You may or may not have found your way to these from the link in my previous post, but just in case here's the direct route.
Today we head into Portland, ME for a couple of nights. Portland is practically home away from home for me and I'm excited to show Mrs. Stephens around.We'll be staying at the Eastland Park Hotel which has a rooftop bar with a commanding 360-degree view of the city, Casco Bay and the islands. Portland also happens to be the hometown of Bob and Liz. They're the ones who gave us the 4-days in their timeshare cabin up in Rangely. We'll probably hang with them some when we're not exploring the Old Port or Back Bay.
In other news I've been having trouble remembering what day of the week it is. This has been a great vacation.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Bye, Bye Beantown
The trek continues. Tonight we're in Wells, Maine doing laundry. Really it's nicer than it sounds. Laurie booked us in a nice little condo with a view of the salt marshes and the sea beyond. It was snowing huge flakes just a second ago. I imagine we'll have a nice little dusting when we wake up tomorrow.
Boston was great. We became intimately familiar with the T--Boston's subway/trolley system. Among the highpoints was a visit to the North End, a visit to the North Church and a great time out with Laurie's old pal, Mark. This was the guy who's going to MIT. He and his girlfriend took us out to a hole-in-the-wall mexican place that made a killer magarita. Afterward we got some hot drinks and he showed us around MIT's campus, which incidentally is amazing. We hope to go back sometime in the spring or summer and check it out again.
Other than that, I really don't feel like writing much more. I'll let this link to a flickr set fill in some of the blanks.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
What a Difference a Day Makes
One morning you wake up CEO, the next morning you wake up VP of Operations. That was how my father succintly described the effect of marriage on guys. Truth is it's been more of a willing abdication instead of a violent coup. At least for me it has. It's been great.
Right now we're in Wilkes-Barre, PA. Laurie's getting ready so I thought I'd post quick while she finishes up. I know, what kind of geek blogs on his honeymoon? Welcome to the Newlywed Game 21st century style. Oh sure we're availing ourselves of the traditional honeymoon amusements (amusement, really), but because we're confessed nerds we have to check e-mail and blog now and then.
Since most of you that read Uncle Lar were at the wedding, I won't go into a huge recap about that. Besides, I'll have some pics up shortly and they'll tell the story better than I could. I will say that it was a far better day than I ever dreamed it would be. The sun was out, my friends were there, Frank was crooning and I had this best looking girl in the room sitting next to me . . . and I was taking her home afterward. Pretty cool.
Looks like Laurie's about ready to go. Today we drive to Boston. We're planning on making a stop in Whitinsville, Mass to check out her old stomping grounds. Tomorrow night one of her old teaching pals, who is now pursuing a doctorate at MIT, is taking us to dinner. I hope he likes to talk about crappy movies because I know nothing about marine biology.
Right now we're in Wilkes-Barre, PA. Laurie's getting ready so I thought I'd post quick while she finishes up. I know, what kind of geek blogs on his honeymoon? Welcome to the Newlywed Game 21st century style. Oh sure we're availing ourselves of the traditional honeymoon amusements (amusement, really), but because we're confessed nerds we have to check e-mail and blog now and then.
Since most of you that read Uncle Lar were at the wedding, I won't go into a huge recap about that. Besides, I'll have some pics up shortly and they'll tell the story better than I could. I will say that it was a far better day than I ever dreamed it would be. The sun was out, my friends were there, Frank was crooning and I had this best looking girl in the room sitting next to me . . . and I was taking her home afterward. Pretty cool.
Looks like Laurie's about ready to go. Today we drive to Boston. We're planning on making a stop in Whitinsville, Mass to check out her old stomping grounds. Tomorrow night one of her old teaching pals, who is now pursuing a doctorate at MIT, is taking us to dinner. I hope he likes to talk about crappy movies because I know nothing about marine biology.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
More Gotham Tales
I'm not going to make it a permanent link, but if you're interested in more stories about the city I love told from a steet-level perspective, may I suggest Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. There is also a printed compilation of city stories from this website that take place before 9/11 and after. In fact it's titled "Before and After: Stories from New York". I have a copy but will not lend it out, so don't ask. If you would like to support a bunch of starving writers and students earning minimum wage while pursuing their dreams in the Big Apple, then may I suggest you check the Strand. If you woud like to support Panno's Tupac habit, then you should pick up a copy for yourself from Amazon.
I submitted a slightly reworked version of Fool for the City: Part 2 to the 'Hood to see if it might get published on the website. We'll see.
BTW: Saw Firewall tonight. Despite the somewhat formulaic plot it's still pretty clever and has some excellent performances. And while Harrison Ford may be showing some of the side-effects of his longevity, I'm happy to report he's still got it.
I submitted a slightly reworked version of Fool for the City: Part 2 to the 'Hood to see if it might get published on the website. We'll see.
BTW: Saw Firewall tonight. Despite the somewhat formulaic plot it's still pretty clever and has some excellent performances. And while Harrison Ford may be showing some of the side-effects of his longevity, I'm happy to report he's still got it.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Fool for the City, Part 3
* About freakin’ time.
As were heading back into town after our airborne adventure the city seems even more alive to me now than before. The adrenaline is still flowing and my senses are on full alert. We are marching east on 44th. Destination Broadway and the Shubert Theatre. Bob seems to think it’s worth taking a chance in the cancellation line for tickets to Spamalot. As we get further from West Side Highway it starts to quiet down a little. This part of 44th is primarily brownstones so I’m not paying a whole lot of attention to my surroundings. We pass what I think is a church out of the corner of my eye, but Bob stops and says, “Didn’t you see that?” “See what?” He points behind me, “That’s the Actor’s Studio.”
I turn around and examine the building more closely. Sure enough, there’s the big “A” in a blue circle on the front. The gates in front are closed. It looks abandoned. There are no cars on the street in front, so I can only assume that James Lipton has the day off. As we near Broadway you can hear it.
About a block or two from the Shubert I can see the marquee. One of them anyway. Already there’s an enormous line of ticket holders waiting for the doors to open. We join the comparatively tiny knot of optimists in the cancellation line. Bob says Vlad is supposed to meet us here, so he’s going to look for him while I hold our place.
As I’m standing in line I observe the queue of ticket holders. It’s an eclectic mix of pie-eyed tourists and locals. A couple, who I assume to be locals, breaks out of the line of ticket holders and approaches the expectant crowd in the cancellation queue. “We’ve got a couple of spares for the balcony if anyone wants them.” A disjointed chorus of , “How much?” is the response. They want $50 a piece. Or maybe it’s more, I’m too far away to tell for sure.
It doesn’t matter, though. In a matter of seconds two people agree to buy them and step out of line to join the privileged masses. A couple of minutes later a lone scalper approaches us, obviously emboldened by the previous sale. Unfortunately for him a theatre district cop (yep they have cops just for the theatre district) appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and pulls him up short. His objections of “But, but they . . .” are met with a talk-to-the-hand gesture and a terse suggestion to move along.
I see Bob has located a very tired looking Vlad and is headed my way. It’s about this time a stage hand comes out to break the news that there are only two seats left in the entire house and neither is together. That’s all we need to hear. We leave the line and head for Broadway.
As we head south we pass a bakery that has piles of chocolate dipped croissants in the window. I begin to salivate. I haven’t had breakfast yet and the smell emanating from the doorway is positively captivating. It’s about this time Bob realizes he needs to go back to the Shubert to get a poster from the gift shop for one of his girls. I bravely volunteer to wait for him by the bakery. He disappears around the corner and I pass through the doorway of croissant heaven.
After ignoring me for a good two minutes or so, one of the guys behind the counter gives up pretending he can’t see me and asks what I want. I almost don’t need to point. He follows my hungry gaze to the blessed plethora of chocolate dipped pastry in the window. $2.50 later I’m back out on Broadway blissfully munching away. Tourists, necks craned skyward, pass by. Street hustlers (not that kind) pass out brochures for a wide variety of tourist attractions and guided tours. Cabs whoosh by. The sun is out and the sky is blue. It's a beautiful day in Gotham and I am at peace.
Not long after I finish the croissant, Bob and Vlad reappear and we grab a cab to head down to the Village. Destination—The White Horse Tavern. Founded in 1880 it is NYC’s 2nd oldest bar and the place where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. The poet’s bloodshot visage adorns just about every wall. This was also one of the first places Bob took me on my first visit to the City. It looks very much as I imagine it did in 1880. Lots of oak paneling and a decorative tin ceiling. Bob ran into Giuliani here once. It was during Rudy’s run for the senate against the distinguished carpet bagger from Arkansas.
Rudy was strategizing with a rather fetching campaign manager. Or at least that’s what Bob thought at the time. Turns out he was really just lunching with his mistress. Bob was with his brother Joe, an avowed atheist/anarchist and certainly no fan of Rudy. When Joe got up to use the john, Bob happened to catch the mayor’s eye as he and his date got up to leave. The mayor smiled at him and said hi. Bob smiled back and said, “Kick her ass.” Bob said Rudy beamed and strode over to shake his hand. When his brother Joe returned from the loo and saw him hobnobbing with the evil arch-Republican, Bob said Joe adopted an icy indifference and pretended to not even notice Rudy. Bob said Rudy picked up on this immediately, thanked Bob for his support and left. I got this whole story via e-mail shortly after it happened. It ended with “Only in NY my cousin. Only in NY.”
No celebrities appear to be in attendance this day. We are seated at a table right in the middle of traffic. People bustle back and forth between the main bar and dining room and brush past my chair. It doesn’t bother me though. It’s a lazy spring-like day in the Village and the three of us are happy to just kick back with a beer and take it in. We each get a cheeseburger and fries. Afterwards we stroll west through the Village back toward the river.
At about 6 we make our way to Chumley’s. Buried deep in the West Village, Chumley’s was once a speakeasy during Prohibition. As such it has no sign marking either of its entrances. You simply walk down Bedford street among the brownstones and ancient apartments looking for a lone door with an air conditioning unit above it. There are no windows either.
Like the White Horse, Chumley’s is a time machine. It feels like a pre-WWII English pub. The smell from the wood burning fireplace mingled with that of beer only makes the illusion stronger. According to one online guide, this was one of Hemingway and Fitzgerald’s favorite haunts. It’s easy to imagine that it still is. Still full from lunch, we opt to have a couple of beers and rest our dogs. Bob’s had us walking like men possessed all day. The warmth of the fire and the fine ale are a welcome respite.
After Chumley’s Vlad takes his leave of us and departs for Queens. He’s been running on empty all day and I let him know how much I appreciate his steadfastness. It’ll probably be another 2 or 3 years before I see him again. I hope not, but reality bites.
Bob and I head back to the hotel and wait for Angel. We’re going to go throw darts again tonight. Angel arrives and we head to a place called Tempest that is supposed to have a pretty good dart board. As we near the place we can feel the ground thumping from the bass. A line of Abecrombie and Fitch disciples (the REALLY young ones) is waiting to get in. We opt to move along.
The next stop is a REAL bar somewhere in midtown. As we enter I’m immediately reminded of Esquire back home. It’s a little more crowded and narrow, but the same cool mix of people is here. And the jukebox is background music, not the main attraction. All the way in the back is the dartboard. As we negotiate our way through the crowd Angel spots an old dart throwing buddy. I gather his name is Jim or some such thing. Had there been more light I might have been able to verify his name on the numerous dart championship plaques that adorn the wall behind the bar.
This guy is good. As it turns out a bunch of guys Angel used to throw darts with are here and they’re all better than us. Oh well, it’s not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. Even so, Jim and company play to win. One of the guys is an Irish guy named Garrett. He’s about 6’ 3”, lanky and a fast talker. During a game with Garrett, Hannah, a girl that appears to be attached to one of Garrett’s fellow dart sharks, discovers I’m from Champaign. She’s from Crystal Lake. While waiting my turn, I chat with her and her boyfriend about all things Midwest. It’s not long though before Garrett’s Irish lilt is in my ear, “Hey country folk, ye can chat later. We’ve got darts to throw here.” These guys are serious.
While Angel and I don’t get totally skunked every game we’ve yet to win one. It isn’t until much later in the evening that we begin to hit them well and eventually take a game, much to my astonishment and that of our hosts. But it’s all in fun and there are no hard feelings. Before I know it it’s 2 a.m. and time to go. As we leave, we receive a hearty goodbye from our opponents and an invitation to come back and play anytime.
Weary, but in good spirits, we traipse back through an eerily deserted Times Square and part ways with Angel at 5th Ave. Bob and I grab a cab back down to 32nd and our hotel. We collapse in our beds as soon as we’re in the door. It has been a very, very full day.
Sunday morning comes and it’s time to go home. We have breakfast with Angel at a diner just up the street from his apartment building. After saying goodbye to him we decide to spend what little time we have left on a tram ride over to Roosevlet Island, followed by a visit to the recently remodeled Strand. One last coffee in a café overlooking Herald Square and it’s really time to go. Bob grabs a train back to Jersey and I a cab back to La Guardia.
At the airport I manage to finagle my way onto an earlier flight. This will allow me to get into Midway and down to Laurie’s folks’ place at a much more civil hour. As I sit at the gate waiting to board I can see the silhouette of Manhattan slowly melting into the darkness. I’ll be back. As sure as Gray’s makes the best hot dog on planet Earth, I will be back.
As were heading back into town after our airborne adventure the city seems even more alive to me now than before. The adrenaline is still flowing and my senses are on full alert. We are marching east on 44th. Destination Broadway and the Shubert Theatre. Bob seems to think it’s worth taking a chance in the cancellation line for tickets to Spamalot. As we get further from West Side Highway it starts to quiet down a little. This part of 44th is primarily brownstones so I’m not paying a whole lot of attention to my surroundings. We pass what I think is a church out of the corner of my eye, but Bob stops and says, “Didn’t you see that?” “See what?” He points behind me, “That’s the Actor’s Studio.”
I turn around and examine the building more closely. Sure enough, there’s the big “A” in a blue circle on the front. The gates in front are closed. It looks abandoned. There are no cars on the street in front, so I can only assume that James Lipton has the day off. As we near Broadway you can hear it.
About a block or two from the Shubert I can see the marquee. One of them anyway. Already there’s an enormous line of ticket holders waiting for the doors to open. We join the comparatively tiny knot of optimists in the cancellation line. Bob says Vlad is supposed to meet us here, so he’s going to look for him while I hold our place.
As I’m standing in line I observe the queue of ticket holders. It’s an eclectic mix of pie-eyed tourists and locals. A couple, who I assume to be locals, breaks out of the line of ticket holders and approaches the expectant crowd in the cancellation queue. “We’ve got a couple of spares for the balcony if anyone wants them.” A disjointed chorus of , “How much?” is the response. They want $50 a piece. Or maybe it’s more, I’m too far away to tell for sure.
It doesn’t matter, though. In a matter of seconds two people agree to buy them and step out of line to join the privileged masses. A couple of minutes later a lone scalper approaches us, obviously emboldened by the previous sale. Unfortunately for him a theatre district cop (yep they have cops just for the theatre district) appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and pulls him up short. His objections of “But, but they . . .” are met with a talk-to-the-hand gesture and a terse suggestion to move along.
I see Bob has located a very tired looking Vlad and is headed my way. It’s about this time a stage hand comes out to break the news that there are only two seats left in the entire house and neither is together. That’s all we need to hear. We leave the line and head for Broadway.
As we head south we pass a bakery that has piles of chocolate dipped croissants in the window. I begin to salivate. I haven’t had breakfast yet and the smell emanating from the doorway is positively captivating. It’s about this time Bob realizes he needs to go back to the Shubert to get a poster from the gift shop for one of his girls. I bravely volunteer to wait for him by the bakery. He disappears around the corner and I pass through the doorway of croissant heaven.
After ignoring me for a good two minutes or so, one of the guys behind the counter gives up pretending he can’t see me and asks what I want. I almost don’t need to point. He follows my hungry gaze to the blessed plethora of chocolate dipped pastry in the window. $2.50 later I’m back out on Broadway blissfully munching away. Tourists, necks craned skyward, pass by. Street hustlers (not that kind) pass out brochures for a wide variety of tourist attractions and guided tours. Cabs whoosh by. The sun is out and the sky is blue. It's a beautiful day in Gotham and I am at peace.
Not long after I finish the croissant, Bob and Vlad reappear and we grab a cab to head down to the Village. Destination—The White Horse Tavern. Founded in 1880 it is NYC’s 2nd oldest bar and the place where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. The poet’s bloodshot visage adorns just about every wall. This was also one of the first places Bob took me on my first visit to the City. It looks very much as I imagine it did in 1880. Lots of oak paneling and a decorative tin ceiling. Bob ran into Giuliani here once. It was during Rudy’s run for the senate against the distinguished carpet bagger from Arkansas.
Rudy was strategizing with a rather fetching campaign manager. Or at least that’s what Bob thought at the time. Turns out he was really just lunching with his mistress. Bob was with his brother Joe, an avowed atheist/anarchist and certainly no fan of Rudy. When Joe got up to use the john, Bob happened to catch the mayor’s eye as he and his date got up to leave. The mayor smiled at him and said hi. Bob smiled back and said, “Kick her ass.” Bob said Rudy beamed and strode over to shake his hand. When his brother Joe returned from the loo and saw him hobnobbing with the evil arch-Republican, Bob said Joe adopted an icy indifference and pretended to not even notice Rudy. Bob said Rudy picked up on this immediately, thanked Bob for his support and left. I got this whole story via e-mail shortly after it happened. It ended with “Only in NY my cousin. Only in NY.”
No celebrities appear to be in attendance this day. We are seated at a table right in the middle of traffic. People bustle back and forth between the main bar and dining room and brush past my chair. It doesn’t bother me though. It’s a lazy spring-like day in the Village and the three of us are happy to just kick back with a beer and take it in. We each get a cheeseburger and fries. Afterwards we stroll west through the Village back toward the river.
At about 6 we make our way to Chumley’s. Buried deep in the West Village, Chumley’s was once a speakeasy during Prohibition. As such it has no sign marking either of its entrances. You simply walk down Bedford street among the brownstones and ancient apartments looking for a lone door with an air conditioning unit above it. There are no windows either.
Like the White Horse, Chumley’s is a time machine. It feels like a pre-WWII English pub. The smell from the wood burning fireplace mingled with that of beer only makes the illusion stronger. According to one online guide, this was one of Hemingway and Fitzgerald’s favorite haunts. It’s easy to imagine that it still is. Still full from lunch, we opt to have a couple of beers and rest our dogs. Bob’s had us walking like men possessed all day. The warmth of the fire and the fine ale are a welcome respite.
After Chumley’s Vlad takes his leave of us and departs for Queens. He’s been running on empty all day and I let him know how much I appreciate his steadfastness. It’ll probably be another 2 or 3 years before I see him again. I hope not, but reality bites.
Bob and I head back to the hotel and wait for Angel. We’re going to go throw darts again tonight. Angel arrives and we head to a place called Tempest that is supposed to have a pretty good dart board. As we near the place we can feel the ground thumping from the bass. A line of Abecrombie and Fitch disciples (the REALLY young ones) is waiting to get in. We opt to move along.
The next stop is a REAL bar somewhere in midtown. As we enter I’m immediately reminded of Esquire back home. It’s a little more crowded and narrow, but the same cool mix of people is here. And the jukebox is background music, not the main attraction. All the way in the back is the dartboard. As we negotiate our way through the crowd Angel spots an old dart throwing buddy. I gather his name is Jim or some such thing. Had there been more light I might have been able to verify his name on the numerous dart championship plaques that adorn the wall behind the bar.
This guy is good. As it turns out a bunch of guys Angel used to throw darts with are here and they’re all better than us. Oh well, it’s not whether you win or lose but how you play the game. Even so, Jim and company play to win. One of the guys is an Irish guy named Garrett. He’s about 6’ 3”, lanky and a fast talker. During a game with Garrett, Hannah, a girl that appears to be attached to one of Garrett’s fellow dart sharks, discovers I’m from Champaign. She’s from Crystal Lake. While waiting my turn, I chat with her and her boyfriend about all things Midwest. It’s not long though before Garrett’s Irish lilt is in my ear, “Hey country folk, ye can chat later. We’ve got darts to throw here.” These guys are serious.
While Angel and I don’t get totally skunked every game we’ve yet to win one. It isn’t until much later in the evening that we begin to hit them well and eventually take a game, much to my astonishment and that of our hosts. But it’s all in fun and there are no hard feelings. Before I know it it’s 2 a.m. and time to go. As we leave, we receive a hearty goodbye from our opponents and an invitation to come back and play anytime.
Weary, but in good spirits, we traipse back through an eerily deserted Times Square and part ways with Angel at 5th Ave. Bob and I grab a cab back down to 32nd and our hotel. We collapse in our beds as soon as we’re in the door. It has been a very, very full day.
Sunday morning comes and it’s time to go home. We have breakfast with Angel at a diner just up the street from his apartment building. After saying goodbye to him we decide to spend what little time we have left on a tram ride over to Roosevlet Island, followed by a visit to the recently remodeled Strand. One last coffee in a café overlooking Herald Square and it’s really time to go. Bob grabs a train back to Jersey and I a cab back to La Guardia.
At the airport I manage to finagle my way onto an earlier flight. This will allow me to get into Midway and down to Laurie’s folks’ place at a much more civil hour. As I sit at the gate waiting to board I can see the silhouette of Manhattan slowly melting into the darkness. I’ll be back. As sure as Gray’s makes the best hot dog on planet Earth, I will be back.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Fool for the City, Pt. 2
My eyes open. A glance at the clock reveals it’s about 10:30 in the morning. Bob is already bustling around the room. He asks if I want a coffee and bagel from around the block. I hoarsely decline. With that he bounds out the door in disgustingly good humor. How he managed to avoid a hangover is beyond me. Of course evenings on the city like we had the night before are old hat to him. I’m still batting in the minors when it comes to living it up Gotham-style.
I gingerly peel myself from the mattress and sit on the edge of the bed waiting. Oddly enough the pounding headache never comes. Maybe it’s just waiting for me to stand up to pounce. Through the gap in the drapes I can see into the offices of the building across 32nd. Young Korean men and women are busily being busy at some kind of business. Then it dawns on me that if I can see them, they can no doubt see the unshaven, disheveled figure wearing nothing but boxers in the hotel across from them. I imagine I look like a relatively hairless sasquatch. None of them appear to take notice. If they have, I imagine they’re busily e-mailing each other, “Don’t stare, but there’s a hungover white guy in the window across the street. Park, do you still have that web cam pointed at the hotel?”
I slowly stand up and close the drapes. The headache never comes. Instead I feel like I’ve been shot by a tranq gun, like I’m walking through the bottom of a swimming pool. The 10 step journey to the bathroom is a forced march. I shave and get in the shower. I just stand there letting the hot water run over me. Slowly I can feel my joints loosen and my head start to clear. For 20 minutes I let the water and steam continue this healing work then I reluctantly get out and get dressed. Bob bounds back into the room, bagel and coffee in hand. I both loathe and envy his vigor.
“So, what do you want to do today?”, he asks. I suggest brunch at the White Horse, maybe a trip to the Strand and dinner at Chumbley’s. Other than that I didn’t have any major agenda items. “Well then let’s hit it,” he commands. And with that we hit the streets.
As we head towards 5th Ave. Bob asks if I need batteries for the camera. I do. I could use a Gatorade too. We round the corner and duck into a CVS. There is one on just about every corner in Manhattan. They probably own more NYC real estate than Trump. I get some super duper Lithium batteries and a Vitamin Water. The clever copy writing on the water’s label is what sells me. Go figure. I need to send an e-mail to Glaceau corporate and tell them, “Great copy!!!”. I still harbor fantasies that someday a similar dealer feedback will appear about E-flite or ParkZone. Did I mention I still believe in Santa Claus, too?
As we trek up 5th Bob is in full insane-New-Yorker-stride. Still suffering from a few lingering hangover effects I try to keep up but eventually give up and fall back to sip my beverage at a more leisurely pace. Bob stops occasionally to let me catch up a little then takes off again. I’m fatigued just watching him. As we near the main entrance to the Empire State Building, he stops and turns around with this kind of serious look on his face.
“You know I love you cous’, right?” Yeah, I know. “More than my brothers.” Yeah, I guess I knew that. “And since you and I share a lot of the same values, I knew the stripper-thing wouldn’t work for you. I really didn’t want that for my bachelor party either.” As slow as I am, I begin to realize this is a build up to something. And with Bob, something could literally be anything. I agree, the strippers wouldn’t have been a good idea for a number of reasons. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “That said, I still feel it's my duty as your cousin as well as the man in charge of your bachelor party festivities this weekend to make sure that you have as close to an orgasmic experience as possible while you’re here.” Rrrrriiight. I have no idea where this is headed, but my extensive history with Bob suggests something really out-of-the-ordinary is about to occur. “I’m going to introduce you to a woman that will change your life.” By now I’m speechless and Bob is grinning deviously. I feel like I’ve wandered into a trap.
Suddenly Bob halts and says, Larry meet Arianna. I am so focused on what Bob is saying I don’t even notice the person standing in front of us. Arianna is about 5’ 2” with brown hair, brown eyes and a welcoming smile. But it is what she is wearing that really gets my attention. It’s a yellow overcoat that says “Liberty Helicopter Tours, New York.” I look at Bob, “Are you serious?” Sure enough, my predictably unpredictable cousin is taking me on a helicopter tour of Manhattan. He laughs, “I figured buying you a lap dance would cost about as much and I knew you’d enjoy this a whole lot more.” Go Bob.
Arianna gets on her Nextel and pages our ride. About 10 minutes later a non-descript blue van appears to pick us up. It looks a little FBI and some of the people on the sidewalk stop to see who is getting in. Our driver is a 70-something year old Puerto Rican guy. He asks if this is my first time in New York. I explain I’ve been before and this is kind of a bachelor party of sorts. He admonishes us, “Whateva’ you do stay out of the subways. It’s not safe down there. Take a cab. It’s more expensive but at least you up here and not down there.” Having ridden the subways a lot, I wonder if my man has ridden them since 1980. That was the era of Bernie Goetz and movies like Escape from New York, The Warriors and Taxi Driver. They probably were dangerous then. But they aren’t now, unless you count panhandlers peddling $1 bootleg DVDs a menace.
The driver deposits us at the corner of 30th street and West Side Hwy. In front of us is the Hudson River and a heliport. We cross the highway and head for Liberty Helicopter’s terminal. As we cross the highway, one of Liberty’s EC120’s returns from a tour. It looks and sounds awesome. I can’t help but think of Blue Thunder. Inside the terminal we go through many of the same security procedures you would at an airport, including a few you don’t. For instance we have to leave our cell phones in a locker. We are also issued an inflatable life vest that goes around your waist like a fanny pack. In the unlikely event of a landing in the Hudson River, I will pull the top of the vest from the pouch, put it around my neck and inflate it. Drowning in the Hudson isn’t what worries me, though. Swallowing some of it does. I shudder at the thought of what a mouthful might taste like.
As I walk through the metal detector, the screener holds his palm up in anticipation of a high five, like Ive just completed astronaut training or something. I give him some skin and get in line with the rest of the passengers. The terminal waiting area is a metal building with an unusually low ceiling. Unusual that is until I see one of the helicopters land right outside the door. The low roof is clearly essential for rotor blade clearance should one of the helis stray to close on landing.
A crew member waits at the door and signals the six of us when it is time to head for the heli. As I step out onto the helipad the heli is still running, which is just a little intimidating. Visions of Vic Morrow pop into my head. The ground crew leads us to a painted line and signals for us to wait here while they unload the previous tour group. They have to signal because the whine of the turbine and sound of the rotors is deafening. Bob motions to one of our fellow tour group members to snap our pic in front of the heli. Little do we know a ground crew member will do the same thing right before we get on. We can buy a print after the flight if we want. I’m sure a free copy was sent to the FBI as well.
By now my senses are all at full alert. Between the smell of the jet fuel, the sound of the turbine and rotor blades, and the prospect of my first ever heli ride I am completely and totally amped. One of the ground crew points to the first two people in line and motions them forward. He guides them to a spot just in front of the heli. Another crew member takes their picture. This ritual is repeated until they finally get to Bob and I. My stomach is turning somersaults as the ground crew points at us and motions us toward the heli. The feeling is not unlike the one I had the first time my sophomore football coach motioned for me during a game. My instinct is to duck as we walk under the rotor blades, but there is still a good 6 feet or so between the top of my cranium and instant decapitation. Bob and I pose and smile. Our pic is taken and with expert efficiency we are loaded up and belted in.
Before closing us in they hand Bob and I headsets to wear, both to reduce the noise and allow us to hear the pilot. The pilot does a few last second systems checks and gives the ground crew a thumbs up. I turn on my video camera to record the takeoff. There is a slight increase in turbine RPM , the sound of the rotors taking a big bite of air and we leap off the helipad. As we clear the terminal roof, the pilot swings the nose around toward the Hudson and we depart the heli pad skimming low over the water.
As the helicopter gains forward airspeed the pilot starts a gentle climbing turn south down the Hudson. I’m sitting in a back seat right behind the pilot. The large fishbowl Plexiglas window allows me to look straight down at the brownish-green waters 1,400 feet below. I glance up through the bubble canopy at the blades whirring overhead. It’s right about now that it occurs to me the only thing keeping us aloft is thousands of moving parts, many of which were probably purchased from the lowest bidder, continuing to work together flawlessly. I glance over at Bob who has his camera in my face and records the somewhat pensive look this thought produces.
Off to my left the island of Manhattan slides by like a gigantic cruise ship. The view is simply incredible. As we fly along down the river (post 9/11 there are no more tours over the island) the pilot points out Ground Zero and Battery Park. As I look ahead out the front of the canopy I notice everything is vibrating. The canopy, the instrument panel, my fellow passengers—it’s all vibrating. “C’mon thousands of parts, don’t fail us now.” This anxiety is forgotten, however, when I see the Statue of Liberty getting larger in the front windscreen. Our pilot swings around the front the statue then reverses course and swings around the front again headed the other way so the folks on my side of the heli could get a clear shot of Lady Liberty and Ellis Island. All I can think is, “What a country. What an amazing country.”
As we cruise back up the Hudson it’s my turn to stare at New Jersey. This is actually cooler than it sounds because Bob used to live in Hoboken and we are busily searching out landmarks from previous adventures. We pass over the ferry terminal we used to take into the city and spot the block where he used to live. The pilot takes us as far as the top of Central Park then heads back for the heli pad. Once again I’ve got Manhattan on my side. As we approach the helipad it looks like a postage stamp. I fire up the video camera to record the landing . . . or provide exciting footage for the 6 o’clock news. I’m hoping for the former.
We touch down and seconds later the ground crew has the doors open and is unbuckling us from our seats. I spot the next six tourists anxiously waiting behind the painted line. I remove my inflatable fanny pack and hand it over, casting one last look over my shoulder at our ride. As it sits idling with heat shimmer coming from the turbine exhaust it looks awesome but I think I'll stick with the fixed wing crowd. If they ever make a helicopter that sprouts wings when the engine quits, instead of plummeting like a runaway elevator, I might give it a go.
Inside, the same screener that enthusiastically congratulated me for making it through the metal detector successfully is waiting to give me another high-five. Like every other first flight in my life the thrill of this one doesn’t fully hit me until I’m on the ground. When you’re in the middle of it, you’re mind is too engaged to fully step back and take it all in. You can’t wipe the grin off my face. Lap dance, shmapdance. Does my cousin know me or what? I go ahead and purchase the print even though we took a picture ourselves. I also pick up a couple of copies of the “Liberty Helicopters: An Aerial View of New York City” DVD.
As we walk back into the city I call Laurie and relate what just happened with all the restraint of a breathless 7-year old who has just seen his first shooting star. I can hear her giggling as I gush. She’s just as thrilled by my enthusiasm as I was by the flight. It’s so cool to be in love with a girl that gets you. While I’m talking to Laurie, Bob calls Vlad and tells him to meet us by the Shubert. We’re going to see if we can get tickets to Spamalot in the cancellation line.
One adventure down, who knows how many more to go.
To be continued . . .
I gingerly peel myself from the mattress and sit on the edge of the bed waiting. Oddly enough the pounding headache never comes. Maybe it’s just waiting for me to stand up to pounce. Through the gap in the drapes I can see into the offices of the building across 32nd. Young Korean men and women are busily being busy at some kind of business. Then it dawns on me that if I can see them, they can no doubt see the unshaven, disheveled figure wearing nothing but boxers in the hotel across from them. I imagine I look like a relatively hairless sasquatch. None of them appear to take notice. If they have, I imagine they’re busily e-mailing each other, “Don’t stare, but there’s a hungover white guy in the window across the street. Park, do you still have that web cam pointed at the hotel?”
I slowly stand up and close the drapes. The headache never comes. Instead I feel like I’ve been shot by a tranq gun, like I’m walking through the bottom of a swimming pool. The 10 step journey to the bathroom is a forced march. I shave and get in the shower. I just stand there letting the hot water run over me. Slowly I can feel my joints loosen and my head start to clear. For 20 minutes I let the water and steam continue this healing work then I reluctantly get out and get dressed. Bob bounds back into the room, bagel and coffee in hand. I both loathe and envy his vigor.
“So, what do you want to do today?”, he asks. I suggest brunch at the White Horse, maybe a trip to the Strand and dinner at Chumbley’s. Other than that I didn’t have any major agenda items. “Well then let’s hit it,” he commands. And with that we hit the streets.
As we head towards 5th Ave. Bob asks if I need batteries for the camera. I do. I could use a Gatorade too. We round the corner and duck into a CVS. There is one on just about every corner in Manhattan. They probably own more NYC real estate than Trump. I get some super duper Lithium batteries and a Vitamin Water. The clever copy writing on the water’s label is what sells me. Go figure. I need to send an e-mail to Glaceau corporate and tell them, “Great copy!!!”. I still harbor fantasies that someday a similar dealer feedback will appear about E-flite or ParkZone. Did I mention I still believe in Santa Claus, too?
As we trek up 5th Bob is in full insane-New-Yorker-stride. Still suffering from a few lingering hangover effects I try to keep up but eventually give up and fall back to sip my beverage at a more leisurely pace. Bob stops occasionally to let me catch up a little then takes off again. I’m fatigued just watching him. As we near the main entrance to the Empire State Building, he stops and turns around with this kind of serious look on his face.
“You know I love you cous’, right?” Yeah, I know. “More than my brothers.” Yeah, I guess I knew that. “And since you and I share a lot of the same values, I knew the stripper-thing wouldn’t work for you. I really didn’t want that for my bachelor party either.” As slow as I am, I begin to realize this is a build up to something. And with Bob, something could literally be anything. I agree, the strippers wouldn’t have been a good idea for a number of reasons. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “That said, I still feel it's my duty as your cousin as well as the man in charge of your bachelor party festivities this weekend to make sure that you have as close to an orgasmic experience as possible while you’re here.” Rrrrriiight. I have no idea where this is headed, but my extensive history with Bob suggests something really out-of-the-ordinary is about to occur. “I’m going to introduce you to a woman that will change your life.” By now I’m speechless and Bob is grinning deviously. I feel like I’ve wandered into a trap.
Suddenly Bob halts and says, Larry meet Arianna. I am so focused on what Bob is saying I don’t even notice the person standing in front of us. Arianna is about 5’ 2” with brown hair, brown eyes and a welcoming smile. But it is what she is wearing that really gets my attention. It’s a yellow overcoat that says “Liberty Helicopter Tours, New York.” I look at Bob, “Are you serious?” Sure enough, my predictably unpredictable cousin is taking me on a helicopter tour of Manhattan. He laughs, “I figured buying you a lap dance would cost about as much and I knew you’d enjoy this a whole lot more.” Go Bob.
Arianna gets on her Nextel and pages our ride. About 10 minutes later a non-descript blue van appears to pick us up. It looks a little FBI and some of the people on the sidewalk stop to see who is getting in. Our driver is a 70-something year old Puerto Rican guy. He asks if this is my first time in New York. I explain I’ve been before and this is kind of a bachelor party of sorts. He admonishes us, “Whateva’ you do stay out of the subways. It’s not safe down there. Take a cab. It’s more expensive but at least you up here and not down there.” Having ridden the subways a lot, I wonder if my man has ridden them since 1980. That was the era of Bernie Goetz and movies like Escape from New York, The Warriors and Taxi Driver. They probably were dangerous then. But they aren’t now, unless you count panhandlers peddling $1 bootleg DVDs a menace.
The driver deposits us at the corner of 30th street and West Side Hwy. In front of us is the Hudson River and a heliport. We cross the highway and head for Liberty Helicopter’s terminal. As we cross the highway, one of Liberty’s EC120’s returns from a tour. It looks and sounds awesome. I can’t help but think of Blue Thunder. Inside the terminal we go through many of the same security procedures you would at an airport, including a few you don’t. For instance we have to leave our cell phones in a locker. We are also issued an inflatable life vest that goes around your waist like a fanny pack. In the unlikely event of a landing in the Hudson River, I will pull the top of the vest from the pouch, put it around my neck and inflate it. Drowning in the Hudson isn’t what worries me, though. Swallowing some of it does. I shudder at the thought of what a mouthful might taste like.
As I walk through the metal detector, the screener holds his palm up in anticipation of a high five, like Ive just completed astronaut training or something. I give him some skin and get in line with the rest of the passengers. The terminal waiting area is a metal building with an unusually low ceiling. Unusual that is until I see one of the helicopters land right outside the door. The low roof is clearly essential for rotor blade clearance should one of the helis stray to close on landing.
A crew member waits at the door and signals the six of us when it is time to head for the heli. As I step out onto the helipad the heli is still running, which is just a little intimidating. Visions of Vic Morrow pop into my head. The ground crew leads us to a painted line and signals for us to wait here while they unload the previous tour group. They have to signal because the whine of the turbine and sound of the rotors is deafening. Bob motions to one of our fellow tour group members to snap our pic in front of the heli. Little do we know a ground crew member will do the same thing right before we get on. We can buy a print after the flight if we want. I’m sure a free copy was sent to the FBI as well.
By now my senses are all at full alert. Between the smell of the jet fuel, the sound of the turbine and rotor blades, and the prospect of my first ever heli ride I am completely and totally amped. One of the ground crew points to the first two people in line and motions them forward. He guides them to a spot just in front of the heli. Another crew member takes their picture. This ritual is repeated until they finally get to Bob and I. My stomach is turning somersaults as the ground crew points at us and motions us toward the heli. The feeling is not unlike the one I had the first time my sophomore football coach motioned for me during a game. My instinct is to duck as we walk under the rotor blades, but there is still a good 6 feet or so between the top of my cranium and instant decapitation. Bob and I pose and smile. Our pic is taken and with expert efficiency we are loaded up and belted in.
Before closing us in they hand Bob and I headsets to wear, both to reduce the noise and allow us to hear the pilot. The pilot does a few last second systems checks and gives the ground crew a thumbs up. I turn on my video camera to record the takeoff. There is a slight increase in turbine RPM , the sound of the rotors taking a big bite of air and we leap off the helipad. As we clear the terminal roof, the pilot swings the nose around toward the Hudson and we depart the heli pad skimming low over the water.
As the helicopter gains forward airspeed the pilot starts a gentle climbing turn south down the Hudson. I’m sitting in a back seat right behind the pilot. The large fishbowl Plexiglas window allows me to look straight down at the brownish-green waters 1,400 feet below. I glance up through the bubble canopy at the blades whirring overhead. It’s right about now that it occurs to me the only thing keeping us aloft is thousands of moving parts, many of which were probably purchased from the lowest bidder, continuing to work together flawlessly. I glance over at Bob who has his camera in my face and records the somewhat pensive look this thought produces.
Off to my left the island of Manhattan slides by like a gigantic cruise ship. The view is simply incredible. As we fly along down the river (post 9/11 there are no more tours over the island) the pilot points out Ground Zero and Battery Park. As I look ahead out the front of the canopy I notice everything is vibrating. The canopy, the instrument panel, my fellow passengers—it’s all vibrating. “C’mon thousands of parts, don’t fail us now.” This anxiety is forgotten, however, when I see the Statue of Liberty getting larger in the front windscreen. Our pilot swings around the front the statue then reverses course and swings around the front again headed the other way so the folks on my side of the heli could get a clear shot of Lady Liberty and Ellis Island. All I can think is, “What a country. What an amazing country.”
As we cruise back up the Hudson it’s my turn to stare at New Jersey. This is actually cooler than it sounds because Bob used to live in Hoboken and we are busily searching out landmarks from previous adventures. We pass over the ferry terminal we used to take into the city and spot the block where he used to live. The pilot takes us as far as the top of Central Park then heads back for the heli pad. Once again I’ve got Manhattan on my side. As we approach the helipad it looks like a postage stamp. I fire up the video camera to record the landing . . . or provide exciting footage for the 6 o’clock news. I’m hoping for the former.
We touch down and seconds later the ground crew has the doors open and is unbuckling us from our seats. I spot the next six tourists anxiously waiting behind the painted line. I remove my inflatable fanny pack and hand it over, casting one last look over my shoulder at our ride. As it sits idling with heat shimmer coming from the turbine exhaust it looks awesome but I think I'll stick with the fixed wing crowd. If they ever make a helicopter that sprouts wings when the engine quits, instead of plummeting like a runaway elevator, I might give it a go.
Inside, the same screener that enthusiastically congratulated me for making it through the metal detector successfully is waiting to give me another high-five. Like every other first flight in my life the thrill of this one doesn’t fully hit me until I’m on the ground. When you’re in the middle of it, you’re mind is too engaged to fully step back and take it all in. You can’t wipe the grin off my face. Lap dance, shmapdance. Does my cousin know me or what? I go ahead and purchase the print even though we took a picture ourselves. I also pick up a couple of copies of the “Liberty Helicopters: An Aerial View of New York City” DVD.
As we walk back into the city I call Laurie and relate what just happened with all the restraint of a breathless 7-year old who has just seen his first shooting star. I can hear her giggling as I gush. She’s just as thrilled by my enthusiasm as I was by the flight. It’s so cool to be in love with a girl that gets you. While I’m talking to Laurie, Bob calls Vlad and tells him to meet us by the Shubert. We’re going to see if we can get tickets to Spamalot in the cancellation line.
One adventure down, who knows how many more to go.
To be continued . . .
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Fool for the City, Pt. 1
“Thirty second and fifth.” Shere turns his haggard face over his shoulder towards me and responds, “T’irty two and fife?” “Yeah.” He starts the meter, drops the cab in gear and blasts away from the terminal. So begins another adventure in The City. Trying to disguise my tourist status I decide to ask a question that I think only a local would ask, “So what looks good today? The bridge or tunnel?” Shere’s in his shirt sleeves with the window down. It’s 61 degrees in January. He glances in the rearview mirror. “Da’ bridge is nuts. Da’ tunnel’s shorta’. Besides, wit’ da’ tunnel it’s just ‘zip, bam’ you’re in midtown.” I nod knowingly, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I have my window down taking in the June-like breeze. We’re alternately hurtling and screeching to a halt down 495 toward the midtown tunnel. To my right, the Bronx. Off in the distance to my left Queens or Brooklyn. I’m not exactly sure. But straight ahead, straight ahead is the unmistakable skyline of midtown Manhattan. My mind drifts back to the last time I was here. It was just about as warm, only it really was June not January. I was meeting Bob and the boys for a weekend of Yankees vs. Red Sox, Terra Blues and whatever else Gotham threw our way. The purpose of this visit was twofold: satisfy the NYC jones that both of us have and to celebrate a new chapter in my life.
As we emerge from the tunnel into the city my eyes immediately shoot up. I can’t help it. My tourist origins are betrayed. I check the rear view to see if Shere’s made me or not. He’s too busy honking at pedestrians and diving in front of MTA buses and other traffic to care. As we come up 33rd, we find our progress stymied by a barricade on 6th. Shere advises I hop out here and walk the rest of the way—about 2 to 3 blocks—as the detour will cost me. I pay him and hop out into the street.
It’s probably about 3 or 3:30 in the afternoon and the sun is low and lighting up the buildings to the east. I head south down 6th and hang a right at 32nd. With my shoulder bag, leather jacket and jeans I fit right in. I keep my head down fighting the urge to stare at the stunning glow reflecting off the buildings as the sun sets. I cross 5th realizing from the signs around me that I must be in Korea Town or something. I’m staying at the La Quinta. Eventually I spot the sign and am in the hotel.
Now, Bob had sent me pics of the hotel the week before. Among them was a rather enticing image of the rooftop bar. Considering the apocalyptically warm temperatures, I am sure the outdoor patio will be open. I skip the front desk and head straight for the elevator. The buttons only go up to 14. That must be the roof. I get to the 14th floor, the doors open and my intuition is rewarded by a sign that says “Rooftop Bar” and an arrow pointing right. Anticipating that first sip of a Ketel and tonic while enjoying a commanding view of the city I round the corner with the excitement of little Ralphie going for his BB gun, only to be greeted by a chalk board sign blocking my path with this disheartening news, “Rooftop bar closed. Do not open door. Alarm will sound.”
Choking back tears, I call Bob to see where he’s at. He said to meet at the bar. Turns out he’s downstairs in the lobby waiting for me. Has been the whole time. How we missed each other I have no idea. I get to the lobby and spot him in line at the check-in counter. We hug, giant grins on both our faces. We’re back baby!
As we check in Bob asks about the bar. The concierge assures us it will be open, but not till 5. We drop off our bags in the room, contact the rest of the NYC contingent that will be joining us and wait for the bar to open. At about 5 til, the owner spots us loitering in the hall and says come on in. We both head straight for the patio. As we head out the sliding door Bob’s ahead of me and turns around before I do. He’s eyes widen, “Don’t turn around yet! Keep coming, keep coming.” He directs me all the way to the other end of the patio. “OK, turn around.” Piercing the sky less than ½ a block in front of me is the Empire State Building. Even on the roof of this 14 story hotel I feel like I’m at ground level. The spotlights at the top are blazing, giving the top of the building a torch like effect. I look for a giant gorilla peering over the edge at me. No such luck.
Five minutes later Vlad joins us on the patio. We play catch up and then sit down to enjoy the view. Angel and Rob join us a short time later. After a couple of rounds we reluctantly leave our perch and head back to street level. We’ve got reservations at Da Andrea. A little ristorante in the Village that Angel and his wife Tracy discovered. Two bottles of Dolcetto and a pile of fantastic food later we waddle out to the street and start strategizing the evening’s battle plan.
It is decided we will head to the meat packing district and check out Hogs and Heifers. The four of us wedge into a cab and are off. We get dropped off a few blocks shy of our intended destination. Turns out it’s been a while since the boys have been in this part of town and things have changed. What was once a reassuringly scary part of NYC has become the equivalent of Rush Street in Chicago. Old landmarks no longer look like they once did to those of our party that frequented this area as yoots. A reorientation hike ensues. Eventually we find the place. This is the bar where they filmed Coyote Ugly. There really is a Coyote Ugly in Manhattan but for some reason the producers chose this bar to film it in. Maybe back then it was scary enough to keep the tourists away and they could film in peace. Who knows. Having been to Coyote Ugly myself (the place not the movie) I see few differences.
The abrasive-but-cute barmaids wear boots, tight jeans, cowboy hats and halter tops. The juke box is blaring Hank Williams Jr., Johnny Cash, Johnny Paycheck and any other honkytonk Johnny you can think of. Soon we’re moving on to see what else the city has to offer. One establishment leads to another and eventually we wind up at the Bleecker St. Bar. It’s got dart boards, pool tables and a tap with plenty to choose from. Angel, a deadly dart player, announces we will set up camp here.
We play darts till about 2:30 or 3 in the morning then head back to the hotel after seeing Angel off to his midtown apartment and indulgent wife. Vlad parts ways with us at his Queens bound subway stop. Rob was lost to us earlier in the evening, but he came all the way from Jersey and needed to stay on the train schedule. Bob and I aren’t quite ready to turn in yet, though. We both crave pizza. Not far from the hotel we find it at a stainless steel, all night pizzeria. We each get a couple of slices and sit down to recap the evening.
Since I’m facing the window I can see people walking by outside. It looks like some kind of party up the street is breaking up. What look to be 19 or 20 year old couples walk by the window and glance in at the two 30-somethings wolfing down pizza at almost 4 in the morning. A couple of girls walk by the window giggling. One of them blows me a kiss, giggles and keeps on walking. I’m feeling both flattered and p’wned at the same time.
Finally we get back to the room. Bob suggests we cap off the evening with a sojourn on the ledge outside our 3rd floor window. Actually it was more like a small balcony with a big flagpole attached to it, but the signs on the window made it clear that the La Quinta management took a dim view of anyone using it as a balcony. Duly warned, Bob and I elect to take our chances anyway and crawl out onto our new private terrace. I notice Old Glory is still wound up on the flag pole like it was when we got in the room. Filled with purpose, pilsner and patriotism I set to untangling the colors so they could fly freely.
After about 30 minutes of sitting in relative silence absorbing the sights and sounds of New York before dawn, Bob and I wedge ourselves back into the room and hit the sack. Sure, I’m not as wild and crazy as I was when I first came to The City but it still brings out a part of me that only it can. My head hits the pillow and I close my eyes with a vision of the Empire State Building blazing into the night sky.
To be continued . . .
I have my window down taking in the June-like breeze. We’re alternately hurtling and screeching to a halt down 495 toward the midtown tunnel. To my right, the Bronx. Off in the distance to my left Queens or Brooklyn. I’m not exactly sure. But straight ahead, straight ahead is the unmistakable skyline of midtown Manhattan. My mind drifts back to the last time I was here. It was just about as warm, only it really was June not January. I was meeting Bob and the boys for a weekend of Yankees vs. Red Sox, Terra Blues and whatever else Gotham threw our way. The purpose of this visit was twofold: satisfy the NYC jones that both of us have and to celebrate a new chapter in my life.
As we emerge from the tunnel into the city my eyes immediately shoot up. I can’t help it. My tourist origins are betrayed. I check the rear view to see if Shere’s made me or not. He’s too busy honking at pedestrians and diving in front of MTA buses and other traffic to care. As we come up 33rd, we find our progress stymied by a barricade on 6th. Shere advises I hop out here and walk the rest of the way—about 2 to 3 blocks—as the detour will cost me. I pay him and hop out into the street.
It’s probably about 3 or 3:30 in the afternoon and the sun is low and lighting up the buildings to the east. I head south down 6th and hang a right at 32nd. With my shoulder bag, leather jacket and jeans I fit right in. I keep my head down fighting the urge to stare at the stunning glow reflecting off the buildings as the sun sets. I cross 5th realizing from the signs around me that I must be in Korea Town or something. I’m staying at the La Quinta. Eventually I spot the sign and am in the hotel.
Now, Bob had sent me pics of the hotel the week before. Among them was a rather enticing image of the rooftop bar. Considering the apocalyptically warm temperatures, I am sure the outdoor patio will be open. I skip the front desk and head straight for the elevator. The buttons only go up to 14. That must be the roof. I get to the 14th floor, the doors open and my intuition is rewarded by a sign that says “Rooftop Bar” and an arrow pointing right. Anticipating that first sip of a Ketel and tonic while enjoying a commanding view of the city I round the corner with the excitement of little Ralphie going for his BB gun, only to be greeted by a chalk board sign blocking my path with this disheartening news, “Rooftop bar closed. Do not open door. Alarm will sound.”
Choking back tears, I call Bob to see where he’s at. He said to meet at the bar. Turns out he’s downstairs in the lobby waiting for me. Has been the whole time. How we missed each other I have no idea. I get to the lobby and spot him in line at the check-in counter. We hug, giant grins on both our faces. We’re back baby!
As we check in Bob asks about the bar. The concierge assures us it will be open, but not till 5. We drop off our bags in the room, contact the rest of the NYC contingent that will be joining us and wait for the bar to open. At about 5 til, the owner spots us loitering in the hall and says come on in. We both head straight for the patio. As we head out the sliding door Bob’s ahead of me and turns around before I do. He’s eyes widen, “Don’t turn around yet! Keep coming, keep coming.” He directs me all the way to the other end of the patio. “OK, turn around.” Piercing the sky less than ½ a block in front of me is the Empire State Building. Even on the roof of this 14 story hotel I feel like I’m at ground level. The spotlights at the top are blazing, giving the top of the building a torch like effect. I look for a giant gorilla peering over the edge at me. No such luck.
Five minutes later Vlad joins us on the patio. We play catch up and then sit down to enjoy the view. Angel and Rob join us a short time later. After a couple of rounds we reluctantly leave our perch and head back to street level. We’ve got reservations at Da Andrea. A little ristorante in the Village that Angel and his wife Tracy discovered. Two bottles of Dolcetto and a pile of fantastic food later we waddle out to the street and start strategizing the evening’s battle plan.
It is decided we will head to the meat packing district and check out Hogs and Heifers. The four of us wedge into a cab and are off. We get dropped off a few blocks shy of our intended destination. Turns out it’s been a while since the boys have been in this part of town and things have changed. What was once a reassuringly scary part of NYC has become the equivalent of Rush Street in Chicago. Old landmarks no longer look like they once did to those of our party that frequented this area as yoots. A reorientation hike ensues. Eventually we find the place. This is the bar where they filmed Coyote Ugly. There really is a Coyote Ugly in Manhattan but for some reason the producers chose this bar to film it in. Maybe back then it was scary enough to keep the tourists away and they could film in peace. Who knows. Having been to Coyote Ugly myself (the place not the movie) I see few differences.
The abrasive-but-cute barmaids wear boots, tight jeans, cowboy hats and halter tops. The juke box is blaring Hank Williams Jr., Johnny Cash, Johnny Paycheck and any other honkytonk Johnny you can think of. Soon we’re moving on to see what else the city has to offer. One establishment leads to another and eventually we wind up at the Bleecker St. Bar. It’s got dart boards, pool tables and a tap with plenty to choose from. Angel, a deadly dart player, announces we will set up camp here.
We play darts till about 2:30 or 3 in the morning then head back to the hotel after seeing Angel off to his midtown apartment and indulgent wife. Vlad parts ways with us at his Queens bound subway stop. Rob was lost to us earlier in the evening, but he came all the way from Jersey and needed to stay on the train schedule. Bob and I aren’t quite ready to turn in yet, though. We both crave pizza. Not far from the hotel we find it at a stainless steel, all night pizzeria. We each get a couple of slices and sit down to recap the evening.
Since I’m facing the window I can see people walking by outside. It looks like some kind of party up the street is breaking up. What look to be 19 or 20 year old couples walk by the window and glance in at the two 30-somethings wolfing down pizza at almost 4 in the morning. A couple of girls walk by the window giggling. One of them blows me a kiss, giggles and keeps on walking. I’m feeling both flattered and p’wned at the same time.
Finally we get back to the room. Bob suggests we cap off the evening with a sojourn on the ledge outside our 3rd floor window. Actually it was more like a small balcony with a big flagpole attached to it, but the signs on the window made it clear that the La Quinta management took a dim view of anyone using it as a balcony. Duly warned, Bob and I elect to take our chances anyway and crawl out onto our new private terrace. I notice Old Glory is still wound up on the flag pole like it was when we got in the room. Filled with purpose, pilsner and patriotism I set to untangling the colors so they could fly freely.
After about 30 minutes of sitting in relative silence absorbing the sights and sounds of New York before dawn, Bob and I wedge ourselves back into the room and hit the sack. Sure, I’m not as wild and crazy as I was when I first came to The City but it still brings out a part of me that only it can. My head hits the pillow and I close my eyes with a vision of the Empire State Building blazing into the night sky.
To be continued . . .
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Walked It
Saw Walk the Line last night. Going in I had some serious reservations as to whether Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Whiterspoon could pull off their roles. I’ll confess most of this has to do with the fact both seemed too pretty to play the people they portray. I blame this preconception on the other musician biopic Ray. Jaime Foxx simply disappeared into Ray. But my fears proved unfounded. If anything their performances were even more of a feat, because they don’t look much like their characters, yet I had little trouble believing for a couple of hours that they really were Johnny and June.
As a Johnny Cash fan I was delighted at how much music was in the movie. Forgive the comparison again, but where Ray seemed to spend more time on tour buses and in bedrooms, Walk the Line seems to remember why you bought the movie ticket in the first place—the man’s music. And this is where Phoenix gets more kudos. From what I’ve read he did all the singing. He nailed just about every nuance right down to that little tremolo Cash had.
Like most good biopics, the filmmaker chose a recurring thread in Johnny’s life and stuck to it. In this case the thread is June. The way their lives were woven together was not pretty or perfect, but I think because of that it is one of the best love stories I’ve ever seen. Beyond the love story there are other themes. I think any guy will empathize with the struggles Cash apparently had with his father—any male that says he doesn’t have at least one or two “daddy issues” is a liar or a clone. There is also a strong message of redemption. Call me a sap, but dark stories without at least a hint of redemption are worthless to me. Nothing more than emotional or psychological snuff films.
If you haven’t seen it, do so, especially if you’re a fan of the Man’s music. Oh, and all you single guys (essentially Chicken), this is a great first date movie. You have the Uncle Lar guarantee.
*Uncle Lar guarantee good only in ANWR and the Marshall Islands. For guarantee details go to www.uronyourown.com.
Post P.S.: I almost forgot—Robert “Have You Seen This Boy?” Patrick plays Johnny’s dad and gives probably the best supporting performance in the film.
As a Johnny Cash fan I was delighted at how much music was in the movie. Forgive the comparison again, but where Ray seemed to spend more time on tour buses and in bedrooms, Walk the Line seems to remember why you bought the movie ticket in the first place—the man’s music. And this is where Phoenix gets more kudos. From what I’ve read he did all the singing. He nailed just about every nuance right down to that little tremolo Cash had.
Like most good biopics, the filmmaker chose a recurring thread in Johnny’s life and stuck to it. In this case the thread is June. The way their lives were woven together was not pretty or perfect, but I think because of that it is one of the best love stories I’ve ever seen. Beyond the love story there are other themes. I think any guy will empathize with the struggles Cash apparently had with his father—any male that says he doesn’t have at least one or two “daddy issues” is a liar or a clone. There is also a strong message of redemption. Call me a sap, but dark stories without at least a hint of redemption are worthless to me. Nothing more than emotional or psychological snuff films.
If you haven’t seen it, do so, especially if you’re a fan of the Man’s music. Oh, and all you single guys (essentially Chicken), this is a great first date movie. You have the Uncle Lar guarantee.
*Uncle Lar guarantee good only in ANWR and the Marshall Islands. For guarantee details go to www.uronyourown.com.
Post P.S.: I almost forgot—Robert “Have You Seen This Boy?” Patrick plays Johnny’s dad and gives probably the best supporting performance in the film.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Deep Hurting
Last night I saw Rollerblade--quite possibly the most painful movie I've ever seen. Granted it was a crappy movie night, but even by crappy movie standards it was horrid. The effect it had on me was akin to a dull hangover headache or a bout of nausea. In fact, when I would get the stomach flu as a child, while in the grips of the fever and nausea I would often have nightmares and dreams that were just like Rollerblade. I can't even begin to describe it's crapitude. I'm sure Marty would do a better job anyway, so I direct you to Marty's Marquee. I'm going to need to watch Big Lebowski tonight to cleanse my cinematic palette.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
A Litte Story About Frank and Al
Belated happy new year to you all. Laurie and I had a good time out west despite the rain. We rang in 2006 in style aboard the Queen Mary. My mom's cousin, who currently is the world's foremost collector of rare Marilyn Monroe images and artifacts, was having a show onboard and managed to wrangle us some tickets for the New Year's Eve party. That's the Marilyn impersonator that was hired for the show posing with Laurie and I. She was good. She stayed in character the entire time we talked with her. Kinda strange, but cool none the less.The real reason we trekked to California, however, was to introduce Laurie to my Grandpa Al and Grandma Joyce. Grandpa's not in terrific health and will be unable to travel out here for the wedding, so we took the opportunity of Laurie's Christmas break to visit. While we were there, I asked Grandpa to tell Laurie one of his Sinatra stories. That's right, my grandad knew the Chairman. Back in the early to mid '60's Al had an upholstery business that catered to private aircraft owners. And since he lived in southern California, many of his customers happened to be celebrities. I guess he worked on Walt Disney's plane once as well, but I can't recall if he met the man or not.
Frank was his favorite though. Grandpa told us a story of when he and his brother Bud had traveled to Vegas to work on Frank's Lear. One day, right about lunch, Grandpa said this chauffer-driven black Lincoln rolled up to the plane and out hopped Frank. He asked how everything was going and wanted to know what Al and Bud were doing after work. Grandpa told him they were just going to head back to the motel, shower, eat some fudge and hit the road back to L.A. Apparently Grandpa was good friends with the motel proprietor and his wife had just made some fudge that he wanted to share with Al and Bud before they left.
As Grandpa tells it, Frank got this kind of quizzical look on his face and asked if the fudge had been made with German chocolate. Grandpa said yes. Frank told them not to leave without him, he'd be back at 5. He hopped back in the Lincoln and off he went. Grandpa said, "Bud and I continued working, assuming there was no way Frank would really come back just for fudge. But sure enough, right at quitting time, in rolled the Lincoln and there was Frank." Grandpa said Frank dismissed his driver and hopped in the '51 Ford pickup that served as my grandfather's work truck.
Since there were three of them in the cab and only two seats, Grandpa said Frank sat on a tool box in between he and Bud as they rode to the motel. When they got to the motel they walked into the office which was also attached to owner's living quarters. After the owner recovered from the shock, he invited them all back to his living room, which incidentally, could be seen from the front desk. As they were sitting there eating fudge a guy walked in looking for a room. When he looked up and saw Frank sitting on the couch munching on fudge and chatting with the owner's wife, Grandpa said he yelled, "Honey get the camera! You're not gonna' believe this."Apparently Frank was extremely gracious and even invited the starstruck guest's little girl behind the counter to have some fudge with them.
When it was time to go, Frank asked Grandpa if he could drive the pickup back. So, Grandpa rode the tool box and Frank drove them all back to the Sands where he was staying. As they pulled into the Sands, Grandpa said you could tell the valets were less than impressed by the looks of the truck. "But when they saw who was behind the wheel," he said, "their eyes got big as saucers. It totally messed with their heads to see Sinatra pulling up in a beat up pickup." As Frank got out Grandpa said he tossed a tip to the valet and said, "Take care. I don't want a scratch on it."
I guess this is but one of several Frank encounters my grandfather had over the course of their business relationship. If I ever get him to recount any more, you can bet I'll post them.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Iraq Confidential-Not Exciting Enough for Prime Time
I have a real problem with 24-hour news networks for many reasons, the vast majority of which have nothing to do with their alleged politics and everything to do with the quality of the information you receive. Now you’d think that one of the benefits these networks offer is that because they are solely dedicated to news gathering, they’d be able to spend more time on stories and provide more in-depth analysis. Instead what we get is the exact opposite: a repetitious barrage of soundbites and glossed-over analysis so they can move on to the most recent piece of dramatic video footage.
A case in point would be the extremely simplistic view of the Shiite majority in Iraq given by the CNNFOXMSNBCABCCBS monolith. According to all the network analysis I’ve seen thus far, the Shiite clerics in Iraq are often portrayed as being no different in philosophy from the Shiites in Iran. A lot of this has to do with the media’s fascination with firebrand/publicity hound Muqtada Al Sadr who is an Iranian-style Shiite and the face the media often shows as representative of most Shiites. Al Sadr, however, does not speak for all Shiites. And if this 2003 Wall Street Journal article entitled Shiite Schism by Amir Taheri is correct, he never has. I’ve cited this article here before, but I’m citing it again because it needs to be considered when viewing the events surrounding the recent elections. It’s a great overview of the recent history of Shiites in Iraq and provides more than a little insight as to why a genuinely democratic Iraq is indeed possible. It also sheds light on the deeper reasons Iran has for subverting it.
One of the events which the Katrina/Wiretap/DeathToll obsessed media didn’t have the time to tell you today involves a twist in the ongoing investigation into the assassination of Shiite cleric Abdul Majid al-Kohei. If you’re wondering why you’ve never heard of Al Kohei before, the article I cited earlier will only make you wonder even more. In the eyes of Iraqi Shiites he, and primarily his father, were of greater significance than Al Sadr has ever been. But because Al Kohei was by and large a peaceful man who was supportive of American intervention he was probably not controversial or violent enough a subject in the mainstream media’s eyes to hold your attention.
Without digressing further, a story appeared on the Asharq Alawsat web site today (here) giving insight into the disappearance of a file crucial to the Al Kohei murder investigation. This file contained a sizeable amount of evidence that Al Sadr was responsible for the killing of Al Kohei. Also missing with the file were the arrest warrants for Al Sadr and those implicated in helping him. Further thickening the plot is who might have been responsible for the file’s disappearance—none other than current prime minister, Ibrahim al-Jaafa. National Accord Chairman Ahmad Chilabi is also implicated in the piece. It is alleged this was done in exchange for Al Sadr’s promise that he would not cause anymore trouble. Apparently Al Sadr got a bulletproof Mercedes out of the deal, too. Which begs the question, why would he need one if he didn’t plan on causing more trouble? But I’m digressing again.
The point I’m trying to make is when the news tells you there are only three socio-religious-political factions in Iraq and all their constituents march in lockstep, you’re only getting a tenth of the story as usual. Many more Shiites than has been reported want a democratic Iraq that DOES NOT mirror the Iranian style of government. Because, as Shiite Schism and the philosophy of the murdered Al Kohei will attest, for many Shiites Islam’s job is to change hearts first then society. Not the other way around as it is in Iran.
A case in point would be the extremely simplistic view of the Shiite majority in Iraq given by the CNNFOXMSNBCABCCBS monolith. According to all the network analysis I’ve seen thus far, the Shiite clerics in Iraq are often portrayed as being no different in philosophy from the Shiites in Iran. A lot of this has to do with the media’s fascination with firebrand/publicity hound Muqtada Al Sadr who is an Iranian-style Shiite and the face the media often shows as representative of most Shiites. Al Sadr, however, does not speak for all Shiites. And if this 2003 Wall Street Journal article entitled Shiite Schism by Amir Taheri is correct, he never has. I’ve cited this article here before, but I’m citing it again because it needs to be considered when viewing the events surrounding the recent elections. It’s a great overview of the recent history of Shiites in Iraq and provides more than a little insight as to why a genuinely democratic Iraq is indeed possible. It also sheds light on the deeper reasons Iran has for subverting it.
One of the events which the Katrina/Wiretap/DeathToll obsessed media didn’t have the time to tell you today involves a twist in the ongoing investigation into the assassination of Shiite cleric Abdul Majid al-Kohei. If you’re wondering why you’ve never heard of Al Kohei before, the article I cited earlier will only make you wonder even more. In the eyes of Iraqi Shiites he, and primarily his father, were of greater significance than Al Sadr has ever been. But because Al Kohei was by and large a peaceful man who was supportive of American intervention he was probably not controversial or violent enough a subject in the mainstream media’s eyes to hold your attention.
Without digressing further, a story appeared on the Asharq Alawsat web site today (here) giving insight into the disappearance of a file crucial to the Al Kohei murder investigation. This file contained a sizeable amount of evidence that Al Sadr was responsible for the killing of Al Kohei. Also missing with the file were the arrest warrants for Al Sadr and those implicated in helping him. Further thickening the plot is who might have been responsible for the file’s disappearance—none other than current prime minister, Ibrahim al-Jaafa. National Accord Chairman Ahmad Chilabi is also implicated in the piece. It is alleged this was done in exchange for Al Sadr’s promise that he would not cause anymore trouble. Apparently Al Sadr got a bulletproof Mercedes out of the deal, too. Which begs the question, why would he need one if he didn’t plan on causing more trouble? But I’m digressing again.
The point I’m trying to make is when the news tells you there are only three socio-religious-political factions in Iraq and all their constituents march in lockstep, you’re only getting a tenth of the story as usual. Many more Shiites than has been reported want a democratic Iraq that DOES NOT mirror the Iranian style of government. Because, as Shiite Schism and the philosophy of the murdered Al Kohei will attest, for many Shiites Islam’s job is to change hearts first then society. Not the other way around as it is in Iran.
Where'd it go?
If you've ever wondered where that sizeable portion missing from your paycheck went, the Census Bureau offers a handy site that lets you see. It breaks federal spending down by fiscal year, gov't programs and even by how much goes to each state. I'm including the link here, but will also make it a permanent link in the side bar. The site takes a little patience to figure out, but once you do it makes from some pretty interesting surfing. Thanks to Freeper xzins for digging it up.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Go Gert
I just returned from celebrating Christmas with Laurie’s family. If I’m not mistaken, this was my first official large family function with her side and it went well. What I’m coming to love most about her family is just how comfortable everyone is with who they are. They live their lives out loud. And while they are acutely aware of one another’s warts, they are determined to stick together for the long haul—warts and all. Not that this kind of commitment-in-the-face-of-imperfection doesn’t exist in my family, it’s just nice to know that Laurie and I will be building on two very strong, very similar foundations.
While I was there I got to play cards with Gertrude—Laurie’s 91 year old grandmother. She is a live wire. She still drives herself around safely, loves to travel, frequently stays up past midnight and is a total card shark. We were playing Garbage; a game that requires you to come up with increasingly improbable combinations of cards in order to win. I think I managed to take one hand, but Gert invariably left the rest of us holding the bag. And she would always wink or act surprised whenever the cards went her way. As Laurie would say, “Go Gert.”
I think I remember one of the poker players at Horizon saying you should never play against old people because they’ll clean your clock. After this weekend I think I can safely say that little bit of advice applies to any card game or game of chance. Anyone who’s managed to live into their 90’s is obviously on better terms with chance than you are.
While I was there I got to play cards with Gertrude—Laurie’s 91 year old grandmother. She is a live wire. She still drives herself around safely, loves to travel, frequently stays up past midnight and is a total card shark. We were playing Garbage; a game that requires you to come up with increasingly improbable combinations of cards in order to win. I think I managed to take one hand, but Gert invariably left the rest of us holding the bag. And she would always wink or act surprised whenever the cards went her way. As Laurie would say, “Go Gert.”
I think I remember one of the poker players at Horizon saying you should never play against old people because they’ll clean your clock. After this weekend I think I can safely say that little bit of advice applies to any card game or game of chance. Anyone who’s managed to live into their 90’s is obviously on better terms with chance than you are.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Merry Christmas to All
I really didn't want my last post before Christmas to be a political diatribe so here's a quick one. Nothing really special to say other than I wish everyone who reads this a wonderful Christmas. For me it will be a time of fellowship with family and friends. It will also be a time of reflection on all that has transpired in the past year. It has been a very good year and I thank God for it--something I don't do nearly enough.
One more thing. I got an e-mail the other day that was basically a rant about how Christians know not what they celebrate at Christmas. I'm not going to say anything to that except this--while many pagan traditions may well have been tacked on to the pagentry of the holiday, it doesn't change one scintilla what the holiday is about for believers: God's desire to reunite Himself with his creation. It is about the hope we have in Jesus Christ. I know I don't speak out very often about my faith and I hope my non-Christian friends who read this don't take it for preaching. I don't think they will because the vast majority know I'm hardly qualified to. But every now and then I get convicted about my silence and feel prompted to speak up.
Anyway, all I want to say is may God grant us all peace this Christmas--inside and out.
Merry Christmas
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Impeach or Shut Up
The Democratic leadership in this country has accused this president of everything from knowingly lying about going to war to murdering people in natural disasters. Now they say he's spying on us illegally. I am not not going to argue the minutiae of war powers or federal response obligations here. What I will say though is that if this president truly is this heinous, why in the name of all that's holy isn't the vast majority of Democratic leadership calling for his impeachment? I know many on the extreme left already have, but I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about the Pelosis and the Reids. The politicians that really have something to lose.
Say what you want about Clinton's impeachment, but you have to hand it to the Republicans for at least having had the balls to put their money where their mouth was. And they were impeaching a popular president for something as relatively innocuous as lying under oath about an affair. No wonder the Democratic base is so full of loathing. Not only are their elected leaders spineless when it comes to doing something about terrorism . . . or social security . . . or prescription drugs. They can't even pull the trigger on impeaching someone, who by their accounts, is the worst president this country has ever seen.
Now granted, if you go strictly on a partisan basis they wouldn't have the votes to pull something like this off right now. But the midterms are a'comin' and if, as the media so clearly is hoping, Dems take back congress I better see impeachment among the first items of business. I'm serious. If these people want to lead the country and they know for a fact that George Bush is a ruthless individual hell bent on stripping us all of freedom of speech and plunging us into war for personal gain, they had better ante up when the time comes.
Of course they won't. Because they know everything they're saying is total horseshit designed to obfuscate the reality that they have no plan for America except to have it back under their power. They crave power above all else and for six years we've had to listen to their anguished screams as they lost election after election because Americans were more comfortable with a president that did something, even if it wasn’t perfect, than one that would rather form committees and explore "nuance" to keep from having to do anything politically risky.
In fact I want Bush's next speech to simply be, "Impeach me. Bring it on. If I am truly a criminal it should be easy. Hell, my poll numbers are low enough. Why not give it a shot?" Unfortunately he won't do that either. Instead, I'll probably have to endure another two years of incessant weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth from the left. I’m telling ya’, impeachment would almost be a relief at this point.
Say what you want about Clinton's impeachment, but you have to hand it to the Republicans for at least having had the balls to put their money where their mouth was. And they were impeaching a popular president for something as relatively innocuous as lying under oath about an affair. No wonder the Democratic base is so full of loathing. Not only are their elected leaders spineless when it comes to doing something about terrorism . . . or social security . . . or prescription drugs. They can't even pull the trigger on impeaching someone, who by their accounts, is the worst president this country has ever seen.
Now granted, if you go strictly on a partisan basis they wouldn't have the votes to pull something like this off right now. But the midterms are a'comin' and if, as the media so clearly is hoping, Dems take back congress I better see impeachment among the first items of business. I'm serious. If these people want to lead the country and they know for a fact that George Bush is a ruthless individual hell bent on stripping us all of freedom of speech and plunging us into war for personal gain, they had better ante up when the time comes.
Of course they won't. Because they know everything they're saying is total horseshit designed to obfuscate the reality that they have no plan for America except to have it back under their power. They crave power above all else and for six years we've had to listen to their anguished screams as they lost election after election because Americans were more comfortable with a president that did something, even if it wasn’t perfect, than one that would rather form committees and explore "nuance" to keep from having to do anything politically risky.
In fact I want Bush's next speech to simply be, "Impeach me. Bring it on. If I am truly a criminal it should be easy. Hell, my poll numbers are low enough. Why not give it a shot?" Unfortunately he won't do that either. Instead, I'll probably have to endure another two years of incessant weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth from the left. I’m telling ya’, impeachment would almost be a relief at this point.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Here's to Christmas
Anxiety ran high as I drove to the mall tonight. I loathe Christmas shopping. I love giving, that's not the problem. I just hate the whole sickening circus atmosphere that retailers create to put you in the mood. It does anything but for me. Despite these misgivings, tonight's outing proved to be above bearable. I actually was kinda relaxed.
A big reason for this was the curious lack of crowds. Not sure if it was the weather, a surge in online shopping or simply my lucky night, but the mall seemed no more busy than a typical weeknight. It is to this relative lack of clamor that I attribute my success at finding, what I think, are some pretty swell gifts. Being in a relaxed state and not having to fight the urge to flee a giant crowd gave me time to really browse.
It also gave me time to think as I people watched. I know this probably falls under the heading of "Personal Problem", but I don't like crowds because I assume no one cares about anyone but themselves. Projection? Maybe, but I can't help but assume a little of the worst whenever I encounter a stranger. Surely there was a time in our nation's history when fellow citizens we didn't know enjoyed more benefit of the doubt. Maybe not. But I found that weighing on my mind as I waited for the clerk at Piercing Pagoda to explain to a confused customer that she really did get the 50% off the extra pendant she bought.
I felt sorry for both the customer and the girl attempting to explain. The customer spoke very broken English and the girl was doing her best to remain courteous. For a second I actually entertained the notion of helping, as if I was some kind of Kissinger of Consumer Affairs and would be able to broker a deal. Plus I just wanted to get some ladybug earings for one of my nieces and move on. See, just looking out for me. I was projecting earlier. Huh. Projecting. Brt.
I finished off the shopping expedition with a stop at Borders. While there I bought a few things for myself: the 50th anniversary edition of National Review, a paperback edition of The Martian Chronicles and a nifty LED mini-reading lamp. I've always wanted to read The Martian Chronicles 1.) because I loved Fahrenheit 451 2.) have been lucky enough to see Ray Bradbury in person and 3.) my only recollection or experience with the story was the TV mini-series from my childhood. I'm sure Martin (McKee, not the Martian) would be able to give me the particulars on that third point.
Right now, I'm enjoying that Dutch delight Ketel and it's two best accoutrements, tonic and a twist of lime. All this while lounging in my jammies and listening to the A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. That's a great CD if you don't have it. For me it brings back so many memories of childhood anticipation at this time of year. Of soft glowing lights on the tree that I could see from bedroom door. Of clear, full moon nights with luminescent snow. Of everything that this time of year is supposed to be about.
Anyway, here's to Christmas. I know, a lazy tie-in to the title, but the Ketel's kickin in and its about time for a long winter's nap. Peace on Earth my friends and God bless us every one.
A big reason for this was the curious lack of crowds. Not sure if it was the weather, a surge in online shopping or simply my lucky night, but the mall seemed no more busy than a typical weeknight. It is to this relative lack of clamor that I attribute my success at finding, what I think, are some pretty swell gifts. Being in a relaxed state and not having to fight the urge to flee a giant crowd gave me time to really browse.
It also gave me time to think as I people watched. I know this probably falls under the heading of "Personal Problem", but I don't like crowds because I assume no one cares about anyone but themselves. Projection? Maybe, but I can't help but assume a little of the worst whenever I encounter a stranger. Surely there was a time in our nation's history when fellow citizens we didn't know enjoyed more benefit of the doubt. Maybe not. But I found that weighing on my mind as I waited for the clerk at Piercing Pagoda to explain to a confused customer that she really did get the 50% off the extra pendant she bought.
I felt sorry for both the customer and the girl attempting to explain. The customer spoke very broken English and the girl was doing her best to remain courteous. For a second I actually entertained the notion of helping, as if I was some kind of Kissinger of Consumer Affairs and would be able to broker a deal. Plus I just wanted to get some ladybug earings for one of my nieces and move on. See, just looking out for me. I was projecting earlier. Huh. Projecting. Brt.
I finished off the shopping expedition with a stop at Borders. While there I bought a few things for myself: the 50th anniversary edition of National Review, a paperback edition of The Martian Chronicles and a nifty LED mini-reading lamp. I've always wanted to read The Martian Chronicles 1.) because I loved Fahrenheit 451 2.) have been lucky enough to see Ray Bradbury in person and 3.) my only recollection or experience with the story was the TV mini-series from my childhood. I'm sure Martin (McKee, not the Martian) would be able to give me the particulars on that third point.
Right now, I'm enjoying that Dutch delight Ketel and it's two best accoutrements, tonic and a twist of lime. All this while lounging in my jammies and listening to the A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack. That's a great CD if you don't have it. For me it brings back so many memories of childhood anticipation at this time of year. Of soft glowing lights on the tree that I could see from bedroom door. Of clear, full moon nights with luminescent snow. Of everything that this time of year is supposed to be about.
Anyway, here's to Christmas. I know, a lazy tie-in to the title, but the Ketel's kickin in and its about time for a long winter's nap. Peace on Earth my friends and God bless us every one.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
My Kind of Town
Coming to you from the field office in Dyer, IN today. I'm up Laurie's way for a couple of family functions. Yesterday's was a bowling party for my soon-to-be nephew Clayton. Laurie and I bowled and, if I recall (and I'd better not very often), I beat her. Of course her attention was divided between bowling and herding a bunch of squealing 7 year olds. I just kind of stood back and watched it all happen in between rolls. Natrually, I can't ever bowl anymore without a million Big Lebowski quotes coming to mind. One of the youngsters set the scratch line sensor off and I had to fight the urge to yell "Over the line!". And I doubt any of the kids would've understood what "This is not Nam . . . " meant.
After the bowl-o-rama Laurie and I hopped a train to Chi-town to check out the Mag Mile and get some dinner. When we got to the platform at Homewood she saw a few people from the school she teaches at. I was introduced and we went further down the platform to wait. While standing there you could see the knot of Illiana people chatting and then stopping and looking over their shoulders at us. I thought I looked presentable enough, but it did make you wonder what the chatter was about. It's always at times like this I have to stifle the urge to give people something to talk about. Since Laurie still has about a month to go at Illiana I behaved.
We got off the train at Randolph St. and headed to Grand Lux for dinner. When we got there ans saw the jam packed lobby we figured we might have to make other plans. The frazzled hostess confirmed this for us with a tense "It'll be about a 60 to 95 minute wait." I could tell she was hanging on for dear life to the frozen smile on her face. Rather than be the guy that caused the dam to break I got us outta' there before she cracked.
While trying to think of someplace else, Laurie said she recalled Chicken saying one of his relatives or friends was a big shot at the Saloon Steakhouse in the Seneca hotel and that it was pretty good place to eat. So off we went. When we arrived the host told us they were sold out for the night in the dining room but that we could eat at the bar if we'd like. No problem. The bar was really nice with oak paneling and had a very old English pub thing going for it. Curious as to what role Chicken's alleged associate had in the place I called Chicken. That's the magic of cellular. Now you can indulge any question you may have at anytime anywhere. I left a message and told him we were at the Saloon Steakhouse and who his contact was so we could negotiate a deal. A very confused Chicken called me back about 5 minutes later explaining he knew no one there and that he'd never been. This was a really a blessing, in that it proved just how compatible Laurie and I are. I'm not the only one that imagines conversations or forgets details.
I ordered a 10 oz cut of prime rib with hash browns and Laurie had the filet. The french onion soup I had as an appetizer was outta' sight as were the steaks. The place is kind of pricey, but if you get a chance and have a decent appetite the Saloon Steakhouse is a great place to go. Just don't tell them Chicken sent you.
Afterwards we slogged down a very slushy Michigan Ave. to Starbucks for eggnog lattes. Very tasty stuff if you've never had one. Nothing really crazy about them, except they use eggnog instead of milk. It made a great dessert type coffee without being too sweet. The Phish-groupie looking barista screwed our order up though and forgot to make Laurie's. After we got that sorted out we mushed the rest of the way to the Randolph St. Metra station only to find out we had about an hour until the train left. Laurie suggested we go check out the window displays at Marshall Fields to kill time. This turned out to be a great idea, but not because of the window displays. I'll explain that later.
As we headed west on Randolph we passed several street musicians playing Christmas music. That mixed with the snow, the city's christmas lights and people you passed really put me in the mood. As we rounded the corner on State(?) we could hear "Let it Snow" being sung over a loud speaker. The voice was coming from a Chicago Fire Dept. tanker with it's lights on. A fire fighter in the right seat was just singing over the PA. And he was good too. Everyone on the sidewalks was cheering him on and waving. One lady was running alongside the tanker trying to get the guy's picture. All I could say was, "What a cool town."
Looking at the time I'll have to save my critique of the Marshall Field's windows for another post. Just do yourself a favor and get your butts up to Chicago before Christmas. It's hard to get burnt out on the holidays when you've seen a caroling fire truck.
After the bowl-o-rama Laurie and I hopped a train to Chi-town to check out the Mag Mile and get some dinner. When we got to the platform at Homewood she saw a few people from the school she teaches at. I was introduced and we went further down the platform to wait. While standing there you could see the knot of Illiana people chatting and then stopping and looking over their shoulders at us. I thought I looked presentable enough, but it did make you wonder what the chatter was about. It's always at times like this I have to stifle the urge to give people something to talk about. Since Laurie still has about a month to go at Illiana I behaved.
We got off the train at Randolph St. and headed to Grand Lux for dinner. When we got there ans saw the jam packed lobby we figured we might have to make other plans. The frazzled hostess confirmed this for us with a tense "It'll be about a 60 to 95 minute wait." I could tell she was hanging on for dear life to the frozen smile on her face. Rather than be the guy that caused the dam to break I got us outta' there before she cracked.
While trying to think of someplace else, Laurie said she recalled Chicken saying one of his relatives or friends was a big shot at the Saloon Steakhouse in the Seneca hotel and that it was pretty good place to eat. So off we went. When we arrived the host told us they were sold out for the night in the dining room but that we could eat at the bar if we'd like. No problem. The bar was really nice with oak paneling and had a very old English pub thing going for it. Curious as to what role Chicken's alleged associate had in the place I called Chicken. That's the magic of cellular. Now you can indulge any question you may have at anytime anywhere. I left a message and told him we were at the Saloon Steakhouse and who his contact was so we could negotiate a deal. A very confused Chicken called me back about 5 minutes later explaining he knew no one there and that he'd never been. This was a really a blessing, in that it proved just how compatible Laurie and I are. I'm not the only one that imagines conversations or forgets details.
I ordered a 10 oz cut of prime rib with hash browns and Laurie had the filet. The french onion soup I had as an appetizer was outta' sight as were the steaks. The place is kind of pricey, but if you get a chance and have a decent appetite the Saloon Steakhouse is a great place to go. Just don't tell them Chicken sent you.
Afterwards we slogged down a very slushy Michigan Ave. to Starbucks for eggnog lattes. Very tasty stuff if you've never had one. Nothing really crazy about them, except they use eggnog instead of milk. It made a great dessert type coffee without being too sweet. The Phish-groupie looking barista screwed our order up though and forgot to make Laurie's. After we got that sorted out we mushed the rest of the way to the Randolph St. Metra station only to find out we had about an hour until the train left. Laurie suggested we go check out the window displays at Marshall Fields to kill time. This turned out to be a great idea, but not because of the window displays. I'll explain that later.
As we headed west on Randolph we passed several street musicians playing Christmas music. That mixed with the snow, the city's christmas lights and people you passed really put me in the mood. As we rounded the corner on State(?) we could hear "Let it Snow" being sung over a loud speaker. The voice was coming from a Chicago Fire Dept. tanker with it's lights on. A fire fighter in the right seat was just singing over the PA. And he was good too. Everyone on the sidewalks was cheering him on and waving. One lady was running alongside the tanker trying to get the guy's picture. All I could say was, "What a cool town."
Looking at the time I'll have to save my critique of the Marshall Field's windows for another post. Just do yourself a favor and get your butts up to Chicago before Christmas. It's hard to get burnt out on the holidays when you've seen a caroling fire truck.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
You Can Still Rock In America
Thanks to the Deacons, Tullamore Dew, Mary Anne's and Night Ranger for reminding me . . . you can still rock in America. It's a little past 3 am and I'm just getting home. Is this a great country or what?
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Florida On My Mind
"I was in the Virgin Islands once. I met a girl. We ate lobster and drank pina coladas. At sunset we made love like sea otters. *That* was a pretty good day. Why couldn't I get that day over and over and over..." I can hear Bill Murray's character Phil from Groundhog Day as I'm flickr'ing Florida pics and feeling the chill from my closet creep across the office floor as we dive into the 3rd straight night of single digit temps. Knowing there are warmer places on earth one could live sure makes you feel like a chump on nights like this. Someday . . .
You can see the pics here.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Another quick one
No pics from Florida just yet. I will post some links to those tonight. This weekend however was a barnburner. If I can get pics from that, they'll go up tonight too. The Horizon 20th Anniversary Christmas Party was Saturday night and it was easily the best Christmas party I've ever been to--and I mean any Christmas party, not just the "company" variety. At the heart of the festivities was the Blooze Brothers Band from Chicago. They had a thumping rhythm section, powerful horn section and a pair of go go dancers, all of which added up to a room full of happy feet.
Now I don't like dancing much, but when I hear good old soul or R&B, I simply can't sit still. I think Laurie and I were on the dance floor for about 80% of the songs. They did just about everything from the Blues Brothers soundtrack, with the mildly disappointing exception of She Caught the Katie and the "c'mon and shake your tail feathers" song by Ray Charles. They did do Georgia on My Mind though. The highlight of the evening was a dance off between R3 and my father. Dad threw down the gauntlet at the beginning of the evening when he made the opening remarks. Naturally, Ralph was only too happy to oblige. There should be some good pics that Stevie Wonder took which I can post later.
Earlier--much, much earlier--that morning I joined Cousin Kellner, the amazing Pat Brown and John Gilman for a fruitless hunting expedition. Oh I saw about 20 something birds but didn't kill a one of them. Its a painful story that is still too burdensome to tell right now. Maybe later. But between walking my tuckus off in frozen fields all morning and then dancing it off that night, I was gassed by the time I got home. Sunday was indeed a day of rest. Laurie and I lounged around a bit and then joined the folks for a little brunch later.
In other news I've been ignoring the news and I'm feeling much better for it. Oh, sure I'll check out the internet now and again to keep abreast of the major headlines, but I'm finding a lack of talk radio and talking heads most beneficial to my overall outlook on life right now. Besides, I've got bigger fish to fry with the impending nuptials. Jill, Carrie, and Marnie are all married off. Laurie and I are on deck. Can't wait.
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