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olt! is a way station and oasis on the ancient road from Bedlam to Bellevue, dedicated to free and open discussion of topics moving heart and spirit.
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I still get annoyed thinking about what could have been if vocal environmentalists hadn't blocked a larger Hudson River Park with a buried Westside Highway and landfill. Instead we have this thin sliver of a park along the Hudson, it's very nice but nowhere what would have been by now. An important factor in the demise of the original plans was the endangered snaildarter, a small fish feeding on snails living on wood pilings that once supported the piers.
At one time much of Manhattan had active multi-storied piers all all along the westside where famous ocean liners docked; the piers were abandoned with the advent of airlines and became dangerous ruins popular with gangs, hippies and crowds of sun worshipers during the giddy first days of gay liberation. Unspeakable acts took place there during hot summer nights while in the dayl excursion boats directed the attention of tourists to the opposite Jersey shore to avoid embarrassing scenes. For several years running, one infamous regular who even made the pages of the New York Times could be seen standing at the end of one of the piers, naked, displaying himself while waving an American flag at passing tourist boats.
The solution to environmental objections was to build a smaller park, tear down most piers but leaving the pilings for those little fish to feed on, resulting in odd planned pilefields dotting the Hudson along the westside of Manhattan. We've gotten used to them and even come to like them as they grow and shrink with tides rolling in and out. They're convenient safe spots for gulls to take a break while still keeping an eye out for any appetizing tidbits floating by; Canadian geese drop in to feast on snails, barnacles and mussels - whatever grows on pilings - and when the tide is low swarms of sparrows from the mainland fly in to peck at the goodies.
Odd thing is I haven't heard mention of snaildarters lately and have no idea if they bothered to stick around after all that upheaval.
1964 - Visiting the Florida Caverns State Park with friends who had to explain things to me. At the park entrance the path splits in two with one arrow pointing to the Stone Walk to Cave, the other arrow pointing to the Colored Stone Walk to Cave.
naturally I wanted to see the colored stones ....
Well - it's been some three weeks now since the first legal marijuana store opened in the Village with an enticing name: Housing Works Cannabis Co. So far it's the only legal pot shop here but there are rumors of another one opening soon. After three weeks I figured I should be able to check it out and went to take a look on Broadway. I was immediately dissuaded. Along with the name the storefront definitely needs work and there is a line. I hear they haven't figured out their supply chain and are low on everything anyway. Even so people are lining up down the block.
Guess I'll have to continue flying to the Netherlands or Colorado on weekends. Will check back in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned.
While I am certain that a man of your means has their own, mindful that both public and private are too expensive for us commoners to do so for two weekends a month, which do you use? Which do you prefer? Surely you don't travel alone so do you fly 'dutch' or take a guest? Just curious.
That's at least the second time you've falsely implied I'm a rich old man.
dutch to Netherlands ...
So there we are, Weston and me in the seat, our samlor guy pedaling us out of town on a dirt road. Into the jungle. It's getting dark. We're a bit nervous. He stops at a high wall with a tall gate and has a hushed conversation through the slats. It's five dollars he tells us, takes the money and disappears through the gate. It's getting darker. We wait a long time. He comes back all apologetic: it's ten dollars now. What can we do? We cough up another five and to our relief he returns shortly thereafter with a large bag, a half a kilo?, a pound of neat looking chopped-up green stuff.
Back in my hooch one of the guys is a pipe smoker, that will have to do since there is no rolling paper. We stuff the pipe like regular tobacco and pass it around taking puffs, unsuccessfully trying not to cough. Blue haze fills the hooch. It gets very quiet for a for a while. Suddenly Pete pipes up ... I don't feel a thing!
We can't stop laughing after that.
I haven't seen one. But there should be a foot bath to stop them from spreading bits of litter everywhere.
Curious about using wood pellets as litter. I don't think I understand exactly how it works, but it's supposed to be more environmentally friendly that scooping clay litter. ??
A lot of cats won't use the pellets. Especially if you didn't start them off as kittens. And if they refuse to use them, somewhere in your house is at risk. :D
The bottle of Château Bourgneuf Pomerol 2001 goes well with boneless short ribs in a brown gravy which I let simmer for a couple of hours, adding small red and white potatoes and then fresh veggies towards the end. The ribs are perfectly tender, at the melting point, and right off from the start the wine is a winner.
Our quiet dinner is interrupted by a short burst of sirens followed by the familiar sound of two cars trying to occupy the same space at the same time, but especially loud. Downstairs a police van has pinned a passenger car against a light post right outside our window, putting a damper on our dinner, as every few minutes we feel obliged to interrupt tastes of ribs and sips of Pomerol to watch further developments involving the extraction of a bloodied driver from the van. A young car driver looks to be ok and gets escorted to a cop car. Could be Arab, maybe a terrorist, Roomie opines. Luckily there is no one else in his car.
We finish dinner just as the ambulance disappears down the street, Second Avenue is open again and the van disentangles itself out of the side of the car. The crowd cheers. I use the last pieces of bread to finish the gravy and make sure there is a jello pudding setting in the freezer.
All's quiet in the East Village.
In the morning Roomie meets the young guy and his girl friend on the street, canvassing the neighborhood for anyone who saw that he was not running a red light. They were a really nice couple, he says.