In memoriam: Siberia. Alternately called an oasis of lawlessness, physically revolting, a celebration of self-loathing, and a high-school reunion of nasty, it was actually one of the first bars I went to in NYC. The downstairs was downright scary. Thought maybe they would all be like that.

I figure we've got a month, max, before it starts to get hot. Until then, I resolve to walk home from work whenever possible. But instead of just walking home, I'm gonna to walk a different route everyday, and maybe walk a bit slower, and pay attention to what I see. Today, which was an amazing day, I walked down 11th St to the Hudson River. 11th St between Hudson and Greenwich features both New York's first gastropub, Mario Batali's The Spotted Pig, and the legendary tavern where legendary drunk Dylan Thomas had his last, The White Horse. There's also a nice looking wine bar, Turks and Frogs, and a nice looking coffee shop, The 11th St. Cafe. Magnolia Bakery is on 11th and Bleeker, as is Biography Bookstore, where a friend bought the book, Rats. There's a barbershop, a dry-cleaners, a drugstore; really, a complete little town on one street. There's even a quaint little French bistro, Tartine, which I noticed was BYOB. That got me thinking. WTF with BYOB?

Initially, the idea seems appealing: Bring Your Own Bottle. How could you go wrong? But wait. Is it kosher to bring a six-pack of Bud to Tartine? How about a bottle of Charles Shaw? Regarding Tartine, we can assume that unless one wishes to endure stink-eye from the wait staff throughout the night, a decent bottle of wine is expected. But how many bottles? I mean, the whole effing point is to bring a bunch of booze to dinner, right? Two bottles for a table of two? Three? So at a minimum of $20/bottle, we're talking $60.00, and we haven't even factored in corkage fee!

According to the New York State Liquor Authority, BYOB is only allowable if the bottle being brought is covered under the liquor license in effect; Massachusets, on the other hand, only allows BYOB at establishments without liquor licenses. But if New York restaurants must be licensed for there to be any liquor consumed on the premises - for example - then why even give customers the chance to bring their own? It only makes sense if the corkage fee makes up for income lost. In Manhattan, corkage fees can be as high as $250.00/bottle; the city-wide average is $25.00/bottle. Now I, for one, am incredibly adept at moderating my liquor consumption when drinking at a restaurant; you know how inflated the prices are. I can't imagine a drink tab for two reaching $75.00 (3 corks; yes, I can imagine it). But give me the option to bring my own, hell, not only will I pay for the wine, but will happily pay you to open it.

I called Tartine and inquired into their corkage fee:
Me, feigning indignity: "Yes, how much is your corkage fee?"
Cute hostess, giggling: "We don't have a corkage fee."
Me, truly stupefied: "Ah, yes, well, thank you very much."
Cute hostess, with longing in her voice: "You're welcome."

There's also a Sufi church on 11th St.

On the trail of the elusive three-sided French Fry: Joseph Ades, aka The Gentleman Peeler, courtesy of The Villager.

For the third year in a row, Times Square's Hotel Carter has been named the filthiest, most disgusting hotel in America. Reasons given include the expected: bed bugs, cockroaches, hair and fingernail clippings, the occasional dead hooker... Offering rooms that can be had for as cheap as 122.00 USD a night(!), Hotel Carter calls themselves the best value in New York city - just don't make eye-contact with the trannies in the elevator!

Normal folk across the country are outraged. One man recalls a youthful trip to New York city:

I checked into this hotel alone about 6:00 pm, put my suitcase in the room and left to have dinner. When I returned at 10:00 pm, I noticed that in my absence someone had been in my bathroom and defecated in the toilet and left without flushing!! When I told the desk clerk, his response was, "Why was someone in your room?" (Exactly my question to you, Hotel Carter). When I told the "security guard", his response was "What do you want me to do? It's late."

How can a place like this be allowed to remain open?!?! Only in New York! they say.

Only in New York, indeed. Only in New York is there a collective sigh of relief when a hotel in Manhattan is named the grittiest, most disturbing establishment of its kind. Only in New York, where gentrification is considered a sign of the end times, can the Hotel Carter emerge as a source of civic pride.




In the spirit of Kellogg and all those Borscht Belt vacationers in their Nash Ramblers invading the Catskills, I propose a vacation - a staycation - to Midtown, to the Hotel Carter, for some of the grimy hospitality and seedy charms that characterized the Times Square of old. After all, what goods a vacation if it doesn't get a little dirty?

Eddie Boros (1934-2007) lived and died in the same small apartment at the corner of E. 5th St. and Ave. B in which he was welcomed into this world. The second of three sons raised by Hungarian immigrant parents, young Eddie delivered ice in the East Village before moving on to house painting, which he did professionally for the remainder of his life. His passion, however, was art - woodworking - and soon much of his time was spent adding to, subtracting from, forever improving upon what would become his greatest work: the Toy Tower at garden 6B.


Boros was a character. Renowned for his strength, it is said that in a liquor and testosterone fueled display of his masculinity, he carried a manhole cover from Sophie's bar back to his apartment. He was unable to move it when he awoke in the morning. This guy was old-school, a character even in the old East Village, a guy who had a friend named Gray Wolf, and is remembered for walking the streets shirtless in just an old pair of cut-off jean shorts and a string of pearls.

Ornamented with found toys and other discovered jewels from the detritus of the city, the Toy Tower grew to surpass a height of 60' feet, occupied 8 plots in the small community garden, and perhaps due to Eddie's love of late-night climbs to the top, where he would bang on drums and blow on horns, was a continuous object of chagrin for his neighbors. He called the tower 'My Baby', and had dreams of building it high enough such that from its tip he could see the United Nations. Sometime during the 25 years Eddie worked on it, it became the centerpiece of the garden and a symbol of what the East Village was all about.


Boros' reappropriation of waste, his dependence upon found goods and bits of trash for his work, brings to mind Richard Rauschenberg. Rauschenberg once said, "I really feel sorry for people who thinks things like soap dishes and mirrors and Coke bottles are ugly, because they are surrounded by things like that all day long, and it makes them miserable." Thus it is fitting that in the same week in which Rauschenberg meets his death, so too does Eddie Boros' Toy Tower. Rotting, and a danger to the garden, the Parks Department began dismantling the tower on Monday.

For the eulogy: Jeremiah's Vanishing New York.

There are 20 gates to Central Park, 20 breaks in the low stone wall that otherwise prevents pedestrians from crossing into its quiet confines. 20 gates that are hardly noticeable, for they are unadorned but for a name carved into the stone. But the names! What names! At Central Park South and 6th Ave. there is the Artist's Gate. The Explorer's Gate, at 77th St., is a few blocks south of the Hunter's Gate, at 81st St; a bit further up Central Park West the curious will find Mariner's Gate and All Saint's Gate.

The Boy's Gate and the Girl's Gate are located across the park from one another, the latter at E. 102nd St., while the former lies at W. 100th St. The Women's Gate is at the corner of Central Park West and 72nd St. Curiously, there is no Men's Gate.

The stripped down aesthetic of the gates, along with the low stone wall they interrupt, are both elements in the designer's original vision of the park. Olmsted and Vaux saw the park as a symbol of the American republic, a pastoral and truly democratic space where one could escape the madness of the city. Their design, however, encountered resistance from the wealthy citizens who lived along the park, and felt their presence should be marked by tall, European-style gates. One proposal would have replaced the simplicity of the Artisan's Gate, at Central Park South and 7th Ave., with an enormous plaza inspired by French urbanist-style gates. Olmsted, for his part, declared that "an iron railing always means thieves outside or bedlam inside," and he was outraged by this attempt to go against the park's original design.

The names of the gates were chosen by the Parks Commission in 1862, and are meant to represent the kinds of people who might utilize the new park. There is Farmer's Gate, Warrior's Gate, and Scholar's Gate. There is Children's Gate, beyond the entrance of which lies a playground. My favorite is Stranger's Gate, which sits at 106th St. and Central Park West.












Christo and Jean-Claude's 'The Gates', completed in 2005, consisted of 7500 'gates', standing 16' and festooned with saffron-colored fabric. 'The Gates' marked the path for 23 miles in Central Park, took 25+ years to complete, and stood for a total of 16 days. One imagines Christo and Jean-Claude were perfectly aware of the 20 gates opening onto Central Park from the metropolis beyond. The shimmering beauty of their short-lived creation offered a glamorous counterpoint to the restrained sublimity of the original Central Park Gates. Vaux suggested that it would be wonderful if there could be no gates. Perhaps, but 'The Gates', the gates, of Central Park remind us that gates are only the names we give them.

I was happy when the weather turned foul this afternoon. I had to work early, and it appeared as though it was going to be a beautiful day, which was annoying because I had the Sunday Times and there's a basketball game I'd like to watch without feeling guilty for not being outside. So when it began to rain I sighed a sigh of relief and decided that making perfect bloody mary's would be an appropriate way of taking full advantage of a Sunday indoors.

So, according to lore, a Frenchman named Fernand Petiot was the first to mix vodka and tomato juice, at Harry's New York Bar in Paris. When Mons. Petiot came to New York, specifically to the King Cole Bar in the St. Regis Hotel, sophisticated New Yorkers asked him to spice it up a bit. Mons. Petiot added pepper, cayenne, lemon, Worstchester and Tobasco, and a legend was born. I like mine with a little olive juice and celery salt, and instead of Tobasco I love Chalupa. Rob at the Redhead makes his with a chipotle infused mixer. A bar on Avenue A infuses their vodka with bacon. Some like to substitute Clamato for tomato juice; the hint of shellfish seems to work well with the spice.

The best bloody mary I've ever had was at the Cliff House in San Francisco. Tom and Jerry's on Elizabeth St. has two for one specials every Saturday. How the bloody mary became the de facto morning after hangover cure, I don't know. I think that maybe it's because they're often garnished with celery, olives, sometimes a shrimp, so even those whose stomach won't allow them a regular meal can receive some sustenance. Whether or not one could survive on bloody mary's alone is up for debate; what is not up for debate is the level of attention required to make a good one. This is why there is always a momentary pause when asking for a bloody mary. Is the bar too busy? Is the time right? Some bartenders won't make them past, say, 3 in the afternoon. Others relish the opportunity to show their skill and will keep you in the action all night long.

Mons. Petiot named the drink as he did because it reminded him of a girl he knew at the Bucket of Blood Club in Chicago. What about this cocktail was reminiscent of this girl, we are left to ponder. What we do know, however, is that Mary I of England did not kill children so that she may bathe in their blood to preserve her beauty. According to the historians, she had no beauty to preserve.

I remember my first: a pair of tortoise shell Ray-Ban Wayfarers, a gift from Dad on my 16th birthday. I believe he purposely bought them in tortoise shell rather than black to evoke the southern-California of his childhood. I used to drive around in my VW Bug, left arm enjoying the freedom of an open window, tortoise shell Ray-Ban Wayfarers straight killllling it. Thus began my love affair with sunglasses.

Alas, sunglasses are fickle, and have a tendency to leave before you ever really get to know 'em. My relationship with those Ray-Bans was bliss, but lasted an all-too-brief 6 months. I don't know what happened - I awoke one morning and they were gone. I cursed the sun.

Distraught, I did what any young man would do: I traveled to Tijuana looking to score a cheap replacement, and in an affront to the memory of my first, I picked up a pair of knockoff Oakley's in a light shade of tan. They were gaudy; really we weren't a fit. And the Oakley's would soon be replaced by a series of sunglasses picked up at gas stations, truck stops, 24 hour mini-marts. Sunglasses of every shade and shape. Brief flings with non-polarized pretenders. I was in a downward spiral.

I began to trust sunglasses again when at 18 I bought my first pair of Arnette's. For a punk kid trying to make it on the California-scene, Arnette's were the way to go, and together we looked fucking baddass. Light weight yet durable, just the way I like 'em. We could get little rough, but I didn't worry about them breaking. I remember the day like it was yesterday: We were in Santa Cruz - we spent a lot of time together on the beach that summer. I made the mistake that I knew never to make: In the course of my conversation with a couple fine looking ladies, I turned my back to the sea. And just when we were at our best the sea came from behind and took them away from me forever.

It wasn't long, however, before I got another pair just like them. Relationships of about a year, each much like the other - a sudden swoon, an even more sudden departure, generally happy - continuing over the course of about 8 years. There were mistakes, certainly - how can we forget the blue rims and yellow lenses incident of '99? - but these were years in which my relationship with sunglasses emerged from its adolescent experimentation and began to mature.

It's funny how things tend to return from whence they came. What was hip in the 50's and 60's is hip again in the 80's, and again in the later years of the first decade of the 20th century; Ray-Ban Wayfarers are currently enjoying a vogue unmatched since the halcyon days post-Risky Business. Likewise, it was back to Ray-Bans, back to the beginning, as I got older. Back to the beginning, but different. It's impossible that I shouldn't bring something of my experience with Arnette to my new relation with Ray-Ban. So instead of Wayfarers I decided on something sleeker, more tailored, mature. I believe they were called 'Predator', and together we set out with New York as our prey.

As I write this I find myself in a state of confusion and dismay. Last night, last night...I though they were with me as I stepped out of the cab, but I looked and they were gone, and as the cab sped down the avenue I knew I'd never see them again. We cut a fine figure, those Ray-Ban's and I, and though right now they're all I can think about, and I feel like I'll never get past this hurt, I know that soon I'll find another just like 'em.

Once the train to New Haven leaves Grand Central Station, which it does approximately every half-hour, it travels underground until it reaches 125th St., Harlem, where it emerges from the depths to travel overground, amongst the buildings either half-constructed or dilapidated, buildings which themselves rest on the rock unit known as the Cambrian and Ordovician Inwood Marble. But it is not until the train moves beyond 125th St., and into the Bronx, that you begin to notice geography, specifically the northeastward-trending structure of the region. The New Haven line traces this natural curve and spoons the coast at it travels through the south-Bronx and into Westchester County. Once it crosses the Harlem River the train balances upon a narrow sliver of the Cambrian Manhattan Formation, until it reaches Fordham and cuts east across a small portion of Cambrian and Ordovician Inwood Marble. The eastward bounding train traverses a bit of the Preterozoic Fordham Gneiss before continuing upon the vast Cambrian-Ordovician Hartland Schist, which makes up the majority of the northeastern seaboard between New York and New Haven.

From the window of the train you can see rock outcroppings jutting from the earth at every imaginable northeaswardly-trending direction. These outcroppings somehow display a combination of necessity - chance - and order that mirrors that strange alchemy of the city one has just departed.

The city, urban life as we know it, is dependent on two things: Rocks and Elevators.

My boss's father had the fear of getting peanut butter stuck to the top of his mouth - Arachibutyrophobia. Seriously, this was something that concerned him, something that may have caused him to lose sleep. Other unusual phobias:

Fear of Thousand Island Salad Dressing
Fear of Ramen Noodles
Fear of Undercooked Tater Tots
Fear of Pie

This is how someone describes their fear of pictures of sharks:

I have another form of Selachophobia (Fear of sharks) If I touch a
picture of a shark's head (especially with its mouth open) it can still
bite my fingers off. I remember once in fourth grade we were reading a magazine, and I was holding it up the whole time I was reading. And since I was a faster reader than any of the other kids in the class, I got to the last page and dropped the magazine, kicked over my desk(hitting the child in front of me and injuring her) and scrambled onto the kid behind me's desk, all the while screaming bloody murder. I had been touching a shark's picture the whole friggin' time! Three teachers came running from different classrooms. I got into so much trouble just because it was "ONLY a PICTURE of a shark." I also have the phobia of a shark popping up in the pool and I won't take baths. Lakes are avoided at all costs and...the ocean? Yeah right.

I have only normal fears: success, commitment, the opposite sex, etc.

What the fuck's the deal with putting large flat-screened televisions in every restaurant? Not only are they now ubiquitous, but they are actually put forward as a selling point: "Come to our restaurant, ignore your date while watching SportsCenter!" WTF?

There is a man who haunts Washington Square Park with a troupe of trained pigeons. Nobody knows - I don't know - if these are birds which have come from a home, perhaps his own home, where they are trained, their performance cultivated, or if instead they are indeed "wild" birds that have become so accustomed to his presence that they can't seem to stay off his arms and shoulders.

The question, bearing as it does on the indeterminacy of markers distinguishing the natural from the manufactured, opens upon the question of the meaning of home. Whatever.

Today on 13th St., between 5th and University, I witnessed a 'hobo' passed out in a planter while his companion rummaged around near him for the cigarette that had fallen out of his hand. Not 25 yards further down the road, there gathered a crew of about 5 young adults who thought that in front of the doggy gym was good place to smoke a joint. What struck me was the mutual indifference shown by both the group of young ruffians and the passersby and the business owners. Nobody seemed to give a shit, and that made me happy. I love 13th St.

Friend tells me she got eye-raped by Adrien Brody while walking down Spring Street last week. She noticed him from about a block away, looking her up and down. As they passed, he actually lowered his sunglasses and smiled. An odd experience, she said; apparently, though she's quite attractive, visual assault is not something that happens to her on a regular basis.

This is funny because I remember being like 19 years old, sitting outside a coffee shop on busy Friday night downtown, and making extended, unflinching eye contact with a girl in a convertible as she was stopped in traffic. It was noticed by my friends, who suggested that I had just made visual love to this complete stranger. At the time, I felt the same way - like me and this completely random, though smokin' girl had some kind of cosmic connection, and if only we could have met...

Alas, now I'm starting to think that I, actually, eye-raped this girl. I comfort myself by imagining that if we had met, she would have suffered from halitosis.

Fuck Titles

Seriously, I think titles may be the one obstacle that prevents me from blogging more often - well, that and the fact I don't own a computer. The pressure to come up with a witty, appropriate heading for whatever bullshit I might have to say has stood in the way of my sharing my unique and fascinating world-view with others, and I'm over it. So, now that friend has loaned me her computer for the summer, I am eschewing titles - get ready, world, for random musings not gathered under a title, subtitle, or any other organizational heading (alright, well, date, but only because it's programmed into blogger).

And yes, I realize that this is indeed titled. Last one, fuckers.