Mockingbird

Hush, baby, have you heard?

One of the greatest joys in my life now is the talented mockingbird in a bush by the entrance of the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. I've never seen him, but I've heard about 30 of his songs. He can imitate blue jays, car alarms, sea gulls, crickets, and a variety of many more avian whistles, diphthongs, and cheers.

Whenever I'm weary, he makes me instantly smile, pause, look at the half-moon and the fireflies that have begun to blaze their green bottoms in the night air. 

My mornings are rushed, my workdays recently have been wearying, and my nights are hungry and dazed until the birds sing in the early blue sky. So I count my colorful joys when I hear them.

Rabid Little Island

Unbelievable - as I was walking home on Staten Island roads in the cool night under a full moon reminiscent of Kuindji, I was surprised to look up and see the Big Dipper. In almost seven years of living in New York, this is the first time I've seen a constallation in the night sky. 

A more typical City experience was the night of my Columbia Orientation party, when I saw the shadows of Midtown buildings reflected onto the sickly vermillion sky and sulfury yellow clouds.

Anyway, I need to catch up on Staten Island news. Let's begin with RABIES!

I credit my friend Alexia with this one. Apparently, between 1992 and 2007, Staten Island had 37.9% of cases of documented rabies in the five boroughs - 133 cases.  That includes 42.4% of rabid raccoons, and 70% of rabid cats. 

In comparison, the Bronx has the lion's share of rabies - 53.0% of all cases, and 52.1% of rabid raccoons! Only one rabid cat, though. Van Cortlandt Park seems to be a breeding ground for the stuff.

Still, Staten Island can claim something none of the other boroughs have - RABID GROUNDHOGS - by the scenic South Shore.  My North Shore just seems to have humdrum rabid raccoons.

Some other tidbits: 

Wednesday, June 11th - Staten Island's two Republican Councilmen hold positions of Minority Whip and Minority Leader - because how many Republican city Councilmen are there? And the Post (of course) notes that a man was arrested for exposing himself to a young woman on the Staten Island Railway. Haven't ridden that yet...

But the worst has to be the New York Times's obnoxious blog, which tried to use clever alliteration to say that Staten Island politics is "part Aeschylus and part E!" But the reporter is referring to the Oedipal struggle of father Frank Powers and son Fran Powers for the Congressional seat - in other words, Sophocles's Oedipal Cycle! If it were Aeschylus's Oresteia, Vito Fossella's underage daughters would be running for office, or at least, killing the Virginia police officer who had arrested the representative for drunk driving. Learn your Classical references, you Times snot.

The past weekend - I completely missed the borough's music festival Rock the Harbor, and I missed the exhibitions and bands showcasing Art by the Ferry, but you can catch the bands performing again this upcoming Saturday. I will be out of town.

All this artmaking again tried to raise the public value of the Island, but another story has overshadowed the Island - mysterious house fires. And they turn deadly.

Fran Powers lost the Libertarian nomination, but he tells the New Yorker he may create a Free Party. To which the New Yorker asks, "get it?"

The Staten Island Yankees lost to the Brooklyn Cyclones 3-1, - and I had to read a Wisconsin website to learn the score?!???

Oh well. At least the Staten Island Russians are happy. As are the Chasids.

So let's drink some Tuscan-style wine, grown at the public expense by my borough president! Prego!

Park for Allie

When you leave my apartment complex, turn left, take the first right and pass the Ambassador, an Art Deco apartment building where Paul Newman once lived. Turn left, and there's Belmont Place, a road of surprisingly large Victorians. Go past the fences and lilies and roses to touch with your lips and you will find the Lt. Lia Playground. On the top level is an extensive jungle gym playground, covered with a round metal latticework, and a fountain spraying jets of water for children to splash. A lower level has a round concrete bench surrounding a tree before a memorial plaque. At my age, Nicholas Lia had been dead in Vietnam for one year.

Come to my park, Allie.   

OMG the Mall

So, it's been a while since I caught up on this thing... I started this post during the tail end of last week's - sing along - HEATWAVE, but the heat turned my brains to jelly. Then, my coworker developed health issues, and so we two remaining web writers of NY1 have had to pick up the slack to get our website going. For whatever reason, the thought of typing and sitting in front of a screen on my off-time from typing and sitting in front of screens bummed me out. Granted, I spent all of yesterday typing and sitting in front of screens, but... well... shut up!

So let's catch up on the past week and change: the heatwave made it the season for "weather stories" on the news! What do New Yorkers do to beat the heat? They express their pride, or stomp on grapes, or go to city-operated cooling centers, which apparently aren't that bad.

My favorite story has to be this reporter in Bergen Country, Jerz who (unwittingly?) expressed contempt for everyone who didn't automatically go to a pool in a hot day. 

Like an obstinate Englishman, I've remained in dark clothes, long sleeves, and frustrated baths of sweat. But one day last week, when my old glasses finally snapped, I took a 50 -minute busride into the interior, to the STATEN ISLAND MALL. It's a very good, two-floor standard-issue agora of our modern version of Hellenism. You can get over-sweet and savory Sakura teriyaki chicken and Bourbon "Cajun" chicken and frisbee-sized cookies in the foodcourt just as you can in any other mall. Macy's is Macy's is Macy's.

For whatever reason, I got a strong lesbian vibe at the mall - I saw many happy Hip Hop lesbian couples strolling, one girl in baseball cap, big T-shirt and jeans, and the one girl in tank top, shorts and long hair. 

The salesperson in LensCrafters regaled me with stories of camping with her girlfriend, and the dangers of straying far from the comforting realm of a proximate LensCrafters. She also sweet-talked me into buying a pair of glasses that will look more like jockish sunglasses. Eh, I'm young enough to still make fashion mistakes. The salesperson was a cool person, she's part of a Staten Island rock band called Bombshell Betty, which has a song about my neighborhood of St. George and which alerts us that there will be NO butt touching! So think not of it!

One last image - the mall is next to a large mound of landfill, looking like it came out of the pre-Columbian Missippian culture. A giant bread loaf of green grass, filled with refuse of past decades. And when I left the mall, new glasses on my face, I saw the dark green landfill loaf against the pink sunset sky. Beautiful Staten Island sunset. 

Hey, tonight as I finish this, I'm into the night owl hours, watching the right-to-die "Mar adentro" (which is really good, the paralyzed man flying to the sea in his dreams - F.U. gringos who didn't like Javier Bardem in that Coen Bros. movie). And right before that, because it was the Kooky Sundance Channel, I found a TV program that actually would make me want to see... 

THE LOVE GURU! That horrible, horrible, horrible upcoming "Austen Powers" rehash, which I first thought was Mike Myers's pathetic attempt at recapturing psychedelic $uce$$ that has evaded his sad Cat-In-The-Hat middle age. And while that is probably true, it is But oh, the horror grows greater, it turns out that this debacle of comedy is Mike Myers's attempt at profound thought. Start with TV Guide for more details, but here's my summary.

Last year, Deepak Chopra and Mike Myers gave a joint lecture at the Magnet Theater, where I've seen much improv and where Allie and I had our first date. The two talked about comedy and the relationship to the spiritual. Life is transient, and laughing is one way of dealing with the imminent tragedy, of looking beyond your own condition and gleaming the . Deepak puts it, "enlightening by lightening up." I came up with a similar conclusion, that laughter is a way for humans to deal with situations they cannot rationalize, comprehend - only I tried to be less pretentious about it.

According to Mike Myers, "The Love Guru" is about "faith vs. choice, self-love, and internal validation vs. external validation." That, and fun with tossing midgets. I can't wait.

I'll stray back to Staten Island, I promise.

"ha-ha" "aha!"

"And a Little Child shall lead them."

Isaiah and William Blake fans rejoice - I don't know whether the Peaceable Kingdom is upon us - but the little children are definitely leading.

In a congressional race that is increasingly looking like a race for Lord of the Manor, the son of the presumptive Republican candidate Francis H. Powers, whose name is Francis M. Powers, is running on the Libertarian ticket.

Claiming there's no Oedipal twinge to his campaign, the Powers son, known as "Fran," is merely running against his father, known as "Frank," on policy differences alone.

Fran's hilarious - compared to his suit-toting father, he looks like a local version of wild-maned Lyle Lovett. And Papa disapproves of his son's "carefree lifestyle," and says little Fran "rejected everyone's help to live a healthy lifestyle" to work in the music industry.

When Fran was asked whether voters would be confused by Francis M. vs. Francis H., he said, "If people can't tell the difference between the Republican Party and the Libertarian Party, maybe they shouldn't be voting."

Should make for a great race.

And in other news, a teenager was the Staten Island Police Commissioner for a day.

No word on whether the lion and the lamb are lying together as well.

Restaurant Week

So, Staten Island Restaurant Week apparently started on Monday. In celebration, let me share with you the place with my friend Chorney and I unwittingly marked the occasion:

Taqueria El Gallo Azteca (yes, the Aztec Rooster)
75 Victory Boulevard
(718) 273-6404

I sorely miss "Taqueria y Fonda" at Amsterdam & 107th from my days at Columbia in White Harlem. While St. George's restaurante muy autentico lacks my old stomping ground's breadth of menu and cornucopia of fresh ingredients, it does have street cred. You're eating freshly made $2 tacos with grilled beef on corn tortillas with mucho cilantro and onions, topped with a homemade medium-spicy green sauce while rubbing elbows with blue-collar Mexican guys. There's Corona, Boing, Jarritos, and many other usual suspects to quench the thirst of La Raza or any pinche gabacho. Three cheers for the cook behind the counter who, while I was eating my tacos, methodically sliced a whole slab of [I think pigs'] brains that was easily three feet by four feet. That sounds like some nice, cholesterol-laden eatin'!

But the reason why I would come back again would be for the $6 tortas. At first, I thought I didn't want a sandwich for dinner, but these huge sandwiches filed an entire plate, were piled with grilled meat, peppers, and onions, and were topped with a globular, butter-glazed bun. DAMN, it looked good - I need to come back to try them.

Also along this beginning stretch of Victory Street - northeast Staten Island's commercial artery - is a Jamaican restaurant, a Polish restaurant and adjacent grocery, a pizzeria, and another [sketchier-looking] Mexican restaurant. Maybe they're too blue collar for Zagat's, but I'm excited at the prospects.

I get off work early on Friday, and will hopefully find a place to *actually* take advantage of Staten Island Restaurant Week, and the SINY Film Festival. They're offering "Dinner and a Movie" specials a-plenty.

B.B., A.B.

Today I spent most of the day inside, but I saw a great show on PBS - "A Walk Around Staten Island," with generic announcer man David Hartman and soft-spoken historian Barry Lewis. The historian is always in "let-me-bubble-over-with-nifty-factoids" mode, a state I often find myself in and to which I can relate. 

The show's very scenic, with comforting, soft synthesizer music and violin plucks. The relaxed, even-paced tone of the show reminds me of when Mr. Rogers would receive a videotape which he would watch, and it explained how pencils were made in a factory or something. Or you expect to see Big Bird appear from behind a tree and sing about touching your toes, or Bert to appear in Fresh Kills and sing about pigeons... and rats. But it is a concise explanation of Staten Island history, geography, neighborhoods, and local lore.

Watch the show's parts, or read below.

The show begins with the Staten Island Ferry, which was originally run by "The Commodore" Vanderbilt and which built up his fortune before he invested in railroads. Then they cover:

ST. GEORGE: the Staten Island Museum, Borough Hall, St. George Theater, Snug Harbor's Chinese Garden, the WTC Memorial, and the Staten Island Yankee Stadium - home of the "Baby Bombers" (yuk, yuk).

ROSEBANK: Alice Austin House, Garibaldi-Meucci Museum, Our Lady of Carmel Grotto.

THE NARROWS: Fort Wadsworth, Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

SOUTH BEACH: Old Dorp, FDR Boardwalk.

GREAT KILLS: Monarch butterfly migration stop (not bad for a former landfill).

PORT RICHMOND: Denino's Pizza (est. 1937), Ralph's Ices (est. 1928), Bayonne Bridge, the Mexicans of Port Richmond Avenue.

TODT HILL: Seaview Hospital, Farm Colony, Moravian Cemetery, Moravian Pond.

RICHMONDTOWN: Historical Richmondtown, S.I.'s blacksmith (!), Voorlezer's House (built 1695).

GREENBELT: "Mt. Moses" (read below) and soon-to-be-a-park-in-a-couple-of-decades Fresh Kills.

EGBERTVILLE: Jacques Marchais Tibetan Museum.

NEW SPRINGVILLE: Decker Farm (NYC's last working farm). 

PRINCE'S BAY: Seguine House.

SANDY GROUND: Sandy Ground Historical Society.

TOTTENVILLE: Conference House (site of crucial British-Colonial peace talks on 9/11/1776, when Ben Franklin, John Adams, and Edward Rutledge told General Howe to shove it, and that the Continental Army would keep fighting - and the two sides would not meet again until 1783's Treaty of Paris).

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Unexpected residents of Staten Island: Robert E. Lee, Garibaldi, the early Vanderbilts, the USA's largest communities of Liberians and Sri Lankans, and one of the nation's oldest contiguous African-American communities. 

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In covering the various neighborhoods, they give a nice, precise history of Staten Island. The Dutch first settled on the South Shore (now on most maps, the right shore), then the English move the government to Richmondtown (to honor, remember, the Bastard Duke), which was at the center of the Island's main two roads. The Industrial Revolution and the infusion of Italian immigrant business brings the commerce to Port Richmond (the Island's "flat top") which had easy ferry access to Dirty Jerz. The Consolidation of NYC in 1898 dealt the death blow to Richmondtown, when the Manhattanites moved the borough government to St. George, for easy access and as little S.I. face time as possible. 

But what really changed the Island from being a land of farms and stately Victorian houses was the VERRAZANO-NARROWS BRIDGE. Locals apparently use the terminology "B.B." and "A.B." (before the bridge/after the bridge) to talk about the Island. The insular community became a veritable suburb. The center of the island picked up again - malls, housing developments. It was a *little* harder for the Mafia to hide. Population has boomed to more than a half-million, those people brought cars, and the borough's official game changed from bocce to gridlock.

And yet, a constant theme of Staten Island's history has been resistance to change. Like many vestigial limbs, the Island hangs on to so many remembrances of its past. The blacksmith in Richmondtown. The Victorian neighborhoods of St. George and New Brighton. And so many areas' reverting to overgrowth. Along with the Verrazano Bridge, über-urban planner Robert Moses had wanted a huge parkway to be built through the middle of Staten Island. It may have helped out with the traffic, but in its place is 3,000 acres of untouched, scraggly forest - hence the mocking name of one of the tree-topped hills, "Mount Moses." And apparently by 2030 or 2040, the former municipal landfill Fresh Kills, despite being the final resting ground for many World Trade Center victims, will be dolled up to become a park and will bring the Greenbelt's size to 5,200 acres of uninterrupted forest.

This was a very informative film. Watch it online, or see it this Saturday or Sunday afternoon at the S.I. Yankee Stadium as part of the SINY Film Festival!

Der Nürnberger Bierhaus

The City has been having beautiful, mild spring weather for some time now! Yesterday I met up with four buddies in Central Park for a fun, but kinda wonky game of touch-football. My vague familiarities with the rules (and how to throw the ball) didn't keep us from having a good time.

Five people is apparently not the best number of a game of football, but it was a good number of people for the day's dinner outing: taking the S46 bus down Castleton Avenue to West New Brighton's Nürnberger Bierhaus, a happenin' Bavarian-style beerhouse.  

The website's constant oom-pah-pah MIDI anthem is a little scary, but in person this is a charming neighborhood bar/restaurant. The bus ride there goes through past lot of residential area (my fellow travelers were reminded of dreamy Cleveland) and the outside the eatery looks like it's a storefront dental clinic or law office - because it's between a bunch of storefront dental clinics and law offices.

Once we got inside, though, we saw that it was packed (a good sign for a Sunday evening). Decor is simple but functional - wooden walls, floors, tables, chairs, servers. Maybe not the last.

"Bavaria, where the trees are made of wood!" - Monty Python.

The prices are very decent too. A half-liter glass of German-imported beer is $4.50 (a good dollar or two less than the Manhattan equivalent) and the overindulgent glass liter stein is $8 (presumably a good deal). My knowledge of alcohol is middling, but the hefeweizen I had was pleasant, and there were darker largers to be had as well.

The Bavarian cuisine resembles soul food in its lack of variety of ingredients and its ample, heartfelt slathering of fat and cholesterol, with homey, feel-good results. Take meat, potatoes, sauerkraut, and beer, vary the amounts and ratios, and you get German cuisine and a merrily clogging, fatty heart.

Impressed by the amount of consonants, I ordered the Kartoffelpfännchen (or "little potato pan") which is a hotplate of fried potatoes with an obscene amount of bacon bits. I also asked for the Jägerschnitzel, which turned out to be bland pork cutlets in muddy gravy, which in my citified ways made me yearn for katsu don. Ian asked for his potato pan with the Nürnberger bratwurst, 3 foot-long house-specialty sausages which tasted superb. I also sampled the Käsespätzle, a delicious noodley German take on macaroni and cheese.

Germans know how to use their fat. The desserts were superb. I accidentally ordered the German chocolate cake (say it with me kids, "Deutscher Schokoladenkuchen") in place of the Black Forest cake, but was rewarded with a moist, chewy, layered combo of mild chocolate and coconut with fudge-like frosting. I had bites of other friends' apple-involved concoctions, but I was most satisfied with my choice. 

The obligatory oom-pah-pah did play on the P.A., but in manageable decimals. Before we left, they even put on Swiss yodeling. The most bizarre turn came when someone at another table had a birthday. The lights turned off suddenly, there were five seconds of darkness, like the second coming of the Blitz. Then, on came an electric scarab turned on in the ceiling and shot out light beams of many colors, frightening disco spotlight that it was. A strange, belligerent song which is a form of German Happy Birthday came on the P.A. The birthboy blew out a giant candle planted in some dish (probably made of schnitzel, potatoes, and sauerkraut) and everyone in the room clapped to a frenzied beat from about three minutes. A strange form of celebration, but a celebration nonetheless.

As we left, we saw there was outdoor seating, so we'll come back some summer evening and take advantage of it.

Pictures that we took of that dinner will be posted eventually!

That was the Week that was

We have reached the end of "Staten Island's Hidden Treasures Week" on NY1, an admirable attempt to promote little-known aspects of the borough.

Unfortunately, their attempt to battle anti-Statenism was overshadowed by the Island's more recent turmoil. When NY1 ran a promo, "Learn about Staten Island's best-kept secrets!" people in the newsroom joked, "You mean Vito Fossella's love child?"

Oh well. Let's take a quick look at the stories of "Staten Island's Hidden Treasures Week."

On Monday, they profiled the Jacques Marchais Museum of Tibetan Art, a premier Orientalist art collection and an incongruous taste of a Lhasa Buddhist temple in the middle of a Staten Island neighborhood. Can't wait to visit this one.

On Tuesday, they profiled an interesting neighborhood shrine, the Our Lady of Mount Carmel Grotto in Rosebank. In 100 years, generations of Italian-Americans have contributed to the site.

On Wednesday, they profiled a big glacial rock - old river sediment in Dongan Hills from millions of years ago. This probably would have made a better print story than TV segment (there's only so many seconds you can look at a gray rocky loaf on the TV screen), but I admire the series for not just profiling consumable traits of the borough.

Thursday's story, arguably the most interesting, profiled View Recording Studios in my neighborhood, St. George, which started out as the office of Remedy of Wu-Tang Clan fame, and now offers cheap recording space for budding hip-hop artists. No doubt about it - ARTISTS NEED LOW RENTS FOR THEIR CREATIVE SPACES!

Friday's story was not as dynamic, although the subject matter is arguably the most dynamic - human migration! which is studied at the St. Charles Mission Center in Dongan Hills.

More dire stories grabbed people's attention in this bloodstained week of city neighborhood shootings and a crane collapse. A shooting in Tompkinsville (2 miles from my house!) injured two teens, and the party endorsements of professional rich guy and Republican Frank Powers and Democratic City Councilman Michael McMahon as candidates for congressman, and the fact that not everyone's happy with those decisions.

Lastly, I stayed up way too late last night watching "Häxan" (1922), an extremely bizarre Scandinavian documentary on medieval and Renaissance witchcraft trials. It combines the grimy lyricism of "The Passion of St. Joan of Arc" with the delirious theatricality of Georges Melies's cardboard circus films. An old woman births carnivalesque chimera of felt and feathers! Old crones kiss a papier-mache demon's rump! Satan bleeds and cooks a jiggling rubber unchristened baby! (Startling images, like the Russian baby "burned" alive by medieval German Catholics in Eisenstein's "Alexander Nevsky.") The director used an eldery mental patient to play the part of an accused goodwife, to knock us over the head with the fact that mental institutions = the Inquisition's torture rooms!

Watch the film on YouTube - it's divided into 11 parts, and the first part is here. It gets weirder as you go on.

Witchcraft trials have very little to do with Staten Island (the Dutch weren't witch-crazy like the English and their Puritans), but P. T. Barnum exhibited a tableau of the "Witch of Staten Island," and earlier this year, some Staten Islanders showed a severe fear of Wiccans.

Yes, we don't have no Bookstores!

Ah, the power of the double negative!

One day earlier this month I was innocently Googling, when I came across this bastard who claimed that Staten Island "doesn't seem to have any bookstores."

Let me prove that blatant anti-Statenism wrong! 

A ten-minute walk from my house, down scenic tree-lined St. Mark's Place to Bay Street, is Every Thing Goes Book Café, which is a combo coffee shop/performance space/bookstore that brings me back to my former hometown of Northampton, Mass. (or as Newsweek profiled it in 1993, "Lesbianville, USA"), right down to the Celtic warbles of Loreena McKennitt played over the P.A. 

On first sight, the round tables and organic muffin counter with a tea leaf menu look like it's just a coffee shop, with the few bookcases on the back wall looking as ornamental as the locally-produced paintings that hang on the wall. But go up the backstairs, and one realizes that the entire ground floor of the house is a bookstore, with a surprising range of subjects and relatively obscure titles (two that caught my eye on my first visit were a "History of Gesture" and the libretto to Philip Glass's "Satyagraha," which had as a momento/bookmark a polaroid of a straight-out-of-the-'70s dude with afro and plaid shirt. 

The back room also contains an impressive amount of 12-inch records, VHS cassette tapes, old newsprint-paged comic books, even abandoned family photos - all sorts of ephemera! My sentimental self has a great fondness for that sort of thing. 

Yet ANOTHER aspect which I liked was the store's back yard! - several wooden patio chairs and metal-grille tables set by a wall covered with ivy, a steep hill covered with saplings and bushes, and all under the shade of maple strees. When I went there with my friend Everett, we sat and threw dried maple seeds at each other in helicopter-spirals while hearing the birds call. Pleasantly surprised to find a taste of suburbia in the five boroughs, he half-jokingly asked me, "We're in New York City?"

They claim to be Staten Island's biggest used bookstore, and so far I would believe them. My only complaint is that their dreadlock-cap and loose-skirt wearing waitstaff/cashiers are more adept at running a café than ringing up the books. I found it hard to find prices marked in their books, and I haven't heard back from them in almost two weeks after they promised to call me about the price of "Satyagraha." Oh well, I own too many books anyway, and Every Thing Goes also offers performances, lectures, act auctions, and is associated with three other collectively-owned businesses: a thrift clothing store, a thrift furniture store, and an antiques gallery, all within the St. George neighborhood. More on this place to come.

I also read in yesterday's Staten Island Advance that there is another bookstore opening today in Stapleton, a neighborhood just south of St. George...

Bent Pages - a woman-owned, feminist-friendly establishment that offers books by women authors, LGBTQ-related tomes, and overall progressive titles. The Victorian storefront is apparently painted purple. Good luck to the owners of Bent Pages, for adding one more bookstore to an Island that's bound to have lots more unexpected boons.

"Welcome to the Staten Island Ferry"

Finally, something to write about beyond navel-contemplation! My previous attempt on more Biblical matters may still be maintained... but the building of the Holy Tabernacle is hard to get through.

I have lived on Staten Island since the beginning of this month, and I am in the middle of a rosy honeymoon with "The Forgotten Borough," "The Other White Borough," "Staten Italy," "Lacosanostralia," ... "Shaolin," if you're a Wu-Tang fan. You got any more nicknames?

Personally, I prefer "Staaten Eylandt," the first European name given to the Island by Henry Hudson in 1609, in honor of the Dutch Republic's parliament. Take that, "sweet land of liberty" - Staten Island's got you beat by 150 years. Then along came the imperialist English, who renamed the county for the Duke of Richmond, bastard son of the King's and not of the Queen's, and nephew of the Duke of York (who as King was deposed by a constitutional Dutch monarch... so the Dutch got their revenge).

As for the Bronck's, that honors a Dutch plantation owner, and Breukelen is a Dutch town (which according Wikipedia's OGG pronunciation almost sounds Scottish - 'Brrrrrooklin"). And Manahatta - "Place of [Indigenous] Drunkenness?" C'mon...

Now, enough of nomenclature. 

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I love the Staten Island Ferry - the lumbering, even-keeled Janus who intakes and spews innumerable commuters and tourists through its dual cloacae. 

The best seat on the ferry is the upper balcony facing towards the departing shore (they won't let you sit on the balcony facing the approaching shore). Not all nine ferries have this feature - the late-night tiny ferry "John A. Noble" has no outdoor seating. By the time it's 2 a.m., 99% of the passengers are tired commuters in various levels of sobriety who could give a $#!† about the Statue of Liberty.

But, oh, when you have that seat on the upper balcony, like I did tonight... you have a 180˚ view of New York Harbor unfolding before you. The heated, jeweled diadem that is Manhattan, with lit pearl strands topping the bridges extending to Brooklyn, the sleeping, dull masses of Ellis Island and Governor's Island, the spotlighted, looming Statue of Liberty all recede behind wrinkled night waters.

So far, the ferry rides have been very gentle and steady, but seeing the bright orange railing slightly wobble before me at the jiggling butt end of the ferry while I ate plantain chips made me think of a cheap virtual ride, shaking you to simulate a space launch.

I love riding outdoors. I prefer the constant splatter of sideways rain, the common anxiety of fifty tourists taking pictures of the same green statue, and my jiggling leg and fingernail-gnawing hands steadied by the loud belch of the ferry siren and the dull vibrations of the engines' "magic fingers." Cheap hotel bed massages are here for free - no quarter necessary!

And then finally the engines shut off,  leaving that last smooth glide into the harbors, when the ferry sometimes crunches into the wooden sides of the ferry dock. It's like a pissed-off toddler parked the boat. Everyone anxiously gathers in front of the cloaca, just as they gather in front of the terminal doors, despite guaranteed seats for even the slowpokes. The vast steel ramps screech down to the ferry's lower balcony and release a rusty sigh as the riders burst forth.

This blog will contain my reactions to Staten Island. I intend to get to know most of it. Stay tuned.