Written a couple hours ago while on a plane from Seattle to NYC
I sit on a plane.
I will sit on this plane for a little while longer. I will watch some of the second half of the Giants v. Eagles game before this plane lands at JFK. I will pull a backpack from beneath the seat in front of me and a garment bag from the overhead bin soon after landing. I will take a cab back to the apartment in SoHo and sleep in my bed tonight. I will wake up early tomorrow and dress in business casual clothing - a much different animal in New York than in Seattle - and I will become an employee of another company for the first time in eight years. God willing, that is. All of this is God willing.
I will return to Seattle as a visitor, hopefully in the near future. And perhaps I'll even live there again someday. But not tomorrow. And I'd imagine not for a good number of subsequent tomorrows.
It's time for something new.
To all of you who wish to stay in touch, please don't hesitate to comment here, send a Facebook message, email, text, and / or call.
With that I'll leave you with the sentiment I offered to my co-workers in my final email as a full time employee. For those who have read these words already, I beg your pardon for the repetition.
I could say goodbye, but I don’t believe in them. I could say parting is such sweet sorrow, but it seems overused. I could advise you – and myself – not to be sad because it’s over but rather to be happy because it happened, but that seems somewhat self-serving. Or I could offer that I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve, but it could be interpreted incorrectly.
Instead, I will simply say thank you; I am a better person for having lived in Seattle and for knowing each of you...
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Foodalicious: Bar 89
Finding a place to eat in New York is never a challenge. Deciding between the places, however, is another thing entirely. It’s always good to have a few filters. On Thursday evening, I received a text suggesting someplace relatively cheap – it is New York after all – and having bar-type food. Another text suggested either the Ear Inn or Bar 89.
A quick search indicated that the Ear Inn is older and somewhat loud. Best described as a dive bar, it has cheap food and drinks. Bar 89, it said, is newer with an upper scale atmosphere. Though not as cheap as the Ear Inn, the food and drink by SoHo’s standards are still on the less expensive side.
Wanting a quieter, more upper class vibe, we chose Bar 89.
The four of us entered the heavy glass doors at approximately 9 p.m. A large sign informed us to wait to be seated. As we waited, I took in our surroundings. It seemed a big white box, tall and long. To the left was a non-descript bar. To the right, there were horseshoe-shaped booths. And in front of us were small round tables. To the back of the restaurant, a tall staircase leads to a few more round tables and a one-sided booth with four separate tables. All in all, it was a large space, but it almost felt as though they hadn’t made adequate use of it.
As for the atmosphere, it was loud, but not loud like something small and enclosed. Instead, voices ricocheted off the boxy walls competing with each other from different corners of the restaurant. It felt more like we were in a concert hall than a restaurant.
After taking in the surroundings, we were still waiting.
I recently watched a reality television show that featured a competition between two competing teams who each had to set up a functional restaurant in 24 hours. Restaurant goers choose one of the restaurants based on the décor and menu. Sometime during the period when each restaurant is serving, the panel of four judges enters to judge all aspects of each restaurant from the greeting to the dessert. In that specific episode, the judges walked into one of the restaurants and were not immediately greeted by a host, which was a big no-no.
Well, that’s how I felt when I entered Bar 89. After approximately two minutes – an exorbitant amount of time in restaurant-speak – a server approached us and asked if we wanted to sit up top. We didn’t much care, so we meandered upstairs.
The round tables were too small for four, so we chose one of the back-boothed end tables. Upon sitting at the table, we immediately noticed that the table resembled a trapezoid – almost a triangle – more than a rectangle. And it wasn’t a big trapezoid. In fact, the table probably shouldn’t sit more than three though it is set for four. We wanted to move to one of the three adjacent tables but noticed two guys standing beside them. When we asked, they indicated that they had a large party that was to occupy the remaining three tables. We decided to live with the trapezoid.
Our waitress distributed menus and asked us what we wanted to drink. One of our company asked what was on tap. She answered that they served beer only in bottles, a bad sign for a place with ‘bar’ in the name. Two of the company ordered mixed drinks. I and another of our company both ordered Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale, a beer I had never tried.
We then surveyed the menu of typical American fare. I spied three different types of wings on the front among other common appetizers. Inside, we found hamburgers and other typical sandwiches as well as a few main entrees. It was not an extensive menu, but there are times when a spartan menu is preferable since it indicates that the restaurant concentrates on a few core items.
We ordered. I had a taste for the Buffalo wings with some blue cheese and some spiciness. The others ordered, though what exactly, I do not now recall. I think, perhaps, they ordered sandwiches.
Soon after, our drinks came. And, there was only one Nut Brown Ale on the tray. It seems they had only one left, another questionable sign for a ‘bar’. The other person who ordered the ale insisted that I take it and then ordered himself a Magic Hat. We toasted and awaited our meals. I did, by the way, enjoy the hoppy nuttiness of the ale.
Meanwhile, we discussed the birthplace of our server. A prim and proper woman with an accent, she reminded me of a figurine that emerges from a cuckoo clock on the hour. We tried to place the accent but were unsuccessful; we therefore settled on it being Welsh since Welsh accents can be mistaken for just about any other European-based accent in the universe. I suppose we could have inquired, but she seemed rather focused and unapproachable.
The food came. I’ll rate it as satisfactory. If I needed to give it a grade, I’d say a ‘C+’. I’ve had much better wings – I’d suggest Archie Moore’s in downtown Wallingford, CT. I’ve also had much better waffle fries – see Chick Fil-A. Still, I ate everything on my plate, consuming each wing methodically.
As I ate, I noticed that I was missing most of the conversation between my friends. The noise level seemed to increase as we remained longer, probably due to the adjacent party’s consistent imbibing. In fact, their voices felt like bludgeoning blows to my already sensitive eardrums.
We completed our meal sans dessert and paid our check. As we readied to leave, two of our company decided to visit the restroom. They returned moments later and beckoned us remaining two to witness the strange thing they had seen. We all walked back to a well-lit area and noticed approximately 10 individual unisex stalls, each with heavy doors. And those heavy doors were made of clear glass; in other words, we could see everything in the stalls, including the toilet and sink. One of our company entered a stall and closed the door. The glass became opaque, and a white-lit ‘Occupied’ sign appeared. It was, we agreed, a fascinating concept, a novelty. The only problem was that the glass door did not become opaque enough to hide the occupant entirely. It was in practice, for lack of a better word, creepy.
As we completed our accidental voyeurism, our waitress approached holding three receipts in her hand. She asked politely where she could find the fourth receipt. We checked the receipts she had in her hand and noticed that it was mine – of course – that was missing. I checked my wallet and found the customer copy, but I didn’t have the merchant copy. Remembering where I placed it on the table, I returned to the trapezoid and noticed a wet towel atop the place where I had laid the receipt. I pulled the loose paper from beneath the wet rag and handed it to the waitress. She accepted it with her apologies.
We descended the stairs and exited the ‘bar’, each of us in turn stating that we collectively and respectively did not need to relive the Bar 89 experience.
A quick search indicated that the Ear Inn is older and somewhat loud. Best described as a dive bar, it has cheap food and drinks. Bar 89, it said, is newer with an upper scale atmosphere. Though not as cheap as the Ear Inn, the food and drink by SoHo’s standards are still on the less expensive side.
Wanting a quieter, more upper class vibe, we chose Bar 89.
The four of us entered the heavy glass doors at approximately 9 p.m. A large sign informed us to wait to be seated. As we waited, I took in our surroundings. It seemed a big white box, tall and long. To the left was a non-descript bar. To the right, there were horseshoe-shaped booths. And in front of us were small round tables. To the back of the restaurant, a tall staircase leads to a few more round tables and a one-sided booth with four separate tables. All in all, it was a large space, but it almost felt as though they hadn’t made adequate use of it.
As for the atmosphere, it was loud, but not loud like something small and enclosed. Instead, voices ricocheted off the boxy walls competing with each other from different corners of the restaurant. It felt more like we were in a concert hall than a restaurant.
After taking in the surroundings, we were still waiting.
I recently watched a reality television show that featured a competition between two competing teams who each had to set up a functional restaurant in 24 hours. Restaurant goers choose one of the restaurants based on the décor and menu. Sometime during the period when each restaurant is serving, the panel of four judges enters to judge all aspects of each restaurant from the greeting to the dessert. In that specific episode, the judges walked into one of the restaurants and were not immediately greeted by a host, which was a big no-no.
Well, that’s how I felt when I entered Bar 89. After approximately two minutes – an exorbitant amount of time in restaurant-speak – a server approached us and asked if we wanted to sit up top. We didn’t much care, so we meandered upstairs.
The round tables were too small for four, so we chose one of the back-boothed end tables. Upon sitting at the table, we immediately noticed that the table resembled a trapezoid – almost a triangle – more than a rectangle. And it wasn’t a big trapezoid. In fact, the table probably shouldn’t sit more than three though it is set for four. We wanted to move to one of the three adjacent tables but noticed two guys standing beside them. When we asked, they indicated that they had a large party that was to occupy the remaining three tables. We decided to live with the trapezoid.
Our waitress distributed menus and asked us what we wanted to drink. One of our company asked what was on tap. She answered that they served beer only in bottles, a bad sign for a place with ‘bar’ in the name. Two of the company ordered mixed drinks. I and another of our company both ordered Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale, a beer I had never tried.
We then surveyed the menu of typical American fare. I spied three different types of wings on the front among other common appetizers. Inside, we found hamburgers and other typical sandwiches as well as a few main entrees. It was not an extensive menu, but there are times when a spartan menu is preferable since it indicates that the restaurant concentrates on a few core items.
We ordered. I had a taste for the Buffalo wings with some blue cheese and some spiciness. The others ordered, though what exactly, I do not now recall. I think, perhaps, they ordered sandwiches.
Soon after, our drinks came. And, there was only one Nut Brown Ale on the tray. It seems they had only one left, another questionable sign for a ‘bar’. The other person who ordered the ale insisted that I take it and then ordered himself a Magic Hat. We toasted and awaited our meals. I did, by the way, enjoy the hoppy nuttiness of the ale.
Meanwhile, we discussed the birthplace of our server. A prim and proper woman with an accent, she reminded me of a figurine that emerges from a cuckoo clock on the hour. We tried to place the accent but were unsuccessful; we therefore settled on it being Welsh since Welsh accents can be mistaken for just about any other European-based accent in the universe. I suppose we could have inquired, but she seemed rather focused and unapproachable.
The food came. I’ll rate it as satisfactory. If I needed to give it a grade, I’d say a ‘C+’. I’ve had much better wings – I’d suggest Archie Moore’s in downtown Wallingford, CT. I’ve also had much better waffle fries – see Chick Fil-A. Still, I ate everything on my plate, consuming each wing methodically.
As I ate, I noticed that I was missing most of the conversation between my friends. The noise level seemed to increase as we remained longer, probably due to the adjacent party’s consistent imbibing. In fact, their voices felt like bludgeoning blows to my already sensitive eardrums.
We completed our meal sans dessert and paid our check. As we readied to leave, two of our company decided to visit the restroom. They returned moments later and beckoned us remaining two to witness the strange thing they had seen. We all walked back to a well-lit area and noticed approximately 10 individual unisex stalls, each with heavy doors. And those heavy doors were made of clear glass; in other words, we could see everything in the stalls, including the toilet and sink. One of our company entered a stall and closed the door. The glass became opaque, and a white-lit ‘Occupied’ sign appeared. It was, we agreed, a fascinating concept, a novelty. The only problem was that the glass door did not become opaque enough to hide the occupant entirely. It was in practice, for lack of a better word, creepy.
As we completed our accidental voyeurism, our waitress approached holding three receipts in her hand. She asked politely where she could find the fourth receipt. We checked the receipts she had in her hand and noticed that it was mine – of course – that was missing. I checked my wallet and found the customer copy, but I didn’t have the merchant copy. Remembering where I placed it on the table, I returned to the trapezoid and noticed a wet towel atop the place where I had laid the receipt. I pulled the loose paper from beneath the wet rag and handed it to the waitress. She accepted it with her apologies.
We descended the stairs and exited the ‘bar’, each of us in turn stating that we collectively and respectively did not need to relive the Bar 89 experience.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
3WW (Gesture, Immediate, Treasure): Outta Time 3
Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the seconf part of the story.
Ella opened the door wider allowing Darren to step into the hallway. He scuffed his shoes on the mat and started to walk inside but heard Ella clear her throat.
‘Really, Darren? Really?’ She gestured towards his feet.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He put down the fungo and quickly removed his sneakers.
‘So, what’s with the bat?’ she asked.
‘I got freaked out and grabbed it just in case they were still in the apartment. I haven’t let go of it since I got home.’ He was making it up as he went along.
‘Alright, well you don’t need it here.’
‘You sure?’ He pointed his thumb toward the bedroom where he imagined Bruce was either teeming with anger or passed out.
‘He takes care of me,’ she shot back. ‘As long as I’m here, you won’t have any problems.’
‘I hope you don’t plan to leave.’
‘Funny that you’d say that,’ she answered sarcastically.
The relationship hadn’t ended well. On the day he returned from London six months prior, she had been expecting a gift, if not the ring itself. What she received was the shock of her life. After five years of what she thought to be a perfect relationship, Darren explained that he needed something else, something more. He couldn’t explain what that something was. Instead, he awkwardly said goodbye and moved into a cheap hostel where he lived for a month while searching for a new apartment. During that time, he ignored all of her calls whether to his cell or to work. In fact, he ignored all incoming calls in his attempts to find himself. What he discovered instead was his dislike for the hippies that stayed in hostels, his need for Advil after drinking mostly cheap vodka every night, and the gonorrhea infection that made him piss with pain every 15 minutes.
Darren sat in what used to be his old spot on the sectional. He reached for the handle to activate the recliner but thought better of it. Ella sat on a stool; she didn’t offer him anything to eat or drink.
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, listening to Bruce snoring in the other room. Darren thought about making a sarcastic comment but remembered his situation.
Ella broke the silence. ‘So, what are you really doing here?’
‘I’m just a little freaked out. They got away with a bunch of stuff.’
‘Like?’
Nothing immediately came to mind. He hesitated.
‘Don’t bullshit me, Darren. I’ve been to your place. They only thing I’d want to take is the bat you brought here. Who the hell would try to rob you?’
‘Damn, Ella, why don’t you believe me? I’m totally freaked out right now.’
‘So, what did they steal? Clothes? Books? Your cupboard full of nothing?’
He stared at her, attempting to glower but it didn’t come off.
‘Why the hell do I care? You weren’t honest with me during our relationship, so why should I expect anything different now?’ She stood up from the stool and walked to the linen closet. She pulled a fleece blanket and threw it at Darren. ‘Here. You know how to work the TV. I’m going in the bedroom. I’d rather not deal with you right now.’ She walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
Darren remained on the couch, absent-mindedly petting the fleece with his right hand. He thought about putting the DVD into the player but decided it was too early; he didn’t want to run the risk of Ella hearing it. The happenings of the past few hours ran through his head. A flayed rat under his bed. The super in the hospital. The Netflix DVD in his mailbox. The pounding at his door. The black kid with the gun. They had to be connected but he couldn’t discern what that connection might be. The DVD was his only hope.
He decided he couldn’t wait and pulled the envelope from his jacket. He extracted the DVD and put it into the player. Then he adjusted the volume so that he could barely hear the television. His index finger found the play button on the player.
The television came to life, and the clock chimes rang for an instant before everything went dark. After about 30 seconds, the screen changed to that which used to be displayed for the emergency broadcast system. Across the bottom, text scrolled.
‘This is not a test. Please mute the television. The apartment is bugged. You must not make any noise. They want to know what your next move will be.’ The scrolling ceased and the emergency broadcast screen faded into black once again.
Darren sat very still and stared at the television intently waiting for the scrolling to begin anew. The minute he waited seemed an eternity.
‘Press stop on the remote control now,’ scrolled across. He obeyed. In the next moment, Ella emerged from the bedroom and went into the bathroom. After a short time, she came out and reentered the living room wearing her flannel pajamas.
She sat on the stool. ‘Darren, I never thought I’d get a chance to confront you. Now that I have the chance, I don’t really want it. I think what you did was selfish and hurtful and just mean. I don’t give a damn about what you needed. You didn’t talk to me. But that’s water under the bridge. What I really want to say is, I forgive you. I think you’re afraid of commitment and generally full of shit, but for whatever reason I love you. Still, I don’t ever want to see you again. It’s too difficult. So, I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here before 7 a.m. I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t call, write, text, or whatever. Maybe someday we can talk again, but for now, I just can’t. Good night, Darren. I wish you the best.’
With that she got up from the stool, walked to Darren, kissed him once on the left cheek, and proceeded – without looking back – into the bedroom. The door closed ever so gently.
Darren chuckled to himself; it was more a nervous habit than actual humor. He pressed play.
The black screen transformed into some tropical location. The scrolling began again. ‘She needed to get that off her chest. You don’t understand why yet because you’re a selfish asshole, but you’ll learn. Unfortunately, you’ll never see her again.’ The scrolling ceased. A couple walked in front of the screen arm in arm. He was watching stock footage used for tropical getaway commercials. ‘Luckily, they were a bit careless this time around. They installed only one camera in the living room that is filming you at this very moment. But they didn’t put a camera on the television. They won’t make that mistake again. But one mistake is enough to get them off your trail for a short while at least.’ The screen flashed ‘Come to Cancun, the Treasure of Mexico’ with a group of dark people smiling and dressed in white flowing shirts and shorts.
The screen went black again. ‘Here are your instructions. When you hear the phone ring in the apartment, you will again extract this DVD and put it in the envelope in your pocket. You will take the fungo and proceed down the stairs to the 11th floor. You will proceed to apartment ‘H’. Under the welcome mat you will find a key. Unlock the door, enter, and lock the door. Sit on the couch. You will receive further instructions. I must warn you that you will hear two loud bangs immediately following the ringing phone. Those will be gunshots. Bruce will shoot Ella and then himself. He isn’t as drunk as he seems. If you harm Bruce prior to the incident, you and Ella will be captured and tortured. They will kill her, and they will use you as bait. Any deviation from the plan will most likely result in you being captured. Remember that you made your choice. Turn off the DVD now. Good night, Darren.’
The last word scrolled to the left leaving the black screen yet again. Darren pressed stop. An old episode of Friends appeared. He leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling wondering what he was going to do next.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the seconf part of the story.
Ella opened the door wider allowing Darren to step into the hallway. He scuffed his shoes on the mat and started to walk inside but heard Ella clear her throat.
‘Really, Darren? Really?’ She gestured towards his feet.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He put down the fungo and quickly removed his sneakers.
‘So, what’s with the bat?’ she asked.
‘I got freaked out and grabbed it just in case they were still in the apartment. I haven’t let go of it since I got home.’ He was making it up as he went along.
‘Alright, well you don’t need it here.’
‘You sure?’ He pointed his thumb toward the bedroom where he imagined Bruce was either teeming with anger or passed out.
‘He takes care of me,’ she shot back. ‘As long as I’m here, you won’t have any problems.’
‘I hope you don’t plan to leave.’
‘Funny that you’d say that,’ she answered sarcastically.
The relationship hadn’t ended well. On the day he returned from London six months prior, she had been expecting a gift, if not the ring itself. What she received was the shock of her life. After five years of what she thought to be a perfect relationship, Darren explained that he needed something else, something more. He couldn’t explain what that something was. Instead, he awkwardly said goodbye and moved into a cheap hostel where he lived for a month while searching for a new apartment. During that time, he ignored all of her calls whether to his cell or to work. In fact, he ignored all incoming calls in his attempts to find himself. What he discovered instead was his dislike for the hippies that stayed in hostels, his need for Advil after drinking mostly cheap vodka every night, and the gonorrhea infection that made him piss with pain every 15 minutes.
Darren sat in what used to be his old spot on the sectional. He reached for the handle to activate the recliner but thought better of it. Ella sat on a stool; she didn’t offer him anything to eat or drink.
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, listening to Bruce snoring in the other room. Darren thought about making a sarcastic comment but remembered his situation.
Ella broke the silence. ‘So, what are you really doing here?’
‘I’m just a little freaked out. They got away with a bunch of stuff.’
‘Like?’
Nothing immediately came to mind. He hesitated.
‘Don’t bullshit me, Darren. I’ve been to your place. They only thing I’d want to take is the bat you brought here. Who the hell would try to rob you?’
‘Damn, Ella, why don’t you believe me? I’m totally freaked out right now.’
‘So, what did they steal? Clothes? Books? Your cupboard full of nothing?’
He stared at her, attempting to glower but it didn’t come off.
‘Why the hell do I care? You weren’t honest with me during our relationship, so why should I expect anything different now?’ She stood up from the stool and walked to the linen closet. She pulled a fleece blanket and threw it at Darren. ‘Here. You know how to work the TV. I’m going in the bedroom. I’d rather not deal with you right now.’ She walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
Darren remained on the couch, absent-mindedly petting the fleece with his right hand. He thought about putting the DVD into the player but decided it was too early; he didn’t want to run the risk of Ella hearing it. The happenings of the past few hours ran through his head. A flayed rat under his bed. The super in the hospital. The Netflix DVD in his mailbox. The pounding at his door. The black kid with the gun. They had to be connected but he couldn’t discern what that connection might be. The DVD was his only hope.
He decided he couldn’t wait and pulled the envelope from his jacket. He extracted the DVD and put it into the player. Then he adjusted the volume so that he could barely hear the television. His index finger found the play button on the player.
The television came to life, and the clock chimes rang for an instant before everything went dark. After about 30 seconds, the screen changed to that which used to be displayed for the emergency broadcast system. Across the bottom, text scrolled.
‘This is not a test. Please mute the television. The apartment is bugged. You must not make any noise. They want to know what your next move will be.’ The scrolling ceased and the emergency broadcast screen faded into black once again.
Darren sat very still and stared at the television intently waiting for the scrolling to begin anew. The minute he waited seemed an eternity.
‘Press stop on the remote control now,’ scrolled across. He obeyed. In the next moment, Ella emerged from the bedroom and went into the bathroom. After a short time, she came out and reentered the living room wearing her flannel pajamas.
She sat on the stool. ‘Darren, I never thought I’d get a chance to confront you. Now that I have the chance, I don’t really want it. I think what you did was selfish and hurtful and just mean. I don’t give a damn about what you needed. You didn’t talk to me. But that’s water under the bridge. What I really want to say is, I forgive you. I think you’re afraid of commitment and generally full of shit, but for whatever reason I love you. Still, I don’t ever want to see you again. It’s too difficult. So, I’d appreciate it if you’re out of here before 7 a.m. I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t call, write, text, or whatever. Maybe someday we can talk again, but for now, I just can’t. Good night, Darren. I wish you the best.’
With that she got up from the stool, walked to Darren, kissed him once on the left cheek, and proceeded – without looking back – into the bedroom. The door closed ever so gently.
Darren chuckled to himself; it was more a nervous habit than actual humor. He pressed play.
The black screen transformed into some tropical location. The scrolling began again. ‘She needed to get that off her chest. You don’t understand why yet because you’re a selfish asshole, but you’ll learn. Unfortunately, you’ll never see her again.’ The scrolling ceased. A couple walked in front of the screen arm in arm. He was watching stock footage used for tropical getaway commercials. ‘Luckily, they were a bit careless this time around. They installed only one camera in the living room that is filming you at this very moment. But they didn’t put a camera on the television. They won’t make that mistake again. But one mistake is enough to get them off your trail for a short while at least.’ The screen flashed ‘Come to Cancun, the Treasure of Mexico’ with a group of dark people smiling and dressed in white flowing shirts and shorts.
The screen went black again. ‘Here are your instructions. When you hear the phone ring in the apartment, you will again extract this DVD and put it in the envelope in your pocket. You will take the fungo and proceed down the stairs to the 11th floor. You will proceed to apartment ‘H’. Under the welcome mat you will find a key. Unlock the door, enter, and lock the door. Sit on the couch. You will receive further instructions. I must warn you that you will hear two loud bangs immediately following the ringing phone. Those will be gunshots. Bruce will shoot Ella and then himself. He isn’t as drunk as he seems. If you harm Bruce prior to the incident, you and Ella will be captured and tortured. They will kill her, and they will use you as bait. Any deviation from the plan will most likely result in you being captured. Remember that you made your choice. Turn off the DVD now. Good night, Darren.’
The last word scrolled to the left leaving the black screen yet again. Darren pressed stop. An old episode of Friends appeared. He leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling wondering what he was going to do next.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Poetricity: Beginnings
Beginnings. Must come from somewhere. Do come from somewhere. A coffin cradle housing the sacred dead and undead respectively. All else is straw. Reindeer games or wooden stages or giant clanging marble worlds. Visceral violet sobs with loss. Hopeful copper sobs with gain. A choice to amputate a dying arm wedged in a mountain or to engage in armchair quarterbacking on sunny Sundays. The latter, stupidly safer. And brilliantly less perilous.
I see a beginning. A bright, hot white glow on the not too distant horizon beckoning me to join in this stacked hand of five-card stud. In whose favor I can’t say. In my past remain emerald, mint memories drizzling on a few patches of dying grass. A road I discovered belonged to me only for a time. A road now lost somewhere behind white-capped mountains. Another era transformed. I see the tombstone. It is time. For endings.
I see a beginning. A bright, hot white glow on the not too distant horizon beckoning me to join in this stacked hand of five-card stud. In whose favor I can’t say. In my past remain emerald, mint memories drizzling on a few patches of dying grass. A road I discovered belonged to me only for a time. A road now lost somewhere behind white-capped mountains. Another era transformed. I see the tombstone. It is time. For endings.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Foodalicious: Famous Joe's
There's a debate that rages wildly in all corners of the United States. Where might you find the best pizza?
Magazines rate. People yelp. Bloggers list. Critics critique. But this post isn't about rating or yelping or listing or even critiquing in any kind of serious way. It's about finding that perfect slice in NYC, the land of slices.
It came up one day in Seattle. I was in Steve's office not too long ago discussing some work-related item when he asked if I had found any good pizza in the city. I admitted to him that I hadn't even had pizza since being back to east, a travesty unto itself. When I asked his advice, he excitedly said that Joe's was the best he had had in the city, as if Joe was some guy who had a place in Brooklyn in the 60s when Steve was growing up. Undeterred by my wise-assedness, Steve started clicking wildly and told me to 'c'mere'. I rounded the desk and saw that he was attempting to pinpoint the Manhattan location. After some strategic clicking and zooming, Steve had found the place at 7 Carmine in the West Village. 'Best pizza in the city,' he commented.
So I had to see for myself.
I've been three times. And, I'd have to agree that it's the best - albeit some of the only - pizza I've had in the city. That may seem a backhanded compliment. But I must compare to the pizza I've had elsewhere. I'll have to admit its superiority to Seattle and Boston pizza. I must, however, reserve judgment when comparing to the New Haven pizzas because I've still not visited Sally's for a pie, and I visited Pepe's only once and don't really remember it.
What makes Joe's so good?
First, it's the atmosphere. This ain't a restaurant where you're going to have a sit down meal. When you walk in, there's a small counter to the left, a small counter facing toward the street in front, and a few small, round stand-alone tables strewn throughout the joint. On the counters and tables, you'll find parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. It's a short walk to the counter where you'll be greeted by a grunting Italian who acts as if he has no time to deal with you. You have to notice the quick head movement and brief eye contact to get service. After speaking your choices, the guy warms the pizza in the oven and takes your cash (cash only) to the tune of $3.50 per slice (seems expensive but the slices are generous). Meanwhile, you notice that the place is a good cross section of white and blue collar, and they have usually been - well at least since I've only been there between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am - rather intoxicated, making for some interesting interactions with Joe's staff. A great place to be a fly on a wall, as long as you as the fly are nowhere near my pizza.
Second, it's the celebrity. Although the place is pretty much a hole, it's well liked by many a celebrity. No, I haven't seen a celebrity there yet, but based on the pictures in the restaurant, they have everyone from Harrison Ford to Adam Sandler in pictures along the wall. Even more than the celebrities that have visited, the place itself can be considered a minor tourist location for comic lovers and movie nuts alike as it was the pizzeria where Peter Parker, i.e. Tobey Maguire, worked in Spiderman.
Third, it's their hours. I didn't get the exact hours, but I'm pretty sure they're open from late morning to early morning, i.e. from about 11 a.m. until about 5 a.m. Ah, the city that never sleeps... kinda. But that's another post.
Fourth, and most importantly, it's the pizza. I've had only the cheese and the pepperoni. But I must say that I think the pepperoni is the best I've had anywhere up to this point in my life. It's not that greasy, which I find to be amazing. It's thin and foldable. The crust is just a little dark; there's an almost but not quite burnt-around-the-edges taste that translates more as crispiness than it does burntness. The sauce is faintly sweet but can be cut well with the addition of crushed red pepper. And the cheese is just the right texture. All in all, delectable.
I have no doubt that I'll be returning. And if you're ever in the neighborhood, please go. And take me with you...
Magazines rate. People yelp. Bloggers list. Critics critique. But this post isn't about rating or yelping or listing or even critiquing in any kind of serious way. It's about finding that perfect slice in NYC, the land of slices.
It came up one day in Seattle. I was in Steve's office not too long ago discussing some work-related item when he asked if I had found any good pizza in the city. I admitted to him that I hadn't even had pizza since being back to east, a travesty unto itself. When I asked his advice, he excitedly said that Joe's was the best he had had in the city, as if Joe was some guy who had a place in Brooklyn in the 60s when Steve was growing up. Undeterred by my wise-assedness, Steve started clicking wildly and told me to 'c'mere'. I rounded the desk and saw that he was attempting to pinpoint the Manhattan location. After some strategic clicking and zooming, Steve had found the place at 7 Carmine in the West Village. 'Best pizza in the city,' he commented.
So I had to see for myself.
I've been three times. And, I'd have to agree that it's the best - albeit some of the only - pizza I've had in the city. That may seem a backhanded compliment. But I must compare to the pizza I've had elsewhere. I'll have to admit its superiority to Seattle and Boston pizza. I must, however, reserve judgment when comparing to the New Haven pizzas because I've still not visited Sally's for a pie, and I visited Pepe's only once and don't really remember it.
What makes Joe's so good?
First, it's the atmosphere. This ain't a restaurant where you're going to have a sit down meal. When you walk in, there's a small counter to the left, a small counter facing toward the street in front, and a few small, round stand-alone tables strewn throughout the joint. On the counters and tables, you'll find parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper. It's a short walk to the counter where you'll be greeted by a grunting Italian who acts as if he has no time to deal with you. You have to notice the quick head movement and brief eye contact to get service. After speaking your choices, the guy warms the pizza in the oven and takes your cash (cash only) to the tune of $3.50 per slice (seems expensive but the slices are generous). Meanwhile, you notice that the place is a good cross section of white and blue collar, and they have usually been - well at least since I've only been there between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am - rather intoxicated, making for some interesting interactions with Joe's staff. A great place to be a fly on a wall, as long as you as the fly are nowhere near my pizza.
Second, it's the celebrity. Although the place is pretty much a hole, it's well liked by many a celebrity. No, I haven't seen a celebrity there yet, but based on the pictures in the restaurant, they have everyone from Harrison Ford to Adam Sandler in pictures along the wall. Even more than the celebrities that have visited, the place itself can be considered a minor tourist location for comic lovers and movie nuts alike as it was the pizzeria where Peter Parker, i.e. Tobey Maguire, worked in Spiderman.
Third, it's their hours. I didn't get the exact hours, but I'm pretty sure they're open from late morning to early morning, i.e. from about 11 a.m. until about 5 a.m. Ah, the city that never sleeps... kinda. But that's another post.
Fourth, and most importantly, it's the pizza. I've had only the cheese and the pepperoni. But I must say that I think the pepperoni is the best I've had anywhere up to this point in my life. It's not that greasy, which I find to be amazing. It's thin and foldable. The crust is just a little dark; there's an almost but not quite burnt-around-the-edges taste that translates more as crispiness than it does burntness. The sauce is faintly sweet but can be cut well with the addition of crushed red pepper. And the cheese is just the right texture. All in all, delectable.
I have no doubt that I'll be returning. And if you're ever in the neighborhood, please go. And take me with you...
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Pop Culturitis (Monday Makeup): Classic vs Motion-Controlled
A friend and I recently had a discussion about video games. He claimed that the new motion-controlled gaming systems are simply not his style, that they make the game playing experience awkward. Since I haven’t attempted to play on a motion-controlled system, I didn’t think it my place to comment at the time. But his commentary started me thinking on the differences between classic gaming and the new motion-controlled gaming. It made me realize that the development of motion-controlled gaming was nothing short of brilliant innovation.
I grew up with video games. Of course, I went to arcades as a kid and played the likes of Pac-Man and Space Invaders. But I also had some of the first gaming systems.
It was at my grandparents’ house that I first played Pong with those long thin controllers and turny knobs.
My first computer game was on some machine the name of which I don’t even remember. I do, however, recall attempting to destroy purple space ships. And I obsessed about those things at the time.
Atari stole a good deal of my youth during elementary school. I swung back and forth on ropes, trying to avoid snakes in Pitfall. I piloted a plane in River Raid. And I fought with tanks in some kind of war game.
Nintendo kept me busy during middle school. Of course, there was Super Mario Brothers. And no, I never beat it. I loved Tecmo Bowl, especially with the Giants being so good. There was Contra. Ninja Gaiden. Dragon Warrior. Punch Out. The Legend of Zelda. So many memories.
My high school years saw video games wane, at least in my consciousness. I played, at times, on others’ Super Nintendo and Sega gaming consoles but never owned one myself. I always enjoyed playing – though I must admit that I hated losing to others in those fighting games. Still do.
In college, I played more computer based games. My fingers flew over the keyboard like a pianist’s over a piano making a car take turns at 80 mph or an X-wing fighter dive to take out a shield generator.
And most recently, I engaged in the Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game experience by creating at least a dozen characters for World of Warcraft.
What do all of these have in common? It’s all about hand-eye coordination. Either with controllers or with computer keyboards, I have navigated through all of the elements, defeating everyone from the Dallas Cowboys to Diablo himself. And I enjoy gaming like that. It’s what I know and understand. So, I have to admit that these new motion-controlled gaming systems really aren’t of interest to me as a classic quasi-gamer.
My friend, having played the games, agrees. Video games, he suggests, are not for jumping up and down or for flailing one’s arms wildly. Not to mention, the motion-controlled gaming consoles just can’t imitate life well enough. Throwing a football is more like throwing a shot put. While swinging at make believe balls puts anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity of the swinger in potentially mortal danger. All in all, he claims, motion-controlled gaming just isn’t up his – or any other gamer’s – alley.
Which is why motion-controlled gaming is so brilliant. I’ll draw a parallel to a commercial I saw recently. In it, women throw NFL jerseys at their husbands / boyfriends. On their face, looks of disgust. I chuckled to myself, thinking that the commercial had something to do with men neglecting their women because of football. But no. The commercial was an NFL ad aimed at women, trying to get their business. How? By tailoring clothing for women specifically. They were giving back the jerseys because these women now had appropriate clothing to enjoy the NFL.
The parallel? The motion-controlled gaming systems aren’t for classic gamers. Oh sure, there will be those who cross over from the old world into the new. But for the most part, motion-controlled gaming is for those who have never before been interested in gaming. Just watch the commercials, and you’ll see women beating their more masculine counterparts at sports like golf and football. Or you’ll see grandpa beating up on his grandson in a boxing match. A brilliant move. And one that has opened gaming to an entirely different audience.
What’s next? Oh, they’ll make gaming systems better for each audience. For classic gaming, it means better graphics and sound. For motion-controlled gaming, it means better tracking of movement as well as more games for each of the consoles. But I think there’s still an opportunity for crossover. Personally, I think they’ll capture some of the classic gamers in one of two ways. A MCMMORPG (Motion Controlled Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) or the adaptation of fighting games like Tekken and Soul Caliber. Although I’d have some concern about the latter given how my reaction when I lose with merely an Xbox controller in my sweating hands...
I grew up with video games. Of course, I went to arcades as a kid and played the likes of Pac-Man and Space Invaders. But I also had some of the first gaming systems.
It was at my grandparents’ house that I first played Pong with those long thin controllers and turny knobs.
My first computer game was on some machine the name of which I don’t even remember. I do, however, recall attempting to destroy purple space ships. And I obsessed about those things at the time.
Atari stole a good deal of my youth during elementary school. I swung back and forth on ropes, trying to avoid snakes in Pitfall. I piloted a plane in River Raid. And I fought with tanks in some kind of war game.
Nintendo kept me busy during middle school. Of course, there was Super Mario Brothers. And no, I never beat it. I loved Tecmo Bowl, especially with the Giants being so good. There was Contra. Ninja Gaiden. Dragon Warrior. Punch Out. The Legend of Zelda. So many memories.
My high school years saw video games wane, at least in my consciousness. I played, at times, on others’ Super Nintendo and Sega gaming consoles but never owned one myself. I always enjoyed playing – though I must admit that I hated losing to others in those fighting games. Still do.
In college, I played more computer based games. My fingers flew over the keyboard like a pianist’s over a piano making a car take turns at 80 mph or an X-wing fighter dive to take out a shield generator.
And most recently, I engaged in the Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game experience by creating at least a dozen characters for World of Warcraft.
What do all of these have in common? It’s all about hand-eye coordination. Either with controllers or with computer keyboards, I have navigated through all of the elements, defeating everyone from the Dallas Cowboys to Diablo himself. And I enjoy gaming like that. It’s what I know and understand. So, I have to admit that these new motion-controlled gaming systems really aren’t of interest to me as a classic quasi-gamer.
My friend, having played the games, agrees. Video games, he suggests, are not for jumping up and down or for flailing one’s arms wildly. Not to mention, the motion-controlled gaming consoles just can’t imitate life well enough. Throwing a football is more like throwing a shot put. While swinging at make believe balls puts anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity of the swinger in potentially mortal danger. All in all, he claims, motion-controlled gaming just isn’t up his – or any other gamer’s – alley.
Which is why motion-controlled gaming is so brilliant. I’ll draw a parallel to a commercial I saw recently. In it, women throw NFL jerseys at their husbands / boyfriends. On their face, looks of disgust. I chuckled to myself, thinking that the commercial had something to do with men neglecting their women because of football. But no. The commercial was an NFL ad aimed at women, trying to get their business. How? By tailoring clothing for women specifically. They were giving back the jerseys because these women now had appropriate clothing to enjoy the NFL.
The parallel? The motion-controlled gaming systems aren’t for classic gamers. Oh sure, there will be those who cross over from the old world into the new. But for the most part, motion-controlled gaming is for those who have never before been interested in gaming. Just watch the commercials, and you’ll see women beating their more masculine counterparts at sports like golf and football. Or you’ll see grandpa beating up on his grandson in a boxing match. A brilliant move. And one that has opened gaming to an entirely different audience.
What’s next? Oh, they’ll make gaming systems better for each audience. For classic gaming, it means better graphics and sound. For motion-controlled gaming, it means better tracking of movement as well as more games for each of the consoles. But I think there’s still an opportunity for crossover. Personally, I think they’ll capture some of the classic gamers in one of two ways. A MCMMORPG (Motion Controlled Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) or the adaptation of fighting games like Tekken and Soul Caliber. Although I’d have some concern about the latter given how my reaction when I lose with merely an Xbox controller in my sweating hands...
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