The Chocolate Room... a playroom.

http://www.criticsrant.com/bb/reading_level.aspx

Get a Cash Advance

I am pleased to announce that my blog was rated by some computer system as being written at Elementary School level.

Story Time is at 9 a.m.
Snack time is at 10 a.m.
Gym class is at 11 a.m.
Lunch time is at noon.
Recess is at 1:30 p.m.
Pre-calculus and Differential Equations will be at 2 p.m.

Class dismissed!

Making Friends

Thanks to a regular schedule of Mass, Kitty and I have made some interesting new friends. One of them is a 72-year-old opera fan by the name of George. Technically, George is a "SuperFan" of opera. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of shows and remembers every singer he ever saw. He has been attending since he was nine years old and has seen the truly legendary singers perform here in the City and around the world.

Last night we attended The Daughter of the Regiment at the Met. It was a fantastic production with lively staging and truly superb singing. We had a grand time chatting with George and his other opera buddies up in the Family Circle. There are great opportunities to read about the show, so I won't get into it here. Besides, to steal a great line, "Talking about opera is like dancing about architecture."

My point, and I do have one, is that George lives in our parish and so we all took the train home together. He had us gasping for air as we chased him through the streets of Manhattan on our way to the Columbus Circle Station and he was still revved and ready to go after the show, while we were falling asleep.

When I get to be 72, I think I'd like to be back living in NYC, going to the opera with Kitty (maybe she'll be a fan by then!) and able to out walk a couple of spring chickens as we head to the subway.

The other Chinatown

On one of my bachelor weekends, I took a walk down East Broadway from around Canal Street towards City Hall. Since we know Chinatown quite well, I though it would be good to follow a different path and see if I could make some connections.

Making connections is the the next stage of our evolution from tourists to newbies to New Yorkers. Kitty and I have enjoyed exploring neighborhoods, but, as our guests can attest, many times you get off the train, explore and then hop back on at the same station to travel to the next neighborhood. Consequently, ones knowledge of the city is more like blots of ink on the map. As you get away from the center of the blot, the knowledge of a neighborhood diffuses. Lately, our travels have caused us to get to know that connective tissue between our favorite neighborhoods. We have found that it is sometimes better to just walk from one spot to another, rather than fight your way on the train (or worse... on the bus!).

Just this weekend, Kitty and I made an epic walk from snacks in Chinatown to the UCB (Upright Citizen's Brigade). We traversed SoHo, NoHo and the Village, detoured into the West Village for happy hour and then up into Chelsea. It was only about 10,000 steps, which is one days supply of healthy walking.

But I digress. Hopping off the train in the East Village, Kitty and I retraced my earlier trip down East Broadway. We discovered the Secret Chinatown Bus Burial Ground. Lines of true New Yorkers wait to pay $35 to go (round-trip) to Boston, Baltimore or Washington DC. These buses have no heat and sometimes people are moving with most of their homes with them, so seating can be cramped.

Moving south from the Burial Ground, we found a Chinese grocery store that was so authentic that there were no signs in English, no one spoke English and we were the only caucasians in the store. (yes, I count myself as a caucasian... mom is from the sub-continent.)

As we walked, I started to make connections on how to get from one neighborhood to another. By the time we got to Upright Citizen's Brigade, we had successfully connected 5 different "inkblots" of the City. More importantly, I'm starting to realize that, when it comes to Lower Manhattan, things aren't as far as one might think. The subway stations tend to be nearer to each other than expected and many times it is just quicker to hoof it!

On the fluid nature of talent in the city

We just returned from Rochester and a lovely Thanksgiving weekend. We played it safe and drove back on Saturday, bypassing the terrible traffic. We hedged our bets further by crossing to Brooklyn via Staten Island and skipping the GW Bridge, the FDR and the Brooklyn Bridge. All in all, we shaved about 3 hours off of our trip, even with the $20 in additional tolls.

Our quiet commute is a reflection of some aspects of the City right now. The Writer's Strike has cancelled many television productions and the Stagehand's Strike has quieted the normally noisy Times Square. Last Saturday I was walking around 42nd and I had to call Kitty. "You won't believe it. It's absolutely dead here!" I get the eye from the tourists around me. They think I'm vaguely insane. "I mean, yeah... there are a lot of people, but for the most part, I'm walking along the sidewalks unimpeded! It's a genuine pleasure to walk around here!" Kitty still hasn't experienced this quiet side of the Theater District. I'll be dragging her there this coming weekend to experience this new "kinder, gentler" Times Square.

Back in 1998, I once found myself getting home from a rehearsal at about 9 p.m. on a Sunday night. I was walking to Times Square, it was pitch black and there was a torrential downpour. In that case, the streets were completely empty. No cabs were moving and even the lights of the Square had been dulled by the dark and the rain. I was entirely alone on the sidewalks and I was drenched to the bone as I ran towards the train station. Water sluiced the sidewalks and at times I was up to my ankles as I ran through the ghost town.

Thinking about the water running down the sidewalks, I'm reminded of the strikes that are going on right now. Talent seems to move away from these core areas and disperse around the city, bubbling up in the farther neighborhoods.

On Sunday night, we attended the ASSSSCAT 3000 show at The Upright Citizen's Brigade. It's an comedy improv show based on audience ideas athat has a name that is truly awesome to say and spell. For $8.90 each, Kitty and I saw Amy Poehler hosting with celebrity guests from Saturday Night Live and 30 Rock. That is one of the greatest joys of living in the city: When something goes colossally wrong (like strikes or rain or traffic), you can find adventures and an experiences unlike any other as you float around the city on the tide.

Halloween, 2007. Lessons on Life in NYC.

In between auditions, I've been helping out at the American Red Cross of Greater New York. I'm assisting the senior management and it is fun to hobnob with CEOs and the like.


As an extra duty, I was asked to organize a table to give candy and information to trick-or-treaters. One youth volunteer showed up at about 4 p.m. and we headed down to the corner of 48th and 10th Avenue. Not a lot of kids in costume, but the ones that did show up got candy. Some people asked for candy, but most didn't even notice us.

NYC Halloween- a fact sheet compiled from my conversations with the high school volunteers:

1. Kids don't go to residences, just businesses. It's the only safe way to do it here.
2. Most kids stop at about age 12 and then they start going to parties/clubs/etc.
3. When you give out candy here, you give out a large handful or two to each kid. (didn't we just get one piece per house?)
4. Costumes vary widely and it seems like the poorer the family, the more fantastic the costume. Also, parents will dress up infants to "trick-or-treat" and score free snacks. The infants had the most incredible costumes as they were pushed around in their strollers. Ann Geddes would have had a field day with all the insects, bunnies and arachnids being pushed around the West Side.
5. At our local grocery store I saw a bunch of kids run in with their VERY ghetto mom. She comes out 5 seconds later saying, "What the $%#$??? They gots a store full a food and they ain't givin' out nutt'n..."

Most of the time we were there, a cop was parked in his little traffic rickshaw on 10th avenue. He gave out tickets to drivers, flagging them down as they raced up the avenue and we were happy to see him since the neighborhood is a bit far afield from "nice".


After about an hour, our police officer friend went up one block to 49th to grab a snack at the convenience store and immediately we were approached by a very drunk, possibly mentally ill man with a cut on his forehead. He started yelling at me not to look at him and then he started to tell me about how nobody protects the neighborhood but him. I try to disuade him from staying around and he continued to escalate. I start moving away from my volunteers to distract him and it works for a couple of minutes. When he starts heading back to our little table, I come back and join my volunteers. He starts to get angry and he raises his hand and I see the little rickshaw pull up to the curb going the wrong way down 10th Avenue, "PABLO.... What are you doing?" yells the cop. "Are you bothering these people? Aww, come on man, you've hurt yourself. Let's get you to a hospital." The uniform makes Pablo step back. I get the girls to pack up and we head back to the office to drop off our supplies.

This might have been the second time that I felt unsafe in NYC. I guess that isn't too bad and once again, the NYPD showed up exactly when I needed them.

Bachelor Days- Insight into your blogger.

I dropped Kitty off at the airport this morning at 5:30 a.m. She is off to Denver to see her family and I'm holding down the fort here. Jazzed on coffee and a bagel with salmon cream cheese, I watched a couple of episodes of the first season of "Heroes."

If you haven't seen the show, it is a soap opera with superheroes. If a television executive sat me down and said, "Eaps, if you could devise a perfect television show, what would it be?" I would describe this show. Not something like this show, but this exact show. It's like NBC reached into the deepest nooks and crannies of my heart, soul and imagination and put what they found on at 9 p.m. on Monday nights.

As 9 a.m. approached, I got myself organized. I filled the pockets of my running shorts with a Cook's Companion reusable shopping bag, my wallet, keys and cell phone and caught the C train to West 4th Street and the Village.

I caught up with the Joe's Running Team for a 6-mile run from Waverly and 6th Ave, down the West Side Highway to Battery Park and back. On the way down, I ran with a fellow opera singer (small world!) and John and his dog Molly. John is in one of the many character actors in the city who makes his living doing small parts in big movies and large parts in small ones. On my way back, I picked the fastest person in the group and she and I hauled back up to Joe's for a free cup of coffee. Bidding my fellow runners "adieu," I headed down Bleeker Street.

I'm currently reading "Heat" by Bill Buford. It is a non-fiction book about a writer who worked as a kitchen slave to Mario Batali. Mr. Buford worked in the kitchen and shares riotous stories of Mario as a modern day Falstaff who eats and drinks and savors every taste. As an amateur writer, it is an inspiration. As a person who loves good food, I decided use my inspiration to chase up the best grub I could find in this city.

First stop- Faicco's Pork Store. 260 Bleeker.

With Kitty out of town, I knew that I was going to cook something with meat. Faicco's has a nice selection and a good reputation and since we don't usually eat meat around our house, it was a great way to start building a meal.

I quickly realized that sausage would be my best option since I was eating solo. I grabbed a couple of links each of the homemade spicy italian and sausage with broccoli rabe. As I was about to head out, I grabbed a "Prosciutto Ball" as a snack. It's a cheesey, rice ball with bits of smoked ham, dusted with breadcrumbs and deep-fried. A perfect snack to transition me from my run to a day of decadent eating!

Second stop- Murray's Cheese Shop. 254 Bleeker. (Right next door)

Buying cheese at Murray's is a process that never feels rushed, even though the store is filled to capacity. I used my 5-minute wait to browse through the cheeses and find something that appealed to me. Just looking at the descriptions, I decided on Aragones, from Zaragoza, Spain. It is "a welcome break from the more common sheep and goat varieties. The richness of the pasteurized cow's milk, boosted by its supple rind translates to an exceedingly creamy paste with a fluffy mouthfeel. Look for mild pungency and a tropical fruit finish."

My cheesemonger was happy to let me try some. It was fantastic. At this point, I decided to put my faith in the professionals. "Ok," says I, "I'm looking to make a cheese plate for myself tonight. Just for one. Going off of that, what would you recommend?" The cheesemongers eyes got kind of big and happy. Her face lit up.

"If you are going to use Aragones as a starting point, I'd recommend a goat's milk cheese and a sheep's milk cheese for contrast." As she said it, she started to get a little flustered. This lady really seemed to like cheese. "Wait, wait..." The samples started arriving as she cut bits off the ends and passed them to me on wax paper.

After about 5 minutes, she assembled her favorites. Cypress Humboldt Fog has a "thick, bloomy white coat, creating a foggy gray rind. The wheel also hosts a Morbier-like layer of vegetable ash through the center. A wedge looks like a slice of moist layer cake, and the full tangy flavor of its crubly smooth paste is sheer perfection." Pyrenees Ossau Vieille is an "uncooked cheese made from raw sheep's milk... and is produced from the spring and summer milk which is more floral."

I took all of her suggestions and she said "thank you" and I think she really meant it.

For the three of you who are still reading, I don't want you to think that I'm crazy. I have just decided that if I'm going to enjoy cheese, I'll rely on pros to teach me what they think is good. I probably will not remember what these taste like or ever have them again, but then again, maybe some of this information will sink into my brain.

As I walked to the counter to settle up, I saw some imported, dried Rustichella Pasta and I grabbed a bit of Pasta Al Ceppo to have with my sausage. Pasta Al Ceppo was made originally by wrapping dough around knitting needles. It's a tube about an inch and a half long. What sold me on it? It is usually served with sausage and green beans.

Fleeing the store with a bag full of food, I walked through Washington Square Park and soaked up the sunlight, the smell of pot and the sounds of the regular Saturday afternoon Jazz combo that plays right near the chess boards. The world was out and savoring the sunshine and unseasonably warm weather.

I walked up University to the Greenmarket at Union Square to round out the remainder of my meal. I grabbed dirty green beens from one vendor and hit "Our Daily Bread" for two small rustic loaves.

Circling the park, I decided to finish the trip with a stop to USQW, one of our favorite wine stores. They have oenomatic machines to taste wine and we bring guests to rest after a hard day of sightseeing. We don't usually buy anything but today I grabbed a Villadoro Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. The wine is describes as "Soft, medium-bodied fruity red wine of great character."

Now that I'm home and settled in, I'm going to scout for recipes and cooking techniques for everything, make a to-do list and later tonight I'll whip up a nice little dinner for myself. It is my homage to that great Fastaff, Mario Batali, and his Dr. Watson, Bill Buford. (sorry to mix metaphors)

What to do until then? More Heroes, Bioshock (a video game) and maybe a viewing of 300. Oh yeah, and a nap.

Justice is Served

Wednesday was a bad day. I had the blues for no real reason and it was hard to get out to get to my day job.

On days like this, nothing cheers me like a Bacon, Egg and Cheese on a Hard Roll from the West Side Deli. Without the careful meal-planning that Kitty does, I would probably get one every single day. Same thing, every day. You can imagine how I might be able to fill Pavarotti's shoes after a couple of months of that. Thankfully, I only have one every two weeks or so. It is a decadent treat to lighten the otherwise dreary world of office work.

I've blogged previously about my love of these sandwiches and the guys who make them. Even though I'm not a daily or even weekly customer, I've been in there enough that they look at me and say, "BaconEggAndCheese." I repeat it back and we exchange nothing more than a hello and a smile beyond that.

I was second in line on Wednesday morning. The guy in front was looking like he just finished a night of heavy boozing and there were at least three customers behind me, clutching beverages and stoically waiting for their moment with the line cooks.

Just as my boozy friend was opening his mouth to order, a short, round woman stalked up and said, "I want a whole wheat bagel, plain cream cheese, not toasted. Just that. One, two, three." Boozy and I looked at each other in surprise.

"Lady," I said, "the line is back there."

"All I want is a whole wheat bagel, plain cream cheese, one, two three," she said and looked at me hard. "It will just take a second of his time. I bet you want eggs. All I want is a bagel with plain cream cheese, onetwothree."

"Well, I guess not everyone in this world can be curteous." I was in rare form. Like I said, I was in a bad mood. "It's too bad you can't seem to wait in line like the rest of us."

"I just want my bagel, onetwothree, with Cream cheese, whole wheat. It's a quick order. It's 8:47 and I need to be at work in ten minutes and my bagel is quick, 123."

"Alright, what do you guys want?" said my line cook, smiling at us.

"Eggs on a hard roll, pepper salt," says Boozy.

"BaconEggAndCheese," says I.

"Where's my bagel? I was here yesterday and I got a whole wheat with plain cream cheese. 1, 2, 3."

My line cook turns his back and reaches for the eggs.

The woman pushes her way past customers to the cashier. She says, "I've got a whole wheat bagel, cream cheese, 123."

"Lady," snaps the cashier, "There is a line of people ahead of you. You'll get your bagel when it is ready."

Now the whole store is smiling. "I just want a bagel, one, two, three." The line cooks are flat out giggling now. The customers know that this is not going to end well for the little round budger. "It's 8:52. I was here yesterday. I just want my bagel, one two three." There is a pause for about 5 seconds and then she turns, like Napolean at Waterloo, salvages what little is left of her pride and marches out of the store empty handed.

Two minutes later, I'm handed Justice, wrapped in foil, looking remarkably like a Bacon, Egg and Cheese on a Hard Roll.

Epic Run

As you know, Kitty has gotten my lazy self out for morning runs. About three times a week, before work, we hit the road and run into Prospect Park. As the run has become easier, we decide that we should try to up the ante by playing some running games.



If we saw a person wearing red shorts, we would sprint for 10 seconds. For blue shorts and black shorts we would sprint for 20 and 30 seconds, respectively. When we saw the "whippets", we would sprint for a full minute. Eventually, this lead to all sorts of arguments about people wearing red shorts with black stripes and "what about teal? is that a shade of blue?" The game didn't last long, our marriage is more important.



But then there were the whippets. I couldn't find if I've blogged about them before, but just in case, here is the summary: One guy is black and the other is white. They both wear exactly the same clothes every time they run. Both sport moustaches. Both are carved out of wood and are at least 60 years old. These guys are excercise MONSTERS. They are both regulars at the park and every time we see one of them it always brings a smile and one of us will say, "Give it up for the whippet" and we sprint for a minute.



Today was our long run day. Usually, we go into the city to Joe's Coffee shop where we catch up with a group of like-minded runners. We run from the West Village to the tip of Manhattan and back (about 6 miles). At the end of the run, Gabby, the co-owner, comps everyone a free drink.



With the drizzle this morning, Gabby cancelled the run. We decided to do the long route around the entire of Prospect Park. As we hit mile 4, we crossed paths with the white Whippet. We both gave a big smile and as he ran towards us, he recognized us and smiled and snarled, "Come on... pick it up..." As we gave up a minute for the Whippet, we realized that this means after all these months of running, we are officially regulars at the park. Perhaps we could even go so far as to say that we are "True Brooklynites."

Our route takes us by several great Brooklyn monuments. We run by Grand Army Plaza as we enter and leave the park. We also run by the newly restored main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. As we run home, we run down Eastern Parkway past the Botanic Gardens and the Brooklyn Art Museum.

All along our route, we find people we recognize after so many runs- the personal trainer at the steps of the Museum, forcing a woman to run with military discipline, the group of guys in front of the Bodega on Washington, eating their breakfast sandwiches and sipping coffee, and the only bicycle cab in Brooklyn, with one flat tire, waiting to be retrieved by his newly famous owner.

Things I love about NYC

When you walk by a construction site, there are wooden walls everywhere to protect pedestrians from errant nails and girders and all sorts of dangers. These walls are covered with small paint signs that say, "Post no bills." Within a day of the walls going up, they are covered with poster advertisements for electronics, concerts, albums and movies.

So what is a thing I love about NYC?

I overheared, "Homeboy, I can't wait to see that Mr. Bean. He's my n---a!"

The Wild Hogs Invade Lefferts Place

When a motorcycle gang moves into your neighborhood, it is a bit of an unsettling thing. I knew that our 'hood was a little different though, when I finally the motley crew that was roaring up my street.

I saw them on Saturday morning on my way back from a run. They were polishing their bikes to a glowing sheen. They were polishing their dirt bikes. The blue and yellow plastic reflected the morning sun and I knew, in my heart of hearts, that this machine would never actually see "dirt."

As I continued down the street, a 4x4 ATV pulled up and parked in the sidewalk in front of the brownstone next to mine. It was also polished to a sheen and when the Hell's Angel had trouble getting the machine up onto the sidewalk, I quickly dodged into my apartment so he wouldn't see me laugh.

Those bikers are dangerous.

The Caffeinated Tourist

It's hard not to compare NYC to your vacation locations. Case in point: Kitty and I just returned from a long weekend in Montreal. It's a gorgeous city. The streets are clean. The people are friendly. The food is fantastic. At certain times throughout the trip, we had to stop ourselves from making absurd comparisons to our local neighborhoods. Rather than bore you with comparisons, here are some highlights of the trip:

1. Market Jean-Talon

This could be one of the best public markets that we have ever been to. Our samples included: wild boar sausage, the freshest local fruits and veggies, Moules avec sauce e frites (Mussles, steamed in white wine & herbs with a dijon sauce and french fries), Chocolatine (a perfect chocolate croissant) and hemp seeds (to improve your memory).

It wasn't just the food. It turns out that Montreal has a tradition of "foodies"- people with an insane love for not just local food, but home grown, organic, REAL food. They don't count calories, they just eat smaller portions. They don't watch their fat, they just don't go nuts at buffets. Being around foodies is great because they always know the food that is in season and consequently the best tasting.

2. Notre Dame de Bonsecours

This great little church is in the heart of Old Montreal. It is peaceful and has beautiful murals. Best of all, they don't charge you $8 to walk through the front door (like a certain similarly named church).

This was our favorite part of Old Montreal. The rest of it looked all classy and stuff, but looking closer, you could see that it was just a way to try to artfully separate a tourist from their money.

3. Sandwich Heaven

Titanic is a small cafe in Old Montreal. It is in the lower level of a more modern building. We stopped for lunch and shared a baguette topped with a thin layer of hummous, 1 slice of swiss cheese and a few leaves of basil. It was elegant and delicious. We then shared a slice of their perfect chocolate cake.

Resevoire at 9 Duluth is a great little bistro that serves a variety of beers. We each tried a local brew and shared a grilled cheese a la Montreal. In this case, it was a baguette, with chevre, onions and figs.

I'll keep adding to this post as I reminisce with Kitty.

Don't Drink & Blog

As you can probably tell from my last entry, I was a little tipsy. Kitty and I don't often go out on the town like that and having her sister-in-law in town helped break us out of our usual habits. I woke up this morning totally energized and ready for work. I can see why New Yorkers would go out on a regular basis. Imagine going out like we did last night. Now, consider that here in the city, you could do it every single night with different permutations of bars and restaurants with infinite possibilities. No other city in the country can claim this distinction when you add in the fact that you can hop on the train and get your sorry backside home safe and sound!

I told Kitty the other day that my new goal is to explore some of these fancier restaurants and also the bar and club scene before we end up leaving our fair city. (not that moving will happen any time soon!)

How to end your expense account in one day...

NYC. It's great for really wrecking your relationship with your employer. In this case, imagine if you will:

Drinks for three at Verlaine.

Two Lychee Martinis. One house red, one house white. One Vietnamese Bloody Mary. One White Sangria.

Oh, don't forget an order of Fried Calamari to help it all down.

Dinner for three at Stanton Social:

Two Kobe sliders. One order of French Onion Soup Dumplings. One order of Perogies with Garlic sauce. One order of East Side pickles. A bottle of 2004 Chateau Pascaud Bordeaux.

The total tab? $150 bucks.

Screwing "the Man" for a great meal out in the hottest neighborhood in the city? Priceless.

Hey... we could have done a whole lot worse... Have you seen the wine list in midtown? :)

Turn down the volume, please.

I just returned from two weeks in Los Angeles. LA is a strange place but the trip was wothwhile. Waking up to the sounds of birds chirping, I spent my days singing in masterclasses and taking yoga and practicing the Alexander Technique. Northridge, CA, at 6:15 a.m., is a quiet place when you are running around a college campus. In the evenings, you don't notice much traffic when you are reading by the pool.

Getting back to NYC was a shock. I awoke last Sunday to the birds shrieking in the trees. They were just talking to each other, but compared to the birds of LA they were loudmouthed braggarts, comparing the size of their beaks and calling out to all the girl birds that flew by.

My first trip down to the subway made my ears bleed. There was an alarm going off at the very far end of the platform and when an A Express went by, I jumped out of my skin. The rattle went right through me.

Coming out of the station at 50th and 8th on Monday morning, I was assaulted by the grating sounds of street vendors, people on cell phones and the pounding of jackhammers. It seemed so loud that I could see the noise as it peeled off of the slamming taxi doors and bounced off of the tall buildings, focusing into needles that entered my skull.

After a few days, I began to acclimate to the sounds again. Even now, though, I will get a chill from two cars having a fender bender and wince at the sound of a slamming newspaper box.

Purgatory, or Service in New York City

Last night I got home to Kitty saying, "I can't even turn on the computer now." Yep, our laptop, the window to our world, had completely died. Based on the fact that we both have so much going on right now, I knew that we would be in trouble if we didn't get a computer... pronto! Since it was a Wednesday night, I thought that things wouldn't be too bad at our local electronics superstore.

We left for Circuit City at 7 p.m., I knew exactly what model number that I wanted to buy. We got to the store and there was one person ahead of us. After about five minutes, the young man with the mint green "Firedog" polo asked if he could help us. As he started to point out monitors, Kitty and I started to discuss our options. We looked around and the man was gone.

We quickly decided on our monitor and we saw Mr. Mint talking to two customers at the register. He was talking to them about buying a laptop and they were trying to negotiate the price. I didn't think that was possible in a chain like Circuit City. About half way through the process, Mr. Mint leaves to get a manager and he is stopped by a different customer. He pauses to help them choose a new video card (and makes a TERRIBLE recommendation). We have now been standing for 20 minutes.

Mr. Mint ambles back to the laptop customers. A man in a red "Circuit City" polo languidly floats over, chats with the the small coffee klatch that has formed by the register, puts his key in and punches a few buttons. As he floats off on a cloud of bliss, we call out, "Can you please help us... we just want to buy a computer and monitor... we know exactly what we want..."

His voice comes to us from far away as he drifts off, "No, I'm sorry, only Mr. Mint can help yooooouuuuu...."

I leave Kitty at the register to wait in line and I head over to the "Official Firedog Customer Service Desk." I find two people sitting there, one is checking out screenshots of Tabula Rasa and the other seems to be doing something actually work related. I asked them if they could sell me a computer and monitor. "No, you need to see Mr. Mint."

As I head back, a woman in a red polo comes over. We ask if she could help us. "No, you need to see Mr. Mint."

Kitty pleads, "But we know exactly what we need. Please, won't you take our money?"

The woman ignores us except to call out over her shoulder, "I'm not just standing here. I'm not just standing here." She removes the cash register from the second drawer and leaves us.

It's been forty minutes now and we finally get some help from Mr. Mint. It takes about 10 minutes to process our transaction (because of a faulty gift card). After that, we get a receipt and head to the Merchandise Pick-up line. 20 minutes later, Kitty and I are sitting on an airconditioning unit watching as one poor guy behind the counter hustles to get people their purchased items. He is friendly, curteous, wears a tie and offers to go get items himself. Swirling around him, like a thick fog, are three red-shirted employees. They move in bullet time, "helping customers" and slowly typing things into their computers.

By 9:30, we are home and I am now the proud owner of a Compaq Presario with 2 GB ram and Window's Vista Premium and a 19" widescreen HD LCD monitor. But only after the most appalling customer service experience I have ever had.

Now just don't get me started on how the hell I get my XP programs to work with Windows Vista.

Banned.

My recent spurt of creativity has been the result of a cushy temp job as I wait to depart for my next gig. It's been nice to sit and relax and write about my experiences. Today is my last day on the job and I am finding that many of my favorite sites (Gamespy, Gamespot, Kotaku) have just been banned by my organization. No time like the present to get the heck out of Dodge.

I'm like a man trapped in a room that is slowly filling with water. My head is bumping against the ceiling as I try to catch breaths of air. When Blogger gets banned, it's curtains for me.

So now, I sit at my desk quietly, await 5 p.m. and I contemplate all those wasted years. Those years when I ate M&M's when Reese's Pieces turned out to be a far superior candy.

I won't be updating at all for the next two weeks-- unless a miracle occurs and I start caring enough about my real career to blog about it.

See you on the flip side.

The Mayor and the Grand Vizier

"Mr. and Mrs. Colorado!" Tyrone yells out a greeting as we see him walking with his son, Rashon. Tyrone is another one of the watchers. Rashon calls Tyrone "The Mayor of Lefferts Place." Tyrone was the first person on the block to introduce himself. His hobby is keeping track of all the cars that park on our block.


"I saw the plates on your car!" he booms out. "That's why I call you Mr. Colorado."

"The other day I saw your lovely wife leave the apartment. I turned my head to say, 'Hello Mrs. Colorado' and she was already halfway down Lefferts and almost to Grand! Boy, that wife of yours can run!"

"You're telling me," I said. "Can you imagine how hard it was get her to go out on our first date?"

Tyrone watches the world go by from the seat of his red Ford Explorer. Sometimes the car is running, most of the time it isn't. He says hello to the neighbors and greets the strangers on the street and always is there to tell us about the changes in the neighborhood. Oh, and he also eats meals sitting in his car. He also spends sunny days washing his car. His car is his hobby and major pastime and since the Mayor retired from his position at the Post Office, his car is is home away from home yet still, strangely, right outside his home. One of the few times I didn't see Tyrone in, at, near or washing his car, he was standing by a small grill, searing a steak, wearing a white apron and cowboy hat and sipping a large glass of red wine. This is our kind of guy.

"Where are you from originally, Mr. Colorado?" he asked one day.

"Well, I was born in Rochester. My dad is German but my mom is Indian. That's why I'm so dark." I imagine my entire foot entering my mouth. I want to smack myself on the head.

Tyrone does a double-take at me and his eyes get kind of large and bug-ish. "You don't have to tell me, man... Black is beautiful!" Thankfully he lets my faux pas slide. Kitty is silently laughing and I think I see a tear go down her cheek. Man, I'm going to get MOCKED OUT when I get home.

On the other side of the street from our house (and the Mayor's car/house/central command), there is a blue free-standing house. In front of it is a small shelter that has been made of recovered wood and a piece of corrugated tin, attached at an angle to let the rain run off. It's rather run down and under it are a couple of benches and lawn chairs. From there, the competing neighborhood watch is on the lookout.

From early morning, when I leave for work, to late into the evening, there are people sitting out, just watching the world go by. They watched us as we moved in and they watch us as we come and go to our jobs. The cast of characters changes depending on the day but there are always at least two people sitting and just watching. At first I tried to say hello. The owner of the blue house introduced himself briefly. After that, not a sound. Every morning as I walk to the train, I say hello and they do reply, but not much beyond that. I'm reminded of Hank Hill and his friends, standing around, watching the world go by. Only they aren't white rednecks drinking beer. I do think that on the weekends I can catch a wiff of Alaz'e...

When we moved in to the apartment last August, Kitty found that she was doing much of the move because she was on her "summer vacation" and I was stuck in my day job. She would pack up boxes at our highrise flat and drive them over to the new apartment. They sat and watched as she parallel parked our car. They sat and watched as she went to unlock our apartment. They sat and watched as she took each box from the car to apartment. They never spoke. They just silently judged her.

Where as the Mayor is friendly and kind, I worry sometimes that the guys across the street are more like Jafar, ready to usurp the throne, enslave the princess and rule Lefferts with an iron fist.

Mr. T takes NYC

I have written before about NYC and the almighty buck. New Yorkers will do anything to make a buck. Recent sightings include:
- A man was seen in the middle of six lanes of traffic, selling ice water out of a blue cooler to motorists stopped at red lights.
-A woman was spotted near Kitty's school, selling homemade tamales out of a shopping cart (that was stolen from Key Foods). Yes, we tried them. They were delicious.
-Craig's List ads include "rooms for rent", "apartments for rent" and "Hole-in-the wall for rent."
-A woman was seen on Myrtle Street outside a porta-potty. There was a sign on the door, "$1 per use."

It isn't just about making money, it is also about keeping money:
-A man refused to tip a cab driver because he was unable to understand the accent.
-A woman was seen at a store, trying to return a dress that was obviously worn once.
-A couple's printer broke and they bought a new one, only to return it the next day after they finished a project.

And it isn't just about money. In many ways, New Yorkers are both striving for more and protecting themselves in little ways. I believe that because of the proximity of everyone, we put up walls to protect those small things that make us who we are. If we were to give ourselves to everyone, there would be nothing left.

My in-laws, "The Ts" came to visit for Memorial Day weekend. The city may never be the same again.

On their Friday, I caught up with Kitty and the Ts at a happy hour at Town Tavern. As we sat drinking our beers, some shots went out to a table nearby. Mr. T gives a big smile and interrupts the waitress on her walk, "Hey, what are those shots?"

"SoCo and lime. They are pretty good," she smiles.

Our beers are getting shorter and shorter and the waitress comes back. She's a bit of a cutie and when she asks if anyone wants another, Mr. T puts on a bashful act. He acts out a moment of "I'd really like another beer, but I probably shouldn't because I'm ahead of everyone else, but boy it would be great if you got me one 'cause aww shucks it would taste so good on this hot, hot summer day." Not a word crosses his lips, but she understands him implicitly and gives a laugh as she walks away.

She returns a couple of moments later with a beer and a small shot glass. "Here is your beer, and this is a little something for you," she smiles, "SoCo and Lime." I think she even winked. We all roar with laughter as he gives another silent sheepish grin of "awww thanks for letting me try that, it looks so good and you knew all along that it was what I was hoping for."

"Thanks so much," he says.

NYC-, Mr. T- 1

It's Mrs. T's birthday and we are sitting in the bar of the Rainbow Room. I'm drinking a Planter's Punch, Mrs. T has a Bellini, Kitty has a glass of Pinot and Mr. T has a Rob Roy. As we sip our drinks and enjoy the view, we realize that our waiter has abandoned us for more thirsty (lucrative) guests. Our lifeline of mixed nuts is fading fast. As we munch, Mr. T gets up to stretch. He appears a moment later with a full bowl of nuts. Looking behind him, we see a veritable cauldron of legumes leaning against a column. He smiles, "Don't worry, they were all busy and didn't see me!"

New York- 0, Mr. T- 2

On our trip to Little Odessa, we prepared Mr. T for the challenges ahead. "Don't bother trying to engage them in any meaningful way way, they are surly folk at best. They would just as soon punch you in the groin as help you out. Oh, and for God's sake... don't sample anything!" I said.

We made it through the shopping trip without any errant samples. It was pleasant and quiet enough. As Mr. T was paying he said, "So... are all of you Russian?" to the woman behind the counter.

"No." Her blue eyes are a frozen river.

He smiles. "Well, where is she from?" indicating to the woman at the next register.

"Russia." Her face is as cold as Siberia in December.

He smiles again, "Where are you from?"

"Uzbek." The wind from her "z" holds the icy north wind.

He smiles agian, "Well, nice talking to you. Oh... Dasvidanya!"

Her face cracks slightly, I see the edges of a smile and a bud of green grass is seen on the tundra.

NYC- 0, Mr. T- 3.

You're in NYC- Get over it!

It is a beautiful sunny day. People are out walking, laughing, enjoying the fair weather. As I walk under the elevated S-Train, that fragrance of spring hits me. Urine. I don't know why both men and dogs like to take a whizz under the train tracks, but the smell can be overwhelming.

It isn't just there. On the swanky, Upper East Side, you can smell it. In the heart of the West Village, it's there too. Mostly it's dogs, but don't be fooled, it could be any mammal you see as you walk along. Yesterday on the subway, the smell was overpowering. How does it happen on a train?

Urine NYC- Get over it!

Jane, Get Me Off this CRAZY THING!

To say that Kitty is an independent woman is a complete understatement. She backpacked across Europe with a girlfriend (and spent a good bit of time by herself on the trip). She has sky-dived. Kitty has climbed 14,000 mountains and kept up with her wild brothers as they skied down. I am a HUGE fan of my wife's independence.

Needless to say, I was shocked when she called me today. "I'm at the laundromat. I can't get the car out."

"Is it broken? Did you get in an accident? Are you ok? What's going on?" Gripped by panic, I'm already pulling on my shoes and grabbing my wallet and house keys.

"No. Nothing like that, I'm fine. I can't get out of the parking spot at the laundromat."

"Okay..." I reply. "So you are fine and I don't have to worry."

"Well, not exactly. I parked, looked inside the laundromat and it is completely filled up and there is no chance in H-E-L-L that we are going to get to do laundry this morning. Some woman in an SUV pulled in and she's so close that I can't get out. Could you come help me out? I'll go shopping next door and get the last of the groceries."

By the time I walk up, Kitty is coming out of the store. "Thanks for meeting me. I'm really stuck." Surveying the situation, I realize that this is no ordinary parking crisis. First off, the parking lot is tiny. The owners have also added more lines than you can actually park cars. It is par for the course, in NYC. If you are driving down the 278 (the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway), you will see that their are 3 lanes going in either direction. It is the same width as a two lane road in Colorado, except that they have painted three incredibly narrow lanes and their is about 6 inches between you and the taxi cab doing ninety as it passes you on the right. I think I have illustrated my point.

I do some mental measurements. There is an SUV on the left of our car. It is about 5 inches away from our car. Bad. There is a car on our right that is a couple feet away. Good. There is not enough room to back straight up and out.

I wiggle into the drivers seat and lower my window to hear directions from Kitty. As I start to back up, I hear, "Betta NOT hit my car!" A woman wearing Mary-Kate, Fly-eyed-shape sunglasses, tight jeans and a bad attitude has come out.

As I back up, I see a flash of a Mets jersey. The guy to our right has run behind my car to get to the back seat of his car to retrieve his laundry detergent. There was at least one safer way to make it to his car. Behind me was not the right choice. He stops to look. After he assesses that there is no way he will be hit, he jogs back behind my car to his waiting socks and underwear, causing me to slam on the brakes again. "Betta not HIT my car!" the woman yells again.

I start to back out again. Another guy is now standing behind my car. He starts making hand gestures. Keep coming back, he seems to say... stop... he mimes. Great, I need auditory help and I get Marcel Marceau. If I see him doing a glass wall, I will get out and beat him. "Betta not hit MY car!"

I start to back out and rather than try to turn away from the SUV, I back out of the parking lot. Again, Marcel is pointing, thinking that I'm turning in the wrong direction. When he figures out my plan he tries to get me to keep backing up. "Betta not hit my CAR!"

I realize that now I will have to back the car about 25 feet, through two 90 degree angles and now I've got Kitty, the Mime, "BETTA not hit" and three other people watching as I try to negotiate all the parked cars that are lined up like barbed wire around my narrow path to freedom.

5 minutes later, Marcel is standing in the parking lot miming "VICTORY!"

A wellspring of creativity (with links!)

In all of the wonderful surprises of New York City, nothing could prepare us for our first trip to the Rainbow Room. Our story begins at my design firm's Christmas party last year. The Scottsman's wife, Chippy, asked us if we would help her out with a project. "I'm doing a show for the big Sir John Soane Museum gala in April at the Rainbow Room. I'm doing a Masque that will depict his life in approximately five minutes. I'm calling the show, "The Apotheosis of Sir John Soane!"

A couple of months later, Chippy emailed us, "Could you send me both your measurements? I'm making your costumes for the show!" Luckily, my real job (opera) requires that I have my measurements on hand and up to date. I did spend an enjoyable evening measuring Kitty.

I bumped into Chippy in March during a quick stopover at their house in the country. "The costumes are coming along! I've made her dress entirely out of old newspapers!"

At this point, my expectations have changed slightly. It turns out that our costumes were made entirely out of reused items. There were plaster-of-paris masks, hats made out of funnels, cat food cans decorating kilts made from scraps of fabric, wigs made of braided plastic newspaper bags... I could keep going, but words can't really describe the variety and inspiration that was involved in producing these costumes.

Kitty and I drove out to the country for the rehearsal and gave two cast members a ride out. One has been a friend of the Scottsman since before he was married. She had participated in several of these shows. As it turns out, many different productions have happened over the years. For one show, Chippy and the Scottsman rented a theater on Broadway for the night. They wrote all of the songs and the audience included Andy Warhol! Our other passenger is an agent for animal talent. Her number one client? Toonces, the Driving Cat! Unless you were a teenager during the Dana Carvey years on Saturday Night Live, you would not know how important this is. When I learned this, I felt like signing, "You complete me," a la Jerry Maguire.

We met the rest of our castmates at the first rehearsal in the ballroom of Chippy and the Scottsman's country home. They included an architect on the board of the museum, Chippy's fashion designer friends, and friends who had been in previous productions. Everyone was thrilled to be there and threw themselves into the performance and rehearsal with gusto.

On our lunch break, we sat in the formal dining room at the small table with Chippy and her designer friends. Prior to her career as an accomplished book author, Chippy had spent several years working in the fashion district, designing clothing for several different companies. Kitty made instant friendships when we started asking our the three gentlemen at our table about life in the fashion industry. "Oh, Donna? (yes, Kitty verified, as in Karan), She is such a bitch! We worked together for years and, oy! what talent and a what a temper!!" one cackled. The name dropping continued and I doubt we stopped laughing throughout lunch.

It's the day of the show, y'all!

The show opened with Chippy singing an old musical theater tune. She creatively altered the words of the song to explain the what a masque was and also tell a bit about Inigo Jones, an archicect who, in addition to developing sets for these types of shows, also was an influence on Sir John Soane. The play itself was a poem in rhymed couplets, narrated by Chippy, that described the life of Soane. We, dressed in our mad costumes, acted out the action. Each of the 10 actors had different roles. Kitty and I helped act out a bit with Sir John Soane's favorite columns. Thankfully, we had one task to do besides dance across the stage at the beginning of the show. There is a video out there somewhere and if I can figure out how to get it on YouTube, I will definitely upload it.

After the show, performed on the 65th floor in the ballrooom of the Rainbow room, Kitty and I changed and met our fashion friends for dinner in the staff area. As we sat and drank wine from the open bar, Kitty and I were regaled with stories of the fashion world. A world of brutal deadlines and gigantic personalities. We heard stories from Ann Klein and, just as the stories were winding down, some of the donors walked by on their way to the restroom, dressed in their tuxes and gowns. "Oh, honey, that color makes you look like forgot to put your face on." "That's it, I'm going after her, someone needs to save her from herself, look at those ties down the back of her dress!... she's like a muffin top with 5 muffins!" We grab his arms to keep him from running after the girl. "If her dress had on the top what it lacked on the bottom, she would look beautiful!." "Some girls can pull off orange-- honey, you ain't one of 'em!" Tears of laughter are streaming down Kitty's face as they dig in like only gay fashionistas can do.

The herd of donors started to thin and our eyes were drawn to the table of "thank you" bags that guests were supposed to take as we left. "Do you think we can take one?" asked Fashionsta #1. "Darling, I just spent an hour dressed in woven trash bags-- yes, they were fabulous, but simply must have one as a reminder of the evening," said Fashionista #2. "That's IT! I've had it with this dump!" said Fashionista #3. He picks up his jacket and puts it on. He throws his head back and announces, "I'm LEAVING!" We grab our things to follow as he storms out of the restaurant, grabbing a gift bag as he goes. Of course, we all follow suit. (pun intended)

The Theater District that I never knew

Change is constant here. Recently, I found myself with enough singing gigs that I decided to bid "adieu" to Tom and the Scottsman, the famous Interior Decorators. I began working as an office assistant in the firm and, by the end of my tenure there, I was promoted to Assistant Designer and ran my own small jobs (the largest being a three bedroom apartment). I didn't really make any design decisions, but I would manage the details of the work and try to make sure that things ran smoothly.

To say that it has been a good job is an understatement. The Scottsman is a great guy and he and Tom took such good care of Kitty and I while I was working there. We stayed at their country homes, went to fabulous parties and enjoyed the company of all of the staff socially, as well as professionally.

To celebrate my departure, the Scottsman and his new assistant organized a big send-off for me and The Dancer, one of the other assistants who had just taken a job with another firm. When I found out that it would be in the Theater District, I was skeptical, to say the least. I don't go there very often and when I do go, I try to time myself so that I won't get crushed under the weight of so many collective tourists standing and gawking on the sidewalks.

When Kitty and I arrived, sour after getting drenched by a stormy evening, we entered a page of history. Swing 46 is a restaurant and swing bar. It feels a little bit seedy as you go in. The decor is straight out of the twenties. I mean that it was decorated in the 1920s and it hasn't been updated since. It wasn't that it was ugly, just slightly used. The details of the space were not clean and fresh, but showed the liver spots and wrinkles of a generation of lonely drunks and cheap jazz. There was water leaking from the ceiling near our table, but once we got comfortable in our seats and had a drink, we were in for a surprise.

The Food

Again, I wasn't expecting much. American food. Rubber chicken. Why did he choose this place? Then I saw the menu. Slightly nouveau American and French food. The appetizers were delicious and as we were wrapping up, out attention was brought to the band that had been quietly setting up. "Felix and the Cats" broke out into a lively swing number. This was going to be no average night.

The Band

There are hundreds of musicians here in New York. They are singers, instrumentalists, jazz-cats, musical theater pretty boys, and infinite small groups performing every manner of music from around the world. In addition to many bad musicians, there are some of the best that you have never heard of in your life.

As a professional, I could see that many of the musicians in Felix and the Cats were just session players. They had received the charts for the first time that night, looked them over, talked out the tempo and then they ROCKED! There was only one false start that night and I forgive them that because the solos were uniformly outstanding, the rhythm was tight and the band leader and singer had great energy.

The Main Course

I had the steak. It was perfectly cooked. Kitty had the salmon. It was outstanding. The big surprise? The presentation. It looked like they opened a Gourmet Magazine up on our table. Artful displays of shredded vegetables, layers of potatoes to frame my steak-- it was a genuinely exceptional culinary production.

The Dancing

It was absolutely a blast. By the time we finished the main course, the band was on their first break. A couple came out and gave a brief lesson in swing dancing. I was all left feet as we worked in the group. When I sat down, my co-workers looked at me skeptically. "You kind of fell apart out there, man." "I thought you said you were a singer who could move. What the hell was that?" Friends can be too honest sometimes.

By the time the band kicked up for their second set, I had processed the lesson. Kitty and I hit the dance floor and I made vast improvements by the end of the first song. I sat down to, "Well, we were worried about you after that class, but you really pulled it together out there." It's not like I'm a pitcher in a Major League Game, guys.

As we rested and had our sixth glass of wine for the night, we saw Bill Nye across the dance floor, sitting alone and drinking water. It was our Celebrity Moment of the night and though no one else could care less, I was thrilled. I can still sing the main riff of his kid's show. He was awesome with his lab coat and wicked cool experiments. Ok. I digress.

That cat can dance. After checking out people for awhile, he came over to our table and asked my co-worker (a former professional dancer) if she would care to dance. She said yes and we watched the best dancing of the night. She came back all flustered and said, "Damn. He is good. That man KNOWS how to lead."

And you thought he was just a dorky scientist. Shame on you.

The End

Bombed out of our mind, we threw the Scottsman in a cab. Luckily, Tom, the other partner of the firm, hopped in and got him home safely. We staggered out into the night. The rain had broken and we hopped on the train. We nodded off as we rode home, missed our stop and had to stagger an extra two blocks to our apartment.

I'm looking for an excuse to go there and drop a fortune on food and drink and dance. Next time, I'd like to wear a tux, slick my hair back and imagine that I'm reenacting a scene from "The Great Gatsby."

Victory, snatched from the jaws of Defeat

Every New Yorker has a story from the Department of Motor Vehicles. Most of them are stories of woe and pain, anger and misery. Here is my humble addition to the oveure:

The process begins by scrutinizing the website to find out what I need to get a license and register my car. After living in NYC for over a year and a half, it seems that the time has come to admit to God, the Universe and the DMV that I am, indeed, a New Yorker.

Ingredients:
1 out of state license
6 "points" of identification- Passport= 4 points, Credit card=1 point, Union card= 1 point.
1 title for Silver Saturn
1 proof of current insurance
1 proof of release of Lien from bank.
1 invoice for sale of the car (to ensure that I paid my sales tax)
1 credit card (to pay for it all)

I arrive at about 10 a.m. There is a line and it takes about 20 minutes to get through it. I am amused and entertained by the security guard who is chatting up two young ladies. At first he is flirting, but then he starts to tell them that he can send them to the back of the line or prevent them from getting their license. Apparently getting through the line for these girls involves giving out their digits. An employee comes up to the front of the line and yells "All those that are here for a LEARNER'S PERMIT TEST. COME TO ROOM 2!!!!" The girls look relieved as they file past the security guard.

I finally arrive in front of a nice woman. She tells me that the office now requires a Social Security card for every transaction involving an out-of-state license. I protest that I have 6 points of identification. "No good, hon. It's required because of terrorism threats." I roll my eyes and gather up my paperwork to leave. "Now wait a minute, hon. Let me make sure you have everything else that you need." She pauses and leafs through all my documents. "Yep. Just grab that SS Card and you'll be good to go."

About 20 minutes later I return with my Social Security card. The line has grown and stopped moving entirely. It is so big that it stretches out of the office and into the Atlantic Terminal Mall, where it stops, pauses to allow people to walk through, and restarts off to the side. I begin my wait at the far end of the second line. Several more announcements about Learner's Permit Tests happen and as they announcement are passed along down the line, I move forward and into the DMV proper. Two hours later, a short Hispanic woman gives up. "I'm not waiting in this fucking line any more." She pushes her way under the two dividers and she stakes a place behind about three people from the front. She has just cut in front of about 25 people. No one says a word. She stands and looks at everyone with a defiantly homicidal look in her eye. Silence from the crowd.

Another half hour passes I make it to the friendly woman again. "Hon! You're back! Do you have that Social Security Card?" She goes through every one of my documents one more time. "Here's a number, take a seat." I look at the slip of paper. Estimated wait: 29 minutes. I sit. 45 minutes later, I my number appears on an electric billboard. I approach the desk and I'm faced with a new person. She isn't as friendly. She looks at me suspiciously and then carefully looks at every piece of documentation. "I guess we can do BOTH your license and your registration. We don't usually do registrations here. You're going to ruin someone's day." My mood gets slightly darker.

"Oh, come on, baby... smile a little. You look like you're dead." I finally crack a smile. I come back and look at the monitor. It's me smiling back. "I threw out the other pictures. They were terrible. You looked like you were dead, baby. Now take this slip and wait for your number. Oh wait, let me check those documents again." She pauses and looks over every piece of paper that I have. "Yeah, baby, you're ok. Take a seat." Approximate wait time: 29 minutes.

One hour later: "Honey, here's your temporary license... wait... you want to register your car?" She gets a glint in here eye. I'm at a third woman now. She is wearing two sets of glasses at the same time and slouches to see her monitor. "Child, I HATE doing registrations." She picks up my documentation. She goes through it once. She starts to enter things into the computer. "Wait... this insurance form doesn't have your name on it. Just Kitty's name. Where is she? Can I see her license?" I tell her that my wife paid for the insurance. I'm on it also, but this was just her card. Three times, people checked my pape... "Child, I don't care how many people checked your paperwork. Without your name on the insurance, it don't matter!" I get a pit in my stomach.

"Jesus luuuuuvs me today!" She cackles. "He knows I hate those registrations and God surely wouldn't make me do one today!" She gets up off her stool, leans in and laughs in my face, "Here are your documents, and have a nice day. I hope I don't call you when you come back." I'm shocked into silence. "Child, take this." She hands me a piece of green paper. "You won't have to wait in line if you come back today." She leans in again, laughs in my face again, praises Jesus and rings for the next customer.

I stumble out of the office in a stupor. It is now 2:45. How can I get this fixed by 4, when the DMV closes?

I immediately call my insurance company and explain the situation. A very helpful woman with a British accent who says she is in Tampa answers. She sympathizes, adds my name to the card and stays on the line as I go back to the DMV. I cut directly to the front of the line.

"Do you have a fax machine where I can have my insurance sent?" I ask. "We don't do that here. You can go down the hall to the insurance company and ask to borrow their fax." The Brit is still waiting on my cell phone.

I run down the hall. "Can I receive a fax on your machine?"

A fat man sitting at his desk eating Sesame Chicken points to a sign behind me. $3 for the first page, $1 for each additional page. I have a silent heart attack and read the number to the Brit. 10 minutes later, $9 poorer and a little bit happier, I race down the hall and back to the DMV.

I cut the line. I hear people howling with rage behind me as I run up to the information desk. "Hon, what are YOU doing back here?" I hand her the papers. "Oh, I didn't notice that your wife's name was on the original paperwork. Silly me!" She pauses and hands me a number." Take a seat. Someone should help you in 29 minutes."

I thank my British friend from Progressive and tell her that she was the highlight of my day. I take my seat. When my number gets called, it 3:30. Not too shabby, I think I only waited for 40 minutes. The woman behind the desk rolls her eyes and looks at my documents. "Well, do you want to have Kitty on your title? Because she needs to be here and I really can't process..."

"NO! I just have her on my insurance so that she can drive the car. It's MY car, it stays in MY name!"

"Well, I don't know about that..." she trails off, hoping that I will take the hint that she doesn't want to do my registration.

"Tough," I reply. "I've been through the line twice and you are the fifth person that I've seen today. You will now register this car to me." I lower my voice and give her my best Jedi mind trick. "I need to get this car registered NOW."

She takes my credit card and brings out two license plates. She fills in the paperwork and loads her printer with the stickers for my windshield. Nothing happens. "Well," she says, "it looks like my printer just broke. I guess I'd better call the manager. Or maybe tech support." She looks around, hoping that I might just give up in disgust. I stand my ground.

Tech support ambles over with a new toner cartridge. He replaces it and starts to click on things with the mouse. Nothing happens. "Uh... did you... uh... try... uh... rebooting?"

Have you seen the Matrix? Do you know about bullet time? Everything slows down and you can see individual bullets flying through the air. I can see each word coming out of their mouths. I dodge left and right, trying to make sure that I get to my goal of those license plates. All of a sudden, things speed back up. I don't know what happened, but she is handing me the plates and paper work.

"Sorry about the delay. Your first credit card transaction may or may not have gone through. If it went through twice, call your credit card company and then come back here to get the charges reversed."

She gives an evil chuckle.

I said, "Not in MY house..."

Angry confrontations. Those of you who might know me, understand that I'm not really a "fighter." I roll with the punches. I sway in the breeze. It takes a lot to really rattle me and if you do get to that point, well, you'll probably never know. Probably because I don't raise my voice and holler. I just move on.

I've described those stereotypical City Moments when I have observed angry people really letting it go. The can scream, holler, rant and curse. Today was my day to join them. Allow me to set the stage:

Across the street from our house, right by the elevated platform for the S-train, there is an open, grassy lot. Because of the demographics of our neighborhood, the lot tends to be dirty. Over the course of the several months that we lived there, the lot became absolutely filthy. Finally, about three weeks ago, a big trash truck backed onto the sidewalk and men started bagging and removing all of the trash. It was a big job and took most of the day.

This morning as I was walking to work, I saw a man with a bag of trash walking towards the lot. I walked past him and turned to watch him put the bag in the gap between the chain link fence in front of the lot.

"HEY! This is my neighborhood, man! Do NOT dump your stuff there!"

I could have really gone to town on the guy but he immediately grabbed the bag, turned around and followed me. He didn't have any front teeth and his dirty blonde hair (in ever sense of the phrase) was almost shoulder length.

"thorry man. I wathn't going to dump it there. I was just going to leave it while I ran an errand."

I just kept walking.

"Man. I don't dump trash. I wath jutht leaving it there for a minute... thee?" He drops the bag into one of the public trash bins as we walk by a bus stop.

I still don't say anything. I jaywalk acroth--- damn it--- across the street and head down into the subway, leaving him to protest his innocence.

Holy Cats!

Every two weeks or so, I try to treat myself to one of those delicious deli breakfast sandwiches. Usually tuck into a bacon, egg and cheese on a hard roll. It's a great way to start a Friday morning as you sit by your computer and temp.

This morning I took ten minutes out of my work day to run down to the West End Deli and grab breakfast. The deli is much like any of the hundreds of others all around the city. It has the same menu and basically the same prices. Considering that New Yorkers will frequently order in their breakfast, it isn't a surprise that the market supports so many of the same store.

The guys behind the counter were nice and, as always, I noticed a cat sitting by a bag of potatoes, watching the world go by. I kind of like cats. I don't love them, but they do add something to the neighborhood feel of a little shop. New York delis, vegetable stands and even restaurants frequently keep cats around. It is not just for the ambiance.

When we first arrived in the city, Kitty and I were out and about in the West Village and we went to a little Indian restaurant to grab lunch. They had a $5.95 lunch special that was absolutely fantastic. As we were sitting there, Kitty noticed the house cat and commented on how cute it was. As the cat moved on about its business, I looked past my wife, deeper into the restaurant and towards the kitchen. A mouse scurried across the floor between some empty tables. I watched as the cat slowed down and started to creep along the floor. Kitty (my wife- I realize that this might get confusing!) was talking about something or another, but I really can't remember because I was enthralled by the stalking that was going on.

Some things to know about Kitty. If she sees a spider, mouse, rat, snake or small insect, she is known to scream. She is also known to attempt to kill it and then explain how the cockroach was actually 7 inches long with razor-sharp fangs and it was heading for her throat.

The tension was palpable as I saw the, well, cat-and-mouse game play out ubeknownst to my wife. The mouse survived and we got dessert. A few weeks later, Kitty reminded me of how good the food was and how she wanted to go back. After holding out for so long, I confessed what I saw. She didn't take it very well.

Now though, Kitty is definitely doing better with the variety of life here. Cats, mice and insects are a common place here in the city. It can be tough to get used to and it isn't really about cleanliness, it is more about what is discussed in Jurassic Park, "Life breaks free. Life expands to new territories. Painfully, perhaps even dangerously. But life finds a way." You can kill them, but there will always be more. It was true about velociraptors and it is true for living in a big city.

The Friendly Mohawk

Times have changed. With my occasional switch to the F-train, I'm exposed to a much different cross-section of the NYC population than when I stayed on the C. Envision for me, if you will, core samples taken from the ice of the Antarctic (before it all melted, of course). Scientists would drill down and remove layers of ice and some of the frozen ground. By looking at it, they can make educated guesses about the origins of life.

I also development patterns as I switch trains. Back in the early 1980's, the punk scene became big at clubs like CBGB. Many of these angry, young musicians sported mohawk hairstyles and it shocked the uptight world of the Reagan years. People feared the punks and sporting a mohawk easily identified you as someone who would just as soon spit on you as talk to you.

This morning I boarded the F to find a young man sporting a mohawk. He wore a pink button down shirt and a hankerchief like an ascot. I was almost scared until I saw his Prada sunglasses and his terminally hip shoes.

How has mankind evolved so far so fast?

Story Time

I've found that after a year of long wait lists, I've finally made the big move. Instead of reserving books from the New York Public Library, I'm getting them from the Brooklyn Public Library System. What a difference! I've already scored the new Tolkein book, "Children of Hurin." The wait at NYPL was about 800 people. I had my copy from BPL in 2 days.

We have started getting DVDs from the BPL as well. They usually arrive in a day or two. Netflix will be cut back soon!

The Long Walk

In an effort to increase my overall health, I recently purchased a pedometer. The goal is to reach 10,000 steps a day. When you work in an an office, though, it can be tough to reach 3,000.

My brilliant solution, which has led to the last couple of OC posts about the subway, is to walk from the West 4th Street Station to my office in Hell's Kitchen. It is about 40 blocks uptown and three long blocks west. It is only about 6,000 steps, but with the walking around the office, I make my goal. Yay me.

What a difference Seven Minutes makes
The great side effect is that I take a great walk through the West Village every morning. I walk down Greenwich Street. If I don't get delayed by the F-train, Greenwich is practically empty. The shops are closed and it is one of the most peaceful ways to start your day when living in the city.

Yesterday, being seven minutes late, the street was much more crowded and cafes were beginning to open up and people were getting their morning coffee. One of my favorite moments in film is in a movie called, "Smoke." Harvey Keitel plays the owner of a cigar store the story revolves around his customers at the store. Every morning, Mr. Keitel's character walks out the front door of his shop at exactly the same time, raises a small camera and snaps a picture. He adds it to his "photo collection." It is his way to track those small changes that happen in a small corner of the world, which seems to be the same day in and day out. Being out and about in the Village always makes me think of that movie. I don't know if it is a "great film" but it is one that has stuck with me through the years. Walking each day, I wish I could capture that feeling of motion and compare it to yesterday and tomorrow and store it in an album.

Decaffeinated
I've mostly given up caffeine. For those of you who didn't know, I was the first kid in high school to become addicted to coffee. It took me through the long days and short nights of undergrad, the courtship of Kitty (we met at the copy machine, but fell in love in Starbucks) and through the tribulations of simultaneously managing grad school, my apprenticeship and my first major database job. I am now down to one half cup of "half-caff" per day and sometimes a cup of decaf in the afternoon. I sleep better at night and I'm less edgy during the day.

My walk through the Village is a test, though. Quaint pastry shops abound and there are vendors on the street in small metal cubes on wheels that provide our fair city with carbohydrates, caffeine and chemicals to make it through the long work days. If that weren't enough, there are delis that sell an egg and cheese on a toasted hard roll and a cup of coffee for $1.50. It's enough to make a grown man cry out for mercy. The Seven Minute difference means that instead of being practically alone, I see New Yorkers walking down the street with small cups with greek key designs, large cups with mermaids, or cell phone and sandwich in hand.

Barcelona and Modernism
Getting to work has become harder since my last trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I saw the exhibit on Barcelona and Modernism. The artists who were a part of the movement, met at Le Quatre Gats, a cafe. They talked politics and talked about their art and were inspired to create. The Village makes me want to turn into one of the cafes and sit and leave behind the obligations of a day job. I could just sit and plan out my singing career and beyond. I could meet my neighbors and get inspired to put on a show in the city. I could find out about the next great revolution that is being planned in the, now bourgoise, heart of artistic New York. Instead, I turn up my music and walk out of the Village and on to Chelsea and my job.

Follow-up

If an F-train is not waiting in the station, don't switch trains. I lost 11 minutes total because of slow train traffic.

I think I'm going to write a thesis, "Abstract Transportation Issues: An Authoritative Guide to the Arcane New York City Transit Authority." It will read like the instruction manual for your new digital camera. (only much less entertaining.)

Crossing over

Well, I'm starting to make the leap into Web 2.0. Feel free to check out myspace. I'll be blogging about books and art and other random things. Send me a friend request or let me know where you are. I'd love to say "hello."

Shaving off 4 minutes.

Riding the Subway- PhD lesson #1

Conventional wisdom says that train transfers are slow you down.

Case Study- You are riding from Franklin St. (in Brooklyn) on the C train and you need to get to Spring Street. Fastest route? Stay on the C. Both are local stops.

Case Study 2- You are riding the train from Franklin Street (in Brooklyn) to W4 th. It is only one stop farther on the C than Spring Street. What is the fastest route? Conventional wisdom says, "stay on the C." Aha, says I... Switch at Jay Street to a waiting F-train and you bypass all of lower Manhattan. Today I saved about 4 minutes. I'd like to do a test next time Kitty and I go to the Village. I'll do the switch at Jay Street and she will stay on the C-train and we'll see who gets there faster.

Yes, these are the esoteric issues that plague New Yorkers after they have mastered the basics of the transit system.

I'd like 8 inches of meat, please.

It's been over a year since our first trip to Coney Island. As you might recall, our trip was less then spectacular. Recently, Kitty and I were inspired to go back because the area has been purchased by a big developer and after this season, the area will be demolished and "disney-fied." According to some of our fellow New Yorkers, it will lose all its charm.

Rather than reprise the same sad trip, we went down last weekend on a Sunday after Mass. It was a bright sunny day- one of the first of the year. Armed with a sense of optimism, we started our trip in Brighton Beach. The plan was to go through Little Odessa, a neighborhood that we had not yet explored, catch up with the boardwalk and stroll down to Coney Island.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere is Signs...
The drive there wasn't too shabby. Of course, road signage in the 5 boroughs is absolutely terrible. While we were trying to off of Interstate 278, I saw a lane marked "To Belt Parkway." GREAT! I think, I'll go where the arrow points. At fifty-five miles per hour, I switch into the center lane of the highway. I position the car underneath the giant arrow and, do my eyes deceive me? I see a concrete median, not a road. The arrow wasn't pointing to the Belt Parkway, rather to some awful tragic death! I have a few seconds to make the correct decision. I can veer to the right or to the left of the concrete wall that is fast approaching us. I flinch and break to the right. It was the wrong choice. We end up heading towards Staten Island. After several more attempts to get back on the highway, we ended up driving by back roads. A twenty minute trip turned into an hour, thanks to the helpful NYC Department of Roads.

What does that have to do with the price of milk?

The first thing we noticed in Little Odessa was the inexpensive and incredibly fresh produce. Getting good produce in the city can be challenging. You can pay premium at Whole Foods or buy second class produce from your local grocery store. There are other options, I suppose, but it involves having a car and going to Washington Heights, which might as well be Maryland.

Little Odessa is named for its concentration of Russian and Slavic immigrants. I suppose it is almost as foreign as Chinatown. It is home to some of the most inexpensive luggage stores in the city. Where is the connection between the Russians and travel supplies?

We grabbed a bite to eat at a grocery and deli that specialized in Russian food. The woman behind the counter spoke minimal English and I tried to ask her questions. In the end, though, I acted out "What do you like?" and "Only vegetables and fish." My charades skills are still rather good and we ended up with a nice sized plate of food that Kitty and I shared on the rooftop veranda. We ended up with steamed salmon, Russian-style potato ravioli and a fantastic cabbage salad.

Fortified, we headed off to the Boardwalk. Unlike our last trip, the Boardwalk was full of families and sunbathers. There were musicians playing and it felt like a different world.

As we arrived at the heart of Coney Island, we grabbed a beer and sat to watch the world go by. Those run-down games that we saw before seemed fresher with people actually playing. Now, instead of "Dunk the Geek", the game had been updated to "Shoot the Geek." A young man dressed in body armor and a helmet hid behind obstacles and popped out slowly while people shot at him with paint-ball guns. It was a bit of a downer to watch people cheering as they shot the guy. Especially with the major shooting that just took place in Virginia, it seemed offsides. I suppose it is this one of the roughest edges that will be smoothed out as Coney Island becomes a corporate playground. On a brighter note, we saw the Coney Island Side Show Theater. It features sword eaters, pierced people, bearded ladies, etc. Not enough time to stop in, but since we are counting on heading back soon, we'll make a trip and I'll try to post some pictures.

We headed back to Little Odessa to get the car and decided to do some grocery shopping while we were at it. We picked up fresh veggies and whole wheat bread from a bakery. After that we headed to one of the specialty shops.

Get out, Don't need money.

Our first stop in the shop was the bulk food aisle. Back in the day, Kitty and her friends used to roam the aisles of bulk at the local grocery store and "sampled" to their hearts content. As we walked the three narrow aisles, a voice thundered out, "NO SAMPLE! NO SAMPLE!" Kitty's and my eyes got wide and we looked at each other to see if we were the offending party. "NO SAMPLE! BUY SOMETHING!" a Russian woman was yelling out.

A young man with a thick Brooklyn accent said, "Look at all dis stuff I'm buyin'?! I'll eat one damn piece of candy if I want to."

The Russian lady screamed, "GET OUT. DON'T NEED MONEY."

Typically, if someone is caught in the sample aisle, you sort of slink off an make a bigger purchase than you were going to. It's embarrassing but these things happen. Not that it's ever happened to me or anyone I know.

This guy, though, is absolutely resolute about his right to free samples. He starts telling her how he just won't buy anything and she keeps throwing out that kicker, "DON'T NEED MONEY!" He tosses his bag of goodies on a tub of honey-roasted peanuts turns and walking out the door as he curses her out.

What you've been waiting for...
Our final stop in Little Odessa was a full-service grocery that had a selection of specialty smoked meats, sausages and cold cuts. Since Kitty is a vegetarian, I don't bring home these kinds of treats very often but seeing the bounty laid out before me, the German blood in me could not pass it by! Of course, the language was once again a barrier. I asked the lady if she had any recommendations. No response. I asked what her favorite was. I got a puzzled look. Soon, I start with the charades and the sentence fragments, raising my voice and trying to act it out. She started to get hostile. I ended up leaving the store with a small piece of kielbasa and some salami that I'm guessing was of Slavic origin. Please email me if you have any ideas on how to act out "Your Favorite Authentic Eastern European Meat Products." It can get kind of ugly if you are just winging it.

Times, they are a changin'

Yesterday, Kitty said something that shook me to my soul. "You aren't new here anymore. It's been almost two years."

It was fairly traumatic for me but, looking back on the lack of entries lately, I can see her point. On the other hand, I have spent the last few days working at an investment bank on the 35th floor near Central Park.

As I walked into the lobby, I had to catch my breath. From the window I could see all of Central Park. It looked almost small. Knowing the scope of the park added to the sense of scale of this city. It is a point of view that I have not experienced.

I feel like I've walked into the nerve center of our economy. Traders sit at computers that have three monitors shooting out different information. They are plugged into to complicated phone systems via headsets and they shout out things like "I'm selling 35,000 but we are shorting 42 cash!" I don't know what that means, but I'm sure the profit will pay my salary for a decade.

While the experiences are new, the eyes now seem a little older. I rarely get the shock and awe that Kitty and I could talk about for hours. Now, in some ways, I've seen it all. There will be more, of course, but it will now measure up to a whole batch of weird New York City experiences.

This brings me to a semi-rhetorical question: Where does the blog go from here? We've left the Chocolate Room and we can't really go back. I can tell you all about the weird events that happen in our lives, but they are going to be fewer and far between. Do I blog now about the books I read, the art I see and the music I hear? Perhaps I could put together some tours of NYC for tourists... something to get them out of the Times Square rut but still have them feel safe as they explore. If you have ideas, please don't hesitate to drop a line.

A Valentine to Remember

For the first time in many years, after a strictly enforced "no-gift" policy, Kitty surprised me with the perfect Valentine's Day gift. One ticket to attend the 2007 ComicCon, a comic book convention at the Javits Center. The all day ticket was good from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. and it is an homage to my years spent collecting comics and playing video games and Dungeons & Dragons. I never have lost my love for these things though work, studies and singing have pulled me away from it over the past few years.

For most of you regular readers, you may not have had any idea as to how much of a geek I really am. This entry will prove it. If you don't want to know, don't read this!

The Goddam Jedis get all the perks.

The Javits Center is a huge building that takes up about 5 city blocks. It's immensity was magnified by the fact that the line snaked around the building from a lower entrance, around the corner across a little street and up a hill to 11th Avenue and 44th Street where I stood. It was a chilly, chilly day and as you know, it is always 10 degrees freezing my backside off. What made it worse was that us non-Jedis were being guarded by stormtroopers (the most incompetent footsoldiers in the galaxy) and Jawas. Yes, they were cooler by the water. Frankly, I was mutant, giant Jawas, but hell... they were Jawas!! I would have settled for a Gammorean Guard! But Jawas? REALLY!!!!

Looking through the glass, I could see the goddam Jedis practicing in full costume with their costumes. I knew that somewhere around here there was a special line just for them. I'm ready to enroll in the club so that next year I won't have to wait in line! When a bunch of them came out to smoke and chat with the non-Jedis in line, I wanted to jump the wall and beat them. Even if they could use their Jedi powers on me, they smoked... I could totally take them if they had the nicotine shakes. The Jedi group did light saber demonstrations during the day. I give them full props for their show. Take a look at the videos on their website. They did a good job.

When the line finally started moving and I made it into the building, they were all there trying to sell me custom-made lightsabers that could be used for dueling. It was... well... interesting. I've always wanted a light saber. I don't want Kitty to disown me and so I moved on and into the Convention itself.







I'm no Superman

I've decided that comic book costumes look better in 2d. I tried to get a pic with Spiderman but he was much more popular than the Blue Beetle and the Flash. I can't imagine why. I hope these guys got paid a million bucks for this. Could you imagine putting this on your resume? These guys were in remarkably good spirits considering the tightness of their pants.

A Brave (and Strange) New World

As I entered the main part of the Convention, I realized the scope of the event. All the major comic publishers were represented (Marvel, DC, Dark Horse) and also some of the newer publishers (TokyoPop). There were plasma tvs set up where you could try the latest video games and even ones that weren't out yet. There were vendors selling rare comics, toys based on comics, t-shirts, posters and also many vendors selling children's books.

As I walked by some of the video game vendors, I realized that I was seeing one of the rarer species on earth, the "Booth Babe." A Booth Babe is the female of our species that is wearing a skimpy outfit and trying to look vaguely interested in the "geek product" that she is trying to sell. It's hard work because geeks have a reputation of not having girlfriends or even good skills at dealing with people of the opposite sex. Booth Babes are known for their ability to avoid giving out their phone numbers, yet making the geeks feel like they are special and they should buy the video game, comic, or whatever. You'll notice that I don't have pictures of a Booth Babe. I'll refer you to my previous comment about lightsabers, I could have taken a picture but I didn't want Kitty to disown me.

Drawing on their Skill Set

The second floor was known as Artist's Alley. Walking down the aisles, I saw countless comic book artists- some famous, some aspiring- showing off their work. They would sign comics for free or you could buy original art by them. The works varied in size and composition and some of them were absolutely beautiful. They would have been a great decoration in our apartment. Some pictures would have fit in perfectly against our Calla Lilly-colored walls that were chosen by the Scottsman, our decorator. Of course, I'd like to refer you to my earlier comments about lightsabers and Booth Babes... I don't want Kitty to disown me. The Scottsman would probably whack me outside the head as well if I put a comic book picture into an apartment that he worked so hard on!

Beyond the Alley

Walking through the Alley, the second floor room opened up into a large hall where competitive gaming was taking place. In this case, all of the games were board games such as Dreamscape and D&D Miniatures or card games like Pokemon, Magic and more obscure games. Around the perimeter of the room you could get autographs from celebrities (such as some of the cast of Buffy the Vampire Slayer) or notorious people like:
I would have paid $20 bucks to get my picture taken with him and get his autograph, but I fear that, like light sabers, Booth Babes, and framed comic art, Kitty would have said, "Watchoo talkin' 'bout!" and disowned me.

Delving Deep

At about 3 p.m., I finally found my way to the basement. Here there was a giant space where Steven King had made a speech at 11 a.m. Yes, I missed it entirely. There was a screening of The Hills Have Eyes 2 and Hostel 2. For those of you who don't know those films, they star Oscar-winners Dame Judi Dench and Dame Helen Mirren who go about killing tourists in Europe. Ok. I made up some of that. And yes, I missed both entirely. As I walked through the door, Kevin Smith was chit chatting with audience members (about 1,000). I like some of his movies but I felt that my time was coming to a close. I was hitting the wall.

Closing Thoughts

As I left the Javits Center after 8 hours of non-stop geekitude, I realized that I hadn't really talked to anyone all day. Sure, I had played every game demo that was there, and I scored two free t-shirts (one said, "Pirates: Getting Booty since 1732"), and I picked up tons of free comics and magazines (two full plastic bags worth!). In the end, I knew that next year I would need back up and RoboGuy and the Secret Agent would have to come join me. We all went to high school together, read comics and played D&D together and when my good judgment takes hold and I wonder if I should shell out the bucks, they will make sure that I'll come home with a light saber, pictures of Booth Babes, a large framed picture of Wonder Woman and Gary Coleman's autograph. Since they will have the same things, they'll have to explain it to their wives too!