A "Subway Escort" (NYC Tour Guide Confessions)

A good Tour Guide should be a balance of three elements: One part educator, one part entertainer, one part cattle herder. Seriously "herd management" is crucial when it comes to leading large hordes of Suburbanites and more crucially Ruralites through the crowded, chatoic streets of New York. Crossing busy intersections is like a ballet that I've become very good at.

So when I was hired to be a "subway escort" for two days, I only slightly reluctantly accepted. Reason being, I was being hired at only 2/3 my regular going rate, but I wouldn't be doing any of the educator/entertainer stuff. Point-A to Point-B type stuff. Easy beans, with big chunks of downtime.

(One of the greatest "it's a good life" moments I've had recently: Soaking in the sun on the steps of St. Pat's Cathedral for an hour while making an hourly wage. Aaaaahhhh. . .)

Anyway, I got to the hotel where I was greeted by an overweight tour manager in his fifties with tendonitis. Okay, this is the guy they chose to lead a bus-less tour?? He attempted to get the attention of 60+ well-to-do Los Angelene 8th graders who were "just too cool for their own damn good." Brats, in other words.

It took a big, deep down, Levy-man bellow to get them to finally snap-to.

"HEY CHAMINADE HIGH SCHOOL, LISTEN UP!!!!" Well, I was running the show from that moment on.

One guide (sorry, "escort") who knew the city's timing and rhythms, crowd management, youth management, leading a group that was far, far too big for one guide. By the end of the two days, the adults were asking if I could take the place of their tour manager who apparently, didn't even like kids. Kids this self-centered, I could understand. It's amazing how they just can't help but blab incessantly.

Long story short, in the end, Chaminade HS was very disappointed with the leadership of their travel company and plans to hire Vintage NY Tours (my family's tour co: www.vintagenytours.com) to do all of the receptive services (Restaurants, subway passes, tix to attractions, and of course: GUIDES!) For their trip next year, and hopefully many years to come. Which is a pretty sweet proposition, considering that these kids had MONEY.

Sweet fancy bejeezus, I've never given a 5th ave walking tour where the kids could actually afford the shops we walked past! One girl begging me for enough time to go back to Tiffany's to get the $250 bracelet she wanted.

WHAT???

So as I dropped them at Grand Central and dealt with their begging me to please not go! and the photos, and the handshakes, I was expecting to walk away with a couple palmfuls of Jacksons, dreamily hoping of seeing a Grant or a very slim chance of a Franklin come my way.

And those ungrateful fucks didn't hand me a red cent. Of all the extra work I put in, all those fucking questions I answered because their Chicago-based tour manager didn't know dick, after all that fucking praise, these rich pricks didn't think to offer me a gratuity? Well let me tell you something:

VNYT a'int doing dick for them next year until I see a check come in the mail.

Work me ragged all you want, folks. As long as you're footing the bill.

Money talks, the rest is irrelenat.

Peace of mind at the North-Pole of Brooklyn (Pulaski Bridge, Greenpoint)

Finding peace of mind in Brooklyn isn't easy. I imagine finding it in Queens isn't that easy either, so I thought maybe going halfway between them might help.

It didn't

I'm sitting on the Pulaski Bridge, named after Kazimierz Puławski, the Polish American Revolutionary and fought valiantly alongside George Washington and died in battle in Savannah Georgia in 1779. (for more: Wikipedia.org/Kazimierz_Puławski) I knew I girl last summer who lived right under the Brooklyn side. Entendre intended. Sweet girl, a bartendress at a place I hung out often. I once helped her boot a couple of pricks that wouldn't leave when asked politely. Ran into her a couple times after and then she sends me an email out of the blue asking me out.

We had a thing from June to August, but it was a stifling, humid, miserable, smelly summer and i was in no place to be intimate. One unbearably hot night while we were halfway "through" I decided I couldn't stand being that close to another sweaty body and I tried to find a polite, un-offensive way to tell her to please just get off of me.

There is no polite, un-offensive way to tell a girl to please just get off of me.

She left in tears and that was that.

During our sweeter days I'd spend the night at her place, get an iced coffee the next morning at the local Hipster caffiene-fix joint and walk across the Pulaski to the 7 train which brought both of us to work in 10 minutes. She had the most unbelievable view of the city skyline from her place.

It's been almost a week since I last smoked weed, which is the longest I've gone in years. I have to clean out for a new job I'm getting in May. One-time piss test when I start and then I plan on getting back on the bowl immediately. It's a good test though. So far, all it's done is made me irritable and fatigued which is funny. I seem to have more energy and am more productive when I'm blazed then when I'm clean, even if it is a very short-attentioned energy. Now that Iu'm more focussed and clear-headed, it's forced me to confront some of my issues.

Writer's block being the first on my mind. Seems like all I can write about these days is myself. Big surprise.

Love life is also on the forefront, and how all I've been able to do recently is rack up one failed prospect after another. See, with my Under-the-Bridge babe, I knew off the cuff that I wasn't that into her. But she was cute, and sweet, and fun. And the fact that she had the gonads to track down my email and ask me out was reason enough to give it a good college try. I don't regret a second of it. Well, maybe the way it ended. . .

Seems like most girls I go out with these days last three or four dates, and regardless of how good it's seeming, drop me the second it starts to seem like it might get serious. What is it with New Yorkers and an irrational fear of commitment? The polite ones have the decency to tell me, and not just avoid me all together.

Greenpoint is a fascinating place. Like a little slice of Poland, except not a complete and utter cultural failure. Everywhere there are pretty blondes, all tits, hips, and cheekbones alongside beefed up guys in tight shirts, with pale skin, buzz-cuts and big noses. There are more Delis than traffic lights. Maybe I'll grab a keilbasa sandwhich on my way back.

I decided to call Ms. Under-The-Bridge on my way out. We've been dancing around trying to get together since we split, the few times we finally did were brief and uninteresting. I told her I was coming out to the bridge for a little peace of mind. Thought I'd watch the sunset over the Greatest Skyline in the World.

The cloud cover prevented that. So did the intense wind and the endless rumble of cars over the drawbridge. My latest prospect told me that she'd call me when she got off work. It's 7:30. Still no call. My pocket's vibrating maybe thats-

Nope. Ms. Under-the-Bridge.

"Hey!! Are you okay??" She asked urgently
"Yeah, I'm fine, why?" Relieved sigh
"Jesus, you said you were going up to the bridge for "peace of mind" I thought you were going to kill yourself or something" I burst out a laugh
"God, no! I have a big job this weekend. Christ, I have a load of laundry I need to put in the dryer, I'm not going to kill myself!"

We laughed, caught up a bit. Made plans to get together again some time soon, both skeptical of the likelihood of that. It was getting cold. I figured I'd pick up some sort of meat sandwich at one of the thousand deli's in the local hood on my way home.

Kill myself. Hah. If I was going to jump from a bridge, I'd do it from the Brooklyn, go out in style. Jumping

The tale of Linda-rella and Prince Disarming (and THE HOLD STEADY @ The Warsaw: Greenpoint)

My first time walking into The Warsaw was exciting. I never knew there was a large concert auditorium right here in Greenpoint. More than a concert auditorium, there was a side-room with a kitchen and tables, and another large room for the bar & lounge. The doors opened at 8, I arrived at almost 9 and it was still pretty empty. In perfect Polish fashion, it seemed like they were pretty lax about starting on time.

The Warsaw, in Greenpoint, is understandably a Polish venue. Complete with cute Polish girls serving Okocim beer (a tasty, smooth Pilsener. I recommend) and old, friendly Polish women serving Kielbasa, Pierogies and Sauerkraut in the dining room. While snacking down on a hearty serving of thick Polish sausage and potato & cheese dumplings, I silently apologized for all the Polish jokes I'd either told or laughed about in the past, understanding that if I did so here, I was liable to be taken out back and beaten severely.

The Hold Steady, (which are in short, a sloppy, guilty-Catholic, Gutter-punk Bruce Springstein and the E st. Band from Minnesota) took the stage by 11. Which, after a couple of beers and whiskeys at home, and two Okocims & one Wild Turkey at the bar made me feel right at home thrashing out to their deeply inspired rock ballads, which frontman Craig Finn properly belted off-tempo.

The details of the show i don't remember fully. What I do remember, was that when I was bringing my 2nd Wild Turkey into the fray, a bright-blue eyed, full-bodied cutie nearly snatched it right out of my hands. Well there, missy. I let her sip, and next thing I knew we had our fingers intertwined and she was grinding against me in the sweaty crowd. Nice.

The concert let out at around 12:30 and she told me her name (only after we had been kissing): Linda. And funny thing- Linda had no shoes on. Fancy that, somehow she lost them at the show. $4 loafers, but seriously. They were her freakin' shoes. In proper gentlemanly fashion, I offered her mine long enough to walk with her friends back to the friends' apartment and then hopefully, back to mine while I walked through the streets of Greenpoint in my argyle socks.

As she flopped toward Nassau ave in my size 13s, arm entwined in mine, she told me she was a linguistics students at a large university in New England, in town for the show and crashing on her friends' floor, unless of course, a better opportunity opened up. She was also drinking whiskey most of the night. Due to the foot-flopping and the occassional make-out break, we fell behind the rest of her friends so that when they turned the corner and we eventually followed. . .

They were gone.

Linda could have SWORN that this was their block, but she didn't know which building and her cell phone was in her purse which was in the apartment. And then it started raining.

Being the charming, dashing Prince that I was, we tried calling her phone, hoping the friends would hear it and pick up, but my batteries were soon dead and we were without options. I told her the best thing to do would probably take a car service back to my place, plug in my phone and keep calling. She nervously agreed.

By 3am, we gave up on calling. I told her that the next morning she could take a spare set of shoes that were a little too small for me, and still too big for her and agreed to call it a night. We got to kissing, and holding, and gripping and as darned as this dashing prince tried. . .

Dang it, she just wouldn't let me into them panties. So much for Prince Disarming. I told her I respected her decision and excused myself to the bathroom to rub one out.

We got 4 hours of sleep and on my way to work, I deposited her and the too-small-sneakers I bought in San Francisco at the Nassau st. Station. We were able to check her voicemail which had one concerned message from her friends with a phone # to call. We called all morning and eventually told them that she'd be at a coffee shop at that corner wearing too-big shoes.

I recieved a phone call later that day from her, telling me all was well and she and her friends were on a bus back to UConn. She thanked me for everything. Especially the shoes and the $10 I spotted her that morning. I told her to call me if she was ever back in NYC, which I highly doubt she will

How come things ALWAYS turn out better in the fairy tales?

The "Soul" of Brooklyn (A response to Complacent Nation)

A comment made in the recent Complacent Nation email post:

"It's no secret Brooklyn is slipping through our fingers.
The outsider soul of the borough is being squeezed by
yuppies, babies and boutiques. On this night we reclaim
our home with danger art, huge music and elements of the
unimaginable."

My response:

"Your work is brilliant, your influence is immense, your outreach is strong, and your poetry is poignant.

But my gut clenches at your mention of the "Brooklyn" that is slipping. What exactly is this "outsider" soul that some unnamed authority has permissed you to write of.

What soul is this? Is it that of the Dutch founders of Breuckelen who found themselves nudged out of their rightfully founded New Netherland by British Imperialists?

Is it the old village of Bostwjick which found itself incorporated along with Flatbush, the Flatlands, Gravesend, and New Utrecht into the incessantly encroaching town of Brooklyn.

Or maybe it's Seth Lowe's city, the third largest in the nation. Which, when the Metropolis across the river extended it's hand to join in, emphatically cried no. Until, of course, the namesake of The Great East River Bridge was dangled before their eyes. Of half a million voters, a margin of 300 agreed to sell Brooklyn's independence away, just for the naming of the bridge. Forever branding it as "An Outer Borough."

Or maybe it was the bleak, lifeless, industrial wasteland that poor Puerto Ricans and Dominicans settled in decades ago before all these fucking artists started moving in, and hosting these parties. Forcing up the rents so that they and their families somewhere farther and farther away.

Because, of course, Walt Whitman never spoke of the stuff aristocrats who plopped their haughty, rich rumps down upon Brooklyn Ferry when Manhattan got too "Catholic" a good hundred-fifty years before Complacent ever dared to stamp their seal on a place much older, and much, much more complex than us all.

To re-iterate my first point, you are an amazing influence on the artistic burgeoning of our home, for this, I thank you.

But please, do not claim to speak for the Soul of Brooklyn.

Very Sincerely,
A Native.

THE DANSETTES! at Magnetic Field (Atlantic ave & Hicks st.)

Whenever I spent a night out imbibing large amounts of alcohol, I always balance it with an equal amount of hydration, and often food bookending it on either side. This way, I have more or less been able to keep myself to less than five hangovers per year, which considering how many drinks I have over the span of a year. (500? 600?) I think is rather impressive.

A dance hangover, is something completely different.

This past Saturday evening, I got my groove on (no sexual inuendo implied) for nearly eight hours straight.

It all started at The Dansettes show at Magnetic Field, a cute pseudo-dive in Fort Greene with a small stage in the back. Didn't seem like enough to handle the vocal tripple threat of said band, but sufficed quite nicely with the boys in the band respectively standing behind the epynomous leads.

The Dansettes are Jenny Wasserman, Leah Fishman, and Jaime Kozyra: Three cute, petite, pale-skinned white girls with deep-down soul-filled voices that hit their highs and lows every time. Their band consists of Tom Ward on Bass, Andy and Dennis Pierce, on drums and guitar resp. and of course Jay B. Flatt the main man behind the keyboard, and from what I can tell, the mastermind behind the highly stylized band.

Their music is genre, that genre being 50's - 60's soul/rock and roll. It's not original, it's not revolutionary, but when it's good, it's damn good, and the Dansettes are damn good. Matching outfits are also a key aspect to their image. Leah informed me before the show that they own three matchings sets of dresses. I have so far seen them in the maroon and the sky-blue. Both sets, right out of a 1950's mod-squad action flick. The fellas were all proper in their black suits and shite shirts.

The bar was packed to the gills which helped fuel the band's energy, already on a kick from their triumphant return from SXSW (South by SouthWest music fest for ye ignoramus'). Unfortunately, it severely hindered the dance efforts of the small pack of groovy-cats right in front of the stage.

The crowning moment occurred when the band invited their surprise guest out on stage: None other than the Queen of Brooklyn Soul, AND the feature in this week's L magazine, the indominable Sharon Jones. a 4'11" powerhouse vocalist who brought the show home like a space-shuttle re-entering orbit and of course, invited a couple of the smoothest gents in the crowd to get down with her up on stage.

Oh yes I did. See the images section.

The Dansettes are riding a wave of momentum, and with their EP "Oh, My!" now available at shows, I suggest you check the sensation to get a blast from the past gettin' you up to shake yo' ass. And do it before they get to big for places like Magnetic Fields. Cause according to my friend who showed up late, they're selling out fast.