dietsch ::

Yay, Brooklyn, yay!

Oh, yay! Brooklyn, yay! So cool you can't step outside on the Fourth of July because your hooplehead neighbors are shooting their guns into the air! I'm so sure that when Jonathan and Nicole go to see Paul and Siri and Sophie on the Fourth, they all five of them go out onto Prospect Park West to shoot their guns into the air and pop caps into their neighbors' heads! Yay Brooklyn!

(Seriously, follow my link, scroll to the bottom, read Jonathan Safran Foer's entry [it amuses me that the authors misspelled "Safran"], and see if this guy is living in anything resembling reality. And then come back and tell me that--oh!, you really like his novels!)

And that's my problem with the tone of this Brooklynites piece. The photos are great, but the project feels really false, like a Marty-approved puff piece for Brooklyn. Hey, I love living here, but in the same way that London hit the Cool Britannia PR bullshit 10 years ago, I feel like we're in the middle of Cool Brooklyn PR bullshit now.

Not all of Brooklyn meets the hype. That's all I'm sayin'.

Gary Regan at LeNell's

Jen's got a photoset up of Gary Regan's visit this weekend to LeNell's. Imagine seeing Dale DeGroff, David Wondrich, and Gary Regan in the same week! Wow...

Anyway, Gary Regan is so charming and fun in person. He discussed mixing techniques, cocktail ingredients, and bar equipment, all while mixing drinks and passing them out to the crowd. He started with the sidecar. He discussed his theory of mixology--how everything reduces down to several basic recipes. The sidecar is cognac, triple sec, and citrus juice. The margarita--tequila, triple sec, citrus. The kamikaze--vodka, triple sec, citrus. The cosmo complicates things, but only barely--citrus vodka, triple sec, cranberrry, citrus juice.

This is a powerful idea, and Gary attributes it to Ted "Dr. Cocktail" Haigh. But whomever the originator, it's an idea worth remembering--a strong spirit, a liqueur (or other sweetening agent), and citrus juice. The spirit is your base; so many of Gary's recipes are in the proportion of 3-2-1. Three parts spirit, two of liqueur, and one of citrus. Add other ingredients, maybe some vermouth, an additional liqueur, but keep the spirit as the predominant flavor, and just experiment.

On the subject of experimentation, Gary talked about coming down on the train to LeNell's and thinking, Hmmmmmm, I love an aviation cocktail. (That's gin, maraschino, and lemon juice--oh look! spirit, sweetening liqueur, and lemon!) Could you make an aviation with tequila replacing the gin? Well, why not try it. So he tried that with us. We got a Gary Regan original.

He said, well, you know that lime is traditional with tequila, so why are we using lemon? It seems that one night he wanted an aviation but was out of lemon. He tried lime juice instead, and it was vile in the drink. Just doesn't marry well to the maraschino apparently.

So he mixed up this new drink and sampled a little. Not bad. Not bad at all. He poured up some and passed them out to the crowd, dubbing it the LeNell--which flattered and charmed the hell out of our hostess. And it's a good drink.

Jen doesn't like the maraschino (Stock) that I've used for drinks, but Gary used the Luxardo, and she liked it. Her only quibble was that the drink might be better if were drier, with a bit more citrus. Gary overheard her telling me that and mixed up a bit more lemon and added it to her drink.

He then said that a good bartender will, if he or she has enough time and isn't in the weeds, remember a regular's preferences and, for example, mix my drink with less lemon juice and Jen's with a little more.

And that's Gary Regan. Smart, accommodating, charming, drinker-driven, and damn good behind the stick.

Mixed and muddled at Balance

Cocktail king Dale DeGroff and Esquire columnist David Wondrich educated 40 happy cocktail geeks, bartenders, and other spirits-industry types on Tuesday evening at a Garment District bar called The Balance. My ticket in was a Valentine's Day gift from my lovely wifey, and I can't think of a better present.

I arrived early, before The Balance opened, and waited on the sidewalk. Another guy was lingering on the sidewalk as well. A woman approached us and began friendly conversation: Are you here for the mixology seminar?

She asked if I was "in the industry" and I said, No, I'm just a cocktail geek. The other guy, Ted, was also a geek like me, but the woman, Hanna, does PR for the food and wine business.

Hanna also knows Dale DeGroff, from her time in wine PR, so she very graciously offered to introduce me to him as we entered Balance. So we walked up the stairs, went around the corner, and saw on the bar an array of full champagne flute. The bartender said, "Please! Have a champagne cobbler." We each grabbed a drink (YUM!) and with flute in hand, I met Dale DeGroff.

Aside to mko: Eeeeeeeeee!

Hanna had already told me what I'd heard from so many others--that Dale is warm and friendly and a very damn nice guy, and that his wife, Jill, at least equals, if not exceeds, his charm. I didn't, unfortunately, take the chance to talk to Jill, but Dale is down-to-earth, friendly, and approachable.

After we milled about and chatted, Dale opened the seminar. He made a few brief comments about his champagne cobbler recipe and introduced David Wondrich. David discussed very briefly the history of alcohol and drinking, explaining that among the first "cocktails" was beer or wine fortified with a little spirit. From there, he described the history of the punch and provided a recipe that he says approximates an old-fashioned spiced rum punch, from British-controlled India.

From punch, he moved on to the birth of the Gin Cock-Tail. To oversimplify his explanation a bit, the cocktail seems to have arisen as a way to make bitters more palatable. As the name implies, bitters are bitter-tasting--they're a compound of spirit and botanicals used for medicinal purposes and to aid digestion. The idea arose to make the bitters more palatable by diluting them. To paraphrase a certain dotty nanny, just a spoonful of gin and sugar helps the medicine go down.

This idea has pedigree: British sailors fought scurvy by consuming limes and their juice; cutting the bitter lime with gin--hence the gimlet. The same happy breed of men quaffed quinine-laced tonic water in India, to fight malaria. The tonic was so bitter, they cut it with gin and citrus--hence the G&T.

Getting back to the point, a Cock-Tail was initially any strong spirit, sugar, and bitters, shaken over ice.

Wondrich is a crazy man. The bitters he used Tuesday were Stoughton bitters, a common sight in the 1800s, but virtually unknown since at least Prohibition. His batch was a brew that he'd cooked up himself, adapted from recipes found online.

Wondrich's cocktail The Enchantress comes from a rare bartenders' manual by a fellow named Charles Campbell. How rare? Only one copy is known to exist, and that's in a rare-book room at a library in San Francisco. (mko, if you're still reading, you have homework.)

Holy God, but I could go on and on talking about Tuesday's seminar: how charmed I was by the space, how much I liked sampling each cocktail, how I talked LeNell's ear off after the seminar, asking her tons of questions about how and why she got into this business. (I'm still embarrassed that I inadvertently broke up her conversation with Jill DeGroff, but they were both gracious about it.)

But David and Dale were great--funny, open, super-knowledgable, open to questions (lots and lots of questions). I can't wait to do this again [that's a PDF--be careful].

Red Hook

Jen and I have been taking the long ride on the B61, every so often, to trek down to Red Hook. We both love that area. A Brooklyn-waterfront neighborhood, Red Hook was known for freighter shipping until the industry went into decline. Its shipping inspired Elia Kazan's classic film On the Waterfront.

Red Hook is, to put it simply, a neighborhood in uneasy transition. Ikea and Fairway are both planning mega-developments in the area, and a number of high-rises and conversions are planned to bring in a wealthier residential base.

But Red Hook is currently known for great restaurants, a wonderful bakery, and a charming-but-funky bookstore. We've been to all of these places. We went to 360 when I still lived in Park Slope, and Valentine's Day 2005 featured Baked's chile-accented spicy brownies. We've been to Freebird a couple of times, and I never fail to walk away with something cool.

We'd actually probably seriously consider living down there, except for the fact that it's pretty much out of the way of reliable transportation. The B61 is fine, as are a couple of other buses, but it's a real schlep past the public housing projects, to get there from the F train. Also, the neighborhood isn't really convenient yet for grocery shopping (although I do think it gets Fresh Direct). It's really a place that rewards car ownership. If you're Jen, working late and walking home from the train at 10pm, it would be nice to have your hubby there in a waiting car.

But our favorite Red Hook spot is LeNell's, a charming boutique devoted to well-curated wines and spirits. I don't remember how I heard of LeNell's, but we've now been there a few times. LeNell is a southern gal, who relocated to New York to open this shop. She told us it's exactly the kind of place she always wanted to shop in but never could.

LeNell specializes in whiskeys, but her selections of gins and bitters are quite impressive as well.

She offers regular wine tastings, bourbon classes, and cocktail lessons. She had David Wondrich in recently, and Gary Regan is scheduled for this month.

LeNell runs a great place, and she and her staff are supereasy to talk to, so I know we'll be back. I just wish we could go daily.

Redesigns, libraries, etc.

So, the site redesign and update are almost done. I need to cull dead links, tidy up the resume, and make sure all's smooth, but it should be up very soon. Perhaps surprisingly soon. Meanwhile. Saturday was a nice New York day for the Dietsch. I went on a tour, finally, of the NYPL in midtown. The big one with the lions, y'know. Anyway, with all the time I'd spent there, editing and stuff, it was nice to finally have a look around at the place. See things I didn't take the time to look at when I was making it my place of employment, y'know. I hung around after the tour and saw the NYC Eats exhibit, up on the third floor. Cool stuff. Lots of paper ephemera like menus and napkins from restaurants, diners, street vendors, and other food purveyors from New York's history. All of this is in the Library's collection. People don't think of libraries collecting menus and photographs and postcards, but you'd be amazed. I then headed down the Bowery, to CBGB's 313 Gallery, next door to the famous rock venue. 313 had a showing of Illegal Art. The idea is to represent artists who use corporate icons, slogans, or familiar characters in ways of which their owners might not approve. So Disney-character porno cartoons, for example, or Kieron Dwyer's riff on the Starbucks logo. If you read this blog--yeah, both of you--you can understand why this would attract me. Creative expression depends entirely on allowing people to take ideas and concepts from other sources, filtering those ideas through their own mindware, and creating something new. This ties in perfectly with the IP and copyright and cyberlaw stuff I've been following. I could go on, but I've been drinking, and I'm not sure I'd make much sense. Also, I'm not sure either of you want to hear it.

Goddamn is it windy today!

Goddamn is it windy today! I just saw a four-year-old kid in a long coat swept up by the wind, carried across the Harlem River, and deposited safely in the park across the way. Well, okay. I made that up. But it is bloody damn windy today.

Patti Smith

Patti Smith performed Friday night at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which might be a strange venue for a rock show, but it wasn't really a rock show, so I suppose it doesn't matter. The performance was billed as a night of remembrance in honor of All Saints Day. She brought a ragoût of spoken word, poetry performance, and music, assisted by Phillip Glass (on a Burroughs tribute), among others. Patti's mother, Beverly, died just over a month ago, and her memory permeated the performance. I almost wrote that it hung heavily, but that's not the case at all. Her mother seems to have had a very irreverent and light-hearted personality and that was the spirit that Patti herself had when talking about her. Much of the show was Patti Smith, onstage alone, at a microphone, reading poetry, telling stories about her friends and family, and joking with the audience. She seemed both at-ease and nervous, at the same time. Her hair, once black, is now silver-gray, and she wears it long and straight. Her love of androgyny remains: she wore a black suit, a loosened thin black tie, and a white shirt, open at the collar. Although she's certainly not conventionally pretty, I believe that Patti Smith remains, at 56, one of the sexiest women I've seen. I can never quite describe what Smith's music means to me and even when I play it for people, they often don't get it. When I do try to explain it, I sound like I'm speaking cliches: she "understands" me, her music "resonates," whatever. All I know is that I feel a deep, intimate interlocking with her music. Something about her music and my spirit just snap together. To hear her voice in person was profoundly moving for me. Smith spoke about her friends, her mentors, her heroes: William Burroughs, Jean Genet, Robert Mapplethorpe, Ezra Pound, Alan Ginsberg, Georgia O'Keefe. She read poems by or about those people. She spoke of her family--her parents' separation during WWII, her mother's work to provide joy to her children when no one knew how they'd afford another day's meals. She sang Sonny Boy in honor of her brother, and When My Ship Comes In to memorialize her parents. She spoke with disarming candor about her feelings and inspirations. She spoke to us as if we were each her friends. A woman of modesty and wisdom, she was surprisingly sentimental and even goofy at times. That appeals to me, for anyone who knows me well understands that I too can be sentimental and goofy. For an evening, I was in the largest living room in Manhattan, listening to one of my heroes discussing her heroes as if we were talking over coffee. She performed only one song, to my knowledge, that she's recorded before--Dancing Barefoot--during a two-song encore that began with a charming performance of the Beatles song Blackbird, during which she flubbed the lyrics and then giggled.

All Hallow's Evening

Halloween, New York. I saw the Halloween parade in Greenwich Village tonight. There were no floats as such but several groups of large (about 12-feet-tall) puppets appeared. The highlight, though, were the costumed people. I guess the point of the Village parade is to let anyone in a costume join the fun and parade up 6th Avenue. Spongebob Squarepants was there, and Domo Kun and Clifford the Big Red Dog. Dykes on Bikes. About a dozen Wonder Women, only three of whom were obviously male, along with a handful of Batmen, Supermen, and Superwomen. Lots of men in drag, but that's no surprise. The X-Men were out in force. A troupe of nuns (only three of whom were obviously male) danced up the avenue, followed by a crucified Christ. Hobbes was there, unaccompanied by Calvin, and a Batman-less Robin shuffled up the street. A cute girl in a pink bunny costume walked up our side of the street. She stopped nearby to have her photo taken and a dozen people simultaneously went, "Awwwwwwww." A woman in leather fetish gear, including a full mask, led a man by a leash up the street. A nearly naked man, his body painted to resemble Captain America's costume, walked arm in arm with one of several Catwomen (only one of whom was obviously male). Dancing in the wake of a jazz band, a Superman kissed a Batman, while Things One and Two skipped along side by side. The costumed tended to travel in large packs of about 70 people, usually accompanied by a band of some sort. As a group, they boogied up the street--the Twister boards and Snickers bars, the Scooby Doos and Hannibal Lechters, the cigarettes and condom men and manta women. Strangers in the crowd sang together as the parade passed by. After it ended, the West Village was awash with people. Streets were closed everywhere to auto traffic as thousands of people headed for bars and restaurants and pizza joints and cafes. As we picked our way through the crowd, my friend said, "This has gotta be what Mardi Gras is like!" I said, "Yeah, except that it's colder here and there's not nearly enough naked people." As we moved through the crowd to West Fourth Street station, a woman passing in the other direction made eye contact with me, locked her gaze on mine, and sang to me: "Thank you very much, oh Mister Roboto!" I wish I weren't working tomorrow. This would be one hell of a night to stay in the Village, drinking and people-watching and flirting and partying until the sunrise. Maybe next year.

D-trainin'

Another train story. Monday afternoon, I was riding the D train down to the west side of Manhattan. Directly across from me, I saw two men sitting side by side, dressed almost identically. They wore identical pinstriped suits, one in gray, the other in blue. One man's knee rested against the other's and they conversed quietly. Three teenaged girls entered the train and sat beside me. They talked among themselves--nothing obnoxious or loud or particularly noticable, really. After they'd been on the train about fifteen minutes, though, I heard one of the guys across from me speak to the girl immediately to my left: "If you've got something to say, say it so we can all hear." She paused for a moment and said, "We weren't even talking about you." He said something I couldn't hear and then she responded, "It's not all about you, you know." "You were staring," he said. I think at this point, the other guy urged the first guy to let it go. They whispered to each other, and I heard the angry guy say, "But......and she......but they....." We pulled in to the next station. The men were still discussing the girls, and I heard one girl say, "We're getting off here, right!" It wasn't a question. They left the train, and I made sure not to make eye contact with the guys across from me.

F-trainin'

Updates have dropped off, and people are starting to complain. Rode into work this morning on the F train, up to 42nd Street, and then the D to 161st. The F was crowded, as usual, and so I stood most of the trip. Watching people on the train is always entertaining. I stood watching a man in a plaid flannel shirt, right arm in a sling, sitting hunched over a sheet of paper, filled with what looked like poems. He was an older man, with thinning silvered hair, craggy face, and a thin gray mustache. He worked with a pen through the poems, underlining words and phrases, circling others, and making notes in the margins. Next to him stood a tall man, also older, who tilted his head down and looked over the seated man as he marked up the poems. For a short time, the standing man seemed like a sort of tutor for the silver-haired man. At one of the Brooklyn stops, perhaps Jay Street, I watched passengers board the train. An Asian woman entered and stood next to me. Her face is neither attractive nor unattractive, but its lines and planes are interesting to study. The face is also familiar, because the same woman stood right next to me on the train yesterday. Although I do tend to see certain people repeatedly during the week, it's rare to be right next to the same person two days in a row.

Flash

Walking from the subway up to work this morning, I hear a horn honk to my left. I ignore it, but the car honks again. I still ignore it, but then I hear a woman shouting in Spanish. I turn to look and see a minivan driving by. The side door is open in back and a woman's kneeling inside, topless but for a pair of suspenders. She laughs, jiggles herself at me, and the van drives off. Ah, New York.

Friday night, lower Manhattan

Friday night, lower Manhattan. I'm in from Brooklyn on the F train, stomping up to Ace, a dive bar in the East Village, to meet friends for drinks. Ace is on Fifth between Avenues A and B and I'm crossing Houston, heading north on Avenue A. I notice a sharp-looking young lady well in front of me. About 5'8", thin, wearing a striped miniskirt, knee-high socks, and her hair pulled back into two little ponytails on either side of her head. In other words, that schoolgirl look that's so played and yet so capable of turning me to mush. Unable to resist stalker urges, I quicken my pace to catch up with her. Just past Houston, and not paying close enough attention to my surroundings, I'm startled by about six young people, running full throttle in the other direction. One of them nearly slams me at full speed, but I sidestep just in time. I wonder what they're running from but I don't really pay them much attention. I notice, though, the woman I'm following is standing there, mouth wide open, watching them tear by. I start walking again and almost catch up to her when she starts moving quickly again up Ave. A. At the next corner, two men are arguing loudly, very loudly. A small crowd gathers at a distance, I think hoping to see blood splash and spray. One man's doing most of the screaming. Nothing coherent--just a lot of "Fuck you motherfucker and fuck your motherfucking motherfucker too." The other man shouts back more of the same. I notice he has a small, yappy dog on a leash, barking at the first man. Now of course this all makes me curious, but I don't need to get involved. What I want instead is a bar and a pint glass and my friends around me. So I start to morph into the thousand-yard stare, the one where you're vigilant of your surroundings but pretending not to be. Don't make eye contact, especially not with the nutters, and roll on, roll on, roll on, roll on. Right then, though, I notice what the girl I've been following is now doing. She's approaching the nutters, arms held out in front of her, and she's trying to step in between them. Just as I'm processing that bit of lunacy, I see the loudest of screamers rear back with his right foot, and plant a firm kick into the torso of the barking dog, who yelps loudly, flies about a foot into the air, and lands again with a whine. What was chaotic has now become a maelstrom. The second guy is screaming now more loudly than before, the screamer guy who just kicked the dog is about ready to rain blows down on a human, and the girl I've stalked is now even more determined to wade into the fray. I hear her say, "Stop it! Stop it now! How can you kick a puppy? Stop it! Don't do this!" One guy starts shouting at her to fuck off out of their business, but she stays in the thick anyway. I have no idea what to expect now. The girl is trying to get the guys to back off each other, but she's the only bystander who's involved. The dog is whimpering, the guys screaming, and other passersby agape. Convinced that the girl risks a face-pulping of her own, I think about whether I'd be willing to wade in and yank her out if either guy took a swing at her. The fight moves off down the street, away from me. The girl sort of trails behind, and I figure any Jane who'd follow these idiots doesn't need me risking my skin for her. I continue up Ave. A toward Ace. A block up, at the next corner, is a Key Foods--a supermarket--and in front I see two guys talking. One of them says, "Yeah, they got her wallet, her keys, her cash, all her credit cards..." He continues talking but my eyes are drawn to a woman behind him, crying and standing alone. The pack of young nutters tearing down Avenue A near Houston now makes sense to me. I watch as another woman comes out of the Key Foods and puts an arm around the crying woman and I step aside to make way for the police. I keep going, a little jostled by all this, and a few minutes later arrive at Ace with a story to tell.

Tortellini

I believe I've mentioned how much I love this city; here's another reason why:

Tonight, I was hungry for tortellini with a nice red sauce. So just before 7:30, I set out to buy some tortellini and some sauce. I walked down the stairs of my building, turned right at the entry way, and walked up 7th Ave., about a block, to Fratelli Ravioli, a shop specializing in Italian foods. I bought some spinach tortellini, a tub of frozen sauce, a sphere of yummy fresh mozzerella, and a jar of Nutella. (Nutella might not seem Italian, but apparently it is.)

After making those purchases, I walked another block and stopped in at a store specializing in wine and spirits. A lovely young woman was conducing a wine tasting, so I sampled her offerings and selected an Argentinian red to accompany my pasta. I then walked home, arriving back at the apartment a little after 7:45.

So. In just under twenty minutes, I bought all the makings for a delicious dinner and I drank wine from the hands of a hot blonde.

I love this place.

Starbucks

I'm not sure how the Park Slope Starbucks became the hangout of choice for latch-key, preteen fashionistas. This afternoon, I was working in Starbucks, editing some cookbook chapters. Shortly after three, the place was stinking with fifth graders whose back-to-school wardrobes cost more than I make in a month. They chattered and shrieked and laughed and gossiped as I packed up my laptop and went home.

Stats

Here's an interesting set of statistics:

• New York City population: 8,008,278
• State of Indiana population: 6,114,745

Brooklyn alone contains 2.3 million people, making it the largest New York borough. Were Brooklyn to secede from the City of New York, it would become the fourth largest U.S. city, after the remainder of New York, L.A., and Chicago. With a population of well over two million, Brooklyn has more people than does Nebraska, both Dakotas combined, or Maine. This place is big.

Editing and ferrying

I've fallen behind on some of my projects over the last week, so I spent most of yesterday afternoon in the NYPL's reading room trying to get caught up. I'll have to work most of this afternoon as well. But when I left the library, feeling a little stir crazy, I had to decide what to do with my evening. I'm still in the operative mode of "cheap," which limits my options a little. Luckily, though, one of New York's most enjoyable attractions is very cheap--free, in fact. Josh urged me earlier this week to get aboard the Staten Island Ferry while the weather was still nice. Because yesterday was mild, sunny, and cloudless, it seemed like the perfect day for it. The ferry ride across to Staten Island takes about 25 minutes. Riding it round-trip as I did (I didn't exit the ferry) will take an hour. After boarding the ferry, I made my way to the upper deck for a better view. An outside walkway allows you to look out over the water on either side of the boat. I looked out over the Brooklyn side for a while, finding familiar landmarks for orientation and staring off at Governor's Island, and then walked over to the other side. Let's Go New York claims that the ferry ride provides the best available view of the Statue of Liberty, and the book's probably right. Although many points in Manhattan and Brooklyn have provided nice views of Liberty, obviously none allow her to loom this large. I was happy the boat wasn't full. Finding a vantage was easy, no matter where I wanted to be. I stood watching Lower Manhattan recede from view as we passed Ellis Island, Liberty, and the New Jersey shore. I then walked over to the Brooklyn side, to get a view of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and the Brooklyn skyline. The breeze on that side of the boat was much stronger, so I closed my eyes to feel the air snap against my skin, to listen to the engines gently groan, and to smell the fishy salt of the bay water. When I opened my eyes again, I saw seagulls floating alongside us, wings spread wide to catch drifts off the boat. During the ferry ride, I felt a new dream beginning to take seed--to travel by ship across the Atlantic to Europe. Ship travel is probably some years hence, for I think the only companies offering such European travel packages are luxury cruise liners, which means the tall dollar, but that just means being diligent with my debts and getting money saved up.

I promised to tell y'all

I promised to tell y'all about Friday. Here's Friday:

My vegetarian, fiddle-playing, hat-knitting, uber-styling, Unix-dorking, zine-writing, subway-busking, bicycle-riding friend Elizabeth met me for lunch in the East Village, at a vegetarian restaurant of her choosing. Kate's Joint really is a joint. I mean, if you imagine what a restaurant would look like that calls itself a "joint," that's this place. The people passing by, with their piercings, spiked or mohawked hair, tattoos, and eclectic choices in clothing were fun to watch. The food was yummy.

We talked for a couple hours, and then she went off to knit another hat, while I made my uptown to meet Amy at the Hayden Planetarium. Amy, visiting from Minneapolis, is a much bigger space geek than I am--she majored in space science in college. She explained, patiently, the things I didn't understand as we toured. What a great place.

The show we saw in the Planetarium was lovely--I literally gasped when the star field filled the dome--but a little light on hard science for my tastes. Well, it's aimed at a general audience and considering it was written by Carl Sagan's collaborators on Cosmos, the science that was there was impeccable. But it's got me hungering for more, and fortunately, the Hayden offers lectures and courses. Introduction to Space Science looks especially nice.

After the Hayden, Amy and I wandered down to Midtown and the Times Square area, which of course was swimming in tourists. We called Josh, my roommate, and had him pick a dinner place. He met us at a charming, well-run Italian restaurant in the East Village. Yummy, yummy food.

After, we dragged Amy out to Ace for a drink-up. Quite a few people turned out, including Famous Comic Book Writer Guy, who seemed nice and funny, but a little geeky. I guess we're all a little geeky, but he was a little geekier. But that's okay. It's weird recognizing someone based on publicity stills...

Right. Drinkup. Not much to say. We drank and we drank. Then, we drank more. Following that, in an amazing and unexpected change of plans, we drank and drank and drank. Then I went home and slept.

That was Friday.

Sorry it's been so long

Sorry it's been so long between updates. My big news right now is that I've found a new apartment. This arrangement with Josh was always only temporary, but now I've found a permanent home here. Well, let's say, I've found my first permanent home here. In reality, it's simply less temporary than Josh's. More accurately, I didn't find the place. My new roommate did. He's a friend of Josh's who's been looking for a new spot to lie down at night. He found it and called me to see. We both liked it, so we grabbed it. So, the place. It's in Park Slope, just a few blocks from where I am now. The new apartment is on Seventh Avenue between First and Second streets. We're just a couple or three blocks from Prospect Park and we're in the midst of a great commercial district. Seventh is lined with all sorts of nifty stuff: a bar here, a hardware store there, a toy store, book stores, laundries, groceries, a neat little Italian place that sells canolis and fresh mozzerella made onsite, a co-op grocery, a health-food store, several coffee shops. You name it. The neighborhood has a great mix of old and young, families and singles. It's multiethnic and very hip. Finding an apartment on 7th Ave. in Park Slope apparently puts me in the realm of the trendy and fashionable, from what I hear. Imagine that. The apartment itself is very nice. New hardwood floors line all rooms but the kitchen, living room, and bath, which have brown slate tile. Cabinets still have that new-wood smell and there's manufacturers' stickers still on the fridge, bathroom sink basin, and tub. Chris's room is lovely: large, and with a bay window overlooking Seventh. My room's a bit on the small side, but it'll hold a bed, bureau, and night table easily, and there's enough space in the rest of the apartment to kick around in, so I don't mind. And I'm willing to trade off size for location anyway. Not even three weeks in New York and I find an awesome place. I must have a charmed life.

I'm walkin', yes indeed

I took a long walk around Lower Manhattan this evening. I'd been inside the apartment all day, editing a book on gardening, and needed to get outside for a while, so I took the train into the city, with no real destination in mind. I wound up on Houston Street and decided to walk west to the river. I didn't know this, but there's a nice river walk, so I took advantage of it. It was a lovely evening for a walk, so there were many people about. There's a long pier you can walk down, so I walked down it. The view of Lower Manhattan from that pier was fabulous. (Yeah, I took pictures. No, I don't know when you'll see 'em. Have you noticed my damn San Francisco pictures still aren't online? That was April, dammit. Leave me alone.) You could also look uptown and see the Empire State Building, lit up tonight in Old-Glory colors. I kept walking. Soon, I saw to my left a trapeze school. A trapeze school, of all things! I gotta admit, it's tempting. Very tempting. (Don't tell my mom.) I walked on. The Downtown Boathouse offers free kayaking and free kayaking lessons. Now that's damned cool. It's a little late to sign up for lessons now; the calendar shows that basic lessons were held at the beginning of the summer. Maybe next year. I kept cruising. Ahead of me, I saw another pier, this one bedecked with lights and happy people. I started to pass by but then realized everyone walking in wasn't paying a dime. So I wandered in, to see what was the hubbub. Swing dancing on the pier. Within half an hour, I'd seen opportunities for trapeze artistry, kayaking, and swing dancing. What a city. I watched the dancers a while, longing to join, but my swing dancing's rusty. I'm sure I can find lessons around here. Everyone seemed so vibrant and glad, it actually made me happy to see it. I wandered on, down to the World Financial Center. I skirted the plaza, keeping to the river walk. They've done it up nicely--brick walks, trees everywhere, lovely river views, gleaming steel-and-glass highrises. I didn't venture into the building cluster, but those nearest the river showed no signs of last September's unpleasantness. By this point, it was dark, but people were everywhere. Jogging, skating, strolling. Making out on benches. Chatting, arguing. I strolled past a cute cove given over to yachting, several restaurants with outdoor seating, another cove. Eventually, I landed at Battery Park. Parched, I sought out McDonald's for a keg of Coke before grabbing the N train from Whitehall St. back to Brooklyn.

Coney

Last night, I hopped the F train to Coney Island. The train from Park Slope took about half an hour to reach Coney; as we got closer, I looked up from my book and out the window. We were on elevated track by that point, and I was delighted to see the lights of the carnival pass by the window as we arrived at the station. When I saw Nathan's all lit up, I actually got a little excited. Their hot dogs aren't any better than any others I've had (although I'll confess that being in New York has taught me to love a frank topped with sauteed onions), but the lemonade was good. I arrived late, a little after nine. I had plans to meet Lauren and Todd in front of Nathan's. They arrived shortly after I did, and we met Lauren's friend Stacey. We then headed up to the boardwalk to watch the fireworks and track down Janet, visiting from California. Todd was the only one who'd met Janet, so he watched out for her and shouted when he saw her pass by. Burlesque was the order of business. Coney has a weekly burlesque show on Friday nights during summer. Lauren and Janet, being at heart horndogs, were all about the burlesque. Not that I had to be dragged in screaming, mind. The setup was a gameshow--This or That--in which audience members are enlisted as "contestants". They answer sex trivia questions, and have to guess which curtain holds the most luscious dancer--Let's Make a Deal on hormone therapy. Janet answered the call for a pie-eating contest. Vying against five other contestants, she won handily. For her trouble, she received a butt plug from the night's sponsors, Toys in Babeland. Of course, the real attraction was the near-naked women, and they were certainly on display. Tassles--one swinging this way, one swinging that. Pasties. Thongs. A crocodile woman came out to battle against a Mexican wrestler. Of course, they began the bout fully dressed but that didn't last long. The Mexican wrestler won, but was soon challenged to another bout by "Suzie Sukiyaki" who'd come to Coney Island to claim it for her corporate masters at Tokyo Disneyland. (Disney's expressed interest in buying out Coney Island and Disneyfying it. Given Coney's long history of seedy entertainment, most long-timers are outraged. Can't blame 'em.) Poor Suzie. When the wrestler ripped off Suzie's costume, one of her pasties came off with it. The crowd hooted and stomped at the site of bare nipple. Rowdy, fun, vaguely sleazy. The auditorium is stuffy and not air-conditioned. With last night's temperature dropping no lower than 82, the mercury inside must have reached 95. Sweat just fountained from everyone in the room. In the end, I think it might have added to the atmosphere. When we came back after intermission, we sat up at the top of the bleacher seats and we all got a little giddy from the heat. We whooped it up and shouted until hoarse. I'll tell ya...there's something about this city.

New York Public Library

Yesterday, I spent the day outside the no-AC apartment, mostly working on freelance assignments. I visited two libraries: the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library and the Humanities and Social Services Library of the NYPL (that's the one at 5th and 42nd, with the two lions in front that everyone thinks is the main branch--it's not). I noticed on an earlier visit that the NYPL's big reading room had electrical outlets built into the tables, meaning I could plug in my laptop. The Brooklyn library had no place where I could plug in and unfortunately, my battery was hosed, so I took the train to the city and worked there. But that's not very interesting. After exiting the train at Grand Central Terminal, I walked the few blocks to the NYPL, stopping en route to pick up a carryout lunch. I ate on the terrace in front of the library. While I sat there, an old man sat down a few feet away and began feeding the pigeons. He filled his cupped hand with seed and held out his arm at chest level. One brave and curious bird flew up, landed on his arm, and ate from his hand. Then, several birds. Before long, pigeons were hovering about this man, waiting for a turn at the trough. The old man clearly took great pleasure in this, but when another man began talking to him about birds and pigeons, the expression on the old man's face became pained and pinched. He made no reply and shuffled off awkwardly, birds trailing after him.

Now in NY

I am now safely and happily in New York City, land of brave and/or stupid. I'm staying at my friend Josh's place in Park Slope, a charming multi-ethnic neighborhood in Brooklyn. I arrived via Amtrak, and although the leg of my journey between Louisville and Chicago was hellish, the trip from Chicago to NYC was very nice, especially the run along the Hudson between Albany and NYC. We hugged the Hudson River for nearly that entire leg of the trip. The mid-afternoon sun shone brightly on the river, the gently rising Catskills, and the lush, verdant palisades across the way. A calm breeze rippled the waters of the Hudson, and the cool temperatures (mid-70s) made me envious of the boaters taking advantage of the perfect day. In many ways, this Amtrak voyage was picture-perfect. In one northern Indiana town we passed through, two young boys bicycled past the train, pedaling in the opposite direction. As they passed us, they waved back at the train. I felt like an extra in a Cary Grant movie when I saw that. I'm blogging right now from the dumbly named web2zone, a Samsung cybercafe venture near Cooper Square. It's pricier than EasyInternet, but the Samsung place has two things in its favor: it has Microsoft Office, which means I can actually edit from here if absolutely necessary (the hourly prices would cut dramatically into my profits, so I hope not to--it's just nice knowing I can); and unlike EasyInternet, it's nowhere near Times Square, which as you'll recall, I fucking hate. This means I don't have to weave around and trip over the tourists lined up for the Broadway production of The Lion King or those queued to see whomever's on display at Madame Tussauds. (It was a waxy Samuel L. Jackson; today it was waxen Albert Einstein.) One way or another, I hope to have my iBook wired up very soon. Once that happens, I should be able to update this thing more often. I hope to have a lot to talk about.

I'm tired

I'm tired. I guess it's no surprise--the last week has been busy, with my interview on Wednesday, going with Tim and Christine to see Twelfth Night on Thursday, the drinkup on Friday. The drinkup. Lot of drinking at that drinkup, but I guess that's the point. I met Todd at his workplace on Friday afternoon. We schlepped my bags back to his apartment in Brooklyn, he changed clothes, and we headed back into the city. We stopped off for slices of pizza before joining the crazy kids at Ace Bar. The Ace kids were loud and funny and drunk and flirty and funny and drunk and loud. Which is pretty much everything a good drinkup should entail, no? We left Ace around 3 and since Todd and Lauren were hungry, we headed out with Molly and got slices of pizza. Molly knew another place, so we ducked in there and ordered a pitcher of beer. It was kind of a dive, but it was fine, and we sat and talked. Todd flirted with Molly and Lauren; I just sort of watched it unfold in my own little haze. When the bartender switched off the neon and upturned stools onto the bar a little after 4, we knew it was time to go home. Molly lives around there, so she walked back, and Todd, Lauren, and I grabbed a cab back to Todd's apartment. Next day, got up at 11. We washed as much bar smell out of us as we could and swilled cocktails of filtered water and Advil. We met up again with Molly--and a guy named Slippery Pete--for brunch. Biscuits and sausage gravy. And coffee and coffee and coffee and coffee. A large picture of a smoking cat gazed over us as we fought to take in all that food before us. The plates, I fear, won. I think Lauren put away most of her omlette and home fries, but the rest of us left a lot behind. Molly went one way, Slippery Pete another, and then Todd and I saw Lauren off at Penn Station for her train back to Long Island. We later met up with Josh for a late, late showing of Metropolis, followed by beer and pub grub at a Greenwich Village bar. Stumbled back to Todd's, collapsed at 3:30. Got up at 7 to haulass back to Indiana. Subway to Manhattan. PATH to Newark. NJ Transit to Newark International. Tram to the terminal. Kludged heavily to the gate, with 45 minutes to spare before the flight was to leave. Suddenly from my backpack, a cell-tone rendition of I Walk the Line. I fumbled open the zipper, rummaged around for the phone. Elizabeth, calling to apologize for missing me twice last week. We caught up on the rest of my week and the unfortunate disasters that plagued hers, and made tentative plans to get together when I get back. Buoyed by a nice call from a pretty girl, I boarded the plane. Uneventful flight to Detroit on a sparsely populated plane meant room to stretch out and nap. My connection to Indianapolis was almost immediate, so I rushed down the terminal to my other flight, just in time. I'd rather rush from one gate to the next than sit like a toad for an hour waiting for a flight. Sparse again with room to unpack my legs and doze. At the Indianapolis airport, I collected my stuff and waited for the shuttle back. My iPod handed song after song to my ears on the trip back to Bloomington: Springsteen, Costello, Waits, Dylan. Prince, Madonna, Ella. I dread travel days, especially those like yesterday: four states, four modes of transportation, navigating unfamiliar stations and airports and ticketing systems. What I once saw as adventure, I now view as tedium. But with the call from Elizabeth, the relaxing flights, and the relative compactness of the trip (just over three hours from Newark Int'l to Indy), it wasn't so bad.

Blogging on the run

Blogging on the run. I'm in Times Square again, at EasyInternetCafe, which I just love the hell out of. These cafes started in London as an offshoot of the EasyJet empire, and they have cafes now throughout Europe. I think NYC is their only American outlet, but I'm not sure. I dug the hell out of them in London and Paris, so finding one here was a relief. Terminals at the hostels I've stayed in are horribly expensive--on the tune of 15 bucks an hour. EasyInternet offers a sliding scale, based on how many customers are in the store. A buck will buy you anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour, so it's very much worth the trip into Times Square--which, truth be told, I really fucking hate. I'm off soon. Probably gonna join the tourist throngs at the top of the Empire State and gaze out over the city. A friend told me in e-mail that she's not surprised I'm exhausted. She said I'm basically on a work trip--my interview on Wednesday, learning the city, learning more about finding housing, finding my way about the subway system, and so on. I think she's right. I've already started to think of this city like my new home, which is funky, if you think about it.

Still hayseed enough to say look who's in the big town

I had my first celebrity sighting tonight. I was with Christine and Tim at Shakespeare in the Park, watching Twelfth Night. Although there was a slew of name actors in the cast--Julia Stiles, Jimmy Smits, Kristen Johnston, Oliver Platt, and Christopher Lloyd, to name a few--that doesn't really count. In the audience of tonight's production was Topher Grace, star of That 70s Show. Very cool.

Greetings from Times Square

Greetings from Times Square. I'm sitting in a Internet cafe on 42 Street. I know I've been away, but I doubt it matters since there's probably no one checking this page anyway. I'm damned exhausted. These "vacations," where I hit a city and try to pack in as much as possible in the time I have--I don't know why I do this. My next vacation will be much more relaxing. I think tomorrow will be a day off. I'd like to find a little cafe somewhere, read and maybe write a little also. I might be lunching with my friend Elizabeth, which would be nice. Otherwise, I'm having dinner and seeing Twelfth Night (at Shakespeare on the Park) with Christine and Tim tomorrow. I'm looking forward to that. This is probably the most social vacation I've ever had--at least the most social I've had when travelling alone. Monday night, I saw the aforementioned Elizabeth playing Irish music in a groovin' pub in Greenwich Village. Our friend Kira joined us--I had a chance to really talk to each of them individually, and I enjoyed that. Today, after an interview with a recruiter, I met my friend Anne R. for lunch. We ate at a Chinese place around the corner from where she works. She didn't know me, immediately, because I was wearing a suit, which she wasn't expecting. That was funny. Ah, but it's not all fun-and-games with the estrogen set, friends, although I'd be happy if it were. Friday, I'm meeting a group of people for drinks, and then we're going out to boogie all night. As of Friday, I leave the hostel and bunk at Todd's place Saturday and Sunday night. Sometime on Saturday, I still hope to squeeze in a viewing of Metropolis. New York is a kickin' place. I fell head over heels for, and was also very overwhelmed by, The Strand, billed as the largest used book store in the world. I can believe it, easily. I could go on--the coffee shop I sipped at in the Village, the cute galleries I saw today in Chelsea, seeing the Chrysler Building and Grand Central Terminal for the first time. But I won't.