tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35541046522604187922024-02-07T14:45:54.692-05:00PaullyblogOpening a New Chapter in My Life in the Big City.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-17730468194560133302010-01-27T23:04:00.003-05:002010-01-27T23:08:50.060-05:00Overheard in the Drugstore<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Je0iFSZCh9SYuU9iYlQqkySaGi3xEbzYWnliQkINX0tjc_wU0qx0I0uztKmqYbsEeXjfH6lCDSpgtxTTwcFfL4kTstw44mutALuJnC-RdZ3aF17a2M950lIf9KrqV5dmnsksvurlVK4/s1600-h/mountain_dew.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Je0iFSZCh9SYuU9iYlQqkySaGi3xEbzYWnliQkINX0tjc_wU0qx0I0uztKmqYbsEeXjfH6lCDSpgtxTTwcFfL4kTstw44mutALuJnC-RdZ3aF17a2M950lIf9KrqV5dmnsksvurlVK4/s200/mountain_dew.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431636841252916354" border="0" /></a>I was standing in the drugstore when a family came in and walked past me. The young teen-aged boy stopped in front of the candy aisle.<br /><br />Mom: "Toby get away from that candy. That's not healthy; you know that."<br />Dejected Kid: "Alright Mom."<br />Dad (to Mom): "You want anything?"<br />Mom: "Yes. Get me two Mountain Dew's."<br /><br />This is why the rest of the world mocks us.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-36459595557886041172010-01-09T17:07:00.005-05:002010-01-09T18:07:59.817-05:00"Not Like the Old Days"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinldogGYepbXZXReCwZTd8MimhXbCYCLwFtXk-rPP4MpgXVR0oc9K80GwJXHfl2uSrX6mJ_zdOIx1GOEH0jDE1jVr9q3WGSgjnSZNLhQoJftOxDomvKR5JsroZgjRnhad1ACVgsuFK-Pg/s1600-h/IMG_0981.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinldogGYepbXZXReCwZTd8MimhXbCYCLwFtXk-rPP4MpgXVR0oc9K80GwJXHfl2uSrX6mJ_zdOIx1GOEH0jDE1jVr9q3WGSgjnSZNLhQoJftOxDomvKR5JsroZgjRnhad1ACVgsuFK-Pg/s320/IMG_0981.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424865585192652626" border="0" /></a>One of the things I missed about home when I moved down south was the New York diner. Authentic diners are run by gruff Greek people and are usually open all night long. They have huge menus and always give you a good portion.<br /><br />Interestingly, I have a typical New York diner, <a href="http://newyork.citysearch.com/profile/7143908/new_york_ny/olympic_diner.html">The Olympic</a>, right around the block from my house. Buddy and I pass it every day on our walks, but until this morning I had never eaten there. Not particularly intrigued by what I saw in the refrigerator this morning, I decided to check it out.<br /><br />It was filled with people at lunchtime. I got a seat at the counter and a (presumably) Greek man with a heavy accent took my order. I ordered eggs and hash and once we got past a slight language barrier, hash brown potatoes too. My food came amazingly fast and I settled in to enjoy a hot meal and read the <span style="font-style: italic;">Daily News.</span><br /><br />A few minutes later an elderly man came in and sat at the counter next to me. He was clearly a regular -- the counterman recognized him right away.<br /><br />"You want soup?" he asked.<br />"What do you have today?"<br />"We got the clam chowder, chicken noodle and beef barley."<br />"No bean soup?" the old man asked with downcast eyes.<br />"No," said the counterman.<br />"OK, I'll have the chicken noodle."<br /><br />The old man's hands shook as he settled in at the counter. He never took off his coat. Now that I think about it, I wonder if he did that because he was cold sitting by the door, or because he needed help taking off his coat. Almost immediately, I noticed he began to mutter to himself.<br /><br />In a barely audible voice, he looked towards the counterman who was down at the kitchen window. "Can I get that to-go?" he whispered. He couldn't get anyone's attention.<br /><br />I decided I should help, but just as I decided to jump in, a bowl of soup arrived. "He wanted that to go, I think," I said. The server looked at the old man, and in a resigned tone, he waved his hand and said sadly, "oh, don't worry about it." He took his soup and struggled to open his little cellophane-wrapped saltines.<br /><br />"It's not like the old days. It's hard to get anything decent anymore. Not like the old days."<br /><br />I smiled and nodded.<br /><br />He dug his spoon through his soup, examining all the bits of pasta in his bowl: "Chicken <span style="font-style: italic;">noodle</span> alright." he said.<br /><br />"All noodles and no chicken?" I asked. He just grunted at me.<br /><br />I went back to finishing up my lunch and then noticed that he couldn't open the crackers. I leaned over and helped him open up all his cracker packets.<br /><br />He didn't waste anytime getting through his soup. As he asked for his check, I asked him, "Good soup here?"<br /><br />He shrugged. "That's the problem. You just can't get anything decent anymore. Not like the old days." I nodded. He gathered up his things and paused before he got up to leave. "Thanks for your help," he said to me.<br /><br />"Don't mention it," I said. I watched him wander back out onto Eighth Avenue.<br /><br />I wonder if I'll be eating soup at the counter at the Olympic in 40 years. I wonder if I'm living in <span style="font-style: italic;">my </span>good old days.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-82182330509028838332010-01-08T20:20:00.011-05:002010-01-08T21:03:47.316-05:00A Last Look at NYC Dressed Up for ChristmasI sent a friend from Atlanta a text as I was escaping midtown Manhattan on New Year's Eve. "You're leaving Times Square on NYE?!" she asked. "Hell, yes," I replied.<br /><br />New York is wonderful at holiday time. This year we even had a big snow storm to set the mood. But just in the same way native Las Vegans probably steer clear of casinos, I try to stay away from Times Square and Rockefeller Center at Christmas Time. Sidewalks choked with tourists are just not my idea of fun.<br /><br />Now the tourists have largely cleared out, so I felt it was safe to walk crosstown on my block. It's funny to think that I live 4 crosstown blocks from the Christmas tree and I never saw it until last night. Here's a few of the cool Christmasy things I saw last night a short walk from my apartment:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2F9q1ZawRihPuu6QbqyoEiWwUqbQzVwYumh-0v4KLXzVRP-kVb88DRDhEJhpbv3o5Jro9VubZyo9JTf7qTK_TpQ3exXI4pEU1RxAOnaaX2rzhKjaGTfiNkv3avaPYzU_hMhNCwWqEc4/s1600-h/IMG_0955.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2F9q1ZawRihPuu6QbqyoEiWwUqbQzVwYumh-0v4KLXzVRP-kVb88DRDhEJhpbv3o5Jro9VubZyo9JTf7qTK_TpQ3exXI4pEU1RxAOnaaX2rzhKjaGTfiNkv3avaPYzU_hMhNCwWqEc4/s400/IMG_0955.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424548108971068050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Rockefeller Center's Christmas Tree</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdXAlR1BXVAC8I8DZ71BMa5Pl8cN99v_3UO3YC3-Mck3FWrpRGrBBqmrShJY9CueETu59yca0UxL43Dvp63aixS3hdaZA5jlu_X42BFD8wOa6_V-ahzqniFS8hwvFOKYL71mCUb2tEHY/s1600-h/IMG_0958.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdXAlR1BXVAC8I8DZ71BMa5Pl8cN99v_3UO3YC3-Mck3FWrpRGrBBqmrShJY9CueETu59yca0UxL43Dvp63aixS3hdaZA5jlu_X42BFD8wOa6_V-ahzqniFS8hwvFOKYL71mCUb2tEHY/s400/IMG_0958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424548881004835490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Skating at Rockefeller Center</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_kqw6sVNFSsU-PEO4ihsWQBjfh3g-buT5_1vcZ9jgo8XzOL9t63pf8bqdfnP0IdyNyDlZNhqBCJ2SeQC1qZQj6jYtQRihc4Ap93Iyf_LTE4gUpEzVsOZknvZD0kE42ZQai2PGTUrqOI/s1600-h/IMG_0965.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_kqw6sVNFSsU-PEO4ihsWQBjfh3g-buT5_1vcZ9jgo8XzOL9t63pf8bqdfnP0IdyNyDlZNhqBCJ2SeQC1qZQj6jYtQRihc4Ap93Iyf_LTE4gUpEzVsOZknvZD0kE42ZQai2PGTUrqOI/s400/IMG_0965.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424550774244998466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6y4rf2H473NYgRNvpLbikQRZs9a9wvPSSguF43Raod-c9eTrhhkhTaTc5NA2Y_O1HGDwyizZjnPfDJtkCJC_ut4S_YicKLLNNny6euLfnFJCm-zVgdhr3JHkgMqQYB8nQpZUNzuLjGDU/s1600-h/IMG_0975.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6y4rf2H473NYgRNvpLbikQRZs9a9wvPSSguF43Raod-c9eTrhhkhTaTc5NA2Y_O1HGDwyizZjnPfDJtkCJC_ut4S_YicKLLNNny6euLfnFJCm-zVgdhr3JHkgMqQYB8nQpZUNzuLjGDU/s400/IMG_0975.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424549397508813554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Holiday window at Bergdorf's<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7FazgCF0Ao6HHga60JHCqC8NniobYe1T8SFwbM3bz9eJHhvVH2M7JElfWkrpPjqJQiZlU0j1m2kYNQwEKH220AjcN9KPdFqpACa8HCa-MO_QEpYxszPoXQqHbVckDEH0RHlgndnrZvy0/s1600-h/IMG_0972.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7FazgCF0Ao6HHga60JHCqC8NniobYe1T8SFwbM3bz9eJHhvVH2M7JElfWkrpPjqJQiZlU0j1m2kYNQwEKH220AjcN9KPdFqpACa8HCa-MO_QEpYxszPoXQqHbVckDEH0RHlgndnrZvy0/s400/IMG_0972.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424549934327043618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionKvp5x8IYi_Wzne2Tc9fm05umD_T33cC_J1ABZilPDLAG1TweS47biLSXGsFjEFrIslO4g5looxhiEjnr_2dPNPTT3ae7caCvWfrA9YpsLYw8eLZqz0aLDicE230Aj5J_S_gMA7y7Ak/s1600-h/IMG_0966.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionKvp5x8IYi_Wzne2Tc9fm05umD_T33cC_J1ABZilPDLAG1TweS47biLSXGsFjEFrIslO4g5looxhiEjnr_2dPNPTT3ae7caCvWfrA9YpsLYw8eLZqz0aLDicE230Aj5J_S_gMA7y7Ak/s400/IMG_0966.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424550319166493362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Ginormous ornaments on Sixth Avenue</span><br /></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-20465647553670170192010-01-05T18:00:00.000-05:002010-01-05T10:48:14.224-05:00Anger Management Anyone?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyszCBHHrRvbkMRT8j61h7FWpjkwZnUmSqRCZCct549fgZwtKSwozQNednWcNuwsLOgUCSJWGBMuIW1u4EPuzciKxJFwgTGODIichX-PCjSEV68LUiDjruJALzEBLprpjjW4efwSh4RWc/s1600-h/0511-0811-0415-3734_Cartoon_of_a_Red_Faced_Angry_Man_clipart_image.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyszCBHHrRvbkMRT8j61h7FWpjkwZnUmSqRCZCct549fgZwtKSwozQNednWcNuwsLOgUCSJWGBMuIW1u4EPuzciKxJFwgTGODIichX-PCjSEV68LUiDjruJALzEBLprpjjW4efwSh4RWc/s320/0511-0811-0415-3734_Cartoon_of_a_Red_Faced_Angry_Man_clipart_image.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423276606374990434" border="0" /></a>One thing I never thought I'd do is get into a morning exercise routine. I am not a morning person and I need more than a little time to get rolling every day. Since I really don't know when I'm getting out of work each day, however, working out before work is my only real option.<br /><br />The gym is quite serene in the morning compared to the frantic scene in there at night. This morning the quiet was broken by a certified raving lunatic. New Yorkers are sometimes portrayed in popular culture as brash, loud and profane, but few could quite meet the stereotype like the disgruntled customer who was shouting at the top of his lungs at the customer service desk. Apparently, he was disturbed by the lack of attention his request to cancel his membership was receiving, so he became comically hysterical:<br /><br />"This gym will not cancel my membership. They've got my credit card and they're not giving it up."<br />"My friends have had to go through this f&%*ing s#@t and I'm not going to stand for it."<br />"This is a f&%*ing homosexual gym anyway. Hey buddy, why don't you go suck your boyfriend!"<br />"I was on the phone for two f&%*ing hours yesterday and got nowhere and you people are not going to ignore me anymore!"<br /><br />There was a lot more swearing, a stroll through the gym where he made some more homophobic remarks and even some urgent pleas to prospective customers: "do not sign up for this gym! They won't let you f&%*ing quit!" I am sure his voice was heard in every corner of the gym. This scene ended as you could have guessed, with a very young and slightly exasperated member of New York's finest escorting the man out of the building.<br /><br />I think gyms receive a staggering amount of consumer complaints every year, so I do have some sympathy for that guy. Plus, I have, believe it or not, been driven to out-of-control rants at customer service people in the past. Minus the hateful language of course. The thing that always occurs to me after I've calmed down is that an emotional outburst with that much ferocity usually has more behind it than the matter at hand. During a more civil part of the discussion (with the police officer present) I heard the word "ex-wife" several times. I think this guy may have been angry about a little more than canceling his gym membership.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-72478547608243654962010-01-04T22:39:00.005-05:002010-01-04T23:13:18.681-05:00Dogs Don't Hold Grudges<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwghhCcsudnnlPUa2Qyp0Za7k_a8CR-OT1V9ZqxK_QGHvZiF8ptXP_pxz0Nix8EFDzLEuZyrLFh9cKN0ykmRG-tuoATY7AD-OW68OodZfZ-pR52iEiNYy8n5heLKkUlIumDPheyl6PLng/s1600-h/IMG_0003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwghhCcsudnnlPUa2Qyp0Za7k_a8CR-OT1V9ZqxK_QGHvZiF8ptXP_pxz0Nix8EFDzLEuZyrLFh9cKN0ykmRG-tuoATY7AD-OW68OodZfZ-pR52iEiNYy8n5heLKkUlIumDPheyl6PLng/s200/IMG_0003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423096834749439378" border="0" /></a>Tonight I was coming back from our nightly walk and the dog and I ran into a neighbor in the stairway of my building. He was holding up a very large Christmas tree on the landing. My dog seemed a bit confused about why the tree was in the house. The man holding the tree reached down, patted the him, and said, "hello, Buddy." (Earlier this morning, I yelled "Stop" -- and nothing else -- at the dog when he began to eat some trash off the street and one of the high school kids on the corner of 49th and 8th said, "Don't eat garbage, Buddy!" We're becoming known around these parts.) The greeting in the stairwell was a nice moment of familiarity with a neighbor, and contrasted greatly with one of my first meetings back in the spring when I moved in.<br /><br />There is a woman who comes every morning to one of the apartments downstairs and leaves her two children with a relative or a friend. The first time I met them, I decided I would break out all the charm and I said to the mother regarding the little girl, "and who do we have here?" "That's Sophie," she said and instructed the little girl to say hi. Instead of greeting me, with all the vigor a three year old kid can muster, she wound up and spit at me. "SOPHIA!" the mother shouted.<br /><br />We've seen each other many times since the spitting incident, however, and she's remained civil. This evening Sophie asked if she could pet the dog on the stoop when we were coming in from a walk. I said, "of course," and Sophie took a step towards Buddy and when they were nose-to-nose, he licked her all over her face. She squealed with delight. There's loyalty for you -- imagine how friendly Buddy would have been if she'd kicked me in the ankle after spitting at me.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-15186594502308950952010-01-03T15:21:00.005-05:002010-01-03T15:52:15.331-05:00The Clothes Make the Man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJaUplX4OjZ9eMZ9zdsp8EF07v-7jT4twuwHR0cA-95XsWizAcuSxhhYKSjICfMIO59pCGsxqmPaOZYXgZyB8SAzemnd1xasW3UmaEMfL6SpLqo1qbtLzz-Vs-kMtMUuPuhQisliu1Aw/s1600-h/levi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJaUplX4OjZ9eMZ9zdsp8EF07v-7jT4twuwHR0cA-95XsWizAcuSxhhYKSjICfMIO59pCGsxqmPaOZYXgZyB8SAzemnd1xasW3UmaEMfL6SpLqo1qbtLzz-Vs-kMtMUuPuhQisliu1Aw/s200/levi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422611603349033762" border="0" /></a>A few years ago while I was living in Atlanta, I experienced an intervention. A female friend of mine and I were walking by Old Navy and she unexpectedly took me inside, brought me to the bluejeans, selected a few and pointed me to the dressing room. Apparently, my jeans were out of style and didn't fit right. Since I was a graduate student, bluejeans were all I ever wore and apparently I looked like a homeless person from the 1980s or something. Since that time, I've been a little sensitive about the whole issue. I still don't pay much attention to what I'm wearing, but at least I try not to look like I'm wearing someone else's pants.<br /><br />Yesterday, I bit the bullet and went on my every-three-years pilgrimage to buy some jeans at Macy's. (I went to <span style="font-style: italic;">the</span> Macy's by the way, at 34th Street and Broadway.) They were having a denim sale. It was pandemonium on floor "1 1/2". Before I could even get my bearings, a very assertive saleswoman shouted "what size are you looking for sir?" at me. I pointed to a pair in my size at the top of the nearest pile and that seemed to satisfy her. I was left standing staring at a sea of denim. What the heck is relaxed-fix skinny boot cut, anyway? Did we have all these variations when I was a kid? Do I need colorful stitching and buttons on my back pocket? I selected a few pairs and then got on the line for the fitting room. This is something I learned at my intervention. You should try pants on before you buy them. The assertive lady buzzed by and told us to stand closer to the wall. She instructed a young woman from Europe somewhere that she could not go into the changing room and she could not stand in line with her man. She then told me to watch my head as she hurled a pair of pants onto a shelf over my head.<br /><br />I went into the changing room and slipped on a pair of pants, only to discover there was no zipper, but instead, six buttons. Why would big clunky buttons ever be preferable to a zipper, I wondered? I buttoned 5 of the 6 buttons looked in the mirror, and decided I looked like a middle-aged dad trying to wear his son's pants. Plus, the price tag said $60. Unless I got a free backrub with those pants, I wasn't paying $60. I returned the three pairs I had tried on to the shelf, went and found the jeans I always get -- with zippers. I couldn't face the long line for the changing room, so I made my purchase and walked out of the store. You can teach an old dog new tricks, but you can't make him go into the fitting room twice.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-28796705908585755602009-12-21T21:02:00.003-05:002009-12-21T21:24:13.714-05:00The Face is Peculiar, But I Remember the Name<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx28VGU-yWQzs2eSiiizhXSTi_WKRFTG23stwvu1LWuwgWaUaVPXJXEGuWFSl4-35MEevUmaaQeRXFw-dA-kYWJ4XwzLPO3Cne9T5E5E0_1esT_CAaGfjhJLaenSLCdQ4JnjO6fW30czc/s1600-h/IMG_0883.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx28VGU-yWQzs2eSiiizhXSTi_WKRFTG23stwvu1LWuwgWaUaVPXJXEGuWFSl4-35MEevUmaaQeRXFw-dA-kYWJ4XwzLPO3Cne9T5E5E0_1esT_CAaGfjhJLaenSLCdQ4JnjO6fW30czc/s320/IMG_0883.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417875904991560882" border="0" /></a>One of the things about living in a big city is that you walk around with a certain assumption that you are usually anonymous as you make your way through the city streets. The few occasions when I see someone I know randomly on the street are truly remarkable. I think I am probably a fairly average looking white guy on the street and therefore mostly forgettable. Forgettable that is, unless I happen to be walking the eskimo dog that likes to eat garbage. People remember him.<br /><br />On Sunday night I was walking down 50th Street with my dog and some tourists came up to talk to me. They told me that they too had an eskimo dog, and oh by the way, could I recommend a pizza place in the neighborhood. I recommended <a href="http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/3/1490941/restaurant/Hells-Kitchen/Southside-49-New-York">Southside 49</a> a little place down the block that had recently opened. They said "Merry Christmas" and went on their way. <br /><br />This morning I watching the dog carefully as we walked down 49th street. As if I don't have enough problems trying to keep him from eating chicken bones and pizza crusts off the street, now I have to keep him from eating the dirty snow that is piled up all over the city. I've also discovered that the ice melt stuff people throw on the sidewalk burns his little eskimo paws and <a href="http://paullyblog.blogspot.com/2009/09/where-everybody-knows-your-name.html">he has zero threshhold for pain</a>. While trying to keep an eye on the dog, my headed jerked up when I heard someone say, "hey, thanks for the recommendation on the pizza. It was delicious." My tourists had returned. So much for anonymity. I'm officially the guy in the neighborhood with the fluffy white dog.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-88969514512572754952009-12-16T20:50:00.004-05:002009-12-16T21:19:54.444-05:00God Says Break a Leg<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXa0UVdsLcZmToGuCs4opmvWp0Ndz9mtjfvhzv8AToF1EMTcU5DKJQmA-DMYTjkz7Oq6ObcE9U6qmP-TgtQOTgKlsAGH1D4QkQNJwnDosn-ev5AVzLRchzbOeCX9OLrS3lHnFYg9gs824/s1600-h/Image002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXa0UVdsLcZmToGuCs4opmvWp0Ndz9mtjfvhzv8AToF1EMTcU5DKJQmA-DMYTjkz7Oq6ObcE9U6qmP-TgtQOTgKlsAGH1D4QkQNJwnDosn-ev5AVzLRchzbOeCX9OLrS3lHnFYg9gs824/s320/Image002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416017450267057714" border="0" /></a>One of the things I love about New York is the interesting and historic churches that are all over town. I gone to mass in at least 8 or 10 different churches since I've moved back and they're all interesting. The church I go to most often is just a block away from my apartment towards Times Square and the theater district. St. Malachy's is known as "the Actor's Chapel" since it counts the Broadway show people in its flock. I love the fact that they have services Saturday night at 11pm to work around the schedule of people who work in the theater. Every week we pray for out of work actors and support people.<br /><br />Tonight I was walking up Eighth Avenue and I heard the chimes playing at St. Malachy's. I listened to try to make out the tune among all the different noises coming from the street. Was the church playing some traditional church tune? A Christmas Carol in honor of the season? No, the tune from the church tower was "There's No Business Like Show Business." As they say, only in New York.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-44513586122220543262009-12-13T18:55:00.005-05:002009-12-13T19:35:12.197-05:00Shakin' Hands with the Governor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZXBJqzE-riv_q2_eJ69j1VfVRFwXfZrfwN9WHKlxSOmLojs-kPLfMMMyCIwD2CaxjQgVn4N_I60-zGFN_ekxJS_tz_x-6qbteTrm86UKw1368CjC275Sva3xoTTcLBmHY0GgwXWB6Rk/s1600-h/IMG_0899.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZXBJqzE-riv_q2_eJ69j1VfVRFwXfZrfwN9WHKlxSOmLojs-kPLfMMMyCIwD2CaxjQgVn4N_I60-zGFN_ekxJS_tz_x-6qbteTrm86UKw1368CjC275Sva3xoTTcLBmHY0GgwXWB6Rk/s400/IMG_0899.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414874079078323010" border="0" /></a><br />I was invited by a friend to a Democratic Party holiday party earlier this week. I had a very strange conversation with a man from the Veteran's Affairs office in New Jersey who had had way too much holiday cheer and seemed to think I worked for the City Council. It was quite an eclectic crowd and full house due to a scheduled visit by our (very unpopular) "accidental" governor David Patterson. He made an appearance and made a few funny remarks. It occurred to me that I wish he wasn't universally viewed as ineffective and weak -- <a href="http://www.siena.edu/uploadedfiles/home/Parents_and_Community/Community_Page/SRI/SNY_Poll/09%20November%20SNY%20Poll%20Release%20--%20final.pdf">he's carrying a 79% disapproval rating these days</a> -- because he is a genuinely humorous guy and I like him. It made me think about his remarks after Fred Armisen did his hilarious impression of him on Saturday Night Live which portrayed him as a drug user who stumbles all over the set. The governor, who is legally blind, was highly critical of the sketch, because <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/15/nyregion/15skit.html">he considered it demeaning to the visually impaired</a>. I am certain, as the governor of one of the biggest state's in the country, he needed to take that stand publicly, but something tells me that behind closed doors he had to be laughing, at least a little bit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_o1tCsS6x-9ePFytLdVU0Gomxy-pDt0JsZh2TdF3zoy8PP6W0T9vZF5t0xdmluNan9h1jlavpGcKAFoOUpTLdFzuYvQpKjN2Oyv-5X9JsUjtsmhDMOfIlNhcjZv8_tzukwuphsGrhFE/s1600-h/daveyp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 381px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_o1tCsS6x-9ePFytLdVU0Gomxy-pDt0JsZh2TdF3zoy8PP6W0T9vZF5t0xdmluNan9h1jlavpGcKAFoOUpTLdFzuYvQpKjN2Oyv-5X9JsUjtsmhDMOfIlNhcjZv8_tzukwuphsGrhFE/s400/daveyp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414879501488889314" border="0" /></a><br />As it turns out the funniest remark of the night at the party belonged to councilman John Liu who was just elected Comptroller and is the first Asian to hold a citywide office in New York City. After he was introduced as such, he said, "I don't know what the big deal is. I've been Asian my whole life."Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-66867763717861408242009-12-05T21:10:00.003-05:002009-12-05T21:31:42.068-05:00A Little Off the Top<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSbx-zluVJzU57OZmKnTnwbQDDUdkSrNcGvviPAT2eju9YCyPPRiMtYTzgYwV0Nk87mfNPgEbx3dcmfkwmYT3TXh0vHlnpRDe2yCyfl2zs_vT6ZFm0CkGIu_sX6mGCb26oQJRnLzKmZk/s1600-h/lawson_floyd2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSbx-zluVJzU57OZmKnTnwbQDDUdkSrNcGvviPAT2eju9YCyPPRiMtYTzgYwV0Nk87mfNPgEbx3dcmfkwmYT3TXh0vHlnpRDe2yCyfl2zs_vT6ZFm0CkGIu_sX6mGCb26oQJRnLzKmZk/s320/lawson_floyd2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411940019630669442" border="0" /></a>I've written before about <a href="http://paullyblog.blogspot.com/2009/02/benvenuto-alla-via-del-thompson.html">my barber shop</a> in Greenwich Village. It's a fantastic throwback with bad 1970s paneling on the wall and three barbers who look like they're frozen in time. When I go into the shop, I just sit down in the chair of whichever barber is free, although I really prefer the haircut that the guy in the first chair gives me. The last time I was in the shop, I got the guy in the third chair and wasn't really pleased with the results. I've decided that you need to be wary of a barber with a bad hairstyle. This guy is largely bald but the hair that he does have is dyed a weird shade of red -- in fact, his skin on his head seems to be the same shade of reddish orange. He looks a little like something put together by a police sketch artist. He seems like a perfectly agreeable gent though.<br /><br />Today, I lucked out and got first chair. As always, the place was buzzing with activity on a Saturday afternoon, Italian music blared the radio and the guys chattered to each other in Italian. After I sat down in my chair, an older man wandered in and sat in chair #2 -- he also was chattering in Italian. Then an interesting exchange occurred during which I understood two things:<br /><br />Barber 1: Italian chatter<br />Barber 2: More chatter<br />Patron 2: Cheerful chatter<br />Barber 2: Increasingly emphatic chatter<br />Barber 1: [Italian] ... "You're wrong!" ... [Italian]<br />Patron 2: [Italian] ... "Tiger Woods!" ... [Italian] ... then much laughter by everyone, except me.<br /> <br />I got my haircut and then went home and took a nap. Interestingly, when I woke up my hair appeared to be much shorter than I remembered before I took my nap. I think I was too busy trying to decipher what was going on to pay attention to my haircut. Nevertheless, you gotta love chair #1.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-30616458617905135922009-10-27T20:58:00.003-04:002009-10-27T21:23:38.693-04:00R-E-S-P-E-C-T<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyS6XLSCw7Zr7EruBsrvjeTb2d5PA7jaCP6rZgbJtNp0XJaSNPwrq0ymJvQiLAY0aNQ110iG1x1IIxEU78pTF2TYi0dbzrbeWWGApUSjt5CGMBsXlW_yMgmaaDz0VnAjDXlplwuZT61BQ/s1600-h/cab.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyS6XLSCw7Zr7EruBsrvjeTb2d5PA7jaCP6rZgbJtNp0XJaSNPwrq0ymJvQiLAY0aNQ110iG1x1IIxEU78pTF2TYi0dbzrbeWWGApUSjt5CGMBsXlW_yMgmaaDz0VnAjDXlplwuZT61BQ/s320/cab.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397449114991797826" border="0" /></a>One of the advantages of where I live is its proximity to three different subway lines. It's easy to get to work and it's easy to get anywhere in the city quickly, so I rarely take taxis.<br /><br />Recently I dropped my nephew off at Penn Station before I was supposed to meet a friend on the upper east side. I was on the west side in midtown and had to go all the way across town and then way north. Determined to use public transportation, I took a crosstown bus and then found myself on the right side of town but about 50 blocks from where I needed to be. I bit the bullet and haled a cab.<br /><br />The ride was uneventful until we got up into the 80s. As we slowed down I watched a woman wade into the street and into traffic to try to hale down a cab. The cab driver spoke to me:<br /><br />Driver: "You see that? People in this country have no respect for cabdrivers. I am from Brazil. I have driven a cab in many countries all over the world. Here, people have no respect."<br />Paully: "Yeah. Well. Hmmm."<br />Driver: "Do you know sometimes on rainy nights when we take cab out of service people will throw themselves on the hood of our cabs?"<br />Paully: "Huh. I guess that doesn't surprise me."<br />Driver: "That would never happen in Brazil. You know why? In Brazil we all carried guns. If someone throw himself on the hood of your car, you shoot him and people learn not to do these things."<br />Paully: "Well, you can let me off here on the right ...."<br />Driver: "You think people would make you drive to the Bronx or Brooklyn and then not pay if they knew I had a gun?"<br />Paully: "No.... uh, it's just not right."<br />Driver: "They don't let you carry guns here. How do you teach respect?!"<br />Paully: "Well, if you can just give four dollars back ..."<br /><br />The driver seemed to want to keep talking to me. But I gave him a big tip and jumped out of the cab. I haven't been in one since. <br /><br />The other night I emerged from having drinks with a friend at about 1 o'clock in the morning and refused to take a cab. I just needed to walk about 8 blocks north and then jump on the 7 train across town. I guess it was about 5 minutes into my subway ride when I realized that I had gotten on the train in the wrong direction and was headed to Queens. Maybe I'm taking this aversion to cabs thing a little far.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-20382920788530746172009-10-06T19:23:00.005-04:002009-10-06T22:33:04.597-04:00I Think I Was Too Old for This 10 Years Ago<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1lS116q9u9p9-EabBIXrc2_tAhD586K8iP74Je2nTCm5q3JlcZGkYljBvAK43D_TTgLlP40Ht1E1p1w3-4EP7os_MQ1uiIC3-kPJfDgyIfs53fskmxXuI6oTcvhNuILePREhBUqAoZU/s1600-h/exhausted-732292.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1lS116q9u9p9-EabBIXrc2_tAhD586K8iP74Je2nTCm5q3JlcZGkYljBvAK43D_TTgLlP40Ht1E1p1w3-4EP7os_MQ1uiIC3-kPJfDgyIfs53fskmxXuI6oTcvhNuILePREhBUqAoZU/s320/exhausted-732292.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389570003591075698" border="0" /></a>For my first year in New York, I went to the gym at the university fairly regularly, like 4-5 days a week. Everything was fine and dandy until I started to feel overwhelmed by students. I work around them all day long and then at night I was surrounded by them in the gym. My breaking point came when I was sitting on a bench working out with dumbbells when a student cornered me about an issue he was having. At that point, I decided my days at the university gym were numbered.<br /><br />When I moved into my apartment in midtown, I discovered a gym right across the street -- I mean RIGHT across the street -- from my home and much to my surprise the monthly fee was the same as I was paying at school. Surrounded by regular people and so close to home, this seemed like a much better fit. The guy signing me up did the hard sell on some personal training sessions, and since I'd been thinking that was something I'd be interested in anyway, I signed up for 4 or 5 sessions.<br /><br />I had to wait a few weeks to get started until the students were all settled in at school and I could actually go to the gym. I played phone tag with a guy trainer for a few weeks, and then finally decided (with a little trepidation) that I had to get started so I walked up to the desk and just told them I could start. "I can take him!" said a perky young woman in her 20s. Oh dear, I thought to myself.<br /><br />The first (7am) session last week had me doing pushups and squat-thrusts like I hadn't done in years. She tried to get me to do some dumbbell lunge exercise that involved about 4 different movements and whatever little coordination I normally have left me completely. Before I left, Ms. Perky said, "when do you want to meet next?" I suggested one week from then -- Friday. She told me we'd be meeting Tuesday and Thursday. So much for easing into this. I left the gym sore and climbed slowly back up to the fourth floor and my apartment. <br /><br />This morning was my second session. Again she had me doing jumping jacks, lunges with a medicine ball, and then there was the let's-show-the-gym-how-uncoordinated-Paul-is exercise. It involved me standing on an inflatable ball that sat flat on the floor while holding a barbell bar in my hand and trying to pull it into my chest. The only thing that would have made it harder was if she had asked me to spin a plate on stick while I did this. After some crazy chest press things (imagine getting in a pushup position while gripping a dumbbell on the floor and then rolling the dumbbell away from you laterally while you do a pushup) we started to do some ab work. I began to get so worn out that my brain and my body were just no longer on speaking terms. I explained to the trainer that as much as I'd like to do 5 more crunches my torso had an entirely different opinion on the matter. And I began to feel a little nauseated. Then I began to feel flat out sick and light-headed. She assured me this was normal. After she was finished helping me get stretched out, she look at me one last time and said "are you OK"? I said I was even though that was definitely an open question.<br /><br />And what is it that a nausea victim wants to face on the 50 yard walk back to his house after a strenuous workout? A giant black tanker truck with "R&R Rendering" on the side of it was idling next to the burger restaurant on the plaza. The company apparently collects grease, bones and fat from restaurants in their lovely little truck. The fragrance coming from the truck cleaning out the grease traps was almost enough to put me over the top. As of now there has been no vomiting on my part, but I can't make any promises.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-35537653415613081062009-10-04T01:59:00.006-04:002009-10-04T02:25:34.749-04:00So I Was on a Date Tonight ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM5LsEciNuFRaOlqBHrbpvRL2OMUsV-PeAbAa7vYy-Ko_IWB2G-UncSxlITOsTw-iy0HosogEkjs5_0A7lt7p5WazfnLtzD5v8arsUI_jamY_pkJd4L47Can8KIOmxI8KsrLKqHvTEOlk/s1600-h/Noise.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM5LsEciNuFRaOlqBHrbpvRL2OMUsV-PeAbAa7vYy-Ko_IWB2G-UncSxlITOsTw-iy0HosogEkjs5_0A7lt7p5WazfnLtzD5v8arsUI_jamY_pkJd4L47Can8KIOmxI8KsrLKqHvTEOlk/s320/Noise.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388622043906324866" border="0" /></a>Being in my early 40s and out on the dating scene is not really something I every imagined for myself in my life plan. But because sometimes we don't get to dictate exactly how life will go ... you just have to go with the flow. I have been going on lots of dates with very nice women although none of them lately have made me optimistic that my years of being single are going to end anytime soon.<br /><br />Tonight was date number three with a very nice woman who for the purposes of this post, I will call Princess Leah. The Princess and I definitely have some things in common like our love for cooking (and eating), and we both appreciate architecture and have spent some time admiring building around the city. I had high hopes that this might develop into something, but rarely have I seen a woman's stock plummet with me so fast.<br /><br />Paully: "She was the lead actress on Everybody Loves Raymond."<br />Princess: "I'm sorry I don't watch TV."<br />Strike 1 ....<br /><br />Princess: "How often do you wash your dog?"<br />Paully: "Not very often. Several times a year though."<br />Princess: "We washed our beagle every week. I'm kind of a clean freak. When I wasn't around, my maid did it."<br />Strike 2 ...<br /><br />Paully: "Well, I was probably drunk at the time."<br />Princess: "I've never gotten drunk. Well, there was a time at a wine tasting once when I think I almost did."<br />Strike 3 .... <br /><br />They tell me there are 200,000 more single women of dating age than single men in this city. I think those numbers are not working in the princess's favor. "My ex told me I'm just not the kind of girl someone falls in love with," she told me earlier tonight. I think I get it now.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-72600001777369617102009-10-02T09:58:00.002-04:002009-10-02T10:03:47.791-04:00One more thing on the High LineI was reading one of my favorite NYC blogs this morning (<a href="http://gothamist.com/">gothamist.com</a>) and I saw they had a photo from the other side of the amphitheater at the High Line.<br /><br />See <a href="http://gothamist.com/2009/10/01/extra_extra_1383.php">http://gothamist.com/2009/10/01/extra_extra_1383.php</a>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-18872340289421629452009-10-01T20:30:00.011-04:002009-10-01T21:26:44.205-04:00An Old Abandoned Elevated Railway<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTHJls0S-kQCApl6Hac2HnHbTmXRv3QDg0wSOo6Sn8XfG0qvjLNyCul4QUw0ADK3cajUmmlBtKipOTM2Y7RzQQVwwnyRYQElVs07Ps15Ae64OmkUTXZPiYvzj2SCsKXWG1JA-9xxhY-Q/s1600-h/IMG_0820.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTHJls0S-kQCApl6Hac2HnHbTmXRv3QDg0wSOo6Sn8XfG0qvjLNyCul4QUw0ADK3cajUmmlBtKipOTM2Y7RzQQVwwnyRYQElVs07Ps15Ae64OmkUTXZPiYvzj2SCsKXWG1JA-9xxhY-Q/s400/IMG_0820.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387798320609564354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">The Beginning of the High Line at Gansevoort Street<br /><br /></span></div>I made several references in <a href="http://paullyblog.blogspot.com/2009/09/touring-mepa.html">my post on the Meat Packing District</a> to the new <a href="http://www.thehighline.org/">High Line Park</a>. In recent years many of the deteriorating piers along the Hudson River have been turned into public parks. Thinking along those same lines, some westsiders worked tirelessly to get the high line, an old elevated railway that used to serve the factories and meat processing plants in the neighborhood, turned into a functional public space.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4op_M1lFSMhiWQPUGy6zbIElPHdp0CrKkVRlRjrUVv1TnvDc0voMYWv3YsazjDx1koLUfFyn-U3IKkXdok21w5KetjkaXL4o76PEh2XjiUiQlC4F0q2tZ2orYpnFk6QauIyVooHpN2Q/s1600-h/IMG_0839.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4op_M1lFSMhiWQPUGy6zbIElPHdp0CrKkVRlRjrUVv1TnvDc0voMYWv3YsazjDx1koLUfFyn-U3IKkXdok21w5KetjkaXL4o76PEh2XjiUiQlC4F0q2tZ2orYpnFk6QauIyVooHpN2Q/s400/IMG_0839.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387802730716415666" border="0" /></a>The park, opened just a matter of months now, is more or less a garden with a network of boardwalks running through it. It has a wonderful design which takes advantage of the different views of the neighborhood and the twists and turns of the railway.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh990c9kqyrndV42eiiCzQH0ZQXFzBhjiRFmixVP4qTaZMaA-WcbbXyo_-QbFpeVNgi_Qat8e76rXZZMCqeNElOFgXvuwFveGXFPzy-adCj8fV0pgPHcgFW5hUhkCZeneggQqXF0ICzFrk/s1600-h/IMG_0848.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh990c9kqyrndV42eiiCzQH0ZQXFzBhjiRFmixVP4qTaZMaA-WcbbXyo_-QbFpeVNgi_Qat8e76rXZZMCqeNElOFgXvuwFveGXFPzy-adCj8fV0pgPHcgFW5hUhkCZeneggQqXF0ICzFrk/s400/IMG_0848.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387798994969766226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Notice the lounge chairs in the photo above?<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-k05kqCPovpCTMtxlMajxw9JIavl7gTX6zFcA4hkVZKH3gn26MoKjEOTyHAEugHXU2EtJgFgzILHmKToIRxcirwzhNCsl9-UwiYyfvQf-rd_BPbceLLISGjMBYhlxZRseFu5QGGlvOU/s1600-h/IMG_0854.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-k05kqCPovpCTMtxlMajxw9JIavl7gTX6zFcA4hkVZKH3gn26MoKjEOTyHAEugHXU2EtJgFgzILHmKToIRxcirwzhNCsl9-UwiYyfvQf-rd_BPbceLLISGjMBYhlxZRseFu5QGGlvOU/s400/IMG_0854.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387799874609540674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">I believe that is a building designed by the celebrated architect <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Gehry">Frank Gehry</a></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgqvkUlYf5uh5kx7UtKrziWB8xtTYLkEQjFWMbHXX9e7nj5UXguoOjplFUMlpyJA1vq8o_JtH1m6W4GrkFV_lw6R-XoHFEZRdhVzPdTdTkUySlZTiK_Bfqjv1AAVcNyCOEHsgXPZeyEA/s1600-h/IMG_0853.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgqvkUlYf5uh5kx7UtKrziWB8xtTYLkEQjFWMbHXX9e7nj5UXguoOjplFUMlpyJA1vq8o_JtH1m6W4GrkFV_lw6R-XoHFEZRdhVzPdTdTkUySlZTiK_Bfqjv1AAVcNyCOEHsgXPZeyEA/s400/IMG_0853.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387800393487482898" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJsTvMb7yIruCPvu7OeQnqPKWa2rVN-w_TRaUeX7t0zchBq5-tqljAGWm4E9tIFglKwAZCOSAG-1VDiN4_FN82kutCZ3f4QKVSfIWgVvmooj4Xz6an72iKvtpH-3tpPtJUkbE3vRiM1M/s1600-h/IMG_0856.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJsTvMb7yIruCPvu7OeQnqPKWa2rVN-w_TRaUeX7t0zchBq5-tqljAGWm4E9tIFglKwAZCOSAG-1VDiN4_FN82kutCZ3f4QKVSfIWgVvmooj4Xz6an72iKvtpH-3tpPtJUkbE3vRiM1M/s400/IMG_0856.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387800867140513106" border="0" /></a>The amphitheater (pictured above) faces a glass wall that looks out on Tenth Avenue. There's not really room for a stage, so I'm not exactly sure what this space will be used for, but it's kind of cool. Currently the park only runs up to 20th street, but there are plans to extend it all the way up to 34th Street, I believe. If you're like me and you're fascinated by interesting uses of public space, and the reimagination of urban infrastructure, it's definitely worth a visit.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-19355071138096940842009-10-01T09:58:00.006-04:002009-10-01T10:23:40.958-04:00Apparently He Plays the Flute Too<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_U4Xksdx-wdpsSWrTZ7TuSifhO2J1YEvv5cAFPA3ew-Fc0I5YRxZIXdNLfK4dDlGIsm-Lf2IfCnMvXfLfdCTVDzNWlVHaqNjGy9yK1AFxAVH3bQ3ghz5EM0lv0IT9_nu9lX1Ezg7Mf8/s1600-h/michael_flatley24.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_U4Xksdx-wdpsSWrTZ7TuSifhO2J1YEvv5cAFPA3ew-Fc0I5YRxZIXdNLfK4dDlGIsm-Lf2IfCnMvXfLfdCTVDzNWlVHaqNjGy9yK1AFxAVH3bQ3ghz5EM0lv0IT9_nu9lX1Ezg7Mf8/s320/michael_flatley24.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387634917997431890" border="0" /></a>Last night, I was invited by my Dad to a fancy benefit at a private New York club on Central Park South to support an Irish cultural center being built by (89 year old) actress <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000058/">Maureen O'Hara</a> in her home town in Ireland. There was a silent auction, lots of Irish-looking people milling about and plenty of Amstel Lights for me. It was quite an intimate gathering -- there were probably fewer than 100 people in the room. When everyone gathered for the evening's entertainment, the master of ceremonies announced there would be a flute performance by one of Maureen O'Hara's dearest friends. When he got up to play us a tune, and then I finally recognized his name -- the flutist was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Flatley">Michael Flatley</a>, Lord of the Dance! One of my favorite lines from the TV show Friends involved Mr. Flatley. Apparently he freaks Chandler out because "[Flatley's] legs flail about as if independent from his body!" While there was an impressive performance of Irish step dancing last night by a handsome looking dance troupe after the flute performance, Michael did not dance. He just stood in the back of the room and watched. It's just as well, I might have been freaked out, Chandler Bing style.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo from BarkingCarnival.com</span><br /></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-62721664864410621542009-09-29T22:00:00.012-04:002009-09-29T23:03:20.822-04:00Touring MEPA<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4o5Bfzx4R3SC-AuE03hdu7PR0PgZC-q7FgXmBwvMC8BFh2y2YsEyfTGXBCOY8LK8_yflnd3EJWmb3rWJUaLlcyB0kq8S5-g8wlfPtOcQQwxUQUDbMmTQSgHcUMvwIfxF87PTLqx0m8Go/s1600-h/IMG_0813.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4o5Bfzx4R3SC-AuE03hdu7PR0PgZC-q7FgXmBwvMC8BFh2y2YsEyfTGXBCOY8LK8_yflnd3EJWmb3rWJUaLlcyB0kq8S5-g8wlfPtOcQQwxUQUDbMmTQSgHcUMvwIfxF87PTLqx0m8Go/s400/IMG_0813.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387080462623246306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Hudson Street in the Meat Packing District</span><br /></div><br />On Sunday afternoon, I took a great walking tour with Bernie Cohen of Bernie's New York walking tours. Bernie does tours all over the city but this one was of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meat_Packing_District">Meat Packing district</a> or what the really cool kids call MEPA. A neglected neighborhood wedged between Greenwich Village and Chelsea, once filled with hundreds of meat processing plants (and the Nabisco factory where they made Milk Bone dog biscuits!), it is now one of the most posh neighborhoods in the city. It is filled with designer showrooms, fancy restaurants and boutique hotels.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOP9wi3hudQME7m68QJafG2Q1Zxex9R-wI4FlXCHV7oek5EfHwxALrHZLCHLgsD9ZV8PzbNshAZB0KzF4pCPTIrv3aVC58AiRltOelLT1r01ka1OXdmFm1HgaTPf-EmodFBeXWCVECUl8/s1600-h/IMG_0811.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOP9wi3hudQME7m68QJafG2Q1Zxex9R-wI4FlXCHV7oek5EfHwxALrHZLCHLgsD9ZV8PzbNshAZB0KzF4pCPTIrv3aVC58AiRltOelLT1r01ka1OXdmFm1HgaTPf-EmodFBeXWCVECUl8/s400/IMG_0811.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387089420979716242" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5lucDkZXG3uT5R677O5Bfr4MF8lNUpFPJDaHFmeYiPyAMbdp-SELI1JsR8cvkefSK_FcIXU3cyw5EpIQdc24wkEog8MSY7Ytv7jgikA1I0WD6Ao1ErmIAwmbEhyM7fUXbT7hj_zLjF7U/s1600-h/IMG_0836.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5lucDkZXG3uT5R677O5Bfr4MF8lNUpFPJDaHFmeYiPyAMbdp-SELI1JsR8cvkefSK_FcIXU3cyw5EpIQdc24wkEog8MSY7Ytv7jgikA1I0WD6Ao1ErmIAwmbEhyM7fUXbT7hj_zLjF7U/s400/IMG_0836.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387086774522796226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">View of the Highline Park from the Street</span><br /><br /></div>The tour included a history of the historic district and visits to some of the existing businesses in the area. The highlight was a tour of the <a href="http://www.standardhotels.com/new-york-city/">Standard Hotel </a>which straddles the new <a href="http://www.thehighline.org/">Highline Park</a> and features floor to ceiling windows in all the rooms. (It has stirred up some controversy lately because of <a href="http://gothamist.com/2009/08/26/exhibitionists_are_standard_at_hote.php">exhibitionism by hotel guests</a>.) We saw three different rooms and the views were incredible.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_QHnx0_IOD0Gr4WkLlDOh-303IMtuLdkB0CKtrJ9HwXwAeEnR0ISBydmc1vuoyhiPnTLIDs4xqVBGUYFDc3Cy-rYNTCrOXNvl7elWkJPwieMVQdAsd0e2ZAgfcWgWEm4xJHSnEnSOoE/s1600-h/IMG_0841.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_QHnx0_IOD0Gr4WkLlDOh-303IMtuLdkB0CKtrJ9HwXwAeEnR0ISBydmc1vuoyhiPnTLIDs4xqVBGUYFDc3Cy-rYNTCrOXNvl7elWkJPwieMVQdAsd0e2ZAgfcWgWEm4xJHSnEnSOoE/s400/IMG_0841.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387083083222100930" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGHBqbIK7iFkTzzs1cPWKhF411wiq4Pj_SaWlUwr5QEHhJhgNnnwOmgWWWtt_3XXqHHXuE5hFoAevA13bEutC0nUPanDgnY93LLD0dHa90gslecQSvCu-QZuQ87k58icpULHGWfAhRHU/s1600-h/IMG_0839.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGHBqbIK7iFkTzzs1cPWKhF411wiq4Pj_SaWlUwr5QEHhJhgNnnwOmgWWWtt_3XXqHHXuE5hFoAevA13bEutC0nUPanDgnY93LLD0dHa90gslecQSvCu-QZuQ87k58icpULHGWfAhRHU/s400/IMG_0839.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387084791080650642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">View from Standard Hotel Looking Out Over the HighLine</span><br /><br /></div>The streets were also filled with trailers and equipment because they were filming Oliver Stone's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1027718/">Wall Street 2</a>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXvUqe3rg7a6V8tBIRGWCn0dWb6GEEdKgYWxTV2ONy1Say9aXtL-aBrvNJ0_sqaB75q0VhFe7Spsv7nt8nUpnTSA7XaY9O5hKKXTEX9cDT7UBFRkmk3_KyhJM_5K3pZ_xGeGi6j1YFQPc/s1600-h/IMG_0833.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXvUqe3rg7a6V8tBIRGWCn0dWb6GEEdKgYWxTV2ONy1Say9aXtL-aBrvNJ0_sqaB75q0VhFe7Spsv7nt8nUpnTSA7XaY9O5hKKXTEX9cDT7UBFRkmk3_KyhJM_5K3pZ_xGeGi6j1YFQPc/s400/IMG_0833.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387085765513747074" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aoUEEJ7be77AFhD9xpbeSfVy5lcGdE9gbebFe9ksT9n9iGc5TLtMs0s9PnUdOuvA-WZSbtCnG0Ngy72C3-IM4WrwHRk4owoihv0aYv2etIy2nwR2kPyZLmjkSEiLPhwA8jBMAbULKK4/s1600-h/IMG_0832.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aoUEEJ7be77AFhD9xpbeSfVy5lcGdE9gbebFe9ksT9n9iGc5TLtMs0s9PnUdOuvA-WZSbtCnG0Ngy72C3-IM4WrwHRk4owoihv0aYv2etIy2nwR2kPyZLmjkSEiLPhwA8jBMAbULKK4/s400/IMG_0832.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387086379843139618" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">I can't really afford to shop or eat in MEPA, but walking around was cool. Oh yeah, and did I mention that there are still meatpackers in MEPA?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHH7BVF5BD0lsgxWkX2l9FZsb63qPch7yYt-bvT-9fM8JrVLUcceOL_hSrt_RQrhiFrALvqpiSNGee55y2fcCfXMgwjZFSGILqO43u1HzLLPnT9ZzUZh06FXyqPM-myUQKeHa_xRGKVA/s1600-h/IMG_0828.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHH7BVF5BD0lsgxWkX2l9FZsb63qPch7yYt-bvT-9fM8JrVLUcceOL_hSrt_RQrhiFrALvqpiSNGee55y2fcCfXMgwjZFSGILqO43u1HzLLPnT9ZzUZh06FXyqPM-myUQKeHa_xRGKVA/s400/IMG_0828.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387088789815594098" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMo2Cqn3Me1Hw5u_-kyQ484gWosn4gXAKb-o8Dl2Z0rDGRrs1NLdUGEey3VfAm_Rn5qa-u7FjoAG17Efy7sRjkSzXIKM6dZ3jXL8Qfrx_qR24pNzMRDJm1h88uAorCL9KNJwqtq_zH0k/s1600-h/IMG_0826.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMo2Cqn3Me1Hw5u_-kyQ484gWosn4gXAKb-o8Dl2Z0rDGRrs1NLdUGEey3VfAm_Rn5qa-u7FjoAG17Efy7sRjkSzXIKM6dZ3jXL8Qfrx_qR24pNzMRDJm1h88uAorCL9KNJwqtq_zH0k/s400/IMG_0826.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387088080501688930" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-80536287693278297992009-09-21T21:06:00.005-04:002009-09-21T21:23:20.504-04:00Little Hidden Gems<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11N4XI7VL9fVEj3q6sVaINHnSASxoM5QhF6hXy0NQbsQ5OB1VBTfxk11I2uniehxd8mTFYmFWjr57S29PxP4xZX9zhTwp1a_X3-gUCbD1n3ndniF9qjjnp2kxdmYVrUPEzZuIxDHEnG0/s1600-h/IMG_0800.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11N4XI7VL9fVEj3q6sVaINHnSASxoM5QhF6hXy0NQbsQ5OB1VBTfxk11I2uniehxd8mTFYmFWjr57S29PxP4xZX9zhTwp1a_X3-gUCbD1n3ndniF9qjjnp2kxdmYVrUPEzZuIxDHEnG0/s320/IMG_0800.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384095283572123026" border="0" /></a> I probably don't have to tell you that one of the biggest adjustments to living here has been the sky high cost of living. You know that feeling when you go on vacation and it feels like you're eating out at every meal and spending a fortune on your accommodations? Imagine feeling that way all the time .... I am fortunate to have a good grocery store just a half a block away, but it is a tad upscale and way expensive for me. I feel like there should be a guy standing behind a glass counter saying, "may I show you something in a box of cereal?"<br /><br />One of the reasons I look forward to the weekends living in Manhattan is that I can just go walking and explore. It is interesting what you will stumble upon. Imagine my delight when I discovered Stile's Farmers Market just a few blocks from my house. Covered by a tent in the corner of a parking lot, you could easily walk by it and never give it a second thought. I wandered in one day and found amazingly cheap produce, eggs, bagels, fresh bread and even some interesting packaged foods. I now go there every Saturday morning and stock up for the week. If you're in the neighborhood you should stop by. The cashiers moisten the tips of their fingers (so they can count out the cash more easily) by dabbing their fingers on a freshly cut cucumber. I've never seen that before!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgBF5rMKXCN0XyMLfoE8dwMfXDdFxB4NjdYOGrkURMjZQF93IVfRJu5z7LWyw3XluCqehCsC_9_7qxlqdvF5u1paqy1pylcdrVi9ceklhcE6srRTyKKqQoRW6HuxN8am3dvsaFwDJM0c/s1600-h/IMG_0802.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgBF5rMKXCN0XyMLfoE8dwMfXDdFxB4NjdYOGrkURMjZQF93IVfRJu5z7LWyw3XluCqehCsC_9_7qxlqdvF5u1paqy1pylcdrVi9ceklhcE6srRTyKKqQoRW6HuxN8am3dvsaFwDJM0c/s400/IMG_0802.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384094801314758034" border="0" /></a>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-40685990579339817622009-09-20T23:01:00.004-04:002009-09-20T23:10:24.143-04:00Mystery Bottle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqIG4RqCGt9IkY_3duVWCxEjMMhGultg6xEFGNDku2ecosHISfmAPiRS0baa3QXrrL4x0EL8UmDVlI0lNtn33ZcrSM9gg_Rr1UvC5OveHh0Uvu8gqTPOSU-PTpO37TjZCxsdyRlnp3Sc/s1600-h/Image044.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqIG4RqCGt9IkY_3duVWCxEjMMhGultg6xEFGNDku2ecosHISfmAPiRS0baa3QXrrL4x0EL8UmDVlI0lNtn33ZcrSM9gg_Rr1UvC5OveHh0Uvu8gqTPOSU-PTpO37TjZCxsdyRlnp3Sc/s400/Image044.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383750852981740530" border="0" /></a>So I walked by the World Wide Plaza giant office building at 50th and Eighth Avenue while I was walking the dog and on the sidewalk sitting by itself was a half-full bottle of Chivas Regal with a piece of paper stuck in it. I was tempted to stoop down and pull the paper out but I was afraid it was a set up for some candid camera show or a boobytrap of some kind. But still, if that actually is Chivas in that bottle it seems like an awful waste of good liquor. I see this as a sign of the beginning of the downfall of our civilization.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-11241574111980371832009-09-15T10:19:00.004-04:002009-09-15T10:21:14.162-04:00Update on yesterday's postingI guess Barack and Bill were having lunch down the block from my office. And they didn't invite me. Strange.<br /><br /><a href="http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/14/obama-and-clinton-have-lunch-in-the-village/">http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/14/obama-and-clinton-have-lunch-in-the-village/</a>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-90758143889867557002009-09-14T21:09:00.007-04:002009-09-14T21:33:21.850-04:00Change I Could Have Done Without ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCuYWOHv62mNXu_xq0cuB7OLt1PMVvVLAkWkib-uS8tRSNubPuF3zl4c06IbrS6uMJZEohjFRGOWUHIEdVxknbGV89N9_H_hKe7xo2tYc-Ey1eoIdA9pSB8Gqde9MfZeOnMCJlEqxkoM/s1600-h/Image055.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCuYWOHv62mNXu_xq0cuB7OLt1PMVvVLAkWkib-uS8tRSNubPuF3zl4c06IbrS6uMJZEohjFRGOWUHIEdVxknbGV89N9_H_hKe7xo2tYc-Ey1eoIdA9pSB8Gqde9MfZeOnMCJlEqxkoM/s400/Image055.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381495431187494066" border="0" /></a>This morning on the radio they were talking about President Obama coming to town and warning people that there would be traffic tie-ups downtown as a result. I wondered what it must be like for people in D.C. who have to deal with presidential motorcades all the time. I dismissed the report though; he was giving a speech down in the financial district and I am strictly a pedestrian.<br /><br />When I got to work, there were cops all over the neighborhood surrounding school and the streets were being cordoned off as if there was going to be a parade or something. The guy walking in front of me asked what it was all about and a cop muttered something about the president. It struck me that it was sort of weird that they'd care about him way up here when he was speaking further downtown, but I shrugged it off.<br /><br />I pretty much forgot all about it and went out to lunch around noon. In the deli I saw the president on the TV and thought about the radio guys this morning talking about his overexposure. (Did you know that at this point in their respective presidencies that George W. Bush had had 3 press conferences and Bill Clinton 8? Our current president has had 22! But talking is his thing.) When I got back to my building, I realized what all the hub bub was about: the motorcade wasn't just passing near our neighborhood, it was passing in front of my office.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnhwBS-O7t8LZZHnb2VUT52fOhE4K02kB19uWn_-wO5P45S3k6yxAAzbS8QDIs9FwpQ2bUdfkY4Oh1-3M7jlurW_FQxo4IBYvGFFr9uIpfOK7cqZbBbUTx_AuXkHU7Hxvc7Ej25MNevw/s1600-h/Image058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnhwBS-O7t8LZZHnb2VUT52fOhE4K02kB19uWn_-wO5P45S3k6yxAAzbS8QDIs9FwpQ2bUdfkY4Oh1-3M7jlurW_FQxo4IBYvGFFr9uIpfOK7cqZbBbUTx_AuXkHU7Hxvc7Ej25MNevw/s400/Image058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381497820117396690" border="0" /></a>All of my fellow pedestrians found there was no way to get across West 3rd Street, and the cops were making no exceptions. I always love the people who think they have the one excuse that is going to convince the cops to let them through the barricade. There was one lady in her 60s with a jet black wig and a cigarette who pleaded with the cops, but they were having none of it. So I stood for 10 minutes and looked 25 feet across the street at the door to my office where they weren't letting anyone out of the building.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRGZwIv1auj_uktw3liL1QjeFg4_-UXkanTzvTiNK49yXTHIIQDQw6RCGVadP6Ctqk80KNzPcZIQtal61kwjvpVdQsxWOxHUtBoAqrpBm5CaCD0WaPknwC5dqZfsrrLltWgPKaIlBhdM/s1600-h/Image059.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRGZwIv1auj_uktw3liL1QjeFg4_-UXkanTzvTiNK49yXTHIIQDQw6RCGVadP6Ctqk80KNzPcZIQtal61kwjvpVdQsxWOxHUtBoAqrpBm5CaCD0WaPknwC5dqZfsrrLltWgPKaIlBhdM/s400/Image059.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381497635474415314" border="0" /></a>Finally, the motorcade sped by, a blur of black SUVs and at least one limo with the presidential seal on it. I know he was with Hillary Clinton, but it's anyone's guess which car he was in. In the picture below you can see the back end of the parade of cars just beyond my office. The administrative assistant from across the street called me to say he got out of his car and waved at some people. I hope no one told that to the lady with the wig and the cigarette. She had somewhere important to be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJgm13uam0vfRqKUkkL6s0bFuPiErdL5ZQNooCMBH4ii4-WY2E52GJqRwCgkEr5OQFYNfvFlg2_vMbz2QdMEZx6v74RCyHC7qkR9RYUy4IFfZHoNEHH7t8KFXLC6eoWe9ps-CYlgISvE/s1600-h/Image061.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJgm13uam0vfRqKUkkL6s0bFuPiErdL5ZQNooCMBH4ii4-WY2E52GJqRwCgkEr5OQFYNfvFlg2_vMbz2QdMEZx6v74RCyHC7qkR9RYUy4IFfZHoNEHH7t8KFXLC6eoWe9ps-CYlgISvE/s400/Image061.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381497974411801490" border="0" /></a>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-51307040275467975062009-09-12T01:49:00.007-04:002009-09-12T13:03:58.575-04:00And I Would Walk 500 Miles ...For those blog readers who are a little younger, once upon a time there was a late night talk show called <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096537/">The Arsenio Hall Show</a>. It was a significant milestone in the sense that it was a regular mainstream talk show on every night hosted by an African American. The problem was that when David Letterman switched from NBC to the 11:30 pm timeslot on CBS, all hell broke loose in late night world, and Arsenio was put out of business overnight.<br /><br />But before that happened, I was watching Arsenio one night and saw a pair of singing Scottish Brothers perform on his show who had a unique sound and harmonies like you'd never heard before -- or because they're Scottish: like you've never "hairrrrd b-far." The group was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Proclaimers">The Proclaimers </a>and I immediately bought their album. Before law school was over I had two of their albums. They largely receded into my memory in recent years, however; I remember looking on Amazon for a new album a few years ago and not seeing anything -- until today.<br /><br />This afternoon at work I saw on the nyc.com events calendar that <a href="http://www.facebook.com/search/?q=The+Proclaimers&init=quick#/TheProclaimers?ref=search&sid=1050731456.2016031237..1">The Proclaimers</a> were in town today. I dismissed the notion of going. I didn't have tickets. I never do anything spontaneous. I had no one to go with. Oh heck, I could go by the theater on 23rd Street and at least see if there were any tickets. Well, I went to the box office and there were plenty of tickets, I went to the show and it was awesome. They had the Gramercy Theater rocking. I was even able to get a I-love-everything-Scottish friend to join me for the last 2/3 of the show. People were dancing in the aisles, waving the Scottish flag and having a grand old time. And I got to do it all on a whim. In New York, groups like <a href="http://www.myspace.com/theproclaimers">The Proclaimers</a> will occasionally pass by. I'm grateful for the opportunity to live here and to have a chance to stumble onto an incredibly fun night like tonight. Arsenio would have loved it.<br /><br />Here are a few (low quality) cell phone images of the boys from tonight. Interestingly, they didn't look as boyish as they did when they performed on Arsenio ... I guess I don't look as boyish as when I first watched them either ....<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK97eWK44bsgKSsEoRy4VwlyxLCaPrGEvR7dqIYlOfeqx-C1ECMF2chNAwFIztZGqk0JUneZI4Qs724YXVw5EBUbnEYGWcKFduySNhL6h78eESjHnUJ-gw8UwOHrrG2_2OPZZHfKS6nMw/s1600-h/Image047.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK97eWK44bsgKSsEoRy4VwlyxLCaPrGEvR7dqIYlOfeqx-C1ECMF2chNAwFIztZGqk0JUneZI4Qs724YXVw5EBUbnEYGWcKFduySNhL6h78eESjHnUJ-gw8UwOHrrG2_2OPZZHfKS6nMw/s400/Image047.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380460079295663282" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_jL_CfGWkI3wbkzJ-bNOFCvrSIocQJMSNXE-I084AMuqHpAM7qJjGQKFDDh18V5rmlXTswpTh4VG3muU9b6ko_duXox75Zb0x8h2qkd7zftS7g_yAmIY3r9e46FEihw4NoP7wPjrcrk/s1600-h/Image053.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_jL_CfGWkI3wbkzJ-bNOFCvrSIocQJMSNXE-I084AMuqHpAM7qJjGQKFDDh18V5rmlXTswpTh4VG3muU9b6ko_duXox75Zb0x8h2qkd7zftS7g_yAmIY3r9e46FEihw4NoP7wPjrcrk/s400/Image053.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380459859823034258" border="0" /></a>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-21159975161739570892009-09-09T23:19:00.004-04:002009-09-09T23:37:02.072-04:00Where Everybody Knows Your Name<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyea-Vze4m-SRoLxIybOrtFJ3g6YFtGQuYpt27Gz4JCkhV0zwDUWiXjL7wfIqm5cH4_MnKr9bDYTWUcisBsICbojTe_bzn6Vn3VX-qamTWbp-6hQVmwytDU1k9b8KToK-YEvBHpNFIBU/s1600-h/Budde_blur.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyea-Vze4m-SRoLxIybOrtFJ3g6YFtGQuYpt27Gz4JCkhV0zwDUWiXjL7wfIqm5cH4_MnKr9bDYTWUcisBsICbojTe_bzn6Vn3VX-qamTWbp-6hQVmwytDU1k9b8KToK-YEvBHpNFIBU/s320/Budde_blur.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379674434338812370" border="0" /></a>Last week my Eskimo Dog injured himself while we were out walking. I picked him up in my arms to quickly cross 49th Street and when I put him down on the sidewalk he began howling in pain. I couldn't imagine what had happened. I checked his pads to see if he had cut or pinched himself but he seemed fine. He was clearly in excruciating pain and his 2 minutes of howling drew a crowd. A few people at the bus stop came over to see if they could help. We all looked around the sidewalk to see if he had stepped on something but couldn't find anything. (One lady said to me, "isn't it funny how if an animal is in trouble people come running. Do you think they'd do the same for us?") I suspected that he had strained himself because his hips seem a little stiff these days when he gets up after lying down for a long time. I decided I would see if he could walk it off. He wouldn't put any weight on his back right leg and I had to carry him up the stairs to the 4th floor to our apartment.<br /><br />That night, I decided I would let him walk it off and took him for his 11pm walk as always. BuddE was getting along ok with a pronounced limp. It was <a href="http://paullyblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/lovely-aroma-of-west-49th-street-on.html">garbage night</a> on my street and there was practically no room to walk on the sidewalk. <br /><br />A guy in a Fed Ex shirt said "excuse me" and I tried to get out of his way. <br />He said, "No, I'm not trying to get by. I just wanted to know, is this the dog from the bus stop earlier?" <br />I nodded yes, sort of surprised by his recognition. <br />"How's he doing?"<br />"He seems to be doing a little better," I said.<br />"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," he said and he slid by us up the alley of garbage and went on his way.<br /><br />Sometimes Hell's Kitchen feels like a small town. That's nice.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-20511929999366233132009-09-01T17:07:00.006-04:002009-09-01T17:37:57.550-04:00Apparently, I Should Be Ashamed of Myself<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatAboMVurLZow0Z-RpODiO8ah3lpfFm1_EA0Z1oE2mrlp7Ugyq-oXRSTvtw98S6MCvaZymCkkSaLaWILnLmE_P8yXBv3iQQsA2FEXinY-3BEmz6QAHWGvUnKRDla7mB3CAgmpS-kxSR4/s1600-h/theonion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatAboMVurLZow0Z-RpODiO8ah3lpfFm1_EA0Z1oE2mrlp7Ugyq-oXRSTvtw98S6MCvaZymCkkSaLaWILnLmE_P8yXBv3iQQsA2FEXinY-3BEmz6QAHWGvUnKRDla7mB3CAgmpS-kxSR4/s200/theonion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376613654588179922" border="0" /></a>My sister and my nephew came to town yesterday and we decided to go uptown to see the <a href="http://www.amnh.org/rose/spaceshow/journey/">new space show at the Planetarium</a>. My nephew had his Celtics jersey on and for all anyone knew we were a group of out-of-towners. While we stood on the subway platform at 50th Street a slightly disheveled man came and stuck a copy of <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.theonion.com/content/index">The Onion</a> newspaper under our nose and said he was selling it to help the homeless. (There are publications that are distributed and sold on the street to raise funds for the homeless. As far as I know, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Onion </span>is not one of them.) He said he had a wife and either 4 or 6 children to support -- I think he lost track somewhere. I shrugged him off and then he turned his attention to my nephew and he started calling him a "Redsox hater" (meaning a Yankees hater because he was wearing Boston garb). I came to my nephew's defense and told the guy I lived in the neighborhood, that we were not tourists and that we weren't buying what he was selling. I tried to defuse the situation and explain that my nephew was just a misguided New Yorker whose father had not quite raised him right because he rooted for all the Boston teams.<br /><br />"Where do you live?" he asked.<br />"50th Street," I said.<br />"50th and what?"<br />"50th and Eighth," I replied.<br />"You've gotta be loaded to live there. You must be paying $3,000 a month," he said to me as he became increasingly agitated.<br />"No, that's not my rent," I said turning away from him.<br />"You live there and you're not willing to help the homeless? You said he wasn't brought up right? You weren't brought up right!"<br />"I'm not going to have this conversation with you, man," I said, as he became more and more menacing.<br />"You're damn right you don't want to have this conversation. You should be ashamed of yourself not wanting to help the homeless."<br /><br />As someone who spent a year of my life working with the homeless in inner-city Atlanta in the early 1990s, he picked the wrong guy to try to guilt into giving him money. He walked away disgusted and a minute later I saw him down the platform with his arm around some tourist with a big grin on his face. I respect his right to ask for money. I just wish he'd respect my right to tell him to buzz off.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3554104652260418792.post-39858837441348671322009-08-26T23:22:00.006-04:002009-08-26T23:39:05.660-04:00This is Why I Wanted to Live in New YorkSo I went to my first game at the new Yankee Stadium tonight and it was awesome. When the stadium opened in April there was a lot of criticism in the press about the new baseball parks in New York. It's all hogwash. The stadium is beautiful and the fan experience is better than ever.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3h11_pylpXrdVTogWCC8pW3QVhX6uM7OiYD77uko-OhV7ETh5DUiBRLIFlky-hSiTLFIoHvhKIn5lm0F2FvW76ZkMlDtOZU1OlY205YQ5BPmIHplI5axU_m1cGnP7KDdQ17rs-HN_nw/s1600-h/IMG_0698.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3h11_pylpXrdVTogWCC8pW3QVhX6uM7OiYD77uko-OhV7ETh5DUiBRLIFlky-hSiTLFIoHvhKIn5lm0F2FvW76ZkMlDtOZU1OlY205YQ5BPmIHplI5axU_m1cGnP7KDdQ17rs-HN_nw/s400/IMG_0698.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374479633250936466" border="0" /></a>I have gone to three major league games this summer, in Seattle, Oakland and New York. Nothing compares to the atmosphere in Yankee Stadium. The place was packed and the celebrities were in the house -- Jack Nicholson and Paul McCartney got the most applause -- and there was an electricity in the air.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzT_XTlueMwIi0yV6A-J4-HykBUz2RTYqUxWAoTI9vF4GCjZVdIVpqwG0-S-axW_VF4qe94YYAdMlofx_wEagRYV5L0-QP8leMiDryYUmIBbXYnalzI9KL2RnsLXLS-izVBDNcZeYc2SA/s1600-h/IMG_0697.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzT_XTlueMwIi0yV6A-J4-HykBUz2RTYqUxWAoTI9vF4GCjZVdIVpqwG0-S-axW_VF4qe94YYAdMlofx_wEagRYV5L0-QP8leMiDryYUmIBbXYnalzI9KL2RnsLXLS-izVBDNcZeYc2SA/s400/IMG_0697.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374481448568628146" border="0" /></a>The coolest part was in the seventh inning. Going into the inning, the Yankees had a modest 4-2 lead ... and then they started to pour it on. As their rally began, the place got louder and louder. By the time the Yankees had scored five runs to take a 9-2 lead, the place was going crazy and the fans still wanted more. The Yankees were blowing the other team away and the fans did not downshift. It's an enthusiasm for baseball I just don't see other places -- except, maybe (gulp) ... Boston.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15445924317264571146noreply@blogger.com0