Live, from New York, it’s Saturday Night Cheeseburger! Tonight’s host is Whitmans in the East Village and featuring the ready for prime beef player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen...Whitmans!
And here we go down Fifth to 9th, hang a left and off we go to the East Village.
Oh jeez, this fucking poster is going to start haunting me. A second after I shot this photo a voice behind me shouted out, "There'll never be someone who can play Arthur like Dudley Moore." I spun around and agreed with...
This fellow, Metal Mike. We had a nice chat about movies, Paul Giamatti and New York. That's one of the things I like about doing this blog, all the different people you meet. Okay, onwards towards the cheeseburger, I'm starvin' like Marvin over here!
And here we are at Whitmans. I hope it's not crowded in here.
And look at this, not crowded at all. It's unseasonably cold out and I think a lot of people stayed home tonight. All the better for us!
I decided to start out with a can of Genesee and Claire behind the counter was happy to serve it up. Cheers!
There's tables next to the brick wall on one side.
But I opted to sit at the marble topped counter facing the white tiled wall on the other side of the room.
Here's a shot of my view from where I was seated.
The place is named after writer Walt Whitman, here's a drawing of him on the brick wall.
Guests are welcome to draw portraits of Walt which Whitmans will hang up. Here's one hanging in the back. Note the tin ceiling, nice!
Rose was working downstairs, but made a trip upstairs and I snapped a photo of her showing off the tip jar. If you eat here, throw something in here, the staff is nice and deserves it.
And before you know it, Mick shows up with tonight's meal. Let's check it out.
This looks like one tasty cheeseburger. And the orange coloring at the top isn't the cheese it's mustard. The cheese is...
In the middle of the burger. Oh my God, I think this is the best cheeseburger I've ever had!
Afterwards I decided to check out the lower level of Whitmans.
It's dark and the walls are a wooden brown down here. Kind of a romantic setting.
Speaking of romantic, here's a couple that's making out down here. Let's give them a little privacy and go back upstairs.
Here's Claire with Alex, I thanked them for the great service and cheeseburger and...
Glanced out the window and wished spring would get here. It was a chilly walk home. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
My Meal I had the specialty of the place, The Juicy Lucy, along with an order of homemade potato chips. For a beverage I had three cans of Genesee beer. The Juicy Lucy is a cheeseburger with the cheese stuffed inside of the burger, supposedly this was invented at one of two bars in Minneapolis. At Whitman’s they stuff it with pimento cheese, and add carmelized onions, lettuce, tomato and a special sauce. The homemade potato chips were also very tasty. Everyone that works here is super-friendly in a genuine way and it's a cozy little cheeseburger emporium with table and counter seating upstairs and a dining room downstairs. if you followed the 365 blog and have been following this one, you know I've been to a lot of cheeseburger places in the last 14 months. Well, I'm declaring their Juicy Lucy as the best cheeseburger I've had so far. It is the cheeseburger to beat and the one which all future cheeseburgers will be judged by. You have to check it out. I’m instituting a new rating system here at MAD for Cheeseburgers. It goes from one Wimpy (poor) to four Wimpy’s (delicious!)
MAD Cheeseburger Rating For Whitmans:
Whitmans 406 E. 9th St. (Near 1st Ave.) 212-228-8011
A couple weeks ago Fat Al, one half of the fine team over at The Half Empty Glass, wrote a post about a company that names its bottled water, Fred. That is a really stupid name for a bottle of water. But it got me thinking about other names that would improve with the inclusion of the name, Fred. And so here a list of a band, a hairstyle, a movie and a shoe product that would all sound better if they incorporated the word “Fred” into their respective names. Fred Zeppelin Fredlocks Fred Freds
Okay, if you remember from last week, the movie, Fear Strikes Out, struck out on us in the bottom of the fifth (beer.) I put it in my Netflix queue and it has dutifully arrived, so we’ll pick up where we left off. As always this film is presented in MartyVision using as few stills as possible to tell the story. Lights, camera...play ball and go nuts! (Click here to see part one.)
One thing that amazed me last year while doing my 365 bar trek was how people reacted when I approached them and asked to take their picture for the blog. Before I started, I thought maybe fifty percent would say yes. I was pleasantly surprised that it was usually closer to ninety percent saying yes. At first I dreaded walking up to strangers and asking to take their picture, but after a while, I got used to it and I enjoyed it. This led me to think of an idea for MAD to do occasionally, instead of approaching several people for a photo, I’m just going to approach one person and ask to take twelve photos of that person’s face. If they agree, I’m going to call out different emotions and words for the person to react to. I’m going to call this, “Extreme Close-Up.” Let’s go see if I can pull this off.
Goddamn, it's cold out here again tonight, where are you spring?
It's kind of deserted out tonight, I guess people are pissed that spring has refused to be sprung on this city and they're staying inside.
Oh no. I guess I should thank them for the warning.
I think I'll cut over here and go to Union Square Park, there's always people there.
Okay, here's Union Square Park, let's go to the other side where the steps are, kids are always hanging out over there.
Jesus creeping Christ, it's empty over here and it's not even 10:30! Come on people, work with me!
I was going to ask this guitar guy, but I went over and he seemed to be stoned out of his gourd really into his music, so I didn't want to bother him.
Okay, here we go! This competitive chess player's name is C and he wasn't camera shy at all. He agreed to be the first person to play, "Extreme Close-Up" on MAD. The idea here is to get C to look directly in the camera and then I'm going to throw words out and have him mirror them with his expressions. Here we go!
Happy. (I wanted C to look directly in the camera, but after repeated requests, I gave up I thought maybe this was a better angle anyway.
Sad. (Not too much different than happy, but hey, what are you going to do?)
Confused. (He's still not looking at the camera, but he's getting into it a little more.)
Mad.
Charlie Sheen.
Emilio Estevez. (This prompted C to look away even further from the camera and say, "Man, I don't even know who she is!" I figured this was a good time to end this first edition of, "Extreme Close-Up." Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark!)
Extreme Close-Up—Epilogue Okay, I admit, this exercise could’ve gone a little better. Part of it was me, maybe I should’ve given C a little more direction, but after asking him to look directly in the camera 37 times, I got a little tired of asking. I thought about trying someone else, but there was no one around and quite frankly, I was kind of out of the mood to do this. I’m not a beaten man though, I will try this again...maybe in a bar next time.
Usually on Tuesday’s, I walk home and write a short story. That didn’t happen yesterday, because I had other plans. So I decided to write one tonight, when I get home. The weather was hellish today, rain, freezing rain and more rain. I haven’t been out since, so let’s see what’s happening outside.
Goddamn, it's cold and rainy and rotten out here, glad I'm going home tonight.
Random street art alert!
Good old Spa Bell, the daughter of Ma. Okay, coming up, "Brother David Glover." But first, a word from our sponsor.
Brother David Glover When I was growing up I really hated school. I hated the way they tried to make you conform, I hated the desks, I hated the lockers (I was always forgetting the stupid combination), I hated a lot of my teachers and I really hated the smell of the lunch room. But of all the things I targeted my teenage hatred and angst at during my school years, none surpassed the blinding hatred I still hold in my heart for one teacher: Brother David Glover.
The high school I attended was a Catholic high school named Bergan. I’m not a religious person now and wasn’t back then either (I’m not knocking it, whatever gets you through the night, it’s just not my cup of tea.) But having said that, I do believe it was a modern miracle that I finally graduated from high school. My one goal in life back then was just to be done with school and move the fuck on with my life. But when I almost got to the finish line, with graduation cap firmly in place, there was one asshole waiting to pull the rug right out from under my feet: Brother David Glover.
I was really excited to get my senior year out of the way and finally graduate and begin my post-school life. The schedule for students at Bergan ran on what was called a “mod” system and no, it wasn’t based on the Small Faces touring schedule. To this day I really don’t know or care what it was all about, but the short story is that you could make your own schedule and apart from classes you had to take there were other electives you could choose from, but you weren’t required to take them. If you took a lot of the required classes your first three years, by the time senior year came, you could have a pretty light schedule and kind of coast through the year. A reward for three years of hard work. And that’s the way I played it. One of the few classes you had to take all four years was religion. You also had to pass all four years or you couldn’t graduate. And I think by now you can guess who my religion teacher was my senior year. Yes, that’s right: Brother David Glover. In addition to the regular teachers at Bergan, there were also “Brothers” who taught there. I never really cared enough to research as to what a “Brother” was or what duties or activities they pursued. I don’t know if they still have them today, but back then, they were kind of like junior priests. They didn’t wear a costume like a priest, but you addressed them as “Brother.” Maybe today you can call them, “Bro.” Anyway, my senior religion teacher was Brother Glover and there was something about this guy that really made my skin crawl backwards and gave me a major dose of the creeps.
“Slithery” is the best word I can come up with to describe his demeanor. He was a quiet man. The kind of man who never makes a peep until they discover the heads of the entire Maple Street Boy Scout troop in his refrigerator, neatly stacked on top of one another. He had slightly long, straw-like brown hair and a wiry moustache that was only about halfway grown in. He kind of looked like a psycho version of Gene Wilder. Sometimes I’d see him riding a bike around Peoria and he would have a black beret on his head, kind of like a Jesus-loving mix of the Wicked Witch of the West and Pepe Le Pew. That’s a vision, I’ll likely never get out of my head, and one that tortures me to this day. From day one I didn’t like him and he sure as shit didn’t like me either. Back then I and most of my friends were smoking pot morning, noon and night. Religion class was right after lunch, I think about three days a week and I can remember sneaking outside to smoke a joint before most of the classes. On the odd days I wasn’t high on pot, I was probably zonked out on acid or mushrooms. Hey, it was 1976, what can I tell you?
Two of my best friends in high school were in that class with me, Tim Hennessey and Lee Ann Schwindenhammer and we always sat next to each other and kind of made a mockery of the whole proceedings. And, I’m not bragging about this (Tim is still a great friend and reads this blog and I think he’ll verify it), but I was the one that truly put the word, “mock” in back in mockery in that class. I know it’s shocking news, but I was a real wise-ass and troublemaker back then. Brother Glover and I clashed immediately. I can’t recall what started our private little war, but I’m sad to say when it was all over and the battlefield had been cleared, he had won.
As I said, myself, Tim and Lee Ann all sat next to each other in the class. And we’d all clown around. One of my favorite things to do was to sneak a dollar bill out of Lee Ann’s purse and draw all over it with a magic marker, rendering it useless for anything other than framing. Sometimes I’d turn George Washington into Hitler with four menacing swastikas in the corners and the next day maybe I’d turn him into Bozo the Clown in a sea of daisies. We’d all laugh at the money-ruining proceedings and Brother Glover would watch us, but he’d never say anything. That’s one of the many things I hated about this guy. He was kind of a hippie Brother and let it be known that he wasn’t into punishments or “laying the law down,” but I knew our shenanigans really bugged the living daylights out of him and I made it my goal to make him crack that year and scream at me. Anything to break that phony pacifist veneer of his, because I knew in my gut he was living a lie. He wasn’t a true pacifist, I could see it in his eyes and I don’t like liars.
Most days he’d pass out mimeographed sheets of paper to all of us. I don’t know what was on them because as soon as he would hand the paper to me, I’d squash it into a tight little ball and throw it back in his face. Tim, Lee Ann and the other kids would nervously laugh, but he never said a word. And this went on for the entire year. He’d hand me the paper—boom, back in his face. He never acknowledged it, but I do remember a slight twitch developing in his right eye after about four months.
Another thing I liked to do, was put my hand up in the air and when he’d call my name out to see what I wanted, my response was to say, “What?”
“You had your hand up, is there something you wanted to say,” Brother Glover would ask in his Peter Lorre-like creep-a-zoid voice that sounded just like velvet that had been marinated in cat urine for a fortnight or two. If velvet could talk that is.
“No, just giving my arm a little air,” I’d calmly reply. The other kids would laugh and Brother Glover would give me a look. It’s hard to explain the look he would give me. I’ve never encountered one like it since and I hope I never do again. It wouldn’t last long, maybe 17 seconds or so, but it was one of pure, burning hatred. And it was exactly that look that proved he wasn’t a true pacifist.
That’s what I especially hated about Brother Glover, the fact that he hated my fucking guts and I know if he could’ve killed me, tortured me or done anything to make my existence a horrible and horrifying one, he’d have done it. But he couldn’t without blowing his pacifist “Brother” charade and it was clear, that this was the only type of “work” that this psycho was capable of. Without his “Brotherhood,” he’d probably be homeless, sleeping in a gutter of his own piss while clinging on to that goddamn precious beret for the rest of his stinking life.
And true, I hated him as well, but I didn’t wish him any harm, I just wanted him out of my life for good. I didn’t want to be around him, so I taunted him to let him know it. At least I was being honest. Plus I was usually stoned to the bejesus belt and so I really shouldn’t have been held accountable for my actions. And so the year wore on. I’d go to Brother Glover’s religion class, draw on Lee Ann’s dollar bills, yuk it up with Tim and throw mimeographed wads of paper at Brother Glover’s twitching, silent face of hate. This went on until about a week before school was over. Graduation was within the reach of my greedy little mitts. It was like a carrot dangling in front of a starving bunny rabbit. Freedom was in the air and it was indeed a sweet aroma. I’ve never liked uniforms, but I was more than happy to don that cap and gown for a couple hours and finally be released from high school hell. One thing was about to stop all that from happening, though: Brother David Glover.
With only a day or two left in the school year, I found myself in the principal’s office and it’s funny, I can’t even recall the principal’s name, now. I think it might have been Brother Mark or something, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was told I had achieved something no other student in Bergan’s fine history had accomplished: I had flunked religion.
Those words echoed in my head and bounced around my brain like a pinball pinging around at the speed of sound.
I had flunked religion. I wasn’t going to graduate. FUCK! I felt like Billy in the movie, “Midnight Express,” when he finds out his sentence in the Turkish jail had been switched to life. Gecmis olsun. May it pass quickly.
To be honest, I don’t know why I hadn’t see this coming. I hadn’t done any homework all year, I taunted Brother Glover unmercilessly and I had used his face for target practice with my mimeograph paper balls. I felt sick but I soon learned there was a way out.
I was told to show up at school that Saturday at ten in the morning and report to the room where Brother Glover’s class was held and I’d be given a special test. If I passed it, my grade would be elevated to a D and I could graduate. It dawned on me later that they didn’t want me around there for another year either, so they devised a way out for me.
I didn’t want to take the stupid test, especially on a Saturday morning. I worked after school and on weekends at a drug store and I knew they’d be pissed that I’d be taking the morning off. Plus it would be costing me money, since I wouldn’t be getting paid. But you can’t put a price on freedom, so at 10 am sharp, I reported to Brother Glover’s classroom.
I walked to the room and stopped in the open doorway. There, alone in the room sat Brother David Glover at his desk. The morning sun was shining in through the window. I stood there for around 30 long seconds of silence. The two of us just stared at each other. Finally the silence was broken.
“Come in,” Brother Glover said in that shrill, spine-tingling voice of his.
Like a man walking his last lonely mile to the hanging post, I slowly entered the room and walked over to his battleship-gray metallic desk. No further words were to be spoken. He just held up a sheet of paper and I took it and walked to a desk in the front of the classroom. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, so I just surrendered. What else could I do?
I sat down and looked at the paper. There were questions on it and it was a mimeographed piece of paper. I looked up and Brother Glover was staring at me. A faint smile was on his face. It took every ounce of control that I had in me not to wad that mimeographed piece of paper up into a ball and shove it right down his scrawny chicken-like throat. I took a deep breath and I looked back at the paper and read the first question.
“Do you believe in God?” it read.
“Yes, I believe in God,” I wrote in the answer area.
Next question. “Do you believe that God is an all-knowing and honest God?” it read.
“Yes,” I wrote in the answer area, “I believe that God is honest and all-knowing.”
All total there was about twelve questions like this. You’d have to have been the world’s biggest idiot not to be able to pass it. I didn't necessarily believe in all my answers, I just wrote what they wanted me to write. And that was the whole point of it. They had me doing what they wanted me to do and there was fuck-all I could do about it. It was really a pathetic feeling for me, but I had to graduate and get out of that place.
I finished it in about five to ten minutes and walked up and put it on his desk. He looked it over and just nodded and smiled at me. I couldn’t stand to look at his creepy-ass face and my eyes darted to his desk. There in the right corner of his gray desktop sat that fucking black beret. My blood ran cold. I spun around and walked as fast as I could out of there. When I got outside, I ran to my car and floored it out of the parking lot. Sometimes in life you enter battles you can’t possibly win. This was one of them. Brother David Glover knew from day one that he held the winning hand in our year long game of poker. I was too stoned and drunk on my success of making a mockery out of his class to realize this until it was too late. He won and I lost. That’s all there is to it. I was taught in life that if you’re honestly defeated, you take it like a man and move on to the next challenge and try to do a little better. My parents taught me that and they are good people.
I never saw Brother David Glover again in my life. But if our paths ever do cross again, I hope there’s a big, honking stack of mimeographed paper nearby.He won't know what fucking hit him.
Elizabeth Taylor died yesterday. One of my favorite movies of all time is, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff,” starring herself and her husband at the time, Richard Burton. The movie mirrored their own rocky relationship (they were married and divorced twice) and they both turn in great performances. Here’s my five favorite pieces of dialogue between George (Richard Burton) and Martha (Elizabeth Taylor.)
Martha: I swear, if you existed, I'd divorce you.
George: Martha, in my mind you're buried in cement right up to the neck. No, up to the nose, it's much quieter.
Martha: You make me puke. George: That wasn't a very nice thing to say, Martha.
Martha: [derogatorily, to George] Hey, swamp! Hey swampy! George: Yes, Martha? Can I get you something? Martha: Ah, well, sure. You can, um, light my cigarette, if you're of a mind to. George: No. There are limits. I mean, a man can put up with only so much without he descends a rung or two on the old evolutionary ladder, which is up your line. Now, I will hold your hand when it's dark and you're afraid of the boogeyman and I will tote your gin bottles out after midnight so no one can see but I will not light your cigarette. And that, as they say, is that. Martha: Jesus.
Martha: Well, you're going bald. George: So are you. --------------------------
Wandering—10:49 pm Times Square Okay, I’m actually writing this introduction after I went out tonight. I was going to try and get photos of something that has now been postponed for about a week. I can’t write about it, but will next week. I know this is all mysterious, but that kind of adds to the fun of it. I hope I can pull off what I want to pull off and I’ll let you know what’s going on next week. Till then, here’s some random photos of me wandering around in Times Square after what I first attempted to do didn’t work out, but hopefully it will next week. Oh, the mystery of it all! (And those of you in the blogosphere who may have figured out what I’m doing, don’t let the cat out of the bag, please?)
And we're off on another chilly night. I can't wait for the spring to get here and it gets warmer outside.
Look at this horny devil!
And here we are in the heart of Times Square, sadly a place that is never really dark.
This was a funny photo to take. I asked the guy if I could take his photo and he happily agreed. Then when I put the camera up, he hid his face with his hand. A true Sean Penn moment.
This guy made me think of Tiki Bar Susie and her love for horses. Sorry you're trapped in one of the worst places of New York big fella! Try and escape soon!
After what I came here for went south for the time being, I wandered into a souvenir shop. Of course there's t-shirts in here.
Alert the media, the Statue of Liberty has shrunk!
This little piggy loves New York.
A bottle opener and lighter all in one, who could ask for anything more?
I was pissed there wasn't a "Marty Ave." Oh well, no money for you!
Hey, hey they're The Monkees and people say they monkey around. Unless you buy them though, it's highly unlikely that they may be coming to your town.
And of course the tour must end with an obligatory souvenir gift shop mirror shot.
And yes, I did get caught up in the moment and purchased a few items myself...
I got (from left), an I heart NY pen, a bottle opener and coaster I heart NY set, an I heart NY bottle opener (I need to start buying bottles of beer instead of cans and an I heart NY piggy bank. I heart my purchases. This post will be continued next week. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
-------------------------------- First Thing I Said When I Woke Up Today “Fuck.” Next thing I said when I realized I had no diet Mountain Dew: “Fuck!” What I said when I accidentally slammed my toe into the corner of one of the wooden beam that holds up my loft bed: “FUCK!” What I said while going to the bathroom, four minutes later: Nothing. I’m almost always silent while doing my business and usually read. Today it was “Catcher in the Rye” which I bought the other night at the Strand bookstore. --------------------------------
Back when I was doing the 365 bars, I posted a blog entry from "Jerry's Bar" featuring some custom made coasters at the basement bar. MAD commenter and blogger, Tim "Clacky" Clack asked if there was any way I could send him some for his Bunt Custer's backyard bar in Australia and I dutifully sent some off along with a copy of my old magazine, fishwrap. Below are some photos and captions that Clacky sent back. Enjoy!
Where's my Fishwrap and Jerry's coasters!
Ladies and Gentleblokes, from a whirlwind tour of Peoria, Illinois, New York City and various outlets for registered mail, I present beer coasters c/o Jerry Wombacher and fishwrap Magazine c/o MAD Marty Wombacher!
The King, Jerry's and I.
More proof of their arrival.
Money shot!
Crazy old magazine filling my head with nonsense. Yes. Rat Commie Bastard.
Papaya Dog—11:27 pm East Village/Papaya Wars Okay, it’s Monday night and that means the Papaya Wars are on! Tonight’s contender was suggested by MAD commenter Handel. I met Handel last year while doing my bar crawl bar. I tried to find the bar we met at to put up a link, but I can’t remember the name and couldn’t find it on the list. Handel, if you’re reading this help me out here. Speaking of Handel, I offered to buy him a dog at tonight’s Papaya since he suggested it and he lives near by, but I haven’t heard from him. Maybe next time Handel! Okay, off to Handel’s suggestion, Papaya Dog at 14th and 1st in the East Village.
I thought we'd live it up and take a taxi there. All's fair in love and war, right?
TAXI!
And here we are! Let the delusional nonsense war games begin! Banzai!
Hey King, if you're reading, check this shit out and take note, my friend!
I'd rather eat 99 cent fries than pizza any old day of the week.
They have a large menu and it is outside on the wall.
Let's go inside and see what's what in here.
It's nice and clean in here and everything looks good.
Dogs on foil, film at 11.
I thought about getting a corn dog in honor of last Saturday's corn dog day, but decided to wait until I go to Crif Dog.
So I opted for the usual, a dog with mustard. This gentleman liberally applied the mustard...
And this handsome fellow served it up with a smile.
Beautiful! They serve up a top-notch dog here and it was delicious.
Here's the papaya vats, behind the counter.
And no Papaya restaurant is complete without signs commemorating the healthy benefits of papaya.
Uhhh...no!
As I head home my heart's a little heavy. The Papaya Dog was great, but they didn't have any large ketchup and mustard containers for my patented Papaya Wars, Ebony and Ivory shot. War...what is it good for? Absolutely nothing...except for a good excuse to get a late night hot dog. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Standings
Okay, let’s go to the tally board...oh wait, I don’t have a tally board, I really should get one for the Papaya Wars. Anyway, here’s the rankings as they stand this week. As always the rankings go from worst to the best.
6. Papaya King on the Upper East Side: Even though I’ve become Twitter friends with the King, I still have to keep him in last place till I get there in person. Maybe next week, King! 5. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya: Because it’s not there anymore. 4. Chelsea Papaya: It’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 3. Gray’s Papayaon 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. 2. 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. 1. Penn Station Papaya: They’ve got beer!
The Papaya Dialogues An an-going Twitter conversation between the King and I. You've got to hand it to the King. I tell him he's in last place and he's still polite and inviting. I look forward to revisiting him during the next installment of the Papaya Wars!
Jaws sent in this illustration after he did some acid was inspired by the video link I posted. Check it out below and check out Jaws' store right here where you can buy all the Jaws product your heart desires: Jaws Online Store.
Strand Bookstore @9:17 pm Union Square/East Village I had such a good time last week at Bleecker Bob’s, I thought that every Sunday I would venture out and go visit a local and independent store. I know from growing up in Peoria, Illinois that sometimes you just can’t escape the chain stores, some towns don’t have as many choices as others. But in New York there’s really no excuse not to shop local, at least most of the time. So that’s what I’m going to do every Sunday evening for the MAD blog.
Tonight I’m going to a legendary bookstore in Manhattan. The Strand bookstore has stood tall in the face of competition from chains like Barnes and Noble and Borders and from online stores and devices like Amazon and the Kindle and the iPad, oh my! Strand opened in 1927 and still does a brisk business seven days a week. The store and its 18 miles of books has been featured in movies such as, Julie and Julia and Six Degrees of Separation.And they’re open every night until 10:30 pm. Perfect for a nighttime visit from MAD. Shall we?
We'll go right down 14th, hang a right on Broadway and...
Boom! Here we are at the Strand Bookstore.
They have rows of outside shelving units offering hundreds, if not thousands of books for a buck. In the summertime if I'm going to Coney Island or taking a long subway trip I always stop here and pick up a buck book for the ride there and back.
Jinny and O were checking out some of the books outside.
It's still chilly out here, so let's go inside and take a look around at this giant-sized bookstore.
I wish I had a fisheye lens to capture the whole first floor, but this will give a pretty good idea of the number of books in this place. The Burgess Meredith character from that Twilight Zone episode would've creamed his jeans in this joint!
Here's a couple of tables of books specifically about New York.
This isn't a book about the sandwich chain.
Strand buys used books and here's some stacks the store purchased that you can buy tomorrow.
You find some unusual neighbors in bookstores. Here's Marilyn Monroe next to Hunter S. Thompson.
Nice to see John Lennon next to David Bowie as they were friends in real life.
Here's a couple of Ian Fleming 007 novels. I like looking at book covers and spines just as much as album covers.
Whoops...I think we'll just skip this section, I've had enough of Oprah for three and a half lifetimes.
A tall stack of books to be re-shelved.
Hey look, it's the Twitter Whale! He can read? Who knew? I have to Tweet this when I get home! It's sure to get retweeted!
Here's Daniel and Van working the back counter of the store.
Let's go up to the second floor and see what's going on.
Hey buddy, what do you think this is, a Barnes and Noble cafe? Get up and buy the book, cheapskate and let's keep this place in business!
Wow, this looks like a cool book and it's one of my favorite movies. Let's look inside of it.
It's got the entire script and tons of photos from the movie. Very nice!
Here's a variety of coffee table books. I don't see Kramer's though.
An aerial view of the lights and books on the first floor.
Let's see what's on the third floor. I'll take a kooky guess and say, "More books."
Art. I wonder if they mean Garfunkel or Fleming? Who knew so many books were written on those two icons of entertainment.
Cool cover for the "Art and Text" book. Simplicity at its finest hour. Hey I went to art college for four months, I know what I'm talking about!
This Popeye cover of a serpent coming out of Wimpy's pants is a little suggestive, buy who am I to judge?
An overhead shot of the front of Strand's.
Strand bookbags...
Strand coffee mugs...
And for those of you that like to indulge in the risky business of drinking and reading: Strand shot glasses.
Speaking of that, I'm ready for a beer or seven, so it's time to say over and...well, you know. See you tomorrow, after dark.
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Strand: A Brief History (Reprinted from their website.)
The Beginning In 1927, Ben Bass opened Strand Book Store on Fourth Avenue, home of New York's legendary Book Row. Named after the famous publishing street in London, the Strand was one of 48 bookstores on Book Row, which started in the 1890's and ran from Union Square to Astor Place. Today, the Strand is the sole survivor. All in the Family
Ben's son Fred started working in his father's store at the age of 13. After a tour of duty in the Armed Forces, Fred returned to the family business and took over its management in 1956. Soon after, he moved the store to its current location on Broadway at 12th Street, where he rented 4,000 square feet of space - a very large space, at that time. The Strand now occupies 55,000 square feet of space.
8 Miles of Books In the 1970s, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist George F. Will wrote, "the eight miles worth saving in this city are at the corner of Broadway and 12th Street. They are the crammed shelves of the Strand Book Store."
18 Miles of Books...And Then Some More than thirty years later, the Bass family now owns the building at Broadway and 12th Street. They also operate the Kiosks in Central Park. In the early 1990s, Strand went online and today book lovers from around the world can shop from our entire selection at strandbooks.com.
Today Strand Book Store remains a fiercely independent family business with Fred and his daughter, Nancy Bass Wyden, at the helm. With over 200 employees, more than 2.5 million used, new and rare books, a renovated main store and a growing author events program, the Strand looks forward to offering great books at great prices to book-lovers worldwide for another 80 years. The Next Generation
On October 26, 2007, the Strand Book Store welcomed its newest family members, William Peter and Ava Rose Wyden. These are the first children for Strand owner Nancy Bass Wyden and her husband, Senator Ron Wyden (D-OR). Strand 828 Broadway. (@12th St.) (212) 473-1452
--------------------------- Some Things I Did Before Work Today Wondered where the weekend went. Listened to Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd. Went to Netflix. Added Fear Strikes Out to my queue. Hope it shows up by Friday. ---------------------------
Resto @9:47 pm Gramercy Park Live from New York, It’s Corndog Saturday Night! Starring Crif Dogs and featuring the not ready for prime corndog player, Marty Wombacher. And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our host...Crif Dogs!
Okay, you may be wondering what in the fuck happened to "Cheeseburger Saturday Night?" Well, MAD commenter, ragin rr informed me via email that today is National Corn Dog Day, so I thought that warranted a change in plans tonight. And I've been meaning to go to Crif Dogs and check out their corn dog ever since Gene of the BBC recommended it in a comment. So it's off to Crif Dogs we go. It was warm out yesterday, but it's pretty chilly out here again tonight.
So I hopped in a cab. Traffic's horrible, but at least it's warm in here.
Okay we're here on St. Mark's Place. Tons of people out...I really hate Saturday nights.
And here we are, Crif Dogs, let's check it out.
Goddamn, it's a small space and packed to the fucking gills.
There's a small opening up front, but I have claustrophobia and this place is grinding my gears. It's noisy and I have to get out.
Okay, back into the night. You know what? I've decided to grab a cab and go to the Papaya in Penn Station and have one of their giant beers and a corn dog. What better way to celebrate National Corn Dog Day!
And so it's off we go!
But a funny thing happened on the way to Penn Station. I saw a blast from my 365 past. Resto! This place had one of the best cheeseburgers on the bar crawl. Fuck Corn Dog Saturday Night! Cheeseburger Saturday Night is back on, baby!
The place looks just like I remember it and there's plenty of seats at the bar! Let's settle in.
Bill the friendly bartender recommended a Belgian beer and here he is pouring it out.
Lisa and Dick were seated next to me at the bar. They live in the neighborhood and are regulars at Resto. We had a nice conversation about New York and blogging and other subjects. They said they might show up at the Mars Bar this Easter for the second annual pizza dinner. I hope they make it!
And here's the first course, deviled eggs on pork toast. I had these last time and they are delicious!
And Bill was nice enough to bring out a free sampling of tet de cochon. Which, loosely translated is a pig's head sandwich. They cook meat from the pig's head, give it a pastrami rub and add slaw, jalapeno sour cream and brioche. It was really good!
Here's long shot of the marble bar.
And the main course arrives! Looks even better than last time.
Dick took a shot of me plowing into the burger at 117 mph.
And since I've returned to my 365 roots here...Fire!
And what the hell, why not close with an obligatory bathroom shot? Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
If They Do Say So Themselves “About Resto,” from their website. Resto, French slang for a casual restaurant, opened its doors in April 2007. The concept of a laid back neighborhood gathering place with approachable Belgian food in the style of New York was created by owner Christian Pappanicholas.
Resto has become a destination in Gramercy Park / Murray Hill for a delicious dinner, weekend brunch or a late night bite. The knowledgeable and friendly staff is well versed in the extensive Belgian beer list and the thoughtful wine list which focuses on a varied selection of European wines. The menu is crafted using traditional French technique, with an emphasis on seasonal, local, farm fresh ingredients. Resto also emphasizes group / nose-to-tail dining with options likeCote De Boeuf, Poularde in Half Mourning and our Large Format Feast Program.
Resto's dining room can accommodate 70 guests with 10 seats at the bar. We encourage bar dining. We also offer seasonal, outdoor seating which can accommodate 6 guests.
We encourage reservations but always hold tables for for walk-in customers. Our bar and sidewalk seating is offered on a first come, first serve basis.
Resto 111 E. 29th St. (Near Park Ave.) 212-685-5585
--------------------------- Some Things I Did Yesterday Overslept Posted my blog post of the day. Read some chunks of “High Priest” by Timothy Leary. Watched some Denis Leary videos on YouTube. Googled the word “Leary.” Read the Wikipedia entry on Timothy Leary. Read the Wikipedia entry on Denis Leary. Quite a day, huh? ---------------------------
Here's a link to the final post at my long dormant, TMWS. As some of you know, MAD commenters Jason and Zioum Zioum met at that blog and a couple weeks ago they got married. So, I thought it only fitting that the final post would be pictures of their wedding. Check it out here: The Final Post.
Live, from New York, it’s Saturday Night Cheeseburger! Tonight’s host is Whitmans in the East Village and featuring the ready for prime beef player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen...Whitmans!
And here we go down Fifth to 9th, hang a left and off we go to the East Village.
Oh jeez, this fucking poster is going to start haunting me. A second after I shot this photo a voice behind me shouted out, "There'll never be someone who can play Arthur like Dudley Moore." I spun around and agreed with...
This fellow, Metal Mike. We had a nice chat about movies, Paul Giamatti and New York. That's one of the things I like about doing this blog, all the different people you meet. Okay, onwards towards the cheeseburger, I'm starvin' like Marvin over here!
And here we are at Whitmans. I hope it's not crowded in here.
And look at this, not crowded at all. It's unseasonably cold out and I think a lot of people stayed home tonight. All the better for us!
I decided to start out with a can of Genesee and Claire behind the counter was happy to serve it up. Cheers!
There's tables next to the brick wall on one side.
But I opted to sit at the marble topped counter facing the white tiled wall on the other side of the room.
Here's a shot of my view from where I was seated.
The place is named after writer Walt Whitman, here's a drawing of him on the brick wall.
Guests are welcome to draw portraits of Walt which Whitmans will hang up. Here's one hanging in the back. Note the tin ceiling, nice!
Rose was working downstairs, but made a trip upstairs and I snapped a photo of her showing off the tip jar. If you eat here, throw something in here, the staff is nice and deserves it.
And before you know it, Mick shows up with tonight's meal. Let's check it out.
This looks like one tasty cheeseburger. And the orange coloring at the top isn't the cheese it's mustard. The cheese is...
In the middle of the burger. Oh my God, I think this is the best cheeseburger I've ever had!
Afterwards I decided to check out the lower level of Whitmans.
It's dark and the walls are a wooden brown down here. Kind of a romantic setting.
Speaking of romantic, here's a couple that's making out down here. Let's give them a little privacy and go back upstairs.
Here's Claire with Alex, I thanked them for the great service and cheeseburger and...
Glanced out the window and wished spring would get here. It was a chilly walk home. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
I had the specialty of the place, The Juicy Lucy, along with an order of homemade potato chips. For a beverage I had three cans of Genesee beer. The Juicy Lucy is a cheeseburger with the cheese stuffed inside of the burger, supposedly this was invented at one of two bars in Minneapolis. At Whitman’s they stuff it with pimento cheese, and add carmelized onions, lettuce, tomato and a special sauce. The homemade potato chips were also very tasty. Everyone that works here is super-friendly in a genuine way and it's a cozy little cheeseburger emporium with table and counter seating upstairs and a dining room downstairs. if you followed the 365 blog and have been following this one, you know I've been to a lot of cheeseburger places in the last 14 months. Well, I'm declaring their Juicy Lucy as the best cheeseburger I've had so far. It is the cheeseburger to beat and the one which all future cheeseburgers will be judged by. You have to check it out. I’m instituting a new rating system here at MAD for Cheeseburgers. It goes from one Wimpy (poor) to four Wimpy’s (delicious!)
Find out what the King suggested, this Monday at the Papaya Wars!
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