My Apartment @12:31 am Chelsea I was planning on going to Chinatown tonight and wander around and take some photos and maybe go to a bar or something, but those plans have changed. My night turned to shit at work and I’m getting out of here a little later than usual. Plus I have a headache. And it’s freezing outside. And why yes, I would like some ice with my whine, please and thank you! Anyway, I think I’ll do something from home tonight and what I’ve decided is to put up some late night tweets from Twitter. But first I have to get home.
I only live 14 blocks from work and most nights I walk home, but fuck it, I feel like shit so I'm cabbing it home. It's just a six dollar ride and with a dollar tip it's seven bucks. Money well spent on a night like this.
And baboom, here we are home sweet home! I've had that Mothers of Invention poster at every place I've ever lived. My brother Jim gave it to me for my 17th birthday. If only that poster could talk...well, I wouldn't really want to hear the stories.
An obligatory mirror shot of the top of my head over my Beatles butcher block album.
And here's my good friend Mr. Refrigerator which houses...
My even better friend, Mr. Beer!
It's freezing in here, time to light this thing up.
Good idea! I'm sure that's never been done before!
Kaiczynski Meet MacheDimance. I think the two of you will live and tweet happily ever after.
What, leave your room?
Wow, all the news channels must be pissed that you got the exclusive on that!
No, that's someone in serious need of a real life.
Now this guy knows how to tweet! Brief and to the point!
I had a low floater earlier today, but I flushed the toilet and it was history.
I love Jesus_M_Christ. Always first-class tweets!
And speaking of first-class tweets, our very own resident artist, "Boris" never fails to amuse on Twitter and facebook. Good one, Daddio!
I've seen the future Charlie Sheen Goddess and it is SHEILIA_MAC420. Get ready to be a winner, Sheila!
Speaking of Charlie, here's his last tweet of the evening, #WINNING! Well, he's lost a show he made almost two million an episode, his kids and wife, so I'm not sure exactly what he's winning, but what the hell, let's check in with one of his Goddesses.
And here she is, one half of the Charlie Sheen Goddess team, Bree Olson. A classy lady indeed! In fact this tweet puts the ass back in class! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark!
Since we've had posts about hot dogs and food carts, MAD commenter and Leaf Girl Blogger, Kari, sent in a couple of pictures of a trip from a trip she took to New York and a hot dog cart where her and her traveling troupe stopped for a dog.
Here's Kari biting into a dog in all it's ketchup glory!
And here's some of Kari's fellow travelers. I don't recognize the location, but I think it might be midtown. Thanks for the photos, Kari!
Chelsea Papaya @11:23 pm Chelsea On Wednesdays I go out and find late night workers to take photos of. So far I’ve gone to Penn Station and took photos of people in action and last week I covered people selling food from food carts on the street. Tonight’s is going to be a little different. The other night while walking home I looked over and noticed that there’s a psychic in a building who was still open at 11pm. I’ve only been to a psychic once since I’ve lived here and that was for my “99 Beers” and admittedly I did it for a goof and a story. Tonight I’m actually curious to meet someone who makes their living by being a psychic. I don’t know if this psychic will let me take photos, if not I’ll have to wing it and do something else. I could’ve called, but then that would take all the fun out of it. Let’s go, I bet she already knows we’re on our way.
Okay, here's the place I was going to go. I called before I left work and then at the last minute I asked if I could take photos for my blog and she said no. She's up on top of this building let's go see her sign.
It's really windy out and her sign is blown over. Wouldn't you think she'd know this? And whoops, I accidentally wiped out her phone number. No pictures, no free advertising for you!
Luckily, last night on my way home when I was crossing over on 23rd Street, I saw another psychic's store front sign and they were open late. Let's check it out, but I don't have a good feeling about this.
Okay, here we are at psychic number two. Let's see if we can pull this off.
Okay, I buzzed the buzzer and some guy sounded annoyed and said they were closed. Here's a little psychic hint for you people, if you don't want people ringing your buzzer, TURN YOUR FUCKING SIGN OFF! I knew this wasn't going to go good...hey, maybe I'm a psychic. Wait...I see a vision...in my future...
A hot dog!
There's a Chelsea Papaya on the corner! I know I said I was going to only cover these places on Mondays, but what the hell, this new blog is all about improvising, so let's go check it out.
Like all good Papaya stands, this one never closes. The bad news is there's no beer here.
Here's the front window, let's go see who's in there.
Look at this vision of loveliness in the window! Let's go in and say hi.
Her name's Tiffany and she stopped by for a quick snack. She was not only super-cute, but super-nice. Nice to meet you Tiffany!
Before we get in line, let's check out some of the signage in here.
They have shrimp in here, I don't know if any other Papaya offers this.
They have corn dogs here, but since there's no beer...
I'm going to go with the specialty of the house, the all beef hot dog for just $1.50.
Abdul is the gentleman behind the counter and he readies the dog and slathers some mustard on it.
And baboom! Here it is in all its Papaya glory.
Let's walk over to the eating area and try it out for size.
It looks just like the vision I had, amazing!
And the dog is gone. Delicious. Let's take another look around before we leave.
Ketchup and mustard, side by side, the Papaya's version of Ebony and Ivory.
Here's the papaya vats for their drinks. You know in all my years of eating at Papaya joints, I've never had a papaya drink, I'll have to try one at the next stop.
Okay, one last glace at the neon dog in the window...
And it's out into the night we go. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Papaya Rating The Chelsea Papaya is a nice Papaya stand, and the hot dog there was delicious. The staff were friendly and there were some nice people milling around. No loud drunks were in here and Charlie Sheen is on the other side of the country so everyone felt at ease in there, even though it was after hours. I’ll rate this one above the Hell’s Kitchen location because that one is closed now, but below the Penn Station on because the Penn Station one has beer. So, here’s my Papaya order so far: 3. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya because it’s not there anymore. 2. Chelsea Papaya, it’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 1. Penn Station Papaya...they’ve got beer!
Stay tuned to see who wins in the ratings of the Papaya Wars only here on MAD! Chelsea Papaya 171 W 23rd St.(between 6th and 7th Ave.) 212-352-9060
MAD commenter Jaws has been M.I.A a good portion of this week. It seems some hackers hacked his computer and infected it with a nasty virus. Jaws is back and sent in this piece of art demonstrating what he'd like to do to those nasty old hackers! Welcome back, Jaws!
Walking Home/Michael and Me @11:27 pm Chelsea I really enjoyed writing that story about Mr. Bard last week. Last year I didn’t write at all, because between 365 Bars and work, there was not enough time in the day. With MAD, I can do whatever I want, so I’ve decided every Tuesday will be Short Story Night. I’ll snap a few photos on the way home and then write a story when I get there. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen right now.
And we're off.
I've walked by this sign thousands of times by now and the hair part always freaks me out. Someday I'm afraid it's going to say, "Wigs & Hair & Thumbs."
The mannequins in the window always scare me as well, but I can't resist looking at them. It's like when a car crash happens.
When it comes to filmmaker Michael Moore, people usually either love him or hate him. I happen to be a fan of his films and like the guy and not just because I think he’s a fantastic documentarian, but because of something he did for me once. Whenever someone is railing about how they hate Michael Moore, I tell them this story. Not that it would change someone's mind who hate’s Michael Moore’s guts, but just because I’m a motormouth and I like to tell stories. So, there! Here it is.
I think the year would’ve been about 1997 when I was still living on the Upper West Side. I had been publishing my magazine fishwrap for about three and a half years. I was proud of the work I had done with it and the magazine had gotten a decent amount of press through the years. Both the NY Post and the Daily News had written favorably about it, but it also got coverage in the Chicago Tribune, Folio magazine, the NY Press and my favorite piece of press was being the “zine of the month” in Sassy magazine. And I’m not kidding about that either, I made fun of Sassy within fishwrap and I thought it was cool that they got the joke.
The magazine had grown from a 12 page, black and white fanzine, to a 48 page glossy magazine with a four color cover. I got a distribution deal with Big Top publishing and while the print run was small at 5,000 copies, it was still being sold all over the country. And every time I put out an issue I’d lose about a thousand bucks.
I could never sell advertising for the magazine, even though it had gained a cult following. You need big numbers to sell ads and mine were small because I could only afford to pay for the printing of 5,000 magazines. Here’s the way the magazine business works: You print an issue and send them to your distribution company. Then you get your printing bill which usually would have to be paid within 30 to 45 days. The magazine retailed for $4.95, but you don’t get that, the newsstands and book stores get 50 percent of the newsstand sales. And there was nothing you can do about that, without them, no one but your friends would see the magazine. The magazine stays on the stands till the next one goes out. Fishwrap only came out about three times a year because pretty much it was just two of us putting the whole thing together and it’s a lot of work to put together a 48 page magazine with no staff.
I wrote 95 percent of it and my friend Clare was the art director and designed the logo, the covers and laid out most of the pages. When the deadline came close, I’d layout the rest. Then I’d ship the film (yes, this was back in the days when you still used film to print from) to the printer, the printer would send the issues to the distribution company who would ship them to the newsstands and then the newsstands would send back the returns and finally I could get paid for the issues that had been sold. But newsstands take their time to pay, for the same reason Oprah takes a shit on a solid gold, 24-karat toilet. Because they can. So usually it would take you at least a half a year to get your money, and then that didn’t even cover the printing bill.
I had tried to get backing for the magazine and had a business plan, but fishwrap never would’ve been more than a decent little niche magazine and people who back things aren’t usually interested in niche items these days or those days. That’s why slowly but surely everything is starting to suck and look the same, but that’s a whole different story and one I briefly touched on yesterday.
You can’t count on making money off subscriptions and newsstand sales, you have to make it by selling ads. In the seven year run of the magazine I had only been able to sell one successful ad. That was a back cover for Matador records. And they never paid their bill. Why they didn’t pay it is a long story, maybe one I’ll write up next week.
I tried selling ads but was hopeless at it and I barely had time to produce and write the magazine in addition to working my full time job. A rep from Absolut Vodka called me once when USA Today wrote about fishwrap within an article they published about the zine revolution at the time, but when I told him the print run was just 5,000 he told me to call him when it was up to 30,000 and they’d definitely be interested. But I couldn’t print that many without ads. I was stuck in a real catch 22. So I just plundered on and hoped for a miracle.
And that’s when Michael Moore enters the picture.
As I said, the year was 1997 and I was living on the Upper West Side. I was working nights at a pre-press place in midtown and took the subway there every evening. My shift started at 7 pm, so most nights I would head out around 6:15 pm.
I think this was in September of that year and I had an issue of fishwrap in the can. And it was a doozy. I had a cover story with the publisher and editor of High Times and had a great photo of the staff of High Times smoking a joint up on the roof of the building. I decided to make it a drug-themed issue and it was titled the “Just Say Dope” issue. We had some other dope-related stuff in the contents and since High Times had a marijuana foldout every month with the title of “Bud of the Month,” we had our own “Bud of the Month.” Ours was a photo highlighting Bud from “Father Knows Best.” I also had done an oral history of the making of “Please Kill Me” by interviewing the authors, Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain. Legs was one of the first people I had met when I moved here and I loved that book. I thought I had done a good job on the oral history and couldn’t wait to get the issue out. The only problem was money. I didn’t have enough to cover the printing and was saving up so I could get the thing out. It was really frustrating waiting and praying for overtime at work so I could get this issue out.
Anyway, I was heading towards the subway station at 72nd and Amsterdam and I was almost there and looked across the street and there on the corner was Michael Moore talking to some guy. Moore lived on the Upper West Side at the time. I had a bag with some copies of fishwrap in it and really wanted to give him a couple. But I didn’t want to butt in when he was talking to someone. Plus I was running late for work.
“Aw fuck it,” I said under my breath and I walked into the subway. I had my token out (yes, this is back in the days when you still had subway tokens), I looked at it and then said, “Aw fuck it,” again, put the token back in my pocket and walked back out to the street.
Michael Moore was still there, but he was still talking to the guy. I figured I’d give it five minutes and if they were still talking, I’d give it up and go to work. Luckily about three minutes in they shook hands and started walking in opposite directions.
I ran after Michael Moore and when I got about a foot behind him I walked about a block and caught my breath and gained whatever composure I usually have.
I walked beside him and acted surprised when I looked in his direction and said, “Hey, Michael Moore! I’m a big fan!” Little did he know I had been stalking him for the last fifteen minutes.
He smiled and said, “Hey, thanks! I appreciate that.”
“Can I ask you something,” I asked him as we walked down the street. By now I had forgotten all about my job.
He stopped walking and said, “Sure, what’s up?”
“Whatever happened to Ben Hamper?” I questioned. Moore’s face lit up when I asked that. Ben Hamper is shown in the beginning of the movie, “Roger and Me.” He’s a friend of Moore’s and he wrote a great book called “Rivethead,” which was the tale of how he had had a nervous breakdown while working on the line at the GM plant in Flint, before they shut it down.
“You read his book?” Moore asked, squinting his eyes.
“Yeah, I loved it,” I told him, “I can really identify with that guy.”
Now Moore looked a little nervous. “Why, have you had a nervous breakdown?”
I laughed and told him no, but I could identify with him, because I was a writer who worked nights to get by. He asked who I wrote for and I told him I had done freelance writing in the past, but these days I was publishing my own magazine. I told him I knew he started out in print and I really wanted him to have a couple copies. He looked through them and was reading stuff here and there and it was nerve-wracking to have Michael Moore reading my writing. I felt great when a couple times he laughed out loud.
“This is great,” he said smiling while perusing an issue. “So, how’s it going for you?” he asked.
That question unleashed an avalanche of whine. I told him it was horrible. I explained I had gotten a lot of press and had a real loyal cult following, but I lost about a thousand bucks everytime I put one out, how I was working a full time night job, I couldn’t find backing and how I had an issue in the can, but couldn’t afford to have it printed.
When I finished my whine-fest he asked me the following question: “Would three thousand dollars help you get it out?”
I’m not sure, but I bet my mouth went into fly catcher mode as I said, “Well, yeah, that would just about pay for it, why?”
With this he took out a scrap of paper, and wrote a phone number on it and said, “I have a foundation where I give out three thousand dollar grants to filmmakers. You’re not a filmmaker, but I like what you’re doing and want to help you out. Call this number tomorrow and a woman named Melissa will answer. I’ll tell her about you and she’ll take your information. I hope you don’t take this wrong, but I don’t know you and can’t cut you a personal check for three grand. What I’ll do is send it to your printer, if you can give Melissa the information.”
I was stunned. It’s one of the few times in my big mouth life where I was truly speechless.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said taking the piece of paper with the phone number and his email on it. Below that it simply said, “$3,000.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said smiling and smacking me on the shoulder. “Just keep doing the good work!”
“I will,” I promised. “Thank you so much,” I said sticking out my hand.
We shook hands and he took off.
I went in to work and told the story to anyone who would listen and even those that wouldn’t.
That issue came out and since I didn’t have to pay for the printing, I was able to save up some dough to keep the momentum going till 2000 when I pulled the plug on fishwrap when the magazine had run its course.
Michael Moore is still making films and I’m still writing. After all, a promise is a promise.
Papaya @11:25 pm Penn Station/Herald Square One of the many blogs I follow and comment on is New York magazine’s Grub Street. They announced in a post today that the Grays Papaya in Hell’s Kitchen is shut down due to high rent. If you followed the 365 blog you know I love the Papaya dog places. I was just in this one the first week of this blog, before I went to Show World. I had no idea that would be my last dog at that location. There’s been several of these fine institutions celebrating low-priced, great tasting dogs for years in New York City shut down in the last couple of years. I think there’s only a half dozen Papaya places left, so I thought I’d start documenting them in pictures here at MAD, every Monday. The first one I’m going to is the Papaya Dog in Penn Station. I stopped there once already for this blog, but I only got a couple photos, so I want to do it up right. Now I don’t know if it’s an official Gray’s Papaya dog, but they have corn dogs and beer, so it’s close enough for me and it’s just a couple blocks from work, so it’s off we go.
Update: Fat Al blogged about this yesterday at the fine blog, The Half Empty Glass. I just saw it now and you can check it out here: Bastards.
I thought we'd go to the shuttered Papaya Dog before Penn Station to pay a last respect. It's just seven blocks away.
Oh, shit, what a shame.
Just a little over a week ago it lit up the corner like this.
And now this is all that's left.
I tried to look through the windows, but they're covered in paper. Another local business done in by high rent.
And across the street is the future. Dunkin' Fuckin' Donuts. Fuck.
And a block away stands the evil 7-11. You know how in the movie "It's A Wonderful Life," it explains that every time an angel gets its wings, a bell rings? Well, every time a Papaya Dog closes, one of these monstrosities pops up on the block.
Fuck it, let's go to Penn Station, I need a beer.
And here we are. Let's go down.
What's funny tonight is that no one's running down the escalator...
And the stairs are closed because they're working on them. So you'd think tonight would be a nightmare on the escalator, but no, it's calm. You never know.
And here we are at the Papaya. Let's take a look around while this one is still alive.
Here's the front counter where all the food and grills are housed in.
The Breakfast and daily specials.
Some of the display meals...
But this is a Papaya and this is what you should be eating here. I suggest the corn dogs. Outside of street fairs in the summer, the corn dog is a rare commodity in Manhattan. You don't see them for sale at too many places.
And this is the only Papaya in town that has another wonderful commodity...beer.
The employees here are friendly and the service is fast.
Within minutes, Ramy has my corn dog and a large beer ready for consumption.
We'll load the corn dog up with a liberal dose of Sabrett's spicy mustard and we're good to go.
In addition to beer and corn dogs, this is the only Papaya place that has a seating area to enjoy your meal and chill out. Let's grab a table.
Now that's a fine looking meal indeed!
The corn dog is crunchy and delicious.
And before I leave, the obligatory Papaya mirror shot. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Papaya Penn Station Lower level This isn’t a review, but a recommendation. This is my favorite Papaya. They have beer, corn dogs and a nice little seating area to chill out in. And you can get a giant beer and a corn dog for under five bucks. Who could ask for anything more? It beats the shit out of a 7-11. Further reading: Wikipedia, New York Times, Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York, Eater NY.
The Emerald Pub @9:45 pm Soho Okay, time to get back in the saddle, well, in this case bar stool, and hit a bar. I’ve decided on most Sunday night’s here at MAD, I’ll go check out a bar. I was going to revisit a place from the 365 Bar list, but my co-pilot , Al Rizo from those days informed me that the bar where they shot the bar scene in “After Hours” is still opening and is called the Emerald Pub. Since we’re in the middle of watching that film, I thought I’d go check it out and see if it looks the same two decades later. I just hope I get home!
I decided to take a cab there. I worked some overtime last week, so I thought I'd travel in style tonight.
Okay, it's about a block away. Wow, it's really deserted out tonight. I guess everyone's home watching the Oscars.
And here we are, the Emerald Pub. I should've taken a shot of the building so we could compare it to the movie, but like an idiot I forgot to. Oh well, it pretty much looks the same, trust me.
The bar itself looks pretty much the same as the movie. It's nice and dark in here, nice pick Al!
John Heard's not bartending tonight, but Pat was and here he serves up an ice-cold Budweiser.
Back in the saddle again. Cheers!
And there's the register that John Heard kicked the shit out of in the movie. Pat told me it's the same one and people come in and take pictures of it all the time.
As you can see, it's a well-stocked bar.
Some of the beers on tap.
It was a slow night and the only other person at the bar was Jason, who was enjoying a beer.
The Oscar's were on at the bar and here's Pat watching somebody thank someone. I don't know who it is. I guess I need to go to the movies more and stop watching old ones at home.
A long shot of the candle-lit bar.
There's another bar in back. No need for another bartender back here on such a slow night.
Here's an appropriate painting on the wall for Oscar night. Bogey, Marilyn, James Dean and Elvis.
This side of the bar has changed a little since After Hours.
Okay, one look out the window and it's time to go home. I just hope I don't pull a Paul Hackett and spend all night trying to get there.
Luckily, life doesn't imitate the movies in this case. There was a cab waiting right outside the bar. Goodnight everybody and we'll see you tomorrow after dark.
Review The Emerald Pub has a reputation for being a non-pretentious place in a part of town where, sadly, red velvet ropes rule. Thankfully they live up to their reputation. They’ve been on the block since 1972 and it’s a dark bar lit up by candles and the walls are brick. There’s a bar up front and one in the back and it’s got a dive bar meets lounge atmosphere. The bartenders and patrons are friendly, so check your attitude at the door.
They have a decent beer selection and of course there’s Guinness on tap. If you’re a vodka lover they offer 30 different selections. Happy Hour runs from 12 pm to 8 pm with half priced drinks. That’s right, an eight hour happy hour, so if you’ve been bounced out of your job in these tough times, here’s a good place to work on your resume and enjoy your unemployment check, all at the same time.
On St. Patrick’s Day there’s a live Irish band and free corned beef sandwiches, but good luck getting through the door. And if it’s after dark, good luck getting home! The Emerald Pub 308 Spring St. (@Renwick St.) 212-226-8512
Paul’s Da Burger Joint @9:30 pm East Village Live from New York, it’s Cheeseburger Saturday Night! Starring Paul’s Da Burger Joint and featuring the ready for prime beef player, Marty Wombacher. Ladies and gentlemen...Paul’s Da Burger Joint!
Okay, it's a little chilly out, but I thought I'd walk over to Paul's, so here we go, out into the night.
Here's Union Square Park. Even though it's cold out, there's still some people hanging out here. When the weather gets warmer, this place is packed on a Saturday night.
99 miles to philly. This place has great cheesesteak sandwiches. I'll have to stop in and get one soon, it's been a while since I've been here.
Here's Julian who was getting ready to make some deliveries on this chilly Saturday night.
And here we are at Paul's. I've been here in the past a few times, but I have to give credit to MAD commenter Tim "Clacky" Clack for suggesting the place. He took a picture of the place when he was here last year and sent it to me and suggested I go here on a Cheeseburger Saturday Night. Thanks for the suggestion, Clacky and I suggest you all check out Tim's entertaining blog, Tales From the Bunt's Side.
Wow, the place is packed, not a table to be had and there's a line out the door.
But I spy a seat at the counter, let's go snag it.
There's two cooks working the burger grill and they are really busy. Here's one...
And here's the other. I'm not even going to try to get their name's, it'll be enough of a challenge to place an order up here. I've sat at the counter before in here and when it's crowded it's tough to get your order in. There's just one guy who'll take it and he's running the cash register, answering the phone and ignoring everyone at the counter. It's kind of a sport to get your order in.
The burgers are steam cooked at the grill here by placing metal pans over the ground sirloin.
I was seated next to this sign. I made sure not to cross the line, there was only one waitress on duty and she didn't seem to be in a very good mood.
And some orders are up. So far I've been here five minutes and haven't gotten the register guy's attention.
Finally I made eye contact with the register guy and screamed out, "Give me a Soul Burger, medium with cheddar cheese and an order of onion rings and a Budweiser."
Here's some of the other burgers up on the wall. There's 20 different varieties to be had here.
It's too jammed to do any meet and greet photos in here. Here's the view from my counter stool.
Knick knacks and signs hang above the tables on the wall.
There's plenty of attitude in here, the register man said I couldn't take his picture and that he'd charge me a dollar for everyone I took in here. I'm hoping he was kidding, or this could be a big bill.
One of the cook's takes an order, I'm tired just watching these guys.
Some buns waiting to be burgerized.
And look, it's Elvis! Sorry Elvis, I didn't see a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich on the menu.
Condiments!
And here's the burger and onion rings. Whenever I've ordered from the counter here, I've never gotten the burger I order. I ordered the Soul Burger, but just got a plain burger. I'm not going to send it back though, because I'm starving and don't want to wait for another one. I just loaded this one up with mustard and it was delicious without any toppings. So all is well.
Walking home I came across a protest at the Continental Bar. The owner has been accused of racial bigotry by not allowing certain people through the door. His defense is a dress code that isn't visible anywhere at the bar. You can read more about it at the fine EV Grieve blog.
I have to admit while I was there, everyone in line got admitted. Of course the only people I saw in line were what appeared to be white bridge and tunnel yobbos.
This gentleman was taking photos for the Liberation News.
His name's Eddie and the fact that it says, "5 Shots of Anything," at the top of this photo is a happy accident. I'd like to say I framed it that way, but I just lucked out as usual. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Review In the last couple years there’s been an explosion of burger joints opening up in New York City. Paul’s has beat them all by a couple of decades. Owner Paul Koval opened the doors to Paul’s Palace in 1989. The name has changed since then, but everything else remains the same. Your eyeballs get assaulted before your taste buds do in this burger emporium. Kitch and kaboodle hang from the walls and ceilings, intermingling with signs reminding you that they’re not Burger King. The tables are covered with red and black checkered table cloths and there’s a pot of pickles at every one. There’s also counter seating up front, where you can watch the kitchen and the burger cookers in action. If you do sit at the counter and it’s busy, prepare to be aggressive when you order, or you might be sitting there till closing time and never get served. While Paul’s boast’s that it’s home to the “best burger in NYC,” there’s a lot more to the menu than just burgers. There’s 24 hot and cold sandwiches on the menu including: Italian Sausage Hero, served with pepper and onions; Tuna Melt; Chicken Filet and a Fried Egg Sandwich. Also on the extensive menu are Chopped Steak, Turkey and Fried Chicken platters and 16 varieties of omelettes. Now, onto the signature dish, Paul’s burgers. They have 20 different kinds of burgers including: a Bacon Cheeseburger, Monterey Jack Cheeseburger, Mushroom Burger and a Soul Burger which is a bacon burger cheeseburger with ham and fried onions. I ordered the Soul Burger, but ended up with just a plain burger and while I can’t say it’s the absolute best burger I’ve had in New York, it’s right up there at the top of the list. Expect some attitude when you come in here from the staff, but remember, it’s all done in good humor...most of the time. Paul’s Da Burger Joint 131 Second Ave. (Near St. Marks Place) 212-529-3033
Friday Midnight Movie—“After Hours” @12:07 am My Apartment/Chelsea I had a conversation last week with MAD commenter (and former 365 bars copilot) Al last week and among the subjects that came up was the movie After Hours. After Hours came out in 1985 and it’s directed by Martin Scorsese. It’s a weird movie and a friend of mine has said that when he watches it, it makes him feel like there’s bugs crawling under his skin and I couldn’t agree more. All of us have had nights where you just can’t seem to get home, but it never gets as bad as it does for Paul Hackett. You’ll see what I mean as the MAD Friday Night Midnight Movie rolls. Lights, camera...internet!
Okay, last week I was able to cut out huge chunks of Glengarry Glen Ross and still tell the story. I can't do that with After Hours, so we'll have to do it in sections. Stay tuned next Friday for part 2. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark. And while we're on the topic of movies, listen to The Secret Weapon on Woody Radio with movie lines inserted between songs, lots of fun and great tunes! Songs by "Boris" movie lines by Gidget! The show runs today from 10 am to 5 pm. Stream it live here: The Secret Weapon.
Walking Home After Work/Mr. Bard @12:20 am Chelsea A lot of people have dogs in New York. And most of these people live in apartments, so they must walk their dogs. You see people out at all hours walking their pooches, so I thought I’d try and get some after dark photos of New Yorker’s out and about walking the dog.
Okay, full disclosure here. While it sounds like the introduction to these are written right before I walk out the door of my night job, a lot of times I write them in advance. I had the dogwalker idea last night and wrote the introduction today before I came in to work. Well, it turns out I had to work late and it's after midnight, I'm beat after working over 12 hours and it's rainy and shitty out here. But that's the beauty of this blog as opposed to the 365. A year ago I would've had to go to a bar and whooped it up and while that sounds like fun, it's not when you feel like shit, which is precisely how I feel right now. So I've decided to snap a few photos on my way home and then write a story for this in lieu of a lot of photos. Since tonight I was going to take pictures of pets, I think I'll write about the only pet I had during my adult life. But first, a few photos.
Holy shitballs, I almost stepped in this! That would've freaked me out.
Holy smokes...oh wait, I used that last night...never mind. Let's move on.
Ha! Good luck getting a cab on a night like this! Glad I live within walking distance.
Well, let's go in to this deli and I'll show you exactly what I'm drinking.
THIS is what I'm drinking. Oh, and thanks for asking!
Okay, a couple soggy blocks and I'll go home and write my story. This is another thing I like about this blog, I get to write more. I didn't write much last year doing the 365 blog, because I was so beat all the time, so it's nice to write some short stories again. The tale will be right below this when I finish it. Till then, goodnight everybody and I'll see you tomorrow after dark.
Mr. Bard
Growing up my family had a variety of dogs as pets, but since I’ve been on my own, I only had one pet. It was a bird I named, Mr. Bard. He was a green and grey cockatiel and a great little pet and friend. I bought him from a woman in 1988 who was a friend of a friend. She raised birds to sell as pets and I bought the cockatiel from her. I named the bird, Mr. Bard, after a neighbor we had when I was about five-years-old.
We moved to Louisvile, Kentucky when I was five and there was an old guy who lived across the street. He was retired and loved to work in his yard and garden. He had white hair and kind of looked like the guy who played Perry White on the old Superman show. My older brother Jim and I used to go and help him garden and do yard work. He had Parkinson’s disease and he was in a constant state of shakiness and this fascinated my brother and I. I remember once eating some corn with a spoon and shaking it all over my plate. After watching me do this repeatedly I remember my mom asking me what I was doing.
“I’m playing a game called, “Mr. Bard,” I explained.
I remember my mom laughing and telling me that it wasn’t funny all at the same time. I think that’s when I first discovered sick humor and I’ve always appreciated Mr. Bard for allowing me to laugh at the dark moments of life. So I thought it was the perfect name for my new bird.
We settled in well together. I bought him a huge cage and all kinds of toys and things to eat. And that first night I discovered that we had one thing in common, we both loved beer!
After I got him settled in to his cage, I took him back out and walked him around my apartment and showed him around. The cool thing about Mr. Bard was that the woman I bought him from hand-trained him, so he wouldn’t fly around when he was out of his cage. He loved to ride on my shoulder, pirate style when I was walking around, but if I was sitting in a chair or reading a magazine or book lying down, he’d just walk around, either on me or nearby. It was kind of like having a tiny little feathered dog. The first night I had him I went to the refrigerator and popped open a can of Budweiser. The popping noise intrigued him and he walked down my arm and up to my wrist and was looking at the can. I took a sip brought it back down and he stuck his beak into the rim and lapped up a little of the beer. I swear by the end of the night and after about eight beers, he was kind of staggering, so I put him in his cage and put a sheet over it and let him sleep it off.
I got up the next morning, took off the sheet and he was sitting there on his swing. He woke up, looked around and immediately swooped down to his water and took a nice long drink. I think he had cotton mouth. After he was done drinking he started chirping like crazy and I took him out of his cage and let him ride around on my shoulder.
The next day I had to go to work. I worked the third shift back then and had to be to work at 11:00 pm. I didn’t want to put the sheet on the cage, because I wanted him to have the same hours as me, so I left the lights on and put him in his cage and when I put on my jacket he must’ve sensed I was leaving and he went nuts. He was hanging on to the side of his cage and he started squawking like crazy. He did this the day before when I left, but I was hoping he’d get used to being alone, it didn’t look like this was the case.
“Shut up, I’ll be back in about nine hours,” I said to him.
He just kept going nuts, so I walked out of my apartment and locked the door. I stood there and he continued to sqawk and caw for over five minutes. I had to go to work, but I was afraid if he kept that up all night my neighbors would start to complain.
I went to work that night and got back home around 7:30 in the morning. I lived on the second floor and as soon as I opened up the door I could hear him squawking.
“Fuck,” I said to myself and ran up the stairs. I opened the door to his cage, threw it open and he was hanging in the same spot as when I left him. He was making all kinds of noise, I ran to his cage and threw open the door and stuck my hand in and he hopped on my finger.
“You gotta knock this shit off, I’m going to get complaints and then I’ll have to throw your ass out of here,” I told him. He didn’t seem the slight bit fazed, so I went and got a beer. I swear when I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the can, he let out a happy chirp. This bird brain was already a booze-hound! The two of us drank beer and I watched the Today Show and listened to some music. About one in the afternoon, both of us were half-stewed and tired. I put him in his cage, put a sheet over it, turned out the lights and went to bed. That evening I got up, ate dinner and fucked around till it was time to go to work. I was hoping Mr. Bard wouldn’t pitch a fit again, but the same fucking thing happened.
This time he knew for sure I was leaving so he battled me on going back into his cage. He flew away from me and landed up on a light hanging from the ceiling. He was staring down at me and I know he was thinking, “Tough luck asshole, I can fly and you can’t.”
I could’ve had his wings clipped, but he liked to fly around the apartment occasionally and I thought that would be an unnatural and mean thing to do to him. I didn’t want him flying around loose when I was gone though. There’d be bird shit all over the apartment when I got home. Then I thought of a way to trick him.
“Okay, fuck it, I won’t go to work, let’s see how you like it when I run out of bird food and I can’t afford to buy anymore for you to eat,” I said to him taking off my jacket and throwing it on the couch. He perked up a little when I did that. Then I went to the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator and walked out with a can of beer. He saw the can and flew right down to my arm. I grabbed him and put him in his cage and he went nuts and did the hanging on the side bit while squawking up a storm. This happened every night and the couple that lived next door never complained. I was amazed, but relieved.
I had had Mr. Bard for about two weeks when I ran into Caroline, one half of the couple who lived next door to me. I didn’t see her or her husband Robert very often because we kept different hours. They were early-risers and I think went to bed between 10 pm and midnight, so we were on opposite clocks. They were kind of straight-laced people, but we got along fine. I didn’t have people over a lot, but if I did I always told them to knock on the door if it was too loud and they never did. Anyway, it was a Saturday night around nine in the evening and I was leaving to go meet some friends. Mr. Bard was going through his squawking routine as I locked the door.
“Hey, stranger, when do I get to meet your bird?” A voice rang out in the hallway. It was Caroline and she was carrying a bag of groceries.
I said hi and then said, “I hope his squawking isn’t driving you two nuts, he goes crazy when I leave, he doesn’t like to be alone,” I explained as she set the bag on the ground.
She laughed and said, “It’s the nuttiest thing, we can hear him chirping when you leave, but as soon as you’re out of the building he stops. Then in the morning about five minutes before you come home, he starts up again. Somehow he knows the time of morning when you come home.”
“That little fucker,” I said, “I was actually worried it was bugging the shit out of you guys, but you were being nice and not saying anything about it. I was also worried about him and that he was hanging on the side of his cage going nuts for nine hours every night!”
Caroline laughed and said, “Believe me, if he did that all through the night, you’d have heard from us. We’re always up at night when you leave and when he starts his morning thing, we’re having our coffee, It makes us laugh.”
I always thought that it was nuts that he knew when I was coming home. We settled in nicely together and he was a great pet and beer drinking buddy. But five years later I decided to move to New York. There is a way to have a bird sent somewhere, but cockatiels are indoor birds and they can easily catch a cold if outside and that leads to pneumonia and that’s how a lot of them die. Plus my apartment in New York was tiny and there was no way to fit the huge cage in there. It would be too much of a hassle to have him there, I hated to think about giving him away, but the only other alternative was to take him to a vet and have him take that last flight into the sky via a lethal injection, and there was no way I was doing that.
I had some resumes being printed at a local print shop and I went to go pick them up. I knew the manager, Don and told him about the move to New York. I also told him about the Mr. Bard situation. This caught his interest.
“My dad lives out in the country and he’s got about six birds, all in different cages,” Don told me. “He might want it, are you giving him away?”
This sounded perfect. I told him I was not only giving him away, but his dad could have the cage for free. I told him I had paid over a 70 bucks for it, but I wanted it to go with Mr. Bard. Don said his dad would be real interested. Then I told Don he was hand-trained and you could keep him out of his cage. That did it. Don said his dad always wanted a bird that you could let out of his cage, he told me to hang on and he called him right then and there. Don talked to him and when he hung up he said his dad would take Mr. Bard.
Two months later I was about a week away from moving and Don drove out to my apartment. The day had come, it was time to take Mr. Bard to his new home. I had bought a little cage for him to travel in. Don had a pickup truck and we could put his large cage in the back. I had his food and toys packed up in a grocery bag. Don came in and took the cage and the bag out to the truck. Then he came back to my place.
“Okay, we better go,” Don said.
“Fuck, he’s going to flip out when I put him in there,” I told Don as I walked over to the tiny cage. After a bit of a struggle I got Mr. Bard into the cage and he was going nuts thrashing around and making noises like I never heard him make. I put a towel over the cage to cover him up. In the five years I had him, he had never left my apartment. This was going to be like taking him to a new world. And so far he wasn’t happy.
“Let’s go,” I said to Don, “this isn’t going to be a good day.”
And it wasn’t. Don’s dad lived out in the sticks and it took us around 45 minutes to get there, with Mr. Bard going batshit crazy the whole way. I was really afraid he was going to hurt himself. Finally we got there. I took Mr. Bard inside, met Don’s dad and immediately took Mr. Bard out of the cage. He flew up to my shoulder and was hiding behind my head. He made a huffing noise when he was scared and he was huffing and shaking. I put my hand up and he instinctively climbed up on it. I brought him around and was petting the top of his head. He always loved that.
“This is your new home, Mr. Bard, you’re going to love it here,” I told him as he settled down. After a few minutes of looking around, he stopped shaking and seemed to be okay. Then Don, his dad and I took him into the room where the other birds were in cages. When we got in there I took Mr. Bard up to a cage that housed two love birds and they chirped when they saw him. I wish I had a film of Mr. Bard looking at them. He turned his head sideways and looked at them like he was thinking, “Who the fuck is this?”
We stayed about an hour and Mr. Bard really took to Don’s dad. I instructed his dad on how to put his finger touching Mr. Bard’s claws and he’d hop on. I showed him how to pet the top of his head and Mr. Bard looked like he was enjoying all the attention. Every now and again he’d fly over to me as if to say, “Where the fuck is the beer in this joint?”
After about an hour it was time to go. Mr. Bard was sitting on Don’s dad’s shoulder, and I thanked Don’s dad and said goodbye to Mr. Bard. As Don and I walked to the door, Mr. Bard flew over to my shoulder.
“No, you’re staying here, Mr. Bard,” I said to him and walked back to Don’s dad, who took him again.
I told his dad to pet his head and turn around so I could leave. They turned around but Mr. Bard got loose and soon was back on my shoulder. He let out a chirp as if to say, “What the fuck is going on here?” Jesus, this was like leaving a kid at the orphanage and then trying to leave while he’s tugging on your pant leg.
“I’m going to have to put him in his cage,” I said walking over to his cage in the corner of the room where we set it up. Immediately he started squawking and I said to him, “Look, I gotta go, you’re going to like it here, I promise.” I put him in his cage and he jumped up on his swing and he just looked at me. I was amazed he wasn’t going nuts. Maybe it was because Don’s dad was there and there were the other birds, he wasn’t alone. Maybe he sensed I really had to leave him there.
“Bye Mr. Bard,” I said and Don and I walked out the door to his pickup truck. We got in and started down the road.
“That wasn’t easy, was it?” Don asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I told him and turned on the radio.
Two weeks later I was living in New York. I had job interviews scheduled at People magazine and Entertainment Weekly. Plus I had already scored a freelance writing assignment with a weekly paper called, NY Weekly. I was feeling good about things and decided to call Don to see how Mr. Bard was doing. I had called him before I left and found out the first two days he was there he was kind of listless and wasn’t eating. Then on the third day he was eating and Don’s dad was having a blast with him. I was glad his dad was taking him out of the cage a lot. I didn’t want to give him to someone that would leave him in the cage for a long period of time.
I talked to Don and had to laugh at what he told me. He said Mr. Bard had developed a morning ritual at his dad’s house. Every morning Don’s dad would let Mr. Bard out of his cage and Mr. Bard would fly to the top of the other bird cages, where the birds couldn’t fly free and would stand on top, chirping and stretching out his wings as if to say, “Hey Motherfuckers, I’m free and you’re not!”
Ha ha ha! I loved it. Mr. Bard was the king of the fucking hill! Then he told me one more thing.
“My dad changed his name,” Don revealed to me. “He hated the name Mr. Bard.”
I have to admit, I was a little pissed off.
“But that’s the name he answers to, he won’t know another name,” I said to Don.
“No, he answers to the new name too,” Don said. It sounded like he was stifling laughter.
I didn’t think that was possible. It would be like giving a new name to a dog who’s answered to the same name for over five years.
“So what’s his new name?” I asked flatly.
Don laughed and said, “Marty.”
Ha ha ha! That was perfect. Marty is close enough sounding to Bard, that Mr. Bard probably didn’t notice the difference. He became a Marty and I became a New Yorker. Sometimes thing work out in life and this was one of those times.
I was planning on going to Chinatown tonight and wander around and take some photos and maybe go to a bar or something, but those plans have changed. My night turned to shit at work and I’m getting out of here a little later than usual. Plus I have a headache. And it’s freezing outside. And why yes, I would like some ice with my whine, please and thank you! Anyway, I think I’ll do something from home tonight and what I’ve decided is to put up some late night tweets from Twitter. But first I have to get home.
I only live 14 blocks from work and most nights I walk home, but fuck it, I feel like shit so I'm cabbing it home. It's just a six dollar ride and with a dollar tip it's seven bucks. Money well spent on a night like this.
And baboom, here we are home sweet home! I've had that Mothers of Invention poster at every place I've ever lived. My brother Jim gave it to me for my 17th birthday. If only that poster could talk...well, I wouldn't really want to hear the stories.
An obligatory mirror shot of the top of my head over my Beatles butcher block album.
And here's my good friend Mr. Refrigerator which houses...
My even better friend, Mr. Beer!
It's freezing in here, time to light this thing up.
Poof! Fire!
Okay, let's see what's happening in Twitterville.
Good idea! I'm sure that's never been done before!
Kaiczynski Meet MacheDimance. I think the two of you will live and tweet happily ever after.
What, leave your room?
Wow, all the news channels must be pissed that you got the exclusive on that!
No, that's someone in serious need of a real life.
Now this guy knows how to tweet! Brief and to the point!
I had a low floater earlier today, but I flushed the toilet and it was history.
I love Jesus_M_Christ. Always first-class tweets!
And speaking of first-class tweets, our very own resident artist, "Boris" never fails to amuse on Twitter and facebook. Good one, Daddio!
I've seen the future Charlie Sheen Goddess and it is SHEILIA_MAC420. Get ready to be a winner, Sheila!
Speaking of Charlie, here's his last tweet of the evening, #WINNING! Well, he's lost a show he made almost two million an episode, his kids and wife, so I'm not sure exactly what he's winning, but what the hell, let's check in with one of his Goddesses.
And here she is, one half of the Charlie Sheen Goddess team, Bree Olson. A classy lady indeed! In fact this tweet puts the ass back in class! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark!
Here's Kari biting into a dog in all it's ketchup glory!
And here's some of Kari's fellow travelers. I don't recognize the location, but I think it might be midtown. Thanks for the photos, Kari!
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