Buses On High

High Street is one of Columbus’ main drags.  It runs north-south through the heart of downtown and connects it to German Village, the Arena District, the Short North, the University District, and Clintonville.  Now city planners and the Central Ohio Transit Authority are wrestling with a thorny question:  Should High Street also be one of Columbus’ main bus routes — or even be a bus route at all?

Currently, High Street is a primary bus artery.  Sixty-six buses an hour — more than one a minute — rumble north to south down High Street during peak hours.  A COTA consultant recommended cutting that number to 46, and after people complained that the plan didn’t go far enough COTA proposed additional modifications that will reduce the number to 26 north-south buses an hour.  The new plan would move much of the bus traffic to Front, Third, and Fourth Streets and is contingent on the city agreeing to convert Front Street from a one-way to a two-way street.

This exercise in urban planning is a tough balancing act.  Many people (like the Bus-Riding Conservative) take the bus to workplaces in downtown Columbus, and COTA would like to encourage even more to do so.  Moving bus stops to places several blocks away wouldn’t exactly encourage more ridership.  At the same time, the buses are loud and contribute greatly to traffic congestion.  In addition, many High Street business owners feel that the transfer stations, where bus riders gather to wait for their rides, may be used as locations for drug dealing, discourage foot traffic by potential customers, and are unsightly, besides. If may just be coincidence, but while downtown generally is bustling with rehabbing and construction, there remain many vacant storefronts and parking lots on High Street.

Earlier this week I walked to a High Street restaurant on a path that took me past the busy transfer station at Broad and High, where pedestrians must follow a gauntlet between the sidewalk structure and groups of people sitting on the wall in front of the Statehouse.  It’s not exactly a pleasant walk, and it doesn’t show off the Statehouse in a great light, either.  Although I recognize that urban planning shouldn’t be all about how I personally am affected, I’ll be happy to see fewer buses, and transfer stations, on High Street.

Louie, Louie

The man who sang one of the greatest rock ‘n roll songs in history has died.  Jack Ely, the lead singer for The Kingsmen who delivered the definitive vocal rendition of Louie, Louie, died recently at age 71.  His song is an acknowledged classic that is instantly familiar to every rock music fan and was memorably sung by the frat boys in Animal House.

What makes a song great?  The Kingsmen’s version of Louie, Louie is only 2 minutes, 46 seconds long.  It features a cheesy organ intro, a simple beat, crashing drums, and an off-kilter guitar solo, but what makes it unforgettable are vocals that sound like they were recorded at 3 a.m. in a bus station bathroom by a drunken guy who is singing in a rare Martian dialect.  The unique sound occurred because Ely, who was wearing braces at the time, was placed in the middle of the band by the recording engineer to achieve a “live feel” in the recording and had to scream out the lyrics into a microphone located several feet overhead.

The deliciously slurred, garbled result was an immediate hit, in part because you could dance to it and in part because teenage boys across America had heard that the “real” lyrics were “dirty” and bought the record in droves trying to decipher them.  In fact, Louie, Louie, which was written by Richard Berry, is a simple, sweet song about a man thinking about the girl he is going to see when he returns to Jamaica — but good luck figuring that out from Ely’s howling, boozy-sounding vocals.

The rumors of a dirty meaning to the song were so persistent and widespread that the FBI and other law enforcement entities actually looked into the issue to determine whether Louie, Louie violated then-existing obscenity laws. They ultimately concluded that The Kingsmen’s version was “unintelligible at any speed.”  And that’s what made it great.

The Jinx Is Alive And Well

Before this season began, Sports Illustrated apparently picked the Cleveland Indians to win the World Series. Every true fan of the Tribe immediately reacted as if they had been stung by every worker in a colony of colossal poisonous wasps.  There was no need to even read the article, because we knew that disaster lurked dead ahead.

We know what happens when Sports Illustrated picks you.  To be blunt, and somewhat vulgar, it means you’re irretrievably cursed and you’re going to suck.  And that has exactly what has happened with the Tribe this year.  They’ve blown chunks, and in particular they’ve been humiliated and beaten like a rug by their big purported rival the Detroit Tigers.  Some rivalry!  The Tigers beat the snot out of the Indians, and the Indians go home with covered with shame and embarrassment.  Hell, the Indians have even been thumped by the Chicago White Sox.  What could be more embarrassing than that?

Sports Illustrated, thanks a lot!  April isn’t even over, and already the Indians have shown beyond dispute that they aren’t a contender and haven’t a chance.  So what are we supposed to watch between now and football season?  Golf?  Soccer, for God’s sake?

Helping Birds Make It Home

Who doesn’t like birds — at least, birds other than pigeons?  They are pretty and colorful, they add happy chirping and warbling to our world, and they are a pleasure to watch as they soar, dip, and dive and make us wish we could fly, too.

But birds have a big problem.  Every year, millions of them are killed in urban settings for reasons collectively known as fatal light attraction.  They become disoriented by the mirrored surface of an office building, believe the reflection of a tree is the real thing, and are killed by the resulting collision.  Or they think they have a clear flight path to the tree and pond in the glass-walled atrium and fatally crash into the unseen window. If you’ve ever seen a bird strike a window — from inside or outside — and heard the terrible hollow thud the unfortunate bird makes you probably won’t forget it.

Scientists also worry that the bright lights of cities may be altering migration patterns because the lights interfere with the bird’s ability to navigate by starlight.  In addition, bird deaths from fatal light attraction interfere with normal evolutionary processes.  Whereas survival of the fittest is supposed to mean the genes of the strongest, healthiest birds are passed to the next generation, death from a window collision can strike down even the healthiest of our flying friends.

People are trying to do something about the problem of fatal light attraction.  The National Audubon Society sponsors a “lights out” program designed to reduce light confusion, with local chapters across the country.   In Canada, an organization called FLAP — for Fatal Light Awareness Program — is encouraging the construction and lighting of buildings in ways that will help to minimize unnecessary bird deaths.  And authorities are starting to take notice, too.  New York Governor Andrew Cuomo just announced that non-essential outdoor lights will be turned off in state-run buildings between 11 p.m. and dawn during the peak migratory seasons in the spring and fall.

Right now, there’s a bird outside my window, chirping with pleasure as dawn approaches.  Fewer soulless mirrored buildings, an end to generic office building atriums, and turning off bright lights during the early morning hours — which presumably would be a financial and energy savings, too — so that birds can migrate safely seems like a small price to pay to ensure that we can continue to enjoy their sweet morning song.

Just Call Him Tex

Richard’s last day at the Florida Times-Union was Friday.  He’s left Jacksonville and, as we speak, is driving across the southern rim of the United States, skirting the Gulf of Mexico.  After a stop in New Orleans to visit a friend he’ll make his way to San Antonio, Texas, where he will be starting a job with the San Antonio Express-News.

Richard enjoyed his job at the Times-Union and gained some great experience there — but the opportunity presented at the Express-News was just too good to pass up.  The career of a young journalist tends to be an itinerant one, where moves from one paper to another are common.  Already Richard has worked for four dailies, in Chicago, Pittsburgh, Jacksonville, and San Antonio.  And his move back to San Antonio is a return trip, because he worked there several years ago as an intern.  Richard’s experience shows the value of internships, because the Express-News staff remembered him from his intern days and sought him out for this new position.

So it’s so long to Jacksonville, and hello again to hot and bustling San Antonio, where Richard will be doing special business reporting and investigative reporting.

The Long, Hot Summer

There was rioting in Baltimore Saturday night.  Demonstrators protesting the death of Freddie Gray broke windows, smashed storefronts, threw rocks, and vandalized cars.  Gray died from spinal injuries a week after being arrested by police, and his funeral is today.  The Baltimore protests follow protests last year in Ferguson, Missouri.

Gray’s death, the shooting of Michael Brown by Ferguson police, and other recent incidents involving African-Americans and police have raised tensions in our urban communities.  One incident follows on the heels of another, and the barrage seems to be having a cascading effect.  Many African-Americans feel that they are being racially targeted and, at times, brutally mistreated by the police, and the police in turn feel that they are under siege and unfairly maligned for a handful of incidents out of thousands of uneventful apprehensions and arrests.

Those of us who lived during the ’60s remember summers where rioting and violent clashes with police seemed to be routine and block after block of inner cities in America were looted, vandalized, and left gutted and smoking by arson.  Many neighborhoods that were destroyed never recovered and are still haunted ruins even now, decades later.  The ’60s were an especially turbulent time for many reasons, but that doesn’t mean what happened then could never happen now.  Simple protests can turn into riots when people feel sufficiently desperate and hopeless.

At this point, many of us are holding our breath and hoping that we can avoid another high-profile incident that might prove to be the tipping point.  Having lived through the ’60s, I have no desire to see another long, hot summer.

Cranbrook Open Studios And House-Warming Party

This weekend it was back up to Cranbrook for the Open Studios event, where all of the artists open their studios to the public.  It’s a great chance to see what the students are working on — and it’s also a reason for them to straighten up their cluttered spaces, too.

This is a very busy time for the Cranbrook kids, and particularly so for Russell and some of his fellow graduating students.  They not only are showing their work at the Open Studios and in the Cranbrook Art Museum, but they’ve also decided to stage a group exhibition of their artwork in downtown Detroit.  Called House-Warming Party, the exhibition features pieces from Russell and 11 other Cranbrook artists.  The show, located at 2170 Mack Avenue in Detroit, is open on Saturday and Sundays from 1-6 p.m. and by appointment between now and May 10.

I know Russell has been burning the candle at both ends on this last big push before graduation, and I hope he gets a chance to rest a bit.  But his artwork at Open Studios looked great and seemed to attract a very interested crowd.  And I think the notion of Russell and some of his classmates venturing off the picturesque Cranbrook campus to stage an exhibition and engage with the artistic community in the city is very cool, indeed.  The grit and grime and spunk and comeback spirit of Detroit clearly has  influenced Russell’s art, and having a show is a good way to make a payback of sorts to the Motor City.

Kish and I will be seeing House-Warming Party when we go up for graduation.  If you are in Detroit between now and May 10, I encourage you to visit the Cranbrook Museum and the House-Warming Party to see what some up-and-coming artists are doing.  You can get more information about the latter at housewarmingshow@gmail.com.

The Penny Chronicles

My name is Penny.

Today I am very thirsty.  These days, I am very thirsty every day.  My mouth feels dry, dry, dry, all the time, and when I drink I drink a lot.  I bet I drink more water now than I ever did before.  Each day, I seem to set a new record!  Some days, I even want water more than I want food.

The Leader knows this.  It is why she is the Leader.  So there are water bowls everywhere.  There is a bowl by where I sleep.  There is a bowl where the packs stays in the morning.  There is a bowl in the hallway, where I like to sleep on the rug.  And, of course, there is a water bowl next to my food bowl, too.

Thanks to the Leader, I never have to go far to drink my fill.

Sometimes the old boring guy will not see a bowl and will knock into it and the water will slosh over the side.  Ha ha!  But the old boring guy doesn’t seem to get mad any more.  He just shakes his head.  And when he hears me drinking, he walks over and pets me and scratches behind my ear and asks how I am doing.  I bet he feels thirsty some times, himself.

Speaking of water, where is that bowl?  I am thirsty!

The Final Table

Last night Kish and I and the Unkempt Guy and his lovely wife caught The Final Table at the Studio Theater 2 at the Riffe Center.  In the interests of full and fair disclosure, I should note at the outset that I know and like Herb Brown, the author of the play, so you can take my comments with an appropriate grain of salt — but we had a great evening and I’d recommend the play to anybody who likes politics and is willing to see 20th century American historical figures presented from a unique, unvarnished perspective.

First, a quick nod to the theater.  Last night was the first time I’ve  been to a show at Studio Theater 2, and it is a wonderful, intimate venue.  The theater is in the round and seats less than 200 people.  We sat in the very last row and still we were close enough to see the actors and their facial expressions and hear the dialogue clearly.  It’s a perfect setting for a play like this, where the ultimate goal is get the audience thinking about the characters and the humanity behind their historical reputations.

The plot is that five American presidents — in order of appearance, Lyndon Johnson, Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, Warren Harding, and Richard Nixon — arrive from their own individual purgatorial settings to a room furnished only with a poker table and a dealer/protaganist who happens to be the Muse of History.  They are there to play poker for their immortal souls, at the whim of God and the Angel Gabriel, with the loser to be cast into the fiery pits of hell.  Obviously, it is a tantalizing and thought-provoking premise.

If you like history, as I do, you can’t help but be drawn in by the concept of the play, and Herb Brown does a good job of drawing out the issues based on the historical record.  Why would Dwight Eisenhower be put into a purgatorial cell that has a racial element?  How would Harry Truman interact with the man who defeated him?  Who would ultimately take a leadership role in this cast of Presidents and position them for an ultimate resolution?  And — perhaps most tantalizing at all — how would Richard Nixon play poker?

I won’t spoil the show, but suffice it to say that the play is funny, interesting, and far more vulgar than you would expect if your notion of American presidents is limited to the sanitized and marbleized versions you get in American history class.  The acting is quite good across the board, but I must give special kudos to Jon Putnam, who made Nixon a funny and curiously sympathetic and pathetic figure — not an easy assignment by any measure — and Ralph Scott, who was a titanic and appalling Lyndon Johnson.

The Final Table has drawn such good crowds that it’s run has been extended though May 2.  Catch it if you can!

The Ghost Bike

At the corner of Broad and State Street in downtown Columbus, a bright white bicycle stands.  And it’s not just the frame that is white.  The spokes of the wheels, the tires, the seat, the handlebars and grips, and even the kickstand are painted the same brilliant white.  The result is a bicycle that is so white it stands out sharply against the asphalt pavement and stone sidewalks and immediately attracts the eye of the passerby.

That is the whole idea. The bike is called a ghost bicycle, and it was put at the location by Ride of Silence, a group that exists to call attention to the number of cyclists who are killed or injured while riding their bicycles on public roadways.  This year the ride of silence will occur in Columbus and at other locations in North America on May 20.  There is no charge for riding.  Organizers ask participants simply to ride at no more than 12 miles per hour, wear helmets, follow the rules of the road, and maintain silence during the ride.

Interesting, isn’t it, that people whose first vehicle operated on a road probably is the bicycle they had as a kid can grow up to be motorists who seemingly are oblivious to the right of cyclists to share the street.  A nice person I knew was killed recently while cycling, and my friend the Biking Brewer has often mentioned that riding your bicycle on a public street can be a dangerous proposition.  If the Ride of Silence and its ghost bicycles can raise awareness of the need to be mindful of bicycles on our road, it’s doing a good thing.

Voting For The Mayor

I’ve worked in Columbus for 30 years, but I’ve never had a chance to vote for the Mayor of Columbus — until now.

Columbus is one of those communities where the central city is ringed by suburbs.  Our houses have been in the ‘burbs, rather than the city of Columbus itself, and when it comes to local government in central Ohio you vote where you sleep.  As a result, although for three decades I’ve spent most of my waking workday hours toiling away in downtown Columbus, paid Columbus income taxes, and enjoyed city activities and contributed to city coffers in countless ways, I’ve never cast a ballot for the Mayor and City Council members whose decisions have directly affected my daily activities.  Our move to German Village, which is in the city of Columbus, changed all that.

As I’ve noted before, Columbus is a reflexively non-partisan place, so it’s not surprising Columbus would have a non-partisan approach to electing a mayor.  The four candidates, from both political parties, have had four debates and will face off in a non-partisan primary on May 5, and the two top vote-getters will advance to the general election.  The candidates include current City Council president Andrew Ginther, who is seen as the favorite, Franklin County Sheriff Zach Scott, Terry Boyd, former President of the Columbus School Board and the only Republican in the race, and James Ragland, the development director at the Cristo Rey high school.

As a voter and now a Columbus resident, what do I care about?  Mostly, it’s continuing the culture and trajectory set by current Mayor Michael Coleman and his predecessors.  I want the city to stay a low-key, friendly, collaborative place that welcomes everyone regardless of race, creed, or sexual orientation.  I want more downtown development, and I’d like to see the wave spread to other neighborhoods, like Franklinton and the near east side.  I support tax policies, increasing school quality, and approaches to policing and physical security designed to reverse suburban sprawl and encourage businesses and people to locate in the city and its neighborhoods.  And I want to maintain the focus on spurring the things that are causing Columbus to be recognized nationally as a cool place to live — things like more and improved parks, community events and cultural activities, lots of good restaurants and places to spend an evening, and interesting and affordable neighborhoods where people are rehabbing and restoring old buildings rather than tearing them down.  Whether the mayoral candidates support legalized marijuana, which was a topic at one of the recent debates, is very far down my list of issues of importance.

In the period between now and the May 5 election I’ll be studying the candidates and their positions on issues of importance to me.  I’m excited about my first opportunity to vote for the mayor of Columbus, and I want my decision to be an educated one.

Thumbing It

The other day I inadvertently caught my thumb in a door I was closing.  My thumb throbbed, I cursed, and then I realized with a start that until my poor pollex was 100 percent again I was totally unable to fully participate in essential activities of modern life.

The development of an opposable thumb has long been viewed as a crucial step in the human evolutionary process.  The thumb is a simple body part, made up of bones and hinges.  Yet the fully opposable thumb is unique to humans, and its development allowed humans to become complex organisms.  The thumb permits us to grip items securely and throw them accurately.  The thumb is essential to the use of the fine motor skills that allow us to perform detail work.  It is what made humans into toolmakers and tool users.

In the modern world our thumbs are more important than ever before.  They are our principal texting digits.  Your thumb performs the swipe that unlocks your iPhone.  Your thumbs anchor your hands on a computer keyboard and pound the space bar when you type your report.  Your thumb is what empowers you to open a clutch purse, use a bottle opener, pry open a child-proof container, and take notes with a pen.  Of course, it also allows you to signal an interest in hitchhiking and indicate ready assent in a noisy place.  The list of activities that require a thumb is endless, and it will continue to grow as inventiveness moves our species toward even greater reliance upon handheld devices.

With the enormously increased use of our thumbs these days, you’d think that doctors, physical therapists, and surgeons would be besieged by people with thumb-related ailments — but that doesn’t appear to be the case.  The humble thumb abides.

Mature Muppets

It’s not like I was a huge fan of The Muppet Show or anything, but I’d watch it from time to time.  It was a corny, vaudeville-type variety show that had decent music and good guest stars who were willing to interact with puppets, and so long as you didn’t have to endure too much of Gonzo or the Swedish Chef it was perfectly good entertainment.

Now the Muppets apparently will be returning to network TV, in a show that will will have the mock-documentary format popularized in The Office and what is being described as a “more adult” approach to the characters.  Among other things, the new show apparently will get into the Muppets’ “personal lives and relationships, both at home and at work, as well as romances, break-ups, achievements, disappointments, wants and desires.”

Ugh.  Put aside the undisputed fact that the mockumentary format has been done to death.  Do we really have to get into mature themes with characters that have always been comic relief?  I’m all for puppets, claymation, and stop-motion characters in movies, but don’t ask me to believe that they are struggling with real-world problems.  I don’t want to know the sordid back story of the two insult-hurling old cranks in the balcony, or why Fozzie Bear wears a Yogi Bear hat and doesn’t recognize that he is offensively unfunny.  I can’t bear the thought of a sincere, romantic scene between Kermit and Miss Piggy, either.

Many great TV shows were ruined when they ran out of ideas and decided that the only plot device left was for a lead male and female characters to fall in love, get married, and have a kid.  The Muppets would be better advised to stick to the kid stuff.

 

The Ponytail Puller

Politicians are a weird and often unfathomable breed.  The weirdness isn’t just limited to American politicians, either.  Take John Key, the Prime Minister of New Zealand.

Key is under fire because he repeatedly tugged on the ponytail of a waitress at a cafe he frequents in Auckland — even after she told Key’s security people, and later Key himself, that she didn’t like it.  When she finally went public with Key’s conduct, and he started to be criticized for it, he apologized, said his ponytail pulls were meant to be “light-hearted” and not intended to make the waitress uncomfortable, explained that the cafe was a place where had a “warm and friendly” relationship with the staff that involved “fun and games” and “practical jokes,” and gave the waitress two bottles of wine.

Anybody who’s ever been bullied recognizes this scenario.  The bully invades your personal space and does something physical that they think is funny, their sycophants dutifully laugh at the antics of their leader, and the bully keeps rubbing your head or punching your arm every time they see you even though you ask them to stop.  If they get caught in the act by a teacher, they insist it’s all simply joking between friends — one of whom just happens to be bigger and more powerful than the other, who always seems to be the butt of the “jokes.”

Key’s conduct doesn’t just reflect a bullying attitude, though — it also reveals the power relationships to which politicians the world over become accustomed.  Most of us would never dream of physically touching a waiter or waitress, much less doing something as painful, intrusive, and asinine as pulling a ponytail and continuing to do so even after being asked to quit it.  Key did it because, surrounded by security people and wearing the mantle of national leadership, he could.  It’s the same attitude of power and entitlement that makes American politicians unconcerned by the fact that their motorcades and security cordons inconvenience normal folks and makes them mad when an average person has the temerity to question what they’re doing, their motives, or where they are getting campaign contributions from.

In Key’s case the hair-yanking probably gave him a little thrill and direct sense of power, besides.  Anyone care to guess how many of the “practical jokes” at the cafe were pulled by Key on the unfortunate members of the staff and how many were directed at him?

Pots Forsaken

There’s been a game-changing development at the coffee station on my floor.  The old multi-pot coffee device — the kind that is directly linked to the water supply so that steaming tureens of joe can be prepared to sate the thirsty appetite of java junkies — has been ignominiously unplugged and cast aside.  Now we’ve got a Flavia machine instead.

Is this change a big deal, really?  I’ll say!  The old machine was my dependable morning friend.  Every day when I got to the office my inviolate routine was to head directly to the coffee station, turn the machine on, remove the basket, insert a fresh filter, cut open a coffee packet and dump it in, press the brew button, and then listen to the hot water and coffee grounds start to cluck and burble and work their caffeinated magic.  By the time I checked email and finished my first few chores of the day a fresh pot was there, black and fragrant and ready to fill my cup.

But coffee habits have changed.  Now when you walk around downtown Columbus you inevitably see throngs of people carefully gripping their coffee cups, taking a scalding sip now and then as they head to their workplaces.  Some of them won’t drink “office coffee” any more, so there is less need for multiple pots of coffee on the burner, and much of the coffee that is brewed goes unconsumed and ultimately gets poured down the drain.

Hence, the Flavia.  Rather than making a hearty, bubbling pot of coffee, it hisses out a solo cup prepared from pre-measured foil packets that slide into a slot that snaps out of the machine.  And it’s not really a full cup, either — as least not in my massive mug.  No, the Flavia machine fills to about the halfway point and stops.  It makes my morning coffee look a bit lost and overwhelmed and forlorn, but at least I’m not being wasteful.