christmas tree conversations....

with celebrities:
Edie Falco (Mrs Soprano) Greenwich Street, Tribeca
A:Hi Edie I delivered a tree to you last year.
E: Oh yeah?
A: And I wrote a play about an Australian guy delivering christmas trees in Tribeca and you get a mention in it.
E: Get outta here!!
A: I'm going to leave a copy for you in the foyer.
E: Do it. I'll take a look.

Harvey Keitel cnr of Duane and Hudson streets
AG: pushing Christmas tree in cart stops at red light, Harvey walks up and waits at the light to cross as well.
A: So, Harvey you buying a Christmas tree from me or what?
H: You better believe it kid.
A: Come see me, ask for Adam.
H: Anytime I buy a tree I ask for you. It's that simple.

windy

no real snow to speak of as of yet, but windy...damn windy. delivering christmas trees again. folks remember the grozz from last year. wearing singlet, long sleeve cotton shirt, t-shirt, flannel shirt, thickish cotton jumper, thicker cotton shirt(like lumberjack jacket), hoodie, beanie, gortex nth end wind-cheater....and for down below....only a thong!!! quite a sight pushing a xmas tree in a shopping trolley along broadway!

old & new

Left of frame check out the slight width of the new building going up, as compared to middle of frame, the older triangular shaped building which was the first flat iron building in new york...when it was built people were so convinced that it would topple over that for a number of years the top floors remained vacant....

Nothing unusual...

about a six foot penguin asking for the time...

The buck stops here...

WaterGate Hotel...just for the record I saw no gate and no water!!!!

They get the job done but...

Green Lawn White House

Thought I'd post some pics of the recent trip to washington. we went to see the Sydney Theatre Co's Streetcar Named Bazza...oh wait...called....Desiiiiiirreeee.....and bloody loved it. This shot is of The White House at 4am...

the luck of the irish

I was at a bar the other night in one of the nearby hotels in this area. The bar is on the 12th floor...There were only a handful of men and women sitting around. There were two guys at the bar that had had a skinful...an American and an Irish fella. The Irish guy was goading the American as to what he was drinking...but the American wouldn't tell him. This went on for about an hour until finally the American relented and told him what it was he was drinking, he added that having three shots in a row kinda made you feel superhuman...The Irish guy was laughing and teasing the American guy until finally the American fella downed three shots and went to the balcony and literally leapt over the edge of the balcony. Everyone naturally freaked out but within seconds he appeared through a side door to the bar...I think he jumped over and ran along an outer ledge...Anyway, the Irish guy was laughing and applauded him and said to the barman, 'give me three shots as well!' The barman did, the Irish fella downed the shots and leapt over the balcony ledge and promptly fell to his death on the sidewalk twelve floors down...The barman turned to the American and said, 'You can be real mean when you're drunk Superman.'

bruce says sorry...

Last night at the restaurant Manny came in. Manny is one of the locals, born, raised and returned, after a brief stint of a marriage, to the two bedroom walk-up his family have held onto for generations. Rent controlled. He was at the bar when a journalism student came in to research a story about Mulberry Street. 'A digital voice recorder with brand new batteries.' The student was asked by Manny why he came to write about Mulberry Street. Shrugging, the student replied, 'someone suggested it.' Manny is in his mid-forties and he's lived through the changing face of Mulberry Street over the decades. He remembers the time when downtown (where we live) was unoccupied at night. 'We'd play baseball on Layfayette and Spring. There were no cars.' Manny also remembers when the neighbourhood was run by the gangsters and wiseguys. He remarked about how everyone was looked after. There was no trouble. A great number of people have left the neighbourhood, 'to the burbs or to jail. Gotti is dead, things have changed,' says Manny. Upstairs though there still lives a man who 'can be counted on,' in Manny's words. He did time. Considerable time. He is perhaps the last remnant of the bygone Mulberry era. He is seventy four years old and will 'get you gone' says Manny, in the blink of an eye. Manny took the student by the arm and led him downstairs to the bakers oven, 'where people got cooked,' and to the beer garden where 'more gambling went on here than in Vegas.' Soon after Manny and the student returned a couple entered the bar and sat down and sure enough became part of goings-on. The guy started scribbling on a bar coaster, the cartoonish image struck me as familiar. The gal got into a heated conversation via phone, with her bank regarding a cancelled credit card. And Manny started talking about his brother Steven. Steven went to Baghdad, came back home after a few years a changed man. Ended up blowing his brains out in a Florida carpark. Manny's son idolised his Uncle Steven and wants to be a Marine like him. Manny is worried. 'I want my boy to save lives, not take them,' says Manny. 'I tell him to be a pediatrician.'
The gal downed her glass of wine and continued to berate the distant voice of a stranger and the guy turned to me asking, 'What's your name?' After telling him the guy signed the coaster 'Gary Baseman' and said, 'hold onto it.' He finished his drink and left to meet his gal outside. They wandered into the night. An Albanian by the name of Kursh turned up at the bar and distracted Manny enough to allow the student to pay his bill and leave. I'm not sure the student heard any of the stories Manny told. We closed up shop, echoes of the night trailing away. This morning I woke and went across the street to the deli for a sesame bagel, toasted, with ham, salad and honey mustard. 'You get Swiss with that,' said Jose from behind the counter. He was right. I usually do. 'Thanks, yeah that's right,' I replied. Waiting for the bagel I stood back and watched the passing pedestrian traffic. A lunchtime swarm hovering over the buffet. There was noise but none that I particularly focused on, aside from Jose's co-worker behind the counter pleading to his customers to find Aliesha. 'She's five foot six, asian, skinny. I'll give five hundred to whoever finds her. She works around here. I think she even works on the block across the street. Five hundred notes just to find her. I mean it. You don't think I'm serious but I am. You find her, you tell her, Bruce says sorry.'

is a chef...

Jacques Pepin is a chef of French origin now living in the United States. He is a master chef who has a television show, which appears to be re-runs from a decade ago and which while it looks a little dated compared with the style of celebrity cooking shows currently exploding onto our sets, is a breath of fresh air...His 'show' is influenced not only by his humble early life as one of several children in a poor family, but also by what I believe is a very European 'peasantry' sensibility of never wasting anything...poverty and not wasting things go hand in hand. Usually. Mssr Pepin uses every last bit of celery or cut of meat. He turns water into stock in the blink of an eye and If he does discard something it's after his life-long experience has taught him that the seeds of a cucumber for example, are pretty difficult to wrangle into a stand alone dish... I like him because he will also refuse to cook during some episodes. Instead, he will teach about knife skills, or indicate a variety of ways to chop a clove of garlic, depending on the dish one cooks. So, he is all about technique as well. Some of his dishes do seem old fashioned or 'classic'. Yet, to watch his old hands work (he must be near 80 yrs) is to witness an Artisan create. I also like him because he always has a glass of wine at the end of the show which he will raise in a salute to life and food and family and friends.

waking life

There's the same homeless man down there on the street that I've seen around here before. Dressed in filthy rags and covered in dirt. He stares at a couple of Japanese tourists eating hotdogs and gestures wildly at them. They aren't watching him. He takes out some money from his pocket and counts several notes. He asks a man for money. He gets no response. Opposite him, across the street, there's another homeless man who has staked out a little patch of territory where he sleeps. He knows me and I know him. I leave food or water for him every now and then. Yet only when he sleeps. It's easier if he doesn't know it's me. He calls me 'brother' and I call him 'man'. I'm pretty sure it was not him who was pulling his pants down the other Monday morning preparing to defecate between two parked cars. I looked away before seeing anything. I think it was the other homeless man who sometimes is passed out near the entrance to the bank. Once, myself and a Japanese business woman called the ambulance because we thought he was dying. But he suddenly woke up and staggered away. The ambulance was cancelled. I think it may have been him that was squatting between the cars. I think he might be a junkie. These homeless men are all black men. There is a white man, across the street, on the corner of the block. He is often cursing and spitting out words which are hard to make sense of. He drinks. And he is covered in sores and filth. He is usually lying down holding his stomach. A building near where he sleeps collapsed some months ago and I was surprised that he was not found dead. In the apartment next door someone I've never seen practices classical piano. It's a beautiful sound to focus on. Like the echo of a dream.

back in the u-s of a

so I caught zee plane back from sydney..I feel a million miles from starting the day wandering in the shallows of beautiful Clovelly Beach...anyway, was going to be holed up in LA for most of the day but managed to get on an earlier flight...and here's where my gripe begins...Why, when Qantas does fly into NY, and I have purchased a Qantas ticket do I have to take an inferior domestic carrier 'American Airlines' from LA to NY? The staff were rude, hostile, and downright....hmmm....american. I had such a lovely experience on the Qantas flight - apart from the inflight audio needing to be a bit louder...So..during the american airlines flight I was returning from the bathroom (not really a room) to my seat. A hostess had the food trolley in the aisle and she moved it into the kitchen galley for me to pass. Then she, leaving it there, went to attend to something. However as I was passing the trolley a steward told me never to move or touch the trolley again. I asked him what he was talking about and he said, rather too dismissively, 'You heard me. Do not touch the trolley.' I told him that I did not touch it and he had the audacity to remark, 'well how did it get here then?' To which I responded by telling him to 'Come here mate!' Once he did I pointed (yes pointed) at his co-worker down the aisle and told him that in fact it was she who had moved the trolley. In this I was backed-up by the gentleman seated in the row behind me. The steward said nothing...Now this steward was the same one who I had earlier asked if I could pass through the galley to access the vacant toilet in the aisle opposite and had told me that no-one was allowed to pass through it...although during the flight he allowed some people to pass through it and yet not others...In short he seemed to be making all white people walk the long way around....what the hell? was this some sort of in-flight racism...Anyway, I wasn't that disappointed when during a spot of turbulence he landed on his arse and an open cup of coke fell from the galley bench and soaked the back of his shirt...which he had to wear throughout the flight...

Two recent observations

#1 The Trout Catching House
Last night, we had dinner with some neighbourhood acquaintances and it was remarked by one of them that the basement in their country house keeps flooding. Indeed, during a recent 'pump-out' of said basement the sound of flapping fish flailing about on the basement floor could be heard, left behind after all the water had been drained. The house was built beside a stream which boasts a healthy supply of trout. They have petitioned the local council to cease supplying the creek which fronts their property with trout eggs, but as it's a popular trout fishing area, they fear they will have no luck.

#2 The Kettle that Stopped Whistling
I have observed, in recent days, that our stove top kettle seems to have made a decision to whistle half-heartedly, or not whistle at all. The steam generated whistle would on previous occasion, announce itself quite boisterously, almost like a hunter might whistle his hound. However, now it displays more lethargy, nay contempt, for carrying on its duties and emitting instead, barely an audible sigh.

Hot August Nights

It's so hot even my dreams are sweating. Even my sweat is sweating. Even my eyeballs are sweating. It's so hot I actually drank my own sweat for fear of dehydration the other day. And it sweated as I drank it. And it's humid too. The kind of humidity that clings to you. It would be like wearing, inside out, the fur of a large, rancid smelling, unreasonably cantankerous, dusty, old cat. And it's all a bit grimy as well. Bit too grimy actually. The kind of grime that makes ones nostrils flare. The sort of grime that one stops to gawk at, but then quickly looks away, thinking 'did I really just see that?' So, all this has led me to be sitting on the sofa at 5am with the window open catching what little breeze there is, writing this whilst modestly dressed in a man sarong. Or if you prefer, a bath towel. Oh, did I mention the mosquitos? I am sure that some of them have fought in any number of guerilla campaigns in neighbouring countries, such is their ferocity. And big too. A suspicious sort of she-male-olympic-gymnastics-large-man-hands-on-a-bearded-lady-kind of big. And nasty and truculent too. A little bit too gangsta! If you do manage to hit one and have the luck to render it dead, it leaves a sort of stain that one should never examine too closely with a microscope. Back home, a slapped mozzie will leave a lovely shade of crimson or rose. Not here. Nuh! These blighters leave a black, coagulated muck, a foul tar consistency - A grime...that sweats. So, how does one combat all this? Well aside from enjoying the pleasantries of observing the city opening at dawn, I find that iced tea works. Iced tea and a man sarong. Both make the day easier to bear.

Bob still rocking...

hwy diner

cool old diner along the way...

New Jersey turnpike....

...it's looks so much different in the movies...

central pk lake

terrific thing to do in NYC...hire a boat in central park and go for a row. Then wander into the Boathouse restaurant for a drink and meal...

after the concert...of which I will soon write something about, we headed here; 'Stone Wall Acres', getting in at midnight and crashing only to be woken up by silence, then birdsong, and that strange sensation that comes with an undisturbed sleep. It reminded me a lot of the Atherton tablelands and the peace therein...The B&B was an old farmers cottage from early 1800's, now restored...the stone wall it was argued may have been built by slaves...it stretched on through the countryside into and through forests, over hills and into valleys. Criss-crossing paddock and pasture for hundreds of kilometres across the state and beyond...it was impossible not to consider the human sacrifice beneath this enduring work of art.

bob and willee

okay, went to Bethal to the Woodstock site to see Bob Dylan and Willee Nelson play. did not disappoint. will post pics etc asap.

J-Lo @ Franklin St Station

J-Lo acting it up in a scene - set at Franklin St Station, Tribeca

Frisbe Central Park Action

and more...

park time action

J-Lo

Jennifer Lopez is in a movie which has blocked off about four blocks of our 'hood...
She's STILL Jenny from the Block.

central park....summer...frisbee action

Melted Cheese!!!!

They put it on everything!!!! From salads to stews to layering it on thick pressed between several hams on sandwiches Sooo large that one has to dislocate the upper and lower mandible and flip the head back just to take a bite!!!
When I order a bagel now I ask for less of everything. Less salad, less cold cut meats, or less salmon, fewer capers and a lot less creamed cheese!!!! Baffled, it takes a good half hour (this time spent with the attendant simply staring open mouthed into the middle distance), before he/she come to terms with someone wanting Less Food!!!

wise guys

I walked the other day from 34th Street and 7th Avenue down to the west village and then followed Hudson Street back down to Tribeca. Along the way a thunderstorm broke and I took shelter, along with several others, under a framework of scaffolding. Across the street on the corner of Hudson and Barrow was a small red brick bar. A simple sign in the window named the joint as the Barrow Street Bar. Through the rain I could see a man standing in the open doorway watching it cascade. I could make out only one or two people inside. The bar looked like the kind of place that this neighbourhood may have had many more examples of in times gone by and it was this and the persisting rain that drew me through the doors. Two men were talking in Italian and English as I entered and as I passed them for the bar my comment, 'rain's here to stay, thought I'd have a beer', seemed to go down well with them. There was no-one else in the bar but me, them and the barmaid, and over the course of the length of time it took to drink the beer I listened to these two guys and it was like watching an episode of the Soprano's. They had every tick, gesture and flick that we've come to know as being associated with the cliche, and yet they were the real deal. Eavesdropping surreptitiously I listened as they spoke about wise-guys and goomba's. If only I'd had a voice-recorder. They struck me as the real deal and the last of their type in a neighbourhood that has gone upscale. The best line I heard was one that they uttered almost in unison when talking about a colleague of theirs that they felt had been the undeserved recipient of a lucky break...."God gives biscuits to those with no teeth!"

Harlem & Jackson tribute

Rode all the way from downtown along West Street - along a bike path that follows the Hudson River, all the way up to 125th Street and into the streets of Harlem. It's a great ride and takes only about an hour and a half. Riding into Harlem was a buzz as there was a tribute to Michael Jackson taking place in the Apollo Theatre. The streets were blocked off and the queuing people rounded the block entirely more than once. Shops and cars and people with ghetto blasters (are they still called that) were playing MJ songs from his youth to his later years. Imitators spinning and moonwalking were mobbed by fans of the real and recently deceased King of Pop and paparazzi crowded around them as though all were witnessing the second coming of the man who may surely be an icon forever. Makeshift stalls were hastily clad together selling cheapskate keepsakes, such as shirts with the beatific beaming face of MJ smiling down or hot dvds of any and or all of His performances. Fried Chicken was on sale too: the gentleman who was touting the aforementioned food was heavily chastised by his rather formidable lady colleague who seemed to prefer him calling out 'Fried Chicken Breasts!' rather than his own preference of 'Big Juicy Breasts! Fried! (a slight pause, then sotto voce) chicken!' Riding home a thunderstorm broke through from about 100th Street down, rain pelting down and lightening cracking. But nothing mattered cos MJ and the folks in Harlem were dancing.

mean streets

Ambling along Broadway the other day I watched as a bus came to a halt, the door of the bus opened, the driver of the bus blasted the horn several times and yelled to a pedestrian on the footpath. I continued watching until the pedestrian that the driver was yelling to became aware that she was indeed the object of his attention. Then, once a sort of communication was made between them he directed her to look down between her feet to where she had dropped a bundle of notes from her purse.
Grateful she thanked the driver. He smiled, waved, then drove off, heading uptown.

when you're a jet

I finished work last night at about 10.30pm and while I've lately been riding home, the trip taking about 6 minutes, this time I thought I'd walk. It was a balmy and quiet night, perfect for a stroll. I set off from Mulberry Street, right into Spring, a couple of blocks along to Broadway, taking a left and then making it home. I mention the directions because I suddenly caught myself walking home without a second thought about which way to go. Things are now starting to happen automatically. I found myself not having to take a moment to ponder the course. Instead, I took that moment to decide which course, out of many, I would take. Not through the heart of Soho then along West Broadway, until Church Street, the way I usually ride, but a slow perambulation along Broadway until Leonard Street, then left onto Church then right to Reade. Finding the way home felt as commonplace now as coming across yet another film shoot which was taking place along the way. I stopped to consider for several seconds the enormity of the production and, asking one of the crew what the name of the film was, he replied that they weren't allowed to say. Oh well, never mind. I walked on passing two paparazzi and asked the same question. 'Some shitty movie' said one of the guys out the corner of his piehole. Humoured, I kept strolling along, passing some actor emerging from his trailer. 'What's the movie?' I ask. 'Remember Me', exclaims the actor. 'Nope', I say. 'No, no,' he says, 'that's the name of the film.' 'Yeah. Good luck', I say and walk on. The lights are all bright down Broadway.

Dumbo

This is taken in an area called Dumbo (Down Under Manhatten Bridge Overpass). We were walking down the street and thought it looked like that poster/shot from the film, 'Once Upon a time in America...'

Having a good old picnic at Brooklyn Bridge park. Tis the season.

For the record...

Tracy Grimshaw has apologised to me and I have accepted her apology.

surfacing...

...been a couple of long weeks of work and life and strife and while the late night gripe has been on my mind I havent had time to jot a post. We went to Brooklyn the other weekend to visit a friend who was moving out of her house and having a stoop sale....have always wanted to sit on a stoop and share a beer. Done! Then walking around Brooklyn visiting markets then buying a couple of pushbikes at another sale, $20 each...and now the proud owners of two ye olde style bikes...anyone passing thru NY pls feel free to take them to the park for rides! Also, Brooklyn is worth a visit - the few times we've been have been great fun. People are really chilled...think inner west Sydney...um...what else off the top of my mind...oh yeah, okay yesterday I was working at one of the restaurants here in Tribeca and a couple walked past. I said to them 'oh we were on the same flight from Australia to NY, back in March and then we caught the same train from JFK to Chambers St station'. Naturally they asked if I was their stalker, seems everyone has one, but no I wasn't...they too remembered us as we had engaged them in conversation at the time...anyway seems they run a film production company here in Tribeca, (of course they do)...so I might try and follow that one up and push for an internship of sorts....what else...oh Geoffrey Rush won his Tony Award oi-oi-oi!!! ... it feels good becoming a 'local' and becoming familiar with shop keepers and neighbours...funny how the price of say, a six pack of corona drops from $15 to $10 in the space of a couple of months after visiting the same joint...

240 Mulberry

One of the places where I am currently working is located at 240 Mulberry Street. It's now zoned in an area called Nolita (North of Little Italy). Mulberry Street, along with some of the nearby streets such as Christopher and Elizabeth, are historically so important in the history of Italian immigration into the states. These days so little of Little Italy remains and sadly it's more a sideshow than possesing the colour and flavour it once did. My workplace has a downstairs bar and then a bar/restaurant on street level, which goes back to a 'beer' garden. Yesterday I saw a photograph which had to be at least 100 years old. It was of an old Italian man standing at the front of the shop with his daughter beside him. Hanging from the front window were curing hams. The photograph was one that provoked the imagination to consider the numerous stories that must have evolved within the walls of this establishment as it has changed one business enterprise to another over the decades. Downstairs, built into the wall is an old brick bread oven. It's almost as deep, fourteen feet, as it is wide and like the photograph, is a beautiful remnant of days gone by. Talking with the owner yesterday he mentioned that bread was not been the only thing to have been baked in the oven. Across the street a notorious family once ran this neighbourhood in their 'traditional' way. When someone made trouble for them, the oven in the basement of 240 Mulberry was lit and the individual met a fiery finish. Sour dough anyone?

they're like...um spiritual

Over heard in a bar in Nolita: (North Of Little Italy)
Lady at bar chatting to heavily tattooed barman;

Lady: So you've got quite a lot of tat's?
Barman: Yeah they're dragons. I've got dragons on this arm, and on this arm. I've got dragons on both legs, and I've got a dragon on my chest.
Lady: Oh, so were you born in the year of the dragon?
Barman: No. I just missed out. I'm the cow.

in vino veritas

One of the things that NY does really well are its bars. I'm working in a restaurant that has two bars connected to it. I'm happy to work the floor rather than be stuck behind a bar. Bartenders sometimes work the same bar for years and over the course of time establish co-dependent relationships with their regulars, generally men, and usually alcoholics. The trouble is that both need each other. For tips on how to live the barfly consults the barman. The barman on the other hand, only ever consults his tips. The trouble with drunks, when you are working in proximity to them, is that they believe they have shared something profound with you over the course of your shift and their imbibing. Waxing philosophical one minute they mutate to becoming morose or elated the next. In most cases this follows with becoming rude, arrogant and self important. A mimicry of bravery returned to night after night. If it's bad for the barman, it's worse for women who work the bar as well. Quite often finding themselves first in the mother-carer-nurse-nurturer role, doling out tried and tested platitudes with grace and forbearance they are then regarded, as the night goes on and the drunk gets drunker, as the wanton hussy-whore-hooker. I'm not saying that there is no care nor empathy for the 'regular', but there is very little remembered beyond a few shared laughs usually at their expense the next time everyone turns up for their shift and recalls the night or the week before, when old so and so said or did something or other again. There are no great words of wisdom from minds which are deserving of better. It's enough to drive a man to drink!

Overheard on boat Cruise

Tour Operator: And for those passengers on the right side of the boat you'll get a close up view of The Statue of Liberty....closed since 2001.

This photograph is of a 1962 EK Holden. My first car, purchased from lawn mowing money at the age of 16 years from Mrs Pellizzari for $450. She reduced her price from $500 because I'd paid her consistently within a short period of time. Her husband had stripped the paint job and tarred the chassis of the car to prevent rust and then had it re-painted and it looked good as new. Now, the car needed work, but every now and then my neighbourhood buddies such as Bryan (BB), and Steven (Scratchy) would tinker with the engine, changing spark plugs and leads and removing engine parts only to put them back soon after with a remarkable insignificance achieved. The inside of the car was immaculate, beautiful trim and retaining the odour of having just rolled off the show room floor. Every now and then, we'd start it up and take it for a spin. The engine needed some work here and there but it just kept going, refusing to quit. I'd get a 24hr registration pass to drive it through the slick wet streets of Cairns late at night. Then teenage foolishness set in and bad decisions made too quick had me sell this beautiful old car for a greedy sum so that I could throw money away on an overseas trip to the red heart of Arizona. The car got broken down into bits and pieces and apparently rests in someone's Far Northern backyard refusing to yield to time and to dust. Which brings me to my Apple Mac Book purchased just under two years ago, on borrowed money, for the sum of two thousand dollars. It quit two days ago. Its hard drive dead. A number of procedures have been conducted to attempt resurrection yet I find myself complacent about it having a second life. Instead, I ponder dreamily about my never surrendering EK and the fact that the people who made that particular object made it to last, instead of working out a sinister way of extracting as much money as they can from their customers... Nostalgic? Idealistic? Sure.

Overheard on Mulberry Street

Drunk at a bar to a woman who walks in. 

Drunk: You look like you've got a lot of money. 

Woman: Thanks, that's the look I was going for. 

Two legs good. Four legs bad.

So here you see the prominent central building which is the United Nations. In an effort to design a space which had a symbolic relationship to the principles of democracy the architects came up with the concept that no-one should have a corner office. (ie: an office with better views than their co-workers)....So instead they BRICKED IN THE ENTIRE WALL!! ON EITHER SIDE!!!!!...hmmm I guess they didn't think about the poor schmucks working in centrally located offices now with windowless walls to stare at all day!!!....And then....left of frame the other large dark building is Trump Tower...the office workers there enjoy unrestricted 360 degree views of Manhatten and beyond....hmm....seems some are more equal than others....

So we woke this morning to see this scene...nothing to worry about though. It was an old building that was being renovated and the construction had been deemed uninhabitable for some time. 

Me, Daren and Scott in the studio just about set to start reading.

these boots were made for walkin', rollerblading, bicycling, runnin'

Interesting...no wonder these are endangered. Australia keeps giving them away!! 

This was in an enclosure within the Brooklyn Botanical gardens. There were large numbers of Australian trees. We both got homesick but loved seeing the familiar flora. 

Prospect Park

Prospect Park & Brooklyn

I think it's fair to say Spring is finally here. We spent Saturday walking through Brooklyn: the Brooklyn Botanical gardens and then Prospect Park...sunshine on the skin and as you can see we weren't alone. It was great. BBQ's happening, dogs splashing in dedicated dog ponds. The wonderful thing after a winter as cold and harsh as that we have just endured is that you get to experience nature with a childlike sense of awe. 

Okay, so we were heading out to have a glass of wine this pleasant spring evening and the whole damn sidewalk was blocked off by the papparazzi, here for the tribeca film festival. Adrian brody and moby were two who did the camera flash shuffle. We hesitated here only momentarily before deciding that the purchase of a nice bottle of red consumed within the confines of home was a better option. 

it's the bubbles of nothing that make it really something

cool mural on the top right

random shots

watership down

Martini's

So the cocktail hour is big in NY. Through a series of random tasting experiments I have been able to determine one or two things about the Martini. Hitherto not overly familiar with the Martini I have since learnt that it can be made using either gin or vodka, and commonly with just the slightest touch of Vermouth, literally a drop the size of one's fingernail. I have sampled both the gin and vodka variety and prefer the gin. I have also determined through a lengthy process of sampling and experimentation that I prefer a dirty martini. That is, a martini with the splash of olive brine included in the mix. So my order would be a gin martini, dry and dirty. It should come with olives, at least two or three, but in some establishments it pays to ask. However, having said all of that I must say the range of difference between that same aforementioned preferred type of martini, varies dramatically. Also should you feel compelled to make one of these at home, please note that gin is easily bruised, it should be gently rotated no more than twice in the cocktail shaker, as opposed to vodka which can be treated with a little less care. 

Overheard in NY

So being the natural eavesdropper that I am I have decided to post snippets of conversations I have overheard while here. The first was when I was walking through Central Park on sunday afternoon. Two young women were walking in front of me:

1: And I hate him for it! I was always the needy one! So now he's doing what I taught him...Now he's the needy one. I used to be the needy one! AND he's using the tricks I taught him to manipulate me!!! I hate him so much!

2: So when's the wedding?

And then walking by Brooklyn Bridge station back to our place. Two guys wearing lots of bling, low ridin' jeans etc etc: 

1: Man, you ain't ever gonna see me work. I just ain't gonna do it. 

2: Workin's for losers!

central park starts to come alive

Spring

So where is this spring that everyone keeps talking about...We had a shock of spring weather, it has to be admitted, over the weekend. On Friday night NY unfurled itself onto the pavement, with diners spilling out over tables and bottles of wine passed around and trees blossoming and skies pure blue..I wore a T-shirt walking down the street! And then on Monday....it snowed!!!! not much at all, just a few flakes which melted quickly. But snow nonetheless. 

We went to eat at a restaurant on friday night, the waiter, a withering sycophant, tried to charge us double what we paid for a bottle of wine. His service disproportionately placed throughout the endeavor was also dependent on who he was serving, his preference being drunk college girls or equally intoxicated 'cougars'. The manager, a gentle man of kindly disposition, when he became aware that all was not well, approached our table and after a short yet detailed discussion we were able to rectify both bill and our spirits.  

Karaoke - sing or be sung to

Okay....my gripe for today....Karaoke bars. Just because one enters a karaoke bar does that mean one has to sing? I put it to you that the answer is no. Is not a karaoke bar just a bar when it's all sung and done? And if one is not inclined to sing and there are plenty of other people singing, and one is happy enough to be sung to and celebrate the singing of others...WHY must one passively endure the gentle remonstrations from a designer stubble boy band lookalike barman saying: 'hey man, you know, we're all cool here, just sing man, sing...' you know what pal: go check your hair again and get out of my face. I would have thought that clientele, whether singing or not, would be appreciated, particularly in a den of iniquity like this ramshackle shanty you call a bar. Thus, I put it to you, learned colleagues, that if one enters a karaoke bar, while it may be custom to sing, there is no obligation by any member of the party, to engage in singing. And further I submit that indeed there is no provision to forcefully, through passively cloaked argument or otherwise, entreat a paying customer to engage in the act of singing. However, if one finds oneself painted into the veritable corner, may I suggest choosing a song slow of pace and maudlin of sentiment such as the work of Hank Williams...I believe you'll be left alone from then on to sit quietly imbibing and enjoying the singing of others. 

Maider & Igor visit NY from the Basque Country!!!! 

Here's a gripe for you...CRAIGSLIST!!!! In particular the employment pages...What a load of tosh!!! Okay, now I have purchased things off craigslist as have several people I know. And been happy with the result. I have also rented accommodation from Craigslist and was happy with the choice of Barcelona apartamento BUT....their employment wanted ads are total rubbish. The jobs advertised lead you to dead ends, dodgy websites and businesses that might seem okay at first reading and then turn out to be jobs for 'adult service industry'...and I don't mean being a waiter!!! Charlatans, miscreants!!!

Being there in Harlem...

someone's watching

nothing unusual about a helicopter hovering above all day...

Brooklyn Bridge at night

Okay, so here I am living in new York City.  Beyond the sirens and the gunk on the sidewalks and the slow crawl the seasons have toward Spring and a few other gripes I'll post along the way, this blog will be used to post general comments both positive and negative about life in the Big Apple. 

First will be the process that I went on to get my recent J1 visa...excuse the formal tone of the piece, it was originally intended for a piece in a newspaper column...

Recently I have gained entry to live and work in the US under the J1 visa. Had I not completed a Masters degree in the last twelve months I would not be eligible for such a visa. You can apply for a J1 within 12 months of graduation. An organisation in Sydney called Student Placement Australia will, for a fee of around $1500, help you through the process and act as your work sponsor while you are in the US and provide all paperwork to expediate the process.

Trawling through US consulate and visa requirement sites can be both frustrating and nerve-racking. Particularly when, as I found, one is trying to organise said visa, consulate interview and any supplementary paperwork from out of Australia. I was in NY as a tourist for 3 months when I was doing this. My partner, an Australian who lives and works in NYC, and I decided that we would return to Australia in February to enable me to go for the J1 visa and her to renew her E3 visa...

The only thing hanging over my head was a DUI (Driving under the influence) incident some nine years ago, which caused this process such a great deal more anxiety and stress then it ordinarily would have. Something worth mentioning is that a single drink driving conviction is not considered to be a crime of moral turpitude. This means essentially that you are not of an immoral character, you have not committed fraud or murder - the law recognises that you made a stupid mistake once and agrees not to hold it against you.

So what do you do if you have had a drink driving conviction recorded against you? Firstly, fill in the Supplementary Form on the US Consulate site concerning DUI convictions.

The other thing that I did was set about obtaining a Police Clearance Certificate. You have to provide them with a set of fingerprints. And when you are trying to do this from overseas it can be very difficult. There are two ways to do this. If you are within Australia contact your state police. If you are in the US you need to get fingerprint sheets to send back to the Aust. federal Police. Biometrics or fingerprint scanning are not as of yet used for this process. There are two sets of fingerprint sheets, green and blue. I spent a frustrating few days going to every agency I could think of including the FBI, trying to obtain fingerprint sheets. The NYPD have sheets but I was told to provide my own. I finally found them in a small rundown shop downtown on Broadway advertising passport photos, fingerprints etc.  Some NYPD precincts such as the First Precinct will do your fingerprints on certain days. Check online. Also you must have a US postal money order made out to the NYPD for the sum of fifteen dollars. So, now armed with my money order and finger print sheets (take spare copies!!) I went to the NYPD 1st Precinct only to be told that they did not do it. I knew otherwise. I knew they were wrong. I had phoned twice to make sure that it could be done on this particular day. Sometimes as was this case, people just don't want to help. This is when you learn to be patient and polite and courteous. Finally the young officer took me to get my prints done. He was a rookie and nervous about not doing the job correctly. He took the fingerprints to his supervisor only to be told that they had not been done correctly. Luckily I had a spare set of sheets. The rookie also brought a set of fingerprint sheets the NYPD use. So I was able to get two sets of fingerprint sheets, blue and green sheets made. By this time the police officer and I had become mates and he didn't bother charging me for the service. I was up $15!!!

I then had to get an International money order made out to the Australian Federal Police, to send with the fingerprints for the service of providing the certificate. I think it cost over US$100...You can get this done by most leading banks. I used Chase Manhatten bank on W34th Street, right beside Madison Square garden. I organised the clearance certificate to be sent to an address in Sydney, to coincide with both my arrival back home in Australia and my visa interview at the US consulate. I sent it special post via FedEx...another US$50...

Naturally, when we returned home to Sydney the Police Clearance Certificate had not arrived, even though the Federal Police website advises that it takes 3 weeks, (we sent it 4 and half weeks beforehand). This meant I had to cancel my interview at the US consulate and reschedule it. Phoning the Federal Police I found out that the certificate would not be sent out until another week. (5 weeks!)Being home for only 2 and a half weeks meant that time was limited. The only other visa interview opportunity was five days before we were scheduled to return to the US. 

The day the certificate was supposed to arrive came and went, as did the next and the next. It was by far the most frustrating experience of this ordeal, made worse by the attitude of some of the federal police call centre personal. On one particular occasion after waiting on hold for three quarters of an hour I was answered by a giggling male who told me that he and his co-worker were laughing about a joke they were sharing. My subsequent tone made the smile disappear from his face quick smart. I wanted to make a more concerted effort to formally complain about that but I guess in one way this is it. So, yet again they told me the certificate was in the mail. This did me little good as my interview was first thing the following morning. I had my supplementary formfrom the US consulate website outlining the conviction, but would this be enough? 

It turned out it was. The interview went well. It was friendly and informal. I was more nervous than need be. They asked about the certificate and I said it was in the mail. My wonderful partner had extracted an email from the Federal police certifying that I had applied for said certificate and that is was being processed, so I was able to produce that if called upon. But, beyond questioning me once about the drink driving offence, that was it. When I heard the interviewer say 'I have decided to grant you a visa' I almost fell over and cried. My passport stamped with my beautiful J1 visa arrived less than twenty four hours before we flew back out of Australia....

So what have I learned...be prepared more than well in advance; create a calendar of a things to do list, get every document you can and then some, for J1 go through an organisation such as Student Placement Australia and rely on them...after all you're paying a fee. Finally take heed from the people who have been there and done it - when we say 'don't let it overwhelm you', or 'one things at a time' have faith that our experience counts for something. You can do it. Just pay attention and look smart. 

Was it worth it? I'm living in New York City with the woman I love and tonight I start working....legally. (although they havent yet asked for my visa...)

A footnote to this...the first day I was back in NY I ran into the police officer who did my fingerprinting at the 1st Precinct and shook hands like old mates and had a chat. When he went to walk away he said, 'see you 'round the neighbourhood!' I felt like a New Yorker!

The Late Night Gripe