I don't do the "Spot-a-Celebrity Freakout"

"OMG! I just saw ..."

Whatever. They are just people, doing a thing to make a living. I don't want an autograph. I don't want an audience with them. I don't want anything from them, except for them to get outta my way*.

Usually.

There are a few of exceptions (in no particular order):

Winona Ryder (I confessed this years ago in a weekly newspaper column)
Hillary Swank (You read it hear first)
Kurt Vonnegut (he's dead, but I'd still love to bump into him on the street)
and
The Dali Lama (He's sooooo cute. Doncha just wanna take him home? OMG!)

Those are in no particular order.

In very particular order, there's just one celebrity on top of my "OMG!" list, light years from the crowd.

Janeane Garofalo. She's got it all. No shit. ALL.

OMG!

And guess who I saw in the Village yesterday!?!?!

OMG! Oh-My-BigGee-odd!

Janeane Garofalo -- stridin', talkin' gesturin' -- just like Janeane Garofalo. That sounds kinda ridiculous when typed out, but it isn't a given. Daryl Hannah, for example, required a double take. "Is that? Maybe? Yes."

Not Ms. Garofalo. Straight up, no doubt about it. In the flesh. Right there. Yessiree. Wow. OMG ...

The best thing about this casual brush with celebrity has to be that I didn't falter, trip, exclaim, get arrested, run into anything or even wobble. But I had a really good day.

Thanks, Ms. Garofalo.

And thanks Trader Joe's ... where I found a pretty decent $3 bottle of wine about 30 minutes later. Coincidence? I think not.





* Back in my first stay in New York City, I lived for a while off Union Square. I ran into Andy Warhol ... twice. Knocked him over. Come on! What the hell? Get outta my way, Andy. "I'm walkin' here!"

Here's a fun game called "Follow the ..."

It's harmless when you get beneath the creepy surface, but sometimes I play a game called "Follow the (insert occupation here)".

This sounds pretty easy. Pick a stockbroker. Follow the stockbroker. Game over.

But I like things to be more challenging so I modify the rules. I don't know what the person does when I start following. I just have a hunch.

"That guy's a college student."

"That woman works retail ... probably accessories."

"That guy's a dental hygienist."

Once I decide who that person is, I try to follow until I prove or disprove my assumption.

NOTE: The law sometimes uses the word "stalk" here, but I prefer to use "stalk" when the following lasts several days/weeks/months, which it never does, for the record. I wonder how many ADHD stalkers are out there anyway. Very few, I'm thinking.

I lose a whole lot more often than I win, but it kills a couple of hours. Yesterday I was feeling a little blue, so to give myself a little pickmeup, I needed a big check mark in the win column.

I played "Follow the dancer."

Soooooo easy. For those of you playing the home game, here are few tips. Duck feet + super posture + neutral expression = Dancer.

Two blocks after I picked up the target, she neutrally duck footed erectly through the stage door at Radio City Music Hall.

And the winner is ... ? ME! I did a victory lap and then had some Korean food from a street vendor to dampen the excitement a little. Worked like a charm.

Race in New York City

This is arguably the most global city in the world, with more measurable ethnic groups and countries represented. That should be enough to deflate the idea of "stranger" and "other". But race is always at the very tip of the frontal lobe, unspoken, but seemingly ready when the need arises.

Today, for example, I was walking across the street at Allen and Stanton. It was a fine morning. The sun was shining, but there was a cool breeze. I think I was even whistling. I had the light. I was in the crosswalk, and a man in a maroon minivan decided it was his road. I stepped back and knocked on his rear window as he went past.

"What the hell, man! I've got the light."

Apparently, his rear window was an extension of his personal space. (Understandable. We all know a man's minivan is his castle). He slammed on the brakes, came to a stop across two lanes of Allen Street and got out of the car.

"Why are you talking to me like I'm your son?" he shouted as he walked to the median where I was standing. He was cranky. And it was a shame. It was too nice a day to have father issues.

"I was talking to you like some son of a bitch who tried to run over me in the crosswalk."

"I don't give a fuck! I'll kill your ass if I want!"

At this point, a thought bubble appeared over my head. "Oh oh, not rational." (I think I even did the confused head tilt thing.)

"Qua?"

I'm quick that way. A guy abandons his vehicle in the middle of the street, during morning rush hour, after trying to run another fellow over because the other fellow somehow sparked a deep-seated father thing. That's all reasonable. Screaming "I don't give a fuck! I'll kill your ass if I want!" after having his thoughtless transgression of traffic rules pointed out? That's crazy.

Well, now we have a situation. He's sputtering something that sounds to me like ... "@&$#&@!", in heavily accented "fucking nutz" but fluent English.

"Hey! Hey! HEY!" I shouted. He stopped his fucking nutzing for a second, so I pointed behind him and said, "Your car is in traffic. Someone might get hurt."

He turned around, got back in the minivan and drove off, but before he did he shouted, "White fagot!"

White as charged, your honor. As for the fagot thing, well ... when I got up this morning I knew the full strand of pearls was going to be a little dressy for daywear, but I thought ... "what the hay? Be bold, girlfriend."

P.S. If you are reading this, Mr. Maroon Minivan Driver. It isn't always about race. Sometimes it's because you suck ... in a color-blind way.

like Earth friendly, only not. ...

Zen Burger, 465 Lexington Avenue, which pitches itself as Earth friendly with 100% meat-free burgers, will top that veggie burger with bacon for 79 cents.

"Any problem with that? Huh? Do ya, punk?"

Kinda.

Monday morning in Madison Square Park

Good Monday morning from Madison Square Park. Actually, I'm just outside the park -- which as an FYI is blocks from Madison Square Garden -- sitting in the median between Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Its a lovely little spot, with cafe tables, decent chairs, umbrellas and FREE wireless access.

The Flatiron building is 25 yards in front of me (facing Downtown). The Empire State Building is several block uptown. Traffic is rolling on all four sides. I may have the best seat in the house for a Monday morning city rise-and-shine

The air is cool,but not cold, so I don't know what that guy just now was thinking, walking his min pin with a spiked harness, red sweater and matching booties. Rediculous, uncomfortable for the animal and unnecessary. That kinda describes the 4-inch red heels, black bubble skirt and sweater vest I saw walk past a while ago. I don't know what she did for a living, but it made me a little nervous and I was just spying.

Apparently the thing to do at Madison Square Park is stand holding a map of the city while the person you are with tries to get a picture of you (where you are recognizable as you and not some random stranger) and the entire Flatiron building. There seem to be several ways to approach this.

One is to stand close to the street while your friend gets on her belly and shoots up your nose. A modification on this is to have your friend back off about 30 feet and then get on her belly and shoot so you are shown as a short, somewhat garishly colored light pole.

Another is to stand on one of the rock slabs cut from "Stonehenge, the Musical" on Broadway and moved to the Fifth Avenue side. This seems to work better, but you have to climb from slab to slab while your partner decides which up-the-nose shot is going to look best in the vacation slideshow on Flickr.

A tree? Really? In Brooklyn? No way?

I don’t understand things sometimes. (BIG UNDERSTATEMENT) For example, Betty Smith, author of “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”, made the statement like it was a shock.

“Holy shit! A tree grows in Brooklyn!”

Fact is, there are trees all over Brooklyn. I’m constantly bumping into them. Hell, I have one right outside my window, blocking my view.

Just one more myth busted.

Let’s talk Yataganese

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.).

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.”

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.

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.

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.)

Escape from (to/both?) New Jersey

Took a little jaunt on New Jersey Transit to visit friends in Maplewood on Thursday. Nice visit in a cute little town 35 minutes from Penn Station. I can see this being a “get away from the city for some rest and relaxation – for about three hours” destination.

Maplewood Village, a 20-second walk from the train station, has about half a dozen restaurants from cafes to sushi, a bar and several small shops. All of them are CUTE.

On the other side of the tracks is a lovely park with a stream running through it.

How: “Direct or express to Dover” … get your round trip ticket at Penn Station because you don’t want to rely on the ticket agent in Maplewood. Total round-trip cost: $9.75. Check the schedule when you get there and set yourself an alarm because the train back to the city only stops about once an hour.

This is a town that works until you are ready to go. Once you’ve seen everything and had a bite to eat, it is time to go. You don’t want to be milling around the open-air station waiting on the next ride out. The schedule does seem firm though, so don’t expect you can tarry.

Going Goth, FIT style

The Fashion Institute of Technology has three exhibits running right now. I happened to be in the area and decided to wander over and take a peek. What the heck? It was free.

There were dresses, dresses and pics. In The Museum at FIT’s main gallery, “Arbiters of Style: Women at the Forefront of Fashion” was the fashion of the day (actually the exhibit runs until Nov. 8). There were bunches of dresses from the 1700s to the present, and I didn’t see the point to any of it. Once, I cross the sarong threshold, I’m pretty much lost to fashion. Pants and shirts keep cops away so I wear them. It goes no farther, for me.

I did get a chance, however, to hear the following exchange between two tiny old women looking at a Zandra Rhodes dress (dropped that name like a pro, eh?) from 1969:

OW1: That is goooorgeous!
OW2: Chiffon.
OW1: What do you wear under it?
OW2: Nothing.
OW1: If you wear underwear, you’ll ruin the line.
OW2: Pasties.
OW1: Nothing but pasties.

That image just about ruined beauty, forever.

Fortunately, I wandered downstairs to the “Gothic: Dark Glamour” exhibit. It forced me to look deep into my bruised soul and realize … I like Goth as a fashion choice if the skulls motif is buried in a crypt like the cold, mortal flesh of my only love.

Something about corsets, I think. And leather. … The dark lust of my vegetarian soul is a 23-year-old, whip-thin junkie chick in leather, apparently. And lace gloves. What can I do? It spoke to me in a breathy, hot and pained wordless song full of major chords.

It cut me.

“Gothic” runs through Feb. 21, if you want to see the objects of my latest desire.

And then there were the photographs. …

The FIT is distinctly unattractive, a gulag on 7th Avenue at 27th Street, hewn from gray concrete by slaves of fashion, worked to exhaustion … maybe even death. Across the courtyard – in which rebel fashionistas are executed, stiff-spined and prideful, at dawn -- is an administrative building that houses, for the time being, a photographic project of Coney Island shot by students in the last year.

True art, I think, is the ability to capture the universal in a distinctly arresting way. It seems a crime, then, to turn a bunch of students loose on the most pedestrian of topics and expect them to produce anything remotely interesting. Criminal, but that’s what happened.

The photos weren’t bad … in fact, they could be called good and certainly better than I could produce. A woman in traditional Muslim dress walking barefoot on the beach with the madness of the masses a blur in the background was particularly interesting. But, they weren’t worth a specific trip to FIT. The troika of exhibits wasn’t, but if you happen to be in the area and drop in, you could do a lot worse.

Geometry matters, or it should

I strolled past Father Demo Square on Bleeker Street and Sixth Avenue yesterday and all of the sudden it hit me like a belly full of bad fish.

Father Demo Square is a triangle.

Housing Works … and so does this coffee shop

With apologies to those who are about to hear the sounds of music, these are a few of my favorite things:

a) drinking coffee
b) sitting around in air conditioning
c) looking at used books
and
d) helping people – so long as it doesn’t inconvenience me to do so

Correspondingly, then, Housing Works Bookstore Café has been one of my favorite places in the city since I stumbled upon it several years ago.

I feel like Mother Teresa – but taller … and with prettier feet – just for showing up. The catchy slogan almost says it all: “Fighting AIDS, one book at a time.”

NOTE: I said, almost, because condoms also help. Get yours today.

Housing Works, at 126 Crosby Street*, is run by volunteers and all the money, including the tips you leave, goes toward working with homeless AIDS patients.

Buy a $1.50 cup of coffee. Help an AIDS patient. Leave the change. Help an AIDS patient. Buy a used book. Help an AIDS patient. Get yourself a cookie. Help an AIDS patient.

They also sell wine and Pabst, so. ... Catch a buzz. Help an AIDS patient.

Word to the Mother. “Beatify that, Bitch.”

*Housing Works is at 126 Crosby Street. Get to Houston Street between Lafayette and Broadway. Find Crosby Street (Easy because it is the only street between Lafayette and Broadway. Head downtown about three storefronts and you are there.

Breakfast at Papaya Dog

In a city where a diner breakfast can set you back $6, Papaya Dog on 14th Street and 1st Avenue is a welcome find. If you get there while the banner is still flying on the storefront, you can avail yourself of one of the specials – either two eggs on a roll, or … and this was my find of the day … two eggs, a mound of potatoes and two pieces of toast (white or wheat, because Papaya Dog cares about your health) – for 99 cents.

Take the L to First Avenue, stick your head above ground and look around. It’s right on the corner. Service ain’t much, and the decor is, to be polite, sticky. But the eggs are cooked in your face and in something I really look for in a cheap breakfast, I didn’t puke once in the three hours after I ate.

Because I have an unlimited subway card, scooting to First Avenue for breakfast before starting my wandering is reasonable. In fact, I just turned downtown and went on walkabout in the East Village with calories to burn.

A little bit of Broadway about getting to Broadway

Took in a Broadway show Sunday night, and had a great time.

I know that’s what you are supposed to do at a Broadway show, but I usually just have an OK time. My fun center can be a little atrophied.

Part of it, I’m sure, is that I look for the wires and mirrors while the magician is performing. But part of it is that I like my theater a little less slick. If it flows too well, or, if you can tell the actors are doing a “job”, I’m unphased by the performance.

It’s like celebrating a great catch in a baseball game. Makes no sense to me. That’s the guy’s job. He gets compensated quite well for it. I may be pissed when he fails, but I’m not jumping around when he does his damn job. Just call me a member of management, I guess, but in my bitter little world, you get paid for doing your job. You don’t get points for it.

“(title of show)”, which is running at the Lyceum on 45th Street for awhile, is different. It has no right to be in the big leagues – small cast, no orchestra, no special effects -- but it is absolutely right for it to be there. I don’t laugh at comedies, but I did Sunday night. I don’t cry at drama, but I did … OK, I didn’t, but I could have, if it wasn’t a flaming comedy.

“(title of show)” is -- to flog the sports analogy a little harder -- as though a fan was called down to play the $1 million (insert brand of your choice here) homerun lottery and ended up with a contract to play out the rest of the season.

The actors – Jeff Bowen, Hunter Bell, Susan Blackwell, Heidi Blickenstaff and Larry Pressgrove (who didn’t get acting credits, but should have considering he had more stage time than anyone) -- managed to show wide-eyed “what the fuck? We’re on Broadway? Really?” fun, and the ability to knock the show out of the park.

Director Michael Berresse pulls a neat trick by rarely getting in the way. He deals with what appears to be a very light hand. The actors don’t trips over themselves, but no one looks directed either. He’s a respectable ballplayer (last baseball reference, I promise). He does his job without fanfare.

“(title of show)” is a Broadway musical about people creating a musical and getting it to Broadway. That’s stated, AND YET the book is accused of being too much Broadway geek and too little warm blood of American heartland. Idiots, of course it is heavy on theater-insider shtick. Screw it. The thing is fun.

Personally, I didn’t get a lot of the references. There was a lot of name dropping … I recognized Patti LuPone’s name (In most contests, one out of 10 sucks), but screw it. The thing is fun.

It is childlike and OH SO QUEER, but screw it. The thing is fun.

If “fuck fucking fuckidee fuck fuck” and “blow jobs” and drag-queen jokes and prancing and “didja get it, didja huh?” humor offend you, I’ve probably already offend you … sooooo … screw you. The thing is fun.

I promised to leave the baseball references alone, but I’m still free to make a medical reference. Here it is:

“(title of show)” could quite simply save your life. If you see it and can’t see the fun in it, you need some glee therapy stat. If you wait, you run the risk of getting all pruny inside.

Walking through Greenwich Village

Yesterday was a rainout, so I stayed in and did some must-do work, but today the highs are expected in the mid-70s, the sun is out and the air is scrubbed. It’s time for a walkabout.

This morning I decided the thing to do was wander across town from the Lower East Side to Tribeca then up Greenwich Street, into the West Village until I hit Bleeker Street. Then I wanted to go East to the end of Bleeker.

I got to Bleeker and Morton before I got to sidetracked – not easy when wandering is all about sidetracks. On Bleeker, between Morton and Leroy (a short block), there is a butcher shop, a cheese shop, a fish market and a bakery.

I grabbed a loaf of sourdough from Amy’s Bakery, meandered to Sixth Avenue and sat across Father Demo Park from a bad opera singer filling the air with trills and scales. People are free to follow suggestions from the mad squirrels in their heads here, apparently. “Don’t mind the pain you cause your neighbors, lady. Trill on!”

It was ok, though, because visions of E.F. Schumacher danced in my head.

Small really is beautiful, even in a big town.

The fall of Astroland

I’m not a huge fan of Coney Island. For one thing, it takes 40 minutes to get there on the yellow line. For another, I don’t eat hot dogs, not even Nathan’s Famous Hotdogs (gifted though they are with capital letters). Finally, it gives me the same sad stomach I get at casinos when I watch empty lives pass in front of insatiable slot machines.

But, Sunday was the last day of the last season of Astroland, a traveling carnival without the traveling, and I wanted to be there when it fell. Besides, it was a beautiful day for a trip to the beach.

I’m glad I went.

Beer at Ruby’s on the boardwalk. Kids diving off the pier into the green Atlantic as an international contingent crabbed and fished around them. A show by Circus Amok (more on them in a later post). A little time shirtless on a bench, face to Sol like an old-age pensioner or Russian expat. The flume rides and bumper cars and carnie tricks and skeeball arcades and sticky kids jacked up on sno cone syrup.

All OK.

Even the decay of “Shoot the Geek” -- an arcade game where a 20 spot buys you 75 shots with a paintball gun at a living, breathing human being just trying to make a living, while a professional asshole taunts you over the public address system -- seemed charming.

I was nostalgic for something that holds no memories for me. Astroland is falling before the developers’ bulldozer, and I wondered what the masses were going to do next summer without the relatively inexpensive escape of bad food, puke-inducing swirly rides and the outside chance of winning that special someone with a giant, stuffed piece of crap you won with ball-tossing, watergun-squirting, sledge-swinging skills you secretly always knew you had.

Where are the sheep to go? What are the shearers to do?

These are bigger questions for distant days. Sunday, it was all about grabbing that last gasp and riding that last Bobsled.

New York is the high-culture Mecca of the Americas (arguably, but you’d lose). Coney Island was all about wrangling the madness of the masses. Next summer, they will be released upon the city. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Hanna leaves me a present

My first Saturday night in the city in a very long time was cut short by a raging tropical washout called Hanna. Some people have all the luck and I wasn’t feeling like those people, but when I woke up Sunday morning early, it was like a grateful Hanna had left me a couple hundred bucks on my nightstand for my efforts the night before. (“Thanks, sailor. You be sure to remember me the next time you’re in port.”)

The sun was out. The smell was beaten back. The air was bright and cool.

It was a wandering kind of morning in my church. I decided to attend services in the East Village because it was, frankly, the closest pew and I had the itch, bad. … Real bad. (“Thanks again, sailor.”)

I could go on here about the feeling you get when you are in a place as it wakes up. I could continue the tawdry sex analogy about snuggling with a lover before the pressing needs of the day drive a wedge between you. I could …

But I won’t.

Instead, I’ll give you this snapshot.

I was walking on East 4th Street into the sun. As I passed a woman fussing with an infant in a stroller, she looked up at me and said in a thick Germanic accent, “Such beautiful a day. So many people missing it.”

I raised my hand to the crystal sky. “Amen, Sister, amen.”

I’ll be passing the collection plate now. Give what the Lord compels you to give.