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Gallantry in Action

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James Lenihan was true to his unhappy country. That expression-- Fidelis patriae infelici —is the Lenihan family motto, one of many facts I learned from my late father, James Lenihan. A veteran of World War II, my dad fought in Europe with a division known as The Timberwolves, and I’ve been doing some research to find out more about his experiences in the army. Last week, I Googled the words “James Lenihan + NYC + World War II” and was delighted when I got a hit from a military history website. I clicked on the link and found James Lenihan, all right, but not the one I was expecting. This was a James Lenihan who was born in County Kerry, Ireland, in 1846 and who had served with the 5th U.S. Cavalry during the “Indian campaigns.” Private James Lenihan had been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest military decoration, “for gallantry in action on 2 January 1873, while serving with Company K, 5th U.S. Cavalry, in action at Clear Creek, Arizona Territor
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Flag in the dust

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Every high civilization decays by forgetting obvious things. – G.K. Chesteron I saw the American flag on the ground the moment I stepped outside my house on Friday morning. It had apparently fallen from the front door grating where my landlady had put it. Any other day I would’ve immediately picked the flag up and returned to its place on the door. But on this day, I just kept walking. After a majority of American voters gave Donald Trump—a convicted felon--a return ticket to the White House, I’m starting to wonder if people really appreciate the importance of the Stars & Stripes. My father fought for that flag in a little shindig called World War II, which was started by a guy named Adolph Hitler, whom Trump deemed worthy of praise. When I look at the words “E pluribis unum” now all I see now is a meaningless phrase in a dead language. Maybe we should think of changing our national motto to “Hooray for me and fuck you” because that’s the direction we’re heading
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The Sentinel

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“Better let him go.” The voice came from behind me as I walked down 87th Street early Saturday evening. I was supremely tired and anxious to get to the nearest subway station. I had spent the last four hours hiking through Central Park with my nature walk Meetup group and I was feeling it. There was a time when I would’ve walked down from 97th Street, where the tour ended, all the way to Columbus Circle at 59th Street to get the D train to Brooklyn. It was a beautiful day, there was still some daylight left, I was in no rush to get home, and I’d be walking down Central Park West—why not burn up even more calories? But I was especially beat on this day, and I had this nagging feeling that maybe I’m getting a little too old for these lengthy strolls. Gosh, I hope not, since I loved walking, and I get a real buzz when I check the step counter on my phone. But I’d skipped one subway station on the way down, so I reckoned I’d earned my ride home. I was walking toward the Museu
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The Hollow Heart

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I texted my sister a warning as soon as it began: “Ridley is singing!” We’ve been watching a British detective series on PBS called “Ridely” for two seasons now. It’s a decent show starring Adrian Dunbar as a retired cop who is lured back into service as a consultant. I’ve seen better, frankly, but it’s well done, and Dunbar is backed up by a fine cast and likeable characters. My biggest beef with the program is that our hero is part owner of a jazz bar and every so often—far too often if you ask me—he takes to the stage to sing. The songs, for the most post, are painfully bad, especially one number called “Open Up Your Door,” which had me jumping out my window. In addition, Dunbar singing’s voice is, let’s say…subpar, and what the hell does singing in a jazz club have to do with solving crimes? We all have our hobbies and side hustles, but this plotline seems arbitrary, and it is by the far the weakest aspect of the series. If the writers ever decide to jettison the sin
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Embrace the Joy

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“ It is forbidden to despair.”- Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav Thanks, Frank, I owe you one. Frank Sinatra did some heavy lifting at my gym this morning when he showed up to pull me out of a serious funk. I’ve doing been a number on myself over the last few days, lurching into my crackpot hitlist of all the things I don’t like about myself. I’m not sure what triggered this latest bout with the blues, but I suspect that it might be a simple case of The Bungee Effect, where I’m feeling good about life and my Jungian shadow self gets up out the darkest corner of my mind, roars “Oh, hell, no!” and yanks me back into the abyss. I honestly believe I’ve been making progress in my battle with depression, but I’ve been working on my emotional highway to hell for so many years that misery has become the path of least resistance. It started on Saturday when I joined one of my Meetup groups for the annual Gowanus Open Studios event in downtown Brooklyn, where artists and venues open their d
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Train Wreck

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I staggered through the depths of the Atlantic Avenue subway station Saturday afternoon ready to admit defeat. I had been so looking forward to this day, when my blogging buddy Xris of Flatbush Gardner and his partner would be hosting one of their fabulous get-togethers at their beautiful home. There was no hemming or hawing on this one; no debating if I should or shouldn’t go like I do before just about every other occassion that catches my interest. I happily RSVP’d the second I got the invitation. This was going to great, I thought. And indeed, it was. I had an absolutely wonderful time meeting new people whilst merrily munching away on all sorts of delicious eats. But I had to work my way through several circles of Hell before arriving at my destination, thanks to the MTA. I knew things were going to be rough when I learned that my local subway, the R train, had been shut down for the weekend for several stops in my neighborhood and replaced by a free bus service
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Scrappy Night in Red Hook

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I stood at the corner of 9th Street and Fourth Avenue, checked my phone and made a decision. “I can walk this,” I said aloud. I had been waiting for a bus that would take me from Park Slope down to Red Hook. But there was no sign of one and I didn’t want to be late for an event being held down by docks, so I elected to hoof it. This was on Friday night and I was getting out of my comfort zone routine of Dr. Praeger's veggie burgers and Netflix. I prefer to lay low at the end of the work week, but I’ve been looking to shake things up a little and scrubbing my regularly scheduled hibernation seemed like a good start. I was attending the Scrappy Reading Series , which was being held at Compere Collective on Van Brunt Street, the kickoff for Red Hook Open Studies, where local artists’ studios and workspaces open to visitors for the entire weekend. “Celebrate all that it is to be scrappy with some of the finest locals on the planet,” the event’s organizers said in an onlin
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