Liftoff!

All of Roosevelt Island has this ethereal theme park feel, or gives you the impression you’re in Europe or at a remote resort, or ultimately, some place that isn’t New York. Things are cookie-cuttered. Competition for apartment rentals could be overwhelmingly cutthroat, so the property management is monopolized; all buildings seem to be owned by the same realty groups. There is a single avenue on the two mile by one-block-wide island. Why anyone would have a car here, though, is a mystery to me. I’d assume the exit for Roosevelt Island off the Queensboro bridge is an afterthought for most motorists driving between Manhattan and Queens. Like most of New York City, Roosevelt Island is pedestrian-dominated. Once there, you could get an overpriced drink at the only restaurant on the island, conveniently located right across from the Tram terminal, or you could opt to by a 99-cent AriZona Iced Tea from the Duane Reade.

Of note, there are a few soccer fields here where adult rec. league games are held. The fields are curiously oriented in a lateral fashion. So one team has the high-rises and hospitals of Manhattan as a backdrop, and the other, and industrial Queens backdrop. This leaves not only the possibility, but the likelihood of an errant ball landing in the East River. I’d imagine the joining fees of an adult rec. league whose games are hosted on Roosevelt Island are obscenely high, and that the prospect of losing balls is a consideration. Extra balls, are accordingly included in the budget and brought to the games in a large mesh sack. I’d imagine the members of such leagues are Dartmouth- or Columbia-educated people who joined in the midst of a quarter-life crisis and pride themselves on their late-game goal, impressive throw-ins, or at the very least, sleep easily knowing they got 60 minutes of exercise in over the weekend.

At the Northernmost end of the Island is an elderly residence converted from an old mental hospital. Considering the remoteness and inaccessibility of the island, the concept of such an institution is jarring, and for some reason, eerily redolent of Shutter Island.

Aside from walking around and making observations, there’s not a ton to do on the Island. Great place to respect and spend an afternoon, and for $4.50 round trip, it’s worth it just for the ride alone. Roosevelt is also accessible by the F-Train for the vertically fearsome. But, really, if you don’t get there by Tram, why bother going?

What's Up First?

* The Tram takes off from an elevated platform, one story above 2^nd Avenue. By the time you cross four lanes of traffic, you’ve risen hundreds of feet above the ground. The Tram comes up steadily but not alarmingly and then plateaus for most of the experience, much like a chairlift or an edible, but before you realize you’re descending, you’re already on the ground.

** A mother with small children who didn’t obey her order to stop licking the railing (Nicholas! Stop it! Germs. GERMS!); Groups of teenagers with overstuffed rope-closure backpacks, using digital cameras and iPhones to snap pictures; An old couple carefully pointing and peering at everything throughout the ride.

Location: 60th and 2nd. Might as well stop and get a drink at Blue Room while you’re there, kitty-corner.

O'Neill's; Northern Wall

But no fear – Maspeth has a ton of great food. Fame Diner, Connolly’s Corner, Maspeth Ale House, Hush, and Good Eats, all located on Grand Avenue offer excellent food, and , at the risk of sounding cliché – at great prices. Believe me – I’ve been there.

http://queenscrap.blogspot.com/2011/05/oneills-restaurant-destroyed-by-fire.html

Location: in our hearts, and (not-so-) fond memories.

An important thing to remember about Little Egypt is that, just like in Egypt itself, alcohol is prohibited. From the vantage point of a sidewalk patio, not a single liquor store can be seen. The adherence to culture and tradition combined with the entrepreneurship and coercion of storeowners is impressive and serves as a reminder that while you’re having your leisure time, others are working hard. While they offer sodas, teas, coffee and specialty beverages, plan ahead and make a hookah lounge your last stop of the night. That, or sneak in a fifth of spiced rum.

Arabian Nihiiights

As for the beer gardens, they open while it’s still light out for a reason; day-drinking.

BierGarten

Location: Make your way to 30^th and Steinway and wander from there.

Within walking distance from the ballfields in Central Park. Great Pizza nearby, but that’s entirely not necessary considering the exorbitance of food.

Where: 1840 2nd Avenue, between 95^th and 96^th. Upper East Side

Proud Supporter of Local Brew

http://www.merrionsquarenyc.com

behold! looks familiar...

Tom’s Restaurant is a diner of Greek-descent style. That being said, the menu is a book. Its greasy, laminated pages have food categorized arbitrarily. Words are misspelled throughout the menu as if it were printed hastily. The owners opted to exercise every acceptable spelling of omelet (omelette, omlet). I wonder, why not choose one spelling and stick with it? Menu items are listed multiple times between page one and page eight, and I’d wager my tip that it was never proofread.

Regardless of menu idiosyncrasies, my approach upon getting into Tom’s springy leather booths was to close my eyes and imagine exactly what it was that I wanted in front of me. The kitchen is an arsenal. If I want something, they can make it. Sesame bagel, toasted with cream cheese. A side of bacon. Coffee. Simple yet delicious. Next time I go I hope to order something definitely not on the menu, but feasible considering the variety of foodstuffs in the kitchen. Something along the lines of a breakfast sandwich served on a glazed donut. Imagine it: you’ve seen a breakfast sandwich – eggs, cheese and bacon – served on toast, on a bagel, an English muffin, hell, even a croissant. Why can’t the serve one on a glazed donut. Even if it’s not on the menu, just make it – charge me an extra buck. I’d like to try this creation from Tom’s before Dunkin’ or DQ starts mass-producing it.

From what I recall, Tom’s didn’t have a Big Salad on the menu. The Greek entrepreneurs missed their chance to capitalize on the pop-culture reference, but in sum, they don’t capitalize on their famed location in the first place. If you inquired with any of the waitresses about the show, expect an underwhelmed response. They seem like the type of folk who judge people who just stop in because they recognize the façade from Seinfeld, like they’d instruct the cooks to spit on a sandwich if they caught wind you’re a tourist.

Location: 2880 Broadway at 112^th St.

Perk: Nobody rides the “3” Train after 3:00am. You’ll have free reign of your car.

orangutangin' and documentin'

watching the world

What’s notable about Inwood Park is how the litter reflects the patrons of the area. Juice barrels overflow from green-painted and ruster TRASH receptacles. Small bags of cheap chips stir in the breeze. A log atop a hill overlooking the Harlem River is host to several blunt wrappers and multiple small emptied Ziploc baggies, suggesting what goes on up here, something that can’t go on in public in 99% of the city. Some of the least-urban waterfront area is in and around Inwood Park, and in my personal experience is one of the most peaceful places to walk and humor your thoughts on a free afternoon.

"L" remnants

But we know Seinfeld looks old, what worries me is that Whose Line Is It Anyways is beginning to look old. I remember tuning in to watch new episodes of Whose Line when I was eleven years old. I’d watch it with my parents on Wednesday (?) nights on ABC (coulda been Thursdays). I loved it: improv comedy with music and an arbitrary points system. It’s a win-win-win.

The show started on British radio and eventually took off on British television in 1988. Then, much akin to “The Office,” it was picked up on American Television, and took off. Go America!

Whose Line was a success, among various reasons, because the cast of the Drew Carey Show essentially worked overtime to appear on both shows simultaneously. Thank God Christa Miller didn’t sign that contract. If you’re not familiar with the Christa Miller or even with the Drew Carey Show it’s probably because it aired past your bedtime: Like I said, we’re getting old.

So the pudgy Drew Carey sits behind a desk with thick-rimmed glasses, an annoying – and unnecessary – buzzer and an infinite amount of points, an oh-so original concept where the “winner” of the show gets to (has to) read the closing credits like a drill sergeant, or an auctioneer, or a field reporter. What an honor. Then you have Ryan Stiles, another DCS expat, who, for a lack of an all-star cast, became a leading man and mainstay on the show. But his humor stems from one of two things; (1) his height, or (2) his comically large feet, both of which stem from the fact that he is a large individual. Aesthetically, he’s just a few yellow feather’s short of Big Bird.

You can’t mention Ryan Stiles without also touching on Colin Mochrie. I am unaware of Mochrie’s sexual orientation, but if he were a woman, he would undoubtedly be a lesbian. Loose flowing Hawaiian shirts, leaning his head on others’ shoulders, the flailing limbs and the pallor of his forearms. None of these things ring a heterosexual bell. Brad Sherwood has been making appearances across the U.S. with Mochrie, clenching with white knuckles any shred of comedic skills and stageworthiness they have left. Sherwood, with his pastel oxford shirts and gelled hair (ah, the ’90s) looks like that kid (any kid) you would always ignore at parties. A segment on the show involves a random audience member having a love song sung to them on stage. Sherwood takes it too far, guiltily crossing the line from humor to creepiness, ending said ballads with a soft-spoken “I… Love… Youuuuu…” Funny given the context of the sketch, but disturbing, considering how desperate he looks as the audience member leaves the stool on the stage and returns to their seat. Given the chance, he would sleep with that mother of two human resources worker from Milwaukee.

And the gamut of other characters: Wayne Brady, TBG with a knack for rhyming, and erratic gesticulations. There’s Greg Proops – they guy with goofy hair, whacky glasses and a look that makes you think he does great rodent and varmint impressions. And of course Laura Hall on piano. Was she blind? Or a burn victim? Maybe she just stood out because she was the only female on stage.

or, Saving Big Bird

I just watched Whose Line for the first time in years. Allow me to be critical. i just hope that when I watch The Office in 2018, I won’t look at it so cruelly.

The wind, shadows, and the barrage of snow storms this winter has brought makes me really appreciate the comforting things I encounter, like lunchtime walks with Ivory. The sun shines bright in the Park to melt the snow and wet the ground. Skating at Wolman Rink is way overpriced, but the high rates at the rink must keep the ambulance on hand at all times. Back in the shadows, lines teem outside street vendors. Hallal and Mexican and MeatSticks reign. Nutz4Nutz can suck it. Can’t help but notice the exuberant displays of pompousness and desperate expressions of status: Men with purple-hued collars protruding over fiiine merino sweaters ash cigars in unreasonably large Macanudo trays behind floor-to-ceiling windows. On the healthier – albeit less macho – extreme, I’ve developed a liking for fruit sold all around the City. If the guy selling you fruit doesn’t speak English, don’t purchase it from. I don’t know if this is a good rule of thumb, but Mexican guys know good produce: oranges, pomegranates, (insert other fruit here). That’s all I’ve really had, and I don’t know if my aphorism is a wise one to follow, but the fruit I’ve picked up in the City is damn fine and very juicy.

The train is something else, though. In a world where everyone is plugged in, it’s nice to hear everyone shut up – if only for a few minutes. I’ve heard complaints about a lack of cell-phone service underground, but it really is a godsend. It’s bad enough to see everyone playing Angry Birds or shaking their iPods to scramble their Boggle tiles – imagine if all these people were able to talk on their phones, and in such a cramped place! And to anybody whose iPods are loud enough for me to hear, I wish you’d go to hell. And I’m sure it’s nobody I know whose iPods are that loud. Most people whose decibel levels are cranked up loud enough for me to become irritated all fit the same mold. We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up: Nike Dunks, a few months (maybe years) old. The laces are tied permanently. We know this because there is no chance in hell this girl is bending over every damn time they put on their shoes to double-knot them. Continuing up: tight jeans that balloon up to a muffin top. In warmer weather we look away because we don’t want to see the stretch marks on the lower back, or even worse, a tramp stamp – both of which we know are there. In these more blistery seasons, they often wear a pleather jacket. Many wear that one that have that swervy cat emblazoned on the back with glittery thread. The hair? The hair is a bit greasy (maybe it’s some type of product, I don’t know personally. I use a 2-in-1 shampoo and simply dry it after the shower). It has that tight tight curl. Chubby cheeks, cell phone in one hand, and a look on their face like they don’t know they’re music is polluting the soundwaves throughout the entire train. Maybe in addition to deaf, they’re dumb as rocks, too.

David Sedaris writes at length about changing scenery to change habits. In his case he moved to Japan and quit cigarettes. Less dramatically, I’ve moved to the City and I’ve started many things anew: Pull-ups, every chance I can. The doorway bar is transportable, but it might as well just be screwed in. And vodka – originally I perceived this libation as a tasteless means for Zoddy’s girls to get jah-runk (that is, drunk for anyone who’s not heard me make fun of imbecilic females). But hoo-wee – vodka is tasty: some tonic, some citrus and ice. Go out and get yourself a bottle. It’s somewhere behind the glass in the store around the corner.

Not that I care much about professional bowling (insert the “is bowling a sport?” argument here), but after seeing it, I couldn’t help but think of this gem: