as it once were. Although you will still pass the waiters lining the streets of Mott and Mulberry, hustling you to come in and your classic Little Italy Italian flag and “Kiss me I’m Italian tees…”much has changed since the Chinese moved into the neighborhood and it became an interesting gentrification of a neighborhood once so clearly dominated by Italians.  

Being a huge fan of the Italians and the great films of the time (not to mention the bevy of directors and actors) who grew up in the neighborhood, it’s hard to doubt the real history of Little Italy.  There’s some great literature here.“Key scenes from The Godfather – Francis Ford Coppola’s epic family saga – were filmed in Little Italy. These include the Christening scene, in which Coppola’s family members acted as extras, and the set representing the interior of the Genco Olive Oil Company, which was built on the fourth floor of an old loft building at 128 Mott Street, at the corner of Hester.”

You can still walk the past in Little Italy; the narrow streets, the foods and smells (mixed with a bit of Chinese Wok) and the tenements haven’t changed a bit.

As an early Christmas present Mom & Dad sent us girls (Kelle, Mom and Myself) to the Big Apple!  We flew out VERY early (4:30am is NOT in my vocabulary so I have learned) on a Thursday morning and explored until Sunday afternoon!  It was Mom & Kelle’s first NY experience and I haven’t been since high school so it was a true first timer’s experience! 

We dove right in on Thursday with a trip to Chinatown where all you hear are little whispers in your ear… “Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Coach bags we have Coach bags!”… I think I dreamed about these people for 3 days straight!  I have a friend who is now a “local” so if it weren’t for her, I don’t know what we would have done! Thanks Tara!!!  After tons of Canal Street shopping we headed over to Little Italy for some true blue Italian food.  It would be worth it just to fly up there, eat at La Mela (the Apple), and fly back home!

Friday through Sunday was just taking in the sights.  We got suckered into a tour bus throughout the entire city and I’m glad we did!  First stop was Ground Zero.  That was such a neat experience. 

This is the artwork that was erected in honor of those who survived the September 11th attacks.

I don’t know if you have ever heard of St. Paul’s Chapel but the story gives me chills every time I hear it now.  St. Paul’s is a little (well compared to the rest of the buildings in NYC) chapel right next door to Ground Zero.  You can literally throw a stone at it.  So anyways, after all the dust had settled from the September 11th attack, this chapel was totally unharmed… not even a tombstone went damaged.  There is so much history in this place… for beginners it’s where George Washington said his first prayer after his inauguration!  To think of all of the surrounding areas that were demolished after this tragedy, and this old chapel stood up to the test with flying colors!  It is now a tourist attraction filled with tons of memorabilia and notes to those who lost their lives.  It is definitely a must see if you have not been already!

The story of the pews: This is where the fireman/rescue workers slept and napped during the recovery process. They decided not to paint the pews because the scuffs from all of their equipment and uniforms has become a part of the history of the Chapel.

One of the many (and the biggest) signs/letters/etc. in the church.

On Saturday afternoon we walked 5th Avenue all the way down to Central Park. The weather was PERFECT. It had been raining & cloudy up until this point when the sun came out! Just a few of the stores on 5th Avenue were decorated for Christmas. I definitely want to go back when all of the stores are decorated.

Cartier caught my attention… yes, please

Louis Vuitton wasn’t decorated yet… but I’ll “yes, please” to that as well

I had to do it… after all Tiffany means a lot to the Brown family

So after walking down checking out all the 5th Avenue goodies we finally ended up at Central Park.

First, Kelle had to take a photo-op with THEE Statue of Liberty… haha!

Our carriage ride through the park was amazing… I think if I lived here I would have to visit Central Park 3-4 times a week to keep my sanity living in the concrete city. It is SUCH an escape and so much more than I ever imagined it to be!

The precious horse that took us on our carriage ride. He was so sweet!

So I didn’t take too many pictures on our trip. I got so caught up in the hustle and bustle that I just didn’t even bother taking my camera out of the bag. But that’s OK… another trip will be on the books before we know it! You absolutely cannot take it all in with a 4 day time-frame.

Until next time…

Ho mangiato la pizza piu’ buona del mondo (secondo zagat). Ero da Lombardi a New york (nei pressi di little italy). Il locale e’ lo stereotipo di quello che vi aspettate da un locale italiano: tovaglia a quadretti, foto del titolare che sembra uscito dai soprano’s e pizza. Oddio la pizza non e’ cattiva, ne ho sentite di migliori ma per lo standard americano e’ certamente ottima: pecorino romano al posto della mozzarella, ma una buona cottura e dell’ottimo pomodoro, la small e’ abbastanza grande per due

Il prezzo e’ esagerato come sempre per la pizza negli Usa (in due mancia compresa per una pizza e acqua di rubinetto 20 dollari).
Il ristorante e’ comunque carino e serve anche birra artigianale ( me ne sono accorto alla fine) l’impressione e’ comunque positivo ma da qui ad essere la miglior pizza del mondo ce ne passa!

Face of El Cabrillo

I’ve named the above rock.  Meet “El Cabrillo”.  El Cabrillo, meet the blog readers. 

El Cabrillo lives in the Tidal Pools at the Cabrillo National Monument Park in San Diego.  He was staring up at the walkers traversing on the backs of his brothers and sisters along the pools.

I spotted him immediately.  Forget looking for anemones and crabs and seaweed.  There was a face in the rocks!  We could return home perfectly satisfied.

Chris and his girlfriend

Oh what a lovely day!  I spent the night at a motel in Little Italy.  Up at 5 a.m. once again (forced myself to lie abed until the late morning hour of 6) and then explored the streets.  Ate a breakfast Panini and coffee along India Street before sitting in a courtyard to write 2,000 words of the novel along with the most delicious coffee in the Universe.  Well, good coffee anyway.

We attended another farmer’s market and then picnicked near Balboa Park under eucalyptus trees.  I wondered why there wasn’t any grass beneath our feet.  The kids explained that planted grass needs watering; therefore, many places remain grass-free. 

Later in the day we ventured to the Cabrillo National Monument park.  It was so cool.  I loved it.  First we viewed the skyline of San Diego and the hundreds of white sails on the ocean.  I won’t show you this view because the little Sony Cybershot refuses to do justice to wider views, to skylines.  So forget the sweeping panoramic views of the magnificent ocean.  You can look at closeups instead.

Seaweed in the tidal pools

I kept gushing, “Oh this is wonderful!  Oh, isn’t this great?” as we explored the tidal pools.  Chris said, “I am a little underwhelmed, Mom.”  But later after we viewed the crabs and fish and anemones he changed his mind, I think.  He may not have been overwhelmed like his mama, but he was impressed.  And so was his girlfriend. 

Curved tidal pool

You wouldn’t believe how slippery the rocks were.  I mean they were slippery.  You had to pray you wouldn’t fall into the underwater world of those sea creatures.  Some of us less agile folks had to crawl along the rocks, placing the feet very carefully.  You wanted hands to help you jump over pools and seaweed-covered slime.  You thought to yourself, “How old am I anyway?  At what age should you stop clamouring over slippery rocks?”

Christopher and his mama

Some nice volunteers gave us advice about the creatures in the tide pools.  They showed me a little green worm, a magnificent find!  They shared the names of the amazing sea-beings.  I would have called the following sea creature an “urchin” but the kind lady explained that it was an anemone.   Isn’t it cool?

Anemone

Another exciting thing happened.  A woman gave me a new name.  She was attempting to coral her three children into a cave for a photograph.  “Grace, Grace, come on in the picture!”  she kept saying.  And then she turned to me, who was standing three feet from her and gasped. “Oh no, I thought you were Grace!  I am so sorry.”  “It’s OK,”  I said, and we both looked at Grace who was crawling on some nearby slippery rocks.  “Guess you have a new name now,” the woman told me, “Your name is Grace.”

OK, I’ll take it.  My new name is Grace.

A bird who doesn't feel well

Grace (the real Grace) and her sisters approached a nearby black bird who refused to move.  They finally stood about a foot from the bird before the park volunteers urged them away,  “The bird isn’t feeling well today; please leave him alone,” the volunteer kindly explained to the sisters. 

When we got in the car, Christopher noted, “You talk to a LOT of people.”  Yes.  It’s true.  I am fascinated by people.

Hope you enjoyed the tour of the tidal pools.

Love, Grace

Amerikanische Esskultur á la Little Italy findet man im Fat Ass in Prenzlauer Berg. Traditionell oder nach freier Wahl.

Fat Ass Pizza Berlin

frischer Pizza Imbiss Snack mit Qualität!

Pizza gibt es in der Oderberger täglich 12 – 23 Uhr geöffnet

____________________

Fat Ass Pizza Berlin Prenzlauer Berg

Oderberger Strasse 23
10437 Berlin Prenzlauer Berg

See! I knew it. This is exactly what I was talking about. I’m screwed.

Considering that I’m already destined to be buried in the middle of a corn field, outside a small Kansas City town, I might as well tell it like it is. Anthony … or Tony “the specialist” Napoli, as you’d probably prefer — your ad needs work. There, I said it.

The picture is dumb. The arrow is unnecessary. The hand-written font doesn’t make sense. Connected didn’t need to be in quotes (although, it’s further proves my theory). And, the gradient fade on your photo is lame.

Whew. That felt good.

Holla. Gotcha Tony, I was just messin’ with you. This is fantastic … really. And, just like everything else you touch, it’s gold. Give a shout out to the boys for me.

Took this picture in Little Italy in Chicago on Friday, October 30. The clouds were hanging really low in the sky and made the Sears Tower look spooky.

Dev xx

I hate being sick.

I thought I had allergies at first, they always come around this time of the year. Wasnt’ running a fever, just coughing, and coughing and coughing. I heard one of my roommates coughing and coughing and coughing. My coughing didn’t start until I got back home about a week ago.

Then on my birthday on Wednesday, I just felt tired, figured it was because we spent the day at Hopkins the previous day. Scott wanted to come over and cook me dinner since I can’t eat at his house from the allergies and my throat closes up when I eat. So he came over and made some amazing chicken, corn and rice (he puts in these ingredients where it’s not just pain rice/chicken/corn…its amazing…Scott should have been a chef). Had some amazing tiramisu we got from Little Italy in Baltimore the day before, it was great because some of my roommates were around and we were able to share. While we were watching Amazing Grace (one of my favorite movies) my roommate comes down coughing and informs us she was diagnosed with bronchitis again. I know Scott felt uncomfortable as we are trying to keep it safe with being sick this year. He is diabetic and can’t get sick because his immune system is not like everyone elses. Also we dont want his sister that lives with him is pregnant. So I carry around purell, been eating healthy, working out…but all that doesn’t help when you have a roommate who hasn’t taken meds for bronchitis. So that night it was hard for me to breath I kept coughing (and I have asthma) the next morning I took a shower and nasty green stuff was coming up when I was coughing…so I called my Dr’s made an appt and sure enough I have bronchitis (great). Got on the meds, spent the day home drinking tea, OJ, water and having my yeast free bread with peanut butter and honey.

My whole point in this

I hate being sick. I can handle taking care of other people. But I hate being sick. I feel guilty being sick. I dont want to get my fiance sick. I dont want to get my other roommates sick. I dont want to get my co-workers or even the guy at wegmans sick. I told the cashier yesterday that he might want to wash his hands with purell because I am sick. I dont like being sick and I dont want other people to feel sick.

Im praying I feel better soon, so I can get off the meds, so I can reschedule my allergists appointment (had to cancel bc of Scotts unexpected JH visit) so I can figure out what over the counter meds I can take so I am not allergic to the dogs in his house. Before you see the allergists I have to be off meds for like four days so they dont mess with the test.

I miss seeing my fiance

this is hard

and I hate being sick

one of the best birthday poems ever….he gave this to me on some pretty papyrus paper that had butterfly’s sewn on them…best gift ever….

(For Jessica on her birthday written by Scott Judkins)

The Spirit of God
Our peace through the pain
Our Comfort from Heaven
As the world binds in chains

Jessica West
My soon to be wife
You are a comfort to me…
A best friend for life

To Jesus be honor
His life gave for me
The perfect example
The love of His daddy

I will do my best
Jess, to love you like this
PLease be patient with me
When my words are amiss

To God be the glory
His word will come true
In Him do I trust
I know you will too

The dream of my heart
God’s answer to prayer
Through Years in the making
He purposed you there.
(written by Scott M. Judkins 10.28.09)

Tomorrow…prayfull I am feeling better better… we are going with Heidi and Brad and driving through the Shenandoah’s to take pictures. I’ve been wanting to do this for years. In 2006 my friend Anna Pearson took me on a surprise birthday drive through the Shenandoah’s. It was amazing, just seeing all that the Lord had created. I remember during that drive I thought, when ever I get engaged, or when ever I am married, I want to do the same drive with my fiance/husband….and I get to do that tomorrow. The Lord is so good to me. Even when I am feeling sick and not feeling good and probably need a little bit of extra grace.

There are some things I’ll never understand about him…kamma fa?

1.  I like the way you think you know more than me about a wide variety of subjects even when that’s clearly not the case.

2.  The weird Snuffalupagus-like noise you make when you sleep.  I just don’t have the energy to keep pushing you and make you sleep in a position where breathing is less of a struggle.

3.  The fact that you sometimes give yourself man “camel toe” because you hike up your pants and cinch the waist with a belt.

4.  You still insist on everything being well-cooked, even if that means putting food I’ve prepared back on the grill, stove or in the oven for 2 more minutes.

5.  I appreciate that you treat your mother with respect even though she’s a sociopathic bitch who doesn’t deserve it.

6.  The way that you insist upon escorting me almost everywhere I go.  Sometimes I think it’s jealousy and other times when people treat me horribly I think “this wouldn’t have happened if Francy were here”.

7.  The funky noises you make for no apparent reason. “dige dige bo bo bo“-What the HELL is that?

8.  Anytime we eat fish, I’m expected to clean and gut it-for those of you living in America, you often need to eviscerate the fish you buy at the supermarket.

9.  You insist upon trying to maintain a friendship with 3 idiots you used to work with.  You have nothing in common with them and every time we see them you get aggravated, but you don’t have the heart to dump them.

10.  You love the giant stereotypical Mediterranean beach scene painting we bought.  I feel like I live in a pizzeria in Little Italy, but it makes you happy.

Next time:  The M word.

JOINT’S MOBBED: A customer chows down on a slice at Ray’s on Prince Street, where a “family” feud threatens to close the place.

The co-owner of the oldest Ray’s Pizza in the city is threatening to shut down the Little Italy landmark if she doesn’t get a bigger slice of the pie.   

Cheryl Sorrentino, the daughter of Luchese mobster Charles “Charlie Brody” DiPalermo, is suing the family of the restaurant’s founder, Ralph Cuomo, who was also a Luchese wiseguy, for cutting her out of a 36 percent piece of the pizzeria

Central Park

Premier voyage destination New York. Nous voilà partie en voiture à travers le Michigan, l’Ohio, la Pennsylvanie et enfin New York !

Après environ 12h de voyage, enfin apparait à l’horizon New York City ! On pose les affaires à l’auberge de jeunesse pour ensuite commencer notre voyage par une petite visite des toits de Brooklyn. Ensuite retour dans Manhattan pour en arpenter toutes les rues. Programme chargé : Ellis Island, Wall Street, Central Station, Ground Zero et soirée sur Broadway et Time Square.

Le lendemain matin direction le Bronx  pour une messe gospel. Malheureusement, ayant pris nos infos dans le guide du routard, on se retrouve dans une église où plus de la moitié des personnes sont des … français ! (Penser à diversifier nos sources.) Mais c’est pas grave, la messe reste vivante et les chants très jolis. Ça change des messes en France.

Ensuite, direction Central Park, le Met, restaurant italien, 5th Avenue et pizzeria à Brooklyn. Fin de la soirée sur le pont de Brooklyn de nuit avec Manhattan illuminé sur l’autre rive … Magnifique !

Vue de Manhattan et du Brooklyn Bridge de nuit depuis Brooklyn

Troisième et dernier jour (après que nos réveils n’aient pas sonnés, eh oui c’est bête mais il faut penser à mettre en am et pas pm…), on prend le métro pour aller dans Greenwich Village. Là on découvre totalement par hasard un super petit resto où on mange le meilleur brunch ever : french toast, pancakes et wafles. Ensuite on part à la découverte de Soho, Chinatown et Little Italy.

Un dernier petit détour par Central Park et retour à Grand Rapids pour de nouvelles aventures …

My sister was in the city this weekend visiting from California. She was focused. First things first, get her a cannoli.

We went to an Italian restaurant just outside Little Italy and asked our very Italian waiter where to get a great cannoli. He recommended that we take a short walk to Ferrara on Grand. It had a large lit up sign that is undeniably similar to the one displaying “Ghiradelli” at Ghiradelli Square in San Francisco. I immediately brushed Ferrara off from the beginning as a tourist trap. I can’t really say that I was that far off. I ordered a trio of miniature desserts: Napoleon, daquoise, and cannoli. The Napoleon, while flaky, was soggy. The daquoise was mundane. I was really hoping that the hazelnut flavor would come through a little more. The cannoli was probably the best out of the trio. The shell was crunchy and the ricotta cream filling was decent too. I was surprised that it wasn’t soggy because they are displayed pre-filled which usually results in a limp mess…and nobody likes that. You know what I’m saying

The cannoli that is pictured is actually from Rocco’s in the West Village. Like Ferrara, they have both chocolate dipped and regular cannoli shells. Three things set these apart:  the black and white cannoli shell, the option of pistachio or chocolate chip toppings, and they don’t come pre-filled. The shells are crispy and crumbly and the filling smooth and sweet. This is one fine cannoli if I have ever seen one. This is a great cannoli to take to someone’s home because you can bring the hollow shells and a tub of ricotta filling. Think of all the drunken fun you could have filling your own cannoli! Just keep in mind one thing. I was wearing a black cardigan. By the end of this delicious experience, I was wearing powdered sugar.  A bib is required but completely worth the looks.

PAGLIACCI’S Italian Restaurant (Traditional Fine-Dining)
1440 West 33rd Avenue
Denver, CO. 80211
303-458-0530

Pagliacci's
photo WCarbone

Pagliacci’s is another old-school Italian restaurant that has been around Denver forever. And, there’s a reason for that, it’s a good restaurant. Situated in the same Denver’s Little Italy location for 60 years this traditional Italian restaurant serves a superlative Minestrone soup, one of the best in the city. The soup is served in a large tureen with a ladle, help yourself. “Pagliacci’s Minestrone Soup: House specialty includes 14 types of vegetables, barley, beans, rice and beef all slow simmered in a hearty broth with a complex blend of spices ($9.00, ala carte.”) The soup is included with all entrees.

That’s just for starters. Pagliacci’s serves: appetizers, salads, soups, pesce (not Joe – fish,) veal and chicken, and of course pasta, house specialties, desserts, wine and a full selection of adult beverages; There is also a bar/lounge.

On the menu, for example: Calamari Fritti - Fried squid served with a side of zesty red sauce ($9.50) or Pescatore - Clams, shrimp, mussels, scallops, and fresh tomatoes sautéed in olive oil, chili pepper, and white wine all tossed with spaghetti (23.00,) or Veal Saltimbocca - Sautéed with prosciutto, Fontina cheese, shallots, white wine, and sage and white wine sauce – served with a side of spaghetti with a choice of tomato sauce or butter and garlic (22.50.)

Pasta Classico: Spaghetti alla Putanesca (*whore’s sauce) – A zesty blend of tomatoes, garlic, capers, Kalamata olives, red pepper flakes, anchovy paste, and a touch of marinara – all tossed with al dente pasta (16.50,) also linguini, manicotti, gnocchi, ravioli and more. Pagliacci Specialties include, Eggplant Parmigiana – Thick slices lightly breaded, fried and then baked with tomato sauce, mozzarella and parmesan cheeses (17.50.)

Click on Pagliacci’s website link for the complete menu, history, photos, directions and more.

Think “MOONSTRUCK” for this neighborhood Denver favorite. There is parking in the rear.

Pagliacci’s Official Website
*note is from WC
[Information/prices are from October 1, 2009 - please call to verify any information.]

even if i’ve never been there? it’s no secret that i love jenifer altman’s photographs of italy – remember her la dulce luce collection? if only i could crawl into each of her photos and wander the beautiful streets, basking in the warm afternoon sun and enjoying a glass of wine with a slice of cheesy delicious pizza…. le sigh.

so anyway, she has a new collection out – little italy – and it’s brimming with black and white polaroids. yes, polaroids. and yup, in black and white.

and it gets better. the above photo is actually the cover of a book she is selling and it includes some of her work from the la dulce luce collection!!

but what really took my breath away was this:

i’ve been searching awhile now for the perfect calendar to ring in 2010… and the search is over! i desparately want this beautiful little calendar adorning my desk and since she is offering a free calendar (free!) with every purchase of her book, I may just have to buy her book… although i may never get anything done again because i’ll be lost in its pages no doubt…

monday, september 28th, 2009.
so, as mentioned in the previous post about dc, i missed my initial greyhound bus and had to catch the latter, which put me in baltimore pretty late.

baltimore greyhound station rating: AMAZING.

i took a taxi to my hostel, and the taxi driver was totally a weirdo, in a good way. he was hilarious and kept doing all these weird voices and saying that he scared people, but he was really funny and goofy! i enjoyed it! the hostel was pretty nice, i think, shit, it’s all kind of a blur. the guy at the front desk was telling me he was glad i showed up because he’d been dialing the number from that one song… that ’80s song with the phone number in it (i forget the godamn song name and number). but basically, he would dial different area codes and then the phone number. i actually didn’t believe him until he dialed this one number and then had me listen to it, and the message was just some random guy rambling about how people needed to stop calling him on this number — he was trying to be sarcastically funny, really — and it went on FOREVER. at least a five minute message; i didn’t stick around to listen to the whole thing cause it was way too long. kinda amusing, though, he must get called that a lot. someone was telling me that the (former?) new york mayor’s phone number was that number, but i have no idea if that’s true.

anyway, then i walked to the venue where psychic ills were playing, called sonar, but there was a motherfucking guestlist snafu, and i totally missed their fucking set, even though i could hear them playing from outside. it really sucked. as i was waiting around calling whomever and doing whatever, some guy started talking to me, and he worked on some yacht as a captain? and he was just in town for the night checking out some music. he was kinda weird and drunk and anxious. he suggested i just walk in the back door of the venue where the bands were loading out, and i was like nah, and he’s like, “hell, i’d do it! i don’t live here so i’ll do whatever i want!” or something ridiculous. i also didn’t think particularly highly of him — and this is perhaps judgmental — because he didn’t appreciate psychic ills’ music (and their music is rad) but moreso because he said that he wouldn’t like them unless he was “tripping on acid” or something ridiculous. finally, i was like, “i’m just going to wait until they come out and talk to them,” and he stepped away for a sec when the psychic ills guys came out so i went to talk to them about getting me in. they were super sweaty! but yeah, i got in. but only for butthole surfers… who i really didn’t care for. so it was really kind of a waste. ah, well.

there were some kids next to me at the butthole surfers show who were really loud and young and crazy and one guy started talking to me, and mentioned he was in a band, so i gave him a business card. he actually texted me later that night, which was kiiiiiinda weird. and the next day, too.

later, as i was leaving the venue, creepy yacht guy caught up to me and was like, “did you get in? i told the psychic ills guys to come talk to you,” and i was like, “i talked to them before you did.” and he was like, oh, because i think he was completely full of shit. freak! and i left in a jiffy.

when i got back to the hostel, i had the wrong fucking door code, so i had to wait until this kinda drunken old dude came up to let me in. at first i wasn’t sure if he lived at the hostel or if he was a crazy bum, but yeah.

tuesday, september 29th, 2009.
walked around and explored, basically. it was cool — i enjoyed baltimore.

woke up, left, and headed over to the cute little lexington market thing and got early morning udon. totally black part of town — i was like the only non-black person around for days (except for inside the actual market itself).

took my udon for breakfast and headed downtown to the waterfront to eat it.

lotta cool random art along the way. this group was doing essentially what the free sheep foundation does in seattle — that is, take spaces that are about to be demolished and put up impromptu galleries in there. particularly easy in baltimore, i feel like, because baltimore is just chock full of buildings that are slated to be demolished, really. similar to detroit. in fact, i forget who, but someone was telling me about these awesome parties in detroit where artists just kind of hole up in giant warehouses and have art openings that are totally underground… probably in spaces where people aren’t even supposed to live, but because no one really checks, these people are just making beautiful awesome art out in the middle of nowhere. i’ve heard really great things about detroit’s art scene, and really hope i get to see some of it sometime. i didn’t get a chance to talk to locals in detroit about much because it was such an impromptu trip, but maybe next time.

people find it hard to believe i like baltimore and detroit so much, but then i tell them i like shitty buildings and things, and they’re like, “ah, that makes sense.”

more art.

finally got to the waterfront and chowed down on my fucking food!

barnes and noble and hard rock cafe inside of an old power plant? alrighty, then!

these awesome things along the ground that say “river walk” in various languages. every other one is english and in between are different languages. i really loved the idea.

flag house, where the first american flag was made

it was right near little italy.

a most enjoyable storefront.

mmmm, urban decay.

locals totally thought i was a weirdo for taking pics of shit like this, but god, look how awesome (if you can even see how awesome).

why wouldn’t you use free parking (left) more often, people who are paying for parking (right)?!!!

tonza jews up in dis bitch.

shot tower. whatever.

there was a hilarious marriage campaign with signs similar to this everywhere. haha.

24oz grape ade? hell yeah.

Trainee trapeze artists on Pier 40

Jesse McDonough is a man who loves New York in a way that I’ve only ever seen people love London. Studying American History in Maryland, where colonial-era studies rule, he chanced on a professor whose speciality was New York and the bug stuck. Cycling being his other passion, his final project considered how bicycles literally paved the way for the coming of the automobile to America. Now he runs Bike The Big Apple, leading tourist posses on pushbikes round the city, cycling along streets that are normally intimidating enough just to cross. His outrider Wendy brings up the rear, sitting in front of SUVs and issuing admonishments to their drivers: as hardcore an urban cyclist on a fixed-wheel bike as you’d ever hope to meet.

Cycling across Manhattan and through the West Village, we see where some of the richest homes in Manhattan have been (the focal point of desirability has moved steadily up Fifth Avenue throughout history, but always sticks to the spine, the street furthest from the filthy water’s edge), now greedily absorbed by NYU’s property acquisition programme; Christopher Square, with its monument to the Stonewall riots; and Manhattan’s thinnest house. We stop at Pier 40 and climb to the top to see a trapeze school (learners are held from falling by bungees) and football being played on the rooftops: Jesse says he plays in a league whose games sometimes kick off at one in the morning.

Rounding the southern tip of the island to catch the sun setting over New Jersey, we cycle through Battery Park City, a westward extension of the island built in the 1970s on the rubble excavated from the site of the World Trade Centre when it was built (there’s still no sign of a replacement). New York’s ability to hold tight skyscrapers comes from its bedrock, Manhattan schist: they rise highest downtown and in midtown because this is where the rock is firmest and closest to the surface.

We cross the Brooklyn Bridge (a good boardwalk, but a squeeze when only a quarter of it is yours: half the cycle lane going one way). The Manhattan Bridge back is better: barely a soul walking and gorgeous views back over the Brooklyn Bridge and downtown Manhattan, flying fifty feet over the Lower East Side. On a small stretch of street where an apartment block now stands, Jesse stops and shows us the place where his great-great-grandfather, an Italian immigrant, opened a barber shop. This is how it isn’t for Londoners, whose passport is their Oyster card: returning to New York is coming home.

*

Along 125th Street, in murals and on badges and posters, the parade of heroes: Malcolm X, Michael Jackson, Barack Obama. Revolutionary, tragedy, politician: all, somehow, part of the same story.

*

At the Nuyorican Poets Café on 3^rd and B, they signal their appreciation of a poem mid-flow with finger clicks, elegant and insect-like micro-applause. Host Jive Poetic, a Brooklyn schoolteacher, does the borough shout-outs; if you’re from out of town, he advises, say you’re from Queens. It’s a proper slam: three judges from the audience hold up Olympic-style score cards at the end of each poem and get cheered and booed in equal measure if the rest of the audience disagree. The styles are more varied than you might expect: stand-outs include the softly urgent ‘Ode to my junk’, a paean to the variety of vaginal pleasure; and an anti-evangelical rant by a poet left sitting at the roadside after a crash by a man wearing a ‘What would Jesus Do’ bracelet. There’s a dominant mode of verse, though: strongly rhythmic, laden with rhymes and assonance (only in this part of the world could you rhyme ‘think’ and ‘bank’); and subject matter revolves around personal identity, trauma, and social injustice. Fair dos: there are more poets here who’ve seen the inside of a prison cell than you’d get at an average reading above a pub in London, but all five finalists are men, all wearing streetwear (t-shirts over long sleeves, hoodies), all talking rhymes with a heavy hip-hop influence. The best for my money is Hasan Salaam, but there’s a good Christian poet whose name escapes me; his stuff circles round to refrains, and he removes his baseball cap and holds it in his hand as though to beg halfway through each poem. The night’s winner, Tre G. finishes with a horribly sentimental poem imploring a woman (‘baby girl’) not to have an abortion (her heart must be ‘cold as ice’), which leaves the evening’s end  itself more than a little cold.

*

18 miles of books at the Strand. Books seen on prominent display in more than one place: The Coming Insurrection, Huey Newton’s Revolutionary Suicide, and The Works: Anatomy of a City. Closest match to the ICA bookshop: The New Museum bookshop.

*

The punters with the audio guides know which paintings are important: they cluster round them like flies on a favourite turd. At the MoMA, two floors of the History of Modern remain as absurd and tedious as ever: the galleries below remain dedicated to whatever comes after Modernism; the best of which might be the exhibition of art-punk artefacts in Looking at Music: Side 2, though there’s something equally irritating about seeing the, you know, actual Marquee Moon cover (the same one you have at home) stuck to a wall, and watching the Rapture video on a big square gallery video box with headphones. These were artists who eschewed galleries, says the interp. That’s because album covers look stupid in an art gallery, and the same goes for Jonathan Monk’s collection of Smiths 12” covers.

The Whitney persists with a thematic hang of its collection, though far more minimally: the gallery invigilator laughs when he sees the little start I give as I notice I’m standing on a Carl Andre: he suggests I walk backwards along it. The Guggenheim hang is, of course, spiral: we learn that the best way to appreciate Kandinsky is to play word association games with the paintings, and that the later paintings have pleasing geometry. The Met surprises with a retrospective of Robert Frank’s The Americans, contextualised with social history and contact sheets from which the final selections were made (in a similar manner to the Barbican’s Capa show). Roxy Paine’s maelstrom of metal branches entangle the rooftop garden, and Argentino-brit Pablo Bronstein’s subtle pisstake in painstaking architects’ drawings of the neoclassical pomposity of the Met itself is quietly outstanding.

A lightning visit to the New Museum to see a retrospective of Black Panther Minister of Culture Emory Douglas’ art in posters and on paper. The Panthers’ combination of revolutionary attitude community politics is immanent in the work: women both carry guns and demanding the means to feed their families. One curious thing: for art that is first and foremost good and honest propaganda, the words of the slogans themselves are very small.

It would be a cliché to say that New York’s best art is on the streets; besides, subway cars remain resolutely silver these days. Nevertheless, Art in Odd Places, taking place this year from one end of 14th Street to the other is a far better game of hide-and-seek than spotting signature styles in an uptown gallery. Water-poems by fire hydrants, cut-up installations in shop windows, a campaign for Monty Burns for Mayor, and most beautiful of all, string crochet wrapped around razor wire protecting a vacant lot.

*

In Williamsburg, an earnest exposition of the roots of the current economic crisis is pasted on yellow paper to the wall. Across it someone has scrawled in pencil: Fuck Hipsters. The disease daydreams that it’s the cure.

*

In successive waves of immigration, each new ethnicity displaces its predecessor as they move out to better suburbs: this is the Lower East Side on the Tenement Museum’s Immigrant Soles walking tour, tracing paths through what was once a German neighbourhood replete with beer gardens, then Jewish, with shtiebels in houses until the Eldridge Street synagogue was built, now Chinese, with Buddhist house-temples much the same. ‘Little Italy’ is now merely a tourist island in Chinatown: profitable restaurants sitting under Chinese-owned, Chinese-occupied apartment blocks. When the Chinese move out, someone else will be here to replace them, says Nick, our ruddy-faced & enthusiastic ‘educator’ from Williamsburg.

This narrative of the endless racial recycling of the reserve army of labour is familiar from tours of London’s East End: the parade of immigration, the normalisation of new communities. It only falls apart a little when Nick points out a ventilation hose poking from a building window. An indicator of a sweatshop, he says; this particular ‘sweatshop’, which supplied stores in the city, was closed by the city after 9-11 when the neighbourhood was more-or-less shut down for a while. Pushed, he doesn’t seem to be able to say quite why; someone else on the tour explains that in fact this was a unionised garment factory (the kind of US-based labour force that American Apparel boasts about), and it closed because in the wake of the towers’ collapse, city stores outsourced the tailoring, and the factories never reopened.

It highlights something insidious about the story of foreign people redeemed through their immigration… when will rich countries run out of poor people to import as workers? What happens if they organise and refuse to accept their natural position at the bottom of the pile? Market-based arguments for multiculturalism are no arguments at all.

*

The Cyclone is closed for the winter and there are only two things left to do on a cold October day at Coney Island: eat a Nathan’s hotdog and shoot the freak. Five dollars for fifteen paintballs that splash harmlessly on the Freak’s shield, and a two dollar tip for the Freak’s college fund.

*

At the Hotel Chelsea, the central staircase used to look down on reception: they built a floor above it because residents used to throw bottles down. Residents still live there, leaving bikes in the hallways and taking dogs in the lift. But changes are afoot: mysteriously appearing on the streets around are flyers taped to lampposts and shop windows declaring that for the avoidance of confusion, Stanley Bard is no longer running the show. Someone has taped the word BARD large and then some other words in their first floor window. The front desk staff won’t be drawn on the situation.

Though David Combs’ famous painting of the Chelsea itself is under lock and key, the rest of the place drips with art: along corridors, in rooms, alongside every flight of stairs along the central stairwell. A sheet banner strung along a whole flight declares undying love for and devotion to the photographer Marcia Resnick. It’s hard to tell if she made it herself. The lobby is adorned with an erect dog. Heritage plaques on the outside say that this is the place where Dylan Thomas sailed out to die. Outside Sid and Nancy’s room there’s a picture of Nancy and a needle.

*

Tastes of the city: pancakes piled high in a lumberjack breakfast; cheese melted over a classic Reuben; fat, thick-rind bacon and grits at Sylvia’s soul food restaurant; a bowl of chilli at Katz’s deli; thin black coffee refills and ice water before you order; hand-pounded hot guacamole at Dos Caminos; nearly-liquid Kobe beef in delectable cubes at Joel Robuchon’s concession at the Four Seasons

*

A night at Jonas Mekas’ Anthology Film Archives with the short films of Pawel Wojtasik. They’re contemplative, with a touch of Brakhage-ish tension between the world represented and flat light falling on the screen. There’s something human about the porcine routine of Pigs: wake, squeal, piss, eat; but also something aestheticised in the rippling piggy hides, and the final money shot of a wall of pigs at war in the direction of a single trough is both hypnotic and repulsive. The Aquarium contrasts wild Alaskan waters with the Exxon-funded aquarium built in the wake of the Exxon Valdez spill: neurotic sea-creatures engaged in repetitive swimming routines. Nascentes Morimur is a film of an autopsy, from first incision to the removal of the brain. It approaches coyness with a digital apertures opening and closing on the work of the scalpel and saw through human flesh, hinting, but also taking something away. Afterwards, Pawel is in conversation; someone asks about filming the autopsy. He shot several autopsies, but used the first: the element of surprise and discovery was present for him as well for the audience. Even a dead person still looks like a person, he says, until they peel away the face.

A collection of some of the most beautiful religious postage stamps … churches, synagogues, chapels, temples and natural beauty. From Sacre Coeur in Paris to a beautiful sunset cross in Bolivar Missouri, enjoy the beauty of these religious postal stamps from around the world. These lovely religious postage stamps will make a great addition to your wedding or other special event invitations.

Most Precious Blood Church on Mulberry Street by perfectpostage

cross by iiiyaaa

At Perfect Postage, we strive to create the “Perfect Postage” for your special invitations. Whether you’re looking for religious, fun, formal, elegant or photo postage, we can help find – or we’ll create – the USPS postal stamp you need.