I saw him again!

The man with no hands, smoking.

He was sitting on the steps of the big Esprit store on Fifth and 16th. So first deduction, he works on this street. I walked past him, as he was sitting, smoking. Walking past, flanked by two older friends, equipped with a spanking new digital camera I had to fight back the urge to stop and speak to him and to snap a photo of him. I thought better of it, deciding to leave this seemingly regular one-sided encounter for what it is. Chapter closed.

Manhattan snapshot

Nothing finah than a dinah!

{Written in haste as the battery of my Mac ran out with enough time to upload it via the free wifi in Union Square. Please don’t ‘grade me’ on spelling and grammar.}

The first thing I noticed during this visit as I searched for the perfect breakfast after my early morning [slash] post jetlagged blade around Union Square is that even more of my favorite little diners have disappeared. Well, they didn’t vanish by an alien ray-gun but have been ‘converted’, 'improved' or worse ‘gentrified’.

I found myself over on Third Avenue above 14th street, a neighborhood I have rarely ever needed to visit. I found a Joe Jr. diner, which is part of a small chain: two links. The other one, less diner-y for my liking is on Sixth Avenue, not far from where I stay while I am in the city.
As it was Saturday morning I was permitted to take a booth next to the window all for myself. If it had been Sunday it’s likely I would have been asked (told with a wry smile) to take a single seat at the counter.

Not the healthiest liver when the sun goes down, aka I like to sip wine and smoke tobacco cigarettes, otherwise I prefer healthy foods and regular exercise. This means that to eat a high-carb, high-fat and sulfites meal rarely happens unless, I am in a little diner, a 'greasy spoon', a 'corner joint.' This is maybe a Manhattan thing that is ingrained in me: live well but still, as a New Yorker there lurks a darker, less healthy penchant.

The diner aura takes hold as it should and the shred of tourist in me is driven to the surface even though I am in my former home ‘land’. I simply cannot resist ordering a decadently dineresque breakfast: well-done bacon, French toast that will be slathered in maple syrup and butter and washed down with a yogic deliberation by cups (as many as I want!) of American coffee. Sure, it’s watery and has only the charred taste that remains of the coffee grounds but it’s New York diner coffee: freshly brewed, steamy and served in a heavy, quasi-porcelain, white cup with matching saucer.

As I take the first sips of my cup 'of joe' and thumb dreamily through the Voice I am amazed by how much I missed the standard objects ubiquitous of a diner table top. The black-lacquer and stainless steel napkin dispenser, the grody bottle of ketchup that has been refilled many times, never replaced. The dented spouts of the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar pourer, that to amazement still has it’s lip to cover the 'pouring hole' but is mangled at the hinge and about to fall off. (I hope it doesn’t ‘choose’ to self-detach during my breakfast). The creamer container is a relief to see, resting triumphantly next to its constituents. Most of the diners have stopped this tradition opting to serve miniscule 'buckets' of individual half&half servings that guarantee to spittle-splatter everywhere when the paper seal is pulled back. These objects seemed ready for the extinct list I theorized. It has taken me too long to find a nice little ‘greasy spoon’ in which to have breakfast and wondered how long this place would remain before being ‘improved’; becoming yet another posers-only café etc. place that served overpriced everything.

Documentation of these table-top characters was an order and I whipped out my digital knowing that by the first snap I would be labeled a tourist and may run the risk of being ‘hoaxed’ but the thought passed quickly as I knew the ropes of this town and would rise to the possible occasion with aplomb.

This is the part where I have to swear on my loved ones that it really happened:
From the moment I was served my diner-perfect meal, complete with the classically sticky yet traditional syrup pourer (I was so relieved they hadn’t served my packets of syrup), and as I took a Zen moment to admire it and fill my lungs with it’s sweet, toasty and salty aroma the song “More than a feeling” by… by… (Air Supply ?) began to play. As a joke with myself I glance around like a bad actor, broadcasting the thought that I think someone is watching me.

This is a classic New Yorker paradise and one, which will endure for as long as people want an uncomplicated, no-posing-required meal.

Save our Diners by patronizing places that keep it simple, fresh and goooooood.
(I am a nerd, I know.)

Images . . .



The joy of familiar 'faces'





MMMMMMMMMhhhhh.... (Please, Sir, more coffee?)




Can't beata bahhgain like this with a stick!

Images: TR!SH © 2005

As the season ends, I am nostalgic for the summers of my youth:A brief-ish history of Atlantic City, NJ

(googled source: www.robbender.comphotos/atlanticcity/lucy/)

This Lucy the Elephant, the famous landmark of my hometown and icon of my youth.

I loved growing up in Margate, especially in summertime. A quaint, yet not quite provincial downbeach community with great beaches and rockin' little dance clubs and bars on the lagoon-side of the island. By June 1st, fancy convertibles, speedboats and big city people filled my town to cavort in the bright sun and warm nights. It was only a 50-minute straight-run via the Black Horse Pike from Philapelphia and a mere 2 miles south along the coastline from Atlantic City.

The essence of Atlantic City history during the pre-casino era can largely be summed up in three words: glamour, geeks and gangsters. Up until World War II, the city's skyline remained an internationally famous symbol of glamour and architectural excess on a par with European palaces. It was known as "the world's playground".

The best orchestras and celebrities in the country headlined on the boardwalk (...in Atlantic City...) as well as famous performers like escape artist Harry Houdini. But the most famous boardwalk act of all time ran on Steel Pier for 49 years: the high-diving horse.

The most famous board game, Monopoly, is based on Atlantic City, and Margate: "Marvin" Gardens and Ventnor Avenue. One of the "most expensive" properties of the game. It's mispelled by the Parker Brothers. The correct spelling is 'Marven' because it was a border and at one point a zoning issue between Margate, and Ventnor, the next town before Atlantic City.



There is the apocryphal story of salt water taffy about a shopkeeper on the Atlantic City Boardwalk named David Bradley. A tidal surge from a summer storm in 1883 swamped his store and buried his inventory in sea water. As he was cleaning up a girl walked into his store to buy a bag of taffy. Bradley was supposed to have invited his young customer to help herself to his new invention "salt water taffy."

And the famous film Atlantic City directed by Louis Malle, starring Susan Sarandon and Burt Lancaster. I remember when the city was still that dilapidated and ghostlike. There is a scene where they drive over an old bridge connecting the Long Port and Somer's Point causeways. The bridge is long gone but the memory of riding over it makes me pleased that Malle decided to keep that footage in the final cut.

As the daughter an American and raised by an Italian-American father, every summer (well, all year in fact) meant eating subs (short for submarine-like sandwiches) at The White House Subs run by of course a Italian-American family. This famous sandwiches are part of Frank Sinatra history: he would have a huge order shipped express (packed in dry ice) to his Beverly Hills home to serve to his most honored guests. The walls of the joint are covered with photos of celebrity "sub-eaters" from the Beatles to Breshnev.

Being an avid Sex and the City fan (especially after living in NYC for over a decade) it was a pure delight to find that they dedicated an episode to my seaside roots.

HERE SHE IS... MISS AMERICA


(source: www.tiaratown.com/ msset2.htm - caption on this webpage: Status: "Temporary out of stock, item will be available by Sep 27, 2005.")


From 1921 to this year, Atlantic City was the home of the Miss America Pageant.
Sadly this was the final year that the contestants paraded down the boardwalk and performed and poised themselves before the judges in the same historical convention center where I collected my high school diploma.

I was never a pagent-type but when you grow up close to where one occurs it's inevitable to acquire an interest even if it becomes defunct. Eventually Miss A. parties are meant for betting on who will lose (and then cry on TV) in the various rounds and to exhibit that kind of shallow cattiness that comes naturally to all woman. While male friends enjoy categorizing the contestants F-able qualities, kind of like their affable qualities but much less congeniality-based.

Anyway check out Miss America 2005 who was crowned on September 11th (!). And her predecessors. Does anyone remember when Vanessa Williams was disqualified. Her runner-up/successor vanished into obscurity but not hottie Vanessa!

Happily there are other summer events that Atlantic City will not relinquish like the Around the Island Swim that hails a multitude nationalities. (The website is un peu moche, don't judge the messenger!)

And, the Surf for a Cause! competition founded by the Dean Randazzo Cancer Foundation (DRCF).

Dean and I grew up a few streets apart in Margate. Our mothers are friends. Dean and I have older siblings that are the same age. Our oldest sisters are friends. He has a second oldest brother named Joe; my second oldest sister is Jo(anne). And then there was Dean and I, the "babies". I was the wild one, while he was the quiet, shy one. All six of us kids played in each other's home, and our small neighborhood, and went to the same little Catholic school together. Summers were the best when we would spend every day at the beach.

By age 9, Dean could surf on any flat object and I mean surf, not just stand up. Like on one of those crappy styrofoam belly-boards our mothers would buy us at the Shop-Rite for $9.99 in June which would be broken in half by rough waves well before the Fourth of July.

The years passed and the boy-girl friendships dwindled but they are beautiful memories of running games in the hot sand and hours riding the ocean waves. And it was being able to witness someone champion that wild and unpredictable Atlantic. It was obvious that Dean would be a champion and he became one - an internationally reknowned surfing champion. He earned a reputation as a gifted surfer but very little money unfortunately.

In June 2001 he was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease, cancer of the lymphnodes - and lethal if not treated immediately. He turned to his family for support and advice. In August 2001 they founded the DRCF.

In September of 2001, the Foundation held its First Annual Surf for a Cause competition in Longport, New Jersey. In September 2002, the DRCF donated $10,000.00 to the Ruth Newman Shapiro cancer and heart fund of Southern New Jersey to benefit cancer research.

Surf for a Cause! 2005 will be held this Saturday, September 17th in Atlantic City.
Get rad!

Dean is in remission and continues the efforts of his foundation as well as riding the tastiest waves on the planet.

Here's Dean aka "Dazzler" gettin' totally rad:



Note myself again: next year, spend more time at the shore and less in the avenues of Manhattan.

Grafitti in the men's toilette of theRhode Island School of Design, mid-80's

Spalding Gray, one of my favorite writers and actors, included this graffiti sighting in his book of essays SEX AND DEATH TO AGE 14:

"When the world runs out of money and we start using shit instead, the poor will be born without assholes."



[source: http://www.spaldinggray.com/spudhomage.html]

Queeny goes down (this is not a porn story.)

When we were kids we had a table and set of chairs like this (above.) Well, in fact the the actual table was larger and round but the chairs are the same. My sister sent this image to me with the caption, "I feel a broken collar bone coming on."

Here's why:
Firstly, it was eons (spelling?) before toys that didn't require imagination. And to preface this story, I have two older sisters, Marie and Joanne (then me.)

In the rec room, as our mom called it and it took me years to realize 'rec' was for recreation and not 'wreck' which it was whenever I played there, we invented many games. One was playing Queen. Yeah, yeah. It was also years before that vernacular had a-NOTHER meaning.

This is how it worked: place a chair on the table, wrap the large and rather cumbersome afghan (knitted by grandmother) that was a deep red - very royal looking - around your shoulders and place the crown (a toy tambourine) on your head. It was so long ago, I don't remember what happens after that. And, oh yeah, when you are the youngest, YOU NEVER get a chance to be the queen. YOU are always the servent or the jester. Hence, my zany way of entertaining people.

On a certain fateful Saturday, the court went a wry. OK, maybe it was partially my fault. I mean, I WANTED a turn at being the queen and a cat (well kitten - we were very young) fight ensued. As the afghan was being yanked, not without provocation mind you, the chair was also yanked and down fell 'queeny.'

Needless to say there were tears, yelling and a high-speed race to the emergency room. Joanne had broken her collar bone. And the 'queeny' game was banished from the 'wreck/rec' room.

I'm still the jester but hope someday to be queen, but at ground-level. Breaking anything at my age would not be majestic.

Today in the Cartoonbox on Slate.com

Be careful what you joke about

In December 2004, I made the comment to some of you that I was considering the experiment of living without a mobile phone for a few months to see what would happen, eg, with my social life.

Well on Monday, August 29, 2005 I found out, "luckily" it was only for two weeks. (see previous post: "Warning...")

After being robbed on Tram #93, while on my way to the gym, I began a second experiment: dealing with an insurance claim.

Day 1: I notified my insurance broker of the robbery and then faxed to him all the necessary documents.
Three hours later they still were not certain where the fax was.

Day 2: I rang at 9 am, no answer; at 9:30, after several rings the receptionist answered. My insurance broker was ill and so I would have to try again the following day. As for the fax, she could not confirm.

Day 3: I rang at 10:30 but my broker was in the office yet. I rang again at 3:00, he will still ill and probably not return until next week. I asked to speak to someone else but it was not clear if there was someone else. I was amazed that MY insurance broker ran an operation single-handedly.

Day 4: I rang again and insisted to speak to "anyone." A woman took my call, she had the fax (!) but couldn't tell me if I was covered adding, "We're not a bank you know!" I'll save my reply for a more intimate setting but let's just say my french is quite good even when providing a sharp retort.

Day 7: (after the weekend, a quiet one) I rang again and was told that I should wait two more days (not including 'today') to check back, that by then there would be news/a decision.

Day 10: I was told that an expert would need to come to my home. I didn't understand why they needed to come to my apartment and not to an office but my "Belgian" side has grown accustomed to such anti-service.

Day 14, (today): A pleasant older gentleman came to my apartment. He did not ask any questions, he filled in a form, I supplied my bank account number and then we both signed the form. I asked about the payment: "Normalement" I will be reimbursed in two weeks. We'll see.

It was not the long process that aggravated me but that they could not tell me 1. if I was covered (although my policy states that I am) and, 2. what the amount would be. I knew either way that the reimbursement would not be timely.

How has if affected my social life? I guess I'll find out, I have A LOT of messages to listen to!

Many thanks to all of your who offered emotional support, it made a big difference!

And finally I have replaced my phone : - ))))

We can afford it...

I donated $200 and that's probably only a drop in the veritable bucket, but if we all donate something, so many unfortunate victims of Katrina will be able to piece their lives back together with a bit less stress.

Not only all of the tragedy from the 'katastrophe' but when I heard that children left without guardians were being snatched, brutalized and worse (can't bring myself to even type that word) I grabbed my credit card and donated: HERE.

Think about this way, if it were you, wouldn't you hope that those who can eat at a restaurant, buy litres of bottled water, take a weekend jaunt to the sun and/or have cocktails on Saturday night donate some of that money to help people who have lost everything?

And think about the children who lost more than everything, they have had their innocence stolen as well.

If you need more encouragement to donate, watch this: A dedication to the victims of Katrina.

I think you will be convinced.

i cried today

Go on, call me a baby. Most of you won't but those who do, don't get paper cuts counting your greenbacks.
And for you laughers, read Mike's letter...

I burst out because the post deliverer (politically correct title?) placed an issue of the Economist in my letterbox that was addressed to my neighbor. The cover: an elderly African American woman in tears wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with "New Orleans" (what else?). The headline on the cover 'The shaming of America'.



I sat down, dropped my head and sobbed.

Letter to God: "Um, I liked it better when our head of state liked head but the rest of the state was pretty okay.
PS: New head of state, still in question for being official was a big faux pas, if you don't mind me saying."

Life is short. Life is about people. Sharing and caring is all. All. ALL!

Probably a parenthetical that the likes of some Bill Reilly-twat won't like but: I have a close friend who is about to celebrate his 60th year. He never married. His parents are gone.

I asked him what his philosophy about life is and he said: "It's people. Those who you meet along the way; those who touch your life. The rest is stuff that distracts you from remembering what is important."

Hellllo??? Yayah!!!!

I've written a poem:

Georgie, Forgie, oily-shit pie,
Kiss my ass,
I hope you die (soon.)

2 entries in one day -

Unfortunately we, the true bloggers, must now block comments because of the sploggers who probably pick their noses in restaurants, they probably buy -and wear- ACME Invisible Man Outfits (see previous post).

I hope blogger will work a way to set up 'invited' comments but it defeats the purpose.

So for you sploggers out there, we know all about viagra and its varieties, adsense, trixie does trenton, donkey-love, Tony Robbins, Dianetics, and who's doin' who in Hollywood. We can get all of this info, at will on Google.

Why don't you strive for world peace instead?

(00)

Eeeuw.

Nose picking. I think there has only been one decent ditty that mentions this act:
You can't pick your family, you can't pick your neighbors, and you can't their noses.
Something like that - pure class indubitably.

But we all do it (verb purposefully present tense.) Probably by fully-blown adulthood it's only when 'absolutely necessary' and when we are alone - jeepers I hope so anyway - but we do it.

And just like that other thing we do when we're alone and by adulthood with great aplomb, we deny it.

Maybe one day nose-picking won't be so taboo, like the M-thing but on this score I think it can and should remain in obscurity where it quite rightly belongs.

But what's the fascination unless you live in the brush where you do other things naturally without paper products?
We are for some sick reason willing to do it and if it's not fascination then could it be to just gross ourselves out?
I "guess" that sometimes we start to do it and realize and dive towards the Kleenex or Henkel or whatever. The results-oriented mining ne-heheh-ver yields an-y-thing useful! It just makes our human state of affairs worse than before we embarked on such a task. Am I wrong? And no, I won't add, to protect the innocent, "not there's anything wrong with it" because THERE IS! It's creepy. It should be a crime. It should be cause for a heftily fined citation if performed in public.

Why do I need to share this? Think about the last time you saw someone perform this wretched pastime, in public no less! It boggles the mind. You can see it in the park, at a sports event, on public transport and even... do I dare utter (type) the words ...in a restaurant. You want to bitch-slap the person while screaming, STOP THAT! In the shamanic words of Rosanne Rosanna Danna: "you're making me sick!"

People, you know who you are, here's a public service announcement:
Keep your fingers out of your nose and your hands out of your pants. (Oh and strive toward world peace.)

And Mister white socks with sandals, we ALL saw you! You're not only gross but irretrievably stupid to think we didn't or were you under the impression you were wearing your ACME Invisible Man Outfit today?!

Drunk vs. Stoned Soccer Match

September 07, 2005
2 PM to 4 PM
Chelsea Park
Manhattan
(www.nypress.net)

As witnessed through pill-popping and cream-rubbing steroid scandals, drugs and organized sports are hardly mutually exclusive.

Now here’s a junior-high-type twist:
Rafael, instead of ingesting chemicals to improve his ball-smacking athletic ability, thinks (barely) to himself 'why not scarf drugs that will make you worse?'
His friend blurts, "Yeah, dude, let’s corral stoner soccer players and pit them against a gaggle of drunkards!"

Sounds like something cribbed from Dazed and Confused/JackAss.

Tonight’s altered-state soccer match marks the closing party of Drunk vs. Stoned 2, Gavin Brown’s month-long group show examining the relationship between America’s favorite forms of intoxication—boozing and puffing.

How this plays out on the pitch should prove deliciously awesome. I predict fearless drunkards, sloppily chasing after the ball with Belushi abandon, trampling the too-prescient stoners. (On a side note: Jesus, can you imagine the pain of getting smacked in the face with a soccer ball while high?) Artist Piotr Uklanski (who snapped stoner-quality pictures of foliage for the art show) will officiate the substance-abuse spectacle.

Choose your sides, and get high on your own supply.

(text tweaked by me.)

Things that I saw today.

A huge pane of glass crashed in the middle of a small street. I was walking past just as it was falling. The sight of its inevitable fate stopped me in my tracks, but I was far away enough not to be sprayed by shards. A man who was dismantling the windows of a decrepit building dropped it. The large piece of glass was hurled from the 4th floor and was aimed to land in a dumpster on the street below but the man miscalculated the trajectory. I watched with awestruck anticipation. The pane made contact with the ground on its cornered edge, exploding with a melodic crash. It sounded like a chandelier was being thrown about in strong wind. I wished I had recorded the sound. It was so clear, all the tones and reverberations perfectly arranged. It was a feast for the senses which made me giggle with delight. The man looked below with shear regret. Another man came trotting to the scene and shouted up with aggravation. Both men began to argue. I continued walking thrilled by the experience.

Hours later, well after sundown I was walking down Keyenveld. As I was turning onto my street I noticed two people kissing. They were dressed in black and there bodies were pure silhouettes but their faces were lighted by a street lamp just beyond where they were standing. They were impassioned yet they both exhibited the right amount of modesty for such a public display. They looked like they were playing out the happy ending of a romantic film. It was a heartwarming sight to witness. I wanted to tell them how beautiful they looked but of course I didn’t. And I hoped it wasn’t a first date. As first dates go it would be memorable but things between people so often and too quickly go a wry in this crazy world.

Shoehorns & staple pulls

No one uses shoehorns anymore. I used one today. I was too lazy to unlace my sneakers, one of my favorite pairs that I keep in good condition.

I have several shoehorns. When I lived in New York I had a terrible habit of stealing them from shoe shops. Often I would have purchased shoes from the particular shop and I guess I felt entitled. They were not necessarily expensive models and usually had the shop logo and address on them.

Shoehorns are these items in the world no one really has a reason to talk about. Like the staple pulls that look like a snake’s mouth. In Europe they don’t use them because staplers come equipped with a protruding metal piece that is shaped perfectly to slip under a staple to remove it.

It makes me think that Europeans are more modest and discreet. They know that they may 'staple in error' at times but don't make a point of it actually occuring.

In America we manufacture (well ‘we’ don’t anymore) but we sell this spring device to pull out a staple. It’s called a staple pull (?) and it looks angry and violent. It could even be a weapon if wielded with some acquired skill. I imagine it would hurt and leave ugly marks to be attacked with one.

No one talks about them either. But I guess we have a lot of other more important things to talk about.

I was once very obsessed with Swingline, the stapler manufacturer. There was a factory in Queens and whenever I passed it on my way back from Coney Island I made a point to look at the building. If it was evening the name was lit up. 'Swingline' in bright red neon glowed amidst the darkened factories.

To be ‘funny’ I once told a guy who I was on a blind date with that I worked there, in their marketing department. On the spot I began to croon the Swingline Song. I can’t remember it now but the chorus was something ridiculous and blatantly incredible like “Swing, swing. Swing with Swingline.” We didn’t have a second date. Perhaps for that reason but there were others that aren’t worth mentioning now. Plus he was my colleague’s brother and I wasn’t very keen. It was best to avoid the whole situation. And the foolish thing on my part was that I lied about my job, which he could easily have figured out.

My colleague never mentioned him again. She probably thought I was a nutcase and best to keep me away from her loved ones.