A City By Any Other Name

New York, NY.  

So Nice, they named it twice.  

Either that, or the guy who named it had a stutter. 

I came across an article today on Gawker.com that had a list of all the nicknames New York City has (to my amazement, a total of 98).  Some were ok (like the obvious ones: "Big Apple", "Capital of the World", etc.) some were lame ("The City Of Friendly People"....who are you kidding?).

But then I got to the comment section,  I have to be honest, the names in there are more dead on then anything.  I agree with 90% of them.  Whoever thinks of lame nicknames for cities makes me think that the people naming them don't even live here.  I asked 5 different people  in NYC already why the heck its called "The Big Apple" and nobody knows!  

So, instead of giving credit to the lame douchbags who named this place ("Americas Mecca"? kind of odd since Muslim terrorist attacked this city) or ("Financial Capital"? I think we have a lot of unemployed Bear Sterns employees who would disagree with that name).

So, I figured I will give props to the real New Yorkers.  The ones who call this place by what they see, hear, smell, experience and deal with.   After all, nobody knows this city better then the people putting up with it. 

Here are some of my favorites, followed by a link to the original article:

 

1. City of 1000 smells

2. The World Capital Of Pushing Tourists Down Escalators

3. That Place Next To Brooklyn

4. The City Where Summers Smell Bad

5. If You Can Make It Here, You Have A Really Good Map City

6. Cockaroach Alley

7. There Is Homeless Poop On The Subway Here City

8. The Rental Rape Capital of the World

9. The Land We Were Fucked Over for $24 of Beads and Trinkets (as the Native Americans would call it)

10. Flasher's Paradise

11. Land of the $1000 an hour Hooker

12. Jewtopia

13. The City Where The Answer Is Always "Go Fuck Yourself!"

14. Sunnyvale Acres For Hobos

15. Land of the Unemployed Investment Bankers

16. New Fuckin Yawk 

17. Who Wants To Know

18. As they call it in Brooklyn "The fuckin' city"

19. Land Of Atleast It's Not New Jersey

20. Where We're Not Unfriendly, We Just Don't Give a Shit About You.  There's a Difference.

21. Sorry We Are All Booked Up Tonight City

22. Puerto "We Ain't No Fuckin' Mexicans" Rican Paradise

23. The I Didn't See Your Name On The List Town

and finally, my favorite and the one I call it myself:  "Home".

The link to the Gawker Article: 

http://gawker.com/372922/the-city-of-superlatives

For those with magical internet service

A new ConEd commercial is being aired on the radio here in Manhattan and New York.  It says that now you may easily report a power outage with the click of a button using the ConEd website on the internet.

I may be a bit behind on my technology at home, but was there some kind of internet service released that works on magic?  

=)

Update:  Some people have said to me "They probably figured you have a laptop".  Well, unless your wireless router works on fairy dust, you still wouldn't get service.

Lie. The new way to say "Shut the *uck up!"

I used to have this friend ("used to" because at some point he decided that a certain white powder was more important and valuable to him then our friendship).  Lets call him Tyler.  Tyler was a bullsh*tter.  When he said things, he was not so much telling a lie, as he was telling the truth in a manner that was not false or accurate.  His whole life story is basically undetermined at this point.

For example, Tyler was an actor in Los Angeles.  Tyler was one of those guys who would tell you "I am so stoked, I finally get to achieve my life long dream of being in a movie with Edward Norton.  I am so stoked."  Tyler, was in a movie with Ed.  As an extra in one scene with 100 other Los Angeles pedestrian.  He was across the street, acting like he was on a cell phone.  You can actually see his elbow.

Tyler was also a comedian.  He once said "I finally get to do what every comedian dreams of doing and only a few get to, which is be on Saturday Night Live".   He was on SNL.  In the 4th row as the guy who claps simultaneously with 200 other people every saturday.

You see, Tyler only told you his life stories in a way where it would make it like he is doing more then he is.  Now I am a bullsh*tter myself.  Not so much like that.  I tend to accidently tell the stories wrong.  My teachers (as well as my wife) all said that I only hear the things I want to hear. 

This is most true when I came back from my first trip to Sweden after visiting my wife's family.  I told everyone that her grandfather once shot a german couple who were picking up berries on his property.  He killed the old man but he didn't go to jail because it was foggy and he thought he was shooting at a moose grazing.

In reality, it was not her grandfather.  They were not German, they were Norwegian or something, and he may or may not have died.  The person who actually shot, was someone completely not related but he happen to own a lot of land like my wife's grandfather.  I happened to grab all the words (gun, grandfather, foggy, shot) and forgot the words like (random man, alive, accidently) and somehow made my wife's family seem like felony makers.

All this leads to what happened today.  I have lied in the past to get out of trouble (like when I told my high school counselor that my grandmother is dyeing and I need to go to Israel for two weeks to see her.  In reality, my grandmother was fine and I spent the 14 days hanging out at Andy's house drinking none alcoholic beverages.).  I lie to get more for my money (like when I told the girl at Starbucks after I already ordered the muffin and coffee that I was $3 short of the total and she let me have the muffin anyway.  I actually had a $20 and my debit card).

Never had I found myself in a position to lie to just tell someone to mind their own business. 

Until today.

I work on the 11th floor of a high rise near Times Square (a.k.a Times Scare).  Our office is actually on the 10th, 11th and 12th floor.  The elevators in this office suck.  They run really slow, and take forever to come to your floor.  Lets not forget that they occasionally take you all the way up when you actually hit the lobby button.  Most people know this and hate it but deal with it.  Some, take it upon themselves to take the stairs as to not be troubled. 

Now I won't lie about this, but I am one lazy bastard when I leave work.  I tend to leave my computer on when I throw it in my bag because I have no patience to wait for it to shut down.   I tend to ask the receptionist to buzz me out instead of reaching for the key card out of my wallet and do it myself.  So it is no surprise that I wait for the sh*tty elevator instead of taking the stairs.  Especially when I need to go to the 10th floor from the 11th.  I know most of you (that would be 2 out of the 3 readers) would say "dude, you can't even walk down one floor?" to that I will say "*uck you!".  Ofcourse, I can not say that or use that kind of language in the workplace.  

So I get into the elevator to go to the 10th floor from the 11th to pick up my newspaper.  This lady, who works on the 11th who I never met, for all I know she could be the CEO's wife or even the CEO.  She gets in first and presses the Lobby button.  I enter and press the 10th button.

The lady lets out a half laugh.  You know the ones you make when you see someone do something stupid? the kind of half laugh that is usually delivered with a rude comment?

"You could have just taken the stairs you know" she says

Here I am, about to tell this women to shut her trap, and I think to myself that I need to play it safe.  Don't be rude.  So I lie.

"Actually, I had a really bad knee injury once from when I was skiing with the Big Brother group in Big Bear.  I took a slip after helping a Little Brother learn how to ski and my knee has never been the same.  Its a shame really, I stopped going on the trip.  I really miss those kids."

I said

I tell you, if I had said one more sentence or used the words "loved" instead of "miss", this lady would have been balling all over the elevator floor.  She actually grabbed her jacket around the heart area and tilted her head in embarrassment of even assume that I should have been fine to take the stairs.

I got off on the 10th floor (yes, I added a bit of a sloppy limp as I got off just for effect).  Later, I sat there and realized that I lied, but now I have two problems.  The first problem is that this may spread.  Next thing I know, someone will walk up and say "I heard what you did for those kids.  That's beautiful".  I will have to play this off.  What if I walk in the building without my limp and she is behind me?  Stressing isn't it?  The second problem is guilt.  For one, I feel guilty I lied by using the little brother story.  Second, I lied that I am officially disabled.  That is messed up.  Mostly, I feel guilty because I made the lady care.  I wanted her to piss off and mind her own business, but now, she has guilt of her own for telling me to take the stairs when apparently, I am a disabled guy who tried to make a difference in children's lives.  I feel guilt for giving guilt.  How F'ed up is that?

Should be interesting to see what happens.  If I ever get asked about it in the future, I can tell them to call the President of the Little Brother group.  His name is Tyler, and he is good friends with Edward Norton. 

Me vs. Mickey Mou....I can't do this! Round III

(Part III.  Continued from Tenant Vs. Might Mouse)

Wifey tends to call me from time to time at work and check if I am coming home for lunch.  It's usually to see if she should walk the dogs my way and meet up.  I, as much as I love to mess with her, tell her that she has 15 minutes to ask the Italian guy to get out of our bed before I make it home.  He must get dressed really fast, because he is never there when I arrive.  

I got a call from her today a bit before lunch.  It was to inform me that the mouse is back and is making noise under the oven again.  She asked if I can come and "take care of him" so that she can get back to studying for her test in fabric class.  I have no idea how difficult it is to learn about fabrics, but apparently, the light sound that she slept through all last night, was suddenly so loud that she couldn't remember if silk has more or less carbons in it then cotton (I don't know anything about fabrics, so don't start sending me angry letters about how silk doesn't even have carbon in it.  I don't know anything about clothes, I just know how to separate them before throwing them back in the laundry basket so that Wifey can do it.  You turn white bed spread into pink salmon color one time in your marriage and suddenly you are off laundry duty for the rest of your life).

When my wife says "come home to take care of him", I, in my violent and very graphic mind, automatically assume she is asking me to come and kill the bastard now rather than wait until I get off work.  I decide to take an early lunch and head home.  I chose to take the villain role in my head and even listened to some really dark classical music on the way home (think: the music playing in the background during Silence of the Lambs when the guy holds the dog over the well).   I show up at the house like Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield when they arrived at the college dorm.  Ready to kill.

The first few minutes in the house I am prepping.  I roll up my sleeves.  Get an old t-shirt to put the guy in once I "take care of him".  You know, prep the kill.  Now, I am not a violent person at heart.  Hell, I was a junior docent at the nature center in Los Angeles years ago.  I love animals. But, this guy obviously took a hit by having himself get stuck in the trap and it was in misery.  I was the angel of death who has to take him out of this said misery.  I don't want to kill him, but someone has too.  

I lift the oven and I see the little one.  His back foot stuck in the trap.  He still had peanut butter on his face.  He started screaming again when the oven lifted.  Wifey immediately begins oiling up the soft heart engine.  Don't get me wrong, I love my wife for being such an animal lover.  But she asked for this.  Or atleast I thought she did.

"Honey, what's wrong? why are you tearing up?" I say to her while holding the oven up and looking at the victim.

"Do you have to kill him?" she asks

I should have seen this coming.  My wife changes her mind as much as outfits on the way to an all girls night out.  She wants Flaffel, then she thinks she may want italian food.  She wants to wear the grey sweater, nope, that will look much better tomorrow cause it cloudy, she wants to change into the black hoodie.  I love her to death, but when it comes to death, she REALLY changes her mind.

"Honey, he is stuck in a trap with his leg.  I can't dump him outside in the street, its too cold."

She replies "Then you have to do it quickly. I don't want him to feel any pain".

Before she even finishes that sentence I am already holding up a hammer.

"No! No! You can't do this. He is so little and hurt.  He needs help.  He is hurting" she says

"Honey.  Please go in the bedroom with your laptop.  Shut the door.  Open iTunes and put on some Metallica and full volume.  You may also want to place your head underneath a pillow."

I shut the door slowly to the bedroom and turned around with the hammer toward Mickey Mouse.

I couldn't just look at him.  He was laying there breathing fast.  His big black eyes looking right at me.  I felt like his face will haunt me forever.  So I pick him up by the trap and place him in the old t-shirt.  I wrap the old shirt around him.  He start crying again.  As seconds feel like minutes,  I feel the hammer getting heavier and heavier.  I watch the shirt shake from him trying to escape.

I can't do this.  I just can't pick this hammer up and strike.  If this was a movie where a new beast just escaped from a lab, I would be that guy at the beginning of the movie who dies first because he took too long to raise the gun and pull the trigger.  Like that guy in the movie, I am too much of a softy.

I slowly unwrapped the poor bastard.  I grabbed the trap and lifted the metal latch.  He crawled away back into the shirt.  Obviously injured.

"Honey!" I called my wife.

She exits the room with Metallica NOT playing in the background.  

"I couldn't do this" I said to her holding up the empty trap.

For as much as most men would tell me that you should never admit to your wife when you are weak because...well, its a sign of weakness.  I must say that her face cracked a smile when she noticed I freed him from the trap.  

"Where is he?" she asks me

"Right here" I said pointing at the shirt.

"Can I see him?" she says in the voice of a six year old girl who wants to pet one

She kneels down and unwraps the shirt.  For a split second, he lays there. Motionless. I seriously thought the bastard was going to die in my arms right there on the floor.  I felt like he was going to look up and say "Please tell me Ma that I love her. And tell my children I died a hero!"  I actually felt bad for putting out that trap in the first place.

Then, without a second to spare, the little *hithead jumps up, gets on all four feet and bolts toward the heater.  This guy was running so fast, Hulk Hogans' son wouldn't be able to catch up to him in his ride.  He was as fast as lightning.  He knew exactly where he was going.  I stood up and grabbed the shirt wanting to throw it at him.  My wife lets a "Oh my God!" out.  The bastard runs under the heater and crawls into a hole in the wall and vanishes.

I remain standing in the middle of the livingroom/kitchen (its a small apartment).  I am motionless.  The bastard won.  He got to my inner soft spot and then took advantage of it.  

He won.  

My wife looked around the heater for a few seconds, and then sighed in relief and walked over to sit on the couch.  Picked up the laptop and got back to chatting with her Swedish girlfriend.

"Atleast you didn't have to kill it" she says typing away

Right honey.  Because "Taking care of him" was not why I came home during my lunch hour for.

I went back to the office listening to classical music.  It made me upset that after waking me up at 5:00 am and keeping me up and stressed all this time, the little bastard got away.  So like my wife I changed something....

...for the next 4 blocks, I listened to Metallica.

Tenant Vs. Mighty Mouse? - Round II

(Part II: Continued from Tenant Vs. Remy)

Operation "Mouse Trap" turned into "Operation Jackmove" overnight.

The mouse STOLE my mouse trap!  

No this is not a joke.   After coming home lastnight from work to see the glob of peanut butter still sitting on an empty mouse trap like a call-girl sitting on a New York governor, I realized it will take a little "waiting game" time to get this guy.  Apparently he is a New York mouse and he just doesn't fall for things like PB on a mouse trap.   I go to bed around midnight.  Around 12:20 I start hearing the bastard walking behind the oven again (I can hear his little feet touching the metal).  I sit there quietly to hopefully hear that beautiful sound of "SNAP" from a mouse trap doing its job.  After 30 minutes of laying completely motionless in bed (last time I did that, I lost my virginity), I eventually fell asleep (also did that when I lost my virginity).

NOTE:  The next section of this is not for the light of heart

I wake up at 5:30 am to the sound of a rattle in the kitchen.  In my head, it sounded like as if the mouse trap was thrown around. I know it is dark in the kitchen, and frankly, I am so tired I can barely move.  I try going back to sleep but woken up again to the sound of a screaming mouse.  I kid you not when I say this sounded like a full minute scream.  Followed by some more rattle sounds.  Eventually, this stopped and I fell asleep.  I am thinking as I fall asleep that I heard the snap and then followed by a scream, which only means the bastard didn't die in the trap, but rather, got his leg, or arm, or tail snapped and is trying to get out.

I wake up at 8:00 am.  I brush the teeth.  Wash the face.  Make those Sean Connary accents in front of the mirror for a few minutes and then walk out to the kitchen.  I take a glance into the little slit where the trap was to see if the bastard finally died.....THE TRAP IS GONE!

I had to wipe my eyes and shake my head.  I looked again.  The trap is not there.  It's gone.  I grab a chair and stand on it and then take a glance behind the oven and it is not there either.

The mother ucker stole my $1.50 trap.  Did I try to capture Mighty Mouse?  Is my mouse the Mike Tyson, or better yet, the Incredible Hulk of all mice?  Perhaps this is the Sparta  of mice, and 299 of his buddies came and lifted him up with the trap still on his leg and taken him to safety.

I had a WTF? face for a good 5 minutes in the kitchen.  The trap has vanished.  With all the screaming and moving, I assumed the guy was slowly dieing.  Worst case, snapped out of the trap and left a few fingers behind, but no.  Nothing was there.

I am not sure what to do now.  I have to be honest, I am a bit scared to go to sleep now.  I am afraid this guy is showing up at his colony as we speak with his back leg still in a trap.  And moments after being released from the trap, he will gather the colony and start a revolution against humanity with me being the very first victim.  I am afraid I am going to wake up tomorrow tied up and with three mice holding the mouse trap to the part of my body that was last tortured during a bris when I was only 3 weeks old.  Not to mention, they will probably cover it in peanut butter just for laughs.  I can see myself getting home tonight to no dogs or a wife with only a tiny note by the oven that says "We will exchange your family for you. If you ever want to see them a live, follow our instructions.  Do not call the exterminator.  We will call you soon with further instructions".

I have tried to kill a cute, little, helpless Ratatouille.  Instead, my apartment had the "Thing".  Now all I can think of is him crawling last night screaming, and then pushing himself toward his whole in the wall with the trap attached to his lower half.  Screaming and pushing.  I feel guit.  I feel bad.  I feel like I am going to need to buy a lot more traps.   This is far from over. 

He may have won the battle, but the war is far from over.   

If I learned anything from mobster movies, is that you need to whack them before they get a chance to whack you.  

That rat better lick all the left over peanut butter off of his healing foot because tonight...he will dine in hell!

Tenant Vs. Remy - Round I

The war has begun.

Last night I am sitting on the soon-to-be-stained-because-nothing-this-nice-lasts-forever-couch (see "couch in a box").   I am watching a rerun episode of "Two and a half men".  Possibly the worst show on television that comes on before 8 PM.  When did TV executives assume that a TV show with a recovering alcoholic/call-girl user and a 10 year old child would be a good idea?  Plus, is it just me? or is the show concept a total rip off from the oldschool show "My Two Dads"?  Remember that one?  a girl moves in with two dads because the mother never said who was the real dad before she died?  Same idea.  Stick a kid between two men and as long as one of them is not a priest and the other is not Michael Jackson, you got yourself a hit.  Of course, if you do want a show with a child, a priest and MJ, then you should pitch it to FOX.  I can't imagine them turning down a reality show like that.

So I am sitting there with my own two rats.  By my own two rats, I mean my two Chiuchaua dogs.  These things are so small, I have seen pictures of New Jersey rats that are bigger.  You could punt them like a football if you really wanted to (not that anyone would).  Suddenly, I hear a noise coming from behind the oven.  My dogs are the first to hear it with their bat ears.  The ears are like satellite dishes (every once in a while, if they sit next to the TV and their ears are stright up just right, I get HBO for free).  The dogs start barking at the oven.  I already become suspicious.  These dogs bark at anything....as long as its alive or eatable.  So, I go to investigate.  I look around and do not see much.  I grab the free work flashlight I got for answering a question right at one of the "work team building" things.  I flash that sucker behind the oven when BAM!  I see the little sh*thead.  A tiny little mouse, running from the light as if his great, great, grandmother might have been a cockroach.  

I look behind the oven for a while trying to see if I can tell where he ran off to.  Where his hiding place may be.  I have to stop after I realize I have been leaning on the gas starters and been letting gas out slowly.  In this small apartment, this can turn into a Nazi camp re-enactment real fast, so I pull back. 

After a quick trip to the CVS store for mouse traps, ice cream and medicine (the other two are for the wife.  I have never walked up to a register counter with an odder combination of products.  I think if I would have bought matches along with it, David, the CVS clerk would have reported me to Homeland Security for possibly building weapons of mass destruction in my midtown apartment).  I get home and splash some peanut butter on the trap.  I know, I know.  I would have assumed Cheese too, but the instructions suggested PB.  When the heck did mice become so ghetto?  Cheese is good food.  It makes you think of French people and Italian dinners.  PB makes you think of sitting at 4th grade recess next to the poor kid who never gets lunch money and instead gets PB year round (so poor, he doesn't even get Jelly with it).   Are mice so ghetto now a days that they say "ahh F it.  Give me some PB and I am good"?

After 45 minutes of attempting to latch the spring metal back into position and keeping it in place without snapping back (it did, atleast 6 times.  Once, nearly took out the tip of my finger), I finally got the trap into a little slit between the wall and the oven.  I had to put a piece of wood as well as a boot to keep the little dogs from sticking their heads in the slit to get it (yes, they are that small). 

I woke up this morning and nothing.  PB still there.  The battle is on.  I have a feeling this can become a long, drawn out process of me trying to catch the bastard.  But I will not back down!

That little Ratatouille mother uker will have his head underneath my $1.50 mouse trap soon.

45 minutes to an hour

New York is a city of "Who do you know".  You want to get into that hot, new, trendy club that opened up in Chelsea?  Who do you know? Otherwise you are not getting in.   You want to make it to that rooftop party? Who do you know? Otherwise, wait downstairs with the homeless guy who is screaming obscene language at the empty shopping cart.  You want to make it into that bar that has a secret door and no name and nobody really knows what happens behind the infamous red curtains in the VIP  room but you heard the rumors?  Who do you know?  Otherwise, go to Alphabet City and go to a local Irish Pub that sells $3 Guinness, because that's all you know.

This city is built on connections.   You want a better job, you are better off connecting and networking into a new gig than to get seventeen head hunters.  You want a nice, large, one bedroom in West Village for less than $3000?  Better off knowing someone who is moving out and will let you slide in than getting an agent in this city.  This whole city is all about WHO YOU KNOW.

This is most true when it comes to being seated for dinner at a posh new restaurant.  Try going out on a friday night to a new posh eatery without reservations from 2 weeks in advance and you will end up with your hot date at the local Abatinos pizza joint ordering the "Midnight special $2 slice".  No way you will get seated.  Unless of course, you know someone.

This came into great realization when a buddy of mine was in town this weekend.  Him, wifey and myself decided to go on out on the town and get dinner.  Without reservations.  Going out without reservations is like going into war without a strategy (see: Bush Administration).  But somehow we felt optimistic.   

It was pouring rain that night.  Not the light kind of rain.  It was like "movie studio, we need to fake a rain scene for a climatic hot kiss in the middle of the empty street between our hot power couple in the movie" kind of rain.  You can wash your clothes if you hung them outside that night.   Between the three of us, we had one umbrella.  We first tried to call a few places to get reservations.  The earliest reservations I found for "that" Friday was for 10:30 PM (one hostess actually told me over the phone "I can put you down for next Friday".  Thanks, how does that help my current hunger pains?).  So we decided to go to my buddies hotel and have the connoisseir to look up some joints.  After all, in a city that is all about "who you know", the posh hotel must have friends in the posh restaurants, right? wrong.  She basically said she couldn't find anything.  So, we decided to treck outside and walk until we found something.  We walked for 30 minutes in the pouring rain.  We even settled to buying a $1.50 umbrella from the corner market (which broke in the first wind stroke that was over 8 miles an hour).  We must have walked into 12 different places.  They all had the same answer when we asked what the current seating time was: 45 minutes to an hour.  Of course, all these places put their hostess behind a curtain, or a door, so you never really see what is going on inside.

After the hunger pains started making us talk crazy and considering pizza, we decided to go back to the hotel.  They had a posh restaurant.  We all know the restaurants at hotels are never really posh.  They are like the winners of American Idol.  You never really as popular as the "REAL" musicians.   The hotel restaurants think they are as cool as the secretive joint around the corner.  But it was our last resort.  So we went.

We get to the hostess at the hotel restaurant and tell her "table for three please".  She has the nerve to respond with "It's actually a 45 minute to an hour wait right now, or you can sit and eat at the lounge".  What? How is this possible?  Your bar has 5 people, 3 of them are behind the bar working!  We glance into the restaurant and the place is as empty as a Paris Hilton concert venue.  How can it possibly be a 45 minute wait when there is nobody inside?

We chose to go sit in the lounge.  After grabbing a two seat table for three and having myself "block the fire escape" as the hostess put it, she made us move.  First thing is this whole fire hazard thing with people sitting on the short end of a table.   I always think of a joke by Mitch Hedgberg who said "If a fire starts, trust me, I will not be standing here, so you don't need to worry".  This is so true.  You are worried I am blocking the fire exit as if, in some crazy city I came from, my villagers believe that if a fire starts in a restaurant, you should remain seated while the patrons are desperately trying to escape.  It is such a joy to see them get badly burned.  Seriously?  

Atleast this worked for our advantage.  By asking us to change seats, and realizing that there were no more three seater tables in the lounge (because usually they don't have a waiter for a lounge.  That is what a lounge is.  I would not be surprised if lounge was french for "drink the fuck up and get out").   When the hostess realized we had nowhere to sit in her lounge, she said "I will just sit you in the restaurant".  Hallelujah.  Thank you great Greek hunger pain Gods.  

When we got into this restaurant area, we noticed it was 40% full.  60% of it was empty.  This made me realize something.  Getting seated in New York is all about HYPE.  You have available seats but you don't let people see it.  You tell guests it is a 45 minute wait and suddenly everyone thinks its the hip place.  

Later that evening, Wifey mentioned that she only noticed two waiters working the floor.  So maybe that is why they had a 45 minute wait.  I thought to myself that this can't be.  If the restaurant is stupid enough to only schedule 2 waiters for a Friday night in Manhattan, then they don't deserve a location in Manhattan.  Seriously, if you can't run a joint like a professional, get out of this city.  Even the 80 year old Asian guy across the street  from our apartment that speaks a total of 4 words in English runs his supermarket better than this restaurant.

So in conclusion I realized two things.   The first is to never leave the house without reservations.  Even if its on a Wednesday at 5:30, I swear, I am making reservations.   If Wifey wants to go to get Subway, I am calling ahead.  

The second thing is to stay away from Hotel Restaurants.   The food was ok.  The alcohol was mediocre.   The wait staff was less than amateur, but over all it is not worth a 45 minute wait.  If I waited 45 minutes and then got the service we did, I would probably be posting this blog on the Zagat website. 

Regardless, come to this city prepared.  By all means, make reservations.  Unless of course, you know someone.  :)

Times Square = The New Gaza

Someone in the newspaper said today "You can't be scared living in this city".

I thought about that for a moment.  Usually, that would be something I would think someone would say in Tel Aviv.  Or Syria.  Or Lebanon.  But Manhattan? Has Manhattan really become one of those cities that the thought of a bombing makes you tilt your neck with a smerk and go "Eh" as if it doesn't bother you?

Incase you have been locked in your closet or have not paid your cable bill in the past week, then you know I am referring to the small bomb that went off in Times Square on Thursday. The newspaper referred to it on the front page as "Times Scare!".  Really? What editor came to the table of the creative director and said "Times Scare!  it fits.  it has fear and captures the essence of what happened".  I would have thrown that guy into the elevator shaft.  And if it was a walk up, then he would have been thrown down the stairs (followed by furniture).  Really? Was that title the best they can do?  I mean, if a guy gets a flat tire at Times Square, and then gets shot by someone while changing the tire, is the newspaper going to read "Times Spare" or how about "Times Chair" if in the event that a truck full of IKEA chairs rolls over at the intersection of 42nd and 7th.  "Times Hair" (new hair salon opens) "Times Bear" (bear escapes from central park zoo and eats a little Albanian boy) "Times Fare" (raising the prices on subway fairs)...seriously, a seven year old kid can come up with these phrases.  Perhaps they have seven year olds working there.  At least one.  

Anyway, back to the point.  Which in my opinion has been hands down THE WORST, I repeat, THE WORST unidentified criminal nickname EVER!

When someone commits a crime, and nobody figured out who they are (or their stoner roommate has not turned them in yet for the $10,000 tip reward), they get a nickname.  Usually it would be something that relates to the crime you did and how you did it.  Like "The Pony Tail Bandit" for having a pony tail.  Simple.  (Thank God we have not seen a Mullet robber yet).  "The Goofy Hat Bandit" or the "Hollywood Rapist".  All relate to something that is part of you and what you use during your crime.  

This leads us to early Thursday morning.  An idiot, riding a bicycle, came up to the army recruiting center office at 3 am and threw a backpack with a small, home made bomb in it and then detonated it.  Noone was hurt except this guy's reputation.  I called him an idiot for two reasons.  One is the obvious:  He is a criminal who tried to bomb a public space.  He should have went to counseling or got a girl friend, but this lonely sap figured that doing this would fix the father issues he has or the fact that women don't find him sexually attractive.  The second reason I called him an idiot is the fact that if you DO choose to commit a crime (especially one that you know will end up in the news), do it in a way that will give you a good nickname.

The idiot, was named by all (ALL) newspapers, newscasters, and newslinks online as the "Bicycle  Bomber".  That has to be the lamest name in criminal history.  Bicycle Bomber makes me think of a guy sitting in a pink bicycle with a basket that has flower prints on it.  It does not make me think of a man making a statement.  A rebel.  A criminal who is dangerous and should be feared.  No wonder New Yorkers have been walking around saying "Eh" to bombings.  

As of this morning, the FBI has reason to believe the criminal may be Canadian.  Since when have Canadians been violent?  Don't they come second to Swedish people in the "Least likely to start a fight"  list?  Canadians don't become violent, they make Maple.  You say Iraq, I think violent people.  You say communist Russia, I think violence.  You say Somalia, I think violence.  You say Canada, I think Michael J. Fox.  I think of Hockey and waffle syrup.    When did Canada become the drunk guy at the bar that starts fights with people?  

So I go back to living in NYC.  Without fear in "Times Scare".  I go back to realizing that the more things like this happen, the less I have to feel like I need to go visit Israel.