New York is a pizza town, but it's also a burger town, which is great because I'm a burger guy; click here and here for more on my burger adventures. I'm also a list guy, so it was fun reading this list of Alan Richman's Five Favorite Burgers in New York City. They are, in no particular order, burgers from Shake Shack, Big Nick's, Blue Smoke, Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien, and Peter Luger. I've had the Shack burger, which was almost as good as a burger from a true paragon of fast-food, California's In-N-Out, but not any of the others. (I did eat a steak dinner at Peter Luger many years ago, but I obviously have to return for the burger.)
Let's see how quickly I can go through Richman's list, shall we?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
The loudest band in New York
I love free concerts. A free concert is like free food, except better, because when Ben & Jerry's gives away ice cream on Free Cone Day, you get a paltry, unsatisfying dollop of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough that lasts about three minutes on a hot day. A free concert is like an ice cream that lasts all evening. And depending on who's playing the show, you might end up with a natural high and a headache at the end of it, just like an evening-long ice cream.
The South Street Seaport is but one place in the city that you can see bands perform for free on a weekly basis. I wrote about the final show of last year's Seaport Music Festival here. Compared to last year's lineup (which included The National and Battles and Menomena and Au Revoir Simone), this year's list seemed less than exciting, but one band jumped right out at me: A Place to Bury Strangers.
You may never have heard them, but you've heard of bands like them -- bands whose reputation precedes them. I still remember one spring night in 2004 when I first heard of a band named Mute Math from my buddy Won. "You gotta listen to these guys," he said, handing me a demo CD. "They're probably the best band I've ever seen." Listening to the demo was like taking a shower on a weekday afternoon: unexpected and invigorating and optimistic.
In the case of A Place to Bury Strangers (APTBS), I'd heard one thing about them that's supposed to tell you everything you need to know about them: The Loudest Band in New York. Virtually every review I've read contains this description, but who can say who originated the phrase. Maybe the band made it up themselves. Maybe it's not important. But if you know me, you'll know that it's impossible for me not to seek out a band that lays claim to being the loudest in a city full of loud bands.
I mean, come on! THE LOUDEST BAND IN NEW YORK!
Apparently, this is a band so loud that the cops once shut down one of their shows, but not until an NYPD officer declared, "This band is sick."
So three Fridays ago, I went to see them at the Seaport Music Festival. The first opening band was Black Acid, who were just finishing their set when I got there. It's hard to feel bad about missing a band called Black Acid, so I didn't. Then the most bizarre band in the world took the stage -- a second opening act called King Khan and the Shrines. (Do not visit their Myspace page unless you're sure you want to.) These guys are so obscure they don't even have their own Wikipedia entry. It was their first show in the United States, apparently, so nobody knew any of their songs, but that didn't stop them from rocking out. They played a hyperactive blend of ska, '50s rock-n-roll, and punk, if you can imagine that. Oh yeah, they had a whole brass section. And a go-go dancer who belly-danced and waved gold pompoms on stage during the entire set. And their drummer had more facial hair than ZZ Top. And -- get this -- the lead singer was a foul-mouthed Indian man who sounded like Screamin' Jay Hawkins and looked like he'd just walked off the set of a Bollywood blockbuster.
This band was a menace to the public, who, against their better judgment, began dancing in the middle of Pier 17 like the maniacs dancing on the stage. King Khan was inscrutable and indefatigable and hilarious; for forty-five minutes, he whipped the crowd into an awe-struck frenzy of laughter and herky-jerky hopping.
Now, this was interesting. These guys were supposed to open for APTBS, which struck me as a tad dissonant. This became evident when, at about 8:30 PM, APTBS took the stage to a long, metallic rumble from lead singer/guitarist Oliver Ackermann. In my mind, there are three things to understand about Ackermann:
At one point, the music was so loud that even the press photographers (who were standing behind the speakers, not in front of them) had to cover their ears. I have never covered my ears at a rock show before; to me, that's like closing your eyes if the view at a tropical beach becomes too beautiful. I looked around at the people standing next to me and 75% of them had their fingers in their ears. The other 25% looked back at me in a funny way, as if to say, "Our ears won't be okay in the morning, will they?"
APTBS played a blistering 40-minute set, during which Ackermann destroyed his red Fender Jaguar and then hurled it over his head by its strings. Then, with a muffled "thank you" and a rapid brightening of the stage lights, it was unceremoniously over. The crowd dispersed quickly, dazed and slightly disoriented.
I couldn't hear much for the next 24 hours.
The South Street Seaport is but one place in the city that you can see bands perform for free on a weekly basis. I wrote about the final show of last year's Seaport Music Festival here. Compared to last year's lineup (which included The National and Battles and Menomena and Au Revoir Simone), this year's list seemed less than exciting, but one band jumped right out at me: A Place to Bury Strangers.
You may never have heard them, but you've heard of bands like them -- bands whose reputation precedes them. I still remember one spring night in 2004 when I first heard of a band named Mute Math from my buddy Won. "You gotta listen to these guys," he said, handing me a demo CD. "They're probably the best band I've ever seen." Listening to the demo was like taking a shower on a weekday afternoon: unexpected and invigorating and optimistic.
In the case of A Place to Bury Strangers (APTBS), I'd heard one thing about them that's supposed to tell you everything you need to know about them: The Loudest Band in New York. Virtually every review I've read contains this description, but who can say who originated the phrase. Maybe the band made it up themselves. Maybe it's not important. But if you know me, you'll know that it's impossible for me not to seek out a band that lays claim to being the loudest in a city full of loud bands.
I mean, come on! THE LOUDEST BAND IN NEW YORK!
Apparently, this is a band so loud that the cops once shut down one of their shows, but not until an NYPD officer declared, "This band is sick."
So three Fridays ago, I went to see them at the Seaport Music Festival. The first opening band was Black Acid, who were just finishing their set when I got there. It's hard to feel bad about missing a band called Black Acid, so I didn't. Then the most bizarre band in the world took the stage -- a second opening act called King Khan and the Shrines. (Do not visit their Myspace page unless you're sure you want to.) These guys are so obscure they don't even have their own Wikipedia entry. It was their first show in the United States, apparently, so nobody knew any of their songs, but that didn't stop them from rocking out. They played a hyperactive blend of ska, '50s rock-n-roll, and punk, if you can imagine that. Oh yeah, they had a whole brass section. And a go-go dancer who belly-danced and waved gold pompoms on stage during the entire set. And their drummer had more facial hair than ZZ Top. And -- get this -- the lead singer was a foul-mouthed Indian man who sounded like Screamin' Jay Hawkins and looked like he'd just walked off the set of a Bollywood blockbuster.
This band was a menace to the public, who, against their better judgment, began dancing in the middle of Pier 17 like the maniacs dancing on the stage. King Khan was inscrutable and indefatigable and hilarious; for forty-five minutes, he whipped the crowd into an awe-struck frenzy of laughter and herky-jerky hopping.Now, this was interesting. These guys were supposed to open for APTBS, which struck me as a tad dissonant. This became evident when, at about 8:30 PM, APTBS took the stage to a long, metallic rumble from lead singer/guitarist Oliver Ackermann. In my mind, there are three things to understand about Ackermann:
- He makes his own guitar pedals.
- He is the only guitarist on the band, which means he has to make the most noise.
- He does not interact with the crowd at live shows very much at all. He didn't even address us when the band started the set, which is not that weird once you realize that APTBS is just a shoegaze band that happens to play very loud music.
At one point, the music was so loud that even the press photographers (who were standing behind the speakers, not in front of them) had to cover their ears. I have never covered my ears at a rock show before; to me, that's like closing your eyes if the view at a tropical beach becomes too beautiful. I looked around at the people standing next to me and 75% of them had their fingers in their ears. The other 25% looked back at me in a funny way, as if to say, "Our ears won't be okay in the morning, will they?"APTBS played a blistering 40-minute set, during which Ackermann destroyed his red Fender Jaguar and then hurled it over his head by its strings. Then, with a muffled "thank you" and a rapid brightening of the stage lights, it was unceremoniously over. The crowd dispersed quickly, dazed and slightly disoriented.
I couldn't hear much for the next 24 hours.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Duck and hen
Tonight, I did two things I've never done before, and both were done at the Marshall Stack, a beer-and-wine bar in the Lower East Side. Hang on a minute, I asked incredulously the first time I heard of the place. There's an actual bar called "The Marshall Stack"? We must go there immediately! I mean, seriously: I can hardly think of a better name for a bar.
The first thing: I ordered a duck sandwich. I didn't do this blindly, in case you were wondering. Marshall Stack's duck club sandwich has been talked up by Gothamist as one of New York's standout sandwiches. It was delicious indeed -- a greasy assemblage of sliced duck breast, crispy bacon and Romaine lettuce drenched in horseradish sauce. I ate it standing at the bar. Price: $11.00.
The second thing I did tonight: I had an Old Speckled Hen. Not another sandwich, but an English ale. The Stack has an appropriately extensive and eclectic beer list -- even Sapporo is available -- but you just don't pass up the opportunity to try something called Old Speckled Hen. It turned to be a beautiful golden ale, with a caramel texture, if perhaps a tad too much sweetness. Delicious, nonetheless.
If it wasn't already obvious, the moral of today's blog post is: I'm a sucker for a good name.
The first thing: I ordered a duck sandwich. I didn't do this blindly, in case you were wondering. Marshall Stack's duck club sandwich has been talked up by Gothamist as one of New York's standout sandwiches. It was delicious indeed -- a greasy assemblage of sliced duck breast, crispy bacon and Romaine lettuce drenched in horseradish sauce. I ate it standing at the bar. Price: $11.00.
The second thing I did tonight: I had an Old Speckled Hen. Not another sandwich, but an English ale. The Stack has an appropriately extensive and eclectic beer list -- even Sapporo is available -- but you just don't pass up the opportunity to try something called Old Speckled Hen. It turned to be a beautiful golden ale, with a caramel texture, if perhaps a tad too much sweetness. Delicious, nonetheless.
If it wasn't already obvious, the moral of today's blog post is: I'm a sucker for a good name.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Short notes: Fourth of July Edition
Some notes about this past weekend:
- I attended no barbecues, witnessed no fireworks and barely saw any sunshine, but it still felt like a pretty decent Independence Day weekend. Usually, staying at home would hardly be an appropriate prescription for the long weekend, but I needed the rest, and the weather was terrible anyway. One thing helped: I bought a pack of hot dogs (not the nitrite-free kind that they sell at Whole Foods, but the ones made from floor sweepings -- you know, the really good kind) and had my own hot dog eating contest, in which I competed against myself. Okay, perhaps it wasn't as extreme as this one, but you have to understand that I don't eat many hot dogs any more, so this was a special thing for me.
- Lesson learned the hard way: If you want the most satisfying hot dog-eating experience, never buy whole-wheat buns.
- Summer time would seem incomplete without seeing a Will Smith film, so to honor the tradition, the wife and I saw Hancock. It was aight.
- That reminds me of an idea I had for a blog called One Word Film Reviews. For example, the review for Wall-E would be: Heartbeeps.
- On Thursday night, we went out with some friends to Corner Bistro, where I was out-eaten by a 98-lb film actress and out-guzzled by a Maori guy who named his dog after a New Zealand pale ale. Details will definitely not be forthcoming.
- The weekend ended on a good note. By "good note" I mean that the Yankees beat the Red Sox 5-4 in extra innings tonight. Yes, I have officially become a Yankees fan.
- And finally, a shout-out to my buddy over at Wonkitime who, along with his lovely wife and kids, took us to a Thai restaurant in the Upper West Side for lunch today. I ordered pineapple fried rice (with chicken) and spent the better part of two hours trying to figure out what made it taste so good. It didn't hit me until I was on the 2-train heading downtown, still licking my lips. We never used much of this in our kitchen growing up, but lots of Malaysians did: Maggi Seasoning Sauce.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Three New Yorks
Excerpted from "Here is New York" by E.B. White, written in 1948 but so true that it could have been written yesterday:
There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh yes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company. ...
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
When ballers play soccer
I'm not the regretful type, but today, I really wished I had a genuine Spalding basketball. You see, if I'd owned one, I could have brought it down to Nike Field in Sara D. Roosevelt Park this evening, whereupon the likes of Baron Davis, Jason Kidd, Leandro Barbosa and Steve Nash would have gladly signed their names on its bumpy leather surface.
Alas, all I had was a France national soccer team t-shirt, and Thierry Henry left before I could persuade him to autograph it.
See what I mean by regret? How often does Steve Nash organize a free charity football match in New York's Lower East Side in which some of the NBA's best players rub shoulders with international soccer stars like Henry, Salomon Kalou, Claudio Reyna, Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman?
Okay, I'm not entirely disappointed. After all, I got to pat Baron Davis's sweaty shoulder (yes, I had to reach up to do so).
Maybe the problem was that I got there too late. The game started at 5:30 PM, and by the time I arrived, there were only ten minutes until halftime. It took me all of halftime to wriggle my way to the front of the crowd of several thousand who were clinging to the fence surrounding the field (if you've never seen an urban soccer field before, it's basically a small pitch with no bleachers and a twenty-foot fence on the perimeter).
Everyone stood to watch, but it was worth it -- some of the world's best athletes were playing the beautiful game right in front of us. Steve Nash, a wizard with any rolling object, scored multiple times, athletically so. Fellow Phoenix Sun Leandro Barbosa, aka The Brazilian Blur, was on the same team, playing a sport he must have seemed destined to excel at growing up until sidetracked by basketball (of all things). On the other team, Jason Kidd wasn't half bad, but Baron Davis was by far the weakest player, lumbering around in orange Reeboks, black-rimmed glasses and a baseball hat. To be fair, everyone seemed to be having fun, especially Davis, who jawed with the crowd amiably. And it was hilarious to watch basketball players out of context. That defender looks really familiar. Hey, that's because he's Raja Bell!
It almost goes without saying that the pro soccer players performed well, but Thierry Henry seemed out of it, despite hearing pockets of the crowd chant his name. Kalou was the most active, scurrying all over the pitch and playing give-and-go with Kidd.
At the end of regulation, I didn't even know or care what the final score was. The small crowd that was allowed to sit within the fence quickly rushed the field and surrounded the players, Sharpies and jerseys in hand. I squeezed through a hole in the fence and tried looking for Henry, but he'd already been whisked away into a large black SUV. If I'd gotten to the game earlier, I would have noticed the SUVs were the best place to wait for players post-final-whistle. Kidd and Nash were being mobbed, but since I had nothing for them to sign, I decided to leave. Baron Davis evidently had the same idea -- he walked out the gate just as I did. I didn't have anything for him either, so I simply patted him on the shoulder (twice), wiped my hand on the France t-shirt, and said, "Good game, Baron," as the mob implored Davis to move to New York and play for the Knicks.
Yes, I know what you are thinking, and it is true: I now have Baron Davis's sweat on my t-shirt. Yes, I am wearing it right now. Who needs Thierry Henry's autograph?
Alas, all I had was a France national soccer team t-shirt, and Thierry Henry left before I could persuade him to autograph it.See what I mean by regret? How often does Steve Nash organize a free charity football match in New York's Lower East Side in which some of the NBA's best players rub shoulders with international soccer stars like Henry, Salomon Kalou, Claudio Reyna, Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman?
Okay, I'm not entirely disappointed. After all, I got to pat Baron Davis's sweaty shoulder (yes, I had to reach up to do so).
Maybe the problem was that I got there too late. The game started at 5:30 PM, and by the time I arrived, there were only ten minutes until halftime. It took me all of halftime to wriggle my way to the front of the crowd of several thousand who were clinging to the fence surrounding the field (if you've never seen an urban soccer field before, it's basically a small pitch with no bleachers and a twenty-foot fence on the perimeter).
Everyone stood to watch, but it was worth it -- some of the world's best athletes were playing the beautiful game right in front of us. Steve Nash, a wizard with any rolling object, scored multiple times, athletically so. Fellow Phoenix Sun Leandro Barbosa, aka The Brazilian Blur, was on the same team, playing a sport he must have seemed destined to excel at growing up until sidetracked by basketball (of all things). On the other team, Jason Kidd wasn't half bad, but Baron Davis was by far the weakest player, lumbering around in orange Reeboks, black-rimmed glasses and a baseball hat. To be fair, everyone seemed to be having fun, especially Davis, who jawed with the crowd amiably. And it was hilarious to watch basketball players out of context. That defender looks really familiar. Hey, that's because he's Raja Bell!
It almost goes without saying that the pro soccer players performed well, but Thierry Henry seemed out of it, despite hearing pockets of the crowd chant his name. Kalou was the most active, scurrying all over the pitch and playing give-and-go with Kidd.
At the end of regulation, I didn't even know or care what the final score was. The small crowd that was allowed to sit within the fence quickly rushed the field and surrounded the players, Sharpies and jerseys in hand. I squeezed through a hole in the fence and tried looking for Henry, but he'd already been whisked away into a large black SUV. If I'd gotten to the game earlier, I would have noticed the SUVs were the best place to wait for players post-final-whistle. Kidd and Nash were being mobbed, but since I had nothing for them to sign, I decided to leave. Baron Davis evidently had the same idea -- he walked out the gate just as I did. I didn't have anything for him either, so I simply patted him on the shoulder (twice), wiped my hand on the France t-shirt, and said, "Good game, Baron," as the mob implored Davis to move to New York and play for the Knicks.
Yes, I know what you are thinking, and it is true: I now have Baron Davis's sweat on my t-shirt. Yes, I am wearing it right now. Who needs Thierry Henry's autograph?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Yankee dandy
Man, I'm over the moon about this one: Last night, I went to my first Yankees game at Yankee Stadium, where, perhaps for the first time in years, I felt like a kid again.It's the lights that got me. I arrived at the stadium, handed my ticket over, pushed through a turnstile, walked down a tunnel, and was suddenly confronted by a battery of white floodlights. Then I utterly forgot that it was raining, that I'd spent $5 just to check my bag in a locker, that I'd be spending many more dollars on hot dogs and chicken fingers and beer, that my seat was all the way in the upper deck. This was Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth Built, the home of champions. Everything around me was a reminder of the dominance of the New York Yankees, the most successful North American franchise in professional sports history. I felt small and inexperienced and apprehensive. Do I belong here? I wondered. Do I know enough about the sport of baseball to enjoy this? Am I going to witness history tonight? Where are the bathrooms?
There's somewhat of a backstory to this. For most of my life, baseball had been nothing but a stereotype -- "America's favorite pastime" -- with impenetrable rules. About the only thing I knew was that a guy throws a ball, another guy hits the ball with a wooden bat and runs around a diamond, stepping on bases as he does so, and if he's lucky or good, he gets back to home plate and scores. But I knew virtually nothing else. I never had to; I grew up on the baseball-free island of Borneo, where the favorite pastime is watching American documentaries about Borneo just to laugh at the way Westerners pronounce "orangutan."
The last two years of my life I spent teaching myself the ins and outs of the game, mostly because I felt ashamed for being an American resident who was completely ignorant of baseball. [A similar shame prompted me to learn, among other things, the rules of American football, how to sing "America the Beautiful", and how to identify American Idol winners by hairstyle.]
I don't claim to know that much about baseball, but one thing I know is that you can learn an awful lot, even if you're as ignorant as I was, just by watching Yankees games on TV. So until last night, that's exactly what I'd been doing for two years.
But man, nothing beats going to a game in the Bronx. My co-worker and friend CSG had two free tickets and offered one to me, and even though I'd already made plans for the evening, there really wasn't a question of whether I should take the ticket.
The thing about baseball is that if it's raining hard enough, they'll delay the game, which is how we found ourselves sitting in a summer downpour waiting for the clouds to roll off. About an hour after the game was supposed to have started, a rainbow appeared over the stadium, and the sky cleared up. Game on!
If you really want to know how the game went, read the Associated Press recap here. I'm here to tell you about the things I didn't know from simply watching a game on TV:- The best deal on concessions is the chicken fingers, by far. I mean, they weren't cheap -- this is a pro sporting event, after all -- but they're a better deal than a $5.25 no-frills hot dog. Even the New York Times agrees somewhat. Here's a list of great ballpark food (go here and click on New York).
- The beer sellers only call out "last call!" to get you to buy beer. They stuck around at least 45 minutes after "last call."
- If you buy a bag of Cracker Jacks for $5.75, just give the vendor $6.00 and tell him to keep the change.
- The people around us all seemed to know each other. At first, I thought they were one big family who'd come out to see the game together, but then I realized that they were all season-ticket holders and had come to know each other as neighbors.
- During the rain delay, the stadium played "Soak Up the Sun" by Sheryl Crow over the PA system. It seemed like a cruel joke. But then they played some Springsteen and Sinatra and all was forgiven.
- Women in the Bronx have really big chests. It sort of makes it hard for them to climb up to the nosebleed seats in the upper deck.
- Yankee Stadium feels like it was built for champions. The outfield grass is immaculate. The upper deck rises sharply around the field, almost majestically, like walls of a canyon. Even I, a mere spectator, felt like a champ.
- It was also thrilling to hear Bob "The Voice of Yankee Stadium" Sheppard announce the players over the PA, especially when he pronounced Derek Jeter's name. "Now batting for the Yankees... shortstop... number two... Derek... Jeetuh... number two."
- It's sort of a cliché, but you know what else you can hear? The sound a bat makes when it smacks a ball out of the field for a home run -- one of the greatest noises in sports.
But when the Yankees won the game, and Sinatra's "New York, New York" came booming out of the speakers, and thousands of jubilant New Yorkers sang along, I couldn't help but join in. It was a great day to be in the greatest city on earth.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Close encounter of the naked kind
I'd just arrived in the city from church in Jersey this afternoon, guitar case in hand. As I crossed Seventh Avenue, who should I see but the Naked Cowboy. He was walking down Seventh headed in my direction, bare muscles rippling, strumming his white guitar and singing at the top of his substantial lungs. For one terrifying moment, our eyes met, and I thought I'd find myself in some bizarre guitar duel a la Crossroads, my soul on the line. And then he sang his next verse, I kept walking up 32nd Street, and it was over.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Single in the city
I read once that New York is a great place to go if you're single, because they're so many other single people, but when you've been married for almost four years like I have, it's hard to know what that feels like. Well, except when Sarah jets off to Milan for a week. Then it sort of feels like I'm single again, but for one fact: When I was single, I never lived alone. I lived with a couple of guys in a decrepit, unsafe building that was torn down the month after we moved out. Then I moved with a bunch of guys into a townhouse in which we staged tournaments of the poker and Halo variety, and occasionally slept (that is, when we weren't trying in vain to deactivate a housemate's car alarm in a torrential rainstorm at 4:00 AM).
So I don't quite understand what it means to be really single; I've never lived alone. But this week, with Sarah in Italy again, I decided to see what it feels like being single in New York. Naturally, I started by going to a bar.
A couple I knew invited me to hang out at 230 Fifth, a rooftop bar, on Sunday night, the night Sarah left. It was perfect! I thought I'd arrive two hours late, chat for a bit with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and drink a couple of beers. Then I'd go home and congratulate myself for being social and convivial. And the best part was that the day after was Memorial Day, a national holiday.
I tried calling and texting the people who were supposed to be there, but no one was answering their phone. Must be so noisy that they can't hear, I thought.
It's a good thing I bothered to wear a button-down shirt and nice shoes, because when I arrived at the place at 11:00 PM, there was a sign at the door ordering me to "dress to impress" or something like that. Eight bouncers stood at the door. Okay, maybe there weren't eight, but there were at least three, which still seems to me like a lot. Obviously, this was a classy joint. They checked my ID and waved me through, and I got in an elevator with a yuppie and a hulk of a man who -- surprise -- was another bouncer. "Couple of marines threw a bottle of water off the roof," the hulk said, shaking his head. It was Fleet Week in the city, so it didn't seem out of the ordinary that a bunch of military men might have gotten frisky at a club. "The guys downstairs said it sounded like a garbage bag hitting the sidewalk."
"I thought you guys only used plastic bottles up there," I said.
"We do," the hulk said, looking at me like a pitbull looks at a nugget of dry dog food. "You think a plastic bottle can't kill a man from twenty stories up?"
And with that, the door slid open. I followed the yuppie -- who obviously knew where he was going -- up a flight of stairs, through a small crowd waiting to use the bathrooms, and out onto the roof, into a crowd of beautiful people.
Here is why I don't normally go to places like rooftop bars in Manhattan: Half the people seemed to be checking out the other half, which is exactly what you do in bars when you're single. But I wasn't single; I was merely pretending! I wasn't looking to pick anyone up. I wasn't even there to meet new people. So it was a little annoying being on the receiving end of four hundred pairs of judgmental eyes as I snaked through the crowd trying to locate the couple I knew and failing miserably. Why wasn't anyone answering his or her phone?
Here's another reason why I don't do the rooftop bar thing: A quarter of the people were wearing red bathrobes, which are apparently handed out to patrons to stave off the chilly air. Even the guys were wearing red bathrobes. I couldn't think of a less manly thing.
I decided that since I was already there, I'd get a drink at the bar and wait around to see if my friends showed up. Big mistake. My Sapphire and tonic cost $13. The bartender was generous with the Sapphire, but this was rooftop robbery served in a plastic cup.
There were some nice things about the place. The view was impressive, especially since the Empire State Building, just a few blocks away, was lit up spectacularly in red, white and blue for Memorial Weekend. The place was spacious and comfortable and well designed, which is boring in theory but not in practice. It would've been a great place to hang out for a few hours if you were with friends. But alone and married, I was feeling like 98-pound nerd at a pickup game in Rucker Park.
I took a swig of my drink and called my friend one more time. He finally answered and told me that he and his wife had made a last-minute trip to Indiana because his sister was having a baby. "Great," I said. "Is anyone else going to be here?"
"I don't know," he said. I imagined him at a hospital in Fort Wayne. He would not be wearing a red bathrobe. "AW and JC are supposed to be there. Sorry we didn't tell you that we wouldn't be there. It was a last-minute trip."
AW and JC were two guys I didn't know that well, but I tried calling AW's number anyway and got nothing but voicemail. That's it, I told myself as I downed my drink, I'm leaving.
My attempt at living it up single-style had completely flopped. I took the elevator down, left through the back entrance, and proceeded to walk in the opposite direction of home for four blocks before I realized that I was going the wrong way. It was almost midnight. I needed to pick myself up from my sour mood. So, naturally, I went to a restaurant and ate dinner alone.
Believe it or not, this was kind of a happy ending to my night. While I consider it slightly sad to dine solo, there's also something romantic about doing it, and only the most secure people can truly enjoy it without the benefit of a distraction, such as a book. Location has everything to do with it, so I picked a 24-hour French cafe called L'Express on Park Avenue. The gentle arches and lazy ceiling fans made me feel like I was in Morocco, but the bottle-festooned bar was straight out of a Manet painting. I ordered a prosciutto omelet and briefly considered asking the chef to hold the scallions, but thought better of it.
I was the only solo diner in the place who wasn't drinking an alcoholic beverage.
But the omelet was superb, the accompanying fries and salad were good, and I decided to forgo ketchup to keep the experience as authentic as possible. This must be what it's like to live the life of a single artist in Paris, I thought. I was Toulouse-Lautrec. I was Picasso. I was Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
Then I paid for my authentic French experience with a portrait of Andrew Jackson.
So I don't quite understand what it means to be really single; I've never lived alone. But this week, with Sarah in Italy again, I decided to see what it feels like being single in New York. Naturally, I started by going to a bar.
A couple I knew invited me to hang out at 230 Fifth, a rooftop bar, on Sunday night, the night Sarah left. It was perfect! I thought I'd arrive two hours late, chat for a bit with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and drink a couple of beers. Then I'd go home and congratulate myself for being social and convivial. And the best part was that the day after was Memorial Day, a national holiday.
I tried calling and texting the people who were supposed to be there, but no one was answering their phone. Must be so noisy that they can't hear, I thought.
It's a good thing I bothered to wear a button-down shirt and nice shoes, because when I arrived at the place at 11:00 PM, there was a sign at the door ordering me to "dress to impress" or something like that. Eight bouncers stood at the door. Okay, maybe there weren't eight, but there were at least three, which still seems to me like a lot. Obviously, this was a classy joint. They checked my ID and waved me through, and I got in an elevator with a yuppie and a hulk of a man who -- surprise -- was another bouncer. "Couple of marines threw a bottle of water off the roof," the hulk said, shaking his head. It was Fleet Week in the city, so it didn't seem out of the ordinary that a bunch of military men might have gotten frisky at a club. "The guys downstairs said it sounded like a garbage bag hitting the sidewalk."
"I thought you guys only used plastic bottles up there," I said.
"We do," the hulk said, looking at me like a pitbull looks at a nugget of dry dog food. "You think a plastic bottle can't kill a man from twenty stories up?"
And with that, the door slid open. I followed the yuppie -- who obviously knew where he was going -- up a flight of stairs, through a small crowd waiting to use the bathrooms, and out onto the roof, into a crowd of beautiful people.
Here is why I don't normally go to places like rooftop bars in Manhattan: Half the people seemed to be checking out the other half, which is exactly what you do in bars when you're single. But I wasn't single; I was merely pretending! I wasn't looking to pick anyone up. I wasn't even there to meet new people. So it was a little annoying being on the receiving end of four hundred pairs of judgmental eyes as I snaked through the crowd trying to locate the couple I knew and failing miserably. Why wasn't anyone answering his or her phone?
Here's another reason why I don't do the rooftop bar thing: A quarter of the people were wearing red bathrobes, which are apparently handed out to patrons to stave off the chilly air. Even the guys were wearing red bathrobes. I couldn't think of a less manly thing.
I decided that since I was already there, I'd get a drink at the bar and wait around to see if my friends showed up. Big mistake. My Sapphire and tonic cost $13. The bartender was generous with the Sapphire, but this was rooftop robbery served in a plastic cup.
There were some nice things about the place. The view was impressive, especially since the Empire State Building, just a few blocks away, was lit up spectacularly in red, white and blue for Memorial Weekend. The place was spacious and comfortable and well designed, which is boring in theory but not in practice. It would've been a great place to hang out for a few hours if you were with friends. But alone and married, I was feeling like 98-pound nerd at a pickup game in Rucker Park.
I took a swig of my drink and called my friend one more time. He finally answered and told me that he and his wife had made a last-minute trip to Indiana because his sister was having a baby. "Great," I said. "Is anyone else going to be here?"
"I don't know," he said. I imagined him at a hospital in Fort Wayne. He would not be wearing a red bathrobe. "AW and JC are supposed to be there. Sorry we didn't tell you that we wouldn't be there. It was a last-minute trip."
AW and JC were two guys I didn't know that well, but I tried calling AW's number anyway and got nothing but voicemail. That's it, I told myself as I downed my drink, I'm leaving.
My attempt at living it up single-style had completely flopped. I took the elevator down, left through the back entrance, and proceeded to walk in the opposite direction of home for four blocks before I realized that I was going the wrong way. It was almost midnight. I needed to pick myself up from my sour mood. So, naturally, I went to a restaurant and ate dinner alone.
Believe it or not, this was kind of a happy ending to my night. While I consider it slightly sad to dine solo, there's also something romantic about doing it, and only the most secure people can truly enjoy it without the benefit of a distraction, such as a book. Location has everything to do with it, so I picked a 24-hour French cafe called L'Express on Park Avenue. The gentle arches and lazy ceiling fans made me feel like I was in Morocco, but the bottle-festooned bar was straight out of a Manet painting. I ordered a prosciutto omelet and briefly considered asking the chef to hold the scallions, but thought better of it.
I was the only solo diner in the place who wasn't drinking an alcoholic beverage.
But the omelet was superb, the accompanying fries and salad were good, and I decided to forgo ketchup to keep the experience as authentic as possible. This must be what it's like to live the life of a single artist in Paris, I thought. I was Toulouse-Lautrec. I was Picasso. I was Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
Then I paid for my authentic French experience with a portrait of Andrew Jackson.
Friday, May 23, 2008
I'm going to need a bigger pan
I was at Whole Foods today when I came across some ostrich eggs for sale, nestled in a straw-lined wooden crate. Holy smokes, they were huge. I picked up the biggest one and cradled it in my hands -- it was like holding something primeval. They were going for $29.99 each, which is astronomical in my opinion, especially since one 3-pound egg is the equivalent of 18-24 chicken eggs, which go for $3.79 a dozen. I didn't buy any, but I haven't stopped thinking about them all day. I'll try and take pictures next time.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Save the earth -- live in New York
You should read the current issue of Wired for the cover story on how nothing else we are doing to help save the environment will matter if we don't do everything we can to stop global warming. But here's the shocker: Things that we used to think as harmful to the earth are now the very things we should be doing. Like cutting down forests. It sort of makes sense. Read the story here.
The thing that got my attention was the section on urban living. Apparently, "urban living is kinder to the planet, and Manhattan is perhaps the greenest place in the US. A Manhattanite's carbon footprint is 30% smaller than the average American's." That makes sense too. Sarah and I don't own a car, so our commutes don't contribute to greenhouse gases. We live in an apartment building, among "the most efficient dwellings to heat and cool." We have easy access to local produce, recycling facilities and electric buses and trains. These things are hardly within our realm of responsibility -- they're simply incidental to our geography.
The thing that got my attention was the section on urban living. Apparently, "urban living is kinder to the planet, and Manhattan is perhaps the greenest place in the US. A Manhattanite's carbon footprint is 30% smaller than the average American's." That makes sense too. Sarah and I don't own a car, so our commutes don't contribute to greenhouse gases. We live in an apartment building, among "the most efficient dwellings to heat and cool." We have easy access to local produce, recycling facilities and electric buses and trains. These things are hardly within our realm of responsibility -- they're simply incidental to our geography.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Taco swell
Man I love Mexican food, and that's a problem. It's a problem because there are no good-n-cheap Mexican places in New York, and especially not in lower Manhattan. In Los Angeles, it seemed like you could get two-dollar fish tacos anywhere, and they'd be good.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say: "So you can imagine my joy when I discovered two-dollar fish tacos available just down the street in NoLIta." Alas, I cannot say such a thing. The next best thing is to report that I've been enjoying the food at Pinche Taqueria, a new-ish Mexican hole-in-the-wall just a block away from my apartment.
The weirdest thing about Pinche Taqueria is it seems to be run by people who skipped elementary math in kindergarten. A co-worker of mine, the first person I know who ate there, reported that when the cashier rang him up for three tacos, she charged him $14, much more than the $10 that it should have cost. When he pointed out the discrepancy, she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it was $14 because the cash register said so in bright green LCD numbers, no question about it.
Tonight, when I ordered a carne asada burrito, one fish taco, and a cup of horchata, I should have been charged a little over $14. Instead, the guy running the register quoted me $26.18.
"Wait a minute," I protested, credit card in hand. "I ordered a burrito for $6.95, a fish taco for $3.75 and horchata for $2.75." Even with sales tax, $26.18 was an obvious mistake.
"I must have added your order to the previous customer's order," the hoodie-clothed guy said. He re-entered my items and everything came out fine, but he never apologized, and never gave me the slightest confidence that he wouldn't make the same mistake with a customer less alert than me. It was such a glaring error that I'm sure he wasn't trying to rip me off on purpose, but the fact that this has happened more than once is worrying. If they're careless with their accounting, what else might they be careless about?
Still, the food is great. I wish I could describe the quality of the breaded mahi mahi in the taco tonight, but it was so good that I ate the whole thing in three bites, so I have no idea, really. The burrito was good as well, though the beef was very dry and needed more sauce; it's a good thing I took the two free containers of green salsa I was offered. The burrito also came with corn salsa chips, which I've always enjoyed eating with the rest of the food instead of as an appetizer.
If you love spicy Mexican food like I do, you'll need to order a horchata, which, at Pinche Taqueira, is made with organic rice milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Nothing washes down better.
The best things I've had are the breakfast burritos. I really wanted one tonight (preferably with chorizo sausage and scrambled eggs) but when I asked if they were still serving them, the hoodie guy had to turn to his kitchen staff and ask. They said no. It was 7:00 PM. Evidently, unlike at IHOP, breakfast is not served around the clock here.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say: "So you can imagine my joy when I discovered two-dollar fish tacos available just down the street in NoLIta." Alas, I cannot say such a thing. The next best thing is to report that I've been enjoying the food at Pinche Taqueria, a new-ish Mexican hole-in-the-wall just a block away from my apartment.
The weirdest thing about Pinche Taqueria is it seems to be run by people who skipped elementary math in kindergarten. A co-worker of mine, the first person I know who ate there, reported that when the cashier rang him up for three tacos, she charged him $14, much more than the $10 that it should have cost. When he pointed out the discrepancy, she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it was $14 because the cash register said so in bright green LCD numbers, no question about it.
Tonight, when I ordered a carne asada burrito, one fish taco, and a cup of horchata, I should have been charged a little over $14. Instead, the guy running the register quoted me $26.18.
"Wait a minute," I protested, credit card in hand. "I ordered a burrito for $6.95, a fish taco for $3.75 and horchata for $2.75." Even with sales tax, $26.18 was an obvious mistake.
"I must have added your order to the previous customer's order," the hoodie-clothed guy said. He re-entered my items and everything came out fine, but he never apologized, and never gave me the slightest confidence that he wouldn't make the same mistake with a customer less alert than me. It was such a glaring error that I'm sure he wasn't trying to rip me off on purpose, but the fact that this has happened more than once is worrying. If they're careless with their accounting, what else might they be careless about?
Still, the food is great. I wish I could describe the quality of the breaded mahi mahi in the taco tonight, but it was so good that I ate the whole thing in three bites, so I have no idea, really. The burrito was good as well, though the beef was very dry and needed more sauce; it's a good thing I took the two free containers of green salsa I was offered. The burrito also came with corn salsa chips, which I've always enjoyed eating with the rest of the food instead of as an appetizer.
If you love spicy Mexican food like I do, you'll need to order a horchata, which, at Pinche Taqueira, is made with organic rice milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Nothing washes down better.
The best things I've had are the breakfast burritos. I really wanted one tonight (preferably with chorizo sausage and scrambled eggs) but when I asked if they were still serving them, the hoodie guy had to turn to his kitchen staff and ask. They said no. It was 7:00 PM. Evidently, unlike at IHOP, breakfast is not served around the clock here.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
One thing I thought I'd never do
I thought I'd never do this: Eat those White Castle burgers from the freezer section of the supermarket.
But living in New York will change a guy. Listen, I love White Castle. When I lived in New Jersey, there was a White Castle two miles down the road. At 2:00 in the morning, when you're hungry as all get-up after a night of playing Halo, White Castle is the greatest thing in the world. When I was in college, I routinely got a sack of ten cheeseburgers (plus fries, plus Coke) and ate it in one sitting. Usually I washed it all down with Tabasco. But I never, ever thought I'd stoop so low as to buy a box of frozen sliders.
So what drove me to it? Well, it all started with a Saturday night party at the Bowery Hotel. And then a few drinks were involved, including, uh, tequila shots that someone else bought for us. And then there's the need to soak up that alcohol with something really greasy and salty. So wifey suggests we go to the deli and get Hot Pockets. But then I see something that looks about a hundred times better than Hot Pockets:
[Okay, I know that we should have just gone to White Castle and gotten fresh-made sliders, but the closest WC was 36 blocks away. Plus, on the entire island of Manhattan, there are only three WC franchises, according to the website.]
So I bought a box, took it home, and nuked them. And then we ate. They were -- much like deep-fried Twinkies -- absolutely delicious and disgusting at the same time.
Some notes about the burgers:
But living in New York will change a guy. Listen, I love White Castle. When I lived in New Jersey, there was a White Castle two miles down the road. At 2:00 in the morning, when you're hungry as all get-up after a night of playing Halo, White Castle is the greatest thing in the world. When I was in college, I routinely got a sack of ten cheeseburgers (plus fries, plus Coke) and ate it in one sitting. Usually I washed it all down with Tabasco. But I never, ever thought I'd stoop so low as to buy a box of frozen sliders.
So what drove me to it? Well, it all started with a Saturday night party at the Bowery Hotel. And then a few drinks were involved, including, uh, tequila shots that someone else bought for us. And then there's the need to soak up that alcohol with something really greasy and salty. So wifey suggests we go to the deli and get Hot Pockets. But then I see something that looks about a hundred times better than Hot Pockets:
[Okay, I know that we should have just gone to White Castle and gotten fresh-made sliders, but the closest WC was 36 blocks away. Plus, on the entire island of Manhattan, there are only three WC franchises, according to the website.]So I bought a box, took it home, and nuked them. And then we ate. They were -- much like deep-fried Twinkies -- absolutely delicious and disgusting at the same time.
Some notes about the burgers:- They came out of the box in plastic-wrapped packages of two. I don't know why they didn't just package all six of them in one plastic wrapper. Who eats only two White Castle burgers at a time?
- They had only the meat patty, cheese and onions between the buns. No ketchup like the fresh-made ones do. I added my own.
- They tasted exactly like they're supposed to.
- They reminded me of this.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Waiting to hear a voice
You know how Kanye West once said that he'd have cut off a piece of his finger to have a voice like Wu-Tang's Ol' Dirty Bastard? Well, that's almost exactly how I feel about Mike Doughty's voice.
I'm 90% sure that you have no idea who Mike Doughty is, but that's okay. In 1996, I heard a song by a band named Soul Coughing, and the lead singer had the most arresting alternative rock voice I'd ever heard. I mean, it's the kind of voice you never forget, and never mistake for anyone else's. So, 11 years later, when my friend BM played some dude's solo record in his car stereo as we drove toward Union, NJ, on a Wednesday evening, I recognized the voice. And it turned out that the dude's name is Mike Doughty, and he used to be the lead singer of Soul Coughing. And it turned out that last night, BM and I went to see a Mike Doughty show at the Highline Ballroom.
I met BM outside the Highline at 7:45, which was 45 minutes after wait-list tickets were supposed to go on sale. He was still waiting, but at least he was first in line. There were about ten other poor souls behind him who liked Mike Doughty enough to wait for wait-list tickets but not enough to have bought tickets in advance.
BM really wanted to see the show. I am not nearly as a big a fan as BM -- I don't have any Mike Doughty albums, and I've only heard four Soul Coughing songs ever -- so I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if we hadn't gotten in. But at 8:30, we finally did get in, plunked down $25 each for tickets, and shuffled into the Ballroom, a small-ish performance space with the requisite black walls and a stage low enough that you could step onto it from the floor without much trouble, but not, of course, if you were five feet tall.
A bunch of guys in fake beards and funny hats were already on stage playing some vaguely interesting music. The music seemed improvised, but it was like the band was making it look more improvised than it really was. Two of them sang into various microphones, but as far as I could tell, they weren't singing a lick of English, or any other intelligible language. If Tenacious D were from Lithuania, and had a bassist and a drummer, they'd have sounded just like this. Then they stopped playing, and BM went to get some beers, and while waiting for the real opening act to take the stage, I commenced my favorite pastime at rock shows: I people-watched.
But then I got distracted because the heavyset guy standing in front of me had really bad body odor.
You know what's annoying? When you're standing in the crowd at a rock show, waiting for the opening band to show up, and you're so busy talking to your friend that you don't notice the six-foot-three dude with jug ears moving into position directly in front of you. And then when the band comes on, there's a living totem pole blocking your view.
After stepping to the left, however, I thoroughly enjoyed the opening band, the Panderers, who apparently are "from the great state of Indiana!" Never mind that it's a three-piece act, and two of the guys in the band aren't from Indiana. They played gritty southern rock and were catchy as all get-up. On one of the songs, singer Scott Wynn pronounced the word "iron" (as in iron bars) like "eye ron" which I thought was one of the greatest things I'd ever heard. And the drummer looked like Dave Grohl! They were hilarious and knew how to rock out, and I would have bought their album on iTunes if they'd made Scott Wynn's voice on the recording sound exactly the way it did at last night's show. Unfortunately, it sounds like a completely different guy.
At one point, Wynn asked if there was anyone in the audience named Sheila, and since there didn't appear to be any, some dude in the back started yelling and jumping and claiming he was named Sheila. Then the band played a song called "Sheila" and Wynn sang it to him anyway. I guess new artists will do whatever they can to sell records.
After the Panderers had left the stage, BM and I started talking to the excitable 23-year-old kid with a goatee standing in front of us. I never got his name, but we'll call him Jake. Jake was a huge Doughty fan; he said he considered Mike Doughty the third-best live performer he'd ever seen (the best was System of a Down, and the second was Tool). Then he told us that he'd be happy if Doughty played a Soul Coughing song called "True Dreams of Wichita." Jake could tell that I wasn't a true fan of Doughty's, so he spent most of his time addressing BM. Later, when Jake wandered off to the front, BM turned to me and said, "Have you ever met someone who just refused to stop talking?"
Another 25-minute wait, and Mike Doughty himself took the stage. Shockingly, his drummer was the same Dave Grohl-looking character. And his bassist was also the Panderers' bassist. As it turns out, two-thirds of the Panderers are also half of the Mike Doughty Band. How convenient.
Doughty was warm and funny and good, and that voice is largely undiminished in its character. He opened the set with "Busting Up A Starbucks," as good an opener as any, but throughout the night, he took requests from the audience, which, I'd learned, is common practice at a Mike Doughty show. Of course, Jake yelled out "Wichita!" multiple times, until Doughty said into the mic: "Wichita? No, not tonight." That shut up Jake for the rest of the night, but he continued to dance like a flailing maniac through songs like "I Just Want the Girl in the Blue Dress" and "Put It Down." It's a blessing and a curse to be a true fan.
Doughty closed the night with "Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well," the only song I really knew (apart from "I Hear the Bells," which the band did as well, but poorly -- a buzzy, badly tuned mess).
One more thing... you know those guys with the fake beards earlier in the night? They were the Mike Doughty band in disguise. Who else could they have been?
If you've never heard the voice, this is hardly the best way to listen to it, but watch this anyway:
I'm 90% sure that you have no idea who Mike Doughty is, but that's okay. In 1996, I heard a song by a band named Soul Coughing, and the lead singer had the most arresting alternative rock voice I'd ever heard. I mean, it's the kind of voice you never forget, and never mistake for anyone else's. So, 11 years later, when my friend BM played some dude's solo record in his car stereo as we drove toward Union, NJ, on a Wednesday evening, I recognized the voice. And it turned out that the dude's name is Mike Doughty, and he used to be the lead singer of Soul Coughing. And it turned out that last night, BM and I went to see a Mike Doughty show at the Highline Ballroom.
I met BM outside the Highline at 7:45, which was 45 minutes after wait-list tickets were supposed to go on sale. He was still waiting, but at least he was first in line. There were about ten other poor souls behind him who liked Mike Doughty enough to wait for wait-list tickets but not enough to have bought tickets in advance.
BM really wanted to see the show. I am not nearly as a big a fan as BM -- I don't have any Mike Doughty albums, and I've only heard four Soul Coughing songs ever -- so I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if we hadn't gotten in. But at 8:30, we finally did get in, plunked down $25 each for tickets, and shuffled into the Ballroom, a small-ish performance space with the requisite black walls and a stage low enough that you could step onto it from the floor without much trouble, but not, of course, if you were five feet tall.
A bunch of guys in fake beards and funny hats were already on stage playing some vaguely interesting music. The music seemed improvised, but it was like the band was making it look more improvised than it really was. Two of them sang into various microphones, but as far as I could tell, they weren't singing a lick of English, or any other intelligible language. If Tenacious D were from Lithuania, and had a bassist and a drummer, they'd have sounded just like this. Then they stopped playing, and BM went to get some beers, and while waiting for the real opening act to take the stage, I commenced my favorite pastime at rock shows: I people-watched.
But then I got distracted because the heavyset guy standing in front of me had really bad body odor.
You know what's annoying? When you're standing in the crowd at a rock show, waiting for the opening band to show up, and you're so busy talking to your friend that you don't notice the six-foot-three dude with jug ears moving into position directly in front of you. And then when the band comes on, there's a living totem pole blocking your view.
After stepping to the left, however, I thoroughly enjoyed the opening band, the Panderers, who apparently are "from the great state of Indiana!" Never mind that it's a three-piece act, and two of the guys in the band aren't from Indiana. They played gritty southern rock and were catchy as all get-up. On one of the songs, singer Scott Wynn pronounced the word "iron" (as in iron bars) like "eye ron" which I thought was one of the greatest things I'd ever heard. And the drummer looked like Dave Grohl! They were hilarious and knew how to rock out, and I would have bought their album on iTunes if they'd made Scott Wynn's voice on the recording sound exactly the way it did at last night's show. Unfortunately, it sounds like a completely different guy.
At one point, Wynn asked if there was anyone in the audience named Sheila, and since there didn't appear to be any, some dude in the back started yelling and jumping and claiming he was named Sheila. Then the band played a song called "Sheila" and Wynn sang it to him anyway. I guess new artists will do whatever they can to sell records.
After the Panderers had left the stage, BM and I started talking to the excitable 23-year-old kid with a goatee standing in front of us. I never got his name, but we'll call him Jake. Jake was a huge Doughty fan; he said he considered Mike Doughty the third-best live performer he'd ever seen (the best was System of a Down, and the second was Tool). Then he told us that he'd be happy if Doughty played a Soul Coughing song called "True Dreams of Wichita." Jake could tell that I wasn't a true fan of Doughty's, so he spent most of his time addressing BM. Later, when Jake wandered off to the front, BM turned to me and said, "Have you ever met someone who just refused to stop talking?"
Another 25-minute wait, and Mike Doughty himself took the stage. Shockingly, his drummer was the same Dave Grohl-looking character. And his bassist was also the Panderers' bassist. As it turns out, two-thirds of the Panderers are also half of the Mike Doughty Band. How convenient.
Doughty was warm and funny and good, and that voice is largely undiminished in its character. He opened the set with "Busting Up A Starbucks," as good an opener as any, but throughout the night, he took requests from the audience, which, I'd learned, is common practice at a Mike Doughty show. Of course, Jake yelled out "Wichita!" multiple times, until Doughty said into the mic: "Wichita? No, not tonight." That shut up Jake for the rest of the night, but he continued to dance like a flailing maniac through songs like "I Just Want the Girl in the Blue Dress" and "Put It Down." It's a blessing and a curse to be a true fan.
Doughty closed the night with "Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well," the only song I really knew (apart from "I Hear the Bells," which the band did as well, but poorly -- a buzzy, badly tuned mess).
One more thing... you know those guys with the fake beards earlier in the night? They were the Mike Doughty band in disguise. Who else could they have been?
If you've never heard the voice, this is hardly the best way to listen to it, but watch this anyway:
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A hamburger today
You may or may not care to know that I ate three cheeseburgers in the span of two days last weekend. I couldn't help myself, really. The bad part was that two of the three were eaten at popular fast food joints not known for their gourmet standards. The good part was that they were delicious.
As much as I like a good hamburger, I'm somewhat befuddled by the New York restaurant trend of serving a pricey burger. I'm not even talking about Chef Daniel Boulud's $29 DB Burger (stuffed with short ribs and foie gras). Today came news of an $81 kobe beef burger at the Old Homestead steakhouse. I bet they don't call it the Recession Special. Gothamist reports that it does come with homemade ketchup and, uh, tater-tots. Because nothing says "I'm eating the most expensive burger in New York" like a side of tater-tots.
As a point of reference, the most expensive burger I ate last weekend was the always excellent Nolita House cheeseburger, served on brioche with boursin herb cheese and fries. The damage? $12, plus tax.
As much as I like a good hamburger, I'm somewhat befuddled by the New York restaurant trend of serving a pricey burger. I'm not even talking about Chef Daniel Boulud's $29 DB Burger (stuffed with short ribs and foie gras). Today came news of an $81 kobe beef burger at the Old Homestead steakhouse. I bet they don't call it the Recession Special. Gothamist reports that it does come with homemade ketchup and, uh, tater-tots. Because nothing says "I'm eating the most expensive burger in New York" like a side of tater-tots.
As a point of reference, the most expensive burger I ate last weekend was the always excellent Nolita House cheeseburger, served on brioche with boursin herb cheese and fries. The damage? $12, plus tax.
Monday, March 31, 2008
21
The brother-in-law's movie came out tops at the domestic box office this past weekend. To celebrate, here are twenty-one things I learned on our recent trip to Seattle and Las Vegas. [Warning: This post is a little scatter-brained, but it's hard to sum up a five-day trip in one blog post, especially if the trip included attending a movie premiere.]1. It's true: In Seattle, it rains like the dickens.
2. The only reason I didn't get pulled over by a state trooper for driving 20 miles over the speed limit on Route 90 was because she had already arrested some other guy and was driving him off to the precinct.
3. Remember: if you go hiking downhill with a three-year-old, you're going to have to carry him on your shoulders on the way back up.
4. The only ingredients that should ever be in blueberry jam: blueberries, sugar, water, pectin.
5. The Microsoft employee store reminded me of the Princeton University Engineering Quad: lots of bespectacled Asian guys hanging around in groups of four.
6. Seattle natives are shoddy dressers, but they make up for it by being awfully nice.
7. People who travel to Vegas to attend a convention will tell everyone around them. The ones who go for any other reason won't say a word.
8. Vegas tap water tastes horrible.
9. Vegas buffets are a good deal, but if you only have a half-hour to eat, nothing is a good deal.
10. It pains me to say this, but the cocktail waitresses at Caesar's Palace look like they just came off the bus from the retirement home.
11. I discovered there are three movie-related things that make me cry with joy: The opening credits for Superman: The Movie. Any Pixar film. And listening to the soundtrack to Rudy.
12. Noise-canceling headphones are nice for everyday use, but where they really earn their keep is on a trans-continental flight.
13. Carrying open containers of liquor on the Vegas Strip appears to be a perfectly legal activity.
14. Being a real movie star must be tiring, especially for the facial muscles.
15. Even in Vegas, it's impossible to find a place that sells bottles of vodka at 2:00 in the morning.16. Emeril Lagasse's restaurant at the MGM Grand is good, not great. But they do have an awesome metal fish sculpture at the entrance.
17. Kevin Spacey is taller than I thought he'd be. The IMDb says he's 5-feet-10-and-a-half, which sounds about right.
18. There is nothing much different about the Playboy Club at the Palms compared to any other Vegas club, which I guess says something about Vegas.
19. Vegas showgirls are not that sexy -- all those feathers and sequins are kind of scary, actually.
20. If you tip the bathroom attendant at the Living Room in Planet Hollywood, he will offer you a breathmint.
21. People will tell you that you have to experience Vegas in small doses. They say you can't stay longer than three days, because it'll drive you crazy. I say: as long as you step outdoors for three hours of daylight each day, you could probably stay a whole week.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Knife point
I normally don't recycle news stories, but this one is just plain special: A Bronx man got mugged on his way home from work, and, instead of calling the cops or shouting for help, offered to give the mugger his coat, then took him out to dinner. Read the story here, and be humbled.
By the way, being mugged can be demeaning at least and life-threatening at most. One of my old co-workers got mugged on the way home from work -- he was jumped by a small group of youths just a few blocks from his home in Brooklyn. They wanted his iPhone and his wallet, and took both forcibly, never giving him the chance to hand over the items himself.
By the way, being mugged can be demeaning at least and life-threatening at most. One of my old co-workers got mugged on the way home from work -- he was jumped by a small group of youths just a few blocks from his home in Brooklyn. They wanted his iPhone and his wallet, and took both forcibly, never giving him the chance to hand over the items himself.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Paddy wagon
"The Irish been coming here for years," Bono sang about New York. "Feel like they own the place." The sentiment is truest on Saint Patrick's Day, which is this coming Monday. Monday, as days of the week go, is possibly the day least associated with any kind of social drinking. And it is therefore the best day to have an excuse to drink.
Of course, I'm too old to need an excuse to drink. Also, I'm approximately 0.00% Irish -- one look at my face and you'd know it, too. So it was heartwarming, if a little strange, to be greeted this evening by a car full of Irish-American ruffians on the street shouting "Happy Saint Patrick's Day!" in my face as music by the Dropkick Murphys blasted on the stereo. After all, who cares if you're Irish or not? In a city still populated by perpetrators of hate crime, it's refreshing to know that some people enjoy sharing holiday cheer, even if Saint Paddy's Day isn't, you know, a real holiday.
Of course, I'm too old to need an excuse to drink. Also, I'm approximately 0.00% Irish -- one look at my face and you'd know it, too. So it was heartwarming, if a little strange, to be greeted this evening by a car full of Irish-American ruffians on the street shouting "Happy Saint Patrick's Day!" in my face as music by the Dropkick Murphys blasted on the stereo. After all, who cares if you're Irish or not? In a city still populated by perpetrators of hate crime, it's refreshing to know that some people enjoy sharing holiday cheer, even if Saint Paddy's Day isn't, you know, a real holiday.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
On the road again
Sorry for the lack of recent posts. The wife and I are on a much-needed vacation. We're in Seattle for the moment, but tomorrow we head to Las Vegas, a city so unoriginal that it decided to build a replica of Manhattan and fill it with slot machines.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
More lights and cameras, no action
They're at it again. What began last week has developed into a full-blown shoot; film crews closed off Mott Street to vehicular traffic and rolled in their equipment this morning, chief among them the awesomely named SuperTechno camera crane. [I looked it up -- the SuperTechno 30 costs well over $2000 a day to rent, and hiring the guy who operates it costs another $550 per ten hours.] Tonight, they strung up lights in the trees and are filming a night scene on the corner of Mott and Prince. I can hear the Paramount Production Support trucks outside my window right now.
I went home for lunch this afternoon, hoping to catch a glimpse of actual filming, but was disappointed. This is common, of course. Very little "action" happens on film sets; most of the time, you sit around and wait. And no, no sightings of stars Isla Fisher or Hugh Dancy, though I didn't try very hard. I did, however, brush past the director sitting in the proverbial director's chair on my way back to the office. Boy, did he look bored.
To be honest, I'm not much a gawker. Will Smith filmed parts of I Am Legend outside my office in SoHo, and although I heard that there were throngs of people hoping to get an autograph, I was not among them. If I were a celebrity, I'd want to be left alone. Do unto others, I say.
I went home for lunch this afternoon, hoping to catch a glimpse of actual filming, but was disappointed. This is common, of course. Very little "action" happens on film sets; most of the time, you sit around and wait. And no, no sightings of stars Isla Fisher or Hugh Dancy, though I didn't try very hard. I did, however, brush past the director sitting in the proverbial director's chair on my way back to the office. Boy, did he look bored.To be honest, I'm not much a gawker. Will Smith filmed parts of I Am Legend outside my office in SoHo, and although I heard that there were throngs of people hoping to get an autograph, I was not among them. If I were a celebrity, I'd want to be left alone. Do unto others, I say.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Saturday night ride
The best time to ride the NYC subway is on a Saturday night. That's when you run across the most compelling cross-section of New Yorkers and bridge and tunnel people.
---
Tonight, I stepped into the uptown E train with my guitar case and sat across from two guys who eyed me suspiciously. One of them literally eyed me with one eye -- he had a big black eyepatch over his left eye. Both men were dressed in black from head to booted toe, looking like a pair of Eastern European assassins. Perhaps they wondered if my guitar case contained a couple of automatic weapons. I, on the other hand, have no doubt that their leather attache cases contained Makarov pistols.
---
At the Port Authority station, a man walked past me wearing a cowboy hat. You don't see many of those in this part of the world.
---
Three or four Saturdays ago, I was carrying my guitar case toward the uptown F train platform. A gaggle of teenage girls stopped me and asked if I was carrying a keyboard. "It's a guitar," I said. "Ooh, I love the guitar," one of the said through a mouthful of braces. Later, they met me again on the platform and one of them came right up to me and pretended to take my guitar case, as if we were buddies waiting for the bus at school.
---
I've blogged about my guitar case before, and nothing much has changed. I'm still getting approached by all kinds of people who would normally never give me a second glance, like the massive dude at Port Authority who looked like he could play center for the Knicks. "Is that a Fender Strat in there, man?" he yelled. I told him no it's a Parker, and expected him to say, "A what?" but he surprised me by saying, "Oh, you got a Fly in there." I wanted to shake his hand.
---
Tonight, I stepped into the uptown E train with my guitar case and sat across from two guys who eyed me suspiciously. One of them literally eyed me with one eye -- he had a big black eyepatch over his left eye. Both men were dressed in black from head to booted toe, looking like a pair of Eastern European assassins. Perhaps they wondered if my guitar case contained a couple of automatic weapons. I, on the other hand, have no doubt that their leather attache cases contained Makarov pistols.
---
At the Port Authority station, a man walked past me wearing a cowboy hat. You don't see many of those in this part of the world.
---
Three or four Saturdays ago, I was carrying my guitar case toward the uptown F train platform. A gaggle of teenage girls stopped me and asked if I was carrying a keyboard. "It's a guitar," I said. "Ooh, I love the guitar," one of the said through a mouthful of braces. Later, they met me again on the platform and one of them came right up to me and pretended to take my guitar case, as if we were buddies waiting for the bus at school.
---
I've blogged about my guitar case before, and nothing much has changed. I'm still getting approached by all kinds of people who would normally never give me a second glance, like the massive dude at Port Authority who looked like he could play center for the Knicks. "Is that a Fender Strat in there, man?" he yelled. I told him no it's a Parker, and expected him to say, "A what?" but he surprised me by saying, "Oh, you got a Fly in there." I wanted to shake his hand.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Rare Air
When I was a kid, I really wanted a pair of Nike basketball shoes. I never got them because they were expensive, and a growth spurt meant that my feet outgrew new shoes in mere weeks, a fact that my parents took pains to drill into my 13-year-old head.
Remember back in the late '80s and early '90s when Air Jordans were just about the coolest things you could put on your feet? I'm not much of sneakerhead, and I never gave Jordans much thought until a couple of years ago when the red Jordan XX1 came out and floored me with all that beautiful suede. It's funny how you can develop an appreciation for a certain aesthetic if you are open-minded enough. I used to think Air Jordans were really funny-looking; now I think many of them are fantastic.
So that's why, today, I finally got my first pair of Air Jordans ever, the stealth XX3, and thanks to SoHo shoe retailer Michael K, I got them two days before their official release. Ah, to be an adult making his own financial decisions...
Like I said, I'm no sneakerhead, though some of my co-workers happen to be very serious about their sneakers. I mean, if they were looking for a new apartment, one of the requirements would be enough space to store at least a hundred pairs of sneakers, in shoe boxes. They are the reason that limited edition sneakers sell out fifteen minutes after they are released. I, on the other hand, own a grand total of six pairs of sneakers, three of which are so ratty that I wouldn't wear them in public. I also have one pair of Nike Air Max 360 running shoes, which are slightly, ah, under-used. So it's a big step for me to own a pair of Jordans, which is why I'm happy I waited until the XX3, the twenty-third iteration, came out (23 was Michael Jordan's jersey number, in case you somehow missed the '90s).
Now, while I love my new sneakers, I can't decide if I should wear them or leave them in the box. After all, what's the point of buying cool shoes if you don't wear them? These things are beautifully crafted; the pattern on the side is hand-stitched. On the other hand, Air Jordans generally appreciate in value over time, but only if they are deadstock (never worn, kept in the original box). Plus, there's no way I'd wear these to actually play basketball in. I'd be laughed off the court, but only after I get thoroughly schooled and the shoes get thoroughly stepped on due to my utter lack of game. So it may be a better idea to leave them in the box.
Remember back in the late '80s and early '90s when Air Jordans were just about the coolest things you could put on your feet? I'm not much of sneakerhead, and I never gave Jordans much thought until a couple of years ago when the red Jordan XX1 came out and floored me with all that beautiful suede. It's funny how you can develop an appreciation for a certain aesthetic if you are open-minded enough. I used to think Air Jordans were really funny-looking; now I think many of them are fantastic.
So that's why, today, I finally got my first pair of Air Jordans ever, the stealth XX3, and thanks to SoHo shoe retailer Michael K, I got them two days before their official release. Ah, to be an adult making his own financial decisions...
Like I said, I'm no sneakerhead, though some of my co-workers happen to be very serious about their sneakers. I mean, if they were looking for a new apartment, one of the requirements would be enough space to store at least a hundred pairs of sneakers, in shoe boxes. They are the reason that limited edition sneakers sell out fifteen minutes after they are released. I, on the other hand, own a grand total of six pairs of sneakers, three of which are so ratty that I wouldn't wear them in public. I also have one pair of Nike Air Max 360 running shoes, which are slightly, ah, under-used. So it's a big step for me to own a pair of Jordans, which is why I'm happy I waited until the XX3, the twenty-third iteration, came out (23 was Michael Jordan's jersey number, in case you somehow missed the '90s).Now, while I love my new sneakers, I can't decide if I should wear them or leave them in the box. After all, what's the point of buying cool shoes if you don't wear them? These things are beautifully crafted; the pattern on the side is hand-stitched. On the other hand, Air Jordans generally appreciate in value over time, but only if they are deadstock (never worn, kept in the original box). Plus, there's no way I'd wear these to actually play basketball in. I'd be laughed off the court, but only after I get thoroughly schooled and the shoes get thoroughly stepped on due to my utter lack of game. So it may be a better idea to leave them in the box.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Werewolves of New York
Tonight, for a brief moment, I caught the total lunar eclipse as I walked down Houston Street, and I wasn't alone. People were emerging from various watering holes to peer at the moon, which, at approximately 10:00 PM EST, was looking rather muddy, like an aged bloodstain. Alas, there was no sign of pranksters in werewolf costumes, or even real werewolves.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
On location
How do I know the WGA writers strike is really over? Because they're shooting movies in New York again.
Remember this post from last September? That's when I first heard about the movie Confessions of a Shopaholic. I guess the location scouts decided that the street I live on would be a good place to shoot part of the film, because there was a film crew out on the street this morning. I wanted to take pictures of the real action -- they had Panavision cameras rigged to the sides of yellow cabs -- but I'd left my camera in my apartment and couldn't get it until lunchtime. By then, filming had ended and all that was left was a massive collection of lights arrays, tripods, and other important but ultimately boring things being packed up.
It's not likely that I'll see the film when it eventually comes out. But if you do, and you watch a scene in which a character steps out of a cab and into a boutique with beach balls in the window, you'll know where it was shot.
Remember this post from last September? That's when I first heard about the movie Confessions of a Shopaholic. I guess the location scouts decided that the street I live on would be a good place to shoot part of the film, because there was a film crew out on the street this morning. I wanted to take pictures of the real action -- they had Panavision cameras rigged to the sides of yellow cabs -- but I'd left my camera in my apartment and couldn't get it until lunchtime. By then, filming had ended and all that was left was a massive collection of lights arrays, tripods, and other important but ultimately boring things being packed up.
It's not likely that I'll see the film when it eventually comes out. But if you do, and you watch a scene in which a character steps out of a cab and into a boutique with beach balls in the window, you'll know where it was shot.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Off day
It's a pretty dreary Monday. As winter days go, it's insufferable. The only good thing is that it's also Presidents Day, which means I get the day off. Also, it's not Blue Monday, which, if you believe the "research," is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year, statistically. Blue Monday this year fell on January 21. I went back to look at what I'd written in this blog on January 21; it wasn't exactly puppies and bunnies and sugar-sweet sunshine.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Howard, the dunk
I spent my Saturday night watching this on TV: the Orlando Magic's resident beast Dwight Howard flying toward the rim in his Superman getup to win this year's NBA Slam Dunk Contest. Hilarious and amazing. [Click through here for the full picture ©Getty Images]
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Judd or junk?
I learned two things in art school: (1) Art is not "anything", and (2) Some art is good, some art sucks, and you are allowed to hate both kinds.*
Well, I don't hate the art of the minimalist sculptor Donald Judd, but I don't really like any of it either. And I'm writing from having experienced his artwork first-hand, not simply seeing them in books. A lot of Judds, I think, are uninteresting. But I would never dare accuse them of not being art. I wouldn't even call them "bad art" -- in fact, most Judd sculptures are really good. I just don't have a place in my heart for them.
So what's my point? The point is, I came across this brilliant and audacious quiz called Donald Judd, or Cheap Furniture? (via The Morning News), which illustrates how difficult it can be to distinguish between priceless works of art and everyday objects. Art may not be "anything" but it can certainly look like any thing. Can you tell the difference? Take the quiz here and see if you can best my score of 83% (I'd never seen any of the Judd artworks in the quiz until I took it).
*To be fair, I learned more than just two things in art school. For example, I learned turpentine is fairly poisonous, nude modeling pays $12.50 an hour if you have no experience, and painters are poorer, but nicer, than graphic designers.
Well, I don't hate the art of the minimalist sculptor Donald Judd, but I don't really like any of it either. And I'm writing from having experienced his artwork first-hand, not simply seeing them in books. A lot of Judds, I think, are uninteresting. But I would never dare accuse them of not being art. I wouldn't even call them "bad art" -- in fact, most Judd sculptures are really good. I just don't have a place in my heart for them.
So what's my point? The point is, I came across this brilliant and audacious quiz called Donald Judd, or Cheap Furniture? (via The Morning News), which illustrates how difficult it can be to distinguish between priceless works of art and everyday objects. Art may not be "anything" but it can certainly look like any thing. Can you tell the difference? Take the quiz here and see if you can best my score of 83% (I'd never seen any of the Judd artworks in the quiz until I took it).
*To be fair, I learned more than just two things in art school. For example, I learned turpentine is fairly poisonous, nude modeling pays $12.50 an hour if you have no experience, and painters are poorer, but nicer, than graphic designers.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Powdered
Finally! 53 days into winter, New York is experiencing a good powdering. It doesn't look like it's going to last (the temperature is going up tomorrow, bringing rain), so I won't be able to do everything on my list of five favorite things to do when it snows. But it's okay. It was just nice to be able to walk outside, even if the snow is coming down really hard and the snowflakes are, much like a kiss from Angelina Jolie, big, wet and nasty. The great thing about New York when it snows is how quiet it is. Cars drive slower, there are fewer people out on the street, and all that snow smooths out the rough, echo-y edges of the sidewalks and buildings.[The photos below and above were taken from my office in SoHo.]
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Desk drives
Now added: zebra van, tree and monkey, safari car, elephant, and more. See previous version here.I'm going to have to explain this zoo diorama on my work desk. On my birthday, one of my co-workers, GR, bought me a box of plastic Japanese toys. They're part of a set that, when put together, make up a mini zoo. Since three other co-workers have also had birthdays in the last month, GR went out and bought other parts of the same set. We've been putting the whole thing together on my desk.
My desk at work is 6 feet wide and probably three feet deep. Until I put the diorama together, the only things on it were my keyboard, monitor, and Wacom tablet. The funny thing is my desk at home is a junk pile. Since I spend more time at work than I do at home on most days, I guess it's not such a funny thing.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Let me eat cake
Today, Tuesday, February 5th, turned out to be one heck of a day. It's Super Tuesday, which is important for reasons thoroughly detailed on this Wikipedia page (in case you were wondering, no, I did not vote today, but that's because, as a non-citizen permanent resident of the United States, I cannot vote). It was also the day of the New York Giants parade here in the City, which I wrote about in my previous post. And it's Mardi Gras, which, at least in New Orleans, is a day marked by drunken revelry, public nudity, and king cake.
What is king cake, you ask? Until this afternoon, I had no idea, but someone brought in a king cake to the office (sent from New Orleans, even) and educated me. King cake is a ring of bread and icing eaten on or around Mardi Gras, which, I decided, was a good enough reason to have a slice. No one told me about the baby, however.
Every king cake contains a little plastic baby. Guess who found it. Tradition dictates that the finder of the baby gets ten days off from work, $500 in cash, and a puppy. No, that's not true. But I wish it were, except for the puppy part. I want an electric guitar instead. If you really must know about the baby, read about it here.
What is king cake, you ask? Until this afternoon, I had no idea, but someone brought in a king cake to the office (sent from New Orleans, even) and educated me. King cake is a ring of bread and icing eaten on or around Mardi Gras, which, I decided, was a good enough reason to have a slice. No one told me about the baby, however.
Every king cake contains a little plastic baby. Guess who found it. Tradition dictates that the finder of the baby gets ten days off from work, $500 in cash, and a puppy. No, that's not true. But I wish it were, except for the puppy part. I want an electric guitar instead. If you really must know about the baby, read about it here.
Giants unseen
This morning, the City hosted a ticker-tape parade for the New York Giants, who rode into town like the conquering kings they are. I and two co-workers left the office for a couple of hours to see if we could get close enough to high-five Eli Manning (yeah, right). There were three things going against us: We didn't leave early enough, we did not know anyone who worked in an office overlooking the parade route, and we were not cops.
So, along with about twenty bajillion other people, we ended up walking around lower Manhattan in circles, prevented from getting close to the parade by the NYPD's best. We had to return to our office and watch the live video feed streaming on CNN.com, but not before I snapped these photos:
About half the people wore Giants apparel. Those who didn't bring their own could buy them from sketchy street vendors peddling t-shirts with slogans like, "Patriots: From Spyin' to Cryin'." Predictably, the most popular jerseys worn were those of Manning, Strahan, Shockey, Burress and Jacobs (I also saw a couple of Gary Reasons jerseys, which looked like they hadn't been washed since 1989).
To give you an idea of how crowded it was, this photo was shot at least five blocks from the parade route.
The Naked Cowboy may rule Times Square, but the rest of Manhattan is fair game for the Naked Author, who showed up in "eye-black" face paint and little else. I'm glad I didn't have to ride next to him in a crowded subway train on the way back.
So, along with about twenty bajillion other people, we ended up walking around lower Manhattan in circles, prevented from getting close to the parade by the NYPD's best. We had to return to our office and watch the live video feed streaming on CNN.com, but not before I snapped these photos:
About half the people wore Giants apparel. Those who didn't bring their own could buy them from sketchy street vendors peddling t-shirts with slogans like, "Patriots: From Spyin' to Cryin'." Predictably, the most popular jerseys worn were those of Manning, Strahan, Shockey, Burress and Jacobs (I also saw a couple of Gary Reasons jerseys, which looked like they hadn't been washed since 1989).
To give you an idea of how crowded it was, this photo was shot at least five blocks from the parade route.
The Naked Cowboy may rule Times Square, but the rest of Manhattan is fair game for the Naked Author, who showed up in "eye-black" face paint and little else. I'm glad I didn't have to ride next to him in a crowded subway train on the way back.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Finding it before losing it
What's almost as good as finding something you lost? Finding something you didn't know you'd lost. I must have dropped a glove coming home from work, because when I took the trash out a couple of hours later, I found that someone had helpfully wedged it into the bannister of the stairs.I've lost a couple of things since moving to New York, which is notable because I almost never lose anything. This is in contrast to my brother in his youth, who somehow managed to lose a brand-new soccer ball before he'd even had the chance to play with it, and, on another occasion, a whole shopping bag of Capri-Suns entrusted to his care (the Capri-Suns were very important because our whole thirsty family was looking forward to drinking them for the first time). My brother has since turned into a responsible adult who doesn't lose so much as his temper. But I still think about that soccer ball every now and then...
My most devastating loss happened a couple of years ago. I dropped my Wenger Swiss Army Knife that I'd been using as a keychain for almost 20 years on the street, right outside the apartment. My dad had bought the knife for me in 1988 in a mall in Singapore, on our way to Australia. It was small and discreet, almost a trinket, with a virtually useless pair of scissors built in. But it went with me to six different countries over the next eight years. I used it to open letters in Indiana, to cut leeches in half in the jungles of Borneo, to slice strawberries in Perth, and to remove tags from new clothes in Hong Kong. I only stopped traveling with it after September 11, when it became impossible to carry on an airplane. After I finally lost it in New York, the bitter lesson I learned was this:
For the love of all your favorite keepsakes, stop wearing jeans with holes in their pockets!
Sunday, February 3, 2008
The strangest thing has just happened
As I type this, I can hear a whole city of people yelling from their apartment windows. The New York Giants have just won the Super Bowl.
And you don't want to know the words they're using to refer to Tom Brady.
UPDATE: Now women are flashing passers-by on the street. It's like Mardi Gras out there.
And you don't want to know the words they're using to refer to Tom Brady.
UPDATE: Now women are flashing passers-by on the street. It's like Mardi Gras out there.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Friday, February 1, 2008
A few of my favorite things
Thinking of moving here? Wondering what will make your NYC life much more pleasant? Here are three things I'm glad I have:
1. Noise-canceling headphones. I have the Audio Technica ANC7, which I absolutely love, but go ahead and get a pair of overpriced, overrated Bose headphones if you want. Either way, noise-canceling 'phones make a long subway ride or a noisy office much more bearable.
2. An always-loaded Metrocard. Because you never know when you'll need to rush to catch a subway train.
3. A digital video recorder, like TiVo. I have no idea how I lived without a DVR. It completely changes the way you watch TV by giving you virtually complete control over what and when you watch; I've never had to worry about getting home early enough to watch the new episode of House.
1. Noise-canceling headphones. I have the Audio Technica ANC7, which I absolutely love, but go ahead and get a pair of overpriced, overrated Bose headphones if you want. Either way, noise-canceling 'phones make a long subway ride or a noisy office much more bearable.
2. An always-loaded Metrocard. Because you never know when you'll need to rush to catch a subway train.
3. A digital video recorder, like TiVo. I have no idea how I lived without a DVR. It completely changes the way you watch TV by giving you virtually complete control over what and when you watch; I've never had to worry about getting home early enough to watch the new episode of House.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Why the caged lion sings
This is the mini zoo diorama on my desk at work. I don't know if you can tell from the photo, but the duck in the foreground is only half an inch tall in real life.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday adventures
I got sick this weekend, a consequence of having to wait in the 26-degree January air for ninety minutes just to get a table at Prune on Saturday. (That's 26 degrees Fahrenheit, you Centigraders!) I was crabby in the cold to begin with, but when we finally got in, the food and fruit juice blend (Meyer lemon, lime, orange and grapefruit) went a long way toward brightening my spirits. I remained in a good mood until that evening, when my body decided to develop a cough and fever. So, no church on Sunday. No blogging on Sunday either.
But if I had blogged on Sunday, I would have written a list of things I saw while out walking on Saturday. Here it is:
But if I had blogged on Sunday, I would have written a list of things I saw while out walking on Saturday. Here it is:
- A one-eyed Pekingese on 1st Street. Pekingese dogs are funny-looking enough, but being monocular makes them downright creepy.
- Three small breadfruit floating in a basin of water, at the Essex Street Market. I didn't even know what they were until I asked the Spanish-speaking fruit vendors.
- A chunk of the most beautiful piece of Kobe beef I'd ever seen, in a glass case at the butcher. Also, I saw a chunk of jamón ibérico (Spanish cured ham) at the cheesemonger. Ibérico had been banned from sale in the United States until just last month, so it was the first time I'd seen it. At $99 a pound, I couldn't afford it.
- And also, this was at the discount candy store:
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Any way you slice it
Before there was a Pizza Hut in my Malaysian hometown, my mom used to make a homemade version of pizza, which was basically a deep-dish pie filled to the gills with mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes, and baked in a Pyrex plate. I'd have a hard time finding anything like that in New York City, where the most popular style of pizza is one with a thin, chewy crust, a rich tomato sauce, plenty of mozzarella, and no toppings. I have a slice of New York-style pizza once a week, on average (I live just around the block from the first Ray's Pizzeria in New York, and only two blocks from Lombardi's, the nation's first pizzeria). But come visit me in the City and I'll take you to Luzzo's, my favorite Neapolitan pizza joint in Manhattan. We'll order one quattro stagioni and one arugola. And we'll be happier than coals in a brick oven.
Any New Yorker knows that it's hard to find good New York-style pizza outside of the City. My experience has been the farther you travel away from Northeast, the worse the pizza gets. But what do I know? Brush up on the twenty regional pizza styles in the United States by reading this article.
Any New Yorker knows that it's hard to find good New York-style pizza outside of the City. My experience has been the farther you travel away from Northeast, the worse the pizza gets. But what do I know? Brush up on the twenty regional pizza styles in the United States by reading this article.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Aye tunes
People used to ask me all the time what music I listen to. And I used to tell them that I listen to everything except country. It's a pretty standard response, especially in this part of the States. When I asked other people the same question, I often got the same response.
But that was a long time ago. Today, I do listen to country (Laura Cantrell, Faith Hill and Johnny Cash, if you're curious). I mean, I'd have to like country music if I listened to as much Christian worship music as I do. And, in fact, I heard lots of country music growing up, in the vein of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton and John Denver, who were among my dad's favorites.
If you're wondering what kind of music I listen to now, I give you my list of nine songs I listened to the most number of times in 2007 (based on strength of melody, how they hold up to repeated listens, quality of production, and general awesomeness).
"Hard Sun" Eddie Vedder
Brought tears to my eyes and shivers to the back of my neck on first listen, even if Eddie didn't actually write it.
"Slow Show" The National
Not the best song on Boxer. But it's the one with the greatest piano refrain.
"Atlas" Battles
From the year's best album, Mirrored.
"Reckoner" Radiohead
The drums and percussion on this one are astounding.
"Spilt Needles" The Shins
Amazing drum pattern, excellently recorded.
"Straight Lines" Silverchair
I was just stoked to hear Silverchair on the radio twelve years after Frogstomp.
"Come Right Out and Say It" Relient K
Very typical Relient K, but richer harmonies and tighter instrumentation elevate it.
"1234" Feist
The best mainstream single of 2007 (Rihanna's "Umbrella", though good, doesn't come close).
"Detlef Schrempf" Band of Horses
Most atmospheric song named after an ex-NBA player ever.
Bonus: Any of the following off Björk's Volta album: "Declare Independence," "Earth Intruders," "The Dull Flame of Desire," and "Innocence."
But that was a long time ago. Today, I do listen to country (Laura Cantrell, Faith Hill and Johnny Cash, if you're curious). I mean, I'd have to like country music if I listened to as much Christian worship music as I do. And, in fact, I heard lots of country music growing up, in the vein of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton and John Denver, who were among my dad's favorites.
If you're wondering what kind of music I listen to now, I give you my list of nine songs I listened to the most number of times in 2007 (based on strength of melody, how they hold up to repeated listens, quality of production, and general awesomeness).
"Hard Sun" Eddie Vedder
Brought tears to my eyes and shivers to the back of my neck on first listen, even if Eddie didn't actually write it.
"Slow Show" The National
Not the best song on Boxer. But it's the one with the greatest piano refrain.
"Atlas" Battles
From the year's best album, Mirrored.
"Reckoner" Radiohead
The drums and percussion on this one are astounding.
"Spilt Needles" The Shins
Amazing drum pattern, excellently recorded.
"Straight Lines" Silverchair
I was just stoked to hear Silverchair on the radio twelve years after Frogstomp.
"Come Right Out and Say It" Relient K
Very typical Relient K, but richer harmonies and tighter instrumentation elevate it.
"1234" Feist
The best mainstream single of 2007 (Rihanna's "Umbrella", though good, doesn't come close).
"Detlef Schrempf" Band of Horses
Most atmospheric song named after an ex-NBA player ever.
Bonus: Any of the following off Björk's Volta album: "Declare Independence," "Earth Intruders," "The Dull Flame of Desire," and "Innocence."
Thursday, January 24, 2008
By the way
Today, after work, I walked by the apartment building where Heath Ledger died. I wasn't expecting much. It's a nondescript building on Broome Street (as are most of these tony flats in this part of town), a block away from many of my favorite lunch spots. In all honesty, I didn't intend to walk past. I'm not particularly drawn to news scenes, but it was the easiest route home tonight because I was coming from the company's other office.
There were news vans parked on the block; I noticed vans belonging to Fox 5, My9, and the CW. Flash bulbs were going off among a small group of people gathered at the front door of the building. There was a huge pile of flower bouquets at the door as well.
Show business makes strangers into friends. If you watch someone on the movie or TV screen often enough, you start wondering if you might really know them. If you're taken by a piece of art, like a motion picture, you're also drawn to the one who created it. It's a human response. So here were all these humans, responding to a stranger's untimely death in the best way they knew how. Perhaps they'll go home and host a Heath Ledger film festival for their friends, as well. It doesn't seem like a bad way to remember a man.
There were news vans parked on the block; I noticed vans belonging to Fox 5, My9, and the CW. Flash bulbs were going off among a small group of people gathered at the front door of the building. There was a huge pile of flower bouquets at the door as well.
Show business makes strangers into friends. If you watch someone on the movie or TV screen often enough, you start wondering if you might really know them. If you're taken by a piece of art, like a motion picture, you're also drawn to the one who created it. It's a human response. So here were all these humans, responding to a stranger's untimely death in the best way they knew how. Perhaps they'll go home and host a Heath Ledger film festival for their friends, as well. It doesn't seem like a bad way to remember a man.
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