January 17, 2008--Brooklyn Time
If you ever wondered why so many writers and comedians were incubated in Brooklyn, the answer is that they grew up telling time by using the huge, four-sided clock high atop the borough’s tallest building, the Williamsburgh Savings Bank.
The clock is in fact four separate clocks with their own mechanisms, which assured that they were always out of synch. And that’s the point—being out of step.
If you were coming north up Flatbush Avenue, it was 10:15. If proceeding south, 10:05. The west-facing clock ran even faster and might not even have reached 10:00. And forget the one on the east front—it could be either faster or slower than all the others.
This meant that growing up in a world that was more and more valuing precision in all its aspects and punctuality in all its behaviors, it was hard, impossible, if one had to depend on those clocks, to ever be on time much less get sufficiently acculturated enough in this changing world to ever have any chance to be successful at anything that required time-bound discipline.
Thus so many turned to writing. Did Norman Mailer or Henry Miller ever need to do anything on time? And what about Lenny Bruce or Allan King—yes, timing is all when it comes to comedy, but not the sort of timing that is measured by any clock.
These out-of-synch clocks made a mockery of the modernizing world. And served as just the right sort of preparation for artists wishing to publish their own transgressive fancies or for jokesters who knew from the clocks, and by looking out at the world beyond, that everything ultimately was an absurd, cosmic, existential joke. Even the perpetually failing Brooklyn Dodgers contributed to this dark world view. So who needed to know from time if we and the Dodgers were always waiting until next year?
But this is all about to change, and thus I worry about Brooklyn’s future.
Those who believe in dragging Brooklyn into the 20th century (forget the 21st) have “fixed” these clocks and now have got them operating in synch. Why, you may ask since they have perversely served Brooklynites so well since they were first set in motion in 1929?
Because some fancy real estate developer bought the building, dispossessed all the dentists who had been practicing there for decades (don’t ask), and has converted all those ortho- and periodontists’ offices into multi-million dollar condos with harbor views, health clubs, and concierge service. (See linked NY Times article.)
And we know those fancy folks who will be shelling out the big bucks to move in will want to be sure they know what time it is. What time it actually is and not some metaphysical stab at it.
Of course I wish them well. Hedge funds have largely taken the place of serious novels and all the best jokes are now about us. So now at least they will know what time it is.
The clock is in fact four separate clocks with their own mechanisms, which assured that they were always out of synch. And that’s the point—being out of step.
If you were coming north up Flatbush Avenue, it was 10:15. If proceeding south, 10:05. The west-facing clock ran even faster and might not even have reached 10:00. And forget the one on the east front—it could be either faster or slower than all the others.
This meant that growing up in a world that was more and more valuing precision in all its aspects and punctuality in all its behaviors, it was hard, impossible, if one had to depend on those clocks, to ever be on time much less get sufficiently acculturated enough in this changing world to ever have any chance to be successful at anything that required time-bound discipline.
Thus so many turned to writing. Did Norman Mailer or Henry Miller ever need to do anything on time? And what about Lenny Bruce or Allan King—yes, timing is all when it comes to comedy, but not the sort of timing that is measured by any clock.
These out-of-synch clocks made a mockery of the modernizing world. And served as just the right sort of preparation for artists wishing to publish their own transgressive fancies or for jokesters who knew from the clocks, and by looking out at the world beyond, that everything ultimately was an absurd, cosmic, existential joke. Even the perpetually failing Brooklyn Dodgers contributed to this dark world view. So who needed to know from time if we and the Dodgers were always waiting until next year?
But this is all about to change, and thus I worry about Brooklyn’s future.
Those who believe in dragging Brooklyn into the 20th century (forget the 21st) have “fixed” these clocks and now have got them operating in synch. Why, you may ask since they have perversely served Brooklynites so well since they were first set in motion in 1929?
Because some fancy real estate developer bought the building, dispossessed all the dentists who had been practicing there for decades (don’t ask), and has converted all those ortho- and periodontists’ offices into multi-million dollar condos with harbor views, health clubs, and concierge service. (See linked NY Times article.)
And we know those fancy folks who will be shelling out the big bucks to move in will want to be sure they know what time it is. What time it actually is and not some metaphysical stab at it.
Of course I wish them well. Hedge funds have largely taken the place of serious novels and all the best jokes are now about us. So now at least they will know what time it is.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
11:24 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home