if you are coming to the city for the first time. It comes with maps and space to record your journey. Best of all, it requires no batteries AND it fits in your pocket.
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I don’t give a tinker’s dam who you are, if you come to New York City and fail to avail yourself of the best value in falafel sandwich the world has ever known, I will show my disapproval by spanking the loved one of your choice with a weapon from the list below.*
Yatagan, a sweatbox on MacDougal Street just off Bleeker Street, is THE $2 falafel place. It was $2 in 1982 and it is still $2. The nearest competitor, just up MacDougal toward Washington Square, weighs in at $2.50. Anywhere else in town, you are gonna pay $3.50 to $5.
Yatagan, which as near as I can tell never closes, also offers a full compliment of other Greeky fare … gyros, baba ganoush, hummus, etc.
If you’re still not sold, how about this: Bill Cosby is also a fan (his picture hangs on the wall if you dare to go into the “dining area”, five tables at the back of the joint heated to a steady grease-smeared 100 degrees year around).
Or, this: You get to watch sweaty little men (seriously, they are really short) peel slices of dripping mushmeat off a rotating spit.
Or this: You will be connecting to a long and steady history of beats, bohemians, Bob Dylanites and beggars who have marched through on their way to oblivion.
Personally, it’s the fried chickpea sandwiches that keep me coming back.
*Spanking implements list: a retro slogan t-shirt striped off the back of a Williamsburg hipster, a dirty 99-cent store fork, a sliderule, four standard playing cards taped together, a partially inflated bicycle innertube, a peanut-butter filled latex glove, or Wally (This one requires an appointment. He’s a busy guy.).
Friday, September 19, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Everyone’s a copy editor
Union Square hosts an open market several times a week. Fresh breads, cheeses, produce and meats are brought in from area farms and displayed in stalls from 14th Street to 17th Street along the west side of the park. For free things to do in the city, you can’t do much better than walk the market and enjoy the vibe coming off all that wholesome goodness.
Today, I did just that.
One of the stalls was selling butchered hog from a farm in upstate New York. There was a chalkboard sign beside fat slabs of bacon that read:
Bacon
Is
Back
A woman told the young, bearded man working the stall, “There should be an exclamation point on that sign.”
The young man looked up.
“The excitement is implied.”
Today, I did just that.
One of the stalls was selling butchered hog from a farm in upstate New York. There was a chalkboard sign beside fat slabs of bacon that read:
Bacon
Is
Back
A woman told the young, bearded man working the stall, “There should be an exclamation point on that sign.”
The young man looked up.
“The excitement is implied.”
And they said it’s a dog eat dog world …
Apparently I live in a tough neighborhood. I had no idea. I mean, I knew it was economically depressed and I knew loitering on street corners and stoops was the way the locals spent their evenings. I knew there were young, underemployed pseudothugs roaming the area. I even knew that once upon a time this was a war zone. But, that was long ago and I’m a “‘let-bygones-be-bygones’ is my motto”, fellow, so I was caught unaware.
It was high noon as I walked to the more distant of my three subway options, past the single-family homes and bodegas. The cutest little kitten, white with black markings, poked its head out of a doorway. I looked at it and smiled, tempted to pet it – even I am not entirely immune to the charms of kittens – but, instead, I turned my attention back to the street where it belongs. I attribute my years of wandering in good, bad and neutral areas of this world without incident to the fact that I try to keep my wits about me at all times. This time I strayed for a few seconds and it almost cost me.
I hadn’t taken three steps when my Spidey senses went on four-bells, fully engaged alert. Someone was behind me, moving fast and up to no good. My adrenalin surged. To face the threat, I spun 270 degrees on the ball of my left foot. When I planted my right foot, I dropped my right shoulder and raised my arms in a defensive posture.
The damned kitten was in the air -- paws wide, claws out, teeth exposed, ears back -- right where my right ankle had been. It had blood in its eyes and my flesh in its sights.
I shudder to think where I’d be had my survival instincts failed. … Cat scratch fever, maybe … but it ended well enough. Sure, I left a little of my cool on the sidewalk, but I learned I live in a tough neighborhood.
It was high noon as I walked to the more distant of my three subway options, past the single-family homes and bodegas. The cutest little kitten, white with black markings, poked its head out of a doorway. I looked at it and smiled, tempted to pet it – even I am not entirely immune to the charms of kittens – but, instead, I turned my attention back to the street where it belongs. I attribute my years of wandering in good, bad and neutral areas of this world without incident to the fact that I try to keep my wits about me at all times. This time I strayed for a few seconds and it almost cost me.
I hadn’t taken three steps when my Spidey senses went on four-bells, fully engaged alert. Someone was behind me, moving fast and up to no good. My adrenalin surged. To face the threat, I spun 270 degrees on the ball of my left foot. When I planted my right foot, I dropped my right shoulder and raised my arms in a defensive posture.
The damned kitten was in the air -- paws wide, claws out, teeth exposed, ears back -- right where my right ankle had been. It had blood in its eyes and my flesh in its sights.
I shudder to think where I’d be had my survival instincts failed. … Cat scratch fever, maybe … but it ended well enough. Sure, I left a little of my cool on the sidewalk, but I learned I live in a tough neighborhood.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tying the tie
Starting from the top and working down, the tie in this true story is setup. Working up from the ground, it is punchline. Worked in somewhere in the middle, allegory.
I like allegory, so …
I was on the subway, waiting for a train home after an evening of light drinking in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when a commotion started down the platform.
Subway platforms, whilst being the most impersonal of places, tend to be the most likely places for conversation. We are thrust together with nothing (or little) in common except for the events right in front of us. We have, probably for the only time, a shared base of conversation regardless of our race, class, education or temperament.
“Didja see that guy piss all over the floor?”
“Si!”
“What the fuck, huh? Reminds me of the time …”
Guys pissing and kids being cute are events that bind us in our universal humanity. God bless their full-bladdered, cute-being hearts. We owe them.
The commotion in this true story wasn’t about urine or cute, though. It was about a tie. Specifically a short, fat, canary yellow tie on a short, fat black man wearing an untucked canary yellow shirt, baggie, fat-man shorts, candy-cane socks and rainbow sneakers.
This specific man and this specific tie were having a hard time coming to terms. The damn thing wouldn’t tie and he was looking for help, but he wasn’t listening to it.
His first Samaritan was a ragged, old Hispanic fellow accessorized in glasses ripped off Elton John’s face. He tried, but Fat Man failed to grasp the “around and between” steps integral to tie tying. Fat Man was convinced “around and over” was correct.
Sorry, but if you have no “between”, you have no knot.
He asked me if I could help. I can tie a tie, a fact I avoided disclosing because I have a firm policy against assuming the role of Patron Saint of Lost Causes”.
“Sorry, man. If I could tie a tie I’d be a whole lot farther along in life.
Fat Man got angry … with the first Samaritan for being stupid about ties.
He said, “You’re stupid about ties. You don’t know shit.”
“I tole you, you have to go between. You don’t listen.
“You don’t have to know how to tie a tie to be a man,” Fat Man said to no one in particular.
“I tole you how to do it!”
“You didn’t tell me shit.”
The Samaritan turned his back to Fat Man, and said in low tones, “I tole you.”
A second Samaritan, a heavy set, grandmotherly looking Hispanic woman, joined the commotion by taking the tie from Fat Man and wrapping it around her own neck. In a blur of action, she’d tied the tie, slipped it over her head, dropped it around Fat Man’s neck and cinched it tight.
Fat Man looked down at his tie and showed it to the first Samaritan with pride. “That’s how you tie a tie, stupid.”
“I tole you how.”
“You told me ‘over’.”
“I tole you between.”
Ah, human bonding.
I like allegory, so …
I was on the subway, waiting for a train home after an evening of light drinking in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when a commotion started down the platform.
Subway platforms, whilst being the most impersonal of places, tend to be the most likely places for conversation. We are thrust together with nothing (or little) in common except for the events right in front of us. We have, probably for the only time, a shared base of conversation regardless of our race, class, education or temperament.
“Didja see that guy piss all over the floor?”
“Si!”
“What the fuck, huh? Reminds me of the time …”
Guys pissing and kids being cute are events that bind us in our universal humanity. God bless their full-bladdered, cute-being hearts. We owe them.
The commotion in this true story wasn’t about urine or cute, though. It was about a tie. Specifically a short, fat, canary yellow tie on a short, fat black man wearing an untucked canary yellow shirt, baggie, fat-man shorts, candy-cane socks and rainbow sneakers.
This specific man and this specific tie were having a hard time coming to terms. The damn thing wouldn’t tie and he was looking for help, but he wasn’t listening to it.
His first Samaritan was a ragged, old Hispanic fellow accessorized in glasses ripped off Elton John’s face. He tried, but Fat Man failed to grasp the “around and between” steps integral to tie tying. Fat Man was convinced “around and over” was correct.
Sorry, but if you have no “between”, you have no knot.
He asked me if I could help. I can tie a tie, a fact I avoided disclosing because I have a firm policy against assuming the role of Patron Saint of Lost Causes”.
“Sorry, man. If I could tie a tie I’d be a whole lot farther along in life.
Fat Man got angry … with the first Samaritan for being stupid about ties.
He said, “You’re stupid about ties. You don’t know shit.”
“I tole you, you have to go between. You don’t listen.
“You don’t have to know how to tie a tie to be a man,” Fat Man said to no one in particular.
“I tole you how to do it!”
“You didn’t tell me shit.”
The Samaritan turned his back to Fat Man, and said in low tones, “I tole you.”
A second Samaritan, a heavy set, grandmotherly looking Hispanic woman, joined the commotion by taking the tie from Fat Man and wrapping it around her own neck. In a blur of action, she’d tied the tie, slipped it over her head, dropped it around Fat Man’s neck and cinched it tight.
Fat Man looked down at his tie and showed it to the first Samaritan with pride. “That’s how you tie a tie, stupid.”
“I tole you how.”
“You told me ‘over’.”
“I tole you between.”
Ah, human bonding.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Going back to my first NYC home
On Saturday, a trip to Governor’s Island was free. Last time I lived in the city, it cost me 4 years of my life in blue coveralls and a lot of haircuts.
Some things just get better with time.
To be fair though, I have fond memories of Governor’s Island back in the day. The island got me to New York in the first place, courtesy of your tax dollars. … OK, your parents’ tax dollars. (Please give them my thanks next time you call them. Tell them I appreciate the allowance back then. Sure, I guarded their coast occasionally against drugs and illegal aliens and I was always ready to brave The Perfect Storm to save a life or two, but mostly I drank and wandered around on the government’s dime.)
Anyway, Governor’s Island was a U.S. Coast Guard base until the 21st century. It would have made a great “Eat the rich” hunting preserve. Seven minutes to Wall Street, nothing but waterfront views … the ultimate gated community for titans of capitalism.
But something crazy happened. Prime real estate was turned over to the people, wrapped up in the arms of the New York City parks department – and what a lovely embrace it is. There are concerts, bike paths, a free ferry ride, art installations, green spaces, the smell of salt air and some great views. All free.
That’s the kind of thing I dreamed of when I wandered through my service to God and country with a subscription to “The Socialist Worker” delivered to the cutter I was stationed on. And now it is covered in reality.
Some things just get better.
The park is open Fridays, Saturdays and Sunday. The ferry runs every 30 minutes when the season is high. It drops to hourly at other times. You can’t miss the terminal either. From anywhere on the island, keep working your way downtown. When you run out of land, there will be a big green iron structure. That’s it.
Steve, a security guy on the island, said there are already over 150 special events planned for 2009 and there is a push to get keep the park open seven days a week and much later into the night. Last ferry off the island now is 7 p.m.
“You think this is nice,” Steve said. “Fughedaboutit! It’s gonna be great.”
(He said “fughedaboutit.” It’s not just TV. People really do talk that way in these parts. Frankly, it’s annoying; like listening to dogs bark at each other. But Steve was a good guy. He’s proud of his park, and I’m happy he’s keeping such a good eye on my old home.)
Some things just get better with time.
To be fair though, I have fond memories of Governor’s Island back in the day. The island got me to New York in the first place, courtesy of your tax dollars. … OK, your parents’ tax dollars. (Please give them my thanks next time you call them. Tell them I appreciate the allowance back then. Sure, I guarded their coast occasionally against drugs and illegal aliens and I was always ready to brave The Perfect Storm to save a life or two, but mostly I drank and wandered around on the government’s dime.)Anyway, Governor’s Island was a U.S. Coast Guard base until the 21st century. It would have made a great “Eat the rich” hunting preserve. Seven minutes to Wall Street, nothing but waterfront views … the ultimate gated community for titans of capitalism.
But something crazy happened. Prime real estate was turned over to the people, wrapped up in the arms of the New York City parks department – and what a lovely embrace it is. There are concerts, bike paths, a free ferry ride, art installations, green spaces, the smell of salt air and some great views. All free.
That’s the kind of thing I dreamed of when I wandered through my service to God and country with a subscription to “The Socialist Worker” delivered to the cutter I was stationed on. And now it is covered in reality.
Some things just get better.
The park is open Fridays, Saturdays and Sunday. The ferry runs every 30 minutes when the season is high. It drops to hourly at other times. You can’t miss the terminal either. From anywhere on the island, keep working your way downtown. When you run out of land, there will be a big green iron structure. That’s it.
Steve, a security guy on the island, said there are already over 150 special events planned for 2009 and there is a push to get keep the park open seven days a week and much later into the night. Last ferry off the island now is 7 p.m.
“You think this is nice,” Steve said. “Fughedaboutit! It’s gonna be great.”
(He said “fughedaboutit.” It’s not just TV. People really do talk that way in these parts. Frankly, it’s annoying; like listening to dogs bark at each other. But Steve was a good guy. He’s proud of his park, and I’m happy he’s keeping such a good eye on my old home.)
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