Whatnots & Bon Mots

TimeOut NY

2010-02-05T11:25:00.004-05:00

My handsomeness is out of control or maybe I email promptly. Responding to an open call, I was selected and featured in TimeOut New York's singles issue.

For your viewing enjoyment.

Friend me on Facebook

Porkfest!

2010-01-16T23:06:00.002-05:00

Article published in The West Side Spirit . My neighbor's annual party with pounds of pork.

One Apartment, 60 Lbs. of Pork

Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel

2009-10-03T18:09:00.002-04:00

There are some groups of folks I will never truly understand. While I have made all types of efforts to ingratiate, comprehend, analyze, and live among several of them, certain methods will always perplex, and actions confound.

One such group is the alpha douche. Thankfully, when Hot Chicks With Douchebags becomes too mundane, Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock saves the day.

Rehab is in its second season on TruTV, spotlighting the spiky hair, silicone, and six pack stomachs at the weekly pool party in Las Vegas.The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino plays host to the lot, who pay a $50 and up admission for the privilege of paying thousands for bottle service.

But the crowd is only part of the fetid fun. Certain characters seem beamed down from the over-tanned mothership making Rehab a place where everyone is buff, busty, and bugging out.

Justin, the doughy aw-shucks manager from season 1, has been supplanted by Matt, a tightly wound east coaster who enjoys firing staff on the spot for transgressions. Perpetually jiggly brunette “Julia Gulia,” is back- a notable high point.

The antics and drama range from tackling drunk guests to a barback taking offense when the bartender asks him to get ice. Most rewarding though, is watching the guests at Rehab working their assets- from cocktail waitresses doing body shots to Ed Hardy clad patrons putting plentiful amounts of Patron as fast as it can be distilled.

For true viewing enjoyment, tune in Tuesdays at 10pm and see if you can make any sense out of the spectacle this weekly party has become.

Travelogged: Yangon (Rangoon), Burma (Myanmar): A Study in Contrasts

2009-08-01T20:13:00.001-04:00

A little story on my travels in Myanmar.

Part 1

Part 2

Voyaging/Foraging

2009-05-07T21:30:00.002-04:00

Every man has an urge to explore- a vestige from the hunter-gathering days of yore when we would travel far from home to gain the necessary provisions and experience to sustain life for one more day.

In two weeks, when I head off to Asia on a two week voyage that will take me to Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Burma and South Korea (albeit the last one on a 12 hour layover), I am exploring new territory for the purpose of acquiring food- but in the modern sense I am seeking food for thought and there are other forces I am both aware and unaware of at play.

Traveling is in one sense a challenge and in another an active response to the innate desire to discover fertile grounds. It isn’t enough to stay at home- all of the food sources are mapped out. Men must traipse into uncharted waters to taste new things, see new sights and refine existing stimulus. It is only then that we know what truly will aid us in times when our food supply (or vacation days) run low.

Yet, with these new experiences comes the challenge of survival. Do we stay where food is plentiful, or do we strike out into the wild, via airplane, train and car, but hopefully not Greyhound? We go, we clear paths into a deeper consciousness of what it means to be a man in today’s world, and we learn, realize, and come to rely on only our instinct to get us through layovers, questionable water quality, and pushy market salespeople.

For without prior challenges, we don’t learn to rise above that which we already are. In other words, we cut ourselves off from becoming who we want to become. This trip to Asia is not just my own affirmation of feeling like a successful provider, it is a test to myself from me. It is one I will pass, for it is one I must.

To all travelers and dreamers, I say “Bon Voyage” and never remain hungry for the meal you have had once too often.

The Return of Phish

2009-03-05T14:42:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow I will be back in the groove. After 4 years, 6 months and 20 days, (not to put too fine a point on it or anything), I will see Phish, my favorite band, once again. Besides being fantastic musicians, Phish has always represented a bohemian ideal that I ascribe to in theory but eschew in my own lifestyle. In that way, they symbolize what should be in the world instead of what actually is.

When the lights go down and the roar of the crowd becomes deafening, my eyes will close and thanks will be proffered. I know I am lucky to be seeing them but my presence at the concert was self-promised the minute after they left the stage more than 4 years ago.

The question remains, for me, do I want Phish to evolve or do I just want them reincarnated on stage? I lean towards evolution because in many ways I know that this is how musicians become better; however I secretly hope for a timewarp back to 1994 when Phish was at its agreed upon peak. In truth, they could sit on the edge of the stage and sing the score from Madame Butterfly and I would eat it up.

While these two shows will be my 26th and 27th time seeing the band, it feels like I am rediscovering them. Many years of listening to them on my iPod and watching You Tube videos, hauling out to see the lead singer on his solo gigs and caressing old ticket stubs has provided a new found appreciation- absence has made my heart grow fonder.

If anything, the dearth of music that I could listen to in place of Phish never provided much of an escape. Even my iPod knows, after I skip four obscure songs in shuffle mode, to pacify me with a Phish song that I will listen to through the end.

In a sign of the times, whereas I used to borrow my dad’s cell phone when seeing a Phish show, now everyone has one and videos can be recorded from anyone with a camera. Whether this will provide more or less of a distraction (probably more) is to be determined but does provide a new level of interactivity.

This interactivity, both on a technological and personal level, speaks to Phish’s influence. Like the other 15,999 people this weekend who are lucky enough to be at the first show, it will easily be an intoxicating experience.

I am ready; ready to embrace what I remember, ready to dance and cheer, ready to share good times with friends new and old and ready to be under their influence once again.

To Phish, I say, “Thanks, and welcome back.”

Destiny: Made in Italy

2008-12-09T20:13:00.002-05:00

There are certain items that I am destined to own- a nice bike, pressed pennies from around the country and, when it comes to clothing, various pieces I have picked up over the years.

In September, I was on one of my many scouting expeditions to the local Filenes Basement here in New York City. There was a huge rack of wonderful designer clothing from Marios, an upscale store from the Northwest with locations in Seattle, Washington and Oregon.

I spotted many nice items, a Loro Piana button down, a Luciano Barbera sweater and what would soon become the item I covet, a funky dress shirt from Etro. Priced at $100, it was a bit out of my price range but I tried it on anyway just to get a sense of how it fit. It fit very nicely.

Alas, it went back on the rack and I left the store without giving it too much thought. Several weeks later, on another visit, it was still on the rack. Again, that is where it stayed. Another 2 weeks and I returned to Filenes but the Etro shirt had disappeared. I wished the new owner well in my mind and went about my business.

After my 401K lost a good 25% of its value and some months had past, I was back at Filenes and the rack of Marios clothing was discounted 40%. The shirt was back on the rack but at $60, I still didn’t want to pull the trigger.

Another week and I was in the area, back at Filenes and the shirt was gone. Again, I wished the new owner well and thought, “Someone definitely got a pretty good bargain, as the retail on the shirt was close to $300.”

Cut to December 7, and on my way home from the gym, I thought I would pop into Filenes once again. The Marios clothing rack had been moved from the back of the store to the area right when you step off the escalator in the men’s section. This could only mean further discounts as Filenes only puts items there that they want to get rid of. Lo and behold, a 60% discount sign loomed above the few items left.

The Etro shirt stood proudly, among stretched out cardigans and pants in size 38 and 40. At $40.00, it was a purchase I was comfortable making. But there was no pricetag to be found. Knowing that Filenes has the precedent of coding very reduced pricing on items with no tag, I snatched it and patiently waited in line with other holiday shoppers.

I inquired to the manager who had to call downstairs to find out how much the shirt was selling for. Several minutes later, he connected to someone in the abyss of Filenes who told him the price of the shirt was $49.99. My heart did a small backflip inside my chest.

The price, with a 60% discount, was $19.99. I handed over a Jackson and smiled broadly as he rang up my purchase. The manager put the shirt in a bag and apologized for the delay. I responded, “No problem, I’m glad it all worked out,” and breezed out of the store as if on a cushion of discounted air.

Introducing the new shirt to my wardrobe, I could tell everything would work perfectly with the items I knew I could wear it with. After putting it in the Whirlpool steamer and ironing the shirt crisply, it took its rightful place in my wardrobe, destined to be a part of my sartorial expressiveness for years to come.

Destiny, it seems, can come in many forms.

Etiquette 101

2008-10-13T22:13:00.003-04:00

Lyudmila Bloch wants to change the world. That she speaks Russian, English, French, and Spanish is no accident- her points are clear in both language and action.

Bloch, a renowned etiquette coach, stands up to greet you. After you sit down, she will look you in the eye and make you feel important. Changing the world is serious business- if she gives you her attention she expects you will live up to it.

Bloch teaches etiquette because manners will improve society. “I teach a great deal about tolerance and patience,” she said about her etiquette lessons, “It is also about compassion and being self-aware.”

While Bloch acknowledges this is an uphill battle, it only makes her more determined. But that determination does not come at the sacrifice of consideration, “I try not to be too judgmental and I allow people to make mistakes,” Bloch said.

Within our increasingly casual world in which we have seen erosion in both personal boundaries and public courtesy, Bloch serves as a counterbalance. Even after teaching etiquette to more than 4,000 children, she still sees everyday as a new opportunity to impart her message through every element of her life.

Bloch is dressed to impress, even on the weekend. Slender and of medium height, Bloch wears a matte black suit, the collar of her coral pink shirt stands at attention, framing her face, which appears flawless under the bright lights of the Cosi on Broadway. Bloch has blood red hair and soft features accented by a pair of red oval-framed eyeglasses. She smiles often, revealing glistening white teeth.

Then she speaks: “I do this from my heart.” Her accent is Russian, the words intimate and sentences abbreviated. When she agrees with you, she will say “absolutely,” which has the effect of making you feel like you have said precisely the right thing.

Her decision to become an etiquette coach came only after she was looking, essentially, for herself. Bloch came to New York City in the early 1980’s for marketing work from her native Russia after training as a linguist at the Moscow State Pedagogical University. When traveling to Asia on business, there were no guidelines available on how to act in social situations- except from the State Department and they were not helpful.

Sensing an opportunity in the marketplace, Bloch enrolled under Dorothea Johnson at The Protocol School of Washington, the first woman to open an etiquette school in the United States. Johnson became a role model for Bloch, both in terms of Johnson’s entrepreneurial drive and success teaching the world of protocol to the washed and unwashed masses.

After a two-week intense seminar in “Children’s Etiquette,” Bloch came back to New York to launch Etiquette Outreach for children ages 6 to 18 and adults.

Though Bloch prefers to work with children, she also works with corporate clients, providing the basics of business etiquette to many in finance such as the Royal Bank of Scotland and Goldman Sachs, as well as a new program in which she teaches spouses of corporate executives how to function at corporate events. These clients also pay better, from $2-5,000 per class, as opposed to $900 for a public school or non-profit organization.

Bloch is not in it for the money, she does it because she feels her lessons can last a lifetime. “When you take a student who is 5/6/7 years old, they are easily influenced because they don’t have any bad habits. By teenagers they have bad habits,” Bloch said.

Family problems often lead to etiquette problems. “Kids lack basic social skills because they didn’t have a positive role model growing up. It’s like dogs, there are no bad dogs, there are poor owners,” Bloch said as she explained how etiquette can bridge these deeply personal issues.

Stacy Albanese, a former client, called Bloch, “A national treasure. I wish that there were more people like her.” At a joint birthday party for Albanese’s two daughters aged three and five, “It was very challenging because she had a pack of girls who couldn’t care less about what she was saying and she did an incredible job of getting their attention and her point across. My three year old still says ‘Ms. Bloch wouldn’t like it if…,’” Albanese said.

In 2000, Bloch became an independent consultant with The Plaza hotel, where she helped design unique services for the hotel’s VIP clients, including a child etiquette seminar.

“She forced The Plaza to be human,” said Rosemary Carroll, her colleague at The Plaza hotel who co-authored a book entitled, The Golden Rules of Etiquette at The Plaza with Bloch, which was designed for kids but is easily applicable for adults.
Carroll recalled that 45 Russian orphans were at the hotel in advance of their potential adoption and Bloch convinced the hotel to throw them a party with gifts, and provided a gratis etiquette class.

“We [also] did a lot of classes for public schools. Kids would arrive wearing their jeans very low and with a cocky attitude. By the time Lyudmila was done with them, they were sitting up straight and ‘yes sir-ing’ and ‘no sir-ing,’” Carroll said. “She would tell them ‘You are exceptional. When you sit at the Queen’s table and at the White House you will know how to behave.’” They also left with their pants around their waist – and not an inch lower.

After The Plaza closed for remodeling, Bloch did not stop working with disadvantaged children. In 2005, Bloch and Carroll introduced an etiquette program to public schools in the Bronx.

Reinhardt fondly remembers working with Bloch. “She was out of our league in terms of price. It was an altruistic thing…she didn’t care about the money, she wanted to let the children to have the experience,” Sheila Reinhardt, former PTA President at The Millennium Academy/Bronx, said.

Bloch and Reinhardt see the effects of an etiquette intervention as a ripple across civilization. “When Lyudmila teaches one child about etiquette, she teaches 100…You don’t know how many generations that will go through,” Reinhardt noted.
If it were up to Bloch, etiquette would be compulsory in schools. “Education goes hand in hand with etiquette,” Bloch is fond of saying.

While most of her business comes from referrals and she does not advertise her services, her calendar is full of appointments across the eastern seaboard- this is a business where there are always new lessons to impart with a potential market as big as the country.

While there are always new opportunities, there is also the need for further education. “Etiquette evolves as our lives and our technology does,” Bloch said. The most common forms of bad etiquette today, Bloch notes, are the inappropriate use of cell phone and email.

“You are sitting in a public place and people are intruding into your space on their cell phone. This is not your apartment,” Bloch said. With perfect ironic timing, a young woman with a large backpack on her cell phone squeezed between Bloch and an adjacent table, inadvertently scattering Bloch’s papers.

Bloch drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. What would normally be cause for swearing under one’s breath was for the etiquette coach a teachable moment. “Technology is our blessing and our curse,” Bloch said calmly, “[but] we have to remember human relationships have to come first.”

A Fresh Cut

2008-09-28T21:37:00.001-04:00

He is the world’s worst driver, swerving the steering wheel left and right, hanging out of the vehicle’s doorless frame. He isn’t even wearing his silver framed glasses- not that it matters much, the speedometer is only a sticker and the wheels don’t touch the ground.

His father lies, “You are driving and doing such a good job,” as he props up the driver in the decommissioned Power Wheels Jeep. The driver won’t sit still, he has stimulus from all directions. The Wiggles sing “I’m a hoop-de-do kind of guy” as they dance around in oversized foam cowboy hats on a TV/DVD player in front of the dusty brown vehicle, an entire Lego city and child size kitchen beckons from the toy store portion of Whipper Snippers.

Gloria reaches into the trunk, select her tools and gently adjust the driver’s oval head to the left. The initial moment of contact between Gloria’s fingers and the driver’s head of soft brown blond hair causes his world to cease. The first cut is always the worst.

The stainless steel scissors glide behind the driver’s ears. Snip-snip, pause, snip. His hands relax their vice grip on the sides of the Jeep, and color returns to his knuckles. The Wiggles reappear, he feels the plastic seat, someone in the store is asking about a wooden model dinosaur, his senses return.

“Let me just get the side here,” Gloria says gently as his father taps away at a Blackberry Pearl. The Jeep swerves as hands return to the wheel. The dusty brown vehicle emblazoned with the word “Adventure,” still lives up to its name.

“You are all done, good job” Gloria tells the driver as she regards her handiwork in the large square mirror. “Do you like it?” the father asks the driver. The driver nods, then thinks for a moment, and shakes his head no. “He likes it,” Dad reassures.

Gloria removes a shoulder pad of rubber, errant hairs falling onto the pine flooring. The father helps the driver slip out of the blue smock printed with frogs and clowns.

The driver is lifted out of the Jeep, defying gravity before being set back down on earth. He receives his glasses and the world he has known for three and a half years comes back into focus.

On to the next adventure.

Picking up the Pieces

2008-08-16T05:31:00.000-04:00

The feelings are at once familiar yet just as painful to anyone who has been through it. The anger, sadness, introspection and frustration that goes along with a breakup are cathartic in the long run and devastating in the short term.

How do you console yourself when the person you’d naturally reach out to is the same one you now must avoid? These are the times that ultimately make you a better person many argue but that is not what you want to hear. Of course, you’d want the phone to magically ring with the news your former lover has come to their senses, of course you would take them back.

So here it is. Nine hours into a newly single life, a position that you did not choose. Just a day ago, blissfully but cautiously making plans for the weekend as if everything was normal, unaware that your anchor would pull up and leave you adrift in the dark and turbulent sea where the waters were previously calm.

What advice do you offer others; is it what you would tell yourself? Embrace the experience, let the tears fall, pick up the pieces and let your heart mend naturally. Yes, that will do.

Taking Insecurity to the Tyra Banks

2008-07-03T12:51:00.000-04:00

I have never watched The Tyra Banks Show but I have seen some pretty funny clips and lampoons of her on The Soup and other shows. Admittedly, I was going into this a bit speculative.

Before leaving for Montana on a 4th of July outdoors vacation, I sat down to watch a show whose female subjects “are obsessed with designer labels.

They had three desperate contestants, all of whom would be competing for a white Spring Limited Edition Louis Vuitton- worth almost $800.

Carrie, the first woman (and I use this term loosely) was a pixie like art teacher who bought a fake Coach bag, named it ‘Pilar’ and loved it like a child. Pilar’s zipper broke a week later and now she is here because she really wants a designer purse but cannot afford one.

A heavyset Hatian woman named Daphne, who probably thinks she looks like Jennifer Hudson, is up next. She is obsessed with Louis Vuitton and plans to “Have a Vuitton themed wedding cake and name her first child Vuitton.” She thought since people can name kids Alexis and Mercedes she can do it with Vuitton.

Third is an apprehensive, heavyset woman named Cassandra, 22. She cried when Tyra cut up a Gucci bag on a previous show and spent part of her student loans on “electronics, bags and clothes.” For every year she is alive, she has accumulated $1,000 in debt.

The contest was eating one’s favorite meal after it was blended. The contestants’ meals below:

Carrie: Raw scallop sashimi with soy sauce and cheesecake for dessert
Daphne: Penne ala vodka, sautéed spinach. Hot fudge sundae for dessert.
Cassandra: Shrimp cocktail, 3 cheese rigatoni and crème brulee

While I thought Cassandra was the winner, Daphne was deemed the winner, but only after Tyra gave her 10 seconds to puke while making gagging sounds in her ear.

It’s said everyone has their price, but it’s another for a price to be the leather formed representation of a unattainable lifestyle.

Perhaps it’s the last thing people like this need, then to feel bad when after debasing themselves they still don’t have anything to show for it. Tyra, these three girls need therapy at worst and a realignment of their priorities and self-worth at the very least.

At this point, as long as you can provide the cash, someone out there will provide the entertainment. Yet, this to me goes beyond a show topic and picks on people with low self esteem and not enough common sense.

I find it particularly sad how much self worth these people literally carry on their arm.

Carlin's "Comedy"

2008-06-23T16:15:00.000-04:00

George Carlin died today, and the world moves another microstep forward towards an even more dismal uniformity.

Carlin was a small hero of mine, not like say Bill Murray, but he was a comic’s comic and as ready with a bon mot (or a string of them) as he was with an exaggerated expression. I loved hearing him tear apart the language of today’s commerce and showing the futility of acting like sheep blithely consuming objects while disregarding knowledge.

His most recent HBO special proved that Carlin was more interested in opening the eyes of his audience than he was about getting a laugh. The puns were the byproduct, information was the draw. As a semi-observant Jew, I recoiled slightly when he railed against G-d, but that was Carlin- the guy who thought nothing was real unless he could prove it to himself.

For me, Carlin remains a legend up in the pantheon of funny with the likes of Richard Pryor and others like him. However Carlin went for a more subversive take; he knew a lot of his audience disagreed with him on certain things, but he didn’t care. It was that his words were heard and they made an impact that mattered to him most- in that way, he transcended comedy and social satire and became more of a commentator who was funnier than most men have a right to be.

Saying he will be missed is not enough- listening and heeding his words are a far more important legacy. Inevitably it will result in our country being more aware and less likely to become all that Carlin railed against for so many decades.

Fashion Influences

2008-05-11T11:29:00.003-04:00

My answer for Esquire's Best Dressed Man Contest on who are your biggest fashion influences:

The three individuals that have influenced my personal style are my father, John Varvatos and Paul Smith. Each of these three men look entirely comfortable in their clothing, ranging from bespoke suits to classic American style. My father would take me to Burberry when I was a kid so I could help pick out shirts, and that instilled a sense of acceptable presentation in the way one dresses. That he always bought things on sale also made me appreciate getting quality merchandise at a discount.

John Varvatos is a man who can look perfect in both a pair of jeans and a Henley and a suit cut perfectly for his body. That I can own both a worn t-shirt and a gorgeous suit from the same designer means he is doing something right. Additionally, he has collaborated with Converse to create an energetic brand extension that I appreciate both from a marketing and style perspective.

I love Paul Smith's classic English style with the abundance of personality he brings to his designs. He takes an approach to clothing that says, "I may have to wear a suit, but I can also be a little subversive as well." His designs remind me that there is always a way to insert your own twist on traditional dressing.

Fishing on the Upper West Side

2008-04-13T23:01:00.001-04:00

Fresh fish is to some a delicacy and to others, cat food. On the Upper West Side of Manhattan, fish has always been a food group to cultivate, sell and lay bragging rights to.

Partly because of my own experience as a life long Upper West sider, and my Jewish heritage, finding the freshest fish is an ongoing quest passed on from generation to generation, fish monger to customer. Though this now affluent area of Manhattan has transcended its previously bohemian aura, riding a wave of soaring property values and sushi joints, old and new residents alike share an affinity for the wide offerings of fresh fish from these remaining institutions and appreciates the cultural value that they bring to the neighborhood.

The contenders:

Barney Greengrass
541 Amsterdam Ave
New York, NY 10024
(212) 724-4707
www.barneygreengrass.com

Known as “The Sturgeon King,” Barney’s has been faithfully dispensing turn of the century charm and delicious fish since 1908. Home of smooth slices of nova and lox piled high on bagels, kippers and herring, as well as a homey restaurant, Barney Greengrass is a neighborhood institution and has a distinction of being both a fish shop and a small restaurant. Frequented today by celebrities like Jerry Seinfeld and other area notables, Barney Greengrass is busier than ever; lines snake out the door on Sunday as people queue for a taste of the old world and the chance to experience one of the last independent fish sellers from their grandparents’ days.

Zabar’s
245 W 80th St
New York, NY 10024
(212) 787-2000
www.zabars.com

Zabar’s began life as an “Appetizing” counter in a supermarket. Today a massive Broadway destination, the lifeblood of this fine foods brand still flows through the veins of its fish counter. The secret here is the paper thin sliced lox, which the countermen will still offer as samples to anxious purchasers. Take a number and try to focus as the never-ending stream of tourists, area residents and aficionados of everything digestible shuffle past you. Don’t worry, salvation is only a pound of delicious salmon (at roughly $42.00) away. Zabar’s also stocks a stunning selection of cheeses, coffee, breads, meats and housewares as well.

Citarella
2135 Broadway
New York, NY 10023
212-874-0383
www.citarella.com

Though the crowds at Citarella can approach jam-packed levels, especially after work, many brave the melee for the freshest cuts of tasty fish from some of the most knowledgeable countermen this side of the Atlantic. A pound of salmon runs about $35.00. Honored by a #1 rating from Zagat for fresh and smoked fish, shellfish and caviar, Citarella expanded to a second floor where it also sells spices, olive oils, meats and household items in addition to its wide proffering of trout, halibut, sable and sturgeon.

Murray’s Sturgeon Shop
2429 Broadway
New York, NY 10024
212-724-2650

At only 1100 square feet, Murray’s makes up in quality what it lacks in space. A single counter running the left side of the business displays the melt in your mouth sable, and fresh whitefish, salmon and other offerings. Highly rated by Zagat, and open since 1946, Murray’s is a place people love because it reminds them of when times were easy and the fish as good as if was freshly caught. Mostly a neighborhood icon, Murray’s does not see many tourists, as they prefer Zabar’s only a half mile downtown but to community denizens, we would not have it any other way.

Dry Cleaning? Dry Clean!

2008-03-06T23:01:00.000-05:00

Sometimes clothing gives you direction and other times it asks so little. But when you invest in fine clothing, the monetary commitment doesn’t stop at the cash register; taking care of good pieces is, I would argue, even more important than just buying them. In other words, well-made clothing makes demands, and well-made clothing needs to be dry cleaned.

While sitting in my lecture tonight, I noticed that the girl’s jacket label in front of me read “Dry Cleaning.” This seemed like a very nonchalant way of instructing the owner how to care for it. But, then I read the label and it all made sense: American Eagle Outfitters, the local mall outpost vending carefree relaxation as a pre frayed polo which will eventually go popped against pasty neck skin. This is the label kids wear when they are at an outdoor festival, frat party or to high school in Sandusky, Ohio. A downgrade Abercrombie, but a cut above American Living, the landlocked version of brands like Hollister or Quicksilver.

This coat did not demand things of you, this coat was meant to be a standby favorite- the one you keep in your closet and keep wearing even though its replacement is a bit overdue. “Too many memories in this coat,” you think. “Dry Cleaning,” is a friendly suggestion here, and not so much as an order, a gentle way of reminding you that this is how to take care of your things.

That the jacket itself was a light brown corduroy with a matted fur collar, made it look endearing, like the standby fleece everyone has in their closet or the old pair of jeans that are worn to the store.

My clothing labels, usually below “Made in Italy,” yells, “Dry Clean!” The exclamation point is mine of course. My labels are a bit presumptuous but they are also trusting. They are ordering me to dry clean them, but they also believe that I’ll do so. They know they are, pardon the expression, a cut above.

There is an agreement here. A person should wear their clothes, not the reverse, but “Dry Clean” also says, this piece of clothing will make you look better, longer, if taken care of. Inevitably, that which you “Dry Clean” will see a better class of place than the old favorite.

Everyone makes compromises with their wardrobe. The secret is to know what these entail, but in the end only one trusts your judgment enough to assume you will live up to your commitment. As a result, words are spared and action is had.

Another Bargain

2008-01-31T20:10:00.001-05:00

As complete as my wardrobe is, there are still a few items that I am still on the look out for. Among these are a black belt that can be worn casually, preferably with a black or oval buckle priced less than $40, a cotton sports jacket in green or blue and a new pair of running sneakers.

I took a stroll during lunch over to Saks to see about the belt and found nothing worthwhile (or cheap- honestly $117 for an ugly shirt by Jhane Barnes is no bargain). On the plus side, I did meet celebrity stylist Robert Verdi who I have seen out and about several times before. He was wearing a peak lapel, dark grey suit with white buttons and a pink cashmere turtleneck. Very chic. After exchanging a few pleasantries, I moved on to the task at hand. Walking back up to work, I decided to pop into Dunhill, home of the gorgeous and well made collections for dapper gents. Last year around this time, I found a beautiful dress shirt there for $40, which though it was an anomaly, was still a great deal. I can still remember the fellow in front of me in line commenting that it was a very nice pattern to which I thought, “yes it is, and it also is the cheapest thing in the entire store.”

I had already stopped by Dunhill twice since Christmas just monitoring the stock and pricing. Since most stores are getting rid of their Christmas merchandise by early February to make room for the full priced spring and resort collections, its mostly now or never to find the end of season deals. About mid way through the store, the 75% off sign on a sparse rack of jackets called out. And lo and behold...cotton sports jackets, in green, blue and brown. The brown was quickly dismissed and the blue unneeded. The green was a muted mid-range green, like the color of darkened money, unlined, which makes it perfect for travel and the summer, and two button, indicating a modern fit. The sleeves also featured working button holes (surgeons cuffs)- a nice touch which also adds to the laid back look. While I usually prefer side vents, the center back vent makes sense on a more casual jacket such as this.

With a cotton sports jacket, (as these are not blazers which would indicate a more formal item), I wanted the fit a bit tighter as its likely to only have a light oxford or short sleeve shirt underneath during warmer months. Personally, I don’t wear blazers or jackets over t-shirts as it is too much of a contrast and I think it is a look that screams “Hollywood Follower.” The Medium was all they had out which was a bit too big but I was in luck, there was one Small in the back that the woman remembered. She brought it out, I tried it on and it fit perfectly. The sleeves were the perfect length, the shoulders tight and the color was fantastic against my skin tone. The saleswoman smiled and said it looked great. One minute later I was handing over my credit card and she was lovingly putting the item into a garment bag for me to take back to work.

The price for this masterful wardrobe necessity: $103.75 down from about $425. Ideally I would have paid somewhere close to $80.00 but I was not about to pass this up. All it needs it a quick steam at home and it is ready for the spring/summer.

A word on cotton sports jackets: there is no need to think this can only be worn casually. With a trim fitting oxford shirt, think those by Steven Alan or Theory, skinny tie and slim fit chinos or dark jeans, this is a piece that can be easily dressed up. While a cotton cardigan can, many times, take the place of a cotton sports jacket for something like an art gallery opening, the cotton sports jacket makes a formal statement just that much more. Plus, it has more pockets to store things like a camera, pen or glasses.

All in all, this was a great purchase that has made me quite happy and even more ready for the winter to be over.

Screws and Nuts

2008-01-17T15:30:00.000-05:00

No one ever gives the screw you sign anymore. You know the one, where you push your left wrist into the crux of your right arm as it’s formed into a right angle, but when was the last time you have ever seen a good “screw you” being thrown your (or someone else’s) way?

There are several reasons why this recent demise has occurred. One, who says “screw you” anymore? Screw you is kind of laughable. If you were in an argument with someone and they said, “go screw yourself” I think the immediate response would be a smile. I mean ok I could go screw myself but telling me to go f**k myself has much more resonance. With the dearth of the “screw you” phrase, obviously there is less of a need for non-verbal expressions of this sentiment.

Secondly, the gesture is really involved. I mean the middle finger, a direct and universally recognized sign only needs ONE FINGER. You could have a package in your hand and still express yourself with the middle finger pretty succinctly. The “screw you” takes both hands, arms and movement. Way too involved. How could you make a scre you sign when driving? You’d have to take both hands off the wheel entirely! It’s like sending a text message that says “I love you my darling” when only “luv u” will suffice. Today’s fast paced world has resulted in abbreviated communications and an expression that involves one half of your appendages is antithetical to our instant gratification society. Besides, the middle finger offers much faster gratification. I timed it- it takes less then one second to flip the bird and almost double that (an entire second) to form the screw you pose and then hold it so the recipient knows what you are doing.

Lastly, popular culture has all but done away with gestures in the first place. I mean if someone makes you upset don’t most young-uns post something on the Internets? Our daily interactions are blunted by portable music players, cell phones, video games, Blackberrys and the like. If someone cuts you off in traffic, most of the time you just curse out loud or complain to whomever you are on the phone with.

Thankfully, the term “you’re screwed” maintains its staying power. Its hard to say “you’re f**ked” to most people but if one is screwed there is less hostility and finality then being f**ked.

Sidenote: “Screw You’s” cousin, the finger circle next to the head to symbolize craziness has also been vastly diminished. This is due to more medications being prescribed to the general public and an overall reduction in homelessness in major cities.

General Contentment

2008-01-08T16:33:00.001-05:00

29 years ago, my mom was sleeping and my dad was overly happy. Now, almost three decades later, my dad is sleeping and my mom is happy. This is not a general commentary on their disposition, but rather an announcement that it is my birthday. My mom of course was sleeping from labor and my dad happy that men do not have to go through labor at all.

Last night, I decided to stay up till 12:01am to wish myself a “Happy Birthday,” and I began cleaning. I filled up three Duane Reade bags of papers, nonsense and stuff that I no longer needed to have in my apartment- like the cardboard tray that held the Nintendo Wii controllers. After this massive purge, I began reflecting on the past year. New Years is traditionally the time in which to do so but since my birthday is a week later, and most people procrastinate anyway, I figured it wasn’t so much of a big deal.

First I started counting 2007 successes: good job, great girlfriend, started Columbia University, took exciting trips, enjoyed delicious food, biked over 500 miles during the summer, saw more than a dozen concerts, a half dozen plays and countless museum exhibitions and I was published in several newspapers and blogs and had my photography in Newsday on two occasions.

I also tried to come up with a list of things I might want for my birthday and I couldn’t really think of anything. And then it hit me: I am content. What is there in this world, aside from a new television, that I could possibly want? I don’t “need” anything. Part of the reason why throwing old stuff out is that you distill your stuff down to what you really need, use and want to keep. All the other stuff is superfluous or redundant. And when I took stock of my things, my lifestyle and my goals, I felt satisfied.

Even if Mick and the boys say satisfaction is something hard to personally ascertain, I have to say that I cant see any reason why this year wont be as great or better than the previous one. As I finally closed my eyes, my blackberry vibrated on the nightstand. It was a calendar message that I had put in around March of 2007 which read “Happy Freakin’ Birthday.” I smiled to myself and thought, “Indeed it will be.” Sleep came quickly after that.

For Wii's a Jolly Good Fellow

2007-12-18T15:55:00.000-05:00

It is so awesome to give a great gift, and it is also excellent to receive one. Normally I have been in the position, for many years, of giving great gifts- the ones that elicit big smiles, hugs, exclamations of happiness, that sort of thing. But it is rare that I get gifts where I exclaim with excitement or am so floored by a gift’s perfection and parallel to my desires and interests that I am speechless.

Debbie, who is perhaps the world’s best girlfriend, managed to cause an unbridled yelp of joy when she presented me with a Nintendo Wii. This is a cool gift, but one that is not only nearly impossible to get (Debbie is super resourceful) but something I have been blabbing about for months. I wanted a Wii ever since I tried out bowling in the spring at my friends place. While I am not a huge “gamer” I did get a PS2 for my birthday several years ago, but I expected the gift because I told my parents “just get me a PS2 for my birthday so I can play GTA.” The Wii was a big surprise because I just assumed I’d be buying it for myself sometime in the Spring after Nintendo figured out how to make more of them so every store in the city wouldn’t be totally sold out, as they are now. Since my Ipod conked out, I thought that would be my Hanukkah / birthday gift, actually.

So imagine my astonishment when I tore open the lovingly wrapped paper and saw a white box with the words Nintendo on it! I think the sound I made was somewhere in between when you pull a pig’s tail really hard and when you accidentally step on your dog in the middle of the night. Something between a verbose squeal and a startled bark.

So now I am knee deep, or should I say Wii deep, in fun. My right shoulder hurts because I was hitting home runs last night for 20 minutes. My forearm aches because I played two long games of tennis. All from the comfort of my living room / bedroom / dining room / studio apartment. The Wii really is like discovering the old 8-bit Nintendo when you were a kid back in the day. Just a totally unique machine that ups the fun factor like no other. Ok so I cant play GTA4 on it. But I can work up a clammy sweat instead and that’s not a bad trade off for time essentially spent not thinking about anything truly earth-shattering.

Now I just have to see about getting a second controller so Debbie and I can beat the hell out of each other in Wii boxing. And of course, I may have to jump on the Guitar Hero bandwagon sometime in the future. Wii will have to see…

Heil Irony

2007-10-30T17:50:00.000-04:00

While on vacation in Mexico last week, Debbie and I had the distinct pleasure of taking a delicious cooking class, endulging in a chocolate massage, touring around the surrounding towns and purchasing cookware for 80 cents.

Yet, perhaps one of our best memories was courtesty of Deutscheland and its progeny. You see, we had a German tour guide for the trip to see the ruins of Monte Alban (like a Mexican Machu Pichu), churches and a town that sells colorful wooden figurines. Besides being so very German in her speech "you have precisely 5 minutes to see this museum" and "they knew precisely how to measure everything perfectly," she gave us some cause for concern.

Debbie and I, both Jews and inquisitive people, ask questions. As we were stuck in the rear seat of the tour van with our guide, Debbie asked her where she was from. This is her exact response: "I am from Berlin but I did not know anything about my parents." Now, this would be akin to having a wife ask her husband how his day was and him saying, "it was great and i didnt cheat on you with my secretary." I mean sure, I would assume her parents were nazi's just because she was from Berlin and looked about 50 making her parents prime WWII candidates, but why would you offer up that extra bit of information. It was, at the least, conspicuous and at the worst damning.

After some time in the van, someone asked how Debbie and I met. When we responded JDate (a popular Jewish dating service) much of the conversation turned to Jews, Jewish rituals and, for some reason, World War 2. This was not a topic broached by either debbie or myself but it was one that we listened intently and enjoyed. Nothing but utter silence from the tour guide.

Now, to her credit, the tour guide wasnt goose stepping around the ruins or asking us to look low and HEIL at the many different things one sees at a 5,000 year old site in the mountains. What was perhaps the funniest part about this story was, in fact, her jeans. As our guide was getting into the van, i noticed that the brand of denim chosen was...wait for it...FUROR. Or as one phonetically reads that- Fuhrer. Could this have been a subconscious purchase on her part? Was I reading into this a bit much? Probably both, but nonetheless a wonderful exclamation point to a unique experience.

And yes, being good Jews, we did tip her at the end of the day.

Sample Sale Love

2007-08-23T15:40:00.001-04:00

I have been going to sample sales since High School. Matter of fact, most of the clothing in my vast and wonderful wardrobe are from sample sales, Barney’s warehouse sale, Filene’s basement or the odd 80% off boutique purchase.

See the biggest piece of advice I can give is to shop them and shop often. I am not content with 50% off. Yawn. 75% is good, but when you start getting really nice stuff for up to 90-98% off, then you know you are in the echelons of sample sale shopping.

In high school, it was the DKNY sale that I always looked forward to. But what did I know from super deals? It was one thing to get a pair of shorts for $20 or jeans for $50 but even today, I wouldn’t buy a pair of jeans for $50 at a sample sale unless they were the coolest jeans I had ever seen.

In other words, it takes a lot to get me to lay down my credit card. But recently, I didn’t even have to- kind of. At the Paul Smith sale (home of $250 shirts and $500 shoes retail) I picked out a lovely pair of shoes, a pen, a shirt and a bag…the bag being for my girlfried Debbie. The bag was marked at $835 but was on sale for $75. Ok no brainer. The shoes were $100 which was great as they are handmade and totally unique. The pen I thought I could bargain the guy down on and the shirt I had already decided not to purchase but I didn’t want to just leave it somewhere and thought the person at the register would put it back on the racks eventually. I pay for the shoes and he says the pen is “a great find” but there is no price tag. I suggest a price of $10 and he agrees. Ok bargain #1, as that pen should have retailed for $200 and been at the sale for $50. I tell the dude, “the shirt is nice but I don’t know…for $75 I think ill pass but thank you.” I pay for the shoes, pen and bag and he stuffs the shirt into my bag and says “merry Christmas”. Ok wow. First time I have been GIVEN something at a sample sale. Tres cool.

That is the thing, there are always bargains to find and ways to get better deals. Again the secret is commitment, the desire to look in bins most people are avoiding, on the racks at the back of the sale, and knowing that a small hole on the back shoulder can be easily sewn up but can garner an extra 10-20% off if you ask nicely.

I think most people think they are getting a deal- one of the contenders for Esquire’s best dressed man raved that he found a Polo oxford for $35 at Marshall’s. Umm…Polo for $35 is way overpriced. I went to Bloomingdales one year and found a pair of pants for $10. I found a $150 sweatshirt for $12 at a Filene’s in Washington DC. At a Prada sample sale last year I got a shirt for $20. This year, all shirts are $75. Totally ridiculous. Now I don’t mind spending $75 for a shirt but it has to be an absolutely unreal deal- case in point, Turnbull and Asser’s summer sale. $400 shirts for $75 is ok, not great. But you wont find a Turnbull and Asser shirt anywhere (not even consignment) for that cheap. I bought two shirts, one for me and one for my dad.

It’s also a matter of what you are willing to tolerate. The Barney’s warehouse is terrible nowadays but at the end of the sale when I am with my lady and looking for new stuff for her, I can elbow my way in to scoop up a dozen tops that I bring to her to try on. Establish a system. Be forceful yet polite. Know the sale before you go and most importantly, know what you are looking for. Try to go at the earliest possible time near the end of the sale to avoid crowds and get the best deals. Know your size, and make one or two trips to the dressing room only. Experiment with color- a red and yellow shirt is not for everyone, but for $30 its worth a try. If you get enough of a discount, consignment will earn you your money back if you hate it. Another tip- shop off season. For men, this is tantamount to biblically awesome advice. Those shorts you buy this year will still be fine next year. So I buy summer stuff in February and fall/winter stuff now.

Anyway, sample sales are a distinctly New York thing but it is one of the best reasons to be into fashion and style here in the city. All the showrooms, designers and stores are here. And they ain’t selling out. If they are, I don’t want what everyone else is buying anyway. This is another argument to dress in a more timeless style and avoid trends you see in magazines. Hand tailoring, gorgeous neutrals and classic sartorial expression never go out of style. Neither does getting a bargain.

Subway Etiquette

2007-07-23T20:50:00.001-04:00

The woman was chewing gum with her mouth open and should have known better. While above ground, gum chewing only negatively affects the general population if it is spat onto the sidewalk, in the New York City subway, it is grounds for immediate correction. Samantha von Sperling, director of Polished, a top social image consultant service shoots the offender “a look of death” and the girl wisely closes her gaping maw, the masticated spearmint rectangle now hidden except for small jaw movements indicating its presence.

While each of us commuters are subject to the rude, the inconsiderate and the dunderheaded at least once per trip, for von Sperling, etiquette goes much deeper than merely remembering to say, “excuse me” before disembarking the train. The overwhelming problem in dealing with train etiquette, von Sperling explains, is that people just are not aware of poor behavior or that they just don’t care.

Von Sperling cuts a dramatic figure, impeccably dressed in all black with a dazzling blue-green cuff and matching eyeliner. Descending into the subterranean habitat of both rats and seat hogs, she spies a man on the platform clipping his nails. The light sound of the clipping draws stares from others waiting for the train, and von Sperling points out that behavior such as that does not belong anywhere in public.

Stepping into the cool confines of the uptown 1 train, von Sperling and I begin furtively observing our fellow passengers. Von Sperling moves closer to a man with his legs akimbo, a huge suitcase stuffed between them. With a polite but sharp, “excuse me, please” she sits down. The man now slightly taken aback readjusts his position and sits in only one seat. I am sitting diagonal from von Sperling, an empty tic-tac box on the seat next to me and a Doritos bag under the opposite seat. “How did we get this way,” I wonder. Who does not know - to use a term from my hiking days - to pack out what you pack in?

Von Sperling summarizes that our loss of public etiquette has been four generations in the making. “In the 1960’s people rebelled and there was a shift of value systems,” she said. “Etiquette became an elective and not a requirement and there were other things to focus on [such as civil rights and a war].” Hers is an interesting theory; the summer of love has given birth to the autumn of personal happiness and, now, the winter of my commuting discontent.

Transferring onto the shuttle train at Times Square, von Sperling explains that underground etiquette goes deeper than not littering or changing a ringtone in an enclosed space. The behaviors we all engage in reinforce class divisions and spotlight social strata. If we choose to eat on the train, for example, we could be noshing on a food another passenger may not be able to afford, is allergic to, or cannot eat due to dietary restrictions. Knowing this, von Sperling recommends snacking on “non-offensive consumables,” such as almonds - but only if you must.

At its core, etiquette is primarily about communication, von Sperling said. It is communicating your desires to others to provide information so they can react appropriately. It isn’t enough for passengers to know they’re getting off at the next stop, but beginning one stop prior they should begin moving towards the door, or gathering belongings so people can anticipate that a seat previously occupied will be up for grabs.

Etiquette is also about sly manipulation. Von Sperling enjoys “the look of death,” whereas other less couth individuals sometimes enjoy a more direct approach involving swear words and threats of physical harm. More appropriate, she said, is slightly invading a person’s space to spark them step into the car to allow a more even distribution of available real estate. But, as von Sperling points out, there is a difference between intrusions of public decorum versus a personal annoyance (i.e. a slight bump of someone’s backpack versus loud yelling and cursing). That violation of public protocol spreads across class lines, “I’ve met goat herders with more class than some lawyers and doctors,” von Sperling states.

Stepping into a downtown 6 train, the train would be free of offenders, von Sperling said, if it weren’t for an overweight woman wearing a tank top about two sizes too small for her ample frame. Von Sperling looks over in disgust. “If you are slim and in shape, then wearing little clothing is ok. But if you are much larger, (as she nods in the woman’s direction), you have subjected everyone to looking at something unappealing,” she says in a hushed tone. Underground etiquette is also about thinking of your fellow passengers before you leave your house, she said, much less how we interact with them once thrown together in a lurching and screeching box at 30+ miles per hour.

At the end of our circular ride, we were back where we started in terms of location but I felt miles away from what I had originally conceived as standard underground etiquette. Von Sperling and I connected over mistakes, but these mistakes were correctable. “Each individual is capable of creating winds of change,” she prophetically explained.

While it is hard to concentrate on how our behavior affects others, especially with magazines, books, iPods, Blackberry’s and other distractions designed for our attention, small observances and even a tiny bit of acute perception is all that is needed to make our trips that much better.

Metaphoric Dish Soap

2007-05-21T17:30:00.000-04:00

So I ran out of dish soap the other week. While this would normally necessitate a quick trip to the local Duane Reade to pick up some more, it actually became cause for contemplation.

You see, I have had that dish soap since I moved into my apartment. Four years this dish soap lasted - and yes it was a large container lest you think I eat off of dirty dishes. But then I got to thinking “that dish soap has seen a lot of interesting events.” That large plastic jar of Palmolive Green Tea scented soap had seen my apartment when there was but one fork and knife, gone through my entire relationship with Nam Hee, witnessed my cat double in age and had a former college professor knock it over as she was pushed up against the sink. That Palmolive has seen at least 50 different people come and go in my apartment – friends, lovers, neighbors, acquaintances, co-workers and indeed several strangers.

So as I bought new dish soap, I got to thinking how much my life has changed in that apartment in four years. I remember absently washing dishes the night my grandfather passed away, washing out tela’s new bowl for dry food I bought three years ago and many other random snapshots of my life at the sink. Then I also got to thinking that I should stop using so many paper plates and start eating off of real plates a lot more and just wash more dishes.

More importantly, its crucial to realize that no soap can clean memories that are sad, dirty or otherwise somehow tainted. Thankfully, at least you can have clean dishes (and moisturized hands) as you recall these thoughts and experiences.

The Business of Soul Food

2007-04-16T17:58:00.001-04:00

The business of running a successful soul food restaurant has as much to do with connecting to the soul, as it does with serving up the Southern-inspired food.

Sylvia Woods, founder and owner of Sylvia’s Restaurant in Harlem, summarized why soul food is so popular: “It’s about being comfortable, enjoying the food and taking a piece of the South and Harlem with you,” the spry 81-year-old said.

Today’s soul food restaurant is about establishing that very connection to tradition while turning a profit. Transcending its grits and gravy origin, words like “branding” and “optimal diversification” are hashed out in the kitchens along with the fried chicken.

Sylvia’s, open for 45 years at West 126th Street and Lenox Ave, has taken a lesson from large corporations and is in the midst of product diversification. “We have over 70 items with the Sylvia’s brand on the grocery store shelves, and we are continuously increasing our product line,” said Trenness Woods, director of marketing and public relations for Sylvia’s restaurant.

Already available at Sylvia’s for patrons and visitors is a line of cookbooks and sauces in a small display case near the waiting area. Next for Sylvia’s is taking their restaurant on the road across the states, and expanding the brand.

Yet modern purveyors of soul food realize they cannot rest on their chicken fried laurels; brand expansion is also brewing at Amy Ruth’s, open since 1999 at 113 West 116th St. Restaurant owners just signed a deal with an investor group to expand their business to other locations in New York City, though sites are not yet chosen. “We already had an outpost at Foxwoods casino in Connecticut, and now we want to branch out even more,” said Stephen Lloyd, general manager of Amy Ruth’s.

Amy Ruth’s also expanded its hours to serve late night revelers. “It is a niche to be open at 3, 4 a.m.; 10-15 percent of our business comes from serving late night dinners and breakfasts like chicken and waffles,” Lloyd said.

By all accounts business has been good. “I’ve watched sales go from $25,000 to around $40-45,000 per week,” Lloyd, 48, confirmed. An integral part of this success comes, first and foremost, by making the customer feel comfortable. “Amy Ruth’s has a welcoming spirit, we want it to feel like Grandma’s house.”

This sentiment echoed across Harlem. “This is the black Cheers, the uptown place where you can be comfortable and everybody knows your name,” said Adriane Ferguson, 40. Ferguson is the chef and owner of Billie’s Black, a new soul food restaurant opened just eight months ago on West 119th Street between Frederick Douglas and St. Nicholas Avenues. “We do an average of $3,000 per week in sales, and I’d like to see it at $3,500, Ferguson said. “But we have to make sure that our restaurant is like home, that it’s real.”

The essence and practice of authenticity is essential to the comfort of diners at a soul food restaurant. “We want to make sure customers are comfortable and we are doing a good job. Last year was our most profitable year. This year is on track to be even better,” said Woods.

Harlem and Soul food go hand in hand. “A lot of what Harlem is about is soul, the people here and the culture we have,” Ferguson said. “Soul food is about connecting to history, and the cooking is like painting. It demands creativity.”

Connecting to history is as easy as picking up a leg of honey-dipped fried chicken and tucking into a plate of cheese grits. Said Trenness Woods, “Harlem is a natural fit for a business like ours. The proof is in the cornbread.”

Steal or No Steal

2007-02-14T21:23:00.000-05:00

I love game shows, mostly because I was on one (Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego?) when I was a kid, and I won. I tried out for Jeopardy several months ago, and I would LOVE to be on Wheel of Fortune.

When I was a kid, I would run home and watch Press Your Luck or even Love Connection. When I am home sick, The Price is Right is what I look forward to. The best part is, I am consistently right when it comes to the questions posed to average morons on most game shows. I figure at this point I should average at least $50,000 if I went on one of the new fangled shows.

The thing is that all game shows should operate on at least one basic principle- that your brain should be tested. But one show is the worst of them all and that is Deal or no Deal. This show involves complete idiots and people with no social skills throwing darts at a board (or in this case picking out cases) with smarmy Howie Mandell as a host.

So I flip by this insipid program and see this overweight blob who proclaims she loves to shop. She is dressed poorly for someone who shops all the time. And she is probably a depressive but that is my armchair diagnosis. Her friends include her generic husband who has given up on having a hot wife and someone dressed in a mascot costume. She picks cases based on her whim, including one when she utters, “I want case 25 because I like her hair”. Of course case # 25 is held by an African American who has a slight visceral reaction to the contestants reasoning.

I don’t get this show- its blind luck where people win over $100,000- a staggering amount of money for doing NOTHING. Where people like this ogre turn down $40,000 because it isn’t enough, when meanwhile she says that her credit card has gotten declined before. That means that she is in serious debt but she thinks $40K isn’t a lot of money?

When people are rewarded for stupidity it makes me ridiculously upset and this show is the exact reason Americans think they can get rich without any education.

Meanwhile, have a happy valentine’s day.

Fabric's Feeling Fine

2007-01-24T17:39:00.000-05:00

As a holiday (ok, Chanukkah) present to myself I bought this:

http://www.whirlpool.com/catalog/product.jsp?productId=513

The press on the website says “The Whirlpool® Fabric Freshener is the only portable appliance that removes odors and relaxes wrinkles without chemicals or detergents. With the simple touch of a button and in just over half an hour, your clothes will be looking great, smelling fresh and ready-to-wear again - all from the comfort of your home.”

I have to tell you, for $215.00 this product works exactly as intended, and in part due to that, and also in part because I obsessively dry clean my very fine clothing, I have fallen in love with this device. While I won’t be carting the device around to movies, concerts and writing the thing sonnets, I will profess my love on the internet. I LOVE YOU Whirlpool Fabric Freshener.

Imagine you wear your nice Prada shirt out to a swanky lounge and as you walk in and out of the joint you are met with the smokers who in NYC are banished to the outside of these types of establishments. Inside the lounge, someone wearing too much cologne gives you a great big hug and the scent of Drakker Noir overwhelms your olfactory passages. In the taxi home, the cab driver smells of burnt lentils and incense. You are incensed because your shirt now smells like a combination of carcinogens, beans and a masking agent favored by people with poor fashion sense. Lets also say that you were smart enough to purchase the Whirlpool Fabric Freshener. This type of situation would normally call for rage but no longer. Now, a half hour later, you have a gorgeous Italian shirt free of bad smells and repressed anger at the mental midgets who have contaminated the garment with their odors. And, you didn’t spend $2.00 to hand the garment over to the dry cleaner. 100 more scenarios such as these, and this baby is paid for!

It is rare that I endorse a product so vehemently, but friends and readers alike, I tell you this: Whirlpool struck gold and I am a happy prospector.

Just An Update

2007-01-10T17:43:00.000-05:00

Another birthday come and gone. Turning 28 was really no big deal, in that it did not feel any different than 27 although I suppose the tolerance for nonsense that you had at 27 diminishes even further after 365 extra days. For me, I spent the day at home, on the phone with potential job people and then went to lunch with a buddy of mine to briefly discuss Copenhagen and Amsterdam and other various European locales where we might be visiting.

In the evening, I went to a wonderful restaurant called Ouest which I have been to many times before but is always tasty. I ordered the rabbit cooked 3 ways, and got slightly drunk on good wine with the folks then went back to their place where I promptly misplaced a cookie, received great presents and relaxed a tad. Then it was home to lay down on my new featherbed which felt like heaven and sleep like I was hibernating.

Today however is my mom’s birthday and I am very happy to give her the presents I got her which include spa gift certificates, a necklace and some other things. I also planned a nice brunch for her on Sunday at a Jean Georges restaurant, which should be great. Anyway, just a rambling update. I have my Columbia orientation on Friday which will be awesome and ill post something about that later.

I DID IT

2006-12-23T08:15:00.000-05:00

The process to get into an ivy-league graduate school is fraught with bumps, slim chances and intense competition. While most people know that I was waitlisted to Columbia University’s School of Journalism earlier this year, I made it a point to reapply as soon as I could. I filled out the reapplication about two months ago, took their writing test again, and sat back feeling confident that I did the best I could.

Fast forward to three weeks ago when I get the notice that decision letters are going out in the next 2 weeks. I get excited but not manic and proceed to go about my daily routine. Then an email pops up last week, which reads, in part, “we will be emailing you the decisions by the end of this week”. I wait, and nothing arrives in the old hotmail account. Ok, so now I think they forgot about me.

At the start of this week, another email arrives that reads “we will be emailing you decisions late this week”. Friday morning rolls around and I am in full on nervous mode. I even paced around the apartment debating what to do. I caved and called the Director of Admissions who explains that they are still working, not to worry, and that by 3pm I will know. I tell him I will try “not to obsessively check my email before then” despite knowing that that is precisely my course of action. 3pm rolls around and nothing. I’m starting to pull hair out and will now need Propecia for the rest of my life.

I go home early from work and an email sent at 5:30pm dings in explaining that they will have the decisions within three hours. I start clicking ‘refresh’ every two minutes. I have a much-anticipated date who I am meeting at 8:30pm, which means I have to leave by 7:50pm to ensure I am not late. And I think, I should just go because if I don’t get in I don’t want to be a miserable prick the entire night thinking about what could have been.

On my wonderful date, copious wine is enjoyed, cheese is ordered and somehow I pay $200 for the evening. But she is beautiful, funny, witty, inquisitive and kissable so somehow I banish most thoughts of my education related future and focus on her. We leave the restaurant and I take a cab home, run upstairs, turn the computer back on, log into hotmail, see an email sent 15 minutes after I left the apartment, click it open and…

I GOT IN TO COLUMBIA SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM, CLASS OF 2009!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vegas Round 2

2006-12-11T20:31:00.000-05:00

I might have to change my tune about Las Vegas. Ok maybe not change it, but alter the tonal harshness. I was there 2 weeks ago, and I had a really great time- yes its true. Mr. Never-Satisfied Snob from New York had fun in the playground for middle America.

Staying at Caesar’s palace in a nice suite was a good first step. Seeing two Cirque de Soleil shows was the second. I was taken to Ka by one of the presidents and the show was really cool. Lots of intricate martial arts and dancing with a huge rotating platform that serves as a vertical stage for flips and jumps but also a massive vertical setting for acrobatics. The other show I saw was O which is Cirque with water. A huge pool, high dives, crazy contortionists and oddly compelling synchronized swimming made for a spectacle worthy of the $150 I paid in advance for a ticket.

I think my enjoyment stemmed from the brief amount of work to do (only 4 hours a day with 1 of those hours a cocktail hour) coupled with the roughly six 20-something people/Vegas alcoholics that were with me. Not only did we hit up Tao at the Venetian, in which I asked random women if they got into the club with a coupon like I did, but upon my suggestion, we went to Mix lounge at Mandalay Bay which is an “ultra-lounge” (stupid name) on the 60th floor of the hotel with an incredible view of the entire strip. My new Panasonic FX50 digital camera took some great shots. Well, I should say, I took some great shots with the new camera. Ok you get the point.

Of course you are asking yourself, did this guy win any money? And the answer is I lost $85 which isn’t too bad. And I did discover the hotel with the most crookedest roulette table in town which I plan to gamble at copiously when I return for business in late February.

Yes there were degenerates and yes I did get annoyed by the amount of fatness around, but I ate really well and didn’t pay for anything except my gambling loss. Overall a great trip and no Freemont street visit which made a huge amount of difference.

OJ Spills His Guts

2006-11-18T15:30:00.000-05:00

Or, more accurately, had spilled the guts of two people (one his wife and the other, her lover) all over the driveway of a pretty nice house in Brentwood, CA.

So in case you haven’t heard, OJ Simpson is going on FOX television in a two night special entitled “If I Did It, Here’s How It Happened”. Interviewed by Judith Reagan, the special coincides, of course, with a tell-all (or in this case tell-all under the guise of not telling) book published under Mrs. Reagan’s namesake publishing imprint.

I will ignore the annoyingly simplistic title of the book and TV special. This rant is for Mr. Simpson, a cretin whose barbarity, callousness and plain stupidity knows no bounds. I thought we were done with OJ. I thought I might see him playing golf in a random magazine and hope for a lightening storm. But here he is again, basically confessing and I ask, what’s the point? We all know he did it. There is no mystery. He can confess in the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue and under the Constitution, he is not allowed to be retried under Double Jeopardy (for a reference point, see the movie with the same name starring Ashley Judd and Morgan Freeman). Mr. Simpson is reportedly being paid $3.5 million for this and every cent should go to the litigants who won the civil trial to whom Simpson has not paid one dime. Sure, most people would love to see Simpson broke and suffering, but unfortunately this isn’t the case.

So who is going to watch this drivel? Johnnie Cochran- no he is dead. Judge Ito? Perhaps, but who has heard from him in more than a decade. Marcia Clark and Chris Darden? I don’t know, maybe they are gluttons for punishment. Speaking of punishment…a special kick in the throat should be reserved for Ms. Reagan. Why do you feel necessary to do this? Are you that soulless, that starved for attention and money that you feel the need to try to make people feel anything but contempt for a creature, a vile example of humanity like OJ?

OJ states in this interview "I can't do no more of this”. Actually, OJ, you can and you will. Because if you are going to put yourself out there, and I’m not even going to harp on his mangling of the English language, you will be the puppet that Ms. Reagan needs you to be. The viewers, which I hope will number less than those who purchased Kevin Federline’s album, should expect nothing but feelings of contempt and I feel nothing but rage at those who have vaulted him back into the forefront of media attention. Congratulations FOX and Ms. Reagan, you have outdone yourself.

Dates (and no figs)

2006-10-24T19:28:00.000-04:00

After a heart wrenching break up with Nam Hee, I am ready to get back into that wacky and irksome world of dating. Dating various people, dating girls I have no interest in, dating girls I have too much interest in and dating girls that I shouldn’t be spending time with. Here are two of my recent adventures.

Girl 1: Gorgeous and typically Russian. Met her on JDate. She texted me all throughout her vacation in Las Vegas (good sign # 1) and was interested solely in a long term relationship (good sign # 2). We finally get together and she is smoking hot in person. I am feeling good, have a great day planned for us and a good outfit on. Good conversation all the way to Serendipity 3, an emporium of desserts and a Mecca for tourists. I had a birthday party there was I was about 10 in which the foot long hot dog was the cuisine of choice…and never went back. We get to this fine purveyor of chocolate yumminess and the line is out the door. I inform her that “I hate waiting on line” and proceed to “new york” my way to the front (i.e. saying excuse me and then pushing past regardless of response). I tell the teenage maitre’d that I tip well and he tells me to wait outside.
We go outside and I realize I am going to have to bribe him to get into the place or otherwise I am going to be looking at a menu for two hours outside the store thinking about what I want to eat after my stomach has already devoured itself from impatience. Folding up a Hamilton the girl is too impressed for words and stands there wide eyed and in awe of my smoothness. I am slightly in awe of myself as well.
The guy comes out, the money is palmed and 5 minutes later we are sitting at one of the best tables ordering the famous frozen hot chocolate. I can feel the eyes of 100 angry tourists burning into the back of my Jewish skull as we sit down. Money talks in the city.
We leave, we kiss, we smile intently. She cancels our plans the following week with a lame explanation and I dismiss her for the rest of existence. Perhaps I shouldn’t have held her hand as we left the joint, slightly buzzed from the massive influx of chocolate but no matter. I delete all her emails.

Girl 2: I met her at a rare opening of the gardens at Rockefeller center. She is a short, kind of cute, Filipino / Thai chick with the body type of a slightly deflated beachball under her Old Navy coat. I did not realize the roundness until our actual date. I strike up a conversation with witty bon mots and photography tips both of which go over her head. This could be in part due to her height or her brain power but regardless, I find myself saying all the right things. She feigns that she is impressed, I give her my business card in hopes she will send me her pictures that she and I took of the gardens so I have a copy. She tells me she has to go to church after Rockefeller center which I pay no mind to.
Thankfully she emails me the pictures; unfortunately I ask to get together. I get a text at 6:30am Sunday morning asking to hang out and I agree.
I need a new pair of glasses and a second opinion, no matter how asinine, so I drag her to Lens Crafters on the Upper East Side. Within 4 seconds of meeting her, I know two things: 1, I am not attracted to her at all, and 2, she talks way too loudly. Coming from me that means her voice can be heard in Brooklyn. We are in Lens Crafters and I am trying to ask the sales girl why the only frames on sale look like Dame Edna rejects when she exclaims in her softest voice (which shatters glass) that the glasses make me look “like a gay guy” and that they “are fucking ugly”. I sigh and give a sorrowful look at the elderly couple 5 feet to my right out for a nice afternoon stroll and some errand running. Her coat is off and I notice her midsection looks like she has had a Goodyear for breakfast and it is now sitting horizontally on top of her belt.
I imagine her at the dinner table, voice booming, at my parents house and shudder slightly. I know that I have to leave and can never return to this eyeglass store for at least 2 years. I shuffle her out of the store and inform her that I am skipping our follow up movie and going home to take care of things. She dithers and looks at me like I am a total cretin and I begin to walk to the bus stop, hoping she will roll away into the sewer so I don’t have to be seen with her in public any longer. She follows obediently and tells me she has to go to church, as if conversing with me allows Satan to creep in. We hug at the bus stop and I immediately delete all messages from her that my phone has conveniently stored.

My next date, at this rate, should be a mass of bubbling ooze who works in theatre production.

Roger Waters Concert Review

2006-09-26T00:18:00.000-04:00

Roger Waters Concert Review
September 13th 2006, Madison Square Garden

Roger Waters, the eminent and internally tortured bassist and songwriter of Pink Floyd, descended on Madison Square Garden September 12th and 13th. After ponying up $80 at Ticketmaster, I was in the door for the show on the 13th. Billed as “The Dark Side of the Moon tour”, the format was a standardized two set affair in which a haphazard mix of Waters’ solo work and random Floyd tunes dominated the first set and the entire second set would be a performance of the Floyd classic. There is not much to write about Dark Side that has not already been said. Any album that stayed on the charts for more than 14 years is certainly epic enough to be named one of the best albums ever and all in attendance were there mainly to see this influential album performed live.

The crowd was an interesting mix: in front of me was a large family, in back of me were four grizzled New Jerseyites (the type who get into fistfights at the age of 40) and three seats down sat a 20-something professional couple. All have little in common, except a love for Dark Side and Pink Floyd, which meant that night, all were family. The preshow music belied Waters’ age with Chuck Berry, Elvis and Chubby Checker coming through the PA at Madison Square Garden- an interesting contrast to the psychedelic sounds we were about to experience. At 8:15pm sharp, the lights dimmed and Waters emerged to thunderous applause.
The video display was a massive screen set at the back of the stage but the light show was minimal, mostly fast color changes shot across the width of the stage to illuminate the band in a psychedelic array.

The strains of “In the Flesh” off The Wall began to fill the area, perhaps as a tongue in cheek signal to the crowd that Waters was actually there, in the flesh, and ready to amaze the sold out crowd. A high point of the first set was during “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” when, appropriately, images of recently departed Syd Barret as well as iconographic pictures of the band filled the video screen. Another highlight was a ferocious guitar solo by Snowy White during “Have a Cigar”. White’s prodigious talent shines through, and having played with Floyd throughout the 70’s, he is a great addition to this tour ensuring that the jams belted forth were contextual to the musical era in which the songs originated. “Have a Cigar” segued into “Wish You Were Here” and all of Madison Square Garden sung along in unison.

After this breathtaking high point, the needle came off the record, so to speak. Waters began singing a new song called “Perfect Sense” which was a spoken-word like tune about how killing begets killing and how money is the root cause to all of it. Included in this were pictures of Saddam Hussein, President Bush and Ronald Reagan all with their faces bruised. While that created some tension in the crowd, Waters exclaimed, “now is where it gets really controversial” and began narrating a story about his hitchhiking adventures in Lebanon during which a kind Arab family took him in and provided a hot meal and a place to sleep. He was so moved that it led him to write a song about it called “Leaving Beirut”.

During this song, as he sung, the lyrics and story were documented like a graphic novel on the video screen. However, he lost the crowd when he began to sing such lyrics as “don’t let the might of the Christian right, f**k it up for us all”. Plenty of boos competed with the cheers at the end of this song. Waters needs to take a clue from Bono about how to be politically active while on stage. The last song of the first set was “Sheep” which though played well, was a blatant effort to link his current political sensibilities (given the previous song) with those of Pink Floyd circa Animals. A neat touch was the massive pig that floated around the arena but, with the words “President Bush” painted over the buttocks of the pig, the coolness was dimmed by its obvious political leanings.

A quick 15 minute set break and Waters and crew, with surprise guest Floyd drummer Nick Mason, returned to an audience anticipating an experience unlike any other. Waters did not disappoint one iota on this front. Dark Side of the Moon was performed flawlessly and when I closed my eyes, years of experiences listening to this album came rushing back. I cannot emphasize how cohesive and watertight this part of the concert truly was and Waters’ voice sounded razor sharp. While Gilmour’s vocals were missed, his absence did not detract from the enjoyment. While there was not much improvisation, this, in my view, was a better scenario. Dark Side has become so ingrained in the musical subconscious, that any detractions, (even well intentioned jamming), would betray the vision and sheer genius of the original recording. The perfect time for jamming on Dark Side would have been Floyd’s reunion at Live 8 in 2005, not on Waters’ solo tour.

Not to be outdone, the encore held even more surprises. For “Another Brick in the Wall” ten members from the Boys & Girls Club of New York, resplendent in their "Fear Builds Walls" t-shirts, filled in for the English lads of yore and did a great job. Other encore treats included “Vera” and a spot-on rendition of “Comfortably Numb” to close out the show.
Even though Waters quit the band in the 80’s, he still has the chops, backing band and singers to perfectly replicate the magic that was Pink Floyd. Despite the politics, it easily was one of the best concerts I have ever seen and a rare chance to hear this epic music in the flesh.

Ben Harper Review

2006-09-16T11:23:00.000-04:00

Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals
September 5th 2006, Summerstage, New York City

By: Jeremy Willinger

Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals always draw a crowd, and their two-day stint at Summerstage on September 5th and 6th in New York City’s Central Park was no exception. Crunchy NYU students, twenty something couples and former members of fraternities all over the northeast attended. I went to the September 5th show, under the threat of heavy rain, and while every seat in the bleachers was taken and a massive crowd gathered around the stage, there were free tickets offered outside the venue and no shortage of extras for those who wandered over looking for a miracle.

Harper and company have a knack for distilling regional sounds down to their essence- southern rock, reggae beats and African percussion come to mind, but they are also adept at interweaving these forms of musical expression into a sound that is identifiable and enjoyed by all. Taking the stage at 7:30pm, precisely as advertised, BHIC launched into a rocking “Faded” with a fantastic 6+ minute guitar solo by Michael Ward that could have been mistaken for Warren Haynes if one closed their eyes. This classic track from his 1997 album, The Will to Live is a great opener to get the crowd ready and excited. The cheering had barely died down when he launched into the title track from his new album, Both Sides of the Gun. This poignant song is blatant in its message, with Harper crooning, “we don't know quite what this is, other than a war that can't be won”. Harper is never one to shy away from his putting his feelings into song, and if “Both Sides…” was not conspicuous enough, a new song, “Black Rain”, includes such lyrics as “You left them swimming for their lives/ Down in New Orleans/ This government business is straight up sadistic.” BHIC is a perfect band to perform songs of condemnation- with Harper’s voice straining to push his emotions out and into the collective mind of the audience and his band’s soothing melodies and perfect timing as a showcase. He is everything Lenny Kravitz wishes he could be.

Harper and the Criminals worked through other tracks off the new album such as “Please Don’t Talk About Murder While I’m Eating”, “Get it Like You Like It” and “Waiting for You”. All did not deviate from Harper’s soulful sound that all have come to recognize. Other first set favorites included “Steal My Kisses”, “Diamonds on the Inside” and “With My Own Two Hands”, the latter of which closed out his only full set of the evening.

Returning for his first of two encores, Ben Harper came out for a quick solo set and began with the moving “Another Lonely Day”. What distinguished this performance, was Harper throwing down the microphone and yelling the lyrics into the damped crowd. This not only highlighted Harper’s extraordinary vocals but also personalized the performance, as the audience soaked up the experience silently. The three-song encore ended with “Where Could I Go”, a wonderful song for anyone going through heartbreak, still lovely after its 1993 debut.

Harper brought back the Innocent Criminals at 9pm for the second and final encore, covering Neil Young’s epic “Heart of Gold” as their first song and going through crowd favorites as “Burn One Down” and “Please Me Like You Want To”. The show ended with their new single “Better Way”, an upbeat and optimistic conclusion to an evening that despite a brief downpour proves that not all music has lost its direction and that truly, we all believe in a better way.

The Freemont Street Experience

2006-09-02T11:08:00.000-04:00

Last time I was in Las Vegas, already a destination I hold as the pantheon of lowbrow culture, I decided to take in “The Freemont Street Experience”. Freemont street is home of the original casinos, like Binion’s Horseshoe and the famous Golden Nugget. However, as Vegas expanded and the new Strip was formed, Freemont Street was passed over and the surrounding environs became dilapidated and festered with the type of people who have criminal records and are proud of it- almost like Atlantic City but without the ocean.

To compensate for Vegas eclipsing the need for this area of town and what was I am sure a hemorrhaging of money and hotel guests, the 10+ casinos still in business built a massive LCD canopy over Freemont street and designated it a pedestrian mall. The LCD screen is impressive, easily 50 feet off the ground and over 200 feet long with enough speakers to make one go deaf.

Seeing as how it was Saturday night, I thought a good outfit would be in order. Plus I didn’t know if I wanted to go out after Freemont street and decided to go the extra distance with my ensemble. I chose my new pair of Loomstate jeans, constructed out of organic cotton made from sustainable farms in dark indigo denim. I had not worn these before and to say they were tight is an understatement. In fact, they constricted my ability to have children for the next two years. No belt was needed, of course. On top, I settled on a wispy yellow linen button down from John Varvatos. While the fabric was a bit sheer, it was comfortable and perfect for a light breeze, should I encounter one. I gelled my hair, slid on my great John Varvatos slip ons, and was out the door.

To get to Freemont street from my hotel on the strip, I decided to save some cash and do what most New Yorkers would appreciate- take public transportation. Getting on the bus was not much of a big deal and I purchased a fun pass that would allow a round trip for only $5. The bus driver was an overly portly gentleman with the kind of resigned look on his face that let you know he had been doing the job for too long and grew tired of it years ago. I grabbed a seat on the second floor of the double decker bus and we started slowly moving down the strip, crawling along at 5 mph given the traffic of Saturday night.

I was trying to catch the 10pm show at Freemont street so the slow pace began to become irritating as we inched along and pedestrians strolled by the bus as if it were standing still…which for the most part we were. After about 20 minutes, yelling erupted from the downstairs part of the bus. From what I could gather, an older man had taken issue with something the bus driver did and began railing about his younger years as a bus driver and something about the younger generation “having no respect”. While I agreed with the older man on that point, the motley crew of people on the bus seemed to enjoy it when the bus driver exchanged insults over the loudspeaker and then kicked the older man off the bus at the Wynn casino. Settling back into my seat, it was not 10 minutes later when a flurry of angry Spanish began emanating from downstairs. I know the difference between angry Spanish and friendly Spanish and this did not seem like it would end up with hugs and rainbows. One woman began yelling in English, bellowing “that is my seat you nasty b**ch” and then more melodic Spanish and I distinctly heard a word that is not to be repeated. With that, the other side of this argument began threatening, “Ill slap your mouth, ill slap you right in the mouth”. The aggressor was summarily kicked off the bus, much to my relief and everyone else’s disappointment, but she did take the opportunity, once outside the bus, to slap her own rear and give us the bird.

Driving further, the streets became less well lit, and the only business on either side of the street were motels (many renting by the day and hour), wedding chapels- including the drive through wedding chapel I had read about, and Bail Bonds places. They were all so close together that I could envision a woman bailing out her boyfriend, waiting for the bail bonds man drop him off at the chapel and then for the happy couple to adjoin a nearby motel for some wedding night bliss and a vibrating bed where they would conceive a future criminal.

Thankfully, no more bouts of pugilism initiated on the bus and we arrived at Freemont Street. Once there, the bus driver gave decent instructions about where to find the bus for the return trip. I disembarked and noticed that a lot of the surrounding area was quiet. A parking garage was to my left but I did see people stumbling down the block to my right and followed the crowd. Entering Freemont Street, I knew I had made a mistake of grave proportions. The crowd seemed…angry. There was a palpable tension in the air, as if all that was needed was one opportunity or one more beer for an eruption to occur. It was mostly bikers in leather jackets and pants, peroxide blond women with too small shirts, families with matching tattoos, and ghetto teenagers yelling and smoking cheap cigars. I also realized that the next bus was not going to come back for another hour so I might as well enjoy the Freemont street experience of the LCD show and see about gambling a bit at the Golden Nugget.

I grabbed a Coors Light and walked to the exact middle point of Freemont Street. As I got there, the lights of the casinos went dark and the LCD screen fired up. It was neat to see an entire strip of casinos shut off their garish lighting and hearing the music fire up welcoming people to Freemont Street. Out of the several shows that they project on the LCD screen, I of course, was there for American Freedom which celebrated everything America. I thought I would see people lined up for an all you can eat buffet on the LCD screen and maybe a digitized Paris Hilton waving to the peons below but it was all prairies, mountains, the Blue Angels, the space shuttle and a mighty eagle swooping around. I felt like a total dipstick in a sea of jingoistic, love your country hate the French mindset. Perhaps I would have been more tapped in, but the graphics were not that good. For a country who are used to movies made entirely on the computer and video game graphics approaching photo-realism, this display felt decidedly 1994. The pixels were not sharp and the circles had square edges. I was bored. The show ended with a billowing American flag running the whole way down the screen, and whooping and hollering from the crowd. I know I heard at least one “U-S-A, U-S-A”. The lights came back on in a flourish and everyone got in line for another drink at the many bars.

When the lights came on and I began walking to the Golden Nugget, knowing I had another half hour, I began to catch “the eyes”. These eyes came from most everyone on the street. They said “who is this little queer?” or, more sinister, “I would love to beat him up and take his money”. Perhaps the fact that I could speak a little French would help my case. No, probably not. What about if I told would-be assailants I had been to Per Se in Manhattan and had the tasting menu (which was divine)…also, odds are, a big no.

I strolled into the Golden Nugget and immediately saw a woman who had about two teeth with which to masticate her food shrieking about her recent loss at a 25-cent slot machine. How she balanced her Kool cigarette in her mouth, I will never know. I made an immediate about face and walked briskly back to the bus stop.

The bus came soon after I got there and the driver, who couldn’t have been over 23, launched us away from the curb heading back to the strip. En route, he got on the microphone and announced “ok so you are on my bus, the pimp bus, and I like making fun of people. So I am going to turn on the outside speaker and we can all have a good laugh”. The crowd seemed into it. Driving by a group of guys outside the Stratosphere, he yelled “hey Brokeback mountain, are you guys gonna have some fun later?” The bus passengers erupted into howls. A woman whispered to her kid “that means those guys are gays”. Slowing down to pick up a group of Mexican’s in clothes suggesting they had been working construction jobs all day, they stood up anticipating the doors of the bus opening. The driver swerved away from the curb at the last minute and yelled through the speaker “no habla espanol, too bad”. More howls from the bus passengers. This scene repeated itself, with other gems such as “hey cuties, I am single and I drive a bus” to groups of women. When people got off, they told the driver he was “hilarious” and “we should just stay on the bus all night”. Mercifully 40 minutes later, I had come to my stop on the strip and once on the sidewalk watched as the bus lurched away, with more proclamations coming out of the speakers, fading into the warm desert night.

My experience at Freemont Street was not the Freemont Street experience, but thankfully, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and I was content to get back to my life in the Big Apple.

Hatikvah

2006-08-17T21:33:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately Israel has lost this volley with Hezbollah. And of course, throughout the Gaza strip and in Lebanon babies are being named “Hezbollah” and “Jihad” and the Arab street is lionizing Nasrallah. But whats truly unfortunate is that Hezbollah fought bravely, albeit with weapons from Syria and Iran. Though I am loathe to say that they fought fairly.

The problem is, to be frank, that we are applying laws of civility in dealing with an enemy that is anything but. How else to explain the wanton firing of missiles from civilian areas knowing that massive retaliation would be swift and vengeful and most certainly kill innocents? Of course there was the standard dithering from the UN and anti-semitism bubbling to the surface in the media and online. Hezbollah returns to cities laid bare by ruin, fighters killed and children vaporized. But to them it didn’t matter. They got what they wanted- publicity, image and their leadership spared well deserved death.

Of course, the next time around, Israel will have learned how to deal with these animals and I only hope the next foray between the forces of good (IDF) and evil (Arab terrorists) will result in swift decapitation of Nasrallah and all who stand with him!

Bloc Party review

2006-08-17T21:05:00.000-04:00

It was a pool party on Saturday July 29th that brought Bloc Party, The Secret Machines and Mew to Brooklyn. McCarren Pool, the venue for this energetic show, is a former public swimming pool located in Greenpoint Brooklyn, a short walk from the Lorimer or Bedford Street stations. Built in the 1930’s by Robert Moses, McCarren Pool could hold 6800 sweltering swimmers, or for this show, about 3500 music devotees. Recently reopened for public use, this high profile concert was billed as a fundraiser for a coffer that already contains $23 million for refurbishment of the facility. However, much to the chagrin of neighborhood residents no progress has yet to be made by the city.

First to take the stage at 6:30pm was Mew, a new band from Copenhagen Invited by Bloc Party to open their American tour; this was their second US appearance. Their album, Mew and the Glass Handed Kites is just out here in the states and their four-song performance seemed to blend of Kings of Leon’s shaggy rock with a spacey lyrical component. This three-piece band is sure to make more of an impact as their fan base grows and more become attuned to their ambient and melodic sound. On the song Special, lead singer Jonas Bjerre sings, “You’re special, you’re like a rocket through me” and their show left many in the audience with a new special band who they can claim they discovered.

The Secret Machines, a New York City based trio of brother’s Ben (vocals/guitar) and Brandon (bass/keyboards/vocals) Curtis and drummer Josh Garza are two albums deep into their career, their most recent, Ten Silver Drops released only 3 months ago. They are rockers in every sense of the word, psychedelic and frenetic on stage, and this night was no exception. While their first album, Now Here is Nowhere is more stoner rock with heavy guitars, smashing drum lines and balls-out shredding, their new release finds a more melancholy and pensive band. The Machines are not content to let their guitars speak over the lyrics; one standout track performed mid way through their six song set was, “Alone, Jealous and Stoned”. This piece captures the mood of a recent heartbreak- its beginning is slow and poignant before coming to a crescendo with a mash of hard guitars, perhaps just as the subject of the song was melancholy before growing angry the longer he was alone with his thoughts. The raw setting of a massive concrete and brick structure was apt for the cohesive Secret Machines who left the stage with feedback blaring through the speakers.

The feature presentation, Bloc Party, arrived to raucous applause and a crowd that had swelled to fill in most of the six-acre pool floor. Their set included favorites like “Positive Tension” “Helicopter” and “Banquet” from first album Silent Alarm, and new songs from their sophomore album like “Hunting for Witches” that featured a similar melody and drumline as “Positive Tension”, but that is not a bad recipe to follow. Frontman Kele Okereke shows himself to be a cheeky and humorous bandleader with the right charisma to pull people into the music. The rest of the band has gusto of their own: drummer Matt Tong doffing his shirt and bringing the drumsticks down with crashing precision. Gordon Moakes whips furious screaming chords out of his guitar while bassist Russell Lissak is content to let his deep strumming bass lines speak for themselves. This performance was energetic with Okereke taking a lot of time to talk with the crowd and gauge their obvious enthusiasm. They are a band that loves to perform and one whose audience will only grow as more people are introduced to their infectious charm and head-bobbing music.

The fact that the show was held in an old swimming pool is an excellent metaphorical basis for thinking about this show. Mew is wading into the US with their music while the Secret Machines perform cannonballs of loud, brash guitar riffs and heavy drums. Bloc Party has already taken the plunge and is now working on diving back in with their second album. The crowd was a good mix of Brooklyn hipsters, top 40 teenagers excited to see Bloc Party and white collar professional couples in their late 20’s and 30’s content to be outside with each other and listen to fun music. Just like all good pool parties, this show had something for everyone and a good time was had by all

Are You Syrias?

2006-07-19T21:55:00.000-04:00

The situation in Israel is worsening daily, having now been attacked in the South by the Hamas governed militants and now in the north by Hezbollah, acting by proxy for Syria which acts as a proxy for Iran. Israel has responded with ferocious force, bombing key infrastructure targets and generally halting life and commerce as the Lebanese know it to be. In Gaza, infrastructure targets such as bridges and roads are already destroyed and now the hunt is on for terrorists and their leaders.

Naturally, the world leaders and the Pope have come out against Israel’s actions- as if they are even listened to at this point- but it signifies a distressing airing and confluence of international public opinion. Regardless, Iran is meddling at a high level and I have no reason to disbelieve Israel’s assertion that there are actual Iranian soldiers firing their missiles for Hezbollah. If it is a fact that Iran arms and supports these goons, then in theory Iran has all that is coming to them after their wild pronouncements of Israel’s demise at the hands of a mullah fired nuclear weapon.

Since the G8 is meeting and Iran is worried about the focus being on their desire for nukes, it makes sense that they would like a diversion. And since Iran and Hezbollah have the same end goal (i.e. the destruction of Israel), if Lebanon and Syria get obliterated that still does not mean that the end goal would change- or become less imminent in the eyes of Iran’s leaders.

I have no problem with Israel targeting infrastructure. Lebanon should have been protecting the border between Hezbollah and northern Israel and they have not lived up to their end of the bargain for 6 years. And now, if Lebanon’s roads and fuel depots get bombed because Hezbollah uses said infrastructure then forgive me if I care not one iota.

However, I have no doubt that three things will eventually occur:

1) Hezbollah will be weakened by the constant destruction of their safehouses and Lebanese infrastructure.
2) Israel will, in the next three years, launch a major strike on Iranian nuke sites with help from American troops and stations in Iraq
3) Something very serious will happen in Syria causing the death or outing of Assad and it could very well involve a major attack on Israel which will lead to the bombing and small invasion of Damascus

Things are coming to a head, and only one country can survive- Israel or the current Iran. My bet is that since Israel has the technology and the nuclear weapons already, they will draw first blood. I just hope it will be a devastating enough wound.

Ruth's Metrocard

2006-07-17T21:09:00.000-04:00

My first bike ride of the summer this past Saturday took me from my parents place up to the George Washington Bridge (about 5 miles north) and then back again. But before I could put the rubber to the road, I needed to fill my tires. After three seasons of being stored in the basement, my tires were about as flat as Zarqawi’s heartline.

Biking up to the shop where they have a free air hose outside, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of not being “doored” by parked cars and the party I was to attend that night. Pulling up to a red light at 94th street and Amsterdam, I spotted a Metrocard lying in the street. Normally this would not register on my radar, but this sported a picture of a woman and a big “R” indicating that it was a reduced fare Metrocard for seniors. Betraying my parents’ ages, but the only way I knew to differentiate this card from others is that both possess this seniors-only pass!

I picked up the card and saw every Jewish mom on the upper west side of Manhattan. Holding R. Fensterheim’s card, I knew it must be returned. While the hotline for reduced fare Metrocard's was closed on the weekends, in the age of Google and 411 it could not be too hard to locate this woman. Dialing the free information line on Sunday, her listing was found in less than 30 seconds. I left a slightly nervous message Sunday afternoon but received no call back. I decided to make one more attempt this afternoon and when a woman answered the phone and I explained that I think I had found her reduced fare card, I could hear the elation in her voice as she exclaimed, “oh thank you, I lost it on my way to Penn Station. When I doubled back to see if I dropped it, I didn’t find it, but I did make my train which was good.” I took her address, feeling confident that I restored some faith in New Yorkers with promises that I would walk it over to her apartment building after getting out of work.

A sweltering day in New York, I was already mopping my brow and neck with a handkerchief when I walked into Mrs. Fensterheim’s lobby. A small, friendly woman was standing there and when I cautiously asked if she was indeed missing a Metrocard she grew a big smile across her visage and shook my hand. I gave her the card and she presented me with a bottle of cold water because “it is just so hot out.” Thanking her, I walked out, feeling satisfied and finished the cold water before I got down the block.

America in 250 Wrds

2006-07-04T10:59:00.000-04:00

To be an American does not mean that you were born here, that you are a citizen of the United States or even that you offer unconditional support to every action of our government.

Being an American today means that there is no limit to what a person can become if they have the right tools, education and maybe a little bit of luck. Why is this a distinctly American trait- because in most other cultures, class lines and social stratification is more distinct and generally accepted. The essence of America is that someone can come here or is born with nothing, and if they have a strong work ethic, perseverance and a will to succeed, that they can achieve an existence marked not by struggle and conflict but with a standard measure of living that includes shelter, sustenance and a small level of comfort.

In the larger sense, being an American also implies spreading the idea of democracy, free elections and rights for women and minority populations. An American believes that people have the right to voice criticism and that the opportunities afforded to the elite must in some way become a tangible prospect for the lower strata of the population.

In short, an American is someone who wants as much of a level playing field as possible for anyone willing to compete.

Associated Social Stupidity (ASS)

2006-06-18T22:03:00.000-04:00

I generally think most people could stand to be more self aware. Having said that, I think I might have witnessed the most extreme act of ridiculousness in quite some time. Boarding the Times Square Shuttle right below Times Square, my right ear picks up a prerecorded voice. In New York, we hear a lot of ghost voices through the subway system: train announcements, pages, next stop information, delay notifications and the like. And most times the messages are either too loud, garbled or a combination of both so commuters reluctantly wait and figure it will all work out eventually. This time however, the pre recorded voice was asking someone to press 1 for English and 2 for Spanish. “Am I on hold” I thought? A sideways glance identified the culprit, holding an older model phone housed in industrial rubber two inches from his face. He was looking at the phone, while calling a tech support line or agency of some sorts…while listening to the robotic navigation instructions for the hold menu. It was not enough that someone begins a tech support call a minute before the train goes too deep into a tunnel to get reception, barely enough time to learn that “0” is not a recognized number, but to have the call on extra loud speakerphone gives birth to the term “Associated Social Stupidity”, or ASS.

Suffering an ASS is marked by the following short cycled symptoms: (1) Being held against your will in earshot of people subjecting a general population to any one or all of the following: inane conversation, hold music, ringtones and/or cursing in front of children. (2) The inherent blood pressure rise associated with suppression of desire to perform any or all of the following actions: harm, maim, subject to Irritable Bowel Syndrome, or the loss of one toe via lobster claw.

It is hard to identify what is more displeasing, being on hold with a large bureaucracy or internment at Abu Ghraib. But to be forced to listen to menu options when I am not having trouble with my printer or calling to speak to an Orbitz representative is about the most maddening situation one can think of. And the world will be a slightly better place if, at the moment the speaker phone went on, the phone automatically combusted. But it isn’t the fault of the phone, merely the user who doesn’t know protocol and being an ASS is becoming more prevalent as people think that whoever disagrees can kiss the very place named for the affliction which they already possess.

American Idolatry

2006-05-27T22:18:00.000-04:00

American Idol is not a program I actively watch, although I am as up to date about the goings on because this country has already been invaded by something far more consuming than avian flu- Idol Mania!

I decided to tune into the last fifteen minutes of the finale, in which either Taylor Hicks or Katherine McPhee will win. Though I have contended that American Idol is akin to karaoke at its best, once they pick a winner, the hard part is over and that is the best standpoint with which to launch the winner. No one knows what you have to say, only that you know how to sing… it is the Reverso-Ashlee Simpson.

I imagined that Taylor Hicks sung Frank Sinatra and songs from the Soundtrack to Aladdin on FOX, but secretly harbored a passion for death metal. Katherine McPhee would be concealing a penchant for Depression Era radio jingles. Which is why if the person who wins, or the one who is more popular, did a total 180 when laying down their first album on wax, it would be the worlds most perfect switcheroo. It would be a bigger ripple in American pop culture than Milli Vanilli to the fourth power!

Taylor Hicks was the early favorite and surprised no one by winning. The vested emotion of a borderline manic population cheered as Hicks was crowned, while a collective sigh and knowing look radiated through the crowd in Katherine’s camp. 63.4 million votes were tallied for American Idol, more than any presidential election tally in history. Our culture is so plugged into Idol, that even by not watching it, details are embedded. American Idol is so permeable that it borders on Kim Jong Il. And tomorrow, around the watercooler and in the halls of schools across the country, we will have something to talk about and Taylor Hicks will do exactly what is expected of him, even though we already know how it will sound.

Mom's Day

2006-05-12T19:29:00.000-04:00

My mom loves to be outdoors. She is the type of woman for whom getting the Sunday Times is a good excuse to walk a couple extra blocks and maybe get a soft served ice cream in the spring. When she was a girl growing up in Philadelphia, people would just sit outside their house on a warm summer night and connect with the neighborhood. Even though it was a tad weird, my mom would grab her knitting and a book and plant herself outside our building in New York on an ancient folding lawn chair. Sometimes I used to sit on the radiator and peep out the window to make sure she was still down there on the sidewalk reading, and not fending off some viscous poodle or crotchety neighbor.

Yet in the last several years, my mom has also connected with the outdoors in a more spiritual sense, hiking all over the world from Machu Pichu to Tibet and the jungles of the Amazon. I am not surprised by her gusto- this is the same woman who in Zermatt, Switzerland organized a group to walk down from the top of the mountain back to the village, a four hour ordeal. My dad and I took the train and then went to a toy store.

So for mothers day, while I know she needs a new backpack for day trips, I decided on getting her something a bit more conscious, in a way. Every year, the average American is responsible for about 18 tons of carbon emissions- through purchasing products trucked into the city, to riding in cars and other mass transit, to operating goods, to using lightbulbs. This carbon output has an adverse affect on our increasingly fragile environment and after reading an article in Time magazine, I knew a good gift for her this year.

I bought my mom a years worth of carbon output neutralization, meaning that a company called CarbonFund.org will donate resources, or plant trees or participate in advocacy which, for a set fee, will thereby nullify the carbon output of one person for a set amount of time. So for a year my mom will have no negative impact on the environment whether she is sitting outside our apartment or hiking in the swamp of a third world country. While my mom just returned from the Copper Canyon in Mexico, it was more then just pictures and some hand-woven baskets that she came back with. I want to make sure that the environment my mother has been having all of these magazine experiences in, is around for a long time so the atmospheric conditions wont limit her adventures.

Esquire Man

2006-05-06T16:00:00.000-04:00

Though it was warm yesterday, I decided to go ahead with my initial feeling and wear my cashmere sportcoat. Not merely a blazer, this jacket was made of Loro Piana cashmere and fashioned specifically for Hugo Boss sold only at Barneys New York. It is a truly original piece of natty attire and certainly of the highest quality. I thought pairing it with my silk/linen/cotton buttermilk colored trousers and a deep brown French cuffed shirt with pink and purple stripes would make a fine mark on the judges of Esquire’s Best Dressed Man contest. A vintage brown pocket square from my father’s collection rounded out my ensemble of textures, fabrics and patterns.

Arriving at Macy’s Herald Square, I knew my outfit was out of the ordinary, especially given that my cherubic face belies my actual age. And besides, most people who wear yellow hued pants usually drive Cadillac’s that resemble a bag of skittles. Walking into the men’s department on 2, I was taken aback by the many degrees of gentlemen waiting patiently in line for the esteemed honor of being a best dressed man. Surely many of these contenders were the best dressed in their office environment, and many had the type of well cut, side vented suits that make a man feel like his potential is limitless. There were some aberrations; flip flops, shorts, seersucker pants without any discernible care for the right pant length but I did feel like I was in the company of many a boardroom leader. But that is the fallacy of fine dressing, there were electricians, senior VP’s of finance, corrections officers, a younger fellow who works with Kofi Annan (himself an urbane and impeccable dresser) and myself, still in buttermilk pants.

In the queue, side glances were exchanged and ties straightened. Though it was roughly 80 degrees inside and many cocktail napkins were used to blot foreheads and necks, the only true conflict was an internal one, in which men debated if they had picked the right shirt to wear that evening.

The concept of dressing well, I believe, extends to what a gentleman considers the ideal of chivalry, good taste, refinement and elegance. A beautiful suit is high fashion, but cannot immediately give style to someone who does not know how to get it tailored, or has slovenly mannerisms. Fashion and style are not mutually exclusive and many believe that wearing D&G equates them with the suave sophistication of Domenico and Stefano when this is certainly not the case. Dressing well, merely for ones own pleasure, is parallel to being on time for a date, to opening doors for a lady and to know which fork to use during the appetizer and which to use at the entrée. It also means that a man knows not to order chili in public under any circumstances.

When it was my turn, I calmly strolled up to the microphone and addressed the panel of judges, comprised of Esquire staff and a style correspondent from Access Hollywood. My name, age, occupation and style (which I deemed “comfortable dandy”) was rapid fired and I could tell that the publisher of Esquire had already made up his mind as his eyes were focused on the page in front of him. I decided to go with a memorable quip, citing my fathers advice to listed to “NPR”. While this did not mean tuning in to All Things Considered, it actually meant “Never Pay Retail”. This caused a laugh and light applause but I was not picked to be a finalist. Out of the 130 men who entered, one dashing soap opera-esque gentleman was a clear winner however the bigger picture of why it is important to look your best and that dressing well communicates so much about who the man is and who he wants to be was the most important exclamation point on the entire affair.

It is important to hold fast to the essence of what makes a gentleman who he is and within that very essence is the very means to carry on a life of dignity, grace and class. This is achieved no matter what the shade of pants, from buttermilk to brown and all hues in between.

Chart Foresight

2006-04-22T21:29:00.000-04:00

“Can I have a copy of that chart?” he asked, pointing at the laminated chart in the right hand corner of the corkboard. The guy was young, maybe 22, with a moon face, closely cropped hairdo, and a gold cross hanging over his white apron. I thought he looked Puerto Rican, the smooth brown skin too light to be Dominican and not rusty enough in color to be Cuban.

“Which chart?” I asked back. He pointed more emphatically, not wanting to explicitly say which chart he was asking for. I glanced up and noticed he was pointing at the chart defining what constitutes sexual harassment. This is a standard piece of 11 x 14” literature that all companies must have displayed and that most guys in my office would probably read as they wait for a bagel to be fully toasted. Perhaps some of the guys smile to themselves and make a joke to offset the severity that all men feel about the potential harm that can come if they ever even thought of doing something sexually inappropriate at the workplace, which most do not.

But he wanted a copy, I could only surmise for pending litigation or something equally rigorous. The guy was there with two other workers delivering glasses, a portable oven and table linens for the party that my company was throwing later that day. Surely his friends at work knew of his situation, one of them nodded approvingly at the question askers foresight into having a document which concretely explains what is and is not an offense under the harassment policy.

I pulled the chart slowly off the wall, the double-sided tape putting up some resistance. I thought about how the chart was probably 8 years old, as that is when we first moved into this office space. It must have been early on because no one had thumbtacks and had to use shipping tape instead to make this, as well as the stated minimum wage and the what-to-do-if-someone-is-choking chart, remain affixed to the wall. At the photocopier, I realized that his defense was probably futile. There is not much that a guy can do once sexual harassment charges are brought against him, I surmised.
Handing the photocopy back to him, he glanced at the paper and then sheepishly back at me. Not knowing what else to say, I said “good luck” and he returned my awkward proffering with a “thanks”. They got in the service elevator, the doors closed and he descended down to whatever fate awaited him. And I went back to work.

This Is Not Detention

2006-04-04T19:14:00.000-04:00

What is up with all these teachers having sex with students? It is pretty disgusting and warps educational boundaries as well as professional guidelines. Mary Kay LeTourneau was in jail and married this schmuck former pupil of hers as soon as she was released from prison.

I must speak frankly, even the most disgusting looking woman can find a guy to mate with, whereas the most repulsive looking man will be in for a long abstinate spell and hopefully will have some money to offer in exchange for loving.

There was a story on the DrudgeReport that said that one teacher had sex with a 13 year old pupil 28 times in one week! Now I know 13 year old guys have an enormous drive, but where did this woman find time to teach a class? Not to mention the fact that this woman was, lets say, far from pretty. But when you are 13…well a woman is a woman. But I do wonder why all of a sudden it is happening so prevalently today, when I went to school there was nothing of the sort. Van Halen sang Hot For Teacher not Teacher’s Hot for Me.

Better Than Pluto Nash at 30,000 Feet

2006-04-02T22:30:00.000-04:00

Back in December of 05, right before New Years, I remember finding this story about another air rage incident, another 'that guy' who had too much to drink before flying and grew belligerent when airborn. Most often, a roll of duct tape and the ire of a full section of Coach will be enough to settle disturbances of that nature. As 'that guy' happened to be flying one-way from Manchester, England to Tenerife, a small island off of the North African coastline, the pilot decided to simply dump him off in Porto Santo, a smaller island off of the North African coastline. To finally reach his intended destination will require a two and a half-hour ferry ride back to England and a connecting flight on a different airline.

Two articles were posted on the drudgereport.com (sludgereport) from two different daily British newspapers. The first excerpt is from the Daily Telegraph, the second from The Guardian:

"Eventually the pilot decided that he posed a risk to safety and had to be removed.Rather than continue for a further 45 minutes to Tenerife he diverted his Airbus A321 to Porto Santo. Within moments of the plane touching down the passenger was escorted to the terminal. Last night he remained a castaway on the Portuguese-controlled island. His New Year home is a mere 10 miles long by three miles wide with a population of 4,000. There is little entertainment apart from walking on the sand dunes."

Ok and: "According to police, the new addition to the island's population of just 5,000 people was not detained in a cell and was released to enjoy the island's famed tranquillity for 36 hours. While there is little vegetation on Porto Santo, home to Christopher Columbus before he set off to discover the Americas, the island boasts several luxury hotels and a golf course."

So in one instance, he is a lonely guy, receiving his penance due. A New Year's Eve alone on a beach, a scene of ennui, hopefully stewing in his self-hatred over his in-flight faux pas. Yes, the world condemns your actions and we are holding you responsible. Do you know what the world is doing as you retrace your footprints through the sand; we are celebrating the new year. We have fireworks. And when you go to sleep tonight, on your rough sheeted cot, your last thought will be life changing. You will realize the error of your ways, and emerge a more proactive and sober citizen. There could be an awakening. But, according to The Guardian, it could be from a pool side snooze. This jerk could be swilling back some locally brewed rum as he takes to the links. If sore, he can get a massage at one of the luxury hotels. More than likely, however, our hero will be at any number of hotel bars imbibing with the thought that here he is, a single guy with an island at his disposal. He got the best of that pilot, with his clip on wings and smug look, and that one stewardess who just had to cut him off when he was about to make time with the pair of legs sitting in 19A- the one reading Seventeen! magazine.

We all hope for a reasonable compromise, perhaps a Days Inn and the realization that perhaps he shouldn’t drink while flying again…on terra firma no problem, but not at the airport. And maybe we hope that at the Days Inn, over his Continental breakfast before his return trip on the ferry, that the muffin he bites into is stale, and crumbles all over his shorts.

NYCity Soundtrack

2006-04-02T22:28:00.000-04:00

Before I fall asleep, in the stillness of my apartment, I always take a few moments to listen to the city. My eyes are closed, but I can hear the busses making their routes, the wailing siren of an emergency vehicle answering someone’s prayers, the chatter of people five floors below on the street and the distant sound of an overhead jet from LaGuardia Airport ascending to the skies. Sometimes I like to think about the people who are producing the din that becomes the soundtrack of the city. Is the bus driver on the last run of his shift and looking forward to going home to his family, or is he just beginning his night and wondering who he might pick up in the darkness of New York.

Noise in New York is a constant, something that is unavoidable when you share a small space with more than 8 million other people. Noise comes at New Yorkers from all directions- from above, in the form of helicopters buzzing and planes making their approach to land or climbing in altitude after take off; directly as car horns and alarms, the conversations of passers by (and now that everyone has a cell phone, conversations to people that aren’t physically there) and fire trucks screaming off with heroes in tow, and from below in the loud screech and general clamor of the subway system. While some may consider this an assault on the ears, New Yorkers learn to block out only choice snippets of sound. It is as if we are always hearing but never listening, but not in the sense that we are not consistently processing these sonic stimuli.

Someone screaming merits a glance and a siren entails merely shifting our gaze to ensure the cars swerving out of the way of a speeding ambulance do not hit us. Often times, we learn that there are certain sounds unique to certain events. In the rare instance I am standing away from the platform edge at my subway station, I can tell by the rumble if the approaching train is an express, meaning I should step closer to anticipate getting a prime entry position, or a localwhich means I continue reading AM New York. Street-side, I can establish if a siren belongs to the Police, in which case I always look to see where the cops are going, or an ambulance in which case I always make a thankful prayer that it is not me who needs saving. In the chance that I am on a flight which flies directly over the city, I wonder if people can hear the sounds of the jet engines or if anyone looks up to see where the plane might be in relation to them. Occasionally, I will wonder where the plane is going and I wonder if anyone’s dreams will be fulfilled upon arriving wherever it is the plane is supposed to go.

Though the city is a noisy place, it breeds this necessary noise. It is the sound of commerce, of culture, of sadness and exuberance, of us. There is a certain tranquility within the cacophony, and it is amazing what you can learn and consider when you take the time to close your eyes and listen to the heartbeat of life, your ears a stethoscope to the pulse of New York.