Everest
Everlast. Ever past my wildest expectations and concept of nausea, with dimples as cavernous as canyons in fresh gelato park side refreshment a testament to the def chef sublime blonde on a Sunday afternoon caisson where a dark white-spot mare won the Preakness with a mouth full of Cheerios and sweetness of a woman who knows how to strain moonshine with pantyhose.
My Obama Story
Fitting that it begins in Hawaii where my wife and I spent our honeymoon island hopping, slurping pineapples thousands of miles away from the hustle and bustle of New York City in a land where whales run and the day is driven by the sun.After two healthy weeks, we took the red-eye from Kauai to L.A. where our friend Amber picked us up and drove us to her beautiful home where we were able to sleep in her guest room. We woke up and had a casual breakfast with her husband Jess and our mutual friends Allison and Tobin before going to the California Democratic Presidential Debate where Amber's father, the producer of the event, was able to get us past the security and the Hollywood Boulevard shouts of Go Tell Ya Mama/Vote For Obama. Tobin and Allison had made up their mind for Obama, but it was still early -- Hillary was out in front and John Edwards had just dropped out due to his extramarital affair with his hundred-dollar haircut.
Lucky for us the row of seats reserved for the Edward's family became available and we were seated directly behind Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw, a few rows ahead of Brandy and Quentin Tarantino. Across the isle sat Pierce Brosnan, who my wife couldn't stop gawking at until Leonardo DiCaprio showed up and I found myself gawking, too.
Hillary owned the first half, espousing on healthcare and really coming off strong. Obama seemed tenative, but gentlemanly. I recall Wolf Blitzer asking him if Hillary would be on his short-list for potential V.P. candidates and Obama said coolly that Hillary would be on any one's short-list. I recall Wolf saying that would be a dream ticket and while the crowd sent forth its approval, Stevie Wonder got out of his chair and jumped up and down.
In the second half, the question on Iraq came up and this eloquent man put words to the feelings in my heart that I could not. He reminded me of the time when I saw Eric Clapton play at Madison Square Garden. I remember saying something to the effect of he's no God just when he hit a note that sent a shock up my spine and caused me to spill my beer all over my lap. I was transported far beyond the earthly boundaries I've come to know. Barack Obama caused the same reaction and when the debate was over, my mind was made up.
We went across the street to the after party at the Roosevelt Hotel. I had been there a few years before on a random weekday in October and there was only a handful of people by the poolside bar. I imagined what the place must have been like in the days of Gable and Grant. Now I knew. The patio was swarming with people and Topher Grace and Fran Drescher bumped into me while Tobin, Jess and I ordered mixed drinks of Grey Goose and Red Bull. There were passed hors d'oeuvres, but in true L.A. fashion no one ate them.
Toward the end of the event I made a bet with Jess that Obama would win the election. There was no doubt in my mind even though the early returns showed Hillary had won the debate and held a comfortable lead in the polls, but I felt it in my bones, just like I felt the Giants were going to upset the Patriots in Sunday's Super Bowl.
Once the bartenders made last call, Tobin and I ordered a final round and I declared that I was going to dive in the pool. Then I realized the D.J. was playing Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow and I went over to him and said, "Yo, man, you've gotta play an Obama song -- this is a Clinton song!" The D.J. looked at me and said, "What's an Obama song?" I thought for a second and said, "Changes by David Bowie." He switched the record immediately and I slid out of my shoes and handed my blazer to Tobin. I got some good amplitude off the brick patio before plunging below the CNN balloons and out the other side where security was gathering around holding their ear-pieces and pistols and motioning for me to get out of the pool. They thought I was some jackass, but the dive was premeditated upon arrival and fueled by memories of Kauai.
In fact after I made my bet with Jess, I told Dave Chappelle's publicist that I would jump in the pool if Dave Chappelle told me to. I offered to plunge into the big CNN balloon with a butter knife and slide down into the water as an homage to Errol Flynn in The Sea Hawk. She asked me to hold the thought while she checked with Dave. She came back and said, "Dave Chappelle can't officially tell you to jump in the pool, but he did tell me, off the record, he wouldn't mind seeing it happen."
The water was warm and because it was Hollywood, I hammed it up for the crowd with a leisurely backstroke before climbing out of the pool. The lead security guard realized I was no threat and in an unspoken nod he let me address the crowd, so I threw my arms in the air as high I could in a soaked dress shirt and shouted "Obama" in a scratchy voice before being led out to the parking lot.
My wife said she had her back turned when she heard the splash, but knew instinctively that it was me and was able to track me down by my soggy footprints. When she saw me in the parking lot, she belted out, "There's my shame!".
I had asked the guards for towels and they said there weren't any available. I found that odd as we were standing by a pool outside a hotel. Then I dropped the name of the party's host and was instantly given a stack of plush towels. Ah, L.A. Tobin appeared shortly thereafter with my shoes and blazer and we all piled in a cab that was waiting for us with its heat cranked up.
The next morning we went for brunch at Barney's Beanery and there was a valley girl at the table behind us recounting a fabulous party she had been to at the Roosevelt the night before. I was ready to cringe at the mention of someone going in the pool, but luckily it didn't come up.
Jackie and I returned home late Saturday and, of course, the very next day the Giants pulled off the impossible by beating the Patriots. When the last second ticked off the clock, I ran out on 14th Street in Brooklyn and took off my shirt as if I was still in Hawaii running into the surf at Kaanapali before kissing the ground. Much like Obama, I bet heavy on the Giants, too.
Shea Stadium: Twist And Shout
As the Mets look to open their new season in a new park, I look back on the old one. Shea Stadium was home to many memories for many people including my very first game, a 4-0 loss to the Astros behind a complete game from Nolan Ryan. I went to the game with my father, my best friend and his father. Our memories of the game are hazy, but the disappointment of the loss lingers and in many ways brings us together as Mets fans. The game was played on Tuesday, Aug. 31, 1982 and I was eight-years-old.
Some 26 years later I would see my last game at Shea. Fittingly, it was a 9-5 loss against the Cubs. David Wright homered for the 33rd time that season and Kerry Wood recorded his 33rd save.
While I feel like I sat in every section of the park, my first game's seat was at field level behind first base and my last game's seat was a bench in the picnic area.
The tearing down of the old to make way for the new is nothing unusual for baseball. This year the famous House That Ruth Built will move in the shadow of its predecessor and that of the Polo Grounds and the kids will line up outside McDonald's not far from where Jackie Robinson made history in Brooklyn, but the memories will some how remain enshrined in the hearts of millions of fans, some broken, some hopeful, some ready to love again.
Greater Than
To be the vacant beach sand between your toes and the salty wind caressing your taught cheeks and wind-blown sea-shell hair as the sun beats down on each pebble of sand lost in your bikini line in syncopation with your blood gushing through circulation in the never ending wonder of peachy paradise as wave after wave licks your brave shins like the gentle nuzzle of a loyal dog content as you are to dare the surf with nothing wasted on your frame and eternity wrapping its horizon around your waist as you feel tight in your own skin in the precise moment of absolute wonder and awe assured the chorus of splashing salt will sing your praise in every note hit right in your unconscious laughter free from all that confines you to bravely face life as you are and always will be, a beautiful memory.
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| Audrey Prater |
Bukowski Would Kick My Ass
Or so he would think ... I heard his voice through a degenerate video-poker drunk who was knocking back Black Russians while the bartender snuck breadsticks on a butter pat, "I've never seen anyone eat chicken wings with a knife and fork," he said as he whispered "f--kin yuppie" under his breath and rather than point out that I was eating boneless tenders smothered in hydrochloric acid, I snarled at the decrepit, toothless son-of-a-bitch and said, "If you live long enough, you'll see a lot of things."
He left.
Bukowski would have taken a swing. And, after he was bloodied, he'd go home and call his woman a c--t.
He left.
Bukowski would have taken a swing. And, after he was bloodied, he'd go home and call his woman a c--t.
Alan Fishman Fleeced WAMU for $7.5 Million
As the dust continues to settle around the annihilation of Washington Mutual by Jamie Dimon's JPMorgan Chase, common stockholders of WAMU should be readying the pitchforks and torches and hunting down the directors who so shamelessly abandoned the company in a week of a panic leading up to the congressional rescue vote. A good place to start the effigy is with replacement CEO, Alan Fishman, who stands to make $7.5 million in a signing bonus for two and half weeks worth of "work."
Fishman, who seems more interested in not spilling martinis on his evening wear than mulling through stacks of 8-Ks and 10-Qs, may have orchestrated this so-called run on the bank by phoning Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and blowing the whistle to facilitate a fire sale of the nation's largest thrift. In my opinion, he should be sued and shamed far worse than Martha Stewart was for her ImClone dealings.
While Washington Mutual's loan portfolio stunk worse than a wino smeared in his own feces, its physical market share and deposit base had value, so much so that it was speculated Jamie Dimon was willing to bid $7.50 per share, that is until he found out he could screw the common shareholder completely.
As congress bickered over the bailout, executives of Washington Mutual watched their offers dry up as Jim Cramer stumped irresponsibly on CNBC's Mad Money about a run on its bank, but where was the evidence? I didn't see any lines at the branches strewn about the Tri-State area, nor did I hear any mention of it from Governor Swarzenegger when he delivered his moratorium on the state of California's economy, where WAMU was most exposed.
How could a bank, governed by the Office of Thrift Supervision, disclose that it was well capitalized and at the height of its provisioning for loan losses a month ago be marauded overnight?
The whole thing reeks more than the unfettered sub-prime lending WAMU proliferated during the deregulated Bush administration. Not to mention that scoundrel Kerry Killinger who should be thrown in jail for defrauding the public and stealing more loot from shareholders than those convicted for Enron's malfeasance.
Reports are that Alan Fishman won't be seeking severance that JPMorgan Chase has agreed to pay WAMU's employees, but then again I'm not sure how much he'd be entitled to for two and half weeks anyway.
Fishman, who seems more interested in not spilling martinis on his evening wear than mulling through stacks of 8-Ks and 10-Qs, may have orchestrated this so-called run on the bank by phoning Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and blowing the whistle to facilitate a fire sale of the nation's largest thrift. In my opinion, he should be sued and shamed far worse than Martha Stewart was for her ImClone dealings.
While Washington Mutual's loan portfolio stunk worse than a wino smeared in his own feces, its physical market share and deposit base had value, so much so that it was speculated Jamie Dimon was willing to bid $7.50 per share, that is until he found out he could screw the common shareholder completely.
As congress bickered over the bailout, executives of Washington Mutual watched their offers dry up as Jim Cramer stumped irresponsibly on CNBC's Mad Money about a run on its bank, but where was the evidence? I didn't see any lines at the branches strewn about the Tri-State area, nor did I hear any mention of it from Governor Swarzenegger when he delivered his moratorium on the state of California's economy, where WAMU was most exposed.
How could a bank, governed by the Office of Thrift Supervision, disclose that it was well capitalized and at the height of its provisioning for loan losses a month ago be marauded overnight?
The whole thing reeks more than the unfettered sub-prime lending WAMU proliferated during the deregulated Bush administration. Not to mention that scoundrel Kerry Killinger who should be thrown in jail for defrauding the public and stealing more loot from shareholders than those convicted for Enron's malfeasance.
Reports are that Alan Fishman won't be seeking severance that JPMorgan Chase has agreed to pay WAMU's employees, but then again I'm not sure how much he'd be entitled to for two and half weeks anyway.
Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001
My lungs burn with the ashes of the desperate,
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 2008
In the spirit of our great departed Doctor of Divinity, the founder of Gonzo, I fear Sarah Palin because she is sexy and can herd sheep that bah she sounds like my sister when we talk on the phone.
You knew McCain wasn't going to go out with the weakling Lieberman or the buffoonish Giuliani -- no, McCain can only be slew like the 18-0 Patriots. If you recall your Scorsese, to kill a king, you must do it in open court
Bill Clinton is prescient, Obama is on the right side of history and like Eli Manning he will have to orchestrate a fourth quarter drive, complete a miracle, and throw a perfect spiral before he and Michelle can move into the White house.
And then, four years from now, when John S. McCain is shelved by the GOP like Bob Dole, Palin can run with her VP, another staunch example of family values, Mr. Tom Brady.
You knew McCain wasn't going to go out with the weakling Lieberman or the buffoonish Giuliani -- no, McCain can only be slew like the 18-0 Patriots. If you recall your Scorsese, to kill a king, you must do it in open court
Bill Clinton is prescient, Obama is on the right side of history and like Eli Manning he will have to orchestrate a fourth quarter drive, complete a miracle, and throw a perfect spiral before he and Michelle can move into the White house.
And then, four years from now, when John S. McCain is shelved by the GOP like Bob Dole, Palin can run with her VP, another staunch example of family values, Mr. Tom Brady.
I Hate Valentine's Day Films in Brooklyn
For two weeks this summer our neighborhood was transformed into a movie set once again as Nia Vardalos and John Corbett of My Big Fat Greek Wedding were seen daily on Prospect Park West shooting scenes for their upcoming movie, I Hate Valentine's Day. 
Production began at Terrace Bagels, a neighborhood standby that stayed open to the public so that I was able to get my morning coffee with the minor inconvenience of having to step over a power cord. The next day, however, after picking up my dry cleaning, I nearly tripped over a boom when Nia came storming down the sidewalk shouting reasons why she hated Valentine's when I realized the bum I had taken for granted on my way in was actually an actor.
Up close, Nia was thin and reaping the benefit of her professional hair and make-up and I wondered how I might look if a team tended to my appearance with such care, surely better than the usual cross between Charlie Brown and Bob Dylan, who, as it happens, will be performing at Prospect Park this summer, too.
At times the line between illusion and reality was blurred. There was a buzz in the neighborhood when a sign above the old pet store read: Get on Tapas. We all rushed to see the menu posted in the window with a four-star review pasted by its side, only to find out that it was a set.
As the days wore on, Nia and John were at home among the Windsor Terrace faithful and even left autographs for nearby proprietors, which the crowd at Farrell's had seen before when Dog Day Afternoon, Smoke, As Good As It Gets and an episode of Third Watch were filmed on the same stretch of Prospect Park West, south of Bartlett Pritchard Square.
The shoot culminated one night with the lighting of a Christmas Tree on Prospect Ave. across from the Regina Bakery, where extras huddled around in winter coats and wool hats while my wife and I shopped at a nearby market for sunscreen in our t-shirts and flip-flops.
The next day the show moved on and the neighborhood returned to its regular busy-body self where a nice woman was murdered opening her store and a quiet skateboard punk was stabbed in the shadows of noisy little league games and the rowdy families gathered outside Lia's for ice cream.
Production began at Terrace Bagels, a neighborhood standby that stayed open to the public so that I was able to get my morning coffee with the minor inconvenience of having to step over a power cord. The next day, however, after picking up my dry cleaning, I nearly tripped over a boom when Nia came storming down the sidewalk shouting reasons why she hated Valentine's when I realized the bum I had taken for granted on my way in was actually an actor.
Up close, Nia was thin and reaping the benefit of her professional hair and make-up and I wondered how I might look if a team tended to my appearance with such care, surely better than the usual cross between Charlie Brown and Bob Dylan, who, as it happens, will be performing at Prospect Park this summer, too. At times the line between illusion and reality was blurred. There was a buzz in the neighborhood when a sign above the old pet store read: Get on Tapas. We all rushed to see the menu posted in the window with a four-star review pasted by its side, only to find out that it was a set.
As the days wore on, Nia and John were at home among the Windsor Terrace faithful and even left autographs for nearby proprietors, which the crowd at Farrell's had seen before when Dog Day Afternoon, Smoke, As Good As It Gets and an episode of Third Watch were filmed on the same stretch of Prospect Park West, south of Bartlett Pritchard Square.
The shoot culminated one night with the lighting of a Christmas Tree on Prospect Ave. across from the Regina Bakery, where extras huddled around in winter coats and wool hats while my wife and I shopped at a nearby market for sunscreen in our t-shirts and flip-flops.
The next day the show moved on and the neighborhood returned to its regular busy-body self where a nice woman was murdered opening her store and a quiet skateboard punk was stabbed in the shadows of noisy little league games and the rowdy families gathered outside Lia's for ice cream.
Chinese Herbal Medicine
Heavy eyes and brain booze-addled again in a world of magic and tragic ends of meandering man-made waterfalls forged like talent captured by sellout crowds who can define this life of ours by hours of whores and bores and the money honey exchange among the tyranny of bleak bloodshed that will not dwell in the lap of melancholy beauty surrounded by well wishers and sentiments from another year with golden-haired princes arriving at her shore covered in the wretched stink of desperate designer perfume and the unyielding cool of boundless possibilities bound like bosoms in a black brassiere of politics and pendulums that govern brave brains who dare produce light from the electric shock of the fragile mind which beckons like Ahab and Hemingway to chase the invincible Mexican goddess thrashing about in the evening surf amidst the terrible stench of decaying print smothered in hibiscus to kiss the harsh minds and terse verse of a curse cast upon a pallet of pure blond beauty in a pale cocktail dress studying Picasso to haunt the conversations of a gumshoe in the grand auditoriums lit by the rich and humble to inspire a moist cloud on a hot, sticky day to pause and pray for what you want most at the very moment you realize you have it and can only contain it like a firefly burst in a plastic pail or a forlorn sail in crisp circles gauged by a synthetic count of days and dollars and hollers market wide within the great tombs of our construction, where lie great poets and words that dare strike out for new pastures and artificial putting greens atop the magnificent waste of euphoric good taste and the wonder of when it might end among the notion that it only now began.
The Kid From Buffalo
I was on the express train from DC to NY when the news caught up to me that Tim Russert had died. A great shock to us all, but fitting that he was doing what he loved, having just spent time at the Vatican with his family.
Tim Russert was a journalist's journalist and we mourn his loss. I shall dedicate my plate of hot wings and cold pitcher of beer in honor of the kid from Buffalo while I try and figure out how to get through this election without him.
Tim Russert was a journalist's journalist and we mourn his loss. I shall dedicate my plate of hot wings and cold pitcher of beer in honor of the kid from Buffalo while I try and figure out how to get through this election without him.
Eat, Drink, Fuck
Caution dear reader, the following is an exercise in futility, a bslog, if you will:
Eat, drink, fuck -- our fate says so and then blames us for stretchy pants, cirrohis, and the herp lip. Bliss be damned.
Luck rhymes with fuck. Take Sarah Jessica Parker and Robert Downey Jr., who lived together in L.A. over 20 years ago and now share fame in largess, which is a word I've yet to use in Scrabulous.
Breathe too much, you'll hyperventilate, think too much, you'll go insane, dream too much and you just might change the world.
Type like shouting epithets down an empty hall, vain and sustained like carvings on a cave wall. Excavate is to Big Brown what Scrabulous is to Triple Crown.
Genius is overused like Google and the word like.
The world is a monster, so I say eat, drink and fuck to your heart's content, cause you're gonna die alone anyway.
Eat, drink, fuck -- our fate says so and then blames us for stretchy pants, cirrohis, and the herp lip. Bliss be damned.
Luck rhymes with fuck. Take Sarah Jessica Parker and Robert Downey Jr., who lived together in L.A. over 20 years ago and now share fame in largess, which is a word I've yet to use in Scrabulous.
Breathe too much, you'll hyperventilate, think too much, you'll go insane, dream too much and you just might change the world.
Type like shouting epithets down an empty hall, vain and sustained like carvings on a cave wall. Excavate is to Big Brown what Scrabulous is to Triple Crown.
Genius is overused like Google and the word like.
The world is a monster, so I say eat, drink and fuck to your heart's content, cause you're gonna die alone anyway.
Congressman Vito Fossella Arrested for Drunk Driving in DC
Congressman Vito Fossella from Staten Island, N.Y., was arrested for drunk driving the morning of May 1 in DC after leaving Logan Tavern with his "pal" Brian, who fell face first through a table, breaking the stand in half. I actually helped carry Brian's drunk ass out to the street where Vito waived off a cab we hailed for them and slid away with his mummy in tow.
Here's the coverage on Eyewitness News:
http://abclocal.go.com/wabc/story?section=news/local&id=6116077
And here's the scoop from an actual eyewitness:
I joined my colleagues Chelsea, Meghan and Meghan's friend R. at Logan Tavern around 10 p.m. not long after Chelsea was sure she spotted Taylor Hanson of boy band fame at a nearby table in the outdoor section. A bit later in the evening, Chelsea departed and Meghan, R. and I moved to the bar indoors to escape the evening chill. Then Vito Fossella walked in with his pal, Brian, who was evidently drunk. R. recognized Vito through his involvement with the Republican Party and invited him over, where I noticed his lips and teeth were horribly stained with red wine.
"Can I buy you a drink congressman? Perhaps a nice Cabernet?" I said.
He was dumbfounded that I got the order right. I ordered one for his pal, too, who shuffled off to the bathroom where I found him later slumped in a chair outside the door. The manager of Logan Tavern caught sight of this mess and complained to our party, which subsequently dispatched the congressman to tend to his lamb.
When I returned to the bar, I was informed that I'd been cut off. I politely suggested to the bartender that I was not the drunk he was looking for and after he conferred with the manager, my drinking status was reinstated with one on the house.
Vito Fossella brought Brian back to our fold and he sat on a stool next to mine and passed out, head on the bar. I thought it strange that Vito left him there, drunk beyond good measure, but he seemed distracted by the conversation on pop music, inspired by mention of the Hanson sighting. Suddenly, Brian rose to his feet and stumbled to the corner and fell like a dead flounder on the table, which held his weight for approximately three seconds before it crashed to the ground. I went over and tried to get him to his feet, but couldn't budge his drunk ass until the waiter gave me a hand. We were able to get him up and I walked him out to the curb where I assured him the fresh air would do him good. All the while Vito shook his head disapprovingly with a mischievous, cheap, red lipstick grin on his face.
R. was holding the cab door open not ten feet away, but Vito Fossella decided he and Brian were well enough to walk ... and apparently drive back to Alexandria ... drunk and delirious.
Here's the coverage on Eyewitness News:
http://abclocal.go.com/wabc/story?section=news/local&id=6116077
And here's the scoop from an actual eyewitness:
I joined my colleagues Chelsea, Meghan and Meghan's friend R. at Logan Tavern around 10 p.m. not long after Chelsea was sure she spotted Taylor Hanson of boy band fame at a nearby table in the outdoor section. A bit later in the evening, Chelsea departed and Meghan, R. and I moved to the bar indoors to escape the evening chill. Then Vito Fossella walked in with his pal, Brian, who was evidently drunk. R. recognized Vito through his involvement with the Republican Party and invited him over, where I noticed his lips and teeth were horribly stained with red wine.
"Can I buy you a drink congressman? Perhaps a nice Cabernet?" I said.
He was dumbfounded that I got the order right. I ordered one for his pal, too, who shuffled off to the bathroom where I found him later slumped in a chair outside the door. The manager of Logan Tavern caught sight of this mess and complained to our party, which subsequently dispatched the congressman to tend to his lamb.
When I returned to the bar, I was informed that I'd been cut off. I politely suggested to the bartender that I was not the drunk he was looking for and after he conferred with the manager, my drinking status was reinstated with one on the house.
Vito Fossella brought Brian back to our fold and he sat on a stool next to mine and passed out, head on the bar. I thought it strange that Vito left him there, drunk beyond good measure, but he seemed distracted by the conversation on pop music, inspired by mention of the Hanson sighting. Suddenly, Brian rose to his feet and stumbled to the corner and fell like a dead flounder on the table, which held his weight for approximately three seconds before it crashed to the ground. I went over and tried to get him to his feet, but couldn't budge his drunk ass until the waiter gave me a hand. We were able to get him up and I walked him out to the curb where I assured him the fresh air would do him good. All the while Vito shook his head disapprovingly with a mischievous, cheap, red lipstick grin on his face. R. was holding the cab door open not ten feet away, but Vito Fossella decided he and Brian were well enough to walk ... and apparently drive back to Alexandria ... drunk and delirious.
Brooklyn’s Best Burger, Maybe New York City’s Best Burger, Can Be Found at The Dram Shop Bar
As May is indeed the month of the hamburger, it’s the time of year when a man must ask himself, where do I go for the best burger in town? To me, the Burger Joint in Le Parker Meriden and Corner Bistro in the West Village spring to mind, then off course there’s the surf shop Island Burger in Hell’s Kitchen.
I dare not argue or presuppose what ingredients are required to make the best burger, rather I rely on one simple rule: If it tastes good, it usually is. And the tastiest I’ve had in a while was at The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn, located on 9th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
The bar is elegant and high-minded with a pool table located in back, a shuffleboard on the side, TVs and lights fixed appropriately, so they’re easily found, but not in your way and music that is familiar and new and in a word, cool.
The Dram Shop Bar has a selection of good, not obvious, beers on tap with fine whiskeys and vodkas decorating a bar, whose mirror the mighty Jack Nicholson could possibly deceive himself in. The six unisex bathroom stalls demonstrate a change in the paradigm of modern restrooms, where privacy can be had and the long lines women endure due to bottleneck avoided.
The bar menus are simple and to the point and feature a blurb about how this delightful concoction originated in Dallas and found its way to Brooklyn three generations later by a dude named Clay, presumably the proprietor. Admittedly, I thought this tale rather self-indulgent along side a nine-dollar price tag, but my hunger prevailed.
The Brooklyn version of this beauty consists of two thin patties, slightly charred like good bbq with fixins that are crunchy and full of zest and served in a basket with a healthy portion of hand-cut fries that are crispy and lightly dusted with kosher salt. The first bite is kind of like the first bite you take of an IN-N-OUT Burger in SoCal, where your appetite wells up like a tsunami and crashes down on anything in its path. Oh, and they serve their beer in frosty mugs, too!
I encourage everyone to stop in The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn (take the F Train to 7th Avenue) for a beer and a taste test and who knows, maybe I’ll challenge you to game of shuffleboard.
I dare not argue or presuppose what ingredients are required to make the best burger, rather I rely on one simple rule: If it tastes good, it usually is. And the tastiest I’ve had in a while was at The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn, located on 9th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
The bar is elegant and high-minded with a pool table located in back, a shuffleboard on the side, TVs and lights fixed appropriately, so they’re easily found, but not in your way and music that is familiar and new and in a word, cool.
The Dram Shop Bar has a selection of good, not obvious, beers on tap with fine whiskeys and vodkas decorating a bar, whose mirror the mighty Jack Nicholson could possibly deceive himself in. The six unisex bathroom stalls demonstrate a change in the paradigm of modern restrooms, where privacy can be had and the long lines women endure due to bottleneck avoided.
The bar menus are simple and to the point and feature a blurb about how this delightful concoction originated in Dallas and found its way to Brooklyn three generations later by a dude named Clay, presumably the proprietor. Admittedly, I thought this tale rather self-indulgent along side a nine-dollar price tag, but my hunger prevailed.
The Brooklyn version of this beauty consists of two thin patties, slightly charred like good bbq with fixins that are crunchy and full of zest and served in a basket with a healthy portion of hand-cut fries that are crispy and lightly dusted with kosher salt. The first bite is kind of like the first bite you take of an IN-N-OUT Burger in SoCal, where your appetite wells up like a tsunami and crashes down on anything in its path. Oh, and they serve their beer in frosty mugs, too!
I encourage everyone to stop in The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn (take the F Train to 7th Avenue) for a beer and a taste test and who knows, maybe I’ll challenge you to game of shuffleboard.
Hyannisport Holiday
It was the summer of 1997 and my friend Tom invited me up to the Cape for a weekend to see some of his old college buddies and attend the Robert Malfi Third Annual Summer Extravaganza, where the boys played soccer on a lawn over looking the ocean and the girls pranced around the ample grounds in summer dresses, drinking catered cocktails from bendy straws.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
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