Recently in NYC Category

This past weekend, our neighborhood had a street fair. The Wife and I usually refer to street fairs as Tube Sock Festivals, because unless they have a specific purpose/theme, they consist of booth after booth of people selling tube socks. Or little fridge magnets shaped like food. Or badly woven wall tapestries dedicated to Tupac. Nothing but dumb, cheap junk.

Still, The Baby hadn't been out of the house all day. Two-year-olds are a lot like dogs--you need to bring them outside every few hours or they will make you pay for it. (Although with a kid, peeing on the carpet is the least of your worries.) So we decided to take a stroll to the street fair and check out the latest in roasted corn technology.

Another thing street fairs have a lot of: cheap, dumb rides. Usually the inflatable kind, where little kids can jump up and down on plastic mattresses manned by 14 year olds who don't look like the best guardians of children's safety.

I brought The Baby to one of the Inflatable Ball Pits of Doom, and asked the kid in charge where to buy the tickets that granted her admission. I swear this kid didn't speak English. I don't mean he was foreign; I mean I don't think he was smart enough to 'get' speech. Like he crawled out of the woods, the member of some obscure tribe as yet undiscovered by anthropologists, who only communicate in grunts, gestures, and punching.

But before we got to the Inflatable Death Traps, I saw another quote-unquote ride that immediately filled me with sadness. I have a hard time recalling the scene now. I remember each individual detail, but all together they don't add up to a sane picture. Still, here it is.

The ride was literally on the back of a truck. Not a flatbed truck, but a pickup truck, painted fire engine red. The paint lacked any sort of sheen, and its dullness added to this scene's pathetic feeling. Contained in the truck's bed was a pirate ship-type ride

I'm sure you've seen rides like this at fairs or in a carnival or down the shore (like this example to your right). They're boat-shaped or large semicircles with rows of seats on each side of a pivot that rocks the ride from one side to the other. Basically, it's a really big swing. But in the version you normally see, the ride is big enough to pitch you 20-30 feet in the air and pin you to your seat with G forces.

The mini-version I saw was not big enough to do this. Not even close. At best, the riders got six to seven feet above the truck bed. Even that estimate might be generous. With so little room to work with, the ride could only manage tiny little arcs, like it was trying back into a very tight parking spot.

Even crazier: this ride was manned by three people. One older gentleman stood the back of the bed, arms folded, not doing much of anything. Another attendant, who looked all of 15 years old, stood in the exact middle of the ride, providing some much needed ballast. A third attendant stood opposite him, just outside the ride.

At first, it looked as if this third attendant was grasping a few crucial beams that held the swing to the pivot. Like he was literally holding the ride together. Or worse, as if he was the guy moving the ride back and forth. I noted this to The Wife and we chuckled, because of course that was absurd.

But as we got closer, we saw to our horror that this third man was, in fact, the power behind the ride. He was swinging it back and forth, all for the entertainment of five or six bored-looking kids (the ride couldn't possibly hold any more). We stifled our laughs right away and moved past the ride as fast we could, ashamed.

What struck me about this scene was that no one in it looked happy. In my own mental backstory, the three attendants represented three generations of a carnival ride business. The oldest man wanted to retire, but the economy and his pride wouldn't let him. The youngest just wanted to hang out with his friends and resented working with his family for the summer. And the man in the middle never wanted to be in this business in the first place, but the time to quit came and went a long time ago.

And the kids on the ride looked just as unhappy. It reminded me of when I was a kid, and my dad would bring home some knockoff toy he bought from a table in the Hoboken train station. Like a Transfirmer, or a handheld video game called Pacri-Man (seriously). I would feel bad for dad, for not knowing the difference between the real thing and a cheap knockoff. I would feel bad for the poor slobs in Nowhereistan putting this garbage together. But I would mostly feel bad for me, for having to pretend like I liked this thing and play with it.

Mind you, I looked at this scene for about 20 seconds tops. And in those 20 seconds, I absorbed a Chekhov play's amount of sadness.

This morning, at the corner of Flushing and Throop, I saw a dad pushing a stroller. The dad wore an aggressive-looking uniform with a shield-shaped badge on the shoulder that says SECURITY. Which could mean anything, of course. He could be on his way to guard a bank or a Chik-Fil-A. But he had the swagger of a man who is dangerous for a living. Shaved head, buff arms. Guy definitely looked intimidating.

But he was pushing a stroller. A very large stroller, with a very cute little girl in it. He was pushing it with one hand, which is not easy to do with those gigundo strollers. And from the look of his belt, he was pushing it with one hand so he could more easily reach the gun holstered at his hip, if need be.

All of this led me to believe that this was his job: protecting this toddler AT ALL COSTS. Like she had accidentally swallowed the key to the nuclear football, or she was born with a birthmark that spelled out the secret formula for time travel. Whatever the reason, this child needed to get where she was going, and FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION.

Which is as good an excuse as any to embed this Paul F. Tompkins video.

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Paul F. Tompkins - New Dads
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Living in NYC, I'm never at a loss to find something to complain about, as far as local government is concerned. Oh man, the government. Don't get me started about the government! I believe Mayor Bloomberg got most of his philosophies by watching Brazil and studying how to make citizens pay for their own punishment.

But occasionally, the city gubment can do good things. Like this past week, when they awarded a $1.65 million grant to punk landmark/Lower East Side community center ABC No Rio for construction of a new building.

After technically squatting at 156 Rivington Street for much of its existence, ABC was sold the site for one dollar on the condition they make necessary repairs. Problem was, the building was in need of more than a few repairs, and costs ballooned exponentially the longer it took them to raise the necessary funds. Then, a city architect told them the whole building would have to come down (which, if you've ever been inside it, should come as no surprise).

That seemed to be that, but thanks to grants from the Manhattan borough president's office and the work of city councilman Allen J. Gerson, ABC will be able to build the new facility they need. I didn't know you could even bribe the necessary city officials for less than $2 million, but apparently the grant will cover the cost of a smaller one-story facility with a basement (as opposed to the four-story tenement that's housed ABC since 1980).

Having seen many, many shows there (and played in a few), I'm very happy that ABC can continue to exist in a city that seems bent on destroying everything organic and interesting. So kudos to everyone involved for finding a way to keep something vibrant and important alive in Manhattan. I don't know what horrible, unspeakable deeds you committed to make this happen. I'm just glad that you did them

The mini-topic of last night's Best Show was "the dumbest vanity license plate you've ever seen". I wasn't listening live, otherwise I would have called in with these two gems:

Gem #1: There's a nondescript green Ford minivan frequently parked on my block or nearby in the neighborhood. It's a total Soccer Mom Car, except for the personalized license plate: BACKSTAB.

So either this soccer mom is (A) a former member of The O'Jays, (B) a professional turncoat, or (C) a fucking maniac. Most of the time, when I see weird things in the street, I want to know The Why behind it. In this case, I have no desire to know what chain of events would lead a person to get BACKSTAB as their license plate. There's no way that story doesn't end in a depressing and/or horrible manner.

Gem #2: I was driving around Howard Beach, a neighborhood that virtually guarantees to show you something horrible/awesome. Cross Bay Boulevard was all backed up, so I took a left onto Pitkin Avenue. And boy, was I glad I did.

Parked on Pitkin was a Scion with a custom yellow paint job, the kind usually found on super-souped-up muscle cars. Except this was a Scion, a car that, even without a custom paint job, looks like a Cheez-It box with wheels. In yellow, it looked like large chunks of government cheese held together with toothpicks. And across the windsheild, in jagged No Fear-type letters: THE ASSASSINATOR.

I did four takes before I realized, "Wait, that's not a word!" What's even more hilarious is that I'm sure the detailing cost him an assload of money. Nine times out of ten, there is a directly proportional relationship between how much money is spent customizing a car and how idiotic it looks.

I pulled over across the street, because I HAD to have a picture of this. But then I considered the neighborhood and thought better of it. I had visions of some mook with a Dragonball-Z haircut jacked up on Red Bull beating me to death with a chain for mocking his car. Even without a photo, it will remain burned in my memory.

I met up with a friend for some post-work drinks last night (it was two-for-one choco-tini night at our favorite spot!). He told me that, on his way to the bar, he saw Jim Jarmusch "on the sidewalk" in the Tribeca.

First, I asked if he was okay. The phrase "on the sidewalk" implied that maybe he was passed out drunk, or injured, or down on his luck and begging for change.

But once it was established that the man was okay, I asked if he was being approached by strangers and critiqued. Much like the mighty buffalo once roamed the plains of this great land, so is Manhattan overrun by uber-hip cineastes. The type of people who, despite a professed love of movies, have a dismissive opinion of every single film and director that's ever been.

So I had the mental image of the famous indie director being mobbed by effete artsy types who couldn't wait to tell him how little they thought of his work. People literally lining up to prove how sophisticated they are by giving him faint praise and back-handed compliments.

"Mr. Jarmusch, wow, really great to meet you! I just want to say, I love Down By Law even though it's completely overrated!"

"Hi, Mr. Jarmusch. I've always wanted to ask you this: What was the deal with Coffee and Cigarettes? I mean, the RZA/Bill Murray sequence was funny and all, but is this type of fluff the best use of your talents?"

"Wow, Jim Jarmusch! You know, when I was in college, Mystery Train and Stranger than Paradise were, like, my two favorite movies. Of course, my tastes have progressed far beyond that point by now..."

Yes, these are the little playlets my brain devises to amuse itself. If you don't like it, you'll have to take it up with the brain.

Yesterday, I wrote of the exciting saga of the Inefficiently Employed Brooklyn Backhoe, which was being used to haul bulk trash from one project to another. I must report another sighting this morning.

I didn't see the backhoe's route this time, but I spotted it waiting outside the same trash lot as yesterday, again laden with junk. The junk appeared to be an old mattress, an oversized cardboard box that once held a TV, and several broken chairs. The backhoe couldn't pull into the lot with the dumpsters because a very large flatbed truck was backed into the lot already, attempting to load the dumpsters and haul them away.

So the backhoe sat in the middle of York Street, in the wrong lane, with its hazards on, waiting patiently for the flatbed to be done with its business. Which, by the looks of it, would take quite a while.

I tell ya, when I'm in charge, things are gonna be different around here.

Walking up Gold Street this morning, passing through the projects, I saw a backhoe slowly chugging up the street alongside me. This is not an unusual sight in the neighborhood, since there's an insane amount of road work going on.

Except for two things: It was brand new, nearly pristine John Deere backhoe, the kind you'd see on a farm. And it was laden down with junk.

The "hoe" part of the backhoe was filled with an old TV, broken kids' toys, and a smashed-up sub-IKEA particle board furniture. The junk was arranged carefully, trying to make the best use of the space available in the hoe. But this still struck me as an extremely inefficient use of top-notch construction equipment.

It was also an extremely inefficient use of the roadways. Gold Street is all torn up from road work, leaving only one lane in either direction. So there's no hope of getting around a backhoe traveling 12 miles an hour.

The backhoe made a left on York Street just as I did, and I decided that I had to see where this thing was going. It stopped halfway down the block, again blocking traffic, and waited for cars in the opposite lane to clear. Then it hopped the curb and drove into a project building's trash lot, where all the dumpsters are kept.

So whoever runs this particular project decided two things:

(1) A backhoe makes a better trash hauler than a pickup truck, or a van, or any other regular vehicle.
(2) The dumpsters at this particular building are insufficient for the needs of this particular junk. I must truck it two blocks away, as slowly as possible, to another identical set of dumpsters.

Your tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen.

* * *

Shortly after this incident, I passed into the ritzier confines of Dumbo. I saw a gleaming red BMW with MD plates parked right underneath the Manhattan Bridge. I've driven to work many times, and I can tell you that you'll see open parking spots like that about as often as you'll see leprechauns. In fact, between the roadwork and the ridiculous alt-side restrictions, I usually wind up parking so far away from my office I may as well have walked from home. (This is how much I hate relying on the bus.)

So basically, this guy's got everything in life working out just fine for him. Except that someone placed a banana peel on the car's trunk.

This placement was not accidental, like someone was eating a banana and just tossed the peel casually, maybe hoping to start a silent film comedy cavalcade. The peel was at the exact center of the trunk, with the two halves splayed symmetrically.

I'm guessing someone saw the exact same thing I saw--brand new car, doctor's plates, perfect free parking spot--and decided to throw some misfortune into his otherwise spotless life. Thank you, stranger, for making me smile.

While stuck in traffic, "Accidents Will Happen" popped up on my iPod via shuffle. I'm sure I've heard this song several thousand times, but not in quite a while. By rule, I am never in a good mood in the morning, but this immediately brightened my commute.



I got that warm feeling you get when you listen to something again for the first time since forever, and you remember how great it is. I thought about how it is exactly the right length. How haunting the outro is. How fantastic the lyrics are; not as overtly clever as in some of Mr. Costello's songs, but simple and subtle in the best possible way. Lines like It's damage that we do and never know/It's the words that we don't say that scare me so.

And I thought about how there was a period when I listened to Armed Forces on a nigh-daily basis. When it was so much a part of my being that, like Jonathem Lethem once said about Talking Heads' Fear of Music, "I might have wished to wear the album...in place of my head". I thought about listening to the whole album start to finish, something I never do anymore with any album in this iPod age.

And as Elvis sang Accidents will happen..., an ambulance came screeching alongside my bus, sirens blaring, lights flashing. It hopped a curb in front of an auto parts store, then squeezed in between a phalanx of parked cars and a truck that completely ignored its pleas to get through.

Real accidents always overshadow metaphorical ones. I hit pause until the drama passed. But when I unpaused the song, it just didn't feel the same. Sigh.

No one is happy at a police station. No one wants to be there, not even the cops. And all precinct headquarters (in NYC, anyway) were built at the height of the Stalinist Municipal Building movement, designed by the architecture firm of Doom & Hopelessness, making liberal use of cinder blocks, warped wood, and muffled screams.

To add to this aesthetic austerity, police stations make poor interior design decisions. Like painting dirty walls rather than cleaning them. Or leaving up a corkboard full of outdated, mimeographed notices. Or choosing cracked orange plastic chairs for the waiting area that must have been discarded from the saddest pizzeria ever.

My police station experiences have been maddening, but ultimately pain free. Then again, I'm a white male age 18 to 35, so police stations don't evoke the fear in me that they do in some people. Yesterday, I went to the local precinct to pick up a stolen vehicle report I need for DMV/insurance purposes. I was reminded that it sucks getting your car stolen, then waiting an hour to pick up a report that takes five minutes to complete, but some things suck a lot more.

Did you know that if your car's stolen, you have to call 911? My first impulse was to call the local precinct. As much as having your car stolen might be a lifestyle crisis and an emotional trauma, it doesn't qualify as an emergency in my book. At least not on the level I associate with a 911 call. But the dispatcher told me to call 911, so I did as I was told.

Did you know that you can call up 911 and hear weird fax noises instead of a real person? I seriously doubt "911" is close to any kind of modem number, but that's what I heard on my first try.

Did you know the 911 dispatcher will not ask you where your car was stolen from, but where you are? I guess that makes sense in a way, but I figured this piece of info was vital to the whole process.

Did you know that you could wait for 2+ hours for the police to arrive? After sitting by my front window for a small eternity, I actually called 911 again to check up on it (I called the local precinct first, but they didn't pick up at all--a comforting thought). Even more amazing, when I called back, the dispatcher was apologetic. "I'm so sorry for any inconvenience", she said, as if I'd been put on hold while trying to order a mattress.

Did you know that they'll send two cops out in one large squad van? Seems like a waste of gas/space to me. You could've comfortably seated a softball team in this thing, but it was occupied by just two officers and their equipment bags.

Did you know that a nightstick sheathed in the straps of a NYPD duffel bag looks really frightening? Don't ask me why.

Did you know that early-90s cars are in high demand at chop shops? Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my 1990 Olds would be a target for theft. But the cops informed me that it "fits the profile" of cars swiped for parts these days. It makes sense, I suppose--a lot of those cars are still on the road, and in need of frequent repair. It was also in fairly good condition, both operation-wise and aesthetically--other than a mismatched replacement bumper, which, in my opinion, gave the car character. So in retrospect, even though I had no fear of my car ever being stolen,

Did you know that it's a bad idea to park your car near a highway access road? Even one lined with houses? A thief can use said access road to get on the highway and be ten miles away before you blink. So even if it's late on a Sunday night and you're tired and there's no other spaces near your house, don't park there. This would've occurred to me--if it had also occurred to me that my car was enticing to thieves (see above).

Did you know the cops will drive you around to look for your car, assuming you just forgot where you parked it? Believe me, this was the first thought that crossed my mind. But I had very clear memories of parking the car where I did, because I seldom park that far from my house. I indulged the cops, because it couldn't hurt to look around the neighborhood, but I had little hope of finding it. Based on my description, they pointed out every boat-sized car in a five-block radius, and I had to sadly inform them that none of these behemoths were my car.

Did you know there are Indian cops? I met one! I grew up in a Cop Town, and I see cops of every ethnic variety on the streets all the time, but this was the first cop of the Indian persuasion I'd met. Actually, I can't definitively say he was Indian, but he did seem to hail from the Subcontinent. Then again, he could have also been from a Caribbean nation with a large Indian immigrant population (say, Trinidad). Then again, is any of this remarkable at all? What difference does it make where the man is from?

Did you know that I'm vaguely racist? At least I feel so after writing that last paragraph.

Did you know that staring at your vehicle/registration information on a laptop in a squad van feels upsetting and Big Brother-ish? I tried to look away as I waited for paperwork/procedure to be finished, but there was nothing else to look at, except for a space on the block where my car was supposed to be. I expected to see my name followed by the word DOUBLEPLUSUNGOOD.

Did you know it costs an assload of money to ship a toddler's car seat? Looks like I'll be taking the bus back from Babys R Us some time this week. Sure looking forward to that.

Did you know that, the next morning on the bus, you'll stare out the window constantly, as if you're going to see your car sitting on the curb somewhere? And you'll even take your keys with you so you can hop out and take it home where it belongs? Don't bother, 'cause your car is down to the axles by now.

Did you know I got that car from my grandfather? And that I'd left a bunch of his stuff in there? A small rosary that hung from the gear shift. A pair of very large sunglasses. A small notepad where he wrote down the date and odometer reading every time he filled the gas tank. I didn't want to disturb any of these items, because I always felt it wasn't really my car; it was his and I was just borrowing it. If I had the slightest suspicion that it would be stolen someday, I definitely would have taken these things out.

Especially the notepad. It was such a classic Grampa thing. I can see him writing in it, on a million different trips we took, whether it was to Cooperstown or Niagara Falls or just into town to get pizza. He wouldn't start the car again until he made his note.

Did you know that if his car was stolen, but I still had that notepad, I'd feel a lot better this morning?

There's one block of Flushing Avenue, right around Bedford, that's completely torn up. And it's been completely torn up since I started taking the bus to work.

The street is literally ripped open, with a huge, gaping hole cordoned off by an rickety wooden fence. You can see down inside, where months of rainwater have accumulated, leaving a lime green, radioactive scummy pond. Enormous segments of concrete sewer pipe lay on the sidewalk. They once had screens on their open ends that looked kinda like cheesecloth, but those were weathered away long ago, and their remnants flap in the breeze.

None of this crap has moved in at least 6 months. I don't know who's to blame: the city, or whatever slumlord started repairs and never finished them. But because of it, my bus gets trapped on this block every morning, thus making my commute far longer than it need be.

So this morning, while I'm stuck at this point, I see some Hasidic kids playing on the sidewalk. They're taking cardboard box from the kosher grocery store across the street, and they're trying to bale a puddle of dirty rainwater with it. They range in age from 4 to 8, and they look like they're having the time of their lives.

I see this is in my own home. My daughter will play with a 10 cent hair scrunchie, or a paper towel roll, and have as much fun as she does playing with expensive Christmas presents. If not more.

So my parental advice is, exploit this childhood window while you can. Forget the Baby Einstein nonsense and get the kid an empty pallet of tissue boxes from behind the local Duane Reade. The kid won't care, and you won't have to cajole them to play with that hand-crafted wooden xylophone you wasted 30 dollars on.

I remember my first encounter with M&M kids. This was just post college, would've been around 1999/2000. I was on Broadway in the upper 90s, wandering around on my lunch break, when I was accosted by a couple of pre-teens who said they were selling candy for their basketball team. I gave them a buck and walked away with some Peanut M&Ms I had no intention of eating.

I also remember that, in the exact second the kids were out of earshot, I was immediately counter-accosted by some VERY CONCERNED woman who said to me, "You don't REALLY think that money's going to a basketball team, DO YOU?!" I shrugged and told her, "If it's not, there are worse scams."

To this day, I have no doubt that few--if any--of the kids who sell candy in this city do so for actual charities. But again, if it's a scam, to what end? My only theory is that it rids Hershey of every last horrible pack of Peanut M&Ms, since that's the only brand these kids ever have. And because Peanut M&Ms are an abomination.

However, I think this scam--if that is, indeed what it is--has run its course. Because the kids doing it have gotten progressively younger over the years. That suggests to me the real scam is some older scammer convincing naive types that The M&M Job still works.

But I got the real evidence of its demise last night. As I rode the M train home, I heard a kid make his pitch through my iPod headphones. "Scuse me, ladies and gentlemen, sorry to disturb your conversations..." I couldn't see him from my vantage point--I sure wasn't gonna try and make eye contact--but he sounded a little older than the usual M&M kid.

Shortly thereafter, my fellow subway riders cleared a path for him. I found this odd, because people usually ignore the M&M Kids. Plus, this car was pretty packed. But I found out in seconds why they cleared the way for him: He reeked of weed. This guy didn't look nearly as high as the Stoned Man I saw at Toys R Us last December, but he smelled much, much worse.

Any dedicated scammer knows that a scam can only succeed when the scammer appears sincere and respectable. You don't want the public at large to suspect you're using their money for personal gain or nefarious purposes. Or to go roll up a fatty and laugh your ass off to Friday.

Once a scam has passed hands from skilled actors to young kids to degenerates, the scam is dead. I expect The M&M Kids to completely disappear from the city by year's end. And it's all thanks to the Cheech and Chong enthusiast I saw on the M train last night. Thanks, mysterious stranger!

Moments after I boarded the bus this morning, the driver picked up the intercom to make this announcement.

"HEY! There's a fire at Flushing and [garbled]. We gonna be rerouted down Metroplitan. You need to get off somewhere along the rerouted route, YOU LET ME KNOW, OKAY?! Don't be yellin and screamin at me!"

Five blocks later, she made the same announcement, almost verbatim. Not a single head moved, either time.

I like the fact that the primary goal of her announcement was not to give us a heads-up that the bus was being rerouted, or that THERE'S A FIRE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD, but to not hassle her because of either of these facts. And that no one seemed to notice or care anyway.

♪ It's a hell of town... ♪

Corner of Fresh Pond Road and Elliott Avenue, Ridgewood.

"Okay, I've got your lighted sign order: 17 feet long, your logo, picture of breakfast platter, large sandwich, Swedish Chef, NY Lottery logo..."

"Wait, what was that last bit?"

"NY Lottery logo?"

"No, before that."

"Swedish Chef?"

"Yeah, I didn't order that."

"You sure? I got it on the work order."

"No, I don't want the Swedish Chef on my lighted sign."

"Okay, but how about we throw it on there anyway? It'll look real classy."

The Freeform Station of the Nation, WFMU has begun their annual marathon. So give 'em some money. Then, give 'em some more, because they're pretty much the only radio station worth listening to in Ye Olde Tri-State.

I know I pimp The Best Show on this site all the time, but they have many, many fine programs worth your ear-time: Cherry Blossom Clinic with Terre T, Fool's Paradise with Rex, Music to Spazz By, and much much much much more.

Last year, The Best Show had in-studio guests like Ted Leo, Ben Gibbard, and Patton Oswalt as "The Famous Flamer". This year promises to be just as good, and the 2009 edition of The Fun Pack is face-meltingly awesome. So send 'em some change, folks. It all goes to making this area's airwaves slightly more tolerable.

This morning at the corner of Flushing and Throop (right by lovely Woodhull Hospital), I saw a strangely compelling/moving scene.

A tallish man stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change. He wore sunglasses, a black overcoat, black pants, and spotless black wing tips. Next to him stood a shorter woman with an mod-type haircut, also arrayed in all black. They stood as close to one another as you can without touching, as if they wanted to be closer but couldn't afford to be seen doing so.

The man bent slightly and offered a drag on his cigarette to the woman. She obliged. The light changed, and they crossed the street, swiftly but not in a hurry.

I thought I was watching a scene from a French New Wave movie. The two lovers have just dispatched of the woman's husband. Now they're on their way to the bank, to nervously empty her joint bank account before anyone knows the hated husband is dead. Next, they will embark on a hopeless road trip, where they will commit more meaningless crimes before being gunned down by police in the middle of nowhere. In the end, their love meant everything, and nothing...

Except that standing to the left of these two characters was an enormous man in a vintage NBA-Jam-era Phoenix Suns Starter jacket, faded into navy blue from washing. And he jammed an Egg McMuffin in his huge maw, spraying crumbs to and fro, like he was afraid the thing would squirm away from him if he didn't finish it fast enough.

Stupid reality, intruding on the movie in my head.

Chuck Scarborough has been on NBC-4 News my entire life. During that time, I've heard him deliver some ridiculous teasers for 11 o'clock news stories. But last night, I heard the teaser to end all teasers. I seriously heard him say this:

What bikinis really do men's brains: New science at 11!

I swear I could hear a little piece of his soul dry up, break off, and float into the wind.

As soon as I heard that a NY Post editorial cartoonist was in hot water, I knew it was Sean Delonas. Sure, he's the only editorial cartoonist they have, but he's also the worst cartoonist on the planet.

I honestly don't think Delonas intended to be racist, or even crypto-racist, when he portrayed the author of the stimulus package (who he insists is not meant to be Obama, although who else could it be?) as The Infamous Mad Chimp that terrorized Stamford, CT. I just think he's stupid enough to not know the racist undertones of what he drew, or too ignorant to realize that there's a long history of racist imagery involving monkeys.

The cartoon isn't really a racist joke because it's not a joke at all. He just shoe-horned a political news story (stimulus package) with a crazy non-political news story (mad chimp). It's the hallmark of someone who's dumb and unfunny, but thinks he's really smart and hilarious. It's says to the reader, See, I read the news! These two things happened in the news! Get it? It's funny cuz they happened!

Delonas went to the Jack T. Chick School for Portraying Bitterness and Revenge in Art. I can totally see him drawing sinners roasting in hell, and laughing with each stroke. That would be a lot of laughs, because the guy loves to cross-hatch. His cartoons are so dark (literally and figuratively), I wonder how the Post can afford all the ink needed to print them.

Or how any light can escape them. The universe of his cartoons is one of dirt and despair and hopelessness and All-Encompassing Wrong. Every character in his cartoons looks like a police sketch of a dead hobo.

I see his cartoons all the time on the subway, as my fellow passengers flip through copies of the Post. I can spot them out of the corner of my eye from 15 feet away, and immediately I feel a little ill. I know that on that page, some political leader Delonas doesn't like is being lowered into a vat of acid, or shot out of a cannon, or dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. The man is not subtle. Or sane.

About 20 years ago, a trend popped up in cartoons: The Landscape Far Side Imitators. Newspapers wanted one-panel cartoons with a Far Side sensibility, but they also wanted them to use the same dimensions as the other comic strips on the page. Because newspaper editors are lazy and unimaginative (gee, I wonder why papers are in such trouble these days?).

So they came up with all of these one-panel cartoons that had the same dimensions as Peanuts and Hagar the Horrible. Unfortunately--aside from being powerfully unfunny--these cartoons had way too much real estate to fill, and were drawn/written by people who had zero idea how to fill it.

So in these cartoons, all of the real action takes place in one corner, while the rest of the strip is devoted to unnecessary renderings of a sidewalk, or a kitchen countertop. Visually confusing, distracting, and completely devoid of humor--and the comics pages are full of this garbage these days. Again, any wonder why newspapers are dying?

Delonas belongs to this school of cartoonsmanship, times a thousand. Because he actually has far more space to fill than the average Far Side imitator. But rather than expand his ideas, he draws small, grimy figures and surrounds them with small, grimy details. Like decrepit buildings, crumbling asphalt, dying trees...

And rats. Guy loves to draw rats I would bet he has several copies of Willard on DVD in his house (both original and Crispin Glover editions).

Delonas was born way too late. He would have made a great contemporary of Hieronymous Bosch. Or he could have illustrated "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." But no, he gets to plague our age with his insane visions. Thanks, history!

I know there's many translations of the Bible, but I'm pretty sure Jesus doesn't say this in any of them.

My bus has passed the same truck two mornings in a row on Flushing Avenue. It's a gleaming blue Ford F-150 with a bunch of construction equipment in the back. It even has a huge slab of concrete with iron handles embedded in it.*

* Is there a word for this? I've seen these things all my life and I still have no idea what they are, or what they might be used for. Help!

A pickup truck is not an uncommon site in Brooklyn. But it is jarring when paired with a bumper sticker in Hebrew. Script Hebrew, too, which I guess implies some sort of humor is being employed.

I can neither speak nor read Hebrew, so I can only guess at its message. THE GOOD L*RD MADE THE FORD! I'D RATHER SCHLEP A FORD THAN DRIVE A DODGE!

I just found out that Stefan Lutak, proprietor of the Holiday Cocktail Lounge in the East Village, died earlier this week.


Amongst friends o' mine, the Holiday Cocktail Lounge was the go-to pregame spot for an evening's festivities. It was rundown yet strangely elegant. It was never too crowded. The seats in the back resembled the kind you'd find in an school bus, including the super-sticky duct tape plastered over the rips. It had an excellent jukebox.

And it was super cheap. You couldn't get beer beyond Bud, Corona, and Heineken in bottles, or mixed drinks more complicated than a rum and coke. But you could have a few drinks with friends, and leave with your wallet not completely empty.

And somehow, someway, the place was never overrun with douchebags. You would think that a very affordable joint on St. Mark's Place would attract some vile human beings. I can't walk into any bar in this city without spotting some loudmouth jerk whose mere presence sours my evening.

Except, amazingly, for the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. It was a rare thing: a truly pure, awesome thing that was never ruined by awful people with tiny imaginations.

The Holiday Cocktail Lounge ran counter to every modern retail impulse. It was run in the way that old family businesses were in small towns (back when family businesses and small towns still existed). The place was open as long as Stefan felt like staying open. You could stay there all night if he did, but if he felt like going to bed early, you had to pack up and continue drinking elsewhere. Even if Stefan felt like hitting the hay at 9pm on a Saturday night.

It would be great if the Holiday Cocktail Lounge could stay open just as it is, and stand as a shining bulwark against the forces of Creeping Quality-of-Life-Ism. But alas, this is New York City, and even in the midst of an economic freefall, real estate is far too valuable to allow the kind of fun-first dollar-second atmosphere Stefan's joint fostered.

So hoist one for Stefan tonight, and for the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. We won't see the likes of either in this city ever again.

Speaking of commutes, my morning trip to work involves a lengthy walk once I de-bus. And on my way to the office, I saw a car with several hats in the back window. One of them said ALLENDALE TEQUILA TEAM.

My first thought was, Does this belong to a contestant on Tool Academy? But it was a Honda Civic, and I picture guys from that show driving souped-up Camaros with spinny rims and purple neon around the license plate.

So who could this car possibly belong to? It has to be the kind of person who (1) would actually purchase such a hat, or accept it as a gift from someone, and (2) be so proud of it that they'd display it in their car, and (3) be dumb enough to not think twice about such a move.

Because that's totally what you want cops to see while you're driving: an article of clothing in your car that says THERE'S A BETTER THAN 50% CHANCE THIS GUY'S DRUNK RIGHT NOW. I can't see any way that could lead to you getting pulled over.

Because there are many alcoholic beverages that can be appreciated without inebriation, but tequila is not one of them. If you're drinking tequila, you have one goal: getting sloshed. And if you have a hat advertising your membership in a TEQUILA TEAM, that further implies that you are extremely dedicated to getting effed up as much as possible.

I almost wanted to stick around and wait for this guy to get back to his car. But either he would be exactly what I think he is--some fat mess in a sweatshirt that says SHIT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PARTY NAKED--or a hipster who put the hat their for its ironic value. Best to marvel at the sight and move on.

My usual bus driver was born too late for vaudeville or silent film. That's too bad, because she would've hit it big in either genre. She has mastered the long, drawn-out visual gag, and she has just the right amount of sadism to make it really work.

The bus I take to work in the morning starts its route around the corner from where I live. So people line up at the stop, waiting for said bus to arrive. The bus pulls up, and the queue inevitably shuffles closer to the curb, even though we are nowhere close to leaving yet.

The bus driver s l o w l y hoists herself out of her seat, wraps herself up in a jacket and scarf, and then opens the door--so she can go into the Dunkin Donuts right by the bus stop, use the facilities, and order herself a coffee.

After completing these tasks--which take a bare minimum of five minutes--she returns to the bus. She opens the door just wide enough to let herself in and make it clear that no one else is getting in yet. Then she takes off her jacket. Then she takes off her scarf. Then she carefully folds them up and places them in the locker behind her seat.

And just when you think she's totally done, oh no, not even close. Because she proceeds to engage in a million little OCD- rituals before she even dares to start the bus. Adjusting her seat. Adjusting her rear view mirrors. Adjusting her seat again. Adjusting the side view mirrors. Adjusting the rear views again.

And then, just when you think she's ready, she notices something amiss. Like the strap of her shoulder bag caught in the locker door. So she gets up from her chair s l o w l y and fixes it, and sits back down just as s l o w l y, and goes through her whole Tourette's syndrome ritual all over again.

Then she starts up the bus. But she is so good at this routine, she knows how to start up the bus in the most fekachteh way possible. She turns the key, the bus sputters, the lights flicker, but the engine doesn't quite catch.

Not only is she able to do this every morning, she is able to do it and look just as perplexed and annoyed every morning. Like she's not doing it on purpose.

But after the second or third try at starting the bus, she finally gets it going. And we're ready to roll, right? Oh no, there are more adjustments on their way before finally, finally she opens the door and lets everyone in.

And--this is the kicker--as passengers walk in, she's totally stone-faced. Not the least bit of recognition of what has just transpired. Like she hasn't made you needlessly wait in 15 degree weather for no good reason.

It would be completely hysterical, if I was watching it on a silent movie screen in 1923 and not about to have my ears drop off my head from the cold.

Guess I'm in an angry mood this morning. Maybe I shouldn't listen to Jay Reatard on the way to work. But whatever the cause, I spotted four people along my commute that I wanted to hit really hard.

Victim #1: Corner of Flushing and Wythe, youngish man wearing gray trenchcoat, stovepipe pants, black/white saddle shoes and a Homburg hat. Presumably he doesn't want to be late to his audition for a Noel Coward play revival, or the F. Scott Fitzgerald Lookalike Contest. He walks gingerly over the ice-covered sidewalk in this fey, tip-toey gait that makes me hate him even more for some reason. He could have skimped on some of that vintage wear and used the money to buy winter boots, so he wouldn't dirty his spats by slipping and breaking an ankle.

Victim #2: Further down Flushing, by the Navy Yard. Guy in suit walks very casually down cross street. As the bus nears him, he signals it with two hands, like he's hailing a cab. Mind you, he makes no effort to speed up in any way. He clearly expects this bus to screech to a halt and await his arrival like he was the King of Busville. To his credit, the bus driver keeps right on driving.

Victim #3: Further yet down Flushing, after making a stop the bus pulls away from the curb in a normal bus-like fashion. We are beeped at by an aggressive driver who wants to make a left into the studio entrance we are now blocking as we wait for the light to turn green. I take a peek at the car. It's a white Mercedes. From my angle, I can just make out the driver's left hand, encased in a leather glove, clutching a Starbucks coffee cup. I think to myself, Wow, I can only see about 5% of this guy's body, and I hate him.

Victim #4: Off the bus, walking down Front Street. Half a block away, guy in puffy jacket and backpack doing overly demonstrative tai-chi exercise. Not in a park or on his porch, but on the sidewalk. Arms flailing, big leg kicks, like he works at the Ministry of Silly Walks. I think he must see me staring at him hatefully, because he stops doing it and crosses the street. Mind you, he was at least 50 feet away from me.

And it's only Monday. Shoot me now.

One great thing about living in NYC (among many) is that you get to see fashion in progress. I don't mean Bryant Park during Fashion Week, or guys pushing garment racks down 7th Avenue. I mean, you see the future fashions of the world exhibited by the eternal fount of all style: urban teenagers.

F'rinstance, the current steez amongst teens in this city is a sort of mutant hip-hop/punk rock/rockabilly hybrid. Ed Hardy-mania is its most obvious manifestation. Nowadays, kids in Brooklyn dress like a weird mix of Jay-Z and Mike Ness.

This hasn't taken hold everywhere, near as I can tell, but I'm guessing it won't be too long before it does. And I, for one, am totally on board with it. This is probably the first time since I've been alive that I've thought, "I actually like the way teenagers dress right now!"

But that train of thought came to a screeching halt this morning. Because I saw a kid this morning on Atlantic Avenue, dressed in all black (hoodie, jeans), holding a matching murse.

Not a messenger bag, or a laptop bag. It couldn't possibly be slung over his shoulder. In fact, I would even hesitate to call this thing a murse.  It was no bigger than small grapefruit, and he held it with as few fingers as possible. It was a man-clutch.

Mind you, this kid was not even the slightest bit precious. He totally had the look of someone who would beat you up for thinking about thinking about messing with him.

I don't hate this idea because it's girly. I hate it because it's so dumb and impractical. Like when punk/emo kids were doing that ear stretching thing a few years back. Do they still do that? Please tell me they don't still do that.

Google tells me that at least some kids still do this. C'mon, kids, cut it out.

My plea to the kids of NYC: You were doing so good on the fashion front. Please do not adopt the man-clutch. Thank you.