Trying to give economic advice to the USA is like trying to give career advice to an alcoholic: until they are ready to pull themselves together, there will be no improvement. Clearly the USA needs to invest more in infrastructure, but much of the public feels otherwise.

Alex Marshall writes about the political battle:

In December, Virginia Gov. Bob McDonnell, a rising Republican star, announced a plan to borrow $4 billion to build more roads, saying, “Right now is the best time in modern Virginia history to get new roads and bridges built,” because of “low construction costs and interest rates in an economy struggling to rebound.” The state, he says, needs to “put people back to work.”

A few weeks before McDonnell made his announcement, another rising Republican star, New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie, announced that his state could not commit $2.7 billion to a new commuter rail tunnel under the Hudson River to New York City, even though the project — 20 years in the making — was already under construction, and the federal government and a bi-state agency, the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, were paying most of the $8.7 billion cost.

Although Christie campaigned in support of the tunnel, he now says the state cannot afford it, given the potential for cost overruns. Little mention was made of jobs, lower construction costs and the project’s long-term benefit.

What is going on here? Two Republican governors, of similar ideological hues, both elected in 2009, give different rationales for starting and stopping big infrastructure efforts. It’s as if the two lived not only in different states, but also different realities. The governors’ actions are a sign of how political infrastructure building has become. While there was a time when infrastructure efforts were in large part bipartisan, much of it now, particularly when the word “train” is involved, has become tied up with partisan battles about the state’s role in lean economic times.

These lines were in evidence when Ohio and Wisconsin governors-elect, John Kasich and Scott Walker, respectively, pledged to throw more than $1 billion in federal funding back to Washington, D.C., for intercity rail service. Such projects, championed by President Barack Obama, would waste the state’s money in frugal times, they said.

For leaders in state and municipal governments, when it comes to infrastructure spending, the choices are about who to believe and follow. While distinguished economists back deficit spending, angry citizens advocate fiscal restraint. And while China, Western Europe and much of the world build high-speed train lines, they are still unproven in the U.S.

Dan Morrill has a great review of the 1st issue of Carrier Pigeon (of which I have 2 copies):

Sometimes you just find something that makes you happy, and as I tore through my first copy of Carrier Pigeon Illustrated Magazine 1 (Fair warning – loud noise if you click) I was pretty impressed for a number of reasons. It has been a long time since I saw something so richly illustrated, or stories so well written, the other thing that caught my attention on this is that the entire project was funded through Kick Starter which is an awesome way of funding something that in the traditional book world probably never would have made it out the someone’s living room of good ideas.

…Carrier Pigeon has lived up to its singular promise, not too weird, not too artsy, rather an approachable book with stuff the non-hipster will love. This is just simply something you do not see in the market anymore. While we try to keep costs down, Carrier Pigeon decided to go for quality, and while the cover price is $20.00, it is really worth it. I can imagine that some people will simply lift the illustrations out and get them framed.

Among people I know, Kristy Caldwell continues to play a large role in bringing Carrier Pigeon to the public.

The really wonderful Cassandra Long has a blog. She paints, she writes, she photographs. We are talking a true triple threat here. Consider this photo:

She writes:

This cigarette is on my bench on my balcony.

It looks like it’s bleeding.

This might mean something to someone. Bleeding dead cigarette.

It doesn’t mean anything to me. It just looks like it could.

I do love that it could mean something to someone.

Almost poetic, yes? I’m trying to get back into playing guitar, and as soon as I do I’m turning this into a song.

And look, she also paints:

For now, she prefers Boston to New York City, because her landlord is so very wise and insightful (yes, yes, I know. But seriously, this is the story she gave me).

Oh, Cassandra, when are you going to stop tormenting your fans and move to New York City? This rotten old town just isn’t any good without you.

Logan Donovan skydives. I met her at Monkeyclaus in 2006. Back then, when she was 15, we would joke that Monkeyclaus would be much better run if she was the CEO. Or rather, others would joke. I used to say it, but I was totally serious - she would have been a great CEO, and far more mature than anyone else out there.

Logan Donovan is an engineering student at SEAS, but her suitemates introduce her as the “skydiving girl.” Her enthusiasm for the sport is obvious. While discussing her passion in a recent interview, I hardly had time to ask any questions as she interrupted herself to explain a specific piece of gear or drop me some lingo (airports are “drop zones,” a backpack is a “rig,” most dramatically, the sign up kiosk at a drop zone is a “manifest window”). Some people think of life in terms of money, or family, Logan thinks of her life in terms of jumps.

She made her first jump a few days after her 18th birthday while flying over New Zealand. While for some, metaphorically flipping off gravity for the first time would be horrifying, Logan recalls her first jump with a grin. She remembers thinking to herself, “Oh that’s cool, I just wish I could do that every weekend,” but didn’t consider getting her license, a process that usually takes 2 to 3 months, at the time. It didn’t take much longer for her to come around to the idea. She got it in two and a half weeks.

So many good things happening in this city.

Stunning photos of New York City. And this description is very sad:

One day I saw in the New York times a picture of Mayor Lindsay presenting a bouquet of flowers to a “heroic” police officer in a hospital bed. It said that he had been shot down while “entering an apartment.” I decided to find out what was actually behind this incident and nosed around the Bronx for several days to find the relatives and the apartment where it all took place. Little by little I found out what had happened. James and Barbara were a young black couple who lived in the worst neighborhood in the U.S.A. around Fox Street in the South Bronx. One day they heard burglars on the roof and called the police. Two plain-clothes officers arrived at the apartment and kicked in the door without knocking. James thought it was the burglars who were breaking in, and he shot at the door, but was then himself killed by the police. Barbara ran screaming into the neighbor’s apartment. When I went to the 41st Precinct police station they confirmed the story and admitted that “there had been a little mistake,” but James of course “was asking for it, being in possession of an unregistered gun.”

I was by now so used to this kind of American logic that I did not feel any particular indignation toward the officer. I just felt that he was wrong. Since I had spent so much time finding out the facts of the case. I might as well go to the funeral, too. I rushed around town trying to borrow a nice shirt and arrived at the funeral home in the morning about an hour before the services. I took some pictures of James in the coffin. He was very handsome. I admired the fine job the undertaker had done with plastic to plug up the bullet holes. Black undertakers are sheer artists in this field; even people who have had their eyes torn out they can get to look perfectly normal. Since black bodies arrive in all possible colors and conditions, they use almost the entire color spectrum in plastic materials. James did not make any particular impression on me; I had already seen so many young black corpses. The only thing I wondered about was that there wasn’t any floral wreath from the police. I waited about an hour, which was to be the last normal hour that day. Not more than ten people came to the funeral, all of them surprised at seeing a white man there. A young guy whispered to me that he thought it was a little unbecoming for a white man to he present at this particular funeral. Then suddenly I heard terrible screams from the front hall and saw three men bringing Barbara in. Her legs were dragging along the floor. She was incapable of walking. I could not see her face, but she was a tall, beautiful, light-skinned young woman. Her screams made me shudder. Never before had I heard such excruciating and pain-filled screams. When she reached the coffin, it became unbearable. It was the first and only time in America I was unable to photograph. I had taken pictures with tears running down my cheeks, but had always kept myself at such a great distance from the suffering that I was able to record it. When Barbara came up to the coffin, she threw herself down into it. She lay on top of James and screamed so it cut through marrow and bone. I could only make out the words, “James, wake up, wake up!” again and again. The others tried to pull her away, but Barbara didn’t notice anything but James. I was at this point completely convinced that James would rise up in the coffin. I have seen much suffering in America, but I have often perceived in the midst of the suffering a certain hypocrisy or even shallowness, which enabled me to distance myself from it. Barbara knocked my feet completely out from under me. Everything began to spin before my eyes. It must have been at that point that I suddenly rushed weeping out of’ the funeral home. I ran for blocks just to get away. My crying was completely uncontrollable. I staggered down through Simpson and Prospect Streets, where nine out of ten die an unnatural death. Robbers and the usual street criminals stood in the doorways, but I just staggered on without noticing them, stumbling over garbage cans and broken bottles. It was a wonder that no one mugged me, but they must have thought I had just been mugged.

…For days afterward I was a wreck. I will never forget that day. It stands completely blank in my diary. A whole year went by before I pulled myself together and sought Barbara out. But when I came to the kitchen at the veterans’ hospital where she worked, an old black woman was sent out to talk to me. She told me that she was Barbara’s guardian, since Barbara had not been normal since the funeral. She had become very withdrawn and never spoke any more. I asked her what Barbara had been like before James’ death. She went into deep thought for a moment and then told me with tears in her eyes about the four years when James and Barbara had worked together there in the kitchen. They had always been happy, singing, and a real joy to the kitchen personnel. They had never missed a day of work, always came in together and always left together at the end of the day. But she wouldn’t let me see Barbara, for Barbara did not wish to see anyone.

Another year went by before I sent a letter to Barbara from somewhere in the South. I assumed that by now Barbara had gotten over her husband’s murder. When I again went to the kitchen, the same elderly woman met me. It was as if time had not passed at all, and we just continued where we left off. She sighed deeply and looked into my eyes. “Barbara has gone insane,” she said.

The artist who created this statue clearly wanted it to be sexually suggestive. This is probably from a 100 years ago, when people pretended not to notice the sexual suggestiveness of things. I wish I had taken one step to my right when I took the photo, because, from a certain angle, this statue looks like it is pleasuring itself. This is out in MSG Mcgolrick Park. I walked passed groups of old men who were talking to each other in some Eastern European language (presumably Polish, since this is Greenpoint). Funny thing, I only saw old people in this park. All the young people were a few blocks away, in McCarren Park.