Blog Archives

Yes my man Ron Carter is on the bass…

When my Old Man was still drinking he’d take my brother and me to the bar at the Ginger Man where we’d drink Cokes on the rocks with twists of lime. Sometimes my twin sister came too but I don’t have any memories of her being there. I was ten, eleven years old but felt like a grown up at the bar so it didn’t occur to me that there was anything strange about a father taking his sons to drink with him.

Eventually, that changed. One day, I was sitting next to a friend of the old man’s who was so loaded, slurring his words, putting his arms around me, that I thought he was going to fall on me. Maybe what the rest of the family said was true, after all–maybe my dad was an alcoholic, though I wasn’t sure what an alcoholic was. 

While the Old Man was getting drunk on Vodka tonics, we pretended to get drunk on Coke, which came out of a magic soda gun, not a bottle. We ate salty peanuts which was special because we never had those kinds of peanuts at home. And on occasion, they’d serve home made potato chips that were still warm.

One of the bartenders showed us how to rim the glass with the slice of lime and to this day a Coke doesn’t taste the same unless it’s on the rocks with a twist of lime.

I was going home last night on the 1 train when a guy with a guitar walked into the car. He was a short Latin man with spiked black hair, a black pea coat (with the collar turned up), grey slacks and polished black shoes. He stood in front of me and put his fingers on his guitar, in no hurry to begin. I made a face when he strummed a few chords because his instrument was not in tune. Then he began to play and sing. I looked at his fingers and saw a white callus on his left index finger that looked like an extension of his finger nail.

He sang with conviction and strummed with force. He was stern almost somber but his voice was emotional, direct. I wondered if he just didn’t care that his guitar was out-of-tune. When he was finished, he spoke so softly that even sitting a foot away I couldn’t make out what he was saying. But as he walked through the car, people gave him dollar bills, not coins.

Nobody cared that his guitar was out of tune. His music still moved them.

Nonchaloir, by John Singer Sargent, 1911

CC goes today in the sunshine…

And Edwar goes to Texas…

These are the Breaks…

Happy Days…

Don’t know what I’d do without Soul Sides:

I haven’t watched any spring training action yet.

Soon enough, the games will be real. In the meantime, here’s hoping the Yankees manage to stay healthy.

(Untitled) Soap Bubble Set, by Joseph Cornell (1936)

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Here’s a jernt where to have a hearty European-style breakfast in the Big Apple:

Count us as one of the million of cablevision customers who are not watching the Oscars tonight.

The wife is not amused. And, uh, you wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.

Update: Maybe the schmucky Big Wig Gods heard her cries. The Oscars are now on, and yes, she’s a heppy ket. Heppy like so:

It’s a beautiful day in New York. The wife and I are taking a drive to the country, don’t ya know.

Hope everyone is having a good one.

Very cool.

Two Tahitian Women, by Paul Gauguin (1899)

Yeah, let’s cool out to the fine sounds of Mr. Hank Mobley:

Zell’s Pinstriped Blog has the upsetting images, taken by WCBS’ Tom Kaminski:

Here’s more from Albert Brooks’ comedy classic, A Star is Bought, his second album. It was a concept record. The idea was: Albert wants a hit record, so the album is made up of cuts that can be played on all different kinds of radio stations. Here is his talk radio bit, where he makes and receives all of the calls.

06 Phone Calls From Americans

Turk, turkey dinner.

At my grandmother’s apartment on 81st street, there were all kinds of foods to scare the living bejesus out of a kid–gefilte fish, pickled herring, cold beet soup, and greasy cheese blinzes. However, she did make a wonderful strudel–and there always seemed to be some on hand–as well as excellent apple, peach and blueberry pies.

One of the things she cooked that I liked best was cream of wheat. Nana made it with milk, cream, butter and sugar. Health, the old fashioned way! It was creamy smooth, no lumps (the lumps only started to appear in her later years). I never knew you could add salt to cream of wheat, and I didn’t have grits until years later.

Still, her cream of wheat is a rich, fond memory and I still make it every so often–no lumps, Snoops. Kind of like this one–that adds mascarpone!–from the food blog, Proof of the Pudding:

This was a great debut for Michael Keaton. Dig Zabars in the background at the head of the clip:

La vase paille, by Paul Cezanne (1895)