Sun Bleached and Beautiful

A summer shower falls oh so gently on the hood of my Jeep while I put off the day's errand and head to the beach where I'm greeted by the sun-washed jagged stones that stand guard over the Sound while the sailors, runners, bikers and fishermen weave in and out.

Tod's Point, Greenwich, CT

I pause along route, too lazy to fiddle with the automatic windows, and amble to a nearby bench facing the island of Manhattan. A fisherman jabbers that the fluke are small, but it looks like a meal to me. The doldrums have set upon the sailing school so that the women lay across the bows of the dead ships paddling wistfully while others hop overboard to cool off or perhaps answer a desperate nature call.

Two runners approach as if they popped out of a hi-def screen airing the Olympics from London. They are tall and lean wearing hardly anything. I follow the long-legged woman for a bit until I feel useless and out of shape, so I hop back in the Jeep and spin around the Point at a cruising speed of 15 mph, letting the cyclists race past as I glide into a spot by the beach. A few dedicated goers shuffle through the sand while others get their laps in, no doubt competing against the great Michael Phelps in their minds while they battle the wakes from the yachts that drunkenly drift about without a care in the world.

Local Baywatch

The lifeguard stands are abandoned, while those on the town payroll sip coffee and stare at the horizon. Then I see the unmistakable red swimsuit and a perfectly tanned beauty brush her sun-kissed hair from her face while she listens intently to her handsome counterpart as they traipse barefoot over the tarmac which would be too hot to do on a busy day.

The smell of the sea is in my nostrils and I look forward to rendezvousing with the clam-lady at the farmer's market in a few hours where I will buy a dozen to throw on the grill, careful not to blow out my flip flop ala Jimmy Buffett and feeling rejuvenated, sun-bleached and beautiful like an ethereal horizon.

New York City view from Tod's Point, Greenwich, CT

It Appears Liz Cho Is Still Married

Looking at the recent queries that lead to this blog, there is still a great deal of wonder about the marital status of WABC-TV Channel 7 Eyewitness News' anchor Liz Cho. Admittedly, I have fanned the flames with a gonzo-style report that she may be in love with her co-anchor Bill Ritter, but people, that was four years ago!

Of course I still watch Liz Cho and like the rest of you I am still intrigued by this notion that she does not wear her wedding band or engagement ring on her left ring finger during the broadcast. I seem to recall her flashing a rather ornate diamond once upon a time. Maybe there is a trade secret as to why news anchors don't wear their rings, but her colleague Lee Goldberg always seems to wear his.

Intrepid blogger that I am, I took to search and found a recent article in the New York Post that not only reports that Liz Cho is still married to Evan Gottlieb, but that the two are involved in a "nasty legal battle" over renovations they had done to their Westchester mansion.

Really, Liz, couldn't you have gotten 7 On Your Side after them? I mean Nina Pineda would just get a door slammed in her face, but you know Tappy Phillips. Couldn't you lure her out of retirement for old-times' sake? She'd get to the bottom of it. And maybe she could figure out what happened to your ring, too.

Margaret Brennan No Longer InBusiness

I was caught by surprise last Friday when I read Margaret Brennan's farewell to the NYSE and her show on twitter. I had been a loyal follower of InBusiness since she left CNBC's retail beat to join BloombergTV in 2009.

It seemed as though the show was doing well. She moved from the studio to the floor of the Exchange and her image appeared on posters in Metro North rail cars and banners strewn across city buses.

According to TVNewser, Andrew Morse, head of U.S. TV for Bloomberg, said the changes are a continuation of Bloomberg’s “evolution into a digital, multi-platform news organization.” 

I suppose it only fair that in this age of disintermediation that a change to a daily TV program be reported on twitter. No indication as to where Brennan will land, but I can't imagine a bright journalist like her will be sidelined for long. 

And so it would appear that the glittering money-honey path away from CNBC may not be golden after all, e.g., does anybody tune into Erin Burnett's program on CNN?

  

Brooklyn Pizza Odyssey

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all ways of devouring pizza. Toppings or none, any pie spread before him, soon to be done.

Grimaldi's Pizzeria, Brooklyn

The journey begins across the Brooklyn Bridge with the steely eye of John Augustus Roebling cast upon ye merry band of travelers as ancient souls swim among the caissons still searching for the allusive bedrock never found.

Cameron Diaz

Under the bridge downtown lies Grimaldi's whose line stretches out like the famous suspension bridge and whose savory mozzarella and thin crust beckons like the sirens' song along the block where the beautiful Cameron Diaz once traipsed with the solemnity of Penelope herself. You sit and order a pie hot out of the coal brick oven and you're filled with a sense of promise and good cheer.

Dom DeMarco of Di Fara

From there, the wind blows out to Midwood and Di Fara, where another crowd gathers as the old man painstakingly puts together his pies grabbing basil from a pot on the windowsill and drenching his masterpiece in olive oil pressed in the old country. Check to make sure the shop is not closed due to health code violations, which from time-to-time will happen as a matter of bureaucracy and nothing more. Dom DeMarco is as much a part of the pie as any ingredient and nothing sits in that shop long enough to pose a health risk. One bite and you'll be transported, dazed at the thought you may never have tasted pizza until that moment.

L&B Spumoni Gardens, Brooklyn

Set sail again upon the unpredictable waters of the Gowanus to L&B Spumoni Gardens in Bensonhurst, where you want two squares, preferably the corner pieces. The sweet crust and delicious sauce and sublime cheese will remind you of all of the monumental moments you have amassed in your life. They will flash before you in the comfort of the outdoor space and relaxed neighborhood and for a moment, you are a kid again. Afterward, indulge in a spumoni or a lemon ice to cleanse the palate and cool down. Check your watch, if there's time, a quick shot to Coney Island and a ride on the Cyclone might be in order, but as the sun sets your path circles back toward to its point of origin.

Mark Iacano of Lucali

Lucali in Carroll Gardens only opens for dinner and it's always mobbed, pun intended. This pies de resistance will conjure memories of the earlier pies and seemingly fix what ails you. It's stunning simplicity and craftsmanship achieve perfection. Weather permitting, a stroll along the nearby Brooklyn Heights Promenade is highly recommended before returning across the bridge where the evening or a much deserved nap awaits.

There are organized bus tours of Brooklyn pizza, but true pizza lovers must set out on their own and experience it at their pace. While the journey is not for the faint of heart, the reward is divine.

On this pale fear seized every one; they were so frightened that their arms dropped from their hands and fell upon the ground at the sound of the goddess's voice, and they fled back to the city for their lives.

Map of the Brooklyn Pizza Odyssey

One Take

Leap year into forgotten wonder bra commercial 
where a young lass’s hair ain’t all that bounces like a quarter 
off a sticky bar or the driving rain off the hood of a car port 
in a quaint New England town overlooking Long Island Sound 
and the spawn of a million oysters to end up as empty shells on tables amid fables of barroom romances from a century ago and actors like Grant and Gable who were able to say more with a wink than a good long Plato think on the underprivileged and lack of clean drinking water or vapor in the form of Vader and the force that pulls us all in some precarious direction or perhaps to the top of the masthead in a magazine or a vessel of blood drop oozing from the corner of a wolf’s mouth somewhere in the deep south of Jack London’s mind behind the steaming carcass of progress and inevitable debt and dirty diapers that the earth brings to the unsuspecting moms who accept the challenge in return for fading beauty and eternal memory of all to be accomplished and soon to be forgotten until the next spin of the dice thrice more behind 
the creaking door where Poe did urinate his poetry on solemnity or crancousity or some other absurd word never heard before I wrote this post so that most could turn a blind eye and rattle the center stone within Nathaniel Hawthorne or woebegone internet porn and teenagers broadcasting their boredom to anyone who will listen or write some trite nonfiction of catastrophe and blasphemy while grabbing their balls and spitting in the ocean to be devoured by the oyster before it is devoured in the eternal circle of life and death and backwoods crystal meth to promote sleepless anxiety 
for pharmacies to tackle like a crooked quarterback sweating steroids from his eyeballs to the glory of a million more who will wake up sore and check the score of the price of wheat 
before they beat their feet to the drum of another day whose outcome lay amid the fray of a medieval hangman’s noose.

Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson is an elegantly crafted story and one that will forever remain among my favorites.

Most of us have never met Steve Jobs face-to-face and yet I think we all feel we know him on a personal level having been seduced by his products at some point in our lives for one reason or another. My memories, while not of him, are of Apple, which may be as close to him as we could get anyway.

They begin when I took a computer class in high school with my best friend. The main reasons we took it were the teacher was likable and the hottest girl in school happened to be taking it too. The by-product of this hour long oasis was learning the features of the Macintosh which were intuitive and then utilizing them to compose documents such as "Why Michael Jordan Is the Greatest Athlete on Earth."

Fast forward to my first editorial job at Forbes magazine and my desire to purchase a laptop so I could write wherever inspiration struck. My colleagues in IT, who I knew from the softball team, convinced me to cancel my order for an IBM Thinkpad and buy a Mac Powerbook instead. I did so and they were high-fiving one another as if we won a game against The Wall Street Journal. My great memory of that machine was a road trip I took to Key West to see Hemingway's house and then writing "Notes on South Beach" in the airport waiting for my return flight and trying not to be too distracted by an amazing sun-kissed beauty in the seat nearby.

The machine died much too soon. As did the first iPod that I received as a gift from my wife, who was then my girlfriend. I remember taking the defective iPod to the Apple store in SoHo and fighting the masses to arrive at a table where a kid wearing a black "genius" t-shirt acknowledged the product's fault and then insisted I pay $35 for its replacement. I turned around and walked out and stayed far away from Apple products, promising to not give them another dollar. But there was no alternative to iTunes and on my honeymoon I was grateful that my wife brought hers so that I could listen to David Gray and Damien Rice songs while lying poolside sipping cocktails and fantasizing about what we would have for dinner in between swims and excursions along the beach.

When the iPhone was introduced, I patiently sat on the sideline as it was not available on the Verizon network. Its arrival in 2011 coincided with my birthday and after looking at every alternative, I decided to buy one. Everything Isaacson writes in his book is true. The elegant packaging, the ease of use, the instant set up, all made for a wonderful user experience.

The device is more durable than its predecessors; however, mine developed a software glitch and when I walked into the Apple store to complain, this time on Greenwich Ave, the staff replaced it in seconds at no expense or inconvenience to me.

When news of Steve Jobs death broke, I remember it was in the evening and I was painting the room that would become my son's nursery. I quickly grabbed my iPhone and quipped on twitter that I wonder if Saint Peter would confiscate Steve's iPhone at Heaven's Gate. Then I was sad at the loss of this iconic figure, much like the day Princess Diana died, for reasons I'm not sure I even understand.

As I thought about Steve Jobs, I was anxious to read his biography as well-timed as all of his product launches and I shuddered at the thought that he might figure out a way to communicate from beyond the grave. As impossible as it sounds, all of us aware of his genius probably giggle a little uncomfortably at the possibility.

It is clear that Walter Isaacson's biography is the manifesto for Jobs' legacy. Apple shares have resumed their steady ascent in the market as many of us understand that this company is our link to him and the wonder he inspired and that Tim Cook and Jony Ives embody its philosphy wholly. Of course the possibility that his son Reed may take the reigns one day is also intriguing, or perhaps it will be Eve and I can't wait to read those headlines.

Jobs had me scratching my head recently while I was waiting for a friend at Cipriani's in Grand Central Station. I was looking up at its starry ceiling and then across at the mobs of people congregating under the famous Apple logo and the echo from his earlier ad that "those who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who usually do" spun in my head.

Katy Perry, Anna Kournikova and Scarlett Johansson's Boobs, Oh My 2011

Good grief Charlie Frown another last minute post to sum up the year when really all anyone needs is a Hanger One martini, straight up with a twitter twist in a dimly lit bar with CNBC and Bloomberg hovering like the NFL on Sunday over a plate of wings.

Reports are that Katy Perry has kicked Russell Brand to the curb. Brand says they will remain Words-With-Friends unlike Kris Humphries who couldn't get Kim Kardashian to spell, not even a little bit according to her gossipy sisters.

Speaking of biggest losers, Anna Kournikova has reportedly left the show due to reports that she has been putting on weight, albeit in the alien form of Enrique's gestating mole. Hard to figure out who the biggest winner is here, Enrique on his yacht or this child who will speak and sing in all kinds of languages while it hunts for the Roddick-Decker spawn on the clay courts of Jupiter Island.

This year was biblical with its earthquakes and tsunamis, government meltdowns and the loss of tyrants and heroes or both in the case of Steve Jobs and yet like a SEAL-team bullet through Bin Laden's head, Scarlett Johansson's nude self-portrait ends up on desktops around the world as she blesses it saying she more than anyone else knows her best angles. Perhaps 2012 will usher in a year where the world's beauties continue to get caught with their pants down and Anthony Weiner and Brett Favre will pull their Wrangler jeans up. Who knows.

I for one am sorry to see 2011 go. My wife and I moved to a wonderful drafty, old house and welcomed our son into the world, God is gracious, while our dog guards his inventory of Milk-Bones and shakes the beach-sand from his fur.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. Well put, Mr. Burns, well put.

Work's an Easy Place to Fall in Love

I sure as hell ain't no Justin Bieber, but I am fascinated that this "music video" was shot on an iPhone and published to YouTube in the time it takes to fry an egg, although my eggs tend to be more palatable.

The days of recording on a four-track and then mixing tapes to play in the car or wherever else you had a "captive" audience are shrinking in the rearview mirror.



Thanks to my son, Shane, for contributing his background vocals on this track.

PS - Happy Birthday, Mom!

The Interview That Launched Sarah Jessica Parker

Hasten back to 1987, a drizzly day in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, a young group of intrepid reporters gather in the backroom of a long since forgotten restaurant to interview an up-and-coming actress whose name was not yet known.

I received the call a week before as my name had been picked from a hat along with three others from my seventh-grade class to conduct the celebrity interview for the "Kidsday" insert of the Sunday edition of Newsday, which we were chosen to put together. The subject, a fresh-faced kid named Sarah Jessica Parker, was known for her work on the TV series Square Pegs and was then part of an ensemble cast in the TV mini-series A Year in the Life. Of course, I had not seen either of these shows.

It was an hour before the interview. The team had gathered on the train speeding toward Manhattan with our parents and the "Kidsday" editor in tow. We diligently used this time to brainstorm what questions we could ask that would both entertain and inform our readers while not alienating our subject. Once we had them scripted, we debated over the order and arrived at the following:

1) How long does it take you to do your hair? What do you use? Is it naturally curly?

2) Are you dating?

3) On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate yourself?

4) What roles do you like to portray? Good or bad?

5) In your spare time, what do you enjoy doing? What hobbies?

6) After you complete a production, does the whole cast go out for a celebration?

7) Right now are you working on a new movie?

8) Do you follow your horoscope?

9) Was becoming an actor difficult?

10) Are you related to Fess Parker (TV's Daniel Boone)?

Upon arrival, we exited Penn Station with a sense of purpose and found the designated restaurant in a timely fashion; however, our interviewee had not.

We looked at each other nervously and stirred our straws around our water glasses. Our editor used the pay phone and was able to track down Sarah Jessica Parker at a different restaurant across town with the same name. Minor mix up, we were told she was then on her way.

I recall a sense of excitement when she came in the room. She was seated at the head of the table and I to her left. I remember the obligatory small talk and then taking a cue from our editor to begin. I immediately abandoned the script and got down to brass tacks ... "Are you dating?"

My colleague, Patricia, recalled my asking Sarah Jessica Parker for a date rather than who she was dating and her telling me diplomatically, "if I were only ten years older ..." Unfazed, I hammered away until she confessed that she was dating Robert Downey Jr. I followed up by asking her what she did with her money and our editor gasped, but the team perked up in their chairs and Sarah Jessica Parker smiled and said that she and Robert had just purchased an old house in L.A. Her money was spent fixing it up.

Over the next hour, she poured on the charm and I remember thinking to myself at the conclusion of our talk, nice girl, I hope she makes it.

Years later I would find the questionnaire I had abandoned, tucked away in a desk drawer with the inscription, "to david, it really was a treat speaking w/you -- my best to you -- love Sarah jessica parker."

Our starry paths would cross again four years later when she was filming Honeymoon in Vegas. Her trailer was parked on Hester Street beside P.S. 130 where I was working as a janitor. I did not have cause to see her then, but fate would save its best laugh for last. A decade after that I would gain free admission to a night club in Manhattan as the bouncer mistook me for Berger, Carrie Bradshaw's boyfriend on Sex and the City.

(Editor's note: Special thanks to Patricia Alcamo McCulloch for sharing her pictures and recollections of the event.)

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.

And That's When the Strange Music Starts

I have had that line stuck in my head for days. It's from the book Hell's Angels written by Hunter S. Thompson.

"... and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that the fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms."

I know what he means. I scratch my head and look around the apartment -- boxes packed with books, waiting to move, wife about to burst with baby, waiting to move, dog, restless legs, waiting to move, and me, finally, waiting to move and begin the next chapter from Brooklyn to Connecticut, leaving the shattered beer bottle glass strewn on the road for the tempered bowl like concoctions filled with keys and other men's wives.

Lavender shirts and whale belts. A miserable Mets franchise and a Giants team who seems to be no more than a whimsical flirt in the back of a high-school bus.

I had never read Hunter's suicide note. Was surprised to see it posted on wikipedia. It reads:

Football season is over. No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt.

And to think they blew his ashes out of a cannon.

I Wish Liz Cho Would Come Back to the 11pm Broadcast of Eyewitness News

In the wake of Oprah's departure from the weekday line-up, WABC-7 has slated Eyewitness News First @ 4pm and moved Liz Cho there from her traditional 11pm slot.

While I am a fan of her replacement, Sade Baderinwa, Liz Cho was the glue of the 11pm broadcast, holding it together through the promotion of Sam Champion and the retirement of Scott Clark. In deference to Sade, my wife was riding with her in the back of a WBAL sat-truck that went through a red-light back in 2000 and hit another car. My wife had to go to the hospital for a minor injury. Even with this history, I wish Liz Cho would come back.

She guested last week at 11pm and the broadcast just seemed brighter in every way. I hope when Dr. Oz finally takes over the 4pm slot, Liz will resume her evening post and thereby restore my enthusiasm to go to bed at reasonable time.

James Spader Interview on 'The Office'

Reports are that James Spader is in talks with The Office to appear next season as Steve Carell's replacement in the Scranton office and then eventually Dunder Mifflin's CEO.

As we have seen, he is a powerful negotiator. No doubt these skills were honed on the set of Boston Legal with the Priceline.com Negotiator himself, William Shatner.

Here's an excerpt from his fictional interview as Robert California in The Office season finale:

"You don’t work in sales, do you? ... You see, I sit across from a man, I see his face, I see his eyes. Now, does it matter if he wants a hundred dollars of paper or a hundred million dollars of deep-sea drilling equipment? Don’t be a fool. He wants respect. He wants love. He wants to be younger. He wants to be attractive. There is no such thing as a product. Don’t ever think there is. There is only sex. Everything is sex. You understand that what I’m telling you is a universal truth, Toby?"

"Okay, I’m almost a little concerned that you might be overqualified for the position. Do you think that you are?"

"Do I look like someone who would waste my own time?"

A 'Twibute' to Mark Haines

On this Father's Day I can't help but think of Mark Haines, the CNBC anchor who passed away unexpectedly on May 25. I was watching that day when Carl Quintanilla read the announcement on-air and afterward I phoned my own dad to commiserate. Another reminder of him on this day is the obligatory tie often given as a gift to dads before they head off to the golf course or fire up the grill. You'll probably see many of these ties proudly displayed on Wall Street tomorrow. Even Google acknowledged this trend by incorporating one within its banner.

The day Mark Haines died it was as though the financial world stood still while CNBC's on-air anchors did their best to process it and put their loss in perspective. They shared stories about him and the loving nicknames he bestowed upon them. Among the many sentiments they shared were Haines' love of the Mets and the Giants, but above all, the love he had for his family. My heart goes out to his wife, son and daughter today.

Around 1pm that afternoon I saw a tweet from Jim Cramer that read, "I miss Mark Haines," which summed up my mood, so I retweeted it. Moments later I tweeted, "@CNBC @jimcramer I think all on-air anchors should wear American flag ties this Friday to salute #MarkHaines and the upcoming holiday." I then received a reply and a retweet from @the_music_gal, "the tie idea is a great one!"

The following day I wondered whether I had incepted the idea or if it had been lost amidst the outpouring of condolences. I didn't sleep well that night and was awake in time for the start of "Squawk Box" on Friday morning. I was happy to see Joe Kiernan, who clearly hadn't slept much either, wearing an American flag tie. I thought well at least Joe got it and I tweeted "@CNBC Love the Kahuna's tie! #MarkHaines lives on!" To my surprise that tweet was retweeted by @CNBC and Courtney Reagan (@CourtReagan) among others.

A few segments later, near the top of the hour, Rick Santelli and Steve Leisman went on-air in flag ties, too. I tweeted "Love the ties, gents! @CNBC Feels like #MarkHaines is smiling down. Now someone needs to take a dig at the French for good measure;)" Sometime afterward Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) tweeted, "Men reporters/anchors at CNBC wearing flag ties today in memory of Mark Haines" and included a pic of himself with The Professor. With Rovell's following, the tribute was sure to go viral.

After the opening bell, I went to Grand Central and took the Metro-North to Greenwich. While on the train, I saw a tweet from Mandy Drury (@MandyCNBC), "I'm joining the American flag tie brigade today in honour of #MarkHaines. If you have one, wear one too." I caught a glimpse of "The Call" and saw Sue Herera wearing one and later in the day Maria Bartiromo had one on during "The Closing Bell."

All on-air anchors wore American flag ties in honor of Mark Haines, who used to wear his each Friday to show his patriotism. I fired off my last tweet that day, "@MandyCNBC @CNBC You guys did great today. A fitting tribute to the legend of #MarkHaines. Proud of you all. And the French smell funny :)"

I did not have cable then, but I now understand that Mark Haines' coverage of September 11, 2001 is what he will be remembered for much the way Walter Cronkite is remembered for his coverage of President Kennedy's assasination. That said, I think the interview below with Haines on MSNBC's "Morning Joe" serves as a fitting bookend to his remarkable career.

Jim Cramer said it all, "I miss Mark Haines."

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Mark Haines, Titan of Journalism, Passes Away at Age 65

Dearly departed from the Financial Capital of the Galaxy, Mark Haines passed away at the age of 65 and an Irish wake ensued on CNBC.

Perhaps the break up of the Dream Team was too much for him to bear.

The morning sun will not shine as bright in the absence of his squawk.