Another year, another blog address.

Perhaps it's time I register bills26th.blogspot.com.


Thank you to everyone for the warm birthday wishes - whether on Facebook, over the phone, or in person.

It was a year ago that I tossed around the idea of this blog. It's been fun. Challenging. A pain in my (then) working ass. But I loved it. I still love it.

Cheers.

Sometimes the day can take an unexpected turn.

As my day took form, I thought I'd be here writing about the fact that Staten Island Chuck seriously effed this one up:


I'm not saying Chuck should have been able to predict the Human Bird Feeder would be such good friends with the winged rats of New York; check out the snow. We haven't had that since 2009. Way to go Chuck. You lost to the Al Roker of Groundhog Day. SonofaB.

But on my way home tonight I found myself walking to the front of a six train. Not by choice.

We were stopped and forced to walk to the front car because we hit something. Or someone. Let's not talk about it. Move along. Nothing to see here.

Serious drummer envy.

It's no secret that I'm a fan of street music. New York. Philly. Above Ground. Underground. Doesn't matter. Strike a chord or bang a drum bucket. I have a grand amount of respect for those who throw it down for all of society to see and hear. Most are decent. Some make you cringe. A small few really engage their audience.

Meet Mike Alaska.







An Alaskan from Texas? Who knows; I don't. But his drumming is nonetheless ridiculous.

In completely unrelated news, Staten Island Chuck is calling for an early spring. Sweet.

I'm one of them now.

I found myself back at 88 Orchard today, this time pulling up a spot by my lonesome. Laptop out, large coffee ordered, headphones on.

Heads down, thumbs up. Seven up.

I used to be generally curious about the coffee shop cult - type type typing away with a half drank cup of cold coffee next to them. Hoarding every four top with their expansive spread of Macbook, notebooks, and various electronic gizmos. Why don't they have jobs? Is this what professional bloggers do? But here I was, struggling to find a spot near a power strip in order to feed my day-long hang out. Don't hate me; I found myself a two top to call home.


My roommate runs a great spot. The coffee is strong and fresh, and the staff is always warm and considerate. They're launching a new dinner menu this week that promises to be delicious. Check out the menu here. And they have booze now. Added bonus.

Weekend Update.

I received a number of photos from you this week; thank you for contributing!

Jiggy and Gracie visited an assisted living home this weekend:

You know your Penn State obsession is a threat to society when your friends pause Office re-runs to capture PSU shout-outs on the set (courtesy of KDubs):

MS took this as the Q traveled over the Manhattan Bridge. Mine came out as all iron, no water. She wins:

Sporadic Sunday night movie leads to wine evidence needing to be discarded. Upper West Side mothers, cover your children's eyes (courtesy of Lindy):


Have a great week, everyone. If something catches your eye, share it with the rest of us. The email address is to the right.

Dancing with the Groo Grux King.

There have been Grammy ads around town featuring none other than my guys (or at least the lead guy) for weeks now. Subways, bus stops, and phone booths like this one. Was this a precursor to them winning a much-deserved Grammy or two for their work on Big Whiskey & the Groo Grux King?

No. Snubbed again.

Arguably their best work since 1996's Crash, Groo Grux came after the loss of founding member and sax great LeRoi Moore. His passing brought new members to the studio, and this album and past tour brought new life to the band. They performed one of their tunes tonight after being introduced by Adam I will always dress like I'm homeless Sandler. Check out the performance here.

I've said it before - it's great to see them having fun again.

Trust Garmin and you'll find yourself in Staten Island.

I was meeting my parents in Brooklyn for the Brooklyn Flea, as they were interested in seeing it first hand after seeing some amateur's photos online. Rather than meet at my apartment three exits down off the BQE from the Flea, it was agreed meeting there was best.

0 for 1.

Because it's weekend construction season (when is it not), I used HopStop to figure out how the heck to get there. The 4/5 was out of commission, leaving the blasted Q. Some people are fans. I am not. Never have, never will.

HS greatly underestimated the efficiency of Saturday Q's. By the time I was crossing the Manhattan Bridge I was smacked with 4 voice mails of "we're here, where are you" from two wandering New Jersey antique'rs. Fear not, they were parked and already perusing the trinkets by the time I got there.

My friend MS came along for the "experience," and by that I don't mean the designer jewelry and vintage jackets. For those of you that know my father know what I mean. He had her cornered in Storytelling Lane almost immediately; I'm pretty sure they discussed tennis racket bat killing and pyrotechnics, amongst other things. Somehow, she survived.

So we walked the halls, shared Red Hook lobster sandwiches and stellar grilled cheese, and listened to my old man point out every antique he had as a child. Or blew up. Or still owns.

Not a single picture was taken.

0 for 2.

A trip to the city would not be complete without a supply of the greatest coffee in the land. We hit the road with my old East Village address correctly entered into the Garmin. And ended up in Staten Island. Staten FREAKING Island. Home of at least one Jersey Shore cast member.

0 for 3. Struck out looking.

The onus is on me for this one. I was half paying attention in the back seat, naively trusting technology to lead us to Coffee Heaven 6.1 miles away. Over the Verrazano, into Staten Island and back again is not the way to do it. As a newly minted Brooklynite, I'm downright ashamed.

My parents were on their way home after one unnecessary toll, 30 minutes, and four pounds of coffee later. MS and I took advantage of being below 14th Street and picked up a much-needed sugar kick from Venerio's.


1 for 4.

Blurry in blue.

I never claimed to be a self-timer aficionado.

Monkey see, monkey listen, monkey drink.

I found myself pre-(f)unemployment typically partaking in drinks more during the week than on the weekend. A combination of factors went into this:

1) my job often entailed social events
2) my job drove me to the bottle
3) my job's hours limited social time to other people from the firm or other overworked midtown friends

Let it be known that I wasn't out in a bar four days a week like some lush or cad. I just, you know, enjoy a drink every now and again.

So Thursday night came and went, and I found myself killing a couple hours at a name-forgotten pub in the east 50's. The place looked and smelled like it was freshly stained - the pungent kick in the face when I first walked through the door reminded me of 6th grade shop class and my Minwax-stained baseball clock. My friend KDubs was there, and we caught up over Bud Lights and Blue Moons. I tiptoed through the (f)unemployment daises for a bit. She brought me up to speed on her long distance, vacation-fueled, Canadian based relationship. Her sleeves are were made up of more emotion than cashmere, so it was not difficult to see how happy she was. I was genuinely happy for her, too, more than I probably expressed.

Then there was this guy.


I don't know what part of Irish lore includes monkey heads, but these guys adorned the front of the bar. We don't know why, and frankly we didn't want to know. Tip money down and out the door.