The Brit-Hungo Dave Barry

The other day I posted a little piece about my old pal Zoltan Scrivener. About the same time I read Dave Barry’s column on white water “sports” in the Daily News. Dave brought back many silly memories for me, smiling thoughts of all my whacky adventures with Zoli. And as I have been saying since I first met Zoltan back in my first Budapest week of September 1995: Zoltan Scrivener is the British-Hungarian Dave Barry. Bloody hell, I moved to Budapest 8 years ago this month?

Anyway, here is Zoltan’s 1997 column about white water rafting with myself in Austria. It was one of our goofiest, scariest adventures. Read Dave Barry’s column and then Zoltan’s and let me know if you think they were separated at birth.

AFTER HOURS by Zoltan Scrivener

Budapest Business Journal, 1997

RAFT GUIDES DITCH ZOLTAN FOR 2 BABES.

Wetsuit-clad whitewater rafting instructor Zsolt
Strohoffer looked at me through wrap-around sunglasses
and said: "Uh-oh."

UH-OH?

I had just confessed to possessing absolutely no
canoeing or rowing experience. The closest I ever get
to fast water is when I pull the plug in my bathtub.

And now I was about to go whitewater rafting near
Palfau, Austria - a country with excellent medical
facilities. Which is important, because I would be
bouncing over the very sections of river where my
guide claims a considerable number of rafters have
died. So for this course you pay your money in
advance.

The "sport" of "white" water rafting got its name
because that's the color participants' faces turn by
the time they finish. I'd even chosen a week when the
area had received its highest flood waters of the
century and the army was busy rebuilding bridges.
Zsolt, though, said the floods were a good thing,
because water speed was about twice normal.

Now a word about our rafts. Many people conquer rivers
like these in huge, rubber dinghies that seat about 13
and bounce over most anything. Which left with me just
one question: Why the hell are we roaring down-stream
in tiny, two-man "tracks" instead?

"They are bouncier, more unstable and fun," Zsolt
explained. "You and the photographer will each go with
an instructor." This made me happy, until I spoke to
my potential instructor, Akos. When I voiced my safety
concerns, he stared at me and in a slow, deep voice
said: "You want to live forever?"
I felt strangely unreassured by this response.

Standing in our wetsuits, we were given basic "safety"
instructions: If we fall out of a track "float feet
down first." Then we donned lifejackets and helmets.
And then our instructors told us they were feeling
compelled to take along two leggy females in their
tracks instead of us.

Their "Uh-oh" assessment had suddenly turned into
"Uh....you'll be all right."

Thus dumped by our instructors, I turned to
photographer Jim - who last canoed 10 years ago, on
smooth water - for some comforting words. And
reassuringly he spoke too - except I couldn't help
noticing he was wearing his swimsuit inside out.

Still, we managed a perfect start, pushing off the
bank with our paddles. One problem: We were heading
backwards.

"Beautiful scenery," said Jim.

I started paddling furiously to steer us
when…"SPLASH."

We hit wave after wave. The boat's front flew up, and
my jaws clattered with each jolt. Fun? About as much
fun as bouncing down the office stairs on your butt
with colleagues throwing cold buckets of water into
your face.
While the boaters around us chose the traditional
"steering with paddles while pointing downstream"
method, we opted for the "bouncing backwards off both
banks" method. Our paddles were for fending off
scenery.

"Lovely trees," said Jim.

By this point - two hours into the ride - our boat was
full of freezing water and we were exhausted from
panicked paddling. Jim had tried slowing the boat by
grabbing riverbank vegetation, but our momentum was
too great, so he ended up looking like some madman
ripping up sapplings as we headed down river.

UNTIL....he found a strong branch. Jim stopped dead.
But the boat, unfortunately, did not. I watched him
slowly getting stretched and, when he reached roughly
seven feet in length, he suddenly snapped back into
the boat, smacking his face into the water.

While he dripped dry, our track wobbled into a boulder
patch. "Paddle! Paddle!" instructed Jim. With my eyes
closed, I gave up paddling in the water and started
beating the boulders with my paddle instead. Then I
heard: "Er.....Zoltan....Zoltan.....small problem."

I looked around and ....no Jim. He was now dangling
off the side of the track, his body squeezed between
the boat and the boulder, acting as a buoy (or rather
boy-buoy). Somehow he managed to get back on and grab
a plant strong enough to stop us before we exited into
the Mediterranean.

I am never doing this again.

Posted by Jim at 09:19 PM

Glory Days

Looking through the old files tonight I found this picture of Zoltan Scrivener and I taken moments before we started our failed drive around the Black Sea back in 1996. And it wouldn't be our last failed adventure drive. In 1997 we tried to drive from Budapest to Hong Kong. We got as far as Calcutta. And now Zoltan is married to the beautiful Szilvi and they are happy in Budapest.

Wedding Day

Well, time to head off to my cousin’s wedding. Congratulations Patrick and Clare Anne!

And Dave Barry’s column in this morning’s Daily News has me thankful I am neither a full-time wedding photographer nor the father of a flower girl.

Unfortunately matters only got worse when -- in an unbelievable stroke of bad luck -- we experienced the most stressful thing that can happen at a wedding: wedding photographers. There seemed to be dozens of them, and they had all attended that special wedding-photographer school where they learn how to take a dozen people and organize them into 14 million permutations:

``. . . OK now I want the bride with the bridesmaids. OK now I want the groom with the groomsmen. OK now I want the bride with the groomsmen. OK now I want the mother of the groom with the bride and the bridesmaids whose names contain two or more vowels. OK now I want the father of the bride with the groom and the groomsmen whose blood type is . . .''

Some wedding photographers become so crazed with power that they form gangs and roam the suburbs, breaking into homes and terrorizing the residents by making them pose for days (``. . . OK this time I want to see a BIG SMILE from everybody! Don't make me get out Mr. Cattle Prod again!'')

Anyway, our flower girls had to be in many, many pictures, and if you think it's easy to make 3-year-olds sit still, smile and not mess up their dresses for long periods, then you are either a crack addict or a wedding photographer.

Friends at the End of The Day

After a drink at the Peter McManus Pub at 7th Ave and 19th Street last night, my beautiful friend Angela and I made our way down to Lower Manhattan. On that murderous day two years ago, it was in McManus that she and I finally met up, 14 hours after the planes hit.

Angela was a sight for sore, shocked eyes two years ago. So, that little pub is special to us. It makes us feel a little better to remember while doing something simple; meeting for a drink and walking the streets in the same places we did that day. These small deeds and our friendship are strong comfort.

Emotions were still high at nine o’clock last night around Ground Zero. But there were also the tourists who seemed thick to what they were looking at. And there were the folks selling 9-11/FDNY/WTC overpriced crap. We paid our respects, gazed at the Towers of Lights, took in the changes in and around The Pit, spoke softly to each other and moved on with our thoughts, fears and sadness.

A massive part of my experience that deadly day was the people around me. Angela was the only one not on the Getty Images news team who I shared with that Tuesday. The entire first 14 hours of the horror I spent working on a news desk ten blocks north of the Towers with a fine crew. They were all brave and dedicated and did an amazing job. Together we got out to the rest of the word some of the most powerful, moving pictures.

Riding north and away from the blue pikes of light last night, our heaviness of the day seemed to ease. We had dealt with the pain and moved on again, not forgetting but moving on. And we were riding to meet friends.

It was a war ago since I had seen my old pal Tyler Hicks of The New York Times. And there he was standing with glass in hand smiling with all sorts of other brilliant friends and photographers in the back room at The Half King.

Old pal and Getty shooter Spencer Platt was there as well with his beautiful girlfriend Erika. And my friend Mario Tama too. And Julie. And Chris Hondros. And the most amazing photo editor Sandy Ciric. The stringers and the guys from the News and Newsday were eating fish and chips and drinking beer. What a brilliant gathering, a dysfunctional family reunion of sorts. All were enjoying.

Beautiful.

It was during the war in Kosovo that I first met Tyler, Hondros and Spencer. It was on September 11th that I worked under war conditions with Sandy, Mario and Spencer. And Angel and I grew closer fast in that day. These were the friends I need to see and laugh with last night.

It was fine and perfect way to close a sad day. We went our separate ways at midnight buzzing off seeing old friends. It was just what we needed. And then we moved on.

Pictures From Ground Zero, Two Years On

Last Night

Remembering

The pipes are playing in Lower Manhattan at the moment. Then a moment of silence.

Death of a Newsman and a Friend

Along with reading of the death of Warren Zevon today, I read an obit that hit much closer to home.

Peter Weiss, a political reporter for more than thirty years on the Jersey Journal, died suddenly over the weekend.

Pete, who was about 60, was a quiet, kind man of many faces—but never two-faced--to all of us who knew him. To the elected official he was someone to respect and worry about. To young reporters learning the trade he was a mentor. To the young photographers who saw him in the newsroom and at city hall he was a friendly face with a sweet greeting and a wise someone to listen to. He always was a friend.

Pete was just a good guy who knew Hudson County politics better than anyone, a fine man who was a master at his trade.

Pete, we’ll miss you.

Driving to the liquor store tonight a real purty Lucinda Williams song came on the radio. This of course made me think of Ken Layne, so I called Matt Welch.

As the gods would have it, Ken answers the phone in L.A. unaware of the fact that he was not in the right house, city or state.

It was simply brilliant to have a chat and hear that Ken was in L.A. for reasons of music.

I am still pumped on his latest (first) CD. The sad, mean, purty little bastard is spinning in the music machine at the moment and it makes running behind the bar much more fun on the nights I am working in Hoboken. And I am loving turning the regulars onto the Bootlegs.

Doug Shank, a fine drinker and bassist, had this to say about Ken’s CD:

He does have a great knack for songwriting and lyric writing, and even these scratch takes are much better than the processes shit that the "BIG 4" put out each year.

Kudos to Ken... when I'm employed again, I'll toss a dime in his
Monkey Cup.... congratulate him on the B Minor chord in "I should be
That Guy" for me too.

Can’t wait for Ken Layne and the Corvids to play The Quiet Woman Pub in Hoboken. Soon, lads, soon.

In the Blood

My father began his days in newspapers as a ten-year-old with a small camera chasing spot news in his neighborhood and the near-beyond of Hillside, New Jersey in 1950 and still keeps his hand in it today. I think I was about twelve when I first aimed my solid little Nikon EM and had my first news picture published in the Asbury Park Press. I learned the trade of journalism at home as if I was learning how to throw a baseball. It was only natural.

Dad went on to become an overnight staff photographer on the late, great Newark Evening News during the picture-rich 1960s, a stringing writer for The New York Times and a staff reporter on the Sunday Asbury Park Press in the ‘70s before leaving the trade for PR. And even then he never truly left newspapers. For almost 25 years he was the Jersey columnist for the Irish Echo before they thought local coverage was a 20th century idea. He still writes a news column about Irish Jersey today and keeps his news ear to the police scanner at home. The desire to know has never left him. Dad is the truest, always-curious newsman I have ever known.

Much to his chagrin I followed closely in his footsteps. He dreamed of a Notre Dame lawyer and got a Jersey newsman, though proud nonetheless. And I took what I learned as a shooter on the streets of Hudson County in the rough late 80s and early 90s and rolled it into an international career/adventure in journalism.

These days I am not chasing the stories in Iraq but rather working to make local government work well. I couldn’t be luckier.

And I have a brother, twelve years younger, who now has the news blood kicking in. Young Patrick Lowney, a student at URI, is now interning at The Newport Daily News. Today he had his first byline in a daily.

Congratulations, Paddy. And remember there is always a brilliant, fun story in the police blotter.

Welch Words

Old pal Matt Welch is always busy getting the word out. Have a read of his latest smart writing: here about the journalism of blogs and here about geopolitical lies.

A Brooklynite for Arnold

I couldn't find a direct link for this fun column by Denis Hamill in yesterday's Daily News, so here it is:

My landlord the Terminator

By Denis Hamill

New York Daily News

September 2, 2003


Here's why, if I were still living in L.A., I might vote for Arnold.

In 1978, the Los Angeles Herald Examiner hired me to write a column.

The transition from Brooklyn to L.A. was difficult. I got my first driver's license at 26, and leased a duplex in a five-unit complex at 1108 19th St. in Santa Monica.

"The owner is a famous bodybuilder," the Realtor said, adding that this ape-shape lived in a unit a few doors away from mine. He mentioned the guy's name, and a documentary called "Pumping Iron." I half-listened. Since I had trained most of my post-draft-card days in Brooklyn saloons, I wasn't impressed by some Austrian weightlifter.

A few days after moving in, I went out to get my mail. Some letters in my box were for a guy with a last name longer than a suspension bridge. I knocked on Apt. 1. The door opened. And King Kong answered.

"You're dee new guy in numper five, hah?" Arnold Schwarzenegger said.

I introduced myself. I gave him his mail and looked into his pad, which was covered in art. He shook my hand, and said, "T'anks, Hamill." My fingers crackled like breadsticks. "You talk funny," he said, laughing at my Brooklyn accent.

Later, my now ex-wife asked: "What's he like?"

I said, "I wouldn't wanna be late with the rent."

After that, Arnold and I never became pals, but we'd often gab at the mailbox or the carport. He said he was an actor, that he promoted muscleman shows, did commentary, had a book out, and "Pumping Iron." I made him for a half-fast celebrity, but in Brooklyn we'd call him "good people."

"In life, you haf to haf a dream," Arnold told me. As has been reported elsewhere of late, yes, Arnold was a practicing heterosexual. Hey, you have a body like a temple, you attract worshipers. He threw these great parties, glistening with muscle mooks and überbabes from nearby Muscle Beach. I was never invited. (Maybe because I looked too much like their "before" pictures.) In addition to my regular column, I wrote a weekly saloon column. I told Arnold that I'd like to borrow his body for a few days to kick some butt in some of the rowdier saloons. He laughed, and roared off in a sports car to the gym or an audition, or a business deal, working, always working, chasing his American Dream.

Another time, I suggested he train me and turn this Brooklyn slouch into a California hunk, and I'd chronicle it in the Herald. (Where, coincidentally, I worked with a young reporter named Bobby Shriver, who hung around with Arnold and eventually would become his brother-in-law.) "First, you must stop vit the drinkink so much, Hamill," Arnold said. It would be 14 more years before I took Arnold's very good advice.

But back then, Arnold also got a kick out of the way I parked my car. New dents every week. "I call it on-the-job training," I said.

"I call it drunk drifing," Arnold said.

One day, when my car wouldn't start, I yelled, "Yo, Arnold, you think you can carry my Mustang down to the garage to get it fixed?"

"Get the drifer fixed," Arnold said, laughing, always laughing.

Here was a guy, an immigrant who had arrived 10 years earlier with nothing but a funny name, a set of muscles and a dopey dream. He worked his granite butt off in the gym until he was a Michelangelo, winning competitions, negotiating movie and book deals, acquiring real estate and fine art. Then, with "Pumping Iron" a big hit, his book a best seller and dating a Kennedy, this big, smart, amiable, funny guy bench-pressed himself into the stars. Luck had nothing to do with it. Like most immigrants, Arnold found the American Dream not at the end of a rainbow but at the end of a sweaty day's work.

We knew each other for maybe five months. Then I moved. We lost touch. But I ran into him a few times over the years, up in Elaine's or Planet Hollywood, and he's the kind of guy who remembers your name, gives you the same smile, same atomic handshake he gave you 25 years ago when he was still just a guy with a funny accent, funny name and an even sillier dream of stardom.

Wins on strength of work ethic

My politics are different from Arnold's. He might need more gym work on the issues. He'll need a spotter to help work the complicated universal machines of government.

But one thing I know - the Arnold Schwarzenegger I knew when I was a displaced Brooklynite in L.A. just as his star began to sparkle was "good people" who will give the citizens an honest, sweaty day's work. Which is more than you can say for most of the dumbbells we have running things now.

Irish Times

The soft rain and cool slight breeze don't bother me these early September days in Jersey. They remind me of so many days in Dublin. Good high stood days they are. Perfect weather for a pint in a fine pub. Of course I wouldn't find a pint as perfect in Elizabeth as this one in Hogan's in Dublin's Great George's Street. But I'll keep looking...

Empty Sky, Broken Skyline

When I was a young photographer on the The Hudson Dispatch and the Jersey Journal years ago one of my favorite night sights was driving out of the darkeness of the depressed highway in Jersey City and watching the bright lights of the Twin Towers raise up before me in the amazing skyline on the Hudson.

It is still just sad, empty sky and makes me think too much every time I drive.

Heads Up!

Get ready to duck or step aside in 2014 when the giant asteroid hits.

No Pictures Please

You have to be kidding me! The Atlanta Journal-Constitution apologized to readers for using a picture of Madonna kissing Britney Spears on the front page the other day.

AJC Managing Editor for News Hank Klibanoff wrote in today's paper:

We have a high standard of presentation that is in line with community sensibilities, and we have filters that work to maintain those standards. The difficulty comes when news turns ugly, horrid, profane or provocative in some other way that might offend community sensibilities.

During the war in Iraq, it happened a lot, and in the name of presenting a truthful, full account of the war, our filter got tested and stretched a lot. We ran images we otherwise might not have run. But that was war, and war was news.

The photo we ran Friday was neither, and I wish I had limited its display to the inside of the Living section.

We want the paper to be appropriate to the widest possible readership at the same time that we want it to deliver a straightforward accounting of the big news, the talk of the town, from the day before. That is sometimes a tricky balance, and we spend a lot of time seeking that balance while not being afraid of the news.

Usually, I think, we do this well. With this photo, we did not.

HANK KLIBANOFF
Managing Editor for News

Yeah, right. Why even run a picture at all since it was already seen on television
live?

And figuring out how to run a picture of Madonna kissing girls with hurting music careers is the same as editing images of war? Please.

But what scares me more are the AJC readers who can't look at the world around them.