Recently I discovered that I'm a descendant of Andrew Corsa.
Who's he?
He was a farmer born in 1762, and he owned property in what is today the Bronx where Fordham University now stands.
Most notably he was a "Westchester Guide" (the Bronx being part of Westchester back then) during the Revolutionary War. In July 1781, he helped General George Washington and Count Rochambeau navigate the Bronx, doing reconnaisance with them about British troop locations and movements. It burnished his legend.
Corsa also had two wives and 13 children, and some untold number of great and great-great and great-great-great and beyond grandchildren.
And Mr NYC is one of them.
Also, the Corsas are on the map! In the Bronx there is an avenue named after Andrew Corsa called ... Cosa Avenue! Here it is:
And in doing some more Corsa research I found ... this ... apparently 14 years ago the was a YouTube channel (and perhaps a public access show as well) called CorsaAveTV. It's something! Enjoy.
As a young, overeducated man who grew up with lots of books in the house, I will confess that I had literary pretensions. I dreamed about writing a great book that would be critically acclaimed and would sell big and would be turned into a hit Oscar-winning movie and that I would be rich and famous and happy for the rest of my life.
Yeah, so that didn't happen. I became Mr NYC instead.
But I will confess that, when I was operating under such a delusion, I wanted to write like Rick Moody whose 1994 novel The Ice Storm became a great movie in 1997.
As I write this post, ice has consumed the life of NYC ergo my thoughts are turning to the meaning of ice, of what ice can represent -- beyond the expanding molecules of H2O.
The Ice Storm is a very funny, very dark story about two families in New London, CT, a wealthy suburb of NYC. The story takes places over Thanksgiving, 1973 where the fates of two families tragically collide while an ice storm bears down on them. Interspersed with the domestic drama -- focused on adultery, alchoholism, teen sex & "swapping", drugs, and lives held together by lies -- are wry commentaries about the popular and political culture of early 1970s America. The country is enjoying movies like The Exorcist and books like Breakfast of Champions while the Watergate scandal envolopes the nation -- the idea that darkness and corruption are endemic to the very soul of the country that the characters live in (the October 1973 Saturday Night Massacre had just occurred, as shown below).
In a sense, they and us are already doomed.
The novel is a great read although you'll want to take a breather every so often. Moody's writing is funny but also deeply sarcastic and cynical, very "in quotes", often mocking and derisive in tone. The best word to describe the novel is "acerbic." But the humanity in the darkness of these characters' lives cuts through, and that's what makes it a powerful read. And it has an interesting twist at the end.
The movie is also powerful although a bit more overtly emotional. It was directed by Ang Lee who would later go on to make big hits like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Brokeback Mountain. The cast is amazing -- Kevin Kline, Joan Allen, Sigourney Weaver along with a young Christina Ricci and Elijah Wood. Even more interesting is that this was the film that brought Tobey Magiure, pre-Spiderman, and Katie Holmes, pre-Dawson's Creek/Tom Cruise, into prominence. And it's beautifully directed and shot, the beauty clearly at odds with the ugly lives portrayed.
It also is something of an NYC movie -- this is a story about the commuters, the people who live comfortably outside the city but whose jobs and identities exist there. And at one point the Tobey Maguire character flees to a night of booze and drugs and a failed attempt at sex at an Upper East Side apartment before he flees to Grand Central Terminal before the very real "ice storm" prevents him getting home.
What The Ice Storm reminds us is that darkness and corruption in the personal and political lives of America is nothing new -- it seems to be our constant, perenial existential state. I'm personally interested in this story because it's set just a few short years before I was actually born -- given me a sort of window into the world that I was soon to join.
And given the current weather both real and political, it's a book and a movie more timely than ever.
Since the snowstorm two weeks ago, New York City has entered into a deep freeze.
The snow remains on the ground and various surfaces of the city, literally frozen in place. There are mountains and rocks and fields and valleys of solid snow, glacier-like, making the whole of NYC look like the surface of the moon.
But out of Mother Nature's icy dump on NYC, something else has emerged -- art.
Walking along Riverside Drive recently, I came upon these snow sculptures. What's intriguing about them is that it's impossible to tell if they were man-made or nature-made. Either guess might be correct. But these snow sculptures are a reminder that beautiful things can come out of mess -- and that the natural world and the city have a magical fusion.
Tonight is Super Bowl 60 -- a significant milestone in the history of American football, sports, and culture generally.
But it was the third Super Bowl on January 12, 1969 that took this annual game -- the biggest sports event of the year, the one thing left that unites the entire country into watching it, a moment where a deeply devided nation comes together -- into a a new realm. It was this game between the New York Jets and the Baltimore Colts that made the Super Bowl into the SUPER BOWL.
The Jets entered the game with the quarterback, Joe Namath, dubbed "Broadway Joe", saying that he guaranteed the Jets would win. For most of the game it looked like they wouldn't -- at one point they were 18 points down. Yet under Broadway Joe's steady hand the Jets rallied and came back to win. An historic game, an historic moment in American history, and another milestone in the history of New York City.
Here's the whole game, minute-by-minute, for your viewing pleasure:
When the notification popped up on my phone that the comedic genius Catherine O'Hara died, I put my phone down and hoped that I was just imagining it. But no. It's sadly real -- she's gone, and our world is a lot less funnier.
The tributes to her career are numerous, and the media and public are recalling her works in movies like Beetlejuice I & II, Home Alone, the Christopher Guest mockumentaries, as well as the great TV shows that bookended her career -- SCTV in the late 1970s/early 1980s and Schitt's Creek in the last twenty-teens.
But here at Mr NYC, we remember the off-beat work of great talents, most especially involving those related to the city. And in 1985, between her stint on SCTV and her later big hits, Catherine had a small role in the wackiest movie that Martin Scorsese ever made -- After Hours.
In fact, her future Home Alone co-star John Heard is in it, along with the late Terri Garr. Please check out the Mr NYC After Hours archive -- and remember one of the greatest comic actresses of her era and a movie from a different time in the life of NYC. RIP.
Okay, I promise, this will be the last Out for Justice post ever on Mr NYC. This is the opening credits for one of the best bad NYC movies ever made. They just don't make movies like this any more than are this balls-to-wall politically incorrect, nasty, and fun. Today movies take themselves much too seriously. But back in 1991 some movies still had a sense humor.
On this date 47 years ago, the 41st Vice-President of the United States, Nelson Aldrich Rockefeller, died of a heart attack. He was 70.
"Rocky", as he was known, was the scion of one of the richest families on Earth, and had been the governor of New York State from 1959 to 1973. His legacy in this city and state was significant, as I blogged about many years ago. In 1974 he became Vice-President after President Nixon had resigned and Gerald Ford became president. Rockefeller left office in 1977 and returned to NYC.
Two years later he was dead.
On the night of January 26, 1979, it was announced, as you'll see below, that he had died in his office at Rockefeller Center while working on a book in the presence of his bodyguard.
Ehhh ... not really.
Actually Rocky was in an East Side townhouse that he owned with his secretary Megan Marshack. This townhouse appears to have been a very classy love nest. Rocky and Megan were banging on the floor -- apparently she was riding him cowgirl when the old man had a heart attack. Now she obviously should have called 911 right away as that might have saved his life. But no. Instead she made a series of phone calls to her psychiatrist and her friend who rushed over to the townhouse. Together, apparently, they got Rocky dressed and then the friend called 911. But it was too late. The mighty Rocky -- billionaire, governor, Vice-President, titan of his times -- had died in the most tawdry way possible.
For days and weeks afterwards the scandal fascinated the NYC tabloids. But then ... it just kind of petered out.
The Rockefeller's used their wealth and power to cover it up quite effectively. Rocky was creamated the very next day so no autopsy was performed. Megan Marshak, and presumably her friend, signed NDAs and were probably paid off. Also, it helped that at the same time this scandal was unfolding there was a revolution going on in Iran and that grabbed the headlines. And, of course, Rocky was out of office so this incident had no real political implications.
There were no criminal charges. No arrests. No lawsuits. No legal actions of any kind. No tell-all books or teary interviews or multi-part true crime documentaries.
Amazingly, Megan Marshak remained quiet until her death in October 2024. She lived a relatively productive, and regular life. She worked at CBS News in NYC for almost 20 years before moving to Calfornia and living there until her death. She married later in life, had no children, and died in relative obscurity. Interestingly she was also 70 years old when she died, the same age as the great man she shtupped to death.
Half a century later, most New Yorkers probably haven't heard of Nelson Rockefeller much less the scandalous way that he left this mortal coil.
As NYC prepares for a big snowstorm this weekend, our new mayor is on the case!
This is the first big test of his mayoralty and no doubt the tabloids and the Republicans want him to fail -- so it's good to see Mayor Z is preparing, communicating, and ready to go as this storm hits.
A month in, it's interesting to see what a quiet, competent, nose-to-the-grindstone leader he's been. It's a HUUUUGE relief from the chaos of Eric Adams.
And talking about our former, unmissed mayor, the great NYC journalist Erroll Louis has written an interesting article about how the full scale of corruption in the Adams administration is still unknown. Even though he was only in office for four years, he number of people who worked for Adams that got indicted, the number of sleazy deals and activities, is breathtaking. It remind me of Nixon -- even years, decades after he resigned in disgrace, documents and tapes kept coming out revealing he was even worse that we knew. I'm sure the same is true of Eric Adams.
Over the years something'll pop up in the NYC tabloids about Richie Akiva. He's a big club owner/party promoter/nightlife guru whose run clubs like Butter and 10Oak and others.
Richie has a lot of celebrity friends, was part of Leo's "pussy posse", dated an Olsen twin, and he's just one of the best-connected happening party guys in town.
He's also something of a criminal.
Last year he was busted for driving without a license. He's been involved in all kinds of lawsuits, accused of ripping off former business partners, and now he's been arrested for beating a guy in the head with a metal pipe.
Egads.
Richie's got some problems. It reminds me of that movie I blogged about a few years ago, Out for Justice, which is all about a crime boss named Richie who the heroic cop is looking for -- "Anybody seen Richie?" is his constant refrain.
Here's a interesting postscript: I actually went to school with Richie Akiva way back in the day. We were in 9th grade together but then, I recall, he vanished -- he was kicked out. (I remember it was from Richie that I first learned the term "herb" as being a pejorative.) He wound up a private school for rich juvenile deliquents.
And that's the thing -- Richie's a rich kid.
He was born into a wealthy family who set him up in the club business. He walks and talks, dresses and behaves like a badass, but he's really just a spoiled brat. And it looks like fate is catching up with him.
