Now this lady knows how to roll with style. The red flag is the icing on the gravy.

Seen in bar window, downtown Manhattan. Nothing like the Yankee logo to bring a smile to my face. I’m sure some of you agree while others…don’t.

From the New Yorker…

Mindrelic – Manhattan in motion from Mindrelic on Vimeo.

Where the subway goes to die…

The New York Times has a slide show.

There’s something about the water that scares me. I’m not afraid to go in the ocean and I like to swim. But when I see something sinking, man, it hits me right in the gut and brings on a kind of panic. It’s primal fear.

Is there anything more civilized than taking a walk in Manhattan after a meal? That’s just what I did with the wife last Saturday night. We strolled through through the west village when we heard a trumpet playing “Blue Bossa.” I love that tune no end and I looked ahead to see where the street musician was. I couldn’t see anyone when I looked up and high in the sky saw a figure sitting in a window playing his horn.

I know I’ve played this tune before but it makes me so damned happy here it is again:

I passed by Loeser’s on the way to the subway this morning.

I just had to take a picture and share it with you:

Nothing like thoughts of a knish wish at 7:15 in the morning, eh?

Wish you wuz here.

On the subway this morning the conductor said, after each stop,  “Stand clear and watch the closing doors.”

Then: “Okay, here we go.” Here we go. He made it sound fun and exciting, as if we were strapping in for a roller coaster ride. Like we were all in it together. Bound for something good.

I thought that as cool, especially on such a beautiful morning. It’s been raining for weeks here and you put up with weather like that because–well, because you have no cherce. But for all those dreary days you get one like this. Picture perfect. Like this:

Sing it, Mick:

[Painting I did of model, Santa Monica, 1997–gouache on paper]

When I was in high school I started seeing a shrink. She lived on west 86th street in the same building Stanley Kubrick and I.B. Singer once called home. Her name was Miriam and she looked like she could have been Elaine Kaufman’s sister.

My father knew Elaine when she managed a restaurant called Portofino down in the village. He followed her when she opened her own place on the Upper East Side. He was a regular at Elaine’s in early days, before he got a job at ABC and migrated down to Herb Evans and then the Ginger Man over by Lincoln Center in ’68-’69. Dad took my aunt and cousin Donny to Elaine’s and soon they were going on their own. Last year, Donny told me that the first time he ever ate Pesto was at Elaine’s.

Her place was famous, as famous as any bar in New York since Toots Shor’s. Famous as a hangout for writers and scene makers. It stopped being hip by the late ’70s but coasted on its reputation for many years after that. And Elaine was at the center of it all, loving and profane, a true New York character.

Last December, Elaine died. On Thursday, her old place closes for good. I’d say it was the end of an era, but really the joint died when she did.

How about a toast?

Oh, yeah, big Bartolo Colon and the Yanks got thumped by the Jays, 7-3.

For years Woody played his clarinet every Monday night at Michael’s. Missed the Academy Awards when “Annie Hall” won Best Picture because he was there instead.

How I pined to go when I was a teenager. But I never made it.  It was such a New York thing.

Anyone ever see him play there?

[Picture by François-Marie Banier]

Well, not entirely clear blue skies but the sun is out and what a sight for sore eyes.

I’m taking the wife for a picnic.

Back for more angst tonight.

[Photo Credit Lariverola by four.one.five]

I am enjoying this bit of graf that is on display all over town. I caught this one on 28th street over the weekend.

I remember once seeing a liquor ad on the uptown platform of the 79th street IRT subway station. There was a woman in a bikini lying in a giant martini glass. Someone wrote on it, “What does this woman have to do with this ad?” I pictured an angry young feminist not being able to contain herself.

The next day,written in chicken scrawl next to this question came a reply. “Hot pussy.”

That about covered it.

It was pouring when I left my apartment in the Bronx this morning so instead of walking to the subway I jumped on a bus and only had to walk a block-and-a-half to the train station. I stayed as close as  to the buildings as possible  because the awnings keep some of the rain away. I wasn’t alone. There was a parade of us, single file,  moving down the block, as if a magnet held us close to the buildings.

A New York moment.

Nicholas Dawidoff profiles Paul Simon in the latest issue of Rolling Stone. The piece is not available on-line but here are a couple of cherce bits:

“One day not long ago, Donald Fagen, of Steely Dan, who has admired Simon’s work for decades but knows him only slightly, offered up a spontaneous theory of Simon’s childhood. ‘There’s a certain kind of New York Jew,’ Fagan began, “almost a stereotype, really, to whom music and baseball are very important. I think it has to do with the parents. The parents are either immigrants or first-generation Americans who felt like outsiders, and assimilation was the key thought–they gravitated to black music and baseball looking for an alternative culture. My parents forced me to get a crew cut; they wanted me to be an astronaut. I wouldn’t be surprised if all that’s true in Paul’s case.”

Baseball and black music? I can relate.

And this:

“One day when I am visiting Simon at the Brill Building, we go off to throw a baseball. Simon picks a guitar with his right hand, but on a baseball field, he goes the other way. ‘That’s something I remember about my father,’ he tells me. “I was five or six and we were having a catch. He got me a glove. A righty glove. I’d take it off to throw it back. He’d say, ‘No, no. We do it this way.’ Eventually he came into the house and told my mother, ‘Belle, we got a lefty!’ There’s incredible pleasure in throwing a ball. Having a catch with your dad is having a conversation. As you throw the ball back and forth it’s heavenly.”

I don’t have any fond memories of having a catch with my father–those were uncomfortable moments, filled with impatience, anger, and tears–but I loved having a catch with my younger brother (still do though I can’t remember the last time we had one). There is an intimate connection when you are having a good catch that is unspoken but powerful. The rhythm is easy, contemplative and soothing.

[Photo Credit: Bruce Davidson]

I was at the game last night in the Todd Drew box seats with Ted Berg. It was cold and the game was a dud but we had a good time. The crowd was mostly absent when Derek Jeter grounded out to end the game so I figured I might have a shot at catching a gypsy cab back home. I found a guy who was willing to take me uptown for $20. Good dude, from the west coast of Africa. We spoke French for a few minutes and then he told me in English that he’s been in the States since 1989 but that his entire family is still back in Africa. He sends them money and talks to them four or five times a week but he hasn’t been home in seven years.

He has a lot of friends in New York, almost all African. A bunch of them drive cabs too. They line up a block north of River Ave, across the street from the doughnut shop where Todd and his wife Marsha stopped before each game, and listen to the game on the radio. “John and Suzyn,” he said. I imaged them talking in their native language, standing outside parked cars with the windows open and the sounds of Sterling filling the air.

The cabbie’s favorite Yankee is Jeter. Through his thick accent, I heard “Geeduh.”

Business was slow last night. “It’s better when they win,” he said. That’s when people hang around the local bars until 2  in the morning or later so the cabbies can make three or four trips from the Stadium.

“Tomorrow they will win,” he said.

“What makes you say that?” I said.

“I just have a good feeling.”

I gave him $25 and he said, “Have a good bed.”

[Picture by Jozef Baláž]

Click here for a photo gallery of the one and only Gordon Parks.

So I’m in the elevator of my building the other day with a woman whose parents live on my floor. I ask her what she did for Mother’s Day.

“Oh, I just got back from my grandmother’s. She lives down in Spanish Harlem.”

“Nice.”

“I gave her two rolls of quarters.”

“…For the laundry?”

“Atlantic City.”

“The slot machines?”

“Yup, she’s going in a few weeks. I get her two rolls of quarters for every holiday, Christmas, Easter, her birthday. It’s the only thing she wants.”

[Photo Credit: Joseph Holmes]

My man Brad passed along this coolness–Project Neon: A Digital Guide to New York’s Neon Signs (by Kirsten Hively).

A downstairs neighbor of ours smokes and we can smell it coming through the radiator vent. It’s noticeable, maybe because we’re so sensitive to cigarette smoke now. Both Em and I used to smoke and when we were growing up it seems as if all the grown-ups we knew smoked. If you are of a certain age, I dare you to find childhood pictures without an ashtray on the living room coffee table. You could smoke in movie theaters, at the game, on the train, and certainly in your own home.

That’s not the case these days and I don’t miss it though it’s still hard to believe that you are getting a bargain if you can cop a pack of smokes for $10.

[Photograph Joseph Holmes]

A mother on the subway this morning. She sat on the end seat, her infant on her lap, facing her. New kid, couldn’t be more than a couple of months old.

A big dude, teenager, got on the train and stood with his back to the door, right above the mother. His elbow was only a few inches away from the her head. He didn’t see her. I wondered how we manage to negotiate space in this town, wondered if he was uncaring or just oblivious. Then he looked down and saw the kid. He moved his arm, his stone face softened, and he smiled.