A Summary:

Christmas is super gay
Rod. Will heal. All.
Today is the day


I am sifting through dusty wool skirts at goodwill, every one of which is pilled up in knobby tufts like the surface of an old lemon and the zippers are broken. The radio is on, loud. They are still playing Michael Jackson songs in this never ending tribute we seem to be riding. It's Billy Jean and I'm dancing a very small dance that is only evident below the knee and somewhere mid-torso. The DJ comes on with that hollow, dripping voice that all DJ's have, like they've weighted down their soft palate with little, lead sinkers.

"Good afternoon, New York! Thought I'd break out a quiz for you all on this unseasonably cold day. Something for you all to STEW over... In New York City there are 3.8 million... what? 3.8 million... what? in New York City. Call me here at (212)KING-NYC if you think you know the answer and we'll give you Two. Free. Tickets. to the Michael Jackson movie coming out next week, 'This Is It'. And now. More. Michael."

All DJ's also drop full stops into their sentences for. emphasis.
I'm Bad comes on and I find a skirt with a working zipper. I try it on over the skirt I'm wearing and look at this person in the mirror wearing two skirts with her head cocked to one side, as you do, you know, for scrutiny. What the hell, it's only $6.50.
I'm in line looking at lone gold earrings and necklaces with broken clasps and other 'impulse items'. I reach for this watch. This rubber strapped, 14 year old boy, Transformers watch, circa 1985. I crack elbows with a guy in line in front of me, about my age, also reaching for the watch. He smiles at me. I nod at him, "Go ahead". He turns it over and the price-tag says $25. For a broken, rubber watch. And some sentimental hipster idiot living in Williamsburg would happily pay twice that. I laugh. The guy holding the watch laughs too, puts it down..

"Welcome back New. York. City. 3.8 million what, you ask? That's right ..um..Scotty ..Milbrand from Chelsea. 3.8 Million Single People in New York City. That's 3.8 Million. Single. People. living in New York right now. So get out there people! Let's get that number Dooowwwn. And on that note..."

Single Ladies comes on and I step up to the register.
"That will be $6.50, Miss", the large black lady behind the counter says.
I glance over my shoulder as I'm pulling my wallet out of my purse. The front door of the shop swings closed, the elbow of the watch guy just disappearing out of sight.
"Oh, honey, he was gay as Christmas, don't you worry nothin bout it."
I hand her a ten and laugh,
"Yeah. yeah."
"And you gonna look good in that skirt."

.................


Every day. This voice. This large, African American, clearly grinning woman's voice:

”wow. Wow. Ladies and Gentlemen, what a byootiful day we are having today. Just a beautiful day. I do hope you are getting out there and really just enjoying this day, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is your downtown A, your DOWNtown A Train and this here is your conductor speaking. I'd like to remind you to keep your belongings safe at ALL times. Do not display your valuables, your cell phones, iPods, or other EElectronic devices. Stay aware, stay alert. IF you see something, say something ladies and gentlemen. We, here at the MTA, are looking out for your safety, and you, Ladies and Gentlemen, need to look out for yourselves And each other.. Now, have a safe, have a wonderful, have a grEAT day. Today is the day, ladies and gentlemen. ToDAY is the day you can make a difference. Today is the day.


.................


I'm in a shop on 96th and Broadway. I convince the woman at the counter to give me the $40 dress for $15 because all but two of the buttons have fallen off. I also convince her to take all the buttons off the last one of the same dress and give them to me. She is at work with a tiny pair of scissors and I am congratulating myself, trying on ugly jackets with padded arms and gold brocade. I’m giving myself quick, burning glances over one shoulder with squinty eyes (you know, for intensity). On the radio there is some kind of contest and the DJ is frothing a bit, gearing up for the good stuff.

Good afternoon, New YORK! We’ve got... Sammy on the line here. Sammy from Westchester...

“Sam”

Oh, right, sorry Sam. We’ve got SAM here on the line. We’ve told him he can pick one person. One person. And we’re going to call that person and tell them they get one dozen roses to give to whoever they like. Now, of course, Sammy- Sam here is hoping that those roses are going to Come. Right. Back. to him. cause he’s picked out his one person and that one person... it’s his lady love, Christine. So, here I go... I’m going to call Christine and find out who she wants to give this byootiful bouquet!... and the Phone. Is. Ringing.

“Hello”

Hi Christine, this is Tony-O from WKRF radio 102.7! How are you today?

“Wuh. I’m great, thanks. How are you?!”
Well, I’m just fine. Thanks for asking. And you are about to get a whole lot better because we. Have a surprise. For you. Today. Do you wanna hear what it is?

“ah.. Yeah.”

We are going to give you One. Dozen. Roses. And you can give those roses to anyone you like! You just give us a name and a brief message you’d like to include and we’re going to deliver those today! How does that sound?

” Great?”

All righty. Now... do you have someone in mind, someone spec...

“Yep. Yes, I do. I want to send them to my friend Susan.”

To... your friend Susan. O-kay! All right then. You’re going to send them to your... friend Susan.

“Yes. Oh this is so great. I’m totally going to surprise her.”

All right, Christine. You sure you don’t have a man in your life who would.. uhh.

“No, I want to send them to Susan. I was supposed to meet her tonight, but this’ll be way more fun. Are you ready for the message?”

Ah. Yes, yes we are. What would you like the message to say?

“Okay, I’d like it to say: ‘Buy your ticket to come visit and pack your bikini cause... I’m moving to HAWAII!’ And can I get HAWAII in all capitals with, like, three exclamation points?”

Uh, yes, yes absolutely. We’ll go ahead and take that full name and address for you off air, so hang on the line but Christine, we have another surprise for you today. We have a very special person in your life on the line with us today, someone who picked you out to be our contest winner today, do you want to know who that is?

“Ok.”

We’ve got... SAM. Here with us today.

“...”

He uh, he picked you out today to receive One. Dozen. Roses. Because you’re a very special person in his life and he wanted to surprise you today. Say hello, Sam.

“Christine?”

“... ... “

“You’re... mov... you’re moving Christine?”

“... ... (oh shi[BLEEP], shi[BLEEP], it)

“You’re moving? ... ... To Hawaii? ... Christine?”

“Hi, Sam. Um. Oh, god. Um. I really didn’t. I didn’t want to tell you like this”

“How did you want to tell me? WERE you going to tell me?”

“Sam, I. I’m just. Can we talk about this later?”

“No.”

“Ok. Sam, I. (shi[BLEEP])

“Yes??”

“I. I got a promotion and. I took it.”

“... ... “

“I leave in two weeks”

“Two weeks??!”

“... ...”

“... ...”

WELL. Um, ladies and gentlemen. That didn’t uh go exactly as we... You are listening to W.K.R... F! 102.7 and I’d like to thank Sammy here for uh, participating in our contest.

“Mmm.”

And Christine..stay on the line here for a sec so we can get Susan’s address and send off those flowers.

“Mmmhmm.”

And good luck to you on your new job... uh Good. Luck. To you. Both. ...
WKRF! The music of the life you want! Let’s get back into it now with a little Rod. Stewart singing an old favorite.. “The First Cut Is The Deepest..” Ain't that the truth.. I hope you are enjoying your day today New York! Today is your day and WKRF is your station!

July +, 2009

A summary:

Nice work if you can get it
Hawk!
Spite the devil and NY will name something after you

"Minneapolis... you can be a big fish here", my friend sloganizes over a whiskey.
It's his bachelor party and we are in Minneapolis at probably the coolest bar I have ever had the pleasure of getting stupid in and “I live in New York City!” I say, amazed. But here at Nye's Polonaise Room in Minneapolis... there are round, high-backed booths with sparkly vinyl upholstery. There is a second bar surrounding a piano in the corner with a crusty pianist and a microphone for karaoke jazz standards. There is a guy with a saxophone sitting at one end of this bar providing ridiculous accompaniment. My Maker's Mark costs $4... and as if that's not enough... there is an adjoining bar with a great, dance-worthy, live funk band kind of rocking the damn house down AND a patio area with a sassy bouncer ready to light a cigar, eavesdrop on your conversation and eulogize about his establishment . There are karaoke regulars in suits congratulating each other, there's a hipster contingent looking carefully displeased in the back, there's another guy out for his bachelor party with a bowling ball chained to his waist... and there are fabulously drunk and enthusiastic Japanese businessmen dancing with open mouths and fists pumping the air. Their pigtailed, schoolgirl uniformed escort looks at me over her shoulder and widens her eyes with amused exasperation... Inga steals her and makes her dance with us. The Japanese businessmen have clearly never been so happy.. ever.

We take over the place. We make ourselves at home.
We dance. Inga sings. We buy Chandler lethal sounding drinks. Ben tries on a... garbage bag? he finds in the gutter.
We walk home at 2:00 in the morning (the bars close at 2!), it takes about twenty minutes, along the Mississippi, over the bridge. We pass one person. One person! I flash a picture of him because he is such a novelty... and he is completely unsurprised.
"Oohkay. (he drawls out with Minnesotan length). Have a good night, now."

This last March I was in Austin, Texas for the SXSW film festival. Texas looks like Spokane, WA... sprawling and rusty. Boxy, brown buildings with gaping black windows stand next to faux, old-worldy americana, over-elaborate government buildings in white marble with frothy moldings tacked on next to big, reaching churches.
I had been in Austin ten minutes and I could feel a home building inside me. Looking out on the wide sidewalks, the bright, dry air. Home... not here necessarily, but somewhere like here. The man behind the counter making my coffee would be an awkward first date and eventually be my neighbor, and then my good friend's boyfriend. The Mexican Food/ Rug Cleaners out on TX Hwy 83 would be my favorite place to slum it up on the weekend. I'd buy a car, paint my house in bright colors like a taco hut. The lone star belt buckle I would wear would start out being ironic but would soon leave it's shadow on every pair of my pants. I'd say 'howdy' like I meant it until I did.

Home. [hohm] noun. A house. adjective. Principal or main. adverb. Deep; to the heart verb. To go or return... home.

The arrow struck home. Homing in on the truth, the target. Now we’re in the home stretch! Homebody. Homeland security. Home plate. Home spun. That really hit/drove it/ nothing to write/ until the cows come/ make everyone feel at/ eat you out of house and home free/ made/ less/ town/ room/ page/ field advantage/ brew/ is where the heart is.

Home is where you imagine yourself most... yourself.

You make yourself at home.

In Tompkins Square Park yesterday among the smack addicts, the musicians and the hipster dog-walkers... I saw this scrappy old hawk tugging at a branch in a tree. He was mangy, big tufts of feathers clumped up on his back. The branch came loose and plummeted to the ground... with the hawk in tow. He didn't let go. Just hit the ground, rearranged his grip and flew off again low to the ground, struggling under the weight but determined. He'd found the thing and he was damn well taking it for himself.


Of note... so much!:
The website for Nye's Polonaise Room is one tan page... no links, no pictures, just one plain, beige field that says simply "The Best Bar in America" with an address and phone number.
Chinatown Candy Store/ Travel Agency. ???(Mott? Elizabeth St.?)I don't remember what it's called and they wouldn't let me take photographs but wow. Anywhere I can book a flight to Hong Kong while eating candied shrimp deserves a mention...
Pure Dark. (Bleecker. W. Village) The people here are so nice! And it's their job to give you free stuff, like chocolate covered blueberries and cardamom cashews... amazing.
Murray's Cheese Shop.(Bleecker) Sopressata flatbread and cheese straws. Mmm...

Art Bar.(West Villageish) Great back room. Dark like the dead of night with low-slung couches and a horrible 'last supper' mural with an incongruous bunch that includes Frida Kahlo, Richard Nixon and Jim Morrison.
Alice's Teacup.(UWS) This place is magical. I bit into a warm strawberry/chocolate chip scone and started weeping. A chemical reaction. Like someone had flipped a switch. Alycia made me keep crying until she could take a picture. Ahh, friends.
Superfine.(DUMBO) I went here for brunch on a Sunday. The BEST huevos rancheros I have ever had. And the live bluegrass band, "The Mayor of Goodtimes and the Bleeding Hearts"... adorable... if a little immediately on top of our table. The guy on the upright bass was obscured so that you could only see his face. He had a distracted, slack jawed countenance and was staring out the window while he played... I kept thinking 'wait, who is that guy behind the band? Is he fixing something?'.
Miriam. (Park Slope) Holy shit. I love brunch. Delicious, unique Israeli food. Get the burekas - amazing. I have to go back for the highly lauded Mediterranean crispy dough.
Cafe Luluc. Wonderful French brunch place open weekdays - take a lesson, world.
92Y Tribeca. NY premiere of Little Dizzle was here. Nice environment and staff. Crappy sound system.
Rudy's. (Hell's Kitchen) Divey dive bar. The doorman was so drunk he had to lean on me while I was getting out my I.D. Free hotdogs! Classy joint.
Vol de Nuit or just The Belgian Beer Bar. (NYU) I had a Maredsous (whoo! dark, creamy deliciousness) and a Leffe blond.
San Loco. (LES) Catfish Guaco Loco, Catfish Guaco Loco, Catfish Guaco Loco... yeah. Matt Wilson, I love your crazy face.
Yakitori Taisho.(East Village). Super legit, late night Japanese deliciousness. It's crowded and rowdy, the chairs are uncomfortable, the decor is bizarre... the chefs are in your lap. Wonderful.
Typhoon Lounge. (East Village) Another late night Japanese place. We managed to piss off the staff, coming in late with a big group, one of whom smuggled in some fried hot dogs like an asshole. Delicious sushi, curried beef, sesame chicken.
Fette Sau. (Williamsburg) Total carnage. One wall is illustrated with different cuts of meat, carefully labeled "Shank" and "Cushion Shoulder". The taps at the bar are made from rusty, old meat cleavers. The brisket was out of this world as was the potato salad. And the bartender was very helpful in picking out an amazing Pennsylvania Hirsch bourbon. I also tried my friend's more traditional Kentucky-born Black Maple Hill bourbon... pretty tasty, but a little on the light side..
Spuyten Duyvil. (Williamsburg) Belgian beer bar that looks like 'the company store' in a Disney old west with rude bartenders and a wonderful large and ivy-lined but weirdly quiet back garden.

Which brings me to this historical bonus...
Spuyten Duyvil.
Belgian beer bar in Williamsburg, Neighborhood in the Bronx, Creek joining the Harlem River and the Hudson... from the Dutch ‘spinning devil’
Re-imagined by Washington Irving, the legend of Spuyten Duyvil goes something like this.... Peter Stuyvesant, then governor of New Amsterdam, sent his trumpeter, Anthony van Corlear, to warn the Dutch settlers that the English navy was about to invade. A storm was brewing when Anthony reached the northernmost tip of Manhattan, about 10 blocks from where I sit in lovely Inwood. He stood on the banks and called for the ferryman to take him across. When the ferryman did not answer, he "vapored like an impatient ghost upon the brink" and then dove in with his trumpet held high, deciding he would swim across if he had to. Half way across, the devil reached up and took hold of his leg, pulling him down into the waters. He struggled and fought and just as he freed himself he sent a blare from his trumpet into the night. But the storm was too strong and the shore too far and "in spite of the devil", he sank to the bottom and drowned.
On a stormy night, it's said, on the banks of the Spuyten Duyvil, you can still hear Anthony's trumpet blowing "louder than the wind".

June, 2009.

A summary:
Fathers vs. Daddies
Outkast/Shakespeare
Strawberry Shortcake isn't always sweet


In New York, the good lies right on top of the bad.
There is not enough lateral space to set them side by side.
It is a city of juxtapositions, incongruities, unexpected reveals.

On the 1 Train I overhear this conversation between two teenage girls, one of whom had just lost her father:

"I'm really going to miss him. They took his body, you know?"
"They couldn't have waited a little while longer? At least until you got home?"

Across the aisle two other teenage girls are listening to an iPod; one earbud per girl. They are bobbing in time and singing:

Daddy I'm so sorry, I'm so s-s-sorry yeah
We just like to party, like to p-p-party yeah

Bang bang, we're beautiful and dirty rich
Bang bang, we're beautiful and dirty rich

Days later on the same train two young black guys get on the train and stand near the door. They look nervous and sweaty like they just got away with something. The one nearest me has his hand inside his jacket like he's reaching for his wallet. The other has his thumbs tucked in his jean pockets, his hands keeping a fluttery beat on his thighs. Their jaws are set tight and their eyes are reflective. They look angry and kind of... hungry.
They ride in silence for two or three stops, staring at the window like there's some vista hidden that only they can appreciate.
The one standing next to me shifts. When his hand comes out of his jacket, it's holding a little book with a surprising delicacy.
"Hey, Man. You know when it says:
"Hate the evil, and love the good, and establish judgment in the gate:
it may be that the Lord God of hosts will be gracious unto the remnant
of Joseph."
"Yeah, man?"
"What's that about?"

At Times Square between the N/R/W and the 1/2/3 there is a coveted corner for musicians. There is always a small crowd gathered to watch either the performer or the large screen television in the store window just to the right which is usually playing an Ultimate Fighting championship.
Sometimes, there's a tiny Indian man sitting hunched at a keyboard, his head hanging off his frame at an alarming 90 degree angle, his arms above his head in a Thriller Dance shrug so he can reach the keys.

If you saw him from the back you would think he was headless.

Arranged carefully in a semicircle around him there are these dancing electronic dolls that stand about a foot and a half high wearing pigtails, pink plastic cowboy boots and little gingham dresses. They are stomping to the beat, their little mouths opening and closing like they're gasping for air. All this is scored with the Doris Day version of "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps" and the Indian man's addition of a techno-pop beat.
If you happen to catch one of those rare moments when someone slows down long enough to put a dollar in his hat, you will see a most amazing thing. This crumpled, ashen man will raise his sunken, toothless face and smile with a radiance to singe your heart.

I'm walking down the street thinking about surprise, judgement, defiance of expectation... listening to my iPod when Outkast's 'Gangsta Shit' gives way to Henry VI;Part Two:

"...Just to pull it out, point it at the ground and make a nigga wanna dance
Now what that be for, you're on that reefer and on that Tupac
In front of them oooh wops, trying to show out, that's the hoe route
Talking loud, talking bout.. that's gangsta shit"

3 second crossfade into...

"(soundscape- a whistling wind, a rousing heraldry and the distant sounds of a battle)
The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea;
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night..."

Laughing out loud, I don't notice the enormous man on the sidewalk ahead of me who's just walked out of his three martini lunch. He stumbles backward and steps squarely in the middle of my foot with one crisp, business shoe heel. I feel the little bones retreating and the tears rushing to my eyes. I am laughing, crying, grimacing with pain. A cab races by, lays on the horn, kicks up a puddle. The man apologizes. I wince at him. Understanding, but unable to speak, I limp away.


Of note:
Deserving honorable mention in the contradictory persons of NY category - I saw a woman get on the A train wearing a full scale Strawberry Shortcake outfit and carrying a trumpet. She sat down, pulled out a tiny mirror, re-applied her freckles, adjusted her cleavage... and started swearing to herself. And spitting. Wonderful.

John Vanderslice at The Music Hall of Williamsburg - Photos and words by Dominick Mastrangelo for venuszine.
This man is adorable. He moves like he's still flirting with his adolescence, bashfully shrugging his guitar closer to his wrinkled T-shirt. He sings with a long-distance focus in his eyes, but when he stops between songs he is absolutely there for you and you only.
Opening act, The Tallest Man on Earth, was like watching someone being born every few minutes. Each time he inhaled, we were relieved... and riveted for what might be next. There's something truly alarming about this performer, and a performer he is. He can simultaneously hold a look of absolute innocence and discovery and in the same moment seem to harbor the mischievous antidote.
His encore 'Moonshiner' sent me back to high school and the discovery of Uncle Tupelo's March 16-20 1992. Sitting in the parking lot in Jameel's car singing at the top of our lungs, we'll be late for Mr. Bruce's choir class, but we don't care. What an incredible record. Black Eye still gets me right.. there.


Patrick's. I had the pleasure of introducing two out-of-towners (L.B.! and Inga! and soon... Alycia!) to my neighborhood dive bar this month. Now, when I say dive, you say 'how dive?' and I say, 'you don't even know.' I love, love this place. Somehow I ended up doing time-steps with Pamela (the bartender) and Drake (her Vegas brother)whose family used to own a tap studio in the neighborhood, hearing the life story of a Deadhead, dispensing relationship advice to total strangers, fending off free Irish car-bombs and yet again having the conversation over the check that goes:
"How much do I owe you?"
"I don't know, how much do you think?"

Cafe Asean ">Cafe Asean. Incredible food, cute back patio.


Gus Place. (between 6th and MacDougal on Bleecker) Great wine, great food (except for the zucchini fritters). I will be back here.

Cafe Arte. (106 W. 73rd UWS) Delicious, affordable prix fixe meal. I had the goat cheese ravioli in vodka sauce, the spinach salad, the hazelnut gelato. The Sangiovese was lovely and the staff was hysterical. We sat next to this fantastically dorky teenager taking his grandparents out for dinner and a young dad out to dinner with his 4 yr. old who kept asking the nearby diners why they hadn't finished their food yet.

Alice's Teacup. I can't wait to go back here. We stopped in for directions (twice) and the guy behind the counter was ridiculously charming and adorable. I was helpless to resist a large (salty!) chocolate cookie just out of the oven.

Magnolia Bakery. Of SNL's 'The Chronic (What?!)cles of Narnia' fame. Amazing red velvet cupcake. The uptown location at Columbus and 69th.

Awash. Great Ethiopian food. Ridiculously bad decor.

Bali Nusa Indah. Excellent Indonesian food. Banana crepes!



Theatre:
August: Osage County (The Music Box) Phylicia Rashad was fearless and wonderful. Who knew Mrs. Huxtable could be such a drug- addled, volatile lunatic. Also wonderful- Amy Morton playing Barbara. My only complaint - the fights were unbelievable. Ha! I just looked up who choreographed them and it's the president of SAFD... a guy who not only gave me my certifications but drank beers with me and my friends on my birthday last year- sorry, Man... but still....

Twelfth Night (The Public in Central Park) I spent the first 20 minutes being grouchy about Anne Hathaway... 'what's this little starlet know about Shakespeare... oh! she is slaughtering that speech... blahblah nonsense, and then... I decided that she was utterly charming and kind of a joy to watch. Audra McDonald? Incredible. And Hamish Linklater absolutely stole the show with (my dream role) Andrew Aguecheek.
Also. A raccoon walked up on stage halfway through the first act.
A huge raccoon. Sidled up and took his light.

South Pacific (Lincoln Center) The overture begins, the lights swell, the stage rolls away to reveal the full orchestra... I look over at Inga and she at me. We are eight years old in my parent's living room, the record with Mitzi Gaynor and Rosanno Brazzi on the cover is on the turntable and we are over-dramatic, we are melancholy, we are dancing around the room like fools... We are thirty-one in the front row mezzanine at the Lincoln Center and we are both tearful and grinning.

Waiting For Godot (Roundabout) What a singular experience. Sitting with my long lost and found Inga Aesoph.
"We can still part... if you think it would be better".
No, no, I don't think it would better.

Tuesday, May 5^th (Manhattan)

A summary:

Blood!

What ‘free’ is worth

Comparative Cannoli

Attendees: The long lost, happily found, Ian Bivins. My nemesis, always, Jakob Holder. Gabriel Baron, the face hands of Trojan.

On Tuesday afternoon I went to the Bumble and Bumble University to get a free haircut. At my place in the assembly line of salon chairs, I stare at myself in the oblong mirror. I look tired and a little terrified and I can't stop thinking about this past January. I signed myself up to participate in a medical study on jet-lag. After spending the night in the Manhattan lab to determine we were 'normal sleepers' they flew twelve of us to France on Rolling Stone Magazine's private jet. We stayed in a mental hospital in the French countryside for four days with electrodes and multi-colored wires tangled over our faces sleeping in 20 minute increments throughout the day and drooling on our French nurses. Sitting here, waiting for my stylist, I have a familiar conversation with myself. Is this worth it? What kind of trust is this? Should I run?

My stylist, Pam, shows up blustery and reeking of cigarette smoke. Pam is from Harrisburg, PA. She is pushing fifty and wearing a Flashdance worthy get-up with artful holes to display her studio tanned shoulders in bulging little ovals. She has a horrible haircut.

Pam is 'excited about this' and wants me to know how much 'fun this is going to be'. She stabs me in the inner ear with a press-on nail.

We have our 'consultation' during which she sneaks her "so about here, then?" indicating finger ever closer to my scalp and I inch it back down toward my shoulders.

The class gathers to discuss the next steps and get acquainted with the straight razors they will be using to cut our hair. Not three feet away from me, I hear Pam say: "Wow. I'm totally scared". I turn around and catch the instructor's eye. She is saying "there's nothing to be scared about" to Pam, but she is looking right at me... "did you hear that?". Yes, yes I did.

Pam comes back to my chair. She is chatty and alarmingly jovial.

“Don’t be scared” she says.

“I won’t be if you won’t be”, I say.

She starts in on my hair. With decision and something all too close to haste. The instructor comes by and suggests calmly that Pam might want to “breathe.” And then she puts one hand on Pam’s cutting hand and says “Stop. Stop. Just take a breath. Take your time”. Pam stops. Takes a second. I hear her forcing a long, whistling exhale through tightened little lips. And then she picks up the razor again and gradually picks up speed. A moment later, she inhales quickly, says “I’ll be right back” and leaves the room.

I sit there for four or five minutes. In the mirror I catch a figure running through the room behind the mirrors on the opposite aisle. I glance down and see a clearly defined footprint on the floor, long twisted hairs caught in the treads. And a little pool of blood.

Pam comes back. She is flushed. She has a gleam of sweat on her brow and a bandage on one finger where she has closed the freshly sharpened razor on her own hand. She is kind of laughing, apologetic, but her face is gray.

The bandage is throttled around her finger to stem the flow of blood. The tip has gone splotchy white and purple and Pam is doing quick little worried beckons between cuts. The instructor comes by and suggests she might loosen the bandage so she “doesn’t lose a finger”. Pam coughs, agrees. She starts picking at the bandaid, inches from my face. I turn my entire body to the side and close my eyes.

“Oh, are you squeamish?”, she says. Like maybe I’m being unreasonable for not wanting her to bleed on my face.

“Heh. Yep, I guess I am”.

For the rest of the haircut Pam waits for approval from her instructor for every move. I am there for almost three hours. I am there until all the other girls have left. I pick up my feet so they can sweep the hair out from underneath, mop up the blood.

Pam finishes up. She has missed her lunch break.

“I need a drink”, she says.

I am given an evaluation form. Was your haircut: 1. fantastic, a welcome change 2. satisfactory, competent and workable or 3. unfortunate, a disaster. Check the box.

I check #2 and consider before starting the comment section. There is room for a lengthy paragraph. I want to start with something true, yet generous. Pam is clearly having a shit day. I shake ink into the pen:

“Pam was very nice.... ( I begin)

And then she returns, breathless, with the form suggesting the $50 of products I’m supposed to buy. She ‘borrows’ my pen ‘for a sec’... and never returns.

I sit there, grinning for a minute. Do I ask for another pen? How important is it that I include; “but she mauled herself” in my comments? I get up, ruffle my (satisfactory, competent and workable) hairdo in the mirror one last time, wave to Pam smoking on the balcony and walk out.

This, this is what you get for free.

Of note:

Malbec. Apparently this variety of wine had it's orginal life in France but now is primarily produced in Argentina. I had a lovely chat with a member of the staff at P&J's Wine shop (love this place) at Broadway and 204th? She was very helpful but I didn't buy her recommended wine... because I'm cheap.

The Dublin House (79th b/w Broadway and Amsterdam) This reportedly used to be a certifiable old man bar. It is no longer. The hipsters who are 'slummin it' have found this place out. However... there is still a decidedly old mannish, pay phone in the back, Irish-accented bartender sort of charm to the joint. We even witnessed a fight while we were there.

Jake's Dilemma (Amsterdam b/w 80th and 81st) A college bar. With a happy hour that may dupe me into returning. The back room is what might happen if Masterpiece Theatre were filmed in the common room of a dorm.

I meet Jakob for a drink on Wednesday night. We talk about self without audience and building forts in the woods and what the hell we’ve been up to for the last 4-5 years and how it’s possible that we are still the same. Standing at the bar ordering us drinks, he brushes his hair out of his face in a way he has always done, a way he may always do... and I know that I will know him forever. We laugh about “gathering” as euphemism for female genitalia, drink another, snuff all our burned bridges in leather couches and house red. The sky opens up. A wall of water. We share an umbrella to the subway... he lets me take it with me.

Sushi Mambo (Bleecker and Cornelia) I meet Gabriel here on Monday night to celebrate his Trojan gig. Excellent sushi. Incongruously accompanied by the 'Godfather' soundtrack. We had the 'couple's combo' which is really the only affordable way to stuff your face with ridiculousness. Also. they really need to let go of the fact that the Uma Thurman/ Meryl Streep shitheap of a movie 'Prime' was filmed there. We. don't. care. Take the posters down.

Caffe Palermo. (Mulberry & Grand, Little Italy) There is a sign on the front of this place that claims "THE BEST CANNOLI ON THE PLANET EARTH" in over-confident neon... which of course makes me dubious. However... their cannoli? The best I have ever tasted. The. best. The shells are fresh and crispy. And the cream has a hint of anisette. Delicious.

The Lortel Theatre. (W.Village/ Bleecker...) What a charming little theatre. Thursday I saw an invited dress of Coraline, music by Stephin Merritt of the Magnetic Fields. David Greenspan is otherworldly.

Music Hall of Williamsburg. What a great venue...just large enough to lend some scope, and small enough to afford some intimacy. I saw the Loney, Dear show on Tuesday. I love a crazy, cocky Swede who can croon with abandon and what’s more get the audience to croon with him. Photos and review by Dominick Mastrangelo, who dragged me (willingly) along.

Yummy Noodle. (46 Bowery, Chinatown) Very authentic Chinese food. Maybe a little too authentic for me. 'What does that mean?', you ask. I'd like to forget that meat has... bones... much less blood vessels and eyeballs. There's no forgetting this at Yummy (sinews and cartilage and just slaughtered frog) Noodle. It's delicious! but it will confront you. if you're a puss like me, think twice... and go anyway.

Rocco's (243 Bleecker ) I had another (inferior but still tasty) cannoli on their adorable, enclosed back patio. I walked off and left a newly purchase bottle of wine and didn’t realize it until I was at about 125^th St. I looked them up and called at about midnight. Someone answered and said, yes, of course, they would hold my wine for me until I could come pick it up. This restores my faith in everything.

Theatre. I saw three performances this week for a grand total of $0. Did I mention that I am cheap? Sunday I had the pleasure of seeing a presentation of work by the Margolis Brown Adaptor’s Company featuring the increasingly lovely Ian Bivins. Some vigorous work... made me want to move to upstate New York and have a waterfall in my backyard. And Ian, so good to see you.

Music. Tuesday, after work I saw St. Vincent at probably the last live, in-store event the Virgin MegaStore at Union Square will ever have. They are liquidating their stock, closing their doors. Somehow not sad at all. The mix is all off and her guitar doesn’t come in until the second song... but when it does, it’s ridiculous. This freckly, curly-haired thimble of a woman is a monster.

Wednesday, April 29th (The Bronx)
Attendees: Robert Aguilar, Four or five of Robert's (Bobby's) friends whose names are vague because I am old

A summary:
Zoo!
Fat boys and tigers and aging homosexuals
Cappuccinos are better with cinnamon


Wednesday... I got on the train and headed to the Bronx Zoo.
Now, after reading The Life of Pi, I'd decided that zoos were not the depressing, necessarily cruel and oppressive places I'd always suspected them to be. The argument being that animals only increase the size of their habitats and travel long distances out of necessity - to gather the nutrients needed to survive. Maybe the water is a mile west of the antelope... but if it were all in one place a tiger could... you know, get his sleep on.

And then I met Sasha. The fat tiger.

At 11:30, 1:30 and 3:30 each day one can witness the 'tiger enrichment program' at Tiger Mountain on the NE side of the Bronx zoo. What this means is that a bored, khaki-clad woman with some alarming scarring on her arms and neck that looks distinctly like the result of an animal attack shows up with an old feed bag, a chunk of horse meat and a few new bottles of perfume from the gift shop. She puts the meat in the bag, sprays it with the new scents the tiger has never experienced, opens a gate and hucks the bag at the tiger. Sasha takes the bag to his favorite corner, bullies it a bit with some petulant nudging, tears the shit out of it with some business-meaning teeth, swallows the meat without pause or ceremony, pisses on the whole mess with a faraway look in his eye.... and then...
he lies down again to get some more sleep.
He sleeps, the khaki woman says, at least 20 hours a day. And he's a fatty.
Depressing.

Before the 'enrichment', Sasha has made a little showing of his flanks, his impressive claws, his fangs - which we only see because he is yawning- while he has a lazy stroll around his pen. He clearly knows the horsemeat is nigh. There's a moment when he walks up to the glass and displays himself- all these dangerous elements made innocuous by the tiger flab and the the insuperable barrier between us. He's doing what he can to look majestically off into the 'distance' (no more than 20 yards in any direction). His teeth are dangerous, his claws are bared, but you look down and his tail is tucked between his hind legs and I catch him surreptitiously glancing toward the crowd. "Is anybody looking?" "Am I still me?"

The monkeys cheered me up a bit, the World of Birds was kind of magical, and the lemurs! Man, I love a lemur.

I said my goodbyes and walked out by myself on the West side near the Children's Zoo. East on 183rd, about 7 or 8 blocks (of old black men sharing beers on front stoops and children running you down on kick scooters) you intersect with Arthur Avenue, where, if you head north, you find yourself in this anomalous wonderland called Little Italy in the Bronx. Bakeries, restaurants, meat shops, delis, pastry shops, pasta shops, gelato shops, all things Italian you could possibly desire. I haggled with a street vendor, claiming I only had $4 cash (a lie I'm happy to claim) and bought the wallet I've been meaning to replace since I got robbed some weeks back. I wandered through bakeries and pastry shops inhaling deeply and then I found Tino's - between 187th and 188th on Arthur Ave. This place is gorgeous, full of specialty Italian foods. They make fresh sandwiches and deli goods. It's a family business and when I went to pay for my coffee, the man behind the counter nodded to his son in a gesture of 'you take this one'. The boy was nervous and pudgy fingered and charged me $3.52 instead of $3.25 with adorable dyslexia. I sat down at a table outside with a fantastic cappuccino, sprinkled with cinnamon to watch old Italian women with scarves on their heads greet smiling old men with canes. Little Tino- aka. pudgy fingers at the register- came out with a soccer ball and kicked it around with an older fellow in a shiny jumpsuit and a lanyard. Coach? Uncle? Little Tino looked a lot like JT (Tony Soprano Jr.) on the season where he was kind of a chunker... but boy could do some fancy footwork with a soccer ball.

I asked the woman inside where I could go to buy fresh pasta and she directed me to Bergatti's on 187th. Also a family run place, Father and Son are behind the counter doing impressions of each other as I check out the sauces on the rack to the right. The pasta is all hand rolled and cut and the place smells fresh like flour and salt. I order a pound of the spinach fettuccine and the son cranks down this big wooden drying rack with a rope pulley tied to the wall behind the register. The pasta is laid out in long twisted loops and he untangles a pound of it easily, barely bothering to look at the scale when he weighs it, knowing he has just enough.

On the train home there's this old queen on the train. One of these toughed up, elder homosexuals with tattoos on his hands and jewelry meant to leave dents in other people's faces. He's mumbling to himself, glaring at the man opposite him... but you look down and his feet are positively dainty. Tucked jauntily under him, stacked one atop the other in tight-laced, black hightop Reeboks circa 1982. He stops twirling the skull ring on his finger for a moment and nervously tugs at one earring, glances around the train car. "Is anybody looking? Am I still me?"




Of note:
Fresh Tortilla (207 and Broadway) Very tasty black bean tacos which I made the bad choice of washing down with a red apple Snapple - like sweet, watery Robotussin

La Sala (111 Dyckman-Inwood) The 'Hot Avocado' was delicious and messy... find yourself a veteran and study his methods

The roof of my building at night. Pigeon shit aside. Beautiful.

Tino's (between 187th and 188th on Arthur Ave.) www.tinosdeli.com

Bergatti's (187th W. of Arthur Ave.) So worth the journey

Patsy's (Union Sq. area) pretty decent pizza- fresh mozzarella, basil and garlic

The Irish Brigade (4716 Broadway) Old man dive bar extraordinaire. The five people in this bar make up for the sparse clientele by Shouting at the top of their lungs to each other. The bartender, Laura, is scrappy and friendly and will introduce you to her Mom (the older version of her yelling top volume at the other end of the bar).

SEE (312 Bleecker- W.Village) Eyeglasses, exams on the cheap. The doctor looks weirdly like Sarah Silverman and I found myself chuckling inappropriately. "Which is clearer? One or Two?" " Hahahaha... oh, um One?" Unique and affordable frames. The fellow working there was very helpful... then again, I think he may have been hitting on me. I'm a little slow, but when someone says "I could sit across from you for five or six hours and look at you if you were wearing those" ... that's a pick-up line, right?


Song of the week: Ballantines: Aimee Mann
Fun discovery: Look at this fucking hipster- www.latfh.com

The image below was this bizarre moment where some mutual understanding excited all the lemurs at once and they all went tearing down to one end of their enclosure (which, by the by, is not enclosed, but open to the viewing walkway - why I don't have a lemur in my hair is a mystery). I kind of love this shot. It looks like a Michael Sowa painting, but I swear it's just a snapshot on a low light, micro setting on my little Canon Powershot (I'd been taking photographs of these bright red, leaf-shaped insects I'll have to ask my Entymologist Papa about).