Dollar City

Dollar City, if were true, I would never leave. If only such Ghetto Fabulous storefronts could stymie gentrification but I have feeling this vestige of Jersey City past is a mere finger in the dyke; the flood gates are opened wide and the yuppie waters rush forth impeded only by a weak economy. So, thus we have another one of our dollar stores to cherish. In the 90s, used to only sell things a dollar and lower. This store even sells cigarettes. Cheap but more than a dollar. A real assortment inside. In fact, Lots of Cold Drinks Available Here. One iced yerba matte soy latte with pineapple and ginseng, please. All out? I thought you promised lots!

Silver Warhol

I didn’t feel for Warhol the way Robert did. His work reflected a culture I wanted to avoid. I hated the soup and felt little for the can. I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it.

Patti Smith, Just Kids


Right on, Sister, although I think she is mistaken in the last sentence of this quote, suggesting that Warhol didn’t transform – there some transformational attributes to his work, just not for the good. Shallowness, anti-intellectualism, self-absorption these are the some of the values he espoused, along with his factory gang. Trust funders a-slumming with an artist whose greatest devotion wasn’t art but celebrity.

Back in the punk rock days – when I thought Horses was my manifesto, in some ways I still think that – and the punk scene was emerging with the black clothes and straight leg jeans, Warhol seemed to be part of it. He was so modernist and at the time still contemporary enough that he was cited as an important figure, a kind of existential thinker which seemed to feed into what was the absolute rebellion punk aspired towards. Warhol just struck me as elitist and vapid. The concept that a picture of a can of soup is art because of the commentary on society – but what was the meaning of that commentary beyond his own celebrity. Seemed like a whole lot of hogwash. Bob Dylan in a recent interview with Rolling Stone – Dylan has had some showings and books of his paintings – when asked if about Warhol’s importance as an artist replied along the lines, as a cultural figure, yes, as an artist, no.

Yet, he came from humble beginnings and always took his mother to mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. He took care of her. I thought of this for some reason when I saw the statue here near Union Square, which is apparently near where the Factory was during his heyday. Made of chrome, unveiled a few months ago, for whatever reason it is not going to be a permanent fixture of the neighborhood, which also includes one of the best Lincoln statutes in the city. He looks a little lost or maybe just lost in thought, or lost in seeing.

The silver blends against the sky, at least the overcast rainy summer sky on the day I snapped this shot. Remembering a friend, who later became a staunch right wing republican, citing Andy Warhol as we waited on line for murder burgers at the 24 hour White Castle in the Bronx make me feel conflicted and probably too, that memory comes with the idea that at that moment I too felt life was meant to be lived without meaning.

Reading the Patti Smith memoir and coming across the Warhol opinions reminded me also of being in that era and going up to the Museum of Modern Art for the first time and seeing the Dali and Van Gogh and wondering what the hell is the soup can here for? Or those Elvis Silk Screens – totally devoid of the man’s art and everlasting music.

On the other hand, give credit where Credit is due:

1) with Warhol, there would not be a Velvet Underground – or Lou Reed. I may not play the velvets like I did, but they were part of the sound track for a good while and they are an important Rock & Roll band whose influence still can be heard. Some great songs and that first record, produced by Andy Warhol – who was smart enough to basically press the record button – remains a classic.

2) Film. Again, back in the punk phase, I use to think Bad by Andy Warhol was a classic, and it still may be but I haven’t seen it for a couple of decades and have no desire to revisit it. It’s a nihilistic yarn and Warhol just put his name to it for funding, unlike the other films like Cowboys and Chelsea Girls, where he did the filming. Those are the real Warhol films. They're sort of anti-cinema, no real story just footage of people talking really, unscripted druggy monologues, but they seem to capture the essence of film. Anti-cinema and Ultra-film? They are compelling, I’ll give you that and seeing them in East Village make-shift theaters in the early 90s—20 years or so after they were made—was quite memorable.

3) Interview Magazine. Is this vapid, overly hip eye candy still being published? It wasn’t writing, it was transcribing. A magazine you would read to learn absolutely nothing. But it was the first to make celebrities of out fashion designers and restaurant people, NYC celebs anyway. It’s use of photography, especially black and white, combined with innovative graphic design and lay out, became the dominant look for tabloid magazines for at least a decade. Try to find a tabloid sized publication these days – magazines are smaller now, the magazines still around on paper that is. For many years though, Interview was the magazine every other magazine layout copied.

Lastly, as a celebrity, getting shot in 1968 was another first – made Lennon and Tupac more understandable and even more so, his death in the 80s by a medical mistake was one of the first national examples of our disgraceful healthcare system. Most celebrities can now afford better security and the best hospitals. Hey, it’s not like Andy cared much for people like us anyway.

Why The Andy Monument is only temporary is beyond me, he’s an important New Yorker in spite of my misgivings. Also, I like the Silver Surfer look, one of the Metal Men.

Hearts & Saints

It’s called the I Love St. Anthony Festival, with love replaced with the ubiquitous heart as in, I heart N.Y. I’ve been prone to a deeper word play appreciation of late so I wonder if they are loving the Saint Anthony Festival or if it is a Festival for those who love Saint Anthony. As J.C. street fairs go, it is of a recent vintage, I believe this was the third. I go every year
(here's last year's blog). It’s a celebration of everything Polish. So, along with the usual carnie games and cash bars, there’s an amazing selection of authentic, home cooked, Polish cuisine. Keilbasa, Pergois, Potato Pancakes, Stuffed Cabbage, as well as selection of Polish DVDs, and other enthnic items. They’re a lively bunch here in town and this festival attracts both the newly arrived and the second and third and fourth generation from far and wide.

This great polka band, Joe Stanky & The Cadets, played a truly delightful set of polka. I’m not about to run out and buy a Polka box set or anything like that, but it is hard not to dig the sound. Dylan (always Dylan), put a polka song on his Christmas Carol record and it’s pretty hard not hear the Polka Influence in Lily, Rosemary & The Jack of Hearts from Blood on the Tracks. Tex-Mex, Western Swing, Cajun as well as up-tempo country waltzes are just variations of the same accordion-centric dance music. Polka used to have its own Grammy Award. Very enjoyable and these cats could really play.

During the festival the sponsoring Church, Saint Anthony, named for the patron saint of Miracles, a Franciscan friar and thaumaturgist known for his devotion to helping the poor and extraordinary gifts of oratory, holds an open house. One of the oldest churches in Jersey City, it is also one of the most beautiful, with extraordinary statuary, stain glass and mosaics. Rumors abound that the church will be closed during the next wave of consolidations implemented out of Newark seat of the Archdioceses. A heart breaking idea that will certainly be met with protests. In any event, try to check out this church. Regardless of your beliefs, the art will astound you.

This bigger than life cross is said to be the only statue to survive an 1895 fire.

A statuette in a tiny wall alcove, “A Quiet Moment,” the holy family, Joseph, Mary and Baby Jesus. Such a warm ideal is presented and notice the details of the toes, sandals, cloth of the robes. This sculpture expresses the divine in the human.

A mosaic of the Last Supper on the altar flickers with reflected light.

Black Madonna, a traditional Polish Blessed Virgin Mother icon has its own side altar with a tribute to Pope John Paul II. His canonization is a popular prayer topic, one assumes.

Stations of the Cross in Polish, I’ve never seen that before.

These are hat clips, a standard item in pews for many centuries, or decades at least. We used to play with them incessantly when I was in grammar school. Except for the winter, this was in the post-hat era. Churches built in more recent years do not have them. Maybe with the revival of chapeau wearing the clips might likewise have a comeback.

Another Lost Bench

We can’t keep nothing nice in this city. Or was that your mother talking about your house. Well, your house is our house and our city is just a projection of the domestic world, a microcosm of the Garden State, in turn an allegory of all America. Oh, you get the picture. So, earlier this year on the South-side of Newark, near a certain new bar before it opened, one of the new Park Benches paid for in some part by Stimulus spending was destroyed (here) and not replaced, at least not yet. Now, up ¾’s of a block on the North-side, another bench has fallen. So much for enjoying the beautiful view of the bank parking lot and ugly new condos. Sturdy outdoor furniture, damaging them is not an easy task but I guess it’s easier than replacing them.

Independence Day, Morning Walk

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d
Walt Whitman
12

Lo, Body and soul – this land,
My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and
hurrying tides, and the ships,
The varied and ample land, the South and the North in
the light, Ohio’s shores and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies cover’d with grass
and corn.

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
The gentle soft-born measureless light,
The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill’d noon,
The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the
stars,
Over my cities shinning all, enveloping man and land.

When in the course human events on the morning of July 4, 2011 I took my semi traditional stroll around Liberty State Park. I took a cab this time to the far-side, the non-ferry side.

A beautiful summer day, which I started with some Whitman. In the park the fog was still being burnt off by the sun, creating a humidity-dampening haze.

Tents, grills, children. Mostly people of color; one assume folks without a back yard. Because of security concerns, fireworks have been moved up river – for the 2nd year in a row, Jersey City cancelled its display citing monetary short-falls.

There used to be 10 times as many following arriving early to claim a prime spot for the fireworks. Those that still come do so out of tradition – where better to have a July 4th picnic than a park named for our nation’s highest ideal – Liberty – with the teal statue given to us by our first ally, France one hundreds years after they send treasure and their youth to fight alongside my ancestors so the nation representing the last, best hope for mankind could make real the aspirations cited in its Declaration of birth or which this holiday commemorates.

Seeing these families together in our park is awe inspiring and life affirming. I used to come to this park a lot, especially in the 90s when I was more into bicycle riding. Now it’s just about once a year. Shame, it’s really so close. I usually walk both ways. Beautiful Park, beautiful river. We’re lucky to live in a city with such an awesome walk available. I was in an everything is beautiful mood. Reading Whitman in the morning can do that to you. I also read the Declaration of Independence – they print in the Times per tradition; I read it every year on this day.

America sure it pisses me off and constantly disappoints – but there are moments, sincere moments, where Lincoln was right, that we are the last best hope for mankind, republicans not withstanding.

Oh shit, Lincoln was a Republican.

No wonder we celebrate our birthday with hot dogs and later fireworks.

Our country, our history, is way too complicated; some things work better simplified.

Couldn’t see the sea, barely see Hudson Bay... Bayonne lost in the haze.

Nice crab, kid.

We’ve been out here four hours.

We caught two.

Are you going eat them? Sure’ we’re going to eat.

I’m not going to eat that, she said, adamant.

Fishing. A favorite along New Jersey’s Mississippi. Sure looks like fun but who the heck can eat fish caught in the Hudson river. Maybe it is cleaner than it used to be, but still.

What a fantastic walk, there’s the riverside walkway or you can veer off into the marshland – actually it’s recreated wetlands, recovered from the years of factory pollution and dumping; apparently the recovery started in 1976. Go somewhere else for the history.

Then you get to the Blue Comet station, blogged about here.

Then the depressing part of the Independence Day, Morning Walk.

This is why I didn’t walk both ways, and took a cab instead –that way I don’t have to see this abhorrent eyesore twice!

This ugly marina wasn’t always here, polluting this inlet of the ole Monroe Canal.

I hate this Marina.

I hate this ostentatious show of blatant wealth, this utter disregard for all American values other than greed and self-obsession. Ugliness epitomized. Used to be a long, wide, verdant lawn here, our Great Lawn. Somewhere along the line, it was decided that giving those rich enough to own a yacht should have a lawn so those ugly yachts that can’t fit into canal can be dry docked.

What’s a higher social priority, the toys of the wealthy or the children of the working class?

I guess it pays off – Jersey City can’t afford its own fireworks display again this year and to see the New York display from the Jersey Side you have to make it up to Hoboken and Weehawken.

Not if you have a boat of course, than our River is your River. Ferries ferry tourists to Ellis Island and the Statue.

I know it’s just a coincidence, but I can’t help but feel nauseas. The fun of the African American families having a cook out on the other side of Liberty State Park then reaching the Marina side, African American waitresses serving the yacht owners – who’d a thunk it ! – are rich and white.

Our state is cutting teachers, our class rooms are over crowded. Firemen and police officers laid off or on furlough. The scallywags and cowards who make up the state legislators cut pensions and reduce healthcare, re-negging on contracts a decade old. Tear up the social contract? Why not? Raise the tax rate on the wealthy – have them as Clinton said, pay their fair share – that makes too much sense and aspires to too much justice. Low turn out put the right wing freak in power in Trenton and cutting the taxes of the rich will take away their yachts. Not just an eyesore not to mention a security risk, this marina undermines the whole purpose of this park, open to everybody in the huddled masses.


The freedom to loot our economy, returning this land to the two-tier society of a gilded age.

Over crowded class rooms, teachers laid off, but tax cuts so the wealth can accumulate more wealth and buy... a yacht.

And a public park – a park meant to as a testament to the ideals of the Statue of Liberty – that we are free and equal – is given away to the privileged.

This marina signified everything wrong in America today. But you know, we the people may be down but we’re never out and someday we will wake up and take our country back and tear down this parking lot for the toys of the wealthy! Get on Board, there’s a New Deal Coming. Better Day on the Horizon! A million marinas cannot destroy what makes this country, us, the people.

Still the bog alongside the wooden bridge is still nice. Water fowl remain but the boats of the wealthy have so polluted this water way not a turtle in sight. Summer, and no turtles.

Maybe we’re just down but not out. The McDonalds flag still flies beneath our Old Glory, waving in the horizon, signaling a return to downtown.