My new favorite blog.

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This interview took place via email between Marc Bantel and your intrepid blogger, freebie superstar.
How did you get free tix to see Neil Diamond?

Well, I got them from my day job with the Red Cross in Greater New York.

So how was the concert?Great. The dude is 67 years old and he filled... I mean... FILLED madison square gardens. It was vaguely surreal to go into the show and be the youngest people there, but he came out with tons of energy, didn't take any breaks and sang for over 2 hours.Also, they are taping it for distribution so it would be cool to actually get the video at some point.

Did you dance in the aisle?

Not in the aisle, but he got us up and dancing for the first couple of numbers (holly holy and another uptempo). The crowd went nuts for Sweet Caroline. If I had one nit against the concert, it was that he did the song 3 times in a row. Three times... wtf? Always leave the crowd wanting more... Rule #1 of showbiz. By the end, the audience had shot their collective wad on the song.Did he wear anything sequined or in a jumpsuit style?Nope. Black suit. It was kind of a Johnny Cash look. He was totally fit, though. We sat behind the stage and basically watched his a$$ for 2 straight hours. Mostly I watched the monitors.Did you embarrass your wife?Not really. She danced with me.

What did he play as an encore?

confession time, we left a bit early. It's a pain to get out of MSG and with all the people with walkers, we figured it would take a lot longer. (I KID!!) Best guess, we missed Cracklin' Rosie and Coming to America.

Was anyone silly enough to try and "open" for him?

Dude. Pearl Jam wouldn't even be able to open for him. The dude sang for over 2 hours straight. No intermissions, no breaks. It was pretty damned amazing.

How many cougars did you spot?

Kitty: Have you seen the racks on the ladies here?
Blogger: Store bought or home grown?
Kitty: Store bought. They have 20 year old bodies attached to 50 year old faces...

How long of a show did he put on?

see above.

Did he interact with the crowd well?

Sort of... He definitely talked to the crowd a bit but it was a bit scripted at times. Not a complaint... it usually went with film clips up on the monitors.

Other comments:

Sitting behind him, we got an incredible view of what it was like to be on stage. The bulk of the audience rolled out ahead of us and it was almost like being on stage with Neil.

We wore earplugs and it was the best thing I've ever done. I would have totally gone hoarse and that would have sucked. I could actually hear the details of the music much more clearly because they took out the distortion of the loud volume. That being said, his band was incredibly tight. He's been touring with them for about 30 years and they knew everything cold. They were totally fun to watch. I saw the mike cord running down the drummer's back and for an instant I thought the dude was on oxygen. Wouldn't be surprised... the band didn't age as well as Neil did.

The main reason we left early was that a bunch of younger people (our age) sat behind us and by the end of the night they were completely smashed. They were talking at each other so loudly and being so freaking rude that it killed the rest of the night for us. I was especially pissed because Neil was singing a couple of slow songs about the price of being a star and touring and it was really speaking to me as a musician and I could barely hear because of the yutzes behind us. They were too drunk to reason with them at all. ugh. Downer on the end of the night.

Spring Break on My Commute

Happy Passover!

It's a wonderful season here in the city because Passover means that it is Spring Break for the high school kids. With no high school kids, it means empty trains into the city. With empty trains into the city, it means not smelling that heady mix of phermones and Drakkar Noire (or whatever the kids wear these days. That means also that the trains don't run late and it also means that today I got to work in a record 22 minutes from station to station! I'm chipper as a squirrel finding a leftover nut from last fall.

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.