The family met Monday night at Rosa Mexicano which, according to Zagat, is the gold standard in upscale Mexican food. It is a loud, crowded place (maybe that’s just because we went at 6:30 at the location that is directly across from Lincoln Center) but the food is damned good. As are the pomegranite & lime margaritas.
Note the background. Yes, no foolin’, just past my shoulder, none other than NBC’s Dr. Max Gomez!
Yes, Virginia, it is worth eighteen bucks to go to The Guggenheim once in a while. I tried getting a discount with my NYC Tourguides License (it’s worked at other museums) but, alas, not here. Still, I can’t complain. Starting with kickass ikons of the 13th Century (one or two by Tarkovsky subject Andrei Rublev and winding up with post-CCCP three dimensional work which seem to have a healthy blend of irony and nostalgia. Along the way are black squares from Malevich, swirls of color from Kandinsky and lots and lots of bearded portraits. You never saw so many bearded men in one place before. These princes and dukes and Tsars and other nobles are all so very kick-ass, especially in the context of the Guggenheim rotunda. The show is closing soon (Jan 11) so do make an effort to go.
You know that dream you always have about discovering a separate wing of your apartment and you wonder, Why do I never hang out here? That’s how I feel about the stretch of Steinway between 30th Ave and Astoria Blvd. It is opposite the direction of the subway and, as a result, I never go there.
Well, I used to never go there. Now I will go there more than a probably should, specifically to hang out at Papa’s Empanadas, the greatest empanada shop on Earth.
With 40 or so styles of Empanadas (we *almost* got the Elvis Empanada, banana and peanut butter) there’ll be plenty of excuses to go back.
I had a pollo, pernil (chopped, marinated pork) and a Hawaiian Empanada featuring melted cheese, ham and pineapple. Ann had a beef and an Athenian Empanada featuring spinach and feta. They’re like a buck or a buck and a quarter a piece.
Empanadas don’t really photograph well, but here are some shots. The owner also gave us free rice pudding.
Last night we had dinner at a pretty kick ass Korean place on 32nd St. which is either called Gam Mee Ok or Gahm Mi Oak — the door and the menus say different things. Either way, the food was quite dynamite. I had the house speciality, an oxtail soup called Sul Lung Tang, Ann had the Bibim Bop. They cut the Kimchi right in front of us and it was the most kickass Kimchi I ever had. The waitstaff was very friendly. They quickly caught up that Ann and I didn’t know what the hell we were doing and told us how to eat our food. (Korean food can be baffling.) There were some slices of cabbage on the table that I thought were for decoration — actually, you are supposed to dip them into this green, spicy bean dip. Awesome.
Then there were some peppers on the table. We were told they were for dipping, too. We bit into them and they were terrific. So I started eating more. Then I hit the seeds. And I nearly died. They were the spiciest peppers I ever ate. The waiter said, “Oh, sometimes you get a hot one. They’re not always hot.” I couldn’t respond because I had ice in my mouth. I was completely defeated by the mighty Korean pepper. I had to get up and steal a whole pitcher of water from the wait station. I tell ya — that pepper made me Kim Jong ILL
Then, something embarrasing. The restaurant is attached to a mid-level hotel (the Sanford.) A woman walked in through the side door to see if she could order a bowl of Wonton Soup to go. She was then informed that they didn’t served Wonton Soup. (No Wonton Soup? What kind of a Chinese restaurant is this?) The only soup they had was the delicious oxtail Sul Lung Tang. (This restaurant, thankfully, has a small menu — less to get lost in for us Westerners.) She didn’t want that. She wanted chicken soup. Could they make her chicken soup? No dice. She left in a huff.
Then it was off to Symphony Space for the World Music Institute’s presentation of the Seoul Performing Arts Company. They did a lot of 2000 year old traditional dances in some dazzling costumes. There were ladies with fans and men dressed as white cranes. Some of the music was prerecorded, but an old dude in a crazy hat did come out and jam on a wood flute for a while. There were a lot of really blaring, bleating, dissonant horns and smashing cymbals that I thought was just awesome. So noisy!!
In the second half, things got a little more razzle-dazzle. Everyone was banging drums and two dudes were spinning plates like they were on the Ed Sullivan show. Then these men and women came out with hinges attatched to their heads with giant paper streamers on them. They would rattle their necks around and make designs in the air with their streamers. One guy had the paper attatched to a long cord that was attatched to his hinge, and he could actually jump rope with the tissue paper swinging around from the top of his head! Anyway, they did this, madly swinging their necks around at top speeed, for like twenty minutes!! I tried it for thirty seconds and gave myself a headache. These guys are hardcore!
I bought a CD which is pretty kick ass.
On West 49th St — Huey Lewis. Alas, sans News. The heart of rock and roll, indeed, still beating.
Clockwise: Rozman, Rich, Schmithaus (eye only) and Me at Giants’ Stadium.
Here I am stunned at one of the game’s many dramatic reversals. Schmit, for some reason, looks like he wants to kill someone.
Roz man got us the tix.
This photo doesn’t do justice to how good the seats were. Also: how loud it is when 80,000 inebriated North Jerseyans (or, at least, North Jerseyan for the day) are all shouting at once.
The real excitement — the pregame. Rozger’s friends and friends of friends and friends of friends of friends had a little slice of heaven waiting for us in section 10A.
We visited a Corn Maze in Snow Camp, NC. The Indians would have called it a Maize Maze.
Another night, also in Snow Camp, we went to a haunted mansion type situation designed by the make-up dudes from Deep Space 9. Here I am with one of the monsters from that show.
Welcome to a little shop specializing in the old, weird America.
Joe Paper makes Salmon on the Plank.
Big hunks of fish with dill and other spices.
Lucky the Dog.
The salsa bar at a Mexican restaurant called, like, El Diablo or something. It made me good and sick.
Hursey’s BBQ is voted best in Alamance County.
And here is the wood that makes it taste so good.
You can’t go wrong on the menu.
BBQ is a noun in North Carolina. It means chopped (pulled) pork shoulder in a vinegar marinade. It kinda looks like burnt tuna fish, but it tastes fantastic.
I used to think I didn’t like hush puppies. I’ve changed my tune.
So sick afterwards.
The drive home.
Ann and nephew Christopher on Lamb’s Lake.
Buscuitville is overrated. The buscuits are gross. I prefer the egg sandwiches at any random NYC deli.
The Chick Fil A sandwiches, however, are not overrated.
Chicken on Credit!
James K. Polk, the Napoleon of the Stump, went to UNC. He’s seen here blurry and in bronze.
The UNC-Moorehouse Planetarium is one of the most famous in the US. All astronauts from Mercury to Apollo studies here — viewing stars from this very projector. Far out, man.
Kurt Vonnegut walking a small white dog on East 48th St near the UN. I was on the double decker bus, but had I been on foot he’s the type of celebrity I would approach.
Lamb’s Lake, Burlington NC, Oct ‘05
You look out onto the lake. You see no ducks. Yet you want to feed the ducks. Simply go out on to the deck and say “quack!” You don’t even need to sound like a duck. Just the word “quack!” in regular English suffices.
Usually the white ones come first. The big white ones are all named Fred.
Once the Freds start eating, the others will start showing up.
They eat straight from your hand. Sometimes they’ll step on your feet with their webbed, dinosaur-like orange feet with surprisingly long toenails.
Here comes more!
There are 18 ducks altogether. The white ones are Fred, the mallards are the Mallards, the little guys are the Little Guys (except for the really loud one, who is named Goober) and the brown ones are The Brown Ones (except the one with the white ring around his neck, who is named Tuxedo Duck.)
I can take anything New York wants to give me — hustlers on the subway, maniacs on the street, status-divas with their black sunglasses, tourists looking for The Ground Zero, teenagers with a vocabulary that’d make Bill Cosby blush. But I can’t take seven straight days of rain. So, New York, I am giving you a one-week up yours and leaving for the simple life down south. I’ll be on a lake, feeding ducks, eating chicken & waffles and, perhaps, making small talk with armed neighbors who voted for Jesse Helms. It’s gonna be awesome.
After weeks of anticipation, the rockinest Iron Maiden tribute band Live After Death came to Cassidy’s bar in Astoria! It’s a standard Irish pub on the borderline of being a dump, but the soundsystem is surprisingly good.
The crowd was filled with tattooed men in bandanas and Harley-Davidson T-shirts, the women were stanked up in fishnets, tight black skirts and lots of eyeliner. The bartendress had no qualms about showing cleavage, nor did she dally in refilling our beer glasses or Jagermeister cups.
The band was — awesome. Seriously. I’d've had a good time even if they sucked. But they didn’t suck. Iron Maiden music is really hard to play. If they were, say, an Aerosmith cover band or something, then you’d just expect them to be a bunch of knuckleheads having fun in a bar. But these guys — I mean, shit — they really have to practice! Those harmonies — those scales — the speed. It wasn’t just the booze — it was a fantastic musical performance.
Here I am calling out a request. They played everything I wanted to hear (”Powerslave,” “The Trooper,” “Run For The Hills,” “2 Minutes To Midnite,” “The Number of the Beast,” “Where Eagles Dare,” “Children of the Damned” and many, many more.) I think toward the end of the night I was shouting “Die With Your Boots On!” but that may have even played it earlier.
Not all of these empties are Rozger’s.
And this is on the way home. G-man is stopping at the ATM. He isn’t feeling his freshest. In a few minutes, he will achieve a full reversal at the Boston Pizza on Broadway. God bless rock and roll.
Live After Death will be in Manhattan in a few weeks. I think I’ll be there.
Ann, Rob, Kim & I don’t look our best coming out of the last loop of the Great American Scream Machine.
I chose not to bring my camera into the park. But Kerry did take photos as we rode through the Safari.
Here is Leslie feeding an Alpaca. We think.
Here is Leslie feeding an. . .um. . .we don’t know what this is.
Here is a killer ostrich attacking. He pecked the window.
Coming up on giraffe-land. There were some “zookeepers” shouting to close the windows. But they didn’t say anything about the moon roof.
I want one.
After the inaugural success of Strange Plates at the Hatian restaurant in the Flatbush/Kensington neighborhood of Brooklyn, the fluctuating group of (mostly) tour guides hit Woodside, Queens and the fabled Sripraphai.
It was there where we had yellow squid, sour curry (despite a warning that it was “not for Americans”), frog legs, pickled BBQ boneless pork ribs and a boatload of other just plain awesome food. Mark was quoted as saying, “The mint! The tomatoes! The lime! Everything is so. . .bright!” One or two dishes had some serious chiles and made my head sweat something fierce. (Andy, too, was spotted going making that whoo-whoo-whoo sound toward the end.) What will next month’s strange plate bring? That remains to be seen.
We took a number of photos at the Six Flags Drive-Thru Safari, but I doubt any will be as good as this one of a giraffe visiting us via the moon roof of my father’s car.
I’ll admit — the photos below are pretty crappy. I didn’t even get photos of about one third of the party-goers. That’s because the margaritas were so good!!!
Here’s Kerry the moment we all shouted HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! The photo doesn’t show just how miserable he was.
Eventually — as margarita saturation started reaching its maximum capacity — a giant sombrero appeared on Kerry’s head.
Marcy goes wild with delight at seeing Mr. Dye collapsed on 8th Avenue.
Frankly, who isn’t wild at delight at seeing Mr. Dye collapsed on 8th Avenue?
Why don’t we look at that in close up, eh?
Bill rightly decides it is time to head home.
