SMILE ON YOUR BROTHER

france shootungs

The news from France this week was as shocking as it was sad to hear. What is sadder and more shocking was the reason given for the slaughter.

In my experience, I have learned that as human beings we are all basically the same inside, we all have the same fears and desires indelibly stamped on our psyches. Yet we go through great lengths to point out and criticize those we perceive as different from us.

The French satirical magazine was fond of poking fun at everyone, from the Pope on down sparing no one particular political or religious bent. That in the end is the equivalent of someone saying, “I’m not prejudiced, I hate everyone.”

When I was a child, I was the only Mexican in my school. I was 18 before I encountered another Mexican in an academic environment, and that was at college. I endured a lot of taunts and ridicule at the hands of my peers, who incidentally for the years before high school were mostly black. They mercilessly teased me and told me to “Go back to my country.” There was not a lot I could do about it, the few times I did lash out physically I was the one who got in trouble, I remember a teacher telling me “Don’t forget, sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.”

But words do hurt, beyond measure. It’s easy to spout a platitude, not so easy to live by it. And as human beings, we are hurt and bullied collectively and lash out collectively in a lot more dangerous and final ways than a punch ion the face in the playground.

Hitler started a war because of hurt feelings and low self esteem, he was able to sell it to the German people because the German people were collectively suffering from hurt feelings and low self-esteem. During the war, German soldiers wore belt buckles embossed with the words: “Gott mit uns.” There is a funny line in William Wharton’s Midnight Clear where an American soldier tells a dead German soldier “We got mittens too.”

goot mit unsWe use humor to entertain ourselves, and sometimes to assuage our fears. Making fun of someone else’s looks, customs, or creed is a direct result of that fear. An enlightened person knows this, knows you are making fun of him because you are afraid, and either forgives you or tries to enlighten you.

An ignorant person reacts with pure visceral emotion, lashing out with as much violence as they can get away with, it is the only tool they have and know, how they have been brought up. An eye for an eye, and so forth.

The argument that most terrorists are young immature people reacting emotionally is a weak one though, because they have been nurtured and trained by older men (and women) who should know better but find it easier to continue to hate and fear than to try and establish a dialogue and rapport with their tormentors, and tormentors we are, the civilized Western nations that care not a whit about the customs and traditions of the less powerful. And we pay for our arrogance in blood.

The world over it is the same old story, the Catholics vs. the Protestants in Northern Ireland, the Jews and Palestinians in the Middle East, and even more paradoxically to a westerner as myself, Sunni vs. Shiite all over the world.

In the 8 years I lived in Williamsburg this last time, I saw a lot of Hassidic Jews, pretty much every day. On Saturdays during the summer an Amish family would come up from Pennsylvania to sell fresh produce a block from my home. The Amish women would all go to McDonald’s in the morning for breakfast, and watching them walk down the block together I thought it was remarkable how much they resembled the Hassidic women in the neighborhood.

I’m not an expert, I only know what I have observed and been told by Muslims and Jews alike, but to me the fundamentalist sects seem to share just about the same customs and world views. They are pretty much the same except for the name. I know they don’t see it that way; all they can see is the differences and find a way or reason to fear them and keep them separate.

Freedom of speech is a wonderful thing, without it I wouldn’t be able to express these opinions, but the one thing I’ve learned is tolerance and acceptance, and in learning that I know that ridiculing others for any reason at all is not a good thing. It didn’t feel good when others ridiculed me, and I try not to do it anymore. Yes, I am as guilty as the next guy of rolling the shit down the hill. But I’ve learned that my life is much less stressful when I worry about myself and let the other guy worry about himself, and let him be himself.

I wish others would do the same; the world would be a kinder, less violent place if we would only learn to accept our differences rather than to ridicule them or react to the ridicule in such a violent, irrational way.

The rich and powerful Western nations have an opportunity here to teach tolerance and understanding, to not react emotionally, to look at our part in this whole quagmire of conflicting yet comparable ideologies and beliefs. We have the power to teach and help eradicate ignorance by power of example.

When I was young there was a song that played on the radio, I liked it, but a lot of my friends ridiculed it for being “soft.” It was called Everybody Get Together by a group called The Youngbloods. The lyrics exhorted us to “Smile on your brother,” and for everybody to “Get together and love one another right now…”

Here’s the link if you want to hear the song: http://youtu.be/kRAhTY3Dwl0  

I think that song should be played everywhere all the time until we all get it, collectively as a human race. Then we can call ourselves human. Till then we are still animals with machine guns and atomic bombs instead of teeth and claws.

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I’LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS

Beth

Today is the third anniversary of Beth Young’s death. I wrote this that spring, and just had a look at it for the first time since then. I just thought I’d share it.

I’LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS

I met Beth at a picnic. I was sitting close to her, we were both part of a bigger group belonging to a self-help fellowship, and did not know each other. She said she liked my tattoos, and on closer examination of my arms, asked, “do you work out? Do you do push-ups?”
I was recently divorced at the time, and had not been on the dating scene for some twenty-odd years. You might say I had never been on the dating scene; when I was young, you met someone, and you got high together, and then went to bed, in that order. That was how I’d met my first wife.
Being new to the dating scene, I did not know that “do you work out?” is a pickup line. I was flattered that she’d noticed, I thought she was pretty, and it being the fourth of July, I asked her if she wanted to go see the fireworks on the FDR drive that evening. It was our first date.
We were both in our mid forties, she two years my senior, and we had both endured difficult journeys through our lives. She had had a little more experience handling those difficulties; I was just in the process of learning how.
Beth was loud, opinionated, and funny, and as time went on I discovered she was more than a little angry. I was angry too, having just ended a twenty-year relationship on bad terms, but I had hopes of getting over it and moving on.
Beth’s anger seemed intrinsic to her character; it didn’t seem to me that she wanted to stop being angry. But I was lonely, I was sex-starved, and she was a kind, loving woman despite her anger.
Beth had long silver hair and a dancer’s body. That was her passion, dancing, and Brazilian dancing in particular. As a matter of fact, she was enamored of all things Brazilian; she had been there a few times and often spoke of wanting to live there.
I’m not crazy about brazil or the language, it’s a little to strident and different form the Spanish I grew up speaking, and it was a point of contention between us.
I know it was more than that; she was too loud, too crazy, and too kinetic for me. I knew fairly early in the game that I did not want to spend the rest of my life with her. She sensed it too, and after pointing out that I was taking more than I was giving in the relationship one too many times, I decided to call it quits.
This was a first for me as well, as I would usually stay in a relationship until a woman dumped me or I met someone new, and then I would just hide from the woman I had been with until she got the message and confronted me about it or moved on. But I called Beth and asked her to meet me somewhere to discuss something. To my surprise, she behaved like an adult and we remained friends.
Early in our relationship she had introduced me to a friend of hers, Danusia. How odd life can be sometimes.
I started dating Danusia a couple of years after breaking up with Beth, and Beth told us both how happy she was for us. In the meantime, Beth had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
Beth had a mastectomy, and then underwent chemotherapy, during which she lost her beautiful long silver hair. She celebrated her baldness, wearing funny little hats but never a wig. She seemed indomitable, despite however afraid she might have been inside; her zest for life was undiminished. She kept dancing, until she had to have hip replacement surgery. She beat the breast cancer, but a few years after she was diagnosed with cancer of the cervix.
I saw Beth less and less, our circle of friends had changed and after Danusia and I married we spent less time with the friends we had in common with Beth.
I only heard about her illness through others, and one friend even suggested I might want to speak with Beth, comfort her in some way.
But I was afraid. Again, my self-centered fear caused me to reject someone I had once been close to, someone who had taught me a thing or two and had been there for me in my time of need. I kept telling myself I would go see her, especially when she was hospitalized again.
She reached a point where a hospital could do nothing for her, she was sent to a hospice. A friend told me it seemed the end was near. I asked if I could visit, but was told it was too late, she could not see anymore and the close friend that was caring for her was not allowing any more visitors. But he would take a letter for me I liked.
I wrote a heartfelt note to Beth, thanking her for the time we’d spent together and for the things I had learned from her.
A week later, a friend asked me to go see a play with her. I said yes, and was figuring out where to meet when Danusia called me at work.
“Beth is gone, she passed away this afternoon.”
I texted my friend and cancelled our date.
On my way home from work, I got on the J train at Essex Street for my daily ride across the Williamsburg Bridge. It was crowded, but a middle-aged Black man with a guitar slung across his chest managed to squeeze on. As the packed train started across the bridge the man started to strum his guitar and sing:
“Sometimes I live in the country,
Sometimes I live in the town.
Sometimes I have a great notion,
To jump in the river and drown…
Good night Irene, good night Irene,
Good night Irene, good night Irene,
I’ll see you in my dreams…”
The tears just started welling up in my eyes. I made a desperate attempt not to cry, or at least make it seem like I was not crying but had a runny nose and something in my eyes. When the guy finished singing he came around with a cap in his hand asking for donations. I only had a five-dollar bill and I put it in the hat. He looked at it and then at me with a big grin on his face. “Gee, thanks, mister!” He beamed. All I could do was force a smile and nod my head once in thanks.

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MEN WHO EAT FROM CANS

chicken and poatoes

New year’s day was kind of exhausting, socially and travel wise. I had to go to a self-help group sort of thing in the morning because I was asked to help out. That was on the Lower East side. From there I went to my writing teacher’s home for an open house he has every year, this was the first time at his new home in Trump Towers on the Upper West Side. I spent a couple of hours there schmoozing with other writers before I got on a Brooklyn-bound train to go to Crown Heights, the “new” frontier in Brooklyn real-estate to meet Danusia at another open house.

At least we got a ride back to Manhattan after that with someone who lives in East Harlem, close enough for us to catch the M-100 on 125th Street. Our friend Sally who was giving us a ride was asking where the train station was when I spotted the bus right in front of us. She cut him off at the next stop and me and Danusia made a mad dash for the bus. In all, I think I covered the better part of 35 miles Thursday. The best thing about New Year’s Day was that I didn’t have to cook or prepare any kind of food save for what I ate in the morning.

I was pretty busy yesterday as well, first going to Fairway on the river in the morning for my weekly food-shopping trip and then out to Home Depot across the other river to pick up supplies for a big job I am starting on Monday. I got home around 2:30PM and I was starving.
The thing about when you are starving is that you want to eat something right away; you don’t want to take the time to prepare something nutritious and satisfying. You just want to stop the noise from your empty stomach.

Of course, when I was younger the remedy was to open up a can of something I found in the cupboard, get a fork (or spoon) and stand in the kitchen and just eat out of the can cold. Throw the can away, open up the fridge and see if there is any peanut butter left, another easy eat. Just lick off the fork and dig in. Maybe some Ritz crackers for desert.

19464-spam

I wish I could say I learned to eat like that in the army, where food in the field was almost always C-rations. If you don’t know what C-rations were, they were the American military’s way of feeding its troops for a long time. A meal comes in a cardboard box with several cans of food, usually a main meal like beef and potatoes, then desert, like a can of hard biscuits with a little can of jam to spread on them. You also got toilet paper and a can opener in the box. During the Vietnam war you also got a free pack of smokes, I think 5 cigarettes. The tobacco companies generously donated these to our war effort.

C-rations. Those are the biscuits near the open can.

C-rations. Those are the biscuits near the open can.

Where I learned it was at the Pratt dorm when I was in school. It was my first time alone, without mom to cook for me, and I learned how to eat Spam straight from the can. I don’t even think I had many cooking utensils.
I’ve learned a great deal since then, and I’m a pretty good cook. You have to be when you have a wife and kid. My son always loved my tuna casserole, and my refried beans with tortillas. I’ve prepared elaborate dinners for parties and was even hired once to cook for some art retreat.

Mystery meat.

Mystery meat.

But sometimes you just can’t wait.

Last week I bought mushrooms and spinach at the greenmarket in Union Square. I like to sauté them with onions as a side dish, but it being the holidays I hadn’t gotten around to doing so. My first instinct when I got home yesterday was to open up a can of something and then go for the peanut butter. The cupboard only yielded some cans of tuna, tomato paste, and sardines. I no longer stock Spam.
Well, that was pretty unappetizing. I decided to take a little time and prepare something I could lay the sardines or tuna on. I put a frying pan on the stove, added olive oil and sliced some red onion into the hot oil.
I got the spinach and mushrooms out, and started slicing the slightly dried out mushrooms, I got to them just in time. It didn’t bode well for the spinach.

I picked out the wilted pieces of spinach, cut off the little roots, and washed the spinach as the mushrooms and onions cooked. The whole process from pan to plate took a little more than ten minutes. I laid it out on a plate, opened up the sardines and carefully laid the sardines atop the spinach and mushrooms. Presentation is important. I cut up some avocado and added that to the dish, and after pouring myself a glass of mineral water, took my plate to the living room and put it on the table.

sardines

It was yummy. While I ate I thought about the Seinfeld episode where Kramer eats Beeferino right out of the can, and feeds it to the horse later. It did not look yummy, and I’m glad I’m willing to at least go halfway now when I’m starving.

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SUDDENLY, LAST YEAR

bungalow

Yesterday I went out to the Rockaways for the first time since we put my dad’s ashes in the Atlantic. I went out there to do a couple of repairs in a friend’s bathroom. The trip took almost an hour and a half from door to door.

On the ride across Jamaica Bay it made me think about how at the same time last year we were trying to buy a house in Far Rockaway, and of the time, money, and effort that went into that. It was one of those Rockaway bungalows, with a big hole in the floor.
We didn’t get the house, and the ride yesterday made me think of how lucky we were not to get it. I would be commuting at least 3 hours every day if we had.

The hole in the floor.

The hole in the floor.

It’s beautiful out there, I love the ride across the bay and I see these houses on the water and it makes me wonder what it was like during the hurricane.
It’s beautiful up here in Hamilton Heights, too, and not as far from midtown.

I lost my job last February, and have a lot less money on hand and it would have been a struggle to pay the mortgage and the repairs needed for the house and whatnot, so that’s another good reason to breathe a sigh of relief at not getting the house.

Bye, bye, 144.

Bye, bye, 144.

Then we had to move out of our loft in Brooklyn due to gentrification, fair market value caught up with us. Years ago I was living in my father’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and after I put him in a nursing home the landlord wanted me out and took me to court. It was a great deal, less that $400 a month for an apartment on 47th street, and I fought to keep it.
I hired a lawyer, a little guy named Andy who told me right off the bat that tall people were more successful than short ones. I should have looked for another lawyer right away. But the other thing he said that stuck with me was when we were discussing my options he said:
“You might have to move to one of the outer boroughs if you lose the case.” He said outer boroughs like it was something dirty, unthinkable, you poor bastard; you might have to live in Brooklyn

Well, I lost the case, and moved to Brooklyn where I lived for the better part of the last 11 years.

Brooklyn changed, and became the hot spot, the place where all the rich white kids could walk around in beards and Red Wing boots hand in hand with waif-like girls and listen to Mumsford and Sons on their iPhones. They needed lebensraum. If you don’t know what that means you probably have one of those faux-hillbilly beards. So people like us we had to go, to make some lebensraum.

beard

I remember how sad I was to have to move out of Manhattan those many years ago, the lawyer Andy sure let me know it was a sad thing to be relegated to the outer boroughs. That’s the word he used, relegated.

And now we’ve been relegated to Manhattan! From Brooklyn, of all places!

Wherever we go, it’s still us, Danusia and I, and we’ll make the best home we can for ourselves, as long as we are together. That’s pretty lucky too, to have each other. I know so many people who have no one, or someone they are unhappy with.

Losing my job threw a big monkey-wrench of fear into my complacent little world, but again, I am still me and I discovered how resourceful I can be in any given situation, and not having a 9-5 job has helped me in my writing endeavors, so again, you could count that as a stroke of luck.

My friend Maggie died last year, and the funny thing is that she’d become a real-estate agent in addition to being a writer, and took great interest in our house-buying adventure, and also in my budding blog. She was a great influence on the structure of this blog and I thank her for it.

Maggie

Maggie

Her death and funeral brought me closer to another friend, and her new friend, Ezra, who asked me to go out to Rockaway yesterday to fix that bathroom in his kid’s apartment.

I put in a new toilet flapper, pictured below.

flapper

So that’s the best thing about last year, after many years of little change in my life I was suddenly confronted with what are considered the three most major issues we face, the loss of a job, moving suddenly, and death, and I came out of the other side in one piece.

The lovely Danusia

The lovely Danusia

Thank god for wonderful friends. And my lovely wife, Danusia. Happy New Year, friends.

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2014 in review check out how my blog did last year. Not too shabby, I’d say! And log on for tomorrow’s post.

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 10,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

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BOOKENDS

1st

The job was a lot more than about books, it was about going through the remains of someone else’s life, but I’m going to keep it to the books as much as possible.

The guy in charge wanted Danusia to do it, of course he wanted some muscle too, that’s how I got involved, but he specifically wanted a woman’s touch. Danusia was unavailable so I found a friend willing to get dirty for some fast money. And dirty we got.

By K’s count, I’ll call him K; the guy who was hired to clean the place out and in turn hired us; but by his count there were over 2,500 books in the apartment. And he wanted to box them all up and donate them to housing works. It was a formidable job.

Housing works will only take the books if they were in good condition and are not dusty. I guess they have experience with dust on books, and they are right.
The first time I saw the books they were on row upon row of shelves screwed to every inch of available wall space in the one bedroom 19th Century Riverside Drive apartment building. The shelves were supported by those old fashioned metal tracks you secure to the wall with thin metal brackets that have a little tightening screw at the base. The shelves themselves were an assortment of store-bought finished shelves and pieces of board cut to size, and it looked like different shelves had been put up at different times, there was clearly an evolution of bracket technology displayed on those walls.

2nd

The books were an example of the evolution of someone’s literary taste, from lurid noir dime-store detective novels to a complete set of Thomas Hardy in one of those book-club bound collections, some of the books still had shrink-wrap on.

I’m pretty familiar with hoarding and obsession, being a borderline hoarder and obsessed myself, but I’d never seen this many books outside of a library or bookstore before. It was truly impressive.

The first order of business was to get the books down off the shelves and dust them off. The man who owned them had died, and he’d been ill for quite sometime, so there was a tremendous amount of dust everywhere, but most particularly on the books located on the highest shelves. By my reckoning a lot of those books hadn’t been touched since the day they’d been placed there many years before, an object lesson on how to deal with my own library. If I’m never going to look at it again, it should go.

3rd

A lot of it I guess is to remind ourselves of where we’ve been. What we read is almost like a map of our lives, and our taste changes with age.

When I was young, in my 20’s I read James Jones’ From Here to Eternity, and I recall thinking this guy was the greatest writer of the 20th century, he knows human nature and people and life. I tried re-reading it again a couple of years ago and couldn’t do it, his obsession with liquor, anger and sex bordered on the sophomoric, but then again he’d written that book in his 20’s. Maybe I’m ready for Thomas Hardy now.
But all that is in my head, or on line now. I don’t need to prove how smart I am to anyone who comes into my home by displaying all the books I’ve read, more importantly I don’t need to remind myself of what I’ve read.

The job came at a good time for Danusia and I, because we were in the process of putting up bookshelves in out new apartment and the experience led me to cull even more books that I’d already read or will never read from my collection.

When I worked at the building it was a gold mine of discarded books and gifts from tenants. I hated to throw books away, and if anything looked even halfway interesting I would bring it home. One of the tenants, the writer Mark Kurlansky was always giving me review copies of books that weren’t even in print yet; editors would send him books looking for a blurb or comment and he just gave them to me. I think I might have read one of them.
I did read his books, though. He gave me a copy of The Story Of Salt, and then The Story Of Cod. I got 1968 on my own, and I remembered him telling me about hanging out with James Jones in Paris in 1968, and describing Jones as “Just an old drunk.”
I still have a copy of The Thin Red Line, and that I will never throw away. To me that is Jones’ real masterpiece. It was published 11 years after Eternity and the maturity shows.

The gentleman whose collection we were dusting off never threw anything away, and a lot of the books he’d had for many years. Some of the paperbacks fell apart as we took them down off the shelves, and I surreptitiously threw a few good ones into the garbage that I knew Housing Works wouldn’t want.

4th

It took a couple of days to get them all down and cleaned up, then came the morning where Housing works would pick them up. The day prior I’d gone to their bookstore to pick up 120 folded boxes, and we started early the next day packing the books at 7:30AM.
It was a blur of assembling the boxes and taping them together, and my packing-tape dispenser was a godsend. I started by assembling 10 or so boxes, and began filling them.

The truck was due at 9:30, and at first I worked hard to fit the books neatly into each box, I didn’t think 2,500 books were going to fit into 120 boxes. I don’t know how many boxes we’d filled before the truck arrived, but after those guys showed up and started taking boxes down on their dollies we just started throwing the books in haphazardly. By the time all the books were packed we’d filled 78 boxes. It was a Herculean task, but we’d gotten it done. It also made me think about buying a kindle, but on second thought, I do like looking at the books on my shelves, it gives me a sense of wholeness.

last

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INSTALLING THEMES

second sink

This weekend I did back to back bathroom sink/vanity installations, one for a friend from my writing class and one for the girlfriend of a friend of my writing teacher’s. Thank god for a friend of a friend, huh?

I’ve never done a whole sink/vanity from scratch, but I’ve done enough kitchen sinks and cabinets, and enough pedestal sink installations that I knew it would be a piece of cake.

Well, maybe not a piece of cake, but at least a solid installation.

The first one was on Saturday on the Upper East Side. I won’t mention my friend’s name because I didn’t ask her, so I’ll call her Miss S. Her apartment is a co-op, so there was no problem me coming in to do the job. She got a nice sink, faucet, and vanity shipped to her and all I had to do was take it out of the box, assemble it, rip out the old sink (the pressboard vanity was falling apart) and replace it. The new vanity was six pieces with pre-positioned screws and took all of 15 minutes to assemble. In all, the whole job took about 4 hours, including 2 trips to the hardware store (something always turns up) and a short break for story swapping.
Here’s the result:

first sink

She emailed me twice since then telling me how happy she was and that it was still “fine.” Well, it will be fine for a long time to come, Miss S. I don’t expect it will fall apart anytime soon.

On Sunday I went to the West Village to do the other friend of a friend’s sink, I’ll call them Mr. G and Miss H. Very nice, generous people. Miss S was pretty generous too; I forgot to mention.

This was a rental, but she said it was ok and that was good enough for me. The sink she had was one of those fiberglass composition affairs, not even acrylic. It’s been up for a while. She didn’t like the fiberglass, I don’t either, they get scratched and discolored with age. The new one is porcelain.
The new sink and vanity was all IKEA, and a hell of a lot more complex that Miss S’s sink. It took me almost 3 hours just to assemble the vanity and drawers. It comprised of almost 60 pieces including all the screws and dowel pegs.
Here’s a tip for all you do-it-yourselfers, pour out all the little bits on a cookie sheet so you can inventory them, and then use little plastic Tupperware containers (I use these plastic compartment boxes pictured below) so you can separate them. Makes life a whole lot easier during assembly.

screwscompartments

I put the faucet on the sink, and IKEA included this handy little tool made out of hard plastic for screwing the retaining nut onto the bottom of the faucet. No picture, sorry.
All the waste lines were PVC plastic, and I’ve never used PVC pipe before, but it couldn’t be any harder than using old-fashioned copper and brass pipe. It was actually pretty easy to assemble everything, and I anticipated a quick finish until I ripped out the old sink and vanity and test fit the new vanity.
As a side note, when I was pulling out the old sink a piece of it cracked off, remaining stuck to the wall with the construction adhesive they’d used instead of caulk. No one will be reusing that sink.
I placed the vanity against the wall and right away I could see the p-trap was too far out of the wall, overlapping the back of the vanity. It would be all right in most circumstances, but this vanity has two drawers that stop four inches from the wall.
This is where the real work and experience comes in.

See how the pipe is off?

See how the pipe is off?

The drainpipe on the sink is adjustable, it moves back and forth with an inner extension sleeve. I wondered why, and now I had my answer, the pipe has to go against the wall in order for the drawers to clear. I took the back part of the p-trap that goes into the wall and I cut 2 inches off with the pipe cutter we had to go to the hardware store to buy.
Mr. G and I set off to Greenwich Street for the pipe cutter at a fast clip. I haven’t speed-marched anywhere since I was in the army and I was pooped by the time we got there. Being Sunday it was closed.
“There’s one on 3rd Street on the other side of 6th Avenue,” he said. Another speed march through the twisty, meandering streets of Greenwich Village. We made it and got the pipe cutter. By this time it was almost 4 o’clock and I’d been working since 11 without food. Miss H had kindly ordered me a tuna wrap and given me some raisins to tide me over till the food arrived.
When we got back with the pipe cutter the food came and I ate half of my wrap and went back to the bathroom to finish.
I cut the pipe and put the sink on, and discovered a couple of new problems. The waste pipe itself hit the handle for the hot water stop valve, and the flexible hose from the faucet was too short. Back to the hardware store for some extensions.
They didn’t have the flex hose extensions, and I got some couplings that might work that the sales guy picked out, but when we got back to the apartment I found he’d given us the wrong size.
By now it was after 6 and I told them I couldn’t finish without the connectors. I promised to go to Home Depot the next day and pick up what we needed.
Besides the connectors I picked up enough PVC pipe to make a “U” around the obstruction; the supply pipe and valve.
Here’s the result:

Everything fits!

Everything fits!

I turned the water on, and to my surprise (I don’t know why I’m always surprised when something works right away) there were no leaks. I put the drawers in, packed my tools, and said goodbye.

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THE $30 CHRISTMAS TREE

angel

Every year Danusia and I start talking about when and where to get our Christmas tree. When we first moved in together in Williamsburg, there was no place to buy trees, and I found a place over a mile from our apartment on Meeker Avenue under the BQE where I got a nice tree for $50 and paid another $15 to have it delivered. I had the cash and didn’t feel like carrying it up four flights of stairs.
After that we found a florist on Broadway and Union that carried trees, walking distance and we both went over there with our little shopping cart and I bargained the guy down to $40 from $50 (for a 6-foot tree!) and we walked it home together in our shopping cart and carried it up the stairs. We did the same the following year.

The tree on Ave A and 3rd Street.

The tree on Ave A and 3rd Street.

Then they started selling trees right around the corner from us, a really short walk, we didn’t even take the shopping cart. $45 this time, but like I said, a shorter walk.
The following year Danusia called me and told me she’d seen our “Amish friend” selling trees on Graham Ave for $20 and I should go get one. I walked over there and sure enough; our Amish friend who comes every summer to the Greenmarket on Graham and Cook Streets was there, looking a little anxious and selling trees for $20. I bought one from him, he told me he wasn’t doing too good at it and I promised to send friends. We posted it on Facebook but when I saw him the next summer he told me it didn’t work out too well and he’d never do it again. Too bad, the price was right and I’d rather give my business to an honest Amish farmer than the big French-Canadian outfit that has an almost monopoly on the tree racket in New York.
The next year it was back to the Bodega on the corner and the $45 tree.
Last year I came home to find a tree already there, and Danusia told me proudly how she’d bought it for $30 on the corner of 3rd Street and Ave A and had lugged it home on the J train all by herself.
“Everybody on the train thanked me for making the train smell so nice!” How can you not love someone like that?

On the West 4th Street platform.

On the West 4th Street platform.

So this year Danusia said we should check out if that store was still selling the trees for $30. I didn’t relish carrying a tree from East 3rd Street all the way up to West 152nd Street.
“Why don’t we look to see if there’s anything closer, first?” She agreed and we looked around.
They sell trees just across the river at the Home Depot at the Bronx terminal market. They start at $60, and there’s always some guy with a van that will happily drive me home for another $20.
The closest place I could find was on Broadway and 138th street, and again the trees start at $60 for a “Charlie brown tree” as Danusia put it.
Tuesday I worked on East 4th Street, and Danusia asked if I could pick up a tree if they still had them on 3rd Street. After I got out of work at 4 I walked over and sure enough, there they were, Balsam Firs for $30, any size tree.

The picture I sent.

The picture I sent.

I didn’t relish carrying a tree on the subway so close to rush hour, so I took a picture instead and texted it to Danusia. When we spoke I promised to come back during the day the next day with the shopping cart, especially when she reminded me that she’d done it by herself last year.
I didn’t go Wednesday, making one last attempt to find a tree-selling place in our neighborhood. That’s when I saw the $60 trees on 138th Street.
Thursday I got up the courage to go get the tree, all the while thinking people were going to stare at me with a tree in a shopping cart on the subway. I guess I’m more self-conscious than Danusia, and this was probably the real issue.
I took the long ride down, stopping only to pick up a paper to read on the subway on the way back.

A friend put a snarky comment when i posted this pic on Facebook, "Is that a tree for a homeless person?"

A friend put a snarky comment when i posted this pic on Facebook, “Is that a tree for a homeless person?”

It was cold and windy Thursday, and after I got the tree and the guy loaded it into my little shopping cart I started the long trek to Hamilton Heights.
Getting it down the stairs at the second Avenue station wasn’t too bad, but I dreaded going up the stairs at 155th Street and worse, up 5 flights to our apartment.
Nobody paid any attention to me, the F train to West 4th was a little crowded, but I managed not to piss anyone off with my tree. At West 4th Street I took the escalator up to the A train platform and waited for a C train. I wasn’t taking two trains if I didn’t have to.
A group of women got on at 14th street and the eldest saw me and said, “Oh look! A Christmas tree!” Her friends all turned to stare, but only she smiled. At least I got one smile out of my trip.
At 155th Street a guy asked me if I wanted help and made the first 2 flights of my trip up a little easier. The rest was all me, including the hill up to Amsterdam fighting the wind all the way. The tree was a like a sail, pushing me back. Am I making this sound like an ordeal enough?
I finally got it up the stairs with much panting and grunting, and took it out of the shopping cart and onto the stand I got at the local 99-cent store for $11.
Last night Danusia decorated it and it looks beautiful. Merry Christmas, everybody.

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POSITIVELY EAST 4TH STREET

east 4th street

Sunday I got a message from my sometime boss Segundo, the super at my friends building where I work on occasion. He said he wanted me to work the next day, Monday, but when I got a chance to call back an hour or so later he told me he’d gotten someone else already. I put off making the call and lost out on a day’s pay.
However, he called back on Monday night, and this time I called back right away and he asked me to come in on Tuesday. So that’s where I was yesterday, and why I did not post my usual Tuesday blog.
I worked there for a week last month, and I had to work Thanksgiving Day. During that week it rained one day, and the rain was starting to ice up. Segundo handed me a bucket of salt and a cup and told me to salt the sidewalk.
As I was doing so I noticed that the stuff in the bucket was very powdery, it didn’t look like salt at all. But the bucket said it was salt, and the boss had personally handed me the bucket, so I spread away, leaving big white swirls of this stuff on East 4th Street. You can see the swirls on the picture above.
After I was done I mentioned to Segundo that I’d never seen salt like that before.
“Oh, it’s dog-friendly,” he said. “Doesn’t hurt the dogs feet.”
OK, that was that.

Looking south from the roof.

Looking south from the roof.

An hour later he calls me down to his office.
“You know, you made a big mistake, Zavey.” He calls me Zavey in his fucked-up Spanish accent because he can’t pronounce XAVIER. I asked him to call me Javier but he’s pretty stubborn.
“”What did I do wrong?”
“Well, somebody used this salt bucket to store plaster in, and you took the one bucket that had plaster in it instead of one of these that has salt in it.” We were in the storage room filled with black buckets of salt. I didn’t mention that he had picked the bucket and handed it to me, and then explained why it was weird salt without even looking at it. I spent the next hour trying to scrape rock hard plaster off of the sidewalk.
When I showed up for work yesterday, the plaster swirls were gone. He’d taken my suggestion and rented a power washer to get it off.
Since there was no icy rain yesterday, I just had the task of sweeping and mopping the floors and bringing down the recyclables from the compactor rooms. This I like to do because I always score the Sunday Times magazine. I like to do the crossword in the magazine, but I don’t like spending $5 for a Sunday Times.
The week of the salt incident I scored three of them from various weeks. Yesterday I only got last Sunday’s but that’s fine, a crossword is a crossword.
I also got to work with Jorge, the old man that’s been at the building in the same job for over 30 years.
The week of the salt incident I was alone with Segundo for three of the days, and he spent some time pontificating on money and sex, his two favorite subjects. He extended the discussion to why Jorge won’t retire, despite being 77 years old and having all the money in the world.
“Look here, the old man’s got a house in Ecuador, a house in Miami, full social security check, full retirement check from the union, and he’s still here collecting a paycheck. He should retire and give someone else a chance.”
I know he wants this chance for his brother in-law Tony, who can hardly speak English according to my friend Tommy that got me the job.
“Why, Zavey? Why is he still here?”
“Maybe the guy likes to work.”
“No, Zavey, he LOVES money, that’s all. He has all this money, and for what? You can’t enjoy your money if you drop dead at work.”
He went on about that for a while, and then segued into sex.
“Now I used to be able to be able to come twice in a half hour no problem, and now it’s a problem. Why? Age, that’s all. My doctor told me when you reach a certain age, it just doesn’t work the same anymore.”
I don’t think I needed a doctor to tell me that one, but I kept my opinion to myself.
“I still don’t need Viagra, mind you, I get it up all right, but it’s not like a rock the way it used to be.”
The guy’s only three years younger than me, and I can certainly sympathize with his fears and frustrations, but I haven’t found the need to vocalize it with anyone. I grunted and nodded in assent in all the right places.
Yesterday we went through the same discussion during break time, except this time in front of Jorge, the subject of his ire. It felt kind of uncomfortable, especially since Segundo insisted on even mimicking the old man’s arthritic walk, but Jorge didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he just doesn’t want Tony to get the job.
“Why are you here?” Segundo suddenly asked me directly.
“Because the rent needs to be paid,” I replied.
“For money! We are all here for money, because without money there is no pretty woman. How old is your wife?” I remember having told him that I’d remarried, but I’d never told him how old Danusia is.
“She’s just a few years younger than me.”
“Oh, no, that’s wrong,” Segundo said with a frown. Even little Jorge shook his head no.
“If a man remarries, he needs a young wife, at least half his age.” This time Jorge nodded in assent.
“At the same age you are nothing more than companions, like brother and sister. Who needs a sister?”
“Well, you know Segundo, I love my wife and we get along just fine.”
I had been waiting for some one to call looking for him, or for an emergency or something to shut him up, and finally the front door intercom rang as the UPS man arrived. This ended the conversation and I was glad I didn’t have to listen to this narrow-minded boor anymore. Made me glad I grew up in New York.

Tomkins Square Park from above.

Tomkins Square Park from above.

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YES I CAN!

during

A couple of weeks ago a friend asked if I could sand and polyurethane his floor. I said sure I can.
I did it a couple of times before, a very long time ago, in 1979 I think. Two floors, one in Inwood, one in Brooklyn.
I’ve polyurethaned a lot of floors during my brief stint as a handyman at 144, and even sanded out scratches and damage in small spots on floors there. I got to polyurethane the floors because the cheap management company didn’t want to spend the money for a pro to do it.
It’s ok, I gained a lot of experience and expertise in doing it, and it helped when my friend asked if I could do his floor; I was able to say yes without any hesitation.
I was asked to hang a pot rack a little over a month ago, and I’ve done that in my own home so I said no problem. I had my box of wall fasteners and was all set to do it, but when I arrived at the client’s apartment he had a huge commercial kitchen shelf/rack made of stainless steel that weighed about 35 pounds. I had to go to the hardware store to get 2-inch lag bolts and sleeves to make sure this thing did not fall off of the wall.
Luckily it was a cinderblock and plaster wall and it’s still up, I know because I did another job for the same fellow this week and he had all the stuff on the rack.
Here’s the pic:

rack
Of course after I left the day I installed it, I kept expecting a call that it had fallen down off the wall, or that his wife came home to say it was too high, or too low, or crooked.
I don’t know why, but I’m always plagued by self-doubt.
Of course, I have had stuff like that happen before, a shelf came off the wall, a light fixture cover that I didn’t tighten properly fell down, etc. But in all, my work gets done right and people are satisfied. But the feeling of doubt still creeps in after every job. I’m going to have to get over it.
The floor I was pretty confident of doing, though. After all, nothing was going to fall down or catch on fire because I’d wired something wrong. (That’s never happened to me but I’m still waiting) The worst I could have done would have been to leave some big gouges on the floor because I didn’t move the sander around in even strokes.
I told my friend that I could sand the floor, but we were going to have to rent the equipment from Home Depot. We settled on going to Home Depot Tuesday morning at 7am. Tuesday was a rainy, miserable day, but good for floor sanding because the humid air keeps the dust down.
We got to Home Depot and rented the big drum sander (100 pounds) and the edger. (35 pounds)
We went to his place and moved everything out of the living room/dining room area, which was about 400 square feet. I did two passes with the rough grit sandpaper and two passes with the fine grit. Then I did the edging.

Before the polyurethane.

Before the polyurethane.

If you want a good biceps workout, get a job as an edger. The machine weighs 35 pounds, as I mentioned before, and it also pulls to the left because of the torque from the motor. You have to work very hard to keep it in the right place on the floor, and you have to either do it on your knees or squat. I did a combination of both, and either way it kills your back. I don’t think I could do it every day.
When we were done we vacuumed and mopped and loaded all the stuff into his car for the long trip back up to the Bronx Terminal Market Home Depot.
We returned the equipment and bought the polyurethane and applicator. I suggested water-based poly as it dries faster and doesn’t smell as bad.
The next day I came down to his apartment and laid down a couple of coats of the poly after taking care of the corners the edger couldn’t reach with my Dremel sander.
It only took a couple of hours including the drying time, and the floor looked great after we were done. It’s about ten shades lighter than it was, and now it has a nice glossy finish. I saw a picture he posted on Facebook, and it looked even glossier. He said he’d put down two more coats after I left, producing feelings of self-doubt and guilt. Should I have done it? Should I have suggested it? I don’t remember why we decided on two coats, but we read the directions together and the directions suggest FIVE coats.

Two coats. It looks even better now.

Two coats. It looks even better now.

But he didn’t call to complain, so I guess it’s OK. But I know that it’s OK to worry a little about doing it right, because it keeps me focused on not making mistakes. Mistakes are Ok too because I always learn from them. There’ll be no more improperly screwed on light covers falling down, that’s for sure.

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