Best Vendor Christmas Gift -- EVER!

I almost forgot to post about this.

You have to imagine me opening the box from our Italian vendor, and being assaulted by the smell of dirty feet and thinking, "What. The. Fuck?" Then gingerly peeling back the paper to find this:



The Coke can is there for scale.

Yes.

That's a giant block of Parmesan cheese, which was cut that morning and delivered to my office in all of its stinky glory. It weighed about 10 pounds, no lie.

How do you like them apples?

Breadcrumbs

In New York, there are some annual events around which we build our schedules, which give our lives structure and send us the necessary signals on how to live at that moment. A few are...

The Christmas Tree lighting in the first week of December tells us to stay away from the Rockefeller Center area lest we get caught in a herd of tourists lowing and shouldering each other aside to take a picture of a giant murdered evergreen.

The sound of bagpipes on 5th Avenue on St. Patrick's Day tells us we should stay away from 2nd Avenue from 11 am onward or risk slipping and falling in vomit. At the very least, someone will take a swing at you for no good reason other than you are not Irish enough or don't know the words to "The Wild Rover."

Ashy smudges on male foreheads in the spring told me, the (former) Catholic girl, whom to avoid at the bars that night, as they are the ones with mommy issues and though they enjoy all the filthy sex, they always felt guilty about it afterward. (Though I must admit, it's the Catholic guys who are the most pathetically grateful when they get head.)

The approach of Memorial Day is our signal that reservations are not really necessary at all the fantastic restaurants in the city from Thursdays through Sundays, because the douchebag population of New York City will be reduced by approximately 100% as they flee to A) the Hamptons, B) the Jersey Shore, or C) their oh-so-twee perfectly renovated Victorians in the Catskills.

The end of June hails, and that tells me one thing, and one thing only: It's time to get out the glitter makeup, sparkly clothes, and my blue wig. No, I'm not dressing in drag for the Gay Pride Parade, I'm gettin' myself up in MERMAID drag for the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island!

Each September 10th, beginning at dusk, everyone in a 60-mile radius of New York has to be reminded to feel very sad for the next 24 hours and no one is allowed to make a joke about anything at all, because as we all know, irony was murdered on September 11th.

For the last decade, our signal that we're halfway through winter isn't the appearance of Punxsatawney Phil dragged by the scruff from his hole by a man in a Pilgrim suit, but instead, it's the Allman Brothers Band propping Gregg next to his keyboard and taking up a weeks-long residency at the Beacon Theater. It wasn't midwinter until you'd paid your money to air-jam to "One Way Out."

Alas, it appears that tradition has been cut off in one swoop -- according to Gregg Allman, Cirque du Soleil has bought up the Beacon for the next six months, and the ABB has been kicked uptown to Washington Heights. I'm kinda looking forward to seeing the ABB fanbase "in the Heights" -- and I guess the ABB has had the same thoughts, as they're thinking about renting a bar out for the full run of their shows so they have a "safe" space to "get loaded and talk to the pretty women." I think there may be some coded racism in that statement, ya think?

Though to be honest, you're average ABB fan is far less racist than, say, someone at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. Those shows are practically Klan rallies.

BOOOOOOOO, Cirque du Soleil!

Whatever Happened to Scott Bryan?

On Wednesday night I had dinner at Apiary with my friend Judy.

In case you were wondering, Apiary is where the culinary wunderkind of the '90's, Scott Bryan, ended up. You may remember him from the luminous Luma, the shimmering jewel of the West Village, Indigo, or more recently, the renowned Veritas.

Picking up where he left off, Chef Bryan is still doing what he does best, great food, well-prepared, in a really sweet room in a surprising neighborhood. Surrounded by NYU dorms, I wonder if the come-lately grownups of the Village are aware that they have a genuine culinary star in their midst. Guy rated a whole chapter to himself in Anthony Bourdain's first book, fer chrissakes. Look it up. Chapter was called "Life of Bryan."

I always wondered why he didn't sell out and become one of those Food Network hoors like Molto Mario or Emeril Lagasse. On the one hand, I think he totally missed out on making some serious-ass money. On the other hand, I respect him more for not selling out. From a purely selfish standpoint, if he had sold out, he'd probably have some bland eponymous restaurant, serving bland food, filled with tourists and we regular folk wouldn't be able to walk in and ask, "is Chef Bryan in the kitchen tonight?" and get an affirmative answer because he isn't off shooting Iron Chef or something, and thus are able to enjoy his food and (frankly) fantastic wine list whenever we want to.

So, to Chef Scott Bryan, this New Yorker thanks you for not selling out!

I Found it Online

The copyright police will probably make me take this down, but I did find the comeek online, posted herewith:



My copy is yellow-brown and obviously spent a lot of time folded in quarters as it was transferred from wallet to wallet.

Now, interestingly enough, in 1990, I was dating this guy and that guy (aka, sleeping around, remember when you could do that and no one thought badly of you?), but somehow I must have known that the big lifetime thingamajig that other people seem to do so easily was going to elude me, probably forever. Otherwise, what would have prompted me to hold onto this tattered cartoon for TWENTY YEARS? Holy shit, I just realized I've been holding onto it for TWENTY YEARS!

Christ, that's scary.

Happy Holidays Shot

Not a creature was stirring, not even Miss Kitty.

I don't know how an old crank like me ended up with the cutest, sweetest widdle kitty.