Free-Range Chickens on 125th Street

(Photo: Corey Kilgannon/The New York Times)


This article appeared in today's New York Times. Newsworthy. Enjoy.

Kyle


September 15, 2008, 12:29 pm

By Corey Kilgannon

Why did the chicken cross 125th Street? That’s what some Harlem residents are trying to figure out. Last Thursday, a bunch of chickens and a big white turkey suddenly appeared near the corner of 125th Street and Second Avenue and promptly began pecking around in traffic.

The chickens were loosely gathered in a vacant lot next to the gas station on the northwest corner, but they were hardly confined to the lot. They roamed the gas station and strayed all over the sidewalk and the street. They darted in front of traffic and generally amused passers-by and the people waiting at the nearby bus stop.

“You see a new group every so often,” said Monique Dudley, a paraprofessional for the Department of Education who watched the chickens as she waited for the crosstown bus and began taking photographs of the chickens with her phone, to send to friends.

“I have to send my friends pictures or else they would never believe we have chickens on 125th Street.”

Frankie Quinones, 42, of Manhattan, a hospital administrator, said, “I don’t know why they’re here, but the people around here seem to look out for them.”

“They better not go too far, or they’ll be chicken soup,” he said. “You see that big turkey? I hope he’s not around here by Thanksgiving.”

Don Newcomb, a construction worker renovating an apartment building across the street from the lot, said that “some guy” keeps dumping chickens in the area.

“This crazy guy keeps buying them from the market — some animal-right guy, but I think he’s messed up in the head — and he keeps leaving them here,” Mr. Newcomb said. “He thinks he’s saving them, but it’s not like they’re safe around here. Somebody told me the hawks swoop down on them, too. Eventually, the Health Department comes, or whatever, the A.S.P.C.A., and they pick them up.”

“They run out in the road, I’ve already seen two of them get run over,” he said. “It’s a shame, because they’re cool chickens.”

The Center for Animal Care and Control, which handles such problems for the city, has been repeatedly called to the 125th Street spot because of complaints about chickens, said Richard P. Gentles, a spokesman for the group. In the summer of 2007, its officials recovered 25 chickens and a turkey. On Aug. 20, they recovered 13 chickens, he said, which were taken to farms outside the city.

Chicken complaints are not uncommon in New York, he said.

“We usually get one or two, but to get 25 is a lot,” he said. He said that it was not known where the chickens come from, but that “when you get a stray chicken, it usually comes from a live poultry market in the area.”

The agency recovered 354 chickens in 2007, he said, compared with 425 rabbits and 396 raccoons. The most rescued animal in the city, however, is turtles — 754 of them in 2007. “I guess a lot of people have turtles,” Mr. Gentles said.

Joseph Pentangelo, assistant director for humane law enforcement at the A.S.P.C.A., said his agency had responded twice to anonymous complaints of chickens in the area.

“It’s illegal to keep a rooster in the city, but chickens are not illegal,” he said. “Abandoning any animal is a crime, and chickens can’t really fend for themselves in an urban environment. I’ve heard of groups buying them from slaughterhouses and repatriating them, but to place them on the streets of New York is creating a hazard for the chickens and for drivers who have to dodge them in the streets.”

An animal care official said that a note was left on a nearby fence. “Please do not bother the animals,” it said.

The note continued: “I removed them from the chicken market and they are sickly and unfit to eat. Please provide them with food and water if you think they need it.”

A phone number was listed. A man who answered that line said that he was Alex LaForte, 38, a New York native, and that he had been feeding and caring for the chickens for almost two years. He said he had kept them in a henhouse in the vacant lot, but it was taken down.

Mr. LaForte said he picked up castoff food from supermarkets and delivered it on his bicycle each night. “I’m just doing all I can to help them survive another night out there,” said Mr. LaForte, who said he had no job or home of his own and was staying with friends and relatives in East Harlem.

He added: “I don’t know who’s putting them out there, probably some rescue group, but whoever it is is saving them from suffering. I’ve seen the way they’re mistreated and made to suffer in those slaughterhouses.”

“We’re all struggling through these hard times, and the chickens are struggling to survive, too,” he said. “They find freedom on the city streets, and once they find freedom, they can eat and survive, rather than be put in a pen or slaughtered and eaten. I’m a struggler, and I try to help others struggling. If I feed them, they’ll survive.”

The original article can be found here.

New Desk - A Sigh of Relief

I'm composing this blog at the site of my new desk at work. The last two years has seen it's fair share of "work station moves", and I'm thinking this current move will stick as long as I'm in this job.

You see, when I first began working here at the Registrar's Office at UCSD, I began in the most miserable of desk locations. It was right beside the door, in a waiting area, in a HALLWAY, right next to a conference room (where miserable academic faculty would come up to me and ask me to make them copies - I usually stared blankly at them until they left), and the site of frequent office get-togethers (spilled drinks on desk, someone sitting on my computer, cake in my chair, confetti in my hair, etc.) Once I had been sufficiently humbled into submission, a colleague suggested that I buy plants as a sort of barrier since this desk had no walls. I made a vow to never complain about a cubicle again. Anyway, these plants... They served as a sort of barrier between me and the outside world of office-land. It was glorious. My work place was suddenly transformed from a harsh concrete reality of abrasive, obtrusive ugliness into a dream-scape of green, lush countryside. It was a temporary reprieve of sorts, even if most of it was just in my own head.

I should mention the plants would not have been enough to keep me from quitting my job were it not for the promise of that glorious day.... What glorious day? The promise of a new day when the Registrar's Office would be moved into a nice, new building just across the street. After a month or so of glorying in my fauna, we moved that clear, spring day in March of 2007. This particular day, the air outside was crisp, the sun shone clear, and the sound of birds singing was music upon my eardrums in such a way only Tim Burton could dream of.

My object of my hopes, however, would soon fade again in 'light' of another reality. The new desk in the new building, though surrounded by windows and far from any beleaguered, academic soul, was, once again, too much for me too handle as the bright uninhibited San Diego sun shone through untinted, unblinded, unrelenting windows. I was blinded. The long sleepless nights and days of headaches ensued. For two weeks, all I could think about or see was the sun branded, as it were, upon my psyche and more literally upon my retinas.

I would move again, temporarily, to another desk until the blinds were installed. Five weeks later, these were installed and I moved back. I was finally settled... or so I thought. I should digress to note that I experienced almost one year or "workstation settledness" until my former boss, on his way out the door, decided I should be moved to a new, more miserable desk since I "would not have a boss..." "Hmmmm, whose fault is that?" I thought. Nonetheless, I would be the one to receive the punishment. And for the last 6 months, I have. Surrounded by student workers stamping and copying, an unmentioned employee who liked to ask me lots of questions in a high-pitched voice, ten people looking over my shoulder. If the objective was for people to keep an eye on me, my former boss' goal was met. Too bad he's not here to give me the performance appraisal for that misery.

At any rate, I've now endured it heartily for the prize set before me; my new and current workstation. I now have windows (with blinds) once again, no one looking over my shoulder, and even my peace lily to keep me company. Not to mention the fact that I can actually work now without being interrupted constantly. Novel thought, really.

Now, you might ask, what was the purpose of writing this blog? I mean, really, what is the purpose? To you I answer this: It is a bold, hearty assertion of my new-found freedom away from all that which annoyed me before. It is very bold and very free. Free bird. Because I can.

Cases or sleeves? That is the question.

It's been a while since I've written, but I thought I wrote something in e-mail today that was so brilliant that I had to share it for the edification of humanity.

A little background...
We're currently trying to figure out the CD case for my (former) band's record. The choices are jewel-cases or sleeves (which are more earthy). Nate sent an e-mail to inquire as to our thoughts regarding this important decision. I have included Nate's original e-mail and then my response below that.

Here is Nate's original e-mail. Quite entertaining in itself:

So, give me your pros and cons on:

CD Jewel Cases

CD Sleeves

Jewel cases are expensive, really expensive...and they (the manufacturers) seem to nickel and dime you on jewel cases. Example, I found a site (diskfaktory.com) that offers 300 jewels for like $700...but that doesn't include color printing on the disc itself, that's an extra $150. And that was the cheapest (not necessarily the best quality) site I found.

Sleeves, on the other hand, are MUCH cheaper. discmakers.com (supposedly a reputable site, from what I've heard) offers 1,000 sleeves for around $900...a much better deal. I guess my main question to you twos has to do with your opinion on sleeves.

One last point...I think that since we made a self-financed indie album, we could get away with doing sleeves...people will most likely say, "Oh look, sleeves, these look and probably are cheaper than jewel cd's...but I guess that's probably because this is an indie album, and yeah like whatever, we're totally buying it for the music, not for the album case...oh my god Stacey I love your new shoes..." Anyway, you get the point, after the initial reaction, they probably won't care anymore.

WHATCHA Think? -Nate


My response:

This reminds me of the time my mom and I went out to this old dirty barn in the country where these hippies lived and fed themselves with the food from their vegetable garden. For a living, they sold ocarinas which are little clay, ovular-shaped flutes. They valued the good stuff in life... bare feet, good music, long hair, tie-dyed t-shirts, Phish, herbal supplements and large amounts of wheat and other grasses. It was the good life. I can't remember exactly, but I'm pretty sure the guy's name was Steve. But I think he tried to go by Stephen at one point -- he had said something about how the "ph" seemed more earthy and organic than Steve. But there was a simplicity to the name Steve that he appreciated just as well. He and his wife had two kids, who happened to also have bare feet, long hair, and large amounts of dirt caked in various bodily crevices. To get down to their house you had to take an old dirt road, down past Harry's BBQ off of Highway 15 and Old High Shoals Road. You knew you were getting close when you passed the old broken mail box with the rusty faux-tin roof that kept the rain out on the stormy summer days. Those were the good days. There were times when it would rain so hard that we would huddle under blankets and watch the sky light up with those stark lightning bolts -- the kind you normally see in old black and white movies -- before we got all this lighting technology that have since rendered thunderstorms in film so fake-looking. I remember this one day in particular when mom had just gotten back from the farmer's market with a fresh batch of peaches and cantaloupe. The smell of fresh fruit in summer was one of my favorite memories as a child. Shortly after she got home, the sky began to darken. It wasn't too long before we began to hear the clap of thunder in the distance and the rain started slowly pelting the window - first one at a time, and then so hard that it became rhythmic and would often send me into a deep, summer afternoon nap. We just sat there looking out of the window at that dark sky eating fresh sliced cantalope. Then mom would read us a story from her Uncle Remus book that had been passed down from her mother. A young boy never knew so much joy.

Anyway, I actually bought one of those ocarinas that day from Steve. Still have it actually. It sits on my dresser at home. Sometimes, on a lonely rainy day, I look at that old ocarina and think of Steve and his wife and kids and wonder what it would be like to live like Steve and his family. They didn't have much. But they had a lot of things that I didn't have at the same time. And I wonder if they really needed or even wanted what my family had. Something about that ocarina takes me back to my roots and reminds me of what Steve thought was important. And makes me wonder if we could all learn a thing or two from him.

Kyle

P.S. You should go with the sleeves.

The Darjeeling Limited - A Review

I just watched a movie. It was called "The Darjeeling Limited." I'm going to attempt to summarize it here and give my opinion. Wow, I haven't written anything in a long time and it feels like my brain is a swing-set that has been sitting out in the rain for 3 months and then left to dry and rust. So here it is; squeaky swings and all. I write mostly as an attempt to understand what the heck I just watched.

The movie opens with a strange short film set in Paris. However, I'd like to think of it more of an additional scene rather than a short film because it played out like a scene and only made sense in light of part II. Normally, I would think that a short film with it's own title (Hotel Chevalier) would at least have some sort of self-encompassing storyline. This short film would have none of it. In this short film, we witness a character, obviously disillusioned, sitting alone in his hotel. He's watching old movies and getting grilled cheese sandwiches via room service. His lack of expression and monotone voice tell a story of their own. Then he gets a phone call. A lady friend is coming for a surprise visit. We soon find out that there had been a previous romance with her. And we soon find out that this is why he is disillusioned. She has obviously hurt him in some way and this is likely the reason for his self-imposed exile to a hotel room in Paris where he listens to cheesy, obscure music about how great Paris is.

And that is the end of the film. Not very telling. Nor even suspenseful.

On to part II; the real movie I went to see; The Darjeeling Limited. I figure any movie with a train staged in India must be interesting. The story begins as three brothers, Jack, Peter, and oh gosh I forgot the other guy's name... Owen Wilson, are setting off on a journey together in India. They haven't seen each other in a while. They all have separate lives and you get the impression that they don't really want to be together anyway. But there's some sort of mission to be accomplished. One wants to connect to God, one wants get away from his reality at home, and one just wants to have sex.

Owen Wilson has planned out the entire journey with the help of his assistant, Brennan, who provides a daily itinerary for the trip in India. As they continue on their journey, they each make very weak attempts to accomplish their goals. But their apparent lack of follow-through only haunt them the whole time. The three stooges make these guys look like geniuses. They soon decide it's not worth the trouble. Except for one small detail that Owen didn't tell them. The reason he has invited them to India in the first place to visit their estranged mother whom they haven't seen in a very long time and who has also exiled herself to a foreign country. Only she didn't even go to her husband's funeral back in the States.

The mother is the most interesting character in the movie. She has moved to this mountain in India to be a Catholic missionary. When her sons ask her why she didn't even come home for the funeral, she simply states "These people need me." Brilliantly, her son looks at her and says that there are other people that need her as well. The motivations of this woman are obviously flawed. She has left behind her sons and husband to "help" these Indian people. Her attempt at help is no help at all. It's an escape for her. She has left the people most dear to her own heart to help these people she knows nothing of. Her life has become a formal expression of faith and love amid an attempt to escape. She has left her reality to create a new one. Yet her care for her sons is still apparent during their visit.

And in a way, the sons are seeing a reflection of themselves. They have each attempted their own escapes at reality in different ways. One has done it through moving away to a foreign country, one by attempting suicide on a motorcycle and one through a relationship.

But all are failed attempts. Reality bites in spite of, and sometimes because of, attempted escapes. And each have the scars to show. Each attempt at escape only resulted in further scaring; in Owen's case quite literally. Even their attempt at this spiritual journey has only made the reality more real. And, in the end, this is what they come to realize.

At the end, they throw away their symbolic luggage of idealism and jump on the train of reality. And just as you realize it, each of the characters in the movie pass by you. Each in their own train car of life with their own realities. But their all on the same train headed in the same direction. They all have different realities, different stories, different setting, but they all have a common destination. "What is it?" you ask. I don't know. I'll have to watch it and again to figure it out. Maybe we're not supposed to know.

Oh, and that short film that opened the movie? Well, the character, Jack, who is prone to writing short stories, decides to write this woman out of his life. With his new insight, he's aware that it wasn't the woman that hurt him. It was his escapism and the woman was just a means of bursting his bubble.

Living Large

I just figured out that Matt is the most comfortable person-in-his-own-skin on this little vacation. Here's why... Jamie is the only female here. But at least she's married. I am the only single person here. But at least I'm not female. Matt is neither the only one of his gender, nor is he female, nor is he single; therefore he's enjoying the good life.

Chickens

Fish

Check out this incredibleness. - Kyle