Rotary Dial

Wednesday, February 3rd, 2010 10:05 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

I checked in on one of my favorite things in New York this afternoon,  just to be sure it was present and accounted for.

This is the only working rotary dial payphone I know of in NYC. At this rotary one will find current phone books stuffed underneath and to the side.

Rotary Dial Payphone

Rotary Dial Payphone

There are other working rotaries in the 5 boroughs. Last year I heard of one in the West Village. And two years ago I heard of another in Brooklyn.

I am not lame enough to just hit up a search engine for clues to this sort of thing. I prefer to learn of things like this from living human beings.

Until I see those other rotary dial payphones for myself, though, I crown this the one and only working rotary in town.



















Plain Sight

Tuesday, February 2nd, 2010 4:05 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

Review Avenue

Review Avenue

I left a dime on top of this stone on Review Avenue. You can’t see it in this picture. The dime, that is. I chose this stone from among thousands on this wall because of its flat surface on top and because it was reachable from the ground without need for a ladder or stepping stone.

I don’t know how long the dime will remain in this spot, but I plan to look for it the next time I find myself on that street.

In the past I have hidden small amounts of change in public places. For years now I have placed 50¢ at a place I walk past. Despite how tiny the coins might seem I can nevertheless see them from a distance, hiding in plain sight about 7 feet above the sidewalk. I placed them on the bottom hook of a letter on a sign with letters that extrude about 2 inches from the wall. I can barely reach the spot, but I imagine that when I need 50¢ I will know where to find it.

Disaster-planning-gone-amok would find me stashing small amounts of coinage all over town, adding up to a small fortune, or at least a bus fare.

The 50¢ sometimes disappears from the above-mentioned spot. The sign’s letters are metal, and I assume someone cleans the sign once in a while, probably spraying it with water or something to prevent corrosion. I checked in on the coins yesterday, though, and they were there, their surfaces feeling very weathered after several months of continuous exposure to the winter elements.

The stone on Review Avenue seems more perilous a place to store a coin. Even if the coin stays put I might simply not be able to find its location again. This wall is probably about a mile long, and to find one stone among thousands will probably be more difficult than I assumed when I placed the tiny dime there. I took pictures of the wider area and can remember the building across the street, though, so maybe I’ll have not such a hard time of it.

A few weeks ago, on 5th Avenue, I spotted 2 decks of playing cards stuck inside the top of a payphone enclosure. Like those two quarters (which the above-mentioned 50¢ comprises) these decks of cards were just sitting there, hiding in plain sight. Anyone’s eyes could see the boxes but to most they would (like the payphones themselves) register as but a sundry blip on the imminent horizon.

Being a payphone guy I noticed the irregular shape of something that was not supposed to be there. I often notice payphones littered with emptied liquor bottles and assorted garbage, but the neatness and conspicuity of the playing cards caught my eye. They had been intentionally placed, not simply tossed there like most payphone refuse. Had they been left for someone to pick up? Was this a handoff, from one card hustler to another? What kind of cards were these? Marked? Were the decks stacked?

I reached up and grabbed the boxes. Something about that act made me feel like I was in the game, though I couldn’t tell you what kind of game. Handling cards is a gleefully grubby feeling for me. I can’t hold even 2 cards without feeling greedy.

Days earlier I happened to have heard that many of the office buildings on this part of 5th Avenue host illegal poker matches and gambling tournaments. This, combined with the sketchy circumstances in which I found them, made me skeptical of the integrity of these cards. The circumstances gave me an illusory moment of paranoia. I imagined that whoever left these cards on the payphone might have surveiled the location to ensure that the intended recipient got them. My intrusion, I imagined, could have ramifications beyond simply intercepting a random transaction. I might be identified as someone who I am not. I might be followed. The pick-up might have been the signal to someone watching, someone who expected to follow me to the place where the poker match would commence.

These paranoid cloak-and-dagger pangs vanished as quickly as they appeared, and I confidently shoved the cards in my pocket. Later, on the subway, I opened the boxes and quickly found that the decks were indeed stacked. One deck had 56 cards (there should only be 52, or 54 with Jokers), and among several card-distribution anomalies I found that one deck had 5 Aces, 6 Kings, 2 Jacks, and 7 Fours (there should only be 4 of each). What little I know about card-playing includes nothing from the world of cheating but these cards seemed to have come from that realm. I am far removed from the details of the possibly concocted scenario from which these cards came — the skeevy world of card hustlers and poker cheats — and I felt neither satisfaction nor exposure in having possibly confiscated a flimflammer’s toolbox.

Whatever the deal (pun intended) with the cards, finding them in that manner re-ignited my interest in stashing harmless and low-value coins and objects in public. I will look for the Review Avenue dime next week, and if ever I stay at a certain hotel in Daytona Beach again I will ask to stay in a certain room so I can see if the dollar bills I taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer are still there after I placed them in 2006.



















Seeing Things

Saturday, January 30th, 2010 1:07 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

I wish I could see words.

Loose words, I could see them lilting about on the floors of vacated businesses, in the ghostly trenches of those who came before.

Most words are the same. One person speaks them, another re-arranges them and speaks them again. The meanings change little.

I want to see the different words, and sometimes I think I do. I see the rare ones, the words shaped to your contours, to your earthly matter, words in the shape of your shoulder, your forehead, your fingers.

I just woke up and wanted to write that down before I forgot. I saw words in the shape of a nuanced tone of voice, detritus abandoned on the floor of an emptied computer store. Were they words or was it an object? I don’t know but I see these things in dreams and in reality.

Fletter.

Mungle.

Drop-shorn.

Valotow.

Cropeeth.

My mind is a haze. My eyes are hazy. White cast surrounds everything. I took a DMV eye exam last week, for to renew the drivers license, and I was nervous about it, fearing I might miss a letter. Focus, in fact, is fine. I could read the eye chart from 20 feet away, standing on the sidewalk outside the DMV office.  I have always been a nervous sort, given to frivolous worries — in a roundabout way it explains why I value obscurity and imagine myself to be invisible — but as I age I find myself both increasingly aware of but unable to control some things. Nervousness. Anxiety. Panics and breathing problems. Some say worry is a waste of time but I welcome my senseless unease. Who wants to be placid, anyway?

The connection between my dreams usually rots quickly, and I give up trying to fully capture how they feel. Dreams consist of the same matter we use all the time, the same currency of words, images, and memories, but here they mercurially waddle through a state of weakened structure, half-blossomed puzzles made of pieces that never fit. Consciousness itself will become cheap. All its obscure machinations will be revealed, memory made searchable, mysteries vanquished, human immortality stored on a 256k flash drive.



















Hot New Camera

Wednesday, December 9th, 2009 3:59 am — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (10)

This picture could summarize my relationship with the hot new DSLR camera I picked up last week.

Sony a550

Sony a550

But it does not. The picture above is from a mostly useless mass of slides purchased from an upstate New York estate. The mass of slides was so boring and its merits so lacking that I laughed when this blurry gem of confusion emerged. I don’t know who that man is or what he holds in his hands but in addition to capturing the zeitgeist of a really boring set of family slides it expressed (to me) confusion and bewilderment at handling newfound gadgetry, that confusion extending to the people around the man with the camera as he tries to explain to them what the hell he is doing with this fabulous creature.

I took a new camera out on a cold, cold December day to focus on subjects I know: cemeteries and payphones. The clackety-clack of the SLR lenses made me feel like paparazzo, but less so than the clickety-clack and automatic film-forward buzzing sounds of the vaunted old Minolta Maxxum. That camera made me feel critical to the proceedings around me, even as they had nothing to do with me and vice-versa. The film camera’s buzz-saw sound effects made me feel important while taking a picture of a dead tree branch.

Calvary Cemetery

Calvary Cemetery

For now I mostly use this new gadget as a glorified point & shoot — my way of getting used to the handling of the beast. It is interesting to be able to focus on a subject a half-mile away with scary clarity, but for now I am careful to do so in places of inconspicuity, because conspicuity breeds discontent (for me, at least).

Calvary Cemetery

Calvary Cemetery

I reached a point of shit-or-get-off-the-can with this stuff. To take pictures everywhere I go, but to waste a lot of shots on bad lighting and point & shoot vagaries, was to waste the potentials of the effort. I am averse to hauling around gear, but I think I can do so discretely. It’s the conspicuity thing.

Payphone

Payphone

I used to get jumpy on receipt of a new gadget. Jumpy in a good way. A new computer was like a new friend. Now I just place something like this DSLR aside and, when I take it out of its box, I just hope the thing works. I take for granted that a new desk lamp or a frying pan will work but a new computer-like gadget arrives with the presumption of confrontation and is followed by blizzards of web searches to understand the needs of the gadget.

Bird

Bird

So far I have left the Intertubes alone for this one. No web searches to speak of.

I arrive at the DSLR late. I mostly loath the DSLR. I associate the DSLR with digital gluttony and an everyman sense of significance.

One day a few years ago a new Starbucks coffee shop opened near here. I was there on the day or day after its opening. The place was empty but for me, 3 employees, and 2 other customers. Then the front door opened and in marched 3 handsomely dressed young people, one of them with a $3,000 Nikon around her neck, the other with a $5,000 laptop cradled in his arms, and the other with what looked like a $12,000 Sony HD video camera.

I saw this entourage and muttered to myself “Oh, look, the bloggers have arrived.” And sure enough, within hours pictures of this Starbucks grand opening appeared on some 8-pageview-per-day blogspot.

Things like this repelled me from getting a DSLR. A DSLR around my neck makes me look like a goddam blogger. I just hope it does not make me think like one.



















Film Photography

Wednesday, December 2nd, 2009 11:13 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (2)

I have had a Minolta Maxxum 7000 Film SLR in my clutches for about 5 months. It is not my walking-around camera, but it could be.

There is more where this came from but I just scanned (from negatives) some shots from recent months.

Brooklyn

Brooklyn

Film photos are different from digital. Duh. That should go without saying but I think it merits mention after the abrupt evaporation of film photography from general use. It may be the the most rapid disappearance of a format since the DVD erased VHS tapes from stores and shelves everywhere.

Calvary Cemetery

Calvary Cemetery

Film has a smoky ruggedness about it, and I for one welcome the dust and artifacts that litter some of these scans. To me the journey from lens to photo should not be so obvious as digital makes it seem. Speckles of noisy detritus express how a picture should be polluted by its travels from the photographer’s eyes to its presentation. I think digital photos have a way of turning reality into hyper-reality, exposing details no human would ever notice, while film represents images closer to the way human beings see them.

Calvary Cemetery

Calvary Cemetery

I don’t know if I should say this, but any time I carry this camera out I think I should try to do what K. might have done with it. There is no way to know what that might have been. K. would be doing digital now but I imagine she would have kept film in her repertoire. The first Mandee sign picture derives from this sign. One of K.’s pictures I liked best was of a neon-lit sign.

21st Street & Broadway

21st Street & Broadway

Click for more of my Minolta Maxxum 7000 Film SLR photos.



















Megatouch at Hammacher Schlemmer

Tuesday, December 1st, 2009 10:40 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

This blurry cameraphone picture shows a Megatouch Gametime system I saw a few months ago at the Hammacher Schlemmer Store on 57th Street. I am an occasional Megatouch addict, binging on BoxDrop, PhotoHunt, and WordDojo, games which I OWN in terms of high scores. I have been part of no small number of friendly rivalries involving those and other Megatouch games but for the most part I OWN THEM ALL BWAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!

Megatouch at Hammacher Schlemmer

Megatouch at Hammacher Schlemmer

This Megatouch console caught my attention partly because it appeared that anyone could walk into Hammacher Schlemmer and play it for free. I am not lame enough to exploit such an opportunity by camping out and inviting my buddies to do the same — Hey, PhotoHunt marathon at Hammacher Schlemmer, c’mon boys, it’s free! — but I played a round of WordDojo on the store’s dime.

Apparently there is a secret to Word Dojo, a certain Lantern Trick which allows you to play infinitely. Is it real? I don’t know, but I saw what appeared to be this technique in action on a video sharing site. Even if I remembered how to do it I would never regress to such childishness. My high score on WordDojo is something over 1,270,000. While there are higher legitimate scores in the world I see that those who implement the fabled Lantern Trick trounce all with scores of 100,000,000 and more. To hell with ‘em!

Megatouch games are found at bars, restaurants, and arcades, and the set’s best-known game is probably Erotic Photo Hunt, a what’s-the-difference matching game utilizing the skankiest porn ever produced for its material. It’s a great bar game but a G-Rated version exists as well. If you’ve never seen it before the PhotoHunt game is pretty addicting, and unlike other games on the Megatouch there seems to be no full equal for it on a desktop PC. The difference is the touchscreen interface. I know tablet PCs and other devices allow for touchscreen interaction but even if I could conjure that functionality on this desktop I would not want to use it to punch at this tender, fleshy LCD screen when such gestures might ruin it. The Megatouches are designed for that very kind of abuse.

The cost of this console — $4,000 — is ridiculous. That price might make sense if one expected to use the set in a money-making environment, but even at that it would take a long time to get a return on the investment, and unless you know your Linux operating system (on which the Megatouch operates) you could find yourself shelling out more coin for maintenance and support. Most places that have Megatouches lease the equipment, or do a straight revenue-share with Merit Industries (manufacturer of Megatouch) and/or their middleman.

$4,000 for an at-home, private use copy of a Megatouch console is out of control for two reasons. One is that the games are simply not that good, and in fact they are patently primitive compared to far cheaper games. The other is that a good portion of the fun in these games is the competition against fellow bar-flies and game room cronies. The primitiveness of the games’ graphics are less of a problem when the good fun of competition compensates for it. The Megatouch has no apparent capacity for network play so a set like this in your living room comes with a built-in dead end that beheads a good portion of its enjoyment. And while the literature for this product says it contains 130 games many of them are simply variations or even complete copies of other games on the system — those copies differing mostly in graphical presentation.

This Megatouch-for-$4,000 bogosity provoked some disillusionment in Hammacher Schlemmer. For most of my life when I got a Hammacher Schlemmer catalogue I flipped through it knowing that while I would not be able to afford anything in it I could nevertheless feel confident that the “professors” at the Hammacher Schlemmer Institute think-tank had thoroughly researched the best gifts to be found in various categories.

I say, do your own research, and you’ll find that sometimes they get it right, other times they are wildly off base.

The same day I spotted this Megatouch I saw that Hammacher Schlemmer had chosen a particular digital piano as the best of the best among today’s products in that category. Believe me, I know what I am talking about when I say with confidence that the piano they had on display — it was a freakin’ CASIO! — was just a toy, far from the best in its class and farther still from the best value for digital pianos of today.

I agree with them, though, that Cuisinart makes the best Thermal Carafe Coffee Maker, so I would not say they get everything wrong. But between the ridiculous price for the crippled Megatouch and the P.O.S. digital piano they hailed as the best of the best I started to question the authority of the vaunted Hammacher Schlemmer. With an abundance of “expert” resources available Hammacher Schlemmer has a tougher row to hoe than they did 15 years ago. I think that the place would do well to just ignore more electronics in their catalogues.

Still, I like to let myself believe what Hammacher Schlemmer tells me. I may be a fool for it but I allow the same sense of surrender that let me believe Paul Harvey always told the truth.

Megatouch’s main competitor in this space is the iTouch, produced by JVL. iTouch consoles contain many games virtually identical to those on the Megatouch. Around here it seems you’ll find iTouch sets more often than Megatouches. My favorite JVL game is Getta Line, for which I have not found a satisfactory equivalent on the desktop PC. I wonder how the copyright police feel about JVL’s use of the iTouch name?

I am done talking about this. Maybe I will update this rant later. Here is a recent photo proving my OWNERSHIP of the Getta Line game at a local place.

Getta Line game on JVL's iTouch9+

Getta Line game on JVL's iTouch9+



















Stuffed

Thursday, November 26th, 2009 2:43 pm — PoemsComments (0)

FORGETTING FOR THE HOUR HOW HARD IT IS TO WRITE A COMPREHENSIVE SENTENCE I HURRIED THROUGH A WIRE STRIPPED OF ITS ARTIFICIAL WRAPPER, EXPOSING THE NATURAL YUCCA PLANT THAT SENDS VOICE CALLS AND DIGITAL MESSAGES AMONG THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF LEAVES AND FORESTS, FORMING A CLOUD OF CONVERSATION THAT SUMMONS ITS SELF-MADE ENERGIES BY FORCE OF SPONTANEOUS REACTIONS TO UNKNOWN FAMILY PHOTOS AND DIARIES FROM CENTURIES GONE. OPULENCE AND FROTH BECOME THE MESSAGE, ITS MEDIUM A GATHERING OF FEAST AND FOE, CONSUMED FOR SUSTENANCE WHEN OIL OR MUD WOULD PRIMP A BODY’S INNARDS PER INTESTINAL SPACKLE RADIO PROMISSORIES — THOSE HEADSHAKES CLUSTERED AMONG STORM, STRANGE, AND SMEAR BUT TUNNELED THROUGH BY KISSLESS FRAUDS THAT LIMP TOWARD STUFFED POST OFFICE BOXES, THE UNHEARD MESSAGE OF UNCOLLECTED MAILS SPREADING ITS CONSCIOUSNESS AMONG CRITICAL STRANGERS DECRYING LOST MAIL AS THE GREAT CORPORATE JUGGERNAUT OF ALL TIMES.



















Basement

Wednesday, November 25th, 2009 2:38 pm — PoemsComments (1)

a
hickory
amulet
melted
to
outlaw
slop
hangs
youthfully
in its
shadows,
crooking
tastefully
per the
cult
fashion
of
loathing.
its
jolly
viscous
throat
squeezes
its way
through
an
old
radio
in the
emptied
basement
of
your
garage.
no one
hears
the
signal,
the
beautiful
static
hum
that
wastes
itself
in the
sponge
carpet.
loitering
under
your
animal
cage
the
dictionaries
and the
phone books
and the
unwritten
accounts
of
your
milliseconds
wait
for
you.



















Synaptic Theater

Tuesday, November 24th, 2009 5:38 pm — DreamlandComments (0)

Lucidity keeps poking up out of my dreams lately. I wake up part way to ask: Where did that come from?

I hear someone say something in a way that I’ve never heard in my real life, and I ask how something could be here if I never experienced it? How can people say things I never heard, in ways I never imagined, on a stage filled only with colluvies of my mind?

Reading Charles Simic’s Classic Ballroom Dances poems I imagined the text could move. These words, hanging like slaughter in my mind, should physically move. Malleable but readable, I should be able to turn to my left and see “Begotten Of the Spleen” lurking, its words dangling like earthy wind chimes here in my living room, a jangling, resonant noise of airy calumny with boastful flourishes of shadows cast by words.

Text hangs from a ceiling or rattles from the rear fender of a moving vehicle, readable but escaping a printed page. Flickable. Pages not turned because pages do not exist but ideas segue into each other when text is swatted or handled.           You could only model this idea in physical form. A reality of poetry hanging like meat in a freezer would be ridiculous . Or would it? Like a thicket of hippie beads from the 1970s one could walk through a strangle of text, submerged in words — arriving at what? Who cares? No finality is necessary.           A computer screen is too small and a movie theater is too impolitic a choice after the silliness the surrealists imbued upon it as a metaphor for the dream state.

Hallucinogenics are not an option. The experience of the content and its presentation have to be re-creatable.

Synaptic theater. The next frontier of communicating text.



















Prodigies

Monday, November 23rd, 2009 2:04 pm — Stories, Rambles, and Other ThingsComments (0)

Sleep like it’s your job, every day, and when you wake up (never before noon) sit in your easy chair and type by the light of a 99¢ reading lamp and the glow of a space heater.

Someone should have given me that advice, so I could call out that person now for thanks, for props, for accolades and salutations.

I remember an upstairs psychic rattling off mundane predictions: “You’ll get a good job, you’ll have money, you’ll get married,” and so on. Today I imagine that psychic surprising herself and me with “I see you in 15 years in an easy chair typing by the light of a cheap book lamp and warming yourself with a 15-year-old space heater.”

The psychic, a 10-year-old girl I saw in Philadelphia in 1990, said all the mundane things, delivering her words in rapid fire boredom that comes from repeating the same bullshit hundreds of times at $8 a pop. But after the mundane scripted predictions ended she just smiled, and I left, feeling had but at least entertained.

If I was a child feigning psychic prodigy I would have made stuff up, and I would probably be in trouble for it to this day, in trouble for lying to middle aged women about their numerous miscarriages, for promising fabulous riches and fame to failing college students, for describing elaborate and detailed scenarios in which every one of my customers would be promised a period of their life in which they sit in an easy chair, typing in the darkness.

A police car passes by, its siren wailing, reminding me of the other fanciful prodigy I wish existed. A prodigy of sirens. A 10 year old boy with an astonishing knowledge of different types of sirens, he could identify a Berlin police siren from 1932 as easily as a Tunisian ambulance from 1977. Like a circus freak the boy would be placed in a room, blindfolded, as siren sounds are played and he quickly identifies every one. Nothing challenges him, and to make the chore interesting for himself he follows an identification of a Cuban air raid siren with details of the American companies which manufactured the device, the decibel ratings at which the sirens were typically blasted, and the other work of the sound engineers who developed this siren sound. The prodigy is not showing off, he is simply relieving his boredom by finding more information — miraculously, it seems, as no resource of information about these sirens is known to exist or to have been made available to the child.

One day, though, during one of these siren circus acts, a mistake is made. An honest mistake which alters the boy’s perceptions of sirens: 2 sirens sounds were played at once. It might have been an Appalachian police siren played over a Swedish car alarm; or it might have been a Toronto jewelry store burglar alarm mixed with a Japanese ambulance. No one knows, but whatever they were the boy was exposed to two siren sounds at once and his abilities took a different direction. When he heard an ambulance siren he delivered his usual rapid-fire account of “It’s a Hungarian ambulance, Soviet-era manufacturer, ” etc., but his accounts included more. “There’s a woman inside, she wants this baby but she will die for it, they are trying to save her and the child, she’s poor and the child will live but will also be poor, the medics are barely paying attention to the woman’s vital signs, she is thinking of the man who impregnated her, that man is unaware of the situation…”

The prodigy handily identifies another siren as “Syrian police, siren of Egyptian origin, they are racing to a crime scene, a robbery, 3 young men robbing a bakery — a bakery? — they will be tried and serve a light sentence but 2 of them will go on and rob other places.”

The prodigy’s reading of the sirens goes beyond the circus act of identifying the type and location and stretches into the seemingly impossible. He claims the story of the incident is told through the nuances of the siren sounds, and that he can see the vehicles in a psychedelic way, the siren sounds an extension of a colored heat cloud that only he can see, and that surrounds all sounds.

He begins his rapid ascent to an insanity in which all sounds tell complex stories, all noises explain themselves, the details of their long journey to his ears fully contained in what others hear as random noise but which the prodigy hears as complex interweavings of experience.

After a brief flourish of fascination the public claims fraud. No one believes him, and why would they? The boy is lying, though his youthful directionlessness of his intentions are not pernicious. He lost the focus of his gifts, and now when he hears any ambulance or police siren he swears it is coming for him, and one day it will be true.



















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I find a grave site and transcribe it as accurately as I can. This is with the hope that \this content will be useful to a genealogist or family treetracer who might find this content through search or random means. Recently posted markers are listed here.




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