in my Sunday beer
and second Bloody Mary,
I stare down indecision
with sun-protected vision
as Hollyween turns scary,
Universal CityWalk,
engage in see-through PR talk,
then off to where my lair be.
 |
| Universal CityWalk, Los Angeles |
Day 7
Crystal clear
in my Sunday beer
and second Bloody Mary,
I stare down indecision
with sun-protected vision
as Hollyween turns scary,
Universal CityWalk,
engage in see-through PR talk,
then off to where my lair be.
in my Sunday beer
and second Bloody Mary,
I stare down indecision
with sun-protected vision
as Hollyween turns scary,
Universal CityWalk,
engage in see-through PR talk,
then off to where my lair be.
Downtown LA
There's a film shoot in Pershing Square, a PA replete in urban cowboy garb checks her list as she hustles to Starbucks; meanwhile, a block away on Olive Street, there's a platoon of LAPD surrounding a shackled vagrant who is shouting, "I'm going back to the jailhouse, gonna eat three meals and a hot cock," between fits of maniacal laughter.
Serendipity
Prior to my flight from NY to LA, I scavenged an assortment of pharmaceuticals necessary for smooth travel. I popped a Xanax while waiting to board and once in my seat, I chased it with a vike. The girl next to me was young and attractive, which is contrary to the odd-smelling geriatric I usually get. I found the cabin temperature to be cool, but she stripped down to a skimpy tank-top and gently brushed my side as she shifted her position. Any attempt at speech on my part would have played out like a tranquilized Will Farrell in Old School. I drifted off, eyes closed and neurons dancing gaily to the iPod shuffle.
I arrived at LAX in a proper frame of mind. My luggage spit out promptly and my dear friend Janine was waiting outside the terminal. We whisked off in her sporty convertible to a Mexican restaurant, where I immediately ordered a margarita.
Day two in the downtown office and a colleague suggested I check out the Dresden, which was featured in the movie Swingers. As it was on the way back to the hotel, I decided to give it a shot.
I emerged from the train station at Vermont and Sunset, confronted by a busy intersection. I had no idea which direction to go, so I phoned the office. After I relayed my bearings, they confirmed I was headed the right way.
There was a film crew across the street from the Dresden with blinding lights. I eagerly took refuge inside. The place was familiar, whether from Swingers or my imagination, I'm not sure. I took a seat at the bar beside a cast of characters straight out of a Bukowski novel, but there was no bartender. I had a message on my phone from Janine, so I went outside to answer it and scout my options. The sidewalk was empty and then there was a lone passerby ... my friend, Hoda! The odds were impossible! Random! Absurd!
We crossed the street to the Tiger Lilly Lounge and ordered drinks and I was delighted to have company in a strange place. To think we lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn for years and never had occasion to bump into each other.
We hopped over to The Vermont for mojitos and afterward Hoda had to ask a patron for directions to the highway and I had to ask the bartender about the train schedule.
I went back to the hotel and it was still early, so I headed over to the City Walk where I heard music thundering down from a place called Howl at the Moon. Behold, dueling pianos complete with a house band and patrons lined up to perform a song of their choosing. I ordered a beer and this guy operating under the name of Fat Navajo worked the crowd into a frenzy with a bluesy rendition of Stormy Monday. To my left, two women were dancing like nobody's business while their friends fed them shots of tequila. Finally, they jumped on stage and shook their moneymakers to the delight of the crowd and the boys in the band.
The End.
I arrived at LAX in a proper frame of mind. My luggage spit out promptly and my dear friend Janine was waiting outside the terminal. We whisked off in her sporty convertible to a Mexican restaurant, where I immediately ordered a margarita.
Day two in the downtown office and a colleague suggested I check out the Dresden, which was featured in the movie Swingers. As it was on the way back to the hotel, I decided to give it a shot.
I emerged from the train station at Vermont and Sunset, confronted by a busy intersection. I had no idea which direction to go, so I phoned the office. After I relayed my bearings, they confirmed I was headed the right way.
There was a film crew across the street from the Dresden with blinding lights. I eagerly took refuge inside. The place was familiar, whether from Swingers or my imagination, I'm not sure. I took a seat at the bar beside a cast of characters straight out of a Bukowski novel, but there was no bartender. I had a message on my phone from Janine, so I went outside to answer it and scout my options. The sidewalk was empty and then there was a lone passerby ... my friend, Hoda! The odds were impossible! Random! Absurd!
We crossed the street to the Tiger Lilly Lounge and ordered drinks and I was delighted to have company in a strange place. To think we lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn for years and never had occasion to bump into each other.
We hopped over to The Vermont for mojitos and afterward Hoda had to ask a patron for directions to the highway and I had to ask the bartender about the train schedule.
I went back to the hotel and it was still early, so I headed over to the City Walk where I heard music thundering down from a place called Howl at the Moon. Behold, dueling pianos complete with a house band and patrons lined up to perform a song of their choosing. I ordered a beer and this guy operating under the name of Fat Navajo worked the crowd into a frenzy with a bluesy rendition of Stormy Monday. To my left, two women were dancing like nobody's business while their friends fed them shots of tequila. Finally, they jumped on stage and shook their moneymakers to the delight of the crowd and the boys in the band.
The End.
Open Mic
After not playing out for nearly a decade, I decided to go down to the open mic at Bar Four last night.
I have many romantic memories of this dimly lit lounge in Park Slope, only a few blocks from where I live. Among them is winding up there at the end of a neighborhood pub crawl, knowing it would stay open past four a.m. in spite of its moniker.
While the ambiance is still in tact, the addition of the stage has not only changed its landscape, it has heightened its vibe. One might say it feels like Williamsburg in the South Slope, but without an air of pretension, which is why I thought I'd give it a shot.
The place was crawling with talented musicians and I wondered if I was in over my head. I already made the mistake of eating a burrito beforehand and although it was tasty, it made me gassy, which is never a smart move prior to having microphones pointed at you. Of course ordering a beer to calm my nerves didn't help.
One of the musicians who played before me ripped off some delta blues reminiscent of Mississippi John Hurt and I wanted to split, just grab my gig bag and take off. After all, the biggest audience I had in the past year was my weeping fig tree and my girlfriend, who usually raises the volume on the TV when I play.
As if sensing my cold feet, the host, Tania Buziak, sought me out and reassured me that I belonged among those present. She confided in me that she still got nervous before playing, even at this, her own open mic. She said she was amazed at the remarkable growth some of the musicians have shown after a few appearances, and then, like casting a stone in a still pond, she reminded me that I was up next.
I grabbed my guitar and headed to the stage where I was greeted by the soundman, who was unaffected by the madness. I told him I can't decide whether to use the high-back chair or the stool, so he made an executive decision to go with the stool and then adjusted the equipment around me. I sat there strumming furiously trying to remember the words to these damn songs I wrote and then the monitors came up and I was off like a prom dress.
Thirty seconds in and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I dared not look at the audience, fearing they'd show me the contempt well known to fat, out of shape strippers who mercilessly solicit lap dances. After the first song, my shirt was soaked through and my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. I looked over my shoulder and winced to find my beer sitting on a ledge, way out of reach. With the adrenaline pumping, I pushed on through the second song, grateful two was the limit.
I finished to the obligatory applause of the crowd and hopped off the stool, eager to get out of Dodge. But before I packed up, the next act took the stage and I did not want to be rude by exiting during their performance. My eyes fixated on the nearby sit-down Galaga video game and a guy walked by me on his way to the bathroom and said, "good song, man."
Between sets I made my way out of the bar and contrasted the relief I felt walking home to the anxiety I felt on my way there. This thing that makes people write music and compels them to perform it is mysterious, but for every hack like me, there is a kindred soul who will one day enhance the human experience.
I'm certain there were plenty of seeds at Bar Four last night and the hosts tended to each of them like dutiful farmers. Who knows what will grow from it, but I'm pretty sure my contribution was fertilizer.
I have many romantic memories of this dimly lit lounge in Park Slope, only a few blocks from where I live. Among them is winding up there at the end of a neighborhood pub crawl, knowing it would stay open past four a.m. in spite of its moniker.
While the ambiance is still in tact, the addition of the stage has not only changed its landscape, it has heightened its vibe. One might say it feels like Williamsburg in the South Slope, but without an air of pretension, which is why I thought I'd give it a shot.
The place was crawling with talented musicians and I wondered if I was in over my head. I already made the mistake of eating a burrito beforehand and although it was tasty, it made me gassy, which is never a smart move prior to having microphones pointed at you. Of course ordering a beer to calm my nerves didn't help.
One of the musicians who played before me ripped off some delta blues reminiscent of Mississippi John Hurt and I wanted to split, just grab my gig bag and take off. After all, the biggest audience I had in the past year was my weeping fig tree and my girlfriend, who usually raises the volume on the TV when I play.
As if sensing my cold feet, the host, Tania Buziak, sought me out and reassured me that I belonged among those present. She confided in me that she still got nervous before playing, even at this, her own open mic. She said she was amazed at the remarkable growth some of the musicians have shown after a few appearances, and then, like casting a stone in a still pond, she reminded me that I was up next.
I grabbed my guitar and headed to the stage where I was greeted by the soundman, who was unaffected by the madness. I told him I can't decide whether to use the high-back chair or the stool, so he made an executive decision to go with the stool and then adjusted the equipment around me. I sat there strumming furiously trying to remember the words to these damn songs I wrote and then the monitors came up and I was off like a prom dress.
Thirty seconds in and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I dared not look at the audience, fearing they'd show me the contempt well known to fat, out of shape strippers who mercilessly solicit lap dances. After the first song, my shirt was soaked through and my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. I looked over my shoulder and winced to find my beer sitting on a ledge, way out of reach. With the adrenaline pumping, I pushed on through the second song, grateful two was the limit.
I finished to the obligatory applause of the crowd and hopped off the stool, eager to get out of Dodge. But before I packed up, the next act took the stage and I did not want to be rude by exiting during their performance. My eyes fixated on the nearby sit-down Galaga video game and a guy walked by me on his way to the bathroom and said, "good song, man."
Between sets I made my way out of the bar and contrasted the relief I felt walking home to the anxiety I felt on my way there. This thing that makes people write music and compels them to perform it is mysterious, but for every hack like me, there is a kindred soul who will one day enhance the human experience.
I'm certain there were plenty of seeds at Bar Four last night and the hosts tended to each of them like dutiful farmers. Who knows what will grow from it, but I'm pretty sure my contribution was fertilizer.
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.
Bugs Bug Me
Bugs, bugs everywhere! They have descended on the city like a tempest, a jihad against exposed flesh. Where are the seagulls? These lazy pigeons ain't doing shit.
These pests are spawning faster than gremlins in a bathtub, even at the office where I work. It's unsettling when they land on the computer screen as nonchalantly as they did the black and white TV I watched growing up. They're in the bathrooms, the hallways, and the elevators. I got bit on the back of the thigh and on the Achilles tendon this morning. Vicious thugs -- it's hard to scratch the Achilles.
One would expect bugs to be in the park, but the other day this one landed on my shoulder and it was as big as a squirrel. I can't believe the darn thing didn't think I'd notice it, but I did and then I freaked out in front of these kids who were on a nearby nature expedition.
Is Hitchcock having fun with us? Is this some new-fangled terrorist plot? Where did all these bugs come from? Canada? How did they get so mean? Can we stop them? There's one crawling up my shin right now ... bugger.
I suppose the insect-repellent stocks will do well this quarter. I plan to douse myself in it and smoke big stinky cigars among a pyre of citranella candles until the first frost.
It's unsettling how many times this season I've heard someone say "wow, your blood must be sweet" or "they must really like you." And the affliction is never more apparent than on those poor girls who go to work in sleeveless shirts with red bumps lining there arms like heroin tracks. Some say bed bugs, some say it's a late season hatch, I say it's bloody Armageddon.
Is it tied to a meteorological event, a hurricane wind, or global warming? No suitable explanation has come forth, no formal investigation has been conducted. No one wants to run the risk of being bitten again, especially when they're already bugging about the war on oil and another September approaching.
Just now, one flew over my banker's lamp.
These pests are spawning faster than gremlins in a bathtub, even at the office where I work. It's unsettling when they land on the computer screen as nonchalantly as they did the black and white TV I watched growing up. They're in the bathrooms, the hallways, and the elevators. I got bit on the back of the thigh and on the Achilles tendon this morning. Vicious thugs -- it's hard to scratch the Achilles.
One would expect bugs to be in the park, but the other day this one landed on my shoulder and it was as big as a squirrel. I can't believe the darn thing didn't think I'd notice it, but I did and then I freaked out in front of these kids who were on a nearby nature expedition.
Is Hitchcock having fun with us? Is this some new-fangled terrorist plot? Where did all these bugs come from? Canada? How did they get so mean? Can we stop them? There's one crawling up my shin right now ... bugger.
I suppose the insect-repellent stocks will do well this quarter. I plan to douse myself in it and smoke big stinky cigars among a pyre of citranella candles until the first frost.
It's unsettling how many times this season I've heard someone say "wow, your blood must be sweet" or "they must really like you." And the affliction is never more apparent than on those poor girls who go to work in sleeveless shirts with red bumps lining there arms like heroin tracks. Some say bed bugs, some say it's a late season hatch, I say it's bloody Armageddon.
Is it tied to a meteorological event, a hurricane wind, or global warming? No suitable explanation has come forth, no formal investigation has been conducted. No one wants to run the risk of being bitten again, especially when they're already bugging about the war on oil and another September approaching.
Just now, one flew over my banker's lamp.
Sugar in My Coffee
My hangover remedy of late is an everything bagel toasted with butter, a fruit punch Gatorade(R) and an iced coffee, black, no sugar. Can't stand sugar in my coffee, not sure why, just doesn't jive.
Had a rough go last week, where the old I'll-go-out-for-a-beer led to an impromptu vodka taste test after brief interludes with tequila, whiskey and the Captain.
Next morning, I get to a bagel store for the appropriate prescription. Standing on the sweaty subway platform, I take a sip of the sweet, sandy solution, failing to notice the sugary beach at the bottom of the container. I shake it up hoping the ice will dilute the syrup, but it's no use. If not for the two bucks spent on the large cup, I would have dumped it and cut my losses.
Damn sunk costs. Damn language barrier between me and the proprietor. Damn glad I didn't forget the aspirin.
Had a rough go last week, where the old I'll-go-out-for-a-beer led to an impromptu vodka taste test after brief interludes with tequila, whiskey and the Captain.
Next morning, I get to a bagel store for the appropriate prescription. Standing on the sweaty subway platform, I take a sip of the sweet, sandy solution, failing to notice the sugary beach at the bottom of the container. I shake it up hoping the ice will dilute the syrup, but it's no use. If not for the two bucks spent on the large cup, I would have dumped it and cut my losses.
Damn sunk costs. Damn language barrier between me and the proprietor. Damn glad I didn't forget the aspirin.
No Luck So Far
Lately I've been thinking
I spend too much time drinking,
winking at my reflection
staring back from the bar,
My dreams and chances shrinking,
involuntary like my blinking,
sinking all those hopes
of one day being a big star,
At least when I'm drinking
I can cloud up this thinking,
winking at a woman sitting
across from the bar,
It goes to show that I've
had no luck so far.
I spend too much time drinking,
winking at my reflection
staring back from the bar,
My dreams and chances shrinking,
involuntary like my blinking,
sinking all those hopes
of one day being a big star,
At least when I'm drinking
I can cloud up this thinking,
winking at a woman sitting
across from the bar,
It goes to show that I've
had no luck so far.
Midsummer Classic
In what can only be described as a bizarre coincidence, I, too, am off during the All-Star break. Time to ruminate.
Admittedly, I am surprised with how well the New York Mets are playing. Sure we dropped three up in Boston, but that was to appease the gods, who so mercilessly ripped victory from the Red Sox in 1986. There was a team reunion before the first game. Bill Buckner was invited, but decided not to go; meanwhile, Roger Clemens took the mound in Houston for his first start of the season, 20 years after the Mets won and Orosco flipped out like a kid cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
The '86 Mets will reunite later this year at Shea. It will be good to see the old gang, some out on parole. I wonder if Keith and Darryl will have a go at one another for old times sake. I look forward to seeing Davey Johnson, who was criticized for being too technical when reporters learned he was using a computer to set his line-up, but when you consider that HoJo, Dykstra, Teufel, and Kevin Mitchell were essentially platoon players, who always seemed to get big hits at clutch times, you get the feeling Davey knew what he was doing. Of course, he still can't figure out Tetris.
Back to the '06 Mets. Randolph's greatest feat this season has been keeping Wright and Reyes cool. I mean those kids are super cool. Think about it, 23 years old, voted to the All-Star team, 12.5 game lead in the East ... At 23, I was playing baseball ... RBI Baseball on a beat-up Nintendo in the valet booth of the Crest Hollow Country Club, which brings up another coincidence: The Detroit Tigers, a good team in RBI Baseball, are in first place now, too.
Wright, Reyes, Beltran, Lo Duca, Martinez and Glavine are certainly having big years and are worthy of comparison to the '86 team in that they have a confluence of veterans who know how to play the game and explosive young players who can ignite the stadium and get fans to forget about how many beers they had and how many All-Star ballots they filled out.
This Mets team has a personality emblematic of its skipper, cool, calm, and collected, but I'd like to see it develop the swagger its predecessors had. Looking back at the Red Sox series, when Varitek stuck his shin guard in Reyes' chest much the way Zindane speared his opponent at the end of the World Cup, Reyes sat on the ground while the rest of the team watched with baited breath. I thought of the time when Ray Knight punched Eric Davis for sliding into third a bit high in a game in Cincinnati. Knight was like a crazed dog. If only Reyes got up and smashed Varitek like Michael Barrett did A.J. Pierzynski earlier this year, even Alex Rodriguez would feel vindicated.
And while we're on the subject of the other All-Star third baseman in New York, let me ask you this: Two outs, runners in scoring position, who do you want at the plate? The guy with the blistering .380 avg. in such situations, or the one hitting more than 100 points lower.
Yeah Wright ...
Admittedly, I am surprised with how well the New York Mets are playing. Sure we dropped three up in Boston, but that was to appease the gods, who so mercilessly ripped victory from the Red Sox in 1986. There was a team reunion before the first game. Bill Buckner was invited, but decided not to go; meanwhile, Roger Clemens took the mound in Houston for his first start of the season, 20 years after the Mets won and Orosco flipped out like a kid cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
The '86 Mets will reunite later this year at Shea. It will be good to see the old gang, some out on parole. I wonder if Keith and Darryl will have a go at one another for old times sake. I look forward to seeing Davey Johnson, who was criticized for being too technical when reporters learned he was using a computer to set his line-up, but when you consider that HoJo, Dykstra, Teufel, and Kevin Mitchell were essentially platoon players, who always seemed to get big hits at clutch times, you get the feeling Davey knew what he was doing. Of course, he still can't figure out Tetris.
Back to the '06 Mets. Randolph's greatest feat this season has been keeping Wright and Reyes cool. I mean those kids are super cool. Think about it, 23 years old, voted to the All-Star team, 12.5 game lead in the East ... At 23, I was playing baseball ... RBI Baseball on a beat-up Nintendo in the valet booth of the Crest Hollow Country Club, which brings up another coincidence: The Detroit Tigers, a good team in RBI Baseball, are in first place now, too.Wright, Reyes, Beltran, Lo Duca, Martinez and Glavine are certainly having big years and are worthy of comparison to the '86 team in that they have a confluence of veterans who know how to play the game and explosive young players who can ignite the stadium and get fans to forget about how many beers they had and how many All-Star ballots they filled out.
This Mets team has a personality emblematic of its skipper, cool, calm, and collected, but I'd like to see it develop the swagger its predecessors had. Looking back at the Red Sox series, when Varitek stuck his shin guard in Reyes' chest much the way Zindane speared his opponent at the end of the World Cup, Reyes sat on the ground while the rest of the team watched with baited breath. I thought of the time when Ray Knight punched Eric Davis for sliding into third a bit high in a game in Cincinnati. Knight was like a crazed dog. If only Reyes got up and smashed Varitek like Michael Barrett did A.J. Pierzynski earlier this year, even Alex Rodriguez would feel vindicated.And while we're on the subject of the other All-Star third baseman in New York, let me ask you this: Two outs, runners in scoring position, who do you want at the plate? The guy with the blistering .380 avg. in such situations, or the one hitting more than 100 points lower.
Yeah Wright ...
The Hello Deli Saga
There have been many highlights during my career at PR Newswire, perhaps none more notable than getting a sandwich named after the company at Hello Deli.
The video would have you believe that I pleasantly politicked to have a local merchant pay homage to our place of employ, but in reality the idea was first presented to Rupert Jee in passing by my colleague Steve (right). While the chronology cited in the video is accurate, the catalyst was conveniently omitted.
One day, Steve, Simon and I went in and placed our orders as usual. It was a sunny afternoon and we were in good spirits. Simon was making the usual small talk with Rupert when a CBS camera crew barged in. A crusty old security guard started yelling, "Everybody get the f--k out." Simon acknowledged the guy and told him we would leave as soon as our food was ready. I could see Rupert tense up as his partner May scrambled to get our order together. Then the guy yelled, "What are you a wise guy? If you don't get out, I'll throw you out."
After what seemed like an eternity, Rupert handed the food to Simon and he and Steve left. On my way out, I stopped and said to the guy, "You ain't the only one working today, you gotta ruin my lunch." I was only a few steps from the door when he burst outside screaming, "You wanna go, let's go." His face was bright red and he nearly fell down trying to take off his jacket. His cell phone went flying into the middle of the street, shattering into pieces. Spit flew from his mouth like a rabid dog. I stood my ground, thinking if any got on me, I would strike. Then the camera crew intervened, fearful their co-worker would have a heart attack.
A patrolman who was on the corner of Broadway came over to investigate. Eyewitnesses told him that this crazy guy came out of the deli threatening to fight me. The cop gave me a bemused look and said, "Do you care about this?"
"Not really."
"Do you wanna just walk away?"
"Sure," I said.
When we returned to the office, Simon (left) recounted the episode in front of a captive lunchroom audience. Some listeners told me I should have let the guy hit me and sued CBS. Others were incredulous that Letterman would employ someone so unprofessional. Steve decided to write a letter to the producers to let them know the potential liability they had on their hands. What if we were tourists for goodness sake.
The next day, we received a package from Barbara Gaines, the executive producer of the Late Show. In it were three heather gray t-shirts and a note that read, "I know t-shirts are no consolation -- Thank you for writing!" Simon was incensed at the cheap bribe and refused to take it, so we gave them away to our co-workers, thinking the case was closed. Then one of the editors on the floor said he had May from Hello Deli on the phone for me. She asked that we come by as she and Rupert were really upset by what happened.
We went over on our break and Rupert and May apologized for the incident. They offered us lunch on the house for our trouble. Then Rupert told us that the security guard, Bill, was totally out of line and it had gotten him in a lot of trouble with his boss. Not that we had much sympathy, but then Rupert said Bill was a retired city cop and had protected him over the years when Letterman would send him out to harass the public. Just then, in a bizarre coincidence, Bill walked in to get a pack of cigarettes. He looked at me, Simon and Steve and said, "You guys can say whatever you want," before dashing out.
Rupert asked me to smooth the situation over and get Bill off the hook because he owed it to him. There were two new sandwiches on the counter with paper plates as their temporary signs. I said I would take care of it if Rupert named one of the sandwiches on behalf of PRN, which he did, and the other became the Regis Philbin. (Photo: Bill standing on the far right outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater.)
The video would have you believe that I pleasantly politicked to have a local merchant pay homage to our place of employ, but in reality the idea was first presented to Rupert Jee in passing by my colleague Steve (right). While the chronology cited in the video is accurate, the catalyst was conveniently omitted. One day, Steve, Simon and I went in and placed our orders as usual. It was a sunny afternoon and we were in good spirits. Simon was making the usual small talk with Rupert when a CBS camera crew barged in. A crusty old security guard started yelling, "Everybody get the f--k out." Simon acknowledged the guy and told him we would leave as soon as our food was ready. I could see Rupert tense up as his partner May scrambled to get our order together. Then the guy yelled, "What are you a wise guy? If you don't get out, I'll throw you out."
After what seemed like an eternity, Rupert handed the food to Simon and he and Steve left. On my way out, I stopped and said to the guy, "You ain't the only one working today, you gotta ruin my lunch." I was only a few steps from the door when he burst outside screaming, "You wanna go, let's go." His face was bright red and he nearly fell down trying to take off his jacket. His cell phone went flying into the middle of the street, shattering into pieces. Spit flew from his mouth like a rabid dog. I stood my ground, thinking if any got on me, I would strike. Then the camera crew intervened, fearful their co-worker would have a heart attack.
A patrolman who was on the corner of Broadway came over to investigate. Eyewitnesses told him that this crazy guy came out of the deli threatening to fight me. The cop gave me a bemused look and said, "Do you care about this?"
"Not really."
"Do you wanna just walk away?"
"Sure," I said.
When we returned to the office, Simon (left) recounted the episode in front of a captive lunchroom audience. Some listeners told me I should have let the guy hit me and sued CBS. Others were incredulous that Letterman would employ someone so unprofessional. Steve decided to write a letter to the producers to let them know the potential liability they had on their hands. What if we were tourists for goodness sake.The next day, we received a package from Barbara Gaines, the executive producer of the Late Show. In it were three heather gray t-shirts and a note that read, "I know t-shirts are no consolation -- Thank you for writing!" Simon was incensed at the cheap bribe and refused to take it, so we gave them away to our co-workers, thinking the case was closed. Then one of the editors on the floor said he had May from Hello Deli on the phone for me. She asked that we come by as she and Rupert were really upset by what happened.
We went over on our break and Rupert and May apologized for the incident. They offered us lunch on the house for our trouble. Then Rupert told us that the security guard, Bill, was totally out of line and it had gotten him in a lot of trouble with his boss. Not that we had much sympathy, but then Rupert said Bill was a retired city cop and had protected him over the years when Letterman would send him out to harass the public. Just then, in a bizarre coincidence, Bill walked in to get a pack of cigarettes. He looked at me, Simon and Steve and said, "You guys can say whatever you want," before dashing out.
Rupert asked me to smooth the situation over and get Bill off the hook because he owed it to him. There were two new sandwiches on the counter with paper plates as their temporary signs. I said I would take care of it if Rupert named one of the sandwiches on behalf of PRN, which he did, and the other became the Regis Philbin. (Photo: Bill standing on the far right outside of the Ed Sullivan Theater.)
Living With Crohn's Disease
About this time last year I tried to put together an article for Reader's Digest on Crohn's disease, but the editor I was working with eventually turned it down because it wasn't a life-and-death illness. Having lived with it for 18 years, I can tell you it sure feels that way sometimes.
What is Crohn's disease?
It's a chronic, gastrointestinal disorder caused by an overactive immune system that attacks the harmless bacteria in the digestive tract causing inflammation in its deepest layers. It was named after Dr. Burrill Crohn, who with his colleagues, Dr. Leon Ginzburg and Dr. Gordon D. Oppenheimer, published a paper about the illness in 1932.
Dr. Crohn's old office is still in use on Manhattan's east side. I was there for an upper G.I. series, drinking some chalky-white barium, when a doctor with a God-awful toupee told me I was on hallowed ground. I tried to imagine how the place might have looked 70 years ago when Dr. Crohn was in his prime, but the technician kept barking orders at me while he took x-rays.
How is it diagnosed?
Dr. Timothy Sentongo, a gastroenterologist at Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago, says the process can take up to three weeks sometimes before a diagnosis is made. Tests need to be done and the patient's history examined for stomach pain and decreased appetite, which can lead to significant weight loss.
Also, Dr. Mary Harris at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore says, "Common symptoms such as abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, diarrhea, and fever can appear to be appendicitis at first."
Who does it affect?
According to the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America (www.ccfa.org), more than 500,000 people have the disease in the U.S., but you wouldn't know it. "People are reluctant to talk about stomach pain and diarrhea with others who are unaffected, but the disease is very common," says Dr. Joseph Sellin, Director of the University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston Inflammatory Bowel Disease Center.
There does seem to be a higher concentration of Crohn's in the Northeast, but incidences have been on the rise across the country in recent years.
How's it treated?
"Each patient's Crohn's is his or her own. The goal of treatment is to find the magic combination of drugs to maximize the anti-inflammatory effect with minimal side effects, but what works for one patient may not work for another," says Dr. Sellin.
Since the time of my diagnosis, the drugs used to treat Crohn's have improved somewhat. For example, I was prescribed the steroid Entocort EC during my last flare up, which I found to be as helpful as Prednisone with less unwanted stuff, namely irritability and the dreaded moon-face. The reason for this is that Entocort is absorbed more fully in the bowel, where Prednisone affects the whole body.
Dr. Barry Jaffin of Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York (my current doctor) is optimistic about the future of treatments, saying that as we learn more about the cascade of inflammation, more potent treatments will be developed, ones that alter the natural history of the disease, which can provide patients with long-term remission.
Remicade is an intravenous therapy that is relatively new to the scene. While I have not tried it, yet, I've heard good things from people who have.
Other aspects to consider:
Dr. Jaffin says while Crohn's is not caused by stress, it can increase the volatility of the disease, so patients need to develop effective ways of managing it in their lives.
Diet varies case by case. I'm reminded of a simple philosophy I learned from my childhood gastroenterologist, Dr. Jeremiah Levine of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. When I complained that every time I ate Chinese beef and broccoli, I got a terrible pain in my stomach, he told me to order something else next time.
How bout a cure?
While there is no cure for Crohn's, there have been positive developments in research, particularly genealogy, which may point to the possibility that Crohn's is hereditary.
"We know the disease has three factors: genetics, environment and a trigger in the immune system," says Dr. Sentongo.
"It's like a domino effect, we understand why four, five and six fall over, but we still don't know what tipped the first one," says Dr. Harris.
In the meantime:
"Try not to consider yourself a person with a disease. Live your life," says Dr. Jaffin.
While fatigue, pain, and frequent bathroom trips are not the easiest obstacles to overcome, they are manageable with treatment and a good frame of mind. The editor at Reader's Digest had a point, Crohn's is not a matter of life and death, so on those tough days I remind myself that what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.
What is Crohn's disease?
It's a chronic, gastrointestinal disorder caused by an overactive immune system that attacks the harmless bacteria in the digestive tract causing inflammation in its deepest layers. It was named after Dr. Burrill Crohn, who with his colleagues, Dr. Leon Ginzburg and Dr. Gordon D. Oppenheimer, published a paper about the illness in 1932.
Dr. Crohn's old office is still in use on Manhattan's east side. I was there for an upper G.I. series, drinking some chalky-white barium, when a doctor with a God-awful toupee told me I was on hallowed ground. I tried to imagine how the place might have looked 70 years ago when Dr. Crohn was in his prime, but the technician kept barking orders at me while he took x-rays.
How is it diagnosed?
Dr. Timothy Sentongo, a gastroenterologist at Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago, says the process can take up to three weeks sometimes before a diagnosis is made. Tests need to be done and the patient's history examined for stomach pain and decreased appetite, which can lead to significant weight loss.
Also, Dr. Mary Harris at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore says, "Common symptoms such as abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, diarrhea, and fever can appear to be appendicitis at first."
Who does it affect?
According to the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America (www.ccfa.org), more than 500,000 people have the disease in the U.S., but you wouldn't know it. "People are reluctant to talk about stomach pain and diarrhea with others who are unaffected, but the disease is very common," says Dr. Joseph Sellin, Director of the University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston Inflammatory Bowel Disease Center.
There does seem to be a higher concentration of Crohn's in the Northeast, but incidences have been on the rise across the country in recent years.
How's it treated?
"Each patient's Crohn's is his or her own. The goal of treatment is to find the magic combination of drugs to maximize the anti-inflammatory effect with minimal side effects, but what works for one patient may not work for another," says Dr. Sellin.
Since the time of my diagnosis, the drugs used to treat Crohn's have improved somewhat. For example, I was prescribed the steroid Entocort EC during my last flare up, which I found to be as helpful as Prednisone with less unwanted stuff, namely irritability and the dreaded moon-face. The reason for this is that Entocort is absorbed more fully in the bowel, where Prednisone affects the whole body.
Dr. Barry Jaffin of Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York (my current doctor) is optimistic about the future of treatments, saying that as we learn more about the cascade of inflammation, more potent treatments will be developed, ones that alter the natural history of the disease, which can provide patients with long-term remission.
Remicade is an intravenous therapy that is relatively new to the scene. While I have not tried it, yet, I've heard good things from people who have.
Other aspects to consider:
Dr. Jaffin says while Crohn's is not caused by stress, it can increase the volatility of the disease, so patients need to develop effective ways of managing it in their lives.
Diet varies case by case. I'm reminded of a simple philosophy I learned from my childhood gastroenterologist, Dr. Jeremiah Levine of Long Island Jewish Medical Center. When I complained that every time I ate Chinese beef and broccoli, I got a terrible pain in my stomach, he told me to order something else next time.
How bout a cure?
While there is no cure for Crohn's, there have been positive developments in research, particularly genealogy, which may point to the possibility that Crohn's is hereditary.
"We know the disease has three factors: genetics, environment and a trigger in the immune system," says Dr. Sentongo.
"It's like a domino effect, we understand why four, five and six fall over, but we still don't know what tipped the first one," says Dr. Harris.
In the meantime:
"Try not to consider yourself a person with a disease. Live your life," says Dr. Jaffin.
While fatigue, pain, and frequent bathroom trips are not the easiest obstacles to overcome, they are manageable with treatment and a good frame of mind. The editor at Reader's Digest had a point, Crohn's is not a matter of life and death, so on those tough days I remind myself that what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.
The Girl You Wanted and Never Got Because You're a Loser
In fourth grade, I was playing C.Y.O. basketball in a small gym on a weekday night. My coach's daughter Cindy, who was my age, was hanging upside down on the chin-up bar when her shirt fell over her head. Of course she wasn't wearing a bra, she didn't have boobs then, but after she corrected herself, her face was flush with embarrassment. That moment began a life-long obsession I had with her. One so bad I played the bass clarinet in band to sit near the flutists and be closer to her. One so bad I dropped out of the honors program to increase my chances of getting into one of her classes.
In eighth grade, I made the school basketball team, which was significant because Cindy played volleyball and we shared the same bus home after practice. I used to make her laugh and when I was scolded and moved to the front of the bus for "causing a ruckus," she came up and sat beside me. I had her all to myself for that one fleeting moment.
Don't get me wrong, I was obsessed with basketball, too. I dreamt of making the NBA, where I knew in my heart I could play against Larry, Magic, and Michael. And I knew if I succeeded, Cindy would go for me, but I could not overcome my short, slow white ass and six-inch vertical.
Well, I got part of the equation right.
Cindy was an All-American soccer player, who went to school on a scholarship where she met her future husband, Raja Bell, who had a breakout season this year playing alongside MVP Steve Nash on the Phoenix Suns. He's a handsome man, even got some beefcake shots up on his Web site, and, of course, his single season salary is worth more than the sum of my career. You'd think I'd be green with envy watching him stick the J against Kobe in the playoffs, but man, I'm happy for him. A fan posted this behind-the-scenes picture of Raja and Cindy on his site and said they were a down-to-earth couple with a good sense of humor. I don't doubt it. (BTW clown, it's Cindy, not Sindy.)
Last time I saw Cindy was at our 10-year high-school reunion about four years ago, and I was actually hoping there might still be a chance. Then I saw her ensconced in bling that served like a "Beware of Dog" sign on a ritzy piece of property. I heeded its warning.
If only I had made the NBA. If only I had cashed in on my dreams. If only I wasn't so horribly common and usual, but I can't say things like that less I offend the few people in this world who believe me when I tell them "I'm Rick James, bitch!"
(Like Jake LaMotta.) I don't need no diamond rings and wild hoopster dreams. I got me a girl prettier than the magnolia trees swaying in the Prospect Park breeze. I don't need no hardwood millionaire pose, I got Google posting up my prose. And I don't need to school Kobe Bryant like a puppy dog on a fire hydrant. I play with all-stars I need not mention, although you may recognize some from the last Blogger convention.
In eighth grade, I made the school basketball team, which was significant because Cindy played volleyball and we shared the same bus home after practice. I used to make her laugh and when I was scolded and moved to the front of the bus for "causing a ruckus," she came up and sat beside me. I had her all to myself for that one fleeting moment.
Don't get me wrong, I was obsessed with basketball, too. I dreamt of making the NBA, where I knew in my heart I could play against Larry, Magic, and Michael. And I knew if I succeeded, Cindy would go for me, but I could not overcome my short, slow white ass and six-inch vertical.
Well, I got part of the equation right.
Cindy was an All-American soccer player, who went to school on a scholarship where she met her future husband, Raja Bell, who had a breakout season this year playing alongside MVP Steve Nash on the Phoenix Suns. He's a handsome man, even got some beefcake shots up on his Web site, and, of course, his single season salary is worth more than the sum of my career. You'd think I'd be green with envy watching him stick the J against Kobe in the playoffs, but man, I'm happy for him. A fan posted this behind-the-scenes picture of Raja and Cindy on his site and said they were a down-to-earth couple with a good sense of humor. I don't doubt it. (BTW clown, it's Cindy, not Sindy.)Last time I saw Cindy was at our 10-year high-school reunion about four years ago, and I was actually hoping there might still be a chance. Then I saw her ensconced in bling that served like a "Beware of Dog" sign on a ritzy piece of property. I heeded its warning.
If only I had made the NBA. If only I had cashed in on my dreams. If only I wasn't so horribly common and usual, but I can't say things like that less I offend the few people in this world who believe me when I tell them "I'm Rick James, bitch!"
(Like Jake LaMotta.) I don't need no diamond rings and wild hoopster dreams. I got me a girl prettier than the magnolia trees swaying in the Prospect Park breeze. I don't need no hardwood millionaire pose, I got Google posting up my prose. And I don't need to school Kobe Bryant like a puppy dog on a fire hydrant. I play with all-stars I need not mention, although you may recognize some from the last Blogger convention.
Morrison Right! People Are Strange
Back when I was a janitor at the junior high school under the Manhattan Bridge, my morning routine involved sweeping the perimeter of the building. As it was a big job, I split it up with Willy, who worked the overnight shift.
Willy wore a beat-up blue cap, an olive-drab army jacket, and kept a .38 revolver tucked in his jeans. I asked him why he carried a gun and he said, "Shit, in this town, you never know."
We would start at the main entrance, across from the highly-surveiled beauty salon, which Willy believed was a front for the Chinese mob. He'd go one way and I the other.
The yard was filled with ancient Chinese people performing tai chi every morning. They were waiting for their grandchildren to go to school, so they could go home and rest, sharing the very same bed.
One morning the tranquility was broken by a desperate crack whore, who told me she would suck my dick for ten bucks. She was no more than a skeleton with paint on its bones and she had sores around her mouth. I was repulsed, but I gave her two dollars out of pity.
The next day, Willy and I went about our routine. We usually met at the halfway point, but there was no sign of him. I waited a bit, then I walked around the corner. His bucket and broom were against the building, near a closet, which contained garbage bags, spare brooms, and a slap sink.
On cue, the door opened and the crack whore came out. Willy followed behind her, tucking in his shirt and adjusting the revolver in the small of his back. He walked over to me and said, "That bitch wanted ten bucks to suck my dick."
"Oh yeah. Did you take her up on it?" I said.
"Hell no! I gave her five," Willy said as he flashed his toothless smile.
As usual, we got a cup of coffee from the donut shop around the corner and went down to the locker room for a break. Neither one of us had much to say.
Willy wore a beat-up blue cap, an olive-drab army jacket, and kept a .38 revolver tucked in his jeans. I asked him why he carried a gun and he said, "Shit, in this town, you never know."
We would start at the main entrance, across from the highly-surveiled beauty salon, which Willy believed was a front for the Chinese mob. He'd go one way and I the other.
The yard was filled with ancient Chinese people performing tai chi every morning. They were waiting for their grandchildren to go to school, so they could go home and rest, sharing the very same bed.
One morning the tranquility was broken by a desperate crack whore, who told me she would suck my dick for ten bucks. She was no more than a skeleton with paint on its bones and she had sores around her mouth. I was repulsed, but I gave her two dollars out of pity.
The next day, Willy and I went about our routine. We usually met at the halfway point, but there was no sign of him. I waited a bit, then I walked around the corner. His bucket and broom were against the building, near a closet, which contained garbage bags, spare brooms, and a slap sink.
On cue, the door opened and the crack whore came out. Willy followed behind her, tucking in his shirt and adjusting the revolver in the small of his back. He walked over to me and said, "That bitch wanted ten bucks to suck my dick."
"Oh yeah. Did you take her up on it?" I said.
"Hell no! I gave her five," Willy said as he flashed his toothless smile.
As usual, we got a cup of coffee from the donut shop around the corner and went down to the locker room for a break. Neither one of us had much to say.
Women Who Like Sitting on Beards
Some poor soul was searching for "women who like sitting on beards" and Google turned up The Land of Men With Flaming Orange Beards and this blog.
I can't imagine the seeker of such women would be satisfied with that Web yield, so I clicked on Images, but only found a picture of an old Land Rover and a logo for The Punjabees.
Groups seemed promising with its first entry, "Twenty-five things you'll never hear a woman say ..." In the comments, a man gave examples of things you'd never hear him say like "How are you on beards? (Well ... actually ... how are you on men having beards? Not how are you when you're sitting on beards.)"
News presented something about "bearded ladies live" at which point I gave up the ghost. The search for women who like sitting on beards is best left to the more intrepid Internet explorers.
In other news, March Madness.
I can't imagine the seeker of such women would be satisfied with that Web yield, so I clicked on Images, but only found a picture of an old Land Rover and a logo for The Punjabees.
Groups seemed promising with its first entry, "Twenty-five things you'll never hear a woman say ..." In the comments, a man gave examples of things you'd never hear him say like "How are you on beards? (Well ... actually ... how are you on men having beards? Not how are you when you're sitting on beards.)"
News presented something about "bearded ladies live" at which point I gave up the ghost. The search for women who like sitting on beards is best left to the more intrepid Internet explorers.
In other news, March Madness.
Happy St.Patrick's Day
Long ago there was a wish
For a day to be called Irish
It would happen each year
The drinking of beer
In amounts that could drown a fish.
For a day to be called Irish
It would happen each year
The drinking of beer
In amounts that could drown a fish.
 |
| The Old Bushmills Distillery, Northern Ireland. |
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