Pathetic Snowman In Brooklyn's South Slope

Sesame Street Memories

Once upon a time, I met someone, and we traveled downtown on the A train from Washington Heights at around 4, 5am. I can still remember sitting opposite him in an empty carriage, chatting, as the train breezed through the local stops; as almost no one was on board, the train conductor clipped each stop to its bare minimum of what seemed like a couple of seconds: doors open, doors closed, gone. At 14th Street, we switched to the L train, and went all the way out to Jefferson Street, which I remember because I made a mental note that Brooklyn confusingly has a Jefferson Street and a Jefferson Avenue. At dawn, an easy stroll through empty streets to where this guy lived -- he was a newcomer to the city. He was certainly odd, but in a pleasantly eccentric way.
His apartment turned out to be slightly larger than a broom closet. And that pleasant eccentricity? His space was crammed full of dozens of Ernie dolls, of Bert & Ernie fame, all sizes, including a life-size Ernie...

Years later, one evening in Washington Heights, he passed me on the street again, with two friends of his, and I remember my mind weighing for a split second, whether to say "Hey Jefferson Street man!" or "Hey, Ernie doll man!" as I couldn't remember his name. I think I went with "Jefferson Street!" And we had a brief chat.

As we talked, there were mobs of teenage Dominican girls passing by, in various states of teenage hysteria: it was the annual Dominican version of the "sweet sixteen" coming-of-age event. That was the moment when I remembered why I didn't really like my Ernie doll friend. Gesturing to the young women, he pointed out that I would be completely unaware that Dominicans celebrate a "sweet fifteen" coming-of-age event, and not sweet sixteen.

"Ah, yes, the quinceañera," I said to him, and gave him a hard look. He took himself off with some annoying minor crack.

I do not have the rapier instinct. I guess I could have made fun of his stupid Ernie doll fixation (and I think he also sucked his thumb), but I didn't.

All this memory was triggered by that Sesame Street doll in the photo, which isn't even a Bert or Ernie doll...!

That's A Relief!

I'm so glad to hear that, Bethenny Frankel!

What's Small, Round, Red, And Speaks In A Whisper?

Today, from the archives: things that are red. For the answer to the question in the title, scroll to the bottom.

A hoarse radish.

Summer, 2015

These photos were taken over a year ago, then completely forgotten. 

Me, walking.

Archie, a dog.

The Empire of Light and Day

A whisk.

191st Street Subway entrance.

Reflected. 

Broadway and Flushing Ave, Brooklyn.

Schubert, Trio op. 100 - Andante con moto

Some Yellow Things

 These photos are a little old...

 This was when someone I know lived on Bergen Street, Brooklyn, near this bright little BMW.

 I really don't know what was being suggested on this yellow... thing...

 A cool chick seen through a speeding express train... waiting for the local.

 A snowy day in Queens, probably two winters ago. The Harris Shutter app.

The Wrong Continent

This is a world-famous address... It's No. 10 Downing Street... but in Brooklyn, NY.

Looks like they're doing some serious renovations.

At Least It's Not A Rat

Putting The 'Ugh' Into 'Outer Borough'

This is of course the 'ugh' in 'borough' adorning the outside wall of the Queens Public Library's HQ, in Jamaica, Queens.

Let me ramble on a bit more.

In Washington Heights a few years ago, there was a room renting service on whose business card were the unforgettable words: We Cover All Four Boroughs!

Last night, I had the unpleasant experience of walking just one and a half blocks of 42nd Street, the lower end of Times Square.  Not only was the area c r a w l i n g with uniformed cops, there must have been scores of undercovers too.

Normally that distance might take six, seven minutes to walk.  Last evening, amongst the hordes of rowdy locals and gawking tourists, I think it took 25 minutes... and we were penned in: guard rails of the crowd control/ crash barrier variety now run all along the length of 42nd Street. Was this a safety measure after what happened in Nice?  The Police Commissioner says no... but the sense of being penned in, of having nowhere to run, only added to one's tingling anxiety.

Float Like A Butterfly,

...spell like a moron? How can you screw up spelling the name of someone as famous as the late Greatest of All Time? Especially when you are painting it on a wall.

A couple of people have tried to argue with me that the spelling is not wrong, that it is somehow... not spelt wrong. But it is! That has never been, nor will it ever be, how one spells 'Ali'. 'A-L-I'. 

Heroic Moment In Central Park

An Associated Press photographer took this very unusual photo yesterday, after an 18 year-old visitor to NYC lost part of his foot after stepping on what the cops sort of concluded was an abandoned homemade firework.

Poor kid. But what a dramatic scene: it almost seemed staged in this image, the lush, deep, green forest as background, in the foreground both as barrier and terrace, the familiar granite rocks of Central Park, the dark blue uniforms, with bright blue stripes on their pants... how carefully has the artist concealed the victim's face and upper body!... The splashes of bright reds and oranges and the various poses of the EMT guys make it all seem staged and lit. Or, to quote Robert Browning! ~

"Paint must never hope to reproduce the faint 
Half-flush that dies along her throat"!

The Train For Nieces

The Onion has published The Neu Jorker, a parody of The New Yorker magazine, and as such things go, it's rather good, all the way to the fine details, including the fake full-page ads, one of which is below, and which I thought was hilarious: 

Acela: the train for nieces. 

In Memory of Muhammed Ali

At That Point, He Thought: "Should I Call A Doctor?"

Bent By The Prisms Of Glory

Well, Flip Me! I Missed My Gosh-darn Train!

Readers of this blog may know of my great love for and abiding interest in the Hell Gate Bridge, which is 100 years old this year.

My friend Rob suggested that rather than gaze up at the mighty crossing, as I've done many times, I should take a train trip that would go over the bridge.

So I went to the Amtrak web site: I've seen the Acela crossing the Hell Gate Bridge often, so I knew that the Boston-NYC service takes that route. At Amtrak.com I see that there is a helpful little bot, "Ask Julie | Your Virtual Assistant!"

I started talking to Julie, and aware that my railroad trip is not a simple NYC-Boston commute (and that I'm talking to a bot), I was trying to be as simple with my query as possible:

I would like to take a trip on Amtrak on the route that crosses the #%*! Gate Bridge.

Wait a minute. Didn't I just type Hell Gate Bridge?

Oh.

'Are You Insane?'

Too many ways to reply! 

What's The Point In Opening A Store Like This?

At the Last Stop Inconvenience Store, Woodlawn, The Bronx, NY.

At this store recently, I asked the assistant for a can of soda, and was rebuffed with the mind-bending reply, "we don't sell any drinks". It was like going into a shoe store and being told that they only stock shoes for left feet...

Cigars, cigarettes, hookahs — but no drinks. Snacks, candy, chips — but no cans of soda. Gum, aspirins, Imodium, alka seltzer — but no bottled soft drinks. Chocolate! Nuts, salted and unsalted! Welch's fruit snacks! Pretzels! Fluorescent things with less than 0% nutritional value! Heart-shaped confectionaries all year round! But no drinks of any kind. 

What is the point? 

Equal Parts Boredom And Anxiety

A flower I painted. What I had intended this to be, ended up nothing like it, as usual. 

A face in the crowd, on a tree, on West 23rd Street. 

Dawn at South Ferry/Whitehall, lower Lower Manhattan. 

(Year of Our Lord, 1928).

Eighth Avenue in Harlem.

Me, thanks to the Harris Shutter. 

Bradhurst Avenue in Harlem. 

Again

In June 2013, I noticed a very odd little piece of self-referential art at the Nostrand Avenue A train stop in Brooklyn. It was a photograph of one of the mosaics that decorate the station walls at intervals, declaring the station name: NOSTRAND AVE. And it was glued to the tiled wall directly below one of the mosaics. In a sense it was like seeing a mirror reflected in another mirror.

I never did find out the origins of the photo of the Nostrand Avenue sign next to the same sign. A few days ago, a similar 'work' appeared at 23rd Street, on the uptown A, C and E lines:  

Ladies & Gentlemen

The following is the text of a pre-recorded customer advisory announcement from the NYC subway system. The recording was made by a woman. In my opinion, it is pure poetry, right through to how she stresses the last line. It has to be heard to be appreciated, and I'll try to find an audio file. 

Ladies and gentlemen, 

If your destination is South Ferry,

You must be in one of the first five cars

Ahead of the conductor's position,

If you wish to exit the train

At the South Ferry Station. 

ҫпешӥҭing the night away...

"And then what happened?"

"Well, officer, I looked over, and he... he... He ҫпешӥҭєd!" 

Buy Our Things!

On Fulton Street in Cypress Hills, a 99¢ store is selling… "witer". Two for the price of one! 

Writers? Winters?  Good luck trying to return them. 

No Wonder The Place Is Such A Mess!

Things That Make You Anxious For No Apparent Reason

The ice in the park. 

Thirty pounds of fresh ginger, from China.

Borax refuse? Turn it into working capital! 

Long, empty corridors.