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.

Stumbled in.

I was bumbling around the LES and SoHo today, killing time in that stretch that takes place between being awake until calling it a night. I was bored, okay? It happens from time to time. Lucky for me, (f)unemployment was looking out for me.

As I meandered to the uptown 6 on Spring Street, I came across something rather curious. At the corner of Centre and Kenmare streets was - at least from first glance - an open door to an otherwise bare corner building. I couldn't decide if the door was left open, slightly ajar, on purpose or by some inconsiderate storefront employee. I was blind to the block lettering adorning the outside of the building explaining everything.

I quickly learned that the commercial space is dedicated to Storefront for Art & Architecture, a nonprofit started in 1982 that is "committed to the advancement of innovative positions in architecture, art and design." Click here for more worthwhile information.

To my enjoyment, the current exhibition was open for another hour or so, and I threw myself into one of the antique rows of stadium seating and caught a short film, Xmas Meier (trailer), in its entirety.

Here it was, smack dab in the middle of a blistery January afternoon. I was in such a place (physically, mentally, what have you) that I slid my phone into silent for 22 minutes and enjoyed a short documentary on a modern Italian church, the parishioners of which felt forever indebted to the Jewish architect that created their home for worship.

I decided not to stay for one of the remaining three documentaries, hoping to give myself reasons to return to Kenmare. Check this out if you're ever in the area as the exhibitions change frequently.

Uptown 6, Union Square transfer, home sweet China home.

Where a small is actually a small.

I spent my afternoon at Juan Valdez Cafe on 57th Street in midtown, catching up on some business. I wasn't there for more than 30 seconds before I realized I had found something worthwhile. After all, I simply wasn't in one of the dozens of Starbucks in the area, and here's how I knew:

1. The store was bigger than the typical studio apartment.
2. There wasn't a line - longer than that at the counter - waiting for the bathroom.
3. I was asked whether my Americano was "to stay or to go." My answer lead to...
4. ...my coffee being served in an actual mug. Like an actual cafe. Shocking. No, really.
5. The seating was ample, and catered to the lonely-guy-with-his-laptop crowd. Bench seating wrapped around the walls of the back area, corralling the small tables into some kind of manageable order.
6. My request for a small coffee was not met with the correcting confirmation, "You want a tall coffee? Sure." Hold the critical undertones, thanks.

Around New York.

While I was drooling over $200K Boston Whalers on Sunday, my friend CJ was hustling around town taking pictures.

Along for the ride.

Now I understand that the MTA is up to its neck nose eyes in financial trouble, but I didn't think it had gone to the dogs.

Bah bum *cymbal*

This is neither the first nor the last mutt to be seen on the subways, but typically the mode of transportation is a bit, I don't know, discreet? From Prada purses to Jansport backpacks to Trader Joe's paper bags, dogs can fit and (and be hidden) very easily. But this? Well this was a new use for an IKEA bag.


Welcome to Brooklyn, people.

I must compliment the dog on his superior calmness on the L. I still occasionally get caught off-guard as the train rattles under the East River like nickels in a coffee can. This guy sat contently until his stop at Lorimer.

Boats and beers.

For a day that started out much like 1993, it ended with 2010 feeling more authentic than the previous 23 days.

My father and I had plans to check out the NY Boat Show at the Jacob Javits Center. For those of you who have never been to a boat show, wellllllll. Hmm, yeah. I don't know what to tell you. Most people attend boat shows because - as Eddie the Boat Guy will tell you - it's a great place to buy a boat. But when my father, brother, and I attended boat shows back in the day, we never had the intention of actually buying a boat. We went for the boats. To see the boats. Jump on them, check 'em out, maybe schmooze the salesmen for their nifty handouts and brochures. Yes, we would go home to mom with bags of boat handouts.

And we loved it. I'm pretty sure she didn't.

So my dad and I spent our Sunday morning checking out the boats; Whalers, jets, luxury. We collected a few handouts (can't go wrong with the Salty Dog) while wondering aloud whether the show was always this small.

Maybe it's the economy.

Maybe it was always this tiny.

But if that was the case, how did we ever spend all day here when we were kids?

After an hour and half we were done perusing the Big Kid Toy Show and decided it was time for lunch. The Javits Center is in the middle of nowhere, so we trekked to Foley's Pub on 33rd, positioned across the street from the south side of the Empire State building. Passing the time with talks of my unemployment and his budgetary maneuvers, we were soon enjoying cold Yuenglings and hot food. The food beat out anything found around the Penn Station area, and the much-needed conversation topped any handouts we could have possibly collected.

We parted ways back on the Hudson at the ferry; it was the same way we used to travel to the Boat Show as kids. Dad headed west cross the river to Jersey and I hiked east towards Manhattan civilization.

Good day.

A night in.

Funemployment - a night in with friends, food, wine, and, umm, more wine.


Côtes du Rhône might just be my new go-to French region. Trader Joe's, you never disappoint.

Between two pillars - anywhere New York.

I love this picture.


In a way, it embodies what I originally set out to do with this blog - capture the very simple parts of New York that I appreciate, cherish, and try not to take for granted. The daily reminders of what life is like here. It's not sexy, glamorous or the fast track to the proverbial diamond penthouse in the sky. But I love it.

Catching an express train across the platform at Union Square. Spotting the Empire State Building lit up in blue and white after the NIT championship game. Walking past garbage that a local artist tagged with his slogan. These are the moments. This was a moment.

I stepped off the uptown 6 en route to an interview and spotted the newspaper stand on the downtown side. Augustana blared through my headphones. The guy behind the counter didn't move as some this Suit snapped away, trying his best to keep the point and shoot steady in his hands.

Click on the picture to expand it. Soak it in. This could be anywhere in New York. Gum for the night out; Financial Times for Street news, the Post for sports. Mentos? He has Mentos.

Little victories.

I haven't been sleeping very well this week, for whatever reason (the shoulder is no longer a valid excuse, except maybe for my golf swing). There I was, 6:00 in the morning, awake like an accident on the BQE outside my patio door just exploded and rattled me awake.

Alas, no accident.

Normally I would bite the bullet and go to work, pounding complimentary coffee the way Pauly D throws back Jaegar bombs in Seaside.

But alas, no office to go to.

I knew what I needed. Dressed and jacketed I headed out into the still dark street and went underground to the L. I popped up in Manhattan, hopped above ground and found the nearest corner vendor.


Sesame with butter, small coffee with sugar, and a Post, please.
It's all about the Jets. You a Jets fan?
Giants. Since when is Sanchez the next big thing? I thought he was awful?
I'm a Jets fan. And he is awful.


Back underground to Brooklyn, little victories in the brown paper bag in my hand.


I have never seen the steps to the L train in Union Square be so...empty. This is the L train we're talking about - one of the busiest lines in the city. I'll try to get over here during rush hour next week and take a comparative shot.

This is certainly not missed.

You know it's busy season when:

A) Your drinking buddies (and former colleagues) don't make it to happy hour until 10:30pm.
B) The comments at GoingConcern.com are more cutting than normal. Bitterness at its best.
C) Incestuous inter-office affairs are rampant.
D) The cab line outside of an unnamed Big4 firm, waiting for the working ants to head home looks like this:

Pre-dinner distraction.

Dinner plans were set for the night by CJ's friend MS in very MS fashion - relaxed order.

Upper East Side, after work; Bill, you're on starch duty.

Clearly "after work" is a non-essential detail for me, but even with these two - CJ's season busy and MS's schedule pleasantly hectic - dinner was to fall somewhere between 8:00pm and Hong Kong's lunch hour. Nonetheless, I was on board. I earnestly appreciate the moments of regularity - or what I used to consider regular - that fall my way nowadays. However brief and inconsistent they might be.

I decided to find the necessary ingredients local to the evening's kitchen. After all, potatoes are heavy and I'm still milking every last thing I can out of this broken shoulder. After two perfectly timed train connections I found myself moseying the 70's for a grocery store well before the other chefs were expected to be en route. In the process I came across JG Melon's. Quintessential New York.

I was here once before. I had set up shop in the dark back corner, my Mac being the only computer on premises (even the register behind the bar remains the manual type).

"Burger medium rare, fries, and coffee, please."

Not even writing my order down, my waitress had probably heard the same combination of caffeine and grub requested hundreds of times over. It was the turning point of the night for the pub; the consistent dinner crowd was long gone but was steadily being replaced by a drunker, louder clientele. The ubiquitous one-more-drink, first-date-going-strong couple laughed at the table to my left. The table of real life Gossip Girl kids recounted the party they just came from at Jim's NYU dorm. Then there was me - wi-fi in tow - going through endless work; when I used to be the type to take work home with me.
The burger was cooked spot-on and the coffee bottomless. One of the drunks knocked his water across the red and white checkered table cloth, but no one else seemed to notice.

But right, dinner. Pork, vegetables, and Mama K's red skinned mashed potatoes. One ill-advised covering of the pork and a conference call with Hong Kong later and we sat down to dinner at 10:30, perfectly normal by New York standards.

A "goodbye for now" lunch.

Like I mentioned earlier this week, LP and her 'stache obsession were in town for the long weekend. A few of us gathered for lunch before her return flight to her life new journalist-of-the-skies career in Texas. Fitting that we were at 88 Orchard, a ridiculously cute cafe in the Lower East Side that happens to be managed by my roommate (and LP's former).

(mmm.)

Willard threw down the curry chicken salad; LP and I each stuck with french toast and bacon. The smell of J's Reuben was downright envious. All around good food and company. Sharky, you run a great corner spot.


It was wonderful to have LP around for a few days, and for the same amount of time it was like she never left. But then there we were standing on Delancey, which might be the city's worst location to try and grab a cab. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

It's a mutual feeling.

Important, life-altering reasons draw people to New York: love, careers, dreams, everything Jay-z and Alicia sing about. But it's often the little things that keep me here, appreciating the moments. Small, otherwise insignificant things that make me realize I don't want to be anywhere else.

The Chrysler Building right after sunset. Diner coffee. Friendly dinners. The museums. Football Saturdays spent anywhere but Happy Valley. A piano in the subway.


Doors on the E opened up and I was reminded again.


It's mutual.

Multi-borough birthday.

Dinner in Brooklyn, drinks in the East Village.

The former was a first for me. As I was guided through the neighborhood by my roommate, I quickly realized that I somehow made it 3.5 months without going out to dinner in Brooklyn. Takeout? Sure. The food is generally fantastic, don't get me wrong. But I still wonder why I've avoided exploring Billyburg to a greater extent. Note to self.



Regardless, dinner was at Arepa Arepa on Havemeyer (yeah, I don't know where that is either) for a friend's birthday. Closed off to our small group, the place was adorable, cozy, and delicious. Did I mention BYOB? Clearly the reason there was at least one bottle of wine per attendee. Friends, food, and no corkage fee? Yes, please.




Oh, and the latter? Been there, done that; going back again. But being out for the first birthday of the year made me realize something.

Less than a month. Officially in the "mid-to-late 20's" category. Bloody hell.

Scotch, please.

An Astor afternoon.

Astor Place was alive and well today.

I was there, killing time in the afternoon before joining KF for a late lunch. Setting up shop at the top of the downtown 6 subway steps was this gent':


Not really sure if the seven dollars in his other hat are going to Haitian relief.

Mustached corn dogs.

Somewhere between "one more drink" and "what time is it?" an executive decision was made to leave the vast land of Brooklyn and hunt down corn dogs. In the process, fake mustaches were discovered being dispensed from the type of machine normally reserved for baseball cards or shiny stickers. Corn dogs were purchased; some consumed immediately, others jammed into coat pockets for the trip back to Brooklyn.

Did I mention LP was back in town? This should all make sense now.

Friends and jealousy, as separate as oil and vinegar.

Neither Broadway shows nor work dinners were the reasons I found myself clamoring through Times Square tonight. I had trouble finding the Crowne Plaza where my friend C was staying. Darting into the Ferris-wheeled Toys 'R Us to escape the windswept crowd, I made one last pleading attempt to find where he was. It's across the street from the Hershey store is not sufficient directions for New Yorkers. Note that.

A few minutes and a half dozen crowded street corners later I found myself reunited with an old friend. We small-talked our way to a sufficient bar on 9th Avenue before settling in for a few drinks. Twelve year Balvenie called, and I picked up. Neat. As always.

C is a rare gem in my life; whether that is five days or five years, I'm usually the one at fault for dropping the conversation with him. I have a harder time accepting that notion than I do admitting it. I promise to improve upon this. Someday.

But as always, conversation picks up where it left off like we never missed a step. He's still working on his magazine for our generation, enjoying life in D.C as a consultant in the meantime. His clear-mindedness is one to envy. I bounced career ideas off of his more experienced life's work. Love and ambition, family and college times; all discussed over a pair of Tanqueray's.

We pushed ourselves through the post-dinner crowd and parted ways at the Crowne. As I made my way to towards the safety of the train I passed this gent' doing what I've been meaning to do for some time; capture TS with something grander than my cell phone camera. My Blackberry sufficed once again, jealous of his initiative.



Some day.

Dirty laundry.

Wine leads to experimenting with macro and manual focuses.

Never noticed the sparkles.

I couldn't tell you the last time I rode the uptown 6 and saw the floor. Here's to missing rush hour, of which taking a picture would get one arrested.

Antique perfection.

Well, today was a flashback.

Antiques were part of my life growing up in northwest New Jersey. Perhaps this doesn't come as a surprise; I grew up in a town with no zip code, after all. Antique shops dot the streets of Andover, Lafayette. People had garage sales the way we have happy hours now. I spent weekends with my brother and father walking the abandoned tracks of the Lackawanna Cut-off in our pursuit of glass insulators (pictured). They were worth less than a recyclable bottle, but it didn't matter. It's what we did; and we were damn good at it. You know, just three boys climbing trees in pursuit of antique glassware.

So today - yes - a flashback.

I spent much of the morning and early afternoon exploring the Brooklyn Flea, a collection of 100+ "vintage" vendors packed into the old Williamsburg Saving Bank. I woke up to a text message from the friend I was meeting, saying, "pack your camera." Like really, I'd miss this photo opp? I. Think. Not.


The building itself is delicious eye candy. Once obviously a bank, it's now available as a rental space. Sure, it's nice to have Chase on every single corner in Manhattan; but this space is simply beautiful.

Vendors carried an almost overwhelming amount of stuff. I say stuff because the word vintage doesn't come to mind; it's a term used too freely in the city. This was all stuff I've seen before, crammed into tiny mom and pop shops that smelled like dusty piano sheet music and Virginia Slims. It would do us city folk some good to take a weekend trip to the endless rows of shops tucked away north and west from here; the towns themselves left over from another time.

More picture taking than shopping commenced today, but I still managed to buy a set of typewriter cuff links. I'll be back next weekend for a closer look at the goods. Check out the rest of the photos here on Flickr.

The way Saturday should be.

Granted it wasn't the normal weekly New York hustle that I've been used to, but it was nice to have the week be over and done with. Weekends can be busy or not. Hungover or healthy. Frugal or rock star expensive.

To say weekend options are limitless is cliche but accurate. Guests come and go. Drunk brunch possibilities. Quiet nights in. But on occasion Saturdays work out to be a satisfying ratio of productivity, conversation, and belly aching laughs. Boom. Jackpot.

My day started with lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. A wonderful spot just south of Union Square, it was a welcomed escape from the craze outside. The smell of good coffee and homemade bread punched my senses square on their ass. Communal tables dominated the floor. No one seemed rushed. Tourists were nowhere to be found.


I found my old friend sitting peacefully in the back, enjoying tea and a book (not from Strand, waaah). She the curry chicken; me the organic porridge. Strong coffee. BREAD. (Thank you, Le Pain, for fulfilling my self titled bread-head craving). But beyond the warm eats and friendly staff, the feeling of calm that the cafe exuded might be its defining characteristic. No one is rushed; come and go as you please. The way Saturdays should be.

Like anything else these days, blame the cold.

Walk outside for more than a block and try to send a text; your frozen fingers won't get through the first "haha" or "lol" before your hands are officially frozen. Thumbs weak, moving slower than your mind.

Hands, noses, and chronic BBM'ers are not the only things affected by the arctic, when-the-hell-is-April weather. Corner crosswalk signs apparently can't take the frozen temperatures either.

Walk. Don't walk. Look uptown; downtown depending on the avenue. Just watch out for the suicidal delivery guys, whatever the season.

Entitled.

I met a friend for lunch yesterday, recounting the previous 48 hours of my recent (f)unemployment.

What'd you do yesterday?
Meh. Threw together my first resume in five years.
You didn't steal one from someone you met on campus?
Really?
Shoulder shrug. Why not? You've seen thousands of them.
I'm not stealing the creative brainpower of a 20 year old accountant-to-be.
How'd yours come out?
Like it was made by the 20 year old's pre-teen brother.

We sat in silence for maybe 30 seconds, my friend realizing the complexity of my current situation. We took in timely sips of our respective beers; mine Magic Hat #9, his Sam Adams. The cold mugs made the burgers and conversation in front of us easier to swallow.

You don't have to get right back into things, you know.
I know, I know. I knew. I think I knew, at least.
You're entitled to some "me" time. You're sitting here checking your phone like you still have partners to tend to and conference calls to deliver on.
Well there is the job interview I have on Friday that I'm waiting...
Take a day. Take an hour. Take a timeout. Do something tomorrow that you haven't done in a long time. Get out of your apartment, away from the internet, and be selfish for an afternoon.

I was selfish today.

I walked around the Union Square, East Village area. It was my home for three years. I know it well. Like an old friend.

100 Faces - hand drawn in Union Square by Felix

Sketching a mural on the wall of Ross Charter School.

Sun sets on Union Square.

Lonely Lincoln.

The city sleeps only after Sunday brunch - two eggs and twice as many mimosas deep. Constant flow, lacking only calm. Make the light. Train. Meeting. Midtown ants make daytime purchases; trucks make evening deliveries. Pictures are taken in Times Square, later shared in Detroit. A balanced push and pull. Twist. Turn. Gears clicking rhythmically. Chaos from the surface. Beauty from within.

Look up. Everywhere. Constant movement. Today's Park Avenue view is not tomorrow's. Good intentions slow the inevitable cranes that transform the skyline. It's an organism, feeding on itself. It will feed on you.

Look down. Locked in. Its lifespan there is short, but be jealous nonetheless. Slowed to a frozen standstill. There for the taking.

Heading somewhere; going nowhere.

Not much can be accomplished while waiting for my career boxes to show up on my doorstep. Sleep in. Coffee. Laundry. Sounds like Sunday. Feels like Sunday.

It's not Sunday.

What are you doing home, vacation? My roommate inquires.
Something like that. I was fired yesterday.
Fired? Like you lost your job?
I did lose my job.
But weren't you working crazy hours? Her head tilted from left to right, like she was debating whether I was pulling a fast one on her.
You were never around.
Now I am.
Good. That's going to be good.

L train, 1st Ave stop.

Gone.

I sealed the final box, the packing tape screech cutting through the otherwise silent Park Avenue office floor. Three years of a career filtered down to five boxes. Back up ties. Coffee mugs and felt pennants from each of my schools. Notes, records, correspondences. Boxes sent home, not shipped to another office or messengered upstairs to the 40th floor. Home. Done.

Three hours prior I was planning a semester's worth of travel. Presentations to give. Students lives to change. Hands to shake. A semester's worth of motions needed to be planned. I was planning.

Two hours and 55 minutes prior I was fired. This was not a motion but I knew. Pet food politics aside, I became a January statistic that others will read about in February. Coincidentally my 26th birthday is a month to the day from this moment. Scatter brained.

Head spinning from denial.

I found comfort in the words and warmth of friends, the taste of a chicken burrito, and the bottom of a highball of scotch. Neat.

My desk was never neat.

 

Resolutionary.

Tomorrow marks the return to an un-welcomed normalcy. Another season of holiday cheer - however you cheer - has come and gone like Manhattan snow. Tomorrow ushers in the return of rush hour trains packed with wandering eyes, crowded midtown crosswalks and even more stuffed email inboxes. Back to work we go; just pinballs in the machine.

January breeds new. Calendars. Sweaters gifted weeks earlier. Resolutions.

I was never a fan of resolutions. But this year will be different.

I'm joining the NYC Road Runners Club in hopes of being eligible for the 2011 NYC Marathon. Yes, I was serious about getting back to the pavement. And I mentioned something about less booze-age and a softer tongue. Ummm. One at a time, people.


From a random gym in a random neighborhood at a random hour of the night.