How to Stay Alive in the Woods

Post Apocalyptic HQ at the Queens end of the Greenpoint Ave. Bridge
As I wake up to headlines that say the world is careening like an old car with no brakes at the edge of an abyss, I remember that the used survival book I had banked on to save me when it came to this -- Bradford Angier's How to Stay Alive in the Woods -- is probably a load of crap.

Along with practical information that gave me confidence I could not only stay alive but dress stylishly in the post apocalyptic woods, like:

Some aborigines make waterproof garments by opening the dried intestines of large animals and sewing the strips together vertically with sinew.

...were ambiguous passages like this:

The point is: no ordinary problem will stump any of us for very long if we possess sufficient enterprise and ingenuity to have a reasonable chance of surviving at all.

...that robbed me of confidence and made me wonder if the cigars and brandy he was enjoying as he wrote this stuff -- probably with a silver fountain pen, while dressed in a smoking jacket in a wood paneled study -- had dulled his interest in the reader's survival.

So I will have to go with guidance from my backup survival book, Cormac McCarthy's The Road.  You would think a story about a father and son walking south in a gray, post apocalyptic world, dodging fiendish perverts and cannibals as they hone their survival skills, would be boring on top of grim.

But The Road turns out to be suspenseful and deep, and McCarthy -- who can pour on the turgid prose until you feel like a soggy stack of pancakes drowning under a bottomless bottle of thick purple syrup -- in this case manages to pull life and hope from a restricted, monochrome reality in a natural way.

The Road tells me I will have to do some horrible things to survive, like bushwhacking bushwhackers before they bushwhack me, and mating with hill country Jezebels with enough inbred genetic damage to make sure our Jethro spawn are dim witted enough to want to survive a sooty hell on earth.

And it tells me that after this house of cards collapses, with any luck, we will meet again in the grayness of spring, perhaps on the Gulf Coast, where we will find a boat.

It will be years before the smoke clears, but the sail will hold, the wind will know the way, and before long we can start over fresh, free of fiends.  (Except for those stowed in our genes.)

Naked Power Palin

Sign above seen at the CUNY Graduate Center on Fifth at 34th
I'm ready to ignore the rest of the GOP hierarchy for a while, as it tries to come up with a new angle to sell its lies, but not the demagogue Sarah Palin.  From a recent interview:

"I’m like, O.K., God, if there is an open door for me somewhere, this is what I always pray, I’m like, don’t let me miss the open door."

A little later she tries to expand the ring of supposed beneficiaries of her being elected, but it's obvious that Sarah Palin is the beginning and end of what matters to Sarah Palin.

Palin's "faith" doesn't connect her to anything larger than herself, but shrinks Creation to serve her schemes.  She sees God as her personal genie and -- like George Bush, Osama bin Laden and fundamentalists the world over -- believes that God's heart is just as puny and self-serving as her own.

She's "real" alright -- just like every other smooth, conscience-free demagogue with the power to focus and multiply hate.  The trouble with her -- and with the fans and the hucksters who'll help sell her -- is that she refuses to accept the fact that a world exists outside herself, with billions of souls whose aspirations and sufferings are every bit as real as her own.

Because she can't and won't see the world outside herself, she doesn't see any consequences to her actions, and like a true god-queen, like a Pharaoh, could take the world with her to Kingdom Come without blinking.

What was that line Bob Dylan tossed off?  Something about letting you be in his dream if he could be in yours too?  Bob may be a performing machine, a windup troubadour doomed to play hick towns and dinner clubs three nights a week until he's 106 and on his thirteenth Blonde on Blonde Poly-fro wig.  But Bob Dylan has got more decency and heart in his eyelash dandruff than all the Palins, Bushes, and bin Ladens on earth.

(Now that Obama has helped us pry the gun from Charlton Heston's cold dead hands, don't think for a minute that Heston's buddies are just going give us the world -- we have to take it from them.)

Across the Manhattan Bridge 3

Above: The Woolworth Building and Manhattan Municipal Building in the distance.


Above left, looking over the red building's other shoulder.  Above right, Henry St., with vertical signs lined up like teeth.


Above left, one of my favorite pictures of the red building.  Above right, looking down busy East Broadway.


Near the end of the bridge walkway, above left, the graceful curve of a highrise off Division; seeing the ropes makes me wonder how window washers feel about dangling a few hundred feet up against a curve.

And above right, heading uptown on Elizabeth St., the Chapel of San Calogero.  When I looked in the open doorway, there was a man sitting at a table in a small, worn vestibule, all of it looking like it's sat there unchanged since maybe 1910.  I will leave it to a real reporter to find out if the "chapel" is just what you see in the window, or a magnificent religious chamber (or social club?) beyond the vestibule.

Grate Fishing

I finally captured the elusive subway grate fisherman in the act yesterday across from Union Square; closeup of his tackle on the right.

Sarah the Barbarian

Sarah Palin, as Frank Rich points out so well today, has more testosterone than McCain and all his tired Swift Boat hacks put together, plus the unfounded confidence of 10 George Bush Juniors.

I look forward to a bright future (after nuclear winter clears up) as a member of her bloodthirsty clan.

[ Previously: Palin Seduces Moose ]

Welcome to My Neighborhood

If you love your neighborhood, the worst thing you can do is advertise it, because popularity will steamroll its quirks into the ground.  Unless you advertise it like this...

(Photo: Bernd & Hilla Becher)
Welcome to My Neighborhood!

It's got a lot of history.  In the archival photo above -- displayed in the neighborhood museum behind the counter at Cheesy's Cellphone Shoppe -- you can see its genesis as a planned, utopian community, zoned (back-to-front) for work, home and recreation.


One of the first things you'll notice when you arrive is the bird life, especially in the nature sanctuary / landfill just above Main Street.  Not only does the neighborhood support so many pigeons (above left) that guano collection has become a major industry, but the buzzards in the dead trees above the landfill have become a tourist attraction, and Main Street butchers offer scraps, above right, to appease the majestic birds.


My neighborhood takes tourism seriously.  Attractions include the Kids' Wastewater Plant Fun House pictured above left, the Kids' Trapeze Experience above right, and guided tours of local industry such as the Second Life Sorting Facility, below left, and the Gold Country Guano Collection Facility below right -- both free (so long as you pitch in and help out; face masks are provided for the whole family)!



If you feel like shopping, above left, or like taking in some of the public art installed by our vibrant creative community, above right, just leave the kids under the watchful eye of the Scarecrow Tree, below left, which local parents use to keep their kids in line:

"OK, do whatever you want.  Just don't come crying to me when the Scarecrow Tree breaks into your room tonight!"

Or let them play in front of the Fun Spewer, below right.  The fun part is, you never know when it's going to go off!


And after a full day of exciting activities like that, you're going to want fine dining and accommodations.  My neighborhood can deliver on that count too, as you can see below!  (Just don't expect a delivery after dark.)