The Times is reporting that perhaps Kevin Rampe’s accusations of fraudulent claims on the part of Deutsche Bank were, um, stoopid. Okay, that’s not a quote, and I should use more refined language, but since he accused a major investment bank of what was tantamout to perjury (well, okay, it is an investment bank; one should give a little latitude there), and as a bonus, criticized a publicly elected official (a distinction he has never earned, nor would likely, given his treatment of the people who actually live downtown), and then turned out to be entirely wrong I don’t quite see the need to bother with phrases like ‘incompetent’, ‘not properly serving the public interest’ or, hey, here’s one that seems ironically apropos: ‘lying’. The report isn’t up yet at the LMDC site, or they have hid it very well. I wonder if it’s okay with Kevin that we trust the Times on this one for now. After all, they are just trying to pump circulation with their slanderous claims of dangerous levels of contaminants found in a report, um, he commissioned.
Is that a soaring residential development in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?
The abiding issue I have with the Neo-Trad, New Urbanist and out-and-out Luddites (who probably have a name, but it has passed by me — is it properly TradArch?) is their willingness to speak ahistorically to prove points, or to bend their interpretation to fit conveniently to a predisposed point that is more induced by misattributed nostalgia than analysis. Now, that’s one of those comments that, after substituting the reference points, could apply to any dogmatic theorist or critic, but the acute focus on history of these various positions would seem to mandate more rigor and analysis than you might get from, say, Greg Lynn (who, for all I know, may posit that his work is rigorously positioned within a historical continuum).
Curbed pointed to an post recently by John Massengale that discusses the recent article by Nicolai Ouroussoff (the article is appended to Massengale’s post) about the changing Manhattan skyline, particularly the proposed residential tower by Santiago Calatrava. One of Massengale’s points is that “extreme symbolism of the power of wealth is the worst element of the design” and I’m normally not one to poke at anyone who seems to hold that such an accumulation of wealth is fundamentally immoral. And I happen to agree that its display in this form is egregious. But this practice is steeped in social and architectural history, one that is rarely criticized by the TradArch folk (as I know them, at least). Allowing history to flatten prior inequities you are willing to criticize in the current day is potentially a more damnable act that simply shrugging and turning aside from such behemoths, past and present. Stretching from the pyramids, through Versailles, Mount Vernon, the Breakers and landing (or just hovering, like a cheap tease) in Peter Lewis’ backyard, architecture as we know it is an act of the most conspicuous consumption, for better or worse (and you can trot out all the Bataille you want to assuage yourself of that fact). Why Massengale wrings his hands over this point confuses me, since the best-known proponent of traditional architecture owns Buckingham Palace (well, not yet). It doesn’t get much more conspicuous than that. His second point is that all the recent towers are part of an insidious cabal of practitioners he (among others) dubs ‘Starchitects’. Again, you get lots of sympathy around here in trying to stop the assembly-line tripe you get these days from the upper echelons of American architects. Though he certainly lumps in the likes of Koolhaas in his derision, when you consider over time, the yardstick applied is that architects are form-givers, first and foremost, Koolhaas fares far better (along with some of the European luminaries such as Herzog & de Meuron, Peter Zumthor and MVDRV) than the prepackaged work you see from Gehry, Childs, et al. Where he falters a little is his unwillingness to indict one of his masters, Mr. Original Prick hisself, Frank Lloyd Wright. The man may not have invented the starchitect phenomena, but he polished it in a way that even Stanford White couldn’t have, even if White had kept it in his pants long enough to try. So the principle is strong, but its application is weak. And that’s unfortunate, since there is much to not like about the Calatrava project. Massengale calls it a “a bad idea from a good engineer”. I would even qualify that last bit, but that’s for another discussion. This leads to his comment on conspicuous consumption, but the most glaring failure is that it is a failure of type. There is very little in the way of precedent for residential buildings at this scale. You are surely saying, “but what of the scourge that is Costas Kondylis?” Well, exactly. Simply because that man has produced a panoply of officious ‘luxury rentals’ does not make them any good. Their presence speaks more to a failure of planning and zoning (and public investment in housing) than any formal extension of type. They are simply the end state of the International Style tower farms, which begat the public housing schemes of the 50’s and 60’s — now universally derided even as evidence persists that the failures were as much managerial and policy based, not because of inherent design flaws. So it is a rich irony to see it circle back again, in the cycle of gentrification, the appropriation the housing of the ghetto as the future of affuluent dwelling. The upscale embrace of the Kondylis type heralds a dismal future for housing in New York. Even with the views afforded, when $30 million does not get you a townhome or appreciable amounts of outdoor space, we are in for a dystopian future. When you look at the evolution of housing based on market pressure and available stock, you go from pre-war sixes and eights, which ballooned into some truly magnificent spaces on Park Avenue, and the loft redevelopment of SoHo to the behemoths of TriBeCa, even the humble brownstone to palaces on Fifth Avenue, you see a noticeable trend: the extension of a modest (in scale of building and even unit size), but not humble certainly, type that is then doubled, tripled, and then some, once it becomes desirable. So it is perversely rational, though not terribly inspiring, to take those shoeboxes in the sky on Sixth Avenue and make them into sterile white boxes, albeit huge. Zoning works against this model, since they cannot be planted in any desirable neighborhoods, unless you are crafty (Trump) or coming at the tale end of a massive development fight (TW Center). So it is irreproducable, and that’s probably a good thing, since it is a rather uninteresting extension of the worst elements of residential design of the past fifteen years. Given the scope of the project ($360 million in sales revenue!), that a chance to produce a form that would be inspiring to residential development, no matter how conspicuous, would have been welcome. Instead we get something that recalls the hot thing back when I still carefully tracked the buzz words of the latest jargon: ‘weak form‘, which was becoming a privileged way of justifying one’s work, as opposed to strong form, which was, if I remember it correctly, what you get when the ideology of the dominant paradigm produces work that is expressly domineering (sort of if Donald Rumsfeld were an architect). Bowing to our local idiolects, the Calatrava projects strikes me as landing somewhere in the middle, and from this, we can coin a new iteration: schlong form.Posted in Uncategorized Comments closed
They were not my friends, but they were my neighbors.
I used to live adjacent to a fire house (specifically, Ladder 11/Engine 28). The proximity led to a fairly intimate knowledge of some aspects of the vocation of firefighting. I learned quickly that the circular saws, presumably used to gain entry and clear paths, need to be tested several times daily. It didn’t take long to deduce the logic of this: given their use, it’s the kind of equipment you want in top shape. More mundane things, such as the subtle and precise hierarchy involved in washing a fire truck, were also revealed. And, best of all, provided you didn’t lock your windows, retrieving keys left in the apartment didn’t cost you $50.
Mostly, though, you learn just how often they go on a run. Runs can be necessitated by a variety of events. Long ago, in another building, a burst steam valve filled my entire building hallway (four stories), and I was vaguely worried about the danger presented; I called the non-emergency number, and, on answering the phone, a voice demanded “Where is the fire”? I stammered a little and tried to qualify that there wasn’t any, or even, I thought, the possibility of one. But I gave my address, and about 240 seconds later there were three burly, fully geared-up firefighters staring laconically at me and the spurting radiator. But they had a wrench that shut it down, and they marched off. Armed with this knowledge, and a promise from the current tenant that you “didn’t notice it after a while” I took the new apartment. And, after a few months, every visitor I had would ask me awkwardly and with a little trepidation once they had spent some time in the apartment, “Uh, it is always like this?” I would smile, ask “the fire trucks?” and they would nod, a little incredulously, when I said “I couldn’t really tell you; I don’t hear it.” And that’s the honest truth, even though, when they pulled out, it was like an ambulance driving through the living room. They were as respectful as one could be about the situation, waiting until the end of block to fire up the siren, but you also learn about how shitty and selfish New York drivers are, so there was plenty of blaring from the door out. But, my best guess is, between the two companies, they did six, eight calls an hour. Day in and out, night and day. What I never saw, and I don’t think they did much either, was a real fire. This is statistically true and actually a big training concern: until 9/11 a larger percentage of firefighters never dealt with a live structure fire in their careers than ever before. Of course living next to the fire house doesn’t causally lead to seeing a fire. So I was surprised yesterday, walking down Seventh Avenue, to see smoke billowing. Having called in a trashcan fire (which no one seemed to notice or care about) in that neighborhood before, I went the extra block to investigate and gawk. It was one of those ‘Access-a-Ride’ vans parked in front of the Bates Building spewing actual flame from the engine compartment. Amazingly, people were walking by it on the sidewalk. Police were starting to tighten up traffic, but in the absurd order of operations, the wailing sirens a block off stayed there, since no traffic was moving. And pedestrians continued to walk unfettered as the police were focused on trying to get the equipment in range. An amazing theater of danger and casual concern overlaid on the density of a New York lunch hour. The end was professional and anticlimactic. Just as all the film debunking sites indicate, a flaming vehicle almost never explodes, and the flames were even tapering when the truck arrived. Two men, a chemical extinguisher, one hose, and long spear-like device to poke and pull at the fenders and hood and such. A big spray of the extinguisher, some water, a lot of white, dense smoke, and it was over. Over enough. A meeting to make, I walked off, marveling as much at the studied casualness of passersby (or astounding self-interest that obviated noticing) as the efficient professionalism of the Bravest. Much later, watching Die Hardest after coming home from an evening in Brooklyn, I wondered idly about the odd premonitory tendencies of Bruce Willis films (that and The Siege, not the latter has come true in any meaningful way, but there are uncomfortable precursors). Of course that could be said for a number of films or other remnants of fictional culture. But in the midst of this, I smelt what, were I speaking to a friend who was here at the time, I would characterize as ‘WTC’. You remember: it was that sickly burning plastic smell that lingered for months and months. In the air from the still-burning remnants, in dust in the apartments, in our minds. My friend had to leave, and would ask periodically if or when it changed, or improved. I remember for some time thinking it would never go away. So I’m watching the scene in Die Hardest where business attire-clad actors stream from a fake Wall Street Station billowing smoke and the memory is so strong that I wonder if perhaps something is actually burning (and perhaps even don’t move out of denial that I don’t want to know, whatever it is). Finally, thinking it time for sleep, and with enough certainty that it isn’t sense memory, I go to window to discover a tidy fire consisting of about 15 recycling bags on the sidewalk burning briskly. A truck is traveling down an adjacent street, and the scene repeats itself. A hose, a careful assessment that would pass for laziness on the part of the person not watching closely, a burst of water, a poke with the spear. About 60 seconds start to finish, but with the somewhat alarming visual of flames a good six feet in the air (I realize after the fact that there were about 15 feet from my car) it seems to unfold more slowly. I walk off to bed, before they even pack up, wondering who will clean the mess on the sidewalk, and it occurs to me this is the second fire I have seen this day, a full double the number witnessed in the rest of my life. The latter, at 4:15, and the random thoughts that accompanied it, do not strike me as an odd confluence (even after having seen satellite trucks lining West Street earlier in the evening) until I wake this morning. I don’t believe much in fate or other forms of cosmic alignment, but one not need to have reason to stop and offer a remembrance to their brothers and the families of my former neighbors at Engine 26: Captain Thomas Farino, Firefighter Dana Hannon and Firefighter Robert Spear Jr. And to the brothers and families of my former neighbors at Ladder 11: Lieutenant Michael Quilty, Firefighter Michael Cammarata, Firefighter Edward Day, Firefighter John Heffernan, Firefighter Richard Kelly Jr., and Firefighter Matthew Rogan.Posted in Uncategorized Comments closed
A hole of many colors.
While busily draping themselves in the glory of past tragedy courtesy the terrorists attacks of 9/11, the GOP visitors last week passed on the opportunity detail the current situation. In case you are still dizzy from either the fervor of untrammeled patriotism or the chemical residue of Pier 57, here is a short update: no planners or funders have been postively identified or apprehended, an amount approaching ‘most’ of the promised federal funding for the redevelopment is likely never arriving, and the downtown area remains economically depressed and culturally adrift. A few other people have noticed as well.
THOUGH PROMINENT in the Times article on Sunday, the launch of Project Rebirth passed rather quietly. Aside from its poor type decisions, and cloying title, the information can be a good overview, though some of it is lightweight PR flacking. The highlight is the ability to view the reconstruction via a number of time lapse cameras that have been installed. The most striking effect of this is exactly as the Times notes: for all the impressive technology, and the welter of words unleashed over the past three years, it remains steadfastly an ungainly and disturbing rent in the landscape. IN THE CURRENT Architect’s Newspaper (not yet online, and probably won’t be) D. Grahame Shane takes a fine pen (and ruler) to some of the current site issues that are painfully unresolved, and typically glossed over in the debate that is so abstractly constructed — much of it over symbolism, use, and remembrance — that a fundamental fact is being left out: the site slopes 30 feet from east to west, a fact that was immaterial previously. The original WTC plaza faced primarily east, with no decent pedestrian access to the other boundaries. The transitions were often disguised by the intercession of the outlying buildings, but very evident in a couple of underwhelming stairs few visitors actually used (think about it: did you ever once, sitting in the plaza think, ‘Oh, I think I’ll go stroll up the east side of West Street?’), given that services such as shopping, transit and access to Battery Park all required entering the complex. Now, the aggregation of competing uses without a fully resolved master plan, as well as the demand to recreate as much as the street grid as possible, will expose the poor state of the current master planning. Shane lays it out peice-by-piece, identifying places where the disjunction is most evident, and, at points, irresolved to the point of absurdity — such as the likely scenario where Fulton Street will simply dead-end above West Street, a good twenty feet seperating the two. Elegant. If you get a copy of the article, make sure to have the LMDC’s current site plan handy. Unless you are a map hound or intimately familiar with the site and reconstruction plans, it can be hard to orient oneself. What is really needed is an axonometric projection of the site (even better, a Quick Time VR/walkthrough) showing the magnitude of some of the (out-of- ) scale issues. Maybe all the money that’s been thrown at dBox can be applied towards something useful.Posted in Uncategorized Comments closed
It makes you blue.
The surfeit of closings and restrictions for the convention this week have produced a predictable and deserved outcry from the usual quarters. But unless you are listening closely for those voices, you will find little sympathy for those critical of the massive, albeit relatively brief, disruption of civic life by an event that purports to celebrate democracy. Well, such is the spin media provide without much thought, when in fact the political convention is a dastardly process with much more in common with dictatorships than anything else, as either party would prefer that this moment be the coronation, rather than prelude to the discomfort and expense of an election. It’s unfortunate that we can’t put a permanent physical face to them in the same way one could to Tammany Hall, or 110 Livingston Street.
No, what we can learn this week is how the gradual erosion of public space (which, to be fair, doesn’t have much of strong precedent in most parts of this country) continues with little resistance on the part of the those who encounter it daily, or next to no comment from those ostensibly charged with providing an objective voice on these issues. When the largest media conglomerate throws the opening party in its mall, a vigorously guarded private space, one shouldn’t expect a great deal of criticism when the thousands of people who diligently (and in many cases, without alternatives) support public transit are told to ‘avoid’ their only terminal. But it’s a point that is worth keeping at the forefront, because the incursions are constant, incremental, and systemic. The vibrancy of any city, and particularly this one, depends upon the autonomous existence of its citizens. But if this is too socialist, think then about what drives revenue and consequently what is an equitable distribution of right. Streets can be owned, rented and closed with little warning, with the full compliance by the city, at times for little or no fee, provided a ‘business interest’ is served. With a tax burden that is falling steadily towards the wide bottom (federal income and capital gains tax, which hit the top end most dramatically, are a net outflow for the city), the continued obeisance of the city ranges from regrettable to appalling. Tax abatements are issued against corporation tax, not payroll tax. More and more of our city services are funded by sales and various proto-VAT taxes (look closely at your phone bill), but we are expected to demurely defer to the various land grabs: sidewalk cafes, movie shoots, events that close large areas (Disney in the Sheep Meadow, for instance), so that when we are allowed unfettered access, it is then promoted as surplus, as an heretofore unrealized benefit. The other agent that is an integral role in the preservation of public space is the tourist. The significance of revenue cannot be understated, and there is also a measurable value of cultures intermingling, even if only for a short time. Tourism is one of those sea change events that deserve the same critical eye, since some of the forces (or their proxies, quasi public business associations that field their own security forces) driving the privatization of space are those profiting most handsomely from tourism. But tourism requires people. Every attempt will be made to render environments simple. It is not a grand cabal, simply the deadening required for the efficient transaction of capital. Nodes are celebrated only if the can be serviced in an orderly way. Otherwise, we see the logical reaction of rendering previously unique locations as similar by the presence of repetitive stores and restaurants. Can’t make it to Toys-R-Us in Times Square? Go to Union Square! They got one too! But if culture is work, then maybe we should surrender the battle. It’s supposed to be fun, right? Not here, where if you can make it, then anywhere. That implies a certain amount of grit and determination is required to simply earn your chance to plant a stake in the ground. Except they keep trying to cordon off where and when you can. Another tedious scrum we have to wade through. Show your colors this week. Throwing bottles is for excitable college students. Being as difficult as you damn well please to get your way, and not budging an inch is the way we do things are around here. Wear it with pride.Posted in Uncategorized Comments closed
We’ll be back after this short interruption.
A recent trip West provided a chance to get back to reading actual books, and enforced a interruption from the routine of this site. The distinct difference of consuming more considered writing, and the relative ease of not getting up and scouring local publications for noteworthy items, were striking. Even as new forms of writing and publishing have presented opportunities that were heretofore restricted to academic publishing or dilettantes, their pervasiveness may not be a good thing — the reading in question was Neal Leach’s The Anaesthetics of Architecture, and sitting and thinking about a glut of information erasing meaning led to some introspection about what is going on around here, one result of which will be a hiatus of sorts for the next 4-6 weeks (meaning this site will not be entirely bereft of posting, but the infrequency would be best served by an RSS reader).
Being fussy about design means a high level of introspection is expected. The next few weeks will also include a redesign: a major software update is pending, and the desk is currently littered with various popular how-to’s that cover the proper way to execute CSS and build a more standards-compliant friendly site. Whereas some aspects of this design work, there are several glaring failures. Much of the improvements will be under the hood, but should result in greater reader control, for both off- and on-line reading. Though the current state is reasonably tidy and effective, the visual result is not dissimilar to, say, an Urban Outfitters: some hipster gloss without a firm conceptual base. Normally, this sort of geek-tech talk is considered unnecessary, but given the editorial tone here, a short acknowledgement of the structural (code-wise) failures of this site was desired. This revamp also extends to content. One of the goals in starting this project was to produce well-considered, tight, and entertaining prose about the city and the structures that are its defining elements. Though the latter is clearly in evidence, the former is less so. One clear reason is that you can’t plan for interesting or exceptional events to occur daily. And spending a good chunk of it writing means that there is even less opportunity to discover. The ill-defined editorial goal was to hew some middle ground between the best of architectural criticism (Michael Sorkin, and Stuart Klawans are two personal inspirations; though the latter is not architecture, that speaks to the dearth of good, popular architectural critics) and essayists who wrote more generally about the city (William Whyte), to define a synthesis of experience of the narrative of experience and the environment in which is unfolds. A little high-minded, sure, but if its works, it shouldn’t read as such. Instead, what happened too much was regurgitating items found elsewhere online. The standard was that some commentary had to be added that was lacking in the source material. Given the arid conditions of architectural and urban criticism in local publications, this wasn’t hard to do, and is still an essential need, but chasing after the Times will always be only that. Lacking a staff of reporters, finding one’s own news means walking the streets more. The most immediate and obvious change will be a reduction in the frequency of publishing. The new target will be Monday morning publication, with more abbreviated comments when the more egregious examples of journalism turn up. Items will likely be longer, and if this goes as planned, be better written (unlike, say, this very sentence). Some other bells and whistles may turn up (photos, for instance). If you’ve like what you have seen so far, please keep coming back. What’s to come will should be a refinement and perhaps even an expansion.Posted in Uncategorized Comments closed
Bridge over ugly waters.
We’ve been hestitating to comment on the temporary bridge under construction at Madison Square Garden for the upcoming convention. Costing something like a million bucks, we’re still not clear what exactly it is for. Something about security, ease of access (even though the police will likely shut down 8th Avenue for the duration of all sessions), journalists or something, we’ve been waiting for the day it looked most ‘done.’ We had some high hopes, what with the union banners that were plastered all over it during the assembly. Then came a tepid blue nylon wrapper and banner so innocuous we forget what it says, even though we passed by about an hour ago. Thinking that no one would let such a highly visible structure be presented in such a pedestrian fashion, or pass on the opportunity to plaster some symbolic hokum on the side, we have reached our limit of patience. It is done, it is ugly, and if you believe some, it might even fall down.
So we had resigned ourselves to this blight on the Farley Post Office for another two weeks, when we discovered this morning that the crafty RNC had a strategy all along: they have begun to line 8th Avenue and 32nd Street with acres of industrial modular space — also know as construction sheds, or temporary classrooms, or just plain ugly trailers. We were amazed had how colorful and attractive the bridge seemed all of a sudden. Touche, Karl Rove. The only other thing we could possibly find to say about all this is: when, and how, did Kohler get into the rental power business?
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Follow the money.
The pie keeps getting a little smaller. Since the block grant money was given to be spent, there’s no point to griping its being used, though some have taken issue with how fairly — or not — it has been distributed. The only way to find out how, or to protest, is to review the latest Partial Action Plan (PAP) (No. 8), which is still in the public review and comments period (closes September 8 — this is your only chance to comment; there are no public meetings or hearings for this process). This PAP is the first major allocation for the planning (for the cultural facilities) and the pre-engineering and continued design development (for the Memorial and Memorial Center) of the non-commercial portions of the site.
The document provides limited insight into how the development and long-term manangement of the site will proceed. A new 501(c)(3) organization is being formed, the World Trade Center Memorial Foundation, Inc., to be the fund-raising and coordinating entity for the Memorial, Memorial Center, and the Cultural facilities. But it appears that the LMDC is still the overseer, and, presumably, the PANYNJ is still the landowner. Fundraising for memorials is a pretty straightforward affair, but asking for donations under the rubric of 9/11 memory that will fund arts groups may rankle some. Likely, fundraising will be directed, meaning donors can allocate their donations as they like, but since no formal, public plans have been issued regarding the collective administration of the facilities, some awkward conflicts may occur.
The largest portion of fundraising is needed for the Memorial and Memoiral Center. Since they are intergrated into the site, there is a certain amount of ‘must do’ for this portion to enable the overall redevelopment to proceed. With a price tag in the $350 million range, this is not an inconsiderable sum to raise. The World War II memorial raised $195 million, and that took 11 years, and substantial donations from the state and federal governments. Additionally, the routine upkeep of the site, which will likely have costs that are much steeper than most memorials (due to security, and its tight integration into a transit and commercial hub), is not budgeted anywhere, and will require routine funding (being self-supporting through tee-shirts and coffee mugs is a rather noxious inevtiability).
What contingencies are in place for funding and progress? The LMDC still has enough money in block grants (the air link money is all coming from Liberty Bonds, a seperate pool) to fund the all this construction, but are they going to hold reserve funds to cover the all the various structures in the event that fundraising falters, which means not disbursing up to half of its balance over the next 3-5 years?
And what of the four cultural groups? Will they have fundraising targets they must meet to initiate construction? What contingencies are established should they fail? One, the ‘Freedom Center’, can’t be said to truly exist yet, which potentially puts the Drawing Center (its stablemate) at a disadvantage. Since there is much political will for the the Freedom Center (which may change over the next two — presidential and state — election cycles), it seems the most certain, but its nebulous mission is going to wreak havoc in schematic planning (what kind of space will they need, how much, etc.). And who goes upstairs in each building? Will they flip a coin? Have a fundraising race? Who will be funding the fundraising? This is not a flip as it sounds. Asking arts groups to raise $200 million (not a stated figure, only a speculation of what the facilities may cost) to build buildings they won’t own is a little cheeky (of course, there is also talk about the space being rent free), as well as pricey. If the Drawing Center really thought they could raise $50 million on their own, wouldn’t they have tried already?
LMDC chair John Whitehead has already admitted they don’t have as much money as they need for everything they want to accomplish. While his comment may have been only symbolic or an attempt to placate the dissenters, it may very well be a statement of potentially dire consequence. Given that one of the main goals of the rebuilding process is to remove the blight of a hole in the ground — though there are still many who would debate the wisdom of this point, or its subsequent planning — it doesn’t seem that the mechanisms or plans have been put into place to realize even this limited goal.
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Boom.
I learned today that anyone, everyone who passes opinion on war, or terror, or any of their related misfortunes, should hear an explosion, up close, and without warning. I seem to be magnet for manhole explosions, or the folks at ConEd are incompentent in ways we cannot imagine, having witnessed (within a minute or so of the event) three in the past fifteen months. I have been struck by lightning (in a tertiary way — I know that’s a strange qualification, but true), so maybe it is just that I have a unique coincidence with electrical-related mishaps.
The first was in front of the apartment the day of the Big Blackout, so the subsequent darkness we presumed in the apartment to be our fault (and, for a while, also the cause of the collapse of the eastern seaboard grid; what can I say? We have a megolamanic streak in the apartment). Then, a few months later, more of the same, even the same manhole, this time sans region-wide darkness. Today, it was leaving the workplace and hearing — no, really, feeling the term always used but never appreciated enough: the concussive effect of detonation. The change in air pressure races past you as the sound hits, and your head rings and your ears immediately stopper. Everyone pauses, looking around for some indication of what just happened. No one is screaming, no one has pushed the terrorist panic button yet. Slowly, smoke begins to billow at the end the block. Everyone moves in a very measured fashion, and no one asks their neighbor anything. A slight stir happens as those who are closer begin to move quickly away, but their disruption does not impel those around you, who remain, staring quizzically. More smoke. And then, again, a sonic thrust even greater, accompanied by a junction box (those steel rectangles with a gridded pattern that sit in many intersections), with its entire substructure, a steel fabrication that weighs an easy 200-300 pounds, goes a good twenty feet into the air. This time causes a headache and ringing that won’t dissipate for thirty minutes. People are now runnning rapidly away from the source in a geometrically perfect pattern. Vehicles race for cover with inadequate concern for pedestrians. To the left, a man is berating a woman with the proverbial Nikon D70, who responds “I can’t! I’m scared.” Some 200 feet off, we who stood and stared after the first event are still paused, even sickeningly relieved that it is only the street exploding, an entirely comestible event, though dozens of people are racing up the street towards us. You begin to warily eye the manhole covers that dot the street. Sirens are now wailing in the distance, and it is quiet, except for the ringing and occassional cries of fleeing pedestrians. One cab sits oddly in the center and you keep wondering of the driver has fled. Smoke is now covering the intersection and the stench of burning electricity fills the air. Some vehicles are still crossing the intersection and you wonder what urgency compels them to proceed in the face of an highly uncertain condition. A minute passes. Maybe. And people, likely on their way to the Port Authority, have pulled up, and are starting to creep back to the west, the source. A third rupture, one that seems tame, relative to the first two, signals a defiance on the part of our interlocutor, danger, to the evening commute. This being New York, the lack of escalation emboldens the majority to begin walking back towards the scene, the obvious detour of two blocks deemed excessive. And the unexpected additional three minutes spent leaving the building, along with perhaps the concern that those manhole covers under your feet are legitimately worth fearing, forces you to walk away. By the time you reach the end of the block, the passersby are almost oblivious. By the time you exit the subway a stop away, everything is normal, save the uncomfortable thickness in your ears and the pain whinging in your skull. When you get home you can barely find evidence of the event. But concussion sticks with you. And at a hundred feet, two at most. You try to imagine that happening, closer, for hours, days. Bigger, worse. We know more than one should ever have to about terror. But much of our anxiety is fueled by anticipation. We still, to our great fortune, live in a place where an event like this can be immediately dismissed (as perverse as such a process is) as accident. And regardless of our posturing, we know it. Because something exploded under our feet, and it stopped my heart, and five hundred people stopped and stared. No one, no one took cover, or immediately ran. Five people were injured, the Times reports. We are lucky. As we are every day. I’ll remember this. But only for a day or two, unless it is useful cocktail chatter (like this). Because I am lucky.