So the projects next door to where we used to live were encircled by yellow Crime Scene Tape this morning.
Comforting.
Good thing we made that big move across the street to get out of that ghetto 'hood.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Get yourself to Beer Island...you freak
In an effort to check off at least one of the things on our to-do list this summer, we embarked yesterday on one of our biggest adventures in a long time: Coney Island- Revisited.Both Eric and I had been there last year- me, with Annette in early March (when it was still the weirdest place I'd ever been, but was waving its Little Russia flag loud and proud), and Eric, with a group of drunken men celebrating the end of a friend's bachelorhood. This was the first time he and I had taken in the glory that is Coney Island together. And, boy, it did not let us down.
We got off the train and were immediately greeted by Popeye's Chicken, the World-Famous Nathan's hot dog store (complete with a countdown clock to the next time crazy people stuff their faces full of the acclaimed all beef product), and men yelling at us to come play their carny games. All this and we hadn't even hit the boardwalk yet!
Next we came across the greatest of all great boardwalk games: Shoot The Freak. We still did not have the guts to actually shoot the freak, but I blame it all on the particularly beligerent "host" for Saturday's edition of Shoot The Freak. What if it was your job to sit and drink beer, eat fries, wear a viking helmet, and yell horribly mean things at people? Like what if you got paid to say, for all the boardwalk to hear, "Hey you with the brown hair- you look like a poodle, you loser" or, to a large-ish man wearing a particularly tight shirt, "You got bigger breasts than my girl, you freak." You can see why we were scared.
After we soaked up the sun on the beach, it was off to the WONDER WHEEL!!
We obviously picked a swinging car,
crossed our fingers for no vomiting, and had an adrenaline filled spin around the ferris wheel that was completely worth the $6 price of admission.
Next, it was time to eat. I had my first Nathan's famous hot dog. Delicious. And I also had some cheese fries. You know, there are times when nothing hits the spot like good old-fashioned neon cheese.
And finally (drumroll please), finally we were off to our new favorite place this side of the Mississippi...
Beer. Island.
Now, don't be fooled, it wasn't an actual island. But, it did sport real sand, a lifeguard chair, plastic lawn chairs, and $3 beers. And a BBQ Island (to be sampled next time- and there WILL be a next time). To top it all off, they play the best tunes (hello? Foreigner? Motley Cru? Bon Jovi?) and people of all ages become so overcome with the laid-back spirit of Beer Island that they decide to have their own dance party either on the tables or just right there in the middle of the sand. This, my friends, is the type of bar that other bars can only hope to be. Oh...Beer...Island...
There's just no other place in the world like Coney Island. Where else can you, in one single afternoon, Shoot The Freak (if you're not too weenie, like us), eat a famous hot dog, visit a fake island dedicated to beer, see the tannest man anyone has ever seen, ride a world renowned ferris wheel and not even vomit from the swingin' cars, sit on the beach, look at a roller coaster (lame), and feel like you've stepped out of 2008 New York City and into a place and time from another dimension?
It's only at Coney Island.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Love/Hate
That's my relationship with New York.
Just when I think I can't stand another minute of midtown at rush hour, teeming with dawdling tourists and pushy suits who glare at anyone who dare cross their paths. Or when I might cause physical harm to the 20 year old girls filling their aisle-blocking carts with the organic food I'm not sure how they can afford at Whole Foods. Or when I shudder at the thought of walking through another cloud of stinky sewer steam rising from the street. Or when every truck in Manhattan happens to be honking and revving their engines on the very street I'm attempting to walk down. Or when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, drop my bags of groceries, and call Eric to come help me because I simply cannot bear the thought of carrying those heavy bags another block (true story. Drama queen much?)...
Just when I wonder how it's possible to live here at all, New York does its thing:
It reminds me that the light is changing in the city, to something so beautiful, when everything is bathed in the amber glow of fall, gently taking over the sultry summer haze. And then it shows me that a Tasti DeLite is opening up around the corner from my office (!). And then it brings me to Riverside Park at sunset and yoga class when the city is just waking up, and everything around me, even if only for a few moments seens calm and clear and simple.
And then suddenly, New York feels good again.
Just when I think I can't stand another minute of midtown at rush hour, teeming with dawdling tourists and pushy suits who glare at anyone who dare cross their paths. Or when I might cause physical harm to the 20 year old girls filling their aisle-blocking carts with the organic food I'm not sure how they can afford at Whole Foods. Or when I shudder at the thought of walking through another cloud of stinky sewer steam rising from the street. Or when every truck in Manhattan happens to be honking and revving their engines on the very street I'm attempting to walk down. Or when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, drop my bags of groceries, and call Eric to come help me because I simply cannot bear the thought of carrying those heavy bags another block (true story. Drama queen much?)...
Just when I wonder how it's possible to live here at all, New York does its thing:
It reminds me that the light is changing in the city, to something so beautiful, when everything is bathed in the amber glow of fall, gently taking over the sultry summer haze. And then it shows me that a Tasti DeLite is opening up around the corner from my office (!). And then it brings me to Riverside Park at sunset and yoga class when the city is just waking up, and everything around me, even if only for a few moments seens calm and clear and simple.
And then suddenly, New York feels good again.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
In homage
To catch a recent 6 am flight, I caught a cab at 3:30 in the morning. This is obviously a ghastly hour to me, one which I see approximately three times a year, and usually there is a wedding, the Burp Castle, or, as in this case, an airplane involved. Everyone knows that New York is the city that never sleeps, but I was still amazed at the number and variety of people that were out at that time, the deadest time, the time when the world should be silent and sleeping.
This is a tribute to those people who are on the streets of New York, creating an eerily peaceful sense of motion in a city that thrives on just such a pulse.
To the doormen and security guards, finally reaching the last hours of the graveyard shift, standing in clusters on street corners and under awnings, silently sharing their final cigarettes of the night.
To the brave and stupid woman who stumbles off the subway in her white pants and 5 inch heels, teetering drunkenly home from another glittering night on the town, escaping once again the evils lurking in the shadows.
To the ConEdison workers, slowing traffic even when there shouldn’t be any, to make the repairs that will keep the lights on for the unknowing New Yorkers when they wake up in the morning.
To the hardest partiers, hanging on to the last moments of another Friday night, laughing with and leaning on friends and lovers in the doorways of the bars still sticky from the hours of Jager-bombs, Bud Lights, and dirty martinis.
To the crazy or the drug-addicted, waiting manically outside of diners and delis, screaming at no one and everyone, surviving the loneliest hour of the day.
To the middle-aged man in an SUV, windows rolled down, and music cranked up, unabashedly blasting Shakira at a time where no one would think to laugh.
To the lines of cars at McDonalds, filled with people just getting off work or just leaving the bars, never quite ready to go home and always ready for a Filet-o-Fish or Supersized fries, because everyone knows that the calories consumed at that hour don’t count.
It was all these people that painted the landscape as I rode silently through sleek, champagne-drunk Manhattan, across the bridge, and through a rawer, whiskey-soaked Queens. During the day, when everyone is in a hurry and people, except for those rare gems who cannot help but call attention to their eccentricity, are more in the way than part of the city’s beauty, it’s impossible to appreciate people- normal people, just doing what they do week after week, day after day. But at 3 am, when the mind and heart are too tired to judge, the city becomes a work of living art.
This is a tribute to those people who are on the streets of New York, creating an eerily peaceful sense of motion in a city that thrives on just such a pulse.
To the doormen and security guards, finally reaching the last hours of the graveyard shift, standing in clusters on street corners and under awnings, silently sharing their final cigarettes of the night.
To the brave and stupid woman who stumbles off the subway in her white pants and 5 inch heels, teetering drunkenly home from another glittering night on the town, escaping once again the evils lurking in the shadows.
To the ConEdison workers, slowing traffic even when there shouldn’t be any, to make the repairs that will keep the lights on for the unknowing New Yorkers when they wake up in the morning.
To the hardest partiers, hanging on to the last moments of another Friday night, laughing with and leaning on friends and lovers in the doorways of the bars still sticky from the hours of Jager-bombs, Bud Lights, and dirty martinis.
To the crazy or the drug-addicted, waiting manically outside of diners and delis, screaming at no one and everyone, surviving the loneliest hour of the day.
To the middle-aged man in an SUV, windows rolled down, and music cranked up, unabashedly blasting Shakira at a time where no one would think to laugh.
To the lines of cars at McDonalds, filled with people just getting off work or just leaving the bars, never quite ready to go home and always ready for a Filet-o-Fish or Supersized fries, because everyone knows that the calories consumed at that hour don’t count.
It was all these people that painted the landscape as I rode silently through sleek, champagne-drunk Manhattan, across the bridge, and through a rawer, whiskey-soaked Queens. During the day, when everyone is in a hurry and people, except for those rare gems who cannot help but call attention to their eccentricity, are more in the way than part of the city’s beauty, it’s impossible to appreciate people- normal people, just doing what they do week after week, day after day. But at 3 am, when the mind and heart are too tired to judge, the city becomes a work of living art.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Lernin'
The other day I ventured back into territory I have not dared to enter since the days of book reports and learner’s permits: The Public Library.
Having avoided such places for (could it be?) almost ten years now for fear that I would be arrested immediately for the hundreds of dollars overdue fines and missing books that I probably still have on my record, my purchases at Borders have become so frequent that Eric has placed an official moratorium on buying books. Without new material for weeks now, I have become so desperate for books that I took a deep breath, told myself that if I can hold down a job I surely must be capable of returning a library book on time, and I returned to the booklover’s treasure trove.
I walked in and was instantly embarrassed that I have spent such a ridiculous amount of money on books over the last 10 years. I mean, every book I could ever want is housed for free right down the block from my apartment! I was never going to leave! So I walked the aisles, picking up any book whose pretty cover or catchy title caught my eye, taking in my surroundings and my fellow patrons in this revered place of culture and higher learning.
And then I saw it.
Another person, obviously thirsty for knowledge, sitting at one of the computers, typing with equal parts determination and enthusiasm, such that I thought for certain he must have just cracked the problem of his graduate thesis or made groundbreaking progress on his first novel. And, naturally, I snuck a glance over his shoulder, and, there, blaring at me in type large enough to take up the entire computer screen, was the masterwork:
YANKEES BASEBALL SUCKS!
And there you have it- the literary future of America.
Having avoided such places for (could it be?) almost ten years now for fear that I would be arrested immediately for the hundreds of dollars overdue fines and missing books that I probably still have on my record, my purchases at Borders have become so frequent that Eric has placed an official moratorium on buying books. Without new material for weeks now, I have become so desperate for books that I took a deep breath, told myself that if I can hold down a job I surely must be capable of returning a library book on time, and I returned to the booklover’s treasure trove.
I walked in and was instantly embarrassed that I have spent such a ridiculous amount of money on books over the last 10 years. I mean, every book I could ever want is housed for free right down the block from my apartment! I was never going to leave! So I walked the aisles, picking up any book whose pretty cover or catchy title caught my eye, taking in my surroundings and my fellow patrons in this revered place of culture and higher learning.
And then I saw it.
Another person, obviously thirsty for knowledge, sitting at one of the computers, typing with equal parts determination and enthusiasm, such that I thought for certain he must have just cracked the problem of his graduate thesis or made groundbreaking progress on his first novel. And, naturally, I snuck a glance over his shoulder, and, there, blaring at me in type large enough to take up the entire computer screen, was the masterwork:
YANKEES BASEBALL SUCKS!
And there you have it- the literary future of America.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
All For Only $8.95
Dear friends,
As you know from many of my previous posts, New York City is a center of culture and the finer things in life. We have the opera, concerts in the park, Broadway, world class restaurants, museums, activities of all kinds for the mind, body and soul (Shoot the Freak, anyone?), all you can drink brunch, all you can consume sushi and sake, and- a rare culinary gem- the Never Ending Pasta Bowl at the O.G. (cool kid slang for the Olive Garden. When you're there, you're family!)
Do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances, go to two or more of those last three high culture hotspots in the span of less than a week. If you have any desire to feel the least bit spry or would like to venture more than 10 feet from a bathroom at any given time, I beg of you, stay away from the mouthwatering temptations of unlimited spicy tuna rolls or slightly congealed overcooked pasta accompanied by delicious butter-soaked, salt-encrusted breadsticks.
It is so not worth it.
If you have any dignity or self-respect, learn from my mistakes- wait at least a week; better yet, wait a month, two if you're feeling powerful, before you subject your body and your bathroom (and your husband or wife) to the aftereffects of such disgustingly delicious gluttony. Take it from me- there is plenty of sushi and mediocre pasta to go around.
Meanwhile, in other news...
There is a giant concert happening outside my office right now in celebration of the kickoff of the NFL season. While I suppose everyone has a right to throw a party for any old reason, is it really necessary to shut down all of midtown in the name of football? I mean, we have a giant park right in the middle of downtown, perfect for putting thousands of people who may want to skip work, grab some Coors Light, and pledge allegiance to Keith Urban and Eli Manning all in the same afternoon. But, I guess the NFL's right- Columbus Circle is MUCH more awesome.
As you know from many of my previous posts, New York City is a center of culture and the finer things in life. We have the opera, concerts in the park, Broadway, world class restaurants, museums, activities of all kinds for the mind, body and soul (Shoot the Freak, anyone?), all you can drink brunch, all you can consume sushi and sake, and- a rare culinary gem- the Never Ending Pasta Bowl at the O.G. (cool kid slang for the Olive Garden. When you're there, you're family!)
Do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances, go to two or more of those last three high culture hotspots in the span of less than a week. If you have any desire to feel the least bit spry or would like to venture more than 10 feet from a bathroom at any given time, I beg of you, stay away from the mouthwatering temptations of unlimited spicy tuna rolls or slightly congealed overcooked pasta accompanied by delicious butter-soaked, salt-encrusted breadsticks.
It is so not worth it.
If you have any dignity or self-respect, learn from my mistakes- wait at least a week; better yet, wait a month, two if you're feeling powerful, before you subject your body and your bathroom (and your husband or wife) to the aftereffects of such disgustingly delicious gluttony. Take it from me- there is plenty of sushi and mediocre pasta to go around.
Meanwhile, in other news...
There is a giant concert happening outside my office right now in celebration of the kickoff of the NFL season. While I suppose everyone has a right to throw a party for any old reason, is it really necessary to shut down all of midtown in the name of football? I mean, we have a giant park right in the middle of downtown, perfect for putting thousands of people who may want to skip work, grab some Coors Light, and pledge allegiance to Keith Urban and Eli Manning all in the same afternoon. But, I guess the NFL's right- Columbus Circle is MUCH more awesome.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
When Good Intentions Go Wrong
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