Perfect pass, undefendable
One knee equals two feet
Old foe thought unvanquishable
Clock ticking, victory awaits
Age-old goal, once thought unattainable
Our effort indefatigable
Lies not far, within reach perhaps
Give us the chance, the opportunity
That is all we will ever ask
Brash and Bold we mirror our leader
Our faith is with him and with our talent.
Curses end
A new era beginning
May this year be better than 40
J-E-T-S Jets Jets Jets!!!
Green and White, our founder is gone but is smiling down upon us
Giving us Hope once again renewed
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Tornado Poem (written 9/17/2010)
Raging river full of flood
Follow the mushroom's shadow
The crickets sound the way.
A dragon turns; The rain begins to fall
Your dog looks toward the sky
The cow sings Moo, It's not black and white but blue
The fog rolls into the plains.
Water against rocks like the steady resolve of a nation
The rain falls pitter patter on leaves
The seasons change, the old oak groans
But no one is there to hear
The frogs hop skelter for shelter
The water seeks its level
Pine trees bristle
The cobwebs glisten
The birds dry off their wings.
Head for cover before the wind recovers
and a gale starts heading this way
The ground shudders
The squirrels scatter
Bugs hurry here and there
When the lightning flashes
And the thunder comes like an echo
One would dread the end.
Then the drops start to lessen
and among the treetops
The light beckons
Order is hereby restored
Follow the mushroom's shadow
The crickets sound the way.
A dragon turns; The rain begins to fall
Your dog looks toward the sky
The cow sings Moo, It's not black and white but blue
The fog rolls into the plains.
Water against rocks like the steady resolve of a nation
The rain falls pitter patter on leaves
The seasons change, the old oak groans
But no one is there to hear
The frogs hop skelter for shelter
The water seeks its level
Pine trees bristle
The cobwebs glisten
The birds dry off their wings.
Head for cover before the wind recovers
and a gale starts heading this way
The ground shudders
The squirrels scatter
Bugs hurry here and there
When the lightning flashes
And the thunder comes like an echo
One would dread the end.
Then the drops start to lessen
and among the treetops
The light beckons
Order is hereby restored
New Year's poem (written 11/6/2010, Riverdale)
At Times Square many gather
The ball is dropped with glee
They huddle & bundle, many are so drunk they
Stumble
In Cali the Palms sway in the breeze
The ball is dropped with glee
They huddle & bundle, many are so drunk they
Stumble
In Cali the Palms sway in the breeze
The Fall (written 11/6/2010 in RIverdale, Bronx, NYC)
The blue turns to gray
The green turns to brown
The red, yellow, and orange seem to shout
Look at me Look at me Look at me!
And then they are gone
We won't see them for nearly a year.
We change our clocks; We gather to give Thanks
The whiteness signals the end and yet
We hope for a new beginning.
We know it will come, but at that moment
it is hard to believe.
The chirps have gone south; The nuts have been buried,
The bears all hibernate in caves
The nights are longer The days get shorter
Our exhaled breath seems to reach towards the Moon
The Evergreens that remain get cut down
instead of admired;
The celebrations are underway
As the numbers climb higher
It is time for a new calender
We are all one year closer to the End
The green turns to brown
The red, yellow, and orange seem to shout
Look at me Look at me Look at me!
And then they are gone
We won't see them for nearly a year.
We change our clocks; We gather to give Thanks
The whiteness signals the end and yet
We hope for a new beginning.
We know it will come, but at that moment
it is hard to believe.
The chirps have gone south; The nuts have been buried,
The bears all hibernate in caves
The nights are longer The days get shorter
Our exhaled breath seems to reach towards the Moon
The Evergreens that remain get cut down
instead of admired;
The celebrations are underway
As the numbers climb higher
It is time for a new calender
We are all one year closer to the End
Summer/Winter (written 8/20/2010) inspired at the walkway by the water at Carl Shurz Park NYC
A long walk under the summer sun,
we intuitively seek the shade.
The river flows, a cool wind blows,
It is more than we ever knew we wanted.
The evening comes ever earlier- soon the
leaves will line the streets.
Is snowfall all that far away?
Another thought to another summer gone
But tomorrow will still be hot.
we intuitively seek the shade.
The river flows, a cool wind blows,
It is more than we ever knew we wanted.
The evening comes ever earlier- soon the
leaves will line the streets.
Is snowfall all that far away?
Another thought to another summer gone
But tomorrow will still be hot.
Of Wind and Space (written 8/20/2010)
The moon, the night, the stars shine bright
The distance holds their secrets
The breeze blows over the plains with ease
The horse and dog reply
It is the wolf that goes solemn into winter
The butterfly stops, starts, and flutters with ease
Consider its lack of weight: She must make
friends with the wind and not work against it
The distance holds their secrets
The breeze blows over the plains with ease
The horse and dog reply
It is the wolf that goes solemn into winter
The butterfly stops, starts, and flutters with ease
Consider its lack of weight: She must make
friends with the wind and not work against it
Secret Path Poem (written 8/20/2010 inspired by secret path;Carl Shurz Park NYC
The birds leap and chirp
The leaves move and whistle
The ground on which I tread is soft
I hop from spot to spot
A new vista appears each time
And the melody of nature adjusts and amplifies
The creek runs over stones
The grass points to the sun
The carp never shuts its eyes
But the statue blinks each time
The flowers sprout and sing
The tune the bees hear oh so well
Let the sun and the moon dance in the sky
They love each other so much
As they move and the earth moves
The sky celebrates each time
Clouds appear to smile
The leaves move and whistle
The ground on which I tread is soft
I hop from spot to spot
A new vista appears each time
And the melody of nature adjusts and amplifies
The creek runs over stones
The grass points to the sun
The carp never shuts its eyes
But the statue blinks each time
The flowers sprout and sing
The tune the bees hear oh so well
Let the sun and the moon dance in the sky
They love each other so much
As they move and the earth moves
The sky celebrates each time
Clouds appear to smile
for Thurman Munson (Baseball poem written (8/20/2010)
Pinstriped suits aplenty, stars bright
in the summer sky
Let us share the balls, the gloves, the bats
and remember our youthful joy
There will be running and throwing and cheering
Let the game be played with verve
For as the moon and the sun cooperate
there are no thoughts
of time
As long as the game endures it connects past and present
If we all get our swings in eagerly
There is nothing left but smiles.
in the summer sky
Let us share the balls, the gloves, the bats
and remember our youthful joy
There will be running and throwing and cheering
Let the game be played with verve
For as the moon and the sun cooperate
there are no thoughts
of time
As long as the game endures it connects past and present
If we all get our swings in eagerly
There is nothing left but smiles.
Poem Inspired by Tao (written 8/20/2011)
Water, we are reverent
In Bamboo we see the divine;
Let us float down the river of life
in a bamboo boat under the shade
of a Live Pine Tree
In Bamboo we see the divine;
Let us float down the river of life
in a bamboo boat under the shade
of a Live Pine Tree
First Poem Ever (written 8/20/2010) inspired by walk at Carl Shurz Park NYC
The trunk of the trees crinkle
as a car's sheetmetal crumples
Does the tree feel the weight of
The rain, the birds, the leaves and
the squirrels?
as a car's sheetmetal crumples
Does the tree feel the weight of
The rain, the birds, the leaves and
the squirrels?
Decibel
25, even 20 years ago there were many hidden places in NYC. Private rooms where there were no signs or windows, no advertising pulling in people as they walked on by. These were the places for those in the know. They knew what was there and the way to get in.. Places you could get a drink after hours, hear a fabulous band, meet a group from another part of the world, or even partake in some illicit gambling. These establishments had no licenses, making them illegal, and perhaps adding to the allure, they were often run by or in conjunction with the mob.
There was an innocuous looking silver door on 10th street, with a computer printout in Japanese giving instructions to knock three times to get in. It was in a residential neighborhood, so it was quite a surprise to find a very fashionable and very authentic Japanese Lounge/Bar, with great snacks from the Kitchen. No other spot in NY was as authentic or less publicized. Once I forgot the exact locations and walked around in vain all over the neighborhood trying to find that silver door. If google had existed then, a search for this place would have yielded no matches. It didn't even have a name, just that silver door you knocked on three times and waited to be let in to a piece of Japan.
There was the Black door in the East Village on Houston Street a few steps down from the street which was a very narrow bar, with black walls and it was like a slice of Brazil in there, great Bossa Nova being played and enjoyed live, and sexy Brazilians galore. No name or sign there as well.
And my favorite, the after hours place that turned an Upper East Side computer rental place into an after hours den of drinking and gambling. You had to be really incognito to get in there. You were not supposed to knock, or make a scene or any noise. Just walk to the maroon painted door and wait. If they didn't have a problem with you, they would open the door, and you would volunteer to be frisked, so everyone knew there were no guns or knives inside. After all, if something started, nobody was going to be calling the police for help here. It was always good to bring shades with you, because after several hours of drinking, socializing, and gambling, the morning sun would be blinding as you walked out at 9am or so. It was always a surprise that it was well into mid morning by the time you stumbled out, but there was a lot to occupy you there, they had Blackjack and you could bet on a spinning wheel, and plenty to drink with all sorts of interesting characters milling about. And remember all this activity always started only after 4am, when all the legal bars had to close down for the night.
But over the years, NYC became more and more of a police state, and you could get away with less and less, so these beautiful throwbacks to the bygone era of speak-easy style secret spots disappeared one by one, and now if there are any, they don't last long. But in the East Village, in the center of what is referred to as Little Tokyo, there is a spot that gives one a taste of what things used to be like. All legal and above board of course, there is an understated wooden shingle in the style of a 16th century Japanese house. On it is simply written the word Decibel. There, one walks down some narrow steps below street level, and into what could only be described accurately as a hole in the wall. The heavy brown wooden door is opened and there is a front waiting area with big bottles of exotic Sake bottles on the wall. When you are finally seated, you go through a labyrinth of narrow walkways to the back areas, all small, with small tables and stools and lots of Japanese people and East Villagers enjoying themselves. This is a real drinking spot. I've never left Decibel without being trashed. There are seemingly endless choices of Sake and Sho chus and some Japanese finger foods to keep you thirsty. Not quite as cozy as one of the earlier places I mentioned, but you still get the sense that it is a secret, and it is a nice surprise to still find after 20 plus years, in amongst all the Gaps and Starbucks and other corporate showrooms in the area.
In fact, if you are meeting friends, you best meet them outside the Starbucks on the corner, and lead them personally into Decibel, otherwise they may be walking up and down 9th street trying to find it.
An authentic Japanese watering hole and a taste of what NYC used to have more of. In this age of Groupons, Googlemaps, and establishments devoid of all personality, Decibel still shines on and gives you an insider's feeling. Enjoy it, but don't tell too many people!
There was an innocuous looking silver door on 10th street, with a computer printout in Japanese giving instructions to knock three times to get in. It was in a residential neighborhood, so it was quite a surprise to find a very fashionable and very authentic Japanese Lounge/Bar, with great snacks from the Kitchen. No other spot in NY was as authentic or less publicized. Once I forgot the exact locations and walked around in vain all over the neighborhood trying to find that silver door. If google had existed then, a search for this place would have yielded no matches. It didn't even have a name, just that silver door you knocked on three times and waited to be let in to a piece of Japan.
There was the Black door in the East Village on Houston Street a few steps down from the street which was a very narrow bar, with black walls and it was like a slice of Brazil in there, great Bossa Nova being played and enjoyed live, and sexy Brazilians galore. No name or sign there as well.
And my favorite, the after hours place that turned an Upper East Side computer rental place into an after hours den of drinking and gambling. You had to be really incognito to get in there. You were not supposed to knock, or make a scene or any noise. Just walk to the maroon painted door and wait. If they didn't have a problem with you, they would open the door, and you would volunteer to be frisked, so everyone knew there were no guns or knives inside. After all, if something started, nobody was going to be calling the police for help here. It was always good to bring shades with you, because after several hours of drinking, socializing, and gambling, the morning sun would be blinding as you walked out at 9am or so. It was always a surprise that it was well into mid morning by the time you stumbled out, but there was a lot to occupy you there, they had Blackjack and you could bet on a spinning wheel, and plenty to drink with all sorts of interesting characters milling about. And remember all this activity always started only after 4am, when all the legal bars had to close down for the night.
But over the years, NYC became more and more of a police state, and you could get away with less and less, so these beautiful throwbacks to the bygone era of speak-easy style secret spots disappeared one by one, and now if there are any, they don't last long. But in the East Village, in the center of what is referred to as Little Tokyo, there is a spot that gives one a taste of what things used to be like. All legal and above board of course, there is an understated wooden shingle in the style of a 16th century Japanese house. On it is simply written the word Decibel. There, one walks down some narrow steps below street level, and into what could only be described accurately as a hole in the wall. The heavy brown wooden door is opened and there is a front waiting area with big bottles of exotic Sake bottles on the wall. When you are finally seated, you go through a labyrinth of narrow walkways to the back areas, all small, with small tables and stools and lots of Japanese people and East Villagers enjoying themselves. This is a real drinking spot. I've never left Decibel without being trashed. There are seemingly endless choices of Sake and Sho chus and some Japanese finger foods to keep you thirsty. Not quite as cozy as one of the earlier places I mentioned, but you still get the sense that it is a secret, and it is a nice surprise to still find after 20 plus years, in amongst all the Gaps and Starbucks and other corporate showrooms in the area.
In fact, if you are meeting friends, you best meet them outside the Starbucks on the corner, and lead them personally into Decibel, otherwise they may be walking up and down 9th street trying to find it.
An authentic Japanese watering hole and a taste of what NYC used to have more of. In this age of Groupons, Googlemaps, and establishments devoid of all personality, Decibel still shines on and gives you an insider's feeling. Enjoy it, but don't tell too many people!
Kenka
On one of the most interesesting streets of nyc, St. Mark's Place, on 8th street between second and third avenues. Here there lies a restaurant, but more than that, it is a portal to another time and place. Post-World War II Japan, specifically from the 1970s through the 1980s. I know, because since 1970 when I was born, my Japanese mother took me back to Japan nearly every summer growing up.. I split time between the most modern parts of Tokyo and the most old-fashioned countryside of Hiroshima. The first thing you notice as you walk up to Kenka (which means fight in Japanese) is the Giant Bear figure outside for good luck and the large number of people crowded around the entrance.. That's because there are always people waiting to get in. Sometimes the wait can be up to an hour!
When you first enter, you may be forgiven for just noticing the typical Japanese restaurant cues, the names of dishes written in characters on the walls, the people greeting you loudly as you come in. But there are a myriad of other details only available here, at this place.. There is a Red public pay coin telephone. In Japan when I was young there were many color telephones available to the public. There was Yellow, green, pink, and the most popular, the red. In America at the time, all payphones were the same black and chrome. I hadn't seen a red phone like that in 30 years, and the effect is very pleasing, all sorts of pleasant memories come flooding back.. On the back wall leading to the bathrooms there are real Pachinko machines, and not the kind where you dial up your shot and leave it. The kind with a real metal lever to shoot the balls one by one.. These machines are straight out of a Tokyo back alley.. (Pachinko is sort of like pinball, but with a gambling aspect to it as you can win prizes if you are great at Pachinko) The same Glico sign I remember from the only store in town near my grandparents house in the mountains outside of Hiroshima. Glico was a carmel candy popular at the time. In one of the smaller back rooms, there is a Royal Japanese Navy Flag proudly hanging on the wall, not seen much since World War II. Some older Americans might actually take offense, since to them, Japanese were the "bad guys", but for me, and other Japanese people I suspect, I smile and remember my Grandfather, who narrowly escaped being killed but was affected by the events the morning of August 6th, 1945, with the dropping of the Atomic Bomb on Hiroshima. My Grandfather, like every man at the time, was in the military, and was in the city of Hiroshima the night before the bombing, and would certainly have been killed, but he was called back to his base, near our home, deep up in the mountains outside of Hiroshima city. I remember vividly to this day how he would describe shaving that morning, then seeing the sky light up, thinking "we're hit," and going in to the city to help.. I remember my Granduncle, who was a POW and then thankfully returned alive and well after kind treatment from the Americans. His chilling story told of how he had a choice at the end of the war to get on one of two boats. Half the men boarded the American boat, and were nursed back to health and returned, and the other half had boarded the Soviet ship and were never ever returned, most never to be heard from again.. I remember all the great times we had sitting around the old house in the country laughing, praying and watching high school baseball. I'm so thankful they survived, but most did not, and everyone was affected. Over 70 years sounds like a long time, but the scope of something like WorldWarII is infinite.
One wall has a mural of Takakura Ken, the famous Japanese actor who had a background as a gangster before he became famous and made some of the best yakuza movies ever made. He's got that trademark scoul, tattoos and is brandishing a samurai sword. This scene is from Showa Zankyo-den, or Remnants of Chivalry in the Showa era, aka Brutal Tales of Chivalry. In it he plays an honorable old-school yakuza among the violent post-war hoods. It is a time of radical cultural changes.
In the background there wafts a mix of Japanese music. One time when I took my best friend, he asked them what the music was that was playing and they happily presented him with the CD that had been playing.. It simply had the word Showa written in Red Marker. Showa refers to the reign of the Emperor Hirohito, which began in 1926 and lasted all the way to 1989. I was there when he passed away, it was actually the only time I visited in the winter.. I remember some older people killed themselves, all the channels on tv were showing specials about the emperor and the older generations were glued to the tube, and the younger generation crowded the video stores hoping to get a reprieve from all the media blitz. The sounds include post-war Enka classics through 70s Japanese Punk Rockabilly.
And the last, and most curious aspect of the Kenka experience are the rules on the menu. They include, but are not limited to things like: No sex, no masturbating, no graffiti except in Japanese, no drugs, no fighting, you will be charged for throwing up. So I started thinking to myself, for the owners to write all of these things down on the menu, what sorts of things were going on before they had any rules?
There is also an outdoor area, sort of like an open air room, where one can go smoke. Helpful to many, as a majority of Japanese people are hard core smokers and there is a non-smoking ordinance for restaurants in nyc now..
A wonderful aspect of Kenka is that it is not expensive. At least it doesn't have to be. Most of the items are smaller dishlettes that are 3 or 4 dollars, so if you order just enough to satisfy your hunger, you can get away cheap, but if you get carried away thinking they are cheap and try to get some variety you may be surprised at the end of the night. There are dozens and dozens of types of sake and sho-chu, starting around 8 and going up to 100 or so dollars. The quality of the food is good, if not the best, but most people will love it.. There is a very wide selection, I'd be surprised if there was something you wanted that they didn't have..
But for me it is not so much about the food here. It's about the chance to step back in time and travel halfway around the world and be a kid again, and be Japanese again. As a final touch, the staff brings you a small plastic cup full of what looks like pink sand, and some thin wooden sticks. It's actually sugar, for the authentic down to the 100 yen coin slot cotton candy machine that was everpresent as a backdrop to wonderful summer festivals. You turn on the machine, put the sugar in, and you scoop out the cotton candy in a circular motion. Very difficult to get right, but down to the last moment stepping away from the restaurant, you get to step back over 30 years, and have a familiar childhood taste. Even if you were yet to be born back then it is nice to see how things used to be, and this place is very representative in every way.
St. Mark's Place is a very unique street. There are many head shops, tattoo parlors, and one of a kind hat and glove and wig shops on both sides. Years ago, and for a long time, there was a big social gathering spot where locals, and anyone who was there, could gather for poetry readings or other artistic endeavors, but sadly it is gone, replaced by big corporate clothing stores like the Gap. Pinkberry has arrived as well. The infamous pizza shop on third avenue that sold tasty slices but was a front for a huge heroine ring in the 70s is long gone and most people around here are new to the city so they never even heard about it. But for now, Kenka remains. Part of Little Tokyo but more uniquely, a chance to transport. Experience a culture from far away and long ago. Make mine a yaki niku and I'll take it around 1983 please, thanks.. See you back there my friends!
When you first enter, you may be forgiven for just noticing the typical Japanese restaurant cues, the names of dishes written in characters on the walls, the people greeting you loudly as you come in. But there are a myriad of other details only available here, at this place.. There is a Red public pay coin telephone. In Japan when I was young there were many color telephones available to the public. There was Yellow, green, pink, and the most popular, the red. In America at the time, all payphones were the same black and chrome. I hadn't seen a red phone like that in 30 years, and the effect is very pleasing, all sorts of pleasant memories come flooding back.. On the back wall leading to the bathrooms there are real Pachinko machines, and not the kind where you dial up your shot and leave it. The kind with a real metal lever to shoot the balls one by one.. These machines are straight out of a Tokyo back alley.. (Pachinko is sort of like pinball, but with a gambling aspect to it as you can win prizes if you are great at Pachinko) The same Glico sign I remember from the only store in town near my grandparents house in the mountains outside of Hiroshima. Glico was a carmel candy popular at the time. In one of the smaller back rooms, there is a Royal Japanese Navy Flag proudly hanging on the wall, not seen much since World War II. Some older Americans might actually take offense, since to them, Japanese were the "bad guys", but for me, and other Japanese people I suspect, I smile and remember my Grandfather, who narrowly escaped being killed but was affected by the events the morning of August 6th, 1945, with the dropping of the Atomic Bomb on Hiroshima. My Grandfather, like every man at the time, was in the military, and was in the city of Hiroshima the night before the bombing, and would certainly have been killed, but he was called back to his base, near our home, deep up in the mountains outside of Hiroshima city. I remember vividly to this day how he would describe shaving that morning, then seeing the sky light up, thinking "we're hit," and going in to the city to help.. I remember my Granduncle, who was a POW and then thankfully returned alive and well after kind treatment from the Americans. His chilling story told of how he had a choice at the end of the war to get on one of two boats. Half the men boarded the American boat, and were nursed back to health and returned, and the other half had boarded the Soviet ship and were never ever returned, most never to be heard from again.. I remember all the great times we had sitting around the old house in the country laughing, praying and watching high school baseball. I'm so thankful they survived, but most did not, and everyone was affected. Over 70 years sounds like a long time, but the scope of something like WorldWarII is infinite.
One wall has a mural of Takakura Ken, the famous Japanese actor who had a background as a gangster before he became famous and made some of the best yakuza movies ever made. He's got that trademark scoul, tattoos and is brandishing a samurai sword. This scene is from Showa Zankyo-den, or Remnants of Chivalry in the Showa era, aka Brutal Tales of Chivalry. In it he plays an honorable old-school yakuza among the violent post-war hoods. It is a time of radical cultural changes.
In the background there wafts a mix of Japanese music. One time when I took my best friend, he asked them what the music was that was playing and they happily presented him with the CD that had been playing.. It simply had the word Showa written in Red Marker. Showa refers to the reign of the Emperor Hirohito, which began in 1926 and lasted all the way to 1989. I was there when he passed away, it was actually the only time I visited in the winter.. I remember some older people killed themselves, all the channels on tv were showing specials about the emperor and the older generations were glued to the tube, and the younger generation crowded the video stores hoping to get a reprieve from all the media blitz. The sounds include post-war Enka classics through 70s Japanese Punk Rockabilly.
And the last, and most curious aspect of the Kenka experience are the rules on the menu. They include, but are not limited to things like: No sex, no masturbating, no graffiti except in Japanese, no drugs, no fighting, you will be charged for throwing up. So I started thinking to myself, for the owners to write all of these things down on the menu, what sorts of things were going on before they had any rules?
There is also an outdoor area, sort of like an open air room, where one can go smoke. Helpful to many, as a majority of Japanese people are hard core smokers and there is a non-smoking ordinance for restaurants in nyc now..
A wonderful aspect of Kenka is that it is not expensive. At least it doesn't have to be. Most of the items are smaller dishlettes that are 3 or 4 dollars, so if you order just enough to satisfy your hunger, you can get away cheap, but if you get carried away thinking they are cheap and try to get some variety you may be surprised at the end of the night. There are dozens and dozens of types of sake and sho-chu, starting around 8 and going up to 100 or so dollars. The quality of the food is good, if not the best, but most people will love it.. There is a very wide selection, I'd be surprised if there was something you wanted that they didn't have..
But for me it is not so much about the food here. It's about the chance to step back in time and travel halfway around the world and be a kid again, and be Japanese again. As a final touch, the staff brings you a small plastic cup full of what looks like pink sand, and some thin wooden sticks. It's actually sugar, for the authentic down to the 100 yen coin slot cotton candy machine that was everpresent as a backdrop to wonderful summer festivals. You turn on the machine, put the sugar in, and you scoop out the cotton candy in a circular motion. Very difficult to get right, but down to the last moment stepping away from the restaurant, you get to step back over 30 years, and have a familiar childhood taste. Even if you were yet to be born back then it is nice to see how things used to be, and this place is very representative in every way.
St. Mark's Place is a very unique street. There are many head shops, tattoo parlors, and one of a kind hat and glove and wig shops on both sides. Years ago, and for a long time, there was a big social gathering spot where locals, and anyone who was there, could gather for poetry readings or other artistic endeavors, but sadly it is gone, replaced by big corporate clothing stores like the Gap. Pinkberry has arrived as well. The infamous pizza shop on third avenue that sold tasty slices but was a front for a huge heroine ring in the 70s is long gone and most people around here are new to the city so they never even heard about it. But for now, Kenka remains. Part of Little Tokyo but more uniquely, a chance to transport. Experience a culture from far away and long ago. Make mine a yaki niku and I'll take it around 1983 please, thanks.. See you back there my friends!
Burgers
My favorite meal has always been hamburgers. You might find that kind of odd, but to have a burger is not just a slab of beef between some bread, it represents home, safety and comfort. Especially when I was younger, I was a very picky eater. I only ate a certain few dishes, and I was totally uninterested in trying something new. So whenever I was outside, eating out became a concern. My solution; McDonald's. Yes, it's true, it seems unthinkable to me now, but back then I loved McDonald's. It was always the same, a couple of regular hamburgers, those addictive fries, and a soda. Basic meal, always filling, it seemed to satisfy a basic need. To this day, when I see the golden arches, I feel like I should get some Micky D's. But these days, in an effort to be healthier, and because my taste has improved, my search for the best burgers has led me to three choices depending on your budget: Upscale choice; Bar 11. Midscale choice; J.G. Melon's, Affordable and delivery choice; Jackson Hole.
Bar 11 is on 6th ave and 11th street. It is an upscale bistro with a beautiful mirrored bar in front and a skylight topped back section that feels old fashioned and hip at the same time. The fact that you can even get a burger in a place like this makes me smile. I like to get a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to go with some strawberries and cream. It's nicely presented, and guests are always suitably impressed. The burger is basic, with high quality beef, bun and garnishings of lettuce and tomato. But here it is the french fries that set the experience apart. The fries are from fresh, real (not frozen) potatoes and are cooked in fresh oil. Sounds so simple, but there are precious few restaurants anywhere that actually offer non frozen fries. Expect to spend over $75.
J.G. Melon's is on 74th and 3rd Ave. This Melon themed burger joint is a staple of the Upper East Side and it's hard to get a table here without waiting at least an hour at peak times, the service is painfully slow at the best of times, so don't let yourself get too hungry before showing up here. It's basically a Bar/Restaurant with a melon theme in the dark green color of the paint on the building and the melon focused art, and the same people have been working here over 30 years. Think about that for a minute in a place as temporary as NYC, that's saying something. Very Homey, comfortable atmosphere. No frills, not even ice cream. Just tasty burgers and cottage fries. Here one burger is not quite enough for me. When hungry, I'll order two and put my order for the second one in early. Expect to spend $45, and outdoor seating is available.
Jackson Hole. The only spot on my list with multiple locations, and they deliver as well. I prefer the ones on 64th and 84th on 2nd ave. The one on 64th has a western motif, and has a spot dear to my heart because it was the first time I ever had a high quality gourmet burger. The walls are covered with old western movie posters, and the theme is carried further with props like leather saddles and snow shoes. Pictures of John Wayne and Elvis Presley look down on you from the brick walls as you devour your large burger. This place has wonderful pickles, and they are even free! I also enjoy a Pepsi Float with my meal, and the ice cream mixes exceedingly well with the cola. As for the burger itself, I always enjoy the flavor of the beef, it is unique and impossible to replicate elsewhere. I think it is very high quality and it's very large at 8 ounces. You are never hungry when you leave here. The taste is also consistent store to store with always that unique quality flavor.
On 84th, there's an old gas pump and signs evocative of the 50s, as was popular in many American diners in the 70s and 80s. Finally, the price is extremely affordable, the last great bargain in NYC, even less than shake shack, a poor fast food substitute, totally unworthy of their ridiculously long lines and wait times.
So if you're in nyc, and the craving for a burger comes and hits you, try one of these burger specialty restaurants, and be blown away at the depth of experience a nice hamburger meal can bring you, and don't be shy about smiling at those golden arches which bring back such great childhood memories, just try to avoid endulging yourself too much there, because I think we all know it's not the healthiest of moves. Happy Burger and Fry munching, everyone!
Bar 11 is on 6th ave and 11th street. It is an upscale bistro with a beautiful mirrored bar in front and a skylight topped back section that feels old fashioned and hip at the same time. The fact that you can even get a burger in a place like this makes me smile. I like to get a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to go with some strawberries and cream. It's nicely presented, and guests are always suitably impressed. The burger is basic, with high quality beef, bun and garnishings of lettuce and tomato. But here it is the french fries that set the experience apart. The fries are from fresh, real (not frozen) potatoes and are cooked in fresh oil. Sounds so simple, but there are precious few restaurants anywhere that actually offer non frozen fries. Expect to spend over $75.
J.G. Melon's is on 74th and 3rd Ave. This Melon themed burger joint is a staple of the Upper East Side and it's hard to get a table here without waiting at least an hour at peak times, the service is painfully slow at the best of times, so don't let yourself get too hungry before showing up here. It's basically a Bar/Restaurant with a melon theme in the dark green color of the paint on the building and the melon focused art, and the same people have been working here over 30 years. Think about that for a minute in a place as temporary as NYC, that's saying something. Very Homey, comfortable atmosphere. No frills, not even ice cream. Just tasty burgers and cottage fries. Here one burger is not quite enough for me. When hungry, I'll order two and put my order for the second one in early. Expect to spend $45, and outdoor seating is available.
Jackson Hole. The only spot on my list with multiple locations, and they deliver as well. I prefer the ones on 64th and 84th on 2nd ave. The one on 64th has a western motif, and has a spot dear to my heart because it was the first time I ever had a high quality gourmet burger. The walls are covered with old western movie posters, and the theme is carried further with props like leather saddles and snow shoes. Pictures of John Wayne and Elvis Presley look down on you from the brick walls as you devour your large burger. This place has wonderful pickles, and they are even free! I also enjoy a Pepsi Float with my meal, and the ice cream mixes exceedingly well with the cola. As for the burger itself, I always enjoy the flavor of the beef, it is unique and impossible to replicate elsewhere. I think it is very high quality and it's very large at 8 ounces. You are never hungry when you leave here. The taste is also consistent store to store with always that unique quality flavor.
On 84th, there's an old gas pump and signs evocative of the 50s, as was popular in many American diners in the 70s and 80s. Finally, the price is extremely affordable, the last great bargain in NYC, even less than shake shack, a poor fast food substitute, totally unworthy of their ridiculously long lines and wait times.
So if you're in nyc, and the craving for a burger comes and hits you, try one of these burger specialty restaurants, and be blown away at the depth of experience a nice hamburger meal can bring you, and don't be shy about smiling at those golden arches which bring back such great childhood memories, just try to avoid endulging yourself too much there, because I think we all know it's not the healthiest of moves. Happy Burger and Fry munching, everyone!
Headlights in Cuneo
In the summer of my 29th year, I took up the opportunity to attempt something bold, and on retrospect, perhaps slightly naive and foolhardy. The idea: To buy and drive an as-is 30 year old Alfa Romeo in Milan, from people I met on the internet, and drive it all over Europe, to Krakow, Poland, and back to Milan. I was full of youth and optimism in equal measure, and took off in that 1970 Alfa Romeo Giullietta for the adventure of my life, often pushing the limits of my physical endurance, and the 30 year old vehicle's engine, suspension, wipers, tires, brakes, and gas systems. But one thing which provided an iconic memory of the trip was the headlights. Much of my adventure was to take place at night, in the often overwhelming darkness of Europe in the mountains.
Early on, I realized there was a problem, namely that the headlights were aimed too low. I wasn't able to see far enough ahead. So I made a mental note to try and get them fixed as soon as an opportunity presented itself. So we headed north out of Milan, to the northeast without too much of a plan. Eventually we came to an area known as Cuneo. There wasn't much there, a traffic roundabout, and some industrial looking small buildings. I saw a big airplane hangar type structure, with a big truck being tended to inside. I figured this would be as good a time as any, so I pulled in, and relying on the kindness of strangers, as I often do when I'm driving around, tried to explain to the older Italian gentleman fixing the truck my predicament. He got very excited, and spoke no English, but seemed to infer he was busy. Then his son appeared, and he did speak some English. I talked to him and convinced him to coerce his father into helping out with the lights. In fixing the lights, we found that the highbeam switch was faulty. I was floored and expected the worst because after all, we were basically in the middle of nowhere. But sensing my stress, the son soothed my worries and told me it wouldn't be a problem, and promptly called over his sister, a stunning dirty blond of about 20, typical of most of the lovely ladies I came across in Italy, cute and stylin'. She took the old switch, tossed her hair to one side, put on a brightly colored helmet, and hopped on an equally stylish and high performance scooter, and took off buzzing down the road. I felt like I stumbled on the set of a Vespa commercial.
Soon enough she was back, produced a perfectly suitable replacement switch, smiled, and took off again. To this day I have no idea how she managed it, after all, there weren't any Pep Boys stores nearby. It was like magic. Her brother took the switch, installed it, and we checked all the lights once more, and we were done. I tried to pay them for their kindness, but they were having none of it, so I thanked everybody, and left with a smile on my face. The driver of the truck blared his horn and waved as he was finished too.
It struck me as a surreal moment, yet very typical on this trip, that in the middle of nowhere, in a town with no traffic lights, that there were friendly, helpful, passionate and stylish Italians always on your side. I think showing up in a 30 year old Alfa Romeo at a time when seeing older cars on the roads was becoming more and more rare really did the trick. I don't think any Italian worth his or her salt who can look at a classic Italian car and not smile from their very soul. It is in their DNA, it is after all the land of Nuvolari, the Mille Miglia, the Targa Florio, Monza, Alfa and Ferrari, Maserati, Fiat and Lancia. The land is steeped and intertwined with the history of automobiles and racing and motorized travel after all. For me, they were always there with a smile and a wave. Good thing too, as being able to see in the dark mountainous nights of Europe is a definite plus, as the trip to Monaco would prove, more on that in a later post.
Early on, I realized there was a problem, namely that the headlights were aimed too low. I wasn't able to see far enough ahead. So I made a mental note to try and get them fixed as soon as an opportunity presented itself. So we headed north out of Milan, to the northeast without too much of a plan. Eventually we came to an area known as Cuneo. There wasn't much there, a traffic roundabout, and some industrial looking small buildings. I saw a big airplane hangar type structure, with a big truck being tended to inside. I figured this would be as good a time as any, so I pulled in, and relying on the kindness of strangers, as I often do when I'm driving around, tried to explain to the older Italian gentleman fixing the truck my predicament. He got very excited, and spoke no English, but seemed to infer he was busy. Then his son appeared, and he did speak some English. I talked to him and convinced him to coerce his father into helping out with the lights. In fixing the lights, we found that the highbeam switch was faulty. I was floored and expected the worst because after all, we were basically in the middle of nowhere. But sensing my stress, the son soothed my worries and told me it wouldn't be a problem, and promptly called over his sister, a stunning dirty blond of about 20, typical of most of the lovely ladies I came across in Italy, cute and stylin'. She took the old switch, tossed her hair to one side, put on a brightly colored helmet, and hopped on an equally stylish and high performance scooter, and took off buzzing down the road. I felt like I stumbled on the set of a Vespa commercial.
Soon enough she was back, produced a perfectly suitable replacement switch, smiled, and took off again. To this day I have no idea how she managed it, after all, there weren't any Pep Boys stores nearby. It was like magic. Her brother took the switch, installed it, and we checked all the lights once more, and we were done. I tried to pay them for their kindness, but they were having none of it, so I thanked everybody, and left with a smile on my face. The driver of the truck blared his horn and waved as he was finished too.
It struck me as a surreal moment, yet very typical on this trip, that in the middle of nowhere, in a town with no traffic lights, that there were friendly, helpful, passionate and stylish Italians always on your side. I think showing up in a 30 year old Alfa Romeo at a time when seeing older cars on the roads was becoming more and more rare really did the trick. I don't think any Italian worth his or her salt who can look at a classic Italian car and not smile from their very soul. It is in their DNA, it is after all the land of Nuvolari, the Mille Miglia, the Targa Florio, Monza, Alfa and Ferrari, Maserati, Fiat and Lancia. The land is steeped and intertwined with the history of automobiles and racing and motorized travel after all. For me, they were always there with a smile and a wave. Good thing too, as being able to see in the dark mountainous nights of Europe is a definite plus, as the trip to Monaco would prove, more on that in a later post.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
My Giullietta
The car was a beige 1970 Alfa Romeo Giullietta. 1600cc engine, 5-speed manual that to this day is one of the best, most delicate and sweet gearboxes I have ever used. Room inside for five, and a usable trunk. I replaced the seats with those from a later model as I wished to have headrests for the long journey ahead. There had been two modifications from stock: A silver button engine starter and the headlight high beam switch was under the dash to the left of the steering column. So this Alfa is simply a beautiful design, a wonderful product of the 60s, perhaps the best decade, in many ways, of the 20th century. At least as far as cars I think it was. There are four round headlights, the outer ones shrouded by the bodywork in the subtlest of ways.. The extension of the roof out past the rear window makes the most visual impact. But the car's handling, so well executed make this nimble car a true joy to drive on any curved road. The engine, the 1600cc version of the same Vittorio Jano designed four cylinder from years earlier, revs freely and pulls strongly, even in the high altitude. It is a jewel of an engine as pleasing to look at as it is to touch. I have some pistons at home and the bolt on the ends of the connecting rods are machined so well that the simple act of tightening them or loosening them brings a tangible joy to my fingers, and a subconscious smile to my face. I hope the engineers responsible would be happy knowing to what ends I and others like me enjoy their creations. It makes me happy to know that these men had so much passion and love for the creation of their automobiles. And remember this car was a basic family sedan. I'm proud of those engineers and designers and even the accountants, who found a way to imbue an affordable car for the masses with such characteristics and emotions heretofore only found on ultra expensive and low volume Bentleys, Maseratis and Ferraris. It is one of the reasons I love Alfa Romeo so much.
The Road To The Stelvio Pass
Though I didn't reach the stelvio pass until I was thirty, my journey there began at a very early age. Back then, in the 1970s, there was no speedchannel or widespread racing on broadcast channels as there is now. Racing was something you either read about, or heard about on a tape delay. Even in NYC the Indy 500, America's biggest race, was shown on a tape delay instead of live.
I believe the first time I ever thought about the stelvio pass it may have been from reading a magazine article, about sports car racing in Europe, and there was a picture of a racing lancia and a beautiful ribbon of road, stretching up a treacherous mountain known as the stelvio pass, or passo di stelvio, from the Italian side. I read the article and just told myself you have to go there someday.
So someday finally arrives in 2000 when I decide to buy a 1970 Alfa Romeo Giullietta for a Road trip in Europe. I fly in to Milan, my first stop in Europe ever. I meet some friendly Italians, and agree to meet them to see their selection of cars the next day. They had a predilection for Alfa Romeo Giuliettas. I thought it would be a fun car to see the European countryside in. The car I chose was Cava beige, a swanky color, and she was a 1970 model. The car was a cool customer, not looking its 30 year age. It would run at top speed on the Autostrada all day, then snake through country roads with ease.
As soon as I got my hands on the map, something in the back of my mind said "Find the Stelvio Pass." And so I did, and there it was. An ancient mountain pass at a point in the Alps between Italy, Switzerland and Austria. It wasn't too far away, so I would finally be able to experience the Stelvio Pass. I must admit that I underestimated the Pass. It was a neat looking squiggly line on the map, but i didn't realize that it is the highest point you can drive to on the planet. (Or it used to be, as I understand a newer road holds this distinction now, but I prefer the original)
When we started at the base, it was 100 degrees F, practically 100% humidity. The road is a simple stretch of tarmac, next to a river with tall, dark green trees. Could have been upstate NY, I thought. That thought quickly evaporates, as the switchbacks start climbing the first mountain. The turns come fast and furious, and so does the altitude. Almost immediately I notice the breeze is less like a hot hairdryer, and more like a warm spring day. No time to dwell on that though, as the car's engine revs and falls, between the hairpins, with occasional tunnels with arched windows carved out of stone lending a spectacular view. Something deep inside me automatically starts driving this road as fast as I can without falling off of it. I suppose I could have enjoyed the view more, but for me the experience was centered on the driving. I also did managed to take a few pictures while driving. Multitasking, Italian style! One photo is my favorite picture I've ever taken: Snow capped mountains, on either side of the road, meeting in the distance and merging with the fog of a cloudy day.
When you get to the top, it's freezing, and everything appears below you, that impressive ribbon of road like the fluid handwriting on a page of a story I've just written. Cute Italian girls come out of little vestibules filled with chachkas and mementos. My eyes are caught by all the snow on the mountain peaks, which seem so close you could reach out and pull it next to you like a familiar childhood friend.
Soon it is on to the next part of the Passo Di Stelvio, the way down.. This is a whole new challenge, for you use the brakes much more than I would have imagined. Remember, everything is steep. Melting snow makes its ways down gullies on this side of the mountain, and the road is as voraciously curvy as ever, bringing a childlike grin to my face as I throw the Alfa down the mountainside as fast as I dare.
By the time I'm getting back down to sea level and the next town, the brakes are working less and less and starting to go to the floor. I downshift to aid braking as much as I can, and then coast into a service station with smoke pouring out of the engine bay. All the buildings are two story, a bright off-white color of stone. Very Mediterranean and very pleasing to the eye. The smoke grabs my attention back from my surroundings, and I open the hood and seek out some help. There is a gruff, portly mechanic milling about. I try to communicate with him, pointing at the car.. He speaks no English, but almost as if by habit comes over to check on my wounded chariot. He then starts making all sorts of motions and complaints, while fetching some brake fluid from the garage. Everything in the engine compartment is too hot to touch, so he motions for me to wait. The brake fluid had gotten so hot it spilled over from the reservoir and was all over the inside of the hood. So on my way to the washbasin, I take in what has happened. I've just taken the Stelvio Pass in a 1970 Alfa Romeo in the Millenium
I believe the first time I ever thought about the stelvio pass it may have been from reading a magazine article, about sports car racing in Europe, and there was a picture of a racing lancia and a beautiful ribbon of road, stretching up a treacherous mountain known as the stelvio pass, or passo di stelvio, from the Italian side. I read the article and just told myself you have to go there someday.
So someday finally arrives in 2000 when I decide to buy a 1970 Alfa Romeo Giullietta for a Road trip in Europe. I fly in to Milan, my first stop in Europe ever. I meet some friendly Italians, and agree to meet them to see their selection of cars the next day. They had a predilection for Alfa Romeo Giuliettas. I thought it would be a fun car to see the European countryside in. The car I chose was Cava beige, a swanky color, and she was a 1970 model. The car was a cool customer, not looking its 30 year age. It would run at top speed on the Autostrada all day, then snake through country roads with ease.
As soon as I got my hands on the map, something in the back of my mind said "Find the Stelvio Pass." And so I did, and there it was. An ancient mountain pass at a point in the Alps between Italy, Switzerland and Austria. It wasn't too far away, so I would finally be able to experience the Stelvio Pass. I must admit that I underestimated the Pass. It was a neat looking squiggly line on the map, but i didn't realize that it is the highest point you can drive to on the planet. (Or it used to be, as I understand a newer road holds this distinction now, but I prefer the original)
When we started at the base, it was 100 degrees F, practically 100% humidity. The road is a simple stretch of tarmac, next to a river with tall, dark green trees. Could have been upstate NY, I thought. That thought quickly evaporates, as the switchbacks start climbing the first mountain. The turns come fast and furious, and so does the altitude. Almost immediately I notice the breeze is less like a hot hairdryer, and more like a warm spring day. No time to dwell on that though, as the car's engine revs and falls, between the hairpins, with occasional tunnels with arched windows carved out of stone lending a spectacular view. Something deep inside me automatically starts driving this road as fast as I can without falling off of it. I suppose I could have enjoyed the view more, but for me the experience was centered on the driving. I also did managed to take a few pictures while driving. Multitasking, Italian style! One photo is my favorite picture I've ever taken: Snow capped mountains, on either side of the road, meeting in the distance and merging with the fog of a cloudy day.
When you get to the top, it's freezing, and everything appears below you, that impressive ribbon of road like the fluid handwriting on a page of a story I've just written. Cute Italian girls come out of little vestibules filled with chachkas and mementos. My eyes are caught by all the snow on the mountain peaks, which seem so close you could reach out and pull it next to you like a familiar childhood friend.
Soon it is on to the next part of the Passo Di Stelvio, the way down.. This is a whole new challenge, for you use the brakes much more than I would have imagined. Remember, everything is steep. Melting snow makes its ways down gullies on this side of the mountain, and the road is as voraciously curvy as ever, bringing a childlike grin to my face as I throw the Alfa down the mountainside as fast as I dare.
By the time I'm getting back down to sea level and the next town, the brakes are working less and less and starting to go to the floor. I downshift to aid braking as much as I can, and then coast into a service station with smoke pouring out of the engine bay. All the buildings are two story, a bright off-white color of stone. Very Mediterranean and very pleasing to the eye. The smoke grabs my attention back from my surroundings, and I open the hood and seek out some help. There is a gruff, portly mechanic milling about. I try to communicate with him, pointing at the car.. He speaks no English, but almost as if by habit comes over to check on my wounded chariot. He then starts making all sorts of motions and complaints, while fetching some brake fluid from the garage. Everything in the engine compartment is too hot to touch, so he motions for me to wait. The brake fluid had gotten so hot it spilled over from the reservoir and was all over the inside of the hood. So on my way to the washbasin, I take in what has happened. I've just taken the Stelvio Pass in a 1970 Alfa Romeo in the Millenium
The Passion Begins
My passion for automobiles goes back as far as I can remember. When I was three, I was placed upon a thoroughbred racehorse to trot around on and my love of motion was born. As far as cars, and eventually racing, that lust and appreciation for danger, and possibly death, of overcoming fear and believing in your goal when things look bleak, that all came to me in my grandfather's car as we snaked aloud the precipitously narrow and high mountain passes in the deep countryside not too far as the crow flies, from Hiroshima, Japan. There was only one lane. The fact that it was paved seems shocking upon recollection. On one side of the road the mountain, and on the other a long drop down a gorge or a river. Not even a hint of a guardrail. The road was crumbling on its edges. When you encountered oncoming traffic, one vehicle would have to back up to the nearest cutout in the mountain, carved there so cars could get by each other. Often, it would be raining. This, I realized immediately was a life and death challenge. I always loved and respected my grandfather, but this took my awe of him to a new level. I trusted him implicitly. There was no reflected paint or other markings when it got dark. Just two lone headlights shining into the abyss. In a storm. The mountainside, the rocks and the roads are all the same grey color. I remember always thinking "I'm so glad I'm inside the car and not outside. It was scary outside, especially for a little kid. It seemed to me that at any moment a wild animal or Ninja would pop out of the mountains to attack us. It reminds me of a description of a Targa Florio I read which recounted the contestants taking on the best Sicilian country roads and mountain passes could throw at them, which early on, included the facing of bandits who would appear in the hills. Even now, I can't help but marvel at how my grandfather handled these challenges so calmly. He seemed to exhibit no more stress than if we were on a quick trip to the local store.
When I was 11, it was my turn to learn how to drive on those very same mountain roads. It is still one of the biggest thrills and best memories of my life. It was in a mini Honda, and my main memory is of my grandfather gently pressing home the importance of knowing where the outer edge of the tires were. It didn't realise at the time, but that was so I didn't put a wheel off the road, which could have triggered tragic results. And of course when it comes to racing you can't put a wheel wrong there as well, or you lose time or cause an accident. I always remember my grandfather when I take the wheel of any vehicle.
When I was 11, it was my turn to learn how to drive on those very same mountain roads. It is still one of the biggest thrills and best memories of my life. It was in a mini Honda, and my main memory is of my grandfather gently pressing home the importance of knowing where the outer edge of the tires were. It didn't realise at the time, but that was so I didn't put a wheel off the road, which could have triggered tragic results. And of course when it comes to racing you can't put a wheel wrong there as well, or you lose time or cause an accident. I always remember my grandfather when I take the wheel of any vehicle.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Introduction
My name is Alvin Tanenbaum Jr. and this is my blog. Ultima Passione or Ultimate Passion. A word about myself and why I am writing this blog: I'm Japanese on my mother's side and American on my father's side, his father was an immigrant from Lithuania early in 20th century. Beyond that I'm a NewYorker having been born there and living most of my 40 years there in Manhattan. That fact, though I'm proud of it has caused delays my career and it's partly detrimental to most things having to do with cars. But that's okay. It's still where I'm from and gave me a certain view of all things.
Ultima Passione is my passion: racing, cars, history, and travel, all wrapped up into one blog to inform, teach, give ideas and inspire people from all parts of the world.
I have always loved cars. My mother's father, from Hiroshima, Japan (who used to drive the Red Mercedes of the Emperor) taught me how to drive when I was about 11 years old on the tiny winding roads of the village of Mikawa. From then on I was hooked. I had already started reading about cars and watching racing. I should mention I have owned over 60 cars in my life, and driven over 100 cars. Watched every indy 500 since 1979, over 300 Champcar races, over 375 Formula 1 races; starting when only the Grand Prix of Monoco was available to watch here in America back in the late 1970s to when in the mid 80s ESPN started showing Formula 1, to now watching all the races on speed to the present day. Also over 400 sportscar races when they started being showed widely. One of my dreams was and still is to compete in the 24 hours of Le Mans.
I have also collected every Road and Track, Car and Driver, Motor Trend and Automobile magazines since 1984.
I have driven at Bridgehampton, Lime Rock, Mt. Tremblant, Poconos, raced at Summit Point, visited Laguna Seca, watched vintage racing at Lime Rock and Sears Point. It all culminated in my trip to Europe in 2000 when I bought a 30 year old Alfa Romeo Giullieta and drove it on the streets of Monoco and to Imola, and later the Stelvio Pass, something I wanted to do ever since I could remember. I read everything I can on the history over racing in the world and started cultivating a love of racing especially grand prix racing in the 30s, 50s, and 60s.
In my opinion the best driver all the time is Tazio Nuvolari, my hero. Alfa Romeo then Ferarri are the favorite manufacturers the best small car is the Alfa Gtv. Best old car is Bently type 6. The most fun car is the 1987 porsche 911 Carrera. I raced a Renault sports racer and that is my favorite activity, racing open top sports racers on challenging natural road circuits. Traveling is a close second and uncovering old stories of historic cars and racers just behind that. I want to combine all these things and more into this blog, so people get ideas for trips of their own and share experiences and the passion with fellow passionistas.
Why do I use the italian form for the name of this blog? Because Italy is my favorite country. It always has been before I even visited there. To me it's just the most romantic place, got the most interesting history, style, language, food, and people of anywhere in the world. I hope to move there someday soon. Certainly you could make a case for Germany, England, and France and even America, but to me, overall, Italy is it. So Ultima Passione it is, and Italy will have the first stories about it, but don't worry, I will be covering the other great Automotive countries in their turn too. Because the different countries, with all their variety of histories and styles,and the cars they have produced, along with their drivers, and the great historic places to visit is something I want to convey to my viewers and readers.
From the achingly lovely but fragile and troubled electrics of the British cars, to the storming engineering stoutness of the Germans, to the unique and often odd French, to the screaming curvacious and stylish Divas of the Italians.
Ultima Passione will have different sections: Auto Passion, Moto Passion, GP Passion, Circuit Passion, Pilote Passion, Travel Passion and Auto Archaeology.
Eventually my goal is to visit the site of every important race, every Factory, and every significant driver's birthplace, and site of their often untimely demise. We'll talk of Racetracks that are no longer there, to the best of today to the ones planned for the future.
One of my lofty goals is to drive every one of Tazio Nuvolari's racecars on all the tracks and streets, he ever raced on.
Obviously all of this is quite a grand undertaking, and so I am committing the rest of my life to it, but it is probably a bit too much for one man, so I am asking for your help as well. Share your experiences, your travels and insights and questions with us and we will all learn and share and grow together as a passionate community.
Let's help the younger generations have an understanding of the past glories and tragedies and that bring us to our current day.
I didn't get to race until I was 26, and didn't drive the Stelvio Pass until I was 30. I had read about the Stelvio Pass,-the highest point on the planet you can drive up to and the site of some sports car races in the fifties-at least 20 years earlier in some obscure magazine article or book. Let's get people to the track sooner. Let's inform them about affordable classic cars they can restore and collect. Let's save tracks in danger of being shut down.
Another goal high on my list: Let's get Alfa Romeo back to racing at significant venues such as Le Mans, Monza, and Spa. If Bentley and Audi could do it after long absences and troubled financial times, so can Alfa and Jaguar and Maserati and Ginetta and Lancia as well. Let's dream big and achieve big. It's a long journey, and it begins with the movement of one tire, one inch, then one revolution at a time. As with other great movements, the beginning is often the hardest, and it has been in this case, after all, I came up with this vision years ago, and it is only now seeing the light of the internet. But with perseverance, a certain momentum can be achieved and things go easier after that.
Finally, before I am dead and buried, let there be one more thing: the rebirth of open road races like the Mille Miglia, Targa Florio and Carrera Panamericana. Laws will have to be rewritten in some cases, but this is not impossible, with passion, patience and perseverance, nothing is. Let's get the fascinating historic cars out of museums and back on the roads and tracks for people to see and hear and delight in. Let's erect proper monuments for our fallen motor racing heroes.
It's a great challenge to be sure, but the Passionista have never backed down from a daunting challenge. From that first race held in southern France, to the 200 plus mph racers of today, we welcome challenges. Let's take up the cause and lead on into the future, with a knowing nod to our past. Let's revive the spirit of adventure in racing, and save it from becoming a commercial parade, with fixable outcomes.
Now you've read my goals. My hope is that some or all of this will reach a future Enzo Ferrari out there, stuck in a city without a car to dream and make plans to escape, to travel and to explore the possibilities. To never give up, and create happily to the end.
It's a great big world out there, and it is becoming more accessible by the day. There are so many places one simply must experience for oneself. You may not be easily able to race there, but you can almost always still drive there, and with an old enough car you can still drive quickly and even drift around the corners without getting into too much trouble with the local law enforcement types.
I may not be an expert, and there are so many out there doing great work, writing books and organizing events. But they seem to be a bit exclusive. Let's be a bit more inclusive, and offer our joy to the masses.
You used to be able to walk up to the side of the road, and watch the best cars in the world go by. Sure you had to risk your life to do it, but that was understood, and people thought it worth a certain level of risk. Now you have to spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars to go to a major event, and with a few exceptions, you can't get anywhere near the cars themselves, or close to the circuit. That's just not right.
People like to argue about who the best drivers of today are. Taking into account their competition and the cars they drive, they argue endlessly. Let's organize a real champion's race, where the best open wheel drivers are invited to drive identical GP2 cars or something similar, where only basic set up could be adjusted, so we could see their real talents on display. Let's make them race a venue they all were not familiar with, and see what happens. A race through the streets of NYC, or perhaps the old Nurburgring circuit. Let's keep it open to the public, who could sit in the woods and cheer their favorites like the old days.
Ultima Passione is my passion: racing, cars, history, and travel, all wrapped up into one blog to inform, teach, give ideas and inspire people from all parts of the world.
I have always loved cars. My mother's father, from Hiroshima, Japan (who used to drive the Red Mercedes of the Emperor) taught me how to drive when I was about 11 years old on the tiny winding roads of the village of Mikawa. From then on I was hooked. I had already started reading about cars and watching racing. I should mention I have owned over 60 cars in my life, and driven over 100 cars. Watched every indy 500 since 1979, over 300 Champcar races, over 375 Formula 1 races; starting when only the Grand Prix of Monoco was available to watch here in America back in the late 1970s to when in the mid 80s ESPN started showing Formula 1, to now watching all the races on speed to the present day. Also over 400 sportscar races when they started being showed widely. One of my dreams was and still is to compete in the 24 hours of Le Mans.
I have also collected every Road and Track, Car and Driver, Motor Trend and Automobile magazines since 1984.
I have driven at Bridgehampton, Lime Rock, Mt. Tremblant, Poconos, raced at Summit Point, visited Laguna Seca, watched vintage racing at Lime Rock and Sears Point. It all culminated in my trip to Europe in 2000 when I bought a 30 year old Alfa Romeo Giullieta and drove it on the streets of Monoco and to Imola, and later the Stelvio Pass, something I wanted to do ever since I could remember. I read everything I can on the history over racing in the world and started cultivating a love of racing especially grand prix racing in the 30s, 50s, and 60s.
In my opinion the best driver all the time is Tazio Nuvolari, my hero. Alfa Romeo then Ferarri are the favorite manufacturers the best small car is the Alfa Gtv. Best old car is Bently type 6. The most fun car is the 1987 porsche 911 Carrera. I raced a Renault sports racer and that is my favorite activity, racing open top sports racers on challenging natural road circuits. Traveling is a close second and uncovering old stories of historic cars and racers just behind that. I want to combine all these things and more into this blog, so people get ideas for trips of their own and share experiences and the passion with fellow passionistas.
Why do I use the italian form for the name of this blog? Because Italy is my favorite country. It always has been before I even visited there. To me it's just the most romantic place, got the most interesting history, style, language, food, and people of anywhere in the world. I hope to move there someday soon. Certainly you could make a case for Germany, England, and France and even America, but to me, overall, Italy is it. So Ultima Passione it is, and Italy will have the first stories about it, but don't worry, I will be covering the other great Automotive countries in their turn too. Because the different countries, with all their variety of histories and styles,and the cars they have produced, along with their drivers, and the great historic places to visit is something I want to convey to my viewers and readers.
From the achingly lovely but fragile and troubled electrics of the British cars, to the storming engineering stoutness of the Germans, to the unique and often odd French, to the screaming curvacious and stylish Divas of the Italians.
Ultima Passione will have different sections: Auto Passion, Moto Passion, GP Passion, Circuit Passion, Pilote Passion, Travel Passion and Auto Archaeology.
Eventually my goal is to visit the site of every important race, every Factory, and every significant driver's birthplace, and site of their often untimely demise. We'll talk of Racetracks that are no longer there, to the best of today to the ones planned for the future.
One of my lofty goals is to drive every one of Tazio Nuvolari's racecars on all the tracks and streets, he ever raced on.
Obviously all of this is quite a grand undertaking, and so I am committing the rest of my life to it, but it is probably a bit too much for one man, so I am asking for your help as well. Share your experiences, your travels and insights and questions with us and we will all learn and share and grow together as a passionate community.
Let's help the younger generations have an understanding of the past glories and tragedies and that bring us to our current day.
I didn't get to race until I was 26, and didn't drive the Stelvio Pass until I was 30. I had read about the Stelvio Pass,-the highest point on the planet you can drive up to and the site of some sports car races in the fifties-at least 20 years earlier in some obscure magazine article or book. Let's get people to the track sooner. Let's inform them about affordable classic cars they can restore and collect. Let's save tracks in danger of being shut down.
Another goal high on my list: Let's get Alfa Romeo back to racing at significant venues such as Le Mans, Monza, and Spa. If Bentley and Audi could do it after long absences and troubled financial times, so can Alfa and Jaguar and Maserati and Ginetta and Lancia as well. Let's dream big and achieve big. It's a long journey, and it begins with the movement of one tire, one inch, then one revolution at a time. As with other great movements, the beginning is often the hardest, and it has been in this case, after all, I came up with this vision years ago, and it is only now seeing the light of the internet. But with perseverance, a certain momentum can be achieved and things go easier after that.
Finally, before I am dead and buried, let there be one more thing: the rebirth of open road races like the Mille Miglia, Targa Florio and Carrera Panamericana. Laws will have to be rewritten in some cases, but this is not impossible, with passion, patience and perseverance, nothing is. Let's get the fascinating historic cars out of museums and back on the roads and tracks for people to see and hear and delight in. Let's erect proper monuments for our fallen motor racing heroes.
It's a great challenge to be sure, but the Passionista have never backed down from a daunting challenge. From that first race held in southern France, to the 200 plus mph racers of today, we welcome challenges. Let's take up the cause and lead on into the future, with a knowing nod to our past. Let's revive the spirit of adventure in racing, and save it from becoming a commercial parade, with fixable outcomes.
Now you've read my goals. My hope is that some or all of this will reach a future Enzo Ferrari out there, stuck in a city without a car to dream and make plans to escape, to travel and to explore the possibilities. To never give up, and create happily to the end.
It's a great big world out there, and it is becoming more accessible by the day. There are so many places one simply must experience for oneself. You may not be easily able to race there, but you can almost always still drive there, and with an old enough car you can still drive quickly and even drift around the corners without getting into too much trouble with the local law enforcement types.
I may not be an expert, and there are so many out there doing great work, writing books and organizing events. But they seem to be a bit exclusive. Let's be a bit more inclusive, and offer our joy to the masses.
You used to be able to walk up to the side of the road, and watch the best cars in the world go by. Sure you had to risk your life to do it, but that was understood, and people thought it worth a certain level of risk. Now you have to spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars to go to a major event, and with a few exceptions, you can't get anywhere near the cars themselves, or close to the circuit. That's just not right.
People like to argue about who the best drivers of today are. Taking into account their competition and the cars they drive, they argue endlessly. Let's organize a real champion's race, where the best open wheel drivers are invited to drive identical GP2 cars or something similar, where only basic set up could be adjusted, so we could see their real talents on display. Let's make them race a venue they all were not familiar with, and see what happens. A race through the streets of NYC, or perhaps the old Nurburgring circuit. Let's keep it open to the public, who could sit in the woods and cheer their favorites like the old days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)