New Year's Day -- 2009

2009 started with a hail of bullets -- apparently a longstanding tradition in my neighborhood.

So, at 11:58 p.m. someone down the street emptied a clip into the air. Someone else joined in. And someone else. And someone else. At midnight, I drank a glass of bubbly with my roommate, listened to the shots and watched fireworks as they topped the trees between me and Manhattan. The fireworks stopped at 12:20 a.m. So did the gunplay.

And 2009 was off to the races.

Moments of clarity

It was a beautiful day today. The sun hid behind low clouds and the temperature was in the shirt-sleeve range so I caught the train up to 96th Street on the West Side and walked downtown. At 66th Street, I shrugged off my pack and sat in one of the chairs under a tree.

I was filled with life's joyous love, so I spread my arms, threw back my head and ... found myself looking straight up a pigeon's ass.

Clarity hit.

"Keep moving."

Dog owners in the city ...

The weather was great on Christmas day so I took a looping bicycle ride through Brooklyn and the Lower Eastside. It has been a while and I was a happy, happy guy.

Just before I started back across the Williamsburg Bridge, I stopped for coffee at New Punjab Deli on 2nd Avenue, just north of Houston Street. New Punjab was voted, according to the newspaper article taped to the window, to be the best Pakistani Cabbie Chow place in the city. I don't know about that, but I do know there were half a dozen Pakistani cabbies blocking my way to the coffee, and the food looked pretty good.

I fought my way through the throng, got my coffee and went outside ... to keep an eye on the bicycle because I only had my light chain ... and to get out of the way of the cabbie parade. While I was there, this older gentleman walked past with his long-legged, skinny, twitchy little rat dog -- a whippet, I think, but it doesn't matter because the thing was wearing a puffy vest and thereby relinquished it's right to be part of any breed. The dog started to pee on my bicycle tire while I stood there. I pulled the coffee cup from my lips.

"Oh, man, don't let your dog pee on my bicycle," I said.

The dog heard me, lowered its leg and moved on to a mailbox. The gentleman snapped his head in my direction and ... and ... and GLARED. His dog was about to pee on my bicycle and he glared at me. And then he muttered under his breath, something I couldn't quite make out except that the words "bladder problems" was in there. ... the dog's I presume, but maybe (and this would make me feel a whole lot more happy on the holiday) he meant he had bladder problems.

I like New York City because there are so many people who honest-to-God think the whole damn world belongs to them. It's like a high-rise asshole convention, a surreal circus where a dog's bladder problems are more important than my right as an American to keep my bike pee-free. And maybe they are correct, these dog owners. Maybe I shouldn't expect a sidewalk that isn't seeded with doggie landmines and a tire that isn't sticky. Maybe I shouldn't expect another human being to have the slightest regard for ... for ... hell, I don't even know what to call it. "Manners" comes to mind, but that's too weak a concept. Respect? Decency? Basic consideration?

The dog at least stopped. It showed more humanity than it's human. Maybe this city should go to the dogs. The gentlemen have been measured and found wanting.

Been gone so long

Been gone so long because I've been doing nothing worth reporting.

Since I'm still doing nothing but playing in the dirt (the neighborhood community garden just got a whole lot of dirt that needs pushing around. I'm no gardener, but I can push dirt. Each according to his abilities, each according to his needs, eh?), reading and writing nonblog stuff ... which sucks, by the way. Thanks for asking. ... I thought I'd drop a couple of quick hits here so you'll know I'm alive.

Two days ago, I was walking down 2nd Avenue at 95th Street and a well-dressed gentleman came toward me saying, "I was sitting on the toilet and my butt started hurting. 'Oh, my butt, my butt, why does my butt hurt?'" By then he was close enough for me to see the Bluetooth in his ear so I didn't have to answer him. Small favors, dear Lord and thanks for them.

A week ago I passed a guy sitting on the sidewalk behind a cardboard sign. "AM HUNGRY. AM HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP." I would have asked him what I could do to help, but by then I was close enough to see the cell phone he was talking on.

Everyone who knows me knows I'm an animal lover, provided those animals are bigger than a bread basket, so I was torn yesterday when I saw a yorkie fighting his harness and the large bald gentleman walking at quite the clip talking on a cell phone. (Ah, themes!) At first I thought the little thing was trotting, but upon closer inspection I saw that it was skidding along on, almost skipping like a flat stone on a calm pond, back legs firmly planted against the forward motion of the gentleman. I was going to laugh ... but then I thought maybe it was being hurt. Then I realized it was just being a yorkie. It could have walked if it had been in pain. It wasn't even trying. It was just being cantankerous.

So, there was this really big black guy walking toward me on the street this morning, a scary guy with a ragged scar on his face, one dead eye and hands like Kitchen Aide mixers. He was walking a damn yorkie. "Oh, yeah, tough guy," I thought, and suppressed a smile. I didn't need a yorkie up my ass.

Death wears a Christian face

City officials in Brooklyn, like the rest of New York City, are making an active effort to create bicycle friendly streets. They are designating bike lanes and paths all over the place. These things are well marked and there is a map telling cyclists where the routes are. I follow them when possible, primarily because they are well placed to take you from one part of the borough to another.

The problem is that traffic hasn’t entirely caught on to the idea that bicycles are part of life now and need to be respected. It isn’t unusual to have a couple of near death experiences anytime you ride for any distance. Some one is going to run a red light or swerve into the bike lane. Something is going to happen to keep a cyclist on his toes.

And that’s fine. After all, we are traffic and traffic is a dangerous place for anyone.

Yesterday was actually a good day to ride. Traffic was light and there weren’t too many assholes parked in the bike lane. I was on Bergen Street, in the bicycle lane, making pretty good time. Someone up ahead decided to double park in my lane, so I glanced over my right shoulder. Plenty of room. Things were swell. I started to move into the car lane and heard the van 30 feet behind me stomp on the gas to race me to the squeeze point. I put on the brakes and dropped back. It was too nice a day to die, even though I was in the right. A “Christian Ambulette Inc.” van shot past me, side mirror whispering past my right shoulder.

I’m a positive guy, always looking at the bright side. I’m sure the driver of the Christian Ambulette was just trying to help by sending me to meet my maker a little early. Why extend the suffering on this mortal coil when there’s glory and eternal life on the other side, right?

Except it is rather presumptuous. First, I’m not a Christian. There’s no snowy bearded father waiting for me on the other side with open arms. Second, I’m in good health … even great health, for my age. This mortal coil is treating me quite well, thanks. If the Christian driver really wanted to help someone, he should have considered his passenger and slowed down for me. After all, the person in the ambulette was already ill and most likely Christian. Why rush to get them medical treatment? Send them home, obey the law and let the atheist live. Everyone wins.

I would have explained this to the driver, but he was disappearing into the distance. Instead, I just fruitlessly flipped him off and shouted “Jesus Christ!” into the wind.

Ah, grandparents taking the babies to breakfast … how charming … urp.

I stopped at Marine’s Coffee Shop (Bergen and 5th Avenue, Brooklyn) in Park Slope for breakfast yesterday. The menu on the window said they had a Spanish breakfast. I’ve never had a Spanish breakfast. It seemed like a prime opportunity to break two fasts at once, and at $4 it was cheaper than a plane ticket.

I settled into the corner table – after stripping off three layers of bicycle gear – and ordered cassava and eggs. (There’s a short review on Marine’s in the Google map on the main page of www.neoflaneur.blogspot, if you care.) About five minutes after a tucked into people-watching mode, a couple in their late 40s or early 50s came in with two girls under five.

My initial thought was, “Aw, grandparents out for a day”. But this is Park Slope and I forgot to take into account a particularly New York disease. One of the girls was whining about how she was cold, she didn’t want to eat eggs, she wanted ice cream.

“Mommy doesn’t like it when you talk that way,” the crazy woman said.

“Daddy doesn’t like it either,” the idiot with her said.

I got a little throw up in my mouth. I took a sip of coffee to clear away the bile and shook my head to clear it. People smart enough to make enough money to live in Park Slope aren’t smart enough to know that children are either the result of youthful indiscretions or, if deliberate, a young person’s sport. Not in New York. It is something you see all the time. Grown people completely out of their minds and ill-equipped for the physical and emotional abuse that come factory stock with children. If the damage was localized to the reproducing idiots, I’d have a problem with the disease but I’d get over it. The thing with late parentitis, though, is that it has an impact on everyone … for generations

Hillary Clinton was wrong. It doesn’t take a village to raise a child. It takes a clue and a cattle prod.

Mommy looked at this whiny little creature she’d deliberately conceived at Lord knows what cost and, in what can only be one of the best examples of clueless parenting I have seen in years, said in a high-pitched, goo-goo voice best reserved for pocket dogs and the mentally thin, “BABY, you’re a big girl now, not a BABY.”

Urp. Fuck me. I could taste where this was going the way I could taste the bile in the back of my throat. There is nothing sadistic little bits of the human variety like more than mixed messages and this cute little Satan spawn was just handed an Tech 9 and a full clip. She sprayed the restaurant. Her sister, not to be left out of the firefight, reached into her own arsenal gathered from a lifetime of over-entitled “Daddy loves you. Please stop. Really, please stop. Ah, baby, pllllllleeease. Have a candy bar. Daddy loves you”, loaded up and fired two rounds into the ceiling.

“Alright, everybody, on the ground. This is an emotional hold-up.”

Fuck me.

At this point, I should have done something constructive. I should have handed daddy a pair of balls, maybe, or mommy a pamphlet I’ve not yet written titled “Never Let Them See You Sweat: An adult’s guide to raising what seemed like a good idea at the time”. I didn’t. I just stared and shook my paternalistic head in a condescending way every time one of the parents scanned the room in a panic. It didn’t help, but I enjoyed myself and that’s what I was out and about for.

I’m a bad man.

Here's a google view of the joint.


View Larger Map

A bike ride through Brooklyn

The weather was clear and cold yesterday, so I bundled up, hopped on the bicycle at 8 a.m. and took a ride through Brooklyn. I’m finding that the way to discover Brooklyn – even more so than Manhattan – is on a bicycle. And in the process, I’m starting to develop a deeper love of the borough. For one thing, more people live in Brooklyn (1.8 million) than on the island (1.3 million), and these are people of all stripes.

My neighborhood, for example is pretty heavily West Indian. About a quarter mile to the south, Hasidic Jews take over. Two miles to the northwest, the hipsters have the helm. To the southwest about three miles, the yuppies have taken over my old neighborhood. You’ve got the Irish to my east and five miles south it’s Russian. The list goes on. There are pockets of ethnicity and class with blurred lines between.

I don’t know Queens yet, so I can’t do a compare and contrast … yet. I’ve made a couple of contacts and have heard the stories though. I will get there one day. I do know that the bicycle has stripped away the physical restriction of convenient transportation and opened all these neighborhoods in Brooklyn up for me.

That’s not to say mass transit fails in Brooklyn. The system works. The job is just different. In Manhattan, the subway is designed to get people around the island. In Brooklyn the subway is designed to get people to the island. This is a critical difference for a wanderer. And Brooklyn is not really a walking town … too residential and sprawling for that.

But the bicycle is the right tool for the job. Yesterday, I used it.

I rode from my flat in Bed-Sty to Cobble Hill, then down to the Gowanus Canal on the fringe of Red Hook and up 9th Street to Park Slope for breakfast. The trip took me through dirt poverty to industrial waste to big money in about two hours.

Can you think of a better way to spend a crisp Saturday morning? I can, but not flying solo.

Two-wheeling through Brooklyn

Here's a birds-eye view of today's ramble.

Music to my ears

One of my favorite things about wandering New York ... and anywhere people gather, for that matter ... is the music they make as they rub their collective body parts together (figuratively).

All those voices melding, and serving as counterpoints, with each other; all those accents dancing in and out; all those fragmented conversations intertwined in a 300-square mile tapestry of sound makes me wish I composed grand, vast symphonic works.

Sometimes the voices are just crickets in a distance. Other times they cicada in the trees above me.

The other day in the glen everything fell eerily silent, and one note broke free and soared into my head.

It was a man's voice ... Queens, probably, but maybe Brooklyn, possibly on the cusp of both ... a little on edge, not at all happy.

"No, Bro, you don't get it! I fuckin' lost Jimmy in Times Square! ... I don't fuckin' know ..."

That was all I got. It floated in the air for a second and then was swallowed by the rest of the crickets as they brought their legs together and started critching again.

I don't know if the mook ever found Jimmy or if Jimmy really wanted to be found, but I wanted to thank both men publicly for adding a single golden thread to my sonic wall-hanging.

Thanks, guys.

Number 1 reason my mom needs to visit New York City

If my mom ever comes to visit AND if she brings her heart pills, I'm going to take her to only one place, a place where every Asian piece of crap ever imported into our beautiful country can be found in a single Chinatown big-box store.

Pearl River Mart (447 Broadway, in Soho) is the Wal-Mart of Asian crap. … Three floors of Buddhas, beaded curtains, Chinese dragons, tacky clothing, silly shoes, free-standing screens, paper lanterns, Samurai swords, incense holders, cookware and other stuff my mom LOVES.

If your thing is, like my mom's, cheap, Eastern and in one place this is a must do-do.

I love you ma, and I'm kidding. I'll also take you to the wholesale bead stores around Penn Station ... but that's it! You are getting kinda old and I worry that you'll over do it.

Prix Fixeing food in New York City

The phrase “Prix Fixe” scares me. Too French, maybe and it pushes my “too fancy” button.

That’s exactly what restaurants want you to think, sans the “too” part. They want you to think “fancy.” But in fact, it’s really just the sit-down eatery version of the fast-food value meal.

And, it’s all the rage in New York City right now. You’ll see “Prix Fixe” everywhere. And it can be some of your best deals for mid-priced food, ranging from $8 on up to “don’t ask”.

The reason it’s a smart thing for the tourist on a budget is that it sets up before you even get into the joint, what the bill is going to be when you leave – less the cost of beverages, if they aren’t included (and sometimes they are).

The meals are usually pretty tasty and pretty filling for the non-gourmands among us. I say that, because you’ll need to remember that you just ordered the buffet version of the menu. The cooks know the fix is in -- what to prepare in advance -- and will do just that.

Prix Fixeing has another advantage. It is a short cut for wanderer decision-making. The meal and price are always spelled out on a chalkboard outside the restaurant, so you can scan them as you wander past and make you decision without having to scour every menu taped on every window. When one hits your fancy and price point, just mosey in, grab a seat and ask. In short order, your courses will arrive and you’ll be out the door before your feet forget they were made for walking.

So, if you can’t make it to the fringes of the city where prices fall, but don’t want to blow your budget on fuel, look for the prixed fixe. You might find the price is also right.

Bicycles in New York City

If you are a fan of roller coasters, you might want to give New York City on a bicycle a try. Between the automobiles, the potholes, the construction, the pushcarts, the pedestrians, the cab doors, the delivery trucks in the bike lanes, the squeezes you get from buses, the side mirrors, the occasional cobblestone street and the other bicyclists, it never gets old.

And, New York is trying hard to make this a bicycle friendly town. They’ve laid out 70 miles of bike lanes and in Manhattan they’ve created a path that runs from The Battery (that’s all the way downtown) to the northern tip of the island on West Street. Their efforts have earned them a “bicycle friendly community” designation from the League of American Cyclists. And they have many more miles of lanes planned.

The West Street bike path is a good place to cut your teeth if you are a bit nervous about playing Death Race 2008 on the streets. The path is separated from traffic, well marked and there is a beautiful view of the Hudson River. You can also try a run or two around Central Park. The ride is beautiful. But not flat. This is a city of hills, particularly as you head uptown. It is never San Francisco, but if you are a flatlander, you will find your work cut out for you.

The real fun is on the city streets. That’s where the thrill-seeker in you gets a chance to play. And, while it is possible to get hurt, with 100,000 other cyclists on the road, the odds are in your favor if you keep your wits about you … and obey the traffic rules (which everybody should do, but nobody does).

A bicycle also really opens up the city for you. You have speed that almost compares with a cab and mobility that compares with your feet. You can also slow down and take in the sites (with one eye and both ears out for incoming traffic).

Consider Red Hook in Brooklyn. There isn’t an easy subway stop in Red Hook. You have to hike in and hike back out. … Unless you are on a bicycle. Same holds for the edges of Manhattan. The subway system tends to run up the spine of the island except where the Brooklyn and Queens bound trains make their respective escapes.

A lot of Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side, for example, are a bit of a distance from a subway stop. If you plan to really explore those areas and are on a time schedule, a bicycle is the way to go.

Bicycles will also carry you quickly through residential districts that don’t have a whole lot to see.

If you are bicyclist, consider bringing your wheels with you. Bicycle rentals aren’t cheap. You can pay $30-$50 a day.

If you can’t bring your own wheels, it’s still worth the expense. Consider this. If you go to The Top of the Rock or the Empire State Building observation deck ($20 each), the panoramic views may make you say, “Wow.” But a bike ride down Broadway will take your breath away. It’s a New York experience you will never forget.

NOTE: You can pick up a free bicycling maps at the NYC Department of City Planning bookstore at 22 Reade Street, NY, NY, 10007, in bicycle shops, libraries, and schools. This is a good map for cyclists, but it is also a decent map for walkers because unlike the subway map, most of the city streets are marked.

Taking a week off the streets of New York

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?