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12.15.11

So Worcester, It Hurts.

“Who Run It?”

by Steve Siddle

I hesitate to continue. It’s hard to go on bitching about the city I live in the wake of such a devastating loss. Last week Worcester, Ma lost a young firefighter in an early morning blaze on Union Hill. The death of Fireman John Davies occurred only days after the anniversary of the historic Worcester Cold Storage Fire that claimed the lives of six Firefighters.

I believe that it is important for us to stick together and stay positive in the face of tragedy and, in many ways;Worcester is at its best during the toughest times. I will never forget feeling for the first time, true pride in my hometown in the days and weeks after the Worcester Cold Storage fire.

I stood silent, with thousand of others, on Gold Star boulevards the funeral procession for the six firefighters drove slowly by, and I listened on a small radio at work as President Clinton spoke at the funeral service. For the first time in my life,Worcester, Ma was on the national news.

Now, once again, our hometown is on CNN for the same damn reason. We lost one of our bravest in a fire that shouldn’t have happened. Twelve years ago it was an abandoned factory building that killed, this time it was a condemned triple-decker. These are the monsters that haunt our city.

Never the less, we must take the opportunity to look at our city through the eyes of outsiders. What would you think of Worcester, Ma if you only heard about it after some tragedy? What would you see in the brief clips shown on CNN, on Newscenter 5, and on Inside Edition? Would you feel anything more than pity for this old working class town?

In many ways,Worcester shows its best side in the wake of a tragedy. We show ourselves as a tough, dedicated community who stick together when times get hard. We look like a rugged, rough around the edges, but endearing bunch of old school New Englanders. And we are.

But in these important moments when, for whatever the sad reason, the nation turns their eyes upon Worcester, who speaks for our city? Where is our Mayor?

Look at a photo of last week’s press conference and try to find the leader of the city. Who looks like he (or she) is the one in charge during our hardest hours? Is it the Fire Chief; is it the City Manager or the Lt. Governor? Can you even see our Mayor standing behind everyone else?

Look, I like Mayor Joe O’Brien and I don’t blame him for his insignificance. I suspect that he senses the lunacy of his powerless position and that is why he decided not to run for re-election. Perhaps he has greater ambitions. I hope he does.

Part of the problem with Worcester is that the only people who would want to be Mayor must have little to no ambition. Because of our outdated City Government structure, we will never have a “Strong Mayor.”

In 1947 Worcester residents voted for a “Plan E” type government which takes power away from the Mayor and distributes it among 11 city councilors. It is a groupthink mentality applied to government and it breeds indecision and inaction. Essentially we have been denied a true leader and given instead a bunch of low-level bureaucrats. And it shows.

At 3 pm on January Second, the inauguration of Joe Petty as the new Mayor of Worcester will take place at North High School. I voted for Joe Petty but I couldn’t really tell you why. I know next to nothing about the guy.

Unfortunately, I found out after the fact that Petty has already been a city councilor for twelve years, so he must be entrenched in the petty (pun intended) bullshit that our city council chooses to focus on. Still, I have hope.

We need to let this new Mayor know how important his role will be in the fight for our city. Send Joe an email and encourage him to buy a new suit or take voice lessons or something. In other words, tell Joe that he needs to act like a real politician with grand ambition. Tell our new Mayor that we need a leader who looks and acts stronger than we know he really is.

PettyJM@worcesterma.gov

Read more by Steve Siddle

20th Century Guitars by Dan Hunt

As with all good showings, the party must end (unless, of course you purchase a piece) and the work must come down to make way for the next installation. So, today at the Futon Company -129 Highland Street, Worcester, Ma- Todd Deal’s Passageways & Remedies, comes down from the walls to make room for 20th Century Guitars, a collection of refurbished & rebuilt guitars by local musician Dan Hunt. Sounds like business as usual at any given gallery, take one show down and hang another, one artist, one showing. But Elizabeth Hughes, owner of the Futon Company has managed time and time again to feature and promote an artists work while giving you a taste of everything the city has to offer. While Dan Hunt’s beautiful and  impressive collection of guitars hang in the spotlight, it will have a supporting cast of work from photographers, painters and craftsman from across Worcester that always reminds you of the creativity sprouting from the corners of our fair city.  The place is the Futon Company, the day is Friday the 16th of December, the time is 6pm until the party ends…

THE FUTON COMPANY

129 Highland Street

Worcester, Ma

http://www.futonco.net/

2oth Century Guitars by Dan Hunt

A collection of refurbished & rebuilt guitars by local musician Dan Hunt. As each of Dan’s guitars is ascetically beautiful, the unique story that Dan brings with each is equally as absorbing, coming from a man who is truly in love with his musical instrument, he can tell you the places it has been, to whose pick-work made the groove in the body. For any fan of guitars, music or passion for details, this collection is a must see.

Passageways & Remedies by Todd Deal

New work from painter, Todd Deal. Todd has described this collection of Paintings as, “a break from his usual style and method of painting…where I allowed the texture and color to guide the painting…” Viewing this abstract, vividly pigmented work, one would think that his method was second nature, each drawing your eye into it, making you move around the canvas, leaving you with a small portion of what the author was trying to reveal, giving you just enough to make you think about each piece. It is exactly the feeling I enjoy taking away from a showing of work. Although the full show will not be on display, you can find parts of Passageways & Remedies hanging alongside 20th Century Guitars, starting Dec. 16th at the Futon company.

 

12.2.11

**** Emergency Report. (This is not test.)******   

By Steve Siddle

Truth be told I’m sick of writing about Worcester. It’s hard not feel like a broken record. Also, as you might imagine, there ain’t a lot of money to be made in the “bitching about your home town” business.

I am always tempted to believe that nothing ever changes in Worcester. As if this city lay in some sort of Bermuda Triangle where in time gets tangled up in its feet and, too tired to move forward, lies down and naps.  A town frozen in time, too stubborn and out of shape to change. The world goes on without us.

But change is coming to Worcester whether we are ready or not. I was sitting in a coffee shop on Tremont St. when I overheard the conversation between a young married couple sitting beside me. They were flipping through a real estate magazine and trying decided where they were going to move to. Many young people in and around Boston are in similar situations. As young professionals get married and begin families they find that they can’t afford to live in Boston. They are being pushed father and farther west.

“I refuse to live in Worcester,” I heard the young woman say to her husband. “Oh totally!” he quickly agreed.Worcestermay as well be Beirut they way most people in Boston feel about it. This is the last place in the world they want to live.

Massachusetts is one of the most dynamic states of the Union. People from all over the world are being drawn toBoston.Massachusettsis eventually going to be divided up into bedroom communities, small towns, and shit cities.Bostonwill flourish but other cities will forced to define themselves or slowly die.Lawrence,Southbridge,Brockton,Dorchester and other mid-sized cities could become where the State dumps their drug addicts, drunks, sex offenders and poor immigrants. They will die.

Any town that can be salvaged because of proximity to Boston will begin to get better.Lowell,Fitchburg, even New Bedford with its new train into Boston will begin to thrive.Fall Riveris probably fucked.Springfieldis definitely fucked.

Worcester could go either way. Either the city will become a desirable place to live because of its affordability and proximity to Boston, or it will become a dumping ground. We will either attract young professionals who want to buy a house and start a family, or we will continue to attract bums looking for a bed and a corner to score on.

There was always a fantasy that Worcester could survive on its own, indifferent to the wants and needs of Boston. It’s an old and deep-rooted Village mentality. Some people attribute this Village Mentality to a good-natured Yankee Humility, but I don’t see it that way.

In a way, it’s as if the city has been heartbroken.Worcesterhas been lazy and depressed ever since we were abandoned by the factories that once made this town powerful. We really have not been the same since the Industrial Revolution ended.  The time has come to wake up and look in the mirror. Time to re-asses and reassure ourselves.

It’s either going to get a lot better or a lot worse, and sooner than you think.  Gunshots ringing out on City hall are not a good omen. But there are some signs of life. I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t have hope. But we need help.

Our politicians are completely unprepared and unqualified for the job. Each and every single local politician, yes everyone, has proven themselves to be short minded, apathetic, parochial, and dull. We have no leader, no spokesperson, or agent. Our cheerleaders are ugly and our mascot is missing. We don’t just need a new team, we need to change the game we have been playing.

I’m only writing this because nobody else is. The T& G has one foot out the door and Worcester Mag is run by hipsters and college interns. If you are sick of reading about beards and roller derby girls, ride with me. If you don’t know who won the last election and don’t really care, ride with me. If you are worried by what you see on the streets where you live, load up with me.

I’ve been working on a five point plan to improve this city and I will be unveiling and explaining each idea as I publish them here on Blankcanvasmagazine.com. Jonnie’s got my back as always, and I hope you do too. I plan to make some enemies and will not hesitate to take out who ever stands in our way. The time has come to fight for our city. Let’s ride.

Read more by STEVE SIDDLE

11.23.11

Thanksgiving 101

by Steve Siddle

How do you teach Thanksgiving? A few years ago I was teaching English as a second language at a refugee center in Worcester, Ma. My students ranged in age from 19 to 90, and they all had been in America less than a month. Some sought asylum, some came with papers that granted them Refugee Status, some had no papers, most were unsure of the immigration process. They all wanted to be American with a pure longing that moved me deeply.

My students  included; an elderly Paratrooper from Belarus, a single mother from Columbia, a displaced engineer from Afghanistan, a pair of 25-year-old twins from Liberia who had been child soldiers, a young Somali woman who had lived her entire life in refugee camps, and a brilliant Chinese woman who read every book I gave her.

Depending on who you asked, I was either a great teacher or a horrible one. I didn’t use any textbook; I followed no curriculum and completely ignored the grading system. Instead I adhered to a more Socratic method. I asked questions of my students that I thought they might be asked in their new American lives.  (“What is your address? Do you have a telephone number I can reach you at? Do you take any medications? What do you do for a living? Why are you here?”) And they asked me the questions they were afraid to ask anyone else. (“Where do I buy meat? How do I get a bus pass? Should I be afraid of the police? What do I do when it snows?”)

I used newspapers and advertisements for literature and I gave them each a dictionary. We went on field trips to the Greendale Mall, to Santiago’s Market, and to the DMV. I loved to turn off the lights in the classroom and play Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” and Duke Ellington’s “The Beautiful American.” I encouraged them to watch television with the sound off. “You can learn more from watching Americans than listening to them,” I would tell my students.

I never asked about their past. I taught them that, in America, it doesn’t matter where you came from, or how you got here, all that matters now is what you what to do with your freedom.  I wrote on the chalkboard in large graffiti style letters. “RE-CREATE YOURSELF!” I quoted Whitman and Malcolm X and told them to distrust anyone wearing an American Flag button.

I tried to make our time together comfortable and fun and I encouraged them to ask me questions with honestly and with courage. I tried to answer in the same manner. When Thanksgiving came, I was asked a lot of question about the Holiday. “Why do we eat Turkey? What is football? Where have all of the Indians gone? What is Black Friday, and should I be afraid of the day?”

The hardest question they asked me was “What does Thanksgiving mean to you?” I could have told them about The American Indian Movement’s observance of Thanksgiving as a “National Day of Mourning”, I could have shown “Charlie Brown’s the Great Pumpkin” or quoted “the Godfather”. I could have remembered my childhood traditions or told them about how my friends and I often get drunk the night before Thanksgiving. I could have talked about football.

At last I decided there were no adequate English words to describe how I feel about this American holiday. Instead I told them to go home and make the best food they could with what they had. When the day came, we all gathered together in the classroom and pushed aside the desks and chairs and made a table of the chalkboard. Boris brought home-made cheese, Aasiya brought porridge, the twins brought Ox tail, Daoud brought bread, and Xui Li brought soup.

Truth be told, it was not the most delicious Thanksgiving meal I ever had, but I’m proud to report that there were no leftovers. After the meal, when we were all full and happy and getting sleepy I read to them a poem I had recently found. I’ve read that poem every Thanksgiving since and it means more to me each year.

I hope that wherever you are tomorrow, whoever you are with and whatever you have eaten, you might take a moment and think about these words. I don’t often give assignments, but I believe that it is important for all of us to take a moment to read unique voices. It is a difficult, mysterious poem and I won’t claim to know exactly what it means, but I believe it captures something quintessentially American. I hope it inspires or challenges or confirms something we all feel. After reading this poem, you can go back to watching the Godfather or Football or napping in front of the fireplace and feel proud and thankful to be here.

Happy Thanksgiving, Steve

The Gift Outright

by Robert Frost

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

before we were her people. She was ours

inMassachusetts, inVirginia,

but we wereEngland’s, still colonials

possessing what we were still possessed  by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

until we found out it was ourselves

We were with holding from our land of living,

and forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(the deed of gift was many deeds of war)

to the land vaguely realizing westward,

but still unstirred, artless, un enhanced,

such as she was, such as she would become.

Read A THANKSGIVING PRAYER by Steve Siddle, November 2010

Read more by Steve Siddle

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Worcester Anti-Foreclosure Team, Minthorne Street, Worcester, Ma

The Worcester Anti-Foreclosure Team stood with home owner Hector Risario aiding in the bank’s decision of  postponement of foreclosure on Mr.Rosario’s property on Minthorne Street earlier today.

by Jonnie Coutu

Find more work by jonnie: http://www.jonniecoutu.com/

Photo of the Day (AN IMAGE MADE) Submissions

Photo of the Day (AN IMAGE MADE) is posted Monday-Friday.

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Consider The Holga #20

by Jonnie Coutu

Find more work by jonnie: http://www.jonniecoutu.com/

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HUMAN GRAFFITI

A  new story from our friend Corey Shubert (aka the schube)

Find more stories and essays by The Schube and Eijo at:

Write, Maniacs, Write!

In which Eijo and The Schube explore the writing process through a dark glass of personal observations, in-depth analyses, and other assorted shenanigans.

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They Lived Happily Ever After…

by Jonnie Coutu

Find more work by jonnie: http://www.jonniecoutu.com/

Photo of the Day (AN IMAGE MADE) Submissions

Photo of the Day (AN IMAGE MADE) is posted Monday-Friday.

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So Worcester, It Hurts…October 27, 2011

by Steve Siddle

On a cool, drizzly day in late October, there is nowhere I would rather be than George’s Coney Island in Worcester, Ma. Coney Island is something like a time machine. Every time I walk through its doors I am taken back to childhood. I suspect that anyone who grew up in this town has felt the same way.

There are certain things that the Worcester Native knows intrinsically, facts that have been passed down in blood and bone. We know, for instance; that Park Ave is to be avoided in the afternoon, we know that to be Mayor of Worcester is a meaningless position; we know that the Airport is empty and we know not to pick on college kids. And somehow, we know from birth, that Coney Island is closed on Tuesdays.

I was a baby when I was first brought to Coney Island and I have come here at least once a year ever since. In many ways Coney Island is like a church. The large sparsely decorated room has the feng shui of a sanctuary. The immaculate tile floor, the wooden booths with the patina of church pews and the long, clean countertop at which we the faithful line up to receive the sacrament subliminally remind us that “this is a holy place.”

Coney Island started selling hot dogs and hamburgers in 1918- the year the Red Sox won the World Series- and quickly established itself as a city institution. In 1940 the famous neon sign, with a hand clenching a hot dog, was installed. I have seen pictures of that sign all over the world and in various magazines. I remember being happy to see Coney Island profiled in an Esquire article titled “How to Eat Like a Man.”

You can tell a lot about a man by the way he orders his hot dogs. Those in the know order their dogs simply by the number of dogs they want followed by the word “up.”  “Up” means mustard, onion, and special sauce. I tend to order “3 up, chips, and a grape soda.” Many regulars order chocolate milk with their dogs. I suspect this has something to do with the nostalgic thrill of drinking out of a milk carton.

On the other side of the dining room is the bar. For most of my life I only peered into that smaller, darker smoky room.  (I have been there more times before smoking was banned in bars than after. Yes, I am old.)

Only once did I drink and eat on the bar side. It was many years ago, my friends and I got exceedingly drunk, ate a disgusting amount of Coney Island dogs and stumbled across the street to the strip club. Ugly things happened that night. I have sworn to God and Patrolmen Quinn that I will never repeat those mistakes, which reminds me of a time I used a bag full of Coney Island dogs as a weapon.

One august when I was still in high school, I had to attend Summer School. If you’ve ever had to go to Summer School you know how torturous it is to sit in a classroom all day while your friends hang out and smoke weed by the Lake. I had a teacher that summer who I hated with a passion and he always made me stay later than the other students. On the last day of class I planned to get back at him.

That morning on the way to school I stopped by Coney Island and ordered “5 Up with extra onions” and took the bag to school. While my buddy kept an eye out for me, I broke into the teacher’s Hatchback Honda Accord and shoved the bag full of dogs far under the back seat. When he kept me after class that afternoon, I didn’t mind at all because I knew that the longer his car sat in the hot summer sun, the worse his car was going to stink when he got in.

As I sat at Coney Island, in the same booth I always find myself in, I was flooded by memories. Like the countless names carved into the booth, I realized that the past is tangible, perhaps that it what we love about old restaurants. In this room, we can see, feel and taste what we thought we had lost forever.

Read more by Steve Siddle