Category Archives: Postcard from the Slope

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_HIGH SCHOOL ORIENTATION

2cbw7414_1My son goes off to high school orientation today. Full dress is required: White shirt, tie, black chinos and suede lace-up shoes.

His new school has a dress code and we spent the weekend buying appropriate clothes at Old Navy and at Lands’ End on-line. This is a first for us. This is a kid whose idea of dressing up is wearng his Black Sabbath T-shirt.

He seems up for a change: New school. New clothes. New kids. Most of his friends are going to new schools this week. The air in Park Slope is thick with flux, fear, and anticipation.

I just told my son that he has to tuck his shirt in. "It’s required," I say. He grimaces and leaves it untucked for the moment.

"I feel Amish," he says, a thought that seems to cheers him up. I suggest we get him a black hat from Lancaster, PA. "Or maybe one of those hats that Hasidic Jews wear. Yeah,"  he adds.

My son is trying to figure out subtle (or not so subtle) ways to subvert the dress code. Now he’s looking through the bag of ties we bought at a stoop sale in Sag Harbor. There’s  a bright purple and orange plaid, a royal blue one with seagulls, an Armani tie, and a mod design with a Native American theme.

He decides against the funky stoop sale ties in favor of one that belonged to his paternal grandfather.

"I think I’ll take Dad’s advice and dress normal for the first week so they’ll think I’m normal," he says staring into the mirror and brushing his hair.

Good advice.

My husband is tying our son’s tie, a silver tie with thin black diagonal lines. A milestone moment. Formal lessons will come later. For now, they are a picture of father/son bonding. 

"Got your belt on?" my husband asks. My son reaches into the Old Navy bag for his new black leather belt. His new black chinos from Old Navy are made of a special liqud repellent chino. "That means I can pour stuff on them if I want to," he says.

Now he’s lacing up his new shoes. They are black suede bucks from Bass (say that three times fast).  A fried egg cooks on the stove. He is too nervous to eat though he does take a few bites of rye toast.

I am the mother of a high school student.

Weird.

WAYS TO HELP KATRINA VICTIMS

The following is an e-mail I received this morning from Catherine at Community Bookstore, who is organizing a local campaign to help victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Hi Everyone —

Okay, I think we’re ready . . . .

1.  SHIPPING:

Tomorrow morning, asap, I’m going to open a UPS
account specifically for sending stuff down South.

UPS comes to the store everyday, anyhow, so this will
ensure that stuff gets out as quickly as possible.

If you’d like to contribute to shipping, you can makes
checks payable to "United Parcel Service" directly,
drop ’em at the store, and I’ll send them in to cover
*that* account.

(Obviously, when we’re done with this, we can decide
what to do with any money that’s leftover, should that
happen.)

2.  WHERE IT’S GOING:

An amazing woman named Susan White has spent the
weekend on the phone and has identified 4 places, all
of which have:

-taken in evacuees
-have NOT been contacted by major organizations yet
-are desperate for supplies
-and been spoken to directly by Susan, checking
exactly what they need as of *today*

They are:

The Baton Rouge River Center
275 South River Road
Baton Rouge, LA 70802
tel:  225-389-3030

The Women’s Center
222 Veteran’s Blvd.
Suite C
Denham Springs, LA 70726
tel:  225. 665-0214

Marksville City Hall
Attn: Hurricane Relief Coordinator
Myron Gagnard
427 North Washington St.
Marksville, LA 71351
tel:  318. 253. 9500
(this place is distributing to other places, too)

The St. Vincent de Paul Society for Katrina Evacuees
Ozanam Outlet
610 Memory Lane
Houston, TX 77037

If you would like to send donations (see below, for
what to send where) directly, yourself, please do.
I’d encourage you to check with the store daily,
though, to make sure you’re sending what they need
most.  I’ve put their phone numbers, so you *could*
call, but if 900 of us start calling daily, we’ll
probably drive them nuts.

3.  DONATIONS (What They Need):

If you want to bring donations to the store, we’re
happy to sort, package, and send them out.

Here’s what each place needs:

Baton Rouge River Center
-currently has over 6500 evacuees living there so we
might want to focus on them first.–

They need:

Towels
Socks
Slippers
Water
Diapers
Baby Bottles
Pacifiers
Non-perishable food
Sheets
Pillows
Sleeping Bags

The Women’s Center needs:
Formula
Baby Food
Toddler Food
Diapers
Wipes
Juice
Maternity Clothes
Ensure
Depends
Pedialyte
Small boxes of Goldfish crackers
New Underwear
New Socks
Sheets
Blankets
New Pillows
Towels
Q-tips
Paper Towels
Toilet Paper
Hygiene Products
!No Grown up clothes!
!No Toys!

Marksville needs:

Baby Items of all Kinds
Hand Sensitizer
Pillows and Blankets
Baby and Children’s Tee-shirts
Over the counter pain relievers
Coloring books/crayons/board games/children’s books

Okay.  That’s it for now.
If you’d like to help sort, box, etc., please feel
free to just drop by . . . when we get to a point
where we have enough to need that kind of help, I’ll
send out a general email, then you can rush on down.
If you have other ideas for things to do (one woman
had a great idea about a fundraising dinner), I’d also
encourage you to stop by.  I’m getting dozens of
emails already, and can’t really promise to answer
them in a timely way. I’m happy to help connect people who are
interested in working on the same sorts of projects
(like the fundraiser).

More soon!

Love,
Catherine

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Same Time Last Year

4181832_stdLast year at this time, the Republicans were in town and mid-town Manhattan was a locked off security zone.

We came back early from our vacation in California because we didn’t want to miss what promised to be a spirited, anti-Bush week in New York City. My husband wanted to take pictures of Republicans and New Yorkers all over the city.

We took the Red Eye home on Sunday night and missed the big, historic demonstration that spread peacefully throughout the city. We saw dozens of rainbow flags hanging heroically from Slope windows as we drove back to Third Street.

The New York media reported that anti-Bush protests were fairly light after the demonstration. But I didn’t think so. If you were in the middle of Union Square, or St. Marks Church, or on the Unemployment Line that threaded uptown from Tribecal to as near Madison Square Garden as people could go, it felt like a ground swell, a real movement.

It was a surreal week, a really special New York week. Maybe one of the best ever. It reminded me of New York in the sixties: the anti-war Be-Ins in Central Park, the moratorium marches on Broadway, near Columbia University, in Sheep’s Meadow. I was only a kid but I will never forget it.

In fact, when I was 11, Peter, Paul, and Mary asked me and my best friend to join them on stage during a protest at the UN. While they sang "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" we struggled to hold up our "War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things." sign.

What I liked best about last year was the creative energy: the marathon poetry reading at St. Marks Church, the Millionaires for Bush masquerade balls, the Johnny Cash protest 4161641_stdat Sothebys where people wore black shirts, black pants and held guitars. There was art, music, theater: all in the name of no more Bush.

The night of Bush’s convention speech, there was an unannounced event at Union Square.  My husband and I got there early to take in the atmosphere (and to take pictures).  An artist has created a solemn display of hundreds of army boots. On each boot there was the name of a soldier killed in Iraq.

My husband went up to Madison Square Garden to take pictures of what was going on. I was nervous because there was talk of violence between police and protesters. I kept calling (and annoying) him on the cell phone.

Cell phones are handy at a demonstration. Mine enabled me to meet the friends I needed to meet at Union Square. "Where are you standing," I asked. "Over by the guy with the sign that says…"

4222274_stdAt some point, part of the crowd started running toward Madison Square Garden. I opted out of that one. The group I was with retreated to the Heartland Brewery (how ironic) for some beer on that steamy August night. Someone in our group tried to get the bartender change the TVs from MTV to the convention (we’d heard that some protesters had actually gotten inside the garden). But they didn’t change the channel. Most of the people at the bar seemed oblivious to the convention and what was going on outside.

Now, a year later, it is impossible to be oblivious to what’s going on. There’s a quagmire in Iraq.  Bush is president for another three years and the floodwaters in New Orleans are still roof high.

More than any of last year’s protests or election speeches, this tragic event in the Gulf Coast illustrates what’s wrong with our country. It exposes the poverty and racism that lurk just below the surface. Financial policies that deprive working people of what they need also meant a $71 million cut in a project that might have protected the 17th Street Levee.

A president whose main focus has been homeland security, finally cancelled his summer vacation days after the hurricaine. What a disgrace. Clearly, local and federal agencies had given little thought to worse case scenarios. 

4171716_stdI guess they’ve been so busy  denying civil rights in the name of homeland security, that they haven’t had much time to figure out what to do if….

SEND SUPPLIES TO MARKSVILLE, LA

Catherine Bohne, owner of the Slope’s Community Bookstore, has tracked down a church in Marksville, LA that is receiving supplies to help the people in New Orleans and surrounding areas. Here is a group-email I received from her this morning.

Hi Everyone —

I called one of the churches that is taking in refugees. They need lots of supplies. You can gather together a bag of supplies (see list below).

Go to the Post Office and get a Priority box – flat fee (choice of two shapes), the cost of postage is $7.70 no matter what you put in the box (weight doesn’t matter). Fill the box and mail to the address below. I will contact more sites and post them soon.

They desperately need:
– tolietries (anything you use to start your day)
toothpaste,
deodorant,
shampoos,  sunscreen, liquid soaps  (small bottles
esp good)
  -anti-inflammatories (over the counter medicines)
including
ibuprofen,
aspirin,aleve
– baby wipes, feminine hygiene products,
– imagine what you would need and send it.

Send to:
Marksville Baptist Church
PO Box 442
Marksville, LA
71351
Write Hurricane Relief on outside

The most important things seem to be:

1.  Finding places which will take actual
contributions.  (As usual, the big guys (like the Red Cross, just want money.)

Some of you have suggested checking out the following:
www.hurricanehousing.org
www.charitynavigator.org

If anyone has time to track down anything, it would be
a great help, and I’m happy to forward it.

2.  Being in contact with them, and finding out what
(and how much) they actually need.  I can do this, if
we come up with leads and phone numbers are provided?

3.  I’ll work on figuring out the best way to send.
Depending on if we get a lot of stuff, we might need
help packing and sorting, but let’s see first what we
come up with.

I’ll be in touch, and thank you all for your kindness.

Love,
Catherine Bohne, (e-mail her at: cat_bohne@yahoo.com)

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_GUILTY PLEASURES

2cbw6999I almost feel guilty for the joy in my life right now. My niece, Sonya Ducky, is an unlimited source of pleasure and love.

And the people in New Orleans are enduring the worst natural disaster in our history.

I marvel at the way she changes by the day. One-year-old Sonya is fast acclimating herself to her new life in a Brooklyn apartment. She settles into my sister’s nurturing arms with happiness. She squeals when my brother-in-law holds her in the air and makes funny voices. Meeting her grandmother yesterday, she was wide-eyed and responsive when she sang her new name.

And the misery in New Orleans is too much to bear.

I am discovering resources of energy and playfulness I had forgotten about. I giggle and goo with my little niece. Patty Cake, Peek-a-boo, ‘The Wheels on the Bus": it all comes back like a lost language.

The simple pleasures ofl life are completely out of reach in New Orleans. A morning cup of coffee. The laughter of young children. A quiet Sunday at summer’s end.

My sister’s calm and loving maternal instincts are in full force. The way she trills: Sonya, Sonya, Sonya. Every day this baby is bathed in love and attention (not to mention a plethora of bubblebaths). She is thriving in the stimulation of one family’s joy.

And the people of New Orleans are enduring the worst natural disaster in our history. For Sonya and all our children, the government owes it to New Orleans to make sure that something like this never happens again.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WHAT’S NEW

In my continuing quest to discover what’s new on Seventh Avenue since my trip to California, here’s more.

–The Mojo Cafe is being sold. The new owner, whose been behind the counter now for more than a month (I thought he was a new manager of something), owns a cheesecake company. The shop should stay the same for the most part, but it will not be a Carvel franchise anymore. They will still serve soft ice cream, cones, shakes, etc. It just won’t be Carvel brand. It remains to be seen what other changes are afoot. It is possible that he will change the name. My biggest concern is about the staff. I happen to be very fond of most of the staff and I am hoping there won’t be any changes in that department.

I spoke with Michael, who has owned the shop for six years. He says that he’s had enough of the grind of owning a ice cream shop/cafe. It’s a 24/7 job (especially because he lives in the neighborhood). Michael is ready to move on and is considering a few options, including a corporate job with health and other benefits. OTBKB will keep you posted on all the latest Mojo news.

–In other cafe news, The Chocolate Bar, located on Seventh Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets, is a WINNER and they’ve got ALL the Slope bases covered.

First off, it’s a beautiful looking shop. Tasteful, elegant, moderne, lovely. It’s decidedly NOT tattered Boho style a la Tea Lounge, or comfy faux living room a la Starbucks. No, no, no. It was designed with a capital D. And it may even have the best garden in the Slope.

The Chocolate Bar serves all kinds of coffee and chocolate drinks, as well as, chocolate truffles, cookies, homemade marshmallows, gloppy deslicious Magnolia Bakery-style cakes, and tarts. In the evening, they lower the lights and VOILA, The Chocolate Bar becomes a wine bar (with a drop dead by-the-glass wine list). Not only that, they sell special Brooklyn-made truffles that are "designed" to go with wine.

How cool is that?

And perhaps the biggest news. The place has WiFi AND an absolutely splendid backroom with tables and comfortable chairs, ideal for use as a cafe/office spot.

–Blue Apron’s south slope shop is NOW OPEN. It is located on Seventh Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets, conveniently close to some of the Slope’s best wine shops. I haven’t been there yet, but it promises to be the best cheese shop in Brooklyn, if not all of New York

–Community Bookstore had a power glitch, which caused them to lose their computer inventory list. Owner Catherine Bohne says it was a "blessing in disguise", because the inventory had never been properly done anyway. So she and her staffers are in the process of doing a massive inventory of everything in the shop. 

They have also kept up some of the decorations from July’s Harry Potter party. The backroom, which is now the children’s book department, has a lovely yellow/orange canopy on the ceiling.

That’s it for now, but more to be added. See the continuation for more of What’s New on Seventh Avenue.

Continue reading POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WHAT’S NEW

NOTES FROM INSIDE NEW ORLEANS

by Jordan Flaherty

I just left New Orleans a couple hours ago.  I traveled from the apartment
I was staying in by boat to a helicopter to a refugee camp.  If anyone
wants to examine the attitude of federal and state officials towards the
victims of hurricane Katrina, I advise you to visit one of the refugee camps.

In the refugee camp I just left, on the I-10 freeway near Causeway,
thousands of people (at least 90% black and poor) stood and squatted in mud
and trash behind metal barricades, under an unforgiving sun, with heavily
armed soldiers standing guard over them.  When a bus would come through, it
would stop at a random spot, state police would open a gap in one of the
barricades, and people would rush for the bus, with no information given
about where the bus was going. Once inside (we were told) evacuees would be
told where the bus was taking them – Baton Rouge, Houston, Arkansas,
Dallas, or other locations.  I was told that if you boarded a bus bound for
Arkansas (for example), even people with family and a place to stay in
Baton Rouge would not be allowed to get out of the bus as it passed through
Baton Rouge.  You had no choice but to go to the shelter in Arkansas.  If
you had people willing to come to New Orleans to pick you up, they could
not come within 17 miles of the camp.

I traveled throughout the camp and spoke to Red Cross workers, Salvation
Army workers, National Guard, and state police, and although they were
friendly, no one could give me any details on when buses would arrive, how
many, where they would go to, or any other information.  I spoke to the
several teams of journalists nearby, and asked if any of them had been able
to get any information from any federal or state officials on any of these
questions, and all of them, from Australian tv to local Fox affiliates
complained of an unorganized, non-communicative, mess.  One cameraman told
me "as someone who’s been here in this camp for two days, the only
information I can give you is this: get out by nightfall.  You don’t want
to be here at night."

There was also no visible attempt by any of those running the camp to set
up any sort of transparent and consistent system, for instance a line to
get on buses, a way to register contact information or find family members,
special needs services for children and infirm, phone services, treatment
for possible disease exposure, nor even a single trash can.

To understand this tragedy, its important to look at New Orleans itself.

For those who have not lived in New Orleans, you have missed a incredible,
glorious, vital, city.  A place with a culture and energy unlike anywhere
else in the world.  A 70% African-American city where resistance to white
supremecy has supported a generous, subversive and unique culture of vivid
beauty.  From jazz, blues and hiphop, to secondlines, Mardi Gras Indians,
Parades, Beads, Jazz Funerals, and red beans and rice on Monday nights, New
Orleans is a place of art and music and dance and sexuality and liberation
unlike anywhere else in the world.

It is a city of kindness and hospitality, where walking down the block can
take two hours because you stop and talk to someone on every porch, and
where a community pulls together when someone is in need.  It is a city of
extended families and social networks filling the gaps left by city, state
and federal goverments that have abdicated their responsibilty for the
public welfare.  It is a city where someone you walk past on the street not
only asks how you are, they wait for an answer.

It is also a city of exploitation and segregation and fear.  The city of
New Orleans has a population of just over 500,000 and was expecting 300
murders this year, most of them centered on just a few, overwhelmingly
black, neighborhoods.  Police have been quoted as saying that they don’t
need to search out the perpetrators, because usually a few days after a
shooting, the attacker is shot in revenge.

There is an atmosphere of intense hostility and distrust between much of
Black New Orleans and the N.O. Police Department.  In recent months,
officers have been accused of everything from drug running to corruption to
theft.  In seperate incidents, two New Orleans police officers were
recently charged with rape (while in uniform), and there have been several
high profile police killings of unarmed youth, including the murder of
Jenard Thomas, which has inspired ongoing weekly protests for several months.

The city has a 40% illiteracy rate, and over 50% of black ninth graders
will not graduate in four years.  Louisiana spends on average $4,724 per
child’s education and ranks 48th in the country for lowest teacher
salaries. The equivalent of more than two classrooms of young people drop
out of Louisiana schools every day and about 50,000 students are absent
from school on any given day.  Far too many young black men from New
Orleans end up enslaved in Angola Prison, a former slave plantation where
inmates still do manual farm labor, and over 90% of inmates eventually die
in the prison.  It is a city where industry has left, and most remaining
jobs are are low-paying, transient, insecure jobs in the service economy.

Race has always been the undercurrent of Louisiana politics.  This disaster
is one that was constructed out of racism, neglect and incompetence.
Hurricane Katrina was the inevitable spark igniting the gasoline of cruelty
and corruption.  From the neighborhoods left most at risk, to the treatment
of the refugees to the the media portayal of the victims, this disaster is
shaped by race.

Louisiana politics is famously corrupt, but with the tragedies of this week
our political leaders have defined a new level of incompetence.  As
hurricane Katrina approached, our Governor urged us to "Pray the hurricane
down" to a level two.  Trapped in a building two days after the hurricane,
we tuned our battery-operated radio into local radio and tv stations,
hoping for vital news, and were told that our governor had called for a day
of prayer.  As rumors and panic began to rule, they was no source of solid
dependable information.  Tuesday night, politicians and reporters said the
water level would rise another 12 feet – instead it stabilized.  Rumors
spread like wildfire, and the politicians and media only made it worse.

While the rich escaped New Orleans, those with nowhere to go and no way to
get there were left behind.  Adding salt to the wound, the local and
national media have spent the last week demonizing those left behind.  As
someone that loves New Orleans and the people in it, this is the part of
this tragedy that hurts me the most, and it hurts me deeply.

No sane person should classify someone who takes food from indefinitely
closed stores in a desperate, starving city as a "looter," but thats just
what the media did over and over again.  Sherrifs and politicians talked of
having troops protect stores instead of perform rescue operations.

Images of New Orleans’ hurricane-ravaged population were transformed into
black, out-of-control, criminals.  As if taking a stereo from a store that
will clearly be insured against loss is a greater crime than the
governmental neglect and incompetence that did billions of dollars of
damage and destroyed a city.  This media focus is a tactic, just as the
eighties focus on "welfare queens" and "super-predators" obscured the
simultaneous and much larger crimes of the Savings and Loan scams and mass
layoffs, the hyper-exploited people of New Orleans are being used as a
scapegoat to cover up much larger crimes.

City, state and national politicians are the real criminals here.  Since at
least the mid-1800s, its been widely known the danger faced by flooding to
New Orleans.  The flood of 1927, which, like this week’s events, was more
about politics and racism than any kind of natural disaster, illustrated
exactly the danger faced.  Yet government officials have consistently
refused to spend the money to protect this poor, overwhelmingly black,
city.  While FEMA and others warned of the urgent impending danger to New
Orleans and put forward proposals for funding to reinforce and protect the
city, the Bush administration, in every year since 2001, has cut or refused
to fund New Orleans flood control, and ignored scientists warnings of
increased hurricanes as a result of global warming.  And, as the dangers
rose with the floodlines, the lack of coordinated response dramatized
vividly the callous disregard of our elected leaders.

The aftermath from the 1927 flood helped shape the elections of both a US
President and a Governor, and ushered in the southern populist politics of
Huey Long.

In the coming months, billions of dollars will likely flood into New
Orleans.  This money can either be spent to usher in a "New Deal" for the
city, with public investment, creation of stable union jobs, new schools,
cultural programs and housing restoration, or the city can be "rebuilt and
revitalized" to a shell of its former self, with newer hotels, more
casinos, and with chain stores and theme parks replacing the former
neighborhoods, cultural centers and corner jazz clubs.

Long before Katrina, New Orleans was hit by a hurricane of poverty, racism,
disinvestment, de-industrialization and corruption.  Simply the damage from
this pre-Katrina hurricane will take billions to repair.

Now that the money is flowing in, and the world’s eyes are focused on
Katrina, its vital that progressive-minded people take this opportunity to
fight for a rebuilding with justice.  New Orleans is a special place, and
we need to fight for its rebirth.

———————————————–
Jordan Flaherty is an editor of Left Turn Magazine (www.leftturn.org).

THE STRANDED WEEP AND WAIT FOR A RESCUE

New Orleans — This was a city once, of playgrounds, basketball courts, neighborhoods, restaurants, roads and people.

Today it is an enormous, rancid lake of death and destruction. Car roofs stick out of water as deep as 30 feet. Dark rainbows of spilled fuel shine on the putrid surface. The body of a gray-haired man in a maroon shirt floats face-down.

In Orleans Parish on Thursday, some of the city’s most destitute residents waited for rescuers in boats to pluck them off an overpass that once was the intersection of Airline Highway and Pontchartrain Boulevard and take them to safety.

There was Augusta Hagans, whose daughter Ashley, 21, was crying because she thought she would not be able to bring along her dog, Zoe. Hagans’ son Robert, 10, was weeping because he was terrified.

"He is just a very emotional child," Hagans, 43, who is unemployed, said as she hugged Robert on the rain-slicked overpass littered with shopping carts, piles of discarded wet clothes, coolers, stuffed animals and diapers. Then she started weeping herself.

Carlos Fajardo, 42, also wept — in anger.

"I’m leaving all my s — behind: my dog, my house, my everything!" he yelled, thrusting his fists in the air. "You know what? Today is my birthday! What a f — ing birthday I’m having!"

Others told of despair and death and how hours turned into days and no one came to help.

"We were at a women’s crisis center, and the National Guard flew over several times," said Natasha Jones, 29, her eyes wide with shock. "We lit candles, put out a white flag on the roof, and they left us!"

Jones said she swam two miles to reach the overpass — past floating tree trunks and jagged pieces of fallen signs and a dead body pushed by the current against a wall of a building.

"He had his hands like he was praying," she said. "I’m born and raised here, but I don’t want to live here anymore."

 

Continue reading THE STRANDED WEEP AND WAIT FOR A RESCUE

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_RETURNING

Coming back from vacation, I always enjoy that first walk down Seventh Avenue:  Who will I run into?  Is anything different? Have housing prices gone up again? Whose back from vacation?

It feels like we’ve been gone for ages. Ages. Twenty days away from Brooklyn and it’s all brand new. Again.

Another table was added to the  "summer cafe" in our front stoop. My downstair’s neighbor found an attractive tile table at the PS 321 Flea Market. Now we have two tables. All we need now is a couple of Cinzano umbrellas and we’ll be in business.

So what else is new?

Key Food created an outdoor flower market on the side of their building on Carroll Street. It used to be an eyesore with dumpsters and worse. I didn’t get a close look at the flowers, but there is a red awning. Maybe they think there’s a buck or two in it now that the Korean Market on the north side of Garfield closed.

So what else is new?

Seventh Avenue Books, which is now fully moved into it sister store, Seventh Avenue Kids, between 3rd and 2nd Streets, got a new awning that says SEVENTH AVENUE BOOKS. There’s also new lettering on the front window.

So what else is new?

The Chocolate Cafe, on Seventh Avenue between 3rd and 4th Street is now open. Hopefully its chocolate delights will firmly replace all memory of Funky Monkey.

So what else is new?

And this is a big one. Brooklyn Industries is going IN where Uprising used to be on Seventh Avenue near 9th Street. (I have my son to thank for that BIG TIP).

So what else is new?

Fratelli ice cream and fried ravioli finally went out of business. I knew it was coming, it was just a matter of when. Maggie Moo seems to be hanging in there. Somehow.

So what else is new?

There’s sccaffolding surrounding the former John Jay High School building (now home to the Schools for Law, Journalism and Research).

So what else is new?

There seem to be even more teenagers hanging out on Seventh and in Pinos. GIrls in low cut jeans and bellybutton piercings. Boys with long hair looking very grunge.

So what else is new?

Loom has lots of fall clothing in their front window. Lolli, the kids shop that replaced Fidgits, seems to be really hitting its stride and Community Books is having a 40% off sale, says a sign on the window.

So what else is new?

Hanging out at Connecticutt Muffin with my sister and her daughter Ducky. Now that’s something completely different. Definitely the best new thing of all.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WE MISSED OUR FLIGHT

It never happened to us before. I had it in my head that we were taking the Red Eye from Oakland the way we always do. It leaves around 10:00 p.m. and gets us into Brooklyn by 7 in the morning.

But this time, my husband booked the flight and forgot that we were going at 3:30 p.m. As we  were getting ready to go to the airport for the 10:00 p.m. flight, my husband checked the computer for our "e-tickets" and…

…"Omigod, we missed our flight," he screamed. After he finished blaming me for the mistake: "Why did you act so sure about it being the red eye?" he yelIed, I called Jet Blue and told them what happened. "A missed flight is a forfeited ticket, you know," the woman on the phone said. "But I’ll see what I can do."

She put me on hold and while I waited (listening to Joni Mitchell on the hold-music: They paved paradise and put up a parking lot With a pink hotel...) I felt a kind of desperation. I was so eager to get back to Brooklyn to see my newly adopted niece, Ducky. I have never wanted to go home so badly.

The woman on the phone said that the  Red Eye that we thought we had tickets for was sold out. "I want to go home," I weeped holding the receiver away from my mouth. Then she said that there were seats on the Red Eye from San Jose. I got hopeful for a second. But there was a catch: it would cost $200 extra per ticket, which seemed a bit steep More panic. "I want to go home. It felt like the worldwide conspiracy to prevent me from seeing my niece.

Finally, for a small fee, the woman from Jet Blue was able to get us on the 8:50 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I was like Dorothy talking to the Wizard of Oz. I would’ve taken a hot air balloon all the way to Park Slope if I could.

Everything went perfectly after that. We actually found a great sushi place in a Tracy mall. We watched "Some Like it Hot" and went to bed. It was a windfall of extra time on the farm for my husband, which he actually appreciated. And there was an unbelievably star-filled sky.

We got to the airport at 7:30 a.m. without a hitch. Our seats were excellent:  row 2 (just like first class except Jet Blue doesn’t have first class).  Every seat on a Jet Blue plane has a television with something like 30 channels. I watched reports about Hurricane Katrina all day; I couldn’t turn it off. Here  I was so happy to be returning home and hundreds of thousands of people can’t go home…

So tragic, so unfair, so sad. Watching people rowing boats across their city is positively surreal.

Once home, we brought our suitcases upstairs, showered and ran to see Ducky, what we’d all been waiting for.

Elation. Joy. Fun. Love.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_DIFFICULT GOOD-BYES

Guess who’s coming home?

Yes, today is our last day on the farm. The last couple of days have been a weird kind of limbo. Betwixt and between, we’re not really here and we’re not in Brooklyn either.

The kids are so ready to come home. Twenty days away from Brooklyn is a lot. And they’re dying to see their friends.

The waning days of our summer vacation mean picking up all the clothes, toys, books, and other family detritus that has migrated to all parts of this big house.

It means taking care of the errands we promised we’d do while we were out here but never got around to.

It means finishing up the left-overs in the fridge and taking our last walks around the farm, saying good-bye to the goat, the vegetable garden, the walnut orchards, the barns, the cats, and the Giverney-esque garden created by my mother-in-law.

This year is especially sad because the farm is being sold to a local real estate developer, who  plans to build a McMansion on the far side of the farm with a grand staircase a la "Gone with the Wind," where he will live with his four brothers and their families.

It is, truly, the end of an era. 

My husband’s grandparents moved to this farm in 1928 from Los Angeles.
They raised 5 children here and ran an award winning Guernsey cattle dairy. There were also sugar beets, alfalfa, tomatoes, and other crops through the years.

My husband grew up on the farm in a small house intended as a guest house that grew in size as the years went on. His father planted the walnut orchards the year he was born. When his father died in the 1980’s, his mother (who grew up on the farm) decided to take over the farm. She’d never paid much attention to farming when her husband was alive, as she was busy raising the kids, and creating beautiful and inventive ceramic art. But after his death, she learned everything she needed to know about walnut farming and farmed the orchard for 20 years by herself with the help of a small staff.

Now in her seventies, she has just retired from farming and is busier than ever with her art-making, gardening, studying at the local community college, and swimming. A self-taught architect, she is also designing a new entrance way and a pool house for her home.

Most of her siblings have died, but their heirs feel strongly that it is time to sell the farm. She has made her peace with it and will still retain her beautiful home and the surrounding acreage.

I know my husband is deeply upset about the sale of the farm because he’s been very quiet and he sighs a lot ( a sign that he is full of worry or pain). Yesterday I asked what he was feeling and he said: "Overwhelmed. Y’know that sense of place thing."

These are like code words between us. This place means more to him than just about anything. He is rooted here like a big old oak tree. Losing the farm is like losing a limb. This farm IS who he is: creative, resourceful, reverent to the past, deeply connected to the place he is from.

I am very touched by his appreciation for the world his grandparents and parents created here: the houses and farm buildings his grandmother designed, his grandfather’s farm equipment, the John Deere tractors, and pick-up trucks. He loves the landscape – the orderly rows of trees in the orchards, the yellow Sierra foothills in the disance, the big, blue sky.  I know the next few months won’t be easy as the sale becomes a reality.

His sense of place in the world depends on this farm and it’s hard to say what will happen when it no longer belongs to his family.

I expect my husband to sigh a lot in the next few months. He’ll probably be pretty quiet as he mulls over this enormous change in his life. I’m hoping he’ll take the time to express his feelings to me. For one thing, I like to be clued in, but I also think it helps to let it out so it doesn’t burn you up inside.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WRITER FRIEND

Ww_1My friend, Marian Fontana, whose firefighter  husband, Lt. Dave Fontana, died on 9/11, will be on the radio show, This American Life, on August 27th and 28th.

The show’s theme is: Not What I Signed Up for and Marian’s segment is devastating and incredible. Check local listings for when the show is on in your area. In New York, it will be on at 11 a.m. on WNYC-AM (820 on the AM dial) on Saturday and Sunday. You can listen to it on-line at WNYC.org.

Trust me, you won’t want to miss this.

Since 1998, Marian and I have been in a writer’s group together. Approximately 8 of us (the number varies) meet every Tuesday in a dance studio in Park Slope. We sit in a circle of chairs and read our work – poetry, fiction, screenplays, non-fiction – aloud. We then make gentle comments about one another’s work: we are always honest but in a very constructive way.

Afterwards, we usually go out to a local bar like Two Boots or Santa Fe and talk into the night. My husband calls our group "Writers and Drinkers" because I often come home with the smell of Margaritas on my breath.

Marian started writing "A Widow’s Walk: A memoir of 9/11,"  in 2002. Week after week she would bring pages to the writer’s group from her work-in-progress. Writing is never easy and writing a memoir about such a painful time is even worse. But she diligently wrote the book in a cubicle at the Brooklyn Writer’s Space on Garfield Place in Park Slope. Naturally, it took longer than she expected. "Reliving that year over and over was like a quiet torture." she told me.

Often in writer’s group, her words made us cry. Other times, her sharp and witty observations made us laugh. Marian is a fantastic mimic, and passages of the book are thick with perfectly rendered dialogue. Marian read her work to us with the skill of the actress she is, accents and all.

The book, which we were privileged to witness from inception to final draft, will be published on September 7, 2005. I feel very attached to the work as I’ve read through it a number of times. It’s like an old friend. And now the world will share in it too. It’s kind of a strange feeling.

Marian and I spoke a lot over the years about how difficult it is to write about one’s life, especially if the work is to be published for all to see. Marian was careful not to hurt the feelings of friends and family. But she was always unremittingly honest. "There were some friends who were scared to see themselves in print. It

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_FREE SWIM

2cbw6475Another hot day in Tracy and we decided to see if the Days Inn would let us use their pool. Yesterday as we were driving away from the pool at the Phoenix Lodge (pictured to the left), we spotted a big pool with nice patio furniture and pristine white umbrellas at the nearby Days Inn. The clear blue water looked delicious; not a soul was swimming there.

I brought my daughter into the hotel lobby figuring that when they saw her – in her swimsuit and towel – they would be unable to resist.

Wrong. "We only let guests use the pool," the lady at the desk assured me.

When we got back in the car, my daughter said: "Let’s  go to the pool from yesterday." And that’s exactly what we did.

On the short drive over, I was just hoping that the guy from yesterday would be there and he’d let us swim again. I decided in the car that if he said no for any reason I’d offer to rent a room – the rooms were $49 dollars a night my husband noticed. That way, we’d have access to the pool until check-out time tomorrow.

But that wasn’t necessary. I walked into the office underneath the neon vacancy sign:  "Hi, we’re back. Can we please use your pool again?" I asked feeling like I was talking to an old friend. The man smiled and said, "Sure. Just don’t swim too long."

Bingo. I’m in love with this guy. The nicest guy in all of Tracy, California. He may be the front desk person at a slightly down-at-the-heels motel just off the freeway, but he’s my kind of guy: generous, easy going, and willing to let my little mermaid swim.

The Phoenix’s kidney shaped pool looked more beautiful than ever. The water glistened and glowed in the sun. The fake Mexican tiles on the edge looked positively tasteful. Even the dirty white plastic chairs were inviting.

My daughter jumped in – her own private pool right by the freeway. I cooled off in the pool too. And would you know it – I was able to put my right heel down for the first time since my calf injury two days ago. This pool has magic powers is what I was thinking.

When we left, I jotted down the address of the Phoenix Lodge down in my noteboo: 3511 North Tracy Boulevard, 95376 ((209) 835-1335).  I intend to write that man a note thanking him for sharing his underused pool on two hot August days. What’s more,  I plan to spread the word about the Phoenix Lodge: A nice inexpensive motel next to the freeway with an awesome little pool. But more importantly, the guy at the front desk is cool. He might even let you have a free swim.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Swimming on the Freeway

Swimby Louise G. Crawford

August is hot in the Central Valley of California. Daily temperatures reach 95 or more. Unlike Brooklyn, though, it’s not very humid. Still it’s quite steamy outside in the middle of the day.

Unfortunately, the pool that we used to swim in on the farm is no longer ours to use. My mother-in-law is in the process of having a new one built — it should be done in time for next summer. Which means that my kids have nowhere to cool off in the mid-day sun.

So today we decided to take a trip to the town pool in Tracy because my daughter was desperate to go swimming. Desperate. She was ready to go in her striped tankini and flip flops just minutes after we announced the expedition.

Vroom, vroom, we zoomed into town. But sadly, the town pool was closed; open only on weekends now that California schools are in session.

Disappointment all around. But not for long. Determined New Yorkers, we decided to try to find a local motel or hotel that would allow us to use their pool. We frequently use the pool at the Mariott Hotel in downtown Brooklyn for summer dips. They’re happy to oblige for a small fee.

Easier said than done in Tracy, California. First we went to the old Tracy downtown where there used to be lots of 1960’s style motels with neon signs and kidney-shaped pools.  As a college kid, my husband used to take lonely color photographs of those motels – his stab at William Eggelston-style Americana.

Only one of those motels is still standing in Tracy and the pool was…dry.

Then we ventured to find the local Holiday Inn, Best Western, or Motel 6.  At the Holiday Inn, the woman at the desk suggested that I rent a room for $98 dollars. "It comes with a continental breakfast," she said enthusiastically. "But it’s against hotel policy to let non-guests use the pool."

Finally we spotted a tiny pool behind a chain-link fence near the freeway. I went into the office of the Phoenix Lodge and asked the man at the desk if it would be okay for my daughter to use the pool. "For a fee of course," I added. He thought for a moment and said "You can use it for free. Just keep an eye on your girl. There’s no life guard."

Woo hoo. We had our pool.

My husband and I sat at a white plastic table on white plastic chairs as my daughter swam and splashed in the small (occupancy 12) kidney-shaped pool with a view of the nearby freeway, a gas station, a tall palm tree, and an In and Out Burger across the street.

No problem for my daughter, who swam joyously for over an hour. I even took a dip, which was very therapeutic for my strained calf muscle. My husband didn’t go in. He thought it too funny, too strange to be using a motel pool next to a freeway exit in his hometown.

Too strange.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Wassup with the Armory?

Armoryby Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Writer

I keep wondering if the Park Slope Armory renovation at Eighth Avenue between 14th  and 15th Streets is having any impact on housing prices nearby. I’ve looked at some places close to it (one even right across 8th Avenue from the armory), and no brokers have mentioned it.

Is it just too soon? I hope that Ratner’s Sportsplex construction hasn’t changed anything regarding the Armory.  Same goes
fo NYC not getting the Olympics.

After an announcement almost 14 months ago, very little renovation work seems to be going on.  Borough Prez Marty Markovitz made a big deal at the beginning of July 2004 about the $16 million, two year renovation that would turn the nearly empty Armory into a "world class sports center".

Today all the progress that seems to have been made is that the scaffolding is gone and some roof drainage is in place. I’ve heard that work is being done on the interior but it looks pretty quiet, and peeking in the windows on 15th street doesn’t reveal anything other than a big
open empty space.

According to Ann Schaeltzel, legislative aide for Assemblyman Jim Brennan, Take the Field, the organization in charge of the project, expects to begin work in October 2005. The reason for the delay is that before permits are issued, Take the Field must submit an environmental
assessment, which includes a traffic study. The City requires that the traffic be
study to be conducted when school is in session, so it’s expected that the traffic study will done the second week in September and the Environmental Assessment  will likely be completed by late September.

Once work plans are in place,  Assemblymember Brennan plans to host,
along with Councilmember Bill de Blasio, an informational community meeting so neighbors can be up-to-date on the progress and plans for the sports facility at the Armory. Nothing is scheduled as of today, but hopefully by early fall they’ll be able to tell us if completion in 2006 is realistic.

I hope so. How great to be able to take yoga classes, play some hoops and maybe volunteer right in the neighborhood!

Armory photo by Cathy Hannan

Cathy Hannan has a blog called Lost and Frowned where you can find out about her Found Slide Foundation and watch a 24-hour webcam of her cat. Her slides will be part of the Howl Festival on Saturday August 27th at the Bowery Poetry Club.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Brooklyn Tour Guide in San Francisco

by Louise G. Crawford

San Francisco will always be my second favorite city, after Brooklyn of course. We spent the weekend at the Nob Hill Hotel, a small, boutique hotel on Hyde Street near downtown. Decked out in French boudoir style – the hotel is a lot more modest than the name suggests. But it was clean, the friendly staff was helpful, and the guests were a nice bunch of European travelers. Continental breakfast in the small restaurant downstairs was a convivial affair with Costco muffins, weird bagels, and decent coffee.

My mother flew in from New York to spend the weekend with me and my kids. My husband was off at the Monterey Historics, an annual race of historic cars at Laguna Seca Race Track. So it was up to me, Brooklyn-girl,  to show my mother San Francisco. And I must say I’ve become a pretty good tour guide.

After years of visiting San Francisco, I know all the cool spots to take tourists. And I deserve a medal for finding activities to satisfy an 8-year-old, a 14-year-old, and an 78-year old.  Not the easiest task.

First and foremost I wanted to give her views: Nob Hill, Lombard Street, and Coit Tower. Art: The Museum of Modern Art. Sights: Fisherman’s Wharf, the Tall Ship Balcutha, the Museum Mechanique, the Metreon. History: the Palace Hotel and the Ferry Building.  Fun: A cable car ride up California Street.

We didn’t do Pacific Heights, North Beach (City Lights Bookstore), or Haight Ashbury. But I think she had fun. And we did find some tasty food and California wine at Maxfields in the Palace Hotel, the Hyde Street Bistro, Tai Chi (my sister-in-law’s favorite nabe Chinese place on Polk Street), Dungeness Crab and Corn Chowder at the Mermaid Grill, and Asian noodle soup in the great food court in the Metreon.

For me, the fun of San Francisco is walking the hilly streets, the light, the views, the architecture, observing the locals, poking into fun shops, plugging in at Internet cafes and browsing in bookshops. I didn’t get to do too much of that this time around – busy tour guide me – but I did find a perfect little cafe on Sutter Street for eavesdropping and e-mailing.

Back on the farm, I am invalid girl with a strained calf muscle. We’re off to the town pool for a swim and a therapeutic soak. It’s so gorgeous out here – I am staring at a voluptuous rose bush, walnut trees, a big blue sky and Mount Osso in the distance. Couldn’t be farther from the Nob Hill Hotel (or Park Slope for that matter) – but California is full of wonderful contrasts.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Something About California

Me_1by Louise G. Crawford

Funny thing. I often get a toothache or some other kind of physical ailment when I am in California. I’m not sure why. Maybe being on an airplane does something to my teeth or my ailments are stress-related (not that being out here is stressful or anything). 

Sometimes I arrive with the pain. Other times, it develops while I’m here.

In 2001, I arrived just days after my first root canal. My mouth was throbbing and I was downing pain killers like chewing gum. After a week or so the pain went away, and I was much more fun to be around.

In 2003, we were driving around Oakland, California when I began to feel pain in my mouth. The next morning I woke up with a raging toothache. The pain was so excruciating that I went to see my mother-in-law’s dentist in Tracy. He couldn’t find anything wrong but he agreed to prescribe painkillers and suggested I see an endontist in Modesto.

The next afternoon, we took the freeway to Modesto, home of Chandra Levy and Laci Perterson, and arrived at the endontist’s office just as a blackout was descending on the Mid-West and the East.  "You may want to see what’s going on in the New York," the nurse said when she found out we were New Yorkers. She sat me in the dentist’s chair and turned on the television.

It was frightening to see images of New Yorkers trapped in subways and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, images eerily reminiscent of 9/11. I had simultaneous feelings of relief and regret that I wasn’t in my city during this latest crisis.

Then the endontist, who was planning a trip to New York, took a look inside my mouth. He banged around with a wooden stick and did an ice test to determine what was wrong with my tooth.

"Root Canal. You’re going to need one," he said confirming my worst fears.  "I can’t start on it on until Monday. Do you think you can make it through the weekend?"

"Uh uh,"  I mumbled while he continued to look inside mouth. I figured I had enough painkillers to get me through the weekend if the pain got really bad. "You can call me anytime," the endontist promised. "I or one of my partners can perform an emergency root canal if necessary."

On the ride home I tried to reach relatives in friends in New York to see how they were doing. Our neighbors on Third Street were having a big potluck BBQ, emptying their refrigerators so the food wouldn’t spoil. My sister and brother-in-law were hunting around for a battery operated radio, my mother was safe Manhattan, and my father and stepmother were coping near Saratoga. Everyone was fine.

I, on the other hand, had a throbbing tooth, the endontist’s telephone number, and hopefully enough painkillers to get me through.

During the weekend, I went with the kids to San Francisco. We did museums, some shopping, cable cars, and other sights. On Saturday I felt fine. But on Sunday I woke up looking like a chipmunk because my cheek was so swollen. I was the classic cartoon version of a person with a toothache. I was popping painkilers every two hours and sipping iced drinks all day feeling relief only when ice was on the tooth. I kept calling the Modesto endontist’s service but no-one got back to me.

I wanted to cry the pain was so bad. Eventually, we returned to Tracy and I took to my bed, writhing and waiting for the morning to arrive.

When I woke up the next morning my cheek was so swollen I couldn’t feel a thing – swelling is nature’s way of saying I’m sorry. I wore sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat tilted so that my cheek wasn’t exposed. My husband took a picture of me when we arrived at the dentist’s in Modesto. Believe it or not, I wanted a picture of this.

The endontist and the nurse talked about their golf game throughout the root canal. But I could care less. The procedure was painless and quick – there wasn’t much feeling left in the tooth.

When they were done, I returned the hat to my head, covered my eyes with dark glasses:  "the movie star from New York look"  and paid the bill (much cheaper than a root canal in Manhattan I noted).

On the way home, my husband and I jokingly decided to do all our dental work in California. "Hey, it’s cheaper to fly out here and go to Modesto for dental work than to do it on West 57th Street."

On subsequent trips to California there have been other toothaches, and last winter an earache had me feeling so dizzy I felt like I was on a sailboat in a stormy sea everytime I walked from one room to another.

And this morning, I heard the phone ring and started to skip toward the kitchen when I felt a spasm in my calf. When it was over, it was too painful to put my right heel down. My muscles was either torn or strained. In either case, it meant pain and difficult walking.

I limped into the bedroom and called my personal trainer in New York who knows a great deal about these sorts of things. "R.I.C.E. Rest, ice, compress, elevate," she said with certainty after I told her about my injury. "And don’t walk on it for a while." She later sent me pictures of ligaments by email.

I lay in bed or on a lawn chair most of the day with my leg propped up on pillows. My husband made a make-shift Ace bandage and kept me in ice packs all day. I can only walk wearing high heeled sandals.

It wasn’t such a bad day afterall. My husband waitied on me hand and foot. I finally finished "Bel Canto" by Anne Patchett, a fabulous book, and I went for a ride in the orange Porsche at twilight, a nice little break from the invalid’s life.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_BLOCK PARTY GRIPES

Grafby Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Blogger

Everyone hates parades: they screw up traffic, they leave a huge mess, and really, they’re just not that fun. I think the same thing goes for block parties. What is it about Brooklynites loving their block parties? Is it really that exciting to be able to stand in the middle of your street and drink a beer and grill a hotdog?

My Park Slope (vicinity) block had one last weekend. They put up signs, which said that the police would be towing cars…wha-huh? Can they do that? I don’t have a car, but let’s say I did and I didn

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_NEWS FROM WISCONSIN

Tirefire6by Steve, b61 Productions

Last month I received this email from my parents:

"Check out Wisconsin news. . . The old tire recycling plant is on fire. . . It looked just like the pictures from Iraq with an oil line fire. . . The drought is a concern. Another concern is ground water contamination. . . So far we are fine and have some real excitement."

The story made international news the first day. But the 400,000 tires–piled 35 feet high–burned for six days. If not for a space-age cooling agent shipped in from Georgia it would have likely burned for another week at least. More than 100 fire departments responded with 14 million gallons of water before the fire was extinguished.

Watertown Tire Recycling LLC had been reduced to a thick, black plume of smoke that choked a town of 20,000. For years neighbors had complained that the pile of tires was not only a blight on the rural area, but also a tinder box. The State Department of Natural Resources had been unsuccessful in persuading the owner, Thomas Springer, to comply with his permit for only 200,000 tires.

There are tremendous amounts of used tires that need to be recycled. And the State feared steep fines would bankrupt an especially prodigious gatherer of used tires–Springer continued to collect tires even while the fire raged.

Many of the pre-fire complaints were submitted to the Watertown Daily Times’ "Voice of the People." The aftermath was also discussed there. Predictably, most letters took the form of "We told you so." To which the following is an unedited response:

To the Editor, Daily Times:

First of all I would wish all the criticism would stop. My fianc

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Embarrassed in the Slope

Paveby L. Tucker

I’m walking down Seventh Avenue maybe five years ago. I’ve always got time to kill, between leaving work at 5:30 and writer’s group at 8 p.m. 

June is a nice time to explore the neighborhood. I decide to do some window-shopping.

I’m a couple of blocks from the Dance Studio on Union Street where we usually meet. But we’re not meeting there tonight because of the heat. Instead we’re meeting at air conditioned Ozzie’s on Lincoln Place. I’m enjoying the walk, but something doesn’t feel right.

Something around the hip area.

What panties did I put on this morning? Then I realize the danger I am in.  They’re the Gap panties that look deceptively brand new, the ones with the stretched out elastic.

I wonder if I can get to the Dance Studio without my underwear falling off. I’ve got two and a half blocks to go. My long, black skirt has a very high slit in the back. Not good.

I try walking fast, carefully. But it doesn’t stop the ribbon slide down my thighs.

I can’t just let my underwear fall down right on Seventh Avenue. I go slow trying to balance speed and agility. Finally I make the turn onto Union. My underwear is just above my knees as I
scoot as quickly as I can to 808 Union, where I ring the bell, go upstairs to the Dance Studio and adjust
my underwear as much as I can in a semi-private place. I tightly run into the bathroom and remove my panties.
<>

Quietly
and murmuring pleasantries, I leave the Dance Studio deciding to go
straight to Ozzie’s, so as not to get into any more trouble. Just a few steps away, I discover a $5 dollar bill wadded up and a little torn on the ground. Today is my lucky day. I  order a latte.

At writer’s group, we eat cake and drink coffee as we read our work. Toward the end, I feel a  distinct rumbling in my stomach. "Do you want us to walk you to the subway?" Louise asks. "No thanks," I say, hurrying them off. I need to use the ladies room before going back to the city.

It’s a unisex one. It could be cleaner but isn’t the worst I’ve seen. I reach for the toilet tissue – tissue, I discover. There is one square. Damn. Now I wish I hadn’t sent Louise off. I’m checking my bag for any kind of tissue. Naturally there’s nothing.  I
use every inch of that square as efficiently as I can and I must say
that I’m actually pretty proud of what I was able to do with that
square.


In
the attempt not to tempt fate any more than I have to, I decide against the $1.50  subway ride home, opting instead for an expensive cab.


I think about writing a letter to the Gap. I mean, I like their jean jackets and all, but can they please make a decent pair of panties: the kind with waistbands that last as long as the panties themselves.

 

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_MEMORY CAR

6928584lby Louise Crawford

Yesterday my husband and I drove his mother’s old diesel Mercedes up to Sonora, an old gold mining town in the Sierra foothills. We were on mission to pick up the orange Porsche 914/6 he inherited from his uncle who died in 2002.

More than 2 years ago, my husband delivered his sports car to the garage of a world famous Porsche race car driver and mechanic. And it’s been in rehab ever since.   Prior to 2002, the car spent more than 18 years in a barn and was covered in mud, bird poop and the exhaust of bats (pictured to the left: the car after it was initially cleaned up).

We were pleased to see that this man was able to bring the car back from oblivion. He even had it painted the original bright pumpkin orange– OMIGOD ORANGE. You can’t miss it.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The car was such a mess the last I saw it. Truth be told, I was pretty furious that he wanted to spend so much money repairing a car he would rarely use. But I knew it was  full of emotional value;  it was important, in memory of his uncle, that the car be restored to its former glory.

Seeing that bright orange car glowing in the sun, I understood why it meant so much to my husband. For the moment, I was even able to overlook the outrageous amount of money we’d spent to fix up the thing.

Truly, the  car is a thing of beauty: A work of art to behold and drive in with the top down.

I followed behind the orange Porsche in his mother’s sluggish Mercedes. My husband looked so happy driving the car down Route 49 to Tracy – even if it still made some funny noises and the carburetor sputtered a bit. It was a momentous day, really. A day for celebrating the car and the man who used to own it.

THE GREAT OFFICIAL SUBWAY MUSICAL

Paul Leschen, OTBKB-Restaurants’ very own food writer, is musical director of The Official Subway Musical now playing as part of FringeNYC 2005. The composer, Debra Barsha, is a beloved music teacher at Park Slope’s Berkeley Carroll School. The following is a review by John Samuel Jordan, which I  found on the web.

Get your tokens (or Metrocards) now for this fast-paced, riotous ride through
the New York City subway system. Victor Verhaeghe (book,  lyrics, music)
and Debra Barsha (music) have put together a very, very funny, short one-act
musical entitled The Great Official Subway Musical. I must also give note
to Ira Gasman, who wrote the lyrics for the opening number entitled

MUSICAL BY PARK SLOPER AT FRINGENYC 2005

 

SUV: The Musical!
Neo-Shtick Theater
Writer:Gersh Kuntzman and Marc Dinkin
Director: Eric Oleson
Choreographer: Katharine Workum
A
classic, three-hankie, "boy-meets-girl,
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POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Toto, We’re Not in Brooklyn Anymore

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by Louise Crawford

Today my husband and I did something unspeakable. Strange. Outright disgusting.

We shopped at Wal-Mart.

That’s what happens when you spend a few weeks in the Central Valley of California. You lose all perspective. Things are just, well, different out here.

For the month of August, we’re staying on a farm on the outskirts of Tracy, a small city 80 miles east of the San Francisco. When I first visited here 18 years ago, it was a large town with a struggling downtown, a Heinz plant, a few strip malls and lots and lots of farms – some of the best farmland in the world.

But things have really changed. There are still many beautiful farms including the one my husband grew up on. But much of the town has been covered with subdivisions – gated communities with identical homes.  A few years back a big mall came to town with a Target, a Sears, a food court, Old Navy, JC Penny, Barnes and Noble and a multiplex.

Fortunately, our side of town isn’t full of subdivisions – and it’s still considered ‘out in the country.’ There are some warehouses here and there but it’s a rural area with ranchettes and family farms with gorgeous view of the foothills of the Sierras.

Big sky, majestic clouds, rows and rows of fruit trees: we’re about as far as you can get from Third Street in Brooklyn. And that’s part of the reason I love to be out here – on the farm that is. I can do without the malls and the subdivisions.

So today, my husband and I went for a drive. And I was driving – because that’s what I do when I’m here. I drive just like everybody else. And we just drove and drove and drove and took care of a few errands. Red fabric was one of the things on our shopping list and we weren’t having any luck finding a fabric store.

Someone at  Target said that they sell fabric at Wal-Mart. So that’s how it happened: we decided to give Wal-Mart a try. It was quite innocent, really.

The parking lot was packed: It’s where all the people in this town shop. The store itself is a mostly charmless warehouse full of everything you could ever or never need.

Car parts, furniture, frozen food, socks, appliances, bathing suits, lunchboxes, tires, pencils, Barbie Dolls and on and on. We did find some fabric for my daughter’s sewing project and some elastic. And we couldn’t resist…

I must say, for all the talk of underpaid employees, the sales people were friendlier and more helpful than any I’ve come across in a while. As we were leaving, a man stood at the door thanking us for being there.

Still, we got out of there good and fast – before we spent too much money on things we don’t really need. I felt none of the excitement I feel when I’m in Target, that high-design emporium of basically the same stuff – it’s just so much nicer there.

Well, it’s done. When we got back, my mother-in-law said we’d done something shameful. We put our heads down and felt, well, fine. Just fine. It was an adventure, like driving, that everyone needs to do every now and again. Nothing to feel too bad about unless you’re planning to make a habit of it….

Serving Park Slope and Beyond