Cosette and I

Went exploring our hood today after work in search of the dog parks in my neighborhood. A neighbor with his own dog directed us down the hill, so we walked past the busy intersection and storefronts of our street, following the quiet tree-lined sidewalk just beyond the hustle and bustle of St Nicholas and 191st.

On our way we passed a group of old men sitting along a cyclone fence, playing dominoes on makeshift chairs. We spotted the jumps that my neighbor described where young boys raced up soft mounds of dirt, trying to get some air on their little bmx's. A minute later we passed the basketball courts and the carefully manicured baseball diamond, both filled with kids. Guys about my age jogged leisurely up and down the court playing a game of pick up, while kids in neon green t-shirts manned the baseball field, taking cues from an umpire posted at home and a coach at the first base line.

We reached the little dog run where we met George Cruz, the co owner of the dog park and chief executive of the Highbridge Canine Club, who went on for some minutes enthusiastically describing events that are held at the dog park. Dog adoption, a Halloween costume contest (first place winner gets dog food free for a year). He's expanding the dog park so that by the third week of August it will be much larger, and it was voted one of the cleanest dog parks in Manhattan. He was so proud of how he maintains it and his general involvement in the Washington Heights community. He told me where meetings are held for residents of the Heights where denizens can voice concerns and stay informed of the goings on of the community. George was very friendly and welcoming, recognizing that I was new to the neighborhood.

Cosette and I decided to walk further along and eventually happened upon more basketball courts and a large playground filled with children. Many were dangling and jumping from monkey bars, enjoying the swings, and playing catch on the clay turf. In the playground next to the water fountains we found more older men playing dominoes and quick, serious games of checkers. We noticed a couple of guys playing a heated game, balancing a large board on their knees. Some of the kids said hi to Cosette and then we headed home, stopping to say hello to people who greeted us on the street.

What I like about Washington Heights is that it is a community in the truest sense: everyone knows each other and spends time in the evening out in the streets, sitting in lawn chairs, sitting on cars, listening to music, grilling chicken on little BBQs, walking their dogs, hanging out on apartment steps, getting icy treats from the vendor sitting outside the subways stop. My neighbors say goodnight on the elevator and hold the door for you when your arms are loaded with groceries.  And they don't care that you don't speak the language, that you don't come from where they're from. Honestly, I don't think they notice. They simply accept that you're part of the neighborhood, like you've been there all along.

A Tasting Affair at Crumbs

Though many New Yorkers salivate at the mention of Magnolia (I have yet to visit and sample) apparently those with a truly discerning palate forgo the overrated cupcake shop and head for Crumbs, strongly recommended to me by a devoted dessert enthusiast. I vowed to go on Tuesday, my next day off, and that's just what I did, taking the 1 train to the 8th Ave NYU stop.

For all its apparent fanfare (Sarah told me Crumbs delivers cupcakes every Wednesday to the Howard Stern show where they all taste and evaluate the treats on the air) the shop was modest and to the point: a couple of stools at the window, cupcakes, cakes, and cookies sitting simply in the glass case, and a few tables and benches in the back.

I zeroed in on the cupcakes (though I couldn't help but study the "candy pizza" sitting on top of the case), trying to decide which I would try first. I had determined before I arrived that I would be trying two since I wanted to begin a formal, in-depth evaluation of NYC's cupcakes and other confections.  There was such a variety: Snickerdoodle cupcakes, cookie dough, keylime, one called the "Artie Lange" (I saw it on the website), but I finally selected a smaller one to start, a strawberry with buttercream frosting. 

In an instant it was gone, but I took enough time to observe how soft the cake was and how the top of the frosting gently crumbled in my mouth, while the rest of the frosting was very creamy. The treat was so sweet it made my molars hurt. A good sign.

I went back up to the counter with my empty plate, requested a cup of water, and asked the two employees which flavors were their favorite.

"I like the cookie dough," the guy behind the counter replied. I'd seen it and knew without a doubt I'd enjoy it, but I craved the velvet.

"I like the velvet," the girl said when I asked her. "It's the most popular."

It was larger than the first, about $.75 more than the strawberry one I inhaled, but even more delicious and satisfying. It was also soft, moist, and sooo sweet, adorned with a chocolaty zig zag pattern on the top and bejeweled with countless red sprinkles along the frosting's edge. It was marvelous.

What I really appreciated about the cupcakes aside from the obvious (the irresistible flavor, texture, and the meticulous craftsmanship) was that the frosting did not slip around on either cake while I was eating them. This is usually my problem when I'm enjoying one: with each bite, my teeth slightly move the frosting closer and closer to one edge of the cake which, by the time I'm nearly done, makes it awkward and top-heavy because there is more frosting than cake. I always have to plop the rest of the cake in my mouth because I can't hold it well anymore; otherwise I have frosting all over my eating hand at the end. 

But I didn't encounter this problem at all at Crumbs. I had a delicious experience that I plan to repeat many times over. Well done guys.

Strawberry with buttercream frosting. 

The red velvet cupcake. 

Going...

Gone. 

I wonder if he showed up. 

Killing time in Washington Square Park before the 2:30 showing of the animated film festival at the IFC Theater in Greenwich. Say that 5 times fast.

He hasn't been hiding out in the Middle East!

MJ's been in the Times Square subway station the whole time.

Ping Pong outside of work on Sunday, right before it started to rain. This is usually where the farmers' market and local artists are located.

Oh my Gosh, this line also features a piece of furniture called "Flexible Love 16," which looks like two halves of one cardboard chair until you pull it apart. It expands, accordian-style, allowing up to 16 people to sit comfortably on a large cardboard loveseat. It's collapsable too, so when you're done entertaining for the evening you simply fold it up and stick it in a closet, I guess.

If only Lucy had thought of it first...

I heard the guy say that they started out only making things for children but have since expanded their line, creating interior decor for the home--made entirely of a very durable and versatile cardboard. See the table on the right? Cardboard. It was funny to hear him explain to a couple of interested people that the table would be best used indoors exclusively. Really? This was ten minutes before it began to rain. www.cardboardesign.com

"Southern California Mexican Cuisine"? I don't know... what do we think guys?

Cute (and I'm sure extremely expensive) apartments in Soho

Went to "Moss," a spot tagged on Rilkean's Google map. It's in Soho and looks a bit like a museum because most of the pieces are under glass with a description of the art and creator. But it's all for sale, and most of it is for the home, like this piece, which is a ceramic wall fixture for holding anything you don't want laying around the house. This store also features a chair made entirely of stuffed pandas.

A corner of the Chelsea Market. A photographer's featured art.

The inside of the Chelsea Market. Well known upscale indoor...market

Words on the Escalator

I was just in time to catch the 3:45 pm showing of Dark Knight in Chelsea today. I scrambled for the escalator to the second floor, hurrying behind a couple that was bickering a bit on their way to the movie. "Why'd you hafta say 'Don't Lisa' like that?" The girl kept asking. "I didn't say it like that," her boyfriend kept insisting as they ascended the stairs. They were slightly older than me, a young black couple in their late twenties. They took the escalator, I followed, and right on my heels was a large white man with a big belly and a long, scraggly, gray ponytail, a relic of what used to be a full head of hair.

"No arguing guys c'mon," the man behind me said, I thought, good-naturedly. "Thank you," the girl said in response, looking at her boyfriend. 

But this guy didn't stop, and the three of us misunderstood him. He wasn't playfully commenting. 

"I'm so sick of people ruining my show, talking nonstop," he continued, his voice rising. "You're not going to do that shit! I'm not puttin' up with it!" He was yelling at this point.

"Sir-"

"No!"

"Sir-" the boyfriend kept trying to interject.

"No! Shut up! You are not getting the last word, asshole! You are not gettin' the last word!!" 

Remember I was one step behind the couple and this maniac was one step behind me. I was literally stuck right in the middle of this. The only thing keeping them apart was the step I was standing on. The young guy kept saying 'sir' simply, rationally, not pleading but asking. But this man wouldn't let him talk. He was going absolutely ape and I'm sure the girlfriend and I, both stunned at what was unfolding, thought it was gonna go to blows on the moving stairs. No one was around to witness this but us.

"You wanna go outside! Let's take this outside!! You're not getting the last word asshole!" he raged as we neared the top.

"Sir-" the boyfriend kept asking.

"No! You're not getting the last word asshole. Let's take this outside! You wanna go! C'mon asshole let's take this outside!!"

That was it. I mean of course it would be, for anyone. The young guy was done taking it and it was clear this middle-aged m f*er wasn't gonna stop harassing him.

At the top of the escalator I hurried off and stood there, not to watch but because there were people up there and I stayed to see if I could help somehow, you know witness for the couple or something. The young guy climbed on the descending escalator.

"Okay. Let's go. Let's go outside right now!" 

The older guy watched him for a minute, deciding what to do now that the other guy was calling his bluff.

"We'll go to the police!" Ponytail called, losing volume and nerve. "We'll go to the police!" But he didn't make a move to descend with his opponent. 

"That's what I thought!" the young guy called back, and so I headed for the theater because I knew, just like the couple knew, that this guy wasn't going to do anything. He was all talk. And he embarrassed himself because he thought the young man would be too shocked and intimidated by the sudden, forceful verbal assault to retaliate. But after trying to handle it as civilly as he could he agreed to work it out on the street, and his antagonizer quickly retreated. 

Inside the theater I took a seat and watched the couple take seats too. The middle-aged man paced a bit at the end of one aisle, on the phone before taking his seat. And I waited to see if maybe he had called security or something because I was ready to intervene and defend the couple to any staff that might come in to handle the problem. But nothing happened. Instead we all watched a movie that deeply explored the idea of right and wrong.  

The first night Monday and I stayed at the Chelsea we did it up right: We ordered a big meal from Rub BBQ right next to the hotel, which included BBQ'd chicken, collard greens, baked beans, and my favorite, co'n bread. A fine suth'n meal.

Look what I stumbled upon today, Monday! I exited the 1 train at 23rd, headed for Chelsea Piers and I ran into the hotel on the way. It made me so happy. I wandered inside and toured the lobby to reminisce. The same artwork adorns the lobby, though they've added a couple more pieces. 

Hot July Nights

I imagine the experience of the subway station in July is similar to how it feels to be trapped inside the trunk of a car. The air is thick, used. Trying to breathe down there is like attempting to breathe through a blanket.

Last night so many of us stood at the platform at 96th st, dying for the 1 train. People were fanning themselves, wiping their foreheads with handkerchiefs. I saw one guy lift his shirt to cool off and beads of sweat covered his lower back. A man standing next to me happened to sigh, and I was relieved by the coolness of his breath on my hand. A few minutes later a family, fed up with the heat, decided to head up to the street and walk home. As they hurried past me I relished in the momentary breeze caused by their haste. I'm not kidding; it felt great.  

The trains run less frequently at night, which is aggravating when you've been standing on your feet all day, but it's murderous when the heat is on. Jenny and I were talking about this last night. "The heat makes people crazy," I told her. Nothing good comes of many people together suffering the same unbearable heat. I vacillated between being pissed off and anxious. I was angry at how stifling it was down there. Why aren't the stations air-conditioned? Why haven't they figured that out yet? The trains are. Sometimes I got scared at how uncomfortable it was trying to breathe. There was no air. Nothing clear and fresh. It felt suffocating down there. 

At work the AC's busted in the back where many tables are located and in the front it isn't much better. I'm sweating like I never have before. We're all suffering, but the cooks must be dying. 

And at night, here at home, I continue to sweat as I had been at work earlier. I take a cold shower and scrub the sweat and dirt and city off, then I go to bed and resume sweating until I fall asleep. We don't have an AC in the apartment. I plan on buying a fan. However, as difficult as it is to sleep at night from constant sweating, as uncomfortable it is trying to type because my arms and fingers are slick from sweat, as irritating as it is trying to apply makeup while beads of sweat gather at my forehead, I already know I'm more grateful for the heat than I will be for the brutality Nature has in store for New York come winter. 

 

This truck was rolling down St Nicholas slowly, blasting a song in Spanish about Miguel Martinez. I recognized the word "hope" in the lyrics. As I steadied the camera to take this picture, a guy about my age walked by. "Don't trust him. He's full of shit," he told me. This truck was moving so slowly that it was aggravating other drivers who were honking incessantly. But in New York people honk constantly anyway.

That Michelob ad

A lot of construction happening around work.

Outside my work I walked past this man as I was navigating my way to the subway to head home.

The view from my bedroom window

Kanye on the NRQW

I'm trying to download a picture (especially for Matt and Sarah) but Blogger doesn't want to do it, so I'll have to paint a picture with words. There are always ads clinging to the walls of the subway trains and I've seen funny or amusing ones, like one for Michelob Ultra. It features a large beer bottle in the middle of the ad and around it (get ready for this) athletes, silhoutted, running or pirouetting towards it. I'm not joking. People aren't morons... sometimes. I guess it's trying to appeal to the thirsty... uh... athlete?? Whose convinced? It's so funny. But this one I saw on the NRQW was so irresistible, I actually moved to situate myself right before it and even asked the guy blocking it if I could get a picture of it.

It's an ad appealing to all of us who want to be Kanye West. Take two fast-acting tablets (one image features two white tablets stamped with a KW fizzing in a glass of water). It even has a before and after picture in the upper left-hand corner of the ad. The first picture is of a profile of a white man in his late thirties, balding, wearing a white collared shirt. The after picture right next to it is a profile of Kanye West. Below this is a big image of Kanye, shades on, smiling. It's great. What I think I admire most about it is that it's not advertising anything. No upcoming album or tour. It's thoroughly clever and funny. 

I was amused all the way to 96th.

Fire station in Tribeca

Watch How I Do

First time with my own tables last night. Watch how I do. Learning the art of balancing a tray on my hand loaded with full glasses. It's a little tricky, but it gets trickier when I have to distribute them at the table. As I remove each glass, I'm constantly rebalancing the tray on my palm. I've learned that if I keep one edge of the tray resting on my wrist, I'm able to steady it better. Learning to balance three plates in two arms. My fingertips are getting used to the hot plates, but we still use napkins if they're just unbearable. I place one plate on the inside of my left forearm, take a plate in that left hand and take another in my right hand.

I carefully take the guests' orders so that I can understand it when I leave the table. What is more important than haste is accuracy. At first I was scribbling an indecipherable shorthand that was impossible to interpret by the time I reached the computer to place the order. In fact it almost got me in big trouble last night. I wanted to seem quick and experienced, but after I had to return to a table once to ask the perturbed patron what he'd ordered, I told myself I'd take my time. 

After that I flip my little black book closed (you know the ones you get your check in at the end of the meal) and head to the computer to punch in the order. Thankfully we're able to check the order entirely before we send it off to the kitchen and bar. But if I have five or six tables going at once like I had last night, I have to go to all the tables one after the other, get the drink order and then put them all in at once. You have to be careful not to get confused.

In the midst of refilling drinks, clearing plates, bagging up leftovers to take home, grabbing small plates for children, printing someone's ticket, running another person's credit card, splitting a check for some patrons, I have to remember that other tables haven't received their food yet and it may be sitting there, waiting for me to pick it up and deliver it to a table. Fortunately, servers often run food for each other. There were times that I totally forgot to grab food for people until I saw them eating it at their table. Someone picked it up for me. We all do this for each other when we are able.

It's exciting because there's always something to do. I hate being bored at a job. I like being a busy bee, buzzing from table to table, hovering over the guests, notebook in hand, smiling and taking their orders, flying around with the two-pocketed black apron tied at my hips, carrying sometimes four of those books at once. However it's also very stressful for me right now.

I tried not to let it get me down last night. I made a couple of mistakes last night but in general it went fairly well. Really. Still, my hands were absolutely trembling at one point and all I could think in those minutes was I can't do this. I can't handle this. I can't can't do this. The night ended without incident; my little crisis had been hours ago. But I was completely wired the whole way home on the subway. I couldn't calm down for a long time. 

But this happens to everyone at some time or other I think. I've never worked in a restaurant before and it surely could've gone so much worse. What if I'd spilled food or drink on someone? Over charged a patron? Placed the wrong order? Nothing catastrophic happened. Just little mishaps enough to send me into brief panic mode. I tell myself This is all part of my New York experience. It's all part of the adventure. And then I feel a little better. I take everything seriously and am very hard on myself. It's important to take work seriously; I made some mistakes, I'll make some more, but I'll get better. I'm determined.

Today I went to my first restaurant to eat since I took this job. 

Yes, I tipped very generously.

The subway stop at Union Square. This is where I work.

A statue of George Washington and his horse's behind in the Union Square park. 

Hug Brigade. I didn't want a hug, I wanted a picture of them. But they were very nice and the one on the right gave a hearty, thoughtful hug. Really. See? I have to wear all black to work. 

Shameless self-portrait. Me yesterday afternoon on the first floor of my apartment before work. See my Jackie O specs? See my roots?

The park at Union Square. It's nice to see people here enjoying it all day, lounging on the grass, reading on benches, eating lunch under trees--ooh-- and people playing chess. I don't know what amuses me more--watching these guys spar on the board or watching the people watch them. Spectators are engrossed in these matches. And they're great for the same reason the subway can be great: they draw people of many races, ethnicities and ages together for moments throughout the day.

A building in Union Square

It was fun. See the disco ball? And that giant stereo? You weren't allowed to take drinks on the floor for obvious reasons, but people still snuck them on. It was funny to see people fall because it's never just one person--they always take someone with them. And I had plenty of close calls. I would hit a little something on the floor with my skate, do that ridiculous flailing of the arms, and then regain my balance just in time. 

Outside of that rollerskating club we went to in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I think these girls were Scandinavian. Many people were wearing hot pants, headbands, tube socks, and we skated to a lot of disco and 70s soul. But then they did a tribute to early 90s R and B: Boyz II Men, Tony, Toni, Tone, Bel Biv Devoe--you would've loved it Sarah.

Benjamin Bratt in Grand  Central Station

Candido and his cousin Patricia at a club Saturday, July 5th.

Like a moth to a flame, so are New Yorkers drawn to the Mister Softee truck, captivated by its promise of flavor and refreshment. They're posted all over the city and are very popular, especially among grown-ups.

Same night as Employees Only-- the fourth of July. I don't even think this picture accurately conveys how extremely extremely crowded the trains were that night. It was scary and took all I could muster to not have some sort of panic attack. Maybe that's why I started telling Candido about that terrible incident in Mexico City recently where people were trampled to death at a concert. Or those times in high school when I'd go to a show and it was so packed that my feet could leave the ground and I wouldn't fall. I think I was trying to distract myself so I wouldn't flip out, but I believe I was also unintentionally making the girl next to me very anxious. I could tell her boyfriend was speaking softly to her, trying to soothe her. Guys, I'm usually not so tactless. I hate hearing people's conversations on the train.

Candido and me at Employees Only, a bar in the West Village. Kind of exclusive: when we first arrived, the bouncer asked us first if we had reservations, then asked us to return in 20 minutes. We got in and there was a woman reading people's fortunes with Tarot Cards. Then we passed through a curtain and fortunately Candido, Patricia and I found a table where we took this picture. Art on the walls and a fabulous ginger cocktail! I'm sure many of their original drinks are just as delicious as that ginger concoction.

Work

Seven little tables sit on the street, hostess out front to meet and greet. Individual letters clothed in Grandma's old cotton house dresses that spell the restaurant's cute lil name hang in the window. Descend about four cement steps into the restaurant. To your immediate right: glass case that wraps around end of bar, displaying assorted pies and tall thick cakes. Cherry pie, apple, rhubarb. Cookies n' Cream cake, velvet, many more. Bartender at the bar just past that. Tables in front and along wall, tables down the hall, more tables in the back, a couple steps down. Variety of formica tables-- large, small, round, square, red, checked, black, white, a couple of wood tables too. 

Vintage type stuff you see in every Niles shop and people's garage sales fill the walls and sit on the shelf that runs the length of the wall on the left. Large old coffee cans, food pyramid and various ad's from the 50s, license plates, string of large-bulbed Christmas lights--you get the idea. Old tinsel and paper valentine hearts are draped or hang from lamps. Kitchen past the bar and on the right. Counter where we grab the food and tickets.  Angel's in charge. 

Flight of stairs in the kitchen takes you down to the "dry storage" room. Watch the low ceiling--I hit my head on the pipe running along the top. Think Being John Malkovich- you have to duck the entire time. Beans, ketchup, Tobasco Sauce, crackers, etc. 

Menu: Comfort food-- mac and cheese (we're known for it), Holy Cow hamburger, cole slaw, fries, Sammy sandwich, tomato and basil soup, quesadillas, chicken fingers, "Kitchen Sink" salad, etc. etc.

And me: All black-- black shirt, black pants, black Chuck Taylor's (pants and shirt reminds me of how I used to dress in Rasputin Music era). Shadowing a fellow Californian for the whole shift. She's from Santa Cruz. the hostess is from Jersey, the server's from Boston, another server's from Georgia--none of us are from here. I'm checking on tables, taking orders (don't be cocky--write down the drink order too), cashing people out, carrying drinks on trays, spilling just a little on the table, forgetting how to find all the crazy buttons on the touch screen. STARVING. No break, hands are sticky, feet HURT.

Dead at 3:30, and the head cook and the guys in the kitchen make what they call "family meal" for all of us (free), and I wolf down a sandwich and french fries. If you want something different, order it ahead of time and it's 50% off.

Fun and fast, but I'm really tired, so instead of walking around town like I planned before work, I hop on the train and head straight home.

Jenny (enthused, smiling): "How was it?"

Me: "Fun. I'm gonna take a nap."   

Three hours and a nap later and my feet are still tingling. 

Go back in tomorrow to train in the evening, Saturday night too, and Sunday for brunch. We're known for our brunch.

My first day at work.

Just an Update

I know it was Benjamin B. guys. I saw that ad again today for his new show, The Cleaner, and his hair isn't short at all like I thought. Still the same thick, wavy hair and signature goatee. You're right, Wynene, he does have a distinctive look.

My First Celebrity Sighting and an Aspiring Chanteuse on the Subway

I'm not entirely sure it was him, especially because I saw a photo of him recently for a new show that he's going to star in, and in the picture his hair was much shorter. But when I saw him, I didn't wonder, Woa, wait-- is that...??

Instead what instantly flashed through my head was Woa--that's Benjamin Bratt. I mean my brain immediately registered this man as him, just as we automatically do when we spot someone whom we knew from high school, standing in line with her grocery basket two rows away. An instant recognition of someone. 

I was sitting in a restaurant in Union Square, waiting for an "open interview" with the manager. I had started my search today with resumes between 2:30 and 4 pm (thanks for the tip, Monday), and it turns out that many restaurants will do immediate interviews at that time. I had filled out the application and was now sitting in a small chair facing the bar, when he walked by. Tall, with black, flowing hair, goatee, and long, slender legs, like a cowboy. I watched him walk out the door, then observed the hostess and another employee to see if they would quietly titter to each other after he'd gone. They did share some quiet exchange and smiled to one another... I think it was him guys, honestly.

About three hours later on my way home, this girl and I got off at the same stop-- 191st, and she struck up a conversation with me. She asked if I was from New York and I told her no, explaining that I had moved here nearly two weeks ago from California. 

"Oh, you didn't like Cali?" she asked me, her large, diamond-studded hoop earrings catching the dull subway lights.

"Oh no, I love California," I assured her, and went through the little spiel about why I came out here.

I asked if she was from New York and she isn't: she's from Boston but comes out here to receive vocal lessons from a coach.

"Yeah, he's worked with Patti LaBelle, ..." I don't remember the other names she mentioned. And she wasn't bragging or trying to name drop. She was very sweet and just seemed to want to carry on a conversation for our short walk up to St. Nicholas.

We took the elevator up to street level, and she commented on the operator who was sitting behind her make-shift booth, fan trained on her, snacking on pork rinds.

"I couldn't do that job," she commented. " The motion all day would make me sick."

I see this woman daily, just pushing the up and down buttons for us. The other lifts at this very same stop aren't operated by someone. We commuters/travelers are left with the grave responsibility of pushing one of two buttons that will either take us to the lower mezzanine (subway station) or to street access. In any case, I can appreciate that her job must be hot and boring, and I always thank her for delivering us either to the street or to the underground. 

Once on the street, this girl and I parted ways; she told me to have fun, and I wished her luck. She's supposed to be singing in a couple of months, I think here in New York and she said something briefly about meeting with a producer. I wish her great success.

And I hope the vacation that the elevator operator was describing to someone on the lift last week is fast approaching.

Maybe You Weren't Even Looking for It

But I found it. I encountered it in my search for the Strand, a holy site where all New Yorkers go to pay homage to the written word. But I'll get back to that later. 

It's called Forbidden Planet. It's about a  block away from Union Square. I found it just as dark, heavy rain clouds began to roll in and settle on the tops of those immense skyscrapers. 

They sell comic books and graphic novels almost exclusively (they also had a section about role-playing, but I didn't investigate) along with corresponding action figures from many famous comics. I was really impressed. The walls on three sides were lined with comics and there were shelves sitting in the middle of the store filled with even more. 

For the past three years now I have been searching in vain for a particular anthology of graphic novels by this one author. Since I'd never been able to recall the name of the author or the name of the book, I had reluctantly resigned to the fact that I would never find it again, or more work by this person. However I began to search the shelves anyway, already knowing that I wouldn't find what I've been looking for. I always check Daniel Clowes' work because the illustrations I remember were similar to his, and for all I knew, he was the author. But I didn't find it. An employee asked if I needed help. "No, thank you," I responded. I didn't dare try to vaguely describe what little I knew about what I was looking for. I would end up sounding like some of those customers who would come into Rasputin's sometimes, asking me things like, "I'm looking for a song that sounds like this..." And I thought those were annoying questions. Just because I work at a record store doesn't mean I'm going to know every verse from every song sung to me by a customer. (And on that tip, I have to thank Yen for always searching for that song for me that has to do with horses and clouds! We'll find it someday...)

But she stood standing there, patiently watching all of us look around, and I thought she was pleasant, so after a couple minutes' deliberation I gave it a shot.

"Okay. I can't remember who the author is or the name of his book, but I'm looking for an anthology, it's a graphic novel, and the illustrations are like those of the creator of Ghost World."

She was eager to help and directed me to Ghost World and his other works, but I told her I'd already looked through those. So she went to the counter to ask a cashier, and I was sure I was going to get an annoyed reaction from him because after all, it could be any author at this point. But he wasn't irritated; he suggested an author for us, and the girl with the purple hair and I searched through his stuff. "No... none of this looks familiar...Umm I remember a couple details of a couple of the stories, but that probably won't help at all." She urged me to share, so I told her: "I remember one was based in San Francisco, and another story was about a girl who calls the pay phone outside of her apartment, and when people pick up she says terrible things to them." I felt so dumb because I wasn't any help at all. But she walked up to the counter again. "These guys read all this stuff," she told me, and recited to the cashier again my vague description. 

"That's Summer Blonde by Adrian Tomine," he called to me. And just like that, we'd found it. I couldn't believe it. I was also surprised that they didn't think my questions were dumb at all. They had a copy of Summer Blonde, but it was a little frayed at the corner, so I opted to purchase another of his I've never read called Scrapbook, though I will return for S.B.

Thank God for all those comic book junkies out there who pore through these books. Thanks to the helpful and very cool staff at Forbidden Planet too. It's a great store.

Discoveries Yesterday, July 2nd

Yesterday... After traversing Central Park (my back all sweaty by this point) it deposited me on some opposite street from where I started, so I began walking the length of it, not even realizing how long this strip of concrete was. With the wall of the park on my right and a posh-looking neighborhood on my left, I began reading the street signs, discovering that I must have been on the upper East-side at this point. 

I soon began seeing signs on posts along this street that read Museum Mile. It takes a long time to walk Museum Mile. Vendors were posted every few yards, inundated with parched tourists who were mostly buying fruit smoothies and various ice cream treats. Meanwhile, I was constantly on the lookout either for the nearest subway station or a bustling cross street that would indicate that I had completed the length of this side of Central Park. 

Near the end of my walk, I discovered booksellers on the sidewalk from The Strand. They had a variety of quality books and of course I perused, tempted, but since I had bought Brideshead Revisited (soon to be released motion picture starring Emma Thompson based on the novel by Evelyn Waugh) earlier that afternoon, I decided against buying another, especially since I'm already working on two at home. 

Finally finally I reached the end of the street to see before me a very large Bergdorff (??) Goodman, to the right of that Paris, a movie theater, and to the left of me, FAO Schwartz. I knew that I had arrived: 5th Ave, Madison Ave, Park Ave--this is where NY had been hiding all of its high high end.

After taking a stroll through FAO (I couldn't help but think of Tom Hanks playing chopsticks on that giant keyboard), admiring (and they really are the most impressive gifts of the toy store) the huge stuffed animals, I stepped outside again, rejuvenated by all the new sights, and continued walking, though my feet were so sore.

That's when I discovered Louis Vuitton. What a great window display: a fluorescent-tube lighting installation. These tubes hung vertically in a variety of bright, electric colors with a couple of manaquins poised among them. I hesitated for a moment, standing outside in my very modest duds before venturing inside. I looked around a bit, studying the baubles in glass cases before ascending to the third floor--women's department. 

Woa. So many beautiful pieces of clothing I ever saw in real life. The employees were sharply dressed, quiet, posted throughout the store. I stopped at one rack, looking but not touching the fine pieces, when I spotted a most delicious skirt. I don't do it justice trying to describe it, but it was a gauzy piece, white, with sequins and other precious beads and such. Very ethereal. After a moment I thought, What the hell, wiped the condensation that was on my hand from my drink onto my pant leg (nice) and carefully reached into the skirt to read the price tag. $8,800. For a skirt. I tried to stay composed, took a quick tour through the rest of the floor (a plum-colored, many tulle-layered dress with what was supposed to look like faint paint splatters of purple on the fabric--so so pretty) and hastily navigated my way back onto the street. By this time it was 7:00pm and all the shops were now closed. Don't worry Christian LaCroix--I know where you are and I'm coming back.