https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?34034-title The largest classic literature discussion forum on the Internet. Read Write Teach Share. en Fri, 05 Jun 2026 07:09:50 GMT vBulletin 10 https://www.online-literature.com/forums/images/misc/rss.jpg https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?34034-title https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5419-PostCards-From-New-York-City Fri, 16 May 2008 01:35:58 GMT In 1951, the Saturday Evening Post published a short story entitled THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMS, written by the brilliant Ray Bradbury. Sometime... In 1951, the Saturday Evening Post published a short story entitled THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMS, written by the brilliant Ray Bradbury. Sometime earlier, observing the ruins of an LA-area roller-coaster, the writer was impressed by its resemblance to a dinosaur and was inspired to write a dinosaur story. It centers around a sea serpent which emerges from the ocean around a lighthouse, attracted by the eerily vibrating sound of its fog horn. Meanwhile, a film with the working title MONSTER FROM BENEATH THE SEA was in production. Hoping to cash-in on Bradbury’s reputation, the producers bought the rights to his story: Bradbury changed the title of his piece to THE FOG HORN, while the film was retitled THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMS

Almost anyone who grew up during the Cold War tensions and contentions of the 50s and 60s (like me), experienced a host of doomsday science fiction films in which nature (regardless of being extant or extinct) is turned against human civilization. Fun-loving creatures which included giant ants, giant crabs, giant spiders and, naturally, giant dinosaurs all had their Saturday matinee moment of fame and infamy before being zapped in the final reel.

The film THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMS (1953) revolves around the lone survivor of and witness to the violent resurrection of a buried-in-the-ice dinosaur (affectionately known as “Beast”), thawed-out during an atomic test in the North Pole. Left in a state of shock, he’s flown in a whirl of cinematic dissolves to a NYC hospital (of all places) where he continues to shock everyone with his adventurous but incredible story. Meanwhile (and coincidentally), Manhattan just happens to be “hot” on the Beast’s itinerary and while the scientist tries to convince everyone that an angry dinosaur is on the loose, he’s cruising down the waters leading into New York.

He ultimately convinces a renowned and beloved paleontologist that the Beast truly exists, who’s even more convinced, later during an investigation, when he and his bathysphere are devoured after sighting the Beast deep below the sea. The Beast finally arrives in New York at the Fulton Fish Market (certainly their biggest catch of the millenium) and, not one to stand on formality, begins to destroy everyone and everything in sight.

Of course, by this time, most people (even New Yorkers) believe that something unusual is occurring, as the Beast rampages his way up Wall Street, treats himself to a policeman, topples a building or two here, crashes through the wall of another building there, and ends up in Coney Island (at least, a Hollywood version of it), featuring a cardboard roller-coaster where the Beast becomes holed-up for his last stand.

It’s determined that the atomic blast which resurrected the Beast is also leading to its re-interment: he’s dying as a result of radiation poisoning that is also affecting everyone that comes near him. A quickly-found radioactive isotope is quickly shot into the Beast which accelerates his “afterlife” (?!?) and he dies in a blaze of Ray Harryhausen-styled, stop-motion pathos.

As with most films of this genre, THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMS does as follows: teach a harsh lesson that conventional weapons are ineffective against gigantically unconventional invaders; provide a venue for weak acting and a tired script, outweighed (in this case) by great special effects; have a deus ex machina-like weapon (or gimmick) that saves the day amidst the rubble; and lastly and charmingly allow a pair of B actors to find romance. Having said that, I LOVED IT…in both my past and present forms, as kid and old goat.

Ray Bradbury’s THE FOG HORN is a minor masterpiece of subliminal and metaphorical depth. (The story seems to pose the question, “If energy is endless and transcends our temporal moments in time and space, could life itself follow this transcendentalism?”) Whereas the THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMS is pseudo-science fiction designed for entertainment, THE FOG HORN is pure science fiction designed for the intellect. Gone are the like of the North Pole, romantic interludes, New York City, stop-motion photography, radioactive isotopes and cardboard roller-coasters, etc.. These are replaced by a solitary lighthouse and a lighthouse keeper who had seen the serpent (as the dinosaur is termed here) the year before. He calculates when the serpent will return and invites a friend to witness its reappearance.

The serpent believes he hears a creature like itself in the sound of the fog horn. A love call, in fact, calling to him through the eons of time and place. He’s attracted to it three times: first, out of curiosity; then, out of love; finally, out of hate when the horn is turned off and, believing that he’s been rejected, destroys the lighthouse . The story is beautifully-written, with several underlying meanings that have virtually nothing (as far as I can see) to do with with the film it inspired. In much the same way the Ray Bradbury association happily launched the film, the film helped to make this little story deservedly famous and renowned for many of us amidst the celluloid afternoons of B movies calling to Baby Boomers everywhere: to read the fine print between and beyond the giant and lovable images. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5419-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5404-PostCards-From-New-York-City Tue, 13 May 2008 21:58:30 GMT One long ago and forgotten morning in 1894 or so, a man by the name of Samuel Benedict walked or ( more accurately) crawled into the Old... One long ago and forgotten morning in 1894 or so, a man by the name of Samuel Benedict walked or ( more accurately) crawled into the Old Waldorf-Astoria Hotel (where the Empire State Building now stands). He was suffering through the regretful aftermath of happy intoxication and his head was presumably clocked at T-minus 0 to blast-off. However, being a New York socialite he felt compelled to make his obligatory and dignified appearance at the breakfast table, rather than lay down and die like a normal person.

Despite his mournful and painful delirium, Benedict was still a resourceful man. He wouldn’t allow a headache, one to rival Mount St. Helens moments before its 1980 eruption, impede his concocting what he thought was the perfect remedy. He ordered a breakfast of poached eggs served on buttered toast and topped with bacon and hollandaise sauce. The fulsome Oscar, maitre d’hotel and professional sycophant, complimented Benedict on his desired miracle cure. But Oscar, not to be outdone and also a resourceful man in such moments of crisis and opportunities for bigger tips, added a modification. This brilliant steward of the idle rich substituted an English muffin for the toast and ham for the bacon, naming the dish in Benedict’s honor; hence, furthering, with this culinary appellation, his chances for increased and steady gratuities in the future.

Even though the Benedict/ Oscar breakthrough doesn’t rate with the great inventions and discoveries of human civilization (a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?…now that’s something!!!), the rich and aimless are a source of constant amusement and provide fascinating material for, among other things, posting purposes. It’s not even known if Benedict’s hangover was cured or not. In any event, I just had to find out exactly what eggs benedict was all about. There were times, in my ne’er-do-well but spirited days at NYU (a college which once offered the highest form of entertainment on earth), that eggs benedict could have helped me in those hungover:sick: mornings after and just before my first class: Calculus!!!. Then again, that sort of pretentiousness might have been too rich for my blood and I’d only come away with egg on my face:( …and all over the place.:lol: ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5404-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5388-PostCards-From-New-York-City Sun, 11 May 2008 15:39:47 GMT Pizza is undoubtedly one of America’s most popular foods; some would argue that it’s “the” most popular American food. At any rate, pizza is one of... Pizza is undoubtedly one of America’s most popular foods; some would argue that it’s “the” most popular American food. At any rate, pizza is one of America’s greatest inventions since the hot dog; again, some would argue that it’s “human civilization’s greatest invention since the wheel.” Let the experts and know-it-alls say what they will: Pizza is a Health Food!!!

If not for pizza, at least 25% of my teenage history, idled away in my neighborhood pizzeria (the jukebox playing my favorite songs), would have never existed. I would have to rewrite that entire portion of it, after putting so much careless effort into its creation. Lenny’s Pizza Oasis was my venue for countless hours of baseball disputes with Tony “Romeo” and heated “existentialist” arguments with Louie “The Brain” and mind-boggling monologues with M&M (”Moochie the Moocher”). All of this as we awaited Terry the “Sidewalk Goddess” and Angie the ” Venomous Virgin” to show-up and provide us guys with technical support and sensual delusions.

Moving right along….

Pizza’s origins are vague and the word itself wasn’t recorded in the U.S. until 1935; the term “pizzeria” was first used in 1943 and “pizza parlor” in 1948. The most amazing thing is the way a portion of pizza is referred to in different parts of the country.

New Yorkers, then and now, always referred to a serving of pizza as a “slice.” Always and forever…to do otherwise would, in my proudly hackneyed Italian neighborhood, have one marked as “strange”…maybe as a “Commie!” Imagine my state of shock-and-awe when I first traveled to other parts of America and heard terms like “piece” and “cut” used when ordering the sacred “slice” of New York City’s own (as I’d once thought) creation; this was sacrilege of the highest magnitude. I, of all people, was look upon as “strange” (probably a Commie too) when I tried to order a “slice” (yes, I said it) of pizza.

If I were to travel back in time and reveal this cultural phenomenon to my beloved group at Lenny’s…WHAT would happen? Tony Romeo would work this talk of “cuts” and “pieces” into much ado about baseball, eventually telling me the story about the day Mickey Mantle autographed his baseball on Ball Day 1963…as he did thousands of times before. Louie The Brain would refer to Camus and Sartre and suddenly launch into his existentialist cantata about some tree falling in the forest and no one hearing it fall. The Sidewalk Goddess would simply look bored and bewildered and the Venomous Virgin would cast loving glances of hatred at me. Oh,…M&M (Moochie the Moocher) would simply continue eating, if someone else was paying. Yes, those were the good old days…no matter how one cuts, pieces or slices it.

[An excerpt from ON BORROWED TIME IN BROOKLYN, the novel I'm currently working on...which explains my current state of insanity.] ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5388-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5352-PostCards-From-New-York-City Thu, 08 May 2008 19:34:23 GMT I might have visited Radio Row for the first time in the spring of 1961. My father took me along with him on one of his frequent excursions there to... I might have visited Radio Row for the first time in the spring of 1961. My father took me along with him on one of his frequent excursions there to find yet another replacement tube for our RCA television set. This set was (to me, a 7-year old) a colossus of electronic bewilderment, encased within mahogany, standing tall and imposingly in our living room like the Monolith of “2001: A Space Odyssey.” The picture would take an aggravating eternity (maybe longer) to come on, if it came on at all, and its electronic appetite would gobble-up tubes like a sponge. However, the most terrible thing about this monstrosity was its uncanny ability to conk-out during my favorite shows; “Mr.Ed” in particular. Right in the middle of “Hello. My name is…” silence; no sound, no picture, and no Mr. Ed.

A tube on the outer edge of this television’s apparent jungle of tubes was at once the usual culprit and easiest to replace without calling a repairman. Even my father could replace it without risking the chance of having the set explode; hence, the visits to Radio Row. If I had thought that our set had a lot of tubes, I hadn’t seen anything yet.

Along twisting and winding streets named Albany, Greenwich, Carlisle and Liberty, were piled rows of over 300 street level stores above which tottered numerous related businesses, their shelves virtual mountains stacked with vacuum tubes, transistors, condensers, and every other conceivable electronic accessory known and unknown to human civilization. This was the Garden of Eden for every ham radio enthusiast, do-it-yourselfer and maniac there ever was or ever could be, whose complexity made our formidable TV back home look like a bread box.

“EVERYTHING IN TELEVISION AND RADIO,” “IF WE DON’T HAVE IT, IT DOESN’T EXIST,” proudly proclaimed scattered signs throughout Radio Row’s tangled maze of modern and moldering marvels, stuffed with gadgets, gizmos and other electrifying curiosities. When the area haphazardly sprung-up in the 1920s, it dealt almost exclusively with radio tubes; in the post-war years it diversified to include television sets, WWII era electronic surplus, stereos, shortwave radios, all neatly marked with a unique RADIO ROW tag.

We entered what could be best described as a “crack in the wall” between two cluttered vendors’ tables, into an impossibly crammed and incredibly precise store. A small elderly man, who easily remembered the days before radio itself, greeted us. My father giving him the model/ serial numbers of the required tubes, he quickly disappeared into his inscrutable sanctum and just as quickly reappeared with those glass bubbles; there was magic in those days…or so it seemed.

When we arrived home, I watched my father insert the tubes into their respective slots within the Monolith; the power turned on, the tubes slowly glowed one, two, then five, six…and the picture tube would illuminate and sound the action on the screen. This is how “Mr. Ed,” “The Abbott and Costello Show,” “The Honeymooners” and the entire host of my favorite shows arrived in my home. All thanks to that dilapidated magic place called Radio Row which I’d thought would last forever. As I watched Mr. Ed that week, I think I heard my parents talking about Radio Row being replaced by a skyscraper complex, towering higher than the Empire State Building (which, we deemed, was impossible). But that was in the future…in my child’s world of vacuum tubes and condensers, today was the future. In the later 60s, I would remember Radio Row, as I watched two strange-looking columns rising in Lower Manhattan, against the blare of my transistor radio and a gasoline station selling gasoline at 40 cents a gallon outside the corner of my eye…thinking it would last forever, in days when forever used to be a long time. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5352-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5351-PostCards-From-New-York-City Thu, 08 May 2008 19:14:41 GMT I’m absolutely sick and tired of New York City’s war on terror's security obstacles and spectacles. Since 9/11, the sight of barricaded streets, restricted building areas, security checkpoints, and similar curtailments of liberties, have taken their toll on most people’s ability to suspend disbelief and anxiety attacks. If anything, as I remember that amazing day (even putting aside its mythical elements), the attacks were from the sky; and the supposed terrorists didn’t force but bought their way on to the four flights. Since then, our NORAD defense system hasn’t received any modification nor funding, airport security is steadily decreasing, and our borders are left mostly unguarded. Regardless of those technicalities, we have these anti-terrorist exhibitions and sideshows here in New York.

But what I find the most aggravating is the off-and-on again appearance of an army of Commando Joe-types with grimacing looks and snarling dogs that suddenly materialize throughout the city for their place in the sun and shade.They’re currently appearing on subway platforms and trains everywhere for the menacing entertainment of news photographers and rush hour commuters along the rails.

It’s so comforting to ride the F-train (as I did today) and have a John the Evangelist seated to my right droning on that “I saw Jesus, yes I did, he was there before me, yes he was…” and standing to my left a Commando Joe with the barrel of a submachine gun at my shoulder and a stressed-out, bomb-sniffing Rin-Tin-Tin, curiously nosing into my tote bag,while a crowd of humanity submissively compressed and rattled around me; all of this while minding my own business reading Shirer’s THE RISE AND FALL OF THE THIRD REICH…getting more meaning out of each page as our train followed the tracks.

How happy I was to discover that this is only one in a number of anti-terror programs funded with the latest Homeland Security grant: $151.2 million dollars. There are more such programs to come to equal the absurdity of those that have gone. However, I guess if the city is handed that amount of money they’re forced to spend at least some of it on something for the sake of appearance, while the rest is tucked away…but for whose security?

In a burst of momentary insanity, I thought of voicing these concerns to Commando Joe. But when I glanced up to him and he glared down at me and even Rin-Tin-Tin began to growl from below, I remained silent; lately, I’m not really sure as to WHO our leaders really perceive as the enemy. I glanced over to John the Evangelist who was growing ever more convinced that he “saw Jesus” and “yes” he did, and, for a moment, hoped that he was right…we need all the help we can get. Then again, Jesus himself, dressed in his traditional attire, would probably be shot on sight as a Middle Eastern insurgent. I went back to reading my book, so grateful that America won the Second World War; but Shire’s masterpiece could be subject to revision. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?5351-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2817-PostCards-From-New-York-City Sun, 12 Aug 2007 08:21:24 GMT The New York Subway system has had more than its share of urban legends. Especially over the past thirty or forty years, a massive and strange... The New York Subway system has had more than its share of urban legends. Especially over the past thirty or forty years, a massive and strange collection of tales and stories evolved that are as massive and strange as NYC's netherworld of rapid (usually) transportation. Weird and dangerous creatures were said to lurk along the hundreds of stations and miles of tracks which comprise the subway: monsters and zombies, ghosts and vampires, snakes and alligators (the bigger the better, of course) were rumored to reside there. (Then again, considering what I've seen on the IRT, these legends may be true after all...but I digress.) Of all these stories, the strangest may be that of the "mole people."

In 1993 a writer by the name of Jennifer Toth published a work entitled MOLE PEOPLE which made a minor sensation, especially among readers drawn to the odd and unusual. In her work Toth claimed to have had "first-hand knowledge" that communities of homeless people were living in NYC's subways and that she personally observed several "subway communities" with "elected mayors," "families with kids," and "housing arrangements that included hot showers." She even witnessed a "mole person hunt, kill, cook, and eat a rat." Along a stretch of track beneath Harlem, she interviewed a "group of toughs who boasted that they were contract killers." (via The Straight Dope)

Of course, the homeless problem is very real (in addition to the existence of numerous abandoned stations, tracks, etc.) and scores of these homeless unfortunates have lived and died in the city's subways and continue to do so today. In the early 90s, when the crisis was at its apex, homeless people numbering in the thousands were reported to be living down there. A ride on the subway wouldn't be complete without spotting at least one of these human tragedies in states of delirium or unconsciousness, flopped upon station benches or sprawled along floors and corridors. Several homeless persons wandering the tracks were hit and killed by trains or electrocuted by third-rails or merely found dead, "cause of death unknown." The Straight Dope's Cecil Adams initially believed Jennifer Toth's claims for the simple reason that much of what she asserts is based on this sad reality...until Joseph Brennan stepped-in. Brennan is a New York City railroad buff who alleges that everything that she has written in MOLE PEOPLE is either "entirely wrong" or outright lies. Brennan devotes an entire web page refuting Toth's research.

Made a little bit more savvy by Brennan's knowledge of the subway system and sensibly suspicious of Toth, Adams "revisited" the "Mole People" community. By way of example, this is how Brennan rejects Toth's section on Grand Central Station, as told through Adams: her "gothic rendition" of the tunnels beneath Grand Central Station resemble Tolkien's Mines of Moira, "descending six levels beneath" the subway tracks "without any complete blueprint," along with a network of abandoned and forgotten tunnels where "people with webbed feet" dwell in its lowest depths. Naturally, Brennan calls all of this nonsense and notes that the station wasn't built in "fits and starts but all in one go; very few of its tunnels are unused and all are well-documented. It doesn't have six levels...[it only has] two track levels and in places passageways, at one or two levels, below that." As for the webbed feet people...well, what do you think?

The song "New York, New York" (by the way, I DESPISE that song) says that if you "can make it here you can make it anywhere"...Toth must believe that you can also MAKE-UP ANYTHING here and it will be BELIEVED ANYWHERE!!! Brennan washes away her entire "Mole People" story like a tidal wave would a sand castle, disproving her fiction that (with "added" tracks, stations, levels, passageways) makes the NYC subway system "grow" in size by at least twenty-percent. While her fantastically redesigned stations and such that appear in MOLE PEOPLE might seem credible to people unfamiliar with the subways here, most who ride the rails will know that much of this doesn't (and never did) exist outside of a very ambitious imagination.

Toth's MOLE PEOPLE is yet another instance of a writer exploiting reality to enhance and give credence to a fictional work. Take an abandoned station here, a forgotten track there, a poor wretch or two possibly everywhere, and entertain your readers (and entertain your publisher financially) with something out of Dante's Inferno...and all this time I'd thought the subway system looked bad enough, and had already gone to Hell and back again without anyone's help. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2817-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2774-PostCards-From-New-York-City Sun, 05 Aug 2007 07:51:55 GMT One of the few (yet ever-threatened) establishments in New York City to have withstood and defied the winds of change for nearly 160 years is... One of the few (yet ever-threatened) establishments in New York City to have withstood and defied the winds of change for nearly 160 years is McSorley's Old Ale House. Located at 15 East 7th. Street in Manhattan's East Village, this is truly an old-fashioned saloon in every sense: from the memorabilia (none of it removed since 1910) that adorns its walls down to its sawdust floors. This was a "men only" sort of joint where "men were men" and women were excluded until 1970.

Famous people ranging from Abraham Lincoln to Boss Tweed to E.E. Cummings to John Lennon have passed (and sometimes passed-out) through McSorley's; the less famous (such as myself in my NYU days) were often observed there in states of mirthful ossification. Cummings wrote a poem describing McSorley's as "the ale which never lets you grow old"....and described the bar as "snug and evil." (Let me add here that after one of my visits to McSorley's, I actually understood Cummings' poetry!!!...if only for a brief spell.)

While McSorley's possesses the ambience of an Olde New York saloon, it also possesses its deficiencies. A motto which stated "Good Ale, Raw Onions and No Ladies" was updated (thankfully) in 1970 with the admittance of women (and ladies) ,while leaving the good ale and raw onions.

McSorley serves only two ales: light and dark, priced at $4.50; each order consisting of two half pints. Raw onions arranged around a cheese platter, with a condiment of extremely hot mustard, is about all the "cuisine" the good people (and they are good people) have to offer a patron. Finally, when the unfailing urge to visit the restroom comes upon a drinker of beer, McSorley's "restrooms" are second to none in total lack of grace and comfort...be he or she drunk or sober.

However, for those who love a taste of New York City's past (or the past in general), McSorley's will offer that in all its heartwarming and disappointing glory.

(Acknowledgements: Wikipedia/related links) ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2774-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2727-PostCards-From-New-York-City Tue, 31 Jul 2007 18:20:37 GMT Rumors have always resonated in the fading remains and vanished sights of Coney Island's once-upon-a-time glory that its final summer would eventually arrive. As constant and determinate as the waves that crash along its shores, as woeful as the increased presence of abandoned rides and attractions falling into decay, is the sound of Coney Island's swan song emanating from teetering calliopes and tottering sounds of mirth. This once great amusement park, famous throughout much of the world, is now only a shadow of its former self and is in its death throes: its final summer has finally arrived, and its visitors seem to be going through the motions of having a good time as gentrification inevitably moves in.

Of course, I don't expect the world to be overwhelmed by grief and sadness at Coney Island's demise. Most of you are probably bored by my topic; at best, you're indifferent to it and little concerned by what concerns me so much. Admittedly, even in its Golden Years, Coney Island was often tacky in appearance and foolish in attraction; indeed, it was always considered cheap and gaudy...even by many that loved the place. But in spite of its obvious shortcomings, it was truly loved by the millions who came to know this sandbar of cheap thrills and delights; it was a major part of Brooklyn and loved as a major part of New York City's extended family.

Coney Island is the birthplace for (among other things) the American hotdog (the Nathans' frank) and the roller-coaster (the "Cyclone" in particular). For at least three decades it has lived off of that reputation; but reputation doesn't pay the bills and present day financial reality is unconcerned with sentiment and nostalgia. Thor Equities, a mall and commercial real estate developer, plans a $1.5 billion redesign of the area which includes an upscale techno theme park with retail space, time-shared high rises and luxury hotels. A modernized Coney Island Amusement Park with vertical roller-coasters and digitally-operated fun houses will replace the low-tech rides and arcades that dwindle there now.

Many argue that Coney Island would merely be going back to its own beginnings. In the 19th-century, the idle rich of the city recreated themselves at the grand hotels and exclusive shore of nearby Manhattan Beach; the working classes sought recreation at Coney Island's cheap vaudeville houses and revolutionary amusement rides. In the years to come, Luna Park (which was possibly the first theme park) arose: a dazzingly-lit, fantasy city of globes, spires and minarets, bringing to Coney Island more "sophisticated" visitors. Later came Steeplechase Park which featured mechanical horses that rode on rails along the periphery of this hodgepodge arena of thrilling-spilling rides and curiosities. The "Parachute Jump" (which was originally the LIFESAVER'S exhibit at the 1939 NYC World's Fair) arrived in 1941 and the "Cyclone" (with two other major roller-coasters: the "Tornado" and "Thunderbolt") was erected in the 20s along with the "Wonder Wheel." These, along with a host of other freakish attractions and fanciful rides that came and went, formed the legend of Coney Island down to the waves of its crowded beach.

But all good things of fancy (sometimes even of fact) must come to an end: Luna Park burned-down in 1944 and Steeplechase Park closed-down in 1965; the rise of theme parks and various "adventure lands" that accompanied the suburban exodus in the 50s and 60s were the first inklings of Coney Island's fate. AstroLand, a haphazard attempt to keep in step with the new theme park craze, was doomed from the start...shadows of it surviving today in Coney Island's final hours.

Luckily, for those of us who care, the Parachute Jump and the Cyclone cannot be torn down: they're designated as historical landmarks and will stand on the edges of the proposed New Coney Island as relics of a bygone age besides the glitter and glitz of modernization. Now that I come to think of it, this is something that Coney Island has always done, both in its Golden Age and Rusted Age: hearkening back to a former time that forever looked ahead and beyond its self. I remember myself as a child on one of its merry-go-rounds (enraptured and perplexed by all that surrounded me), always attempting to grasp the brass ring but never succeeding...always telling myself: one day I'll grasp it!--maybe. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2727-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2694-PostCards-From-New-York-City Thu, 26 Jul 2007 10:31:03 GMT New York City has never been known for its haunted houses...and for good reason: there aren't any here!!! Throughout the entire city, there's not one genuine haunted house of any fascinating distinction or old-fashioned merit. Ghosts and goblins never seemed to blend into the city's "melting pot" of fast-paced nine-to-five hours and meat-and-potatoes grittiness. Since the time that New York City was called New Amsterdam, and despite millions having resided and having passed-on into the "big sleep" of destiny, not one dearly departed resident is known to have ever dearly returned.

Shirley Jackson's Hill House, for instance, would have as much a chance as a snowball in hell next to the squeal of the IRT speeding through the ground and a construction crew boring through the ground for its haunted ambience. How the eerie peace and hallucinating quiet, crucial to ghost-seekers everywhere, would prove to be ultimately impotent. Henry James' Bly Manor would also fail NYC's stark reality; its governess, her two precocious charges and the alleged spooks influencing their play, fading into absurdity. Even the PSYCHO Home of "maternal devotion" would look more like another shack awaiting the wrecking-ball, and Norman Bates just another psychotic in a long list of similar psychotics (of course, not quite with Norman's versatility).

Which brings me to Alfred Hitchcock the Master of Suspense who, in 1956, came to NYC in search of an authentic haunted house, in his own playfully eccentric and ambitiously perverse manner.

Meyer Berger, a former columnist for the New York Times, wrote that "the town has gone so utterly modern in mid-twentieth century that, even with more than 8,008,000 souls in its 2,000,000 dwellings, researchers have not been able to turn up a single ghost for a haunted chamber." Hitchcock planned to host a "haunted house party" in the city along with such macabre touches apropos to its novelty: "coffin bars, spectral voices (hi-fi) behind drapes and old paintings" and all the other clever gimmicks and quaint devices that complement a haunted setting. But where would that setting be found?

Hitchcock had his publicists, Young and Rubicam, scour the town for a flat or house that was haunted by anyone or anything. He probably thought that a haunted house would be as easy to find in NYC as it may have been in his native Britain and, at first, his team "just asked around" for a richly haunted abode at a modest rental cost. After weeks of futile searching, Y and R were ready to settle for any house that "just looked haunted, even if it wasn't." At the suggestion of a colleague, Hitch began considering the abandoned wine cellars along the Manhattan end of Brooklyn Bridge.

"Hitchcock was delighted with the deserted old wine caverns. They were dank. Their walls had phosphorescent glow. Even whispers started noble rolling echoes in the place....Mr. Hitchcock could have complete freedom in these spooky precincts." There was one "hitch" to Hitch's sinister party plans: there was no plumbing which meant no washrooms...of course, the many women Hitchcock was expecting at his party would never attend such an inadequate affair, despite its ghostly potential. When he learned that temporary fixtures for the caverns would be too expensive, that location fell through.

Hitchcock then went to the Old Merchant's House at East Fourth Street, the former Tredwell Mansion, which is vaguely reputed to contain a ghost (albeit a somewhat feeble and senile one). The Tredwell kin who were running the place as a public museum, "coldly" turned Hitchcock down when they learned that the great director intended to use their property for a party. While still recovering from that disappointment, Hitchcock received more bad news when he consulted the American Psychic Research Society which reported that "there are no ghosts left in this city of chrome and concrete...though New York ghosts were active up to a decade ago." (This supports my own long-held belief that ghosts moved to the suburbs amidst the 1950s mass migration of adventurers).

Now Hitchcock REALLY became serious and took DESPERATE MEASURES: he advertised for a haunted house in the NY Times real estate section. After the usual string of phone calls that ranged from real estate agents to screwballs, Hitchcock narrowed his prospects down to three: a "house at West Forty-sixth Street with a built-in phantom lady; a private house in East Seventy-seventh street; a lovely old cobwebby mansion at East Eightieth Street, abandoned and gloomy." (this became Hitch's choice). While no actual spirits may have shown-up at the party, I'm sure that the spirits were flowing just the same...and for Hitch, what could have been better? But will someone please send in the ghosts!!!

(Source: The New York Times "Quest for Haunted Houses Here Finds Ghosts Shun Metropolis of Steel and Concrete" by Meyer Berger; originally published: February 29, 1956) ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2694-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2667-PostCards-From-New-York-City Sat, 21 Jul 2007 08:03:11 GMT Over the years, many apes of various shapes and sizes have passed through New York City's tangled confusion with varying degrees of success. Some have prospered and thrived, while others were left penniless and forlorn. Some have become renowned and legendary figures, while others became figures of derision and ridicule. Some apes were even elected to city government, joining other less-developed forms of life there. But one ape experienced the entire spectrum of highs and lows; working his way from the very top to the very bottom, one week in April 1983.

King Kong (formerly of Skull Island) was forced to relocate to NYC (if only, as it turned out, a short-lived move) and make it his home...and make it his home he did!!! Never before, or since, did an ape "do the town" the way Kong did it, with time and energy to spare. Learning self-reliance and initiative from his free and easy days on the island (battling a prehistoric beast here, a strange-looking intruder there), Kong was more than ready for his trip to New York and his star-crossed but high-spirited romance with Fay Wray. Alas, just when it seemed that the Big Ape had mad a monkey of the Big Apple and had achieved the heights of love and that of the Empire State Building, a squadron of biplanes ruined the King's plans for a triumphant municipal and nuptial future.

Any ape that comes to New York and makes a spectacle of himself atop the Empire State Building will invariably run into trouble: the bigger the ape, the bigger the trouble. This is what King Kong experienced in 1933 and this is what happended again in 1983 when the 50th anniversary of the film was being commemorated.

A probably well-meaning but hopelessly unfortunate group of promoters constructed a 3,000 pound, eight-story nylon balloon model of the late and legendary ape, which they intended to tether outside the 86th floor of the Empire State Building (minus Fay Wray, of course) for all to see. From the start, things went wrong with the ape-balloon suffering a blowout in its armpit during a test and dangling in a heap from the side of the building, bringing disappointment to eager onlookers. Undaunted, the promoters (after correcting the tangled tethers and repairing the punctured hole) cheerfully announced that Kong was still scheduled to make his debut for his seven- to ten-day appearance the next day. With millions of people watching on television, and hundreds of thousands along the streets and highways of the city craned for a glimpse of the ape, the Empire State Building was there...but no King Kong. And the next day came and the next, with no King Kong or just sporadic, momentary sightings of his inflated image...looking like an escapee from a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

The promoters continued the ballyhoo as if nothing untoward had happened. While Kong continued to foolishly dangle above, hemorrhaging air, in the lobby an endless series of press conferences featured government officials and corporations pledging services to the Kong Project in glowing terms and cynical posturings. King Kong-related memorabilia and souvenirs were on display and sold nearby, accompanied by a week of continuous showings of the film in revival theaters and on television. Hundreds of dignitaries and press representatives consumed hor d'oeuvres in the building's observatory as a man in a gorilla suit standing next to Harry Helmsley (then the owner of the Empire State Building) greeted everyone.

To add to the absurdity, dodging helicopters carrying news photographers and a few airliners flying special routes to give passengers a glimpse of the Kong balloon, two biplanes (replicas of those that had shot and killed Kong in the film) buzzed the building. By this time, however, no one really cared and most New Yorkers couldn't wait until the dignitaries, the officials and (especially) the promoters would get lost and take their balloon with them. King Kong had to have been rolling over in his grave during all of this...but such are the ups and downs of show biz concerning issues of ape and man. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2667-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2643-PostCards-From-New-York-City Wed, 18 Jul 2007 09:01:18 GMT The Egg Cream is an item of fact and fancy in Brooklyn's proud and questionable history. Controversial in its origins and awe-inspiring in its appeal, this was the nectar (the elixir) of choice for all the lesser gods and goddesses of Brooklyn's less than green and pleasant land. From far and wide (and a few inches, diagonally, to the right), both young and old would partake of the Egg Cream's revitalizing enchantment; an exhiliration that was such to make all laugh and sing in gleeful merriment under its magic spell.

What, you may be asking by now, could this Egg Cream be? What could bring such wonder and joy to people (except, perhaps, a bottle of Jack Daniels),even to half-crazed New Yorkers? Here, my dear readers (still wondering if this blog could get any worse),are the ingredients for this magic potion (the aforementioned nectar and elixir) for such amazement: seltzer water, chocolate syrup and milk.

Yes, that's the magical Egg Cream which doesn't contain any eggs nor any cream; its name is thought to be derived from the frothy head that builds from the sweetened fizz. The drink has to be downed quickly as not to lose the head and it's an exclusive soda fountain concoction. Efforts to bottle it have always met with failure, due to the mixture of milk, seltzer water and chocolate syrup spoiling with prolonged contact with each other.

A Jewish candy store owner in Brooklyn by the name of Louis Auster is commonly believed to have invented the Egg Cream in 1890. It's said that he sold 3,000 Egg Creams a day until he closed. After an argument with ice cream executives (they called him by a racial slur) who wanted to buy his formula for a small sum, he vowed to take the secret of his Egg Cream to his grave; to the present day, his family has not revealed the formula.

The (sans a soda fountain) recipe, used for decades in lieu of Mr. Auster's masterful touch, is as follows: 1 cup bottled seltzer water; 2 tablespoons chocolate syrup (Fox's U-Bet is THE SYRUP in NYC). Pour 1/2 inch cold milk into tall soda glass. Mix seltzer within 1-inch of top of glass, stirring vigorously. Slowly pour 2 tablespoons of chocolate syrup down inside of glass, stirring briskly only at bottom. The drink should be dark brown with a 1-inch high pure white foam at the top.

A properly-made Egg Cream was one of the joys of a summer day. There were many candy store owners (or soda jerks) who would bring instant delight to us anxious kids with a dark brown/white-foamed gem of an Egg Cream, and just as many who would bring disappointment with a "flat tire"...it was all in the mix and fizz. While I'm somewhat famous among my friends for my great coffee brews and clever martinis (stirred not shaken), I always try to recreate at least one good Egg Cream from days gone by. As with childhood, they're simple; but, as with childhood, impossible to recapture with the same freshness.

(Acknowledgements: Wikipedia/related links) ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2643-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2607-PostCards-From-New-York-City Sun, 15 Jul 2007 10:44:09 GMT Numerous fissures and cracks can be observed on many buildings along the intersection of Seventh Avenue and Sterling Place, in the Park Slope section... Numerous fissures and cracks can be observed on many buildings along the intersection of Seventh Avenue and Sterling Place, in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. This quiet, upscale neighborhood, less than a half-mile north of Prospect Park, goes about its daily business with little notice for defects in a city so rife with fissures, cracks, potholes, etc., all symptomatic of an urban enviroment; like the scars on a person's flesh, these bear silent witness to the ups and downs of life. But, in this case, what can be observed in Sterling Place are indeed SCARS that are mementos of an event that occurred there on the morning of December 16, 1960: this nation's worst air disaster, at the time.

In 1960, Sterling Place was a crumbling, neglected neighborhood. It was one of the first Brooklyn regions to see its residents disappear on the wave of aspirations to suburbia. Places like Levittown were the "neighborhoods of the future" and everyday it seemed that carloads of people were driving towards that future. Sterling Place was hardly noticed even by Brooklyn residents who, when they passed through it at all, were on their way to Prospect Park (itself a "poor man's version" of Central Park).

That fateful morning nearly 47 years ago was windy and snowy; an ice-laden darkness of clouds and mist cloaked the skies and pavement. In Sterling Place, two men were selling Christmas trees near the Pillar of Fire Church while another shoveled snow; the church's 90-year old caretaker was asleep inside. Across the street at St. Augustine's Academy, class was in session while a man walked his dog pass the McCaddin Funeral Home.

No one would have known or would've had any reason to be concerned that two airliners were headed toward New York City: a TWA Constellation which had taken-off from Columbus,Ohio and bound for LaGuardia Airport; a United Airlines DC-8 which had taken-off from Chicago's O'Hare Airport and bound for Idelwilde (now JFK) Airport. As the planes approached New York City, visibility had dropped to zero and the planes were forced to fly on instrument navigation. Everything appeared to be proceeding normally, except for an instrument problem that the DC-8 had reported to United Airlines but failed to report to Air Traffic Control.

Now within New York City airspace, the two planes assumed their respective holding patterns (or "victors"): the Constellation (or "Connie") in the lower Linden Position, from a designated point in Linden, New Jersey; the DC-8 in the higher Preston Position, from a designated point in Preston, New Jersey. (These positions are still used today and many flights approach LaGuardia or JFK from a northerly or southerly position over Staten Island to their eventual landing.)

For reasons that are still a mystery, the DC-8 overflew its Preston Position and, at a speed of over 500 mph, descended into the lower Linden Position putting it in the path of the slower-moving Constellation. Air Traffic Control observed two blips merge on their radar as the DC-8's right wing tore through the Connie's passenger section, ripping the plane into three pieces that plummeted to the ground in Miller Field (an abandoned military base) on Staten Island.

The critically damaged DC-8 struggled on for 8 more miles (eerily, almost on course for a normal landing) over the Narrows and over Prospect Park toward Sterling Place. Witnesses reported that the plane looked as if it were attempting an emergency landing in the Park, but experts believed that the pilots had lost all control of the plane since the collision. At a speed of about 200 mph, the doomed DC-8 barely cleared St. Augustine's Academy, its right wing then clipping a house that sent the plane careening to the left and into the Pillar of Fire church where another section of the main cabin broke off and was hurled through the McCaddin Funeral Home. The neighborhood was an inferno of horrors as flames and smoke, debris and dead bodies, were tossed and strewn throughout Sterling Place (among the dead, the two men selling Christmas trees, the man shovelling snow, the man walking his dog and the elderly caretaker). In total, 135 were killed...(airliners in those days not as large as today's normally crowded configurations). This crumbled neighborhood was now truly crumbled and appeared dead; or so it was thought.

Citizen groups worked endlessly to rebuild Sterling Place and, with help from (and concessions to) corporations, the once depressed neighborhood wasn't just famous for a disaster but recognized for its revitalization as a thriving community: now one of the most exclusive areas in Brooklyn, it was certainly a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.

Nonetheless, in spite of all of this, an 11-year old boy by the name of Stephen Baltz shouldn't be forgotten. He was on-board the DC-8 and was briefly the lone survivor. He remained conscious and displayed a courage and charm that won the hearts of all that met him; newspapers across America carried news about this exceptional boy. In spite of every effort to save him, he died peacefully at 1 o'clock the next afternoon. One of the last things Stephen remembered before the collision was how beautiful New York City looked covered in snow: "It looked like a picture out of a fairy tale book."

(Acknowledgements: Wikipedia/related links) ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2607-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2591-PostCards-From-New-York-City Thu, 12 Jul 2007 21:10:25 GMT This is a great city for outdoor concerts and similar events. Every summer it's a joy to get out there amidst the heat and humidity, traffic and crowds (swarms of mosquitos at night), and get our "fair share of abuse" at an outdoor concert. Since my wife and I take a delightful interest in the inevitably absurd (possessing a Voltaire-like appreciation for it) we frequently attend such al fresco spectacles; besides, our love for music borders on the insane. Hence, we pack-up some wine, cheese, crackers and tranquilizers and eagerly drive towards our particular destination.

The New York Philharmonic opened its free Concert in the Parks series in Prospect Park (Brooklyn) the other night; they perform in each of the five boroughs during the course of each summer. Despite the ever-present threat of storms looming on the horizon (which, of course, added even more heat and humidity to the scene) thousands of people showed-up for the free concert. Here we all were, in the Park's fields, looking casual and comfortable (outwardly, at least) and sprawled-out on the grass partaking of our trendy refreshments.

To give the surroundings a festive look, the Philharmonic decided to adorn it with multi-colored balloons...which were very lovely but blocked most views of the stage; which, in turn, was flanked by towers of speakers/amps and an array of seemingly purposeless tents. Not that there was much to see from where we were sitting anyway (to the back and out there from beyond somewhere). With people going to-and-fro to our left and people getting-up and getting-down to our right, and the bulk of the aforementioned lurking in front of us, we settled on looking at the balloons.

The Philharmonic opened the concert with Berlioz' "Le Corsaire Overture" which came through beautifully...loud and clear pass the usual limitations of tinny, muffled-edged outdoor sound systems. Conductor Ludovic Morlot may have been so concerned with his opening piece that when he came to his next offering, Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto, everything seemed to verge on the uninspired...the Concerto itself being somewhat tacky. Soloist Stefan Jackiw, however, maintained a profound intent throughout the lacklustre accompaniment, but both soloist and orchestra seemed to reach a spirit of harmony by the Concerto's conclusion.

Within the quiet glow of candles and ancient lampposts (even a blurry moon that would intermittently peek through) the concert closed with the highlight of the evening: Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony (the "Pathetique"). The Philharmonic, after the short intermission, seemed better adjusted and handled this unevenly loud and somewhat boastful work with a subdued but appropriate orchestration. Surprisingly, with only a few gadflies here and there to break the mood (cellphone addicts and related thorns in life) there was a respectful silence as the Symphony came to its famously sudden and whimpering end.

The festivities were topped-off with a fireworks display that caught everyone's interest (including those who had fallen asleep). With infinite patterns of reds, whites and blues bursting through the darkness we made our way home; a sulphur-laced mist reverberating with explosive heat, following us toward the parking lot. It was a very enjoyable evening after all; our "fair share of abuse" was only based on sarcastic discontent and pessimistic theory...but I'm likely to reconsider that. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2591-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1130-PostCards-From-New-York-City Mon, 09 Jul 2007 10:00:33 GMT As the real world becomes increasingly more complex and difficult to comprehend, it shouldn't come as any surprise that people will exert their intellectual energies in the strange and otherwordly. With a "war on terror" that no one could make heads or tails out of, oil prices that have made oil tycoons a de facto ruling elite (along with the numerous other trials and tribulations afflicting this world), the outre and strange is receiving increased attention. From urban legends to "near-death experiences", and from vampires to ghosts and a host of other things that go "bump-in-the-night," these appear to have replaced reality with escapist fascination.

One of the most popular and famous of these fascinations is the Roswell Incident of 1947. Today it celebrates its 60th anniversary and the climate in Roswell, New Mexico is as ridiculous as ever. If it's possible that anyone out there doesn't know about Roswell, it's alleged by many that a UFO crashed there and that the government is hiding knowledge of extraterrestial life:alien: ; the military claiming that what actually crashed was a top-secret weather balloon. This claim was challenged by many over the ensuing years and the incident is commemorated and the government's claim challenged by a festival held in Roswell every year since the 1990s.

FAR be it from me to believe even a few things governments have to tell me (read my post SAY WHAT!!!); however, I won't spit out one hoax only to swallow an opposing hoax.:alien: The following is an example of how the government's cover-up of the Roswell UFO crash is being "commemorated" and "challenged":

A guitarist for a band called Element 115 named "Michael" (no last name) says he doesn't "think" a UFO crash occurred, he "KNOWS" it and "hands out his business card." He hopes to be the "house band for a huge theme park with amusement rides, a concert hall and a 300-room hotel shaped like a flying saucer." All this amidst a swarm of vendors hawking "trinkets and dolls, photo-ops with costumed aliens...and a kit to test whether your neighbor or boss is from outer space:lol: ...." Mayor Sam LaGrone:alien: is happy over the "economic boost" it will give the city of Roswell. (AP)

If people really want to examine a mystery that may be a much easier one to solve because a much easier one to question, I suggest this little item (since the Roswell fans are so interested in crashes, it should be right up their alley:idea: ): What REALLY happened on September 11, 2001? But I guess that wouldn't be as entertaining and certainly not as profitable...if I were one of the powers-that-be, I would certainly encourage more and more people to go to Roswell and related fantasy lands. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1130-PostCards-From-New-York-City https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1105-PostCards-From-New-York-City Fri, 06 Jul 2007 07:58:08 GMT I possess a unique talent which is only known to my closest and dearest friends, and that is my uncanny ability to be able to drive from New York to... I possess a unique talent which is only known to my closest and dearest friends, and that is my uncanny ability to be able to drive from New York to Florida...by way of California!!! When I venture beyond a 50 mile radius of this city, anything could happen (and it usually does) as I and anyone unfortunate enough to ask me for directions suddenly find themselves experiencing and exploring many new horizons in sightseeing. To the wonder and amazement of one and all, I could make the Sun thought to be to the left suddenly appear to the right as sites that were just passed magically appear again and the road ahead point inexorably nowhere...to the lasting delight of nearby convenience stores and gasoline stations. In short, my sense of direction SUCKS!!! And now you too, my enthralled readers and viewers out there on the Internet (in addition to several dozen motorists, probably still lost and unheard from somewhere in America) are now aware of my unique talent.

Even here within my hometown confines of the Big Apple, Mother Of All Apples and Apple Pie and Apple Sauce, Numero Uno Apple Supreme, I Love NY Apple, [excuse me, that was for another post] New York City, trouble is sure to follow when I'm asked for directions. Having been born here and having lived the vast majority of my life in Brooklyn and briefly in the other four boroughs which comprise this bedeviled metropolis, I know how to get to various places throughout the city based on a lifetime of trial, error and continued effort: from the constant trial of getting there, the constant error of winding-up elsewhere, and the continued effort in finally arriving somewhere (if not the place I was looking for, somewhere just as good or better). If a tourist asks me for directions to the Empire State Building (which is once again the tallest building in town), instructing someone how to get there isn't the same as getting there myself. The diverse ways and means to get around NYC, through a maze of routes and byways, could baffle the most seasoned traveler through this town. It's a "feel" for directions, an instinctive why and how of points leading to and away from certain points, that guide the way to a certain destination (at least for me). If it looks like a difficult one, I usually plead ignorance (which is easy for me) and mercifully pass that person asking me for directions onto someone else, lest he or she's plans for getting to Times Square lands him or her in Coney Island instead...which is about 18 miles from Times Square, here in Brooklyn.

However, in spite of their awareness of my incompetence for out-of-town directions and my peculiar means for in-town directions, my friends still come to me for advice concerning their personal problems. With the full knowledge of my being a navigational moron, they'll bring me everything from their marital to financial to spiritual problems and have ME, of all people, guide them along their various roads of existence and help them chart a correct course to take...and, miracle of miracles, I'm often successful. Maybe they've self-deceived themselves into presuming that I'm a "cool intellectual" whose advice actually has some merit. My female friends imagining me a "tall, dark and handsome" reliable type (while I'm somewhat tall, I'm not very dark and only arguably handsome) and my male friends have me figured for a "macho sage" who's been around the block several times (and I was, because I was either lost or looking for a parking space!!!). Maybe they're only looking for advice that's "off-the-beaten-path" and leads in an off-the-beaten-path direction. Regardless, I still get lost following my own advice (again, especially outside the city limits) and I wonder why my friends value it so much; but, if anything, driving to Florida from New York by way of California is certainly taking the scenic route and could be interesting: I try my best to keep everyone entertained while we all share in the expense. ]]> GrayFoxDown https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1105-PostCards-From-New-York-City