They don’t call it Whole Paycheck for nothing.(Whole Foods Market, 24 St & 7 Av)
Blandly Positive/Reassuring Things I Say When I Don’t Want to Say What I Really Think
(especially useful at the office)
Just in case a person really can die from eating six year old hummus and tabouli mix, I just wanna blog three last things: 1) I love you all very much, 2) I’m sorry I wasn’t the best son/brother/friend/boyfriend/cat owner I could have been, and 3) I always planned on putting the money back where I found it, honest.
I heart the BBQ at Biscuit, even though I’m sure my heart doesn’t heart it. The $8.90 half rack of ribs (includes two sides!) is just too delicious to stay away from. Did I mention the key lime pie is pretty good, too?
(Biscuit, 367 Flatbush Av, cash only)
I hope blogging doesn’t turn out to be the mullet of this century, because I still haven’t fully recovered from the one I had last century.
(Blue Chip Hair Salon/Mohan Jewlery, New St. Haircuts left, jewels right.)
(World Trade Center PATH Station)
A long time ago, my Mom told me that in Japan those gratuitous racy scenes on TV and in movies are called “customer service” (i.e., giving viewers what they want).
I’m fully aware that BKLYN Blggng hasn’t had much motherboro content lately, so I hereby offer a bit of customer service until I can get out and shoot some more Brooklyn scenes. I heard a rumor about a version of The Gates coming to Prospect Park that involved do-rags, so maybe I’ll wait for that.
(Brooklyn Bridge, from the Fulton Fish Market)
Viva public art!
(from Animals, Buildings, Cars and People by Julian Opie, City Hall Park)
Big thanks to the artists and NYC and everyone that helped make this happen. This is an awesome gift to the City. Everyone should go see it.
Here we go…
…is going to be saffron (known in the other boroughs as just plain orange). This is a sign of things to come.
(49 Street Station)
Is it still Tax-Free Week in NYC?
(Trinity Pl & Rector St)
You’d be surprised how many New Yorkers are willing to give up several minutes of a busy day to fight a crowd and listen to a sidewalk sales pitch about romantic getaways to Quebec — all just to get a free polyester scarf.
You’d also be surprised at how flimsy this damn scarf is, goddamn it.
(Wall St & Broad St)
…because it’s the Year of the Rooster, 4702.Happy Chinese New Year to everyone, especially my fellow chickens, roosters, and cocks. It’s our year, peeps.
(Artwork by my dear Aunt Michiko of Kobe, Japan)
If our country is going to detain lots of immigrants for no good reason, then it probably makes sense to also lock up a few sculptures related to immigration, just to be on the safe side.
(“The Immigrants” by Luis Sanguino, Battery Park)
The sign, if we were in France, might say: “Des chapeaux sont recommandès.”
Alternate names for Patience & Fortitude, the New York Public Library lions:
1. Bookish & Dateless
2. Chicken & Broccoli
3. PlayStation & Xbox
4. Siegfried & Roy
5. Illiteracy & Unemployment
6. Brad & Jennifer
7. Drunk & Disorderly
8. The New Hot 97 Morning Crew
9. Readin’ & Rithmatec
10. Barnes & Noble
(NYPL Humanities & Social Sciences Library, 42 St & 5 Av)
(Tugboat Helen McAllister, South Street Seaport Museum Collection. Call +1-212-748-8610 to join the volunteers restoring this and other historic vessels.)
I know plenty of people live by the motto “seek and ye shall find,” but it’s never worked for me. Many of the best things in my life — friends, jobs, bags of unmarked $100 bills — eluded me until I gave up looking for them.
Photoblogging is no different. You can walk up and down the streets of the City for days, cameraphone in hand, looking for something kitschy and never find it. It’s only when you’ve sworn off blogging forever and go out to smoke some clove cigarettes that you stumble upon the red Honda Civic with “TRUST NO ONE” emblazoned on the windshield complete with parking ticket and Jersey plates — a hat trick of found irony.
And then, for just a second in time but with an intensity that keeps you buzzing for weeks, you feel a deep connection with the universe and are convinced that somehow everything is going to turn out okay.
(Broad St & South St)
I was waiting for the B train back to Brooklyn when the A pulled up. Not my train, but something caught my eye. “Far Rockaway via JFK Airport” the sign said. I blinked.
The chime rang and the doors began to close. A quick step and I was inside. The people looked different than the ones on my train. Poorer, darker. After Jay Street, I was the only guy in a suit. After Nostrand, I was the only white one.
Somewhere in Queens, the train left the tunnel and I could see rows and rows of small old houses from thirty feet up. You could see right into the backyards and even in some of the windows. Everything was unashamed and out in the open: rusty above-ground pools, moldy Big Wheels, soggy cardboard boxes. When the train stopped at these elevated stations, the cold wind would fill the car, blowing in husky guys wearing uniforms that said JetBlue, DHL, SkyChefs.
A few stops later and we were at the edge of the airport. I followed the crowd up an escalator and onto a smaller, newer train that reminded me of the monorail at Disney World. I hadn’t thought about that trip in a long time. It was our last family vacation before Dad split. He never told us he was leaving for good, just that he had to take a trip. I used to wonder how a person could just leave his family like that, but eventually I stopped.
The little train made its way around the terminals. I got out at Terminal 9, the last one. It was old and decrepit and there were construction barriers everywhere. You couldn’t tell if they were tearing it down or fixing it up.
The next flight was in ten minutes. Shit, I thought. I’m not going to make it. I walked faster. Got through security quickly. “Final boarding,” the announcer began. I started to run. The gate was at the very end of the concourse — a straight shot but still several hundred yards away. I ran faster. I felt my chest burn. My ankles hurt. I thought I might lose a shoe.
I got there just as the door was about to close. I was winded and I wanted to vomit, but Goddamn I made it. I found my seat and sat down, sweaty but satisfied. In a few hours, I’d be in Orlando. I closed my eyes.
The A pulled out of the station and a few moments later a B arrived. I got on and was back in Brooklyn in about 30 minutes. I picked up the kids from day care and we ate pasta for dinner. My wife and I watched TV until we both fell asleep.
(Jay St Station)
my yearly exam
doc’s chattin’ away next door
trying my patience