Tuesday, February 27th, 2007
I’ve been noticing hard bangs vibrating through my apartment building for the past hour. It’s not that unusual for this building to shake from heavy truck passage. Looking out the window, a pothole is forming, no wonder from all the salt they’ve been putting on Houston Street lately. An early evil thought was set up my camera, this constant parade of flats would be a great Youtube video."
But instead my inner adult called 311, the system NYC uses to drain the strain from the 911 emergency system. First you listen to a heat complaint message that tells you to push 1 to make a heat complaint or wait for an operator. An operator comes on, I report the location and severity of the pothole, and suggest that at least an orange cone is needed, fast. The operator then asked me if I want to report a pothole, a bit stunned, I reply yes. She then proceeds to mumble in monotone some script that goes on and on, and at indeterminate points require some sort of answer from me. I determine that she is reciting some obscure legal definitions that distinguishes types of potholes. A few increasingly incredulous questions from me later, she asks me if I want to talk to an expert at the department of transportation. I ask if this is what I need to do to report a pothole. She says yes. Shortly, I am able to talk to someone off-script who knows what a pothole is. He also seemed to understand the concepts of location and and severity. But It’s been about a half hour, the cars are still slamming into the pothole. No accidents yet, but I’ve heard several tires hissing tales of upcoming flats.
Update: After writing the above, I got out of my flannel pjs and dressed for the outdoors. A bunch of orange cones are on the street reserving parking for some damn film shoot tomorrow. I took one of them and put it next to the hole. I had to document of course. Angel Orensanz , out for a stoll noticed my flash. I told him a shortened version of my 311 tale, he asked me if this was my work of art. No, I explained, it is a pothole. As he walked away I said, "art as well."
Morning update: The cone worked, it’s still there and the minor earthquakes have ceased.
I think you can see how the hole is just the right size to nicely knock up a tire.
Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006
Everytime I’ve seen Blaine do one of these stunts he looks to be in pain or bored witless. They are calling this thing a gyroscope, I think it is more correctly called a gimbal. He was not spinning when I saw him. I had to search a bit to find him, as he is not directly in Times Square, but in a parking lot on 46th Street near Eighth Avenue.
A gimbal is a mechanical device that allows the rotation of an object in multiple dimensions. It is typically made up of two or three pairs of pivots, mounted on axes at right angles. A three-axis gimbal may allow an object mounted on it to remain in a horizontal plane regardless of the motion of its support. Shipboard compasses, chronometers, stove and even drink holders are typically mounted on gimbals to keep them level to the horizon at all times. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gimbal
I think he could create some cool chaotic gyrations if he started swinging around, but at ten this morning he had barely the energy to raise a hand or nod his head.
They are predicting rain for the next two days. I wonder if they will put a tarp over him? These endurance stunts are kind of creepy. We get to know too much about his bodily functions. And now I’m imagining his clothing bloating with the rain and him marinating within on this 3-dimensional spit. This is not pretty. But to tell the truth. I will probably check in on him again. But, David, please mix some street magic in with the creepy endurance stunts.
Most of the news reports I’ve seen call this thing a gyroscope. A gyroscope would be a useful thing to put in a set of gimbals, but unless he starts to rotate at a high speed, this is not a gyroscope. I’m sure it was chosen for its resemblance to the sponsor’s logo. The sponsor is giving shopping sprees to needy kids, if he escapes on Friday.
Wednesday, November 8th, 2006
From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Wednesday, July 5th, 2006
From a loft roof in Williamsburg.
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From a local showman.
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