Farewell Facade

From the scaffolding, he yelled down to me. “The city is making us remove the facade, it started falling off.”

Happened right before the New Year holiday, as Dislocations readers know.

Caution tape was used to safeguard pedestrians but it seemed that every night, somebody tore it away and every morning, somebody from the city re-taped the scene in front of the store.

Before Saturday, guys came to put up scaffolding.

Then on this cold, windy Saturday morning—above street level, the gusts had to be frigid—they were removing the facade. They seemed to be cracking it with a hammer, then yanking it off, shard by shard. They placed the shards in thick plastic trunks. Hard, careful and cold work.

The facade had seen better days. I haven’t done the research, but my guess is that the facade was from the 1950s. It has that mid-century, post-WWII art deco glitz and from what I could tell, it seemed to be thick glass, like a cobalt. I imagine it was back before Malls dominated Jersey shopping, when people—even from the outlying, suburban towns—came to a downtown city to shop at nice stores. Obviously, I support the facade removal—I guess that was the only choice, there seems to be no other way to ensure public safety. But I’m going to miss that blue. The tar paper like surface that lay underneath the cobalt facade is pretty depressing. It’s damn unsightly, an ugly reminder of what used to be there. Guess we better get used to it. I can imagine somebody knocking down the building and erecting some new edifice before they install a more aesthetically pleasing facade. But I can’t imagine any sort of investment like that in the current economy, but I could be wrong. Construction seems a constant in this town.

Removing the facade eliminated the 50s era retro feel of downtown, replacing it with look reminiscent of another era—the urban decay of 70s & 80s. The price of safety? Architectural Preservation!

Matters of Time

The two downtown public clocks, on Newark & Jersey and Newark & Grove haven’t had the right time in a while, must be months. Maybe years ago, the clocks had a real purpose in the public space. Everybody could set their watch or timepiece to the same central, agreed upon, authority. More importantly back then, one imagines that not everybody could afford a time piece. They depended on the clock towers on Newark.

In our modern era, most everybody has a watch, usually more than one time piece—I hate wearing a watch, I rely on my cell-phone for the time. But during my near daily walk down Newark, like my fellow citizens and pedestrians, I experience a moment of unsettled confusion when I see the wrong time on the clock towers. More often than not, I immediately check my cell-phone to verify my current when. The Clock Tower time is not just an hour off, it’s several hours and minutes off. I can’t synchronize in my mind the correct time like I do with my Alarm Clock which I’ve always set 35 minutes ahead. It wouldn’t be so bad if the clocks were stopped—then at least they’d be right twice a day. The pictures I took here were about five after nine one chilly morning and as you can see, the clock says twelve seventeen. The clock towers disrupt our pedestrian synchronicity.

“You feel very uneasy when you see the wrong time,” said Robert Armstrong, Lawyer/Actor and long time Jersey City resident. “What does it say about a city when even its clocks can’t run on time.”

The clocks have run on time but I can’t remember when they last were correct. Seems like a very long time ago. Nobody notices when the clocks tell the right time. When they work, all appears normal with the public square. Correct time is taken for granted. But when the clocks are off, constantly, for weeks and months, you always feel unsettled. How can we be sure of the right time? Is anarchy looming in the horizon? Is that recession you read about in the newspaper affecting time? How come our city can afford fancy new double street lamps but not fix the clocks?

Actually, the downtown clock tower story seems interesting and still has some mystery. I did some investigating—I called the Verdin Company, who manufactured the clocks. On the clock is a metal emblem with their name and 800-number. They’ve been making public clocks and similar public objects since 1842. If you look at old pictures of Newark Avenue, you see the familiar clock towers. Have these clocks been in downtown since the 1890s. Well, yes and... no.In the Jersey Historic Room at the Main Branch of the Jersey City, the oldest evidence of clocks actually dates to a post card from what is believed to be 1910. But the clocks are on either side of Newark Avenue at the corners of Grove, not in the places they now are at Newark & Erie, and Newark & Grove—on the east side of Grove.

If you look very closely on the right, squint and follow the sidewalk, you will see the original, pre-1997 Erie Street clock.

According to the person I spoke with at Verdin—the clocks date back to 1997, and are Howard Replicas—Howard was another public clock manufacturer from the 19th century. The clock was ordered by the Jersey City Economic Development Corporation and there is paper work at Verdin dating back to 1993. They wanted to copy the existing clocks. I found pictures that included the clock from the 1950s and what I’m guessing is the 1930s. More recent images of Newark Avenue I couldn’t track down in the Historic Room. If you look at these pictures, on the right hand side, you will see the clock at Erie Street. The clocks on corners of Newark & Grove are obviously gone, I couldn’t find pictures of the spot on Grove where the clock is currently located—which means I can’t verify when that clock was first there.

The clocks are serviced by the Public Works Department of Jersey City, and it appears the towers were recently painted. For some reason make-shift barriers have been erected around the clock towers. I haven’t contacted the PWD or the JCEDC—because, well life is short and I don’t have the time. Was there ever a time the clocks were not there? I don’t know. I can’t remember. Neither can Armstrong. Time is a mystery I’ve learned to endure. I hope you can do likewise.

What we do remember is that the time is always wrong—our now and the clock’s now are not the same present. Will we always be uncertain as to when is the right now?

Help is on the way. “The City can do routine and preventative maintenance, but for major work one of our regional technicians have to go onsite,” said the Verdin spokesperson. “You’re in luck, it looks like there is a work order from Jersey City for a major refurbishment of the clock. It will probably take two to four days, but we don’t send techs out in the cold weather. After the winter, the clock will be back on time.”

The spokesperson believed this would be the first time major maintenance will be conducted on the J.C. downtown clock towers since their 1997 installation.

All Bob-free images used in this blog post are courtesy of the Jersey City Free Public Library, the New Jersey Room.

Memorial Preview

For anyone who knew the World Trade Center buildings, going to the site post-9-11 is always discombobulating. We can never forget the tragedy of that awful day, but what I’m getting at is more than just remembering the buildings. I mean folks who were there often, commuting through or going to the stores and what not. I don’t go there often like I used to—my commutes to NYC are more on the 33rd Street PATH line. But I was down there the other day and I saw the 9-11 Memorial Preview Museum, and looked at the scale model of the proposed designed and was particularly struck with the reflecting pools of the actual foot prints of the buildings which are sad and poignant. The discombobulating part is that there is such an ongoing construction, make shift quality to the current site that it is hard to visualize the actual size of the model, where it would be. But it is hard to remember precisely where you are in the buildings you remember when you go into the WTC via PATH. I guess it would not be such a big deal if I worked on Wall Street, had to go there every day, but I like I said, I don’t. I haven’t been following the recent iterations of the 9-11 Memorial debate. Personally, I don’t believe it will be built in my life time. But I hope I’m wrong. They have a preview space built. Besides the model they were showing some video, people remembering the day, the tragedy, those lost. A gift shop was going—yes, there’s no memorial but there’s a memorial gift shop. I actually admire that. I never had a problem with 9-11 Souvenirs, which seemed to show up by 9-12. Crass, tasteless, exploitive—I suppose—on the other hand, it was enterprising and why not get a commemorative T-shirt or pictures of the towers. Something very American, very New York, about it, something hopeful. At the Memorial Preview Gift Shop they had classy looking t-shirts, some books, hard cover editions of the 9-11 Commission Report, a good read, a must read. Well written, thrilling and serious—the book details our flawed history with Islamic fundamentalist-based terrorism—lessons not to so well heeded, with the Christmas Day Detroit bound Underwear Bomber fresh in my mind. It was weird seeing that book for—I’m not suggesting inappropriate—I just kept thinking of preview, of implied coming attractions. I always get discombobulated down there.

Artie Lange—Appreciating a N.J. Original

I’ m a Jersey guy, born and raised. Went to Catholic Schools, most of my friends growing up were Italian or Irish. Artie Lange may be a few years younger than me, and a product of a different county (Essex), but I feel I know him. Not personally, he’s just familiar to me, from his book, Too Fat To Fish, which I recommend, his work on the Stern Show and his films. I’m not a television watcher or go to comedy clubs, so his stand up I’m not as familiar, but he’s damn funny. I felt surprisingly worried when I heard he had been hospitalized I posted a quote from his book, and then the next day the real story was released—a suicide attempt.

“...Lange's mother found him on the floor of his home on Saturday. Competello says the 42-year-old comedian was unconscious but breathing after stabbing himself with a 13-inch Wolfgang Puck kitchen knife. Doctors at Jersey City Medical Center cleaned nine abdominal knife wounds and operated. He says Lange has been released.”


The grisly details enhance the shock value. Stabbed himself nine times. Wolfgang Puck knife? Pretty close to home, not just geographically. Too Fat To Fish, an autobiography, details his life growing up in New Jersey, a blue collar middle class, classically Italian-American. He likes to party, loves sports, loves to gamble on sports, is good naturedly arrogant and loves to busts chops and happily endures getting his chops busted in return. But, like many cats, he has a compulsion to be the life of the party, at the heart of and the impetus of the action. Even when you’re laughing with your friend, you want to tell him, stop pushing it, stop denying that you’re a nice guy, a sensitive, thoughtful human being.

In the book, Lange openly idolizes his parents, especially his father, who when Lange is in his late teens, becomes a quadriplegic after falling from the roof of a house. Artie witnesses the decay of this beloved authority figure, obviously a factor as his bad habits start to show signs of growing out of control. There are chapters working as a long shore man in Port Newark, a good paying job that he quits to pursue a career in comedy. The chapters about working on MADTV, Dirty Work and Beer League I don’t like as much—they’re not as unique. Several of his cocaine stories are familiar to Stern listeners. The book concludes in triumph—Lange is on the Stern show, achieves success in show business, kicks heroin, clean and sober and brings his comedy act on a USO tour to the troops in Afghanistan. Lange's adoration of the soldiers he meets is sincere and moving. This final note of redemption resonates. Many comics and comic writers and directors follow the dictum that nothing is funnier than real life. Lange, like Stern, and other contemporary comic artists like Kevin Smith, take it another step further—always go for real even when it is more real than funny. They will go for the joke, eventually but not incessantly. There is comedy to be found in tragedy—in fact, in real life, humor helps us survive tragedy. Life is funnier than jokes, and Lange’s book, similar to Stern’s book Private Parts (much better than the movie, which I liked), follows this philosphy and though genuinely amusing, it’s an overall satisfying read because authenticity is never sacrificed for a quick or obvious laugh.

The New Jersey stories are the most fascinating. I lived in Elizabeth for a while there in the 80s. I’m not sure if it was the era or the area, but there was criminal activity—drugs, bookies, prostitution, stolen goods for sale—readily available and taking place, hiding in plain sight, of what passed for respectable middle class life. Lange’s story occurs within the context of that familiar place. One chapter in explicitly sordid detail recounts a bachelor party which will ring true for any guy who has ever had the misfortune of attending an anything goes, coke and booze fueled bachelor party in North Jersey. Lange has a way of making us laugh at the fact that what makes such an event appealing also makes it appalling.

At the core of the book is a poignant, very dramatic confession. Lange’s very real suicide attempt. That chapter ends:

“...Thank God I didn’t succeed, because I think that it’s a terribly selfish act for anyone who has people that love them in their life.

This hasn’t been easy for me to get out, and I’m still ashamed of my actions that night. I can’t believe I’m putting this out into the world, but I made a promise to myself to do it and I’m going to keep it. I don’t think admitting my suicide attempt publicly is going to help me as a talent or as a performer, and I don’t want to be any kind of role model, model, but I do hope that this story helps somebody else. There is one thing I’ve learned the hard way in this life: If you can’t help making stupid mistakes yourself, you can try to stop other people from making them.”

Lange’s comic persona is coarse—just like a lot of blue collar guys, but he has a self awareness that is honest and self deprecating, even when it is filled with prideful arrogance. His over looked film, Beer League—which has the best comic performance by Seymour Cassell in his long and stellar career—is both an honest look at Guido Culture, celebrating it but also criticizing it. The film has a convincing realism to the story that say, Moonstruck lacks. Beer League is like Dodge Ball directed by Kevin Smith.

Everybody has demons, the cliché goes. Lange though has a natural talent, intelligence and insight. A guy I grew up with, a several years older than me, Italian dude, committed suicide in the 90s, like Lange, in his early 40s. I was reminded of him reading Too Fat To Fish. He had substance abuse issues, owed money to bookies in Paterson. Worked crappy jobs most of his life, yet could quote Eugene O’Neal. Something about New Jersey can turn us into our own worst enemies.

Suicide may be romantic and looks like a way to escape pain, but what it does to the family—I’ve seen this first hand—it’s just devastating. Utterly horrible. He is right about the selfishness of the act. In Too Fat To Fish—and on the Stern show—Lange has been quite honest about his devotion to his mother and sister, which is what made the news about the suicide attempt so astonishing. The book came out in 2008, I thought he was over that dark side. But, like most everybody, healing your soul takes a life time. I just hope he can stop himself from making this stupid mistake again.

Lange is more than a celebrity, he is an original talent who universalizes the Jersey Experience.

We need him.

The Ghosts of Ma’ & Tom Joad

Tom laughed uneasily. “Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one—an’ then—”

“Then what, Tom?”

“Then it don’ matter. Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where—where you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat. I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin up a guy, I’ll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’—I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the house they build, why I’ll be there. See?”

From The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

PATH Signal Problems

Most Wednesdays mornings I’m on the PATH train between 8:50 and 9:10. I do 45 minutes of cardio, shower at the gym. My day job office moved to the border of Murray Hill—about a seven minute walk from the 33rd Street PATH station. I usually have tea—I’m a big tea drinker, I hate the taste of coffee—egg whites on whole wheat toast and a yogurt at my desk and begin my day.

“10 minute delays in both directions...” said the familiar announcements as the turnstile read by metro card and deducted the fare. The platform was filled with commuters and the WTC PATH was on the track, doors open, not moving. A train came by to NWK or JSQ, I forget which, picked up and discharged passengers. A few minutes later, another NWK of JSQ bound train arrives, but this stops as well, stays there with the doors open. The crowd on the platform thickens. I’m there about fifteen minutes and another announcement—“20 minute delays in both directions.”

Now, I didn’t hear them say Hoboken and since I couldn’t blow off the day in the office, I had to get into Manhattan. The way things usually go, there is a delay and they resolve it—Signal Problems said the announcement, which is almost always the case—sometimes it takes a while, usually less than an hour in most worst case scenarios. Doesn’t happen often. Why not get an Awake Tea Latté and one of them whole wheat English muffin egg white with turkey bacon at the Star Bucks, hang out there. There was still a line of taxis across Columbus, maybe no need to go to Hoboken.

The line is out the door at Star Bucks. I guess I’m not the only one with the waiting idea. There are seats at the bodega/deli on Grove & Columbus. They make a good egg sandwich there, but I’m on a health kick so I can do yolks or bacon—well, I could, but I would feel guilty and fret all morning about it. No commuters are in—there are only one or two customers—no other white people. Keep in mind, the Star Bucks is packed, there, people are milling about the Grove Street station. No one is going anywhere, and I’m the only commuter going to this bodega/deli. I don’t even know the name of it, there doesn’t seem to be any sign over the entrance. The only sign is probably an old one—Star Bucks served here. Even though they don’t have it listed on their breakfast menu, they do serve egg whites. I get my usual breakfast and wait with a decent—though non latté—English Breakfast.

Takes about 20 minutes. No other commuters come in. I get another cup of tea—to go—and I notice there’s a cop car parked at the station, cops inside. I sit on one of the new benches. More people are leaving the station than going in—PATH Trains still messed up. The cabs across Christopher Columbus are gone and there appears to be a line, waiting for them. You rarely ever see this, especially on a weekday morning.

The cops get out of the car by the time I’m done with the tea. I get up and to scope things out. PATH trains are suspended, cops are directing people to walk to Exchange Place and take the Light Rail into Hoboken.

What do you do? The way I looked at, the PATH train is usually very reliable. It’s probably one of the best Mass Transit Systems in the Country, so when there’s a delay you take in stride.

I get out on the other side of Grove, thinking I might get a group cab ride. Again, other people are thinking the same thing—people are calling cabs. Now, cabs in Jersey City are more art than science. I take the Christopher Columbus white cabs often—I take a train from Hoboken to visit mom, and I pick up flowers and it’s easier to take a cab there after I pick up flowers—I don’t risk missing the train and the flowers stay fresh. The fares to Hoboken range from $10 to $15 dollars, depending on the mood of the drivers. They never turn on the meter. I also know that getting a cab into New York can range from $25 to $65, again depending on the mood of the driver. It’s just the way it is, more art than science. I had a suspicion that the cab rate from Jersey City to Hoboken when the PATH cancels services is probably triple or higher. Even ten bucks is ludicrous, that’s more than five bucks per mile. Besides, lines twenty people long were waiting for cabs that weren’t there.

A Jitney bus shows up, bound for Newport Mall. Perfect—I’ll pick up the Light Rail and Newport. Other people are afraid. Newport Mall? They don’t go to Hoboken. I’m the only person who gets on. In about five minutes I’m at Newport Mall, and I walk to the light rail. It was probably only a little shorter than walking to the Exchange Place Light Rail station. but I didn’t feel like hiking to Exchange Place. I don’t really like going down there all that much. There was no optimal choice though. You had to get to Hoboken and I hate getting ripped off by the cab and when there’s no cab, you got no choice anyway.

A brisk winter wind was blowing, but it wasn’t as gelid as it had been. The sun was bright. The light rail is fun. I rarely have an opportunity to take it and I always enjoy the experience and the ride into Hoboken I find beautiful. I love industrial city scapes and even if most of the Hudson River factories are gone, the feel is still there—part On The Waterfront, part Blade Runner and the web of Train tracks funneling into the always marvelous Erie Lackawanna station—just like the Hand of Man photograph by Stiegletz.

I’ve gotten to Hoboken in less than 15 minutes for a cost of three dollars and fifteen cents--$1.25 for the Jitney and $1.90 for the Light Rail. I’m going to be in the office by 11:00. Only 90 minutes late, not that bad, it happens. Besides, the Hoboken 33rd Street PATH is at least seven minutes quicker. Of course, as soon as I am at the turnstile, the announcement comes on. “PATH train service has been restored....”

I could have waited fifteen minutes but shoot, I already had two cups of tea! At 23rd Street, a crew of PATH workers get into my car. I talk with them a big about the signal problems.

“It could be anywhere on the line, it’s from the cold weather. When you have a couple of days in a row of freezing weather, you get signal problems,” said one guy.

I tell them abut the trains at Grove, not moving. I had never seen that.

“They can’t move them because you don’t know where the signal problems are.”

I said, “I’d rather have the problem in the morning than at night. It’s a lot easier getting into New York than getting out.”

They nodded in agreement. Nice guys.

I would have taken pictures, since I had my camera—but lets face it, people waiting for the PATH train are going to look like they’re waiting for the PATH whether the trains are on time or not.

Artie Lange Quote

...I met plenty of people who grew up wealthy. These people came from families that had several homes a staff of servants, and took vacations in beautiful, exotic locations all around the world. My family had one house, and my sister, Stacey and I had a maid—we called her “Ma.” When we vacationed, there wasn’t much of a debate between Fiji and Bora Bora—we relaxed strictly at the Jersey Shore. When I encountered rich people for the first time, I discovered that not only do they holiday in places that are hard to find on a map, they also use the names of seasons as verbs. When they asked me, “Where did you summer and winter growing up?” I would usually say, “As a child? The same place I springed and autumned.”

Rich people know how to relax. That’s all they do growing up. I wish my mother knew how to relax because now I have the money to let her take it easy. I wish she liked tennis or golf. Maybe skiing or world travel. Unfortunately, she doesn’t. My mother likes cleaning tables with pledge. If I’m ever blessed with a child, I’m going to encourage that child to take it slow.

From Too Fat To fish, by Artie Lange (with Anthony Bozza).

Get well soon, Artie. One of the better New Jersey memoirs, Too Fat To Fish is a funny, fascinating read. Artie Lange is an original, genuine comic talent and wrote a book well worth reading.