Blog Archives

More Snow.

The beat goes on.

The great Charles Addams:

According to Jon Heyman, Andruw Jones is now a memeber of the New York Yankees.

[Photo Credit: FLC]

I went to Fatty Crab for the first time last week. My brother and I hit the Upper West Side version and we really enjoyed the food. But our waiter was overbearing–sell!, sell!, sell!–and the food was not cheap.

Then, a few nights ago, I had dinner at  Lotus of Siam, the new Thai place on 5th Avenue just off 9th Street. I went with a pal and we arrived early, at 6:00. The host snarled when we told him that we didn’t have a reservation.

“Did that guy just snarl at us?” I said to my friend. “The dining room is half-empty and he”

It was a chilly way to start the evening. Then our waitress…oh, the waitress. “She’s young,” my pal said. I tried to sympathize even though she was either overwhelmed or simply not especially interested in her job. But at $26 an entree, man, I want the service to be welcoming, informative, at least competent. I can deal with rude, like if an old Jewish waiter spills soup on you and then balls you out, but aloof, I can’t abide.

The food was yummy but the portions were small and it was not cheap. Worst of all, I didn’t leave the place feeling happy. I left longing for SriPraPhai in Queens, for a place where the food is great, the prices reasonable and the atmosphere something less than smug.

From our man in Japan, MrOkJazzToyko:

Dig this piece on J.D. Salinger, “Holden Caulfield’s Goddamn War” over at Vanity Fair (taken from Kenneth Slawenski’s new book on Salinger):  

In the autumn of 1950, at his home in Westport, Connecticut, J. D. Salinger completed The Catcher in the Rye. The achievement was a catharsis. It was confession, purging, prayer, and enlightenment, in a voice so distinct that it would alter American culture.

Holden Caulfield, and the pages that held him, had been the author’s constant companion for most of his adult life. Those pages, the first of them written in his mid-20s, just before he shipped off to Europe as an army sergeant, were so precious to Salinger that he carried them on his person throughout the Second World War. Pages of The Catcher in the Rye had stormed the beach at Normandy; they had paraded down the streets of Paris, been present at the deaths of countless soldiers in countless places, and been carried through the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. In bits and pieces they had been re-written, put aside, and re-written again, the nature of the story changing as the author himself was changed. Now, in Connecticut, Salinger placed the final line on the final chapter of the book. It is with Salinger’s experience of the Second World War in mind that we should understand Holden Caulfield’s insight at the Central Park carousel, and the parting words of The Catcher in the Rye: “Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.” All the dead soldiers.

[Picture by Lorna Burt]

Here’s the latest Yankee news from Lo-Hud, MLB Trade Rumors and Hardball Talk. Brian Cashman is at the center of it all–is he a straight-up honest guy, has be botched another off-season, is he effective, is he on a short leash? Which one of these?

A few years ago I had some words with an older gentleman on the subway. We beefed about space, seating, something trivial. I’d see him after that–never forgetting an enemy–and took a small degree of pleasure when I caught him arguing with other passengers. I hadn’t seen him in a few years but last night he got on the train at 168th street. He looked thinner and older and he smelled. I heard him say something but couldn’t make out the words. A few people stood up and let him sit. He was a sad sight and I felt that I’d been petty, not in having an exchange with him one time, but for holding a grudge.

Happen to walk past the Cinema Village last night…haven’t been inside in years but I do remember seeing “She’s Gotta Have it” there, jeez, almost twenty-five years ago…

R.I.P Milton Rogovin:

Click here for the NPR appreciation.

(more…)

Mark Bittman takes on whole-grain flapjacks. Why not?

[Photo Credit: Finger Food Recipes]

…If we all pull together as a team…

Remember not too long ago when cigars were chic? Fly girls in their twenties were smokin’ ’em. Now, cigars are not cool again, so real cigar smokers are forced to gather in spots like the cigar shop near 57th street on 6th Avenue. Some crusty-lookin, but happy old-school dudes in there, man:

Over at The Baseball Analysts, Rich chronicles his recent visit with Bert Blyleven:

Bert went out of his way to accommodate me as he had hip replacement surgery in October. Believe me, he can still zing it. Not shy, I told Bert that I wanted to compare curveballs. I threw him a spinner and he mocked me. “That’s your curveball?” Hey, it was the first one I had thrown in years and only then at a family picnic. He raised his arm and hand to a 12 o’clock position and said, “You’ve got to get it up here.” As someone who had a good curve through high school, I knew I was supposed to throw the ball over the barrel and shake hands with the center fielder (a visual that worked wonders for me). Nevertheless, at age 55, my shoulder wasn’t as cooperative as it once was. Bert, who is four years older than me, broke off a couple of tight ones. Impressive indeed.

My manager, Lee Stange, asked me what position I played. I told him pitcher but said I could also play first base. He kidded, “Everyone out here is a first baseman/DH.” Lee sent me to the bullpen to warm up. He liked what he saw enough to give me the start. The first two batters hit line-drive singles. Standing just outside our dugout on the third base side, Blyleven shouted, “Hey Rich! Try to get an out, why don’t you!” I smiled at him, took a deep breath, and got back to the task at hand. The next batter hit a slow roller to my right. I was thinking two but, then again, I thought I was 30-something rather than 50-something. My brain made the play with no problem, but my body failed me. The ball passed me and the shortstop had no play. A couple of runs later and Bert was now needling me again. “You’ve got an 18.00 ERA!” It was actually higher at that moment in time because I had not yet completed the inning. Thankfully, I did with no further damage.

[Photo Credit: Brian Hirten/Ft. Myers News-Press]

The King of what? King of Style…

In case you missed it, Triumph recently reprinted Clyde Frazier’s classic fun time book, “Rockin’ Steady” (written with Ira Berkow).

Two women on the IRT…

The hits keep coming. My man Eric Nusbaum hipped me to these cherce selections from the Harry E. Winkler Collection of boxing photographs.

Bags hipped me to a most cool site called Scouting New York.

Dig these two then-and-now posts on “Taxi Driver” and “Ghostbusters”:

Kevin Long is a busy man. Over at SI.com,  Tom Verducci has a piece on the work Derek Jeter will do with the Yankees’ hitting coach in the coming weeks:

“I feel like Derek always has been the type of player who cares about winning instead of the numbers,” Long said. “I think the contract probably caused him to think more about numbers than he otherwise would want to. It probably did affect his performance.

“Listen, he’s human, just like anybody else. A lot of guys try real hard, and when they don’t get results they try even harder. And sometimes the harder you try the more you fail.”

[Photo Credit: Life Magazine]

For an old-fashioned, no-frills treat, stop by the Donut Pub next time you are on 14th street. Their Boston Creme rules:

[Photo Credit: Juozas Cernius and robobby]

Every once in a while something comes along that is so unbearably tremendous that I can’t help but feel rejuvenated, filled with enthusiasm and faith in the world.

Like this story…

…About the guy who found a treasure and is now sharing it with the world.

Dig this piece by Nora O’Donnell for Chicago Magazine:

On an unremarkable day in late 2007, John Maloof, a young real-estate agent, spent some time at a local auction house, RPN Sales in Portage Park, combing through assortments of stuff—some of it junk—that had been abandoned or repossessed. A third-generation reseller, Maloof hoped to find some historical photographs for a small book about Portage Park that he was cowriting on the side. He came across a box that had been repossessed from a storage locker, and a hasty search revealed a wealth of black-and-white shots of the Loop from the 1950s and ’60s. There’s got to be something pertinent in there, he thought. So he plunked down about $400 for the box and headed home. A closer examination unearthed no scenes of Portage Park, though the box turned out to contain more than 30,000 negatives. Maloof shoved it all into his closet.

Something nagged, however—perhaps a reflex picked up from working the flea market circuit as a poor kid growing up on the West Side of Chicago. Though he knew almost nothing about photography, he eventually returned to the box and started looking through the negatives, scanning some into his computer. There was a playfulness to the moments the anonymous artist had captured: a dapper preschool boy peeking from the corner of a grimy store window; an ample rump squeezing through the wooden planks of a park bench; a man in a three-piece suit napping, supine, in the front seat of his car, his right arm masking his face from the daylight. Whoa, Maloof mused. These are really cool. Who took them?

Vivian Maier, a French ex-pat, that’s who:

After a call to the Tribune left him with a faulty address and a disconnected phone number, Maloof didn’t know where to turn. In the meantime, though, he started displaying Maier’s work on a blog, vivianmaier.com. Then, in October 2009, he linked to the blog on Flickr, the photo-sharing website, and posted a question about Maier’s pictures on a discussion board devoted to street photography: “What do I do with this stuff (other than giving it to you)?”

The discussion went viral. Suggestions poured in, and websites from around the world sent traffic to his blog. (If you Google “Vivian Maier” today, you’ll get more than 18,000 results.) Maloof recognized that this was bigger than he’d thought.

He was right about that. Since his tentative online publication of a smattering of Vivian Maier’s photographs, her work has generated a fanatical following. In the past year, her photos have appeared in newspapers in Italy, Argentina, and England. There have been exhibitions in Denmark and Norway, and a showing is scheduled to open in January at the Chicago Cultural Center. Few of the pictures had ever been seen before by anyone other than Maier herself, and Maloof has only scratched the surface of what she left behind. He estimates that he’s acquired 100,000 of her negatives, and another interested collector, Jeff Goldstein, has 12,000 more (some of them displayed at vivianmaierphotography.com). Most of Maier’s photos are black and white, and many feature unposed or casual shots of people caught in action—passing moments that nonetheless possess an underlying gravity and emotion. And Maier apparently ranged far and wide with her camera—there are negatives from Los Angeles, Egypt, Bangkok, Italy, the American Southwest. The astonishing breadth and depth of Maier’s work led Maloof to pursue two questions, as alluring in their way as her captivating photographs: Who was Vivian Maier, and what explains her extraordinary vision?

Here’s David Dunlap in the New York Times:

What is known about Ms. Maier is that she was born in New York in 1926, lived in France (her mother was French) and returned to New York in 1951. Five years later, she moved to Chicago, where she worked for about 40 years as a nanny, principally for families in the North Shore suburbs. On her days off, she wandered the streets of New York and Chicago, most often with a Rolleiflex twin-lens reflex camera. Apparently, she did not share her pictures with others. Many of them, she never saw herself. She left behind hundreds of undeveloped rolls.

Even if you don’t think Ms. Maier has the makings of a minor master from the mid-20th century whose work can now be appreciated, you’ll probably be affected by at least a few of her photos.

And if you’re nearing 60 and grew up Chicago, you’re almost bound to feel — as I do — that a precious past has been rescued that we didn’t even know existed; thousands of blinks of the civic eye, tens of thousands of beats of the public heart.

Thank you, John Maloof. You are doing a great public service.

Here’s the website:

Enjoy.