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.
Posts
Back in the day, when the backs of my ears were still wet and I thought life was spread out before me like some sort of birthday cake waiting to be wished upon, my dad told me he wouldn't pay for me to go to college, but he would pay for me to go to bartending school.
At least bartenders can find work that pays is the way he looked at it.
Bartending? That sounded great. You've got the keys to the kingdom if you are a bartender, behind the stick, master of your domain. And the flexible hours fit the night owl in me.
But, bartending? Frantic nights, blaring music, no insurance, counting on others to put money (good when it comes, nonexistent when it doesn't) in your pocket. Come on. That's not the smart career choice.
So I got a college degree and a corporate job.
Last week, I took time off from my wanderings and this blog (didja miss me?) to go bartending school. My dad's offer had expired, so I ponied up the $700 and went for it.
It was a blast. Best vacation ever.
And now, I am a certified mixologist. That's right. I aced the test AND put 22 proportionally correct drinks on the bar in 5 minutes -- which means I know how to keep glass out of your glass, a glass in your hand and I'm carrying the recipes for 200+ drinks around in my head.
What I'm not yet is a bartender. That requires a bar to tend and it will come. Right this second I have something in common with every bar owner and bar manager in New York City. We are all looking for "New York Experience." They want it wrapped in a bartender and I want it in this mixologist. If you have a lead on a gig, let me know. If you don't, get yourself a beer and hang around. I tell you about the job search.
And, I'll keep you posted as to where I work so when you come to the city you can stop by and say hi.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
A grand experiment on the mean streets of New York
After considerable effort and no less considerable personal expense in this great city, I have come to a shocking conclusion of great importance to fellow wanderers.
The only way to screw up a slice of greasy New York pizza is to charge too much for it.
So, the results of my experiment have been input into the following chart (not much of a chart, really, because that would require graphic arts skills. This is more of a list).
Cost to taste
Cost: $2.75 -- Taste: Bad
Cost: $2 -- Taste: OK
Cost: $1 -- Taste: Great
Using science then, I can without doubt answer once and for all a major point of contention between New Yorkers. I can tell you, scientifically, where you can find the best pizza in New York.
"99-cent Pizza" at 43rd Street and Third Avenue.
They sell pizza for 99 cents a slice. It is greasy. They let you sprinkle your slice with grated cheeselike substances, red pepper flakes and that powdery green stuff that looks like herbs. You get a napkin and a paper plate that becomes translucent as the slice drains. It is a true New York experience you can actually afford to experience.
And, while you are eating it, you can walk the block and cut through the Art Deco wonderland that is the lobby of the Chrysler Building.
That's what I'm talkin' about.
The only way to screw up a slice of greasy New York pizza is to charge too much for it.
So, the results of my experiment have been input into the following chart (not much of a chart, really, because that would require graphic arts skills. This is more of a list).
Cost to taste
Cost: $2.75 -- Taste: Bad
Cost: $2 -- Taste: OK
Cost: $1 -- Taste: Great
Using science then, I can without doubt answer once and for all a major point of contention between New Yorkers. I can tell you, scientifically, where you can find the best pizza in New York.
"99-cent Pizza" at 43rd Street and Third Avenue.
They sell pizza for 99 cents a slice. It is greasy. They let you sprinkle your slice with grated cheeselike substances, red pepper flakes and that powdery green stuff that looks like herbs. You get a napkin and a paper plate that becomes translucent as the slice drains. It is a true New York experience you can actually afford to experience.
And, while you are eating it, you can walk the block and cut through the Art Deco wonderland that is the lobby of the Chrysler Building.
That's what I'm talkin' about.
Molly’s Pub on Third Avenue has no Molly (love ya, miss ya, Molly), but …
In a town flush with the latest hot bars and coolest cool clubs -- all of which would bore me out of my mind if I didn’t have the game of “this is like being stabbed in the (fill in the blank) with a (fill in the blank)” to play in the wrinkled front part of my brain – Molly’s Pub & Shabeen isn’t unique, but it also isn’t common.
It isn’t the club scene. It isn’t a tourist joint. It isn’t a student hang out. It is modeled after an Irish pub, from the white stucco store front to the dark wood paneling and the fireplace with mantle I saw an actual patron rest his arm on like he was going to sing a ballad badly or box with John Wayne, but it isn’t really all that Irish, either.
It’s just fairly quiet, mostly comfortable, usually a bit crowded so you feel at one with the people but not so crowded you can’t find a seat.
This is a dining establishment … and the fare runs to the Irish. I haven’t tried the food and probably never will. I steadfastly avoid eating at restaurants with “atmosphere.” If you happen to stop by and grab some grub, let me know what you think. I’ll add it to the map.
Back in the 80s, when I lived off Union Square and whiskey, I used to stroll down to Molly’s and stagger home from Molly’s on a regular basis. Now, I have less money and more years, but Molly’s is still a nice, gentle bar on the fragile senses … if not the wallet. That’s better. I don’t stagger out anymore. I can’t afford it.
It would be perfect if Molly worked there (seriously, love ya, Molly. Miss ya, Molly ... and the rest of you. I didn't forget about you. It just wouldn't have fit so well in the blog. The bar ain't called John's or Brad's or ...), but no one said this is a perfect world.
TO GO
Molly’s is the white-fronted building on the east side of Third Avenue between 22nd and 23rd streets. You can’t miss it.
It isn’t the club scene. It isn’t a tourist joint. It isn’t a student hang out. It is modeled after an Irish pub, from the white stucco store front to the dark wood paneling and the fireplace with mantle I saw an actual patron rest his arm on like he was going to sing a ballad badly or box with John Wayne, but it isn’t really all that Irish, either.
It’s just fairly quiet, mostly comfortable, usually a bit crowded so you feel at one with the people but not so crowded you can’t find a seat.
This is a dining establishment … and the fare runs to the Irish. I haven’t tried the food and probably never will. I steadfastly avoid eating at restaurants with “atmosphere.” If you happen to stop by and grab some grub, let me know what you think. I’ll add it to the map.
Back in the 80s, when I lived off Union Square and whiskey, I used to stroll down to Molly’s and stagger home from Molly’s on a regular basis. Now, I have less money and more years, but Molly’s is still a nice, gentle bar on the fragile senses … if not the wallet. That’s better. I don’t stagger out anymore. I can’t afford it.
It would be perfect if Molly worked there (seriously, love ya, Molly. Miss ya, Molly ... and the rest of you. I didn't forget about you. It just wouldn't have fit so well in the blog. The bar ain't called John's or Brad's or ...), but no one said this is a perfect world.
TO GO
Molly’s is the white-fronted building on the east side of Third Avenue between 22nd and 23rd streets. You can’t miss it.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Yeah, I took the photo across the top of neoflaneur.blogspot.com.
I rock. That's all I think needs to be said.
High culture and low class at Juilliard
The thing about concert halls is they are designed to get sound from the front of the hall to the back. The thing about human beings is some of them don’t get this fact. The thing about free concerts is there is no barrier to entry.
I took in a free concert by Juilliard Ensemble of a tribute to contemporary composer Luciano Berio (1927-2003) at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater on Tuesday night. It’s a pretty big house and it wasn’t packed, so I found a nice spot with five seats between me and my nearest neighbor, settled in and was prepared to be enthralled. About five minutes before the show started a gentleman sat down in the row in front of me two seats to my right. He was followed by another gentleman who sat in the row in front of me two seats to my left.
As the lights dimmed and Emi Ferguson, a young flautist, took the stage for a solo work created in 1958, the gentleman to my right decided to have an emphysema attack of Biblical proportions. He wheezed and coughed and snuffed and snorted and shifted and flapped his program for the next two hours.
A couple of minutes into Ferguson’s piece, “Sequenza I”, a frantic piece of music in which Ferguson held a musical conversation with herself, the gentleman to my left – apparently no fan of contemporary composers – decided it was time to balance his check book. He took out all his bills for the month … still in their crinkly envelopes … and went to work.
The second piece, “Corale”, written in 1981 for a dozen highly trained musicians, became “Piece for musicians and two assholes in the audience”, written in 2008.
They were a team (in fact, I asked them as I took to my feet, "Are you guys a team?") They drove me from my seat and deeper into the back of the theater. I found a spot in the second to last row of the Muppet Theater, right in front of two older gentlemen talking to each other between pieces.
“I don’t like this.”
“It’s not for you to like.”
“Oh, it’s for the younger generation then?”
“The kids like it.”
“I don’t. It’s for the younger folks.”
“Well, look at the audience.”
“I see a lot of white hairs, but I don’t like it.”
So, they left.
And I finally did get a chance to like it. Berio seemed hell-bent on making his musicians suffer over the ugly tones he forced them to create from their beautiful instruments. There was a 1969 solo piece for oboe, “Sequenza VII”, played by Jeffery Reinhardt, in which Berio forced Reinhardt, who he’d probably never even met, to make sounds like blowing your nose into an already-full snotrag. This is not something I imagine comes naturally to a young man studying at Juilliard, but even the uninitiated such as myself could tell the kid was playing his ass off.
The came a piece of interesting – again, played brilliantly by a quartet including vocalist Carin Gilfry, harpist Jane Yoon and percussionists Molly Yeh and Sam Budish – in which Gilfry sang three e.e. cumings poems (two of the poems twice) while Yoon played counterpoint on the harp and Yeh and Budish banged the shit out of everything but the tag-team assholes in the audience.
It was great, a 16-minute theater piece akin to Blue Man Troupe in evening wear.
And then, David Huckabee came on to play the 1980 solo piece “Sequenza XIV” for cello. It was like watching Buster Keaton. The piece sounded like the cello would escape, running around insanely and crashing into itself and every note in the musical realm, and Huckabee was right there in the middle of it, stone faced.
I’m not a fan of contemporary concert music, but the thing about making a point of seeing New York City on the free is you never know what you are going to get, so you need to be prepared to enjoy yourself. And, for the love of God, leave your checkbook at home.
I took in a free concert by Juilliard Ensemble of a tribute to contemporary composer Luciano Berio (1927-2003) at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater on Tuesday night. It’s a pretty big house and it wasn’t packed, so I found a nice spot with five seats between me and my nearest neighbor, settled in and was prepared to be enthralled. About five minutes before the show started a gentleman sat down in the row in front of me two seats to my right. He was followed by another gentleman who sat in the row in front of me two seats to my left.
As the lights dimmed and Emi Ferguson, a young flautist, took the stage for a solo work created in 1958, the gentleman to my right decided to have an emphysema attack of Biblical proportions. He wheezed and coughed and snuffed and snorted and shifted and flapped his program for the next two hours.
A couple of minutes into Ferguson’s piece, “Sequenza I”, a frantic piece of music in which Ferguson held a musical conversation with herself, the gentleman to my left – apparently no fan of contemporary composers – decided it was time to balance his check book. He took out all his bills for the month … still in their crinkly envelopes … and went to work.
The second piece, “Corale”, written in 1981 for a dozen highly trained musicians, became “Piece for musicians and two assholes in the audience”, written in 2008.
They were a team (in fact, I asked them as I took to my feet, "Are you guys a team?") They drove me from my seat and deeper into the back of the theater. I found a spot in the second to last row of the Muppet Theater, right in front of two older gentlemen talking to each other between pieces.
“I don’t like this.”
“It’s not for you to like.”
“Oh, it’s for the younger generation then?”
“The kids like it.”
“I don’t. It’s for the younger folks.”
“Well, look at the audience.”
“I see a lot of white hairs, but I don’t like it.”
So, they left.
And I finally did get a chance to like it. Berio seemed hell-bent on making his musicians suffer over the ugly tones he forced them to create from their beautiful instruments. There was a 1969 solo piece for oboe, “Sequenza VII”, played by Jeffery Reinhardt, in which Berio forced Reinhardt, who he’d probably never even met, to make sounds like blowing your nose into an already-full snotrag. This is not something I imagine comes naturally to a young man studying at Juilliard, but even the uninitiated such as myself could tell the kid was playing his ass off.
The came a piece of interesting – again, played brilliantly by a quartet including vocalist Carin Gilfry, harpist Jane Yoon and percussionists Molly Yeh and Sam Budish – in which Gilfry sang three e.e. cumings poems (two of the poems twice) while Yoon played counterpoint on the harp and Yeh and Budish banged the shit out of everything but the tag-team assholes in the audience.
It was great, a 16-minute theater piece akin to Blue Man Troupe in evening wear.
And then, David Huckabee came on to play the 1980 solo piece “Sequenza XIV” for cello. It was like watching Buster Keaton. The piece sounded like the cello would escape, running around insanely and crashing into itself and every note in the musical realm, and Huckabee was right there in the middle of it, stone faced.
I’m not a fan of contemporary concert music, but the thing about making a point of seeing New York City on the free is you never know what you are going to get, so you need to be prepared to enjoy yourself. And, for the love of God, leave your checkbook at home.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Fricking on a Sunday afternoon
The Frick Collection (70th and Fifth Avenue) has Sunday "Pay what you wish" day, and while I wished I had the wherewithall to pay the $15 regular admission, I could only pay $5 and spent a couple of hours wandering yet another former abode of the very, very rich and very, very dead.
This time it was the New York City home of Henry Clay Frick, who made his money in steel and union busting. His artistic tastes leaned to portraiture and Romantic frippery (including five J.W.M. Turner pieces that I liked, having a frip of the romantic in me when it comes to sailing vessels). But, most of it zipped past me, even though I tried really, really hard to like looking at paintings of rich old people.
There were a couple of standouts, though. One, El Greco's
"Purification of the Temple", was the reason to show up. I kept moving away and then finding myself drawn back into it. The link above doesn't do the piece justice. The color is gone. The energy in Christ is muted, as is what I perceived to be a wicked sense of humor in El Greco's mind when he painted Christ as gleeful.
Another nice work worth spending a little time in front of was Jan Vermeer's
"Officer and Laughing Girl", which according to the Frick web site will be on display until Nov. 2. The sun in this piece grabs the wall from the other two Vermeer on display. There's also room in the piece for you to imagine the backstory ... one of Vermeer's hallmarks.
This time it was the New York City home of Henry Clay Frick, who made his money in steel and union busting. His artistic tastes leaned to portraiture and Romantic frippery (including five J.W.M. Turner pieces that I liked, having a frip of the romantic in me when it comes to sailing vessels). But, most of it zipped past me, even though I tried really, really hard to like looking at paintings of rich old people.
There were a couple of standouts, though. One, El Greco's
"Purification of the Temple", was the reason to show up. I kept moving away and then finding myself drawn back into it. The link above doesn't do the piece justice. The color is gone. The energy in Christ is muted, as is what I perceived to be a wicked sense of humor in El Greco's mind when he painted Christ as gleeful.Another nice work worth spending a little time in front of was Jan Vermeer's
"Officer and Laughing Girl", which according to the Frick web site will be on display until Nov. 2. The sun in this piece grabs the wall from the other two Vermeer on display. There's also room in the piece for you to imagine the backstory ... one of Vermeer's hallmarks.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A sad thing happened at lunch today
Yatagan raised its falafel price to $2.50. It hit me like a fist as I crossed MacDougal Street.
It is still the best falafel I've tasted in the city, but with the price gap closed I'm free to try others.
Even with the culinary freedom this creates, my heart is broken.
But, it does relive the time pressure Wally has been under.
It is still the best falafel I've tasted in the city, but with the price gap closed I'm free to try others.
Even with the culinary freedom this creates, my heart is broken.
But, it does relive the time pressure Wally has been under.
Obscene wealth for the arts?
Between 7 and 9 p.m. on Fridays, The Morgan Library is all kinds of free (for a listing of other free days at other museums, check the calendar at the bottom of the NeoFlaneur main page). I love free stuff and art stuff, so I packed up and hiked to Lexington Avenue and 35th Street.
The place was built by J.P. Morgan -- a really freakin' rich guy back in the day -- to keep his books and other pretties in so they didn't clutter his castle next door, is huge.
The exhibit I saw was Drawing Babar: Early Drafts and Watercolors, because I like kids' books. They are usually easier to read, so my lips don't get tired. Not this time. Apparently Jean de Brunhoff and his son, Laurent, are French. Not only that, but they wrote their books in French. It was not easier to read at all.
It was, however, pretty. And there were subtitles. And it was free. And there was a highbrow drum circle. And three ... count them ... three Gutenberg Bibles (the meek may inherit the Earth, but rich guys like Morgan get all the hot bibles).
It all got me to thinking, not about French colonialism -- which may be what the Babar books were all about -- but about obscene American wealth -- definitely what J. Pierpont was all about.
How much is too much and how much difference does it make that I can look at all the pretty stuff for free two hours a week? For the record, the rest of the time, admission is $12.
I'll admit I'd rather the cash go to art than to the fifth generation of J.P.'s pet poodle (I don't even know if he liked animals), but is the legacy enough to override the damage caused by the pillaging Robber Barons and their bankers? Or should we just have eaten the lot of them when we had the chance?
The place was built by J.P. Morgan -- a really freakin' rich guy back in the day -- to keep his books and other pretties in so they didn't clutter his castle next door, is huge.
The exhibit I saw was Drawing Babar: Early Drafts and Watercolors, because I like kids' books. They are usually easier to read, so my lips don't get tired. Not this time. Apparently Jean de Brunhoff and his son, Laurent, are French. Not only that, but they wrote their books in French. It was not easier to read at all.
It was, however, pretty. And there were subtitles. And it was free. And there was a highbrow drum circle. And three ... count them ... three Gutenberg Bibles (the meek may inherit the Earth, but rich guys like Morgan get all the hot bibles).
It all got me to thinking, not about French colonialism -- which may be what the Babar books were all about -- but about obscene American wealth -- definitely what J. Pierpont was all about.
How much is too much and how much difference does it make that I can look at all the pretty stuff for free two hours a week? For the record, the rest of the time, admission is $12.
I'll admit I'd rather the cash go to art than to the fifth generation of J.P.'s pet poodle (I don't even know if he liked animals), but is the legacy enough to override the damage caused by the pillaging Robber Barons and their bankers? Or should we just have eaten the lot of them when we had the chance?
Friday, September 26, 2008
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!"
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!"
Thursday, September 25, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, September 22, 2008
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.
"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.
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.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
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.
“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.
Friday, September 19, 2008
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.).
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.).
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.)
Saturday, September 13, 2008
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.
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.
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