No. 77 - A Silent Movie in the East Village
862 Words. 3 Minute Read.
You have to remember that we were all there voluntarily. No one forced us to sit through a film of this nature. I wasn’t taken at gun point by Gene Siskel. Sure, most of us probably didn’t know it would be that quiet, but by that point we were in it together. And truth to told, when someone tried to cover a sneeze or silence a yawn, it was, well ... sort of welcomed. Ninety minutes of silence is a long time.
No. 76 - A Record Player in New York
1,000 Words. 4 Minute Read.
Similar to antiquing, I see these records and think to myself that someone enthusiastically went to a record shop with this exact album in mind. They’d been obsessing over it for weeks, like any other music freak. They couldn’t wait to get back home and listen to it, maybe with friends at a cocktail party or by themselves on LSD with bulbous headphones. And now, all these years later, it’s in a Greenwich Village shop with thousands of others, each with its own story.
No. 74 - Discovering Tribeca
1,046 Words. 4 Minute Read
I walked past DeNiro’s Tribeca Grill and started to take in the peculiarities of the pre-Civil War buildings. I strolled up and down wide cobblestone streets flanked by ancient loading docks and warehouses with faded block letters from the companies that once occupied them. Despite the transformation of mercantile factories into galleries and the most expensive real estate in the city, there’s a comforting authenticity to it all, as if nothing will ever change, including rickety awnings and peeling paint on nineteenth-century handrails.
No. 68 - Jazz in West Village with a Spy
574 Words. 2 Minute Read.
Arthur’s is one of those rare places that feels like you’ve been there before on your first visit. They have nothing to prove, and they know it, which makes for a warm environment. We were there in late March, and Christmas wreaths were still up… it’s that kind of place.
No. 67 - Lost in SoHo
1,426 Words. 6 Minute Read.
I prefer taking the scenic route – always. It doesn’t matter if I’m in New Orleans, Carmel, or simply driving to the local library. You can bank on me finding every piece of interesting architecture and historical landmark and visiting them, to the exclusion of everything else. I can’t help it. I truly can’t. There’s a skipper in my brain whose call sign is Captain Disaster. He’s an excursionist who despises maps, itineraries, and clocks. He has full control of my faculties and operates with a broken compass.