Saturday, April 14, 2007


I visited The Man tonight. He's an Old Favorite and an Old Reliable and I've been buying his $2.50 pistachio hot fudge sundaes for years now. I don't know if other people besides me and my very close friends call him The Man but that is What and Who he is and I've never bothered to learn his real name. He has a name, I'm sure; he's not merely The Man, he's A Man, and I realized that tonight and that realization made me feel sad because A) I'm leaving the neighborhood and won't see The Man as much as I do now, and B) The Man is becoming very quickly The Old Man and I was struck for the first time since I first started seeing him that one day he will cease to exist and when that day comes who will run his tiny shop? There will be no more The Man and what a pity. That sounds glib, and maybe it is, and I don't mean to be.

I love you, The Man, for all your years of hot fudge sundaes always when I needed something small and sweet made sweeter still by my being able to count on it.

You can all go find your own Man but if you want to visit mine I am not the jealous type. He is on the West side of Avenue A between 7th and 8th and the sign says Belgian Fries. I don't mind sharing something this special but you gotta take me up on it quick quick quick, better go before it's gone.

Thursday, April 12, 2007


It's just a restaurant, I know, but I've never been. I promised myself that I would go only after I felt I'd really earned it. Never knowing what that meant, earning it, deserving it, I've kept a Luger's steak dinner on a pedestal so large that I might as well be Thumbelina. Besides that, I never bothered to define what precise goal, when reached, would be enough for me to finally taste that perfect Brooklyn Porterhouse.

But what a week it's been. Incredible lows, hard work, difficult decisions, sad sad sad, real Adult Stuff, and, then! Out of nowhere, a phone call, some good news, an incredible high. And then another. And another! I had been so discouraged, and now it's raining, it's pouring. Well, it couldn't come at a better time. This good rain; it's hiding my tears. And suddenly, Luger's, your steak dinner: I'm so close I can taste it.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


A long time ago I christened the street I live on Rat Alley because it was infested with rats and every night that I'd walk up the stairs to my apartment was like walking through the G.D. Secret of NIMH. Eventually I made a silent pact with the rats that if they'd leave me alone as I walked down the street then I'd leave them alone and refrain from yelping/hootin'/hollerin'/shrieking. It seemed to work, and they ceased to bother me.

Until last night when, late past midnight, I caught about five rats FEASTING ON A HUMAN TURD three steps in front of my building's stairs. I have never seen even a single rat eat shit, but last night plural rats were chowing down on an ENORMOUS pile of non-canine FECES like so many midwesterners at a Las Vegas buffet. "Come on, guys," I said, "you're better than that."

I can't help but feel they were putting on a final performance for me, as I am moving soon. If so: good show, ol' sports! Good show, indeed.