Monday, January 14, 2019
Remembering the saga of my grandparents and so many others like them, who crossed an ocean, with empty pockets, knowing no English to seek opportunity for their children and themselves, I have had little sympathy for economically displaced Americans who have substituted Trump and opioids for missing mines and factories. I keep citing the statistic that 94% of New York taxicab drivers are foreign born, as of 2014. http://www.nyc.gov/html/tlc/downloads/pdf/2014_taxicab_fact_book.pdf A West Virginia high school diploma is not a disqualification from driving a New York City taxicab.
A new study mutes some of my thinking on this subject. "For decades, workers migrated to big cities in America that promised abundant jobs and decent wages." The change in the character of the American economy, the export or automation of low-skilled manufacturing jobs, has changed this significantly. "For workers without any college education, the added wage benefits of dense cities have mostly disappeared."
Yet, local dry cleaners, candy and newspaper stands, fast food joints, bodegas and grocery stores, and nail salons seem to be owned and operated almost exclusively by immigrants, following in the footsteps of Esther Malka Goldenberg who opened a grocery store on the ground floor of a tenement at 123 Henry Street on the lower East Side and then at 997 Belmont Avenue in East New York, Brooklyn.
I suggest, without any supporting data, that the malaise of today's white working class is partly self-inflicted. Once the relative comfort provided by New Deal programs and organized labor's efforts began to fade in a changing job market, workers willfully forgot what had brought them success. Propelled by battalions of shysters and scam artists, multi-level marketing schemes, house-flipping, and day-trading siphoned off money and energy from many who at least sought to improve their condition.
I am not sure which comes first, the draining of opportunity or the draining of optimism.
. . .
When I informed David Webber that, in one week, the Upper West Side's Power Couple would be spending a few days at an inn located at 2020 Webber Avenue, Yountville, California, he responded that it would be less ominous than heading for Gotthelf Avenue. I took that as a challenge. Is there such a destination? Well, yes and no. The best that I could find is:
Gotthelfriedrichsgrund, Reinsberg, Sachsen, Germany
Gotthelfgasse, Donaustadt, Austria
Rua Gotthelf Engicht, Escola Agrícola, Blumenau - Santa Catarina, Brazil
Gotthelfstrasse, Murten, Switzerland
Gotthelfstrasse, Nidau, Switzerland
It seems that Palazzo di Gotthelf stands alone in the geography of North America, although it only appears on certain limited-edition maps. If I aimed for any of these byways, Switzerland would be closest, just under 4,000 miles, while Brazil is nearer 5,000 miles.
. . .
The phenomenal success of Hamilton on Broadway and other venues, has aroused historical kickback.
Ishmael Reed, "a prolific and often satirical writer," targets Lin-Manuel Miranda's play and the biography by Ron Chernow that inspired it. Reed believes that Alexander Hamilton does not deserve to be considered "a fervent abolitionist," as Chernow proclaims, and failed to recognize the plight of Native Americans.
This dispute raises the interesting question of where and how do we learn. I am sure that most of the countless thousands who have seen Hamilton in one of the six productions now running emerged from the show impressed by the favorable stage characterization of the man. Some probably subsequently sought out the Chernow book, although I don't see a lot of people carrying around copies of The Federalist Papers.
I came out of the theater with the (dis)advantage of years studying American political history and American political thought, including working with Clinton Rossiter at the time that he published Alexander Hamilton and the Constitution. Accordingly, I don't trust this entertaining theatrical work, or any other, as a source of nuanced political/historical/philosophical insights. While I quibbled with the treatment of Thomas Jefferson, Hamilton's philosophical foe, unfairly portrayed as a buffoon, I reminded my obsessive self that it's a musical! They are singing and dancing up there! It's not your Ph.D. orals!
On the other hand, I understand the power of pseudo-history on stage or screen. Many people’s views of Kennedy, Nixon and George W. Bush probably come from Oliver Stone’s films. I admit that my "knowledge" of several American political assassins mostly comes from Stephen Sondheim's stage treatment of the subject.
In the end, does art/culture have to be "right”? In any case, I doubt that Reed's efforts will make any difference to those bedazzled by the stage Hamilton and I think that its predominant cast of black and brown actors deflects much of his critique.
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
I never said that I didn't collude with Rudy Giuliani on this blog.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Our first day in Oakland, California got off to a rocking start.
We visitors failed to notice it, although our hosts, America’s Loveliest Nephrologist and the Oakland Heartthrob felt the 3.5 shock. Maybe the pounding rain was sufficiently distracting. It finally let up late morning, in time for us to meet Jeanne Friedman, CCNY ’63 for lunch at Vik’s Chaat Corner, 2390 Fourth Street, Oakland, a local institution, combining a grocery store devoted to Indian and British products, with a very large, informal Indian restaurant.
It holds a couple of hundred people, serving them quickly cafeteria-style. You order and pay at one counter and moments later your name is called at another counter with your food ready. Lunch specials range from $12.50 to $14.50, served on a compartmented steel tray, with roti, basmati rice, papadum (small piece), achar (hot, spicy pickle) and your choice of chicken, lamb, shrimp, fish or vegetarian curry (varies by day of the week).
By the time we left, the joint was about half full (a lot of people) and Jeanne says that it’s packed on weekends, attracting Indians, surgeons and motel owners, from all over the region. I admired the size and efficiency of the operation, but, as one familiar with Indian food, I would have rated it an ordinary lunch except for the quality of Jeanne's company.
Friday, January 18, 2019
If you read about the "Mad Hugger" today, you might imagine that you were reading a police report. It's inconceivable that someone would now willingly accept this label, describing conduct offensive to germaphobes, genderphobes, relationshipphobes and those many people who simply want to be left alone. However, Joe Plut bore this label proudly. https://blogs.mprnews.org/newscut/2011/11/you_should_meet_joe_plut/
Joe died today after a long siege with prostate cancer. No obituary has yet appeared, but they are certain to refer to the Mad Hugger, an expression of his honest affection for and enjoyment of fellow human beings. I knew him as my brother's Columbia graduate school classmate and I remember his joy and enthusiasm, as someone born and raised in northern Minnesota, as more and more of New York City's charms, challenges and treasures opened up to him.
Soon after he returned home to teach college, I visited him while wandering the Midwest, in a period where I was either trying to find myself or lose myself. I don't think that I ever saw him again, but it has been easy to retain warm memories of him for all this time.
Friday, January 18, 2019
If you read about the "Mad Hugger" today, you might imagine that you were reading a police report. It's inconceivable that someone would now willingly accept this label, describing conduct offensive to germaphobes, genderphobes, relationshipphobes and those many people who simply want to be left alone. However, Joe Plut bore this label proudly. https://blogs.mprnews.org/newscut/2011/11/you_should_meet_joe_plut/
Joe died today after a long siege with prostate cancer. No obituary has yet appeared, but they are certain to refer to the Mad Hugger, an expression of his honest affection for and enjoyment of fellow human beings. I knew him as my brother's Columbia graduate school classmate and I remember his joy and enthusiasm, as someone born and raised in northern Minnesota, as more and more of New York City's charms, challenges and treasures opened up to him.
Soon after he returned home to teach college, I visited him while wandering the Midwest, in a period where I was either trying to find myself or lose myself. I don't think that I ever saw him again, but it has been easy to retain warm memories of him for all this time.
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