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 When viewed in the grand scheme of things and in light of life's serious problems, fashion, trends, style can seem very unimportant, fluffy, superficial, so temporal, perhaps even boring. I watch runway models on television and I am incredulous that people take fashion so seriously and that there is an enormous industry built around what a few have decided will be next, drape it on walking sticks and then parade the result for admiring hordes who hang on every crease. But then we are not always looking at the grand scheme and it's not healthy to only live indulging in life's serious problems. And a world without style would be a more boring one. We don't want our lives to be guided strictly by utility and designed by bookkeepers. We need style just like we need flowers and parades - see here for my articles: Gratuitous in Nature and Let's Have a Parade. I have only been into Trash and Vaudeville once, many years ago. I considered it a must-do since I have walked by it literally hundreds of times and it is a landmark retailer, located on the major thoroughfare in the East Village - St. Mark's Place. It occupies two floors ( Trash upstairs and Vaudeville in the basement) at number 4 St. Mark's, an 1831 Federalist Style building. I only vaguely recall the visit and did not spend much time. The store's origins goes back to 1971 and has been a destination for punk and goth clothing and shoes, with a history of selling to celebs such as the Ramones. Perusing various online review sites, I see the place is still looked on quite favorably by many, so I imagine this place would be fun for those disposed to the punk/goth genre. I remember being with a friend one night who was on an absolutely hysterical rant over Marshmallow Fluff. His central point was that when it comes to fluff, only America could invent and successfully market such a product, one that he saw as emblematic of much that he hated about America. But I must confess - as a child, I just loved Marshmallow Fluff ...
Photo Note: I originally took this photo because I thought the pile of trash in front of Trash was so appropriately ironic. But my posting took its typical twists and turns in the course of writing.
 This scene was so evocative of childhood summers - bathing suits and sprinklers. This woman was, of course, not running through these sprinklers, but sunbathing at 10 AM on a weekday with lawn sprinklers in the background was both unusual and suggestive - the scene begged for a photo. Soon, sunbathing will be a distant summer memory. Although technically still summer, the collective mindset changes greatly after Labor Day and the start of the school year. The reality of summer's end is further reinforced by cool clear days, a presage to autumn. I am surprised at how universal the practice off cooling off by running through a sprinkler is - I always assumed that only the desperately poor resorted to this summer heat cooling solution. But in speaking to many people over the years from different social strata and countries, running through sprinklers appears to be a play activity that transends class and nationality. Children will generally eschew concerns regarding image or status. The size of a pool or the particular location of a summer house is not of much concern to a child on summer break. Of course there are exceptions - children who have been raised at an early age to appreciate the "finer things" which frequently translates as snobbery. I find this can be quite disturbing. Children should be taught about quality and not be brought up as classless boors, but one must be careful to not end up with children intolerant of the ordinary - the world is comprised predominantly of ordinary people and ordinary things. Arrogance, snobbery, elitism and one-upmanship are not endearing qualities in children and all should remember that the world is populated with haves and the have-nots, primarily have-nots. I am reminded of a frightening occurence in a restaurant. A young child was essentially having a temper tantrum. The reason? His preferred salad dressing was not available - balsamic vinaigrette ...
 On April 5th, 2007, I posted Caravan of Dreams, showing a man wheeling a mattress and couch down a busy Village street. But I should have saved that title for today's posting, because this is what I was really searching for when I used the word caravan. I have seen these processions of trash before, but they are not an everyday occurrence and my last attempt to photograph one with a small point and shoot camera was met with an angry, hostile outburst by the homeless owner - essentially accusing me of exploitation. So I refrained at that time. The indignant attitude of those on the fringes of NYC may come as a surprise to some, but this is typical New York Style - pride can been seen at every strata of local society. Although homelessness is not a crime per se, many of the activities of the homeless are, frequently necessitated by the lifestyle. The rights of the homeless and the legality of their activities is the subject of endless debate. Last night I witnessed the caravan in the photo on Washington Square North (the owner can be seen sleeping on the left near the milk crate). See closeup photo here. Early this morning he was on the move again. There is an apparent element of lunacy here - acquiring and moving mountains of what appears to be trash. Plus, tending to this cache is a full time job. Belongings are affixed typically to shopping or hamper carts. These wagon trains of carts ala trash are then moved incrementally and sequentially - a tedious job. But then, work can be therapeutic. And much of the booty are bottles to be recycled for cash. Perhaps this monumental nomadic enterprise is exactly what keeps their owners sane - giving their life meaning and making them feel like members of New York society with real property ownership (frequently overnighting in the best of neighborhoods). On the other hand, I'm still just a renter ...
 If you are looking for surprises, head to Manhattan's Chinatown, generally considered the largest or one of the largest (depending on whose counting and how) outside China. The main attractions here are primarily restaurants, indoor and outdoor food vendors and shops carrying Chinese tourist items and heavily discounted consumer goods including copies of brand name merchandise. So I was quite startled while walking by the ticket office to the Fung Wah bus company to find the Mahayana Buddhist Temple, an enormous place with a faux pagoda front and lions, prominently located at 133 Canal Street and the Bowery - in no way an out of the way location. Yet I have been by the intersection hundreds of times and never noticed this place. Whimsically, I entered the place with no expectations. I was even more surprised to find a huge room with this 16 foot tall Buddha, the largest in the city.
Until 1995, this building was occupied by the Rosemary Theater. In 1996 it was converted to the Mahayana Buddhist Temple by Annie Ying, who established the first storefront temples on the East Coast and a temple/retreat on a 114 acre site in South Cairo, New York. Her husband, James Ying, operated a chain of gift shops in Chinatown and the neighboring suburbs.
But the most interesting twist is that their son, Dr. Nelson Ying who runs the temple, has a PhD in nuclear physics and is adjunct professor at the University of Central Florida. He was the first Buddhist preacher to perform Buddhist weddings in New York State. He is not a priest, however, as he does not meet the requirements of being vegetarian or unmarried. He and his parents hail from Shanghai, which they left in 1955 to come to this country. Only in New York ...
 I have a very strict policy of only using photos taken of or in the 5 boroughs of New York City. And being away on vacation is no excuse to use photos of another locale. I prepare for this in advance. However, the mini-event that occurred on Saturday was so outrageous to me from a New Yorker's perspective, that I have to break my rules and tell this tale. While away this weekend, my two nephews and a friend decided to go for a short canoe ride in a river at my parents gated condo community. They asked if I suggested wearing shorts rather than pants in the event they get wet. My response was that if they were to fall into a river, shorts versus pants would not be a consideration. BUT, I did highly recommend emptying their pockets of valuables, particularly knowing they were affluent boys and the contents of their pockets was probably greater than that of many 3rd world countries. They saw the sense of this and immediately concurred. So out came the iPhones, cellphones, a wallet with credit cards visible and a Gucci wallet. They placed all of these items on the BACK OF THE CAR IN PLAIN VIEW (appropriately on the hood of one boy's Audi). I was incredulous. "You guys are going to leave all this outside in plain view?" I asked. They responded "Whose going to take it? There's only a bunch of old people here." That was not strictly true and I am still absolutely floored by this occurrence. Now admittedly, this cavalier attitude was largely due to a lifetime of privilege and never knowing need. And it was a gated community. But there was also an element of TRUST that is just nonexistent in New York City. You can not leave anything of value unattended. I have heard stories of thefts that are unfathomable - a UPS driver once told me of a man that ran down the street with a large projection television stolen from his truck! The driver was unable to catch him in the ensuing chase. In New York City, a vehicle should always be locked and nothing of value should be in plain view. This process is so automatic to me it has become a reflex action - I even lock my car in the driveway of my parents home in the suburbs. Every seasoned New Yorker remembers a time when auto break ins for radios were common. At one time I recall seeing broken glass somewhere on the streets on nearly a daily basis - a tell tale sign of a recent break in. Soon the ubiquitous "NO RADIO" signs in the windows of cars started to become a common sight - a plea to the would be thief that a particular car was not a worthwhile target. We live in a time where disposable income seems to be greater with youth; a generation that would never grasp the idea of placing a sign in the window of their car that says "NO RADIO"...
 I really wanted a full ensemble of crusties but not knowing when or if I may have the opportunity to photograph a group, I present you with a lone crustie girl. I did actually have opportunity some time ago for group shots, but a photographer friend and I both found them rather menacing and we were unsure as to the reaction we would get if we fired away with professional looking photo equipment. So we abstained. However, since that time I have been yearning to capture crusties for this blog. The woman in this posting was photographed in Tompkins Square Park where groups of crusties can sometimes be found. What is a crustie? A contemporary nomadic bohemian. Anti-authority with varying politically nihilistic values such as anti-work, anti-government, anti-war, anti-religion, anti-vivisection, anti-civilization. Of course there have been many other subcultures that loosely fit this definition such as hippies, with whom crusties have much in common. The countercultural incarnation known as crusties have their own brand with signature characteristics - the most apparent being the rejection of bathing, dirty clothing in drab brown, greens and black and dirty dreaded hair - hence the term "crusty." A dog is a common accessory as seen in the photo. Other accoutrement are butt flaps, tattoos, clothing patches, punk rock hair styles, bullet belts and sleeveless jean jackets Fundamentally homeless, crusties survive using various means such as dumpster diving and begging. They are sometimes associated with crust punk (or crustcore), originally known as Stenchcore, founded by the bands Amebix and Anitisect in Britain in the 1980s. In the USA, crust punk began in NYC with Nausea from the Lower East Side. I'm fascinated by subcultures so wide and deep, with a long history and about which I was completely uninformed ...
 Labor Day is celebrated as a day off for the working class. We live in a country where entrepreneurism is extolled and promoted in media to the extent that to be a member of the working class almost implies failure in the American dream. But society only needs a very small number of chiefs and very few have the unique combination of skills and temperament to be one. So an appreciation and recognition of those soldiers who are the foundation and engine of the economy is welcome. I come from a working class background and from an extremely austere area in a part of the country synonymous with the work ethic - New England. In my family's case, northern Maine. In my family, work defines a person - personal wealth much less so unless acquired through very hard work. In such an environment where survival is virtually the only concern, the need for every able body to work imposes an egalitarianism. In a way, women's rights were old news for us - no time or place in this world for sexism - in fact, most families were quite matriarchal with wives controlling the finances and major decisions. My father was taken out of school at age 12 to work full time as a woodcutter in the north woods of Maine - in winters with temperatures as low as -40 ℉. Potato picking was the only other industry - grueling work with 12 hour days. Workers lived in camps onsite for the duration of the the picking season - everyone picked, even children. The school year was adjusted to accommodate this important time - one of the few opportunities to make money. So I have been indelibly stamped with the importance of work and it has become part of the fabric of my being. As I grow older, the importance of work has become greater. Try as I may, I can not shake my intolerance for lack of ambition and hard work in others. I am reminded of a family trip to Versailles - one of the most remarkable testaments to lavish, opulent excess in the world. We entered one of the King's bedchambers with woodwork which had been exquisitely and painstaking hand carved. My father's comment should have come as no surprise (although it did at the time) and left a lasting impression of how a man like him sees the world. After scanning the room and reflecting on it he said: "there's a lot of work in here."
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When viewed in the grand scheme of things and in light of life's serious problems, fashion, trends, style can seem very unimportant, fluffy, superficial, so temporal, perhaps even boring. I watch runway models on television and I am incredulous that people take fashion so seriously and that there is an enormous industry built around what a few have decided will be next, drape it on walking sticks and then parade the result for admiring hordes who hang on every crease.
