Category — Matt Vermeulen

At one time or another, most residents of our city have visited the Museum of Modern American and Canadian Art at the corner of 26th Street and Smith. What most visitors don’t know is the real story behind one of the museum’s most famous works. The controversy started in 1998, when experts began a conservation project on the canvas Self Portrait With Pink Soup Can 2 by Andy Warhol. The painting was considered extremely valuable because of its rarity and seeming departure in style, compared to the artist’s other works. The painting shows Warhol perched on a enormous can of Campbell’s Pea Soup. Most of Warhol’s other works from this period were screen printed and produced in mass quantities, but no similar canvas survives. On recent tour of the museum, a guide claimed that the artist destroyed Pink Soup 1 by throwing it into a bonfire in a fit of rage after a fight with Lou Reed. However, no documentation of Pink Soup 1 exists in published records, and Mr. Reed has stated in interviews that he does not recall the incident. Pink Soup 2 also has a murky history.

The painting was donated to the museum from the estate of Mildred Birch, a local dowager who spent her final years and massive fortune assembling one of the nation’s premiere private art collections. The contents of this collection were distributed throughout the city after Ms. Birch’s death: the Tibetan Temple Gates to the Asian Art Association; Rodin’s Traveling Horseman to the Anheuser P. Davidson Hanging Sculpture Gardens on West Thirteenth Street; a series of Ansel Adams prints featuring Atlantic City to the Watson University Museum of Moving Photography, Filmography and Still Photography; and so on. The jewel of the collection was the unknown, late-period Warhol piece- Self Portrait w/ Pink Soup Can 2- which was entrusted to MOMAACA. It quickly became the museum’s most popular attraction, inspiring posters, t-shirts and tote bags. The museum cafe began serving pea soup, and a large Warhol exhibition was scheduled for 1998, to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the artist’s birth.

While the painting was undergoing routine cleaning and conservation, questions were raised. Restorers were shocked to find that Pink Soup 2 was painted on the back of another canvas. During this period of his career, Warhol had reached the height of his wealth and fame, and the curators questioned whether the artist would reuse a canvas, especially on a work of this scale. Still more troubling– the signature of the painting on the back belonged to Mildred Birch’s grandson, Earl J. Birch. The trust that oversees Ms. Birch’s estate vociferously defended the painting’s authenticity. They suggested that perhaps the lad had painted on the back of the canvas before it was framed. Pink Soup Can 2 did seem to bear marks of Warhol’s style, and the signature matched other paintings of the period. A fight broke out among the curators at MOMAACA about whether they had a forgery on their hands and what to do about it. Some believed that it was a real Warhol, while others felt that it was a well-executed fake, perhaps even a class project. Unfortunately, Earl J. Birch could not be asked- he perished in a yachting accident four years prior to his grandmother’s death. Mildred was the last heir of the Birch fortune and the last link to the family secrets. An attempt was made to locate Earl’s art school classmates, and some did recall a project to emulate a famous artist’s style. However, no proof was ever found linking him to the Pink Soup canvas, beyond the signature on the back.

Further complicating matters was Ms. Birch’s erratic record keeping. Many of her acquisitions were the types of items not widely available for sale, so in some cases, she seems to have used what some would refer to as “disreputable” art dealers. The trust operating her estate found it difficult to produce history or bills of sale for many objects in her collection- most famously the Incan textiles from Cuzco and the Exekias Krater from Greece (The Krater depicts Zeus seducing various women, and was donated to the Museum of Ancient Hellenic and Canadian Art in South Bay. It was recently repatriated to Greece, after evidence emerged that it may have been looted. The textiles remain at the Wonsley Textile and Topiary Museum, in Coolidge Park). Experts brought in to assess the Warhol came away with mixed reactions. Most felt it was a forgery, either by Earl Birch or some unknown artists who then faked Warhol’s well-known signature. Two experts felt it was an authentic Warhol and a third verified the painting only to recant months later. The museum continues to display the painting and indicate Warhol as the artist. However, critical opinion has largely turned against the museum. As of April 2008, the MOMAACA has begun displaying a plaque near the painting that explains its complicated origins. But for now, at least, it is best known for a famous painting that may be fake.
- Matt Vermeulen

During the city’s post-Civil War boom, a panel of eminent politicians, including the governor, mayor and state surgeon general, met to plan the future growth of the city. Several advances were made. In an effort to provide more room for growth, Bankton’s Marsh was filled in with refuse, which increased the size of the city by 30%. This created space for growth (The land is now occupied by the tony neighborhood of South Bay), but also additional demand for resources, particularly whale oil, which fueled the city’s street lights, homes and the lanterns needed for round-the-clock mill work. Anticipating the need for millions of gallons of whale oil to keep the city growing, the city fathers embarked on an ambitious scheme- the digging of a 20-mile underground pipeline to the nearest whale intake port downriver (newly-constructed and larger than the city’s ports), which would allow them first access to the ships loaded with whale carcasses.

Work began immediately, but problems arose soon after. For the unprecedented construction, the engineers drew inspiration from the Roman aqueducts, even traveling to Spain and trying to recreate scale reconstructions. “These ducts have lasted for hundreds of years, and that’s the kind of ducts we need for our fair city,” mayor Josephus Brown proclaimed at the start of construction. However, the original aqueducts were designed to carry water and primarily ran downhill.

The thick, gooey whale oil did not flow as smoothly as water, and clogged pipes were a constant ordeal. Steam pumps were required to keep the liquid moving, which, in turn, created sparks which would frequently ignite the oil. During the first months of the pipeline’s operation, plumes of flame shooting up through manhole covers were a common sight.

Five years and twenty million dollars later, the pipeline was completed, in 1871. For a time the city profited, becoming the largest whale oil supplier in the region. But the timing was poor. As whales were hunted in greater numbers, the ships needed to go farther afield to find them, and the supply of oil dwindled. Without a massive supply, it no longer proved economical to operate the huge tunnel, which was also becoming a safety liability. The sticky oil adhered to the walls and ceiling, requiring around the clock maintenance to prevent clogging. Over four dozen workers lost their lives during the tunnel’s construction and operation- more than 80% after the pipeline was completed. The tunnel became famous for accidents, with newspapers of the time reporting lurid stories on a monthly basis. Some of the most famous (although probably apocryphal) stories involve workers becoming trapped in the sticky oil, being knocked down by floating pieces of blubber the size of a man, or being run through with baleen. Such events inspired the popular folk song “Whale Oil Blues.” The flaming sewer grates and manhole covers were also a cause for concern. The Great East Side Fire of 1878 was caused by flames from a errant sewer grate that happened to spring up near that year’s International Wheat Symposium at the old County Fair Grounds (now part of Mabel Tripp Gardens). Fifteen barns of display wheat were consumed before the fire could be brought under control.

As the supply and demand dipped, the city finally began its transition to gas light and coal. Failing to find a money making use for the now inactive tunnel, and saddled with upkeep, the city fathers decided to seal the ends of the tunnel. A picture of the tunnel and a smiling whale were taken off the city stationary. The tunnel largely passed into myth, used only by smugglers importing black market goods from the coast. During prohibition, local organized crime syndicates used the tunnel to import huge quantities of illegal booze into the city, leading to the 1920’s nickname “Tipsy Town.”

As the city began another growth surge after the second world war, the tunnel was reopened in 1951, this time to supply water to the north side of town. The tunnel was patched and cleaned with high pressure hoses, but always retained that whale-y odor. Scientists determined that the water, although pungent, was safe to drink, and eventually the pipeline began to provide over 70% of the city’s water supply, as it does to this day. Locals cite this water as the cause for the city’s unpleasant tasting bagels and pizza.
- Matt Vermeulen

:: The 33rd Gourd Festival this weekend will include gourd carving, a gourd/squash bake off, gourd costume contest and prize for largest gourd (last year’s winner, with a 4lb, 3oz gourd received $25 TGI Friday’s gift card).

:: The first incarnation of the Gourd Festival was held in 1943. Pumpkins were in short supply due to the war effort (Pumpkin seed oil being vital for making incendiary explosives), so the annual Pumpkin Days Octoberfestival was changed to Gourd Days.

:: The Gourd Festival was revived in 1974 during the Great Pumpkin Blight. Over 4,500 people showed up (as opposed to 1973’s anemic Pumpkin Palace Carve-Off, which featured only three contestants). The festival has been celebrated ever since.

:: In 1996, the festival was boycotted by local Indian tribes and the ACLU, who objected to the “Chief Gourd Head” character, who is represented with peace pipe, headdress and frighteningly oversized papier-mâché gourd head. This did nothing to deter visitors- in fact, 1996 was the most popular year to date. The Chief remains a popular attraction, well known for his gourd war cries and “red-man gourd chop.”

:: Tons of copper stolen from air-conditioning units, construction sites, and electrical conduits annually: 12 (also, beer kegs- ed.)
:: Value of 12 tons of copper: $88,080
:: Crystal meth-buying power of 12 tons of copper: 1,111 grams (est. current market conditions)

:: Number of residents in the Bentham Hills neighborhood complaining of “vivid, disturbing technicolor dreams” following the installation of a new Doppler weather radar station, according to a NewsCenter 7 report this week: 23

:: Fading colored stickers found on some houses and rowhomes date back to the mid-20th century, part of the Fire Department’s plan to help firefighters more easily identify the number of children and pets in a home. Blue circles were for kids, green squares for dogs and orange triangles for cats. The department started the program in the late 30s and stopped handing the stickers out in the mid-60s.
- Cedric Rose, Matt Vermeulen, RJ White

With this Friday being Arbor Day, let us take a moment to examine some of this city’s famous foliage.

Independence Elm (1781)
During colonial times the city was just two muddy streets– a small collection of homes surrounding the church and graveyard. Word of the Continental Congress was slow to reach our isolated hamlet, but by 1781 “independence” was the buzzword. A copy of the Bill of Rights was posted on an enormous elm tree in the cemetery behind a church. For weeks during July and August the community gathered around the tree to debate the war against England. (By this point, the outcome of the war had actually been decided, but news was slow to reach the hinterlands). The English garrison, disturbed by the rambunctious rabble-rousers, tore down the document and posted a guard in graveyard. The city population, whipped into a frenzy of anti-Anglo agitation, and wanting to strike a blow before the war was officially over, attacked the guard and drove him from the cemetery. He returned moments later with reinforcements. According to city legend, a pitched battled ensued, and five villagers were killed. The battle passed into history, and the elm was celebrated as a meeting place for liberty– a commemorative plate featuring a picture of the elm was produced for the 1876 centennial. During an archeological investigation in 1976, musket shells from the period were removed from the tree, thus lending credibility to the battle story that was once considered apocryphal. The tree succumbed to Dutch elm disease in 1980, but shells from the famous battle and a ring from the tree can be seen on display at the Watson Museum of Furniture and City History.

Sycamore Street (1868)
Fast forward eighty years, and the city had changed drastically from its colonial beginnings. In the eighteen-sixties, our city was experiencing a boom from lumber, mining and an embryonic textile industry. Jacob Rutledge, city council president, mining tycoon, and man-about-town decided to begin a city beautification campaign. He was tired of wagons becoming bogged down in unpaved thoroughfares, particularly in front of his palatial estate (on present-day Sycamore Street near South Birch). After spending a morning listening to a mule driver curse his team as they descended deeper into the muddy morass, Rutledge decided to take action. That summer he began construction of the famous wooden streets. Beginning in front of his manor, he laid wooden planks across the boulevard, initially he used sycamore, but switching to pine when the costs became too high. Despite this change, the street acquired the nickname “Sycamore Street”, which became its official designation in 1888. The wooden streets became a calling card for our city, and were even featured on city stationary for a time, with the motto “City of Progress.” Slowly the wooden streets were replaced with concrete, which posed less of a fire hazard. The last section of remaining planks, in front of the Rutledge Estate, was removed in 1912 to make room for the new trolley system.

America’s Tallest Flowering Eucalyptus (1899)
Mabel Tripp Gardens, our city’s botanical centerpiece, is home to the nation’s tallest flowering eucalyptus. It was grown from a seed planted in 1899 to commemorate the dawn of the new century. The seed was carried half-way around the world in a velvet pouch, presented as a gift from the Archduke of New South Wales. The seed and tree it created represent a connection with one of our sister cities—Brisbane, Australia. (In return we sent them a sample of our famous shrub, the Western Creeper). The tree was nearly destroyed during a wave of anti-Aussie hysteria immediately following the first outbreak of Queensland Fever. Fortunately cooler heads prevailed, and the tree was spared. Seedlings from this tree have provided specimens for the National Botanical Gardens, and the tree was featured in the documentary Famous Trees In Our City (1977). During a two-year period in the 1970’s, environmental activist Paulis Stevenson climbed the tree daily to promote renewable agriculture.

Oakland Drive (1951)
Visitors to Oakland Drive today are certain to enjoy an unparalleled shopping experience, with its pedestrian mall, used sporting good warehouse and ample parking. But someone traveling down Oakland Drive sixty years ago would have seen a very different vista—miles and miles of oak trees that gave the road its name. Enter acorn farmer Wally K. Franklin. The oak groves on either side of Oakland Drive had been in the Franklin family since the Civil War. Wally eked out a living making acorn flour and acorn paste, which he primarily sold to the military. During the Eisenhower years, the military’s demand for acorn paste decreased exponentially, and Wally needed to look for a new way to make a living. Taking advantage of a post-war building boom, Wally auctioned off the oaks and made a killing in the lumber business. Flush with cash, he created the Oakland Pedestrian Mall and Tabernacle. The mall soon attracted foot traffic and business thrived, but Wally’s main focus was on his great Oak Tabernacle, which he envisioned as a non-denominational tourist attraction/church. He recruited the finest craftsmen to create elegantly carved oak pews, and oak altarpiece shaped like an acorn. He hired architect Frank Lloyd Wright to design an oak organ (the blueprints were completed, but never constructed). The Tabernacle enjoyed immediate success, but its prosperity was short-lived. In his desire to construct the building entirely of oak, Franklin declined to install an up to date sprinkler system. On Palm Sunday 1952, a large pile of fronds caught fire and within minutes the entire building was consumed. Wally never recovered from the loss, and left the city soon after. The pedestrian mall continued to thrive, and was opened to automobile traffic in 2001.
- M. Vermeulen

Here is an overview of some of the most well-known urban legends to haunt our city—none are true, but they reflect the fears and excitement of bygone times.

Kiddie TV Murder (1957)
Mystery has long swirled around the death of children’s TV personality Samantha Smith, who was found murdered in her home on June 28th, 1957. Smith was the host of the smash hit Dominick and Doofus, which featured two feuding puppets and poorly animated cartoons. After missing that morning’s broadcast, Smith was discovered in her bedroom nude, with marionette strings wrapped around her throat. The lurid details of her death quickly found their way to the front page of every paper in town. The police investigation was soon stymied, and rumors about the identity of her killer ran rampant. One often repeated allegation featured “happily” married Sen. Phinneas DeMink, a state legislator who had been linked romantically to Smith. It was believed that she had been killed because she was about to go public with their affair, thus ruining DeMink’s political career. There was no truth to this rumor, and DeMink was eventually cleared, but the incident did end his career in politics.

Another scenario circulated involving the producers of Dominick and Doofus’ main rival, Admiral Aardvark, the second most popular children’s program in the city. While Aardvark did receive a ratings boost following Smith’s death, and in time became the number one morning program, the producers were in fact crushed by the news. In the insular world of local children’s programming, everyone had known Smith, and she had been well-liked and respected – in fact, no new morning shows were broadcast on any network in the two weeks after her body was discovered, and Admiral Aardvark himself delivered a stirring eulogy at her funeral. The producers were never seriously considered as suspects by the police, who were never able to turn up any other leads in the case. Because of the tabloid nature of the story, it remained in the public conscience for many years, during which time the DeMink scenario in particular continued to circulate. The case is still officially unsolved.

Satanists in the city (1989)
The final and most recent urban legend involves a rash of reports that surfaced during the 1980s of cult activities taking place throughout the city. Although slaughtered animals and strange nocturnal activities in Griffith Cemetery had been periodically reported for years, the story came into the spotlight following a report by Margaret Milveaux, a local homemaker. Milveaux claimed that she had been walking home through Little Belgium on the Lower-North Side when she saw a frightening spectacle taking place under the Hornbeck Bridge. Dozens of blood-streaked, shirtless men were dancing around a blazing pyre, chanting and screaming. According to her account, at the height of the frenzy a man, apparently their leader, tossed a human infant into the flames. The police immediately arrested Clarence Wilson, a self-described Bishop in the Church of Satantology. After a grueling interrogation session lasting almost 48 hours, Wilson provided the police with the details of a bizarre and gruesome plot—according to his confession, Satanists working under his authority had developed a plan to steal infants as they slept for sacrificial purposes, including from the hospital nursery where he claimed two of his accomplices worked as orderlies. As soon as the story reached the news media, the hysteria was predictable and immediate. Although police scanned their reports for missing infants, they could not find any that corresponded to an infant snatching crime wave, and no other witnesses could be found to support Milveaux’s story.

In spite of this, parents began keeping their children home from school, and the hospital posted an armed guard on duty at all times. Detectives began to stake out local cemeteries, and even scanned library records—eventually arresting three individuals who checked out The Satanic Verses before releasing them due to lack of evidence. The graveyard dragnet netted four teenagers who were knocking over tombstones in the Jewish section of Griffith Cemetery, but no Satanists ever materialized. This did nothing to quell the fervor with which the local media covered the story, which continued to dominate the headlines throughout the summer. Milveaux herself became a local celebrity, even authoring a book based on her experiences— The Devil and Mrs. Milveaux. The story continued to be trotted out every few years on local news during sweeps and always provided strong ratings. Milveaux herself admitted in 1999 that she had made up the Hornbeck Bridge incident, but claimed that the Satanists were real, and that she had proof of a massive satanic conspiracy that she wasn’t able to share. Despite of her retraction, the story continued to be repeated, most recently this March on the FOX22 (”Your Tri-State Region Leader for Hard News”) program Satan Stories.
- M. Vermeulen

Every city has urban legends, and our city is no different. These stories grow over time, whispered in hushed tones in the corridors of power, retold to generations of passengers by gregarious cab drivers, or a vaguely remembered by an aging bartender at one of the city’s many watering holes. They may have been based on real events, such as the legend of the lost treasure of Old City Hall, but as they are told and retold, they become mythic, and if they are famous enough and strange enough, often become part of city history. Here is an overview of some of the most well-known urban legends to haunt our city—none are true, but they reflect the fears and excitement of bygone times.

Secret Subway (1911)
In the early part of the twentieth century, the city made an effort to connect downtown to the growing outer neighborhoods by engineering a new subway system to accompany the north-south line already in existence. The tracks began at the Central Depot (which before its demolition in 1968 sat across Ludlow Plaza from Old City Hall) and were planned to stretch out to the suburbs east and west of town. After several years of fits and starts and partial completion, the project was finally halted due to budget constraints in 1919. Some of the completed but never used stations continued to exist, most famously at Elsinger and 10th street, which was by turns used as a prison and later to house zoo animals. Legends of the uncompleted system continued to grow, perhaps because the public was denied access and largely because of a story spread by local barber Alex McKenzie.

McKenzie claimed to have gained access to the station via the vast network of steam tunnels beneath Old City Hall. What he claimed to have seen there became this first urban legend—he said that the stations had not in fact been shut down, but were instead being used to transport the rich and powerful throughout the city in well-appointed private rail cars. He claimed to have seen Mayor Jonah Woolsey and other famous city figures enjoying the ride, sipping scotch in the handsomely paneled oak and teak subway car. Before he could observe more, McKenzie was spotted by security and chased back to the surface world. When confronted with the allegations, Woolsey called them “the whiskey-tainted hallucinations of a filthy Irishman.” But the story refused to go away, and even became a campaign issue, when socialist mayoral candidate Eugene Roberts challenged the mayor to prove that it did not exist by opening the stations to the public (this encounter became the basis for a famous editorial cartoon by well-known satirist Enri). Not even taking into account the inefficiency and enormous cost of operating a mass transit system for a small portion of the populations, this legend was also refuted by the daily sightings of the mayor being driven about the city in his private carriage (and a few years later, a horseless-buggy). Still, somehow the rumor persists, perhaps because the stations are still off limits to the public. A version of the legend dating from 1977 had famous reclusive industrialist Sydney B. Howe using the tunnels to travel between his many real-estate holdings, or to escape the city completely in the case of nuclear war (Strange Facts, September 1977).

Haunted Skyscraper (1927)
Buoyed by the anything goes spirit of the jazz age, local industrialist and timber magnate J.C. Greenley decided that he would make his mark on the city’s skyline by building the world’s second tallest building (after New York’s Woolworth). The design called for a 50-story office tower, One Greenley Place, which would dwarf the other city buildings, exceeding the next tallest by over twenty stories. However, before completion, Greenley was wiped out financially by the Crash of 1929. The construction crew had just completed the thirtieth floor, and it was from here that he took his own life, leaping to the street (and in the process, killing a pedestrian below). Seeing no demand for office space due to the economic doldrums of the time, the building was capped at thirty floors and turned into apartments.

All of this is true, but the grisly details of Greenley’s demise lead to an urban legend—that his ghost still haunts the building, and tragedy continues to stalk its inhabitants. While it is true that the building has seen more than it’s share of accidents, beginning with the three workmen who fell from faulty scaffolding just two weeks after Greenley’s plunge, and also including two fires (in 1936 and 1955 respectively) resulting in a combined loss of 57 lives, there is nothing to suggest a supernatural cause. The first fire was caused by a lightning strike and the second by sloppily installed wiring. Residents of the thirtieth floor penthouse occasionally complained about unexplained noises, and in the first forty years, more than 25 tenants vacated the residence. But this is most likely caused by the lack of insulation and lax building standards, due to the work being completed at great speed with almost no budget after the death of its namesake. The current resident, Roger Whitestone, grandson of Elias Whitestone and scion of the department store fortune has lived in the penthouse for over 15 years and has never encountered any poltergeists or things that go bump in the night. When asked about the myth of the haunted skyscraper, Whitestone said “it’s all a bunch of hooey… the problems with the building had to do with poor construction, not with ghosts and goblins.”
- M. Vermeulen

In the first part of the 20th century, before making the cross-country trek to Hollywood, the motion picture industry settled briefly in our fair city. During the early years of cinema, film companies were based on the east coast, centered in New York City. However, costs began to increase exponentially, due to both organized crime and Thomas Edison’s stranglehold on the industry. The rackets forced producers to pay exorbitant fees for location shooting (this in the days before studio lighting). And Thomas Edison jealously guarded access to his technology and film stock. Any film company wishing to produce nickelodeons in the tri-state area would be forced to make a pilgrimage to New Jersey to pay their respects (and a large monetary offering) to the “Wizard of Menlo Park” before they could begin shooting. Adding to the difficulty, the newly installed elevated subway trains shook the film studios every ten minutes, making steady photography an impossibility.

Frustrated by the costs and difficulties of shooting in New York, independent producers began looking for alternative locations. After scouting several areas, Amalgamated Moving Picture Inc (AMP) and three smaller operators settled on our city. It was considered ideal because of its easy access to the railroad and early adoption of alternating electrical current (AC)— thus removing itself from the iron grasp of Thomas Edison and his direct current (DC) system. In 1914, AMP’s incvestors moved their production offices into the recently vacated Ellsberg Ironworks building (this following Seymour Ellsberg’s disastrous and financially crippling attempt to corner the world supply of aluminum). This proved to be fortuitous timing—the Cinco de Mayo Massacre of 1914 had just eliminated many of the city’s major organized crime players, thus saving the film companies from being fleeced by underworld syndicates.

In 1914, over 400 short films were produced in and around the city for the fast growing motion picture market. Unfortunately, few of these films survive today, due to poor preservation and the Great Flood of 1936, which submerged most of downtown, destroying much of the library’s archives (and washing away Storky, the city’s beloved mascot and the world’s largest free-standing ceramic statue from his perch in Mabel Tripp Gardens. The statue was never recovered). The few films that did survive provide a snapshot of the city on the grow, circa 1914—including the only known existing image of Mayor Jonathan T. Sanders, who still holds the record for shortest stay in office (36 days, 14 hours).

The era also produced the city’s first (and so far, only) cinematic genius, D.W. DeMarkowitz. Little is known about his background, but his quick rise to fame is a legend in film history circles. He began as an actor, with his first known appearance in 1914’s Dolly in Danger as the train conductor, a short that still exists in the Library of Congress archive. He quickly ascended to starring roles, including Richard III and Ichabod Crane in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, although, sadly, these performances exist only in newspaper reviews from the era. (The Journal-American said of his Hamlet “…for a non-speaking performance, he perfectly captures the infamous Danish ennui”…)

1915 would prove a career defining year for DeMarkowitz. He began his most ambitious undertaking in February—a 1/2 scale replica of the Coliseum, for use in his epic The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, which he shot in 16 five-minute installments between February and April. Nearly the entire city turned up for the grand opening, during which DeMarkowitz staged an enormous naval battle, depicting the Roman victory over the Persians. Admission was free, but with a catch—all attendees were required to dress in togas and consent to being filmed for part one of the epic. DeMarkowitz himself is said to have played Nero, giving the thumbs-down to the defeated sailors.

The Roman epic proved to be the highpoint for cinema in our city, as the film industry was soon to leave for the warmer climes of Southern California (perhaps also speeded by the fact that hundreds of the actors and sailors in the Roman picture came down with pneumonia due to exposure to the damp and chilly spring weather). D.W. DeMarkowitz was tragically run down by a trolley car only two years later, before finishing his promised masterpiece—a 90-part saga including every story in the Old and New Testament. He remains a footnote in film history, an early genius remembered only by historians. The other producers were soon lured west by the sunny climate and year round shooting available in Los Angeles. Additionally, the temporary vacuum in the criminal underworld was quickly filled by the notorious O’Sullivan brothers and demands for bribes began once again. In the end, it was all too much for Amalgamated Moving Pictures. Having banked a small fortune into DeMarkowitz’s bible epic, and seeing no possibility of a return on its investment, they closed their doors for good in 1917, thus ending an important but little discussed chapter in film history.

The Coliseum remained, however, first used as a venue for Wild Bill’s traveling Wild West show, and other large events. Eventually the interior was converted into a miniature golf course and pizzeria, which it remained until 1968, when it was razed after a young golfer fell through a crumbling windmill into the cages and inner workings of the interior. The child was fine, but the Coliseum was considered too dangerous for future use. One of the columns that supported the structure still exists at the Museum of Furniture and City History on Sycamore Street.
- M. Vermeulen

Hello, everyone. Due to the upcoming holiday week, posting will be rather light. So, we leave you with a holiday-oriented Friday Facts and hope that all of you have a relaxing and happy holiday, with your friends and family.

:: The most recent volume of the city’s telephone directory features a Santos Klaussen, a Szandor Klausz, and a Mary O. Sannicola.

:: The city is home to three regionally produced egg nogs. The best-selling is that produced by Dobbins Farm Dairy, but the ‘micro-brewed’ GregNog (manufactured by radio personality Greg McMullen) was named the best nog three years in a row by Dairy Fare magazine.

:: Each year since 1958, editorial cartoonist Jack Belinsky has hidden the names of all eight of Santa’s reindeer in the art of comics he has drawn during December — except three years ago, when he inexplicably replaced “Blitzen” with “Buford” in a cartoon about SARS.

:: Due to poor planning, a runoff election for mayor in 1976 was scheduled for Christmas Eve, and resulted in the lowest voter turnout in civic history.

:: In 1985, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” was belatedly chosen as the city’s “official” Christmas song. Only Tony Hadley of Spandau Ballet and Pete Briquette of the Boomtown Rats were able to attend the ceremony.

:: Lanes are the most popular type of thoroughfare on the city’s east side, followed closely by streets and avenues. Boulevards, circles and ways are next; the entire area features only three terraces, and not a single row.

:: The International Jedi Ministry has recently announced a campaign to make ours the first large American city to officially recognize Life Day as a municipal holiday.

:: Number of lawsuits generated by WAIC Radio’s infamous 1983 “Christmas is Cancelled” stunt broadcast: 328

:: Citizens donated 850 fruitcakes to a holiday fundraiser for victims of Hurricane Katrina. Two-thirds of them are reported by FEMA auditors as still uneaten.

:: One of the few musicians from the city to ever score a national hit was Henry ‘Hot-Rods’ Phelan, who hit the Top 40 in December of 1964 with his novelty number “We’ll Be Rocking in My Stocking Tonight.”

:: Number of people who jumped from the 86th street bridge in 2006: 14

:: Number in December: 9

:: Number successfully talked down by suicide counselors dressed as Santa: 4

:: Unsuccessful: 1
- L. Pierce, M. Vermeulen, R. White

Winter is coming to the Pullman Zoo. Nowadays that doesn’t mean much. The gibbons and lemurs have moved to indoor enclosures, and many of the zoo’s other inhabitants– the bison, and llama– simply grow thicker coats. When Sheffield’s Vinyl Mfg. and many of the city’s other key industries closed down in the mid-80’s and took most of the city tax base with them, the zoo was one of the first institutions to feel the pinch of funding cuts. Even with the rebound of recent years, there hasn’t been much call to restore it, keeping it a shadow of its glory days. The elephants now roam a sanctuary in northwest Iowa and the other main attractions– the tigers and lions and white wolves whose statues still decorate the entrance– eventually went to the big cage in the sky and no money could be found to replace them. But back before the town came upon rough times, the winterization of the zoo was a project embraced by the entire community.

No child of the 30’s can forget the Whitestone’s Department Store windows, during the Christmastime rush. When other retailers would pack their displays with Kris Cringle or Bob Cratchet, Whitestone’s live animal display kept the crowds stacked four-deep every night. Children laughed and shrieked as the gorilla dressed in a beard and red hat attacked the 4 inch thick glass, while chimpanzees passed out gifts to rosy cheeked youths. And inside the store, the giraffe, its neck decked out in colored lights, munched on the holly. (Of course, that tradition was discontinued after a faulty wire caused the Great Stampede/Fire of ‘34).

And it wasn’t just the retailers who lent a hand– the city government allowed the zoo to use the then-abandoned underground train station at Elsinger and 10th. During the Spanish Flu pandemic, the station had been turned into a make-shift prison to house foreigners and the cages worked as a perfect, if snug, alternative to the outdoor enclosures. Perhaps the most famous resident who stayed in the zoo tunnel was there during the winter of 1921– Oingo, a pygmy from the Congo, who was on loan from the Cincinnati zoo, having been the star attraction during the summer season.

The beginning of the end came in 1977, when out-of-town protesters padlocked themselves to the rhinoceros cage and refused to leave. They believed it was cruel to keep animals underground for four months out of the year. And while billy clubs and tear gas eventually restored order, its overzealous use also lead to the suffocation of most of the aviary and monkey house, also causing a smell that never seemed to leave, which is still detectable near that stop on the downtown 35 train on warm days. Perhaps it was the smell of progress, though, because the following summer the crowds didn’t show up in their regular numbers and the year after that was even worse. By 1986, with budgets being slashed citywide, the zoo was forced to lose much of its staff and sell the animals to game reserves and the burgeoning aphrodisiac trade.

But even today, when the carolers gather downtown in the shopping district, one can almost imagine an elephant’s call piercing the frosty air to trumpet our savior’s birth (and great deals for the entire family). Or the roar of an angry lion echoing from below the icy street, reminding us of the reason for the season.
- M. Vermeulen