The Troy Waste Manufacturing Company Building has been a major presence on upper River Street since about 1909 (the company is even older). It’s on the National Register of Historic Places, and it appears that (once again) redevelopment plans are in the works. If the building doesn’t get the respect it deserves, perhaps it’s because it literally has a shoddy history. (Apologies if you get the pun; you’re welcome, if you don’t.) If those predicted apartments come to fruition, it’s likely the new owners will wipe every trace of old “No Parking” and “Danger [?] Hoist” signs away, as well as some relatively nice graffiti and stencils of cats. That’s progress, and will keep the building around for another hundred years or so. But still, glad I got these photos before that happens. (Click on a photo, and the slideshow should start.)
Remember that thing a little while back where I was posting regularly again? Yeah, that stopped. If you like it short-form and forgettable, I tweet much more often. If you like it historic, Hoxsie is still getting updated most days. Other than that, I haven’t even had the commitment to paste a banner over the name of this blog to represent the fact that my life is now quite urban indeed.
So in place of cohesive, coherent writing, let’s do a Top 10 again:
- Mariachi Flor de Toloache. I’m not even kidding. Just accept it.
- Bloody Mohawk. Following up on Hinderaker’s “The Two Hendricks,” because it’s hard to get enough of the extremely complicated relationships between the Dutch, English, French, Iroquois, Mohawks specifically, and other native Americans generally. First time in I just couldn’t get into it; second time in it turns out to be crisply written and informative, and has a better explanation of Conrad Weiser than I have seen anywhere else. Everybody loves William Johnson, and nobody gives Weiser his due. And they were both right to distrust the New England evangelicals.
- Actually training for cycling. After years of doing what I do on the bike, poorly and without much focus, I decided that in order to get through the winter (when we thought there was going to be one), I signed up at my favorite new local cycling shop for a series of training classes taught by an Olympic athlete. A bunch of serious, experienced racers and me, but the beauty of the computerized trainers is they conform to your output and abilities, and over the past few weeks I have been able to actually work on technique and endurance in ways I never did before. My previous technique has always been to go as far as I can go and still get back, which is fun but doesn’t actually train your body. And the upside is that I have been diligent about getting on the bike during the week (usually outside, it’s been so warm), because if I don’t I will actually die on Monday night.
- The holidays. Those were a thing. The second year of not having a home base for Christmas, though this year elder daughter was able to host part of the family festivities. But it feels very weird to not have Christmas in your own house, and even weirder to be one of those people who has to clutter up the highways on the appointed travel days.
- In my ongoing tradition of watching TV shows 10 years or more after they’re a thing, we just binge-watched “Alias,” which mostly led to me screaming at the television each night, “Why are you trusting Arvin Sloane??!” We then upset tradition by watching “Jessica Jones,” which was excellent, but now I think it’s time for a little less obvious blood-letting and something more along the lines of psychological damage, like “Gilmore Girls.”
- Similarly, I have to work up to Tarantino movies. I always love them, but I always need to know what level of gore or worse I’m in for. (Though if we could have seen “The Hateful 8” in 70mm, I’d have jumped right in.) So we finally got around to watching “Django Unchained,” and immediately regretted having waited so long. Christoph Waltz is a delightful revelation in it.
- While we’re on movies, “Carol” was surprisingly lovely and real (and so gorgeous to look at; it captured the period perfectly). It was weird to see it at the Formerly The Spectrum, as, having moved away, I sorta assumed I’d never go there again. But there we were. “Brooklyn” was also a much better, more interesting, less sentimental film than I’d expected it to be. (Sometimes these things just go a certain way. This one didn’t, quite.)
- The photographs of Dave Heath, still on exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Incredible street/life photography from the ’50s and ’60s, the kind of work that I used to want to do.
- There is a serious ice cream shortage going on around here. Our neighborhood shop is seasonal, and this is not the season. There are some others around, but not quite of that quality, and the good one over in Royersford requires getting in the car, which is something we tend not to do. The jones hit me so hard that I was thrilled to find some form of a premium chain store near where I had to take a computer for repair, but in the end I put on my McKayla Maroney unimpressed face. So either spring’s gotta come or I’ve gotta drive somewhere for good ice cream.
- My first experiment with little adhesive LED lighting strips turned out a 94% success. Which is pretty good. (I’d be happier had I gotten them to line up very straight, but that proved tricky). We needed a light source in the living room that wouldn’t bounce off the TV screen at night, and nothing commercial seemed to be working out, so I pretty much built my own sconce and integrated it into the window trim . . . up high, dimmable, provides more than adequate evening light and doesn’t reflect at all. But those little strips are just a touch more finicky when it comes to connections than they lead you to believe.
When we moved from Syracuse back to the Capital District, there were a few things left behind that we knew we’d miss and had a hard time finding replacements for – Hofmann’s coneys, fisherman’s cheese, Hyman Smith coffee (and, in restaurants, Paul deLima coffee). But we settled in and picked up the food traditions of greater Albany, and largely forgot that when we moved to the depths of Pennsylvania, there would again be some things we would miss. Some were to be expected, some were complete surprises. And while the local devotion to pretzels is . . . charming, and there are these satanic cookies called Sweetzel’s mini-cremes, it doesn’t quite replace what we left behind.
- Bagels. You don’t have to tell me that, on the whole, bagels in the Capital District aren’t like bagels in New York City. I know. (But, hey, try Psychedelicatessen’s, because they’re pretty damn good.) In fact, these days most of the bagels in New York aren’t like the bagels in New York. But trust me, if you lived where I live now, you’d be dying for something that even remotely resembled a Bruegger’s bagel. Most of them come out more like a hard roll than a bagel.
- Ginger biscotti from Our Daily Bread in Chatham. Please, ODB, please: Offer to ship. Right now we rely on friends, relatives and our occasional trips back home to keep our stockpile going.
- Lucy Jo’s Coffee. While we love what they serve up at Spill’n the Beans, we became big fans of Lucy Jo’s as well. We didn’t think we’d have trouble finding another coffee roaster in the trendy suburbs of Philadelphia, where we have a whole foods store that isn’t that whole foods store. But, weirdly, haven’t found anything local that wowed us. Happily, Lucy Jo’s does ship, and quickly, so we can keep getting our Brink on.
- Not actually from the Capital District, but similarly, we haven’t been as smitten with local pasta makers as we were with Flour City Pasta, which makes a tremendous variety of grain types and flavors, and it’s all of such quality that I swore off ever eating grocery store pasta again. They’re from Macedon, out near Rochester, but they come to the Troy Farmer’s Market most weeks, and are also more than happy to ship us their great stuff.
- Fish fry. I didn’t understand that fish fry was a regional thing. Don’t misunderstand: there are restaurants with fried fish of the haddock/cod variety. It exists. But there aren’t delicious homey little seasonal fish fry stands that serve a simple fish fry in a paper boat with enough fries to put you under.
- Cider donuts. Pennsylvania has amazing apples. Pennsylvania has good cider. Pennsylvania has good donuts along the nature of a fry cake. But do they have cider donuts as an upstate New Yorker would recognize them? They do not.
- I need to qualify that statement, and then unqualify it. When I tell people around here that I can’t find a cider donut, they look at me amazed, and then recommend places where they are supposed to exist. Most of those places are miles and miles from here, and on the rare occasion when I have tried to hunt them down I’ve found something that really wasn’t what we’d consider a cider donut – they may be donuts, and they may have cider in them, but something isn’t right. And then I make the point that I shouldn’t have to drive half an hour (around here, that’s about 10 miles) to find such a thing, that in fact I can hardly cross the street without tripping on one where I come from. Further, we have stopped at tens of farm stands that absolutely should have had cider donuts, only to be greeted with quizzical looks.
- Then, at the local farmer’s market, one of the cookie and scone bakeries had cider donuts. I kvelled for a minute, in a way that may have startled the proprietress. She asked, “How many do you want?” I said, “I want ALL the cider donuts!” “Oooohhhkay.” “How much are they?” “Two dollars.” I thought I had misheard, because surely a half-dozen cider donuts has to go for more than two dollars. Well, I had, and it does . . . because what she meant was two dollars per donut. And by that time, I was so desperate for a fix that I paid it. It was, if you have never had an upstate New York cider donut, a perfectly fine piece of confectionery . . . a firm, flavorful fry cake that in absolutely no way whatsoever resembled a cider donut.
We’re not good at remembering our own anniversary. This post probably wouldn’t pop up today if I hadn’t remembered to schedule it a few weeks ago. Doesn’t mean I love her any less. We were married in our apartment in Syracuse by Judge Bersani (not because we knew him, but because he was the one who was willing to show up). I’m not sure what the vows were. I wore a freshly bought suit that her mother basted the hems on the night before (oh yes, and my favorite red leather skinny tie). She wore a dress she made herself. Some of our guests were uninvited, some of our invited guests couldn’t be there; we may have squeezed 20 people into the apartment. Our parents showered us with some of the things we needed to transition from college students to married people, such as an upholstered couch instead of plastic-webbed lawn chairs. After the ceremony, we went out to dinner at a simple restaurant we liked on the west side.
Our agreement was to do it ringless, for three reasons: 1) neither one of us cared a whit about diamonds and gold (still don’t), 2) we were children of the ’60s/’70s, and 3) we had zero money. At the last minute, my father apparently decided that wouldn’t do and sent out an inexpensive ring, so I was obligated to break that agreement and present her with a ring. Years later, at a time when we thought the marriage would probably take, we bought matching rings that we wear today.
When I hear of people spending $40,000 on a wedding, it makes me insane. If that were money I wouldn’t even miss, I still couldn’t spend it on a party. If people put half the focus on their marriages that they put on their weddings, the divorce rate would be very different. Focus on the marriage, not the wedding.
Not sure if it’s the empty nest syndrome or just where we live, but after being a rare event in our lives for many years, going to hear live music is now pretty much a regular occurrence. Living in a major metro area, there are just a lot more shows that are of interest, and living in a town with two great small venues, a coffeehouse and an historic theater, and within a comparatively short drive of many others, it’s hard to sort out all the acts we could hear.
When we lived in Albany, we got out for the occasional show at the Egg, the Palace, sometimes Proctor’s. I’d pretty much given up on SPAC; their “pop” series never had anything I was remotely interested in seeing (that I hadn’t already seen in the ’70s). For classical, we’d go to the Albany Symphony Orchestra or over to Tanglewood. There was the occasional free show at the Empire State Plaza, or even in Washington Park. But it was a few times a year, at most, and if it was on a school night, that was a problem. Our only real exposure to local live music was at Troy Night Out, which was always enjoyable (especially, to me, if Oobleck was playing).
Since moving to Phoenixville, live music has been a constant, both big acts and small. We’re a short walk from three regular open mic nights, but our allegiance is to one at our local coffeehouse, Steel City Café, which boasts the best open mic night in the galaxy. The talent is really remarkable, the styles diverse, and the crowd extremely welcoming. At our town’s First Friday, there is live music all over town, so you can stroll from band to band, and, again, there is some incredible quality. The bars and restaurants (and the Farmer’s Market) in the area strongly feature live music, so you get a real chance to see some talented musicians.
And then there’s that whole metro area thing, so we’ve gotten to see some incredible acts, both right here and in Philly. Last night we made a last-minute decision to walk four minutes away and see Lucy Kaplansky, whom we hadn’t seen in years. (And, tipping the scales on that decision was that a local singer/songwriter we had seen at open mic, Anna Spackman, was doing a full opening set.) The week before, we got to see Phil Alvin, Dave Alvin and the Guilty Ones absolutely blow the roof off World Café Live in the city, where we previously got to see The Church. We chanced upon blues legend John Hammond playing in Ardmore just a couple of weeks back (by the way, blues historians should be writing down everything he says between songs, because the man has some stories). We sat almost uncomfortably close to Marshall Crenshaw as he played Steel City. At the Colonial Theater just a couple of blocks away, Leon Russell sang songs and told stories this past summer. Imelda May was incredible in a medium-sized hall in Philly, the same place where we’re going to see Aimee Mann, Ted Leo and Liz Phair in just a few weeks. We had to skip Joe Jackson because there’s only so much you can do, and, to be fair to our former town, Squeeze and Difford & Tilbrook have been there twice while giving the City of Brotherly Love no love at all.
On any given night, having to decide whether you’re going to venture down the street to hear some live music or not is a good problem to have.
I grew up on bicycles. Sadly, a couple of scary accidents in my twenties, including concussions, took me off them for a while; I never did more than the occasional casual cycling and some light bike commuting until I took up road biking again with a vengeance somewhere around 42. So now it’s been about 13 years back on the bike, and I’ve learned a thing or two. If I’m being honest, I’ve learned more about myself than about cycling.
- A bike ride is always a good thing. I have never regretted a bike ride. That it is so hard to convince myself to go out is just further evidence that my brain is trying to kill me.
- I am delusional. Every time I go out, I say I’m just going to go easy. It never happens. Make no mistake, I’m no kind of athlete at all; I have zero natural ability. It’s all work. But every single time, even when it was intensely sunny and pushing 90 degrees, I say I’m going to go easy, and then I end up tackling hills in the blazing sun.
- I have just about zero interest in serious riding with anyone else. A casual ride with wife or daughters aside, the logistics of joining a group ride, being a certain place at a certain time, matching pacing, being with people who run stop signs – none of that interests me.
- Sunscreen. I spend all my time putting sunscreen on, and then scrubbing it off. Putting it on, scrubbing it off. I’m starting to wonder how much I hate wrinkles and cancer.
- Little makes me happier than managing to exceed the speed limit on my bike, especially if one of those temporary speed monitors confirms it in flashing LEDs. They should be put on downhills more often, because I like seeing I’m doing 35 in a 30, and that only happens when I’m gravity-assisted.
- Cycling in the middle of the day, when I have to work, is a bad idea. I just feel too good when I’m done to concentrate. Stupid endorphins.
- I have a disease, where no matter where it is we have to end up as a family, I try to plan it so I can get there separately by bicycle. Somehow I’m indulged in this.
- I believe in the progress of bicycles … freewheels, integrated shifters, all this. (Well, maybe not disc brakes.) I do not understand the hipness of fixies (nor do I live where it’s flat), and have no desire to return to having to take my hand off the handlebars in order to shift. Progress is good.
- That I only possess two bicycles is only through a sheer act of will. If I could, I’d have a dozen.