Monthly Archives: January 2011

Moscow on the Hudson?

Chez Foley/Fleisig this Morning

The scene from my home office window.

Down the block, towards the river.

Some of our backyard guests going through part of their 5+ pounds a day of seed and suet.

One pair of long-term residents wait their turn at the feeder.

The New “Arab Street”?

Although history is full of unintended consequences, I think we should give thanks that the “Arab Street” has finally turned its wrath on their real oppressors, the autocratic, quasi-monarchical and religio-demagogic oligarchs and dictators who rule their own countries.

Let’s just hope that the United States doesn’t reflexively come out in support of these reprehensible Middle Eatern regimes, as we have more often than not in the past, merely in the name of “stability.”


Speaker of the House John Boner. (Photomontage:

N. Def. Act of political suicide that  John Boner and the 112th Congress are going to commit by shutting down the Federal government, not raising the debt ceiling, and seeking meaningless impeachment indictments against President Obama.

As the saying goes, first time as tragedy…

116th Street

Height of summer, and
the creative class is out
out walking their
children as they’d
walk their dogs.

Some have hired help.
Others not. Some
have grandparents. Or
at least they look
like grandparents.
But who’s to tell
in this day and
age of lively sperm
and wombs for rent?

The pigeons thought
I’d brought a snack.
This, too, is predictable.
To want, for anything,
for water, a notion
antique as the
nonexistent fountains.

The New Endeavor — “The New York Diary”

Walt Whitman. Sketch by unknown artist in Whitman Notebook. (c) The Smithsonian Institution.

In the spirit of the Master (Whitman, not James), we are pleased to announce our New York Diary, a series of occasional prose poems.

This is a bit of a departure from our political and financial emphasis that’s dominated this blog the last few years. Well, man can’t live on bile alone, can he? And something along these lines was always intended to be part of this site, but after the reception of the one prose poem, on David Beckham in his underwear in springtime and other things, it kind of fell away. We’ll give it another go here.