Prospect: A Year in the Park

And flights of bacon sing thee to thy rest

Once was enough for me after last year's "Great Googa-Mooga," but Spouse was keen to go, since we had scored two of the coveted free tickets as members of the Prospect Park Alliance. And I was lured by the well-publicized "flights of bacon" in the foodie festival's central "Hamageddon" area, devoted to all things trendy and porcine.

 

 

 

Under a light rain, mostly young folks streamed onto the Nethermead, unrecognizable under its carapace of booths, stages, Port-o-Sans, fencing, and security apparatus. The mighty metal pig was back, although not a functional cooking device this year (the smoke was for show). Crowds were lighter than last year thanks to the weather--plenty, but not a crushing mob. Tent space and seating were scarce; some took shelter under the snout of the Pork Idol.

















I headed straight for the Flights of Bacon. They consisted of 7 li'l pieces from various Exquisitely Artisanal Purveyors, the sort of folks who probably grow and hew their own apple trees for smoking wood and make their own brine from reclaimed Coney Island waves. The price? $12.

 

That put me to flight.

 

 

 

 

 

However, those who did indulge attracted bacon groupies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a mere $10 I got a tasty little pulled-pork sandwich on a bun, but it was no better than supermarket Lloyd's. Spouse got 2 petite Dumont Burgers, which looked like hockey pucks but were super-rare and exquisite; under field conditions, one could almost convince oneself they were worth $5 each.

Here were two alliances I didn't want to try.

Everybody says they're great, but I'm not tempted...at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And here we see some sort of tipping point, Brooklyn-wise. Into self-parody, or beyond it?

(The dark-grey knobs are presumably the snails. "Snail and Rabbit" are two words that should only go together in a children's book about two little friends who learn that varying speeds of locomotion needn't preclude a lovely friendship.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And speaking of self-parody, these two guys from Central Casting actually seem to be excited about their only-sort-of-ironic Googa-Mooga Trading Cards. Perhaps they were saying, "I'll trade you a Daniel Boulud for a Dale Talde!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

We left after licking out a tiny $5 cup of Blue Marble ice cream; the rain and beer were producing a damp, subdued Woodstock vibe among the celebrants, who had begun to huddle under blankets with their maple cotton candy and grilled oysters. My highlight was meeting some easygoing non-Brooklynites: Charlie Smith (right), the sculptor who fabricated the Mighty Metal Pig (and various things for Burning Man and the like), and his girlfriend Sweet Stuff and his buddy Hot Stuff (or so their labels said). They're from Atlanta and seemed to be enjoying the show; for the maker of an idol to Ironic Decadence, Charlie was a nice, down-to-earth guy.

UPDATE: RAIN AND WRATH

Sunday's dismal rain has prompted the cancellation of Day Two of the GGM. Meanwhile, the ongoing, acrimonious blogosphere debate over the "pimping out" of the park to the GGM promoters--including accusations of de-facto racial exclusivity and the discomfiture of green herons--has cropped up in the New York Times here. I can't vouch for the numbers being thrown around (the park's alleged $75,000 take from the event is decried as paltry), but the broader debate over the use of parks is heating up.

Quiet riot

I confess: I've been avoiding Sakura Matsuri, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden's cherry-blossom festival, for awhile now. In the rare years (like this one) when the blossoms manage to coincide with the event, it's mobbed; when the blossoms are too early or already underfoot, it's still mobbed. The point of "hanami" ("flower viewing") is admittedly to party; apparently there's a Japanese saying, "Dumplings rather than flowers." But the last time we went, we even waited 40 minutes for a Bento box.

But I won't miss the annual "running of the perennials": the BBG Members' Preview of their annual plant sale. At 4:30 sharp, garden loons descend with rusty red Radio Flyer wagons on the Cherry Esplanade, which was still madly blossoming yesterday after last weekend's orgy of hanamania. Young children did backflips on the tender grass; older ones, like mine, were pressganged into helping plant-crazed parents haul their loot.

 

 

 

I got heucheras, which thrive in my shady, arid problem patches, and 3 different kinds of cherry tomatos, because the big beefy heirlooms keep dying tragically in midseason of unnamed diseases. There's also a rose geranium and an alpine strawberry in there, an Asian eggplant and a "Labrador violet," which is dainty and not at all like a goofy drooling dog.

 

 

 

 

 

It was just about the quintessence of spring, this last day of April—cool breeze, fresh green, and overhead the lavish blooms that my college-bound daughter described at age 5 as looking like "the trees were wearing fluffy pink sweaters." And now, to kill those plants.

All photographs Brenda L. Becker

'Visual medicine'

I can't wait to see the exhibit now at the Brooklyn Public Library's Central Library (the big one at Grand Army Plaza, Reflections by Jamel Shabazz.  According to the BPL, 

"A prolific photographer of street culture in New York City, Jamel Shabazz has been documenting this borough since the 1980s.  His work is showcased throughout the Central Library, and in the Brooklyn Collection we're displaying a selection of images donated by Mr. Shabazz."

I was vaguely familiar with Shabazz's work (he did a series on hip-hop's more innocent early days titled, memorably, "Before Crack"), but didn't know he was a fellow Prospect Park obsessive. The BPL has put up a truly wonderful 5-minute slide show with Shabazz in voice-over telling us what the park has meant to him over the years—an enchanted preserve for a boy from the projects, where he wooed girlfriends, refreshed his soul, trained his body, mentored youth, and blossomed as a chronicler of people-in-the-city. He calls the park "the path of life—you meet people in search of peace. Whatever people I was suppoed to meet, I would meet."

And Shabazz sums up the whole reason I started this blog almost 5 years ago (is that possible?):

"It's great visual medicine for me."

Come to think of it, I haven't been taking my medicine regularly. Maybe a recommitment to my daily visit is just what the doctor should order.

Always some drama or other

This guest park entry will run in reverse chronological order.

Scene III: A perfect summer evening at the Old Stone House, its Revolutionary War museum serving as a staging area. An attentive Park Slope crowd turns out at twilight for an inventive and affecting original production of "The Island of Dr. Moreau" by the Piper Theater Company.  (You can catch it again next Saturday July 21 at 8 p.m. at the same venue; and it's free.)

 

 

 

 

 

Honestly, no one in the world works harder and more joyfully than young, ambitious actors. These ones threw themselves into their bare-bones show with brio on a sultry night, competing with an urban cacaphony of sirens, airplanes, and car horns. At one point, when a character onstage screamed in horror, some wag down on Fourth Avenue screamed back. The cast was unfazed.

 

 

 

 

 

Scene II: That afternoon. A few toddlers clamber over the empty stage in front of the reconstructed 1699 Dutch farmhouse. Today, it sits tucked between a lovely new playground and a swath of artificial turf for ball games, overlooking a Staples and a few blocks from the Gowanus Canal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene I: August 27, 1776. The house is caught up in the bloodiest encounter of the Battle of Brooklyn, the American Revolution's first pitched battle. Rifle fire and the screams of fallen men rend the air around the marshy farmland, as vastly outnumbered Americans struggle to hold off British and Hessian troops.

 

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile, most of Washington's army retreats from around the area of today's Prospect Park to evacuate across the East River later that night, regroup, and fight on for freedom. The defense of the Stone House meant capture or death for hundreds of patriots. But the legendary valor of William Alexander (known until that day as a vain and gouty inebriate who insisted upon the doubtful title of Lord Stirling) and the elite fighting men of William Smallwood's Marylanders regiment, may well have kept the Revolution from ending that muggy and terrifying day.

 

Everything, illuminated

An ideal summer's evening for the return of the New York Philharmonic to Prospect Park. Tchaikovsky floated over a happy crowd; we got there just as things started, and camped near the periphery.

 

Every year, it seems, people bring more babies and toddlers. For much of the second half of the bill, Respighi was pianissimo and kiddies were fortissimo. At this distance, one is forgiving.

 

 

 

 

 

Vendors were selling glowsticks and glowing mohawk-headpieces. Some of them seemed to emit a screeching sound. At least they weren't vuvuzelas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daughter curled up on the picnic blanket and dozed under a pile of sweaters through The Pines of Rome. She awakened to remark that, now that she was 17, she was no longer a child, then settled back to sleep until the fireworks began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I assured Daughter that no one should get too grown up, ever. As the last starbursts sunk into the night sky, everyone went "ooh" and "ahh" and applauded and cheered gleefully, as if none of us had ever seen fireworks before.

 

 

Ball of confusion

A forest of pale and youthful legs on the march, heading for Day 1 of "The Great GoogaMooga."

The hidden heart of Prospect Park, fenced off and submerged under a sea of the hip and hungry.

Messaging on a melon, part of a wall of fruit near the "UrBarn," an installation (visible in the background) by Pratt students and others to promote farm-to-table-ish, sustainability-ish things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was, however, mostly about the beer. A line of apocalypse-refugee proportions snaked away from a stand distributing some sort of proof that you were old enough to drink. At my age, I think my face should be my passport.

 

The "line talkers" held a variety of perky signs intended to mollify the line waiters. With music within earshot most of the time, the crowd seemed fairly mellow about it all. Spouse waited almost an hour for fried chicken, but enjoyed "Holy Ghost" during the wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a perfect spring day, the sun's intensity put shady spots at a premium.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was what restaurant critics often call "an attractive young crowd." Many seemed to know one other or to have descended in groups. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the "Hamageddon" section, a heavy metal band tore it up while a whole pig rotated on a spit inside this gigantic porcine idol. You have to give the founders of this feast credit for thinking big.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was fairly painless to score a "Dirty Duck Dog" with lemon-scented sauerkraut from the Craft stand, and a plate of three "fried cheesecake bombs" from a Prospect Heights restaurant called Robert. (Dog, delicious; cheesecake fryballs, kind of like fried ice cream, weirdly compelling.) At all the concessions, the workers were cranking the gourmet chow out frantically; doing this again all day tomorrow would kill me.

By 4 p.m., lots of places were running out of their esoteric specialties. Apparently, this also happened to the folks who forked over $250 for "Extra Mooga" tickets in an ultra-exclusive enclave of foodiness. Our endurance event, at least, was free (well, $12 for two duck dogs and $6 for three cheesecake balls). Altogether, Spouse and I concluded that restaurants had much to recommend them...and that we were probably about 20 years too old to truly appreciate the event. 

 

 

 

Blue sky over Church Avenue

Just a block south of the Parade Grounds of Prospect Park, Church Avenue has slumbered for years, a strip of scruffy retail nothingness. But word on the street is that Church is poised for a long-awaited rebirth, and today, its first street fair looked like a wild success.

Meet some of my neighbors on "our side" of the park.

    

In the middle is Dr. Courtney Perry and Geneva (a rescued friend and patient) in front of her new veterinary practice, PAWSitive. She's a Wellesley and Cornell grad who's come home to Ditmas Park, and we're very glad.

   

More dog excellence: a Noble Pitbull and a Chillin' Husky, both rescues. (Note: There is, yet to come, a Greenmarket Dog of the Day!)

Another eagerly welcomed newcomer to the strip is Am Thai Bistro, whose absurdly gorgeous staff were dishing up curry puffs, coconut rice balls and spring rolls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sensory overload for small fry. Sometimes good...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...sometimes not so much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The vendors were the usual suspects (including sausages and crew socks, those street-fair essentials), but there were also Latin-themed totes and tiny suits with ties.

 

   

Robopuppy? Copter-on-a-stick? Cheap machine gun?

 

 

Congratulations to the Church Avenue BID, whose efforts to breathe life into this languishing corridor have begun to bear fruit. A coffee shop called Lark is in the works,  joining mom-and-pop ventures like Shayna's roti shop and La Huasteca, so wander on down after a soccer match or a tennis game; Cortelyou Road, look to your laurels. And chefs, merchants, countrymen, come on down; as you can see from the montage of fine novelty wares above, Church Avenue lends a magical glow to any merchandise.

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE DAY

Behold the charming Bica, strolling with an old friend of mine at Saturday's Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket. He is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and his name is a slang term used around Lisbon for espresso.  Appropriately enough, he enjoyed licking the foam from my latte.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turbo-spring

Two weeks of late May mysteriously land in the middle of March, and I manage not to get over to the park more than once or twice. The reason: My own garden has been bursting out and yelling at me to perform every manner of service for it. A dozen rosebushes alone have been screeching to be pruned, and without the excuse of being miserable in the cold, I have been their slave.

But I've got to get over there because all sorts of stuff is going on. From my front porch, I can see that the trees are greening up, smudged with verdant pastel, a full month ahead of schedule. And that's not all.

* The Lakeside project is shaping up to be pretty damn amazing. Here's the Animated Architect Sketch; I love the snowy part, and the part where the trees drop down magically on Music Island. And the part at the very beginning where the Robert Moses crap building just disappears. (Thanks to the Q at Parkside blog for the heads-up.)

* The "Googa-Mooga" festival is stirring wild interest among the hip; it's some sort of food and music fest on May 19 and 20 that mysteriously, while "free," requires a ticket of extraordinary scarcity. Spouse has managed to acquire at least one of these prized tickets, which has him very excited even though we have yet to learn what bands are playing. Oh well: The festival's website proclaims that "food is the new rock," so we can dance along to the artisanal pickles.)

 
  * And on March 31, the Carousel reopens for its hundredth anniversary. It's been given a nice tune-up by Todd W. Goings, a carousel doctor (what a dream job!), nicely profiled here. (Photo, right: Chester Higgins, New York Times)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* At the Prospect Park Zoo, the Golden Tamarins have a wee baby riding around on their blond backs. (Photo: Julie Larsen Maher/WCS)

 

 

Meanwhile, check out a nicely researched gem on the park's mysterious Vale of Cashmere at the wonderful history blog of the Brooklyn Public Library, Brooklynology. This is the long-gone "Children's Shelter." The Vale, that haunted and troubled gem, looks very different than the playground envisioned by Vaux and Olmsted. Time to get over there and see for myself.

Footloose

A lovely morn in early fall, and the young ladies of St. Saviour High School gather in the park for their annual fund-raising walkathon. Full disclosure: Your bloggeuse's daughter attends this fine institution in the heart of Park Slope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A dedication of the day's event to those lost on 9/11 was perhaps the ostensible reason for the presence of firemen—but then, who needs a reason for there to be firemen present?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The giggling, shrieking pack took off. Many seemed to stray from the prescribed route, but few cared. These are the years of struggle—to blend in, to stand out, to go your own way, and to stick with your BFFs.

With love and squalor

We're both park bloggers and advocates, yet we still haven't met. No matter, here's another shout-out to intrepid Marie Viljoen of the Prospect Park Litter Mob. She has now begun a blog chronicling the brave exploits of her small band of squalor-battlers. She is not only willing to wade in and rescue the park's lush nether regions from revolting debris, but also takes gorgeous photos of the beauty and incongruous filth (her montage, left), and she writes like an angel:

Tuesday, first day of summer in the Northern Hemisphere and we headed back into the woods of Prospect Park. The longest day.

I never sleep the night before these litter mobs. I don't know why. I now expect it, so perhaps it is self-fulfilling. Three hours, max. I am not nervous, I just don't sleep. Vince brings me coffee early, I am queasily awake. We walk to the subway, I am grumpy and tired. Once in the woods it is forgotten.

The beautiful stewartia flower are open. We looked at them near the Audubon Center beside the pea-green lake upon which two swans and five fluffy cygnets sailed, pursued sluggishly by a box of pink gum. A turtle was laying her eggs in the grass. I had never seen such a thing.

I missed the Mob again last Tuesday, but I'll make it one of these weeks. Frankly, I've been getting to the park with shameful infrequency, and the surreal treasures that the Mob uncovers alongside the nasties are a reminder of all that I'm missing.

UNFORGOTTEN FLATBUSH ON FOOT--TOMORROW!

By the way, the Parade Grounds and the park's southern edge will kick off a walking tour tomorrow led by another urban hero, Kevin Walsh of Forgotten New York. Kevin's tours tend to sell out, but there may be some places left on this one, which wends its way into the absurdly beautiful Prospect Park South historic district. There'll be a pit stop at a familiarly blogged-up domicile called the Crazy Stable, where your bloggeuse will share some exclusive tidbits on life in the green heart of Brooklyn, and offer cookies and lemonade to the masses. Hope to see you there!