Root & Bone NYC

In the summertime the kitchen is the last place you want to be, right? It's hot in there. And that heat can be oppressive. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck. Sweat trickles down the center of your back. You need a separate dish towel just to wipe your forehead and the back of your neck...over and over. You can fan yourself but all that does is circulate the warm air.

Now pretend that kitchen is grandma's. Same summertime heat. It's steamy; made even more humid by the mixing of vapor rising from the pots on the stove and the heated oven where biscuits are baking at 350°. Lawdy mercy it's hot in there. But the swelter that comes from that kitchen is somehow comforting.

The kitchen is the center of the house; the hub. There's a flurry of activity--from checking the pans on the stove, to cutting up the garden fresh vegetables, to gossiping about the latest goings on about town. There's a sense of being part of something and you never know what stories you might hear. And then there're the smells. They make your mouth water in anticipation. As for the heat, well it's nothing a glass of ice cold lavender lemonade can't squelch. Or if you're feeling more spiritedly adventurous, try a Sweet Grass Gin with honey green grape & field greens. Ice cold of course.

That's just what my companion, Mandy, and I did on a recent evening. Mandy and I have dinner together every week. We both write and we use these weekly get togethers to read whatever's new that the other is working on or to catch up on the week. We often like to get out of our neighborhood rut and try something new. Twice a year over 300 restaurants participate in what is known as Restaurant Week. It's an affordable way to eat at what might otherwise be an unaffordable restaurant. Us taking advantage of our desire to find a new neighborhood and experience a new restaurant is what led us to pay our first visit to Root & Bone on Avenue B and 3rd Street in NYC's Alphabet City.

The place is small; the heat and the kitchen equally felt and on display. Don't let any of these things deter you. When you're sitting at your table, or at one of the bars, you might feel like you're at a family reunion. Everyone is sitting closely next to everyone else and all the conversations are happening at once creating a sound that, while less pleasant than a cicada symphony, is much more harmonious than traffic sounds and car horns.

Root & Bone has a menu of easygoing southern food dressed up with city personality. It knows where it comes from but it fits right in with the tastemakers and foodies of NYC.

In the south the evening meal of the day is called supper and that's exactly what Root & Bone calls what many New Yorker's call dinner.

1st course
From the Restaurant Week prefix menu I chose for my first course: Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. Two small homemade biscuits served on a small wooden cutting board with a bowl of honey roasted chicken jus. Jus is just a fancy way of saying juice or gravy. There was a sprig of thyme and small mound of benne seeds and sea salt. For full effect the biscuit should be dipped in the jus then dipped in the sea salt and seeds then savored for all the unadulterated flavor that floods your taste buds.

Main course - Supper
Braised Short Rib Meat Loaf. This is not your grandma's meat loaf. In fact this meat loaf was like no other meat loaf I've ever eaten. For one thing it was texturally not what one would expect of meat loaf.  Meat loaf that is made from ground beef, ground turkey, ground pork, etc., all kind of looks the same. Like it's made from ground meat. This meat loaf had the structure of rib meat that you would eat off the rib. It wasn't ground. The tomato jam and mashed roots that decorated and paired with this meat loaf by design accentuated the flavor. The accompanying green beans and broccoli were seasoned to southern perfection.

Dessert
This is where I wanted to lose all my manners and decorum and lick the tin pan. I ordered strawberry shortcake. I was hoping that it would be made with a biscuit instead of the sponge cake I grew up calling strawberry shortcake. I was not disappointed. The biscuit was similar in size to one of Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. This biscuit however was so much more. The bottom half was sitting in strawberry juice and topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. The top of the biscuit crowned the berries and cream. The 'so much more' of this biscuit was the sea salt that topped it. Salty and sweet like I'd never tasted it before. I'm aware of the chocolate and popcorn type of salty sweet, but this was so much unexpected goodness that I seriously was sad to take the last bite and made myself put my napkin in the tin pan to prevent myself from lapping the juice up like a dog.

At the end of supper I met chef Jeff McInnes. I'd had the pleasure of watching him work all evening--standing on the sidelines calling out orders, making sure things moved along. He mopped his brow in the heat. I told you that separate dish towel would come in handy. I watched as he mingled with his patrons--inquiring about their meals, making sure they knew exactly how to eat Grandma Daisy's Angel Biscuits. He seemed to have grace under pressure (some people thrive on that pressure) and was kind on top of that. In my observation, he genuinely wanted his guests to enjoy their experience. 

"How was everything?" he asked me.

He's a creative artist, after all, and like other creative artists who infuse there work with a part of their soul--a painter in his brush strokes, a writer in his narrative, a dancer in his dance--there's a part of a his soul in his recipes. Don’t we all want our supporters to enjoy our art?

My response, "So good. Oh my God!"

I know that’s true of everything I write. I want each piece to find its audience: those people who identify with, or laugh at, or cry over the tale. But even when I prepare a dish of food that might be new to its consumer, I desire to please them. I hope they love it as much as I do. There’s a sense of pride in blending the spices and marrying the flavors. From discerning palettes to non, one wants to thrill the tastebuds and excite the senses.

"I'll take that 'Oh my God,'" he smiled.

As we continued to chat beyond my exaltations of the meal, I learned that Jeff is from Alabama. I told him I'm from Kentucky. He was very personable. I told him that I'd been in the City for 18 years and that it's always nice to find a restaurant that offers southern cooking with a twist.

The oh-my-God summed it all up. The food was amazing. The atmosphere may have been hot, the ambient noise more foreground that back, but none of that mattered. The experience at Root & Bone is one that I would gladly repeat. As for the heat, maybe the air conditioner was out. Or maybe it's all just part of the experience. Regardless, I would go back in a heartbeat. Only next time I would hope to greet Jeff as less of a stranger and more of an acquaintance after all I've met him now and as Will Rogers said, "A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet." 

A Return to Different

I realize it’s still officially summer, but let’s face it, Labor Day came and went, school started, the days are getting shorter and there has been a nip in the morning air. That basically screams fall to me - my favorite time of year. For me, fall is a time for new beginnings; rebirth. The heat of summer goes away. New shows debut on television while old favorites return. Sweaters move from the back of the closet to the front. Hot chocolate becomes appropriate. Pumpkin makes its annual return and the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon fill the air. All that’s missing is that little square on the calendar making it official. 

I kicked off the approaching most colorful of the seasons with a return visit to Provincetown - P-town for short - during that purgatory time between summer ending and fall beginning.

The streets were the same: narrow, one-car lanes lined on either side with shingle houses, familiar to the Hampton’s and Cape Cod, in weather-worn gray that showed their age with grace. White-painted, grand homes that looked out upon the water. Colorfully painted homes that seemed to invite a party. Homes with widow’s walks that distanced themselves from the sadness of the widows that once stood, longingly staring out to sea in search of their missing husbands.

The sidewalk made of brick still lay under the tread of feet carrying visitors to the next restaurant for another lobster roll; to another art gallery to see this year’s pieces (and in some cases familiar pieces from past visits); or to the next bar in which to sip a drink and possibly strike up a conversation. In my case to gaze at the people in conversation wishing I was part of it. My issues are a subscription that I just keep piling in the basket, slowly working through until I can recycle them into something new and useful.

The lighthouses were still there, majestically standing at the far reaches of the Cape, ready to warn passing ships of the dangers that lay below the water. 

There’s something about standing in P-town, breathing deeply, that makes me close my eyes and find the stillness of being, all the while filling my lungs with oxygen from a deep inhale of salt tinged air. NYC goes away. The thump of music that I hear isn’t necessarily from a bar, it’s from a porch where men dressed in pink from head-to-toe are having a good time or from a music store trying to lure me inside. Laughter is abundant. People on bicycles whiz by. Dogs and their owners stroll down the street. 

People are not as friendly in P-town as they are in Cherry Grove on Fire Island, but it’s okay because to each his own and we each have our own reason for absorbing the atmosphere of P-town. 

This year brought a change in rental house location. We actually rented a home on Winthrop Street. For those of you who have patiently been reading my current piece of fiction, “Return to Winthrop St.,” this is the same street of the story’s title. I was inspired to start the story last year at the end of my visit to P-town. It was quite interesting to me to find myself staying on said street this year. Even more interesting was to see that one of the businesses that inspired the name of one of the characters was no longer present on the street. “Return to Winthrop St.” is inspired by true events. Inspired means loosely based. Very loosely. The story is fictionalized and embellished; it has been a way for me to work through some things in my life. I found it very telling that one of the inspiring names was no longer present on the street. It was almost as if the universe was showing me that people can move on, that we can get over things.

This time last year I was expressing the need for living my life as my own and taking risks for progress. To look at the words on the pages I’ve written since then it’s hard to see that I’ve taken any steps forward, but I have. They may be tiny steps, but I have moved. I’m still close enough to where I was to see it without the need of my glasses, but any step forward is a step away; a step toward change. 

I was very distressed emotionally last year when September rolled around and I stepped off the ferry onto the dock at P-town. I let the emotional conflict playing tennis in my head prevent me from having the vacation I should have had. I was determined this year to enjoy myself. It was my vacation and I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. Isn’t that what vacation is about?

I’m such a sit around kind of guy. Somedays I like having no plans. I realize that can get boring. I get bored with my own company sometimes, but there are days when having nothing planned - choosing to sit outside at the plastic table that has a hole for an umbrella to block the sun but no umbrella in sight, reading the September issue of Harper’s Bazaar - is just what I need. Add to that a morning bloody mary and a comfy T-shirt with the neck cut out and I’m describing a perfect morning with no cares, concerns, or anxieties.

This vacation brought the rental of bicycles. I actually wanted to rent bikes. Renting bikes last summer during my trip to the Vineyard showed me that I could still ride a bike and made it easy to say yes to renting bikes in P-town this trip. I won’t lie. Riding a bike in any kind of traffic makes me nervous, but the trafficked streets were so few compared to the open bike trails that took me to and past the beach and through a beautiful hilly, wooded area that it made the traffic worth it just to get to there. The excitement of feeling the wind brush my face as I coasted down a curvy hill can’t be matched. Not even by the serene morning of Harper’s and a bloody mary. I brought up the rear of our threesome of bike riders, but that was fine with me. It allowed me to just exist in my own space and experience my surroundings on my own time.

This trip to P-town also brought a visit to the beach. I’m a sucker for the water. Most of you who read my blog know that. I love sitting on the sand and staring out into the vastness that melds into the horizon with barely a break in color. This beach was rockier than I care for, but it was still calming - the waves rolling in and flowing out. I will admit that I don’t enjoy the slather of sunblock to prevent sunburn and skin cancer, but I know it’s a necessity. And please, I’m vain enough at 41 that I don’t want to give my skin any extra chance to wrinkle than it already has from life in general.

There were beautiful sunsets to behold. There were sailboat dotted views of the ocean from the back deck of The Red Inn - while sipping the best Cucumber vodka flavored drink I had while on vacation - that allowed for an exhale of stress so decompressing that my body became smaller. Rosie O’Donnell was there with her new wife. I gave her a shout out before I could stop myself. We’re all just people, right? 

There is still conflict in my life. Some might say I brought it all on myself. Maybe I did. Looking back over the year between P-town visits I realize that I have been dealing with so much in my life that it’s no wonder I have anxiety. Friendships have changed. Relationships have grown and in some cases fallen apart. Writing has continued with even more honesty. More responsibility has been placed upon my shoulders at work. Parasites wreaked havoc. It’s just another year in my life, but oh what a year it’s been.  

Cucumber vodka takes its place in my freezer among my other favorite - Firefly Sweet Tea vodka. A new piece of art hangs in my home. Yep, I finally bought one of the pieces I’d admired from my two previous visits. I’m ready to see the leaves change; add a dash of cinnamon to my coffee. I’m ready to put the anxiety behind me. I’m ready to close the chapter on the old challenges, and, no matter how apprehensive I may be, face the new ones. Although that scares the shit out of me. My subscription basket just got one more issue full. 

“Seasons change,” Carrie Bradshaw says in the “I Heart NY” episode of Sex and the City. She’s right and life changes along with those seasons. I continue to struggle; to grow; to change; to progress in my life. Reflection can be a melancholy affair. Cue “Moon River” and the leaf gently falling to my feet, but pour me a drink first. Maybe something cucumber flavored.

From Clear Blue to Cumulus

June 7, 2011

I woke at 7:33 am on our first morning on the Vineyard. I couldn't help but smile as I looked around my gorgeous yellow room (I miss having a yellow bedroom) as the sun was streaming through the skylights. I got up, thanked God for a new day and promptly walked over to the sliding door that opened onto the balcony attached to my room, opened it and breathed deep. Then I stopped and took in the sounds - birds were alive with the sounds of morning. It was clear, fresh and green.

Neal was already up and sitting downstairs surfing the web. I assumed he was checking out things for us to do, but I chose to not ask because it just didn't matter. Vacation – ideas and options with no concrete plans.

My task at hand was coffee. I've been drinking it for years, but I no longer use a regular coffee maker. I use a French press. Therefore, I have to read the directions for the coffee to water ratio every time I use a coffee maker and just hope that I get the taste result I'm used to. How hard can it be you ask? Well, I'm the one looking foolish with measuring cups and spoons trying to get one tablespoon to six ounces of water and figuring out on the pot where those markings are. I must look a fool.

Post breakfast it was time for a walk to the beach. The rental info said we were 2 miles from South Beach. We had driven there the night before and it didn't seem that far to me, but what did I know. I travel by subway – underground – with speed that makes miles mean nothing to me.

Face completely slathered in SPF 85 sunscreen, a cap and glasses (I was turning 40 after all. Sun damage keep out) we set out for our morning walk. The sky was clear blue easy – not a hint of a cloud. The still cool air felt amazing on my exposed skin. We were walking into the breeze. Through the air were carried alternating top notes of sweet floral and woodsy cedar combined with bottom notes of salty sea air. You don't realize how amazing something is, something you never even think about, until you're doing it. I never think about the smell of the water while walking to the subway. I can tell you this, there was no overheated garbage smell on this walk. And the destination – rolling waves crashing on a nearly deserted beach – was not an underground train. A haze was barely peaking over the horizon as we left the beach.

Walking back did not bring the same breeze. The day was warming. There were small wisps of clouds now in the air. We broke a sweat as we walked and talked about parents and vacationing. All in all it took us an hour and seven minutes to complete our jaunt.

To Oak Bluffs we went. It was time to let the sight seeing begin. My camera was packed in my small Jack Spade bag and my guidebook was hidden in its back pouch. I knew I was a tourist, but I hate looking like a tourist. I try to blend in no matter where I am. Access those old acting skills please.

We found 4-hour parking around Ocean Park, a seven-acre grassy space with an 1880's bandstand at its center that, according to the walking tour brochure, so epitomized the resort community of Oak Bluffs that it was incorporated into the town seal in 1980. The parking area at Ocean Park sat in front of an amazing semi-circle of Victorian homes. It reminded of the summer cottages (White Elephants) in Newport. All the homes faced the Atlantic. Those properties cost some serious cash. We had 4 hours to explore.

We made our way to Circuit Avenue. Not only had I seen it was the main strip in my guidebook; my friend Rob, a frequent summer visitor to the Vineyard, had told me to check it out. Rob had told me about Ben and Bill’s Chocolate Emporium. He looked through my guidebook and saw that it wasn’t listed. He said that we should definitely check it out over Mad Martha’s. He wrote it down on a post it that he then stuck into my book. We found Ben and Bill’s immediately. I wanted to go in and Neal, the ice cream whore of the two of us, was game. Rob has suggested we get the kid’s size, as the small was as large as your head. We did just that. Not feeling the need to leap from his go-to favorite, Neal chose the kid’s size chocolate chip on a regular cone. It was large enough that he got a spoon to go with it. I chose Almond Joy – chocolate ice cream with whole almonds, coconut flakes and chunks of Almond Joy inside. I chose a waffle cone. I didn’t take a spoon. We found a bench just off Circuit that was partially shaded and sat and enjoyed our cones. It was amazing ice cream, and such a large portion that it stood in for our lunch.

With the ice cream finished it was time to see Oak Bluffs. Neal saw a pamphlet for a Historic Walking Tour of Oak Bluffs. We had seen that on the Internet and discussed it prior to heading into town earlier that day. We decided to take the brochure, follow the map and walk the town at our leisure.

The tour began next to where we had been sitting eating our ice cream cones – The Flying Horses, the oldest continuously operating carousel in the nation. We did not get to ride was it’s only open Friday – Sunday at that point.

We made our way to Trinity Park where at the center stood The Tabernacle. From what I gather, in the 19th-century tent meetings used to be held on that spot. The tent was replaced in 1879 with the permanent structure currently standing there. Sharing the greensward with the park is Trinity United Methodist Church, built in 1878. Surrounding the park in a circle were "gingerbread" or "Painted Ladies" cottages painted in dramatic colors of pink, lavender, blue, red and green – very Victorian with their filigree (suggesting lace) wood work. It was like a fairytale – say Hansel and Gretel. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed that it existed. The houses evoked another era; one in which I can’t imagine living.

Beyond Trinity Park we moved deeper into neighborhoods – where a white cottage was the most drab, boring color imaginable – where small side streets weren’t even drivable; streets that had signs telling you to walk your bike. If most of the houses were built in the 1800’s, many of the trees were at least that old (if not older). Standing tall and creating shade, the trees combined with the bushes created a lush landscape that fit perfectly with the cottages they surrounded.

There were 20 stops on the walking tour. Neal had suggested we look at the brochure and choose what we wanted to see if we didn’t want to see it all. He thought it would at least help us get a sense of Oak Bluffs. I was so glad he suggested it and that I had said yes. We ended up seeing everything on the tour. We took our time and took in the lovely, quaint neighborhoods of Oak Bluffs. It couldn’t have been a nicer experience on a more beautiful day. The clouds had changed to fluffy, white cumulus.

We hung out in Oak Bluffs for 3 hours and 40 minutes. It felt like 10 hours, but not in a bad way. We were tired from all the walking we had done that day starting with our walk to the beach and including our tour of Oak Bluffs, but it was a good tired. An I’m-ready-to-be-back-at-the-cottage-and-chill-with-a-beer kind of tired not an I’m-exhausted-and-need-to-go-to-bed kind of tired. It was a productive day full of exciting sights and tastes.
We pulled off the side of the road on the way back to our cottage and got out of the car without shoes and took a moment to admire the Atlantic from State Beach.

A stop off at the Stop and Shop gained us some summer fixin’s (potato salad, coleslaw) and bags of chips to go with our grilled hot dogs for the evening. Stella Artois was welcome refreshment.

It's Only 6:15? (that would be AM)

June 6, 2011

When I awoke the next morning, Neal was already awake. I heard a zipper being zipped in his room. It sounded like someone (Neal) saying 'I'm awake" in a high-pitched voice. He said he'd been up for about 45 minutes already. I asked what time it was. He said, "6:15." I said "6:15?" That would be AM of course. I was sure it was at least 8 am.

I was going to walk to my favorite little Boston coffee shop, The Sugar Bowl, and get some coffee, but we ended up driving to McDonald's and going through yet another drive thru. Day 2 of vaca and day 2 of drive thru. Who am I?

With episodes of Today and Friday Night Lights (my first ever) finished, we showered, dressed and loaded the car. I was antsy. I mean we'd been up since 6:15 am. It was after 9 am by that time and I needed to do something.

We loaded the car and made a Target run (are the gays shopping at Target again?) to buy those last minute essentials - OFF!, loofah's, body wash, sunscreen. Next stop, a gas station for a beverage to take on the road. I went straight (gayly forward) to the water, but on the way I passed Sun Drop. Yes, Sun Drop. I hadn’t had one since October. I indulged. I also bought the water and an apple. I may have eaten drive thru twice and gotten a soda, but I wasn’t about to let myself go just because I was on vacation. I was going to the beach after all. The apple was chosen over the peanut M&M's that I wanted. Restraint folks, you can do it if you really want to.

We slammed the doors of our silver Jeep, merged right onto I-93 South and our vacation (Operation 40) started. The tunes (J-Lo, Rihanna, Britney, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry) were blaring. It was all I could do to keep the windows up.

Just past the Entering Cape Cod sign we crossed over Bourne Bridge and I turned into a Kennedy. Not! Crossing the bridge gave a beautiful view of the properties that line the water in Bourne Village. I was reminded of crossing the Claiborne Pell Bridge into Newport.

We were so close to Woods Hole, MA, where we were catching the ferry to Martha's Vineyard that I wanted to roll down the window and see if I could smell the water. Again, I kept the window up. It seemed the restraint I was trying to use towards the fast food was branching out into other areas. There was nothing but me stopping me from rolling down the window and smelling the water. I just didn’t do it. Dumb ass!

I would be withholding the truth if I didn't tell you that by the time we got to Woods Hole I had to use the bathroom so bad that I was in pain. Yes, I am nothing if not predictable about needing the bathroom when there isn't one. A small plane to Paducah anyone? Of course, the road had many bumps and we hit them all throwing my bladder into a flip and my insides onto anxiety row. Damn you, Sun Drop.

We stopped at what we thought would be a cute place to eat before boarding the ferry and wouldn't you know it, no public restroom. We got back in the car and headed the 6 miles back up the road to where we'd seen other restaurants. Only God and my self-control saved me wetting my pants. The wooden spoon I was biting on didn't hurt either.

The pleasure that comes when you finally get to go to the bathroom came over me and stayed for what felt like 5 minutes. It wasn't that long, but it was at least 2 minutes of pure urination. Lord! I didn't even order a beverage for lunch. Forget that. We were getting a boat next and I couldn't even deal with that pressure!

We ate at The Quarterdeck in Falmouth. It was rushed as we had 15 minutes to get back to the ferry and claim our place in line. Neal suggested, and I agreed, that this be the last time we rushed for anything for the entire week. Amen!

Lane number 2, 30 minutes 'til departure; we sat and waited. Nothing like waiting in the traffic on the bus the day before. This was an anticipatory wait. The breeze was blowing through the open windows (finally rolled down) as we watched the ferry arrive. I was excited, but very chill.

The cars all exited and loaded onto the ferry with precision and speed. The men in charge had it down to a science. We drove our car onto the ferry, locked it up and proceeded to the upper deck. The sun was shining, the breeze was blowing, the birds were chirping and I was feeling the stress of city life departing my body.

The harbor looked like the harbor I had described in my current short story, Thornclyffe; sailboats dotted the water. I was in the harbor of my fictional town. Crazy cool.

Our ferry began to shake as we began to slowly move out into the Atlantic. We were sitting facing the back. I was curious why the benches didn’t face forward. I hadn’t realized there were benches at both ends. We just happened to sit at the end in which we had entered the passenger deck from the car deck. We moved around to the other side and took in the vast ocean. It was gorgeous – blue in the distance, more green up close. Neal talked of loving the water; I talked of being afraid of it. Imagine me afraid of something. What? No! Well the truth is, not being able to see the bottom and what’s below/around my feet freaks me out. There would be no jumping off the ship and hitting the bottom and using my feet to launch myself upward toward the sun. There would be no bottom to anchor. Freaks. Me. Out.

While staring at the homes that dotted the landscape on Martha’s Vineyard, we heard a dog start barking. I turned to see at what it was barking. It was staring up. I followed its gaze. There was a seagull floating over the deck. It was just gliding above us like a kite over the beach. It was strange yet fascinating. Of course I was hoping in wouldn’t poop on us. Neal made a comment after a while of feeling like Tippi Hedren in The Birds and looking for a phone booth on the ferry in order to get away from our floating passenger. And just like that, the seagull caught a crazy wind and was gone. We watched as it was blown away, unable to steer itself. No need to worry about the bird. It reappeared later in our trip. It was still hovering when we exited to go to the car deck.

We drove off the ferry and I remember saying “Oh my God.” We were in Oak Bluffs and it was beautiful; everything I could imagine and did. I pulled out the handy, here’s-where-every-turn-is directions provided by my rental agent and we were on our way to pick up the rental packet for our week on Martha’s Vineyard. I dubbed it Operation 40. I was surprised at how much the small towns of Oak Bluffs and especially Edgartown reminded me of Amagansett, NY, or Salisbury, CT. I wasn’t in either of those places though. I was on an island in the Atlantic off the coast of Massachusetts. I was escaping and relaxing.

I must admit as we drove to the cottage, a cottage heretofore only seen in pictures, that I was struck with images of Deliverance. Okay it wasn’t like that, but the road turned from paved to dirt. Neal said that is typical of other places. You think there’s nothing there, but it’s a dirt road leading to hidden homes built for privacy. That’s exactly what we had. There were homes near us, but not enough to worry about and the trees were so tall and the bushes so lush that they created a natural barrier and the privacy any one craving it would get.

We unloaded our belongings at 19A Sutton Way and got settled. The ceiling fans were on, the windows were open. The sliding door in my bedroom was open. The breeze filled the house. New York City? What New York City? I zipped my life in New York City up into a bag and hid it in a back corner of my mind. I opened myself up to the cool breeze that washed over me as I stood on the balcony connected to my room. Bliss!

With everything unpacked and stowed in drawers and closets (hey we were living there for a week, we might as well get out of the suit case and into the dresser) we hopped in our silver Jeep and headed to South Beach, a mere two miles down the road.

It was beautiful. I took off my flip-flops and felt the sand between my toes. The evening was lovely. The walk on the beach lovelier if that’s possible. We walked and talked for at least an hour. Our feet, and my lower back, were actually sore when we finally decided we’d had enough. I was conflicted. I wanted to sit down in the Jeep, but I didn’t want my first walk on the beach to be over.

Having a full kitchen we knew we wanted to buy groceries and prepare food for ourselves instead of constantly going to restaurants. Hell, that would just be a waste of money when you have a working stove, microwave and gas grill. We bought the staple provisions of milk, cereal and coffee. We also bought cheeses and crackers, fruit and nuts. We bought pork chops for the evening. In my mind, that gas grill was screaming for the near 2-inch thick pork chops we found in the Stop and Shop. I suggested barbequing them and we found a honey brown sugar barbeque sauce.

Two gay boys, neither of whom owns a grill, was a comedy routine for those lucky enough to be watching, through an open space in the trees or bushes, when we tried to light the grill. We tried all three knobs until Neal suggested that maybe the propane wasn’t on. We couldn’t see as we had waited until after dark to start grilling. I suggested Neal get the flashlight that he packed (at the last minute just in case we needed one). Looks like we needed it. He turned on the tank and we had fire. Tom Hanks didn’t shout anything about making fire and neither did we, but it was exciting nonetheless.

We didn’t know how long to cook the meat. Neal came inside and Googled “grilling thick pork chops” or something along those lines and we followed the directions. Sear for one minute, flip, sear for one minute, flip, cook for 3 minutes, flip, cook for three minutes, flip. Of course the temperature of the grill wasn’t hot enough when we started and we reduced the heat in the middle of searing and flipping. That being said, the meat was not done when we took it inside and cut it open. Back to the grill for another 6-10 minutes and viola – the other white meat was perfect.

There’s something to be said for enjoying a meal that you prepare yourself. We poured a Rosé to go with ours and sat and enjoyed the fruits of our labor.

A Summer of Discovery & Rediscovery

It's been a while since I've concentrated on writing about what I'm doing. It's been since August 19th to be exact. I've been doing things. Living life.

It's been a great summer. I hate to think of it as being over. Technically it isn't, but the kids have gone back to school.

This was my first summer as a resident of Astoria. I enjoyed the peace that my home brought into my life. I've had to remind myself that what I'm feeling these days is happiness. It's been a while since I felt truly happy.

One major thing that has been going on with me this summer is: I've been meeting with my friend Mandy on Tuesday nights to read. We're not reading books. We're reading what the other one is writing. It's been amazing. We meet for dinner and catch up on the goings on in each other's lives over the past week. We talk and laugh and eat. After the plates are taken away, we order coffee and pull out the pages for that night's reading. It has been so exciting and pleasurable to read what Mandy has been working on. It's a funny story and I can't wait to read the new pages each week. I look forward to finding out what new, ridiculous experience she puts her characters through. Sometimes it's just a paragraph or line that is the stand out. Other times it's the entire scene. I never fail to laugh though.

It's also been a confidence boost for me to have her read and critique my first foray into fiction writing. She sort of acts as an editor. She helps me clarify things that don't make sense. She doesn't necessarily know that I listen to her entire reaction though. There were things in my first story, Ocean Point, that I wrote because she mentioned that she couldn't wait to find out about such and such. They were things that I maybe wasn't even concerned with. However, writing those descriptions or explanations made the piece better. So thank you Mandy for just being you and wanting to know.

I have now moved on to another story - 327 Chesterfield Road. It's a different tale than the first. More challenging really. The first one was a challenge, don't get me wrong. When I'm writing about something that I did or experienced, I can give you every detail because it happened to me. I can describe it to the point where you feel like you're there. Writing something that is unfolding in my mind makes the details very difficult.

I think about where I want the piece to go. Then I concentrate on getting the words on the page. Then I concentrate on editing and clarifying and making sure that what it says conjures the image I have in my head. That's why I'm publishing one installment a week.

I'm constantly thinking about whatever piece I'm writing at the moment. The ideas swirl around in my head like water swirling down the drain of the sink after the plug has been pulled. And just like that stray piece of corn or that manages to cling to the sink, instead of going down the drain, I have kernels of ideas that stick. I have pulled out my BlackBerry® on the train more times than I can count and started to write about the people in these stories. Thank God for memo pad or I'd be screwed.

Anyway, it's been a great summer. My blog turned a year old. I went to Newport, RI. I went to Amagansett in East Hampton. I went to Boston - twice. I hung out in Central Park. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge - twice. I ate at new restaurants in Astoria and Brooklyn. I hung out with friends in Astoria. I smoked a hookah for the first time. I published my first piece of fiction. I watched a lot of True Blood, Mad Men and SYTYCD. I reconnected with a cousin and met his family. I started publishing my second piece of fiction. I tried new wines. I cooked new dishes. I read three books. I got new music. I got a couple of new pieces of furniture. I took lots of pictures. I found happy again.

Thanks to all of you who continue to keep up with my life. Keep reading. I'm going to keep writing about me and keep creating characters with interesting stories to tell.

Cheers!

Boozy, Notorious & a bridge to Brooklyn

"The day Boozy and Notorious walked across the Brooklyn Bridge." Sing that using the melody from "Ode To Billie Joe".

I planned to go to the gym this morning, but just didn't get around to it. I chose instead to enjoy my morning cup of coffee watching last Sunday's CBS Sunday Morning and repeats of The Golden Girls alternating with reading the latest copy of Entertainment Weekly. Okay, so I should have gone to the gym, but it was a lovely way to spend the morning of a day off. I knew I was going to get exercise anyway.

At the subway, the first train to arrive was the M. I took it to Queens Plaza and waited to transfer to the R. I was paying no attention when I got on an E. I was typing directions for the day on my Blackberry. Thankfully, I looked up and noticed the E before the doors closed. It wouldn't have been horrible to be on the E. The R just puts me closer to where I was meeting Boozy.

When the R finally came, I played seat hockey, briefly, with an older man. I started to sit then thought he was planning to sit. Being a southern gentleman (laughter is not permitted here) I was going to let him sit. He chose to stand so I took the seat. The next thing I know we're hearing the sounds of someone informing us of New York City's hunger problem and wanting donations. Quickly, I started hearing the jazz sounds of the smooth-voiced Melody Gardot. I gotta block that shit out most of the time. I agree that there is a hunger problem. It's not limited to NYC. I just don't give money to solicitors on the train. There are organizations for that kind of donation. Sing it all away for me Melody.

The day was absolutely gorgeous. White cumulus clouds dotted the blue sky like cotton balls on a piece of light blue poster board. The temperature was in the mid 70's. There was a slight breeze. It couldn't be more glorious. There was peace in my soul as I waited for Boozy to join me for our adventure. There wasn't a hurried desire to get to the Bridge, only a desire to allow the day to unfold. That is not something I do often. It's a good feeling. I should allow myself the experience more often.

We stopped at Jamba Juice before getting on the N train toward Brooklyn. Boozy ordered the Mega Mango and I the Peach Perfection. We each added a free shot of vitamins to our smoothie. With our batteries charging from the smoothies and the vitamins, we stopped by an ATM so that we could pay for our adventure. We then made our way to the subway station at 49th Street.

I realized quickly that the N train we were on was not going to stop where we needed it to - City Hall. We transferred at Union Square to the 6 express train to Brooklyn Bridge. Five-7 minutes later we were at our destination. All these years I've been in NYC and I never realized how quick and easy it was to get to the Brooklyn Bridge. I feel like I've wasted a lot of time thinking it was too far and too much time on a train. Somebody find me an "idiot" badge.

As we emerged from the underground station to the visions of blue sky, I turned to Boozy and asked, "Why don't we live down here." It was beautiful. Beauty accented with white tiles, green trees, and colorful fabrics. We found our way onto the bridge and began our journey across. You have to be aware of the cyclists. Boozy informed me that they get angry with the walking tourists. We were tourists today. So we stayed out of their way. However, being New Yorkers in reality, we weren't enjoying the walking tourists either.

It took no more than 30 minutes to walk across the majestic Brooklyn Bridge. Even pausing for pictures of the water, Brooklyn and Manhattan views. It was such a lovely walk. Slathered in sun screen and enjoying the shine.

We made our way to Old Fulton Street and joined the line of people on the sidewalk waiting for a taste of coal brick oven pizza from Grimaldi's Pizzeria. They don't serve slices and they only take cash. It's a New York destination. A fixture on the Brooklyn Bridge experience. (Thank you Boozy for that description.) Of course, I have to be honest here. I had never heard of the place. Boozy was the one who knew of it and suggested we go there.

Okay, so I don't really know how long we waited in line. It could have been 30 minutes it could have been 45. Time flies when you're having fun. We looked at all the pictures I had taken so far and talked. When we finally made our way to the front of the line, we were shaded by a big, old, beautiful tree. And just like that, we were being called inside.

Can you say crowded? Every red and white-checkered tablecloth covered table was filled. Elbow to elbow. 1950's rock n roll was playing loud on the sound system. I looked around for the jukebox. One wall was full of Frank Sinatra pictures, posters, memorabilia. It was a pizzeria where American Graffiti met film noir. The history was apparent. There's no telling what stories these walls and tables could tell. We ordered beer and pizza. Peroni for Boozy, Amstel Light for me and a large regular pie for us to share.

There are no pictures of the pizza because we devoured it. Boozy mentioned this to me and thought it would be funny to take a picture of the empty pan. No such luck. The second the last slice was taken, a waiter swooped in a took the pan. Two beers each and a whole pie later, we paid our $32, cheap, bill and headed back into the sunshine in search of ice cream. There will be no judgment allowed at this statement. We had already consumed beer and pizza in the middle of the day. There is nothing wrong with adding ice cream to the mix. Hell, it's almost called for. Bad is bad no matter how little or much you consume and all of this bad was really good.

The Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory was located a mere 351 feet from the door of Grimaldi's. How do I know that, you ask? Well, Boozy's phone gave her directions with distance in feet. It was at the end of Old Fulton Street. Before indulging in the ice cream, we walked along the water at Brooklyn Bridge Park. I had no idea there was such beauty simply across the bridge from Manhattan. The view of Lower Manhattan was breathtaking. Thirteen years later and I still feel amazed that I live here. It was smile inducing. After we had tired ourselves with the walking and the food and the beer and the park, it was time for a little sugary goodness. Boozy got Peaches and Cream on a sugar cone and I got Vanilla on a waffle cone. We started our trek back to the bridge. Remember what it's like when you have an ice cream cone in the sunshine? Good! Then you'll have a excellent picture of me trying to keep that ice cream from running down the cone and dripping off my hand.



As we started back to Manhattan, I noticed a large digital clock. It said 5:01pm. We had spent 3 hours in Brooklyn. We walked back across the bridge, facing the oncoming deluge of tourists. None of them seemed to get the concept of moving out of the way as we passed one another. There was no sense of shared space. Three people shoulder-to-shoulder, filling the space, and as Boozy and I approached, we were the one's who moved. It happened more than once with the same outcome each time. Annoyed, I just stopped moving out of the way. If we ran into each other, so be it. The southern gentleman from earlier in the day had given way to my true identity. For the record, it took us about 20 minutes to walk the bridge this time.

Back on Manhattan soil, we decided to walk to Chinatown and catch the R train at Canal Street. We stopped at an outdoor seating area to rest and drink a little water. We were giddy. Kinda punchy with laughter. I think it was happiness. Yes, I was happy and Boozy was happy. We had a fantastic day doing something neither of us had ever done before. The experience was perfect.

Photo Album

24 hours in Amagansett

Ah the Hamptons. A place of lore and wealth. At least that's what it had always been for me. My experience with the Hamptons had been through the eyes of characters while I watched the ladies of Sex and the City attend a party, Blair on Gossip Girl plan her next scheme or the Beales of Grey Gardens descend into squalor. As a resident of NYC for a little more than 13 years now, going to the Hamptons is finally something I can say I've done.

My moment came randomly. The executive director of the theatre where I work, hence known as The Boss, for the second summer in a row has taken the month of August to chill in the Hamptons. This year she was able to move in a week early and she invited the management staff to have a relaxing day at the house. None of us thought that my immediate boss would go and the other two guys I work with definitely didn't want to go, but I was desperate to go. Not desperate like "I'll kick, scream and pout" if you don't let me go, but desperate to find a way considering the most convenient opportunity ever, had finally presented itself in my life.

My boss, who is always good to me, found a way for me to be the representative from my department to attend. Excited beyond belief is how I felt. I was going to the Hamptons with friends and getting to stay in what was sure to be a fabulous home.

Departure time between 2:30pm and 3pm on Monday. I joined Ladybird, Miss JJ and Princess Fehr in a CR-V and we began our 24 hours of leisure. We faced the required traffic upon exiting NYC. It's just a fact of life. It doesn't matter at what hour you're departing, there will be traffic. It wasn't major delays, or even minor, just more leisurely than we really wanted for our leisure.

I don't want to make light of the travel or the traveling companions. There was lively conversation and music in that vehicle as we made our way toward the summer destination of many wealthy New Yorkers. However, it was just a lot of I-495 connecting to NY-27 and watching the GPS and reading the Google Maps print out before we finally found ourselves driving in what to me could be any country town in America. Seriously, I looked around at the corn fields and large pieces of empty land and thought of my own home town, Arlington. It made me think about growing up in my small town and how I knew I had to get out of there and live somewhere bigger. I always knew that. Small town life was not for me. The interesting thing is that living in the City, the first thing I think of as a vacation getaway is going somewhere that is reminiscent of the town where I grew up. It's just relaxing and I think there is a sense of safety because it's mental familiarity.

We passed many winery's on our way to Amagansett. That perked me right up. So many winery's, so little time. Upon entering the Town of East Hampton, we crossed into the hamlet of Wainscott. Nothing much to write home about there. Lot's of nursery's with beautiful landscaping. Hydrangeas are everywhere in the Hamptons. I love hydrangeas. Then we find ourselves crossing into the village of East Hampton. The village of East Hampton as well as the hamlets of Wainscott and Amagansett are all part of the town of East Hampton, I'll explain. I did a little research. So it seems that a hamlet is a term people use to reference a community within a town that is not incorporated as a village. A village is an incorporated area located within one town. Therefore, the Town of East Hampton has the incorporated village of East Hampton and the hamlets of Wainscott and Amagansett. Hope that's clear. It is for me now. Anyway, back to Main Street. It is the main thoroughfare of the small village of East Hampton. On either side of the road it looks like part of 5th Avenue and part of 57th Street in Manhattan combined and the progeny of their coupling settled in East Hampton. Cynthia Rowley, Coach, Tiffany & Co., Elie Tahari, Gucci, Ralph Lauren, Hugo Boss, Tommy Hilfiger, BCBG Max Azria, Chloe, Michael Kors, and Tori Burch. There were also many Citarella locations, interesting local shops, and the requisite Starbucks. You just can't get away from the coffee giant's chain of stores no matter where you go. I'm sure there are stores I missed or can't remember, but it was amazing to see them there and to know that at least for the summer months, they can sustain themselves with the wealthy clientele who darken their doors.

This was East Hampton. Many of the homes had names and the lawns were beautifully manicured. Oh, and Grey Gardens is there. Those of you who know me know that the prospect of actually seeing Grey Gardens made my heart flutter.

We arrived at our destination on Scrimshaw Lane and I just felt myself relax as I looked at the house in disbelief. Simply stated, it was sprawling. It was gorgeous. I was overjoyed at the idea of staying for just one night. I couldn't imagine how The Boss felt about staying for a month. One immediately asks the question of, "How can I come back to the City after this?" Of course, we all have to return to the reality of our lives at some point. However, living in that house, surrounded by all those trees and the sounds that emanate from them, paired with the relaxing pool and nearness of the ocean would make returning to normal hard for anyone. I didn't even think about the people who live there year round for whom the beauty I was marveling at was just normal life. An everyday occurrence to be taken for granted.

I was thankful. Thankful to be there. Thankful to be invited. Thankful to work in a facility where the people truly get along and enjoy each other's company. People who get along so well that there was never a question that spending the evening together would be awkward.

The Boss showed us around the house. There were at least 8 bedrooms, with living areas, a kitchen and other rooms thrown in for good measure. Almost every bedroom had its own private bathroom. It was something to marvel at as we made our way through the labyrinth of twists and turns and stairs to levels both up and down. One could easily have gotten lost or confused. My room was off of the kitchen, through a gate, left up a set of stairs, across a small foyer, turn right and pass through the laundry room into a small open space used as a children's play area and up another set of stairs. It was yellow, my favorite bedroom color. It was lovely.


After the tour, I quickly found myself on a plushy lounge chair by the pool with a glass of white wine in my hand and the highly enjoyable Princess Fehr sitting beside me. The stress of the City was gone. We left it somewhere on NY-27. The air was fresh, the sounds were peaceful, the mosquitoes were biting and the OFF! was being sprayed. Oh, and Eliza, the golden retriever, was wet from the pool and constantly ridding her body of the water by shaking next to Princess Fehr and me. A sight that made everyone laugh, every time. Eliza's reason for coming to us was we had made the mistake of throwing her ball, so she kept bringing it back to us. I got wise and started throwing it across the pool to the grass on the other side. It took her a while to figure out where it was and bought Princess Fehr and me some wet-dog-free time. There were moments, however, that I found myself covering up completely with a beach towel to protect myself and my precious drink from the spattering of water as she continued to shake and shimmy next to us. This elicited laughter from the crowd as well. I'm nothing if not good for a laugh.


I can't remember when in I put on my swimming trunks, but let's just say by this point I have them on.


A few more people had arrived and dinner was prepared. We had steak and ribs. That's all I can remember. Oh, yes, we had switched to Pinot Noir Rose by this point. So that's white wine and Rose so far. It's funny, but I can't remember what else we had on the table, by the pool, for dinner.

As the evening progressed we found ourselves in the pool again. We were swimming and diving and jumping. Eliza was big on rescuing. There was a moment where I was using a floating tube and she jumped in the water, bit down on the tube and began to pull it out from under me. She swam to the stairs, climbed out of the pool, and took her rescued tube to safety. This would be something we would all watch until we departed the next day. It was always funny, but there were times when we would only jump in when she was not readily available to rescue us.

There was a small group of us that had moved to the other side of the pool. The side where I kept sending Eliza to get her ball earlier in the day. We had a fire over there and chairs circled around it. We were still drinking wine. I had moved on to regular Pinot Noir by this point. That's white, rose, and red for those keeping tabs. There was a bottle of tequila, as well as other things, being passed for those who wanted to partake. There were huge marshmallows for s'mores. I made at least four myself and then started just roasting marshmallows with chocolate stuffed inside. This was not my idea. I copied it from a co-worker sitting next to me. I remember making two of those. The next day, rumor circled that I had made 12 s'mores. Lies I tell you, all lies. I was inebriated, but not that unaware.

When I went to bed that night, I was still connected to my brain enough to know that I should take a couple of Excedrin and drink some water in order to combat a hangover the next day. I slept like a rock. I barely moved. I knew this because the bed linens were barely ruffled.

I was in the room that had an Asian theme. When I found out I would be in that room, it was only natural to me that I bring my kimono. When I told The Boss I was bringing it, she burst out laughing. The kimono story made it's way into the staff meeting so everyone knew I was bringing it. So, when I got up the next morning, I emerged from my room in my kimono. There were only a few people up to appreciate it, but those who were, did. I woke up that morning at 8am. By 10am, with the smell of sausage and bacon in the air, I had to excuse myself from the table. I didn't tell anyone where I was going, I just made my way back to my room and laid on the floor. I was feeling a little queasy. It was weird. I thought I had done a sufficient amount of hangover prevention the night before. I guess I hadn't. I laid in the floor very still. I just thought, "If I lay here very still, it will pass." Eventually, I got up in order to move to the bed. Bad idea. The back of my tongue and throat gave me that old familiar feeling just before I vomit. I ran to the bathroom and found myself hugging the porcelain god. There was the coffee, the only thing in my stomach. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. My first trip to the Hamptons and there I was throwing up with a hangover. What a waste. I'm usually pretty good about knowing when to stop drinking because hangovers are no fun at all. The older I get the longer it takes to recover. Who wants to waste and entire day recovering? Not me, but that's exactly what happened.

Ladybird, came to check on me. You see, no one knew where I had gone. He came into my wing of the house and called my name. I mustered the strength to say answer him. He opened the door to find me laying on the bed. I explained my situation and he laughed a little, told me to feel better and closed the door. I continued to lay there, unmoving. He came to check on me a little later. I was still in the same position. He said that I would never live this down. I smiled as I acknowledged him. I knew that was the truth. First trip to the Hamptons. Everybody knows it. And here I am wrapped in a kimono, laying as still as possible, fighting the need to vomit, while all of my friends are out enjoying the beach, pool, weather, whatever. So smart am I.

I finally felt well enough that I could function outside of the bedroom. I made my way downstairs for the second time that day. All of the people who were scheduled to arrive on Tuesday had arrived. They all knew of my situation. All I could do was keep my dark glasses on and smile. I'm sure there were a few times I shook my head in disbelief that this was actually happening.

Ladybird, asked me if I still wanted to see Grey Gardens and if I felt well enough to do so. I wanted to, so we made our way to the CR-V. As soon as we started driving I had to roll the window down and take a deep breath of fresh air. My stomach wasn't as sure that I was ready for this as my brain was. Once the road got smoother, it was easier for me. We knew the general vicinity of where we were going, but not exactly where. The GPS was a little funky and would not let us put in the address for Grey Gardens. We made our way to Lily Pond Lane and peeled our eyes for West End Road. There on the right was #4 West End Road. That meant that the house, concealed by trees and flowering bushes across the street had to be #3. We backed up the vehicle and though an opening in the trees we could see the porch. There is was. Grey Gardens. I've seen the documentary countless times. I loved the musical and the HBO film. It's such a fabled story of two women who refused to leave their crumbling home. Two women who would rather live without plumbing and with cats and raccoons than give up the only thing that was truly theirs. Two women who had been born into aristocracy and had watched their fortune fade and their friends retreat from their lives. I was struck by the fact that I was actually there in front of the house. It was real. This was actually the East Hampton that Little Edie so despised. Even though I was still a little nauseous, I was so happy to be there and seeing that small glimpse was a highlight of my trip. I wasn't able to get a picture of the house. That is an unfortunate regret, but there just wasn't enough of the house visible. I was there though, and it will live in my memory.


Back to the house, it was time to retreat to my room once more. I needed to lay down and just sleep. I took a nap and felt better still when I awoke. I came downstairs to find food on the table. There were grilled chilled legs, grilled sirloin burgers, pasta salad, and peaches. I managed a chicken leg and half of a burger, as well as, a small portion of pasta. This was good. Finally, after an entire day, I felt like eating and was able to keep it down. There were merely two hours left of our time in Amagansett at that point.


I know that I wasted the entire day due to the previous night's alcohol consumption. I have beat myself up about that. It will just become one of the stories of my life that peppers into the conversation for humor. The story of how I had 24 hours in the Hamptons and spent most of it recovering. Ah well, that means another trip is in order. Maybe this time just a day trip on a train to the village of East Hampton. Maybe a visit to the beach or to the stores that line Main Street. I don't know. What I know is, I was there with friends. They may laugh at my situation, at me or with me, but they are my friends.

The generosity of The Boss is an amazing blessing in my life.

I laughed, I drank, I relaxed, I smelled, I heard, I vomited, I saw, I remember.


Next trip, not as much vino, see the ocean and take a picture of Grey Gardens.

Hefeweizen and a Crescent Moon

I took myself on a date Saturday night. After I got off work at 5 pm, I joined my friends, Schingy, Epic, Drama, and Jason at Mother Burger in World Wide Plaza for some hang time. They were drinking margarita's and Miller Lite. I was just there to soak up their company.

When I decided to head home, I walked to the E train on 50th Street. I checked mta.info earlier that morning and didn't see any service changes on the E train. Well, it seems there was something up with the E train that I missed. I was sitting there reading my Entertainment Weekly, thankful just to have a seat, when the doors closed at Queens Plaza and said the next stop was Jackson Heights - Roosevelt Avenue. You see, that's six stops from Queens Plaza and three stops past my stop. I should have gotten off at Queens Plaza to transfer to the R train. The problem was, I wasn't really paying attention because the E train usually runs local in Queens on the weekends. This particular day it was running express. I got off at Jackson Heights - Roosevelt Avenue and thankfully there was a Manhattan bound R train across the platform. Success! Homeward bound.

Upon arriving at my apartment, what I really wanted to do was go to dinner. I wasn't particularly thrilled with going by myself, but I did. I wanted to go to Bare Burger in Astoria. I had heard so much about it. I was told it was amazing. A little pricey, but amazing. Why not. It was only thirteen blocks away. An easy walk on such a lovely evening. When I arrived at Bare Burger it was pretty crowded. They didn't have space to seat even one person. I decided to wait instead of doing what my attitude wanted to do, which was leave. I had walked the thirteen blocks so I was by damn going to wait for a table and try this burger. The wait was brief actually. They have a table in the middle of the restaurant that will seat eight people comfortably. There was a two at one end and a three at the other. The waitress said I could take one of the seats in the middle if I wanted. I chose yes as the answer. As I passed one of the people making up the three at the end nearest the door he said something to the effect of, "This place is very gay. It's like Chelsea." That is a paraphrase. Before I closed myself behind a wall of insecurity, I decided to look over at him. Total homo sitting there with his boyfriend. It was merely a comment on the fact that there were a lot of gay people in the joint as opposed to a derogatory comment about me. Thank God. My shoulders relaxed.

Menu time. There were lots of choices from the burger (veggie, chicken, beef, bison, or ostrich) to the toppings. It was a mix and match plethora of goodness. I chose the California Bare Burger. It was topped with avocado, tomato, lettuce, red onion, and sauce. They suggested it with the veggie burger. I chose the beef burger on a 7-grain bun. Mind you this burger was $11.95. A little expensive, as I'd been told, but I was hoping worth it. I bit the bullet and added onion rings for another $4. Add my Hefeweizen for $6 and remind yourself that this isn't the burger joint back home. The burger arrived on a paper covered, rectangle tin pan. The burger was beautifully dressed and I couldn't wait to jump into the onion rings. Imagine my disappointment when I took my first bite of my $12 burger and it wasn't the best burger I'd ever had. It lacked flavor. With all those toppings, it lacked flavor. How is that possible? Give me my mom's burger seasoned with Lawry's Seasoning Salt and grilled to perfection any day. The onion rings were fine. I enjoyed them, but I've had better. I would say the best part of the meal was the beer. Organic Hefeweizen. So good. I have no real need to have another burger at Bare Burger, but I do want to go back and try their fries that come with three different dipping sauces. That, and of course another Hefeweizen, sounds like a nice summer treat.

Walking home, I had a sense of happiness. It was peaceful. I looked up at the sky. There was a crescent moon. I was reminded of a song that I wrote once that used the image of the crescent moon as a smile looking down on me. It reminded me of happy days. I realized that I am happy. I may hear the folks upstairs as they speak to each other in their native tongue, loudly, but it's nothing like what I had before. It's better. I just turn up my music or television a little bit and it helps to drown out the sound. Or maybe I walk into another room and the sound isn't audible. I don't know. I just know that I'm blessed. I'm at happy, on the way to happier. It's a good thing.

Astoria Without Settling

The search has ended and boy what a search it was. There were days that I couldn't, or wouldn't, face it and there were days where I spent the entire day searching for it. The "it" is a new apartment. I've been searching for a better place to live for a better quality of life. City life can be hard. It can also be great. I do love living in NYC, however, trying to find a quieter place to exist in this crazy city full of life, noise, lights, and energy is difficult.

I moved six months ago. All of you readers know that. You also know that I haven't been very happy in the location. I made a choice to move into a studio on the East Side of Manhattan. A very small studio. Not as small as some studios, but small considering I was moving from a two-bedroom apartment where one of those bedrooms was mine along with a living room, kitchen and bathroom.

I started searching Craigslist.com on February 1, 2010. I was looking for a quiet, one-bedroom apartment in the Astoria neighborhood of Queens, NY. While half-ass searching for a new place of my own I was also trying to find someone to take over the lease of my East Side studio.

I got many requests from people who were interested in my studio. I only had to show it to two people. The second one bit. Her boyfriend lived across the street, she was very familiar with the neighborhood, and thought the space would be perfect for her. So, I waited patiently while she got all the paperwork together and faxed it to the leasing office. It took a couple of days. She was on top of all of her necessary paperwork; the hold up was her landlord. She just needed him to fax a letter proving she was a good tenant. Finally, he sent the info and she signed the lease.

I did my best to contact every person I had spoken with via email regarding the apartment to let them know that someone had taken it. It felt like it was the right thing to do. After all, they took the time to respond to my ad.

I had 18 days until the end of the month to find a new place for myself. I thought the hardest part would be to find someone to take over my studio. Turned out that finding the perfect place for me was the hardest part. I wanted something very specific. I wanted a one-bedroom apartment in Astoria for $1100. I was willing to go up to $1150, but I wanted what I wanted. I didn't want to settle.

So the search began. I found out that there was a one-bedroom apartment in a private home, right across the street from my friend Michael, coming available mid-February. I couldn't wait to see it. One-bedroom, private family home, $1050, across from friends. I have a tendency to put all of my eggs in one basket. I was trying to not do that with this apartment search. Turns out the apartment was shit. It needed lots of work. It had tons of space and the price was fantastic, but it had paneling, dropped ceilings, and carpet. It needed so much work. Work that I would have to do (along with Michael) instead of the owner. That's why the rent was going to stay so low.

Following this viewing there were others. There were studios in buildings. One-bedroom's in buildings. Rents from $1100-$1200. Things that I didn't like, but was willing to take as the days ticked away in February and March approached like a tornado across the plains of Kansas.

Michael viewed a studio, something I did not want, just to see if it was doable. He viewed a one-bedroom studio with me that was not doable. Don't even get me started on the confusion of studios in Manhattan and Queens. Studios in Manhattan mostly consist of one room. In Queens, studios can have a bedroom. A studio in Queens with a separate bedroom would be called a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Enough with the studios, I wanted a one-bedroom and I was teetering on the "settle" fence by even looking at studios. I guess I just wanted to give everything a chance. Then came the one-bedroom in a private home for $1100 just around the corner from Michael. I had just gotten to work when I got a call from him. He found it on Craigslist.com, called me about it, and said he was going to go see it. He called from the apartment and said, "I have found your apartment." He loved it. He told the owner that he knew I would like it so much that he was willing to put down a deposit on it right then for me. He took pictures to show me when he returned to work. He called again to say there was a little bit of bad news. It seemed a policeman had seen the apartment earlier in the day and had called to say that he wanted it before I could even see it. Michael told the owner that I could write him a check later that night if he wanted. He kept telling Michael that he would have to get back to him. After looking at another loser of an apartment, I called the man myself. He then told me that he would have to call me back the next morning.

When I hadn't heard from him by his said time, I called him myself. I was getting frustrated. I wanted to see the space for myself and see if it was indeed as lovely as all the pictures showed. Three hours later and another message to the owner he finally called me back. He told me that he had chosen to rent the apartment to the policeman. He said he would keep me in mind if something with that tenant fell through. For me, I took the answer without defeat. In fact, I felt better just knowing the answer at all. I had been worried about it for more than 12 hours.

Walking home from viewing the studio apartments, Michael walked on a different street than normal and wouldn't you know there was an "apartment for rent" sign in front of a home. Michael called the number and set up an appointment for me for the next morning. That meeting seemed like fate. A never taken street led to an appointment to see a one-bedroom apartment for $1100 in a private home. The broker showed me two other apartments, but I was smitten with the first. There was just one problem. There was a train track just beyond the boundary of the back yard. I saw it and I asked about it. However, I found myself signing a lease. I gave a security deposit and signed a lease. I was walking through life in zombie mode for the rest of the evening. My boss said I had to admit the situation was funny. I wanted out of my current apartment due to noise and I had just signed a lease on an apartment with a train in the back yard. I was sick at the thought of what I'd done. How could I have been so foolish? I couldn't sing at karaoke that night. I didn't bowl worth a damn. I had to take a sleeping pill just to shut my mind down. I was up the next morning by 8:30am leaving a message for the broker. I was freaking out about the train. I started looking for apartment on Craigslist.com. I had my first appointment in Astoria that day at 11am. I followed that with a noon appointment that had me viewing six apartments. All were either too far away from the subway or not worth my time. On a side note, the noon broker smelled of marijuana. My trust in him didn't make it into the car with me. I then met my friend Dakotah for lunch. While eating lunch I got a phone call from my broker Grace. She said she had something available for viewing the next day. A true one bedroom in Astoria. She talked the owners down to $1200 rent for me. After lunch, I met with the "train track" broker and told him I couldn't do it. He gave me the check back; I ripped it up, and dissolved our agreement.

Grace and I spoke on Saturday and she said that I could view the apartment that evening after work. It was a very fast viewing of a beautiful apartment. I contemplated the $1200 monthly price tag and all the space it would get me. I called Grace later that night and took the apartment.

It was the only apartment I viewed by myself and actually made the decision on all by myself. Being a grown up is hard. Making the decision was hard.

Relief is amazing!

Taking Flight at Flatiron Lounge

Thanks to the suggestion of my friend Michael, I discovered a new lounge tonight. It's called Flatiron Lounge (www.flatironlounge.com). Located in the Flatiron District, it's just a little bit of fabulous with dim lights and red velvet chairs.

The best description I could give you of the lounge is already provided by the owners on their website. As soon as I read it I knew this was a place I needed to visit. I've had half-hearted dreams for a short while now of opening a small, jazz infused, prohibition era speakeasy. Anytime I hear of a bar that sounds like what I have in mind I want to go.

The Flatiron Lounge had me from the moment my friend Jonathan and I stood in front of the door. I'm a sucker for Art Deco and there is an Art Deco era lady etched in the door. Her image is in several places throughout the Lounge. The music is the tinny sound of jazz. Exactly what you think music sounded like in that era. The lights are set to dim and the chairs and banquets are dark and velvet. It was difficult to see the color with the lights so dim, but I do believe that one wall was covered in blue pieces of glass. Even if it wasn't blue, it was gorgeous.

I really wanted a glass of wine. The whole premise of the evening was to have wine and listen to jazz. However, this location had many interesting cocktails and cocktail Flights. Their Flights are three mini martinis with a common flavor theme. I've only heard of Flights connected to wine. I've had a Pinot Noir Flight before. Three different Pinot Noirs. A great comparison of flavor. Tonight's Flight was so different. The common factor was Gin. I can't remember the last time I had Gin. I decided, what the hell, I'm in a new place, why not try something different. I can't remember what our "Flight attendant" said was in my cocktails. I know that one of them was light green and had a little cherry juice in it. I know that one of them had mottled strawberries, egg whites, and cream in it. I know that all three were interesting and delicious.

I love being in a place that transports me to a different time. This was a different feeling than Raines Law Room, which really has an underground, speakeasy feel to it, but it was not a run-of-the-mill bar. I know it has to do with the music and the ambiance. Those are the things I loved most about it.

It's definitely going to be a location I add to my list of places to become a frequent guest.