June 2008 Issue by Urbanite LLC

Who Wants Pie? • My House of Straw • Are We Gotham or Metropo lis? june 2008 issue no. 48

The Games That We Play

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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urbanite june 08

contents

june 2008 issue no. 48

f e a t u r e s 40

keynote: the game changer by michael anft

in the mid-1970s, defensive tackle joe ehrmann hammered opposing quarterbacks as a member of the baltimore colts’ “sack pack.” then life dealt him a blow, and everything changed.

the fun factor by rebecca messner and greg hanscom

before we learned to count—and keep score—sports was all about fun. and if you pick your game, it still can be. as the weather warms, urbanite offers a sports guide for the unrepentant amateur.

pinbuster by michael yockel

for decades baltimore was the duckpin bowling capital of the world, but time and tenpins have left the old lanes empty. can the city’s unofficial sport survive?

d e p a r t m e n t s

on the cover:

gail burton photographed the pickup hoops action at the mcculloh street courts outside druid hill park

editor’s note

what you’re saying

what you’re writing

corkboard

the goods

game over

good developer, bad developer

keeping score: three strikes, the last straw, and a book of sorrows

this month: faeries, hons, and druids

boogie nights. plus: antiques, haberdashers, and a new b and b

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360 o waterfront and skyline views taken from the 23rd floor

june 2008 issue no. 48

baltimore observed the kid stays in the picture lobbying for families in singles-friendly downtown

contents

by kristine henry

extra credit a mob of mentors gangs up on at-risk high schoolers by rebecca messner

buried treasure the secret history of a plundered museum piece by evan l. balkan

flushed away down the drain with the “local water” movement by sharon tregaskis

poetry

space

“conk” by rachel eisler

making hay why a house of straw might not be such a bad idea by scott carlson

westward expansion a rehabbing duo commits to the west side by jessica leshnoff

59 67

eat/drink the ripe stuff if local is the new organic, then baugher’s farm has been trendy all along by martha thomas

reviewed: jack’s bistro and the swallow at the hollow

wine & spirits: the barstool primary

the feed: this month in eating

art/culture

gotham vs. metropolis on baltimore’s identity crisis by violet glaze

plus: flash cinema, the oft-copied bard, a place called canterbury, and more

eye to eye urbanite’s creative director alex castro on photographer christopher myers

this month online at www.urbanitebaltimore.com:

interview: a conversation with poet rachel eisler video: watch season-ending duckpin drama and march the streets of mcelderry with a safe streets “shooting response” recipes: pie, pie, pie, and cake

79 w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

Issue 48: June 2008 Publisher Tracy Ward Durkin Tracy@urbanitebaltimore.com Creative Director Alex Castro Editor-in-Chief David Dudley David@urbanitebaltimore.com Managing Editor Marianne Amoss Marianne@urbanitebaltimore.com Senior Editor Greg Hanscom Greg@urbanitebaltimore.com Staff Writer Lionel Foster Lionel@urbanitebaltimore.com Literary Editor Susan McCallum-Smith Contributing Writers Michael Anft, Charles Cohen, Mat Edelson, Richard O'Mara, Martha Thomas, Mary K. Zajac Editorial Interns Charles A. Hohman, Rebecca Messner Design/Production Manager Lisa Macfarlane Lisa@urbanitebaltimore.com Traffi c/Production Coordinator Bellee Gossett Bellee@urbanitebaltimore.com Designer Jason Okutake Staff Photographers La Kaye Mbah Jason Okutake Production Interns Ashley Kimbro, Bob Myaing Web Coordinator/Videographer Chris Rebbert website@urbanitebaltimore.com

urbanite june 08

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Account Executive Jackie Wezwick Jackie@urbanitebaltimore.com Advertising Sales Assistant Carol Longdon Carol@urbanitebaltimore.com Sales/Accounting Assistant Iris Goldstein Iris@urbanitebaltimore.com Marketing Kathleen Dragovich Kathleen@urbanitebaltimore.com Marketing/Administrative Assistant La Kaye Mbah LaKaye@urbanitebaltimore.com Administrative Assistant Lindsay Hanson Lindsay@urbanitebaltimore.com Founder Laurel Harris Durenberger Advertising/Editorial/Business Ofﬁces P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211 Phone: 410-243-2050; Fax: 410-243-2115 www.urbanitebaltimore.com Editorial inquiries: Send queries to editor@urbanite baltimore.com (no phone calls, please). The magazine is not responsible for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Urbanite does not necessarily support the opinions of its authors. To subscribe or obtain assistance with a current subscription, call 410-243-2050. Subscription price: $18 per year. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission by Urbanite is prohibited. Copyright 2008, Urbanite LLC. All rights reserved. Urbanite (ISSN 1556-8105) is a free publication distributed widely in the Baltimore metropolitan area. If you know of a location that urbanites frequent and would recommend placing the magazine there, please contact us at 410-2432050. Postmaster: Send address changes to Urbanite Subscriptions, P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211.

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contributors Kristine Henry is a freelance journalist and a former staff reporter at the Baltimore Sun, where she covered the manufacturing beat for the business section. Sadly, this involved a great number of articles about layoffs and benefit cuts at Bethlehem Steel and other local factories. She has also covered cops and courts at Dallas Morning News and Minnesota’s congressional delegation for the Minneapolis Star Tribune’s Washington bureau. A native of Minneapolis, she now lives in Rodgers Forge with her husband and two preschoolers. She wrote about a nonprofit family advocacy group in this month’s “Baltimore Observed” department (p. 31). Charles A. Hohman learned to read by watching TV sitcom opening credits, which sparked a lifelong passion for both words and popular culture. He is currently a contributing writer at PopMatters.com, themagazine, and BmoreLive.com, and has previously written for SheUnlimited. com and Music Monthly. Hohman graduated from Washington College with a B.A. in American studies in 2005 and has been an Urbanite editorial intern since February 2008. His essay on pop group Rilo Kiley appears in the “Art/Culture” department on page 81. Urbanite spring production intern Ashley Kimbro earned her B.F.A. in illustration at Maryland Institute College of Art in May. Among her credits are poster art for Baltimore’s 8X10 club and a children’s summer reading campaign for the Fossil Ridge Public Library in her hometown of Braidwood, Illinois. When she’s not busy drawing, Kimbro grows cacti and writes poetry in her Bolton Hill apartment. She hopes to one day write and illustrate her own children’s books. Born and raised in Baltimore, Michael Yockel has served as editor of Baltimore’s City Paper and associate editor of Miami New Times, both alternative newsweeklies. Later, he worked as executive associate editor for New Times, Inc. More recently, he has been a freelance writer and editor. His feature story on the rise and fall of duckpin bowling appears on page 52. During junior high school, Yockel participated in a Saturdaymorning duckpins league in Arbutus, wearing (unironically) a traditional silk bowling shirt emblazoned with several patches earned for various on-the-lanes achievements, including one that proclaimed “I Beat My Coach.”

editor’s note

Today’s news brings a report of the death of the nation’s oldest league bowler, a

Georgia man named Bill Hargrove who passed away on May 5, four days before he would have turned 107. Hargrove was anticipating the start of summer league play in mid-May when his heart failed. His daughter credited bowling with extending her father’s life. “Having something you really love keeps you going,” she told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution . For local readers, it should be noted that for most of his long bowling life Hargrove was a duckpinner—from 1924, when he took up bowling, to 1970, when the last duckpin house in Atlanta closed, he rolled the small-ball game that is clinging to its increasingly circumscribed life here in the Mid-Atlantic. Baltimore has long been celebrated as the birthplace of duckpin bowling, a claim that—as Michael Yockel reveals in his definitive account of the rise and fall of the city’s unofficial sport (“Pinbuster,” p. 52)—is not as true as one might hope. Regardless: If the game of duckpins wasn’t born here, it will likely die here, and sooner rather than later. Why should we care? Duckpins, after all, was a low-tech diversion invented for another age, and we have no shortage of shinier modern replacements (parkour, anyone?). But there are lessons to be learned from Bill Hargrove, who outlived the sport he grew up on, and was lucky enough to find another. As a league bowler for a few years (high game: 269), I can report that this most democratic of pastimes does indeed possess the capacity for inspiring lunatic devotion. During my bowling years, I pined for Monday nights and dreamed bowling dreams; the night my team engaged in an epic six-game roll-off to win the Carl’s Masonry League championship trophy ranks up there with the day my daughter was born. But I can’t find time in my life to commit to a fortyweek season anymore; like social scientist Robert Putnam’s famous isolated American, I now bowl alone. Cities also make difficult choices about the games they play: Sports franchises devour resources and demand unwavering support at the turnstiles, and the public benefits they deliver in return are at best erratic. The on-the-field product can be lackluster, the stars surly, the economic spillover negligible. Thanks in part to the miracle of modern chemistry, the physical gulf that separates professional athletes from the balance of American schlubdom has never been wider; in today’s culture, sports exists largely as private electronic spectacle, not something in which we actually participate, either as players or as live attendees. This is a shame, especially at time when professional athletics holds so much cultural influence. Joe Ehrmann, the former Baltimore Colt who preaches the character-shaping virtues of enlightened competition (“The Game Changer,” p. 40), calls sports “the secular religion of America,” and, as with the non-secular kind, people tend to do bad things in its name. But even if you got picked last all your life and endure the autumn siege of the National Football League season with practiced contempt, you must acknowledge the strange power of sports in America: No other institution possesses the potential for welding disparate people together, whether they be neighbors in a pickup volleyball match or Orioles watchers sharing the enforced community of their futile fandom. Sports isn’t life, no matter what the sneaker companies might say, but it can make life better. Or at least longer. A technical note about this issue: The magazine you are holding may appear subtly different. Urbanite now has a slightly more compact trim size—9 by 10.875 inches. Still oversized, but we probably saved a few hundred trees, and the publication should be a bit more storable, transportable, and—most importantly—durable. We’ve also upgraded the cover to a stout eightypound paper stock; inside, the magazine will use forty-five pound stock. The new trim and paper address a concern I’ve had with Urbanite since I arrived as editor last summer: The magazine’s large size and flimsy cover meant that issues tended to selfdestruct after a week or so. Hopefully, the heavier cover will keep things intact longer. We are in this for the long haul, in every sense. —David Dudley

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what you’re saying

Violent Thoughts

photo montage by Chris Rebbert

In regard to your “Crime and Violence” issue (May), few if any of the essayists, except maybe the poet Kathleen Hellen, state something I think is obvious and necessary to recognize: We live in a capitalistic society that values profit, property, and entertainment over human life. We are led by a violent regime. All the crime and violence programs in the world (and I’ve worked for one for thirty years at the city jail—I am also an ex-offender) merely rearrange and beautify chairs on the deck of a sinking liner—i.e., capitalism. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to beautify chairs if they pay me. But the jobs aren’t out there for ex-offenders—just as the schools aren’t there for kids in the inner city. We might better train ex-cons to become revolutionaries (violent? or nonviolent?) as we send them out in search of jobs in a racist and discriminatory economy. We need to do something meaningful and positive, as well as implement the fine solutions your writers have provided.

Troubling Development Your recent article on the renovation of the former Northern District Police Station (“Cop Shop,” May) was distressing in its overblown praise of the developer, Stan Keyser. The characterization presented him as a saintly noble being sent from on high and leaves the Wyman Park community looking like spoil sports. More balanced reporting is greatly needed. There are many facts and anecdotes about this project too numerous to discuss here that reflect a constant disregard toward the community by this developer. Yes, there is light at the end of the tunnel, but it looms very much in the distance. And after a decade of being involved with this project, I can comfortably say that had it not been for the sharp eye and strong voice of the community, this redevelopment project would not be where it is today. —Wyman Park resident Joe Leatherman has been co-chair of the Northern District Task Force since 2000 and helped to have the former police station designated a Baltimore City landmark.

Pros and Cons At the numerous seminars, discussions, and panels I attend in the United States concerning prisoner re-entry I encounter more and more well-meaning people who sincerely want to help individuals returning home from a period of incarceration (see “Man of Conviction,” May). However, many of these people are using lan-

—Dave Eberhardt has worked at the Baltimore City Detention Center since 1977. He served twenty-one months in the federal penitentiary at Lewisburg for pouring blood on draft ﬁles with Father Phil Berrigan in 1967 as a Vietnam War and draft protest.

guage that is hurtful and counterproductive to the re-entry cause. I realize their pejorative words are not intended to set the movement back, but they are—out of ignorance—perpetuating stereotypes with their words nonetheless. Negative terms like “ex-cons” and “exfelons” are buzzwords the media use to conjure up images of persons who are still a danger to society and therefore should be closely watched and/or are not worthy of our trust. It is much easier to treat people unfairly, deny them employment, and make their return from a period of incarceration all the more difficult if, in the public mind, these individuals deserve such treatment. Years ago the homeless used to be called “bums,” “hobos,” and “vagrants,” but these terms are no longer acceptable when referring to this population. In a similar fashion individuals suffering from mental illnesses were once called “lunatics,” but when society came to the conclusion that we should treat these individuals with respect, the first step in the process was to change the language. A similar change must occur in this field if we are serious about instituting real solutions to a growing national problem. The accepted term in prisoner re-entry today is “formerly incarcerated persons,” and the faster we can make

the linguistic shift, the faster this pressing problem will be solved. —Charles See has been the executive director of Lutheran Metro Ministry’s Cleveland Community Re-entry program—the oldest re-entry program in the United States—for thirty-one years.

Don't Spare the Rod I question the accuracy of “A History of Violence” (May). I am a 74-year-old black man who belongs to a generation that was raised up with the rod, which in the dictionary is defined as more than just a walking stick. Our parents used the rod to teach us discipline in the home so that we could convey it wherever we went. From my generation, schoolteachers, doctors, and lawyers were no doubt raised up the same way I was. It is a misconception to say that ministers devalue children by teaching the word of God. We are supposed to raise our children the way God wants us to. In a Christian country such as ours, we need to measure ourselves by God’s standards, not by the standards of the ungodly. —Leo A. Williams is a retiree and a disabled Korean War veteran. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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What I Hear Throughout my time working at Patterson High School, I’ve heard, read, and listened to people speak about the city schools with frowns on their faces, and I often felt that teachers were making advancements that ought to be highlighted. But then one of our students, Eric Price (along with Trayvon Williams and Arthur Jeter Jr., two former Patterson students), committed a crime on the first of June last year that hovered over our school in a sort of mad gray haze. I was reading the article “Through a Glass, Darkly” (May), about that crime they committed, while waiting for my kids to come to homeroom. I felt a lump in my throat and a pull on one arm and a pull on the other. Part of me was outside Patterson seeing in, feeling sick and rotten after reading about Eric Price helping to cause the death of a Johns Hopkins student. The other side of me felt “inside” the situation, pulled toward Patterson because I see our students towing their problems into school with a

string tied from within them to an issue back home. Teachers have had to find ways of connecting the situations going on at home with school activities in order to help students reach their full potential. It wasn’t until last year that, through the aid of the National Academy Foundation, I found an incredible motivator for my kids: poetry. One Patterson teacher, Greg Horlacher, read Walt Whitman’s poem I Hear America Singing and took the message back to students with a poetry project titled I Hear Baltimore Sing. I borrowed the idea and my kids and I brainstormed about different places in Baltimore, good or bad, that made them want to “sing.” The ideas were endless. In short, something grew that day, something sweet that bloomed and spread and that I feel will keep growing because there are people out there who keep on caring. Violence in this city seems like toxic smoke that’s permeating our neighborhoods and communities. I feel, however, that if we listen to our

kids we can change this. They have a lot to say. If we listen and we hear and they write and they talk, maybe a bridge will form. —Tracy Hauser teaches English at Patterson High. To read a poem written by one of Hauser’s students for the I Hear Baltimore Sing project, go to www.urbanitebaltimore.com.

We want to hear what you’re saying. Email us at mail@urbanitebaltimore.com or send your letter to Mail, Urbanite, P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211. Please include your name, address, and daytime phone number. Letters may be edited for length and clarity. You can also comment on our website (www.urbanitebaltimore. com/forum).

photo by Bob Myaing

update

Sign of the times: Bike-friendly features are popping up on roadways in Northern Baltimore City.

Urbanite’s writers and designers picked up eight awards in the 2007 Maryland Excellence in Journalism contest, sponsored by the Society of Professional Journalists Maryland Pro Chapter. Among the awards: first in graphic design and cover design, first and second in public service and human interest reporting, and second in departments. Managing editor Marianne Amoss was named best new journalist. For all the winners, go to www.spj.org/mdpro.

This spring, new bike-friendly features have been popping up along with the flowers. In accordance with the 2006 Bicycle Master Plan (see “Shifting Gears,” Urbanite July 2007), the city recently completed a system of bikeways connecting area colleges and universities, dubbed the Collegetown Bike Route. The route runs along main arteries like 33rd Street and Roland Avenue and passes through Hampden, linking to the Jones Falls Trail. New bike lanes and sharrows (arrow-like designs painted on the road to designate biking areas) are being added to roads that fall within the routes identified by the master plan. Also, “share the road” signs are being installed on these streets. Bike-related events this month include Tour Dem Parks (www.tourdemparks.org), which invites riders to explore the city’s parks on June 8. —Marianne Amoss

Collaboration between environmentalists and farmers, two groups that have historically been at each other’s throats around the Chesapeake Bay, may soon pay off. (See “The Final Frontier,” Urbanite May 2007.) A provision in the federal farm bill that passed both houses of Congress in mid-May would set aside $400 million over ten years for farmers in the Bay watershed—the largest federal allocation ever to target the Bay.

It comes after months of lobbying and strategizing from green groups such as the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. “I’ve spent most of the past eighteen months trying to get this money for farmers,” says Doug Siglin, the foundation’s federal affairs director. “There isn’t a penny in here for the foundation. If that’s not cooperation, I don’t know what is.” The funding would help farmers reduce unnecessary fertilizer use, fence livestock out of waterways, and plant buffers along streams and cover crops on fields during winter—all in an effort to stanch the oozing of sediment and nutrients into the Bay, where they kick off algal blooms and poison an already ailing ecosystem. Farmers were at first concerned that conservation money would mean less government subsidies for other needs, but the Farm Bill strikes a balance, says Earl “Buddy” Hance, deputy secretary at the Maryland Department of Agriculture and former president of the Maryland Farm Bureau. “A few of the environmental groups have done an outstanding job of reaching out to ag,” he says. “And farmers are doing a better job of listening and talking to the environmental community.” (To learn a little about what you can do for the Bay, see “Flushed Away” on page 37 of this issue.) —Greg Hanscom

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urbanite june 08

what you’re writing

photo by Lindsay MacDonald

KEEPING SCORE

WHAT A STRANGE quartet we must have been. Reserve seats, Memorial Stadium, left to right: an old man in a straw hat with a transistor radio the size of an icebox; a scrawny 10-year-old, feet swinging above the concrete; a tall blind man named Jack and his German Shepherd, Van. My grandfather drilled me in the game’s choreography. “Ronnie,” he’d ask, “What’s the next pitch?” If I were paying attention, I’d answer, “Fastball low and in, Pop. Batter’s right-handed; the pitcher wants him to pull a grounder to the left to turn a double play.” Pity me if there were already two outs. Or if I were paying more attention to the peanut vendor than to this, the greatest game known to mankind. The game played out on a scorecard covering my lap as Pop taught me baseball’s sacrosanct traditions. Southpaws are lefties, umpires are idiots, and for some inane reason K means strikeout. Plus, there were Pop’s proprietary codes for tracking every pitch of every at-bat. My attention was almost a matter of life and death: I sat between two old men for whom baseball was as close to a religion as anything in their lives. And one of them was blind; the radio and I were his eyes. “What’d Woodling do last time?” Jack would ask me. “Popped foul down the right field line.” “Well,” Jack would lean back, facing the diamond as if reading the number on Gene

Woodling’s baggy uniform. “Watch for off-speed stuff up in the strike zone.” Van, for his part, seemed aloof to the game, tongue lolling in the summer heat. Neither of us was allowed to pee except between innings, for fear we would miss a critical play or something as rare as a Willie Miranda homer. After the game we rode the #19 back to Jack & Van’s, the newsstand Pop’s friend kept on Harford Road. We drank Cokes and replayed the game, pitch by pitch. The local cop sauntered in and joined us. For them it was all Orioles vs. Yankees, but for me the day was as much youth vs. old age, the blind vs. the sighted, dog wisdom vs. boy wisdom. Baseball as life, and vice versa. When the fat Parkville cop finished looking at the dirty magazines we closed the shop and Pop and I went home to supper. “Who’s starting tomorrow, Ronnie?” —Ron Pilling divides his writing time between the lower Eastern Shore and a co-op in Charles Village.

I MOVE TO GOUGH STREET, a white block in Highlandtown. I meet these two white kids who live down the street. Without even knowing me, one of them calls me “chocolate bar.” I hit him in the mouth and walk away— that’s one. Over the years, we become friends,

but I keep my distance because some white people have a habit of calling others racist slurs. One day, we’re playing ball; I win. He throws my ball on the roof. I tell him to go get it. When he comes down, he hands me the ball and calls me a nigger. I hit him in the mouth once again and walk away. That’s two. We become cool again, but I keep my distance even more. Another day we are sitting on the steps. One of his homeboys from school walks up. They say “What’s up?” to one another. The boy says, “I ain’t know you hung out with niggers.” He replies, “I didn’t used to, but now I do.” I look at him in disgust. This is three. This time, I don’t even hit him; I just walk away. Haven’t seen him since. —Coty Stevenson is a junior at Baltimore City College High School.

IS SHE SLEEPING through the night yet? Why is she so fussy? That baby should be wearing a hat! This is a test, and I am being graded. The point system is complex and varies from parent to parent. In some circles, breastfeeding can earn you at least five points. You’ll lose six, though, if your baby still wakes up during the night after three months. Points are awarded by other parents, your own parents, w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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in-laws, relatives, and even friends who don’t have children. Sometimes I gain and lose points on the same issue: The lactation nurse gives me five points because my daughter doesn’t use a pacifier, while my father-in-law subtracts three points for the same reason. I lost major points at daycare this week when I complained about them microwaving my daughter’s bottles of breast milk. I want my Good Mom ranking to be high. After all, I’m definitely losing the “Lost the Baby Weight” race and the “I Use Cloth Diapers” rally. The baby hasn’t affected our sex life at all. We’re actually having more sex now. What about you guys? There goes another ten points. The contest even extends to pregnancy: I only gained twenty pounds! I never had any morning sickness! I had natural childbirth! I’m down by thirty now. I think the system should be reevaluated: Being a good parent has to be more than just “looking” like a good parent. I would get five points for playing with her on the floor last night … another five for comforting her when she cries … and an extra three for breaking down and letting the dogs lick her face, which she loves. She really doesn’t care if her diapers are cloth or disposable. She’s cool like that. At night, as she sleeps between me and my husband, and her little body moves closer to the warmth of mine, there is no one keeping score. And I feel like I might come out of this a winner. —Shani Lee Ortiz is a busy wife, mother, and Baltimore professional. She lives in Aberdeen, where she writes short humor and ﬁction pieces.

EVERYTHING THAT EVER happened he wrote in the red book. If something was said in the heat of an argument or something should have been said that did not get said, it was a sure thing—it was written down in the red book. The red book was his reference for everything. I never knew another man who kept a diary—but he did not call the red book a diary. A diary, he said, “is what women do.” His red book was his reference of events. I never saw what he wrote in the red book until he wanted to bring something to my attention. The entry in question could have been a week or three months old, or from another year. There were boxes of red books in his closet, and he would pull them out and find a certain entry about something I said. His perception of the event in question was always written in the books. It did not matter what really happened; what he wrote in the red book was the truth. I was sneaky enough on a few occasions to take quick peeks in the books—that’s how

I found out about the points. He had a point system, rating my personal attitudes, conversations, and sexual activity from zero to one hundred. The entries were full of stuff that I had forgotten about. Many of the entries were about our sexual relationship—or, I should say, my sexual relationship, because his part was never written down. I received twenty-five points if I initiated sex and lost fifty points if I was too busy to be bothered with him. I would lose points if I was reading, or at school, or coming from the market—anything that did not include him. Eventually, the points added up in my favor and I was finally dismissed. —Fredrica Grant has worked for the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services for seventeen years. She is graduating from Towson University this May with a M.S. in professional writing.

“LOOK, HON, IT’S SNOWING, and I need my van to go to the grocery store before it gets icy.” “I’m right down the street in Fells Point, at the Polish Alliance,” he said. “And as soon as I finish this beer I’ll head home.” Although he had a habit of not keeping his word, I pushed my doubts aside and busied myself cleaning the kitchen. After an hour, I came into the living room and checked on my son, Ian. “The stores are going to close soon, so I need to walk down to Fells Point and get my van,” I said, trying not to show my anger. “Just watch TV ’til I get back. I should only be a few minutes.” Fit to be tied, I threw on my coat, then grabbed an empty pie plate. “He would pick the damn coldest day of the year,” I muttered, plodding towards Fells Point. On the way down, I stopped at the 7-11 and bought a can of ReddiWip. I recovered the van, then double-parked right outside the Alliance. I turned my flashers on, left my door unlocked, then squirted the whipped cream in the pie plate. I peered through the window. He was sitting at the bar, his back to me. “This bar will be the easiest escape so far,” I chuckled, balancing the pie behind my back. No one noticed me enter. My heart was pounding so hard that I almost chickened out. Incredibly, his most-often-used encouraging phrase—“Go for it, Carole”—popped into my head, spurring me on. I tapped him on the shoulder, then spit out, “This one’s for not keeping your word!” I placed

what you’re writing the pie neatly in the center of his face and bolted for the door. The portly old salt next to him chased me, attempting to copy my license plate number, but I gunned it and careened around the corner, laughing all the way up Broadway. I was still chuckling when I opened the door. Ian asked, “Did you get the van?” “Mission accomplished—and I just threw another pie!” “Oh mommy, he’s gonna kill you for that!” “Nah—he had it coming. Besides … remember, I promised that every time he broke his word, I would throw a pie. I’m just keeping my word.” We were curled up on the sofa when he fumed in several hours later. He tromped the snow from his boots, gave me one of his oneeyed, inebriated glares, then traipsed up to bed, muttering something about having to walk all the way home in a raging snowstorm. ■ —Carole J. Pressnall is a retired elementary art teacher of thirty-four years and an artist. She is working on a book about the paranormal and ESP.

“What You’re Writing” is the place for creative nonﬁction from our readers. Each month, we pick a topic. Use the topic as a springboard into your own life and send us a true story inspired by that month’s theme. Only nonﬁction submissions that include contact information can be considered. We reserve the right to edit heavily for space and clarity, but we will give you the opportunity to review the edits. You may submit under “name withheld” to keep your essay anonymous, but you do need to let us know how to contact you. If you’ve already changed the names of the people involved, please let us know. Due to libel and invasion-of-privacy issues, we reserve the right to print the piece under your initials. Submissions should be typed (and if you cannot type, please print clearly). Only one submission per topic, please. Send your essay to Urbanite, P.O. Box 50158, Baltimore, MD 21211 or e-mail it to WhatYoureWriting@urbanitebaltimore.com. Please keep submissions under four hundred words; longer submissions may not be read due to time constraints. Because of the number of essays we receive, we cannot respond individually to each writer. Please do not send originals; submissions cannot be returned.

Topic

Deadline

Publication

Saying Yes Authority Figure Blood

June 6, 2008 July 4, 2008 Aug 6, 2008

Aug 2008 Sept 2008 Oct 2008

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Listen. And learn. Our smart, insightful news programs don’t just keep you informed, they keep you thinking. And we have lots of other mind-stimulating programming, too. Like great music and personal interest stories. What’s more, our online broadcasts and podcasts let you listen whenever and wherever you like. Oh, by the way, we’re actively involved with all kinds of cultural and academic organizations throughout the state. Which means, by supporting WYPR you’re supporting the community. How’s that sound?

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Maryland Faerie Festival

June 7–8, 10 a.m.–6 p.m.

For two days this summer, you can become a full-fledged resident of a mythical kingdom during the 2008 Maryland Faerie Festival. Faerieinspired costumes are encouraged (no weapons, please); puppeteers, belly dancers, drummers, and fire spinners will set the mood. You’ll also find a maypole, food, live music, and crafts.

Patuxent 4-H Center 18405 Queen Anne Rd., Upper Marlboro $10, $3 children 3–11, under 3 free 888-607-9134 www.marylandfaeriefestival.org

HonFest

June 14–15

Spurred on by the credo “The higher the hair the closer to God!” the annual HonFest returns to Hampden for two days of music, food, games, and celebrations of Bawlmer culture. This year’s festivities include Hon pageants for babies, teens, and adults; bellydancing by dance troupe Sultan’s Treasures; and live music by the New Orleans-inspired Groove Mammals.

800 through 1100 blocks of W. 36th St. Free www.honfest.net

Composers in Conversation: Joan Tower

June 18, 7:30 p.m.

One of the best-known female composers in America, modern classical composer Joan Tower employs punctuated rhythms and dissonant melodies in pieces for orchestra, soloists, and small ensembles. You can hear Tower discuss her work shortly before three days of Baltimore Symphony Orchestra performances of her Concerto for Orchestra (June 20–22).

Theatre Project 45 W. Preston St. $10 410-783-8000 www.bsomusic.org

Baltimore Pride

June 20–22

The 33rd annual Baltimore Pride weekend celebrates the talents and exuberance of Maryland’s GLBT community. The party begins with Twilight on the Terrace, an evening of cocktails, music, and dancing at the Baltimore Museum of Art on June 20 at 8 p.m. The Pride Parade takes over Charles Street between Franklin and Chase on June 21 at 4 p.m., followed by a block party starting at 6 p.m. and a festival in Druid Hill Park on June 22, 11 a.m.–6 p.m.

Most events are free; tickets to BMA party $75 410-837-5445 www.baltimorepride.org

LatinoFest

June 21–22, noon

Celebrating its 28th year, LatinoFest returns to Patterson Park with live Latin music, dancing, and arts and crafts. This year’s featured artist is nine-time Grammy-Award-winning pianist Eddie Palmieri and his band, La Perfecta II, who will perform on Saturday at 7 p.m.

Patterson Park $5, children under 12 free 410-783-5404 www.latinofest.org

Dreaded Druid Hills

June 28

The 2008 Dreaded Druid Hills 10K takes daring runners away from the calm, flat, car-and-pedestrian-friendly expanses of Druid Lake into the twists and turns of the park’s back roads. Bring a bit of heart, and you might just leave with a few bragging rights.

Registration at Moorish Tower on southeast section of Druid Lake $15 registration on race day, $10 in advance 410-296-5050 www.baltimorerunning.com

Photo credits from top to bottom: courtesy of Christian Stone; courtesy of Marty Katz; photo by Steve J. Sherman; courtesy of Baltimore Pride; photo by Juan L. Cruz; courtesy of www.baltimorerunning.com

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the goods

compiled by lionel foster

Mosaic of the Night

photo by Bob Myaing

Formerly an under-the-tents enclave at Power Plant Live, Mosaic Nightclub and Lounge (4 Market Place; 410-262-8713; www.mosaic-baltimore. com) has moved indoors and turned up the volume. Amid blinding lights and wall-thumping music, patrons dance and drink the night away, while an outdoor patio with comfortable furniture and a bar offers a breather from the dance floor. For more exclusive get-togethers, Mosaic boasts VIP tables, plus a mezzanine level for private parties. The club caters to the young, sexy, and stylish, so don’t even think about showing up in your sweats and flip-flops: Mosaic expects you to dress to impress. “You have to look the part, like you were going out in D.C or New York,” says sales and marketing director Jennifer Quinn. “We are the only upscale, go-out, dance-your-butt-off nightclub in Baltimore.” $5 cover, $10 for special events. 21 and over. Open Thurs–Sat 9 p.m.–2 a.m.

Let’s Dish

—Charles A. Hohman

Juliet Ames prefers her dishes broken. Operating under the moniker The Broken Plate Pendant Company (www.ibreakplates. com), Ames, who has a B.S. in art with a concentration in craft and metalsmithing from Towson University, has been creating pendants, brooches, rings, and earrings out of pieces of broken plates since August 2006. Ames works in the Louis Comfort Tiffany stained-glass tradition: Eschewing the use of the traditional lead (for safety reasons), she wraps each piece in copper foil tape, solders it, then applies a black patina. Prices for finished work range from $20 to $55, and Ames can do custom orders using shards brought to her by customers. She is part of the Baltimore Etsy Street Team, a group of Baltimore-based crafters that meet regularly to trade ideas and inspiration. Look for her and fellow craftmakers June 28 at Crafty Bastards in Silver Spring, and at the new D.I.Y. section of Artscape July 18–20.

photo by Bob Myaing

aing photo by Bob My

—Marianne Amoss

Page Turner Say you’re strolling through the Cross Street Market, loading up on turkey necks and Berger cookies, but what you could really use is some Dostoevsky. You’re in luck: GMB Books (1065 S. Charles St.; 410-209-2399) opened a stall smack in the middle of the venerable city market in January. Located directly across from a fried chicken/ lake trout stand, the book nook is stocked with an offbeat collection of new, remaindered volumes. If the atmosphere isn’t much like your couch-strewn local Barnes & Noble, neither are the prices: Items from the large selection of kids’ stuff start at $1, and it’s hard to find much of anything over $5. History and how-to are well represented, and there’s a good collection of cookbooks. You can browse rockfish recipes in the latest Mark Bittman bestseller, then stroll down to Nick’s Seafood to pick up the fish. —David Dudley w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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The CyberKnife Center at Franklin Square. CyberKnife does what was once considered impossible. Treats lung cancer without surgery, without pain, and without the side effects of chemotherapy or traditional radiation therapy. Actual treatment usually involves five brief outpatient visits over a week’s time, instead of thirty treatments over six weeks for conventional radiation therapy. To find out if you’re a candidate, contact Linda Stark at 1-877-CYBER-01 (1- 877-292-3701) or learn more, at LookInsideTheSquare.org.

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For more information please call Deb Donofrio, C.Y.K.F.* at 410-592-3242 or e-mail her at yogaforchildren@comcast.net View our Arts and Events Calendar online for a complete listing of our drop in classes, wellness services, and Yoga retreats.

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the goods

Mya in g

Roger Eberlin and wife Cecelia Bellomo traveled the world during their careers working for a Fortune 500 computer company, and they’d seen the best and worst in overnight accommodations. One career earlier, Eberlin had even worked at an inn, so when the couple retired, they decided to open their own B and B: They sold their house, did some homework, and picked a southerly, urban spot near the water to set up shop. The result is Blue Door on Baltimore (2023 E. Baltimore St.; 410-732-0191; www.bluedoor baltimore.com) in Butcher’s Hill. Open since February 1, the elegantly furnished three-story rowhouse contains three huge rooms, each with its own soaker tub and separate shower, king-sized bed, living-room-style seating, free Wi-Fi, and hundreds of channels of DirecTV. The Washburn Room (named after a Civil War-era camp for Union soldiers in nearby Patterson Park) can accommodate three people, while the Patterson and Hampstead rooms, divided by a stairwell, can be combined into a two-level, 700-square-foot suite. Rates start at $155 per night per room. Ask about corporate, neighbor, and Hopkins discounts. Bob

—Lionel Foster

phot o by

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House on a Hill

Country Class Chalk Gore Dean up as the store that’s most likely to make you wish you had gobs of money—or, perhaps, glad that you already do. The Georgetown home furnishing and antiques store has just opened a new location in the old Smith & Hawken building next to Whole Foods in Mount Washington (1349-D Smith Ave.; 410-323-7470; www. goredean.com). It’s an East Coast version of Robert Redford’s Sundance Company catalog: The furniture is elegant (and expensive—prepare to spend between $2,200 and $11,900 on a new couch), but it has a rustic, country edge that lends itself to everyday use. (Once you’ve gotten over what you paid for it, you’ll actually curl up on that couch and read a book.) And even if you can’t afford the furniture, you’ll enjoy perusing the antiques, which include a 19th century English jockey scale ($16,500) and a set of early 20th century anatomy charts ($1,800). The shop also includes less expensive but equally high quality items such as candles, stationery, and locally made caramels. Open Mon–Sat 11 a.m.–7 p.m., Sun noon–5 p.m. —Greg Hanscom

courtesy of Tom James

Have a Fit We’ve all seen him: that tieless rebel without a cummerbund who’d rather be tarred and feathered than made to dress up. And who can blame him? When business or formal wear doesn’t fit well, it can be uncomfortable and unattractive. Fortunately, the Pikesville office of international clothier Tom James (1777 Reisterstown Rd., Suite 153; 410-580-2022; www.tom jamesco.com) offers bespoke tailoring priced to fit every budget. Tom James offers its own full line of suits, shirts, slacks, formal wear, and accessories for men (as well as a smaller assortment for women), and brings it all to you. A representative comes to your home or office, takes your measurements, and helps you choose from either a wide selection of ready-made suits that can be altered for a perfect fit, or the styles, cloth, and patterns for custom-tailored creations. Prices for the ready-made line, including alterations, begin at $300. Custom suits range from $700 to $13,000. Your favorite rebel, whatever his size, just lost his cause. —L.F. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Brood awakening: Rebecca Gershenson Smith, founder of the new Downtown Baltimore Family Alliance, with 5-year-old Lilian and 1-year-old Adeline.

The Kid Stays in the Picture Do cities need families?

Unsavory characters rule the streets in the open-air drug market that operates one block from Judy O’Brien’s upscale rowhouse in Otterbein. But she and her husband, Brendan, would never consider raising their two young daughters anywhere else. “My husband and I love being able to walk to work. I love being able to drop my daughter off at preschool two blocks from my house. I love to walk to restaurants,” says the account manager with the marketing firm NCSDO. “This lifestyle is more green and sustainable because we hardly drive anywhere.” O’Brien and her husband are among a growing number of young parents who have bucked the trend of moving to the northern region of the city or to the suburbs once they start having children. (See “The Next Baby Boom,” Urbanite April ’06.) “I love the feeling of connection we have with our neighbors,” says O’Brien. But what they don’t love is the dearth of quality child-care centers, the scarcity of preschools and recreational programming, the lack of playgrounds and open space in some areas, and the need to drive to the suburbs to buy necessities. To get city leaders and private developers to address these issues, Upper Fells Point resident Rebecca Gershenson Smith has created a nonprofit advocacy group called the Downtown Baltimore Family Alliance; O’Brien is the group’s president. “I want lawmakers, when creating or considering a policy proposal, to ask, ‘What does the [alliance] say about this?’ and to seek out our organization as partners in the creation of policy that will affect quality-oflife issues downtown,” says Smith, who is a Ph.D. candidate in English language and literature at

the University of Michigan. The alliance’s central argument—that downtown Baltimore needs to cater to more than just childless twentysomethings—can be a hard message for city leaders to hear, says Joel Kotkin, presidential fellow in Urban Futures at Chapman University and author of The City: A Global History. “Clearly, it’s the path of least resistance for cities to attract the hip-youngand-cool and the childless couples with pieda-terres. These people are relatively easy to satisfy. As long as criminal gangs are not ruling the streets and the garbage is picked up, they are more concerned with architecture and stuff to do,” says Kotkin. “But families are demanding. They care about schools, they care about whether there’s a broad-based economy, about the state of public parks. They’re a pain in the ass if you’re a city.” But young professionals often only stay a few years, and many cities have come to see retaining middle- and upper-class families is one of the best routes to a stable tax base. New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg announced with great fanfare an initiative, backed by more than $100 million, to assure there is a park or playground within a ten-minute walk of every city residence. In Philadelphia, where the number of school-age kids in the downtown area fell by half between 1970 and 1990, the Central Philadelphia Development Corporation is furiously selling its downtown as a family-friendly place and is working with schools to make them more competitive. “Clearly, for lots of cities, the starting point is empty nesters and young professionals,” says Paul Levy, president and chief executive of Phil-

adelphia’s Center City District. “But we think to be sustainable you have to take the next step. We really need to think about strategies to retain these people as they have kids.” The Downtown Partnership of Baltimore estimates that between 2000 and 2007, the number of people living downtown grew from 36,360 to 38,250, as the city as a whole lost population. The numbers have been driven largely by childless singles and empty nesters. “We’ve talked a lot about making downtown more of a 24/7 place, but there really hasn’t been a great emphasis on attracting and retaining families,” says Andrew Frank, Baltimore’s deputy mayor for neighborhood and economic development. “When partners like [the Family Alliance] have ideas about how to make downtown more livable and attractive to young families, we’re more than willing to partner with them.” The alliance has two overarching goals. One is to promote downtown as an attractive option for families. The second is to make it more so. The group’s website (www.dbfam.org) will serve as a link between current residents, and as a repository of information for those who want to learn more about the area. The group plans to host a school fair to spread the word that there are several good public elementary schools downtown. Other goals include creating more recreational programs, more green space, more day cares and preschools, safer streets, and more shopping opportunities. “I think families would kill to get a Target downtown,” Smith says. Although diversity is one of the things alliance members like about living downtown, and their board is mixed racially, so far the group has not attracted many lower-income families. “We know Baltimore has bigger issues than middle class families not being able to buy kids’ shoes downtown,” O’Brien says. “Our group is not exclusive. We really believe that helping us and retaining these families in the end is going to help Baltimore grow and be a thriving city.” Kevin Cleary, community outreach director for City Council President Stephanie RawlingsBlake, says he agrees with O’Brien. “If this group helps get a new rec center downtown, then all kids benefit,” he says. “And we do need a solid middle-class tax base.” City Councilman William Cole, who represents the eleventh district, is on the alliance’s advisory board and is himself raising a family downtown. “I have neighborhoods in my district that are riddled with drugs and crime, and the city needs to address that. But if we lose the tax base of expensive homes, then the city’s doomed in the long run,” he says. “I’m willing to support [the alliance’s] activities as long as it does not detract from other neighborhoods’ ability to rebuild.” ■

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Class act: High school sophomore Clarence Mundell, right, works with tutor David Gorkin, a member of one of the “families” of volunteers from the Incentive Mentoring Program.

Extra Credit Can “families” of mentors turn around troubled teens? At 3 p.m. on a Tuesday in March, Clarence Mundell, a sophomore at Paul Laurence Dunbar High School in East Baltimore, is staying after school to study for an American government test. For the past four months he’s been upholding a marathon schedule: He’s up at six in the morning, off to school until three, then with a tutor until basketball practice. He gets home at 10 p.m. Clarence’s average grade for the year is almost 80 percent. He hopes to win a basketball scholarship that will take him to college, following in the footsteps of basketball legends Muggsy Bogues and Reggie Lewis, both Dunbar alumni. It’s hard to believe that last year, Clarence failed five out of eight of his classes. He was barred from playing basketball, and was on the verge of being kicked out of Dunbar, a magnet school that specializes in the sciences, and moved back to a regional zone school. “I was coming to school and just, like, playing around, cutting class, not turning in homework,” he says. “Then IMP came along.” IMP is the Incentive Mentoring Program, which works with students who have failed at least half of their freshman year classes, and who face psychosocial challenges such as gang violence, abuse or neglect, or a burdensome financial obligation to their household. Clarence is guarded about much of his personal history. He’s big for a 16-year-old, with strong, tattooed arms and the beginnings of scruff on his face. From his tough and silent facade, you get the

feeling that he’s seen plenty of the problems that plague Baltimore’s youth. IMP’s founder is Sarah Hemminger, a 27year-old Ph.D. student in biomedical engineering at Johns Hopkins. Pale skinned, with soft brown hair and a serious face, Hemminger is a native of suburban Indianapolis. She started the program one day in 2004 by simply knocking on Dunbar’s doors and asking for the school’s most troubled students. “I said, I want the kids who failed all their freshman classes first semester,” she says. “Give me the kids that you think are going to be out of here come June.” She asked for ten; she ended up with fifteen. Sarah’s motivation was personal. Her husband, Ryan Hemminger, ran into trouble in his freshman year in high school, when his mother got in a car accident that left her temporarily disabled. The family went on welfare, his mother started selling her prescribed painkillers (among other drugs), and Ryan began failing his classes. “The funny thing was,” Sarah says, “I met him as a senior, when he was an A/B student, and he was on his way to the Naval Academy.” Sarah credits Ryan’s turnaround to “a complete miracle from God” and two more-earthly things: a committed and caring group of teachers who took a holistic approach to getting his life on track, and Ryan’s determination. “He was just the strongest person I think I’d ever met in my whole life,” she says. At the first meeting of IMP, Hemminger flew solo, using pizza as the incentive for a

group of kids who, she says, didn’t want to be there. “I explained to them that no matter what they did to me, I wasn’t going to go away, so they might as well get on board,” she says. “Basically what I did was stalk them. If they didn’t show up to school, I drove to their house and I picked them up.” Today, IMP assigns each student a “family” of five to eight volunteers (mostly students from Hopkins Medical School or the School of Public Health) that keeps track of him or her nearly twenty-four hours a day. IMP families will do everything from tutoring to driving students to school to taking them camping or to the movies. Sarah Orao, the American government teacher at Dunbar, calls it “Big Brothers Big Sisters on steroids,” referring to the organization that pairs youth one-to-one with mentors. Matt Czarny, a second-year Hopkins med student, is the “Head of Household” of Clarence’s family. Early in the school year, he called Clarence’s mother every couple of nights and drove out to their house to deal with school paperwork. These days, his main job is “making sure everybody is doing what they need to be doing.” David Gorkin, a first-year Ph.D. student and one of Clarence’s tutors, says he tries to act like a “school coach,” giving him “drills” for his mind. “I’m trying to get him to understand that improving your mind will drive you in your life and take you where you need to go,” says Gorkin. The program graduated its first class—the original fifteen students from 2004—last year. Fourteen of them are now attending either twoor four-year universities; the fifteenth starts in the fall. Clarence is part of IMP’s second class, this one of sixteen students. The program is now trying to raise the money to add a new class of students every year, and to extend the program to other schools in Baltimore. Dunbar principal Stephen Colbert supports the effort: “If something like this could be duplicated, if the city could invest money in more programs like IMP, the school system as a whole would be much better off.” But funding isn’t easy to come by for mentoring programs, where results are not easily quantified. And while IMP is currently batting 100 percent, it would have a tougher time in other Baltimore schools; to get into Dunbar, even its fifteen most “at-risk” students had to prove themselves academically. For Clarence, the struggle was nonetheless considerable, and the results, remarkable. Asked if he remembers the first time he got back a really good grade on a high school test, his face, with all its toughness, lights up. “Yes!” he says. “It was a 100, on my American government test.” He laughs, and shakes his head. “It feels good.” ■

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Buried Treasure

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They killed six people that day, bringing the total to one hundred. The survivors huddled in ragged tents, waiting. “We … expected to be murdered at any moment, and we besought God continuously for merciful relief,” clergyman Gijsbert Bastiaensz wrote of the experience. “O cruelty! O atrocity of atrocities!” It was July 1629, and the Dutch East India Trader Batavia had a month earlier impaled itself on the obscured reef of the Houtman Abrolhos, coral islands roughly fifty miles off the western coast of presentday Australia. As the Batavia went down in the seething sea, incorrigibles on board, led by the charismatic Haarlem apothecary Jeronimus Cornelisz, broke into the stores of alcohol, finery, and jewels, carrying what they could to land. While the captain, Francisco Pelsaert, and a few dozen officers and passengers rowed to Indonesia to get a rescue ship, Cornelisz’s gang, the new emperors of two acres of dead sand, went on a homicidal rampage. Each night, after their murderous merriment, the men retired to their tent, where they fingered their plunder from the Batavia. Their most cherished item was a gem-carved vase. Delicate grape-vine decorations, satyr-head handles, and a grinning Pan refracted the lamplight, emanating warm honeyed hues that danced in the mutineers’ greedy eyes. For the last sixty years, that vase, called the Rubens Vase because it once belonged to the celebrated Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens, has sat in the Walters Art Museum. It’s now in the medieval installation on the third level of the Centre Street building. If you’ve been to the Walters, you’ve probably seen it. Carved in the 4th century from a single piece of chalcedonic agate, the vase was created for a Byzantine emperor in Constantinople. The ancient Greeks were master gem carvers, but during the Byzantine period, their medieval descendants gradually lost the art. The Rubens Vase is a monument to gem carving’s final flowering, wrought with unprecedented skill and audacity, says Gary Vikan, director of the Walters. “That it has survived is a miracle,” he adds. But until recently, Vikan, an authority on the vase, had never heard one piece of the story. Vikan knew that the vase, wrapped in pagan imagery, attracted a litany of pedigreed—and pious—owners, including the Duke of Anjou, who obtained it in 1360, and King Charles V of France. Ransacking Huguenots stole the vase from the Royal Collections in 1590. Thirty years later, Rubens picked it up at a flea market at a Paris monastery.

encounter

The strange tale of the Rubens Vase

Plunder: Gary Vikan, director of the Walters Art Museum, inspects the Rubens Vase, which was saved from a sinking ship by a band of murderous mutineers in 1629.

Rubens was not immune to its powers, making several sketches of it, but he gave it to the Batavia’s captain to trade with the powerful Grand Mogul of India. Vikan also knew that the Batavia sank, and that the vase had been saved. But he had never heard the story of Cornelisz and the bloody mutiny on the Houtman Abrolhos. I stumbled upon this episode while researching the wreck of the

The Rubens Vase is a monument to gem carving’s final flowering, wrought with unprecedented skill and audacity, says Gary Vikan, director of the Walters. “That it has survived is a miracle.” Batavia for a forthcoming book. In the 1966 book Islands of Angry Ghosts, by Hugh Edwards, I found a description, pulled from a translation of the Dutch East India Company records, of Cornelisz’s gang “pinching and rubbing” the Rubens Vase. By the time Captain Pelsaert returned to the island with his rescue ship three and a half months after the Batavia’s sinking, Cornelisz and his henchmen had murdered one hundred and twenty passengers. Pelsaert and his reinforcements vanquished, tortured, and hanged the killers. “If ever there has been a Godless Man … it was [Cornelisz],” wrote clergyman

Bastiaensz, whose wife was murdered along with six of his seven children. The official company report, translated in Mike Dash’s 2002 book Batavia’s Graveyard, noted that, despite the high fatalities, a remarkable amount of the treasure was recovered: “Thanks be to the Almighty for this, we would not have expected it to come out so well.” But Rubens assumed his beloved vase forever lost. “It perished at the hands of the plunderers,” he wrote. Not true, of course. Its whereabouts for the next two hundred years are a mystery, but in 1818, the British millionaire William Beckford bought the vase in the Netherlands for two hundred guineas—roughly $5,000. More than a century later, Henry Walters bought it at auction in London. It has been occupying a privileged place at his namesake institution since the 1940s. Despite many requests, the Walters last lent out the vase three decades ago, and Vikan says it’s unlikely to ever be lent again: “It is unique, and it’s very fragile.” Just to test the vase’s worth, I put an old question to Vikan: “If the museum were burning, and you had time to save just one object, what would it be?” “It’s an often-repeated notion,” Vikan replied, but he conceded that it would be an easy choice. “After all,” he said, “there are hundreds of Monets, and more than thirty Vermeers, but there is only one Rubens Vase.” ■ —Evan L. Balkan Evan L. Balkan’s book Shipwrecked: Adventures and Disasters At Sea will be published by Menasha Ridge Press in July. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Sitting pretty: A composting toilet can save twenty gallons of water per day, per person.

Flushed Away the “local water” movement arrives Last summer, for the third time since 2002, Maryland won federal drought emergency status. In December, Baltimore tapped the Susquehanna River to fill the city’s trio of depleted reservoirs. And throughout the winter, officials urged the city’s 1.8 million customers to limit their water use. While a wet spring has improved the summer’s outlook, denizens of Charm City had better prepare for the future: water shortages, which are becoming a fact of life across the country. Low-flow showerheads, water-efficient appliances, and car-washing restrictions are likely only the beginning of Baltimore’s new relationship to H2O. A growing number of citizens nationwide see a way out, and it boils down to a maxim already familiar to tree-hugging foodies: Go local. Green architect Bill Reed, a founding board member of the U.S. Green Building Council, explains it this way: Instead of piping treated water from afar, “you live on available rainfall on the site, or on the building. That’s the gold standard.” In other words, unless you live in a high-rise, where there wouldn’t be enough water to accommodate you and your neighbors, you ought to be able to survive on the water that falls out of the sky and onto your lot. You’ll just have to find a way to capture that water—and use it more than once. As proof that the “gold standard” is within reach, Reed points to the Sidwell Friends School in Washington, D.C., where he served as environmental design consultant for a 2007 renovation. The school captures the rainwater that falls on its roof, using it to fill a pond next to the building. The only wet stuff drawn from

the municipal supply is that used for drinking and hand washing. All of the wastewater flows through a series of holding tanks and filters, then through an on-site wetland, where cattails, bullrushes, and microorganisms clean the water before it is disinfected with ultraviolet radiation. Then that water is drawn off and used again, in low-flow toilets and the building’s cooling system. Teachers and kids don’t drink the recycled water—city regulations won’t allow it—but if they could, the school could “absolutely” meet the local water gold standard, says the architect. The same synergy of conservation, strategic design, and reuse figured prominently in the 2004 overhaul of Judith Lennox’s four-bedroom bungalow. (See "The Greening of Roland Park," Urbanite July 2004.) Today, as at Sidwell Friends, the municipal system supplies her tap water, but the similarities with neighboring homes end there. She funnels rainwater into cisterns to water her landscaping and fill a small pond. Effluent from the washing machine, sinks, and shower— known as greywater for its low pollutant levels— irrigates a flowerbed as underground microbes metabolize impurities. Instead of building a wetland to clean the “blackwater” generated by flushing, she skips the flush altogether, using a water-free composting toilet in the master bath. Toilets generate close to 30 percent of the average home’s wastewater—about twenty gallons daily per person. Nationwide, that adds up to 5.8 billion gallons of fresh, perfectly-goodfor-drinking water flushed into sewers every day. A composting toilet converts human waste into fertilizer that’s great for your lawn. (And

unlike the composted sludge Johns Hopkins researchers spread on the yards of East Baltimore residents in 2000 to test strategies for lead abatement in contaminated soil, you know exactly what’s in it.) To clarify: We’re not talking about an indoor outhouse, or tossing poop in the backyard. From the bathroom, waste drops through a chute in the floor, then decomposes in a closed collection bin—aided by the occasional handful of peat moss—for at least a year to eliminate pathogens. A fan in the bin draws fresh air down past your sniffer, drying the waste and blowing odors directly to the great outdoors. Even so, the concept of living with a year’s worth of decomposing feces in the house isn’t for everyone. “I think it’s offensive to most people,” admits Lennox. But for her, it’s the notion of flushing not only clean water but also nutrientrich biodegradable matter down the drain that offends. Shortly before she embarked on her renovation, the sixtysomething Baltimore native toured the city’s sewers. “It was appalling,” she says of the labyrinthine, 3,100-mile system, which processes up to 250 million gallons of wastewater a day. “The sewer and storm pipe systems are antiquated and conflated in high rains, and the streams are polluted with overflow. Ewww.” That sewer system is currently undergoing a $1 billion, EPA-mandated cleanup to keep raw sewage from spewing into the Chesapeake Bay. Nonetheless, the Chesapeake Bay Foundation estimates that treated wastewater accounts for 19 percent of the nitrogen that washes into the Bay, jump-starting algal blooms and oxygendeprived dead zones. Studies have shown that nitrogen-rich urine supplies more than 50 percent of the nitrogen in a typical sewage system. If the composting alternative captures your fancy, be prepared to slog through city bureaucracy. “We have approved dual-flush, ultralow-flow, and waterless urinals in commercial facilities,” says Dorreya El-Menshawy, Baltimore City’s director of permits and code enforcement. But the permitting process for composting toilets, she says, “is still an experimental thing.” Ultimately, slaking Maryland’s thirst will require more than a new take on toilets. Local water proponents will have to tackle legislation, building codes, and entrenched attitudes. But as with eating locally, drinking locally can be done by degrees: Few locavores survive only on the fruits of a backyard garden; most graze up to one hundred miles from home. Reed sees a similar mindset working for water systems. Every individual may not be able live on the rain that falls on the rooftop, he says, but a city should strive to subsist on water that comes from within its watershed. To do that, Baltimore would have to swear off the Susquehanna, which has been a convenient fallback in dry times. ■

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keynote

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The Game Changer Former Colts star Joe Ehrmann on why sports brings out the worst in boys and men, and what to do about it B y

M i c h a el

P ho to graph

So, which is it?

Is the world of athletics an oasis where competition instills character, where spectators can take joy in watching the young and strong command their bodies? Or is sports a mirage that lures youth toward a false sense of possibility, turns their parents into foul-mouthed sideline menaces, and belches up such role models as Roger Clemens and Michael Vick? Joe Ehrmann’s answer: Yes, and yes. The former Colts star agrees that athletics have become intertwined with destructive notions of masculinity, perverting whatever virtues the experience might offer. But the defensive tackle-turned-man-of-God also sees sports—more specifically, the tutelage of enlightened, loving coaches—as a potential road to salvation. Ehrmann’s backstory shows why he can have it both ways. In the mid-1970s, when he was an armored, white-and-blue-draped hulk with the number seventy-six on his back, Ehrmann tossed other human beings to the ground for glory. The “Sack Pack”—the beefy quartet of Ehrmann, Mike Barnes, Fred Cook, and John Dutton—led the National Football League in quarterback takedowns in 1975 and was as essential to the rebirth of the post-Unitas franchise as howitzer-armed quarterback Bert Jones. Like all of the Colts teams of the era (and before an implosion engineered a few years later by owner Robert Irsay), Ehrmann and his teammates were revered, and the hard-partying Ehrmann played the role of gridiron hero to the hilt—holding court at Leadbetter’s bar in Fells Point, and anywhere else he was invited. He owned the town, and acted like it. Ehrmann’s conversion began in the midst of a ten-year NFL career, as he watched his 18-year-old brother, Billy, struggle for five months in a pediatric cancer ward at Johns Hopkins. Billy’s death in 1978 was a “cathartic moment,” he says. “A lot of my sense of manhood came into question. I had climbed to the pinnacle as one kind of man, but I found that it was empty and unfulfilling, and had little to do with helping other people. It had been more about me being number seventy-six than being a person.” A friend gave him a copy of Viktor Frankl’s psychoanalytic book on life in a Nazi concentration camp, Man’s Search for Meaning, and Ehrmann was transformed. In 1982, he helped build a Ronald McDonald House near Hopkins Hospital for families of children with cancer. In 1985, he was ordained a Lutheran minister, and in 1988 he founded The Door, an outreach charity designed to help needy families in East Baltimore find purpose and work. Only the red-and-blue tattoo on his left forearm, made indecipherable by time, serves as a fading reminder of Ehrmann’s feral past. Now 59, he gives more than a hundred talks and seminars each year to youth coaches, injured Iraq War vets, community groups, and NFL teams—the latter as part of the league’s move to improve its players’ behavior. In conversation, he tosses around

A n f t

Marshall

Clarke

terms like “self-esteem” and “father wound”—a prevalent concept in Christian counseling that has to do with emotionally stunted responses sons receive from fathers, and the toxic aftereffects that linger throughout the son’s adulthood—to explain how too many use sport for ill, depriving young men of the acceptance they need to love and be loved. Ehrmann also practices what he preaches at the Gilman School, where he serves as a volunteer assistant football coach. One of his star players is his son Joey Ehrmann, who has accepted a scholarship to play football at Wake Forest University this fall. Over nothing stronger than a few cups of coffee, Ehrmann sat down to Madison Avenue chat about what’s wrong with sports promotes what I and what we can do about it.

There’s this prevalent belief that sports heroes are worthy role models—even though there’s little evidence to suggest they possess more character than people in any other walk of life. Why do we persist in say ing that sports equals virtue?

The greatest myth in America is that sports builds character. It doesn’t do that unless a coach teaches it and it’s intentional. We’ve reduced sports to winning at all costs, at every level. Most studies show that the longer a child is successful at sports, the greater the ethical corners he’ll start cutting.

call the three myths of masculinity: that men need to possess athletic ability, that they need to have sexual conquests, and that they have to have economic success. Athletes have all three of those lies embedded within their lives.

If holding sports up as a way to develop character is wrong, as you seem to be saying, why bother to lavish educational resources on it— especially with fallen heroes like Clemens and Vick in the background?

Sports is actually an incredible way to teach character, but it’s got nothing to do with role models. That’s all a Madison-Avenue construct designed to sell more merchandise or tickets. Madison Avenue promotes what I call the three myths of masculinity: that men need to possess athletic ability, that they need to have sexual conquests, and that they have to have economic success. Athletes have all three of those lies embedded within their lives. As a society, we have to start moving against that, because none of those myths has anything to do with masculinity or creating a good person. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Yet, kids—and their parents—eat it up. Given that, how is it possible that playing sports represents a “teachable moment”?

When I walked away from playing sports, I walked away from it totally. But I eventually came to the conclusion that there’s probably not another venue in America where we can address our deepest social problems. Sports is the secular religion of America. It engages more individuals, families, and communities than any cultural institution we have. And the high priest of that religion is the coach. Football really should be viewed as a tool for teaching. The problem is we’ve lost sight of sports as a way to teach. Sports should be the last class of the day. Most schools and school systems have totally lost their balls in the weeds on that. If it’s not an educational activity, what good is it? Why do schools even have sports teams? Why should taxpayers be funding it?

If coaches are indeed the “high priests” of sports, what should they be preaching?

The biggest predictor of a child’s success is self-esteem. You can’t teach kids in this age without teaching about racism, relationships, and other things that make them aware of how people have treated each other, or how they should treat each other. For me, the success you have in being a man or woman comes down to two things: Can you love and be loved? It’s about building relationships. Coaches have an amazing amount of power to teach that because every boy who plays wants to please that coach. Kids are tremendous. They want someone to look them in the eye and tell them they have value. If I realize that I have that kind of platform, I can speak to them about important values and about why many of the cultural messages they receive are wrong.

Q A

And do you do that when you deal with the kids at Gilman?

During practices and before games, we teach them about poverty, racism, gender inequality, violence. Two of our primary topics are relationships and how to become a good man. How do you define that? We teach them the three lies of masculinity, how to be empathetic and gentle. During Homecoming Week, we’ll teach our guys about how to date a girl. We’ll say: ‘That girl you’re dating isn’t there to be disrespected or used by you. She’s her parents’ prized possession. Treat her like you would your mother or your sister.’ I’ll teach kids about the Dred Scott Supreme Court decision that said black men weren’t constitutionally protected, how racism affects poverty. There’s no reason why coaches across the country can’t do something similar for young people. I’d like to see coaches be required to develop and turn in lesson plans, like teachers do. They would have to tell administrators what lessons they’ll be teaching, including ones about morality, citizenship, and relationships. When I give seminars for coaches, I have them write down on an index card why they’re a coach, why they coach the way they do, and what they want to get out of it, among other things. I try to get them to locate their core values and think about ways to relate them to their kids. What I’ve learned is that with coaches and any other adult, they can convey those values if they’ve made sense of their own lives—created a meaningful narrative from it. My wife—who is a psychotherapist—and I call it “mindsight.” It’s the capacity to understand yourself and others. It’s not real complicated.

In urban America, pro sports are seen as a ticket out of lives of squalor and danger. But the chances making it are infinitesimal. Doing

what you’re doing at a school like Gilman might have value, but aren’t inner city kids who are susceptible to misleading cultural messages more in need of educational systems that prepare them for careers in things other than sports?

Of course. They’re better off buying lottery tickets than dreaming of a career playing a game. As a coach, you have to teach against the idea that sports is a way out. Kids need critical and social skills. They need to be taught the history of ghettos and about systemic racism. Their lives are dominated by the perpetuation of myths and by a feeling of powerlessness. You have to teach them the role that race and economics have played in their lives—and then show them that that’s not their life. Then you have to help them develop self-esteem that can pull them out of that situation, so they can develop relationships that are positive and that they can build a life on. My conclusion is that you can’t take care of any crisis in urban America without dealing with the crisis of masculinity.

Q A

What do you mean by that?

Men are in pain, man. They’ve denied it and suppressed it and buried it. But when you get them together and they hear you and others talking about it, We’ve lost sight they open up and it all flows out. I don’t care whether it’s Gilman kids, inner-city of sports as a way kids, NFL guys, or men in the boardroom. to teach. If it’s not They’re all dealing with the expectations of masculinity that their fathers an educational put on them. They were told they had to achieve a certain impossible, mythical activity, what level of masculinity to be a man, and it’s good is it? Why do dominated their psyches. To deal with that, they’ve had to medicate with someschools even have thing—like I did—or become successful sports teams? without any regard for the price they pay in relationships or health. As they’ve gotten older, that myth has moved from the ball field to the bedroom to the billfold. That’s the progression. It’s all about power and dominance and control. The communal and national cost we pay for that is just phenomenal. Many coaches perpetuate or reinforce that myth of masculinity.

You’ve paid some of those health costs yourself: You’re hobbled these days by leg injuries that won’t get much better, and you’ve watched a lot of your old NFL brethren succumb to Alzheimer’s and other diseases at rates much higher than that of the general population. Given the toll your playing career took on you physically, would you do it again?

Oh yeah. The high of that locker room, the camaraderie and the relationships you develop that last a lifetime … The old Colts, including the Sack Pack guys, still get together once a month, not just for nostalgia but to try and see what we can do to help other NFL retirees. The beauty of sports is that it’s such a melting pot. In this country, we’re segregated by zip code, and that determines what we see, where we go, who we hang out with. But sports ought to make you racism-proof. I know I became much more aware of social ills because I got to meet and work closely with people from a wide range of backgrounds. Even if that were all I got out of sports, it would have made it well worth it. ■

—Michael Anft wrote about the death of Zachary Sowers in the May Urbanite. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

photo by Nancy Froehlich

the

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Pickup artists: David Whipp steps up to the plate for a little softball with the Baltimore City Department of Recreation and Parks adult softball league, a partnership with SOBO Sports. “I’m a state trooper. There are doctors and lawyers that play out here; there are stay-athome moms that need to get away from their kids for a while,” says Whipp. “You go and play a little softball, then sit down at the park and have a couple of drinks and socialize.” Jill Steadman and Jake Roche, fellow members of Whipp’s team, Holla Atcha Boys, are in the field.

Sports Package

fun factor Feeling a little out of shape? Haven’t dragged the running shoes or the racquet out of the closet in a while? Not to fear: Urbanite presents the guide to sports for regular folks—people who are looking to try a new game, or just break a sweat with some friends and neighbors, minus the cutthroat competition. Compiled by Rebecca Messner and Greg Hanscom w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

ARCHERY All right Robin Hood, let’s see what you’ve got. Where do I start? The Baltimore Bowmen (and women) run a target range and three archery courses in the Gunpowder State Park in Glen Arm, just northeast of the Beltway. Club member Jim Mezick offers free archery lessons for groups. Season: Year-round. Every Monday night between July 4 and hunting season, the club hosts “3-D shoots,” where archers take aim at life-sized bears, caribou, and tigers. Each spring, the three-day Traditional Classic brings out several thousand shooters, as well as equipment reps and bow- and atlatl-slinging showmen. Who’s it for? “Tell people if they come out, don’t be shy,” says Bowmen President Tom Jones. “Everybody out there loves to help.” What do I need? A bow and some arrows! You can spend $5 for a bow at a garage sale or $1,000 to have one custom-made. Get the scoop: www.baltimorebowmen.com

BASEBALL/SOFTBALL The O’s 10-year losing streak got you down? Go knock a few over the fence on your own. Where do I start? The city Department of Recreation and Parks organizes big and little leagues that play on more than thirty fields around town.

Season: Little leaguers play April to July, while adults play May to July. Who’s it for? Anyone who can swing a bat can play. There are men’s, women’s, and coed divisions. What do I need? A team! Citywide Baseball and RBI leagues (both for adults) have their organizational meetings in March. Start your own team or join an already established one. Get the scoop: 410-396-7019 (baseball) or 410396-9392 (softball); www.ci.baltimore.md.us/ government/recnparks

BEACH VOLLEYBALL It’s barefoot, often scantily clad, volleyball in the sun. Ace! Where do I start? The Inner Harbor’s Rash Field—with more than a thousand tons of sand—hosts league and open play seven days a week, as long as it’s not raining. Season: Spring and summer: The beach opens in May; league play begins in June. Who’s it for? The beginner to advanced volleyballer. Chiseled midriff not required. What do I need? Drop in for $5, or register a coed team for the season for $150 (for a team of two) to $550 (for a team of six). Get the scoop: 410-752-4805; www. baltimorebeach.com

photo by Gail Burton

I Got Next! Baltimore’s top spots for outdoor hoops

Basketball is the quintessential pickup game: an unwritten code respected on courts from Moscow to Southern California dictates that, if you wait your turn, you’ll get to play. But only winners get to stay. Depending on the time of day you’ll ﬁnd anything from a friendly game of H-O-RS-E to full-court wars at these courts in and around Baltimore. The City Game Intersection of Cloverdale Road and McCulloh Street West Baltimore Denver Nuggets franchise player Carmelo Anthony calls this rugged basketball oasis just across from Druid Hill Lake his home court. Bring your “A” game against some of the best players in the city. (And practice at home on a virtual version of the City Game in the EA Sports video game NBA Street Homecourt.)

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Druid Hill Park West Baltimore For a game with a bit more scenery but no less trash talk, go to Druid Hill Park. Located in the southeast section of the park just north of Hanlon Drive, Druid Hill’s courts have a softer surface. And if you get whipped early, there’s plenty of space for a picnic. Sawmill Creek Park 301 Dorsey Road Glen Burnie Suburban players flock to these courts beside a skateboard park, just a stone’s throw from BWI. Sawmill Creek Park’s courts have fresh black asphalt, a few bleachers, and lights for nighttime play. —Lionel Foster

BIKING, ROAD Explore Baltimore’s parks and byways on two wheels. Where do I start? Ride around the reservoir in Druid Hill Park, or join a guided bike trek along the Gwynns Falls Trail. Season: The Gwynns Falls tours run Saturdays at 10 a.m. through mid-August, and reservoir rides are on Wednesdays 6 p.m.–7:30 p.m. through September. Who’s it for? Anyone over 10 What do I need? A bike and a water bottle. Druid Hill Park rents bikes for $2. Get the scoop: 410-396-0440 (Gwynns Falls) or 410-396-7900 (Druid Hill)

BIKING, MOUNTAIN Tired of dodging cars? Bust out the knobby tires and try dodging trees. Where do I start? Joe’s Bike Shop (a.k.a. the Mount Washington Bike Shop) at 5813 Falls Road organizes after-hours group rides, and puts on a summer mountain biking camp where kids learn the basics of trail riding and bike maintenance. Season: Four-day kids’ camps start June 23 and July 14. Call for info on adult rides. Who’s it for? Camps are for kids 12–16. What do I need? Bring your own bike, helmet, and gloves. Get the scoop: 410-323-2788; www. mtwashingtonbikes.com

BOXING Adriaaaaaaaan! Where do I start? The Upton Boxing Center at 1901 Pennsylvania Avenue offers basic and advanced boxing instruction for kids and adults, plus self-defense and fitness classes. Season: The center is open weekdays 5 p.m.–9 p.m. year-round. The after-school program runs 3 p.m.–6 p.m. Who’s it for? Fighters 8 years old and up. Girls are welcome, too—go, million dollar baby! What do I need? Gloves and safety equipment are provided. Registration costs $5 per day or $65 for the year. Get the scoop: 410-396-7019

the game of life

Blacktop Nation SPUD Played With: A ball, a relatively open space, at least three players How to Play: An unafﬁliated “number giver” assigns each player a secret number between one and the total number of players, and then chooses one player to be “it.” The “it” throws the ball up in the air, and calls out a number. The player whose number was called is now “it” and must catch the ball, while everyone else flees. Ball in hand, “it” yells “Spud!,” freezing the rest of the players. “It” then takes four steps toward any of the others and throws the ball at him. If a player is hit, he receives a letter (S, P, U, D) and is now “it”; if no one is hit, “it” receives a letter and throws the ball up for the next round. Once you’ve received all four letters in SPUD, you’re out. The last non-SPUD wins. BUTTS UP (also known as “Wall Ball” or “Asses Up”) Played With: A tennis or racquet ball, a wall, at least two players How to play: One player begins by throwing the ball at the wall. After the ball hits the wall, everyone tries to catch it. If you catch the ball, the goal is to throw it at the wall before the other players touch the wall. If the ball hits the wall before a player touches it, that player has an “out.” When a player receives three “outs,” she must stand facing the wall, while another player throws the ball at her. You can save yourself an “out” however, by catching the ball off the wall on the fly, then hitting the wall with it before the original thrower can touch the wall. KNOCKOUT Played With: Two basketballs, one hoop, at least three players How to play: Players line up behind the foul line, the ﬁrst two players holding the basketballs. Player 1 shoots: If the ball goes in, Player 1 goes to the back of the line; he’s still in the game. If he misses, he stays and watches Player 2 take a shot. If Player 2 makes a basket before Player 1, Player 1 is “knocked out.” The last player in wins. —Rebecca Messner

photo by Gail Burton

Three games to play at recess (or, um, on your lunch hour)

Can teamwork bridge cultural and racial divides? It’s Sunday afternoon, and in a classroom off the gymnasium at the Park School in North Baltimore, two Muslim girls are tag-teaming an explanation of Eid ul-Fitr, the feast following Ramadan. “Ramadan lasts for thirty days, and you fast—you’re not allowed to eat anything,” says the first. “Between dawn and dark,” adds the second. “And when it’s over, we all go to the mosque and pray together, we dress up really nice, and then they slaughter the animals.” “Not all the animals—just a sheep.” “Yeah, they slaughter a sheep. And then we eat it—nothing strange.” They manage this exchange at speeds only 10-year-old girls can reach, and their audience—about thirty other girls—watches intently. Next, a Jewish girl gives this description of Succot with a single breath: “We make like huts out of wood and we like live in them and it represents when the Jews were going out of Egypt and they didn’t have a place to live so they like lived in huts.” The scene continues for a half an hour. It’s remarkable: A group of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian kids, Hispanic and Korean kids, white and black kids, all sitting around a table talking about their cultures, their traditions, their lives. How is this possible? “They think they’re here to play basketball,” says Chris Manfuso, 31, a cleancut medical supplies salesman and one of this gathering’s masterminds. In 2006, Manfuso and a couple of friends founded Be More, a nonprofit that uses sports to bring kids together across Baltimore’s many social and racial divides. The program draws in 9- to 11-year-olds from around the city on four consecutive Sundays and scrambles them into teams for games of basketball, soccer, and capture the flag. Between the games, the kids give each other lessons on diversity—often inadvertently. Steering today’s discussion is Damien Davis, 27, a financial analyst by day and professional lacrosse player by night. “The kids don’t know a lot about each other,” he says. Through this program, he says, “they start to learn that people are different, and they’ll respect differences. Eventually, we’ll have better-working communities, better-working businesses.” Davis, Manfuso, and T. Rowe Price broker Mike Piccinino have been the driving forces behind the program. The spark came from Thibault Manekin, 29, who helped create Playing for Peace, an organization that uses the same sportsas-social-grease philosophy internationally. “Every time I came back from South Africa, the Middle East, or Northern Ireland, I would realize that Baltimore was more divided than any of these places,” says Manekin, who recently started a socially responsible development firm with his father. (See “After-School Special,” Urbanite December 2007.) Be More has reached about 250 Baltimore school children. The Park School provides the facilities and rounds up the kids in buses, and the nonprofit Sports4Kids lends eighteen coaches to the cause. Down the road, says Manfuso, they would like to expand the program into the public schools. “Right now, they think this is all about sports,” says Manfuso, standing at the gym door. “They may not realize it’s something bigger until they get older.” —Greg Hanscom

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BROOMBALL

CANOEING/KAYAKING

CLIMBING

It’s ice hockey in sneakers, with brooms and a ball instead of sticks and a puck. Where do I start? The Baltimore Broomball Club organizes team play and pickup games at the Mount Pleasant Ice Arena in Northeast Baltimore. Season: Indoor rinks mean ice even in the summer. Who’s it for? Folks who never learned to skate forward, much less backward What do I need? Broomball shoes (yes, there is such a thing), knee pads, and elbow pads, plus a warm jacket for time in the penalty box. Helmets and broomball sticks are available for loan. Get the scoop: broomball.meetup.com

Get off the roads and onto the water! There’s plenty of flat water nearby (exhibit A: the Chesapeake Bay), and some world class whitewater as well (the Upper Youghiogheny in Western Maryland sports some serious Class V rapids). Where do I start? The Greater Baltimore Canoe Club has been turning novices into expert paddlers and organizing trips since 1974. Sign up for basic paddling classes, learn to roll a kayak in a swimming pool, or join a group for a weekend campout. Season: Year-round, weather permitting Who’s it for? Anyone and everyone What do I need? Membership is $20 for a year. Most classes and seminars are free to members. Get the scoop: www. baltimorecanoeclub.org CLIMBING

Get in touch with your inner primate and get a mean workout at the same time. Where do I start? Earth Treks climbing center in Timonium (1930 Greenspring Drive) will get you started in the gym—a great place to learn the ropes, find climbing partners, and watch talented climbers pull sick moves—or take you out to play in the rocks and ice.

strike a pose

photo by Gail Burton

How do you win at yoga?

A few weeks ago I took a friend—a yoga virgin— along to one of Charm City Yoga’s $6 community classes. Our teacher, Camille Moses-Allen, led us through her basic but rigorous practice. As the class neared its end, she guided us into a shoulder stand, in which you prop yourself up on your shoulders and elbows, feet in the air, supporting your back with your palms. Out of the tranquil candlelight came a loud whisper: “Hey! Becca! Look!” I didn’t respond. Camille had warned us that turning our heads during this pose would strain our necks. I gave my friend a quick thumbs-up as we came down, moving into the final relaxation phase of the practice. “I’m pretty good at this yoga thing!” my friend said after class. I tried to explain to him that it’s not really about that. You don’t do yoga to be “good” at it. “Yeah, but the shoulder stand, did you see me? I, like, really got it,” he said. “Better than the guy next to me, even.” My friend’s instinct was to make the class, which was indeed a physical challenge, into something competitive. Naturally, I thought. We live in a society that finds a way to make a competition out of almost everything. But yoga is built upon a philosophy of equanimity and inner awareness: It’s not about what the pose looks like; it’s where your body and mind are within it. In traditional

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practice, the whole purpose is to condition the body to sit comfortably in meditation for long periods of time. So where does yoga fit into our culture of hot dog eating contests and doping scandals, where some of our highest-paid citizens play children’s games for a living? I called Charm City Yoga owner Kim Manfredi to get her insight. Her classes are notoriously intense: “Ninety minutes of torture means ninety years of happy life!” she’ll say, giggling, as you try mightily to hold the thigh-burning utkatasana pose, which is like sitting in an invisible chair. “Yoga is absolutely not about competition,” Manfredi told me. “I try to remind my students that this is about moving to the edge of your physicality.” It may not be competition, but it’s not unrelated: This is the same edge that athletes push themselves to every time they compete, that place where the body would give out if not for the discipline and strength of the mind. Manfredi, in fact, has worked with members of the Baltimore Ravens—not so much on strength (they have enough of that), but on flexibility. Manfredi says linebacker Ray Lewis had an epiphany during meditative pranayama breathing: “At the end, he just opened his eyes and said, ‘This is the tool I need to take me to the next level,’” she says. “If he translated that to ‘I can win more games,’ that’s fine—that’s his profession.” Yoga in America, to be sure, is a variation on the ancient Indian tradition, and may even be a sport for some. But if Ray Lewis can experience meditative bliss, those more traditional aspects of the practice must harmonize in some way with our collective competitive spirit—even if you’re not supposed to be sizing up the guy next to you as you reach for enlightenment. —Rebecca Messner

finish him!

Season: Year-round, indoors and out Who’s it for? Anyone 5 years old and up What do I need? The $69 introductory package includes two three-hour classes and all the gear you’ll need, plus fifteen days of climbing in the gym. Get the scoop: 410-560-5665; www. earthtreksclimbing.com continued on page 89

Watch the Birdie Three Ballpark Essentials for the Frugal Fan Ten straight losing seasons have trimmed the crowds at Camden Yards, and early attendance figures at brandnew Nationals Park just down the Beltway have the D.C. club also lagging at the turnstiles. Bad news for owners, but not for budget-minded fans of America’s pastime, who will find a buyer’s market for their baseball dollars. Here’s a few tips on how to save at the game. Buy Cheap Seats Drop $9 on a left-field upper reserve nose-bleeder at Oriole Park and upgrade yourself to a more vacant section closer to the field. It doesn’t get much cozier than sections 4, 6, and 8, where fans share the view with right fielder Nick Markakis. You can save even more in D.C., where grandstand seating is available for $5 at Nationals Park. Or splurge on Upper Right Field Terrace seats, which provide a scenic view of the Anacostia River for $10. Ride the Light Rail or Metro Using public transportation is easier than ever with smaller crowds, and you’ll avoid parking fees (it costs $10 to $25 to park at the stadiums) and have time to peruse the sports pages. Fuel Up Outside the Stadium Area Try the Mt. Royal Tavern (1204 W. Mt. Royal Ave.) for cheap pre-game beers and baseball banter just steps from the Light Rail station. Half a dozen blocks from Nationals Park, there’s a smattering of watering holes for Nats fans lining the district’s M Street. —Charlie Vascellaro

Why do I love this horrible sport? There is something about growing up in the rougher section of a city that puts one constantly on edge. For example, I will never take for granted that the breathless stranger rushing up behind me is simply trying to catch his bus. Such fleeting half-moments of panic are common and manageable, but it’s true: A small part of me lives in a constant state of fear. So why, when I am so alert to the threat of violence in my own life, am I a fan of mixed martial arts fighting, one of the most violent legally sanctioned sports imaginable? You may not know its name, but you’ve probably been shocked by a commercial for its most popular American incarnation, Ultimate Fighting Championship. In a UFC fight, two men of roughly equal size, bare-chested and gloved, battle in an eight-sided cage. The rules prohibit kicking a downed opponent or kneeing him in the head, and you’re not allowed to thrust downward with an elbow or strike a man’s back, spine, groin, throat, or the back of his head at any time. But otherwise, just about anything goes. There is one Muay Thai kickboxing maneuver in which a fighter thrusts one knee upwards while pulling his opponent’s face downward so that the two meet halfway. Some of the more daring competitors use aerial maneuvers like jump- and spinning hook-kicks, but because even small mistakes are costly, most play it safe (by MMA standards), aiming instead for submission moves like the omoplata, a jigsaw puzzle of a move in which a fighter, seated on his opponent’s arm, can break an elbow if the downed man doesn’t say uncle. I once sat slack-jawed and anxious through a televised UFC marathon as a few of this bloodsport’s all-stars laid a parade of opponents low in a single round. Three hours later, my only regret was that it had ended so soon. I sometimes wonder what all this voluntary exposure to violence is doing to me. Do my gasps and cheers betray some unspoken evil I otherwise manage to hide? Am I just waiting to rip someone’s head off? Probably not. I could argue about the beauty of the sport. Mixed martial arts is, essentially, full-body chess—a perfect mix of physicality and strategy, played by some of the best athletes in the world. But I have no plans to attempt it as participant, or even as a live spectator: I’m just a guy on his couch, grateful for the unhindered use of his limbs. And that may be the point. I’ve been on the wrong end of a gun and a few fists in real life, so perhaps all of these scenes, real and contrived, are connected. I think that part of me needs to see that people can make rules for violence—how long the fight will last, what will and won’t be allowed. I can’t control what happens on the corner or at the bus stop, but as I watch my favorite fighters circle each other in the octagon, it’s one of the few times I can be certain that those footsteps aren’t meant for me. —Lionel Foster

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PINBUSTER

Strike zone: A well-worn rack of duckpins stands tall at Patterson Bowling Center on Eastern Avenue, one of two surviving duckpin-only facili ties in Baltimore City. urbanite june 08

What will become of duckpin bowling? By Michael Yockel Photography by J.M. Giordano w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

courtesy of Maryland Historical Society

Left: Elizabeth "Toots" Barger, owner of thirteen world duckpin championships, dur ing her heyday in the 1950s, Right: Baltimore Profes sional Duckpin Association secretary Dave Garriot, one of perhaps nine thousand league duckpinners still roll ing in Maryland.

y 10:45

on an unseasonably warm Friday morning in late March, the nine members of the Old Stars duckpins bowling league have passed the midway point in the first game of their weekly match at tiny Patterson Bowling Center on Eastern Avenue. Smooth-rolling Maxine Hubbard has just converted a one-pin spare; not-so-smooth-rolling Bob Kline has just executed a difficult shot for a 10; and Theresa McElhose, co-owner of the Patterson with her husband, Charles Sr., has just knocked off a double-header strike before hurrying to field a phone call behind the front counter/snack bar/bowling-shoe-dispensing nook. With Mix 106.5 coursing through the house sound system, good-natured kibitzing reigns—low-fives and knuckle-bumps exchanged after each bowler’s turn—among the mostly senior Old Stars crew. The four-team league occupies four of the Patterson’s six first-floor lanes (six second-floor lanes sit vacant at this early hour). Crammed into a 100-feet-long by 50-feet-wide space, the Patterson, located midway between Fells Point and Butcher’s Hill, bills itself as “the oldest operating duckpin bowling alley in the nation”—a hardto-dispute claim given that the place opened in 1927 and now exists as one of only a handful of extant lanes in the Baltimore area, the unofficial duckpins capital of the known universe (see “Eighty Years of Duckpin,” January 2007 Urbanite). “It holds its own,” says Charles McElhose, 53, who, with Theresa, 52, purchased the Patterson in 1995 from its original owners. “We bought it because we love the game.”

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The place still rollicks on weekends, when young, non-league BYOBers jam both floors. Still, McElhose confesses that he subsidizes the Patterson during the summer—traditionally the game’s off-season—by funneling funds from the DJ/karaoke and homeimprovement businesses he also runs. Meanwhile, attrition chips away at his older customers. “Over the thirteen years that we’ve owned it, a lot of bowlers who also loved the game have passed away,” he says. He motions toward the small group that includes his 78-year-old father. “With this league, we used to have eighteen bowlers. Now we’re down to nine. I have continued to run this league for the old-timers. You would hope that more of them would bowl, but a lot of people, health-wise, they can’t: They say, ‘This hurts’ and ‘That hurts,’ and they don’t want to do anything but sit in a chair.” A day and a half earlier and a bit more than eleven Mapquest miles to the west, not far over the city line on an aggressively commercial stretch of Route 40, the Westview Lanes rips along in high gear at a little after 8 p.m. on a foggy Wednesday. Nearly all of the forty duckpin lanes in the football-field-sized building host organized bowling, with the six-team Sportsmen’s Bowling League (mixed gender, all ages, all white) sandwiched between the ten-team Gladiators (mixed gender, all ages, all African American) and six of the sixteen teams from the all-male Baltimore Professional Duckpin Association (BPDA). The same amicable, jiving commiseration and encouragement that characterized the action at the Patterson dominates here, too, even among the considerably more focused and accomplished pros, who bowl a forty-week season for modest cash prizes. “A lot of the guys in the league like the competition, and they also like the friendships that they’ve built over the years,” explains Dave Garriott, 42, secretary of the sixty-four-member BPDA, which from late August through early May competes each Wednesday at Westview, Southwest Bowling Center in Linthicum, and/or Charm City Bowl in Brooklyn, plus occasional Sundays at White Oak Lanes in Silver Spring. “For me, it’s not financial, although some folks do look at it as a financial opportunity.” Duckpin uber-fan Robin Olson brims with an even deeper passion for the game. The 49-year-old stay-at-home mom lives in Gaithersburg, bowls regularly at White Oak, and since 1997 has maintained a comprehensive website about the sport (www. robinsweb.com/duckpin/index.html). “I grew up with the sound of duckpin bowling when I was just a tiny little baby—it’s in my blood,” says Olson, who was raised in Washington, D.C.’s Maryland suburbs. “Back then, when you said you were going bowling, you meant duckpins. Now, you never see ads for it anywhere. It’s almost like a cult.” Like many adherents of duckpin bowling—which is distinguished from higher-scoring tenpins by its smaller, lighter, hole-less balls and shorter, more squat pins—Olson touts her game’s inherent superiority over its more well-known cousin. “I look at tenpins

A 1960 article in the defunct Baltimore American pondered how the city could support an anticipated duckpin boom. “If all [new duckpin houses] come in which are rumored, each Baltimorean just about could have his own private lane.” and say, ‘Bor-ing.’ You don’t have the finesse of duckpins, where there’s much more variation,” says Olson. “And duckpins is a harder game, requiring a higher skill level. To me, it’s more fun, more challenging.” Olson’s contention is borne out by the fact that, while tenpinners routinely roll “perfect” 300 games, duckpins remains a sport with an unconquered peak: No one’s ever achieved a 300 duckpins score, although Connecticut’s Pete Signore Jr. came tantalizingly close in 1992 with a 279. Being a duckpin diehard in 2008 virtually demands those enduring friendships that Garriott mentions: Duckpinners are an increasingly rare breed. The game has steadily evaporated over the past thirty-five years, as one operation—or “house”—after another closed its doors in the Baltimore area, victims of a confluence of demographic, technological, cultural, and economic factors. Among those factors: a general decline in Americans’ civic engagement, the subject of Harvard University social scientist and professor of public policy Robert D. Putnam’s well-known 2000 book, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. By its very nature, bowling generates what Putnam calls “social capital”—the valuable ties that link individuals into communities. Citing numerous examples of groups that create social capital, from PTAs and civic organizations to labor unions and bridge clubs, Putnam contends that Americans have abandoned such social networks en masse. Case in point: the decline of league bowling. “Between 1980 and 1993 the total number of bowlers in America increased by 10 percent, while league bowling decreased by more than 40 percent,” he writes. The implications of the league game’s demise go beyond the threat it poses to the livelihoods of bowling-house proprietors. “The broader social significance … lies in the social interaction and even occasionally civic conversations over beer and pizza that solo bowlers forgo,” Putnam claims. “League bowling, by requiring regular participation with a diverse set of acquaintances, represented a form of sustained social capital that is not matched by an occasional pickup game.” These are the community ties once forged amid the camaraderie of a citywide network of duckpin houses, now all but vanished.

And if the downward spiral that Putnam chronicles holds true—and houses continue to fold—then Baltimore’s dedicated duckpinners may themselves be rolling toward extinction.

Duckpins and Baltimore

have long been synonymous, dating back to the game’s shrouded inception. For sheer confusion, that creation story rivals those of Norse or Hindu mythologies. Throughout the 20th century, local newspapers chirped with civic pride about duckpins’ Baltimore origins. And while the exact date (most cite 1900, others 1904) and location of the sport’s creation vary (Howard Street’s Diamond alleys is the usual birthplace, but a lone wild-hair dissenter favors the Garage lanes at the intersection of Charles Street and Mt. Royal Avenue), most concur on the cast involved, while differing on the principals’ degree of significance. A detailed, slippery-facts mash-up account goes like this: Two members of the Baltimore Orioles, catcher Wilbert Robinson and third baseman-manager John McGraw (both future Hall of Famers), owned a Howard Street recreation complex/restaurant called the Diamond, which included eight (or perhaps four) tenpins lanes. Usually, when the maple pins became damaged, they were tossed into the building’s furnace, but on one occasion, Robinson suggested to a bowling chum, Charles L. Seibold (or Seybold), superintendent of Carroll Park, that he pass along a bagful of battered pins to the lads continued on page 93 w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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poetry

Conk

By Rachel Eisler “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” —Eleanor Roosevelt

My eyes stung, but I never smelled the lye in the pink relaxer Sal slathered on my scalp. The boy I burned for sniffed the straightness. (He’d ventured my curls looked pubic), then winced “What have you done to yourself?”

Rachel Eisler grew up in New York City and lives in the Oakenshawe neighborhood of Baltimore. Her work has earned her a residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and two Maryland Arts Council awards. Her essays and poems appear primarily in newspapers, amid the hurly-burly of what happens.

Web extra: Read a conversation with the poet at www.urbanitebaltimore.com. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

courtesy of Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, U.S. News & World Report Magazine Collection

photo by Susan Drey

Before prison loosed him from the streets, Malcolm X wept beneath a recipe of sliced potatoes, eggs, and Red Devil lye. The longer you can stand it the straighter the conk.

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O N PA G E 6 3 : Westward Expansion A father-daughter rehab team takes on West Baltimore, one rowhouse at a time

Rustic touch: The unfi nished interior of a straw bale structure reveals the humble building materials used.

Making Hay

Do you have what it takes to live in a straw house? BY SCOTT CARLSON

n the day that straw bales started going up as the walls of the new tasting building at Black Ankle Vineyards, the rain was turning the rusty dirt on the job site into foot-deep muck that could suck shoes off in one careless step. The bales were stacked high and dry under the roof of the timber-frame building. But for the volunteer builders who had come out to Mt. Airy for a workshop on how to build with straw bales, the rain served as a vivid reminder of this building style’s critical vulnerability: water. Sigi Koko, an architectural designer who specializes in straw bale structures, lectured

P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y J A S O N O K U TA K E

to the crowd, showing them how to wrap tar paper over bales to protect them from, say, rain streaming in through an open window. “You need water to run off to the sides of the bales and not down into the middle of the bales, where you will never notice it,” she warned the crowd: If water penetrates the middle of the bales, the wall will rot from the inside out, and the unlucky homeowner will be tearing off plaster and digging mushy bales out of the finished house. Straw bale construction is an increasingly popular sustainable building method. Using

straw that would otherwise be devoted to compost or bedding, builders stack up bales like giant Lego blocks, pin them together with stakes, then cover them with plaster. Bale walls can be load-bearing—that is, the stacked bales hold up the roof with no other support. More often, however, the bale fills in a timber-frame wall, acting as both wall structure and insulation. And that is some heavy-duty insulation. At up to two feet thick, straw bale walls do a great job of holding in heat or keeping it out. (Wall insulation is rated with numerical “R values.” Straw bale walls are usually rated between R-30 w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Don’t huff: The new tasting building at Black Ankle Vineyards in Mt. Airy is constructed with hundreds of stacked straw bales, which will be sealed from the weather with layers of earthen plaster. Straw bales make for exceptionally well-insulated walls, but the construction process can be labor-intensive.

and R-50, whereas conventional walls can be around R-19 or less.) Being thick and dense, bale walls are also said to be stronger than conventional walls, and they do not burn easily— it’s like trying to burn a phone book, advocates often say. The walls effectively block noise, so a straw house can be serene. Straw bale is especially well suited to bonedry Western states, but here in humid Maryland, there is a perception that the Mid-Atlantic is just too wet. “Everyone says you can’t do straw bale where it’s wet, but you can,” Koko says. It’s just a matter of building differently than they do out West—and of paying attention to the house once it’s built. “There’s no issue here with our climate and straw bale,” says Michael Furbish, a green builder who worked with Koko to construct his own straw bale house in Pasadena. With the Baltimore design firm Hord Coplan Macht, he recently built the Friends Community School in College Park, one of the largest straw bale structures in the country. “Anywhere you build, you want to pay attention to details, the places where water can get behind the plaster and into the walls.” Most of Koko’s principles of straw bale construction are just sensible design: Lift the building off the ground and make sure there is good drainage on the site. Provide ample roof overhangs. Pay attention to construction details around openings like windows and doors. Don’t put water pipes in the exterior walls, where they can freeze, crack, and leak. But some of her principles are peculiar to this climate: Out West, for example, builders will pin bales together using stakes of rebar. Here, she says you should use bamboo, because water vapor passing through the bales can condense on the metal and lead to rot. “The bottom line is that if you can build with wood, you can build with straw,” Koko says. “They are both cellulosic materials— both rot at 20 percent moisture content.” There is also some debate about the best way to skin a straw bale house in a wet climate. Cement, popular in drier climes, doesn’t breathe well, so Koko prefers lime plaster, which will allow water vapor to get out of the bales. But Bill Steen, a straw bale expert who lives in Arizona, believes that lime plaster is too absorbent. For a house he worked on in Falls Church, Virginia, he used wood siding on top of plastered bales. The vast majority of problems in failing straw bale structures, Steen says, start long before construction: Owners let the bales get wet in storage, then use them to build, figuring they will eventually dry out. They won’t. Black Ankle owners Ed Boyce and Sarah O’Herron had the frame and roof of their tasting building constructed first; then they piled up the bales inside the unfinished building to keep them high and dry. As the bone-chilling

drizzle drenched everything outside, the volunteer workers picked bales off the pile, then used saws to cut notches in them to fit around beams and studs in the wall frame. As the workers sawed at the bales, the sweet and dusty smell of straw filled the air. This is the grunt work of straw bale. Cutting, stacking, and plastering bales is much harder work than standard stud framing, so builders like Boyce and O’Herron often throw parties or hold clinics to attract volunteer labor. Involving the owner in the building process can be important, because a straw bale house is not the kind of structure you can throw up and then forget about. A well-maintained straw bale structure can last as long as any wood house— there are straw bale houses in the U.S. that are more than a century old—but owners should be ever-vigilant, looking for places where water can get in. “A house is like an outer shell of your body,” says Bill Hutchins, an architect who put a straw bale addition on his house in Takoma Park and who is working on half a dozen straw bale projects around Maryland. “When clients come to me and say, ‘I want a maintenance-free house,’ I say, ‘Well, your body is not maintenance free.’ That’s not very realistic.” If properly constructed—with tar paper draped over the tops of walls to shed water from hidden leaks—straw bale construction will quickly show you its problems and vulnerabilities, Hutchins says. That’s not always the case with standard construction—walls can secretly rot from within. On a sunny afternoon, Hutchins walks around the outside of his house, a modified wood-clad bungalow painted grape-, tangerine-, and lemon-candy colors. The straw bale addition, with sea-green exterior walls and a green roof, is on the back. The walls have an organic, molded look, as if hand-shaped from clay— which is essentially how they were made. The interior finish is an earthen plaster, with a little linseed oil used as a sealer. He points out a couple of hairline cracks, each a foot or two long, running down the sides of the outside walls. He’ll have to scrape those out and patch with more lime plaster. Irregularly textured and colored spots reveal where he’s made patches in the past. It’s a job that takes him a couple hours, perhaps two days a year. This maintenance process, Hutchins says, is just like what one sees with ancient plastercoated buildings in Europe. In fifty years, he imagines, his wall will look like the handcrafted European walls that people travel overseas to see. “Personally, I like the variegated finish,” he says. “That’s the beauty of the straw bale—it gets this patina over time.” ■ —Scott Carlson wrote about the Telephone Building in Charles Village in the February Urbanite. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Rebirth: Karin and Peter Krchnak spare no expense when renovating their West Baltimore properties. 1921 McCulloh Street in Druid Hill boasts two balconies, a deck, and four fireplaces scattered throughout its four full ﬂoors.

Westward Expansion A father-daughter team takes on West Baltimore, one house at a time

t takes a lot to scare Karin and Peter Krchnak, and fifteen years’ worth of water damage won’t do it. Neither will roofless houses, rat infestations, or homicides. “How many people were killed while we were working on South Fulton Street?” Karin asks her father, Peter, as they stand in 1921 McCulloh Street, which has been transformed from a vacant rowhouse with a gaping hole in its roof to an open and airy modern space with ten-foot ceilings, four refurbished fireplaces, two balconies, and a deck. Her tone suggests she’s asking what he ate for lunch. “One. No, two,” he says, correcting himself. The indefatigable father-daughter development team has renovated or built from scratch enough West Baltimore homes to fill a square block. They have charged into some of the city’s most blighted neighborhoods—including Harlem Park and Druid Hill—like storm chasers, ignoring endless blocks of boarded-up houses, crime, and drugs in an effort to breathe

life back into communities that missed Baltimore’s gut-and-rehab housing boom. Both know Baltimore well: Peter lives in the city, and Karin (who resides in Bethesda) attended University of Maryland Law School. Karin sees their work in West Baltimore as a complement to her day job—she’s a lawyer specializing in resource conservation and environmental law in the developing world. “I’ve seen people living in so many different conditions where they have absolutely nothing,” she says, citing the cardboard-box shantytowns she visited in South America, South Africa, and the Philippines. “It just shocks me that there’s so many properties sitting here not being used. I feel like it’s always better to use what you have first, then expand to green spaces.” She decided she’d do something about it, and in 2006 enlisted her father, a real estate developer. They began purchasing homes and empty lots through the city’s rolling bid process and from private individuals. Two and a

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half years and fourteen properties later, they’re selling renovated and brand-new homes to mostly first-time homeowners. The houses sell, on average, for about $195,000. Buyers include nurses, teachers, state government employees, and retirees. Some are from the neighborhood or other parts of the city, but many are former D.C.-area residents fleeing the capital’s sky-high housing prices. “We really didn’t go into this for making money,” Karin explains. “I have a career doing environmental work, he was ready to retire. We just felt like this was something we really wanted to do. If you drive around West Baltimore, these neighborhoods look like they’ve been in a war. They’re sitting like this for decades.” The blocks of boarded-up, vacant houses

“It just shocks me that there’s so many properties sitting here not being used. I feel like it’s always better to use what you have first, then expand to green spaces.”

Signs of life: The Krchnaks’ properties are sunny spots in otherwise blighted West Baltimore neighborhoods. Vacant houses sit to either side of 1921 McCulloh Street.

nearby didn't deter nurse and former Columbia resident Rona Dove (“No, not at all!” she chirps) from purchasing one of the Krchnaks’ properties, one in a series of five built on a once-empty lot on North Carey Street in Harlem Park. The three-floor house is a dream come true for Dove: an open floor plan, shiny new kitchen appliances, and a third-floor master suite with a whirlpool tub and a street-facing balcony. In fact, she’s relieved to have made it into the neighborhood at all. “I feel like I’m really lucky [to be getting in] at such a low cost,” she says. “In the next five years, [this neighborhood] is going to be really fabulous.” The challenge of transforming West Baltimore may seem daunting, but to the hearty Krchnaks, it’s not impossible. “Fifteen years ago, D.C. was like Baltimore,” Peter says. “It’s going to change. It takes time.” Karin agrees: “You have to start somewhere.” ■ —Jessica Leshnoff wrote about the Highlandtown Basement Bar Tour in the November 2007 Urbanite.

“In West Baltimore, we have to struggle to find a place to get a sandwich,” developer Karin Krchnak says. “It’s completely neglected." w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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eat/drink 69 The Ripe Stuff

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Bloom county: Allan and Dwight Baugher check on the orchards at the family’s Carroll County farm.

The Ripe Stuff

“Locavore” might be the word of the year, but at Baugher’s Farm, they’ve been growing, cooking, and eating this way for more than a century By Martha Thomas

Photography by Steve Buchanan

he general manager of Baugher’s Restaurant has never heard of arugula. When I describe the stuff—a salad green with ragged leaves and a sharp bite that has become synonymous with American food snobbery (see David Kamp’s recent bestseller, The United States of Arugula: How We Became a Gourmet Nation)—Harold Stultz scratches his Amish-style beard. “You mean like collard greens?” There’s not much call for arugula at this Westminster institution, which the restaurant’s assistant manager, Stephen Nace, subtitles “everything with gravy.” Opened in 1948, the restaurant is just one element of Baugher Enterprises, which started with a sixty-acre family farm in 1900 and has spread to more than ten times that area in Carroll County, with a cider mill, a few fields of commercial crops, and acres and acres of pick-your-own strawberries, cherries, peaches, apples, and pumpkins. The restaurant showcased the prodigious baking of Romaine Baugher (who died in 2006 at age 94), and in the 1950s and 1960s, before the chains hit Route 40, the ample parking lot was a Saturday-night hangout that served burgers made with Baugher farm beef, fries from Baugher potatoes, and shakes made with Baugher ice cream. Glancing around the dining room now, you might see some of the same clientele from those early days, digging into hot turkey sandwiches on white bread drenched in beige gravy. You might not tag them as “locavores,” as they bear little resemblance to the progessive types combing urban farmers’ markets on weekends. But if local is the new organic, Baugher’s has been trendy all along. Indeed, the fare here is practically the embodiment of Michael Pollan’s dictum “Don’t eat anything your great-great-grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food.” “Our niche,” says Nace, “is scratch soups, turkey dinners, mashed potatoes with a lump so you know they’re real.” Dessert is practically a requirement here, and that means pie. There is a dizzying daily selection, twenty-three varieties on a recent spring day: fruit pies, pumpkin, and sweet potato, as well as more exotic pies like chocolate cream and the occasional Key lime. In late spring, the openface strawberry pie tastes like you’re sitting in a strawberry patch. Later come the cherries: sour and sweet, followed by fresh peach and blackberry. Apple pie is in season year-round, and baker Mike Strine says he’s careful to adjust the sugar according the variety of apple. The recipes haven’t changed much since Romaine started baking pies in her basement in the 1940s; they call for vegetable shortening, but Strine knows the trans-fat police will come knocking at his door any day now. Strine, who graduated from Baltimore International College in 1993, stepped in as full-time

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Baugher is a businessman, builder, engineer, inventor, and worldclass scrounger; in a way, his operation is a model of sustainability. Allan, 72, is the son of Romaine and Edward (who died in 1981) and the grandson of Daniel Baugher, who started the farm more than a century ago. His great-great-greatgrandfather was Johannes Georgius Bager, who came to America from Germany in 1752 and settled near Hanover, Pennsylvania, where he became a Lutheran pastor. Baugher seems tickled by my interest in the farm. He introduces me to employees by telling them, “She wants to write about eating local foods.” Some of them look at me blankly. Most are accustomed to having the the farm seen as something of an amusement park, with rides on tractor-pulled fruit “trains” up to the orchards and visits to the petting zoo to see goats, rabbits, and llamas. But they seem perplexed that a visitor would find novelty in the fact that apples grown here are mashed into cider a hundred yards away or baked into pies in the next building, and have a distribution radius of no more than fifty miles. All but one of Baugher’s five children work on the farm. Lorraine hasn’t returned to the bakery, but her father hopes she’ll be back at some point. Kay does bookkeeping and 33year-old Dwight is out in the fields every day, heir apparent to the operations part of the business. Nathan runs the fruit stand at the restaurant, and Lynn, a graphic designer, does

marketing materials for the farm. There are also plenty of employees who may as well be family: Orchard manager Dale Kinser started helping his father pick fruit when he was 10 years old. His mother’s family came from Virginia to work for the Baughers in the 1940s. Baugher says that he has promised Mrs. Kinser lifelong tenancy on the farm. At the current market rate, even in a so-so economy, the land occupied by Baugher Enterprises is worth a fortune: six hundred acres of rolling hills with orchards and mature trees, less than an hour by car from Baltimore and Washington, D.C. As we drive out to the orchards in his 1988 Ford F-150 with 331,000 miles on the odometer (it’s his only vehicle), Baugher points out a housing development down the hill from his section of plum trees. But he says he’s never considered selling even an acre. He lives on the farm, in the house in which he was born. “My parents had to pay $12 for the doctor’s visit, and my mother always told me I was a bargain,” he says. Like farmers of old, Baugher is a businessman, builder, engineer, inventor, and world-class scrounger; in a way, his operation is a model of sustainability. He built part of the barn using reclaimed beams from a demolition in Harrisburg. As we drive past a wooded hill that is a graveyard for dismantled vehicles and farm equipment, he says, “I like to keep them around for parts.” Baugher also designed and built the cider press in a room near the bakery. The machine, built with parts from a defunct canning operation he found at a junkyard, pulls the apples along a conveyor belt, where they are sorted, sprayed with a chlorine solution (the cider is not pasteurized), and heated in 170 degree water before being sent up a ramp to be mashed into pulp. The contraption looks like a Mousetrap game, but it works: The press produces more than 50,000 gallons of cider each year. Cheryl Bural, who manages the retail operation, is a former divorce attorney from Washington, D.C., and she alone seems to get my “eat local” angle. “It saves trucking miles, and helps local farmers,” she says. Among the farm’s functions, she says, is “teaching people that you can’t get strawberries in August or December.” She gestures to the displays of canning supplies. “Everything pretty much sticks with the theme of what Baugher’s is about,” says Bural. “It’s about picking the fruits and vegetables when they’re available, and then keeping them throughout the year.” Radical new thinking? Maybe not. “To me, the best thing is eating out of your garden, and if you don’t have a garden, you come here,” she says. “We’re a six-hundredacre garden.” ■ —Martha Thomas wrote about the raw food movement in the April Urbanite.

EAT/DRINK recipe

baker after Lorraine Baugher Jones, who had inherited the baking duties from her grandmother, Romaine, left to start a family four years ago. He bakes about two hundred pies (depending on the season) and a hundred loaves of bread each day, plus sweet breads like zucchini, pumpkin, and apple; cookies; sticky buns; and soft white dinner rolls— some headed to the restaurant, others sent to a handful of shops and small grocery stores (the furthest is in Annapolis). “He’s doing a pretty good job,” teases Allan Baugher, current patriarch of the Baugher dynasty. “We’re going to let him stick around.” Strine has no plans to leave: When he’s finished baking, he heads home to a Baugherowned farmhouse that he rents on the Baugher property. (He puts air-quotes around the word “rent.”) His kids (ages 5 and 18 months) will go to the Carroll County schools that he attended, maybe even coming to Baugher’s on a school trip, as he once did.

Cherry Pie 3 cups pitted sour cherries ½ cup cherry juice 1 cup sugar 3 tbs tapioca ½ tsp almond extract Mix the above, lightly, in a bowl. Pour into an unbaked pie crust (see recipe below). Dot with 1 tbs butter. Top with pie pastry; seal and crimp edges. Cut a hole through the top crust in the center so steam can escape while baking. Bake at 425 degrees Fahrenheit for 45 to 60 minutes, or until crust is browned and cherry juice is bubbling. Crust 2 1/4 cups sifted flour 3/4 cup Crisco shortening 3/4 tsp salt 1/3 cup water Sift flour and salt into mixing bowl. Cut in shortening with pastry blender until mixture is even crumbs, no larger than peas. Sprinkle water over the flour mixture. Toss lightly with fork until blended. Form into two balls, one for the bottom crust and one for the top crust. Roll out onto a floured table.

Strawberry Pie 2 cups boiling water 1 cup sugar 2 tbs cornstarch 1 3-oz package strawberry Jell-O 1 quart whole capped strawberries Baked pie shell (10”) Whipped cream Mix sugar and cornstarch. Add to boiling water; cook on medium heat until clear and thick. Add strawberry Jell-O and chill until almost set. Add strawberries and pour into baked 10” pie shell. Refrigerate overnight until set up well. Top with whipped cream. —Recipes courtesy Baugher’s Farm Web extra: More recipes at www.urbanitebaltimore.com. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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Jack’s Bistro

Beyond bar food: Chorizo and grilled Manchego at Jack’s Bistro

Even its name betrays the charming contradiction of Jack’s Bistro: the utilitarian all-American paired with the promise of something sophisticated and imported. At the once-working-class edge of Canton, Jack’s looks at first glance like a fine place to belly up to the hundred-year-old oak bar for a Natty Boh after a shift. But then you see the whimsical pop-art lampshades (think the opening credits of That Girl, or your circa-1967 Barbie lunchbox) and the view of the busy kitchen that lets you know that this bar cranks out more than defrosted pizza and wings. Chef and owner Ted Stelzenmuller named his place, which opened in January 2007, after the TV series Three’s Company (roommate Jack Tripper dreamed of opening an eponymous bistro), and he seems to thrive on such entendres, playing to the hyper-stimulated food sensibilities of postboomers who appreciate the familiar but want more: lemongrass in the mussels, soy foam with the tuna sashimi. If you were brought up on Velveeta and now insist on grass-fed artisanal chevre, Stelzenmuller has

your number. He mixes old and new, hip and traditional, in dishes like a coconut curry noodle bowl teeming with strips of hangar steak, or “meatballs” of ground tuna injected with green curry. His “meat and potatoes” appetizer is a smallish serving of steak braised in Guinness with an orange demiglace and a side of mashed purple yams, and he thumbs his nose at comfort-food convention with mac ’n cheese laced with Belgian milk chocolate—a menu item that persists, no doubt, for its novelty. Cheese and chocolate notwithstanding, this is a place that could easily create a whole new set of offbeat dessert cravings. Stelzenmuller tweaks childhood memory by serving a Rice Krispies treat with a dollop of fig puree and a drizzle of aged balsamic reduction, and his fried s’mores are a duo of profiterole-like marshmallow balls, crusted with graham crackers and drenched in chocolate sauce, with ice cream on the side. (Dinner Wed–Sun. 3123 Elliott St.; 410-8786542; www.jacksbistro.net.)

reviewed

EAT/DRINK

—Martha Thomas

Say a prayer for the Great Baltimore Neighborhood Bar, threatened, like so many other indigenous species, by exotic imported breeds: the gastropub, the chef-owned New American boîte (see above), the chic chocolate-martini-dispensing nightspot. The Swallow at the Hollow is none of these things—it’s the sort of sturdy nicotine-cured watering hole that once anchored so many corners of the city. The décor is limited to knotty wood paneling, Orioles posters, and beer signs; the televisions are not flat, and they are tuned to the game, which many patrons lined up at the bar are actually watching. (Late night, the crowd tends to shift from neighborhood regulars to collegians from nearby Loyola.) The windowless dining room alongside the bar is a cool cavern-like space well-suited for soaking up beer, fellowship, and fried stuff. The Swallow may be perched on the well-trafficked corner of York and Northern Parkway, but when you step across the threshold on a fiery afternoon in mid-summer, all the heat and noise fade away; you’ve found the perfect place to hunker down and wait for night. Like most good neighborhood bars, this is not a place for high-wire dining ex-

perimentation. There are always a couple of soups that taste house-made: Maryland crab with a peppery broth and lots of oddly shaped vegetable chunks; French onion with gobs of cheese. The hamburger is a big draw, especially on half-price nights (Sunday and Wednesday), and it lives up to its billing—the patty, loosely packed and beefy, is planted inside sturdy Italian bread. Mayoheavy shrimp salad with Old Bay is as oldschool Baltimore as it gets. Fries are crisp and greaseless; the little plastic cup of coleslaw is fresh and vinegary. If you want more, watch the specials board for vintage ribstickers like spaghetti and meatballs or fried seafood platters that might have walked out of the kitchen back in 1947, when the Swallow opened. Ownership of this Govans institution changed hands in April, but no dramatic changes are promised; the new proprietors would be wise to consider the space unofficially landmarked. (Lunch and dinner daily until 10 p.m. 5921 York Rd.; 410532-7542.)

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Wet Your Whistle-stop

Barhound: Former state senator/Canton tavern keeper “American Joe” Miedusiewski recalls a 1992 visit from Democratic candidate Bill Clinton.

eed a rooting interest in the Democratic National Convention? Ask yourself, as pundits did in previous elections, who you’d rather have a beer with. For some Baltimoreans, this question wasn’t just hypothetical. Bill Clinton hadn’t been elected yet, but he was getting close. On March 1, 1992, two days before the Maryland primary, his campaign landed in Baltimore. Clinton supporter and then-mayor Kurt Schmoke asked State Senator “American Joe” Miedusiewski to organize a reception for local politicos at a now-defunct restaurant in Little Italy. Candidate Clinton arrived with “something like a twentyseven-car motorcade,” Miedusiewski recalls, and during the course of the evening, “he said to me, ‘I understand your family has a bar near here,’ and said he’d like to go.” The establishment, American Joe’s Bar, was a quintessential Canton corner tavern (and popular enough that, when he first ran for office, Miedusiewski legally added “American” to his name for voter recognition). Miedusiewski phoned in a quick heads-up, but it’s safe to assume the regulars had no idea what was about to hit them. “It’s a sleepy Sunday night,” Miedusiewski continues, “and here we come—lights flashing, sirens blaring. Ladies in curlers are leaning out their doors to look.” The Clinton entourage triple-parked outside the bar, says Miedusiewski, and the dozen-orso American Joe’s patrons were “overtaken by this crush of humanity.” Clinton drank a Foster’s draft. Unfamiliar with native delicacies, he asked about the coddies under a glass case and ate one with mustard on crackers. Then he shot a game of pool against a customer

named Larry Sullivan. “With the film crews jostling and the photographers climbing over the chairs,” Miedusiewski says, Clinton and Sullivan “had a hard time maneuvering,” but they slowly worked their way through the rack. “It got down to the final shot, and Larry choked. He scratched on the eight ball. So Bill Clinton won.” On the other hand, Clinton lost the primary to Paul Tsongas two days later. In 1995, the tavern was sold and became Harry’s American Bar. Miedusiewski is now a top Annapolis lobbyist. He’s seen Bill Clinton on a few occasions since that night, “and he’s reminded me he won that game every time.” Clinton’s Republican successor, of course, stays away from beer. After two terms of the teetotalling Dubya Administration, what First Beverage lies in store? I asked this of the McCain, Clinton, and Obama campaigns, but didn’t receive replies (unless you count e-mail requests for campaign donations). In early April, however, New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd wrote that McCain is a vodka martini man—despite a handler’s demurrals—and that Hillary “likes to kick back, at the end of long day, with a vodka on her plane.” (The Times previously reported that Senator Clinton instigated a vodka shot contest with an apparently eager McCain and others on a trip to Estonia in 2006.) During an April campaign swing through Indiana, Clinton knocked back a beer and a shot of Crown Royal on camera. If Obama drinks, he keeps it pretty quiet, although there’s now a Kenyan beer named for him. Since Clinton may be the candidate with the best attitude on the topic, I’ll note appreciatively her long patronage of a winery in the state she now represents: Macari Vineyards, on the North Fork of Long Island. According to a Macari spokeswoman, Clinton served their Reserve Chardonnay 1997 in the White House and continues to offer Macari wines at state functions in New York. Savvy choice. I’ve enjoyed a couple myself, notably the Macari Chardonnay 2001 ($10 at the winery; current 2005 release $17). Soft white fruit and light cream lead the nose. Fermentation in stainless steel yields a wine that’s medium bodied and crisply acidic, with flavors of grapefruit, pineapple, and white pepper. A pleasant wisp of sulfur marks the finish. It’s a bargain from a wine region that offers precious few. Former Speaker of the House “Tip” O’Neill famously declared “All politics is local.” Clinton earns my respect (if not necessarily my vote) for supporting her local wine community. It’s an example worth following: Find directions at www.marylandwine.com. ■ w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

wine & Spirits

By Clinton Macsherry

photo by Bob Myaing

When Candidates Drink

EAT/DRINK

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EAT/DRINK

This Month in Eating Share Our Strength’s Taste of the Nation “Eat, Drink, and End Childhood Hunger” as twenty of the region’s leading restaurants (Kali’s Court, Lebanese Taverna, and the Inn at Perry Cabin, among others) feature some of their finest offerings, with 100 percent of proceeds going to the Share Our Strength foundation. Tickets $75; $125 for VIP admission, and $1,250 for a table of ten. 6 p.m.–9 p.m.

J un e 2

Gr e e k F o l k F e st i va l Opa! Head to Greektown to feast on roasted lamb, grilled octopus, spanakopita, and baklava. You can also get a Hellenic cooking lesson from Stella Koukides, sample Greek wines and spirits, and go Zorba with music and dance performances until the wee hours.

J un e 5–8

F i e sta o n t h e T e rra z a at P a z o Take it outside in the summer heat as chef Michael Costa of Pazo, the city’s stylish waterfront Spanish spot, brings out a $59 all-inclusive seasonal tapas menu with wine pairings. 6:30 p.m.

J un e 9

H a r b or E a st F a r m e rs’ M a r k e t FreshFarm Market, a D.C.-based nonprofit network of markets promoting Bay-area producers, brings organic produce to the burgeoning Harbor East area on Saturday mornings, 9 a.m.–1 p.m., June 14 through October 25.

J un e 1 4

D e l m a r va C h i c k e n F e st i va l Check out Dixieland tunes, a craft fair, and a mini grand prix at the Delmarva Poultry Industry’s 59th annual salute to the tidewater country’s favorite bird. But the real draw is the giant ten-foot-wide frying pan that can cook up more than nine thousand pieces of chicken for festivalgoers. Free admission.

J un e 20 and 21

Great Grapes! Wine, Arts & Food Festival Local oenophiles can sample more than a hundred offerings from Maryland winemakers and participate in food and wine seminars while perusing works by regional artists. 12 p.m.–6 p.m. Tickets $18 in advance, $22 day-of.

J un e 21 and 22

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art/culture Gotham vs. Metropolis Reflections on Baltimore’s light and dark sides Imagine this: You’re a comic book character, but you’re not a superhero. You’re a bystander, a quickly sketched face in the crowd. Maybe you’re that guy who shouts, “Look! Up in the sky!” when Superman zooms by. Compared to those square-jawed defenders of justice on the evening news, you’re a bit player in the battle between good and evil. But say you’ve got some free will when it comes to the big decisions, and one of those choices is where to live— Metropolis, or Gotham City? It’s a tough choice. Metropolis is Superman’s home turf, whereas Gotham City is Batman’s domain. Superpower

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Steve Wigler on Barry Douglas; Charles A. Hohman on Rilo Kiley

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Mark J. Kilbane on the 48 Hour Film Project

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1909 and at first performed only by the composer himself. It scared off other pianists until Vladimir Horowitz enjoyed great success with it in the late 1920s. Today it is the combat in which many young pianists earn their stripes as virtuosos. The concerto’s subtle construction evolves from a simple opening melody into a work of imposing cohesiveness, held together by careful thematic crossreferences; its spacious, richly varied design concludes with the force of a dam burst. The program concludes with guest conductor Thomas Dausgaard and the BSO performing Sibelius’ tone poem En Saga and his Symphony No. 7.

An Irishman in Russia

—Steve Wigler

photo by Jacqueline Wyatt

for superpower, Superman definitely brings more to the table. But if you live in Metropolis, chances are you’ll never need his help. If you don’t count the occasional takeover by megalomaniacal villains, life in Metropolis is pretty quiet. The streets are clean and the people are friendly. The infrastructure is sound and the downtown is thriving. Superman’s hometown is a lot like Superman—decent, honorable, predictable. And, let’s be honest, a little boring. Ever notice how there’s no teenagers pointing up when Superman flies overhead? They’re probably loitering just outside the panel, where the inker and penciler can’t see them rolling their eyes over what a drag their hometown is. Gotham City, however, is a seething mess of urban squalor, full of crime, insanity, decay, and corruption. Batman can hardly stomach it sometimes, even though he’s pledged his life to destroying those who plague his city. Batman’s not even a hero—he’s a vigilante. He’s Bernard Goetz with trickier gear, and only his family fortune, connections, and the tacit approval of Police Commissioner Gordon keep him in business. But if you’re a resident of Gotham City (and you’re not living a life of crime), you’re happy he’s on your side. Because, frankly, very little else is. The decision about where to live seems obvious. And yet, Mr. or Ms. Baltimore Resident, if you had your choice, where would you live? In peaches-and-cream Metropolis, where the air is clean and barbershop quartets perform on the village green and there’s not a gay and lesbian bookstore for miles? Ask yourself: Which city has the better art scene? Music scene? In which city can you find an anarchist bookstore? An art house movie theater? A 3 a.m. hamburger? Gotham City public schools may be a disaster, but I bet soon-to-be-newlyweds from Metropolis road-trip to Gotham for their bachelor/ette parties, not the other way around. Abandon this fantasy for a moment to reflect on the reality of our city—our complex, indigestible city and its multivarious truths. Baltimore is at a strange crossroads lately, its reality distilled into two wildly divergent pop culture fantasies. There’s the despair, chaos, and futility of The Wire, David Simon’s labyrinthine exploration of how residents of a dysfunctional city are ground up by the inescapable power of institutions, lawful and criminal, as helplessly as field mice in the lawn mower’s path. There’s no good and evil, only an endless jockeying for power, and there’s no way out of the game except by moving away or dying. That’s in radical contrast to the Skittlesbright, we-shall-overcome optimism of last year’s Hairspray, the movie musical based on the musical based on the movie made by John Waters, an artist who has never shied away from glorifying the city’s considerable gift for the faux pas. Our heroine Tracy Turnblad, like her hometown, is used to being overlooked by her snobbish and chic peers (read: New York, L.A., and any American city that’s not Detroit). But she

Barry Douglas performs Rachmaninoff ’s Third Concerto with the BSO at Meyerhoff Symphony Hall, June 12, 13, and 15

Feminine Mystique

There’s something particularly satisfying about the Irish-born pianist Barry Douglas tackling Sergei Rachmaninoff ’s Third Concerto—the longest, most difficult, and most thoroughly Russian of all piano concertos. It was another Irishman—Dublin-born pianist-composer John Field—who laid the foundations for the great traditions of Russian piano playing. In 1802, the 20-year-old Field, already recognized as one of Europe’s greatest pianists, traveled to Russia for what was supposed to be a short visit and ended up staying the rest of his life. Lured both by high teaching fees and the ready availability of vodka and women, Field found that his behavior was tolerated with more amusement in St. Petersburg and Moscow than back in Dublin. The Byronic lifestyle took a toll on his health, but before his death in 1837 Field transformed Russian music. His students included Alexander Villoing (the teacher of the Rubinstein brothers, Anton and Nikolai, who founded Russia’s first great conservatories) and Alexander Dubuque (whose pupils included Mily Balakirev, the founding member of the circle of late-19th-century Russian composers known as “The Five,” and Nikolai Zverev, who taught Scriabin and Rachmaninoff). Whether or not Irish genes are responsible, Barry Douglas, 48, certainly knows his way around Russian repertory. In 1986, he became the first non-Russian pianist to win an unshared first prize in Moscow’s prestigious Tchaikovsky Competition since Van Cliburn’s victory in 1958. Douglas’ win may have been sealed after his early-round performance of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition: His command of the work’s characteristically Russian narrative sweep—its demand that a pianist perform it almost as if he were telling a story—resulted in an edge-of-the seat performance not heard since Sviatoslav Richter’s prime, some thirty years previous. Douglas would seem to be a natural for Rachmaninoff ’s Third Concerto, written in

Rilo Kiley at Rams Head Live, June 7 Some call Rilo Kiley “the new Fleetwood Mac,” thanks to a few key similarities: They’re an L.A. pop band with hook-laden songs (often about sex and/or drugs), deeply confessional lyrics, and two key members who used to sleep together. Ten years ago, singer/guitarist Blake Sennett recruited then-girlfriend Jenny Lewis (like Sennett, a former D-list child actor) to sing for his fledgling indie-rock band. Since then, the couple has split, but their music has graced movies and TV shows like The O.C. and Grey’s Anatomy, and Lewis has become a star, complete with solo album, magazine spreads, and speculation about fatal intra-band tension. After all, Rilo Kiley was originally Sennett’s creation; Lewis became the woman usurping male power, a pop femme fatale. Lewis doesn’t exactly discourage the gawking: With her flowing auburn hair, micro-miniskirts, and inviting sway, she functions as a post-feminist pin-up girl, a sex object for collegiate audiences supposedly above crude sexual objectification. In 2007, the band even cast soft-core adult film actors in the twelve-minute music video for their song “The Moneymaker,” which visually postulated that ogling pop stars is not much different from ogling porn stars. This isn’t necessarily anything new: The female body has always been an essential— and essentially problematic—part of pop music. But it’s still curious to see Lewis receiving the same salacious attention that’s showered upon any MTV celebutante. Lewis’ intimate music artfully accentuates her sexuality and celebrity, with an unapologetic awareness that asserts itself as power. It’s the classic “women admire her, men desire her” situation—rare in pop music, then or now. —Charles A. Hohman

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outdoor festival featuring live music by national recording artist Eric Lindell and Felicia Carter, Judd & Maggie, Eva Castillo and Ellen Cherry, gallery of top regional and local artists, cuisine from Baltimoreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best eateries. Plus, a street painting competition and, a unique arts experience area for the kids.

urbanite june 08

—Violet Glaze reviews ﬁlm for City Paper and WYPR.

art/culture

photo by James Kinstle

won’t passively accept her fate as a wallflower; instead, she mobilizes the entire city to selfimprovement—not by debasing herself into a meek copy of her slim and pristine peers, but by celebrating her shameless uniqueness and insisting that all Baltimore, black and white, deserves to be invited to the dance party she’s throwing. Baltimore has seen other pop culture variations, from the sepia-tinted immigrant dreamland of Barry Levinson’s Avalon to the working-class African American backdrop of the mid-’90s sitcom Roc. Trivia hounds may remember that Seinfeld’s Elaine hails from Towson, and that Tarzan’s Jane was no stranger to crab cakes. But at this juncture there are two compelling, competing Baltimore narratives, each more prominent than any before. This summer, as we scan Gotham’s skyline in the Batman sequel The Dark Knight for the Bromo-Seltzer building, we can ponder: Are we Gotham minus a Batman to hold the tide of chaos at bay? Or are we a Metropolis that doesn’t need a Boy Scout like Superman to hold our hand through HonFest? The truth is, we want to claim both the candy-colored Baltimore of Hairspray and the vicious Baltimore of The Wire as our own. We want safety, and we want excitement. We want community, and we want exclusivity. We want freedom from danger, and we want the suggestion of danger to spice up our experiences. City officials may have had a collective aneurysm over The Wire’s gloves-off treatment of the town’s least appealing attributes, but they underestimate how the musk of a little street cred might attract as well as repel. After all, if you can’t fight bulls or climb K2, you can always boast, “I’m from Cherry Hill. It’s not so bad.” Cities aren’t terrariums for perfect people, full of simple problems that only need a few minutes of a superhero’s attention to go away. Cities are complex, as difficult and flawed as their inhabitants. To paraphrase George Orwell’s observation about people’s faces at midlife, we get the cities we deserve. Orwell was talking about age 50, but Baltimore is creeping up on her tricentennial. Not even Superman’s ability to reverse the rotation of the earth to turn back time (a plot trope that always struck me as a cheat) could undo the history we’ve written for ourselves. But rewriting our history means it’s not our Baltimore anymore, and that’s too high a price to pay. Think of it this way—Batman’s a pretty messed-up dude. His parents were murdered in front of him. He’s obsessed with weapons, with working out, with how to kill a guy with his bare hands. He’s never been married, and he keeps adopting gymnastic teenage boys who get killed working alongside him. If Batman succeeded in cleaning up Gotham City, would he still be happy living there? Deciding whether Baltimore is Gotham City or Metropolis is easy: It’s both. The difficult question is, What do we want it to be? ■

t h e at e r

Bardolatry Baltimore Shakespeare Festival presents Twelfth Night, June 27–July 13, and The Taming of the Shrew, July 18–Aug 3 Chesapeake Shakespeare Company presents The Comedy of Errors and The Tempest, June 6–July 13 This summer, the Baltimore Shakespeare Festival is doubling its output, with two productions on the pastoral grounds of Evergreen Museum & Library. Twelfth Night, named after the revels following Christmas, is filled with cross-dressing and mistaken identity. It’s the story of Viola, who, in search of her brother lost at sea, dresses as a man to confound those around her. In it, moviegoers will recognize elements of She’s the Man and Shakespeare in Love. Viola will be played by Molly Moores, last season’s Lady Macduff. Twelfth Night’s three-week run will be followed by The Taming of the Shrew, a story best known to movie audiences via Franco Zeffirelli’s 1967 vehicle for Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and to Broadway audiences as the source material for the musical Kiss Me Kate. The Baltimore production will team James Kinstle (who stepped down from his seven-year tenure as the festival’s artistic director in April) as Petruchio with Everyman Theatre company member Dawn Ursula as Kate. The BSF’s special offer, “Double Date with Viola and Kate,” means savings on the two productions. But an even better deal is catching the free Twelfth Night dress rehearsal on June 26, after wandering through Evergreen’s biennial outdoor sculpture show, which runs May 4–September 28 and is curated by Curator’s Office director (and past Urbanite guest editor) Andrea Pollan. That night, the museum will stay open late for

tours of the Garrett family’s art and antiquities collection, including 17th century folio and 18th century quarto editions of Shakespeare’s plays. If you’re looking for a date night with the partner of your choosing, the Chesapeake Shakespeare Company, which plants stakes among the artful ruins of the Patapsco Female Institute in Ellicott City for the summer, reserves a few of its Friday performances for “Fun Formal Fridays,” with candles and linens at select ringside tables. Of course, there are always “Family Days,” when the grounds open early and cast members mingle for storytelling and crafts. (Pitney Bowes provides an annual grant so all kids under 18 attend any performance free.) This year’s Chesapeake line-up consists of two of Shakespeare’s shortest plays, one from early in his career, and one from much later. The Comedy of Errors, based on works by the Greek playwright Plautus, puts two sets of identical twins (separated long ago, of course) in the same city for a day. Slapstick ensues. The second production, The Tempest (which film buffs may know inspired the 1956 sci-fi flick Forbidden Planet), is Shakespeare’s only other work to take place in just one day. It’s also his final play, in which the Duke Prospero asks the audience to set him free with applause—a speech that some interpret as the Bard’s farewell. —Martha Thomas w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re seeking a candidate for the following position ...

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book

End Notes A Place Called Canterbury by Dudley Clendinen

Over seven years, Dudley Clendinen shuttled between his Baltimore home and a Florida continuing-care center called Canterbury Tower in his hometown of Tampa to monitor the slow-motion decline of his mother, who was first hobbled by arthritis and then silenced by a series of strokes. The experience is a ritual of what Clendinen, a former New York Times editor and national correspondent, calls “The New Old Age”—the extended final decade of life that medical science has gifted to a not-alwaysgrateful nation. “No generation of children … has been as dazzled and daunted and consumed by the apparently endless old age of parents as we have been by ours,” he writes of his fellow boomers in A Place Called Canterbury, a memoir of his mid-life immersion in caregiving. Clendinen was well into his 50s when his beloved mother was stricken, and he shouldered her custodianship with a mixture of horror and humility, spending hours at her bedside as she stiffened and faded away, uncommunicative, year after year. He also took notes, filling the days and nights at Canterbury by poking his nose into the lives of the other residents, many of whom he had known since childhood.

film

Brief Encounter

courtesy of Rob Hatch

The 48 Hour Film Project, June 6–8

“My own life began to be diverted a generation ahead, into the lives of the family members and old friends I had always known as adults, and who had now begun to fall apart—and to fall, in a way, on me.” The resulting chronicle is as wise, funny, unsparing, and as clinically observational as a Frederick Wiseman documentary. (Perhaps too clinical: If you’ve had any experience with eldercare you may be tempted to skip the chapter called “The Plumbing Problem,” in which Clendinen details “the moment—tender, ghastly, and abrupt—that comes to everyone who lives long enough.”) The Old-South Canterburians are a colorful lot—determined Steel Magnolias who maintain the social niceties of 5 p.m. cocktails to the bitter end—and the book is both a meditation on motherhood and a haunting send-off to the survivors of Auschwitz and D-Day who find themselves losing a prolonged war of attrition against body and mind. Here’s Clendinen inhabiting the perspective of a nonagenarian, dazed by Alzheimer’s, struggling to recall the moment he met his wife: “Wilbur thought he would remember the excitement of that soft morning until the day he died, but he was wrong. Like so many other memories, it had dissolved into blurry fragments and gradually disappeared.”

art/culture

—David Dudley

If you see a gaggle of red-eyed, unkempt people with camera equipment sprinting through the lobby of your apartment building the weekend of June 6, don’t flip on the news to find out what the crisis is. You’ve just run into the 48 Hour Film Project—a contest of grit, talent, and Red Bull that challenges filmmakers to write, film, and edit a four-to-seven minute film, all in forty-eight hours. The annual competition, which started seven years ago in Washington, D.C., is now conducted from April to October in cities around the globe, and new venues are added annually, with Athens, Geneva, Anchorage, Singapore, Edinburgh, Key West, and Mumbai filling out the roster this year. (Baltimore has been a contestant since 2005.) Films are reviewed in each city by a local panel of three judges who select the best overall film, considering entertainment value, story, and production values. To make sure filmmakers don’t shoot their films ahead of time, each group is given a randomly assigned genre at the beginning of the contest, plus a prop, a line of dialogue, and a character that must appear in the short film. The deadline for the entries is strict—one second late and you’re out of luck. 2008’s 48 Hour Film Project is set to be the largest ever, with more than sixty cities and 30,000 filmmakers competing. The overall

winner gets a Panasonic HVX 200 HD camera and $5,000. Last year, Baltimore entered forty-six teams, and “Blood Money” by Family Cave took city honors. Baltimore’s 2006 winner, “I will not …” by David Butler’s Bargain Basement Films, competed against other city winners and went on to win the Panasonic HVX 200. Baltimore represents! In addition to the camera and cash, winners get what every aspiring filmmaker wants— exposure. City champs are invited to attend Filmapalooza, the official 48 Hour Film Project Awards Weekend, which is usually held the following March as part of a major film festival—in past years, South by Southwest in Austin, Texas, and Cinequest in San José, California. City winners then move on to a second round of competition. The overall winning film and selected city winners have been screened at the Cannes Film Festival, and a DVD of selected winners is distributed internationally. All entries to the contest get screened publicly—even late ones. This year the shorts will be shown at the Charles Theatre on June 17 and 18. Tickets will be available at the box office for $8, or $9 online through Brown Paper Tickets. Get them early, as they sell out fast. For more information, go to www.48hour film.com/baltimore. —Mark J. Kilbane w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

books

art/culture

by susan mccallum-smith

“Jordan Wellington Lint, May 4, 1961” by Chris Ware, from The Book of Other People

The Book of Other People edited by Zadie Smith (Penguin Books, 2007) The Summer of Naked Swim Parties by Jessica Anya Blau (Harper Perennial, 2008)

hadn’t intended to review the story collection The Book of Other People. It wasn’t on my official “to read” list—I succumbed to temptation. I stashed it in a Wellie boot in my study and gulped nips from its twenty-three short stories, then disguised its illicit fumes by gargling Proust. Proceeds from sales of The Book of Other People benefit 826 New York, a nonprofit that supports kids in learning to write creatively, and the writers who contributed stories are a roll-call of today’s literary hipsters, including ZZ Packer, Jonathan Safran Foer, George Saunders, and Dave Eggers. Their work ranges from excellent to shallow. Nick Hornby’s “J. Johnson” is an endearing spoof of the self-deluding pretension of one author’s career, which Hornby probably wrote between pulling on his left and right socks, while A.M. Homes’ “Cindy Stubenstock,” about a gaggle of rich women, offers the limited satisfaction of veneered furniture: Good enough as long as you don’t scratch the surface. David Mitchell’s “Judith Castle,” however, introduces us to a fascinating character who caustically pigeon-holes everyone she meets— “Winnifred is a lesbian myopic vegan Welsh homeopathic Pooh Bear sort of a woman”—while living a life of romantic delusion. At one moment, Judith stands at the end of Lyme Regis pier in

the manner of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, mourning the death of a non-existent lover. Magda Mandela, too, is a marvelous invention. She has “the air of a woman who has roused herself from some titanic erotic exertions,” says the narrator of Hari Kunzru’s eponymous story. “She has been INTERRUPTED. She has THINGS TO DO.” Magda’s in-your-face humanity proves so overwhelming to her neighbors that they treat her as spectacle and watch her like TV. Kunzru mourns how we fail to empathize with or recognize ourselves in those around us. They are never us, he implies; they are always other people. The collection’s editor, Zadie Smith, outdoes her colleagues with an unflinching portrait of Hanwell Snr, a “feckless and slapdash man” who darts in and out of his son’s life with the irritating sting of a recurring rash. His story is told with clinical asperity by his granddaughter, the product of a generation who “maniacally pursue their ancestors through online genealogy sites at three in the morning … though they may regularly screen the phone calls of their own mothers.” She concludes, with unapologetic self-knowledge, “I will do anything for my family except see them.” Perhaps Smith sensed her responsibility as the editor of this book, and lavished the same care on her contribution she lavishes on her longer works. I also hadn’t intended to read yet another coming-of-age novel. There are so many of them, and adolescence is so awful; why endure it over, and over, and over again? However, I stumbled across an advance copy of The Summer of Naked Swim Parties, and I’m now able

to add Jessica Anya Blau to our list of distinguished Baltimore-based writers. Blau sashays down the path of this all-too-familiar genre in her own singular, humorous way, and precisely nails the scorching atmosphere of the summer of 1976, a summer of cut-offs and flip-flops, of American bicentennial celebrations, of The Gong Show hitting peak ratings and Raquel Welch jiggling her assets in Mother, Jugs & Speed. I’ve never seen my parents bounce naked on a trampoline—an image that, I’m sure, would stick to one’s retinas with the tenacity of chewing gum to new shoes. Poor Jamie, the 14-year-old heroine of the novel, is not quite so fortunate. Her parents, Allen and Betty, host the coolest pool parties in their Santa Barbara neighborhood, parties at which “all of the adults were naked. All of the kids were in swimsuits,” and the air is thick with the miasma of marijuana. Jamie’s parents trust her not to do anything they disapprove of; Jamie’s problem “was that she didn’t trust them not to do something that she disapproved of.” “The pool didn’t look the same after the pizza boys had swum in it,” Jamie notes—those beach-bleached, doe-skinned, sea-eyed boys, “the kind of boys who grow only in Southern California.” (Those kinds of boys never grew in Scotland, and we didn’t have swimming pools either, or, come to think of it, much sunshine or decent pizza. My adolescence was geographically challenged, and I’m totally bummed about that, man.) Seventeen-year-old Flip Jenkins, a dishy surfer dude, steers Jamie through the often boring, sometimes cramp-inducing, always icky stages of sexual experimentation. Despite the nearby fault line, the earth stubbornly fails to move. As the summer progresses, a sense of menace compounds in line with the ever-more careless behavior and inattentiveness of both teenagers and adults, until a metaphorical gun planted by Blau during the first act of the novel duly goes off in the third. The fallout from this tragedy is remarkable—not for what changes, but for what doesn’t. The victim disappears, as ephemeral in death as in life. The adults retreat to continue their muffled, indefinable existences on the periphery of Jamie’s consciousness, yet the event serves to push her through the necessary and painful purge of adolescence, through the sloughing off of wrong boyfriends and disengagement from catty girlfriends, the peeling away of childish prejudices and the yanking of blinkers from eyes, to reveal, at summer’s end, a rawer, naked, more mature version of herself, more ready to link hands with and value the circle of family. Carelessness has consequences, Blau reveals, but our essential natures define exactly how much, or how little, each one of us learns from life’s harder lessons. ■ w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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The Playmakers e Cra y

The Fun Factor continued from page 49

FENCING En garde! It’s swashbuckling in beekeeper masks. Where do I start? The Baltimore Fencing Center offers a range of group and private fencing classes. Season: Year-round Who’s it for? Anyone over the age of 6, from the complete beginner to the “Class A” épée competitor What do I need? Bring a glove: a gardening glove will do, or buy an official fencing glove for $12. Mask, jacket, and foil are provided. Lessons cost $144 for eight one-hour group sessions, $200 for six thirty-minute private lessons. Get the scoop: www.baltimorefencing.com

“The game doesn’t matter,” says Mike Cray, founder and owner of the Baltimore Sports & Social Club. “It’s 100 percent about making friends, having fun, and drinking a couple of beers.” The club, which started as a touch-football league in 1998, now organizes football, softball, volleyball, Wiffleball, broomball, kickball, and dodgeball leagues. Cray says that 5,000 sports-loving, beer-drinking Baltimoreans come out to play each weekend. Most of the action goes down at Patterson Park, with some indoor games at the Myers Pavilion in Brooklyn. Players are divided into three levels: “social” for more advanced athletes, “extreme social” for intermediate players, and “super extreme social” for people with more basic skills. Everyone is invited to the post-game parties at bars in Canton and Federal Hill. Want to play? Check out www. baltssc.com.

court

Also affectionately referred to as “frolf”—that is, Frisbee + golf. Where do I start? Druid Hill Park boasts an eighteen-“hole” disc golf park, the oldest in Baltimore, with thirty-six new concrete tees (two for each hole—one for the fellas and one for the ladies) and new Mach V baskets. Season: Games are played Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4 p.m., April through August. Who’s it for? Anyone who can make a Frisbee fly. What do I need? Any disc will do, though aficionados carry a set of regulation disc golf Frisbees. Play is free. Get the scoop: 410-396-7016

esy o f Mik

DISC GOLF

Left to right: Alex Kyriacos, Scott Waldman, Mike Cray, Katie Swanson, Pat Smith, Tony Majeran, P.J. McGuigan, and Denise Waldman enjoy post-game beverages.

—Rebecca Messner

FISHING Reel in a big one in the Patterson Park Boat Lake (but don’t expect to snag dinner—it’s strictly catch and release). Where do I start? Bring the whole gang to Family Fishing Fun Thursdays, 6 p.m.– 8 p.m., or check out the Family Fishing Festival June 7, 10 a.m.–1 p.m. Season: Through the end of June Who’s it for? Everyone except fish What do I need? Bring your own rod if you have one; a limited number are available to rent for $1. Bait is provided. Get the scoop: 410-396-9392

GEOCACHING It’s an endless treasure hunt using a geographic positioning, or GPS, unit (or, if you’re hardcore, a map and compass), and we’re told that it can be addictive.

Where do I start? The Maryland Geocaching Society holds monthly meetings and pizza parties, an Earth Day treasure hunt/trash pickup, and an annual “Cache Across Maryland” extravaganza. Larry Potter, the society’s public relations officer, estimates that there are 3,000 to 4,000 caches in Maryland. Season: The society organizes events April through October, but people play yearround. Who’s it for? Anyone can play— many caches are even handicap accessible. What do I need? You’ll need Internet access for cache descriptions, a good map, and a GPS unit, which can be had for $80 at the low end. Get the scoop: www.mdgps.org, lpyankeefan@ gmail.com

KICKBALL Boot it! It’s baseball with a red rubber ball— and without the bat. Where do I start? Baltimore Kickball organizes 210 varsity and JV teams in Canton, Federal Hill, and Towson, plus the post-game bar parties. Season: Thursday nights during fall and spring Who’s it for? “We don’t discriminate,” says Baltimore Kickball spokesperson Mike Saulo, “as long as you’re 21.” What do I need? A pair of soccer cleats is nice, plus $45 to $50 per player for the season (plus $12 per team per game for the umps). Get the scoop: 410-215-0029; www.kickballbaltimore.com

POLO It’s field hockey on horseback. Where do I start? Kelly Wells of the Maryland Polo Club offers polo lessons twice a week on

w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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BENJAMIN ERJAVEC —The Oceanaire Seafood Room

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urbanite june 08

“safe, reliable polo lesson horses” in Freeland, Maryland (about 35 miles north of Baltimore). Season: Lessons are year-round. Polo clinics are available for adult beginners June 13–15, and for juniors 18 and under June 20–22 and August 22–24. Who’s it for? Adults and juniors—high school students have the opportunity to play in women’s and men’s traveling leagues. What do I need? Bring long pants, boots, and a helmet. Mallets and balls (and horses) are provided. Group lessons are $60 an hour; private onehour lessons are $100. Get the scoop: 410-357-4907; kellyandtrevor@aol.com

ROWING Get out and pull on an oar for a few hours, or, if you’re petite but LOUD, you might land a spot in the driver’s seat as a coxswain. Where do I start? The Baltimore Rowing Club, at 3301 Waterview Avenue in Cherry Hill, has been promoting crew for nearly three decades. There are programs for juniors and sixweek novice classes, starting on ergometers (a.k.a. rowing machines) in the gym and culminating with a “scratch regatta” on the water. Season: Year-round. The summer novice program starts June 10. Who’s it for? Anyone older than 12 What do I need? Workout clothes, a water bottle, and a strong back—and $200 for the novice class Get the scoop: 410-355-5649; www.baltimorerowing.org

RUNNING Go pound the pavement, or give your knees a break and try running offroad. Where do I start? The Baltimore Road Runners Club offers races and track meets for runners of all ages and abilities. For a low-key introduction to trail running, hook up with the NCR Trail Snails. Season: Year-round. The Trail Snails organize group runs Saturday mornings (at 7 a.m.!) around Loch Raven Reservoir or on the Northern Central Railroad trail. Who’s it for? Gluttons for punishment with good knees What do I need? Nothing but a pair of running shoes—sturdier ones for the trails, to protect your feet from rocks Get the scoop: www.brrc.com, www. ncrtrailsnails.com

SAILING No need to be a member of the yacht club to get out on the water. Where do I start? The nonprofit Downtown Sailing Center, at the Baltimore Museum of Industry on Key Highway, offers affordable sailing lessons, camps, and races, with an eye to breaking down racial, socioeconomic, and physical barriers. Season: Year-round Who’s it for? “The water belongs to everyone,” says the club’s website. Kids’ classes are for ages 8 to 16. What do I need? The club has a fleet of small daysailers and larger cruisers. Membership is on a sliding scale, starting at $75 for a year. Get the scoop: 410-727-0722; www. downtownsailing.org

and adults that play at Herring Run Park in Northeast Baltimore. And in summer, the pros from the Baltimore Blast hold five-day soccer camps around the metropolitan area for kids ages 5–13. Season: Games start in April at Herring Run (this season’s teams are already full). Blast Summer Soccer Camps run June through August. Who’s it for? Brandi Chastain and David Beckham wannabes of all ages. What do I need? Cleats help, but running shoes will suffice. A summer camp with the Blast will cost you $120. Get the scoop: 410396-7019; 410-73-BLAST; www.baltimoreblast.com

SKATEBOARDING/FREESTYLING TENNIS Ollie, grind, or just get some air on a skateboard or freestyle bike. Where do I start? Carroll Park Bike and Skate Facility at 800 Bayard Street offers lots of free skate time, and monthly biking and skateboarding contests. Charm City Skate Park at 4401 O’Donnell Street also offers skateboarding lessons from professional boarders. Season: Carroll Park is open in spring and summer, seven days a week, dawn to dusk. Charm City Skate Park is open Monday through Saturday, 12:30 p.m.– 8:30 p.m., and Sunday noon– 6 p.m., year-round. Who’s it for? Anyone over 7. Charm City gives lessons for “toddlers to adults!” What do I need? A bike or board, and a $5 registration fee. Lessons at Charm City are $80 for a two-hour one-on-one session. Get the scoop: 410-2450613 (Carroll Park), 410-327-7909 (Charm City)

SOCCER You don’t have to live in the county and drive an SUV to get into the world’s most popular sport. Where do I start? On any Saturday morning in Baltimore, there are a dozen pickup soccer games underway in city parks. The Department of Recreation and Parks organizes coed leagues for kids

Unleash the screaming Williams sister within. Where do I start? Druid Hill Park has ten welllit courts on its north side, and seven deeper within the park. Who’s it for? You must be 18 to play in the adult league, but the courts are public; all are welcome. Season: League play is Saturdays 10 a.m.–noon through July. What do I need? A racquet and tennis balls Get the scoop: 410-396-7019

ULTIMATE FRISBEE It’s football minus the tackling—and with a Frisbee instead of a pigskin. No head-butting allowed, and no running with the disc; you have to pass. Where do I start? Organized pickup games are held on Roosevelt Field in Wyman Park Thursdays at 7:30 p.m. and Sundays at 2 p.m., and in Latrobe Park Wednesdays at 6 p.m. and Sundays at 4 p.m. Season: Every season but winter Who’s it for? If you can make a Frisbee fly, then run like hell across the grass to catch the next pass, you’re in. What do I need? A pair of soccer-style cleats is handy, but any old running shoes will do. Get the scoop: www. soboultimate.com, ultimate.mikeandline.net/ baltimore/ ■

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urbanite june 08

Pinbuster continued from page 55 who played in the park. Seibold graciously declined the offer, saying that the boys already tore up the park’s turf without additional encouragement. Instead, Seibold suggested to Robinson (or to Diamond manager Frank Vansant—or “Van Sant”) that the pins be whittled down and paired with the small, six-inch balls used for tenpins variations known as “cocked hat” (requiring only three pins) and “five back” (requiring only five). Accordingly, a batch of banged-up pins was dispatched to woodworker John Dittmar (or “Dettmar” or “Dittmer”) at his shop at Pratt Street and Fallsway (or on Lombard Street). He returned the pins to the Diamond, at which point the on-lanes midwiving occurred, starring Robinson, McGraw, Dittmar, Seibold, Vansant, Sun reporter Bill Clarke (or “Clark”), Orioles outfielder Steve Brodie, and someone named Van Wettern. Or some combination thereof. Robinson (or McGraw) remarked that the pins, when struck, resembled a flock of ducks taking off—the two ballplayers sometimes hunted on the Chesapeake Bay—and, in a newspaper item about the event, Clarke christened the new game “duckpins.” A fabulous tale, accepted as gospel for a century. But one that has recently been exposed as fabulist hype. Author Howard W. Rosenberg, who has meticulously explored baseball’s formative years in a series of books centered on the sport’s first superstar (and exceptional tenpin bowler), Cap Anson, notes in the appendix to his 2005 book, Cap Anson 3: Muggsy John McGraw and the Tricksters: Baseball’s Fun Age of Rule Bending, that a May 1894 article in the Sun of Lowell, Massachusetts, reported on duckpins competiton in that town. Rosenberg also cites a duckpins reference in the Boston Globe from early January 1893. As for Baltimore’s duckpin bona fides, this much can be verified: A December 28, 1899, article in the Baltimore Sun mentions Vansant “introducing” the game at the Diamond on the previous evening, with Robinson topping the participants with a 101 score. Of course, none of this myth-busting diminishes the fact that, for most of the 20th century, duckpins reigned here and in D.C., where the sport’s governing authority, the National Duckpin Bowling Congress (NDBC), was established in 1927. In Baltimore, from the 1930s to the 1960s, duckpins dominated tenpins; the city and its burgeoning suburbs throbbed with the sounds of crashing pins. “According to the best estimate, no fewer than 30,000 Baltimoreans are organized into regular leagues,” a 1952 Sun story noted. “If you include the casual players, the total duckpin population in the city jumps to between 80,000 and 90,000.” Eight years later, the now-defunct Baltimore American newspaper pondered how the city could support an anticipated bowling “expansion boom, which is forecast to hit Baltimore with the full force of a hurricane. If all [new houses] come in which are rumored, each Baltimorean just about could have his own private lane.” A map accompanying the article showed thirty bowling establishments in the city alone, with a thirty-first under development. In 1963, the Sun reported that “an estimated 102,000 persons bowl regularly in metropolitan Baltimore, 77,000 of them in 1,600 adult and children’s leagues. There are about 52 bowling establishments, with about 1,105 duckpin lanes and 538 tenpin lanes.” And those figures ignore the duckpin lanes in private venues: the Baltimore Country Club, Maryland Casualty Company, and the basement of my Episcopalian grade school in the 700 block of Park Avenue, among numerous others.

Leagues composed of shift workers from local manufacturing firms augmented teams from church groups, social clubs, and schools in duckpin houses, with some staying open around the clock to accommodate demand. Television helped fuel the craze. WBAL broadcast an array of duckpin shows from the mid-1950s through the early 1980s, most notably Duckpins and Dollars (for adults) and Pinbusters (for kids), going so far as to install lanes in its TV Hill studios to produce the programs. The game’s best bowlers—Elizabeth “Toots” Barger, Robert Fisher, Alva Brown, Dave Volk—were regional celebrities, all members of the NDBC’s Duckpin Hall of Fame, which relocated to Southwest Bowling Center in the early 1980s. But in the 1970s, tenpins began encroaching on duckpins’ hegemony in the Baltimore area, initiating a glacial tailspin from which the small-ball game has never recovered. “The larger scores of tenpins have more appeal,” local duckpinner/tenpinner Joe Doonan told the Sun in August 1973, “especially to the young bowlers.” In 1979, the News American daily newspaper reported “about 60,000 duckpin league bowlers in the metropolitan area, while men’s and women’s tenpins associations list about 40,396 league bowlers.” Tenpins was gaining. “The maintenance and upkeep of duckpins was too much,” the manager of a suburban house changing from duckpins to tenpins told the News American in that 1979 story. Another factor: new residents who didn’t understand the local game. “As outsiders move to the area, they are not familiar with duckpins and want the tenpins. All the big-time professional bowlers use tenpins.” Crucially, duckpins suffered a technical blow when the only company that manufactured its automatic pinsetters ceased operations in 1973. “Even if you wanted to open a duckpin center today, you would have to find somebody who has some machines tucked away in a warehouse,” says Stacy Karten, 54, an Owings-Mills-based bowling consultant and editor/publisher of Duckpin News, a newsletter published three times a year. In recent years, when a duckpin house closed, something of a rugby scrum ensued to obtain its pinsetters. Three years ago, Charles McElhose purchased six such machines from the shuttered Thurmont lanes in Western Maryland, keeping them in storage at the Patterson to cannibalize them for parts.

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Most of the thirty lanes featured on that 1960 Baltimore American map disappeared decades ago: the Stadium and the Boulevard in Waverly; the Strand and the Lafayette in West Baltimore; the Recreation Center and the Spillway downtown. Others perished more recently: the Arcade at North and Maryland avenues, the Southway in Federal Hill (now loft apartments), and, just last year, Seidel’s on Belair Road in Northeast Baltimore, slated to morph into an indoor flea market. At present, two duckpin-only houses remain active in Baltimore city limits—the Patterson and Charm City. Duckpin lanes are still offered at a total of twenty-eight houses throughout Maryland, many in Baltimore’s suburbs. That represents nearly half of the fiftynine that exist nationally, according to the NDBC, with more than a dozen in Connecticut. Somewhat incongruously, four duckpin lanes can be found at the Tenkiller Golf Club in eastern Oklahoma, which bills itself as “the first duckpin bowling center west of the Mississippi.” Equally curious: Duckpins once flourished in the Philippines, but now, judging from a post on www.robinsweb.com, interest there also seems to have waned. By contrast, tenpins still boasts 5,300 houses in the U.S. League duckpins has been particularly hard hit: In 1973, the NDBC sanctioned forty thousand duckpin bowlers; today, that figure has plummeted to approximately nine thousand. “People’s lifestyles have changed,” observes Karten. “Thirty years ago, the league business made up two-thirds of the mix. Now it’s more like 45 percent. To ask someone to commit to a thirty- to thirty-five-week league is too much.” Another nail in the duckpin coffin, says Karten: the various recreational distractions competing for after-work time. “In duckpins’ heyday in the ’60s and ’70s, when leagues were really popular, there weren’t a lot of other things you could do.”

Struck by duckpins’

slow fade to black, 25-year-old filmmaker Dave Teodosio, now studying for his master’s at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles, created Duckpin, a forty-three-minute documentary narrated by ESPN’s Kenny Mayne that premiered in April in Providence, Rhode Island. He calls the film “a retrospective chronicling the history and mystique of the dying sport of duckpin bowling. Duckpins is the main character of the film, and it’s accentuated by the cultish subculture of duckpinners who love it so dearly and have built their lives around the sport.” Teodosio, who grew up not far from a duckpin center in West Haven, Connecticut, is reluctant to draw any firm conclusions concerning the factors contributing to duckpins’ demise, but he emphasizes the real estate boom. “People come along and say, ‘Hey, let’s open a Starbucks or a CVS here,’” he says. “Owners see that kind of money and jump on it.” According to bowling consultant Karten, duckpin proprietors can survive—maybe even prosper—if they engage in some creative tinkering with their core product. “The people left running the establishments that do it right still do well from a business standpoint,” Karten says. “But the only growth that can occur is within the walls of the places that already exist. The purity of duckpins remains.” He recommends diversifying—offering non-bowling options such as video games, laser tag, mini golf, and bars. “They need to reinvent the game within the confines of what’s already there.” Perhaps salvation lies in “boutique bowling,” a 21st-century phenomenon that markets a velvet-rope vibe, with fine dining and dress codes. Lucky Strike, a tenpins operation, pioneered the con-

cept in 2003 in Hollywood, and now operates eighteen such centers, including one in D.C. Here in Baltimore, the independent Mustang Alley’s opened in August 2007 with a seventy-five-seat dining area, private banquet facility, and twelve bowling lanes: four for ducks, eight for tens. “Because of the Baltimore tradition, we put the four duckpins [lanes] in,” notes Mustang Alley’s manager Jay Teramani, a 50-yearold who grew up bowling duckpins in Baltimore County. Located above new foodie haunts Lemongrass and Tsunami in the rehabbed Holland Tack Factory on the fringe of Little Italy, Mustang Alley’s gives off the whiff of an upscale sports bar, with a dozen big-screen TVs beaming golf, hockey, basketball, car racing, and baseball on a Friday evening in April. Patrons are split equally between the loaded bar and not-quite fully occupied lanes (two of the duckpin lanes are dark tonight). “When people call for reservations,” Teramani explains, “we ask, ‘Would you like a duckpin lane or a tenpin lane?’ I can immediately tell who’s from Baltimore and who’s not [by their response]. Sometimes when the [tenpin] lanes fill up, we tell people, ‘Why don’t you try duckpins?’ And they—very good tenpin bowlers—say, ‘It’s not the same. It’s harder.’” Harder, yes, and perhaps too subtle for a sports culture obsessed with performance enhancement. While tenpins continually tweaks itself in a quest to facilitate the bliss of higher scores—most recently via high-tech ball surfaces that make it easier to develop a lethal pro-style hook—duckpins remains steadfastly incorruptible, still operating with equipment made when Richard Nixon occupied the White House, still holding out the possibility of a perfect 300 score, still characterized by what Karten called its “purity.” “The innate appeal of duckpins is also the same reason why people have an adverse opinion of it,” theorizes filmmaker Teodosio. “And that’s because it’s so difficult and so challenging.” Incontrovertibly, the evidence points to duckpins’ eventual extinction, but even as its votaries acknowledge that likelihood, they trumpet the game’s transcendent virtues. Unabashed duckpins fan Olson, for one, points to her experience bowling for more than a decade in a women’s league in which she was the youngest member. “It’s like a fountain of youth," she says. "Sometimes you get your ass kicked by a ninetysomething-year-old. I don’t know where else you would see that.” ■ —Writer and editor Michael Yockel lives in Roland Park. Web extra: Watch season-ending duckpin drama at www.urbanitebaltimore.com. w w w. u r b a n i t e b a l t i m o re . c o m j u n e 0 8

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eye to ey e eye to eye

Baltimore photographer Christopher Myers feels strongly that creativity can be hindered by digital technology. For many photographers, the digital revolution is no problem, and is, in a way, a liberation from the traditional, often restraining, limits of the medium. But Myers sees it differently. Referring to the work shown here, he states, “I have heated the exposed film until it softens and adheres to a glass plate, then further reworked the surface … The subject matter is the vanishing periphery of the city. The non-stop gentrification of Baltimore destroys much of the city’s beauty, just as digital photography destroys much of what is creative about fine art photography.” The work—from his Peripheral Plate series—is, by design, unique, created by hand. Whether a step backward or forward, the strength of the images in this series is unmistakable. In them we sense the toughness of the urban world contrasted with a strange ethereal softness. —Alex Castro

urbanite june 08

christopher Myers Clarion Moment from the Peripheral Plate series 2008 40 x 40 inches silver gelatin print www.cmyersphotographs.com

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