Balloon Snagging on Amsterdam Avenue

By Doug Garr

This story really begins in 2001 when Ira Baseman, a transplanted Philadelphian – he has been living on the Upper West Side for around three years – read an article by Ian Frazier in “Mother Jones.” The opening sentence was “Let us turn, for a moment, to the problem of plastic bags stuck in trees.”

Baseman, a tree hugger at heart, said that the article has stayed with him for this entire century. He has since been obsessed with the “problem.” (Frazier’s interest can also be called an obsession; three years after that piece was published he followed it with an update in “The New Yorker.”) According to Frazier, Bette Midler also apparently shares her disdain for plastic stuck in trees, and she has sponsored a cleanup crew in New York to deal with this as well as other urban environmental issues.

Baseman lives on West 76th Street, and his one-bedroom apartment features a nice fourth-floor view of Amsterdam Avenue. About a week ago, he noticed three Mylar helium balloons in a branch high in a tree in front of the Levain Bakery. They read “Happy Birthday” and “Three” and “Nine.” The balloons not only spoiled his view but irritated him in a way that distracted him from work. (His desk is positioned by the window.)

After a few days, when the balloons were still draped lifelessly across the street, Baseman set out to perform his civic duty, joining an apparently long list of tree saviors. Who knew “bag snagging” was a special-interest group?

First, he dialed 311; no help. Undaunted and knowing that our city has a long list of agencies to cope with all sorts of urgencies, he called the Park Service, then the New York Restoration Project, and even a local balloon company. Nobody he spoke with knew what to do.

“I even looked at the prospect of renting a bucket truck,” Baseman said. “I gave some thought to hiring a handyman or an arborist.” And then he finally “took matters into my own hands.” He went on Amazon and found a 24-foot extension pole that cost $50. It arrived on Friday. The following morning, he duct-taped a piece of wood and the hook of a coat hanger on the end.

“I’m not going home without a victory,” he declared, as he surveyed the situation. At around 11 o’clock he began attempting to snag the balloons. Several attempts were unsuccessful. The balloon remnants were surprisingly resistant, embedded more snugly than he expected. A passerby who looked like he worked out a lot stopped and said, “I have long arms, let me give it a shot.” After multiple tries, he, too, gave up. Baseman thanked him for his service, and went at it again. Still, no luck. Finally, he decided to go back to his apartment and find a stronger hanger and hook.

While he was upstairs, I tried to raise the pole myself. It was fairly heavy and bent like a fishing rod. Another passerby who had been watching this ordeal came over, looked up and said, “You guys look tired.” It took him only four or five attempts to snag the balloons and wrestle them to the ground.

At the restaurant next to Levain, cheers and applause erupted from the sidewalk cafe where people were brunching. Baseman said to the balloon wrangler, “Let me buy you lunch.”

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