Evening mass.

Unknown church on Broadway; somewhere between 14th and 8th Streets.

Snowy end to February.

On my way to lunch with KFizzle.

Mmm, cow.

For whatever reason, it's been a while since I've had red meat. I'm not saying I usually gorge myself on cow on a regular basis, but my diet has been a little more Asian based recently (sidebar - do yourself a favor and order sesame noodles next time you're in the mood for takeout, then come back here and thank me). And I don't know about you, but I don't consider crispy beef anything close to red meat (or beef, for that matter).

So when a friend of mine suggested burgers in the East Village, I high-fived the idea and headed down to my old 'hood. We ended up at Paul's "Da Burger Joint" on Second Ave. A tiny pretentious-free grease stain in an otherwise over-marketed part of town, I was instantly excited thrilled. My cheddar bacon was a perfect medium rare, and my $3.75 Rolling Rock squared the meal off. Burgers, an Olympics-obsessed waitress, and a belly full of laughs later, it was off for a night cap.

How good is Paul's? The place was packed on a cold, idle Tuesday. Don't just take my word for it - NYMag listed them as one of the best burgers in the city. Sure, this puts them side by side with burgers from the likes of David Burke at Bloomingdale's, Minetta Tavern, and Brooklyn's Dumont. And rightfully so. A stack of napkin's and patriotic feelings come free with every bite at Paul's.

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.

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.

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.

11th Street storefront.

I stopped for a few minutes in front of this storefront on 11th Street in the East Village tonight. Ikea has nothing on old-fashioned craftsmanship.

Subject: Me today.

Whenever an email with "me today" in the title vibrates through my Blackberry in the morning, it can only fall into one of four categories. Miss XYZ or Mr. ABC is running late, sick, taking a personal day, or playing hooky. Today it was my turn.

I'm rotating positions in bed as my current situation heats up to the point of unreasonableness. Feel the bed melting beneath me? Blow whistle, rotate, and repeat.

Partly to ease my mind and partly to pass the time that is a sick day, I visited a health clinic around the corner from my apartment. For $93 they told me exactly what I already knew - sleep, drink, and take Advil. Thankssssss.

I succumbed to my recent yet serious fried food cravings by stopping by Maria's Cafe on the corner of 3rd Street and Avenue C, deep in the heart of the East Village. I don't know if Maria was present, nor would I exactly call the yellow street stand a cafe (there are stools!), but the food satisfied my culinary bug. I picked up 4 HUGE chicken empanadas for $3.75 (the afternoon special) stumbled home wobbly and weary. And yes, still sick. Here's hoping tomorrow brings cooler temperatures my way.

Irony there for the taking.

Somewhere between Saturday ending and Sunday beginning this fellow was parked outside of neighborhood drinking hole Death & Company. Only he was alone, his life on wheels parked nearby, just in reach.

We've all been there. One drink too many. Maybe it was a food coma...turkey? A broken heart is the worst kind. Regardless of how you got to the point of lonely sleep, you got there. Some crash on the couch, others prefer roommates' beds. This man well, this man just wanted to crash. I don't blame him.

I woke up this morning not hungover but simply and utterly sick. Explaining it to my roommate as "my mind being one step behind my body" I quickly realized I was burning up. 104 degrees later and I was drinking water faster than a gerbil after racing around on its wheel. Consider today over. Here's hoping tomorrow brings on a miracle recovery, as the week ahead is brutal at work.

Just follow the neon.

I thought August was supposed to be a slow month for work.

Growing up in the woodlands of Jersey not much was open after 8 or 9pm, save the Budd Lake Diner (clearly the post-prom destination of HS'ers everywhere). That's just the way it was and is, nothing wrong with that. I'm looking forward to that again someday.

But in the meantime I'm here eating late night dinners that, if time was rounded, would lend themselves to be more appropriately considered breakfasts. Like a fly to light, I often times follow the neon open signs as I walk home. Need paper towels? Check out the bodega on 1st and 12th. Need dinner? I don't even know where to start. Odessa, 7A, St. Marks Market, hell, street meat from 11th Street. Well, today tonight was one of those nights.

I think it's safe to say that street meat has become my new comfort food. Covered here multiple freakin' times, I apologize if you find my pathetic attempts at culinary reviews a repetitive bore. If you know of something better than street meat - please - enlighten me.

Tonight's balance of meat, starch, and veggies (debatable) came from the 24/7 cart at 11th Street and 1st Avenue. A favorite among cab drivers and drunk NYU'ers alike, these guys have a pretty consistent following. $4.50 and 4 minutes later I was on my way home with a nicely cooked meal. Mmmm gyro.

Sometimes - on occasion - it rains.

Today's picture of the day is brought to you by Mother Nature and a soaked Blackberry. I got caught in the Downpour of the Summer while grocery shopping. The Dallas BBQ deliveryman felt it necessary to use a plastic bag as protection. And oh yeah, I was umbrella free. Awesome.

Killer of all things hot and humid discovered on 10th Street.

Take note of this if you live in or frequent the East Village.

One of my interns turned me on to Thirstea, an inviting little cafe specializing in bubble tea and smoothies. After opening earlier this summer on 10th Street (b/t 1st and A), they've already earned a 4.5 star rating on Yelp. And to be honest, I could not agree more. I've been there multiple times in the last few weeks, never leaving disappointed.

The owners are wonderful, friendly and honest about their drinks. For example, today I had the "Depeache Mode" smoothie, made with peaches, soy milk and honey. "It's more natural, not too sweet" was the description I received along with an offer to sweeten it up that I declined. Afterall, I trust the master behind the counter. The standard combination was spot on and delicious. For something sweeter I prefer the honeydew smoothie. Stop in, grab a drink, and enjoy the free wi-fi. I promise you'll leave here a happy and soon-to-be repeat customer.

Foodies to hold their breath (and plastic spoons) until further notice.

Dessert lovers take note. I noticed late last week that there was a staple missing from my daily walk home from work. Covered here back in March, the Dessert Truck is nowhere to be found. Panic on the streets.

Checking in with their Twitter page (wait, Twitter is actually serving a purpose?!), there was a tweet directing followers to their menu because "it's the only place we could fit it." It?

Off to the website and up came the menu. It wasn't a menu but rather a letter. Eff.

Here's an excerpt (full letter here):

We can’t open! Yesterday [8/6] the city notified us that the mobile food vendor’s permit used by DessertTruck is no longer valid. For reasons too confusing and vague for us to understand, the city denied the permit holder the right to renew his permit.

What does this mean? We can’t sell on the street to passerby. It does NOT mean we are out of business – we will continue to cater private events and find a way to open to the public again.

Wow. This is the second dessert destination in my neighborhood to close in the last month after 2nd Avenue's Max Brenner skipped town two weeks ago. Hopefully the crew over at the DTruck can get things figured out. Where else can I get my bread pudding & bacon glaze fix?!

Forget Brooklyn - the Nets' new arena is moving to the East Village.

My Sunday was anything but a Funday, but I did escape from my tomb apartment for long enough capture this particular sight. Sneakers on telephone lines are nothing new, but including a mini basketball hoop? Sure why not, right? Don't ask me how it got there or who uses it for practice. Check it out next time you're standing around 3rd Ave and 8th Street.

I don't know how this happened, but I like it.

When I first came across this antique payphone on 6th Street I thought this was just a kooky advertisement. Upon closer inspection of the ad I realized this was indeed something different. Someone managed to cram 4,852 pages from a book between the Plexiglas and original advertisement. Did they take it apart? Were they hopped up on Adderall? How did the book cover get placed oh so perfectly in the bottom right corner? Who was reading While Reagan Slept anyway?

I don't know, but I like it.

And we're back to our regularly scheduled Rain Watch.

The rain won't stop her from looking for cans, bottles, and a little spare change.



In other news, Better Off Soaked is featuring another shot from last week's storms. Thanks Katie!

Happy weekend everyone.

Day 2 of Rain Watch Summer Ohhhhh 9 going strong.

As the title forecasts (ha!) there's been no change in the weather today. I walked out of the subway this evening to a cloudy sky growing darker by the second. By the time I reached the Cooper Building on 3rd the skies were opening and dump trucks were unloading rain on the streets. My SWAG umbrella broke halfway home. Garbage floated in the street. People hated their lives for one more day.

This picture was taken quickly at 2nd Ave and 6th Street as people scrambled for cover.

I think we have different definitions for "best."

I passed my time on the way to work this morning by reading last week's NY Mag covering Cheap Eats across the city. Of particular interest was the thorough section devoted to pizza. Artichoke and Nino's - take a back seat. This is legit.

A handful of East Village locales were listed among the mag's top 20 list of pies "of the moment." Boom - dinner was decided. First Avenue's Veloce Pizzeria was close and convenient, but more importantly they had individual slices available. I went with two slices of margherita sicilian as sicilian is their trademark.



Pro's
Not too doughy (silician's downfall)
Fresh basil flavor in every bite
Decent crust

Con's
Soggy dough base
Greasy
$3 a square

The flavoring of the slices was excellent, and the cheese/sauce/dough/basil ratios were all pretty spot on. The pizza was surprisingly greasy, which I found to be a minor drawback as well. I'd recommend going here to dine in, ordering something like prosciutto di parma that the couple at the bar were enjoying while I waited for my order. Their wine selection is "meh" priced, considering after all that they're a pizza spot. Stick with a coke or beer. Hipsters take note that PBR pounders are served iced cold.

Probability of returning - yes, if it is someone else's choice.

I'll be hitting up more of the noted pizza joints establishments in the coming days. Stay tuned.

Why don't I feel bad for this guy?

This cabbie was pulled over on Avenue A this afternoon, one block north of the $#&%show known as a Verizon commercial shoot. Trunk undone and engine steaming, I still didn't feel bad for this guy; in fact I never feel bad for cabbies. Why should I? They rule the streets. They all mysteriously go off duty when it rains. They refuse to go to Brooklyn. They talk on the phone more than BFF high schoolers. And about that - who are they talking to?!? I can't imagine the significant others of cabbies to be sitting around at 4:30 in the morning gabbing about what little Jimmy did at school that day. Do they converse with other cabbies? Do they share secrets about where the best bunch of B&T'ers are that night? Traffic reports concerning the FDR and Midtown Tunnnel? The latest cricket game? WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?

Yes, this bothers me.

Granted, my stock in Motorola Bluetooth headsets appreciates their business, but I find it utterly annoying. One night after a long day of work I was cabbing it home (on the company, natch) and the driver was exceptionally loud. Annoying laugh, strong emotions, the whole bit. Did I follow the tourist tips posted in the backseat and kindly ask my driver to hang up? No, of course not. After all, I prefer not to detour to Red Hook en route to the E.V. I did the only thing I could do - I fought back with the in-car TV. Suddenly the cab-tube that I normally loathe and immediately mute upon entering a cab was my last hope for ending the ear-splitting cackle in the front seat. Cranking the volume on NBC highlights and "ask the locals" commercials, the chatterbox was forced to hang up. Trust me, it was worth bearing the obnoxious clips for 50 blocks.

Out to pasture.

Something's missing.



This is the second bike of mine that’s been used and abused. Note to bike owners – don’t lock up your goods on St. Marks. Ever.



That's right - brakes, chain, de-railers, seat, a pedal, rear wheel, and handle bars have gone missing. Wonderful. And by wonderful I mean #$%@. I kept the front wheel in my apartment in hopes of deterring thieves; look how well that worked.

I'm heading to Happy Valley this weekend for the annual Arts Festival so it's time for a little social experiment. (What's left of) my bike is currently leaning up against the pole (like the first picture) unlocked. We'll see if it's still standing when I return on Monday. Happy weekend all.