Okay, it was a bad day at work and I’ve got a fucking headache and don’t really feel like going anywhere. That’s the beauty of MAD versus last year’s 365 blog, this year I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to. But I still vow to have a new post for all of you who follow the MAD blog, because I appreciate you taking the time to check in everyday. And so tonight will be a return trip to my old friend that I visit when I don’t feel like venturing out too far—Penn Station.
Okay, here we are at the by now familiar Penn Station. Many a night has started here.
A calm escalator. Thank God for that, I've got an aching head from work and jangled nerves.
And speaking of jangled nerves and an aching head, I know right where I'm going tonight...
Papaya Dog! Even though they were rated number two in the Papaya Wars, they've got...
BEER!
And here's my spot in the Papaya Dog. I love it in here, a nice oasis away from the madness of the world. And the beer's are huge in here!
Gumby's all settled in...
The view from where I'm perched.
The hot dog is gone and now it's time for...napkin art!
My body of work and my third beer. The headache is gone, time to go home and pass the fuck out.
An empty escalator signals the way into the night. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Penn Station 7th & 8th Ave. Between 31st & 33rd St. 212-630-6401
Today while getting some lunch to go in a deli, I heard the song, “Be Bop A Lula” by John Lennon playing on the radio that was perched on a shelf behind the counter. That’s from his “Rock ‘n’ Roll” album and I’ve always liked his version. I don’t believe it was issued as a single and I don’t think I’ve heard it anywhere else but in my apartment. It was quite a happy surprise and I stayed and listened to it even after I had paid for my lunch. It made me think about the day after he was shot, right here in New York, in front of his apartment building, The Dakota. He was shot on December 8th, 1980, a Monday night. I didn’t realize he had been killed till the next Tuesday morning. I woke up that morning and was hungover and still feeling a little trippy. I had taken mescaline the night before and was feeling the after-effect from that and I think I had drank about seventeen beers. I had taken it right after work and then went to a lot of bars and got looped early. I don’t know why I had gone off on such a tear, but back in those days, I didn’t need much of an excuse.
I lived in a small, one bedroom apartment on the north side of Peoria in those days. I remember sitting up that morning and holding my aching noggin’ in my hands. My brain felt like a melted marshmallow that had been dipped in a vat of horse hair. I slowly got up and made my way to the kitchen, popped the top off of a diet Coke and chugged it. I felt a little bit better.
After throwing the can in the trash I made my way to the bathroom and was piecing my night together and trying to remember if I had to call anyone to apologize to them. Back in those days it seems I was always apologizing to someone for something I had done the night before. Then I remembered the weird dream I had had. I was brushing my teeth while thinking about it. The dream was kind of fuzzy, but I remembered that my friend Moon had called me in it and he had told me that John Lennon was dead. He said someone had shot him. I laughed to myself and thought: “Jesus, what a weird dream. Serves you right for going to bed with a headful of mescaline.” Then I showered, shaved and got dressed. I’m sure sometime in the process I farted, but why would you want to know that? The fart probably smelled like a taco gone bad, mine often do, but again, why should I share that information with you? Why drag this story down in the gutter? But I digress.
I found myself back in the kitchen drinking more diet Coke. I walked out into the main room and turned on the portable TV set that sat right next to my turntable on top of an old brown wooden table. I flipped the channel to WEEK, channel 25 to watch a bit of the Today Show before I went to work.
I turned up the volume and I can’t remember who said the following because I think I went into a bit of a state of shock: “New York and the world is mourning the loss of musician John Lennon who was shot to death outside of the Dakota building where he lived with his wife Yoko Ono and their son Sean.” I dropped my diet Coke and my hand flew up to my mouth. Was this real? Was I still dreaming? All of a sudden everything went black and white and I felt like I had fallen into the Twilight Zone. Signpost ahead... I immediately ran to the phone and called my friend Moon. Luckily, he hadn’t left for work yet. He picked it up on the third ring.
“Hello,” he croaked out in a morning voice. It sounded like he had just woken up.
“Is John Lennon dead?” I blurted out as fast as I could spit the words out.
“What? Is this Marty?” Moon asked back.
“Yeah, it’s me, is John Lennon dead?” I asked again in a most feverish manner.
“Yeah,” Moon shot back, somewhat angrily.
“I thought I had dreamed that,” I told him somewhat relieved that I wasn’t going insane after all.
“Howard Cosell announced it on Monday Night Football. I thought you’d want to know so I called you. You sounded out of your mind, I tried telling you, but I couldn’t even understand what was coming out of your mouth, so I hung up,” Moon told me, in somewhat disgusted tones. I had lived with Moon the year before, so I had heard those tones before.
“Jesus Christ, I thought I was going insane,” I said while taking a deep breath.
“I think you still are, I gotta get ready for work,” Moon said while hanging up on me.
I went back to the front room with a towel and picked up the can of diet Coke and cleaned up the floor while listening to the news reports on the death of John Lennon.
I remember saying to myself as I put my jacket on, “Apparently, love isn’t all you need. It seems a bullet-proof helmet would come in handy as well.” Then I laughed out loud and went to work.
Yeah, I talk to myself, you got a problem with that?
------------------------------------
I thought in light of the John Lennon memories we’d take a little trip to the Upper West Side and get some photos of the Dakota building where he lived and was shot down in front of and of Strawberry Fields in Central Park. I’m a little nervous about going in Central Park at night, I’ve never done that, but then again, “Action” is my middle name!
Okay, it’s really David. Shut up.
And here we are at Penn Station once again.
The escalator is crowded, but for once, everyone is stationary on it. One of life's little rewards.
Knot Just Pretzels.
Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it appears you are just pretzels after all. Sorry.
Through the magic of the internet you're spared a subway ride that included six screaming teenagers all talking at once and a smelly fat man that kept making weird burping noises seated next to me. He smelled like curdled cheese. Eeeks.
Here's a shitty photo of the Dakota building. The building's not lit at all and it's going to be rough getting a decent photo. I'll try again.
Fuck. When in doubt, Google it...
And rip the photo off from the internet. Here's the Dakota building with John and Yoko in the forefront before Mark David Chapstick blew John's mind out with a gun.
Authorized persons only sign.
And here's the authorized person on duty, security man, David. He told me people come here every day to take pictures and talk about John Lennon.
And here's the gates and area where John Lennon bought the farm. This is a little depressing, let's move on.
Okay, there's Central Park, it looks a little creepy in the dark, but onwards and upwards. I can't chicken out now.
Here's the Strawberry Fields section. There's one light and then it's pitch black in the park. This is beyond creepy, there's no one around...or is there?
Usually there's at least one person in here playing an acoustic guitar and butchering a John Lennon song, but tonight it's pitch black back here and I just heard a voice from somewhere around the bushes saying: "Hey, come here."
That was my cue to leave the park, very quickly.
And the last stop on the John Lennon late night walking tour of the Upper West Side.
John Lennon behind bars. This photo has been in this pharmacy's window since I moved here almost 18 years ago. It's my favorite John Lennon tribute in the city for some reason. I've always liked it. Okay time to head home.
Hey...look. Hmmm...
Old habits die hard. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
The other day I was perusing blogs and was looking at pictures over at the fine photo blog, Musings by Melanie. One of her posts was titled, “Joe’s Bar in the EV.” In this day and age of wacky-ass theme bars, it’s nice to see a bar simply named, Joe’s Bar. According to New York magazine they’ve got a great country jukebox and they’ve made it a “Critics Pick.” I don’t know how I missed this place on my bar crawl last year, but seeing as tonight is “Swizzle Stick Tuesday,” I’d say it’s high time we paid Joe’s Bar a visit!
A view of the Empire State building from the block where I work. Goddamn, it's still pretty chilly out here for May.
We'll be taking the F train from Herald Square. I always wonder why this area is named "Herald Square?" I secretly hope it's for the character of Herold Heckuba from Gilligan's Island, but sadly, it's probably not.
Holy freaking shitballs, I just got down here and here's a train! I've been having great luck with trains lately. I hope this is the F train.
Yes! The "F" on this train stands for "Fuckin' Ada!"
Well now, this fellow has certainly made himself at home here. Nighty noodles!
Hmmm...it appears I've entered a sleeper cell.
Okay, here we are at Houston St., just a few blocks to Joe's Bar from here.
And here we are, Joe's Bar. It looks great, a nice, dark bar, Al would love this place! Let's go check it out.
Sadly, there are no swizzle sticks in here, just the shitty little plastic stirrers. The place however is a classic old school, New York dive bar. But the sadness continues as bartender Jamie informs me you can't take pictures in here. The owners frown on it and Jamie would get into trouble if I snapped any, so I took one of my drink and put my camera away. I don't want to get anyone in trouble. I can, however, share the following mental photographs with you. Sometimes words are worth a thousand photos.
Click: I walk in. It’s dark in here. A small, well-worn dark L-shaped wooden bar is situated at the front of the place and there’s a pool table, a jukebox and a few tables scattered in the back. It feels like the past in here. You kind of expect Travis Bickle to come out of the bathroom at any minute and wait for Dee Dee Ramone to come in and order Blackberry Brandy. Nobody has a cell phone out, there’s no one texting anyone and it feels delightfully like 1977.
Click: I take a seat at one of the stools in the middle of the bar. There’s three others at the bar, all tending their drinks quietly. I order a double gin and tonic and soak in the atmosphere. I notice a deer head poking its way out of a wall behind me. Four kids are playing pool and laughing. I immediately feel at home and relaxed. It’s the perfect place for a double gin and tonic, even though the swizzle stick sucks.
Click:Bartender Jamie and I talk about writing. He’s written and published a book, which if memory serves me correctly is called “666 Ways To Get To Heaven.” But bar memories are sometimes a little blurry, especially while drinking double gin and tonics, so don’t quote me on that.
Click:I go to the jukebox, a real jukebox, not some internet confusing piece of shit. It vomits my five dollar bill back twice and Jamie gives me singles to feed it. Some selections I chose: “Buckaroo” by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, “That’s Life” by Frank Sinatra, “Highway to Hell,” by AC/DC, “I Fall To Pieces” by Patsy Cline and “Call Me Lightning,” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. It’s a great jukebox!
Click:When I return, Jamie introduces me to Pauly, who’s taken residence of the stool next to me. Pauly’s a bald guy with a rubbery, friendly face. He tells me he was born on 18th Street and has lived on St. Marks place for the last 40-something years. He tells me I don’t want to know what he pays for rent and I believe him. He’s drinking red wine and buys me a drink. Jamie warns him that I’m drinking, “tall ones, doubles” and Pauly doesn’t hesitate and buys me one anyway. Pauly points to the pool table where a cute, red-haired girl who doesn’t look old enough to be in here is taking a shot. Her ass is up in the air and Pauly and I clink glasses to that. Our conversation whips and weaves through New York stories and the movie, “The Hustler”—did you know there’s only two people still alive who had dialogue in that movie? Pauly does, but I forget their names. I’m on my fourth double gin and tonic by now. Soon we’re discussing old TV shows...“All In the Family,” “The Odd Couple,” “Barney Miller.” Jamie throws out that his first celebrity sighting was Abe Vigoda on 7th Street years ago. Pauly jabs me and points towards the pool table. The redhead's ass is up in the air again. Pauly is grinning ear to ear and it’s infectious.
Click:Time to feed the jukebox again: “Something Stupid” by Frank and Nancy Sinatra, “Sing Me Back Home” by Merle Haggard, “Wooly Bully” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and “Tiger by the Tail” by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos.
Click: Back to my perch at the bar. Pauly leans in and tells me he’s retiring from his doorman gig in six months and moving to Las Vegas and buying a condo. He’s never been to Las Vegas in his life and asks if I know anything about it. And he’s moving there. I love this guy!
Click: I buy Pauly a glass of wine and have a final double gin and tonic. I’m a little buzzed by now and enjoying hearing, “Something Stupid” floating out of the jukebox. It’s dark and the quiet guy in a NY Yankees baseball cap to my right is nursing a Budweiser and eating potato chips. He hasn’t said a word since he came in, except to order a beer and a bag of chips. The redhead’s ass is up in the air again and Pauly is observing it and smiling ear to ear, his Silly Putty, rubber-dubbery face is all a-glow. All is well in Joe’s Bar. Joe’s Bar 520 E. 6th St. (Near Ave. A) 212-473-9093
It’s with sheer fucking joy mixed emotions that tonight I tell you that the Papaya Wars are over. There’s still a couple left I didn’t go to, but I just can’t stand this anymore feel it’s time to end the battles and let the obvious winner emerge victoriously. I’m happy to see peace, but as in all wars, sadness accompanies the final pounding of the war drum. There’s losers and casualties that have piled up, some places fared better than others and lots of hot dogs gave their lives in the name of the Papaya Wars. Let’s have a moment of silence for them. Jesus Christ, I think I’ve finally lost my fucking mind.
Okay, off to the winning battle field!
We'll be taking the subway to the final battle field.
The back escalator is always much more calm than the front one.
I couldn't believe it, as soon as I got to the tracks there was a train about ready to take off. I jumped in and we're ready to go, no waiting! A magical night indeed!
Okay, just a few blocks and we'll announce the victor in the Papaya Wars!
But first, a little neon in the night.
One block away!
And here we are, The Papaya King, the winner of the Papaya Wars!
The King is the original, after all, the first Papaya dog stand in Manhattan. All others are heirs to this throne of hot doggery. Let's go in and proclaim The King the winner. The employees will probably be thrilled!
Well...the soldiers here must be a little shell-shocked. They looked at me like I was nuts when I told them that they had won the Papaya Wars and reluctantly posed for this photo with the banner I had specially made for the occasion. This guy said he'd only pose for the photo if I didn't photograph his face. Must be some sort of intelligence-gathering operative. I complied to the orders.
And now time for the last Papaya meal. I brought the secret ingredient for the Screwdapaya drink.
And here's the last supper. War is over (if you want it) and soon so is the meal.
I have to confess tears are welling up as I take my last Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot.
Okay, it's out the door to see the public's reaction to the end of the Papaya Wars.
Wow, word travels fast! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
The Final Papaya Wars Standings. As always the rankings go from worst to the best.
9. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 8. Papaya Dog in Times Square: They don’t have beer and I forgot to bring vodka. Plus my corn dog was borderline cold and they have a cracked window in there which can only mean bad luck to all who enter. 7. Papaya Dog at 6th Avenue and 4th: They’re liars! 6. Gray’s Papaya at 6th Ave. and 8th St: They don’t have beer but I did remember the vodka for my patented Papaya Wars Screwdapaya drink. New York Magazine delcares this the best of all Papaya’s but then tell’s us it’s endorsed by Mario Batali. Thinking about Super Mario in his shorts and orange clogs always cause me to lose my appetite, so that’s going to drag this place down in the ratings. And they get points knocked off for hopping on the dollar pizza wagon train that just keeps growing and growing. Plus I’ve got jury duty at 8:45 tomorrow. In the fucking morning tomorrow. KHHAAAAAANNN! 5. Chelsea Papaya: It’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 4. Gray’s Papaya on the Upper West Side: It brings back good memories and the signage is nice, but there’s no beer here and I don’t know if I’ll ever get that horrible taste of the papaya drink out of my mouth or mind. 3. Papaya Dog at 14th and 1st: The staff is super-friendly, it’s clean and the hot dogs are great there. However, they robbed me of my patented Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot! War is hell. 2. Penn Station Papaya: They’ve got beer! 1. Papaya King on the Upper East Side: They’ve got vodka...okay, you’ve got to bring it yourself and sneak it in, but still, this is the original Papaya King in New York City. They've been in the same spot on this block since 1932. The Beatles ate here on their first trip to New York when they appeared on the The Ed Sullivan Show. So does this put the King in first place? Yeah, yeah, yeah.
The Winner of the Papaya Wars! Papaya King 179 E. 86th St. (Near Third Ave.) 212-369-0648
Tonight I’m meeting Kate who is the writer/photographer behind the fine blog, One More Folded Sunset. I got to know Kate after she got involved in EV Grieve’sInternational Coalition of Tree Tossing in the Spring (ICTTS) competition. I was amused at Kate’s obsession with this contest as it mirrors my own obsession over some things. And one of those things is a guy who lives close by the place I’m meeting Kate at who’s known as the “Chillmaster.” I read about the Chillmaster first at EV Grieve’s blog back on April 11th.
It was a nice day that day, so I assumed that this was EV Grieve’s way of saying, “It’s spring.” But after reading the comments, it turns out there’s a whole story behind this photo that EV Grieve posted. Apparently there’s a guy who lives in the East Village, who leaves his windows open all through the year, blares soul music and has a display of liquor bottles on his coffee table. Check out these comments from the post that EV Grieve put up:
“This guy is the man! We all call him "Chillmaster". He honestly chills harder than anyone I have ever seen chill in my entire life. Would love to hear a back-story or have someone interview him.”
“CHILLMASTER FLEX. what a hero for chillers everywhere. One time my friends and I were drunk during the day and we had a chillmaster dance party outside of his window. he liked it.”
“I pass this guy all the time, and he often cat calls. I would love to hear his story.... “
Ha! I was really intrigued. From what I could gather from the comments was this guy is a neighborhood hero, dedicated to drinking, listening to soul music, chilling out and catcalling women. That’s my kind of guy! I went there that night hoping to interview him and get some photos for MAD. However when I got there he was talking to a woman and I kind of butted in to ask him if he was the Chillmaster. It was stupid of me and he wasn’t too happy that I interrupted his conversation with the woman and asked where I had heard of him. I didn’t want to mention EV Grieve’s blog without checking with him first, so I told the Chillmaster I couldn’t remember and asked to take his photo and he told me no. It was kind of unpleasant and I left and took some photos of the Hell’s Angels building instead, but I made a mental note to go back and try again. And I’ve been obsessed with meeting the Chillmaster ever since.
I told Kate about this and we decided to try and meet the Chillmaster after dinner tonight. We decided to meet a few blocks from the Chillmasters house at Boca Chica, one of my stops from the bar crawl.
And here we are at Boca Chica. Of course i'm about 45 minutes early, because I'm always worried about being late. But that'll give me time to take some photos before Kate arrives.
Hey, there's a familiar face behind the bar.
It's bartender Ivan, who was on duty when I stopped by on the bar crawl last year. He remembered me and we had a nice little reunion.
Here's the back wall of the bar.
A porcelain Indian greets you at the door.
Orange lights hang over and illuminate the bar.
Latin music is played at a conversational level on a turntable! A true blast from the past.
More records are housed below.
A view from the front windows.
The dining room which is located directly behind the bar.
The specials of the evening are written on a mirror on the back wall.
Ivan and his co-workers at the end of the bar.
At this point Kate showed up and presented me with this card. It reads: "Enjoy these swizzle sticks, but alway watch your...
Back." Aaaahhhh!!!! He's everywhere! Great card!
And here's the swizzle sticks she gave me to add to the ever-growing MAD collection. They're glass Christmas tree swizzle sticks! Perfect! Thanks Kate!
And here's Kate and I with the swizzle sticks. Now it's off to meet the elusive Chillmaster.
We got there and the window was shut! This was weird, because everything I read about him on the EV Grieve post said he never shuts his window. We went and had a drink at the One and One and came back about a half an hour later.
Still closed! What's going on here? Did the Chillmaster move? Is this the end of chilling as we know it? I vow to answer all of these questions and more within the week. Stay tuned!
Review From the 365 Bar Crawl Here’s the review of Boca Chica I wrote last year for the 365 Bar Crawl. Boca Chica has been a favorite Latin American Restaurant and bar on the Lower East side for close to fifteen years now. The restaurant has a relaxing, low-key vibe with brick walls and festive colors. The bar is cozy and the staff are friendly. The cliental is mainly local folks from the neighborhood and regulars at the bar. There’s no draft beer but they do have a full bar with a decent selection of bottled beers. Some of the signature drinks include house Sangria, Margaritas and Mojitos. If you like shrimp, this is your dream restaurant, there’s eight different shrimp dishes on the menu including: Shrimp, Avocado and Heart Of Palm Salad; Shrimp Chipotle; Shrimp Ajillo and Moqueca De Peixe shrimp and fish in coconut sauce. Other entrees featured are: Skirt Steak Chimichurri; Cuban Sandwich; Burrito Cubano and an Argentina Chopped Steak Sandwich with chimichurri mayo.
Brunch is served on Saturday and Sunday from noon to 4pm.
Boca Chica 13 First Ave. (at 1st St.) 212-473-0108
My friend Lex is in town from Canada and yesterday she went to the East Village. I suggested she stop at the Mars Bar and she did. Here's her photos from her day at Mars Bar.
Marcus, Lex, Hamlet and Eric at the Mars Bar.
Lex and Hamlet.
A drawing from Hamlet to Lex on her map. Nice!
Lex and Paola at the bar.
And the Marty sticker on the cash register. Great photos, Lex, thanks for sharing them! To the Mars Bar!
Live, from New York, it’s Cheeseburger Saturday Night! With special guests, Jon Hammer,Karen McBurnie and Lex from Canada and featuring the ready for prime beef player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, all those people and Old Town Bar!
Okay, my friend Lex is in town from Canada (you may remember her from a special guest appearance when I went to Hurley's last year on the bar crawl) and she's coming over and I've also invited Karen and Jon, the masterminds behind, Grade "A" Fancy. They're coming over to my place for a beer or two and then we're headed over to Old Town Bar. And of course, since I have guests, it's time to make another award-winning snack mix! Tonight's snack is a pure popcorn mix, utilizing seven different brands found in far flung exotic popcorn palaces around the world. (Okay, really I got them at Duane Reade.)
And out comes my board-certified snackologist bowl.
I hate to be redundant, there's nothing worse than redundancy, I really hate it. Being redundant really cracks my nerves and sends my spine tingling. As you can see, I hate to be redundant...okay I love being redundant! I love being redundant. I love being redundant. I...okay, I'll stop. The point I'm going to be redundant about is to tell you, please DON'T try this at home unless you're a board-certified snackologist. And I really doubt you are, I mean you can say you are and I won't call you a liar, but I'll definitely think that that you are one. A liar that is, and not a board-certified snackologist like I am. Anyhoo, here we go, carefully adding the popcorn in small amounts, shifting and pruning the snack so it is positioned just so. It helps to be prudent, it really does.
And here's the finished popcorn snack, a beautiful thing!
Due to the fact that I was drinking and not thinking, I forgot to take photos of us enjoying the snacks, but remembered I needed to get a photo before we went to Old Town and here it is. My three guests, from left: Karen, Jon and Lex. They're holding up swizzle sticks that Karen and Jon brought for my collection.
Very cool! And check out the red one in the middle, an official Friars Club swizzle stick! A real gem for the collection, thanks, Karen and Jon!
And here we are at Old Town bar! I love that neon sign!
It's one of the best bars in America, I tell ya! If you don't believe me, just look at the front window.
It's crowded up front, but there's usually tables in the back, let's check it out.
And as sure as shit on a shingle, we got a cozy corner table. Here we are and our friendly and lovely waitress, Pamela got in the picture with us.
I wandered away from the table to get a long shot of the bar.
And as we learned last year, all the best bars have tin ceilings!
Back at the table, Karen showed me her bracelet which at first I thought was adorned with subway tokens. Then she told me they were old tokens from Show World! Beyond cool!
The beers have kicked in and it's time for a bathroom break and a good excuse to take a picture of their famous massive urinals.
Here's a poster from when they had the 100th anniversary celebration honoring the urinals. I didn't go, but Jon did and from what he told me the party was a real pisser!
Back to the table and dinner is served! Karen got the sliced steak sandwich...
Refusing to conform to Cheeseburger Saturday Night, John got a cheeseless burger...
Lex got the turkey pastrami and fries...
And sensing that turkey was starting to trend at the table, I got the turkey burger with cheddar cheese. #turkey Everything was delicious and it was a great old time. And then before you know it, it was time to go.
And when you gotta go, you gotta go! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark!
My Meal The food at Old Town Bar is really good, a couple notches above your standard pub grub. I got the turkey burger and most turkey burgers have a tendency to be dry and bland, but not at Old Town. Mine was juicy and spicy and topped with cheddar cheese and big honking glop of their homemade mustard. Delicious! And the onion rings were great as well. Sadly, no one ordered the hot dogs, sorry, Biff, maybe next time.
Lex brought me flowers, which was really nice! Here they are and I thought I'd post a picture of them every week as they slowly wither and die. Lex also brought some bakery cookies which were delicious! Thanks, Lex, great to see you again!
I went out with friends last night and you can read all about in today's post. One of the subjects that came up last night was the fine art of sleeping in. This morning my alarm clock went off at nine to do today's post and I decided to go back to bed. I haven't slept in for quite some time and felt I was due. I just woke up and today's post will be up around three o'clock, this afternoon. Please check back then! And happy Mother's Day!
I know we haven’t had a midnight movie in a couple weeks and I promise next Friday to screen the long-awaited “Fugitive Girls,” but I’ve got a big weekend lined up with plans at night and a ton of shit to do each day, so tonight’s going to be a bit of a quickity, blickity blog.
I’ve been on Twitter for a couple years now, but never really got into it until the last couple weeks. Now I’m having a lot of fun on there and wasting way too much time on it. I always promote my blog on there, but I also try to put some funny stuff on there. And it’s a real challenge because you’ve only got 140 characters to work with. And so now, I present, some of my favorite tweets. (Note: When you see the @symbol and someone else’s Twitter name, that means I’m responding to their tweet, the # symbol is called a hashtag and it’s a reference as to what you’re tweeting about.)
Okay, it was a bad day at work and I’ve got a fucking headache and don’t really feel like going anywhere. That’s the beauty of MAD versus last year’s 365 blog, this year I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to. But I still vow to have a new post for all of you who follow the MAD blog, because I appreciate you taking the time to check in everyday. And so tonight will be a return trip to my old friend that I visit when I don’t feel like venturing out too far—Penn Station.
Okay, here we are at the by now familiar Penn Station. Many a night has started here.
A calm escalator. Thank God for that, I've got an aching head from work and jangled nerves.
And speaking of jangled nerves and an aching head, I know right where I'm going tonight...
Papaya Dog! Even though they were rated number two in the Papaya Wars, they've got...
BEER!
And here's my spot in the Papaya Dog. I love it in here, a nice oasis away from the madness of the world. And the beer's are huge in here!
Gumby's all settled in...
The view from where I'm perched.
The hot dog is gone and now it's time for...napkin art!
My body of work and my third beer. The headache is gone, time to go home and pass the fuck out.
An empty escalator signals the way into the night. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Five Pictures of Passed Out People
One
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