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4/12/2010
Brooklyn, NY

Photo Credit - Ben Zucker

Walking into the Pratt Student Art Gallery, I notice a large framed print of a homeless man whose face is obscured by the metallic structure of New York City. “This is one of those pieces where you can clearly identify New York as the geography.” The picture centers the man on a signature example of objective street life.

Perpendicular to this opening piece, an incredibly close profile of a woman’s hands are captured in vivid detail. Their self-embrace is intimate. Every piece in the show has this sort of candid, subjective quality, rich with personal urban narratives. Some are warm despite the cold, and some leave us wondering what, why, and how.

Photo Credit - Ben Zucker

Some of these pictures offer an odd distance between the subject and the viewer. There is no need to identify the subject. An old, feeble hand, decorated with golden rings and a manicure, holds an expensive bottle of prescription heart medicine.

One photo shows a woman emptying her purse on the street among pedestrians and shadowy strangers. That is not what draws my eye. The contents of her purse sprawled on the dirty sidewalk offer a glimpse into her life and culture. Chase Manhattan bank card, iTunes gift card, stamp-set “Get Healthy America” food and fitness cards, business cards and post-its, half-regurgitated out of the mouth of a knock-off Louis Vuitton bag. Perhaps she’s waiting for the bus.

Photo Credit - Ben Zucker

A retail space under construction was once an ATM kiosk, and the last remaining proof of it remains in a window’s wax labeling, almost scraped away, much like the retail space inside. Desolation, destruction, a passive interpretation of future creations that will one day cover up the past.

“I’m only giving you views I want you to see.”

Roughly one foot from the ground, the photographer’s camera captures a letter of emotion and sincerity. The keywords “My dearest… jail… streets… dead or in jail…” stick out. This letter had so much brevity, and yet it’s cast aside, littered and left to no voice, a watery pickup of sewer streets, a dirty home for a dirty life.

Photo Credit - Ben Zucker

A Styrofoam food container hangs motionlessly between the belly of a city trash can and the unidentified hand that releases it. More human interaction exists around it, but only to further illustrate the scene aptly captured in visual clarity. What will happen when time catches up with it, transforming the passive to active?

For more pieces from Ben Zucker’s exhibit “In Between Before and After,” visit his Flikr Page Here.

Today, SPIN Magazine opened the floodgates for avid fans of Hooray For Earth (HFE) by streaming their entire upcoming album “True Loves” online. I wasted no time in listening to it here. I urge to do the same, before this offer disappears. The album goes public on June 7th.

For everyone who got here late, HFE is a guitar band originally from Boston. They now operate in New York, and have since then exploded. Their heavy-hitting presence from years ago (i.e their EP “Momo”) has not changed. If anything, they have complimented that energy with music that makes people feel alive. The vocals resonate on almost every track, as if welcoming listeners to sing along. Check out songs like “Last Minute” and “True Loves” to get a feel for what I mean.

There are layers to their music that simply never existed before. They’ve been exploring the boundaries of guitar rock with electronic enthusiasm, and their hard work has paid off. I sense a very strong and positive reaction to their new release from Dovecote Records. Check out their music video for “True Loves” below. It aptly demonstrates the caliber of their work.

Finally the first warm Saturday of the year! Time to get up out of my small hard empty bed, throw on some gym clothes and hit the jogging path. Before I left I choked down a cold pork and leek dumpling with some orange juice and grabbed my iPod and keys. I hit play. Com Truise, the band Zucker and I saw last week in Greenwich Village, made for some great running music. I took off down 18^th Avenue towards Gravesend Bay and lost my self in the pure electronic soundscape. Fifteen minutes into the run I was at the water. Thirsty, I longed for a Red Fish Ale, water from the bubbler I spied at the park across the street would suffice though. I paused the music to listen to the waves hit the barrier rocks below me. I saw seagulls pick at the garbage floating amid the otherwise clear water. There were huge ships further out into the bay. I couldn’t let the moment linger much longer though, I had to keep going. Running faster and faster on the asphalt, passing families of Hassidic Jews pushing strollers, dressed head to toe in black traditional wear and Chinese families with their packs of rambunctious little kids running circles around them made for some difficult maneuvering and interesting company.

The jogging path goes for miles, I ran two of them at the most. Along it are rather unremarkable sights; running west I had the bay to my left and the Shore Parkway to my right. The occasional grassy hill gave way to unobstructed views of the highway and the surrounding neighborhood of Bay Ridge. Along the wall separating the path from the water are numerous highly detailed signs explaining how, during a severe storm, the massive pipes below said signs connect the New York City sewer system to the bay where it can dump any overflow from the system in to the water. Lovely. Just think, Coney Island beaches are all but a few miles down stream from the drains. Looks like I won’t be swimming in those I thought.

At a corner of the path there were a few benches where people were sitting. One notable character was sitting directly in the sun, wearing a black suit, reading and sweating profusely. I took a seat not too from him and looked out onto the bay. The view was calming. I could see New Jersey in the distance and the Verrazzano bridge towering above me. Taking a moment to reflect, thoughts of spending summer afternoons on the Newport cliffs gazing out onto the Atlantic filled my mind. I wished I could relive those moments now.

It was getting late and I was hungry. I jogged my way back to the foot bridge that went over the highway and made my way back up 18^th Avenue. People were getting out of church, there were cars everywhere, even parked fully on the sidewalks. Further up the avenue the crowds of people got more dense. I saw an ambulance up ahead one block from me. There was a group of people standing around an old lady who had apparently fallen. I felt bad for her and wondered what happened. Closer to my apartment I saw the police pull a lady over for no apparent reason. There was no way she could have been speeding as I was easily keeping up with the traffic on foot. I figured he was probably just trying to get his quota for the day.

Back at the apartment I had some lunch and thought about going to Central Park the next day. This is a good way to start my summer in New York.

Abraço

86 E 7th St
(between 1st Ave & 2nd Ave)
New York, NY 10003

Review originally published on Yelp

One of best coffee shops in the lower east side. Hands down, this place is a gem, a diamond in the rough. Anyone looking for unique espresso and coffee offerings would do well to visit this place.

Their drips are quality. They take the time to make it good. Their edibles are rich with flavor. The olive oil cake is awesome! Try the lemon rose cake as well.

The experience is unique because its literally as big as a closet, just enough room to order and warm up before enjoying yourself outside. They have a spot outside to hang out during warmer weather, but the honest situation is a brief, in-and-out, no frills and no bull coffee stop. The best places are hard to find.

This one is worth searching out.

Brooklyn, NY
2/7/2011

Photo credit: Elizabeth Latten

On Super Bowl Sunday, my brother, his girlfriend, PK and those two girlfriends from my last visit took me out bowling. Melody Lanes. You couldn’t ask for a more convincing epitome of dive-y bowling alleys. It was fitting; there was only one other group playing on the ten-odd lanes, and we chose to hug their company by using the two lanes beside them. Two portly women and a convincingly gay man had been playing long before we got there. They were the regulars, and they welcomed us. U2 was on the jukebox, signing “where the streets have no name,” and the woman in red sang, “Where the balls have no game.” Whether or not that was a taunt for the men to man up, or a simple play on bowling lingo, I’ll never know.

Photo credit: Elizabeth Latten

Hey everyone, this is Zucker. In February 2011, I rode a train around the country. I did it for a month, stopping about a dozen times across the nation. I didn’t see every state, every city, apart from the ones I visited and passed on the train. There was no rhyme or reason to my trip, other than the act of getting out and traveling through a personally-unexplored frontier. I had never seen the country like this. I usually see it from 30,000 feet in the sky, or perhaps on the mindless roads and highways.

This was better; more intimate, and more involved with the country’s side. Taking the train has shown me so much, and it’s allowed me to broaden my mind a bit. I wrote about it, took pictures, experienced new cultures and listened to people. It was a month I will never forget, and I’ll share it with you here, one bit at a time.

Boston to New York – “Northeast Regional Blur”
2/5/2011

You know what Brooklyn is like?

You know what Brooklyn is like sometimes? It’s like a sunny, satisfying day, and you’re walking down the street, saying hello to all the friendly shop-keepers who give you deals on deals when business is good, and somewhere in a window, music from the 1940’s is playing.  Brooklyn is also like a leaky underpass ahead with drops of water falling through the cracks. As hard as you try, perhaps you’re sure of passing through it without getting wet, a single, cold, dirty drop happens to find its way onto the back of your neck, and trickles down your spine, giving you that odd, awkward shudder you tried to avoid.

BROOKLYN SOUND

22^nd Street, between 4^th and 5^th
Brooklyn, NY
10/23/2010
Anchor Steam

The last time I visited Brooklyn was in April, my brother lived on Classon Avenue, and we got together with the folks for a nice weekend, but that’s a different story. A shady trend was growing in his area (sky-boxes and stained brownstone buildings), and he took the move as a blessing.

Now, on the corner of 22^nd street, between 4^th and 5^th, my brother adjusts to a life with his girlfriend. She’s a great girl, and they go well together. They love all the same things, and they even apply to the same jobs. There was nothing out-of-place in this scene, nothing except for maybe the scene itself.

“The house used to be all red, like these stairs,” my brother pointed out as we walked towards it. I was surprised not to walk up the stairs, but instead beside them to the garden-level entrance left of the house. A cozy barbecue patio looked at us as we stepped down into the apartment. It was a unique world underneath a gay couple’s paradise. The bathroom looked to be carved out of a cave, and the radiator (after an interesting story of breaking down and leaking) had a burly towel covering it.

There should be no expectations of greatness, I thought, other than the greatness you make for yourself.

My bed was the floor where the coffee table rests. There was no rug, but they prepared for me a sleeping bag and several warm blankets. I slept like a baby that first night, but not before checking out an art gallery (Under Minerva) we passed by earlier on a walk around the block. There was a painting in the front of a DJ in layers of orange and blue, playing records and mixing it up at a club of diverse colors in the background. The basic colors of the DJ washed over the pretty lights, and it truly stood out from afar.

Over ATM slips and Grizzly Bear, I was enjoying the taste of sugar on my tongue, making a list of songs I had recommended to my brother. It was appreciated over drinks and jazz in south Brooklyn on Saturday, with him and his girlfriend and two of her friends from Pratt. For moments during the show, I saw a notebook passed between the two of them, collaborating in silence while the rest of us watched and listened.

I sat behind the piano player, and on occasion he would look back at me with an odd smile. I didn’t know what to think, and continued drinking my double of Scotch, next to the Cosmopolitan and Brooklyn Lager, Mai Tai and Gin & Tonic.

The show was good. The quartet of drums, piano, bass and trumpet were like four young wolves on the street. For an amateur show, the buzz of the evening revolved around the trumpet player, an awkward sixteen year old with short black curls and bifocals.

There was a saxophonist; his instrument rested casually to my right for a long time. His wine glass was on the table we took when we first arrived, before he came over and took it away himself. He did not play with the group until much later in the set, and his cameo appearance upped the quality dramatically. The trumpet and saxophone ran together, picking up on each other’s vibe as if they knew what the score was.

And then there was that pianist. I don’t know what I did to provoke him, but he was enthusiastic, keeping the melody and giving it his all. There were times when he stood up to bang down on the piano, as if he really needed to let it out that way. Perhaps he just didn’t give a damn.

When the show was over we walked up 5th Avenue and landed at a bar called Commonwealth. It had a nice outdoor patio, with bench-tables and umbrellas. I remember red tables; a tall boy of Anchor Steam beer; the bottle so cold it had icy condensation on it. We were talking about the music and the people at the show. Art-speak and journeys and briefs on photography and music and television were shared over nightcaps, and quip upon quip upon quip… I told them about Boston, and they told me about New York.

My brother mentioned taking shots in the subway tunnels. The empty tunnels of Brooklyn are vast and incredibly dangerous to explore on your own. There is something alluring about the darkness within, and it has my brother’s lens fixed. He tried to explain it to me, but I was too concerned about his safety to go on with it.

It’s just like a butterfly and its fleeting moment in the sky.

We walked up 5th Avenue, passing the famous pizza shop Adam Sandler ate at in “Big Daddy”. I stopped at the all-night bakery ran by some lovely Hispanic ladies who enjoyed my company at 3am, in such a state, ordering cannolis and donuts and cookies and such. We laughed and smiled together for those five minutes before taking it all back home.

I slept on the floor that night, on top of a sleeping bag underneath four warm blankets.

Sunday felt like waking up without a care in the world. In a good way, I felt free to do anything. I had but the clothes on my back. One of them was my Plaid Weekender jacket, and it kept me warm during the walk down to Bagel World, a bagel shop my brother swears by. I went by myself this time to enjoy south Brooklyn’s sights and smells. I bought one of my all-famous egg and pastrami bagel sandwiches in addition to garlic bagels and cream cheese. There was a produce stand across the street, so I waited in line to buy two Macoun apples and a pint of fresh apple cider.

We spoke about music when I got back. The third roommate, PK, was making egg-shaped plaster molds on the kitchen table that looked surprisingly like mini-cities. “Don’t burn me out of your picture,” he said as I got ready for my train home. I think he made his point.

I had the day to my self. Finally some time alone to do what I wanted after weeks and weeks of catering to others. It is mid Autumn in Manhattan. Back in Boston it had been unusually warm, not so down here. I had most of the afternoon ahead of me after a quick coffee with a few colleagues in the city, the friend I was going to meet for dinner had to work late, so there I was with a good eight hours to kill. I went to Bryant park; the last time I was in the city with time to spare that is where I went, I ended up meeting with a dead end recruiter in the Chrysler building shortly after that, so who knows where this moment of pause in the park would bring me. I wanted Indian food, and of course, being only a few blocks from the tourist traps of the city, every place I looked at was either packed or over priced. I looked online to see where the closest subway was and then saw where that subway would take me; I could go uptown towards Central Park, have some food and then have a cigar (I brought one because I knew I would have time to enjoy it), or I could go downtown to SoHo and Greenwich Village. I opted for the later. I got off at Washington Square and started walking towards the Indian restaurant I picked out in the West Village. I really didn’t want to go into Greenwich Village because of the bad memories of my last time there over the summer, so that guided me towards the Hudson. While I walked I happened to come across this little Mexican restaurant that looked perfect to relax for a few hours and have some tasty food. Just as I hoped the place was empty and it was warm, those were the two requirements I had.

Like I mentioned earlier, the weather in Manhattan was pretty different than Boston’s the day before, it was actually seasonal so I can’t complain, all I can say is that I was sorely mistaken for not wearing a jacket. I had a pretty good burrito at the Mexican place; the ground beef was just spicy enough to warm me up and the guacamole, lettuce, tomatoes cooled my tongue when things got too hot. I wanted a beer, but they wanted too much for one, so I got coffee. The coffee was fantastic; almost like Turkish coffee there was a pleasant sweet aroma and a hint of cane sugar and caramel that worked my palate

like a crisp sauvingon blanc would after having brie and apple in a puff pastry – if that means nothing to you then I highly suggest you try it right now! Anyway, this is not a restaurant review, but this would be an otherwise unsavory account of an ordinary afternoon if I didn’t include the above. After gorging on Mexican goodness I needed that cigar and a good walk. I really had only one objective and that was to find a park were I could enjoy that cigar, as luck would have it, Washington Park was only a few blocks away.

It had gotten dark and I saw that the bums had set up camp in on the benches by the entrance I was approaching. I decided to be bold and invade their territory with hopes of not angering the urban homesteaders with my cigar smoke. It was here where I met Alex. About sixty years old, Alex was dressed like your typical hobo; he had the baseball cap, at least one big puffy winter jacket and probably a few layers of pants on. I actually felt envious for once – I was clearly out of my element in my jeans, cotton button down dress shirt with only a thin cotton v-neck sweater, hardly protecting me from the penetrating cold wind that pushed its way through the trees of the park. Alex was sitting in front of a chess board. I loved chess and I had nothing to do for several hours, I asked him if he charged to play. I knew his time had to be worth something. It only cost me a coffee and donut from the Starbucks up the street.

Alex didn’t say much, but he played chess pretty well. I figured he would be about as good at chess as I would be at making macros given that this must have been somewhat of an occupation outside of his cigarette business. He sold a pack for nine bucks, making a small profit margin, especially in New York, but he still undersold the corner stores by a few bucks. His clients tended to be exclusive though, he knew them on a first name basis like any good proprietor and was flexible with the quantity he sold. I liked this guy, he was smart. I guess even the bums in New York have that drive to achieve that I really haven’t seen in other cities. Alex and I played three games. I lost all three. What I learned though was not just a better way to play chess, but I learned something about my self. In chess, just like in life, I like to make the first move. I guess that is the control freak in me, but what it does is open me up to a vulnerability of being taken by someone who waits for me to make the bad move that inevitably comes. This guy exploited that bad move every time just like a sharp trader on Wall Street would make a quick in and out move on an undervalued stock and get out just before the price hits equilibrium and the gains flatten. So Alex just waited. Even when I tried to change up my playing style in the second game he still got me after about twenty moves. He took me after I had every major piece except a rook and a queen and he took me after I totally shifted from a heavy offense to an almost neutral playing style. The key he told me was not strategy, but tactics, and then it made sense; I had a strategy, but he really didn’t play with a strategy, he would not hold himself to a predictable pattern, but he would use a few clever tactics to put me into a position where I was trapped – trapped by my own strategy as it were since that is what he exploited. It would not have mattered if I played defense or offense I think since he was always just a few moves ahead of me. Alex’s favorite piece was the knight, I hate the knight, but I have now come to respect it just like I respect Alex and will be thankful for the lesson he taught me.

Riding the rails from Boston to New York I occasionally take a break from my laptop to gaze out the window. Maybe it is because I am looking for it now, but it seems that there is a lot going on in a country, or at least a region, who is supposed to be falling behind. Most of the trip takes me through coastal Connecticut, and all along the shore line there are men and machines building with steel and moving rocks and earth. Sights like this give me hope. I do not fear that that life blood of this country, the men and women who work every day to build and then maintain it, are falling behind, they are just maintaining a vast infrastructure that has suddenly been awaken by an urgency broadcasted from the other side of the globe. I hope that America will be able to put its wreckless ways behind itself and embrace the future by investing in the people and infrastructure that made this countries greatness possible.

“Joe, come in here for a second,” the fat guy with the small head said through the open door into the quiet waiting room. “So I spoke to a few of the guys here and they don’t really have anything for you right now, but here is my card anyway. We’ll be in touch alright.” I hardly had time to respond before the fat guy led me back out into the waiting room. The time was only 10:15am, my interview was for 10:00am. I know these recruiters work fast, but I hardly had five minutes with this dude, I thought to my self. With at least an hour and a half to kill until I met up with my girlfriend and her mother for lunch in mid-town I needed something to occupy my newly found free time.

It was a perfect summer day in New York; 80 degrees and not a cloud in the sky, perfect if you aren’t wearing a black suit and tie that is, needless to say I could feel the sweat rolling down my back. I walked a few blocks to Bryant Park, I remember passing it as I walked to my poor excuse for an interview with a recruiter. Taking a seat on a vacant bench I took out my phone and called Xue, my girlfriend, asking her if she could meet up at an earlier time. No luck, she was in Brooklyn, walking around to various hospitals inquiring about nursing positions. She just graduated and was looking for a job too. We were both looking in New York, and today was only day one of what would amount to a four day rat race around the boroughs of Manhattan (for me) and Brooklyn (for her); I was looking for work in banking, she, as mentioned before, was looking for nursing jobs.

Upon ending the call I pondered my dilemma. The waste of time interview left me in the middle of Manhattan with the adrenaline still pumping; unable to use that energy to impress an interviewer, I turned to the next best thing: find a new interview. Taking out my phone once more I did a search for recruiting firms. I cold called several of them, telling them I had time to meet today if they were available. Some places had no answer and others said they didn’t accept walk-in’s, another put me into the voice mail. After spending about thirty minutes calling various places I saw a strange number come up on the caller ID, it was a recruiter from the firm I left a message with, one of the places who did not apparently accept walk-in’s. The recruiter’s name was also Joe, but the coincidences did not end there. Joe, turned out was from Rhode Island, just like I was. We talked about Rhode Island for a minute before he invited me up to his office in the Chrysler Building for a meeting at 2pm. I was ecstatic! I know this isn’t that big of a deal, I mean, it isn’t like I got a job out of it, but it was simply the idea of making things happen so fast that got me excited, and the idea that sometimes a little extra (and unconventional) effort pays off occasionally. I had never done something like this before and had it actually work.

The meeting was scheduled for 2:00pm, I still had time to kill until lunch with Xue and her mother. Walking through the hot crowded Manhattan streets towards Macy’s on 34^th and Broadway I called her once more only to find out that she was still in Brooklyn and would likely be there for a few more hours. I told her it was fine and that I had another interview to go to and that I would just have lunch alone; we could reconnect after the interview. I was disappointed that we could not have lunch together, I had been looking forward to it. With hunger now displacing disappointment though I made my way to the nearest Indian restaurant. It seems every time I eat lunch alone, it is either at an Indian or a Chinese restaurant, I don’t feel the stigma I would had I been eating at an American restaurant, save maybe a bar. The restaurant was perfect, crowded with tables full of Indian families speaking in Punjabi, or maybe Hind (I could not tell which), with its doors open to the bustling sidewalk; it warm and muggy inside, low ceilings, very dimly lit; the navy blue walls and the many Indian paintings hanging on the wall gave it the impression of being in a real Indian restaurant back in their home country. I felt like the American tourist coming in for some local flavor. Of course, this being New York, there really is no local flavor, unless you consider Brooklyn pizza to be the pinnacle of haute cuisine in the five boroughs. After eating my meal I asked the gentlemen at the counter to direct me towards the bathroom. He pointed to a small door in a nook partially covered by an Asian decorative screen on the back wall of the tiny restaurant. Faced with a stair case barely illuminated by the restaurant’s poor lighting I felt my way down into the bowels of the restaurant. Once I reached bottom it was totally pitch back and hot, like a coal mine, just with the sound of jack hammers and construction equipment replaced by the hum of the building’s boiler room. I felt along the walls, hoping for a light switch, fearing coming into contact with some exposed live wiring or a rusty nail. After about thirty seconds I found the switch and illuminated the absurdly small room. Everything was arranged in the most space efficient manner possible and the walls were painted a burgundy red. There was no trash on the floor or excrement spattered around the rim of the toilet, the sink was clean and there was both soap and paper towels ample in supply; it quite likely the nicest restaurant bathroom I had seen in the city that week after being in a locally owned cafe, a Starbucks and a KFC, all in mid-town. I hung my jacket on the door hook (another rarity) and tied my tie in the mirror – I had taken it off earlier while I was in Bryant Park. As I was doing this however I heard two men, one who had a thick Indian accent and another who sounded like he was from Boston, they were talking about some leak in the boiler room. I have to get out of here, I thought. I didn’t want to be down here if this place catches on fire or something. I quickly finished fixing my tie, put on my jacket and promptly went back up the dark stairs. I saw one of the men holding a flashlight… smart idea.

Manhattan had gotten even hotter by 1:30pm. The air was thick like cream cheese and filled with smoke from trucks and cigarettes. The heat generated by the herds of people and slow moving packs of cars and trucks was pulsing through my head causing me to sweat instantly upon being exposed to it. I had about six blocks to walk.

Walking into the lobby of the Chrysler building one is met with imposing and brooding architecture. The art deco motifs in marble, wood, mosaic and stainless steel are impressive but look almost like a movie set given its detail and conspicuousness. The elevators are styled accordingly and appear almost as they must have when the building was constructed. I could imagine a couple guys coming from a three martini lunch, smoking their cigars and talking about the next big railroad or oil deal, back in the day when this building was not a tourist attraction alone but a thousand foot plus tall boy’s club where men dressed in suits and had bottles of bourbon in a cabinet behind their desks. Those are the days I wished I worked in. The elevator let me off at the 27^th floor and immediately I was plunged 75 years into the future, or present as it were; dark walnut sconces and brown marble gave way to glossy white walls illuminated by florescent lights and accented by plasma screen monitors displaying news and stock quotes, soft gray carpeting beneath my feet was a welcome change to the hard surfaces of the streets. There were glass double doors open which gave way to a medium size waiting room with a fantastic view of downtown Manhattan. A woman at the front desk greeted me and then showed me to a small conference room with a view equally as good of the many little roof decks and patios over looking the streets below. Buildings seemed to go on for miles down to the tip of the city.

“Would you care for a drink?” the secretary offered.

“Water, please.” I replied.

“Here you are sir, please have a seat, Joe will be in to see you shortly.”

I sipped that water slowly and took in the view. I had the corner office at the Chrysler Building with a view of Manhattan all to my self, I thought… for ten minutes anyway. That was the best glass of water I had during the whole trip.

“It’s really easy, buddy, just look at those two over there.”

Alex says this to me in Underbar New York as we watch two women sitting at the bar talking alone.

“They look pretty involved in whatever their talking about.”

“Yeah, and they sound Spanish.”

“Perfect, I can’t say anything in Spanish.”

“Well, then consider this an English lesson. Teach them a few words, come on.”

And without any preemptive material to work with, the two of us go over to the beautiful Spanish women and interrupt their conversation that was going a mile a minute. They stopped and looked at us with ‘are you kidding me?’ expressions.

And with good reason. I was caught completely off guard, and didn’t have a single approach to work with. I was running blind, put on the spot, and left down river without a paddle or a hope. It was my first attempt ever to pick up a girl at a night club, and it was fun.

My friend Alex dove in like he already knew where to jump, locking one of the girls into a conversation that eventually switched from English to Spanish to English and back. They had a flow going on, but from the English words I overheard, they were not making a strong connection. The woman I began talking to was not having it at all, and could smell my amateur scent. A few minutes and a drink go by, and they decide to leave… without us.

“Man, I saw that coming from a mile away.”

“And that’s the point man. You want to go in with no expectations. The next best thing to expect is rejection.”

“What’s the point then?”

“What isn’t the point? Look at them!”

And we look around to see them slowly walk to the exit. They both had beautiful bodies, and long black hair that curled down their tanned backs. They were both sexy and petite and had a confident walk together. I only realized how attractive they were when they turned around and looked at us one last time before leaving the club.

Central Park South & 5th
Chapter Four – Respect Reflected
11:17pm
12-26-2009

My cab ride to Bowery Bar on 40 East 4th Street would have been a lot faster if the cab driver knew where he was going, but thankfully for me, I was the first to arrive. I thought I was late since we shot for 11:00pm; the bar did not have a lot of patrons because it was raining outside. I walked in, bought a drink, and sat down in the lounge area past the bar to dry off.

He must have been drinking with his friends, because when Petar walked through the door, he was extremely festive. He was also very wet.

“Zucker, so good to see you!” He had the biggest smile I had ever seen. He walked with his fiancé alongside, followed by three guys speaking another language, possibly Croatian, laughing at something while another was upset. “Were you waiting long?”

“No, only a couple of minutes. I got a whiskey sour and was checking out the scene.” I was also checking out the more provocative side of Bowery Bar’s ‘Naked’ New Year party promo. A nice lined halftone pattern filtered through the image on recycled cardboard paper. It acted double as a coaster.

“Ah, yes, my kind of drink,” said one of his friends in broken English.

“Zucker, these are my friends…”

“Nice to meet you guys.” Their looks were welcoming and friendly, and yet their names escape me upon hearing them.

“And this is Irena, my fiancé.”

“It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Hi, I’m sorry we’re late,” she said it with a cool and casual voice. I expected her to have an accent, but she didn’t.

“Oh, you’re not late, it’s cool. It’s great to meet you at last. Petar’s told me a lot about you.”

She shoots Petar a look, but he cuts her off. “Not bad things, Honey. I told him you worked in Publishing.”

“I’m so glad I can finally put a face to the name.” She smiled and gave Petar and a look. He smiled back and said, “I’ve told her about you too – your writing and your magazine.” I give her an interested look.

“Yeah, I think what you’re doing is really great. Have you been writing for long time?”

“Yeah, since I was a kid.”

“What do you write about?” A lot of this was lost in the drunken happenings of the night. At this point in time, however, I felt accepted in the group. For the next hour or so, we really made the most of an empty rained-out bar garden.

Everything was great, but then the Bowery Bar closed. It was 12:45am, and I called “shenanigans” on the joint for not living up to New York’s “all night” nightlife. They didn’t understand, but agreed that we should move on. I didn’t feel as drunk as everyone else, maybe; there was no stumbling into the cab and no head-hanging on the windowsill.

Seven bucks took us to La Esquina, a reclusive hot spot on 106 Kenmare Street in Soho.

La Esquina is a taqueria that runs all night, offering up delicious tacos and tasty beers and spirits for parties to go the extra step. Doubling as a pick-up food stop for late-nighters on the front, patrons can also walk inside, downstairs past the ‘employees only’ sign, and through the kitchen to a cozy bistro lounge, aptly filled with hipsters and couples who know about the “other part” of La Esquina.

When we got there, there was a group of people waiting for them. They all spoke in accents, and picked out friends immediately upon our arrival, talking in Italian, French, and Croatian amidst English, the language of choice for international translation. I felt like an mono-lingual jackass half-following the English parts to conversations around me, drinking extremely good beer offerings, trying to collect my thoughts in a strange new place and time.

“Let’s take a picture!” Petar had the camera in his hand, standing with Irena at his side. “Zucker, can you take this?”

“Yeah buddy.” I was standing back about five feet at this point. Aiming the camera at them, drunk, I move around to crop the picture. Click! And I capture the two of them. It was like capturing a special moment for them, together, when they were so young and happy. It may be a picture they come back to years from now and smile at in reflection.

“Yeah, that’s a great shot. Check it out.” And I hand them back the camera. They look at it and smile together.

“Thank you,” she said. Petar and I exchange a look of respect and appreciation.

“You’re welcome.” I smiled at them both, happy and relieved that they saw what I saw. I kept on drinking, and I half-connected with the other group we joined.

“I’m a graphic designer,” said this Italian guy who wore big designer glasses next to me, and we started talking about art design. I thought about how difficult it must be for him to see right now with those glasses on. I mentioned my magazine idea, and he liked it. He talked about the work he put up at his college’s gallery recently. I think he went to Pratt, but I wasn’t sure. I talked about the Picasso exhibit I saw in Chelsea a few months back, and how that exhibit was the first of its kind in over fifteen years. We talked about the thought of living in New York, the costs, and the benefits. He was not interested in it.

It was 3:00am, and the group decided to leave for another bar. Some of the new group came with us.

After deliberation and twelve bucks, the group decided on some random bar in Little Italy, and it was just about to call the last round. We walked in and ordered a quick double order of drinks and had introspective conversations with one another as we downed our drinks. At this point, the Croatians were buying me drinks. Neno, one of Petar’s friends, had left his luggage in the taxi he took to the Bowery Bar. Things did not go over well for him; talking to his friends and me about the things he lost, calling the taxi company for lost and found updates, cancelling his cards and such. We bought him drinks that night too since he didn’t have his wallet. He had his passport, thankfully, safely tucked in his back pocket, along with around $200 bucks. Who keeps that kind of cash in their pocket?

“Neno, there is some good to all this situation,” I actually tried consoling him when we were in this last bar, “you’ll get to go shopping!” By that point, nobody cared about anything, and yet he smiled and lifted his spirits. The Italian and his friend listened to us talk, and two of Petar’s friends were chatting up the female bartender, who apparently was from Boston. Petar and Irena were outside with another friend who was smoking a cigarette.

It was raining outside. I joined them to see what was going on.

“I think we’re going to get out of here soon,” said Irena. She was holding Petar, who seemed too drunk to stand. He was still smiling, like a child enjoying the party, and he was getting wet in the rain.

“It was so good to see you Zucker, I’m glad we got to hang out.”

“Yeah man, me too, and in New York of all places!”

“This would make a good story, right?”

“Yeah man, this would make a great story.”

“Yeah,” he looked away with satisfaction. Irena was holding him up as they looked for approaching cabs, and I smiled at her holding him around the waist with his arm around her shoulders. He was bigger than her, but she could handle him. They looked like a great couple.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and I go back inside, telling the others that people were leaving. I chug my beers and say my goodbyes. They all followed me out though, so everyone began hailing cabs. People in the bar get the message, and in no time, the street was mobbed with people looking to get a ride home. Watching them drift into the night, people dispersed on foot and wheel , and I watched as my friends from the night got in cab after cab.

“Where are you heading to?”

“Central Park South and 5^th.”

“Cool, what’s there?”

“The Plaza.”

“Wow, you’re staying the Plaza?

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” I left it at that. I felt like I mentioned it earlier in the night, but I can’t remember. It’s really hard to explain the extravagance of it all at 4:00am.

“Unfortunately, it’s in the opposite direction to where we’re heading. Are you cool with taking a separate cab?”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” They were relieved I had a way home.

“It was great to meet you again.”

“You too.” The doors closed and they sped off into the night; their fluorescent tail lights streaming distance in the darkened streets. The rain was still coming down, and no more cabs were in the area. I found myself alone on the end of a sidewalk between a closed bar and a pizza parlor packed with late night drunks. I couldn’t help but go in and buy some pizza.

“One slice of pepperoni and one slice of bacon chicken, please.”

“You got it.” It was like a factory line, always moving, slowly and surely, looking at all the colorful slices they had. While they had ten offerings on display, I chose my two favorite. I didn’t think when I bought them. They were huge slices, and I was in no shape to eat them both. They had Kiss on the radio, and people slurped away at their soda cups, talking and laughing about things they talked and laughed about in the bars. It was a quiet moment for me, observing the people, trying not to draw attention to my solitary silence.

The pizza was hot and ready and by fortune the cabs were around and vacant. It was a twenty dollar cab ride back to the Plaza, a blurry tour of Times Square and Central Park. I looked out the window with pizza in my mouth as people tried to open my cab thinking it was vacant. Some people were really pissed off that I was relishing the experience so much.

I ended up finishing the slices in the hotel, in one of the comfy lounge chairs that sat at the foot of the bed, next to a small nightstand that had the New York Times and my brother’s Nikon D700 camera laying on it. My brother was sleeping, but woke up when I got back. Our vibrations nearing 5:00am were faint, and yet it did not stop the sky from changing its color from black to blue. I closed the blinds and hopped into bed, falling into a deep, drunken sleep within minutes of the rising sun.

Waking up five or six hours later, I had a light breakfast with my family and packed up my things. I had a train to catch at 1:15pm, and that left me mere hours to clean up and enjoy the remaining time there with my family. They drove me to Penn Station and gave me some money for the Acela Express ticket ($100), wishing me the best on my way back home. I spent the remaining free time I had in the waiting area with a copy of the Sunday New York Times, reading the Book Review, brushing up on styles of writing that were capturing people’s attention. Twenty minutes would go by before I made my way down to the train, back to my everyday life in Boston.

Central Park South & 5th
Chapter One – Family Matters

6:00pm
12-28-2009

I just got off the phone with my parents…

A funny thing happened to me just now. I was opening up my bottle of wine for the week, packed my bowl full and drank a big gulp. The air had just left my body as the taste was recognized, and then my phone rings.

Mom Cell – apprehension does not overcome me like it does at other times. I reach for my phone with a confidence in cohesion. I can talk to them right now. I’m not too far gone…

“Hello?”
‘Hey, Alex!’ My mother’s distinctive greeting welcomes me again, and a sigh of comfort is exhumed.
“Hey Mom, how you doing?”

‘I’m good. I just got back home. I ended up going for a walk with Lynn when the weather got better today.’ She was thinking of coming into Boston with Lynn to window shop and walk around, but the weather turned foul and rained out the plan.

We talked on. My cognition and flow were still quite able, despite a definite shot to the brain. She wanted to talk about her recent walk with Lynn, and confided in me about the conversation they had about Nick, her son and close friend of mine.

Nick has been a fitness enthusiast for a long time. He has a high metabolism. He surfs, and yeah, and he plays a mean game of golf. All things considered, his family is closer to him than anyone, and for them to feel concerned about his health over this lifestyle brings immediate concern to my folks and I. It was only natural she’d want to tell me about the discussion. She thought Nick was a completely different person since she last saw him, two years earlier.

‘It seems extreme,’ my mother went on to say, ‘it is possible for a fitness routine to be unhealthy… it shows in his face.’ She would say something like that, and it would always be true. Our face is our mirror, for good and for worse. If something is wrong, we show it in our eyes, and our smiles. We smell when we’re stressed, and glow when we’re happy. Our body language is everything, but I digress…

By the end of that conversation, my mother handed the phone off to my dad. Talking with him is just as easy, as long as the conversations are mutually understood.

‘Heya, Alex.’
“Heya Dad, how you doing?”
‘I’m doing alright. You?’
“I’m good, I just got back from the gym.”
‘Good for you, Alex.’ Sincerity assured. ‘I won’t ask you all the same questions as mom, but how was your trip home?’ I took a trip back to Boston from New York after spending a weekend with them and my brother at the Plaza Hotel. It was their 30th wedding anniversary.

“It was alright, as much as you could expect on a busy travel day.” I told him more. I told him about the little British girl who couldn’t stop talking in the seats across from mine. All the way to Boston. It was quite and experience, and the group I sat with showed signs of understanding and relief when she walked off to sit with her dad in another car.

‘I just wanted to say thanks for coming out there with us, and for being a part of something this special.’ We both expressed our gratitude to one another for being there in New York on such an important milestone.

“Ah, Dad, I wouldn’t miss something like that. I mean, come on, The Plaza! Thank you for putting that all together, it was such a wonderful experience! You certainly know how to treat us well.”

‘This is true!’ I think he had been waiting for someone to say that for a long time. ‘And I like to treat you guys well, so hopefully there’s more to come as time goes on.’

“I’m looking forward to it.” A moment of comfortable silence hangs over the phone.

‘Well, I’ll let you go, you just got back.’

“Thanks, it was great talking to you.”

‘You too, my boy. Have a goodnight.’
*Goodnight!* I hear my mother yell in the distance as I ready to say it. I laugh into the phone.

“Ah, goodnight you guys! I love you.”

‘Love you too, Alex. Bye.’

“Bye.”

The conversation lasted thirteen minutes, and following the conversation, things had gone their course. The flow of blood to my brain caused a euphoric chain reaction. I saw read vibrations as I sat and laid back on my bed, staring up at an abstract painting of an apple tree; oil on canvas by a college friend’s sister. I felt something in those vibrating apples. It was love. I felt love for my family emanating from its root and its marrow. It’s a feeling I know so well, and cherish now even more, like the fine wines we all imbibe. Age defines quality. The quality of my love for my family has matured and grown stronger, stronger than the days of my childhood when bed-time was fixed and allowances were given. Now is the time when I give my love back to them, and remind them of how much they mean to me.

In a phone conversation like this, the simplest of talks can bring overpowering love and compassion. I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

And then there was New York…

6:50pm

Friday, November 27th, 2009
10:40pm
Iridium Jazz Club
51st and Broadway, New York City

Double of Bourbon, a Pen and a Notepad

Final show of Mark Murphy and his band at the Iridium Jazz Club in New York City. They open with a natural sound that almost sounds like Paul Simon. Murphy is not on stage. There are two percussionists, one lead guitarist, and one bassist. It vibe feels very good on stage. I like the lead guitarist’s guitar, an acoustic-electric from Yamaha. The exotic percussionist has extremely long hair. He is Israeli, and his name escapes me. He plays the bongos and other natural percussion instruments that casually hang around him like his hair around his eyes. He is playing the triangle now in accompaniment with the drummer, Joel Rosenblatt.

The bassist solos with style; I almost forgot what instrument he was playing.

The first track embodies so much life and groove. I am glad that I decided to attend this show on a whim like this.

“When people say ‘Yeah!’ I don’t know what they mean.”The famous opening words of ” target=”_blank”>Mark Murphy as he walks into the scene. He is assisted on stage by his friend and lead guitarist. He was born in 1934. That would make him damn hear 75 right now. He walked on stage with a cane in hand, a yellow-green-black beanie on, and a thin and grey goatee and beard. His opening words did not lead me to believe he was the vocalist.

They jump right into the music of a generation more known by my parents’ generation: upbeat melody with light Cuban flares, hot potato jazz solos and looks from one another in understanding. Murphy sings alongside a talented quarter. There is such a candid jam quality to the music, and it’s only track two.

NIGHT AND DAY!

He sings at the top of his lungs, and the band finds union in their project, energetic with swing. We’re all clapping as hard as we can.

This is a unique kind of jazz. Old talent meets new, and the blend brings a balance not seen by many modern jazz musicians. There is one legend among young and aspiring talent. Who is the real gem in this mish-mash of artists? The guitar wins my favor; his speed is trumped by his name… Vinny Valentino. I imagine he was raised on this kind of music. Murphy comes from a generation before him, and embodies the lyricism of “hip” jazz from the 1950s and 1960s. They make it work, playing classics I never knew. Murphy’s voice is soothing, and this number they play now is slow and ambient, blends  of old and new. I imagine that over forty-odd years, he’s allowed some drastic changes to his traditional swing. If I were to listen to the track I hear now for an hour (I would allow it), I would eventually fall into a drunken stupor and dream sweet dreams.

They pick up the pace four or five tracks in. This number is very lively, and it is definitely more modern than the others. Fast, noticeably fast. I rock in my seat and clap my hands to the individual solos interlaced in the upbeat.

I get the feeling that Murphy has a lot of fun introducing his players.

“CUBA!” and the Cuban bassist, Armando Gola, plays his rocket solos. “Angel Eyes” are the words of choice coming from Murphy’s lips.

This is a song where they found their element, fusion and flow coming together, and Murphy gets up to receive the crowd. He needs his cane to walk, and his comrades on stage receive him and praise him. What an entertainer.

The show is over after an hour and a half set that seemed to fly by. I wasn’t finished with my well-poured double of bourbon yet. Murphy is walking into the crowd now, and shakes the hands of his valued audience and fans. He is getting old for night shows, and the band too restless. How many do they have left together? What kind of relationship do they have? When he first started singing on stage his voice was not smooth, and the band smiled and laughed casually as he collected himself on stage, and got into the groove.

They all gave me one hell of a show tonight; an experience I would otherwise forget if it weren’t for my notes. Thank God for Jazz.

I feel like the show shouldn’t be over.

I feel like the good times have just begun.