Lawnguyland

Long Island is full of surprises. I’ve been doing house visits for a certain union on Long Island. I’ve been working in Lindenhurst, a town that is mostly known to me from those hypnotic station announcements on the Long Island Railroad (“Making station stops at…Wantaugh, Seaford, Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst and Babylon; Change at Babylon for the train to Montauk…”), which are stored in the same place in my brain as parts of the Nicene Creed and the pledge of allegiance. I’m not in the habit of spending time in Suffolk county, and it’s easy to forget that we live on an actual island that’s surrounded by water and docks. Lindenhurst feels like one of Maine’s lobster towns, but without all that pesky tourism.

When you get far enough south, these modest, working class houses have dock slips for backyards. When I don’t get an answer at the front door, I nervously look around back to be sure that no one’s escaping by sea. After all, in my rolled-up shirt-sleeves and tie I look a fair bit like a Jehovah’s Witness, and who wouldn’t take the opportunity to put some ocean between themselves and evangelicals at the door?

The great thing about working in a seaport town is the ready availability of fresh, delicious seafood. I finally satisfied my summertime hankering for fried clam strips at Southside Fish and Clam on the Montauk Highway. I momentarily disregarded concerns about a “red tide” and enjoyed the thick, meaty and delicious strips found there. I also enjoyed the terrific, honest-to-goodness oldies radio station heard there. B-103 is now the last oldies station in the New York Metro region after CBS101 was switched to the hated “Jack” format by its evil corporate parent. Unfortunately, its signal won’t even reach to Queens.

What I’ve noticed most often are the strange living situations that Long Islanders are forced into by low wages and high housing costs. Brothers, sisters, cousins, great aunts, grandmas and in-laws all under the same roofs (actually, some are in the garage, others the basement; more, I bet, are living on those boats in the backyard). Most of the Islanders that I meet who are in their 20’s plan to leave New York entirely. This jives with the experience of most of the people I grew up with on the edge of the world, and other people I’ve met along the way.

Long Island, as a housing development and a society, is scarcely 50 years old. Any society that cannot provide jobs, homes and schools for its young is a failed society. If only narrow-minded voters realize this as they vote down school budgets and lobby against apartment developments.

He Ain’t Never Caught a Rabbit.

I think I’m over the dog thing. My parents are away this weekend, at a family reunion that I am boycotting, so I volunteered to dog-sit Alfred. I drove by my folks’ place in the late afternoon to pay the neurotic pup a visit and then take him to my apartment. I took him for a quick run around the backyard in order in order to expend some of his pent up energy from being cooped up in the house alone for the previous ten hours, and then for a nice long walk around the neighborhood in order to answer the call of nature.

Now, Alfred can be rather clever when it comes to sneaking food or prying open doors, but he can be a bit of a dummy when it comes to basic doggies duties. Still, it was a new one on me when I caught Alfie absent-mindedly peeing on his own front leg, and an even more disappointing surprise when I had to point out to him that he was missing his targeted tree by a good six inches.

I took the opportunity to hose him off in my folks’ backyard before we finally drove to Kew Gardens. Back at my place, Alfie took awhile to get comfortable in less familiar surroundings, but amused himself by barking and whimpering at the neighborhood dogs out my second floor window.

During dinner (mine), the excitement became too much for him and he started throwing up in the corner of my living room – on my stereo speaker! I needn’t have worried too much about that particular part of my home entertainment system as Alfred, always busy, set about a brief tour of my living room, pausing occasionally to spew a little more.

Both of our meals now dispensed with, and Alfred sitting contentedly with that same look on his face that we all get after a violent protein spill, I’m taking the opportunity to jot down this note to myself: Do not get a dog while you still live in an apartment.

Alfred is now nudging my arm. He wants a walk. Don’t forget to spay or neuter your pets, folks, and if you have a backyard, please consider adopting one of the adorable mongrels at the North Shore Animal League.

North Shore Animal League

Jackie Robinson Park vs. Snapple Apple Stadium

The recent, long-awaited announcement of plans for a successor to the Mets’ Shea Stadium opens the chilling possibility that New York City will be stuck with one of those stupid corporate-sponsorship name venues. From the Staples Center in Los Angeles to the MCI Arena in Washington, DC and, in between, those poor bastards in Houston who were stuck with Enron Field, corporate-sponsored naming rights have blighted our nation’s sporting venues.

This frustrating trend has reached as close as New Jersey where the naming rights to the Brendan Byrne Arena were sold to Continental Airlines (while the poor old man was still alive to see it), and…well, what the hell was the PNC Bank Center before it became a corporate ho? (How the hell is one supposed to find the stadium if the name keeps changing?)

With the impending demise of Shea Stadium – which is owned by the city – and it’s replacement with a privately funded stadium, there is a real risk that fans will be saddled with the “Snapple Apple Stadium” or the “Always Tampons Arena.”

The current stadium was named for William Shea, a lawyer and civic booster who attracted the expansion National League franchise to Queens in 1962. That precedent leaves fans with the unfortunate alternative of riding the 7 train to the “Doctoroff Dome.”

There’s really only one true alternative name for the Mets’ new home: Jackie Robinson Park. Jackie Robinson was, of course, the first black player in the major leagues, a superstar who led the old Brooklyn Dodgers to six National League pennants and one World Series Championship. Fifty years after Robinson broke the color barrier, all the teams in the major leagues retired his jersey number. New York went a step further and gave him the dubious honor of renaming the Interboro Parkway, the two lane death trap that runs from my beloved Kew Gardens to East New York (past Robinson’s grave in Cypress Hills), the Jackie Robinson Parkway.

A true honor would be naming the new home of Da Bums’ spiritual successors, the New York Mets, after one of our proudest heroes. Mets fans had better jump on the campaign to name our new mecca Jackie Robinson Park before the Citibank Coliseum makes us ashamed to be New Yorkers.

Ghosts of Mississippi Demand Action for Today

The wheels of civil rights justice sure do turn slowly in America. With a curious vigor, authorities are seeking convictions for two of the most famous lynchings of the mid-twentieth century, while the U.S. Senate has recently apologized for not reacting to all those lynchings in a timely matter.

Better late than never? “You’re still doing what you did in 1964,” protests Rita Schwerner Bender. Back in that Freedom Summer, Schwerner Bender and her then-husband, Michael Schwerner moved to Mississippi in order to register blacks to vote. They worked with a Queens College student named Andrew Goodman, and a local black activist named James Earl Chaney. These nosy Jews from New York and their uppity Negro friend drew the ire of the local Ku Klux Klan, whose support went all the way up to the local sheriff, who, on June 21, arrested the three men for speeding and allowed them to be carried off from the jail. Their bodies were found days later, beaten, shot up and burnt to a crisp in their car. The good old boys arrested for the crime were acquitted. Recently, local authorities arrested Edgar Ray Killen, a former preacher they argue was the ringleader of the long-ago crime. “You’re treating this trial as the most important trial of the civil rights movement because two of the three victims are white,” Rita Schwerner Bender complained to the press, after testifying yesterday.

Although famous for galvanizing the Freedom Summer activists in the North (and later inspiring a lame Hollywood movie), Goodman, Chaney and Schwerner’s lynching was by no means the first lynching in Jim Crow South, which dated back to the efforts to establish equal rights in the South right after the Civil War. Congress resisted taking action for 105 years, but their apology doesn’t make all those poor souls who were whipped, hanged, shot, stabbed or beaten any less dead.

Likewise, avenging the lynching that sparked the modern civil rights movement, the murder of Emmitt Till, will not put an end to the struggle for civil rights and equality that it inspired. But that hasn’t stopped the authorities from digging up poor Emmitt’s bones for a new autopsy. That boy’s dead body has already done its service to the movement. It does not deserve to be used as a prop once again.

Back in 1995, 14-year-old Till was visiting his uncle in bloody Mississippi when the brash Chicago youth had the audacity to whistle at a white woman. For his bad behavior, the kid was dragged from his uncle’s home in the middle of the night. He was dredged from the Mississippi River three days later, his bloated corpse riddled with bullets and stab wounds, missing an eye. When his body returned to Chicago, his mother insisted on an open casket to show the world what southern racists do to little black boys. The pictures from his wake sparked a movement. One month later, Rosa Parks was arrested in Montgomery, Alabama, for resisting racial segregation on the city’s buses, and Dr. King started the famous boycott.

Needless to say, those accused of Emmitt Till’s murder were acquitted (That could have been any little boy’s body, the all-white jury concluded). Now local authorities may prosecute surviving members of the mob that pulled young Emmitt from his uncle’s home half a century ago.

Goodman, Chaney, Schwerner and Till are martyrs. Their families long ago gave up hope that their killers (most of whom are dead, some of whom are merely old and infirmed) would go to jail. What their families, and those of us who are their children in the movement, need to see is not narrow justice for their specific cases, but, ultimately, “justice for all.”

We live in a country where, 140 years after the Civil War, 50 years after Emmitt Till’s murder and 41 years after the “Mississippi Burning” lynchings, only one out of 100 Senators is black, only one out of nine Supreme Court Justices is black, and none of the 100 state governors are black; cops still regularly pull people over for “driving while black;” blacks are twice as likely as whites to be without health insurance, blacks are twice as likely as whites to suffer from poverty. I could go on and on, but the obvious fact is that we do not have racial equality and justice in this country, and, in fact, we are moving farther and farther away from that goal. These prosecutions of ancient crimes are meant to distract us from continuing the work that was begun by Goodman, Chaney, Schwerner and Till. The ghosts of Mississippi demand action for today, not retribution for yesterday.