THE FLYING RAT

(first published on the internet at: http://www.xiffi.com/index.php/travel/378-travel-newyork/156-the-flying-rat )

by Andrew Arnett

Pigeons have been getting a bad rap lately from City Hall. One Council Member in particular, by the name of Simcha Felder has it out for our feathered friends. He’s gone to great lengths in this regard and has even published a legislative report entitled Curbing the Pigeon Conundrum. In this report Council Member Felder proposes policy recommendations intended to reduce the pigeon population in the city of New York by utilizing hawks for killing pigeons, imposing a $1000 fine on people caught feeding the birds, and interfering with their reproductive systems by way of pigeon birth control pills.
This was a hard pill for me to swallow when I first read about it in the Daily News, and for a moment there I thought I was reading The Onion. But this was reality and later, on the local TV news was Felder again, surrounded by an entourage, giving a press conference on the evils of the flying rat, and the necessity to rid society of the winged vermin. He proposed himself the new Pigeon Czar. It felt like a new dawn was rising in New York City. There are lots of problems in our town, and murder was just one of them, but at least we were going to get the pigeon issue licked. I should have felt some kind of hope but in fact it rather put me off my breakfast, so I left that and went outside for a walk instead.
Outside, on the streets of New York, I walked by a few pigeons. They were pecking at the hard cement. They didn’t seem too threatening to me, and not at all as diseased as some of the bags of puss carrying themselves around on two legs and in business suits. In fact, they exuded a calm quiet dignity which I found inspiring. In some small way, those birds cheered me up. So what if I tossed them a few crumbs of bread once in a rare while. What harm would that bring? Then I thought of Simcha Felder. Heir Simcha Felder, who would like to slap a $1000 dollar fine on me for a mere act of kindness. What the fuck kind of bug crawled up his ass? It seemed stupid, but in light of all the stupidity we are faced with on a daily basis, it seemed to make some brutal sense. Besides, what could I do about it? It was my day off after all, and the Giants were playing the Cowboys on TV, and the hope of seeing the Cowboys get mauled was enough to get me through the day.
I didn’t think much about the pigeon thing for the rest of the week but last Saturday morning as I was watching NY 1 News, I got word that there would be a rally at noon in front of City Hall in protest of Felder’s anti-pigeon proposals. I decided to grab my camera and head on down to see what kind of people would show up.
There were about fifty people gathered in front of City Hall with banners and speakers at a podium, as well as members of the press. There were representatives from PETA, City Wildlife Alliance, Urban Wildlife Coalition, and others.
One speaker stated “do you want your taxes to go up, of course not. Think about it we’re now going to have a pigeon czar. Let’s assume that’s an assistant commissioner and that is $100,000 a year plus benefits. Commissioner has to have a couple of assistants and secretaries. We’re looking at three quarters of a million dollars by the time you pay salary and benefits. This is just to staff the office now you want to feed these birds everyday during the breeding season which for pigeons is 365 days per year with O Vatrol P (to maintain birth control) and the preliminary best guess is about $600,000 per year.
There were a lot of angry people about and lots of flyers being passed around. One flyer explained how a pigeon named Cher Ami won the Congressional Medal of Honor during World War 2 by saving 8000 allied troops and 100,000 civilians after the US artillery began unleashing a massive artillery attack on the U.S. Army’s 77th Division after the battalion got trapped behind enemy lines. A soldier attached a message to their carrier pigeon that read “Our artillery is dropping a barrage on us. For heaven’s sake, stop it!”

A historical account of the incident by the writer Andrew Blechman in his book Pigeons: The Fascinating Saga of the World’s Most Revered and Reviled Bird reads “the soldier uncupped his hands and watched the bird flap its wings and gain altitude. The Germans also saw the pigeon and trained their rifles on it. A hail of bullets whizzed through the air and several hit Cher Ami. He quickly lost altitude and plummeted toward the ground. But moments before crashing, the bird somehow managed to spread his wings again and start climbing, higher and higher, until he was out of rifle range. Twenty minutes later and back on friendly terrain, Cher Ami landed at headquarters. A soldier ran to the bird and found him lying on its back, covered in blood. One eye and part of the cranium had been blown away , and its breast had been ripped open. A silver canister containing the Lost Battalion’s desperate plea dangled from a few tendons – all that remained of the birds severed leg. Bewildered, the soldier rushed the message to his commanding officer. The American artillery fell silent, and the last remains of the Lost Battalion were saved. The stuffed tattered remains of Cher Ami can be seen today , still standing on one leg, at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C.”

After the last speaker I wandered off from the crowd, looking about the area to see if I could spot any pigeons but I couldn’t spot a single bird. Maybe they got wind of Felcher’s plans to eradicate the flying rat, and decided it was in their best interest to flee, though I would suspect there were plenty of the other kind of rats lurking behind those walls dressed in patent leather shoes and carrying attaché cases.

end

MELTDOWN SUMMER LUNCH

by Andrew Arnett
The heat was unbearable as I waded through the humidity pools, on the way to my father's apartment on 87th and Park. The heavy metal lamp posts hanging over the streets wavered sickeningly in the thermals, threatening to collapse in exhaustion. I was melting too, into nooks and crannies of the sidewalk like butter on a toasted English muffin.
I finally made it, to the green canopy with gold lettering that read Carnegie Towers. It appears like a mirage in the desert. He lives up there, in that forty story tower of white brick and steel, like some great ivory tusk jutting up from the earth.
I amber up the steps leading to the lobby, feeling like a slug crawling up the side of a pyramid, leaving behind a trail of slime and oozing sweat.
The doormen greet me enthusiastically, as always. I take the elevator to the 8th floor, then ring his doorbell. It takes a while to roust him. The latch was on, other wise I would have let myself in with my key's. At least I know he's home, but it's a little perplexing. He's normally an early riser, and it's now 1 PM. Before I give it another thought, the door unlocks and opens.
Dad was looking svelte in a maroon bathrobe, kind of like a macho Liberace.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said "but I just woke up. I've been working all night, on this project."
"Oh well, I can go you know, come back another time. I want you to get your rest."
"No, no, no. Have a seat. Relax."
"I came by last week," I said "and the same thing happened, you had the latch on. But then I saw the bare back of some female run by and into the bathroom, trying to be discreet, so I just turned around and said see yah!"
"Really? I wonder who that could have been."
"You don't know who that person was?"
"You know, I can't quite remember. Anything is possible."
"I see..."
"Well now, let's see, what have I been up to?" he said.
"All right, I'm going to need something to drink first though, I'm extremely thirsty. But keep talking" I said.
"Yes. You go right ahead,"
go into the kitchen, open the fridge, decide on the lemonade, and pour myself a tall glass.
"You heard I was in California last week?" he asks, his voice straining a bit to compensate for my move to the kitchen.
"That's right, you went to the wrap up party for the filming of the HBO movie about you and your MNN colleagues during the Gulf War."
"That's right. Down in LA."
"Micheal Skranton play's you, right?"
"No, no, Scranton play's Weiller, the MNN producer at the beginning of the war. Bruce Brilll play's me."
^ "Hmm, I don't recall the name."
I go back into the living room and take a seat on a chair. The lemonade feels good in the sweltering cauldron of my being. I wipe the residual perspiration from my forehead. My body begins to decompress in the cool air conditioning, returning me to a more human like form.
"He was in the movie Feral House. He plays the guy who smashes the guitar and rides his motorcycle down the dormitory hallway" he say's.
"Oh, hell yes, I remember that guy. He was great. He had those crazy eyeballs. He was very convincing. That movie, by the way, was a classic. It spawned an entire genre of comedies to follow for actors like Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, Belushi and Ackroyed. Movies like Ghostbusters, Stripes, Blues Brothers, stuff like that."
"That's right. Anyway, besides all this, Bruce Brill also wants to do a cinematic biopic on my life. Something which spans everything from Vietnam to Afghanistan."
"No kidding. A biopic, huh?" And he'll be playing you, of course."
"Well, yes, the older me. But I was thinking in line of say, for my Vietnam day's that is, the younger actor with the accent, who was in that movie that recently won an Oscar..."
"You mean Russell Crow?"
"No. I wasn't thinking of him. Although he is good. Ewan McGregor, that's his name. I like him."
"Yeah, he is good. I liked him in Train Spotting. Have you seen that film?"
"No, I can't say I have."
"What's wrong with Russell Crow?" I ask "Isn't he from New Zealand? He comes across as a tough guy, kind a like you."
"Yes, he is from New Zealand. But, it's just that I'm a nice guy, and he's kind of a trouble maker, don't you think. I think I'm more of an amiable type."
"Well, I guess that depends on who you're talking to."
After he is ready, we head down to the Greek restaurant located on the corner a block away. He is a regular there and we are greeted by the owner himself, who inquires about the most recent headlines, which is predominantly about the impending war between the US and Saddam's Iraq.
"Well, the situation doesn't look too good" my father tells him " it appears that America may have no choice but to commit troops."
* "That is too bad" say's the Greek.
"The Secretary of State say's he has CIA pictures and proof that Saddam has mobile chemical warfare labs, and that there are huge stockpiles of these weapons all over the country."
"I don't like this whole business one bit" commented the Greek.
"And, the President say's he may have nuclear capabilities already, or is trying damn hard to acquire it."
Then, we sit down at a table. The waitress, a sprightly thing, appears like a rabbit out of a hat, with a bottle of good red wine.
"Complimentary" she explains.
After the requisite tasting, a round is poured. "Very nice" he say's.
It goes down smooth and buttery. Then, bread comes out, with three types of butter. And the first course, steamed mussels, salad, followed by pasta for both of us.
"So what do you think the real reason why this administration wants to go to war?" I ask him.
"Well, like I said, they have proof that he's not complying with the UN. And you've heard what the White House is saying. They have a lot of good reasons to do this. Saddam is a dangerous man."
"Yes, well" I say "someone told me there are in fact 710 reasons why America should attack Iraq." "Really? What's one of them?"
I proceed to right down the number 7IO on a napkin, then, I flipped it over for him to read. Upside down it read "OIL".
"Very clever, very clever. By the way, pass the parmesan cheese."
After coffee was served, and some lemon gelato, we finished lunch. Another memorable feast, in our favorite spot. I thanked him for the scrumptious meal, and fine company, then we parted ways - me towards the burning Bronx, and he towards the turning point of history, again.

GRAFFITI ARTIST

ANDREW ARNETT

My main occupation at the age of 15 was graffiti artist. All my best friends were artists, and we all had our own tags. Richard wrote Rector, Liam wrote Corpse, Kellerman wrote Waste One, Andrew B. wrote Amp, and I wrote Mesk. We had our own private writing clique named The Vandals. Beneath each tag we wrote T. V., indicating the clique affiliation. This was during the early eighties, the heyday of graffiti art in the streets of New York City. Each morning on the way to school, there would be a fresh wave of tags by the likes of Revolt, Futura 2000, Opie, and Keith Harring's radioactive babies all adorning the subway walls.
These were legends in magic marker and spray paint. Sahara wrote with a flowing wild style. Seen and Mad threw up burning pieces onto sides of 6 trains. Too Tacky and writing partner Ne wrote with an elegant simplicity. Ne was everywhere, on lamp- posts, mailboxes, newspaper stands, bus stops, asylum walls. Crunch was a rare find. I may have seen his tag only once on a wall however, he was the president of The Rebels, the best and most notorious graffiti artist group in the city. And there was also his nine foot tall piece behind the band shell in Central Park. CRUNCH it said, and that was all it needed to.
The Rebels were the best because they were the coolest. They had the best writing styles (which spawned countless imitators, including us) and had a reputation for stomping into a puddle of red splintered ooze anyone who was foolish enough to write over their tags, or generally defied them in any manner. And they were up everywhere, all over the city. These guy's were fanatics. But the best part of the Rebels was Zephyr. He was the undisputed king of graffiti, and would often add beneath his official moniker, The King. And who could object? He was Michelangelo with the spray paint can. Van Gogh with the pinned tip Pilot marker. He was everywhere. He would eventually go on to find further fame, selling canvas's for thousands in Japan, appearing in books, films, becoming an underground celebrity. Me and some of the Vandals once tagged up a New York subway car with him one night. He was a white guy, named Andy K., 20's, not too tall. Quick. Professional. Worked alone. A consummate pro. Afterwards, he complemented us on our style, gave some vague encouragement, then disappeared at the next stop.
There was certainly an etiquette to graffiti writing. It wasn't just a senseless act of vandalism. Not at all. It was a very disciplined and controlled act of vandalism, with its own strict moral codes and penalties.
For instance, it was only proper to write on public property. Never private property. Which meant that homes, apartments, cars, office buildings, baby strollers, and J-Lo's fat ass were all off limits. On the other hand, everything else was up for grabs, including buses, bus stops, subways, mailboxes, phone booths, methadone clinics and the side of City Hall, if you could get to it. Also, it was bad manners to write over another's tag, and could often precipitate war between rival gangs of artists.
It was a jungle out there, for the graffiti artist. That's for sure. There was always the risk of physical danger. It could come from any side. It could come from roving gangs of street urchins, made up of writers themselves, or just plain psychopaths. Then on the other side of the fence there were the cops. They were no fans of writers, that's a fact. On one occasion in the mid eighties, they managed to trap a tagger in the middle of a stairwell while he was trying to flee. The cops then proceeded to kick and pummel the guy into a very permanent death.
The hours were part of the problem as well. This was decidedly night work, and often required excursions into the hinterlands of society, like train lay ups and subway tunnels. One night I went out bombing with Richard, who wrote Rector, and Michel, who didn't write at all, but had a far greater aptitude for destruction than anyone else I knew. It was 1 AM and we had just tagged up the inside of a 4 train going down to City Hall, and now were headed back up town on that train.
We were in the last car, nobody else there. As soon as the doors closed we started working the markers on the walls but stopped moments later when someone came over from the next car. We stowed the markers and sat down. It was a Hispanic guy, around 20. He walked by us and straight to the back. He was followed by another one, about 17. Then another one, and another. All around that same age. These guy's kept coming in. Four. Six. A total of nine walked by. They all headed straight to the back, in silence. We didn't say anything either. The last guy to come in was the smallest and youngest of the group. He looked about our age -15. When he walked by, he tripped over Michel's legs. It was a complete accident, but had an unfortunate affect upon the demeanor of his friends, who were now glaring at us with unwholesome intent. They gathered in a tight huddle and began conspiring. The vibe was deteriorating fast. We looked at each other and decided, with only a gesture, that it was high time to leave.
The three of us stood up and very casually went to the exit door. As we moved, they began to move as well, towards us. We picked up the pace, got the door open, then bolted like jack rabbits through it. The gang started running after us. They were right behind, hot on our trail. The train kept rolling on through the tunnel and we kept running through it. We ran through three, four, five cars. "Hold on, hold on!" I said "let's stop here. There are some people in this car. If they're going to murder us, at least there'll be some witnesses to the fact." There were about three or four dissipated souls sitting in this, the middle car. They didn't want any trouble, I'm sure. But we had no other option. Either way we were trapped. We sat down in the middle. The gang filed into the car, and like trained mercenaries, dispersed themselves evenly throughout the car, with one man standing by each of the six doors, blocking any chance of escape. Then three of them came over and hovered over us like huge bats. At that moment, the train stopped at 14th street, but nobody moved. The doors closed and the train started rolling again. It was going to be a long ride to the next station. Then the smallest guy, the one Michel had inadvertently tripped, pulled out a small crude zip gun and pointed it down between Richards legs and said "If you don't give us all your money and your markers, we're going to blow your balls off." A moment of shock passed, then we said "yes, yes, yes" and proceeded to disembark all cash and graffiti contrivances. We handed over the Magnums, Mini Wads, Pilots, Flow Masters, a can of spray paint. Michel had no money but Richard found a dollar. I pulled out 56 cents. Then the train pulled into 42nd street - Grand Central Station. The doors opened and the gang quickly dispersed out the doors and melted away like roaches into the walls.
A moment later, a dozen cops were on the scene with their guns drawn. "Where'd they go?" they asked us. "How many of them were there? What did they look like?" But they were already long gone.