Okay, it’s Sunday and time to visit an independent business in New York and buy something. My way of encouraging everyone to try and shop as local as you can and tell the chains to go fuck themselves. As I’ve said in the past my two favorite kinds of stores are record and book shops, so I’m kind of juggling them back and forth. Maybe next week I’ll find a different kind of shop to go to, but this week it’s back to a book store, The St. Mark’s Bookshop in the East Village.
It's about a ten minute walk over there. It's a little chilly out, but not freezing, maybe spring is finally on the way.
And here we are, St. Mark's Books, let's check it out.
Lots of books in here and this is just the front of the store!
Jed was behind the counter and said it was fine to take photos in the store. A nice guy!
Here's some of the newer releases. I keep meaning to buy that Sarah Silverman book. Maybe that'll be tonight's purchase.
More books! Let's go check out some titles, shall we?
Quite a scary bear and we all know that Otto spelled backwards is Otto. I think that's called a padiddle when that happens, but don't quote me on that.
When I saw the title of the book, I thought the author had to be Jimmy Kimmel, but once again I'm wrong.
This one goes out to Tim "Clacky" Clack all the way to the land down under! Cheers, mate!
This is a poster of a postcard book you can buy up front. It's real photos of Theater signs done up in haiku three line style. Hilarious, maybe I'll buy that.
Speaking of postcards, there's a couple of racks of them in the back.
And there's magazines in here too. They sold fishwrap in here back when I was publishing it.
Speaking of fishwrap, check it out, a food fanzine called, Put A Egg On It. Very cool, you don't see that many fanzines these days.
A shot of Jed in action behind the counter. They're doing a brisk business in here tonight and that's good to see.
Here's a display of some specialty books. Hey, speaking of fanzines, check out the book on the lower right hand side!
It's a huge book on the history of fanzines. It made the transition from St. Mark's Bookstore to...
My coffee table. Okay, I gotta go start reading and see if fishwrap is mentioned anywhere in here. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
In Their Own Words (Taken from their website) St. Mark's Bookshop was established in 1977 on New York City's Lower East Side, a community of students, academics, artists, and other discerning readers. Our specialties include Cultural Theory, Graphic Design, Poetry & Small Press Publishing, Film Studies, and Foreign & Domestic Periodicals and Journals. We are open Monday through Saturday from 10 am to Midnight, Sundays 11 am to Midnight.
Located at 31 Third Avenue between 8th and 9th Streets, we are convenient to the 6 Train at Astor Place and the N/R Trains at Broadway and 8th Street. Our neighborhood is home to New York University, The Cooper Union, and such cultural institutions as P.S. 122 and St. Mark's Church in the Bowery, which offer theatre, dance performances and poetry readings. There are also many vintage clothing stores, designer boutiques, import shops, antique stores, and new & used record stores in the area, as well as dozens of cafes, restaurants and bars.
Live, from New York, it’s Saturday Night Cheeseburger! Tonight’s host is The VIP Diner in Jersey City and featuring the Ready For Prime Beef Player, Marty Wombacher, with special guest appearances from the Journal Square Pub and James Mollo. And now, all the way from Jersey City, please welcome the VIP Diner!
It's 6:30pm and it's still light out. I hate Daylight Savings Time. Tonight we're traveling to Jersey City for a cheeseburger. My friend James Mollo just moved there and he invited me over there. I realized that I haven't left Manhattan since I've been doing MAD, so I accepted the invitation and it's off we go.
On my way to the train I met Bryon Carlton Neal who operates a shoe shine service on 6th Avenue near 14th Street. He's there every Saturday and I promised him I'd stop by next week and get a shoe shine, so check back for that. If you'd like to have Byron shine your shoes, you can schedule an appointment with him by calling this number: 347-524-8788.
We'll be taking the Path train to New Jersey.
There's a lot of people down here and as I've said before, that's always a good sign a train is near.
And once again my theory is proven true. I only was in the station about a minute before this train rumbled in.
Wow, it's a crowded train car, standing room only.
Through the magic of the internet, you're spared a half hour train ride where a woman sneezed on me. That's right, she turned towards me and sneezed on my right sleeve as if it was the most perfectly normal thing to do and then went back to checking her Blackberry. Miraculously I don't have a cold today. Yet.
James had told me I'd have to ride a bunch of escalators to get to street level and he was right. I had to take three of them and it freaked me out a little that the train was that far underground. It made me think of the Mole Man Superman episode.
Finally we're at street level. Jesus fucking Christ, it's still light out and it's almost seven o'clock! I hate Daylight Savings Time!
I'm meeting James at a bar before we go for the cheeseburger, James said to look for an old time movie theater. There it is, he said the bar would be right next to it...
And I think that's the place. Lets cross the street and check it out.
And this is the place, the Journal Square Pub.
Here's a little neon in the window, let's go inside and find James.
It may be light outside, but it's nice and dark in here. I think Al would approve of this place.
And here he is, tonight's special guest star, James Mollo!
John, the friendly bartender serves up a bottle of Budweiser, now we're on the right track.
Here's a longshot of the wooden bar.
A true sign of a classic neighborhood joint, a pay phone.
A Heineken sign hangs on the wall across from the bar.
Uh, oh...according to the clock it's just about cheeseburger time.
And so once again through the magic of the internet, you're magically transported to the VIP Diner where all baking is done on premises.
The outside of the diner is done up in classic faux rock. Wilma!
Inside it's a classic diner and it's open 24 hours. Did I mention that all baking is done on premises?
They have a large list of burgers to choose from. I chose the hickory burger.
I also got onion rings and they brought them out first. They were probably the best onion rings I've ever had. Flaky, delicious and baked on premises.
And here's the hickory burger. At first James and I thought that they forgot the cheese, but then I discovered they put it under the burger. I wasn't too happy about that, but at least it was baked on premises.
The burger was okay, but didn't hold a candle to last week's burger at Whitman's. That's going to be a tough one to beat.
A view of Jersey from our window at the VIP Diner.
Okay, time to travel back to the center of the earth and head back to Manhattan.
And here we are, back in Manhattan. And I didn't bump into one mole man on the way! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
My Meal The VIP Diner has a decent list of cheeseburgers. They have a pizza burger, a mushroom bacon burger, a Greek burger and a tango burger which is a burger topped with melted Swiss cheese and pimento. I’ve never felt that Swiss cheese belongs on a cheeseburger so I ordered the hickory burger which is a burger topped with Canadian bacon, cheddar cheese and bbq sauce. I also got an order of onion rings. James got a grilled cheese sandwich and also ordered the onion rings. The onion rings showed up first and they were first rate, maybe the best onion rings I’ve ever had. The outer batter was fluffy and the onions were extremely tender and tasty. Then the burger showed up. At first I thought they forgot to put the cheese on it. But upon closer inspection, the cheddar cheese was melted beneath the burger instead of on top. Three slices of Canadian bacon were placed above the burger. The hickory burger was okay, but nowhere near last week’s Whitman burger. It was a little dry and I couldn’t even taste the cheese. The bbq sauce tasted generic and the Canadian bacon made me think of Kevin Bacon and that’s never a good thing to have floating through your head while eating a burger in Jersey City.
MAD Cheeseburger Rating: 2 Wimpy's, okay but I've had better. VIP Diner 175 Sip Ave Jersey City, NJ (201) 792-1400
Last week after the Midnight Movie post, I put up the top movies in my NetFlix queue. One of them was one of my all-time favorite movies, The Party starring Peter Sellers. It also stars Claudine “Bang...whoops, sorry about that Spider” Longet. This isn’t one of Peter Sellers best known movies, but I think it’s one of his best. And MAD commenter and pal, Al, chimed in that it was one of his favorite movies too. Well it came in the mail and I saved it for tonight and so that’s the movie tonight. As always it’s presented in the patented MartyVision, utilizing as few stills as possible to present the movie. Lights, camera...beer!
Peter Sellers Quotes “I feel ghostly unreal until I become somebody else again on the screen.”
“If you ask me to play myself, I will not know what to do. I do not know who or what I am.”
“I'm a classic example of all humorists—only funny when I'm working.”
“Criticism should be done by critics, and a critic should have some training and some love of the medium he is discussing.”
“To label any subject unsuitable for comedy is to admit defeat.”
And speaking of movies, don't forget to tune it to theSecret Weapon Saturday Movie Matinee. The songs are picked by "Boris" and the tunes are spun by DJ Gidget and she sprinkles movie quotes in between. It's on right now and goes till 5pm EST. Check it out at Woody Radio!
They’ve recently put up an Andy Warhol statue nearby where his Factory used to be. I thought tonight we’d stop by and take a few pictures and check it out.
It is one miserable motherfucking night out here. It's cold, rainy and just plain rotten. I'm starting to wonder if spring will ever be sprung.
Here's the statue. It's made out of silver metal and hard to get a good shot of, especially when it's raining and freezing out here. The statue is right across from Union Square and faces one of the buildings where Andy Warhol had his Factory. It's now a Petco. Sad.
Here's the bottom of the statue, "The Andy Monument."
I met Jesse and Jason while taking pictures there and they agreed to pose by the statue. I tried to fix this photo up in Photoshop, but it still sucks. I took another photo of the two of them with Jesse's camera and it turned out much better. She said she'd send it to me before noon tomorrow. Let's see if she was playing an early April Fool's joke on me. Jason is a talented artist, illustrator and muralist. Check out his work at his website here: Jason Das Disambiguation Page. (So far it's 11:55am, I'm getting ready to post this and I've received no photo. It looks like I've been April Fooled! Sob!) UPDATE: Jesse just sent the photo in! It's below.
From left, Jesse, Andy and Jason. Jesse has a fun and informative blog and you can check it out here: jesse.anne.o. Thanks for sending the picture!
Here's the artist's statement about the project. I'm freezing and I need to go home and write a short story tonight. It should be right below this if I finish it. If not...April Fool's!
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Six Degrees of Andy Warhol If you live in New York you constantly run into assholes claiming they knew Andy Warhol, they worked for Andy Warhol, they knew someone who knew someone who knew Andy Warhol, blah, blah, blah. Well, I’m happy to say that I’m one of those assholes. Here’s my Andy Warhol story.
Back in the late ‘90’s, I was at work. I don’t like to blog about where I work at, although this was a different place than where I'm at now, but I still don’t want to get into it. Let’s just say it was a place that produced the equivalent of garbage and I helped mold things to throw on to the giant pile of trash that they would then sell to another asshole business, who would spread this bullshit all over town, ruining walls, sides of kiosks and tops of taxi cabs wherever they plastered these pieces of culture-crap. But anyway, that’s neither here, there nor everywhere, so let’s move on to the next paragraph. So there I was in a room working on a computer with about six of my co-workers, all working away as well. We sat at two tables that formed an L shape and they were lined with computers. Somebody started talking about the Rolling Stones for some reason and Rich Caposino, who was the manager of the department said, “Those fucking guys trashed my uncle’s house out in Montauk.”
This gave me cause me to glance over in Rich’s direction and ask, “Who the fuck is your uncle?”
“Well, it’s not really my uncle, it’s my wife’s uncle,” Rich replied.
“Well, okay, who’s your wife’s uncle?” I asked again. I was bound to get to the bottom of this, plus it sure beat the shit out of talking about work, a subject I try and avoid at all costs.
“His name’s Paul Morrissey,” Rich said nonchalantly.
I immediately spun around in my chair, squinted in Rich’s direction and excitedly spat out, “You don’t mean the Andy Warhol guy do you?” Rich chuckled at how excited I was and said, “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Holy shitballs,” I cried out, “I’ve read that without him, Andy Warhol never would’ve made it as big as he did.”
Rich and I then talked about Paul Morrissey, his films he did with Andy Warhol—Rich told me his wife was in a couple of them, which I thought was really cool—and how Morrissey had discovered the Velvet Underground. Rich explained to me it was Morrissey’s idea to put Nico in the group because Morrissey had said, “Lou Reed can’t fucking sing!”He then said that Paul could be a little cranky.
I was publishing my magazine fishwrap at the time and I asked Rich if he knew how much Morrissey was involved with Interview magazine.
“From what I know, it was pretty much his idea,” Rich replied.
I asked him if he’d give him a copy of fishwrap the next time he saw him and Rich said he would. I was always looking for someone to back the magazine in those days. Paul Morrissey surely could get someone to get behind it. Interview was a big success, I had a hunch that if he saw fishwrap, he’d love it. Maybe he’d be the guy to spring me out of my night job and land me in the world of magazine publishing, where I felt I truly belonged.
“Maybe I’ll be the next Andy Warhol,” I thought to myself. I made a mental note to get a white wig.
Just then we were interrupted by a slithery penguin-like creature who wanted to know what the “status of the level of the queue was.” That last line may sound like utter nonsense to most of you, but I guarantee you that if Rich and/or Frank Scott (another co-worker from back then) are reading this, they are having a nice little chuckle after reading that line. So anyway, about a month went by and it became a running joke with me to ask Rich how Uncle Paul was doing. I also kept reminding him that the next time he saw him, he needed to show Uncle Paul a copy of fishwrap so he could turn it into the next Interview and I could quit my job.
One day while I was staring out the window day-dreaming about being the next Andy Warhol working dilligently as I always do, Rich came running up to me with some papers and a big grin on his face.
“You want to meet Uncle Paul?” Rich said while breaking out into a bigger smile.
“Huh?” I shot back.
“He’s out in the reception area, I just printed some stuff out for him. Come on, I’ll introduce you to him,” Rich said while turning towards the door. Sweet mother of fuck! The timing couldn’t have been better. Rolling Stone magazine had just had their 30th year anniversary and I had just published an issue of fishwrap devoted to Rolling Stone. I felt it was really a strong issue and the cover was a black and white parody cover of the first issue of Rolling Stone. I had gotten some press on it too. In addition to being the editor of New York Press at the time, John Strausbaugh also wrote a media column in the paper and he wrote about that issue of fishwrap and gave it high praise. I told Rich to wait and I dug in my bag and grabbed a copy of fishwrap and the clipping from the New York Press. Soon I was following Rich through the company’s office towards the reception area.
Within minutes we had made our destination and Rich opened the door to the reception area. There was a man standing there, medium build, white hair and a touch of a scowl colored his face. He said hi to Rich and I realized it was Paul Morrissey. He looked older and a little more haggard than the pictures I had seen of him, but then those pictures were twenty to thirty years old. Of course he was going to look older, what was I thinking? Rich introduced me to him and his scowl got even worse. He kind of had an expression on his face like someone was putting a cigarette out on the left cheek of his face.
I stuck out my hand and said, “It’s really a pleasure to meet you, your films, your work with Andy Warhol and The Velvet Underground were genius.”
He halfheartedly shook my hand and the scowl turned into a grimace. Almost like now someone was putting out a Cuban cigar on the right cheek of his face.
I figured that I should make my move.
“I publish a magazine called fishwrap,” I said while shoving the magazine into his hand that I had just shook, “and I’d really appreciate you taking a look at it. It’s been a cult and critical success and I’ve gotten a fair amount of press for...”
“What the fuck! The cover’s black and white! What’s wrong with you?” He shouted at me while staring at the magazine like he was holding a bucket of steaming elephant dung.
At first I was stunned and then I tried explaining it to him. “The reason it’s black and white is that it’s a parody of the first cover of Rolling Stone, we...”
“Fuck Rolling Stone, they get everything wrong and they always have,” he shouted waving my own magazine at me.
“Yeah, yeah fuck them,” I said trying to back pedal, “there’s color inside and I think you’ll like the layout. I do most of the writing and I make fun of...”
“Look at the size of the photos in here,” he barked at me while staring wild-eyed at the magazine and turning pages, “they’re the size of postage stamps. You need big photos, this stinks!” he barked while continuing to flip through pages.
“We’re going to have big photos, in fact the next issue is going to be nothing but big photos,” I lied. I felt like a drowning man trying to reach a life saver that’s inches out of reach. Desperate is the word for what I was.
“Aw fuck, here’s another black and white photo, this is just terrible!” He said while handing the issue back to me. He grabbed the papers from Rich and I can’t remember if he even said goodbye. It was kind of like all of a sudden he just vanished.
I took a deep breath, cocked my right eyebrow up and said to Rich, “I think it went fairly well, what do you think?”
We both started laughing and Rich told me he didn’t mean any harm, it’s just the way he is. He said he talks that way with everyone. We laughed some more about the whole situation and went back to work.
That evening I called about a half a dozen people and the conversations all started out with me saying, “You’re not going to believe who yelled at me today!” And that is how I was indoctrinated into the Royal Order of Assholes Who Tell Stories About Knowing Someone Who Knew Andy Warhol. In fact, I have to run now, I’m late for a meeting with them...fuck...I keep forgetting to buy that white wig! Further reading: Paul Morrissey, IMDb, WarholStars and tumblr Photos by Paul Morrissey.
We’ve been to Penn Station quite a few times since I started MAD, so I thought tonight we’d take a trip to its Terminal sister on the east side, Grand Central Terminal and see what’s going on over there after dark.
We'll walk straight up 7th Avenue to Times Square and catch the shuttle train.
The "S" marks the spot.
And here we are, there's a good-sized crowd which is great, it means a train should be here soon.
And baboom! Here it is, the shuttle. A true Charles Susty moment!
The ride to Grand Central is just a couple of minutes.
See, we're here already, let's make our way to the main concourse.
This guy was singing opera at the end of the track. It was kind of creepy and made me feel like a bit player in "Silence of the Lambs." Time to move on.
Here we are, the main concourse, the heart of Grand Central.
People in motion.
The information booth in the center of the Concourse is a well-known attraction.
As is the clock above it. It's 10:40, do you know where your children are?
Here's some people camped out on the stairs.
This fellow is really absorbed into his text machine. So much so that he...
Can't see the fucking sign right in front of him telling him he's not supposed to be sitting there texting his asshole texts.
This guy didn't get the memo about not sitting on the stairs either and he's going to be there for a while it seems. It looks like he's reading "War and Peace!" That's okay, don't get up, I'll just walk around you...asshole.
Let's go check out the Dining Concourse and maybe get a drink or something.
Speaking of drinks, here's the famous Oyster Bar. Sadly it was closed. And it's not even 11:00 pm! Sheesh! What happened to the city that never sleeps?
And this place already has its chairs up.
Okay, okay...
I get the message. I guess the Dining Concourse is more of a lunch spot.
I like the back of this chair.
Well, well, well. It looks like our friend is done with "War and Peace" and is now hypnotized by his iPhone.
And so is this guy.
Him too, it's starting to feel like a night of a thousand zombies in here...
Time to join in the people in motion...
And get back to where we once belonged. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Grand Central Terminal 89 East 42nd St. @Park Ave.
Tonight I’m going to write about my favorite summer of all time, the summer of 1967. But before that, I’ve decided to go to 1967 Broadway. No, I don’t have a time machine, I mean the actual address and see what’s there and take a few photos. Alright Sherman, set the Wayback Machine for 1967!
Here we are, let's go find 1967 Broadway and see what it is today.
We're close, here's 1965 Broadway, it's the next door down, let's see what 1967 looks like in 2011.
A Pottery Barn. A little disappointing, but then we are on the Upper West Side. Let's see what the address looks like.
They don't have the address up! What a fucking gyp! Oh well, I'm going home to write my story and then we'll get a glimpse of 1967.
1967
I’ve always loved the summer, especially when I was a kid. School was out and you had three glorious months of freedom and warmth. My favorite summer of all time was the summer of 1967. I was nine-years-old.
The experience I remember the best about the summer of 1967 was that our family took a vacation to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It was a great vacation. I remember swimming in the ocean for the first time and running on the white sandy beach outside of our hotel room. The skies were blue, the air was sweet and warm and I didn’t have a care in the world. We were in Florida for a week and while we were there my brother Jim celebrated his 11th birthday on Sunday, June 11th. We had a little party in one of the hotel rooms we were staying at and he opened his gifts. I can only remember one of his birthday presents, but it was a doozy.
It was the last gift he opened and it was slim and square, the size of a record album. We both knew what it was before he tore the wrapping paper off. On June 1st, 1967, The Beatles released “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band” and it was the only thing he wanted for his birthday. I was just as excited as he was. The Beatles were our favorite group and we had heard that this was the best thing they had ever done. We had already heard snippets of songs on the car radio and they sounded magical. It soon became the soundtrack for what history would call the “Summer of Love.” There was no record player in the hotel room, so we had to be content with just looking at the album cover. But there was enough on that cover for us to absorb and study till we got home. The front was a psychedelic collage of faces, wax figures, marijuana plants, a doll with a note to The Rolling Stones on it and The Beatles themselves in the center of all of it wearing colorful, military outfits. A big bass drum was emblazoned with the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band logo. They had moustaches and instead of guitars they were clutching horns and strange instruments. The wax figures were the old “mop-top” Beatles looking like they were at their own funeral and in a way they were. Some of the faces we recognized on the cover were Laurel and Hardy, W.C. Fields, Bob Dylan and Tony Curtis. The note to the Rolling Stones said, “Welcome the Rolling Stones, Good Guys.” Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had been arrested earlier in the year on drug charges. The times they were indeed changing. The back of the album cover had all the lyrics printed on a backdrop of red and a portrait of The Beatles decked out in their Sgt. Pepper gear. We read the lyrics to songs we couldn’t yet listen to. There was Billy Shears who got high with a little help from his friends. We were introduced to Lucy in the sky with diamonds, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes. There was a benefit for Mr. Kite and the Hendersons would all be there. Lovely Rita was a meter maid who wore a cap and the bag across her shoulders made her look a little like a military man. In the last song, “A Day in the Life,” we learned that The Beatles would love to “turn us on.” I guess they didn’t know that they already had.
As soon as we got back home from our vacation, we took the album out of the sleeve and put it on our parents fake wooden stereo console and put the needle on the vinyl. The act we’d known for all those years and all the other characters from Pepperland came to life and we played it over and over. About a week after we got home from Florida, the Monterey Pop Festival happened. It was the first rock and roll festival and it lasted for three days in June of 1967. I remember looking at photos of it in Life and Time magazine and wishing I could’ve been there. Images I remember from the Monterey Pop Festival include Jimi Hendrix setting his guitar on fire, The Who smashing their instruments, Mama Cass in the crowd gaping wide-eyed at Janis Joplin on stage belting out a tune like no one had heard before, Mickey Dolenz dressed up as an indian and kids dancing with their faces painted, long hair flowing and openly smoking pot. I was pissed that I was only nine-years-old and wasn’t able to go, but I remember looking at those photos and being filled with optimism and hope that when I got older, everything would be different. Everything would be better. All summer long we played Sgt. Pepper and it was the best summer of my life. I’ve never felt so hopeful and anxious for the future to come and I know I’ll never feel like that again in my life. 1967 drifted into 1968 with rallying cries from those under thirty for a revolution that never happened. In 1969 Woodstock morphed into Altamont and the hippie dream turned into a Helter Skelter nightmare. On May 4th, 1970 at a protest rally over the Amercian Invasion of Cambodia at Kent State University, Ohio National Guardsmen sprayed 67 rounds of ammunition at the protesters and killed four of them and wounded nine others. One would go on to suffer permanent paralysis. By then I was twelve-years-old and watching that on the nightly news sent a chill right down my soon to be teenaged spine. It drained any optimism out of me that was left over from that magical summer of 1967. The really sad thing is the fact that two of the students that were shot to death weren’t even involved with the protest. They were just walking from one class to another and got caught in the line of fire. I realized then that the future had bullets and if you didn’t do what you were told or if you had the balls to question authority, you might take one right between the eyes.Millionaire rock stars singing about revolution seemed a little naive and silly all of a sudden. Nobody can really say for sure when the ‘60’s ended. Most people acknowledge sometime in the early ‘70’s. Writer Hunter S. Thompson eulogized the ‘60’s free spirit vibe in his nerve-jangled novel, “Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas.” I think it’s one of his finest pieces of writing, here it is: “Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run...but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant...
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.
My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket...booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change)...but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that...
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda...You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning...
And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave...
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”
—Hunter S. Thompson from “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”
There will never be another summer like the summer of 1967. It came and went like a cool breeze and it didn’t last long enough. I’m sure happy I got to live through it and in some small way be a part of it. The song is over, but the memory lives on in an unending fadeout groove. Further reading: Wikipedia, Internet Sgt. Pepper’s, NPR and the NY Times.
Okay, time for round 7 of the Papaya Wars! A couple of weeks ago I went to the Papaya King on the Upper East Side. They’re the original Papaya King and have been on the block for close to 80 years. If you’ve been following the Papaya Wars, you’ll remember I came here a couple weeks ago. I thought it was open 24 hours like the rest of the Papayas, but was saddened to find it closed. It turns out they close at midnight during the week and are open till two in the morning Friday and Saturday. The next day I put up a tweet on Twitter saying I was sad that this place was closed when I got there. A little later on in the day, this tweet hit the Twitterverse:
It was the King himself, apologizing! I thought that was nice, so I agreed to give the Papaya King a second chance. I’m getting out of work earlier tonight, so I should be able to make the 12:00 pm deadline. Onwards to the King!
Let's hail a cab and head up to the Upper East Side.
Taxi!
And here we are. Deja vu, let's see if they're open and maybe have a deja chew.
The door's are open, time for tonight's Papaya Wars to begin. Banzai!
"A Tropical Oasis in the Concrete Jungle." Sounds good to me, it's still freezing cold out here.
Okay, tonight we find out if this is just a boast or fact from The King.
The counter here is long and sparkling clean. Let's check out the dogs.
They look good here and the aroma is doggidly delightful in here.
And here Amzad serves up a Papaya drink and a dog. Amzad's the manager here and has worked for the King since 1996. He says it's a great place to work. I have to admit, this is the friendliest Papaya I've been in yet. let's try the dog and the drink. If you recall the last Papaya drink I tried didn't go down too smoothly.
We'll camp out over here, this place really is the cleanest Papaya I've ever seen.
Here's my dog and I ordered the orange drink from advice from my friend and co-worker, Joey D. They don't have beer here, but this time I came prepared...
Say hello to my little friend! I poured this into the Orange Papaya drink and a new drink was given birth to: "The Screwdrapaya." Both the dog and drink were delicious, good call, Joey D! Sorry there's not an ATM shot in here, I'll try tomorrow.
They have some great vintage photos of the place. Here's one from 1955, hot dog history!
Here's a shot of the counter back in 1950.
The King has been in this same spot since 1932. I found out from Twittering with the King that the Beatles ate here on their first trip to New York.
And if you're a Seinfeld fan you'll remember the King was a guest star on one of the episodes.
Here's the script on the counter.
Here's a shot of the Papaya King from the '70's. I wonder if Travis Bickle ever ate here?
My patented Ebony and Ivory Papaya shot, this time with brand names. No generic condiments at the Papaya King!
One last glance out the window and time to end this week's battle of the Papaya Wars.
And I'm happy to testify that yes, they are tastier than filet mignon! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
This Week's Papaya Wars Standings. As always the rankings go from worst to the best. 6. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 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.
There’s still a few more Papayas in town to check out in this hot dog battle, so stay tuned to the Papaya Wars here every Monday, exclusively at MAD and see if the King can hold on to his crown! Papaya King 179 E. 86th St. (Near Third Ave.) 212-369-0648
Okay, I’ve decided to dedicate Sunday nights to independent businesses. The only problem with this is that a lot of them close early on Sundays. So Sunday’s will be the rare MAD experience that occasionally starts in the early evening hours before it’s actually dark out. My two favorite kind of stores are bookstores and record shops, so we'll be seeing a lot of them on Sunday's. This week I’m going to a cool little record store on Bleecker street called, Rebel Rebel.
Check out this store on 14th Street. It's called, NYC Candy. Yet...
They don't sell candy! Now I don't know about you, but...
I want candy!
Private hooker joke between Biff and I alert: Ah, the Karavas Tavern, spanks for the memories!
Okay, we're on Bleecker, just a few blocks till we get to Rebel Rebel.
Speaking of hookers, this place is a real meat market. (Rimshot.)
And here we are, Rebel Rebel. The store's named after this David Bowie tune.
You don't even have to go inside to shop here.
But let's go in, it's freezing as fuck out here. Where is spring?
Okay, I went in and met the owner (I think he was the owner.) He was a real nice guy, but couldn't seem to understand what I was doing and why. He told me I could take a couple pictures. I told him I really needed to take more and he told me a couple would be enough. And again, he was being super-nice about it, so I asked if I could take ten and he said I could take five. Here's the thing, I don't know much about photography (other things I don't know much about: History, biology, algebra and no, I don't know what a slide rule is for) so usually I take about sixty photos and out of those I'll get about twenty good ones. So I'm really feeling the pressure here to get five decent ones in a row. Here's number one: A full shot of the shop. There's tons of records and CD's in the small shop.
There's a nice selection of rock and roll magazines in here, Mojo magazine is great!
This shot kind of sucked, I'm really feeling the pressure here.
A stack of Rebel Rebel shirts on top of a pile of albums.
The back wall has tons of magazines with Madonna on the cover. That's it, my five picture deal is done. I feel I did the best I could under the circumstances. Please don't rag on this place in the comments, it's a great store, the owner is just a little camera shy. If you're ever in New York, you should check it out.
I found a German import of "The Who Sell Out," one of my favorite records of all time. Since I bought something the owner agreed to one more photo and even took it himself. Squeezed an extra photo out of him! I felt really good about that. Yes, this is what my life has been reduced to!
And the sun has set. Look to the right of this photo for a reminder that the stupid-ass all-important Papaya Wars continue tomorrow, exclusively here at MAD! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Rebel Rebel 319 Bleecker St. (Near Grove St.) 212-989-0770
When I was a kid Sunday nights meant three things: School was starting the next day, my homework was never done and Ed Sullivan was on TV that night. Here’s five great Ed Sullivan moments via YouTube.You can only watch these if you've done your homework! The Beatles Richard Pryor Topo Gigio Plate Spinning Senor Wences
Okay, it’s Sunday and time to visit an independent business in New York and buy something. My way of encouraging everyone to try and shop as local as you can and tell the chains to go fuck themselves. As I’ve said in the past my two favorite kinds of stores are record and book shops, so I’m kind of juggling them back and forth. Maybe next week I’ll find a different kind of shop to go to, but this week it’s back to a book store, The St. Mark’s Bookshop in the East Village.
It's about a ten minute walk over there. It's a little chilly out, but not freezing, maybe spring is finally on the way.
Ugh.
Downtown, where the neon lights are...
Pretty. Downtown.
And here we are, St. Mark's Books, let's check it out.
Lots of books in here and this is just the front of the store!
Jed was behind the counter and said it was fine to take photos in the store. A nice guy!
Here's some of the newer releases. I keep meaning to buy that Sarah Silverman book. Maybe that'll be tonight's purchase.
More books! Let's go check out some titles, shall we?
Quite a scary bear and we all know that Otto spelled backwards is Otto. I think that's called a padiddle when that happens, but don't quote me on that.
When I saw the title of the book, I thought the author had to be Jimmy Kimmel, but once again I'm wrong.
This one goes out to Tim "Clacky" Clack all the way to the land down under! Cheers, mate!
This is a poster of a postcard book you can buy up front. It's real photos of Theater signs done up in haiku three line style. Hilarious, maybe I'll buy that.
Speaking of postcards, there's a couple of racks of them in the back.
Two bookends at the end of the aisle.
And there's magazines in here too. They sold fishwrap in here back when I was publishing it.
Speaking of fishwrap, check it out, a food fanzine called, Put A Egg On It. Very cool, you don't see that many fanzines these days.
A shot of Jed in action behind the counter. They're doing a brisk business in here tonight and that's good to see.
Here's a display of some specialty books. Hey, speaking of fanzines, check out the book on the lower right hand side!
It's a huge book on the history of fanzines. It made the transition from St. Mark's Bookstore to...
My coffee table. Okay, I gotta go start reading and see if fishwrap is mentioned anywhere in here. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
St. Mark's Bookshop was established in 1977 on New York City's Lower East Side, a community of students, academics, artists, and other discerning readers. Our specialties include Cultural Theory, Graphic Design, Poetry & Small Press Publishing, Film Studies, and Foreign & Domestic Periodicals and Journals. We are open Monday through Saturday from 10 am to Midnight, Sundays 11 am to Midnight.
Five Books On My Bookshelf
Your Vigor For Life Appalls Me—Robert Crumb Letters: 1958-1977
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