#72nd street

[goshyesvintageads]

Zeckendorf Co, 1988

[ado0odi]

[balu8]

Nicolas de Crécy: 72nd Street Station

[wanderingnewyork]

From 2019: A B train enters the #72nd_Street_Station, #Manhattan.

[katereads]

The short, pithy summary of The Princess of 72nd Street is “something something mental illness on the upper west side in the late 1970s.” And it’s just so much more than that.

[judgingbooksbycovers]

The Princess of 72nd Street: A Novel

By Elaine Kraf.

[leapingmonkeys]

La Caridad 78 Is Back on 72nd Street Continuing the Cuban-Chinese Connection

[thethief1996]

Israel has just bombed a hospital where hundreds of wounded and refugees were taking solace. Journalists in Gaza have reported there was hardly a single body whole in the aftermath (If you can stomach it, there's a video of a father holding what remains of his child). At least 500 people killed by IOF soldiers, who planned this action, got into an airplane and dropped that bomb willingly. The deadliest attack in five wars, according to the Ministry of Health.

Israel has denied ownership of the attack and said it was a misfired Hamas rocket. Originally, they celebrated it on their social media, saying they had destroyed a Hamas target, treating the deaths like an unfortunate collateral. After international backlash, they posted videos to their social media claiming it was a Hamas rocket. The video, though, shows a second explosion 40 minutes after the airstrike, and they edited it our of their tweet in a pathetic attempt at covering up.

Israel has said multiple times that they were going to bomb hospitals. They told doctors to evacuate and leave their patients to death because they were going to bomb, namely: Al Shifa, Shuhada Al Aqsa and the Quwaiti Hospital. Al Shifa housed at least 10.000 refugees and wounded, and worked as a hub for the press because it was one of the only hospitals that still had working generators. Medical crew worked with sirens blaring to signal the hospitals were not empty. This was a purposeful massacre. These people died hungry, thirsty and in pain because of the Israeli government's cruelty.

CNN and other media outlets already tried to pin the blame on Hamas, parroting back the pathetic propaganda being sold by the IOF. Even in death, Palestinians can't be respected and are used to further their own oppression. These people's deaths are not going to be in vain. Within our lifetimes, Palestine will be free.

Take action. The Labour Party in the UK had an emergency meeting today after several councilors threatened to resign if they didn't condemn Israeli war crimes. Calling to show your complaints works.

FOR PEOPLE IN THE USA: USCPR has developed this toolkit for calls

FOR PEOPLE IN THE UK: Friends of Al-Aqsa UK and Palestine Solidarity UK have made toolkits for calls and emails

FOR PEOPLE IN GERMANY: Here's a toolkit to contact your representatives by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN IRELAND: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN POLAND: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN DENMARK: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN SWEDEN: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

Protests in support have already erupted in Beirut, Madrid and Rabat in response to the shelling of the hospital. Join your local protest and raise your voices. For people in the US, Israel has just asked for additional $10bi in aid on top of the annual $3.8bi already given to them. Palestinians are asking that you refuse this loudly, with their every breath.

Here's a constantly updating list of protests:

Global calendar

USA calendar

Here are upcoming events:

WASHINGTON, DC: Outside Congress on 18/10 at 12 PM

WASHINGTON, DC: NATIONAL MARCH in front of the White House on 4/11 at 12 PM

SAN DIEGO: 2125 Pan American E Rd. (Spreckles Organ Pavillion) on 18/10 at 7 PM

NEW YORK: 72nd st. And 5th ave., Brooklyn on 21/10 at 2 PM

NEW YORK: CUNY Grad Building on 18/10 at 2 PM

NEW YORK: Oct 18, 5pm, Steinway & Astoria Blvd.

DALLAS: 1954 Commerce Street (Dallas Morning News Building) on 19/10 at 3 PM

[CAR RALLY] KITCHENER-WATERLOO: Fairview Park, 2960 Kingsway Dr. on 18/10 at 6 PM

KITCHENER-WATERLOO: CBC Building, 117 King St. W on 19/10 at 5 PM

HOUSTON: Zionist Consulate, 24 Greenway Plaza on 18/10 at 4 PM

OMAHA: 72nd St & Dodge St on 18/10 at 6 PM

SAINT PAUL, MN: Oct. 18, 5:30pm. State Capitol, 75 Rev Dr Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.

BALTIMORE: Oct 20, 6pm. Baltimore City Hall

DUBLIN: Leinster House, Kildare Street, Dublin 1 on 18/10 at 5 PM

THURLES: Liberty Square on 19/10 at 7 PM

LURGAN: Market Street on 21/10 at 3 PM

PORTO ALEGRE: Rua João Alfredo, 61 on 18/10 at 19h

RIO DE JANEIRO: Cinelândia on 19/10 at 17h

RECIFE: Parque Treze de Maio on 19/10 at 17h

MANAUS: Teatro Amazonas, Largo de São Sebastião on 19/10 at 17h

SÃO PAULO: Praça Oswaldo Cruz on 22/10 at 11h

FOZ DO IGUAÇU: Praça da Paz on 22/10 at 9h

TSHWANE: Belgrade Square Park, Jan Shoba Street on 20/10 at 10 AM

VEREENIGING: Roshnee Sports Grounds on 21/10 at 14h30

Feel free to add more resources

[the1920sinpictures]

December 14, 1915 Central Park, after a blizzard. This is 72nd Street view. From New York City-Vintage History, FB.

[muzaktomyears]

Yoko said to me: ‘I was told John was in danger in New York’

Elliot Mintz was the friend with whom John Lennon and Yoko Ono spent some of their most private moments. Now he has written a book in which he reveals what went on after the former Beatle was murdered in 1980

John Lennon and Yoko Ono in New York on November 26, 1980, just days before his death

Part of me started to wonder if perhaps I’d acted rashly. My mother had heard a radio report about a shooting on 72nd Street. The Lennons were not answering their phones. The Dakota operator had hung up on me. Was that enough to send me racing to the airport to catch the last flight to New York? But then I saw a flight attendant exit the cockpit, tears streaming down her cheeks. As she hesitatingly made her way down the aisle, I reached out and touched her arm.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “They killed him,” she answered, gulping back a sob. “They murdered John Lennon.”

For a long moment I found it impossible to process what I’d been told. And then, like a flash fire in the brainpan, the horror of what happened exploded in my consciousness. “John is dead,” I whispered to myself. My best friend was gone. My heart began to race, I found myself gasping for air. I literally doubled over in pain as my whole body absorbed the shock.

Lennon, Ono and Elliot Mintz outside the Mampei hotel in Karuizawa, Japan, in 1977

I don’t know how long I sat, crumpled in agony, but eventually I regained a modicum of composure. I realised I had to marshal my thoughts and plan what to do once the plane touched down at JFK. I needed to pull myself together, bury my grief, and be strong for Yoko and Sean.

I had seen John just a few weeks earlier, in New York; he and Yoko and I had spent a long evening at the Dakota listening to their soon-to-be-dropped Double Fantasy album. At around two in the morning I said my goodbyes. John walked me to the door.

“Remember,” he cautioned me, “walk on the side of the street where the doormen are. Don’t walk on the side of the street next to the park.” “John,” I said, “I grew up in New York. I know how to walk in this city.” That was the last time I saw him.

Lennon and Ono at home with their son, Sean

By the time I got to the Dakota, at around 7.30am, at least 5,000 people had gathered on 72nd Street. At the request of Richie De Palma, Studio One’s office manager, a couple of officers helped me across the police cordon. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with the crime scene: there was blood on the pavement as well as shards of broken glass from a window shattered by one of the bullets.

I rode the elevator to the seventh floor. The Lennons’ housekeeper, Masako, let me in. It was clear she’d been crying. “Yoko-san in bedroom,” she said in broken English. “Door locked.”

I paused at the closed door, then gently knocked. “Yoko, it’s Elliot,” I told her softly. “I’ll be right outside until you are ready to see me. I’m not going anywhere.”

After about five minutes, I saw the door open a crack. I stood up and peered inside the bedroom, illuminated by the big-screen TV, which was showing live local news footage of the Dakota. Yoko had been watching, with the volume off. Even though the windows were shut and the shutters closed, I could hear the music from seven floors below. The sound of mourners on the street singing John’s lyrics would fill the apartment for days to come.

Lennon surrounded by fans in New York in August 1980

Standing by the bed, wearing silk pajamas and a kimono, Yoko looked incredibly frail. I reached over and gingerly put my arm around her. She touched my face, then crawled back into bed.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked her. “There’s nothing anybody can do,” she weakly responded. “Have you eaten anything? Can I bring a cup of tea?” “Elliot,” she answered, “your presence is comforting. You don’t have to say or do anything.”

I sat down in my usual spot, the white wicker chair, and we both watched the images flickering on the TV. For a while, my eyes wandered around the room, eventually settling on John’s bedside table, where I spotted a pile of books — it was an eclectic stack, to say the least, everything from The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir to Your Child’s Teeth: A Parent’s Guide to Making and Keeping Them Perfect by Stephen J Moss. Yoko’s reading material was similarly varied.

Suddenly, a picture of the suspect appeared on the screen. Yoko sat up and stared intently at the mug shot of the assailant; she seemed both mesmerised and repulsed — and deeply confused — by the face of the man who had murdered her husband.

The following weeks were a blur. I spent a lot of them downstairs at Studio One, joining a staff of four or five employees, fielding a never-ending barrage of phone calls. At one point early on, an assistant held out a phone for me. “He says he’s Ringo Starr,” she whispered. Ringo was calling from a pay phone and wanted to make a condolence call with his girlfriend (now wife), Barbara. I ended up sneaking them into the building through a back entrance.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Ringo told her when she greeted him and Barbara in her bedroom. “No, you don’t,” Yoko replied, “but I’m grateful you are here.”

One evening, just a day or two after John’s murder, I returned to the apartment to find Julian Lennon sitting alone in the kitchen. He was now 17 and had just flown in from London by himself to pay his respects. (He told me later that the flight was filled with passengers reading papers covered with headlines about his father’s killing.) John and Julian had made some repairs to their estranged relationship, but Julian had practically no relationship with Yoko or with his half-brother, Sean.

“Would you look after Julian?” Yoko asked me. “It’s so depressing here. Take him around New York, show him different places.”

She was asking partially as a kindness to Julian but also as a mercy to herself. Yoko was in no condition to deal with John’s grieving teenage son; she could barely handle her own child’s grief. Sean reminded her so much of John, she found it painful to be in the same room with him, so he and his nanny were dispatched to the Lennons’ vacation home in Florida.

Police outside the Dakota, the apartment complex where Lennon was killed

I found the idea of sightseeing with Julian a bit odd, but we ended up spending a day together, culminating with a trip to the viewing deck atop the World Trade Center. It was one of the few pleasant interludes in an otherwise unbearable stretch of misery.

One of the other assignments I took up around this time was reading through the bags of hate mail. The most worrying ones were flagged for further investigation by law enforcement and shared with Yoko’s private security, who started pinning the names and descriptions of the senders on a bulletin board at Studio One.

I was always running into bodyguards in the kitchen. The irony was impossible to miss: this house built on love and peace was now filled with guns. At one point, even I started carrying a snub-nosed .38 revolver in an ankle holster. I was also provided with a bulletproof vest. One of the few times I recall willingly slipping into it was when a man fitting the description of one of the assailant’s fan club letter writers was spotted on the street outside the Dakota.

He was a tall, young, otherwise innocuous-looking fellow. I approached him carefully and asked him for the time. When he lifted his wrist to look at his watch, I could see under his jacket what appeared to be the butt of a gun.

I quickly returned to the Dakota lobby and called the police. They arrived in minutes, pushed him against a wall, discovered what was indeed a weapon, and hurried him away.

Julian Lennon, Ono, Mintz and Sean Lennon at the dedication of Strawberry Fields as a memorial to Lennon in New York in 1984

Nearly as shocking and upsetting as the dangers that were swirling outside the Dakota were the perils lurking inside. Yoko would learn that some of her most trusted confidants were scheming against her. By far the worst offender was an assistant named Fred Seaman, a trusted aide who, earlier in the year, accompanied John on a trip to Bermuda — the trip on which John wrote many of the songs for Double Fantasy.

Incredibly, almost immediately after the murder, Seaman began smuggling shopping bags stuffed with private papers from the Lennon offices and residences — including five personal journals that John kept hidden under his bed — hauling them uptown to the apartment of his accomplice, Robert Rosen, as part of a scheme to write a tell-all book. We eventually got the diaries back, and Seaman ended up pleading guilty to second-degree larceny.

Yoko found herself surrounded by traitors. Whom could she turn to? For a while, she leaned on the companionship of her friend and interior designer Sam Havadtoy, who not only moved into the Dakota but began sharing a bedroom with Yoko, although not the one she had slept in with John. This struck many on her staff as curious. Although Havadtoy was undeniably charming, appeared to have Yoko’s best interests at heart, and was terrific with Sean, he was also a gay man.

Yoko continued to grow more and more wary of just about everyone around her. I don’t know if I ever fell under Yoko’s suspicion but I do recall one moment when she and I came dangerously close to a serious argument, after I implored Yoko to let me conduct a radio interview with her and Sean to dispel some of the more outrageous rumours being spun about the Lennon family following the publication of Albert Goldman’s book about John, like the notion that he was an abusive husband and father (who once allegedly kicked Sean across a room); and that he was a drugged-out recluse, possibly schizophrenic, and an enthusiastic devotee of Thai prostitutes.

“I’ve never asked you to comment about any of the other books, but this one we can’t ignore,” I told her. Yoko paused for a moment, then responded. “Let me check with my advisers,” she said, meaning her team of tarot readers and numerologists.

Mourners at a vigil for Lennon shortly after his death

I’d never expressed scepticism about Yoko’s mystical beliefs but for once, I pushed back. “Yoko, let me ask you something,” I said. “If these advisers are as good as you believe they are, why is it that none of them saw what was going to happen to John? Why was there no warning?”

Yoko’s answer astonished me. “Elliot,” she said, “how do you know I wasn’t warned? Did you ever ask me if there were warnings?”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll ask you: Did any of your advisers warn you about John being in danger?” “Yes,” she answered. “I was told he was in danger in New York and that he should be removed immediately. That’s why I sent him to Bermuda over the summer … But I couldn’t keep him away forever. He had to come back at some point.”

I was speechless. “Look, Elliot,” Yoko went on, “you know how John felt about his own safety. We talked about this at our kitchen table when your friend [the actor Sal Mineo] was killed. John said, ‘If they’re going to get you, they’re going to get you.’ It didn’t matter what my advisers told me. He didn’t believe in bodyguards, he wouldn’t put up with them. He wanted to be free.”

(source)

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Edward Hopper, The Bridle Path, 1939. Oil on canvas.

The Bridle Path shows three riders on horseback approaching the West 72nd Street entrance to Central Park in New York City. A large building [the Dakota] is seen above the hillside towering over the three riders - two women and a man. The riders are dressed in modern 1930s riding garb and appear to be galloping toward the dark tunnel. The man leans back and his horse's head rears up, slowing the gallop as they approach the tunnel.

Sotheby's says, "As the riders approach the foreboding darkness of the tunnel, they at first seem to fearlessly race ahead into the unknown. Yet the rider of the white horse pulls at the reins, as if questioning the decision to proceed" and suggests that this may have reflected Hopper's anxiety about the coming war. Hopper said, "There is a certain fear and anxiety, a great visual interest in the things that one sees coming into a great city."

Photo: WikiArt Text: edwardhopper.net

[wanderingnewyork]

Windows on #East_72nd_Street, #Manhattan.

[railwayhistorical]

Seven Train

This was taken on the outbound platform of the Seven Train at 72nd Street and Roosevelt Avenue. Landmarks of Manhattan are visible in the background—one can see the Empire State, the Chrysler, and Citicorp Buildings along with a cluster of midtown towers toward the right side of the frame.

One image by Richard Koenig, taken in the spring of 1984.

[manhattanstepbystep]

Now that East Harlem & El Barrio have been walked (and blogged), I'm going to move back to the west side of Manhattan.

Before I start Manhattan Valley, one of my favorite neighborhoods, I'm going to walk Riverside Park.

Riverside Park runs from West 125th Street to West 59th Street. Since I covered South Riverside Park when I walked The Great Saunter (you can see those photos here), I'm only walking to West 72nd Street.

Let's go!!