The Newtown Pentacle

- photo by Mitch Waxman

I’ve got a boo-boo.

On May 12, your humble narrator conducted a walking tour of Dutch Kills and Newtown Creek which ended at the Newtown Creek Nature Walk in Brooklyn. Having concluded the day’s exertions, the pathway back to benighted Astoria followed the familiar route of crossing the Pulaski Bridge.

At mid span, I noticed a tugboat- the Franklin Reinauer- waiting for the bridge to open, and decided to take advantage of its static position to gather a few shots.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

Franklin Reinauer has been featured here in prior postings, and in an attempt to capture a slightly different angle of the vessel (as I’ve taken virtually identical shots of it from this very spot in the past), I decided to climb up on the weird wooden “art thing” which is installed mid span on the bridge.

Happy with the quality of light and the positioning of the ship in my shot, I noticed that the DOT bridge crew had shown up to open the Pulaski and allow the tug access to the Newtown Creek. Desire to get shots of the tug entering the Creek from below infected me and I tucked away my gear and attempted to dismount the “wooden art thing”.

That’s when it happened.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

The injury wasn’t severe enough to preclude me from flying down the stairs and getting the shots I desired, as evinced above and below, but the swelling had already started.

As I was climbing down from the “wooden art thing”, I put my left hand down to steady myself as I descended back to the deck. My left thumb then exceeded its normal course and bent approximately forty five degrees in the wrong direction. While I didn’t hear the cracking sound familiar to anyone who has broken a bone, there was a distinct and rather disturbing “pop” that travelled up my arm.

It immediately began to swell.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

By the time that the shot above was captured, an ugly and redolent bruise was spreading around the joint, and the big muscle at the heel of my hand (where the thumb joins the wrist) had swollen up and it appeared as if I had an apricot growing in the shallow part of my palm. Ibuprofen and an ice pack were applied back at HQ, and the swelling subsided after a day or two. Full range of motion, and normal gripping strength, were confirmed and no doctoring seemed to be required. Today, it is still sore, but on the mend.

This is the tale of my boo-boo.

At least I got my shots.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

Last Saturday, after conducting a walking tour of Dutch Kills for a group of enthusiasts, your humble narrator found himself walking up 35th street, and upon arriving at the street’s intersections with both 38th avenue and Northern Blvd.- I was moving past the titan Packard building.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

Engaged in conversation with Our Lady of the Pentacle, who helped out with the tour, I suddenly felt as if someone might be throwing crumpled up bits of paper at my back. Spinning around to confront my attacker, this swarm of bees was observed.

It had been bees bouncing off my back!

- photo by Mitch Waxman

One of the things I’ve learned about Queens is this- if something “should be done or said”, no one is going to do it, so you’d better do it yourself. Our Lady of the Pentacle sighed at this point and walked up the block to find a shady spot to sit down while I crossed the street and yelled “BEEs” at anyone who approached this spot.

After many years of marriage to one such as myself, she knew that the following would take a while and she might as well get comfortable.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

I called 911, and told the operator that there were a lot of bees swarming on the same corner as a subway stop, and was told that that’s not an emergency and that I should call 311. With a hearty “yes ma’am” I hung up and called 311.

The operator listened to my description of the situation, and asked me if I had contacted the property owner about the situation.

Attempting to explain that I was attempting to report a dangerous situation here on the streets of Queens, she interrupted me and chided that “I wasn’t letting her talk”. There no way, of course, that this situation would have been dealt with differently if I was calling about such a situation in say… Manhattan.

She continued that “bees are part of nature and that the City of New York doesn’t mess with nature”.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

The Brian Nicholas oozing onto and smoothly navigating the lugubrious waters of an urban waterway called the Newtown Creek. Some 75 feet long, with a gross tonnage of 104 GRT, the Brian Nicholas is a creature of DonJon towing whose motive power is supplied by 2 850 HP engines that was built in 1966 and retrofitted in 2010.

from docs.google.com

This past June, Donjon completed the top-to-bottom refit and replacement of the main engines, generators, gears and related equipment of its tug Brian icholas. The refit was performed in house at Donjon’s Port Newark, New Jersey facility under the supervision of Donjon’s Gabe Yandoli and Robert Stickles. As a result of the refit, the Brian Nicholas is now a “green” tug, compliant with all applicable EPA and Tier 2 marine emissions regulations.

The rebuild included a repowering of the main propulsion with Cummins K38-M Marine engines, which were specifically developed by Cummins to meet EPA and Tier 2 marine emissions regulations. The new engines also meet the IMO, MARPOL and EU Stage 3A requirements. Similarly, the generators were upgraded to incorporate John Deere 4045TFM75 engines, also Tier 2 compliant. In addition to the replacement of the aforementioned engines, the project required virtually total replacement of exhaust lines and routing of new control lines and panels in the engine room and wheelhouse.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

One would normally wax rhapsodic about this specimen found on Northern Blvd. at the foot of the Honeywell Street Bridge, but unfortunately, good old Time Warner Cable is up to their usual tricks tonight and connectivity to the Pentacle is sporadic at best. I’m not sure how long this window will be open. Be back tomorrow, hopefully.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

Gaze in bewilderment upon the under cobbled lanes of fabled Astoria, hoary and venerable, one of the last locations within the megalopolis which actually resembles New York City. The human infestation is dense here, where an effervescent melange of cultures nevertheless vies to ignore each others presence. Many of my neighbors have told tall tales of “back home”, all of which are unsavory to my American ears. The wonder of this place is that the cultural stressors which tear and gnash have more to do with parking spots and loud music than centuries old blood feuds and the inheritances of Eurasian nationalism.

People in Astoria pride themselves on minding their own business, which has become kind of an issue of late.

from wikipedia

A blood feud is a feud with a cycle of retaliatory violence, with the relatives of someone who has been killed or otherwise wronged or dishonored seeking vengeance by killing or otherwise physically punishing the culprits or their relatives. Historically, the word vendetta has been used to mean a blood feud. The word is Italian, and originates from the Latin vindicta (vengeance). In modern times, the word is sometimes extended to mean any other long-standing feud, not necessarily involving bloodshed. Sometimes, it is not mutual but a prolonged series of hostile acts waged by one person against another without reciprocation.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

Do not mistake the place for a paradise, nor blankly accept the soporific descriptions of Astoria offered by Real Estate Industrial Complex operatives or the political class. One cannot ignore the omnipresent darkness which emerges in the ancient village. Just down my block, a couple of summers ago, an old man died in his house at the height of summer and his mouldering corpse lay undiscovered for several weeks- the explosive result forced a tear down renovation of his living quarters- an expense which forced his landlord to sell the building. Another neighbor, suffering from severe depression, attempted suicide via hanging several years ago. He was clinically dead when the paramedics arrived, but resuscitated. Unfortunately, other members of his creed, adherents to ancient superstition, believe him to be animated by the devil itself and shun him. “The Man with no Soul”, as he is called, wanders the neighborhood blankly and brain damaged.

Also, there is the odd fat man on 34th avenue and his criminal army of juvenile devotees…

from wikipedia

A nachzehrer is created most commonly after suicide, and sometimes from an accidental death. According to German lore, you don’t become one from being bitten, or scratched. It is just something that happens. Nachzehrers are also related to sickness and disease. If a large group of people died of the plague, the first person to have died is believed to be a nachzehrer.

Typically a Nachzehrer devours its family members upon waking. Its also been said that they devour themselves, including their funeral shroud, and the more of themselves they eat, the more of their family they physically drain. It is not unlikely that the idea of the dead eating themselves might have risen from bodies in open graves who had been partly eaten by scavengers like rats.

Some Kashubes believed that the Nachzehrer would leave its grave, shapeshifting into the form of a pig, and pay a visit to their family members to feast on their blood. In addition, the Nachzehrer was able to ascend to a church belfry to ring the bells, bringing death to anyone who hears them. Another lesser known ability of the Nachzehrer is the power it had to bring death by causing its shadow to fall upon someone. Those hunting the Nachzehrer in the graveyard would listen for grunting sounds that it would make while it munched on its grave clothes.

- photo by Mitch Waxman

Brutal homicides and bizarre occurrences permeate the recent past here- on the corner pictured above, there was a gun battle and fatal shooting just last year. An uptick in public drunkenness, petty vandalism, and large groups of carousing youths has been commented on more than once by area wags in recent months. Disturbingly, the social contract seems so tattered that public defecation and urination are now the norm on Broadway, despite the easy availability of lavatories at any number of bars and restaurants. As is the way with Queens, many complain, but few step forward to confront and chase away the chaos.

They shrug, and accept, and forget all about Kitty Genovese.

from wikipedia

Catherine Susan “Kitty” Genovese (July 7, 1935 – March 13, 1964) was a New York City woman who was stabbed to death near her home in the Kew Gardens neighborhood of the borough of Queens in New York City, on March 13, 1964.

The circumstances of her murder and the lack of reaction of numerous neighbors were reported by a newspaper article published two weeks later; the common portrayal of neighbors being fully aware but completely nonresponsive has since been criticized as inaccurate. Nonetheless, it prompted investigation into the social psychological phenomenon that has become known as the bystander effect or “Genovese syndrome” and especially diffusion of responsibility.