The Castle

Staring out the window at the park and “The Castle” across the street the other night, it occurred to me to Google its history and see what’s on record. I’ve always envisioned it as a perfect setting for a haunted house story. How many of those lost spirits found their way across the street and into this apartment, itself haunted by the ghost of the landlady’s father? I’d heard it was a cancer treatment center and an insane asylum. Both rumors, it turns out, are (almost) true.
The “Castle” was originally built as the city’s first Cancer-specific treatment center, inspired by Upper West Sider General Grant’s throat cancer. At the time, superstitions abounded about the cause of cancer and the disease itself was stamped with an AIDS-like stigma. The design of the building was influenced more by medical theory, than architectural principles. The distinctive circular towers that give it the feel of a French Chateau were designed not to attract wayward monarchs, but to repel disease by preventing germs from collecting in the corners; its ventilation units sucked sickly air up and out of the tower. The conical shape also allowed more space between beds and gave the nurses a wider field of vision. For all its best intentions, the place was basically cursed. Everyone from an early founding Astor to Marie Curie herself succomed to its dark aura – Astor from cancer and Curie from radium complications respectively. (Curie had been assured the radium supply, the largest in the country was harmless when she toured the hospital.) The crematorium in the basement did not sweeten the bedpan. As cancer research progressed, the reputation of the building worsened; eventually, the center was relocated and renamed Sloan-Kettering.
The Castle, pejoratively dubbed “the Bastille” at this point, then became not an asylum, but a nursing home that was run into the ground by a corrupt Medicaid and tax-defrauding magnate that allowed patients to wallow and die amidst filth and neglect. By the 70’s as all of NYC was in the pits, it was basically a glorified crack house, run over by squatters and vandals. It was barely saved from the wrecking ball by last minute Historic Landmark status. As the economy in the city improved, a wide array of buyers came knocking, including Ian Schrager who attempted vainly to convert it into a luxury apartment building. Eventually a Chicago firm took it over, Columbia University snatched up a block of apartments for professors and dignitaries, and the rest of the units went for sale in the $5-7 million range.
Over the last couple weeks, I’ve watched the remaining units in the towers fill up with youngish hipsters. Trucks – not vans – from Whole Foods and Fresh Direct pull into its circular driveway every day. I’ve become accustomed to the sound of the fountain gurgling and splashing on the cobblestone path. It helps me sleep at night. When I first moved in to this apartment and was sleeping on the floor, I used to lay there, watching the units fill up, wondering if the upscale tenants were aware of my bare-bones bipolar Positive ass across the way.
Occasionally, I still doze off, feeling someone, way up in the towers peeking back at me from one of its dark, tiny windows…

Cafe con Papi

When I moved to New York in 1996, I learned a few things about local “kawfee kulcha” in a (very) hot second. One, Big Apple java is usually served in a paper cup with blue and white Greek hieroglyphics in dubious homage to all the delis and diners owned by the founders of western civilization; at least it used to be until cup surfaces became primo advertising space. Two, “regular” usually means “would you like some coffee with your milk and 2 sugars?” Three, it’s likely going to burn your face off, especially when purchased from one of the ubiquitous rush hour street cart vendors.
There’s one such purveyor at the A/C subway stop on the corner of Central Park West and 103rd street, near my apartment. I don’t know what his name is, so in a bit of ethnic profiling, I dubbed him “Nico”. He called me “Papi” from day one. I felt a bit special until I realized he called all the guys Papi and everyone called him Papi too; which made me feel not so special at all. With every cup, he became attuned to my schedule and the small details of my life. “Going in early today – another meeting? Where’s your roommate?” Yet, despite all our small talk and my repeated clarifications which included pointing at my skin every time I ask for my coffee “dark, just a drop of milk”, it still comes out like a boiling caffeine milkshake. I could have seized every infraction as an opportunity for a diva moment and berated him over his ineptness, but I’ve learned to accept this routine of him asking and over-milking mi cafe as part of the color and flavor of the city, neighborhood and my coffee. When I have miraculously found someone who gets it right – usually a fellow Latino – either their schedule or mine changes and I’m back to slurping scalding beige soup.
On mornings when Nico Papi is not there, I actually stop in my tracks and feel a bit disoriented, as if I’d woken up on the wrong side of a parallel universe. Where is he? What happened to him? What does this mean for the neighborhood? These questions linger on the train ride to work, until I can take caffeinated comfort in the hands of Alex and Alex Jr, the two vendors stationed downstairs from the office. Alex and son are bit friskier, tattooed and husky. Jr sometimes wears provocative, tight T-shirts. Since I’m not firing on all guns until that first splash of coffee hits my brain, my quips stick the tip of my tongue. The two Alexes also have a grill in their cart, so you can get a mean greasy bacon, egg and cheese with hot sauce to further jump your guts and brain into action. The sight of all the uptight suits in the elevators reacting to the smell coming from my brown paper bag only makes the whole adventure even tastier.
That is, once my tongue stops burning and I can actually taste these dollar delights that literally give my city mornings so much of their local flavor.

Blog Nation

Outside.in, a location-based/neighborhood-themed social network released a list of the bloggiest cities and hoods in the country. A common preoccupation? Gentrification. Hmm. Check out the network and the story > Here.

1. Boston
2. Philadelphia
3. Pittsburgh
4. Washington, D.C.
5. Portland, OR
6. New York
7. San Francisco
8. Seattle
9. Chicago
10. Los Angeles

1. Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
2. Shaw, DC
3. Downtown LA
4. Newton, Mass
5. Rogers Park/North Howard Chicago
6. Pearl District (“The Pearl”), Portland
7. Watertown, Mass
8. Harlem, NY
9. Potrero Hill, SF
10. Coconut Grove (“The Grove”), FL

Benign Ethnic Cleansing, You’re Bringin Me Down

Ha! So – I’m not alone in pissing in the wind about the end of Manhattan. In my interview with ARE Weapons, this was Brain’s kicker – “The NY we love is disappearing and that’s plenty to be angry about.” On the last LCD Soundsystem CD, James Murphy hit a nerve with “NY I Love You But You’re Bringin Me Down“. Today, I came across an article in the NY Times about a group of academics decrying the suburbanization of NYC and spewing similarly dire warnings. Of course, when you’re gay and have a compulsive refurbishing fetish and can’t imagine surviving beyond the Hudson and East Rivers, it’s hard to tell if you’re part of the solution or the problem. Lest I get sued, hit the link and read for yourself. File under “benign ethnic cleansing.”

Yankee Doodles

I was trying not to read the Yankees post-season like Tea Leaves for clues to the city’s future and my place in it. Sitting at the counter at the Metro diner this weekend, reading the sports section – gasp, egad – in the Post – egad, gasp – I couldn’t help but feel a bit of sadness in the news that Joe Torre was out. Between the iced coffee and the French Toast swimming in syrup, you’d think I’d have enough sugar in my blood to weather any heartache, but this news made me pause and reflect again on my time in this city.
I drove from Chicago to NYC in late October 1996, through a monsoon of a thunderstorm with the ex who was just dropping me off. The storm broke as we approached the Washington Bridge; rush hour traffic was just letting out as we zipped down Broadway for the first time, past Hell’s Kitchen, West Chelsea and the Village, which were still affordable messes just this side of gentrification. At the southern tip of the city, those two towers were still there. On the news, talk had started about the Macy’ sThanksgiving Day parade and the city was in full Yankees World Series fever. It was Joe Torre’s debut as Manager and it would turn out to be the first of the Yanks’ 4 World Series and 12 league championships under his watch. I had less than a $100 in my pocket, and still I thought – this is a good sign.
Now, after one of the most diplomatic, stellar turns managing the high-voltage all-stars, Torre gets a corporate working over like any other cubicle confined schlub. Yes, $5 million is a nice chunk of change, and with the post-season bonus incentives it could easily be $8 million. And maybe it is time for Joe to go. The last couple of play off seasons have been disastrous and a little humbling could go a long way to energizing the team and its fans. So, the insult, gloom and doom then, is not in the sum of the fee offered; rather the omen for the team and the city and die-hards like me is in the very offering of the “incentive offer” and the salary reduction – a vote of no confidence from management in a man who has delivered consistently on the Yankee promise. The “corporatization” of a dream team, its city, the country and the demolition of the old stadium and the rise of the new one with more VIP seats than bleachers echo the changing of the guard – not only in the Bronx, but in NY and USA as a whole. Unlike any other team, and any other city in the world, Yankee fans not only EXPECT the bombers to shower in champagne every October – we actually need it. Boys in projects need to dream of making that leap and dream of doing more with their bats than bashing in each others’ skulls.
The rest of us, those that love the Yankees anyway, also need to believe in our collective hubris, in the unstoppable force of the New York hustle as a catalyst for hope and sportsmanship in ourselves and the world. We need to believe that paying ridiculous rent for tiny apartments in dubious neighborhoods is worth the stress and strife of transportation strikes, power outages, and all the other quality of life issues that drive us to the brink of a million daily mini-riots. We need to believe that with enough muscle, hustle, brain, brawn, and sheer will power New Yorkers can propel themselves from nobody nothings to the top of the heap, top of the list, and be king of the hill, “a-number-one”.
After all, no one gets tears in their eyes dreaming or belting out choruses about being number two. Except, maybe all the new yuppies and trust fund babies filling the luxury condos buying their cultural cachet wholesale and reshaping the neutered skyline while re-imagining themselves as Warhol’s babies when not even those kids are buying into that fantasia anymore. I wish I could have faith in the new kids coming up, but given their inherent disposable, derivative zeitgeist, I doubt they can ever love the city as she deserves to be loved.
Many unsentimental and democratic types will cheer the end of the Roman era in baseball. But for all my buddhist inclinations, I’m not one of them. The excesses of success may corrupt the soul, but only if you see it as an end, and not a means. And that is how I make my peace with being a type A, overachieving, recovering star fucker. So, thanks Yankees, and Joe Torre. My NY years have been infinitely enriched and inspired by your juggernaut streak. This Warhol baby needs to believe in a special city. A city where Bryant Park tents are cluttered with models in February and September; a city where boom boxes on stoops bang out summer beats; a city where you can take your Shakespeare in the park or the parking lot; a city where almost anything can be delivered to your door cheaply and quickly; a city where Union Square is filled with skaters and bikers and Palestinians and Isrealis facing off; and above all – a city where the Yankees are champs and a man’s hard work and love needs no other incentive, season after season, year after year…

“Start spreading the news/I’m leaving today…”

Adbusted: Sao Palo No Logo

In Sao Paolo, Brazil, they’ve recently banned most outdoor advertising. As a result, its multicultural citizens are seeing their city “for the first time.”
Even though some things they’re seeing aren’t all pretty, the measure’s received an impressive 70% approval rating in most surveys.
Hmm… What would Times Square look like?
Strangely, the Flickr link to a photo set of the city is not working, but here’s a working link with a peek and an interview on the subject.