New York City Going Green: 70 Chevy Volts Purchased

Article first published as New York City Going Green: 70 Chevy Volts Purchased  on Blogcritics.

If you have nothing better to do, you may wonder what gets New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg to Queens? The occasional NY Mets game he attends? A flight out of JFK to one of his secret vacation spots? The answer would be yes to both of these, but he also came to Queens recently to advertise the city's 70 newly purchased Chevy Volts.
Standing in the Sanitation Department's Maspeth repair depot, Bloomberg was beaming with pride as he spoke about the green machines the city has purchased. The vehicles will be used by several agencies and will be strictly for non-emergencies only, so don't expect to come to New York and see cops pursuing suspects in their Chevy Volts.

The interesting thing about this purchase is Bloomberg's assertion that it will save the taxpayers money. Most people know the Volt is an expensive investment, with a cost of around $40,000 per vehicle; however, Bloomberg noted that the federal government has subsidized most of the vehicles, and ten of them will be leased for $1 a year for two years.

Well, that deal is not available for us regular folks, but those who wish to purchase one can get federal tax savings up to $7,500. That still makes the car pretty dear at around $32,000. Add to that that you are limited to how far you can drive these cars under exclusive electric power, and that is why Bloomberg said that none of them will be used for more than thirty-five miles a day.

While many New Yorkers like myself want to see the city go green, we have to wonder how this will truly impact our lives. Bloomberg claims each car will save the city 4,000 gallons of gas over the years, coming to about $15,000 in savings for each one. They will not add to air or noise pollution either.

What is the ulterior motive here? Well, besides giving Chevrolet and GM and enormous advertising opportunity, the Mayor does hope that citizens will take a chance on getting an electric vehicle too. The city has even launched a green web page (Drive Electric NYC) that will give people information and resources about the cars purchased and other ways to go green.

Obviously, Bloomberg's ultimate goal is to have all city vehicles eventually be electric, and this includes buses. He has also hinted that the single biggest source of traffic problems in NYC (yellow taxis) would eventually need to be an all electric fleet. Imagine the possibilities! Now if they could just do something about those pedicabs and horse drawn carriages.

Photo Credit: City of New York

Living the Good Life on a Dead End

Article first published as Living the Good Life on a Dead End on Blogcritics.

There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain.
           -Lennon & McCartney

In the movies there were guys known as the Dead End Kids, a group of New York street kids led by actors Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall, and they became famous in films with big stars like James Cagney and Bela Lugosi. But when I hear about "dead end" kids, I invariably think of my friends and me because we spent most of our time playing on an actual dead end street, and those were some of the best times of my life.


This street was 64th Street in an area of Queens in New York City known as Glendale, where it was like living in the Ukraine or Southern California because this was a borderline and retained aspects unique to Queens but also facets similar to Brooklyn only a few blocks away. In fact, this area had a Brooklyn zip code 11227 for many years until it was changed to a Queens code, which lumped it all together with other neighborhoods under a Flushing 113-umbrella that was not true to its culture or nature.

On either side of this street were apartment buildings on the opposing corners, rows of two family houses, and then on one side a row of one family houses, finally ending at a dead end that served as our home run fence during stick ball games, and also as a sort of protection, an insulation of the block from too much traffic that would have otherwise interrupted our games of sport year round.

The people who frequented the block were colorful characters, and my friends and I had names for them: Mr. Snoop, the Crazy Lady, Boy Tot, Big Bird, Freaky Freddy, the Gooch, and Henn the Hun to name a few.  They were part of the rich fabric, though torn or unraveling at times, that made up our lives growing up. As we played ball and interacted with them and each other, it all became an indelible part of our memories and, at least for me, is something I remember fondly now.

The street was our playing field all year round. We played stick ball, touch football (tackle when it snowed), hockey (on roller skates), handball, slap ball, stoop-ball, and anything else that we could play with or without a ball. We even spray painted bases on the "field" that we would update from time to time, and we played for hours without regard to anything else happening in the world. Perhaps that was what made this dead end so alive and infinitely appealing to us: it was a place where we could escape from almost everything and just be kids.

When I look back now, it seemed we were outside all the time in those days. Yes, this was a time before video games, and we only had six television channels (and, in my case, one TV in the house), but we did have toys and games to go home to. It was more that we liked each other's company and we (Johnny, Bob, Joe, Sal, Eddie E., Eddie Z., Tom, Charlie, Freddy Z., Danny, Pete B., Harry, Craig, myself and some guest stars through the seasons) played not just for the sake of playing but doing it together.

All of us were close to home as we played on this block, so when it was time for lunch we could dash inside for the quick sandwich and drink. We would come back outside to play the rest of the day away in the warm months. If it was a school day, we played until dinner and then had to go in and face the realities of homework, washing up, and an early bedtime. Still, I remember laying there thinking of the day we had, the crack of the bat, the laughter of my friends, and now I cherish that we had those times together.

On a recent cold March day I made a return to the place of my making - more or less - the womb of my youth. This street where I grew up was not just a collection of houses on either side of a gutter and, despite all its inadequacies, it prepared me for most of the rest of my life. It was a place of fun, of games, of laughter, and tears but, most of all, it was home.

On my return visit I saw my old house and that made me feel many things. My mother is gone now, and just looking at the door, the faded old green awning that was still there, the front step crumbling the way my Dad would have never let happen, and the gate that led down to the basement (where my friends and I had many parties in our teenage years) got me a little more than nostalgic. As I crossed the street I closed my eyes and just wished I could hear the sweet cadence of my Mom's voice calling me home for dinner.

I walked down the block and, I suppose like anyone revisiting a place from childhood, I was disappointed to see many of the houses neglected, their steps and gates in disrepair. I stopped and remembered playing on a particular stoop with my friends, and I wondered how fast the years had gone by since those days of delightful disregard for time. I recalled the old German ladies with their buckets of soap and scrub brushes, cleaning the steps of the houses that now seemed covered in dust and debris.

When I passed my friend Eddie Z.'s house, I stopped to think about him (he has been gone a few years now). I recalled sitting on his steps with his Uncle Frank - who always sat on the stoop with what seemed to be a full Pilsner glass of beer - and we talked about everything and anything. That was the beauty of it, as I think of it now; it wasn't the topic that mattered, it was the opportunity for conversation.

I went and stood on what had been our home plate and looked down the block. The once formidable homerun fence didn't seem so dauntingly far away now. Gone on the "right field" side of the block was an enormous tree, where many a long ball got tangled, lost, or stopped from its charted course. I pictured us all running around that field or sitting up against Luigi's wall to watch the game. The hollow sound of the stick ball bat dropping to the ground after a hit echoed in my ears, and I could see my younger self catching a bouncing ball but my friend Bob beating me to first in front of Mr. Hassinger's house for a base hit.

Yes it all came back to me in a warm rush on a cold day. I passed Pete B.'s house and remembered playing chess on his steps, Charlie's aunt's house where we used to hang out on the porch, Eddie E.'s house next door to the old man who used to chase us with a baseball bat, and Freddy Z. and Craig's houses at the very end of the dead end. I stood there with a cold wind whipping up the street staring at a sewer that had gobbled up more Spaldeens than Pac-man eating his dots.

I guess I couldn't expect it to be anything but different, but here I was still feeling less than elated with my visit. I started walking again but stopped and looked back over my shoulder at the old "End" sign. I realized that there was nothing to be upset about because the memories were forever, and luckily I am still in touch with most of my old friends. Now with wives and children of our own living in different places, we don't see each other everyday like we used to, but we do get together now and then and send an e-mail occasionally.

I went back up the block and stood on the corner. The stores were all different, the names and faces changed, and our painted bases had long since faded away. Still, despite the years gone by, this place is forever etched in my heart. As I prepared to leave I knew the most important thing of all: the dead end was the place where I learned about life, and for that I will always be more than grateful.

I got in my car, took a long last look at my old house, drove up the hill where we used our sleds in the snowy winters, and made my way back to the parkway for the long ride home.

A Return Visit to Houdini's Grave

Article first published as A Return Visit to Houdini's Grave on Blogcritics.


Visiting grave sites is something of an odd custom, but many people do this in reverence for loved ones. We also sometimes visit the graves of those famous people whom we admire. Over the years I have visited the graves of mostly poets and writers, with Shakespeare's being the most meaningful to me. In Paris I joined hundreds of other people who went to Pere Lachaise Cemetery to visit Jim Morrison's grave (I went on July 3 - his birthday - which could explain the huge crowd).


I grew up not far from the cemetery where Houdini was buried, and as kids we were fascinated by the fact that Houdini's grave was nearby. I devoured every book with "Houdini" in the title, and my grandfather's stories about his exploits enhanced my interest in the man. The name Houdini seemed to stand for magic, mystery, and excitement.

My grandfather had seen Houdini performing at Coney Island in the early 1900s, and that was before he became truly famous. By the time my father was a boy, Houdini had become what would be considered the equivalent of today's rock star. A true celebrity, Houdini was involved in movies, radio shows, and what seemed to be his favorite thing, live shows in the Vaudeville era.

Houdini is probably best known for great escapes. He could escape from chains, straitjackets, water tanks, and most notably handcuffs. When I was a kid running around the house, my grandfather used to call me "Houdini" because I was popping up everywhere and disappearing. The legend caught my attention and then I found out about his grave being in the cemetery literally down the block, and that increased my fascination with the magician.

When I was a teenager we would walk the long cold stretch up the steep Cypress Hills Street from Cooper Avenue with cemeteries on both sides of us. We did this every Halloween because Houdini had died on October 31 and supposedly told his wife that if he could come back he would do so on that night. It was quite a spooky trek, but when we would get there other people had the same idea, so it was not that scary to see a large group of Houdini fans waiting for the ghost to arrive. We never did see anything on those dark cold nights.


Recently I made a return visit to the grave in Machpelah Cemetery in Glendale, Queens. This grave site is not far from the gate that is on the western side of Cypress Hills Street north of Cooper Avenue. Houdini is marked on the stone above the family name Weiss (Eric Weiss was Harry's given name). I was sorry to see the bust of Houdini had been taken away. I remembered that the grave had been vandalized several times over the years, so perhaps it was removed to protect it.

On a clear cold winter's day, there was nothing spooky about the grave at all. All the mystery seemed to have been displaced, perhaps by growing older and sadly wiser. Still, the mystery of the man remained and I paid respects to his memory and the reminiscence of the excitement his legend caused me in childhood.

Houdini's grave is worth a visit if you have any interest in his story. He once was extremely famous and is one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. He died on October 31, 1926, from a burst appendix. It was widely known that he could take any punch to the stomach, but a college student had taken him by surprise and punched him before he could tighten his muscles properly. The great Houdini was undone by a sucker punch, but his legend lives on.

Photo Credit: Harry Houdini - Houdini.com

New York City's Hell Gate: Bridges Over Troubled Waters

Article first published as New York City's Hell Gate: Bridges Over Troubled Waters on Blogcritics.

People have long known about the Bermuda Triangle as being a dangerous place for ships and boats, but New York City has its own version know as Hell Gate. This name was earned because this narrow straight, where the swirling waters of the East River push against the churning ones of the Long Island Sound, had very dangerous conditions and claimed hundreds of ships over the years going way back to when the Dutch called the place New Amsterdam.





There were (and still are) many jagged rocks along the shoreline on both sides, and the clash of river and water from the sound make a whirlpool with no safe harbor that would have challenged Odysseus as much as the Strait of Messina between Sicily and Italy that legend says the ship destroying monsters Scylla and Charybdis called home.



Hell Gate remained a ship captain's nightmare over the years until the Army came in during the late 1800s, blasted rocks, and tried to make navigation of this waterway safer. One could say they were mostly successful, but the greatest disaster of all took place in June 1904 when a ferry known as the General Slocum caught fire in Hell Gate, floundered, and then eventually became grounded. Over a thousand people (many women and children) died that day, and the waterway once again lived up to its name.




On a recent very cold, bright winter's day, I went for a visit to see Hell Gate. You can get there easily by car or take the N train to Ditmars Boulevard and 31st Street; it is a quick walk to where Ditmars Blvd. ends and Astoria Park begins. Walking through the snow covered park there was a chill in the air, but the view is spectacular where the imposing Hell Gate railroad bridge hovers over the northern tip of the park.




As it is today, the water still seems to be swirling and churning like a whirlpool, but there are no imposing rocks lurking under the water as in the past. There are still dangerous looking rocks on the shoreline. Looking north under the railroad bridge, one can see Wards and Randalls Island on the other side.



Looking south from under the railroad bridge, one can see the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge (once known as the Triborough Bridge) with the cityscape of Manhattan behind it; the troubled waters of Hell Gate lie underneath these two bridges.



It was a quiet day and I waited as long as I could in the sub-freezing temperatures, but no ship came through the water as I stood there. In a way, not seeing any ship navigate its way through the narrow passageway kept the legend alive for me, and I could just imagine the fear the old ship captains had going through these tempestuous waters with those rocks being so close on both sides.



Tourists should note that on a spring day this would be a lovely place to visit, with the park containing playgrounds and having a beautiful view of the river, bridges, and the city. A picnic would certainly be in order then, but on this day it seemed fitting that the park was as quiet as a graveyard overlooking the water where so many ships were lost.



Hell Gate remains an interesting and solemn part of New York City history, and it is worth a visit to see the view and experience something different in between shopping, Broadway shows, and dining out. As for New Yorkers who may have never ventured out to Queens, this would be a good excuse to do so, and don't forget your camera.

Blizzard of December 2010: Surviving Cabin Fever

Article first published as Blizzard of December 2010: Surviving Cabin Fever on Blogcritics.

There is always a point after a big snowstorm that everyone starts getting what is known as cabin fever. When I hear that term, I always think of a log cabin covered with snow with only the top of the chimney exposed and the smoke drifting up into the snowy air. While we are not that snowed in, we are kind of trapped in some ways and have had to think of things to make the best of it.

The problem in New York City is that Manhattan always gets the best attention during snowstorms. Mayor Bloomberg was on television telling people to take mass transit and go to a Broadway show, go out to eat, blah, blah, blah. If Mr. Mayor ever made it to the outer boroughs, he would find that not only are the streets not plowed, but that many subway lines and bus lines are not running either. Sure, we'd love to see a show, but how are we going to get there?

I ventured out today to get coffee, only to see cars, taxi cabs, and even a city bus stuck in the snow. Plows can't get down these streets with vehicles in the way. It is a frustrating situation to be sure. What was worse is that my local Starbucks was closed and completely covered with snow over the windows and doors, so I had to trudge back home and make my own coffee.

Still, getting out and walking was good for me. I got to breathe the cold fresh air, and I also saw that many other people still hadn't even been out yet because their front doors were still covered with snow.  At least I had made it outside.

Later in the morning my daughter and I went back out to have some fun. I did some more shoveling as she scouted for the arms for our snowman, and then she started finding the best packing snow to commence the creation of the base.
I joined her and we fashioned a snowman we called "Mike" in honor of the mayor who forgot that Queens and the other boroughs besides Manhattan existed. When finished, Mike seemed a pleasant enough chap, but his biggest attribute was silence. I always wince when Bloomberg speaks, so I wish he would take a cue from his namesake snowman now and then.

We then prepared snowballs for the snowball fight of the century. I was no match for my Lauren's onslaught of carefully aimed volleys, and then had to capitulate after she caught me off guard with one last shot to the kisser. She packs a mean snowball and has quite an arm and pinpoint accuracy.

After this contest was over, we made our snow angels. This is an art that depends on many things, mostly the depth and quality of the snow. Finding virgin snow is much harder on the second day after a storm, with all the varmints running around the yard (in this neck of the woods, varmints are squirrels, raccoons, and birds). Still we were lucky to find a good patch of snow on our patio and the angels came out quite nicely.

Since my son was sick with a bad cold inside, we decided it wasn't fair to enjoy ourselves too long without him. Besides, the cold was really starting to get to us, so we put our shovels away, bid adieu to snowman Mike, and headed indoors for cups of warm soup, English muffins, and hot tea.

As the day waned, the cold wind blew harder, and even cabin fever seemed preferable to the frosty bite of the outdoors. Besides, we have it much better than those poor folks in the old days in that cabin with the lone chimney sticking out of the snow. We have cable television with hundreds of channels - even though the last few days it seems that all we watch are either Nick Jr. or Disney. We have our computer connected to the Internet for our amusement and entertainment, and we have a video cabinet stocked with an infinite number of movies from which to choose (though we have had to watch Johnny Depp in Alice in Wonderland and Despicable Me too many times to mention).

So there are ways to avoid cabin fever, like getting out and taking a walk or playing in the snow, but there is also a time when you must acquiesce to its presence and accept your circumstances. Pop a log on the fire, make some hot cocoa, and sit back and relax. Before you know it you'll be back at work and school and wishing you could do something like this, so enjoy it while you can!