insomnia haiku

Views From (and on) the High Line, Friday Afternoon

It was the last summer Friday of the year (only the third time I'd taken advantage and actually left early on a Friday this summer -- oh well, better three times than never), and my first visit to the High Line.

The High Line is, indeed, beautiful and strange. I thought it would be an actual park, but it's really more of a walkway with greenery on the sides. Still, the views are fantastic, and it keeps changing and shifting into different things. Here there's a water fountain, here are sunbathing chairs, here you can buy lemonade, here are stairs where art students are sketching. It's not the kind of place you think of lounging around in on a lazy weekend. But it is the kind of place that stays with you after you've left. Very, very cool.

I would demand payment in loonies

Overheard at the store:

Man 1: If you're an American baseball player on a Canadian team, do you get paid in American money, or Canadian money?

Man 2: Google it!

I have faced the IKEA ... and I'd say it's about a draw

Today, after a brief sojourn at the Valentino Pier in Red Hook (which is apparently right next to not only Steve's Key Lime Pies but also the domicile of the new Real World Brooklyn cast, though I spied nothing), I decided to muster up my strength, brave the masses and check out the new IKEA. In the six minutes before the Ambien kicks in fully (I say fully because I am feeling the effects right now), I will attempt to tell you about it. But don't be alarmed if I drop off mid-sentence.

So. You head up Van Brunt Street from the Fairway, wondering which direction... and then you spy it. Gleaming, towering above all else, all blue and yellow block like it's been constructed with fresh-out-of-the-box children's toys. It just seem so odd to have something so sprawling and shiny here, in industrial Red Hook, where projects housing compete with starving artists and metalyards and shipworkers. IKEA! In Brooklyn! I mean, the IKEA itself is directly across from a large community garden. It's either the end of something or the beginning of something. And knowing that IKEA arrives the same summer that the Real World descends upon it, I would it's guess the end.

I was hoping the store would not be as busy on a Labor Day Monday, and either I was wrong, or it's unbearable on the other days. Still, I tried to stay zen. I had a purpose: A filing cabinet. And if I saw anything else, I might look and note things down, but not touch. No straying from the purpose!

Ambien makes it hard to type. One of these paragraphs I'm just going to leave all the typos uncorrected, and we'll see what kind of new language it forms.

So there I was, facing the endless showrooms, that look so nice and neat when you're a kid, but now they're a little bit pathetic. Like, if you actually decorated your bedroom like that, wouldn't everyone walk in and point and say "IKEA!" ... or assume you were a college student? But I'd forgotten, anyway, how just many of these sad showrooms you had to walk through -- fake bathrooms and fake bedrooms and fake kitchens -- before you could finally work your way down to the dungeons of the self-service area. At least there are a lot of places to sit down.

At the self-service area, an unforeseen dilemma. I'd come to the store with the intent of buying a cheapass green filing cabinet known as Erik, then changed my mind in the showroom to the much more well-constructed (and expensive) Galant. But when finally I found it on the shelf, it was....waaay too heavy for me to lift. Couldn't budge the thing to save my life. So humiliating. I had a moment of paralysis, in that I couldn't move it but I didn't want to ask for help, because I would still have to get it to the car, and then to my apartment, and wasn't the whole point of this thing to be easy? So I settled for the cute but inferior Erik, and resolved that I would be OK with it. Who knew shopping at IKEA was so much like life?

I snagged two seat cushions and then reasoned that this'd be it for me. Cash register line wasn't too bad. I was stalled for a moment when enticed by the frozen Swedish meatballs they sell by the register. And then I paid ("That's all??" she said) and walked outside, and while everyone else was waiting for a bus (to take them to the water taxi, I guess), I caught a cab, and he took me home for ten dollars.

All in all, a trying experience but hardly one that broke my spirit -- and it was worth it, to shave $69 off the delivery fee. So next time I'm going to make out a detailed list of things I would like to buy in IKEA, stuff I could carry myself, and breeze through there with efficiency, and purpose, and verve. And I WILL have me some of those Swedish meatballs, I can tell you that.

A tale of four boroughs

I realized yesterday, with a start, that in the past week I had managed to visit -- as in, go out in -- four of the five boroughs. I don't know whether I've ever done that before.

Last Friday I went to a goodbye party at Belmont Lounge near Union Square (Manhattan), which is funny because I used to go there all the time, years ago, when I worked in publishing and we decided to adopt Belmont as our bar despite it being nowhere near our office. It was not even one-tenth as annoying as it is now.

By the end of the night I had convinced everyone to move the party to Bar 119, next door, which is also funny because -- again, ages and ages ago -- I made out with a bouncer there once. He was blond, and cute, and was studying law at John Jay, and he went home with my friend instead of me. Years later, that same bar became the site of the most infamous fight (insults! man-tears!) in the history of my night-time job, and I also once flashed the bartender to get a free round. What is it about that bar?

Last Saturday I went to a delightful dinner party in Williamsburg (Brooklyn). The wine and the seafood and the conversation were plentiful and good. And then we read out Trivial Pursuit questions over glasses of port.

On Tuesday, I went out for Korean fried chicken at Forte Baden Baden, on W. 32nd Street in Koreatown (Manhattan). Delicious fried chicken goodness. I ruined half the fries when I accidentally spilled my water glass, though. Afterward, we got a drink atop the La Quinta Inn, at a rooftop bar with the most stunning view of the Empire State Building -- seeing as how you're only two blocks away from the thing. "An ape climbed up that," we breathed in wonder.

Wednesday was the Yankees game at Yankee Stadium (The Bronx). Those were certainly the best seats I've ever had at a Yankee game, so I'm happy to have gone out in style.

Thursday I had organized a huge happy hour for several different teams at work. We went to Central Bar, on E. 9th Street (Manhattan). A grand time was had, and I think that's all I should say about it. I ended up home at 3 am, eating leftovers and watching the video of Barack Obama's life. (Didn't get to watch the speech itself until last night.)

And Friday I took a real summer Friday (my first of the year, and last!) and headed out to Water Taxi Beach (Queens). What a pleasant experience that is; I hadn't been to the beach all year, and this was the next best thing. Everyone there is really nice, there are kids playing, and it's not super-crowded; though this may have been because it was early, and kept threatening rain.

The burger there recently won the Battle of the Borough Burgers, and oh my goodness, I can see why. It's tasty, it's not too dense (it's rather loose on the bun, really), has crispy bits on the outside but is still meltingly tender on the inside ... wow. It is without a doubt one of the best burgers I've ever had -- and I might even be tempted to say it's the best burger I've ever had, but I'd have to put that statement to the actual test, and I'm not sure I'll be up for that without faithful visits to the gym.

So the only borough I missed this week was Staten Island. And I can't think of a really good reason to head out there except for a baseball game. Am I wrong?

Goin' Mobile

Reason #2 I've come to love having a Blackberry (reason #1: Google Maps) + Reason #862 I love Brooklyn: I'm writing this from the waterfront park in DUMBO (don't know what it's called), soaking in the impossibly gorgeous weather, with the Manhattan Bridge looming up above me as I try to muster up the courage to spend $1,000 on a dresser. There's a wedding party nearby. Wiry boys without their shirts on. Kids. Bikes. Boats. I can see Pier 17 across the water, just beyond the Brooklyn Bridge.

Why I don't do this more often is beyond me.

I mean, would you wear mittens in the rain?

I had this thought a couple weeks ago when it was snowing, and I meant to jot it down but got too busy that day, and thought I would wait until it snowed again but it doesn't look as though that's going to happen, so ...

I think it looks stupid when people use umbrellas in a snowstorm. There, I said it. I realize that snow is technically frozen precipitation, and when it melts, your clothes get what is commonly known as "wet"; but when I walk out my front door and it's snowing and people have their umbrellas up, something inside me just thinks it's wrong. Umbrellas are for rain. You are supposed to let it snow all over you, and take it. Just like Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Eskimos, and those guys in Into Thin Air. (Oh wait, bad example.)

I am probably alone in this, and I'm OK with that.

Speaking of frozen, this prank of people freezing en masse in Grand Central Station is pretty awesome. Check it out if you haven't heard of it already. While I admire the commitment of all these people, I'm not sure I would've chosen to be, say, Guy Stooping to Tie His Shoelace, which seems as if it might induce cramping. If I were involved in a stunt like that, I'd probably pick something like Gal Sitting on a Bench. (Thanks to Don for the link.)

Reasons Brooklyn Is So Goddamn Charming: Red Hook Edition

On Saturday, I trekked down to the Fairway in Red Hook for a major grocery-buying expedition, and on my way back, bent almost double with the weight of food in my backpack, I stopped at Steve's Key Lime Pies—a place I'd heard raves about, but had never visited. To get there, you head down Van Dyke Street and keep walking, with nothing more to guide you than hand-painted signs promising pie. You hit Pier 41 (I saw no boats, but then again, I was single-minded in my purpose) and then veer off into a small, gravel-covered parking lot that leads to another cheery-looking sign and an unobtrusive set of double doors. Pies! Pies! Pies!

My quest was delayed for a good ten or fifteen minutes when I couldn't open a second set of doors, which didn't make sense, since the outside doors were unlocked and I could peer inside and see an inside set of doors similarly swung wide open. I knocked. I pulled, pushed, and shook. I knew the company slogan was "Great Pies, Lousy Hours!" (really, it is), but it was 2 pm on a Saturday—they just couldn't be closed. I'd come so far! And my back was killing me. Goddammit, I wanted some pie.

I finally unstuck the doors and made my way inside to a dark warehouse space, the wares and prices displayed at an untended counter. Before too long, a guy with a grey beard ambled out of a back room; I'm guessing this was Steve, he of the fabled pies. "Can I help you?" he asked. After some negotiation, I purchased an eight-inch pie and two Swingles (which are mini-pies on a stick, dipped in dark chocolate). I handed him my credit card and he disappeared into that back room again, returning a few minutes later with my card and a receipt, both of which he handed to me with thanks.

There was no signature line on the receipt. "Wait a minute," I said. "Don't you need me to, uh, sign it?"

"Nah," he said, tipping me a wink. "Just as long as you're payin' for it. Come on back and see us again."

In retrospect, of course, I should think of this as a cautionary tale—after all, a vendor's failing to check the signature is not really what you want in a world of identity theft run rampant. But I'm choosing to ignore the security factor and think of it as yet another of Brooklyn's folksy charms. I mean hey, if someone stole my credit card and then hoofed it down to the end of Van Dyke Street to buy some Steve's Key Lime Pie in my name, I have to think I'd let him or her have it. Respect.

And for the record, the Swingle was good, but the pie was freaking fantastic.

When night and morning collide

Friday night, I was at the bar at Alma in Brooklyn, for one last drink -- supposedly. Eventually I realized that the bar had cleared of all other patrons except for me and my friend Sebastian, and then the bartender was pouring us free drinks, and the bartender's friend wandered in from who knows where, and there we were talking and arguing and playing songs off the jukebox for free, and it suddenly it was five in the morning.

We stumbled outside and were walking past Mazzola Bakery when the bartender said something like, "Have you ever gotten freshly baked bread from Mazzola?" And before I knew it he'd gone over to the side door, where the guy at the bakery was doing his thing, because at five in the morning, while some of us are stumbling out of bars, others are baking bread. And the bartender came back and handed us pieces of the loveliest, softest, tastiest bread imaginable, and I walked on home tearing it apart with my teeth. Every bite was a surprise, and it was dizzily good, and gone way too soon.

The price is most definitely right

It is generally understood that you move to the big city to get away from the suburbs. Once you've become an urbanite, you come to mock the things that symbolize the gauche, anti-stylish lifestyle you once led: fanny packs, SUVs, khaki shorts, Robin Williams.

But there's one exception, and that's Target. New Yorkers are obsessed with Target, and it's a brand-specific obsession that doesn't extend to other low-cost suburban retailers like Kmart, CostCo, Best Buy or Wal-Mart. I don't know what it is -- cheap prices, nostalgia for our shared suburban childhoods or Isaac Mizrahi -- but there's just something about Target that makes sophisticated urban-dwellers throw off all pretense of imagined coolness. Last year, down in North Carolina for Annah's wedding, a bunch of us were trying to figure out what to do on our last day in town, when someone mentioned that there was a Target nearby. Ooh, field trip! Done! We spent a happy afternoon wandering the aisles before heading back to our normal lives, and I'm only sorry that I missed the later excursion to Hooter's. (Side note: I have never been to Hooter's. Is it wrong that I kind of want to go?)

Last Saturday, while brunching with my friend Shauna at CraftBar, she asked if I wanted to check out an indie film with her. Slightly embarrassed, I admitted I couldn't because I had to head to the Target in Brooklyn to look for a TV stand. Her eyes lit up. "Target?" she said. "There's a Target in New York?" Aaand we were off to the races. What resulted was a whirlwind shopping extravaganza that lasted for several hours; when the dust had cleared, I had not purchased a TV stand, yet had still managed to spend $131.71. Herewith, a small sampling of what I bought:

Four stoneware soup bowls: $2.99 each

30-pack of Memorex recordable CDs: $9.99

Downy Wrinkle Releaser spray: $3.84

Three 12-piece packs of Dentyne Ice gum: $1.89

Rival six-cup rice cooker: $14.99

Box of some kind of organic granola cereal: $2.29

Four wooden hangers: $4.99

Blue skirt with brown polka-dots: $19.99

12-pack of Energizer AA batteries: 7.99

Blue Diamond Lime 'n Chili almonds: $2.59

Did I really need all that crap? Of course not. Will I be back soon, for not just the TV stand but also those comfy red pillows and the shower curtain hooks that look like fish? You betcha. But really, although Shauna spent less money than I did, she may have ended up embracing the experience more thoroughly than I did. After all, she's the one who walked away with the George Foreman grill.

Maybe there is such a thing as "a little bit pregnant"

When I'm on the subway, I am usually really bad at noticing whether there are elderly or pregnant people around who might need the seat more than I do. I'm not a terrible person, or so I'd like to delude myself; I just get very absorbed in—no, not myself! I was not going to say "myself"!—reading or doing the crossword puzzle or what have you. And I just don't notice.

Well, today, on the subway ride home, I was reading Bill Buford's delightful essay on food TV shows in the New Yorker. (And for the record, I do think Rachael Ray sucks.) For some reason, right around the time I was reading that Mario Batali wasn't getting his show renewed (travesty!), it occurred to me to look up and see if there was anyone nearby who might need my seat. And there, several feet away from me, was a young woman with ... a belly.

Now, unfortunately, it was one of those situations where I couldn't definitively tell whether she was pregnant or not. She looked like she might be pregnant. But she also juuuuuust looked not-pregnant enough that she could also just have had some tummy weight on her. And I was torn between my sense of feeling like I ought to offer her my seat and not wanting to offend her if she wasn't, in fact, pregnant. Cuz I saw her face, and I tell you, that girl could totally kick my ass. So I kept sneaking looks at her, trying to make up my mind whether she was pregnant or not; and I'm pretty sure her boyfriend/husband must've noticed me doing that, which means that not only was I one of several people not offering her my seat, but I also came off as a righteous bitch because I was looking at her and not offering her my seat. (Of course, I was trying not to look right at her. Like the sun.)

If she had been standing right next to me, it would've been easier to tap her on the arm and ask if she wanted to sit down. But she was standing in the  middle of the car, which would have meant half-standing up and drawing attention to us and oh, the awkwardness, and now I'm just making excuses, aren't I?

Anyway, here's my question to you. What would you have done? Are you an "act first, ask questions later" kind of person? Or are you the "avoid potential awkward confrontation with a stranger on the subway by saying nothing at all and looking like a big jerk" type?

Guess I'm the latter.