my old friend Todd.  In DC I was consumed, somewhat, by the Medical Library Association conference. But I have friends there too, so I wanted to see them more than participate in the conference's evening activities.  Next year I'll be back in the full MLA groove when the meeting is in Minneapolis.

Then I came to New York City for three days.  This was the final stop, and my flight to San Francisco leaves in a few hours.  Although this was the shortest part of the trip in duration, it left the largest impact on my heart.  I love New York City and miss it terribly, it turns out.

This love manifested itself culturally, with trips to independent art film houses; stopping in to see an amazing production of "The Glass Menagerie" last night; popping into the Cooper-Hewitt Design museum today.  Love bloomed with the ridiculous profusion of photos I posted to Facebook, at a much higher rate than during any other time in the trip.  And I even showed some love athletically, by running along the Central Park Reservoir two days in a row (and the East River promenade once.)  When I lived in New York I thought all the runners and joggers were crazy, but now that I'm training for the SF 1/2 Marathon I'm crazy too.

This entire trip was my "East of the Mississippi" voyage.  Until moving to California three years ago, I'd always lived in Eastern or Central time zones.  My immediate family, except for Dad, has migrated west.  But the extended family, and all the people I grew up with, are still very far away.  I love living in Berkeley and love my job at UCSF.  But for the entire time I've been west I've felt somewhat cut off from my roots.  This trip was about going home, literally and figuratively.  (The big chapter not included was Chicagoland, where I went to college, met Helen, and lived for seven years in total.  At one point I considered driving from Columbus to Chicago for a few days, but decided that was too much rushing around.)  In many ways, New York City is the truest home I've ever known.  I knew I would love my few days here, but was surprised at the depth of feeling I felt for the city.

It's not like New York doesn't have problems.  It is too expensive, too crowded in places, too rushed, too ruthless.  When I was preparing to leave three years ago, I suddenly became aware of all the annoying aspects of living here that I'd always overlooked.  These past few days I've mostly taken the city's character in stride, except for being surprised by all the swearing I heard while walking down the sidewalk.

At the end of June this year I'll have lived in the Bay Area just as long as I lived in New York City, and I have no plans to leave it.  My best guess now is that I'll be in the Bay forever, forming roots and hopefully making my community better. My writing life has taken off on the West Coast, as it is easier to be noticed there than in the literary hothouse of New York.  My job is better than anything I had in New York, and I'm now in a good relationship too.  Life is grand, I believe once again.

While strolling Sixth Avenue last week I came across the Best American Essays of 2007, edited by David Foster Wallace.  I already had too many books, because I always pack books excessively; but how could I resist something edited by DFW?  One essay in the collection is by San Francisco's literary lion Richard Rodriguez, about the disappointment of discovering there are problems with the California dream.  Rodriguez mentions that New York City was once the literary foil for his beloved California.  He loves New York but knows where his true home is.  Right now I'm in some transitory state between love of New York and a full embrace of Northern California.  I'll get there, but it will take a while...and when that embrace happens, I'll still be grateful to New York for showing me the glory of how to live a vibrant life.  But you can do that in California too, it turns out.

Greetings from New York City

[Note: I wrote this on July 4, but am finally posting on July 6 because the promised wireless connection at our NYC hotel never materialized. Tonight I'm in Danbury, CT with Helen.]

------ 

This morning I landed at JFK at 6:30 AM, after a smooth red eye flight from SFO. On the plane, my neighbor and I quickly discovered that his light switch turned on my light, and mine turned on his.  He kindly told me to let him know when I needed my light turned off, and eventually did so without me needing to ask. This is because I rapidly tried to get to sleep, instead of following my usual plan of reading the contents of six books during a long flight.

I wanted to be as awake as possible for meeting Helen in Brooklyn (she came down from Connecticut last night and stayed with a friend, so that we could see each other sooner.)  I'm not sure how well I did, because plane sleeping is never easy. But it was definitely nice to see her after five weeks. We didn't see each other once in June, which has never happened since we started dating more than nine years ago.

Breakfast in Brooklyn was tasty and eventful. At one point a police officer came in to ask people to move their cars before the 4th of July fireworks that night, and apologized twice for interrupting our breakfasts.  (Who says New Yorkers are rude?) And I was happy to discover that one of the waiters was from Ohio, something I inferred from the Ohio t-shirt he was wearing.  He grew up in Cleveland and Dayton, I can now confidently report. (Last night on the BART train to SFO, a high school girl had a t-shirt of Ohio on too--I think she was on a volleyball team that was on the West Coast for a tournament. I'm not sure what to make of all these Ohio t-shirt sightings.) After breakfast it was time to jump on the subway and head to Manhattan.

One stop on the 2/3 and we were in Wall St; the crossing to Manhattan from Brooklyn was so much quieter than the screeching noise that BART makes as it traverses the San Francisco Bay.  Pretty soon we were zooming up 7th Avenue, and before we knew it we were at 72nd St. and making our exit to go to our hotel.  This all felt perfectly natural to me, as though I hadn't been away from New York for almost a year.

This was my second subway ride of the day, and it was still just 10 AM.  My first ride had been on the A train to meet Helen. While riding the A I read the Times (the New York edition, which means there's a separate Metro section rather than a few pages grafted onto some other part of the paper.)  Clyde Haberman discussed how New Yorkers are more subtle in their displays of patriotism than people in many parts of the country. Unlike the days right after September 11, you can go for long stretches in the city without seeing a single flag. I've always had trouble wearing anything associated with the flag, because this indicates (or at least implies) a belief that the US is the best country in the world.  I don't believe this, and haven't for years. To me America is in an elite category of nations, but not head and shoulders above everyone else.

But who cares about me? Why won't New Yorkers display the flag, especially after September 11? I think it's because they are furious that New York's tragedy became the grist for a tragically unnecessary war in Iraq--a war that had been on the drawing board in some circles well before 2001. President Bush manipulated the trauma of this event to justify the war (to himself too; I don't think it was a cynical deception of the populace) and wrapped this manipulation in the flag.

But maybe I'm exaggerating. In Times Square late this morning an electronic flag was the backdrop for one of the news feeds.  On the Upper East Side tonight, Rathbone's Bar and Grill had draped a large flag above its storefront. At a Citibank ATM in the West Village this afternoon, an elderly lady walked in and said "God bless America, boys" to two young men who were walking out. And tonight, the annual Macy's fireworks show (which we watched on TV, not among the crowds as in years past) had the usual mix of pomp and patiotism.

As is clear from the above paragraph, we moved around a lot today. Sometimes by subway, once by bus, and by walking as often as we could (highlight: a west to east stroll across Central Park in the late evening.)  We even made it back to the stoop of our old apartment building, and looked in to see that the apartment doors are now painted bright red. That was a bit jarring, but I really liked the new logo on the taxis. It's much more cheerful and inviting than the old look...

This post has gone on for a while without saying very much, because I can't contain myself now that I'm back.  That's OK--this entire blog is a product of my New York years; one of my earliest posts was about how I'd become a movie fanatic since moving to NYC.  I still list "New York Life" as one of the blog categories.

The last thing I want to be--despite all evidence to the contrary right now--is a New York blowhard.  I know it's much more difficult to do simple things (like, say, go a few miles) in New York than it is elsewhere.  I know that Manhattan is becoming a rich person's paradise, which can make it hard even for people with very good incomes to live here. And I know that there's a guardedness and excessive rush to the city that you don't find in the Bay Area.

Warts and all, though, I love New York. It's highly likely that we'll never live here again--and all things considered, the Bay Area is more than alright with me.  But be that as it may, a large slice of my soul will always be here.

Anniversaries and Waterfalls

Today's our "monthly anniversary" (wedding date Feb. 27, so we always do something on the 27th of each month), when Helen and I would normally splurge on a nice dinner.  This month we both hosted up dinners at home and talked to each other on the phone.  That's not quite the same. However, Helen's exquisite touch with the US Postal Service ensured that an anniversary card arrived this evening (which I later learned that she purchased a month ago, almost as soon as she left).  I'm pleased to report that my own card--more of a general greeting--came Helen's way yesterday.

Next weekend I'm going to visit, for July 4th and Helen's birthday on July 7.  I can't wait! We're staying in NYC for two nights, and then spending our final night together in Danbury, Connecticut (where Helen's living this summer).

Yesterday, in New York, Olafur Eliasson and the Public Art Fund unveiled The New York City Waterfalls. These are four temporary falls (they come down in October), between 80 and 120 feet high, arranged at various junctures along the lower East River.  Is it art? nature? both? It's probably too early to say, but so far the critics have been kind. 

"The Gates of Central Park," in February 2005, was New York's last major public art event.   Many people poohpoohed the pretentiousness of Christo and Jean Claude, but I liked the community spirit that the Gates engendered.  (I've been blogging so long that I can link back to these old posts!)  Looks like The Waterfalls will have the same effect in a larger, wetter pocket of the city.  I'm looking forward to seeing them next weekend.

Eliot Spitzer, aka George Fox

My morning BART-MUNI ride was consumed by reading about every salacious detail of New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's procurement of the services of a high-priced call girl last month.

Obviously he should resign, for the good of his family, the good of his party, and the health of his state.

Of all the details about how he did it, this one stood out to me: Spitzer used the alias "George Fox" while booking the room for his secret rendezvous at the Mayflower Hotel.

First I thought that Spitzer chose "George Fox" randomly. Well, it turns out that a good friend of Spitzer's is named George Fox.  This shows how far Spitzer was willing to go not to get caught: if the tides had broken another way, an innocent man named George Fox could have had his career destroyed.  And the ever-so-virtuous governor of New York would have been the first to express outrage.

Almost as Good as New York Bagels

Since arriving in the Bay Area we've been on a quest to find an authentic New York-style bagel.  The offerings at Noah's New York Bagels don't even come close--an insult compounded by the fact that Noah's trades heavily in New York imagery inside its stores. (Then again, Subway sandwich shops don't have much in common with NYC either.)

Through the Yelp grapevine we learned about Berkeley Bagel (which is actually in Albany, CA). This morning we made a northern pilgrimage to the bagel shop, because Helen refuses to ride the bus. 

Once we arrived--almost an hour later--I was hungry. My original idea was to get a sesame seed bagel toasted with butter, just like I used to get on most Saturday mornings at the Bagel Mill.  However, Berkeley Bagel charges 10 cents for the toasting and 50 cents for the butter! Irrationally, then, I decided I might as well get a breakfast bagel...even though it cost more than my original humble idea, it didn't seem like that much more after all of the add-in costs were factored in. Helen also splurged, relative to our former habits, and got a bagel with strawberry cream cheese.

I'm pleased to report that the bagels were big and authentic--if not quite as hearty as the fare at Bagel Mill.  As Helen says, at least they "have the right idea" up there at Berkeley Bagel of Albany.

The First Tuesday Since

September 11, 2001 was a Tuesday, and as has often been noted, it was a picture perfect late summer day on the East Coast.

On that day we lived in Evanston, IL. Just ten days earlier Helen and I had enjoyed a wonderful wedding celebration with family and friends.  Helen's family from Hong Kong was supposed to fly home that Tuesday, but in the end they remained in the US for several more unplanned days. At work that day nobody could get anything done, especially with rampant rumors that Chicago's Sears Tower was next. We all just stood around the television in the conference room, and eventually went home early.

Almost three years later, Helen and I moved to New York City just as the GOP was preparing to exploit the fears of 9/11 at its nominating convention.  "America's Mayor" Rudy Giuliani offered up a particularly bombastic speech at Madison Square Garden that year; by that point the supposed link between September 11 and Saddam Hussein was mighty tenuous, and those weapons of mass destruction were nowhere to be found. It didn't matter. The Republicans had no shame about utilizing the trauma of a city they loathed to cement four more years in power.

The first anniversary of September 11 during our New York years took place on a Saturday. I watched the reading of the names on television, after debating the propriety of whether I should go down to Ground Zero instead. Compared to many others I was barely affected in 2001, and it felt presumptuous to count myself among the mourners.  In 2005 and 2006 I was still not sure how to observe the day, either as a New Yorker or simply as a human being. This divide between those who were--and those who weren't--will never be erased.

This year there's a greater emphasis than ever on moving beyond grief. Why now, at six years?  My best guess is that it's because we've cycled back to Tuesday, arguably the most "normal" day of the entire week.  Every five years will present the chance for an artificial milestone, but that's not available now.  Perhaps our entire country has reached a new stage of grief, in which we never forget what happened, but try to move on and make the world a better place. I hope so.

Missing New York

I'm not sure why a horrible morning commute makes me miss living in New York City, but it does.