Rockaway 116th Street 2016

The Sand Bar on 116th Street in the Rockaways was a great place to pass the dusk at the end of a beach day. An open-air bar on the boardwalk. A crowd of happy drunks. Cheap drinks.

"We are not affordable housing developers," said Mark Caller, the principal partner, to a reporter.

A friend of mine extolled the project.

"It will bring new life to that area."

I hate the condo plague. The Rockaways have always been working-class and I like it that way. But just like the East Village, Chelsea, Harlem, Chinatown and many lower-income neighborhoods throughout NYC, the city prefers luxury condos to middle- or lower-class housing.

Why?

Not because of taxes. Because these condos will suck the life of the city. Economic and ethnic cleansing. Which is why landlords are the first on the list to be executed in a revolution.

In the words of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, "All property is theft."

And Chairman Mao believed the same thing. Except he also believed that all property belonged to the state. There has to be a middle ground, but the Marcal Group's plans are only for the rich.

So up against the wall, mother-fuckers or mā le ge bā zi in Mandarin.

Bring back the Sand Bar___

Day Five of Forty Days of Rain

According to Genesis 7:4, Yahweh says to Noah in 2348 BC or almost four thousand years ago, "For in seven days I will send rain on the earth forty days and forty nights, and every living thing that I have made I will blot out from the face of the ground.”

Throughout early September 2016, the Eastern Seaboard had been torched by a heat wave. Day after day of 90-plus temperatures. I wanted to go to the beach, but it was too hot for a stroll across the Rockaways’ hot sands.

A week later, the weather broke, and the temperature dropped into the 70s, then the 60s. A week later, another tropical storm dumped rain for three days on New York. . As much as two inches in one twelve-hour period.

The storm flooded the streets of New York, not Fort Greene, although on my block-long walk back to 387, I noticed that water spewing from the storm drains. Fast-moving streams ran swiftly downhill. Fort Greene was high ground. Not dry, but high.

This drainage system had been built in 1892 by hard-working emigrants wanting an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. Not easy to find that work these days. Like Eternal Rome’s aqueducts, their work has stood many tests of time.

The next day, the rain stopped. Clear skies. A pleasant temperature. I'm heading down to the street.

I would take a trip to the Rockaways, but the Mayor has warned the city's citizens to stay home, and as much as I want to be free, sometimes it's best not to do anything.

Tomorrow is meant to be even better.

So this Flood was short by thirty-five days. Maybe Next time.

October 7, 2023

I stand corrected.

Clinton Hill lays on the slope below Fort Greene Park. The neighbor hood was saved from the intense flooding in the riverside neighborhoods. The sewers magnificent as they are, had not been constructed with the Global Extinction rains in mind. Instagram had featured a VDO of a New Yorker waddling waist-deep to catch a train. What the fuck are you thinking? Stay home.

ps September 27, 2026 The nor’easter hit the coast hard. I’m crashing on Bleecker Street in the Village. The storm will pass by noon. I ain’t going anywhere until it's over.

The Tent No More

For the past two years I have been sheltered in a tent in a Ditch Plains backyard. RW provided an idyllic weekend existence of a beach bum. Falling asleep to the sound of waves. Waking to bird song. Sitting by the fire. Watching the smoke furl into tge sky. The stars. Like a member of the gang in Steinbeck's CANNERY ROW. This weekend's gusts of wind tore apart the tent. 50-70 mph. oh sadness The tent no more, but it had a good run. And I enjoyed it much lying. Thanks RW

Flotsam From The Flood - 2012

According to Wikipedia, flotsam is floating wreckage of a ship or its cargo. Jetsam is part of a ship, its equipment, or its cargo that is purposefully cast overboard or jettisoned to lighten the load in time of distress and that sinks or is washed ashore. Lagan is cargo that is lying on the bottom of the ocean, sometimes marked by a buoy, which can be reclaimed. Derelict is cargo that is also on the bottom of the ocean, but which no one has any hope of reclaiming.

Back in 2012, Hurricane Sandy's tidal surge flooded the lowlands of New York and New Jersey. The coastal devastation has driven hundreds of thousands from their homes, and this week Fort Greene has seen an influx of bums, derelicts, and madmen who had previously populated the SRO hotels of Rockaway Park. The 'others,' i.e. the white newcomers to the neighborhood, ignore the new residents, as they would trash. Old-timers In Fort Greene have been quick to comment on the meandering refugees from Sandy.

"They have nothing." Ralph from Ralph Meats has been giving them free coffee. The Palestinian has a big heart.

"They lost everything." I noticed a slouching Hassidic elder and a dangled-mouthed war veteran ambling to the subway. My wallet was light, but not that light, and I called to them.

They looked guilty to be alive.

"I have something for you." I waved them closer, and they edged up the sidewalk like stray dogs in fear of a dogcatcher. I thought about splitting a dollar, but that would have been too cheap for words, so I dug deeper into my pocket and gave them both a dollar.

"Thanks, mister."

"Good luck."

They needed more than luck, as does everyone along the storm-ravaged coast.

We are all flotsam on the river of this life.

Net Yet A Nor'Easter

A Nor'easter is typically a cyclone storm blown against the East Coast from the North Atlantic. Throughout the week Tri-State meteorologists have predicted a serious storm with Southern New England, New York, and New Jersey in its sight. Governments and people batten down the hatches in preparation for the fury. New York's Mayor Mamdani has been on television and radio and issued warnings to the city. The storm has meant to make landfall last evening.

I went to sleep at 10. Nothing.

I woke at dawn.

Heavy rains. No wind. I checked online. The storm had hit New Jersey and New York without the predicted intensity. Now 1:30 pm in the Village and all is calm. In New Jersey and New York, high tides have swamped coastal communities.

Like I said, all is quiet, but there is more to come.

ps Last year I found a serious rain poncho in Fort Greene. I had taken the plasatic sheath from my winter storage bag for this nor'easter. I'm keeping it out just in case. It's always darkest before the storm. The quote first appeared in Thomas Fuller's 1650 book A Pisgah Sight of Palestine ("It is always darkest just before the Day dawneth"). Poor Palestine. So close to God, but so much closer to Zion.

pps - photo from the AP NewsDecember 12, 2025

September 25, 1978 - Journal Entry - East Village

Living in the shadow of the Blue Hill Meteorological Observatory during the 1960s I was obsessed with the weather on the long chain of hills south of the Neponset River. Snow filled the winter woods, spring rain flooded the streams running across the overgrown farmland in the Neponset River, the bogs buzzed with mosquitoes in the sweltering summer, and soon the trees in New England sprouted colors through the autumn. Then it was winter. Winter was winter even here. Cold, but Northern Europe was colder and I was surprised, when Clover said she was planning to leave New York for Poland. No one from our scene traveled to Communist countries and I asked, "Poland?"

"Krakow is supposed to be beautiful and cheap."

"I've never been farther east than Bar Harbor." I visualized a coal-stained medieval city. I had thought about going to Paris in the late 1960s to find Françoise Hardy, the Yeh Yeh Girl, famed for her haunting love songs. Supposedly there was a plane flying lobsters to Paris in exchange for freshly baked croissants. I had roamed Logan Airport without finding it.

"I have never crossed the Atlantic. In truth, I've never seen the ocean."

"Not even here."

"I've never even been to Brooklyn." Clover came from Texas. Flat as far as the eye can see and more. "But I want to see Poland more. I have more than enough money after selling the door Jean-Michel Basquiat painted for me. Will you be my big brother?"

"Of course. Any Polish people give you a hard time, buy me a ticket and I'll save you. But you have Brad." Not really her brother anymore than I could be her brother. We were all strangers in this city. Families here tended to not come from birth.

"Not all queers are soft and Brad knows how to take care of himself. He certainly does look happy." Brad was earning good money dancing in a jockstrap at the Adonis Theater in Times Square. He was in love with one man, while fucking scores of men every month. No one was a punk as long as you were getting paid.

Brad's Mexican boyfriend beat him regularly. Jose was a surfer stranded in New York and frequently quoted the Tradewinds hit - NEW YORK'S A LONELY TOWN. "I hate the surf in New York."

Clover's packed bag rests by the apartment's doorless entrance. She pulled me into the bathroom. We had only made out. We had never made love. She wanted me to violate her. I couldn't do that even as pretend.

"This is your last chance."

"Maybe I'll met you on the other side of the Iron Curtain."

"Forget it." Clover was angry. "You have to leave. I have things to do."

I wanted to go with her, but whatever we were, we weren't anymore and she was headed to a country, where fields of wheat ran all the way to the Ural mountains. I was good in Geography.

ps 2026 Clover vanished completely that year. I did receive two post cards dated 1979; one from East Berlin. Another from Krakow. I have them to this day. She seemed happy from her writing. I have searched the Internet for years without finding a trace of her, but Clover is with me forever as are her postcards

September 24, 1978 - Journal Entry - East Village

The Red Sox are a game out of first with six games to go.

Few people in our scene care about sports, although Guadalcanal is a die-hard Yankees fan. The Red Sox had a 14-game lead in the AL East. Two weeks ago, the Yankees slaughtered my team in a four-game stand at the Stadium. 43-9. Last night they beat Toronto. Only one game out. Guadacanal says we don’t have a chance. History had proved that should be true. But just once, I’ like for us to beat the Yankees.

Last night I went to a party with Grant at Stan's and ran into Vickie, a skinny blonde with a stutter. I have trouble speaking too and we discussed our speech difficulties. I moved a little closer to hear her better, as he stammered, "I-I-I'm asexual."

"Oh. I wasn’t trying to hit on you.” Or I didn’t I was. You never know with men.

"My friend Jessie thinks asexuality is a disease." Vickie wore a tight white sweater and a half-inch of make-up. She had a wouned dove look, as if she couldn’t fly.

That's stupid." Vickie was a poetress. I loved to hear the staggered cadence of her poems in staggered c her reading with distorted speech.

"I told him the same. I'm not sexual. I stopped as soon as I came to New York, because you don’t have to put out here."

I understand.” I couldn't tell Vickie that I was attracted to androgynous women.

"Sure, you're the same as all men. You'd fuck a hole in a tree.:

Vickie walked away to speak with her friends. None of them were asexual.

"No luck." Grant was always curious about my sex life. Queers like straight men getting shut down, figuring it left them an opening. Maybe Vickie was right about fucking a hole in a tree.

"We were just talking." I had no problem with being shot down, especially since I wasn’t really trying.

"T-t-t-talking?"

Don't make fun of our speech."

Sorry, I was joking."

It's not a joke."

So you got shoot down?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go to CBGBs."

Who was playing didn't matter. We all loved CBs, but a new band from Georgia was heading over Helen Wheels. Kookie dance pop music. As I left the party, Vickie broke from her friends and asked, "Can I go to CBGBs with you? I won't h-h-hang on you."

"No worries."

”Can you get me in for free?”

”Sure, you want to say good-bye to your friends?” Just because she was asexual didn't mean I couldn't be a gentleman.

"No, my friends are assholes.

"Sure, but I have other someplace to go first."

On the way, Grant split to CBs. He didn’t want to miss the show. Vickie and I stopped at One University Place, Mickey Ruskin's new restaurant next to Washington Square. The front bar was packed with arty assholes. I met my connection. Mario. $30 for some blow. A good count. Back at the bar, I said to Vickie, "Let's go.”

A greasy foreign man in a three-piece suit clutched her arm. I guess he was French. I little older than me and from his clothing richer too. He was drunk and with two friends. I had drunk heavy at the party and chopped on the guy's forearm, freeing Vickie. The meatball poked my chest,

"Don't get tough with me."

His accent might have been French. I had taken it in grammar school at Our Lady of the Foothills. Vickie nodded with her head for the door adn was on her way out. I should have left without a word, except I'm from the South Shore of Boston and said, "I don't have time to waste on fools like you."

"Fool? You call me a fool. Who are you?"

Normally I would have japped him, but I wasn't wearing my glasses and said, "This is America, not France. We don't need your type here."

"I'm not French. I am Spanish."

Mickie came over to the altercation. Two bouncers backed me up my side of the story,

"This foreigner is out of line, but I’m leaving. He can stay. Au revoir.”

"Then leave."

Vickie and I walked to CBGBs through dark streets. No one was out at night. Not this close to the Bowery. We did a bump on Bond Street. The blow cured neither of our speech defects, mostly because we didn’t speak. At the door, she asked, ”Why are you so violent?”

”I was bullied as a child and a teenager. People always making fun of my stutter. My glasses. Everything. The bullies were violent. I had to fight them. Now I fight bullies.”

”Even if they haven’t done anything?”

”He grabbed your arm.”

”My saviour.”

The B-52’s were playing ROCK LOBSTER. Vickie vanished once we passed Lisa Krystal, Hilly’s daughter, who comped both of us. Vickie was greeted by friends at the bar. They seemed the same ones, as she had left at the party, but they weren't the same, just not different from the others.

Kim Davis whispered in my ear, "You came here with Vickie here? You know what Alice thinks of that. She's worried about you getting a disease."

"Firstly Vickie's asexual."

"She is?" Kim's regard for the scrawny blonde climbed a few steps.

"Yes, and cool out, I'm only sleeping with Alice no matter what she thinks." It was a lie, but a lie she, unlike Alice, was willing to believe.

I ended up reading Karen Crystal's palm.

"You suffer from incredible angst." Her marriage to Hilly had been over nine years, but they remained partners in the bar. Her only job in the place seemed to stop us from smoking weed. “Anyone can see that?”

"Don’t let anyone smoke pot in here. Cops bust someone and the bar is shut. This isn't no methadone clinic." < p>Obviously she had never been to the dressing room behind the stage, which seconded for a shooting gallery. Me, I wasn't into skag. I liked my drink and liked the B-52s more. Everyone at the front of the stage danced into a frenzy and no one ever danced at CBGBs. Guadacanal and I drank beers after the show and finished off the blow. I got home after 3.

"My love for Alice overcomes my lust. I let her sleep. She woke early. She had to work, but cuddled up to me and said, "I'm so scared when you go out alone at night. I worry you getting a disease.”

”Not to worry.” At least I didn’t.

The Red Sox lost last night. The Babe Ruth curse stays strong.