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Posts Tagged ‘New York’

Tonight, the country is focused on the East Coast.  And that’s as it should be.  The storm that hit (and continues to pummel) has devastated parts of that region and left an incredible mess for lots of people to try and clean up.  Some of the images bring to mind the tsunami that struck Japan not quite two years ago.  So tonight, we’ll do a little bit of homage to the Big Apple.

Let’s talk about Ben Bailey and Cash Cab, since its home is New York City.

Now when you first think of game shows, your mind’s eye might conjure up images of a fancy set with a pretty hostess.    Maybe there’s a wheel that gets spun by some contestants, or maybe there are prizes on which people bid.  We might hear Johnny yell, “Come on down!!”  Or maybe it’s doors and deals that flash before you.  You can name that tune in just seven notes.  You want big bucks and no whammies.  You can be a millionaire.  What you see is a high-dollar production.

Cash Cab takes place in a taxi.  It’s a minivan taxi and its high-dollar production is limited to a series of small cameras placed throughout the taxi’s interior, a “video bonus” monitor, and a cool light panel mounted in the roof.

And game shows always have a host.  It’s usually a guy with a coat and tie.

Cash Cab has Ben Bailey.  Bailey, who was born on October 30, 1970, is a stand-up comedian turned game-show host extraordinaire.  He wears a shirt and jeans and looks to be the farthest thing from a traditional host.

Unsuspecting people climb into his cab, which then explodes with lights and music and Ben saying, “Welcome to the Cash Cab…it’s a game show that takes place right here in my taxi.”  The show is really just a very up-to-date (and very entertaining) version of Trivial Pursuit.  As contestants are driven to their destination, Ben asks trivia questions.  Every correct answer wins the group money.  Incorrect answers earn a strike.  If a question or two is particularly challenging, contestants can either phone a friend for help or use a “street shout-out”, where a person on the street has the ability to help.  But be careful!…three strikes and Ben pulls the cab over and kicks everybody to the curb.

There is also the fun “red-light challenge”.  If the Cash Cab reaches its destination, the contestants can either take their winnings or risk it all on a single double-or-nothing video bonus question.

The premise is simple, but it’s incredibly entertaining to watch.  Ben Bailey is charming, witty, and really gracious with the folks that get in his cab, expecting nothing more than a ride.

Cash Cab is a great trivia show built on a totally unsuspecting premise (a cab ride), and Ben Bailey is the perfect host.  Kudos to the Discovery Channel for running with the idea.

Happy Birthday, Ben Bailey!!

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So…it’s Valentine’s Day.  Card companies and flower companies and candy companies love this day for obvious reasons.  People that work at places that sell cards and flowers and candy probably love it a little less, just because of the manic shopping that takes place in the days leading up to (and especially the day of) the holiday.

In general, it’s a fun day with some treats and time spent with those we love.

But it’s not that way for everybody.  For some, Valentine’s Day conjures up pains or hurts that they’d rather not remember.  That was certainly the case for a young Theodore Roosevelt.

On February 14, 1884, the young man who would be President suffered the most grievous of losses.  It may not be the best source for this type of incident, but since I read about it in Timothy Egan’s The Big Burn, it’s the source I’m using.

“The blow of a lifetime came early, on Valentine’s Day 1884, perhaps the best-known single day of trauma in the formative period of a future president.  In the morning, Teddy’s mother died of typhoid fever at the family house on Fifty-seventh Street; she was forty-six.  A few hours later, the suddenly orphaned Roosevelt lost his bride in the same house, to Bright’s disease, a kidney ailment, which had been masked by her pregnancy.  He scrawled a big, shaky X on a diary page and wrote a single sentence: ‘The light has gone out of my life.'”

The young man, in his mid-twenties and a budding politician, chucked it all and headed west, where friends and family and politics wouldn’t be around, and where the Badlands and open country could maybe concoct an elixir to clear the head of a man crushed by loss.  It would be two years before he returned to Manhattan.

Recommended Reading: The Big Burn

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There are some who might think I’ve spent way too much time writing about Alexander Hamilton.  Pick a different Founder, you say.  My response is that I will…when I do more learning about them.  Or maybe you don’t much like our First Treasury Secretary, believing him to be the first man to really monkey with the Constitution.  I would point you to the Federalist and argue that, while Hamilton made moves and created financial structures that were controversial in his time, no one better understood the constructs of the Constitution and the limits it placed on the branches of government.

So there!!

Still not convinced?

Oh well, that’s what makes history so intriguing.  Looking back, studying people and events, attempting to put some context around them, and coming to conclusions.  And sometimes, the conclusions we come to are different.

But today is a good day for those of you who are not fans of Alexander Hamilton.  Because even though his influence is felt today here (and all over the world), you can take solace in the fact that he was no longer doing anything under the auspices of the United States Government.  January 31, 1795 was the end of his tenure.

In December of the previous year, a worn out (and somewhat dejected) Alexander Hamilton had told President Washington that he was leaving office.  The reasons were many.  Exhaustion played a role, both in his own life and that of his wife, Eliza.  Then there was the job itself.  Almost since the inception of the Department, Hamilton had battled naysayers.  Members of Congress had railed against him.  They dug through financial dealings line by line, looking for the smoking gun to throw him from office.

The country’s first Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson, had waged a one-man war against Hamilton.  He had hounded the President about him, strategized with James Madison to discredit him, and partially funded a newspaper to sling mud at him.  And after more than three years of trying, he simply resigned his office in frustration.  We know that Alexander Hamilton was no saint, but in his dealings from the Secretary’s office, there was nothing but honesty, integrity, and sound judgement.

So while sainthood eluded him, his homecoming to New York in February probably felt heaven-sent.  He was declared the patron saint of prosperity.  He was given a lavish party that overflowed with praise as much as food and drink.  The former Secretary received nine cheers that evening (President Washington and Vice President Adams received three each).  There was much tongue-wagging and speculation about his future.  George Clinton, New York’s governor, had just announced he wasn’t running for reelection, and scuttlebutt said the job was Hamilton’s for the taking.  There were even whispers of higher aspirations…some said he would be the second President of the United States.

But Hamilton’s needs were more practical.  He needed money.  For those who accused Hamilton of skimming money from the Treasury, his heavy debt proved otherwise.  Hamilton (like most men who served their country back then) made a meager salary, just $3,500 a year, far less than what he and his large family needed.  He had set aside his law practice (which probably would have made him 10 times his Secretary’s salary) to serve, and paid a large financial price for it.  He had worked tirelessly to clean up the country’s debt, and it was time to do the same for his own.

Alexander Hamilton was ready for private life and private practice, and he would begin on February 1st.  But make no mistake, he would never be far from the public eye and its scrutiny.

Recommended Reading: Alexander Hamilton

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As I type this morning, folks in New York City are preparing for the annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  And if it’s anything like previous spectacles, there will be floats and bands, convertibles with people waving to the crowds, and probably a celebrity or two.  It’s a big deal.  But Macy’s hasn’t been around forever.  Neither has Thanksgiving, for that matter.  And if you had been in New York City 227 years ago, it would have looked nothing like it will this morning on TV.

But there was a parade…of sorts.

The end of the American Revolution and American victory meant that the remaining British soldiers needed to get out of town.  And New York was one of the last major towns where pro-British sentiments were strong.  But things were changing.  As spring warmed to summer in 1783, those who considered themselves loyal to the British Crown began leaving.  Government personnel, businessmen, and families all headed to Canada or back across the Atlantic.  The loss of businesses was particularly hurtful, as lots of money and jobs were removed from New York’s economy.  By the thousands they pulled up stakes and left.

And what’s more, since the British military had taken control in 1776, New York had been under martial law and had been left in a terrible state of disrepair.  Much of the damage done by the fire in September of that year had never been cleaned up.  Fences and trees had been chopped up for firewood.  The skeletal remains of homes and businesses testified to a much better past, while the cattle roaming the streets and piles of garbage were the reality of the present.  Looking at the harbor, one visitor (probably holding his nose) said, “Noisome vapors arise from the mud left in the docks and slips at low water, and unwholesome smells are occasioned by such a number of people being crowded together in so small a compass, almost like herrings in a barrel, most of them very dirty and not a small number sick of some disease.”  It had become a shantytown.

But on November 25, 1783, there was a parade…a military parade.  Evacuation Day it was called.  The day the last of the British soldiers left town, and new ownership arrived.  The incoming group was led by General Henry Knox, whose first act was to raise the American flag on a brand new flag pole (British soldiers had taken down their flag and greased the pole on their way out).  He was followed by General Washington and Governor George Clinton and their guard.

The remaining citizens of New York were ecstatic.  Seven long years under the thumb of the British was more than long enough, and the day was one of celebration.  And now, the last British outpost was under the flag of freedom.  America was truly independent.  Ron Chernow summarizes by writing, “America had been purged of the last vestiges of British rule.  It had been a long and grueling experience – the eight years of fighting counted as the country’s longest conflict until Vietnam – and the cost had been exceedingly steep in blood and treasure.”  Indeed, it has been estimated that upwards of 25,000 soldiers had been killed in the Revolution.  This amounted to about 1% of the nation’s population, a ratio only surpassed by the Civil War.

Macy’s or no, a parade was most appropriate.

Have a wonderful, and safe, Thanksgiving.

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“The mistakes of the father are often visited upon the son.”

“The apple doesn’t far very far from the tree.”

“Like father, like son.”

These are phrases that you and I have probably said hundreds of times.  We watch children grow up and, whether they belong to us or not, we often notice that the path they follow in some ways resembles that of their parents.  And sometimes that’s good.  Some parents work really hard to set an excellent example for their children, and the kids pick up that example and run with it.  Of course, sometimes the opposite is true, and we watch a cycle of anguish and heartache begin to form.  And then we’ll shake our heads, turn back toward our front door, and mutter one of those phrases under our breath.

But sometimes the time-space continuum gets all contorted.  What was “up” becomes “down” and things start to get all wobbly.  When that happens, it’s the behavior of the children that ends up manifesting itself in the parents.  Yikes!!

Parents are supposed to be experienced…mature…capable of clear, sound thinking and good judgement.  Usually…

Well, time and space conspired to create just such a flip-flop in the Hamilton family.  Alexander Hamilton’s family.  Philip Hamilton was oldest of the children and he had every indication of following in his father’s footsteps.  He was intelligent, good looking, and a bit of a rake (in a youthful way).  He was a fine orator and writer.  The future was promising for young Philip, so much so that his father called him the “eldest and brightest hope” for the family.

But like his father, Philip had a strong sense of honor and, even in his youth, would protect that honor at all costs.  July 4, 1801 was a day of celebration.  The country was a quarter century old, and there was celebration and pomp throughout the country.  There was merriment and feasting.  And, of course, there was speech-making.  In New York, the people gathered for the reading of the Declaration of Independence.  When it was finished, George Eacker got up and addressed the crowd.  This young lawyer was a strong supporter of the Republican movement and President Jefferson.  And as we know, Jefferson was no friend of Alexander Hamilton.

Eacker praised Jefferson for saving the Constitution and the Republic from the likes of Hamilton, blaming Hamilton for the XYZ Affair and, once again, accusing Hamilton of favoring a return to monarchy.  Of course, the speech was published in the newspaper.  And Philip Hamilton read the papers.

Fast-forward to November when, by chance, young Hamilton ran into George Eacker at the Park Theater.  The encounter was heated, with strong words and loud voices that created a disturbance for others trying to watch a play.  Eacker muttered that Philip (and the man with him) were “rascals”.  Today, the word “rascal” means very little.  Maybe we think of Alfalfa or Buckwheat in black and white, but that’s about it.  In 1800, however, the word was loaded.  Calling someone a rascal was the codeword to a duel…and that’s exactly what happened.

Two days later, on November 22, Philip Hamilton and George Eacker exchanged gunfire.  Hamilton had already determined to let Eacker pull first before wasting his own shot in the air.  Unfortunately, Eacker did not throw his shot, which ripped through the former Treasury Secretary’s oldest son and dropped him to the ground.  Taken immediately to the doctor, Philip was soon joined by his father and mother, who was pregnant with their eighth child.

At 5:00am on November 23, 1801, Philip Hamilton died from his injuries, leaving grief-stricken parents, brothers, and sisters.  Eliza’s baby, born in June of the following year, would be named Philip in honor of the lost son.

And in a striking coincidence, the father did not learn from the mistake of the son.  As we well know, Alexander Hamilton would meet his end in exactly the same fashion:  a duel in which he had decided to spare his opponent…one Aaron Burr.

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From beginning to end, the Federal Convention in Philadelphia had its share of detractors.  Some of them, like Rhode Island, were against even the formation of a convention.  The small state would send no delegates and, of the 13 Colonies, would be the very last to ratify the document that came from the three-month gathering.

Others became disenchanted after spending a little time in Independence Hall and getting a feel for how the “political winds” were blowing.  For numerous delegates, the Articles of Confederation were adequate, or maybe just needed some tweaking.  Furthermore, the Congress had allowed the meeting with the proviso that its sole purpose was to revise the Articles.

So when Edmund Randolph took the dais on May 29th and proposed what was essentially a clean break from the Articles, not a few delegates became clear opponents.  We’ve talked about Luther Martin and his ponderous diatribes against all aspects of the Convention.  He and fellow Marylander John Mercer would end up leaving the Convention as a show of protest to the proceedings.

There was Gunning Bedford, whose paranoia over large-state dominance led to his thinly-veiled threat that small states might resort to foreign governments to assist them.  This kind of talk was a direct assault on the very purpose of the Convention.  In fact, it was an attack on the Articles of Confederation already in place.  It was close to talking treason.  But such were the strong feelings.  As we have said before, change in the 18th century (often referred to as “innovation”) was charged with negative connotations.

New York’s delegation was deeply split on the Convention.  On the one side was Alexander Hamilton.  For years he had been saying that the Articles of Confederation were weak.  They were adequate for an American Revolution, but for the future, they simply didn’t cut it.  Numerous editorials and newspaper articles, authored by his pen, sought to build support for revision.  And while he might not have been preeminent at the Convention, no delegate present could say he had done more to push for the Convention than Hamilton.  On the other side were Robert Yates and John Lansing, Jr.  These two men, related by marriage, were close associates with George Clinton, New York’s governor.  Clinton’s strong opposition to changing the status-quo was passed on to his subordinates.

And by July, the divide in the New York delegation had reached the breaking point.  Hamilton, much chagrined for his proposals in June (which we’ve mentioned but will cover in greater detail down the line), had left the Convention to return to his law practice (but don’t worry, he would come back to Philadelphia and ultimately sign the Constitution).  But Yates and Lansing simply could not come to ideological terms with the road the Convention was taking, and both walked out in protest, the first delegates to do so.

The problem comes with establishing a firm date for their departures.  Catherine Bowen lists the date as July 10, 1787.  Ron Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton lists July 6th.  Ralph Ketchum, in his biography of James Madison, doesn’t actually list a date, but the text lends itself to a “second week of July” timeframe.  Various sources on the Internet list July 5th, 6th, and 10th.  I don’t find a solid consensus.  But because I saw as many references to the 10th as any other date, I’m going with that.

And truthfully, in this particular case, I’m willing to let the date remain in limbo a bit, simply because 1) the 10th is as likely to be correct as any other date, and 2) the main idea is to convey that opposition was strong enough to cause delegates to leave.  Yates and Lansing were the first…they would not be the last.

Recommended Reading: Miracle at Philadelphia

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On February 18, 1776, a young Alexander Hamilton sent a letter to the Royal Danish-American Gazette that he was joining the military.  Big news?  I’m not sure it was at the time and, in the subsequent 235 years, millions of men and women have made the same honorable decision.

Hamilton, having arrived in the Colonies less than four years before, was now a student, a writer, and a budding revolutionist.  He was entrenched at King’s College and, as a young man of just 19 (or so, depending on his exact date of birth), had already studied enough to receive a bachelor’s degree and begin advanced law studies.  He was also an avid writer, publishing a series of articles (anonymously) called “The Monitor” in the New-York Tribune from November of 1775 to early February 1776, as the Colonies were by now in a declared (by the Crown) state of rebellion, and full-out war loomed.

So his decision may have come as a surprise to some, but Hamilton was fascinated with the order of the military, its command structure, the drills, and the precision of it all…even though he saw much more of those things in the British Redcoat formations than in the Colonial militias.  In fact, he was already serving in a volunteer militia company.  And when New York’s Provincial Congress announced the formation of an artillery company to defend New York, Hamilton jumped at the chance to join.

In his letter, which he did not sign, he wrote, “It is uncertain whether it may ever be in my power to send you another line…I am going into the army and perhaps ere long may be destined to seal with my blood the sentiments defended by my pen.  Be it so, if heaven decree it.  I was born to die and my reason and conscience tell me it is impossible to die in a better or more important cause.”

And on March 14, 1776, Hamilton was assigned to lead the artillery company with the rank of Captain.  The (good) fallout from this event is extensive.  Alexander Hamilton trained his men well, he dressed them well (partly at his own expense), and he worked them into a cohesive unit that served with distinction as open conflict with the British heated up.

His conduct got him noticed by General George Washington, who eventually added the young Captain to his staff (with a new rank of Lieutenant Colonel).  And of course, the rest is history, as the two would go on to form one of the strongest tandems in the Revolution and in the formation of a young America.

And it all began with Hamilton’s good work as the “Captain of a Company of Artillery.”

Recommended Reading: Alexander Hamilton

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