the hell’s kitchen museum of curious deaths

Welcome to the Hell’s Kitchen Museum of Curious Deaths! Or, at least, to the online version of it. In fact, the HKMoCD initially existed in the real world, in our fair apartment at 360 W. 51st St., New York City. It was located there for just one evening, as the backdrop of our Halloween shindig, the Hell’s Kitchen Museum of Curious Deaths All Hallows Eve Tour and Punch Party. We went full out for the event, repainting walls, removing all the furniture, tweaking every detail possible for the most complete transformation.

The following afternoon, as we slowly sobered up, we began to realize that, at some point, we’d probably need to put back our couches, beds and bookshelves. Having expended too much time and energy to simply scrap the Museum’s content altogether, however, we decided to recreate the experience online. That’s what’s going on here.

Even More Introduction

The Museum was in large part modeled after the New York Tenement Museum, so it depended significantly on the atmosphere of the apartment itself, rather than simply upon the exhibits presented. Sadly, given the limitations of the web medium, we can’t recreate that here. We have, however, as a bare minimum, included below the floor plan of the Museum, as posted near the Museum’s entrance:

hkmocdplan.jpg

In the real world, the Museum’s exhibits were broken down by room, with each representing a major inhabitant in the apartment’s history: first the McGuinn family (from 1856-1906), then Joseph Leibenz (1907-1954), and finally “Gay Johnny” in the modern era. Online, mainly due to laziness, we’ve lumped the exhibits together as one unmanageably long page of text.

None the less, we hope you’ll enjoy the show.

McGuinn Family; The Builder of 360 W. 51st St., 1856-1906

Seamus McGuinn was born in 1810 on the southeastern coast of Ireland in the small town of Kinsdale, near Cork. McGuinn first came to the states in 1830 as a deckhand on board the Caelan Kavanaugh, a merchant ship that regularly sailed the north Atlantic route. In 1834, he married a woman in Newton, Massachusetts, though she died just seven months after their marriage, in the cholera epidemic that swept through Boston that year. McGuinn later joined the Royal Steam Packet Company of Dublin and was promoted to boatswain, sailing the charter voyage of a new route to New London and New York.In 1846, McGuinn became captain of the Fiona Iverna, a clipper with regular service between Dublin and New York. At that time he was nationalized as an American citizen, and moved into a shared townhouse on the corner of Bethune and Washington in the far West Village. He was a popular fixture of the neighborhood, as his name was listed on the register of several private drinking establishments, one of which, on the corner of Perry and Bleeker, was known to be a brothel.In 1852, a disagreement over a cockfight sent McGuinn looking for housing in the area outside of what was then the city. He built a large wood-frame structure on a parcel of land on the current 50th street and 10th avenue block. The area was still being used as farmland at the time, but as the streets were laid out, businessmen bought up parcels of the land. McGuinn settled there with a group of seamen who were eager to purchase land and establish homes away from their work. They purchased a small farm from a Dutchman named Dekker and subdivided the property. McGuinn lived in a wood frame structure he built there, until it burned in 1855.During that time, McGuinn fell in love with Dekker’s daughter, and on his 45th birthday, he married the 17 year old girl, Wilhemina Dekker, known as Winnie. He wrote of her often in his diary and bought her fine items of clothing.

1856: Movin’ on Up

When, in 1855, their home was destroyed by fire, Seamus and Winnie decided to build a multi-family dwelling for upper-class Irish nationals. They constructed the building currently located at 360 West 51st Street and moved into the first floor apartment. Winnie soon insisted that they move into an apartment further from the street noise, but not so high that they would have to walk up many flights of stairs.Soon after the building was completed, Winnie gave birth to two twin girls, both of whom were stillborn. Seamus insisted on a male heir, and though he believed his wife to be hysterical with grief over the deaths of the twins, he insisted on a male heir. Subsequently, Winnie gave birth to two daughters, Rhiannon and Treasa and a boy, Hamish.In 1867, Seamus was murdered under unusual circumstances. Suspects were numerous, as many in the community resented his wealth and prosperity, rare for an Irishman at the time. Among the suspects were his own wife, who resented both her servitude to him and the age difference between them, and his son Hamish, who cared deeply for his mother Winnie, and loathed his father’s tyrannical dealings with her. Seamus was murdered with the spindle of a spinning wheel, gouged through his skull, between the eyes

1878: Movin’ on Out

Following his father’s death, Hamish took ownership of the apartment, where he looked after his aging mother. His sisters moved into a residence nearby, and Hamish purchased a dry-goods store with part of his inheritance that all three children helped run. Hamish began taking classes at Columbia College, preparing for a degree as an accountantAfter a torrid affair with a Barnard student, who later committed suicide, Hamish dropped out of classes. He subsequently squandered his inheritance in the bars by the port, seeing his sisters increasingly infrequently. In 1874, his mother Winnie died of neglect. Hamish became a drifter, finding his way to the American/Canadian border, then vanishing completely.

Caoilainn and Fionna McGuinn, 1857

The twin daughters of Seamus and Wilhemina McGuin were stillborn in 1857. Wilhemina insisted on naming the infants Caoilainn and Fionna, claiming that

household vignettes

While here in Palo Alto, I’m staying at my parents house – in my old room, in fact, though by now my mother has co-opted the space into her office, replacing dressers with file cabinets, piling her paper and research materials onto my emptied bookshelves. The room’s front window has been replaced by a much larger one, the overhead light changed, but my bed still dominates one corner of the room, exactly where it sat when I was growing up.

Working from home during the day, between calls and emails, I catch myself simply wandering around, gauging the feel of rooms, of closets, corners and small spaces. Absently, I pick up old knick-knacks to test their weight in my hands, to see what memories might be hidden inside. I crouch to feel the texture of our living room carpet, and can feel again the rug burns from wrestling around on the floor, afternoon after afternoon, with my younger brother.

A few things I noticed this morning:

1. Bedroom Tassel

Bedroom Tassel

My Freshman year at Yale, as first semester moved towards a close, my parents and I developed a running joke throughout my calls home. “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed,” I would tell them, the dorm by then still not quite feeling like home. “Actually,” my father would reply, “we’re taking out your bed. I think we’re going to replace it with a Javanese Gamelan. But you can sleep on top of that.”

There were other, similar, threatened changes as well, and my response to all of them was the same: “I think you should keep the room unchanged, in perpetuity. Just hang a tassel from the ceiling and make the room into a shrine to me.” I was remarkably good-natured about it, I think – I even offered to let my parents keep the money made by charging admission to the shrine.

For a month or two, the joke played on: shrine vs. Javanese gamelan, et al. When I finally came home, dragged my duffel bag into my bedroom, and looked up: hanging from the ceiling was the much discussed red shrine tassel. Apparently, the week before my arrival, my parents had actually headed into Chinatown and picked one up.

To this day, the sight of that tassel makes me smile. It’s a reminder that, in my case, the inevitable turning into my parents might not be so bad after all. And that, no matter how office-ified my old room becomes, with the tassel hanging, it’s still, deep down, my very own shrine.

2. Backyard Playhouse

Backyard Playhouse

When I was seven, and my brother four, my father decided to build us a playhouse in the corner of our backyard. He built it himself – technically with my help, though I can’t imagine the seven year-old me provided much actual assistance. I do, however, vividly recall both painting the house’s exterior, then heading down to an airplane parts junkyard in San Jose, where we picked up a variety of cockpit parts (a control stick and wheel, a handful of mismatched gauges) which we mounted to the inside walls.

My brother and I spent countless hours piloting the house to the moon and beyond, defending it from oncoming imaginary hordes, or just hiding from our parents to secretly discuss whatever issues dominate the minds of six and nine year-old boys.

By now, the house is hidden away, tucked behind a bench and a small potted tree. Inside, the linoleum floor is peeling, covered with dried leaves, a few old toys still in a basket in the back corner. My head brushes the roof (at 5’6″, an unusual occurrence!). Still, in there, I can’t help but feel vaguely delighted, ready to head up to the moon, or just to cause juvenile trouble all over again.

3. Garbage Shed

Garbage Shed.

Towards the front of the backyard is a small roofless shed, gated off from the rest of the yard, to hold garbage cans and piles of recyclables. Before my parents replaced their wood-burning fireplace with a gas-burning faux-fire, we piled firewood out there, and the memory of constantly finding black widows in the pile still raises the hairs on the back of my neck whenever I open the shed’s gate.

I must admit, I’ve always been rather arachnophobic. Sure, I can play tough, carry out the requisite boyfriend duty of spider-removal. But the sight of those eight segmented legs always secretly makes me shiver. Other phobias, I’ve systematically, purposefully overcome – I initially took up climbing, for example, to conquer a fear of heights. But I’m happy to stay a bit scared by spiders. Or, rather, I don’t see any need to get buddy-buddy with them – I do my own thing, they do theirs, and we’re cool. Still, if I’m sitting in my parents backyard, and I notice the garbage shed’s gate is open, I’ll always head over to close it. Just in case.

david newman: the interview

It is Thanksgiving day, 3:42 pm. At 5:00, twenty-some guests will be arriving for dinner. My brother David, unshowered, in sweats and a pit-stained undershit, lies on the couch watching football, Green Bay versus Detroit. Detroit is winning, 13 to 7. In the other room, my mother is yelling for us both to come in and help set the table.

Me: Dave, mom’s yelling for you.

David: [silence]

Me: Okay. In that case, let me interview you for my website.

David: Nope.

Me: You realize I’m going to write about this either way.

David: [silence]

Me: So, basically, I should just say that you spend all day lying here, watching TV with your hand in your pants?

David: [turns to look towards me for the first time since I’ve come in. Winks. Goes back to watching TV.]

Fin.


Figure 1. Subject in Natural Habitat

color me clueless

Recently, I spoke with a female friend in the midst of planning out the repainting of her apartment. All the rooms would be white on three walls, she told me, with the fourth a different color in each. She then proceeded to list off the colors for various rooms – the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom – hoping to give me a sense of what the final results might look like. And while I nodded my head in understanding as she went through the list, expressed appreciation for the keen visual sense it clearly evidenced once she had recited through them all, I must admit I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

In short, we guys suck at color names. Sure, we might be able to tell you that ‘cerulean’, ‘periwinkle’, ‘aquamarine’ and ‘robin’s egg’ are all shades of blue; but if you were to line up four color samples, there’s not a chance in hell we’d be able to figure out which is which.

The problem, I suspect, stems from our Crayola’d youth. While most girls had the six-thousand crayon pack (the one with the little built in sharpener), we guys had the eight crayon standard. Inevitably, we’d even lose one, and not know the name for ‘orange’ until our early teens.

At which point, even if we were to studiously review every crayon out there, we’d still be doomed to fall horribly behind. Because, once high school rolled around, girls began to pore through the J.Crew catalog, the Banana Republic or L.L.Bean. And while we were just beginning to wrap our minds around the difference between ‘orange yellow’ and ‘yellow orange’, girls were contemplating ‘heather’, ‘oatmeal’ and ‘burnt sienna’.

Sure, a few lucky guys have caught up – graphic designers, for example, or professional painters. But even for them, I suspect it’s a bit like learning a foreign language; no matter how good your Swahili, you’ll never truly sound or think quite like a native speaker.

In other words, for even our best and brightest, we guys are pretty much a lost cause. We’d blush with embarrassment about it, but, frankly, we’re not entirely sure what color we’re supposed to turn.

underwear

For whatever reason, we guys often form bizarre attachments to pieces of clothing, strong emotional connections that effectively prevent us from noticing their increasingly well-loved condition. Favorite t-shirts yellow at the armpits, favorite jeans fray at the hems and zipper, yet we can’t possibly imagine actually retiring them. And nowhere is our love more apparent than with underwear; given the choice, we’ll keep washing and wearing a trusty pair of boxers until it’s disintegrated to nothing more than a waistband and a few hanging threads.

As women rarely hold such forgiving opinions of overly scruffy clothing (and underwear in particular), it behooves any guy with an eye towards impressing the ladies to (at least occasionally) view the contents of his closet (or, at least, his underwear drawer) with a cool and dispassionate eye. This very morning, I did so myself, examining each pair of boxer-briefs, and I’m afraid the results were not good:

Total Pairs: 11*
Pairs in Good Condition: 2
Pairs in Acceptable Condition: 1
Pairs with Weirdly Ruffled Waistbands (ed. note: due to elastic losing it’s stretch after too many washings): 3
Pairs with Small Holes: 3
Pairs with Holes in Front Large Enough that the Proverbial Mouse Might Escape the Proverbial House: 2

As much as it pains me to say it, I think it’s time for a serious drawer cleanout and underwear shopping spree.

* This is nearing the bare acceptable minimum number of pairs. Guys mainly do the wash only after running out of clean underwear, re-wearing all the cleaner looking pairs inside out, and then sometimes even wearing bathing suits as underwear. Clearly, then, the more pairs owned, the less frequent the need to do the wash.

mail bag

Earlier this week, I received an email from one [name later redacted] that I below reproduce in its entirety:

Josh Newman is an unmitigated knob. What a narcissistic, little poser bitch.

I must admit that, finding the message in my inbox, I suddenly felt oddly flattered. Not only did something about me, a complete stranger, stir up in [name] the desire (or perhaps even the need) to send off such a charming missive, but my online persona apparently irked him sufficiently to even whip out the thesaurus in search of the perfect ‘knob’-preceding word.

Still, warmed as I was by his effort, I must admit that [name]‘s work fell a bit short of my high hate mail standards. I’m lucky enough to receive a piece or two every couple of months, and some of them are really, remarkably, treasurably good. Sure, [name] might lack the biting wit (or perhaps simply the intelligence) to really tear into me in Shakespearean style. But, at the very minimum, he could have at least put some effort into structuring the email properly. I mean, consider how much more effective it would have been if written in the second person and ended with a complimentary closing:

Dear Josh Newman,

You are an unmitigated knob. What a narcissistic, little poser bitch.

Drink bleach and die,

[name]

Sure it’s a hate letter; but it’s still a letter. There’s an etiquette to these things.

thanks, i think

Heading to Rite Aide to pick up a few last pre-trip essentials, I passed a group of black high school girls on their way home.

“Hey mister,” one of the girls shouted, “for a white boy, you got a pretty cute ass.”

now you’ve got it!

In response to one reader who suggested that blogging about my love life effectively rules out a future in politics:

Exactly.

where’s my camaro?

Confirming my fear that Kraft Velveeta Shells & Cheese (which I secretly enjoy immensely) is the white-trashiest of macaroni and cheeses, the back of the box I just prepared is emblazoned with: Velveeta. Ain’t No Substitute.