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.

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. 

 

 

 

Girding for Googa

My hip and happenin' Spouse! Through his alertness and vigor, we have secured 2 tickets to The Great Googa-Mooga Festival, a free-but-sold-out extravaganza of food and live music in Prospect Park this weekend. The line-up of chefs definitely overshadows the musical acts (including Hall & Oates, the underwhelming* headliners).

The entire affair is starting to scare me, based on its wild hype (including this reverently snarky account in the New York Times calling it part of a "gastronomic summer of love"). It sounds as if Williamsburg will uproot, like Howl's Moving Castle, overshadow the Long Meadow, and touch down. In one particularly disturbing development, we have been alerted that "Line Talkers" in purple, Barclay's-Arena-sponsored T-shirts, will be on hand to tell us about menu choices up ahead. Are those like Navajo code-talkers, only for banh mi and panini? Dear Lord, what kind of apocalyptic lines are they expecting for foie-gras donuts and duck rolls?

 

 

 

According to the event's organizers (the merry pranksters at right), "Approximately 75 food vendors, 35 brewers, 30 winemakers and 20 live music performances will be on hand to help us relish some of life’s greatest pleasures—gathering with friends and neighbors to eat, drink, talk, laugh, dance, linger and just . . . be together." Personally, I can't wait to see the prices for all these artisanal noms and craft microbeers.  

A MICRO-RANT: If I am shelling out $20 for an al-fresco lobster roll with organic endangered wildflower sprouts and a touch of lavender foam, I want to eat it at a nice table with a clean bathroom nearby, one with running water and, preferably, a set of previous users smaller and less...free-spirited...than the population of Burning Man. The whole groundlings thing, with mobbed Port-O-San visit followed by lots of hand sanitizer, just doesn't jive with the exquisite haute-cuisine picnic angle for me.

In a slightly discordant note amid all that mellow vibe, for an incredible $250, you can get exclusive "Extra Mooga" tickets, including lectures on "Molecular Mixology" and "Textures of Rhubarb," along with the chance to worship at the shrines of Ruth Reichl, Anthony Bourdain, and other luminaries and, for all I know, personally butcher a heritage pig or a fast-food executive. (No word on whether this ransoms you out of the Port-O-San scene, however.)

But I quibble. Perhaps tomorrow you will see me crowd-surfing with a sprig of cilantro hanging off my lower lip, waving a draft lager brewed from hummingbird tongues and sobering up with some shade-grown, dolphin-safe macchiato. If you failed to score tickets, let's agree on a spot near the fence, and I'll toss you over a $40 sausage or something.

'READY FOR MARTY'?

* Hall & Oates belong to a category of act that we call "Ready for Marty," in reference to Borough President Marty Markowitz's long-running series of free summer concerts featuring well-loved but often fading pop acts. Markowitz, who relishes his role as B-list impresario, once mused aloud before a concert, when a crowd member shouted a suggestion for the line-up (Kenny Loggins, if memory serves): "Yeah...he's about ready for us."

Expotition season

That's Pooh, not Palin. But it is time to refudiate our grievances and head off for summer adventures, like these day campers did last Wednesday. If you are not leaving town for mid-summer, pack a picnic and try a part of Prospect Park you've never explored before.

The park abounds in quirky activities--this weekend alone, there will be flax harvesting at the homestead and, speaking of do-it-yourselfing, "a DIY World's Fair of music and art" at the Bandshell (featuring folks named Cucu Diamantes, Les Nubians, Los Hanky Pankys, and Monsta X).

And of course there will be the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket every Saturday morning, where the signage is very DIY (and organic).

 

 

If you miss it, did you know there's a small but very serviceable Wednesday Greenmarket at Bartell Pritchard Circle (across from the movie theater)? Stroll on over and play peek-a-boo with the Yukon Golds.

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same thing," he said."

--A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

Panting at the library

A blisteringly hot Saturday morning on the steps of the central Brooklyn Public Library, right across the street from Prospect Park. Next to the Art Deco entrance are carved the words, "Here are enshrined the longings of great hearts." Today, most of us—human and animal—just longed for a cool drink.

Wish granted—by one delightful new feature of the renovated plaza. Babies love it; so do Newfoundlands.

 

For that matter, so do toddlers...

 

...and grown-up ladies. Is this why some people have the curious habit of calling their feet "dogs"?

 

Huge vans surrounded the plaza, bedecked with adorable cat and dog faces; inside them, an ASPCA clinic offered pet microchipping, vaccinating, spay and neuter services, and, most heart-rendingly, adoptions.

 

I always want every single one. But I especially hope that this mellow guy went home with a good family today.

To learn more about the ASPCA's mobile spay/neuter clinics, go here.

Winter? Bring it on

This shot was labeled "Boys Ice Skating, Prospect Park, NY" on the original glass plate negative by photojournalist Jenny Chandler, sometime between 1890 and 1910. I'd never heard of Chandler, a real working photographer back when most ladies pursued it as a genteel hobby; the Henry Ford Museum's archive of her work (left behind in her Washington Ave. townhouse after her untimely death in 1922), includes fascinating shots of the park and other New York City environs.

These Urchins on Ice look like troublemakers to me, laced up to wreak carnage on the park's frozen lake. There's no more lake skating, but the doomed Wollman Rink is open for at least one more season starting this weekend; for hours and more info, go here. My favorite time to skate is very early on weekdays, when the ice is almost empty except for a few fellow oddballs. To meet the 21st-century counterparts of these rascals, however, the weekend is your best bet.

Image: Jenny Chandler, Henry Ford Museum. Creative Commons license:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thehenryford/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Never can say goodbye

Happy birthday wherever you are, Michael Jackson! Today's memorial bash on the park's Nethermead, a Spike Lee joint, was a mellow and exuberant party by the time we got there at 4 p.m. or so. The light rain had ended, and a vast crowd grooved to Jackson hits spun by a superb DJ. 

    

However tragically he spun out of orbit, Michael clearly inspired a lot of love...and self-expression. The crowd was full of folks wearing their hearts on their sleeves, or chests. T-shirt tributes ranged from somber to sparkly.

        

 

Personal style homages ranged from the sublime...

to the ridiculous.

A lot of folks brought their little ones, who perched on shoulders to see the Jumbotron and the swaying crowd.

It reminded me of a Kinks concert we saw years ago:  at least two, if not three, generations all getting into the music.

Of course, a few were too young to appreciate "Beat It" or "Thriller" or even "Rockin' Robin." For lots more photos, see coverage by fellow blogger Brooklyn Vegan.

And, as always when there's free music in Brooklyn, there were Lone Dance Maniacs, for whom MIchael, a sui generis dance genius, is a fitting patron saint. I will spare you the old lady in purple tights and flowing gray hair who was performing her own private eurythmics. But the fellow below gets my "Don't Dream It...Be It" award of the day.

 

JACKO BOOTS BARD FROM PARK

Late-breaking news about this weekend's other planned festivity in Prospect Park, from the feisty thespians at the Rebellious Subjects Theatre:

Our SECOND WEEKEND of Henry IV and V fast approaches...and Spike Lee has stepped in to change our plans.  In moving his 10,000 person tribute to the Park, he has inadvertently kicked independent theatre quite literally right off the stage.

That's right, the park has taken away our permit to perform on Saturday, August 29th due to the Michael Jackson tribute.  So what did we do??

RESCHEDULED BOTH SHOWS TO SUNDAY.  Which means SUNDAY, AUGUST 30TH is now officially HENRY MARATHON DAY.

Now, that's what I call "show-must-go-on" spirit. Let's get out there this Sunday, by God, for Harry and Saint George! The troupe's 23 actors of "diehard spirit and dedication" are unfolding their Henry trilogy in the park's shaded Music Pagoda; although I missed the first installment (Henry IV Part I) last weekend, it seems from this review that they mean business, bard-wise. Last year, they performed Chekhov's "Three Sisters" at the park's Lefferts Homestead, so these are troupers indeed.

Here's the timing:

12:30pm
HENRY IV
The saga begins...

3-4:30pm
DINNER BREAK
We take a brief interlude...

4:30pm
HENRY V
...The stunning conclusion.

LITERARY BONUS: SOME QUOTES FOR MICHAEL FROM WILL'S HENRY V

O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention!
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene.

His nose was as sharp as a pen...

Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell.

Dogfights

It's Guest Artist Monday! Since I didn't make it over to the park on Mother's Day, I was especially delighted by these glimpses of what I missed from gifted  photographer William Woerner. He showcases his stuff on his blog Lens; here are a few great shots of Sunday's dog action.





Dogs were on my mind after Brownstoner sparked some flame wars over this article in the New York Post, featuring a cranky video vigilante named Orrin Tilevitz whose mission in life seems to be getting irresponsible dog owners busted for their pooches' park misbehavior. I chatted with the young reporter, Sarah Ryley, on the Long Meadow last week (and honored her request to "embargo" the story); given the thin gruel that is Post house style, I thought she did a decent job.


In the movies, Orrin would be a quivering fall guy (played by Richard Dreyfuss) for an out-of-bounds Disney dog (perhaps like this rascal, "Zeus," at left). But in reality, this guy walks around with pepper spray and seems to dedicate every waking hour to chronicling miscreant dog/owner duos. Apparently, he's been attacked in the past; my own relaxed attitude toward the off-leash crowd in the Long Meadow (both during and outside of permitted hours) is shaped by my own, more positive experience. The dogs and owners I've met (typified by the folks at the advocacy group FIDO) create a safe, vibrant community out of this greensward. The worst behavior I've seen is dog-on-dog bullying (no worse than what I used to witness when I worked in an office). Tilevitz fumes that dogs ruin birdwatching, but I'm such a lousy birdwatcher that it's not an issue for me.

Dogwatching is more fun, anyway; no warbler has ever offered me a big sloppy kiss or let me give it a belly rub.

All dog photos: William Woerner; Tilevitz photo, JC Rice for New York Post

Shredding Christmas

The atmosphere was almost festive at the Park Circle outpost of Mulchfest, where the carcasses of Tannenbaums lay awaiting their fates in a Parks Department chipper truck. (Flatbush Gardener, an enthusiastic supporter, has more photos here.) They'll be doing it again tomorrow, Sunday, January 11, from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m.; they request that you take the ornaments off. (But it would make a nice movie scene if an adorably enraged young woman—Anne Hathaway, say—dragged one to the event covered in festive baubles popping and cracking all the way.)

A corps of young volunteers enthusiastically swept up stray needles as the trees metamorphosed from sparkling holiday decor into organic ground cover. I wonder if they'd like to help clean up our living room after we reluctantly escort our tree over here tomorrow. (Usually the stray needles adhere to the cats, who walk around looking like hedgehogs for awhile.)