Okay, time for Battle Number Nine in the delusional idiocy that seems like it’s never going to end ever-exciting, ever-popular, Papaya Wars! Tonight we’re going to Gray’s Papaya in Greenwich Village at the corner of 6th Avenue and 8th Street. It was suggested by the fine blog onemorefoldedsunset and I believe the equally (emphasis on “e”) impressive blogger esquared mentioned it a couple weeks ago as well. Oh, and this is going to be what I call a bit of a quickity blickity blog. I’ve got jury duty (insert Pauly Shore joke here) tomorrow, and while I don’t mind jury duty (I’ll write more about that another day), jury duty starts at 8:45. In the fucking morning! And I hate the morning. So let’s go get this shit over with, I’m breaking out in hives just thinking about the alarm clock going off...in the morning! Aaaaahh!
(And please note: If I get stuck on a dayshift jury, this may wreak havoc here at MAD, but I will continue to post daily. Just be patient with me, I might be a little stressed out. I hate morning! And right now it's 7:31 in the morning. FUCK!)
It’s not that far and normally I’d walk, but since I have this obsessive fear about being late for jury duty tomorrow, I’m going to set my alarm for 6:30. In the morning. Fuck!
And here we are. Let’s get this shit over with. Let the battle begin! KHHAAAAAANNN!
You have got to be fucking kidding me! Is there no sanctuary from this dollar pizza mania?
I'm just going to ignore the pizza part of this place and pretend it's not there. Nyah, nyah, nyah nyah, nyah.
Okay, this gentlemen served up tonight's entree. A hot dog with mustard and a small orange papaya drink...
Which, with the help of my little friend, will soon be turned into my patented Screwdapaya drink!
New York Magazine says this place is the best Papaya, but that was written before they turned half of the joint into a stinking one dollar pizza ghetto. They also wrote that Mario Batali is a fan of the place. I don't know about you, but just thinking of that guy in his shorts and orange clogs ruins my appetite.
See what I mean?
I almost forgot my patented Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot. With all these fake patents looming, I need to find a fake patent attorney.
And now time to head home. I have to get up at 6:30. In the morning. Fuck! KHHAAAAAANNN!
This Week's Papaya Wars Standings. As always the rankings go from worst to the best. (The latest entry is in bold.) 8.Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 7. 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. 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 declares 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 is multiplying faster than bedbugs in this city. Plus I’ve got jury duty at 8:45 tomorrow. In the fucking morning. 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 for now? Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Okay, time for the Sunday night shop hop where I check out an independent business in New York City. Forbidden Planet is a store not far from where I live. I’ve walked by it probably thousands of times, but never entered it. I’ve always considered it a comic book store and while I was really into comics as a kid, I’m not anymore. But while looking around for a place to go tonight, I found out they sell a lot more than comics in there. They have books, toys and what appears to be some really cool inventory. And they’re open till 10 pm, perfect!
We'll go down 14th street to Broadway...
And baboom...here we are at Forbidden Planet.
There's a decent crowd in here for a Sunday night.
LIz was working behind the front register. She's super cute and friendly and you should note that five cents out of every dollar spent at Forbidden Planet goes towards buying her a second eyeball.
Wow, Dick Tracy's been around for 80 years. And he even survived that horrble movie.
You know Garfunkel isn't happy about this!
This is a great book about the history of newspaper comic strips.
And here's the manager of Forbidden Planet, Jeff Ayers. He started working at the store when he was 17-years-old and the store was across the street.
Check out the figurines in here. Smurfs and Simpsons and Dinosaurs...oh my!
I love the Ugly Dolls!
Lots of people browsing and reading in here on a Sunday evening.
And there's a second floor as well.
Let's go check it out.
More inventory! Let's take a look around.
They have a large selection of DVD's.
Dice!
I love that Gumby bag!
Meanwhile, back on the first floor Bryan shows off the store's newsletter.
Check out the Marvel shot glasses, very cool!
I hate to be a critic, but this artist made Rosie's bucket head about two sizes too small. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
What I Bought I got Jrumpy the Ugly Doll and a Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! magnet. I should’ve gotten the Gumby bag too, what was I thinking? I have to get back there!
Live, from New York, it’s Saturday Night Cheeseburger! Tonight’s host is The Dollar Burger in in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen and featuring the Ready For Prime Beef Player, Marty Wombacher. And now, please welcome the The Dollar Burger!
(My original destination was the Shake Shack on 44th and 8th, so that's how the narrative in the captions will read. Bear with me, it's been a long weekend.) Okay The Shake Shack is at 44th and 8th, so it's a 28 block walk, straight up 8th. I have to say I was a little ambivalent in choosing the Shake Shack. In case you haven't heard of it, The Shake Shack first opened up in the Madison Park as a food stand that specialized in cheeseburgers and custard. The cheeseburgers are supposed to be really good and soon there were lines so long, people were waiting over an hour just to get one. Now there's seven of these scattered around the city. I've always been curious as to whether the burgers are really that good, or whether it's just hype. I decided to pick the one on 44th and 8th, because that would attract mainly tourists, whom I don't think eat that late, even on a Saturday. By the time we get there it'll be close to 10 pm and I'm guessing there shouldn't be a line at that time of night. The only way we'll see is to get there. Onward and upward to 44th Street we go.
Wow, this store window could trigger an acid flashback. All the sudden I'm surrounded by talking hot dogs...help!
I like the ransom note quality of this sign.
Retail masturbation alert!
11 blocks to go, I'm starvin' like Marvin over here!
A moment of silence for a shuttered Papaya King. Sob!
Sheesh! You can't walk five blocks in this city without running into one of these goddamn one dollar pizza joints.
Oh no! Let's hope this idea doesn't start trending!
Okay, here we are, deep in the heart of touristville. We're almost there.
And here we are. Hey Shake Shack, could you make your sign a little brighter? It only burned the retina in my eyeballs half-way.
Jesus fucking Christ! There's a line out the godamned door.
And then once you get inside it looks like a chaotic mess.
The place is packed and there's no open tables. And it's so bright in there. I'm not feeling the love for Shake Shack, no matter how good their burgers are.
Plus these girls are dancing and screaming in front of the place. I know what I have to do.
I have to admit I was kind of intrigued as to what a dollar burger tasted like.
There's no line in here. Holy shitballs, look at how tall that guy is!
"Grilling Fresh While You Watch." There's a catch-phrase that would please both Chance the Gardner and Gidget! And note the unintended obligatory mirror shot at the bottom.
And here they are, hard at work assembling and cooking my dollar burger.
Sadly, they had no mustard. Your choice of toppings are mayonnaise and/or ketchup. In a moment that's sure to please Kari, I chose ketchup. Mayonnaise?
And here it is, in all its glory, the dollar burger!
This burger literally defines the adage: "You get what you pay for."
But at least there wasn't a line. Charlie Sheen on Friday and this on Saturday. Things can only go uphill from here. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
My Meal Actually it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t that good either. What do you expect for a buck?
The most common question I got asked from people after I told them that I was going to the Charlie Sheen show at Radio City Music Hall tonight was: “Why?”
And my stock answer was and is: “Why the fuck not?”
How many times will you be able to see Charlie Sheen at Radio City Music Hall? Probably never again and I’ve always lived for these one of a lifetime moments. Will the crowd be scary? Probably, but sometimes you must face your fear and see what’s happening outside of your circle of comfort. So, it’s off to the Charlie Sheen show we go.
Show business kids making movies of themselves you know they don't give a fuck about anybody else.
While the poor people sleepin' with the shade on the light...
While the poor people sleepin', all the stars come out at night.
After closing time, At the Guernsey Fair...
I detect the El Supremo, from the room at the top of the stairs.
Well I've been around the world, and I've been in the Washington Zoo...
And in all my travels as the facts unravel, I've found this to be true...
They got the house on the corner, with the rug inside.
They got the booze they need, all that money can buy.
They got the shapely bods, they got the Steely Dan T-shirt, And for the coup-de-gras, they're outrageous.
Show business kids making movies of themselves...
You know they don't give a fuck about anybody else.*
Charlie Sheen’s Show What’s the mood and vibration of being at a Charlie Sheen show at Radio City Music Hall? Imagine all your worst fears have come to life: Guys with bicycle grease in their curly-Q, everywhich-way but loose hair-do’s, outfitted in muscle shirts and K-Mart designer jeans coupled with the learning-impaired women who love them. Badly bleached bottle-blondes giggling loudly in t-shirts sized too small to cover their Kentucky Fried Chicken figures, wearing too-tight, golden-stitched acid-washed jeans over asses that are bigger than a fin on a ‘57 Chevy. Muscle-bound bros drunkenly high-slapping each other and an endless parade of people wearing $50 “Winning” t-shirts shuffling listlessly around like chimpanzees who are two seconds away from hurling their own feces at you. And to make things letter-perfect, everyone is staring zombie-like at their cell phones and Blackberry devices.
It all came in perspective to me about ten minutes after the “show” started. I took a photo or two, but wanted a close up shot. I walked up to the stage and tried to get a photo up close, so I walked up to the side of the stage. All of a sudden I heard someone yelling at me. “Hey asshole, get away from the stage,” I heard. I turned around and faced a man who, for the life of me, looked like the human version of a chili bean. He was really short, heavily tanned and very round with slicked-back hair and he was screaming at me.
“My wife can’t see, get away from the stage, you fucking asshole!” He shouted while waving a fist at me.
I looked over at his wife and saw a woman in a wheelchair.
She looked fragile and thin with unwashed brunette hair cascading down to her shoulders. She just looked sad and brow-beaten, like someone who had been shoved into situations with no way out for her entire life. I sensed that she’d give anything to be anywhere but in Radio City Music Hall with her little bean of a husband screaming at some guy with a camera blocking their view of the horror of the Charlie Sheen show. Her mouth wasn’t smiling or frowning, it was just a dispassionate shade of hopelessness. It was as if the color grey had come to life. Her eyes looked blank and beyond tired, like she was incapable of crying and probably had to make an effort to blink. She made me feel ten degrees of sadness and I kind of wished I was dead. I really was sorry I had seen her. She was that kind of person. And I didn’t blame her, sometimes life is just so unfair and you have to catch an unfortunate glimpse of it to make you appreciate your own lot in life.
I wanted to scoop her up and take her back to my apartment and feed her mescaline and vodka until she had forgotten the hopeless life I imagined she had led and ended up with an angry chili bean for a caretaker and a rotten husband. But that wasn’t going to happen. I’ve long lost the number of mescaline dealers and didn’t feel like trouncing her cheap, little chili bean of a husband. I’m not a fighter, but that just would’ve been too easy. I’m also not a bully. Live and let live. I did what I had to do.
I apologized for being in the way and did what she probably would’ve given twelve of her ten of her fingertips away to do: I ran out of Radio City Music Hall and came home and drank a bazillion beers. Further reading: NY Post, NY Daily News, Daily Mail and NJ.com.
One of the things I like about this blog is it forces me to go to different spots in the city. When I first moved here in 1993 I was running around the city like a Marathon runner gakked to the nines on crystal meth. I love this city and just couldn’t get enough of it. Then after a couple of years I slowed down a little and then when I moved into my apartment on 16th Street pretty much every thing I needed was within a six block radius. I found myself going to the same bar, the same deli, the same diner...well, you get the picture. I had gotten a little jaded and forgot what a great city I was living in. Every year I swore I’d start getting out more and it didn’t happen till last year when I did my 365 Bars blog. I re-discovered the city and decided that my next blog would be running around New York. I just don’t have to go to a bar and drink every night with this one. I could stop and smell the roses and maybe take drugs every now and again. Life is pretty good!
And that leads me up to tonight’s entry. My second entry here at MAD, back in the black and white days...err...nights, was a trip to 53rd and 3rd, a corner immortalized by Dee Dee Ramone on the Ramones first album. Well, Dee Dee’s not the only Ramone in New York City with a corner, on November 30th, 2003 the city of New York officially named the corner of 2nd Street and the Bowery, Joey Ramone Place. I went there back in 2003 and I don’t think I’ve been back since. So let’s go check it out. Hey he, let’s go! (And I know you saw that coming about a three miles away. Gabba gabba hey.)
I had to work a little late tonight, so I'm over here on Fifth trying to hail a cab. It's almost midnight.
This guy crossed two lanes and just about plowed into me. Sheesh! Desperate for a fare, pal? Oh well, he's going our way, let's get in.
And we're off!
And with incredible-like taxi speed we're here! The sign is across the street, let's go check it out.
Okay, here we are at the corner, now where's the Joey Ramone sign, you may be wondering.
It's been stolen so many times by fans, they had to put it up beyond reach. I think they went a little overboard, but I bet Joey would get a kick out of this! Let's try and get a better shot.
And there we go, Joey Ramone Place. The thing about doing these corner stories is once you get the shot, there's not a lot else to do. Oh well, let's wander back towards where I live and take some random photos around the city.
One of my pet peeves, right behind slow-walkers that fan out all over the fucking sidewalk are assholes that bunch up in a group on a sidewalk and block everyone from walking down the street. Don't worry about getting out of my way, assholes, I'll just walk out into the street and almost get hit by a cab again. Jerkoffs!
Graffiti!
Speaking of graffiti, here's the infamous Jim Joe tag. This guy leaves his mark all over town.
Wow, thanks for that information! I don't know about you, but I'm guessing the person who made this sign has the last name of Einstein!
Hey, we're not in Flushing, Queens, what's this doing out here?
These two were also admiring the toilet in the trash. We had a nice chat and it turned out they're from Hamburg, Germany and this was their first time in New York. At first they were a little camera shy, but then they loosened up a little and posed for this photo on the street near Broadway.
And then it got really loose and she agreed to hover over the toilet! Good times! Welcome to New York City, ladies!
I stopped and looked at the magazines on display here. Hey, check out the upper right hand corner.
The Ramones! We've come full circle here, so goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
------------------------------------
Hanging Up On Marky Ramone In 1995, I decided to upgrade my publication, fishwrap from a 12 page black and white fanzine, to a 48 page magazine with a four color cover. I wanted a theme for the issue and I decided to devote the issue to rock ‘n’ roll magazines. I had gotten to know Bob Guccione, Jr. who was the editor of the highly successful Spin magazine at the time and thought he’d be a good interview. He liked fishwrap and I was pretty sure I could score him for the cover story. Another idea I had was to talk to people in rock ‘n’ roll bands about what they thought of rock ‘n’ roll magazines. I thought I’d call the piece, “Rock ‘n’ Roll Jury.” The only problem was when I went to my Rolodex—yes, Rolodex, this was 1995—and looked under “R” for rock stars it was blank.
While I was wondering how to solve this dilemma, I was listening to Adios Amigos by the Ramones. I had read where this was the last album they were putting out and they were retiring after their last concert tour that year. All of a sudden I decided I wanted to interview one of the Ramones for my rock ‘n’ roll fishwrap. I looked at the back of the CD booklet and in the list of credits it said, “Publicity: ISL Public Relations” and there was a phone number. I walked over to the phone and dialed the number and a woman answered and said: “ISL, can I help you?” “Uh...hi, um...I’d like to interview a Ramone,” I stupidly said. I hadn’t thought before I dialed and just spit that out. It really sounded dumb and the woman on the other line laughed a little.
“Excuse me?” She said after the chuckle.
“I’m sorry, I publish a magazine and I’m a writer and I’d like to interview one of the Ramones for the next issue,” I said a little more cohesively.
“Oh, sure, hang on a second please,” she replied and I was put on hold.
Now I tensed up, were they summoning a Ramone to do the interview? Did they have the power to produce a Ramone at their beckon call? Gabba gabba hey now!
My questions were answered seconds later. A woman came on the phone and identified herself as Ida Langsam. This was her company and she handled all the publicity for the Ramones. She was really nice and I told her about fishwrap and asked if I could interview Joey and ask him about rock ‘n’ roll magazines. She explained that Joey and Johnny weren’t doing interviews, but I could have my pick of CJ or Marky.
CJ took over the bass duties from Dee Dee in 1989 and to be truthful, when Dee Dee quit, I thought it would be the end of the Ramones. But just the opposite happened when their new bassist entered the punk rock quartet. CJ was young, a dyed in the wool...or should I say black leather, Ramones fan. I’ve read in interviews where all the Ramones say he brought a new fire to the band and brought back some of the old spirit. And while he had been in the band for six years back then, Marky was the Ramone I picked to interview.
Marky had a long history with the Ramones and a lot of people think he’s the original drummer. He wasn’t and all in all, there have been four drummers sitting in the somewhat Spinal Tap like revolving drummers stool. But Marky drummed with them the longest of all four (Clem Burke, the drummer from Blondie only lasted about a week!) so I was thrilled to score an interview with him for fishwrap.
Ida told me that they were out playing shows and that everyday they each got a sheet of what they had to do. Ida said I could call him the next day. Perfect! She instructed me to call the hotel they were staying at and gave me Marky’s room number. She said to call at 5:30 pm sharp and try to keep the interview to between 15 minutes to a half an hour. I told her it wouldn’t take that long and thanked her and promised to send her a couple of copies of the magazine after it was printed.
The next day I was in my apartment and it was just about 5:30 in the afternoon and I was a little nervous. I knew Marky had never heard of my magazine and hoped it wasn’t a drag for him to have to do a phone interview with me.
I took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed his number. A guy at the front desk answered, I gave him Marky’s room number and on the second ring he picked it up.
“Hello,” he said in his distinctive Brooklyn-flavored voice.
“Hi, is this Marky?” I asked, even though I knew it was.
“Yeah, speaking,” he replied back.
“Hi Marky, this is Marty Wombacher...”
“Oh yeah, the magazine guy, who do you write for again?” He asked.
I explained how it was my magazine and it started out as a zine and Marky started asking a lot of questions. He asked me if it was political and I told him it was more on the humorous side and cited the National Lampoon and Spy as influences. He told me he liked that and then he asked me if I knew of a few zines he read and I did and the conversation evolved into talking about See Hear, a magazine and book store in New York that sold lots of zines and writers that we both enjoyed reading. I told him I knew Legs McNeil one of the co-authors of the legendary punk rock book, “Please Kill Me” and Marky asked if I had his phone number and I did. He said he wanted to get in touch with him about writing some liner notes for a CD he was working on, but didn’t have his number out on the road. Before I started digging through the rolodex for Legs’ number, I looked up at the clock. Fuck, twenty minutes had gone by and I didn’t really have anything on tape that was usable for the interview. I hadn’t even asked him about any rock ‘n’ roll magazines!
I gave him Legs’ phone number and asked him what he thought about Rolling Stone and that set him off on a diatribe. He told me he liked some of their political writing but said they were never fair to the Ramones and to punk rock in general. I agreed and he talked about Rolling Stone for a good twenty minutes. Now I was ten minutes over Ida’s deadline and Marky was really on a roll. This guy really liked to talk, but I had to get to my night job soon.
I cut in and asked him what he thought about Spin magazine and that led to another rant. Halfway through I realized I had to leave for work or I was going to be late. I jumped in on Marky’s thoughts about Spin.
“Hey, Listen Marky, I think I’ve got plenty of great stuff here,” I explained, trying to end the conversation, “I really don’t want to take up any more of your time...”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marky said, “I’ve got nothing else to do till the show. I can talk a while longer.”
The only problem was I couldn’t, I had to get to work!
He kept on jabbering away. Twice I tried cutting in and saying I had to go to work, but it’s kind of like he didn’t hear me. This guy really liked to talk! One of my many little quirks is that I can’t stand being late. It really stresses me out and can even bring on a panic attack. I realized that even if I left that second I would be late getting to work. I tried in vain to end the conversation, but he kept on talking. The last I heard was him going off on yuppies. I was now officially late for work and was about ready to jump out of my skin knowing this. I had to get going.
So I simply just hung up the phone in the middle of his latest rant and ran to the subway station. I felt bad, but I had to get to work. I imagined he chattered on till he heard a dial tone and then assumed that somehow we had a bad phone connection that ended. He was a nice guy and I hoped he didn’t know that I hung up on him. It was quite rude of me to do, but it sure beat having an anxiety attack over being late for work.
When I finally got to work, Giovanni, the daytime manager was a little pissed. He couldn’t leave till I got there and I was about a half an hour late.
“Where have you been?” he asked gruffly. “You’re never late!” “I couldn’t get Marky Ramone off the phone,” I shot back.
Giovanni looked at me weird and said, “What?”
“It’s a long story,” I wearily answered, throwing my hands up in the air.
Giovanni patted me on the back and said, “My friend, with you, the story is always long!”
We both laughed and I went to work. Dee Dee, Johnny and Joey Ramone are all dead now. Marky continues to play music and came out with his own pasta sauce last year. I still work nights and haven’t been late to work since that fateful day in 1995.
The words “Tom’s Restaurant” may not set off any bells or whistles in your skull, but replace “Restaurant” with “Diner” and all the sudden you’ve got a Suzanne Vega song stuck in your head that won’t leave for several days. Sorry about that! And throw in this madcap and wacky bass riff and you’ll have a clue as to the other thing this place is famous for. The exterior of this uptown diner was used as the infamous Monk’s Diner on Seinfeld where among other things, George confessed to “pleasuring himself” to a copy of his mother’s Glamour magazine which led in to the legendary “contest.” I’ve never been to this place and since it’s open till 1:30 am, I thought that tonight we’d do a blog about nothing. Cue the bass riff for...now.
Okay, we'll be taking an uptown train to Tom's.
Thanks for the warning, I'll invest in a set of earplugs immediately!
Wow, it's almost empty down here, not a good sign. Looks like we're in for a bit of a wait.
And, once again, through the magic of the internet you're spared an 11 minute wait for this train.
It's crowded for 11:00 pm on a Tuesday night. Standing room only.
And here we are at the 96th Street stop. It's a fifteen block walk from here.
And I hate to keep whining about the weather, but it's rainy and cold out here. Spring be sprung already!
Pizza!
We're almost there, I think I see the sign in the distance.
And here we are. I have to confess, I know nothing about photography and my camera is a shitty little 90 dollar thing I bought at Best Buy. This shot is too red. Let me try one with a flash.
This is weird, with the flash, the shot got darker! Let's try a different setting.
Shit, still too red. Let me try another.
Holy shitballs, this is like the place has gone nuclear! I should really learn how to use this camera.
Okay, this one is fairly close, you want a better shot, take it yourself.
And a full shot of Tom's for posterity. Now let's cue up that bass line and go inside and get a beer already! I'm freezing out here!
Once I'm inside I'm informed there's no beer. Shit.
So let's take a look around in here. Of course you've got your obligatory signed Seinfeld photos from the cast.
And blown up shots of the TV Guide covers from the last episode.
And a shot of the place in the daytime when it doesn't have a nuclear reactor glow to it.
While I was at Tom's I met Walter who's a taxi driver and is part of the International Folk Dancer's in Central Park. They gather every Sunday from 1-6 pm. For more information on this call Walter at 917-873-2026.
In Their Own Words (Taken from the “About Us” section of their website.) Tom's Restaurant has been a staple in Morningside Heights New York for over 70 years. This picture shows Tom's Restaurant before it was expanded and its name changed to Tom's. Suzanna Vega wrote a song about us. Click here to visit her website.
Tom's has also been used in the hit TV show Seinfeld. In the show, the diner Jerry and his friends frequented was called Monk's Diner. The show features Tom's facade but filmed the interior scenes at the studio in California. The night the photographers came to shoot the facade in the early 90's one of the owner's sons was curious and asked the photographers why they were photographing the restaurant. "It's just for some pilot," the photographer replied. Some pilot that turned out to be! Many of Tom's best customers are the Columbia Students. Over the years, Tom's has become a right of passage for the students. Life is not complete for a Columbia student unless they get a milkshake and gravy fries at 3 am in the morning on a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night. Tom’s Restaurant 2880 Broadway (Between 111th and 112th St.) 212-864-6137 Further reading: Flickr, Wikipedia, My TV Moments and Trip Advisor.
My Favorite Monkee The Monkees have always been one of my favorite bands. Their whole story is pretty amazing. After extensive interviews and auditions, Michael Nesmith, Mickey Dolenz, Peter Tork and Davy Jones were put together to be The Monkees for a new TV show that was pitched as a weekly, wacky American version of the The Beatles film, “Help.” The show was a smash success and every episode had The Monkees singing a couple of songs back in those pre-MTV days. It was a genius marketing tool and soon the Monkees were as popular as The Beatles. The show would go on to win two Emmy awards. Some people sniff that they weren’t a real band, but that’s not true at all. Both Michael Nesmith and Peter Tork were accomplished musicians before they became Monkees and Mickey Dolenz and Davy Jones were actors with musical backgrounds. If you want to hear The Monkess as a true band all you have to do is listen to the Headquarters album, outside of the occasional bass (played by producer Chip Douglas) and horns, they played every note and it’s a great album. Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork and Mickey Dolenz all wrote songs that were included on that album. Michael Nesmith was my favorite Monkee and that got me into trouble when it came time for me to be confirmed in the Catholic Church as a young child.
When I was in the fourth grade the year was 1967 and both my brother Jim and I were huge Monkee fans and never missed their show. We bought their 45’s (with a picture sleeve when available) and were proud, card-carrying members of The Monkees fan club. That year my class was scheduled to be confirmed in the spring. It’s funny, I can’t remember getting confirmed, but I do remember the fuss and furor that my selection of a confirmation name brought about.
The grade school I attended back then was named Holy Trinity. Our family lived in Louisville, Kentucky at the time and my teacher’s name was Sister Jude. In my twelve year run of attending Catholic schools I always divide the nuns up into two categories: “Nice” is the first category and “Batshit Crazy” is the second. Sister Jude fell into the Nice category. She never hit anyone (as opposed to other nuns that would kick the living shit out of you for looking crosseyed at a gnat) and only raised her voice when she was really provoked by a student. I got along with her okay and she was a good teacher. It’s hard for me to guess what her age was, because she always had her black and white nun costume on. Her entire nun body was covered shoulder to toe in black and white robes and she wore a black and white type hood over her head so you couldn’t even see her hair. I always wondered if nuns were secretly bald and I used to try to imagine them without their hood revealing a shiny bald noggin. The thought and imagining process repulsed me, but like one can’t help looking at a gruesome car crash with burning bodies and severed limbs flying amongst the shattered glass and mangled steel, I couldn’t stop thinking about bald nuns. Even to this day I’ll while away a quarter of an hour imagining bald nuns. It’s one of the many curses that I can’t shake, despite a year of weekly therapy in my early twenties.
Anyway, as it came time to be confirmed, we were assigned a homework assignment to pick a name of a saint for a confirmation name and a reason why you chose that saint. After school that day I went home and found a book about saints in our family bookcase. It was handily shelved next to our Encyclopedia Britannica Set, the old-school version of Google. I took it over to the couch in our family room and flipped through the pages till I found what I was looking for: St. Michael. And St. Michael wasn’t just an ordinary saint, he was a freaking archangel! He was like a general in the angel world, beautiful! As you can guess, I chose the name Michael, not so much for the saintly qualities, but because Michael Nesmith was my favorite Monkee.
That night our family was gathered around our kitchen table eating and talking. Our dinner was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn. The table was an oblong wooden table and my mom and dad sat at either end and I sat on one side next to my brother Jim. My brother Tom and sister Terry sat on the other side. I’m the youngest, in case you’re wondering. There was a lull in the conversation, so I chimed in with, “I’ve decided what my confirmation name is going to be.”
“That’s great!” My mom replied. “What name did you choose?”
“Michael!” I excitedly answered. I always liked being the center of attention at the dinner table and the spotlight was shining directly upon me.
“Why’d you pick, Michael?” My brother Tom asked.
“Because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee,” I happily explained.
Both my brothers and my sister broke out laughing and my parents shot confused looks at each other and at me.
“I don’t think you should be picking your confirmation name based on your favorite Monkee,” my mom told me while half-laughing.
“Sister Jude said we could pick our own name and St. Michael is an archangel!” I said in my defense.
“I think it’s a great way to pick a confirmation name,” my brother Jim threw out in my defense. He always looked out for me.
My mom gave my dad a “what are we going to do with him” look. This wasn’t the first time I had seen that look and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be the last time I’d see it in my lifetime.
My dad just shook his head and said, “Michael’s okay for your confirmation name,” and dinner went on as scheduled. I think he just wanted to get it over with so he could have another piece of meatloaf, which was fine by me.
My brother Jim and I shared a room and we would talk into the night long after the lights had gone out about everything from school, to other kids we hated, to music.
“So are you going to tell Sister Jude you picked your confirmation name because of Michael Nesmith?” Jim asked in the darkness of our bedroom while everyone else was asleep in the household.
“Yeah,” I told my brother, while halfway falling asleep. “Good,” he replied. Soon we were both asleep.
Morning came too soon as it always has in my life and before I knew it I was in the classroom with my other classmates and I was sitting at my desk. I sat in the middle of the room which housed about twenty three of us. Barbara Kramer sat behind me. I had a huge crush on Barbara Kramer. She was a tiny wisp of a girl with blonde hair and big green eyes. I used to tell her jokes and draw cartoons and give them to her. Usually she’d just roll her eyes at me, but I think she liked the attention.
The morning went by and soon we were eating lunch in the school lunch room where there were long tables and chairs and of course that pungent odor that permeates from all grade school lunchrooms. Kind of a smorgasbord of smells ranging from Lysol, to bad milk, to vomit and back to Lysol again. I don’t remember what we had for lunch, but I’m sure I hated it. I was a picky eater back then and hated most of the lunches and would have to choke them down as you had to eat everything on your plate. My stomach is starting to turn, so let’s move on.
After lunch and a short recess we were back in the classroom seated at our desks and Sister Jude announced that we were to reveal which saint we chose for our confirmation name and why we chose it. She started at the front of the class and would call the person’s name out and the person had to stand up, name the saint and give the reason why they had chosen that particular saint.
As they went down the first row of students, everybody had the same answer, which was, “I chose St. Blahdeblah because he’s the patron saint of Blah.”
Every single kid! How boring. One girl did break out something original. Her name was Cindy Berkman and she said she picked St. Agatha because that was the name of her mother. The whole thing was boring the ever-loving shit out of me and soon I drifted off into a daydream. I was rudely snapped out of it a few minutes later by Sister Jude.
“Marty, I’ve told you not to daydream in class, now stand up and tell us which saint you chose and why,” she ordered out to me in a curt voice.
I came to and looked around and everybody was staring at me. I stood up and looked directly into Sister Jude’s eyes and said, “I chose St. Michael because he’s an archangel and because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee.”
It took about two seconds and all the kids were laughing at me (certainly not with me) and a couple of them were calling me stupid and a jerk. Normally under those circumstances I’d have been embarrassed, but this time I was just pissed off. Their answers sucked, at least mine was original. And speaking of pissed, Sister Jude wasn’t looking too happy with my answer.
She told everyone to quiet down and said to me, “Marty, that’s a not a proper reason to choose your confirmation name.”
“Why not, Sister?” I asked back. I really didn’t get why that couldn’t be a reason and as an adult, I still don’t. In fact it still pisses me off that those assholes didn’t see the originality for the reason of my choice of a confirmation name.
And then she uttered the four words that I hated hearing from an adult when I was a kid. “Because I said so.”
She then told me to go out in the hallway and stand near the coats and think of a better reason as to why I chose St. Michael. I happily marched out and stood by the coats. I never understood why standing in the hallway by the coats was a form of punishment. Personally, I liked it better out by the coats than inside the classroom. I enjoyed looking at the different brands of coats my classmates wore. It was kind of like window shopping without the window. And there was no pressure to buy anything, which is always a plus. I was looking at a yellow raincoat when Margaret Smythe came out in the hallway. I hated her, she was the teacher’s pet and always volunteered to do any stupid little chore that Sister Jude needed done. I’m sure she volunteered for this duty. She had bright red fuzzy hair and was covered in freckles, she actually kind of frightened me. She looked like a cross between a troll doll and a bag of Cheetos Corn Puffs.
“Sister says you have to come back in now,” she dutifully announced and walked back in to the classroom.
I hated to leave the tranquility of the coats and the empty hallway, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I walked back in and Sister Jude told me to stand by my desk. I did as I was told.
“Did you think of another reason why you chose, St. Michael, Marty?” Sister Jude asked. She was halfway smiling at me, but it didn’t last long. “No,” I defiantly said. “I picked St. Michael because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee.”
This time there was no laughter but Tommy King who sat to the left of me looked over and said, “You’re going to hell for saying that!”
“Good,” I said back to him, “that’s where I want to go!”
That little statement shocked him and the rest of the class. Everything got quiet and all the kids were looking at me like I was a little devil-child. I thought it was kind of funny and was pleased with myself for saying it.
Sister Jude broke the silence.
“Okay, both Tommy and Marty are staying after school today,” she announced. “And Marty I want you to apologize to this class for your behavior this afternoon and for that last statement!”
“I apologize for my behavior,” I said. My right arm was behind me and I crossed my fingers behind my back. I was hoping that Barbara Kramer would see it.
Sister told me to sit down and asked Barbara to tell the class who she picked. I don’t remember the saint, but she too went the route of the patron saint routine. That was disappointing to say the least. I decided that maybe I wouldn’t continue to draw cartoons for her anymore.
After the saint fiasco, it was time for English and Sister Jude was writing something on the blackboard.
Barbara tapped my left shoulder and whispered, “Hey.”
I turned around and faced her while Sister Jude was writing on the blackboard and she leaned in and whispered ever-so quietly so the other kids couldn’t hear, “I think you’re the silliest boy I’ve ever known.”
She was smiling at me and I took it as a compliment and I just said one word. “Thanks.” Our eyes interlocked and we stared into each other for probably twenty seconds, but in all the times I’ve remembered this, and its been plenty, it seemed like an eternity. Once we both looked away my stomach went into knots and I felt like I was going to throw up. I immediately turned away and stared at my desk and wondered what I was feeling.
Years later I realized that Barbara Kramer was the first girl I ever fell in love with. I often wonder what has happened to her and what she’s doing these days. She’s probably on facebook announcing to her 737 friends that she’s having Mexican food for dinner.
Bonus Photo! MAD pal, Ruben Sleurink sent in this photo of the Mars Bar all the way from the Netherlands. He found it on James and Karla Murray’s website, check it out here: James and Karla Murray. Thanks Ruben, it reminds me that Easter is almost here, I need to start saving up for pizza!
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Bonus Video! Jerry Rio sent in a link to a cool New York Documentary he did. You can view it right here: Urban Eye: Part 1.
One of my favorite blogs isJeremiah's Vanishing New York. It's an insightful and knowledgeable blog about New York's ever-changing landscape. Today I'm honored to have a guest entry and photos there. Check it out here: Back To Show Follies.
Okay, time for another battle royale in the Papaya Wars! For those of you keeping track, and I know in my delusional mind that there’s plenty of you out there keeping score, this will be battle number eight. Last week we saw the original Papaya King dramatically jump from last place all the way to the first place position in the all-important standings. Tonight, my Canadian friend Lex has requested that I try the one near the Port Authority bus station in Times Square. She and her in-laws, Morley and Mary Ann made a stop here during their visit last summer after attending a party at the Rum House hosted by Karen and Jon from Grade “A” Fancy. And so, with a bullet in my front pocket, let the battle begin, Barney Fife style, like I even know what all this means.
It's closing in on midnight, I had to work later than usual and i'm a little beat. We'll walk straight up 9th Avenue, 12 blocks to 42nd Street and get this shit over with let the battle begin!
This fellow was trimming flowers outside of a 9th Avenue deli and posed for a photo.
The Papaya Dog on 42nd Street. Let the battles begin...KHAAAAN!
Let's go in and check it out.
Lots of dogs on the grill, but I opted out for a corn dog...
And this fellow served it up. There weren't any large containers of mustard (so much for the patented ebony and ivory shot, strike one) but he offered up this behind the counter container.
And here it is in all its mustardized glory.
I took a large bit and discovered it's barely warm, in fact it's borderline cold. Ecch.
Fuck! I forgot the vodka, no patented Screwdapaya this week. This drink is sickeningly sweet. Let's take a look around here.
The menu hangs on the back wall.
They are the first Papaya place I've seen that serves fish and chips.
They also have a cracked window which can only lead to...obligatory cracked window shot!
This sign reminds me of the fact I forgot the vodka. They really know how to twist the old knife in here. I think it's time to leave.
Am I paranoid or is this truck staring at me? Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
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This Week's Papaya Wars Standings. As always the rankings go from worst to the best. 7. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 6. 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. 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 for now? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Papaya Dog 578 9th Ave. (@42nd St.) 212-629-0632
Okay, time for Battle Number Nine in the delusional idiocy that seems like it’s never going to end ever-exciting, ever-popular, Papaya Wars!
It’s not that far and normally I’d walk, but since I have this obsessive fear about being late for jury duty tomorrow, I’m going to set my alarm for 6:30. In the morning. Fuck!
And here we are. Let’s get this shit over with. Let the battle begin! KHHAAAAAANNN!
You have got to be fucking kidding me! Is there no sanctuary from this dollar pizza mania?
I'm just going to ignore the pizza part of this place and pretend it's not there. Nyah, nyah, nyah nyah, nyah.
Okay, this gentlemen served up tonight's entree. A hot dog with mustard and a small orange papaya drink...
Which, with the help of my little friend, will soon be turned into my patented Screwdapaya drink!
New York Magazine says this place is the best Papaya, but that was written before they turned half of the joint into a stinking one dollar pizza ghetto. They also wrote that Mario Batali is a fan of the place. I don't know about you, but just thinking of that guy in his shorts and orange clogs ruins my appetite.
See what I mean?
I almost forgot my patented Ebony and Ivory ketchup and mustard shot. With all these fake patents looming, I need to find a fake patent attorney.
And now time to head home. I have to get up at 6:30. In the morning. Fuck! KHHAAAAAANNN!
8. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore.
The top ten Google suggestions when you type in, “Morning is...”
They left off one, “Morning is totally fucked!
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