Photo Essay: Inside Governors Island: Officer's Club

Part II of III

This weekend, photographer Lisa Kereszi took a small group of us inside a couple of the buildings that were her local haunts when the Public Art Fund commissioned her in 2004 to document Governors Island, ten years after its closure.

These buildings are never open to the public now, and may never be again, as the fates of the various abandoned structures around the island are determined one by one - some resulting in adaptive reuse, others (like the school) in demolishment.

By the time the Coast Guard occupied the island in the 20th century, some of the buildings, like the South Battery fortress, were no longer needed for their original purpose, so they already have been reused for a different purpose. The South Battery was originally erected during the War of 1812 to guard Buttermilk Channel (the waterway between Governors Island and Brooklyn) and was later used to house the Army Music School's fife and drum corps through the 1870s. Between the 1880s and the 1930s, it was slowly transformed into an Officer's Club, known for Corbin Hall, its grandiose ballroom.

As in the barracks of Building 12 and its various sections, these abandoned buildings have a way of getting dirty even if no one is using them. Paint peels unprovoked. Roofs leak, causing ceilings to shed onto floors and seats below. Mold prospers. Wires unravel. Metal rusts. Gravity takes hold. And, in the case of the Officer's Club, dried leaves find their way inside and litter the floor.


Club room


Club room


Second floor hallway


Second floor bathroom


Second floor kitchen


Second floor kitchen


Second floor hallway


Second floor, outside Parapet Room


Second floor hallway


Second floor ballroom

On a sunny day, there's an incredible amount of light streaming through the windows of these buildings, many of which have a LOT of windows. Still, the electricity is still ON in many of these buildings, which makes you wonder, what for? Simply for fire inspectors and maintenance crews to maintain the safety and security of the island? Or in hopes that someday - soon - there will be a reason to occupy these spaces which once supported a prospering community?

Stay tuned for the third part in this photo essay series, which examines the Governors Island movie theater.

For Part I in the series, click here.

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Photo Essay: Breuckelen Distilling Co.

Breuckelen Distilling Co. is part of a small outcropping of new micro-distilleries in the New York City area (and New York State). Nestled in a warehouse district in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, near the Gowanus Canal, it's a tiny craft operation whose output so far is a unique, custom gin worthy of - if you can believe it - sipping straight.


Tasting Room jars of botanical ingredients: lemon, rosemary, ginger, juniper



whole wheat (from Upstate NY) to be turned into alcohol



wheat dust on the mill



inside the fermenter



juniper berries, the one ingredient all gins share in common



dried lemon rind



dried ginger 



wax seal drips


Thanks to Ryan for the tour and letting us sniff the inside of their charred white virgin oak barrels, which they're going to start experimenting with in making some brown liquors.

The distillery is open for tours Saturdays and Sundays, or click here for a sneak preview.

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Photo Essay: Inside Governors Island

After years of skulking around the perimeter of the island and the exterior of its structures, I finally got inside Governors Island today for unprecedented access to a handful of its abandoned buildings.

This is Part One in a three-part series of photos inside Governors Island's now-abandoned ghost town, once occupied by the Coast Guard, whose lawns are now littered with rented bicycles, wedding guests, performance artists, and trapeze students.

These photos are from a variety of structures throughout the island.

The subsequent parts in the series will include more detailed studies of the Officer's Club and the movie theater.

When the island shut down and was vacated in 1994, cleaning crews came in to remove the bulk of the garbage. Fortunately for me, they - and the other maintenance workers and janitors since - didn't take everything, and abandoned buildings have a way of getting dirty even if no one is using them. Paint peels unprovoked. Roofs leak, causing ceilings to shed onto floors and seats below. Mold prospers. Wires unravel. Metal rusts. Gravity takes hold.


Building 12, Section P, top floor


outside Bldg 12, Sec P


Bldg 12, Sect I



Bldg 12, Sect I



Bldg 12, Sect I



Bldg 12, Sect H



Bldg 12, Sect H



Admiral's House (a.k.a. General's House, a.k.a. Commanding Officer's House)



St. Cornelius Chapel



St. Cornelius Chapel


As busy as the park itself is, with long lines for bike rentals and ice cream and ferries to and from the island, it's quiet inside the buildings. The cool, moist harbor wind blows hard outside, and the sun streams harshly though window panes, but there is stillness in the shadows.

Stay tuned for more.

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Billy Idol (from Extra Criticum)

There are some larger philosophical issues presented here in my post about last night's Billy Idol concert for Extra Criticum, so I thought I would excerpt it here:

Last night's Billy Idol show was awesome as always, completely predictable in a comforting, restorative way that gives the audience a (whiplash) smile for the duration of the show. But as good as it was, as happy as it made me, I kept waiting for the band to play songs I knew I would never hear. Am I forever cursed to be disappointed if I seek out that which is missing, rather than appreciating what I have, what I've been given?

You can read the full post here.

You can also read prior Billy Idol-inspired posts here and here and here.

For the full photo album for all concerts photographed to date, click here.

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Photo Essay: Queens Botanical Garden

I am facing two challenges that led me to visit the Queens Botanical Garden today: an hour-long commute into Manhattan from Queens, and a lack of discretionary funds for daytrips or pricey museum visits.

Although taking the 7 train to its Flushing terminus took me an hour anyway (despite appearing relatively close to Astoria on the map), fortunately the Queens Botanical Garden - part of my beloved Flushing Meadows Corona Park, and already on my bucket list - costs only $4 for entry.

It pales in comparison to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, Wave Hill, and even the New York Botanic Garden. It's definitely no Huntington Library, Descanso Gardens or Los Angeles Arboretum. But it did give me my first good stroll outdoors - in nature - since returning from Pennsylvania.











I'd been hiding too long. I'd lost my entire August, and it felt like I'd lost my entire summer. After spending Monday entirely in Astoria - a necessary exploration of my immediate surroundings - it was time to get out, farther into Queens, deeper into Queens. If I'm going to survive here, for as long as I need to be here (which is as yet an undetermined amount of time), I'm going to have to get into the belly of the beast. If leaving Queens to commute into "the city" (a.k.a. Manhattan) or venture into my beloved Brooklyn makes me hate Queens, then let me stay here awhile and see if it's possible for me to like it.

In Flushing, my spirits were lifted, feeling the burn of the sun on my chest. On the bus ride home, finger scraping the dirt off of my face, life didn't seem so bad, at least for a while...

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What Goes Up, Must Come Down

The stress of moving over the last month or so wreaked havoc on my weight loss efforts. I literally spiraled into eating cheese curls on the couch, the biggest culprit behavior of my massive weight gain to begin with.

One week during the last month, I was so worried about gaining weight after such successful weight loss so far (which has peaked at 38 pounds since the new year) that, although I continued to attend Weight Watchers meetings, I refused to weigh in.

And then when I went back and braved the weigh-in, convinced I'd bounced back and would have at least maintained my weight, it turned out I was overconfident and had gained 0.4 pounds.

The next week, I gained another 0.2 pounds.

Granted, we're still only talking about a half a pound here. But it's the trend that worried me: the scale was moving in the wrong direction, and that's not the progress I wanted, not the progress I'd been seeing for the last eight months. After all, I'm such a good student. To gain a half pound at weigh-in - something I can usually at least fudge by taking off my glasses, watch and ring and wearing the teeniest shorts and tank top - was like dropping from an A+ to an A.

Unacceptable.

But one of the things that they teach you in Weight Watchers is that you have to accept the rollercoaster of weight loss, like the rollercoaster of life. Sometimes the number won't go down. Sometimes it will actually go up. It may go up for weeks in a row. But as long as the overall trend is down, and you're able to stay on track and not become completely derailed by events like vacations, weddings and stressful times, then in the long run, in the end, you'll be OK.

"Don't be a strong, motionless oak tree!" my meeting leader Lauren told us. "You have to be like a willow, and bend."

It's a good lesson that goes way beyond the scale.

As I endure my own life rollercoaster, my weight went back down 0.2 pounds this week, once again moving in the right direction. Just another 0.4 and I can forget all about the stress of the last month.

"Like a willow / I can bend..." - Stevie Nicks

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Suddenly, Last Summer

Before I knew it, this summer has become last summer.

And I feel like I didn't really have a summer at all.

If it's even possible, I was lonelier this year than last year. After returning home from Joshua Tree last year, I set out on a full attack of all of New York City's parks and hiking trails that only screeched to a halt when I was grabbed in Inwood Hill Park. But I squeezed a lot in. If no one was available to accompany me, I went alone. I was used to hiking alone back then.

But this year, I didn't want to be alone anymore. I started dating again after two years of celibacy, and after a few romantic encounters on both coasts, I couldn't understand why I ever had to be alone again.

The problem is, my refusal to do things around the city alone didn't mean I wasn't alone. I was just alone in my apartment, working hard for clients who weren't always paying me, working hard to find a real job, working hard to find a place to live, to find a life.

And now looking back, I realize that waiting for a companion means I'll be waiting forever. If I want to swim in Astoria Pool, I'll have to go alone. (And I'll have to go next summer.) If I want to visit Coney Island, or Storm King Arts Center, or the Captain Lawrence brewery, or the Mount Beacon Historic Incline Railway, I'll have to go alone.

If I'm going to be alone either way, I might as well have an interesting life to reflect on.

Unfortunately, I lost my entire month of August to crisis, save for a weekend along the Delaware River where, thank God, I got to shoot guns for a few hours and escape the drama of my own life. In fact, the most memorable moments from my summer occurred outside of New York this year, with over three weeks spent in California.

Granted, as a freelancer, the summer is less about work schedules and more about the weather. And I'm sure we'll have a few more weeks of sunny, hike-worthy weather before the rain and cold descends upon us. But I can't help but have that same feeling I had as a kid, going back to school, having spent most of my summer alone in the house, dreading the stories about everybody else's time at the beach and road trips, amusement parks and barbecues.

And I have nothing to report but regret and loneliness.

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On My Best Behavior

Since it's been so long since I've been or had a roommate, I've been on my best behavior this week.

Since moving in on Sunday, I've made my bed every day, even though I keep the door to my bedroom closed.

I wash my plate immediately after using it. (Partially because I only have two plates.)

I turn the lights off. (Partially because I can't afford electricity.)

I've supplemented the apartment with necessities like a paper towel holder, kitchen towels, a bathmat, a cutting board, and hooks that attach by magnet or suction so I don't destroy the walls.

I'm putting my girlie pink and purple hand towels with the hearts and butterflies on them in storage and am keeping new purchases to my roommate's manly color palette of brown, maroon, and brushed silver.

There isn't one piece of my dirty clothing on any floor in this apartment.

All of my shoes except for one pair are put away.

So why is it that I can live like a proper human being - not like a bachelor - for the sake of another person, but not for myself? What is it that made me, when living alone and unvisited in my Manhattan apartment, leave dishes in the sink for weeks, a hamper of overflowing dirty laundry, and the bed in a torrid tangle of blankets and sheets?

Shouldn't I have enough respect for myself to want to live in a nice, clean, tidy place? Why can't I care about myself enough to make things nice the way I do for others?

I know part of it is rebellion against my antiseptic childhood, the acrid burn of cleaning fluids in my nose and sinuses, exacerbating my already persistent viral and bacterial sore throats and hacking coughs. Growing up with my retentive mother made me somewhat explosive when I finally got away from her. Cleaning still feels like punishment to me, just like all those years ago when I was sent into the attic in the middle of summer to clean for hours in the searing heat, the sweat dripping off my chin onto the raw wood floorboards, immediately to be soaked in and disappear with no trace of moisture.

But getting into a bed that's been made isn't punishment; it's a treat. And since I don't live in a hotel, if I want that treat, I have to give it to myself.

I think after all this time, I deserve a treat every now and then.

And if having a roommate is what it takes to allow me to do nice things that we both benefit from, then I'm lucky to have a roommate.

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Open Letter to Michael McDonald, Post Script

For the main Open Letter to Michael McDonald, click here.

Dear Mike, Mr. White Lightning,

I know you didn't see me walk into the catering hall backstage at the PNC Bank Arts Center last night, but I saw you.

I saw you in your summer hat, hunched over your dinner plate, in the farthest seat from the door, white hair beaming from under that hat.

I gasped.

Maybe you heard me gasp, because you got up from your seat as my eyes widened, trying to keep my cool. I was getting a pre-show VIP tour, and as I was introduced to one of the crew members, I looked away from you. When I looked back, you were gone.

The next time I saw you was when you were on stage, looking more confident than last December, hiding behind your keyboard's piano-like case but occasionally emerging to rock the accordion, banjo or ukelele.



Oh Michael, if only you were so confident being the star you are.

After the show ended, I never saw you again, even when I returned backstage. But I will find you again, and one day we will meet.

Your faithful correspondent,
Me

P.S.
When you sing, you make everything better. Christmas music, "Lowdown," Steely Dan...But why oh why will you not play "Peg" with Donald Fagan while you tour the country together??

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Walk on the Sunny Side

I wasn't thrilled to be moving to Queens. I've always been more of a Brooklyn girl, though I cheated with Manhattan for a few years.

But now that I'm actually here, I'm trying to make the best of it. I'm trying to enjoy settling into my new life, even though I don't know how long I'll be living here and I'm reticent to settle in too much to a situation that already feels like settling.

I'm starting to appreciate my new surroundings...

• being able to check my phone on the elevated train ride from Queensborough Plaza to 30 Av
• Brooklyn Bagel & Coffee decaf iced coffee across the street
• cheap groceries and a happy reunion with Key Food
• Steinway Street, my own nearby outdoor mall
• a window air conditioner that blasts my room to refrigerator-cold temperatures
• a roommate who smiles at me and offers to make me tea
• sunlight that wakes me up before noon without an alarm

But still, I walk down 30th Avenue looking wistfully at all the people sitting at the outdoor cafes, sipping their drinks, laughing with each other, and I feel alone. I've spent every day, all day, in Manhattan since I moved in. I don't have much desire to be here in Astoria, to try new bars and restaurants, to explore - especially not on my own.

I'm just exhausted. I've spent 13 years exploring New York City. At some point I would like some stability and familiarity. I'd like to not have to work so hard. 

But New York is a city that must always be pursued; it will never pursue me the way I need to be pursued.

So while I'm in limbo, I'll try to smile in the sun and not walk in the shadows as I'm usually inclined...

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