...is right here in my backyard, which is called New York City.
As a couple of hawks make their nest in prime real estate, overlooking Washington Square Park, down below, in the park itself, there is another kind of wildlife. And it's not half as civilized as those peaceful birds.
To wit: I met a friend from abroad and we had a lovely conversation in one of the benches. Later, in my house, she realized she had forgotten her cellphone in the park. I called the number and someone answered. For a split second I thought a decent citizen was about to give us the phone back, but the voice on the other end quickly disabused me of the notion.
"You gonna pay for it?"
I could hear it was still in the park because I heard someone playing the trumpet.
"Why should I? It's my phone".
He hung up.
I called back.
"Hey, you have my phone".
"Yeah. How much you willin' to pay for it?"
I, oblivious to the notion of negotiation with an extortionist, insisted that I should not pay for squat since the phone belonged to me.
He hung up and turned it off. My friend wished I had bargained.
It was already dark and we started looking for any of the many homeless denizens of the park that all look like they were run over by a particularly gnarly steamroller. I profiled anybody indigent with a cellphone in his hand, of which there were several.
Then I heard the trumpet player. So we followed the sound. He was serenading a couple who looked blameless. I asked a very tall guy with two phones and camo pants. I got screamed at in that menacing way that some Black people use to scare White people.
So one of his friends tells me to pay him no mind, he is a drunk, but he himself happens to know who has my phone and he feels our pain and he can get it for us, but the guy is going to want money for it. Yep. And I'm from Missouri. I was ready to go to the police, but my friend was willing to pay a forced reward. So she bargained from 40 bucks to 20, to 30. The guy left (I am convinced he had the phone in his pocket the whole time) and then after no more than five minutes, came back with the phone. But my friend only had two twenties and I had not brought my purse, so he went to give the money to "the guy" and came back to tell us we could go get the change ourselves, pointing at some other dude who was walking away. When we balked, the good Samaritan turned on a dime and became extremely aggressive, a studied but convincing performance designed to scare the hell out of us. It didn't scare me, but I was not about to find out whether he was hamming it up or really meant it. I wanted to go to the police camper parked next to the park, because the principle really bothers me. I don't care if your ass is full of crack, I just hate to be taken for a fool. But my friend, a peaceful soul, a believer in the healing power of positive energy, was just happy to get her phone back. I wish he gets such an enormous feast out of his $40 worth of crack or whatever it is he takes to be so dumb and so smart at the same time, that his brain explodes. Karma.
Tampilkan postingan dengan label NYC. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label NYC. Tampilkan semua postingan
Kamis, 14 April 2011
Jumat, 19 November 2010
So Much For Letter Writing
Oh well, my lovely missive to Mr. Pei was totally beside the point. It turns out that because the community opposed NYU's plans to add a fourth tower to Mr. Pei's design, and he disagreed with the fourth tower, now they are going to punish us even worse, by razing our supermarket and building a much bulkier, bigger and uglier building right on the corner, right across from the only building that does not house NYU faculty. This is the monstrosity they plan to erect in front of my windows:
They claim Pei's firm likes this plan better. If they do, they are blind and utterly insensitive to the people who live in the area. This is not a victory for the community. This is much worse than the proposed tower, which at least tried to be graceful and blend in with the existing layout and was not really closely obstructing anyone's view. No matter what the plan, the fact that NYU's insistence in building smack on the superblock is horrible. Now we are going to have to put up with far more people, in an already crowded area, our lovely plaza is going to be deformed and overcrowded and where the hell are we going to go for overpriced groceries? Plus, Greenwich Village is going to look like downtown Detroit. But unfortunately NYU owns the land and they can do whatever they please. They can raze the Village and build their repulsive eyesores all over it as they have been doing for years. I hate that Philip Johnson library of theirs, which looks like a bunker. I hate the Skirball building across it. We already live in their campus. They tried to appease the community, which was fighting not to compromise on anything and this is the terrible result.
Kamis, 18 November 2010
A Letter To I.M. Pei
Do you know what cranky New York alte cockers like me do? We write letters! I have been known to write to Mayor Bloomberg (rats, the demise of small businesses), to Chuck Schumer (universal healthcare), to American Airlines (a flight to Buenos Aires with not even a towelette), etc.
I wrote this one to distinguished architect I.M. Pei, the man who designed and built the place I live in:
The Grande Enchilada.
(trying to do my part).
I wrote this one to distinguished architect I.M. Pei, the man who designed and built the place I live in:
Dear Mr. Pei:
I live in one of your Silver Towers. I have been enjoying my spacious and bright apartment here since 1992. As I’m sure you are aware, NYU is planning to build a 400-feet high hotel tower on the superblock site of your towers. This building will strongly affect what I think is your lasting legacy, which is the lovely harmony of the towers as they stand today, but most importantly, the open communal spirit of the plaza that anchors the towers. I wish you could see what goes on on our plaza every day. Children play, elderly neighbors huddle together to catch the sun, people have lunch alfresco: it’s a wonderful public space, with an expansive sense of openess, a unique luxury in a city like New York. It is now being threatened by the forced inclusion of a fourth tower in an area that is already quite densely populated.
So many of us live in the Silver Towers and yet the plaza is never too noisy or too busy. It’s an incredibly civilized urban space, where people come together. Bring in a hotel in the entrance to the plaza and part of the open and spacious spirit of the plaza would be lost.
Since NYU’s expansion plan began, I have been impressed by our community’s efforts to preserve the superblock as it is. It got landmark status, but this does not seem to deter NYU. I am an amateur lover of architecture and I know cities must change and new buildings must arise (as they did in 1960 when you built these towers). But I truly believe that squeezing in a fourth tower here would destroy the wonderful harmony of the space you designed and would impoverish the quality of life of its residents.
If you have any say in the matter, I respectfully urge you to consider the lives of the neighbors that are enriched day by day by the graceful and unique place we live in. This hotel can be built somewhere else.
Sincerely,
The Grande Enchilada.
(trying to do my part).
Minggu, 31 Oktober 2010
Halloween Vs. Day of Dead
Spooky holiday deathmatch!
And the uncontested winner still is the Mexican Day of the Dead! Both holidays, I assume, arise from the same Christian holiday of All Hallows Eve, or Día de Todos los Santos, in Spanish. I'm a Jew, so don't think for a second that I am about to give you the historical context for this asseveration. I'm talking out of my ass. But I can still tell you why Day of Dead kicks Halloween's ass. If this starts the next Mexican-American war, so be it.
Basically, there is a very simple reason: Day of the Dead, which I assume, also out of my ass, has been going on in this continent longer than Halloween, has not yet reached a stage of commercial apotheosis in which its original meaning is totally lost under the maniacal ringing of the cash register. Yes, you can buy pan de muerto, Day of the Day bread, or sugar or chocolate skulls with your name or that of your loved ones inscribed on them, but most of the money spent on Day of the Dead celebrations goes towards buying bunches of cempazúchitl, the orange flower that decorates the altars to your beloved dead, and the stuff that goes in said altars, which is the stuff the dead used to love when they were alive (mostly involving tequila, mezcal, cigarettes, Japanese Mexican peanuts and other sundry pleasures and vices). No need to be gouged on a green itchy wig and a cheap Tinkerbell costume at Ricky's.
Moreover, the Mexican Day of the Dead tradition is a fascinating combo of the indigenous cult of the dead of the Precolumbian cultures with the Christian tradition that was shoved down their throats later on. Whereas Halloween has long ago lost its connection to its original intent, whatever that was, Day of the Dead insists on getting emotionally and spiritually close to the actual dead, not just look like them. Besides, in Mexico, people are natural artists. They make things with flowers and paper and cardboard, not just plastic made in Taiwan.
Unfortunately, Halloween has made enormous inroads all over Mexico. I spent Day of the Dead in Oaxaca several years ago and kids were dressed as mummies or ghouls and trick or treating for cash, as opposed to candy, which comes in handy when you actually have issues getting enough food to eat. But the beautiful, deeply personal, deeply heartfelt tradition of Day of the Dead prevails.
 |
| That's my hero, Benito Juarez in the left bottom corner. |
 |
| Halloween masks in Oaxaca |
 |
| "I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round..." |
 | |
| Grave at the cemetery. |
 | ||||
| The entrance to Oaxaca's cemetery at night |
 | ||
| American plastic ghosts decorate a grave with Mexican panache |
 | |||
| "You are dust and to dust you shall return" |
 | |||
| A humble cemetery during the day. |
Jumat, 10 September 2010
High Holidays
Today, as I was coming back from my Tai Chi class, I shared the elevator with this family of neighbors, who I always thought were Hindu. The father is about my age or even younger, but he has several teenage boys. They are all extremely handsome and polite. In fact, of the people I run into in the elevator, they are among my favorite. They are always sunny and unfailingly nice. They don't have that horrid NY custom of not acknowledging anyone you don't know, or going into an elevator without greeting people.
Today they were wearing these beautiful embroidered white Nehru suits and I told them they looked fabulous. Special occasion?, I asked. "Our holiday, the end of Ramadan", they tell me. The father was carrying a small rug for prayers.
So they're Muslims. Who knew?
"It's our holiday too, the Jewish New Year", I say.
"Happy new year!", they tell me. I ask if they are fasting. The fast ended yesterday, and tonight they feast. We feast tonight too, I say. In fact, I'm on a diet until feast time.
Through my mind, and maybe theirs as well, ran thoughts of ugly attacks against the downtown mosque and even uglier images of morons with ridiculous mustaches and retarded Koran burning notions. I almost wanted to apologize, but I figure that the whole point of our convo was that here we are, living in the same building, in the same city, following similar ancient customs, liking each other without the intrusion of prejudice, hurting no one.
So my point, children, is, that we can all fast and feast in peace and harmony. There is absolutely no reason not to.
I always wish for peace and health and joy during the holidays. Let's add intelligence and common sense to the mix.
Happy Ramadan
Shana Tova
Everybody behave!
Today they were wearing these beautiful embroidered white Nehru suits and I told them they looked fabulous. Special occasion?, I asked. "Our holiday, the end of Ramadan", they tell me. The father was carrying a small rug for prayers.
So they're Muslims. Who knew?
"It's our holiday too, the Jewish New Year", I say.
"Happy new year!", they tell me. I ask if they are fasting. The fast ended yesterday, and tonight they feast. We feast tonight too, I say. In fact, I'm on a diet until feast time.
Through my mind, and maybe theirs as well, ran thoughts of ugly attacks against the downtown mosque and even uglier images of morons with ridiculous mustaches and retarded Koran burning notions. I almost wanted to apologize, but I figure that the whole point of our convo was that here we are, living in the same building, in the same city, following similar ancient customs, liking each other without the intrusion of prejudice, hurting no one.
So my point, children, is, that we can all fast and feast in peace and harmony. There is absolutely no reason not to.
I always wish for peace and health and joy during the holidays. Let's add intelligence and common sense to the mix.
Happy Ramadan
Shana Tova
Everybody behave!
Kamis, 05 Agustus 2010
Memo to Manhattan District Attorney:
You better prosecute this bitch.
Otherwise, I will call for a massive rampage of shoplifting at Sephora, since they are so very forgiving.
I posed this splendid idea to my fellow blogger Laura Martinez, but as she wisely pointed out, if she or I attempt to shoplift $100 worth of beauty goodies, we're as good as deported and wearing pink boxers chez Sheriff Arpaio. (Actually, not me cause ich bin ein American). But maybe Laura and any other girls without the right papers, complexions, connections or last names.
So (and I say this with pain in my heart, for I heart Sephora), let's boycott Sephora, or vote against that particular district attorney when the time comes. Or express our enormous displeasure at the fact that the very spawn of a self-righteous law enforcer, is getting a pass. And that goes for La Lohan, too. Wasn't she supposed to spend 90 days in the slammer?
WTF?
No Justice. No Peace.
Otherwise, I will call for a massive rampage of shoplifting at Sephora, since they are so very forgiving.
I posed this splendid idea to my fellow blogger Laura Martinez, but as she wisely pointed out, if she or I attempt to shoplift $100 worth of beauty goodies, we're as good as deported and wearing pink boxers chez Sheriff Arpaio. (Actually, not me cause ich bin ein American). But maybe Laura and any other girls without the right papers, complexions, connections or last names.
So (and I say this with pain in my heart, for I heart Sephora), let's boycott Sephora, or vote against that particular district attorney when the time comes. Or express our enormous displeasure at the fact that the very spawn of a self-righteous law enforcer, is getting a pass. And that goes for La Lohan, too. Wasn't she supposed to spend 90 days in the slammer?
WTF?
No Justice. No Peace.
Rabu, 04 Agustus 2010
My 2 Cents on The Mosque
At first, when I heard somebody wanted to build a Mosque near Ground Zero, I thought, like I assume most everybody: why pinkt there, of all places? But now that it looks like it's going to happen, and after learning that it is not going to be the headquarters for Al Qaeda or the Taliban, as some people seem to think, I say why not? It's gonna have a swimming pool, for crying out loud, how fundamentalist could it be?
We have been complaining since that terrible day that there haven't been enough, if any, moderate Muslim voices in the West, or elsewhere, to REPUDIATE and neutralize the fanatical fundamentalist minority. That there is not enough public presence of moderate Islam to shift the balance back to the religion as most Muslims practice it (without bloodshed and savagery).
So now that there is such a thing, The Cordoba Initiative, people react as if it Osama Bin Laden himself was building the thing. Stupidly, they counter radicalization and extremism with more of the same.
The people who display knee jerk reactions against the Mosque are not interested in context, content or subtleties, and probably don't even know what Córdoba stands for (the greatest period of prosperity, scientific and cultural advancement and interfaith tolerance during Muslim rule in Spain). Their arguments go from the emotional to the idiotic. From "it's an insult to the memory of the fallen", to the ridiculous "Muslims like to put victory monuments in places they conquer".
There is not much more I can say that Mayor Bloomberg did not say more eloquently in his excellent speech yesterday in favor of the building of the Mosque. He was a shining example of common sense: a Jew and a Republican (at least on paper) making an impassioned and sensible case for why blocking the Mosque is contrary to everything this country stands for.
I'm tired of people like Sarah Palin and her fellow Republicans, most of who live outside of this town but appropriate 9/11 and pollute it with cheap patriotism (still the last refuge of the scoundrel) for their own political gain, who do not understand what New York is all about, but who represent everything that is anathema to this city and the diverse people who live in it: censorship, pettiness, intolerance, racism, ignorance.
Not that we are perfect, but the haters are mistaken that this is about political correctness and liberal bleeding hearts. It is about true democracy. It is about true freedom of religion. About true separation of church and state. About the true values of the Constitution.
In New York City we share the sidewalks with people of all stripes and we live together in close proximity, unprotected by cocoons of cars and forbidding suburbs that bore people to inanity and keep everybody safely separate in their stupid prejudices.
That is why we are the greatest city on Earth. And why we refuse to have the mentality of a suburb. We are not Arizona. And never will be. So back off.
We have been complaining since that terrible day that there haven't been enough, if any, moderate Muslim voices in the West, or elsewhere, to REPUDIATE and neutralize the fanatical fundamentalist minority. That there is not enough public presence of moderate Islam to shift the balance back to the religion as most Muslims practice it (without bloodshed and savagery).
So now that there is such a thing, The Cordoba Initiative, people react as if it Osama Bin Laden himself was building the thing. Stupidly, they counter radicalization and extremism with more of the same.
The people who display knee jerk reactions against the Mosque are not interested in context, content or subtleties, and probably don't even know what Córdoba stands for (the greatest period of prosperity, scientific and cultural advancement and interfaith tolerance during Muslim rule in Spain). Their arguments go from the emotional to the idiotic. From "it's an insult to the memory of the fallen", to the ridiculous "Muslims like to put victory monuments in places they conquer".
There is not much more I can say that Mayor Bloomberg did not say more eloquently in his excellent speech yesterday in favor of the building of the Mosque. He was a shining example of common sense: a Jew and a Republican (at least on paper) making an impassioned and sensible case for why blocking the Mosque is contrary to everything this country stands for.
I'm tired of people like Sarah Palin and her fellow Republicans, most of who live outside of this town but appropriate 9/11 and pollute it with cheap patriotism (still the last refuge of the scoundrel) for their own political gain, who do not understand what New York is all about, but who represent everything that is anathema to this city and the diverse people who live in it: censorship, pettiness, intolerance, racism, ignorance.
Not that we are perfect, but the haters are mistaken that this is about political correctness and liberal bleeding hearts. It is about true democracy. It is about true freedom of religion. About true separation of church and state. About the true values of the Constitution.
In New York City we share the sidewalks with people of all stripes and we live together in close proximity, unprotected by cocoons of cars and forbidding suburbs that bore people to inanity and keep everybody safely separate in their stupid prejudices.
That is why we are the greatest city on Earth. And why we refuse to have the mentality of a suburb. We are not Arizona. And never will be. So back off.
Jumat, 07 Mei 2010
I'm breaking my silence
Can't take it anymore.
Warning: I am exceedingly cranky.
Broken foot in wonderful Spring weather: not good for the mood.
1. Reporting a smoking car to the police is not heroic. It's what anybody in their right mind should do under the circumstances. If there is one thing about the American mentality that drives me crazy is this obsession with heroics. Heroism is to step into an oncoming train to save a person's life. Or to speak out against injustice at the risk of losing your freedom or your life. Seeing a suspicious vehicle about to catch fire in the most crowded area in America and calling the police is not heroism. It's common sense. So all the vendors: not heroes. STFU.
2. A trader's error (and Greece) send Wall Street into a tailspin? A simple misguided finger is capable of wreaking havoc on the world's economy? Very scary. Traders, look where your fingers are going, okay?
As for Greece, shut up and put up. You are rife with corruption. Your rich don't pay taxes, and you live beyond your means. Fuck you.
3. Hapless fucking idiot bomber: You are an idiot. All of you people who allow your brains to be manipulated by sick extremist clerics are monumental morons, including those of you who are competent. There should be a circle in hell devoted to abject human stupidity. And it should be the one with the worst torments. Either that or Guantanamo. I'm always against Guantanamo, except when things like these happen, where I should think we should make an exception and hang these people by the balls. Seriously, I do believe that this guy is an American citizen and should be tried in a court of law in the system we know. I'm just ranting.
4. Joe Lieberman is a cunt.
5. Question: Why does the American media pay attention to vantz from hell Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? Why do Charlie Rose and George Stephanopolous think that he deserves to be interviewed? What do they expect he is going to say? Something rational? Something worth listening to? They like the public humiliation? This guy comes to New York, he should be ignored. The pustulent little vantz loves the attention. Stop giving it to him.
Warning: I am exceedingly cranky.
Broken foot in wonderful Spring weather: not good for the mood.
1. Reporting a smoking car to the police is not heroic. It's what anybody in their right mind should do under the circumstances. If there is one thing about the American mentality that drives me crazy is this obsession with heroics. Heroism is to step into an oncoming train to save a person's life. Or to speak out against injustice at the risk of losing your freedom or your life. Seeing a suspicious vehicle about to catch fire in the most crowded area in America and calling the police is not heroism. It's common sense. So all the vendors: not heroes. STFU.
2. A trader's error (and Greece) send Wall Street into a tailspin? A simple misguided finger is capable of wreaking havoc on the world's economy? Very scary. Traders, look where your fingers are going, okay?
As for Greece, shut up and put up. You are rife with corruption. Your rich don't pay taxes, and you live beyond your means. Fuck you.
3. Hapless fucking idiot bomber: You are an idiot. All of you people who allow your brains to be manipulated by sick extremist clerics are monumental morons, including those of you who are competent. There should be a circle in hell devoted to abject human stupidity. And it should be the one with the worst torments. Either that or Guantanamo. I'm always against Guantanamo, except when things like these happen, where I should think we should make an exception and hang these people by the balls. Seriously, I do believe that this guy is an American citizen and should be tried in a court of law in the system we know. I'm just ranting.
4. Joe Lieberman is a cunt.
5. Question: Why does the American media pay attention to vantz from hell Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? Why do Charlie Rose and George Stephanopolous think that he deserves to be interviewed? What do they expect he is going to say? Something rational? Something worth listening to? They like the public humiliation? This guy comes to New York, he should be ignored. The pustulent little vantz loves the attention. Stop giving it to him.
Minggu, 02 Mei 2010
Real Terror
From the NYT, reporting on yesterday's bomb scare:
Today, life goes on. We're going to demonstrate our solidarity with NYC by checking out the food truck fair in Hell's Kitchen.
A group of people on a high school senior trip from Jacksonville, Fla., said they were stuck for about an hour and a half in the Bubba Gump restaurant at 44th Street and Seventh Avenue.Now, that is horrifying.
Today, life goes on. We're going to demonstrate our solidarity with NYC by checking out the food truck fair in Hell's Kitchen.
Minggu, 04 April 2010
Easter Parade
They were also in attendance.
Jumat, 02 April 2010
Thursday in the Park with Moi
Everybody was out catching sunshine today in the afternoon in Washington Square Park, a place where the crazy, loony, eccentric, bohemian, neurotic, rich, poor and middle class villagers still converge, the Universe bless this park.
You can sit for three hours on a bench and just watch shit unfold in front of your eyes. It never gets boring. I saw a burly Black guy happily give a foot massage to his girlfriend, who lay prostrate and with the sense of entitlement of the Queen of Sheba. Good for them.
I saw a chorus of extremely white kids that looked way too wholesome for New York and who were clearly influenced by Glee. Their shtick was to sing unsingable pop songs a cappella, such as Beyonce's Crazy In Love, a song I hate even with full orchestration. Their wholesomeness was very disturbing, but I'm not sure that they were Christian evangelists, as I always suspect of people who are too wholesome, too happy and too white.
I made friends with Henriette, a totally lucid and charming 100 year old Belgian woman, who will be 101 in July and who recently had a stroke and was a bit frustrated she couldn't walk anymore. She didn't look a day over 90, wheelchair notwithstanding. Usually I don't speak to anyone, because I am a New York crank of the sullen variety, but she complimented me on my green sneakers and we struck up a conversation. She was lovely.
It looks like the fashion among the young is an exhumation of the worst of Eighties style, sans shoulder pads. Apparently it is the height of chic to walk around with shredded pantyhose, ugly booties and uglier skorts, looking pasty and wearing hideous colors and shoes the color of dogshit.
As is usual, the eternal hippies with their jam sessions were in attendance.
This dude slept so profoundly and in such an uncomfortable position, that for a moment I thought he was dead. A homeless-looking Black guy, one of those pesky nutcases who love to engage with people, seemingly unaware (or perhaps much too aware) that his sociability is totally unrequited, looked at him sleeping and poked him hard in the chest a couple of times, yet the dude didn't budge. When he finally woke up, it took him like 20 minutes to discern he was on Earth, then he smoked a cigarette and fell asleep again. I wonder if he is a junkie, a narcoleptic or a very exhausted man.
The same Black crazy guy then decided to participate with the Wholesome Wonder Bread Choir. He didn't sing; he imitated their dance movements with absolute precision and in total synch with them. It was hilarious. They paid him no mind, which gives them New York brownie points for a good display of indifference. Perhaps not so wholesome after all.
Speaking of dance, there was a really obnoxious troupe of what I assume are modern dance students from Tisch, showing off their tacky moves and wanting to be far more interesting than they were. They really annoyed me, with their studied pretense of unselfconsciousness and their jerky, ungraceful movements. In this park it's hard to say the next sentence about anyone, but these people were embarrassing.
What else did I see? Three neurotic Schnaussers barking like madmen at any dog that went by. A guy who also looked homeless sat next to me and started fishing out something from his pocket. It crossed my mind that he might be engaging in some happy time with his dick, to judge from the urgent way he burrowed in there. But it turns out that once he found this little stub of a pencil, he started drawing in a pad, copying from nature, and pretty well. He gave a gummi bear to one of the schnaussers, who almost choked while trying to eat it, but came back for seconds anyway.
You can sit for three hours on a bench and just watch shit unfold in front of your eyes. It never gets boring. I saw a burly Black guy happily give a foot massage to his girlfriend, who lay prostrate and with the sense of entitlement of the Queen of Sheba. Good for them.
I saw a chorus of extremely white kids that looked way too wholesome for New York and who were clearly influenced by Glee. Their shtick was to sing unsingable pop songs a cappella, such as Beyonce's Crazy In Love, a song I hate even with full orchestration. Their wholesomeness was very disturbing, but I'm not sure that they were Christian evangelists, as I always suspect of people who are too wholesome, too happy and too white.
I made friends with Henriette, a totally lucid and charming 100 year old Belgian woman, who will be 101 in July and who recently had a stroke and was a bit frustrated she couldn't walk anymore. She didn't look a day over 90, wheelchair notwithstanding. Usually I don't speak to anyone, because I am a New York crank of the sullen variety, but she complimented me on my green sneakers and we struck up a conversation. She was lovely.
It looks like the fashion among the young is an exhumation of the worst of Eighties style, sans shoulder pads. Apparently it is the height of chic to walk around with shredded pantyhose, ugly booties and uglier skorts, looking pasty and wearing hideous colors and shoes the color of dogshit.
As is usual, the eternal hippies with their jam sessions were in attendance.
This dude slept so profoundly and in such an uncomfortable position, that for a moment I thought he was dead. A homeless-looking Black guy, one of those pesky nutcases who love to engage with people, seemingly unaware (or perhaps much too aware) that his sociability is totally unrequited, looked at him sleeping and poked him hard in the chest a couple of times, yet the dude didn't budge. When he finally woke up, it took him like 20 minutes to discern he was on Earth, then he smoked a cigarette and fell asleep again. I wonder if he is a junkie, a narcoleptic or a very exhausted man.
The same Black crazy guy then decided to participate with the Wholesome Wonder Bread Choir. He didn't sing; he imitated their dance movements with absolute precision and in total synch with them. It was hilarious. They paid him no mind, which gives them New York brownie points for a good display of indifference. Perhaps not so wholesome after all.
Speaking of dance, there was a really obnoxious troupe of what I assume are modern dance students from Tisch, showing off their tacky moves and wanting to be far more interesting than they were. They really annoyed me, with their studied pretense of unselfconsciousness and their jerky, ungraceful movements. In this park it's hard to say the next sentence about anyone, but these people were embarrassing.
What else did I see? Three neurotic Schnaussers barking like madmen at any dog that went by. A guy who also looked homeless sat next to me and started fishing out something from his pocket. It crossed my mind that he might be engaging in some happy time with his dick, to judge from the urgent way he burrowed in there. But it turns out that once he found this little stub of a pencil, he started drawing in a pad, copying from nature, and pretty well. He gave a gummi bear to one of the schnaussers, who almost choked while trying to eat it, but came back for seconds anyway.
Sabtu, 13 Februari 2010
China Chalet
Yesterday night, out on the town with my favorite party peeps, I keep hearing we're going to a party at a place called China Shelly, that I've never heard from before. After many a frantic iphone call, it is determined that this thing, whatever it is, is on Broadway and Broad St, down at the tip of our magnificent island, where fortunes are made by few and lost by many, every day.
So a most fearless and enterprising friend gets the nine of us into a limo waiting outside Balthazar.
Driver: You called for me?
Fearless and enterprising friend (lying): Yes.
Eight bucks a pop to ride to our destination in style, yet with a delicious frisson of embarrassment (are we a little long in the tooth for this?), and for some, bittersweet prom memories, but, admit it, pretty much everybody having a ball. Some riders demand the limo stop at the corner before, to avoid looking like douches (needless to say there isn't a certified douche in this group, so I don't understand their concern). They can cover their faces a la Lindsay Lohan when she steps out of cars without her panties, for all I care, but we rode a tacky limo and by tacky limo shall we arrive.
So it turns out that the mysterious China Shelly is something called China Chalet (am I going deaf?), which makes more sense, if not decor-wise, for China Chalet is one of those Chinese restaurants where the idea of elegance seems to have sprung from the mind of a Beijing bureaucrat, circa 1975.
We are greeted by a longish line of mellowish arty type supplicants at a carpeted staircase. The two-headed Cerberus at the top of the stairs is comprised by a young stairmistress wearing some sort of one-armed fur a la Fred Flinstone, and by the best bouncer out of Central Casting I have ever come across. He has to be Eye-talian. He wears his jet black hair with a black suit and a black shirt and a yellow satin tie. His face is lined with deep creases, I'd like to venture as a result to dumping way too many bodies in the East River. But he is suave. He cracks wise. He means business. His idea of humor is to tell someone they can proceed, and then say, "just kidding". He tells a group of nine that only five can make it in (why do they do this shit, bouncers?) But in the end we all get in without waiting too long or supplicating too much, once again through the ministrations of our fearless and enterprising friend, who seduces Yellow Tie with her wily charms.
The moment we step into the place, number one, and as is usually the case, it's not as full as the guards outside would have it, and number two, it looks like a Bar Mitzvah. Not because of the age of the people (although a lot do look like tweens), but because of the space, which is a generic banquet space with tables covered in white cloths. Relaxed arty types sit and talk quietly; a most urbane and well behaved crowd.
There is a bar space, where an endless loop of Billy Joel's greatest hits is playing (highlight: New York State of Mind), and when that is not happening, some old fashioned Cuban music I suspect is the province of the old bartender, also out of Central Casting, who moves at the speed of silence. For some unexplained reason, the bar is not chock full of thirsty types, and ordering and drinking is a leisurely and enjoyable affair. Way in the back, a carpeted room has been made into a dance floor, (not only comfy, but not as noisy), and a dj is spinning solidly good dance music. It's a great place to have a party and the only Chinese restaurant I've ever been to with nary an egg roll in sight. No semblance of food whatsoever, which, to judge from the look of things at China Chalet, may not necessarily be a bad thing.
So a most fearless and enterprising friend gets the nine of us into a limo waiting outside Balthazar.
Driver: You called for me?
Fearless and enterprising friend (lying): Yes.
Eight bucks a pop to ride to our destination in style, yet with a delicious frisson of embarrassment (are we a little long in the tooth for this?), and for some, bittersweet prom memories, but, admit it, pretty much everybody having a ball. Some riders demand the limo stop at the corner before, to avoid looking like douches (needless to say there isn't a certified douche in this group, so I don't understand their concern). They can cover their faces a la Lindsay Lohan when she steps out of cars without her panties, for all I care, but we rode a tacky limo and by tacky limo shall we arrive.
So it turns out that the mysterious China Shelly is something called China Chalet (am I going deaf?), which makes more sense, if not decor-wise, for China Chalet is one of those Chinese restaurants where the idea of elegance seems to have sprung from the mind of a Beijing bureaucrat, circa 1975.
We are greeted by a longish line of mellowish arty type supplicants at a carpeted staircase. The two-headed Cerberus at the top of the stairs is comprised by a young stairmistress wearing some sort of one-armed fur a la Fred Flinstone, and by the best bouncer out of Central Casting I have ever come across. He has to be Eye-talian. He wears his jet black hair with a black suit and a black shirt and a yellow satin tie. His face is lined with deep creases, I'd like to venture as a result to dumping way too many bodies in the East River. But he is suave. He cracks wise. He means business. His idea of humor is to tell someone they can proceed, and then say, "just kidding". He tells a group of nine that only five can make it in (why do they do this shit, bouncers?) But in the end we all get in without waiting too long or supplicating too much, once again through the ministrations of our fearless and enterprising friend, who seduces Yellow Tie with her wily charms.
The moment we step into the place, number one, and as is usually the case, it's not as full as the guards outside would have it, and number two, it looks like a Bar Mitzvah. Not because of the age of the people (although a lot do look like tweens), but because of the space, which is a generic banquet space with tables covered in white cloths. Relaxed arty types sit and talk quietly; a most urbane and well behaved crowd.
There is a bar space, where an endless loop of Billy Joel's greatest hits is playing (highlight: New York State of Mind), and when that is not happening, some old fashioned Cuban music I suspect is the province of the old bartender, also out of Central Casting, who moves at the speed of silence. For some unexplained reason, the bar is not chock full of thirsty types, and ordering and drinking is a leisurely and enjoyable affair. Way in the back, a carpeted room has been made into a dance floor, (not only comfy, but not as noisy), and a dj is spinning solidly good dance music. It's a great place to have a party and the only Chinese restaurant I've ever been to with nary an egg roll in sight. No semblance of food whatsoever, which, to judge from the look of things at China Chalet, may not necessarily be a bad thing.
Kamis, 11 Februari 2010
From the Enchilada Files: Burrito Rage
You've heard of road rage and airplane rage. Well, there is another kind of rage in town.
Saturday, around 9:30 pm. Matamoros Grocery, Bedford Ave, Williamsburg.
A young, waifish woman with what my mother would call a fart-smeller's face is ordering food at the back counter where two Mexican girls make tacos, sopes, quesadillas, burritos etc. The woman is munching authoritatively on an apple, as if making a point about her healthy food choices. I am starving. Behind me, another couple wants food. The woman needs everything explained to her, as if she's just landed from her own royal planet and does not know how to read a menu. She has endless questions about everything. She finally decides and commands in a nasal drone:
I don't want rice. No rice. I want chicken, avocado, lettuce. What other vegetables do you have? Do you have any other vegetables?
Server: Silence.
The server is not dumb. Her English is limited but enough for doing her job. What she doesn't understand is what part of the menu that lists the ingredients this idiot doesn't get.
The idiot steals a look at the ingredients behind the counter, and still unsatistified, as if Matamoros is hiding a secret cache of mystery vegetables expressly for her, attempts to ask the same question in Spanish, assuming the server did not understand her the first time. Two mangled syllables come out: Tous ba...
The ever patient server starts reciting what there is behind the counter:
Lettuce, avocado, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, jalapeños.
Jalapeños!? I don't want jalapeños.
They are in the pico de gallo.
Is it very spicy?
No, not too spicy.
Okay. You don't have any other vegetables?
This fucking ritual takes the better part of ten minutes. Finally, this mutant allows the rest of us to order our food. I order in Spanish: Three chicken sopes with green sauce to go. The couple orders two chicken quesadillas and two tamales. No special treatment, no substitutions.
As the other server is preparing the food, the mutant (I'm trying to avoid at all costs using the c word, which would describe her to a t) raises her nasal voice in alarm:
Is that for me!? I said no rice!
The cook shoots her as murderous a look as a Mexican underpaid laborer can under the circumstances.
Server: Quítale el arroz (take the rice out).
C:
Yes, I want lots of avocado, and the lettuce, everything inside. Can I have green sauce also? With the pico de gallo? Why is the lettuce not inside? I said everything inside.
The cook starts putting the lettuce inside.
C:
Oh, it's ok, you can leave it out. Forget it, she says with a dismissive sigh, this is all too confusing.
At this point I am trying to restrain myself from bashing her teeth with what remains of her apple. I feel like saying: you know, you entitled little snotnosed bitch, this is not your kitchen where you can nitpick your own food for hours until you are satisfied with the contents. These people are not here to customize your food, goddamit. But I bite my tongue, because if I open my mouth, it will be ugly.
Finally, after all the grief she gives the two women, who have been nothing but patient and kind, she takes her food and doesn't even leave a tip.
I wish she chokes on a particularly fiery piece of jalapeño.
Saturday, around 9:30 pm. Matamoros Grocery, Bedford Ave, Williamsburg.
A young, waifish woman with what my mother would call a fart-smeller's face is ordering food at the back counter where two Mexican girls make tacos, sopes, quesadillas, burritos etc. The woman is munching authoritatively on an apple, as if making a point about her healthy food choices. I am starving. Behind me, another couple wants food. The woman needs everything explained to her, as if she's just landed from her own royal planet and does not know how to read a menu. She has endless questions about everything. She finally decides and commands in a nasal drone:
I don't want rice. No rice. I want chicken, avocado, lettuce. What other vegetables do you have? Do you have any other vegetables?
Server: Silence.
The server is not dumb. Her English is limited but enough for doing her job. What she doesn't understand is what part of the menu that lists the ingredients this idiot doesn't get.
The idiot steals a look at the ingredients behind the counter, and still unsatistified, as if Matamoros is hiding a secret cache of mystery vegetables expressly for her, attempts to ask the same question in Spanish, assuming the server did not understand her the first time. Two mangled syllables come out: Tous ba...
The ever patient server starts reciting what there is behind the counter:
Lettuce, avocado, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, jalapeños.
Jalapeños!? I don't want jalapeños.
They are in the pico de gallo.
Is it very spicy?
No, not too spicy.
Okay. You don't have any other vegetables?
This fucking ritual takes the better part of ten minutes. Finally, this mutant allows the rest of us to order our food. I order in Spanish: Three chicken sopes with green sauce to go. The couple orders two chicken quesadillas and two tamales. No special treatment, no substitutions.
As the other server is preparing the food, the mutant (I'm trying to avoid at all costs using the c word, which would describe her to a t) raises her nasal voice in alarm:
Is that for me!? I said no rice!
The cook shoots her as murderous a look as a Mexican underpaid laborer can under the circumstances.
Server: Quítale el arroz (take the rice out).
C:
Yes, I want lots of avocado, and the lettuce, everything inside. Can I have green sauce also? With the pico de gallo? Why is the lettuce not inside? I said everything inside.
The cook starts putting the lettuce inside.
C:
Oh, it's ok, you can leave it out. Forget it, she says with a dismissive sigh, this is all too confusing.
At this point I am trying to restrain myself from bashing her teeth with what remains of her apple. I feel like saying: you know, you entitled little snotnosed bitch, this is not your kitchen where you can nitpick your own food for hours until you are satisfied with the contents. These people are not here to customize your food, goddamit. But I bite my tongue, because if I open my mouth, it will be ugly.
Finally, after all the grief she gives the two women, who have been nothing but patient and kind, she takes her food and doesn't even leave a tip.
I wish she chokes on a particularly fiery piece of jalapeño.
Rabu, 10 Februari 2010
The Snow Effect
1. New York is QUIET. In the Park it's even QUIETER (except for the lovely shrieks of joy of sledding kiddies).
2. People in the park say hi and smile at one another (in the city slush, not so much).
3. Central Park is too beautiful. Too spectacularly, gorgeously, magnificently, awesomely beautiful.
4. We ran into a fashion shoot wherein a model was wearing like 6 inch heel sandals with BARE feet. And a straw hat. And a Summer dress. Neither rain, nor hail, nor wind nor sleet, nor snow will prevent fashion from being ridiculously idiotic at all times. Her handlers were pretending to be concerned for the wellbeing of the model, but we know better. "Screw her frostbitten little toes, let's get the shot".
5. After walking in the snow, we were ravenous. And I feel like I've been tumbled around by an avalanche.
Senin, 01 Februari 2010
What's wrong with people?
Today, I'm walking down Broadway when two fat black teenage girls bursting out of their jeans like lard exploding from a casing, (and not on the young side of teen either) throw an empty bottle of juice on the sidewalk, right by a Halal food vendor. Totally willfully. Just like that. So I say to them, "excuse me guys, you dropped something".
To which one replies, "we know".
I say, "it's garbage, pick it up".
She says, "you pick it up".
I say "pigs", and continue on my way. Halal vendor picks it up (I think).
I don't have the energy (nor the balls perhaps) to start a pissing match with two hippos with attitude. For the next five minutes I feel like running after them and getting into an all out fight, which would probably leave me the consistency of pureed squash.
So here is my fantasy: I take out a gun, point it at the temple of one of them and make them kneel and pick up not only the bottle but any trash that is lying on that block of Broadway. I put the gun all the way inside the mouth of the one with the lip. Cock the gun. Then I make them apologize and promise not to litter ever again.
Dirty Judy. City Avenger.
C'mon, punks. Make my day.
Right.
To which one replies, "we know".
I say, "it's garbage, pick it up".
She says, "you pick it up".
I say "pigs", and continue on my way. Halal vendor picks it up (I think).
I don't have the energy (nor the balls perhaps) to start a pissing match with two hippos with attitude. For the next five minutes I feel like running after them and getting into an all out fight, which would probably leave me the consistency of pureed squash.
So here is my fantasy: I take out a gun, point it at the temple of one of them and make them kneel and pick up not only the bottle but any trash that is lying on that block of Broadway. I put the gun all the way inside the mouth of the one with the lip. Cock the gun. Then I make them apologize and promise not to litter ever again.
Dirty Judy. City Avenger.
C'mon, punks. Make my day.
Right.
Sabtu, 31 Oktober 2009
Jumat, 30 Oktober 2009
Dedicated Follower of Fashion
Yesterday, yours truly was invited to the launch party of a new perfume from Yves Saint Laurent.
Selasa, 15 September 2009
Not Voting Today
I always vote. I voted in Mexico against the PRI in every single election, even despite the apathy and the cynicism that one-party rule can breed. Since I became an American citizen, I've voted in 2 presidential elections, Democratic primaries, etc. I am a registered Democrat. I didn't know I could register as an independent. I'm regretting it ever since.
But today I am not voting. I am offended at the barrage of junk mail and unsolicited phone calls from the candidates. I am also offended at the lack of real choices. All the candidates are Democrats. Not that I would vote for a Republican, but I don't see the point. Cy Vance even sent a cute canvasser guy to my door. But frankly, I can't be bothered. I can't see the difference between the district attorneys. I don't know enough about anybody.
It seems to me that city politics are as boring and tainted here as they are everywhere else. So I decided to trust the older New Yorkers (the only ones who vote) to make the right choices.
But today I am not voting. I am offended at the barrage of junk mail and unsolicited phone calls from the candidates. I am also offended at the lack of real choices. All the candidates are Democrats. Not that I would vote for a Republican, but I don't see the point. Cy Vance even sent a cute canvasser guy to my door. But frankly, I can't be bothered. I can't see the difference between the district attorneys. I don't know enough about anybody.
It seems to me that city politics are as boring and tainted here as they are everywhere else. So I decided to trust the older New Yorkers (the only ones who vote) to make the right choices.
Jumat, 10 Juli 2009
Street Obstacles
To all those nice people from Children's International, Greenpeace, ACLU, free salon haircuts. etc:
Stop blocking the sidewalk.
You are very annoying.
You should be banned.
Stop blocking the sidewalk.
You are very annoying.
You should be banned.
Langganan:
Postingan (Atom)
