Every once in a while, I'll drop by the storage facility where I began storing stuff just before I left for Iraq. I usually go to pick up a few odds and ends.

But truth be told, the real motivation behind my occasional trips there (and the fact that I'm still storing stuff there despite the hefty monthly fee) is likely to be this view from my storage space on the 9th floor:



Yeah...if it isn't ridiculously obvious by now, that view of the Manhattan skyline is my all-time favorite subject to photograph. And of course, the photos don't do justice to the actual view of said skyline.

So says Time Out New York to me upon my scoring 99 points in their ridiculously difficult "Essential NYC" quiz.

And here I'd thought I'd done a half-way decent job (I did do pretty well on the music-related questions). Guess it wasn't good enough for the NYC-snobs at TONY.

So...back to LA, then?

They're not gonna win me a Pulitzer anytime soon, but here are a few shots of the greatest city in the world.

(Click the pic to see the full-size image)










And, of course, what set of NYC photos would be complete without a Photoshop'd image of Midtown? What do you think--should I replace the current LJ masthead with this shot?



(In case you haven't noticed, I'm having a hard time writing anything serious as of late. That will hopefully change soon. I need to tell y'all how the next nine months are shaping up for me. The words are there...the desire to be real and upfront, sadly, is not.)

Obsoive:



I'm not quite sure what the sign-maker was trying to say here. Though, if they're saying what I think they're saying, I can totally relate. I actually wrote a little something along the same lines, albeit to a different audience:

Dear Twins,
You are currently 3rd in the AL Central, behind Detroit and Chicago, which puts you 2nd in the current AL wild card standings. Is this the kind of season you want to have to honor Kirby? You guys have the talent. You can make the playoffs...for Kirby.

Please Twins.

Yours, Dave.

Feel free to add your own exhortation, be it to your favorite sports team or negligent pet owners. I'd like to think of this as a pre-Festivus opportunity for an airing of grievances, right here on my very LJ.

Why? Because I care.

(see also: Spilled Paint by Hoodlums)

1. the infamous MTA strike
   
   
2. the huge blizzard back in February
   
   
3. the grand opening of the brand-new Apple Store on 5th Ave.
   
   
4. the weeklong Queens blackout a few weeks ago
   
   
5. 2/3 of a great Mets season
   
   
6. The Wedding Singer on Broadway
   
   
7. my lil' sister's 8th grade graduation
   
   
8. my pastor/mentor/dear friend's final sermon
   
   
9. watching a little Peruvian girl from our church grow up. Granted, I only missed 9 months, and she's now a whopping three years old. But she and her mother were two people, in particular, whom I felt like I was abandoning when I left NYC (and when we ended sunnyside@seven). So it was quite wonderful to see both of them at church yesterday, and quite touching to see that she actually remembered me. ("Quien es?" her mother asked her. "Dabi," she replied. "Que hace?" Zara began to tap her foot and strum her air guitar, a dead-on imitation of my worship-leading.)

How I've missed this place.

( from a familiar source )

...

In a little over 13 hours, I'll be in Nashville. I'll have something insightful to tell you sometime, but not right now. As you can guess, today's goodbye-ing has taken its toll on me. That, and I'm still packing.

OK, here's another half-dozen shots I've taken in the last week, most of which were taken earlier during our evening spent at Madison Square Park.

I'm still toying around with the camera and the computer's photo editing software (these shots were all touched up using Apple's iPhoto), but I'm more or less pleased with how the shots turned out. Here's the obligatory sample to whet your appetite (or steer you clear from the rest...one or the other):



I'll save the explanations for later. It's way past my bedtime.

UPDATE @ 9:25 AM: OK, so looking at the pics on another computer screen, I'm a bit disappointed with the "enhancements" made with iPhoto. I think I'll stick to Photoshop.

This time, of Central Park. I spent my Friday afternoon/evening chillin' in the Park, and I was smart enough to bring my camera (now if I could only learn to use the stupid thing). At any rate, I picked my five favorites and posted 'em here.

( My favorite of the bunch happens to be this one. )

All the picture-taking yesterday got me thinking (and yes, this qualifies as Dave's Crazy Idea of the Week): seeing as how I take a ton of cityscape pictures, I should take the best shots and compile them in a nice little book. Y'know, something cutesy that'll highlight some of my favorite New York visuals. It might end up being something I do for myself, OR, it might make a nice little fundraiser for future endeavors. Granted, I probably wouldn't make a lot of money with a book of amateur photography, and that was never my intention, really...so maybe, yeah, scratch the whole fundraiser idea. But creating a book of my favorite cityscape shots for personal enjoyment still seems like a pretty cool idea that I think I'll attempt at some point here.

Wait wait wait...fundraiser? Future endeavors? Uh, yeah. I'm being purposefully vague right now, but I promise I'll explain it all very soon. All in good time, my friends. All in good time.

Yesterday, the band played what I'm calling a warm-up gig for tomorrow night's show at Sin-é. We played a four-song set--including the first public performance of "Governor" (very very rough 1-minute sample here)!--at a 10th anniversary celebration for (our bass player and drummer) Brian and Anthony's church.

Now here's what I loved about this--and another reason why I love New York (and Queens, in particular): Brian and Anthony, being Burmese, attend a church with an entirely Burmese congregation. So Thom and I were two of maybe five white folks among 200+ people in attendance...and we had a blast! It was quite the multiculti experience: all the signs were written in Burmese (which, if you've never seen it, looks like a cross between Korean and Arabic), everyone was speaking in Burmese (though they could also speak to us in English, which was nice), and there were at least 15 different Burmese dishes to try. I won't even attempt to tell you the names of the things I'd tried, but they were all quite exotic and tasty.

And though it was great fun to perform for everyone, I think I had more fun watching Brian and Anthony jam with some of their Burmese friends. They and two of their friends--all of whom are no older than 20--are excellent musicians; they would all swap instruments, and all of them could shred on the guitar (seriously, they could all put me to shame). It was so very entertaining, not only because these guys are incredibly talented, but also because they were playing metal and punk rock (in Burmese, of course) for the crowd of mostly 30- to 40-something churchgoers.

Their punk rawk rendtion of "What a Wonderful World" (in English) was absolutely priceless. As was a spot-on cover of the Cranberries' "Zombie."

I guess what I'm saying is that, overall, there was just something really cool about being a part of this gathering on Saturday. And something extraordinarily cool about seeing a bunch of young guys--all of whom were born in Myanmar--rock out like you wouldn't believe on a sunny Saturday in the middle of New York City.

This was originally going to be a late-night ramble, but I got back way too late last night to do any blogging. Here now are some jumbled thoughts on nothing in particular:

Just Like Any Other Self-Respecting Rock Band - Last night we had a rehearsal session from 11-1. That's probably a relatively early night compared to other bands, but it's the latest we've ever practiced. The rehearsal space itself was, to quote Napoleon D., freakin' sweet--the folks at Astoria SoundWorks upgraded us to one of the big, cozy, well-kept rooms with big Marshall half-stacks. But it was late, and I didn't get to bed 'til much later, which I'm regretting today. Not to mention the return of tinnitus, for which I have no one to blame but myself. And possibly the Marshall half-stacks.


The Whole Point of the Late Night Practice - I should've mentioned this before, but we've got a gig on Monday night, and it's in Manhattan! The Lower East Side, to be more specific. The venue is Sin-é (pronounced shi-NAY), which was voted last year as "Best Place to See a Local Band's First Gig." This is our second real gig, but our first one in Manhattan, so I'm excited that it happens to be at this spot.

We go on at 8 PM. I think it's $10 at the door...in case any of my NYC readers would care to drop by and show some love. More band info at profate.com if you're interested. Also, Thom just created a profate page on MySpace (which, though I've held out for so long, I find myself inching closer and closer to joining...what do you guys think?).


Is it late-August already? - Yesterday the Village was noticeably busier than it had been in recent months. The whole area was teeming with people--lots of kids that looked really young (well, "young" meaning late-teens/early-twenties), as well as some assorted middle-aged folks, pleated khakis and all.

Then it dawned on me: school starts next week. These are NYU undergraduates. (And their parents).

And then I started to feel kinda old. (In that odd mid-twenties / really-not-that-old-at-all sort of way.)


Adventures in Talking to Girls #1 - Well then. You remember paraphernalia girl, don't you? The one that always smiles at me, and I, her, whenever I walk by her table of bongs and pipes and what-not? Well, believe it or not, I actually talked to her yesterday. It was a very brief, "Hello, how are you?"-type exchange, though, so nothing to get excited about, folks. And again, unless she's selling those wares to raise money for missions trips (as thelpslayer suggested), I'm sure we'll come to find we have nothing in common. Anyway, next time I see her I think I'll throw some deep Ralph Wiggum-inspired prose and ask, "So...you like...stuff?"


Warm the House for Me, Boys - Tonight is the house warming party for the brand new AGO house on the Row at USC. I cannot begin to tell you how much I wish I was there to celebrate with the brothers who've shared this dream with me since we started the fraternity in 2000. And from what slayer says, it sounds like it'll be an incredibly fun party with an insanely good slideshow.

So I spent last night preparing a little last-minute house-warming gift to send the boys on this momentous ocassion. I won't ruin the surprise, in case any of them are reading this before the shin-dig, but I hope they enjoy the lil' gift.

Enjoy the party, boys--I'll be there with you in spirit, with a bottle of Code Red raised in your honor.


Adventures in Talking to Girls #2 - To get home last night, I took the 6 train up from Astor Place. On the Astor Place platform, I noticed a really cute girl. A daily occurrence when out and about in NYC, to be sure, but in this case I developed what I shall call a "subway crush." Now, the whole premise of subway crushes is a delicate one to approach. First, it's pretty much based on nothing more than physical attraction. Next, dealing with said crush is quite a balancing act: on one hand, you're hoping to come up with a good excuse to strike up a conversation, but on the other hand, you don't ever want to come across as That Creepy Guy (Lord knows there's plenty of TCGs in NYC), or worse. Seriously, girls put up with so much crap from guys in this town. And finally, everyone on the subway is, in effect, a wild card--it's possible that the only thing you might have in common with someone else on the subway is that you're both riding the subway. And yet, people develop subway crushes all the time (don't believe me? Consult craigslist.)

Anyway, we got into the same train car, and inside, I think we made eye contact once or twice (we were both reading books, so you know how that goes). Sadly, at Union Square, she got off our train and went to the Express train across the platform. Ah well, I said to myself. I figured she'd ride the Express train up to the Upper East Side, whereas I'd be swapping trains at Grand Central to head back into Queens. I seriously doubted that she'd be going to Queens as well.

The 6 Local pulled into Grand Central, and I walked down to the 7 train platform, hoping I might possibly catch a glimpse of the young lady (and in so doing, muster the nerve to say something stupid like, "Hey, I just saw you on the 6!"). The chances were slim, and sure enough, I didn't see her. Ahh well. To home on the 7, reading my 2Do book and thinking up new things to add to my list.

The train pulled up to 46th Street, where I got off. Sure enough, as I turned my head as I bounded down the steps to the exit, who should I see but my subway crush! She must've been in the car behind mine. What were the chances of that happening?!? OK, so should I say something, especially now that we have at least one more thing in common (i.e. Sunnyside)? I kept mulling it over. I exited the station, and walked north. She did too. I turned right on Queens Blvd. She did too. What if she's stalking ME? Ha!...wishful thinking, my boy. And yet, this can't go on forever, I told myself; if I'm gonna speak up, it's gotta be NOW.

I turned up 48th Street. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as she walked past 48th and continued to walk down Queens Blvd.

...

I'm not beating myself up here. But I swear, one of these days I'd really like to find the courage to just say "Hi" to a subway crush, consequences be damned. Maybe I should put that on my "To Do List for Life."


And that, my friends, is one random collection of anecdotes. I hope you enjoyed it.

Here now, in no particular order, are a few observations about Sunnyside made during a jaunt around the neighborhood on Wednesday afternoon:

- I may have said this before on the LJ, but I absolutely love eating at El Buen Sabor, a Colombian restaurant on Queens Blvd. at 46th Street. Doug turned me on to this place sometime within the first week or two of my living here, and though I don't eat there too often, it's easily one of my favorite restaurants in the neighborhood--the food is excellent, and I've never left hungry. The ladies behind the counter are always nice and will play along when I attempt (very poorly, I might add) to order in Spanish.

- There's a donut factory just one block up the street from where we live in the Gardens. YES, a donut factory! Sadly, it's an inconspicuous, unmarked brick building that looks like it could easily be an auto repair shop or something similar, so you can't get too excited when you see the place. But you can smell the aroma of cake donuts wafting in the air right around the factory and wonder what glorious treats are being made inside. Maybe someday they'll let people into the buiding, a la Willy Wonka (speaking of, I watched the 1971 movie for the first time in ages on Tuesday night), and it'll be the most incredible donut factory known to man. Perhaps there are huge sand dunes made of sugar upon which the workers (possibly Oompa Loompas) roll donuts down, coating them with sweet, sweet sugar. But until they open the factory to the public (or until I attempt to sneak in, whichever comes first), a guy can only dream as he smells donuts on a warm August afternoon.

- One of my favorite streets in all of New York City is 47th Street in the Gardens, and I'll tell you why: it looks like it could've been the backdrop for a Norman Rockwell painting. Well-kept brick rowhouses and flourishing greenery line the narrow street, and practically every house for half a block is flying an American flag in front. Am I a sucker for the Stars and Stripes? You bet I am. I think it's such a cool thing to see so many people displaying the flag when it's not a national holiday.

An interesting side note to this: last summer Lenka told me how odd it was for her to see American flags displayed everywhere...she said that in her country (the Czech Republic), the flag was rarely displayed, to the point that she could barely recognize it (though it is a pretty boring flag, if I might be so bold). I knew we were big on displaying the flag...but everywhere? So once in a while, when walking down the street (be it 47th or another street), I find myself scanning the area for American flags--whether printed on the side of a grocery bag, stuck to a car in the form of a sticker or magnet, or flown from the fire escape of a nearby apartment. And whenever I do this, I always find that the flag, indeed, shows up everywhere. This is especially true of 47th Street.

- While walking down 47th, I happened upon a sweet and entertaining little moment: three or four kids--none older than 6--were standing on the stoop in front of their house and loudly chanting in unison: "Living room items for sale! Living room items for sale! Only $200!" This was all the more humorous considering that 47th Street is not known for its high volume of traffic.

There were other things, I'm sure, but I can't think of them right now. Ahh well. Back to work.

How can you not love a group that states that its mission is to cause "scenes of chaos and joy in public places?" I speak of Improv Everywhere, a comedy group in NYC, the antics of which remind me of the short-lived MTV show Buzkill (yes, I refuse to acknowledge the Ashton Kutcher-inspired tripe that is "Punk'd").

These were the folks that brought you the fake U2 rooftop concert a few months back. And before that, they took over an entire building on Union Square South and performed a bizarre synchronized dance for the people in the park.

Their latest "mission" wasn't as widely-observable as the previous two mentioned, but it's touching in a mushy Tom Hanks-Meg Ryan romantic comedy sort of way. Read about the "Romantic Comedy Cab" here.

Well-played. Well-played, indeed.

So, as I mentioned in the previous story, there's a used record store on West 3rd Street, right next to BB Sandwich Bar. A little joint called Bleecker Bob's. I've gone in a few times, and their selection is OK, but it's generally a little too heavy metal-ish for my tastes.

Outside of Bob's sits a table loaded with, uh, paraphernalia. For smokers. Colorful little psychedelic blown-glass instruments and the like. You know what I'm talking about.

Now then. There is always someone at the table, conducting business. Usually it's a large, redheaded fellow who I've overheard speaking in an Eastern European accent. But, on one or two days during the week, there's a girl. A really cute girl, too. And...AND! She and I pretty much make eye contact every time I pass by. Not just regular eye contact, either. Magnetic eye contact. And on most cases, a half-smile stretches out over one or both of our faces, and I usually manage to break free and look away as I pass her, so as not to look like a completely ridiculous dork.

The problem, of course, is that if I were to get up the noive to talk to this girl, I just can't imagine that it would be long before we discovered we had absolutely NOTHING in common. Is that an unfair judgment on my part? The girl deals in "smoking" accessories ("smoking" being the catch-all euphemism here!). I spend most of my weekends hanging out in a church. Chances are, with the exception of a potential mutual interest in rock n' roll (God bless it), we're living on separate planets here. (Cue Laurencia's typical encouraging word for the day regarding my pessimism: "And you wonder why you're not dating anyone?")

Yeah? Well, maybe one of these days I'll try and prove myself wrong by talking to her.

Anyway, I guess it does say a lot about how my dating prospects are looking when I get excited about the pipe-selling-girl smiling at me. Nothing in common? Probably, but at least someone's paying attention to me. I was starting to wonder if Code Red causes some sort of transparency effect on those who drink copious amounts of it.

I decided to hit up BB Sandwich Bar for lunch today. I usually do at least once a week; at $2.50 (w/NYU ID) their tasty variation on the Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich is easily one of the best deals in the neighborhood. And if this place sounds familiar, well, it's probably 'cause you remember shaggy and me raving about it a while back.

Now then. I walked down West 3rd Street to the tiny eatery, which is located next to a used record store (more on that in a bit) and a Chinese massage parlor. It's on the first floor of an old walk-up apartment building, which means you have to walk up to get to the first floor (yeah, I know; I couldn't have made that any more confusing, now could I?). The dining area has four tables, and is smaller than my freshman year dorm room.

Anyway, as I was saying, I walked down the street, and just as I was about to head up the steps and go inside, I'm stopped by some flyer-passer-outters.* Hey! Do you like dumplings? Try our new restaurant! Here, take a menu!

Can't. Going to eat here at BB. Maybe next time.

Oh, even better! We're in the same room! Check us out!

My first thought was one of abject fear: What happened to my sandwich place? They didn't get kicked out, did they? Where will I find a $2.50 sandwich as good as the ones sold here? Curious, I walk up the steps and into the room. Amidst a crowd of people, I spot a familiar face: my sandwich dealer was still there...thank God! But the place looked completely different. Apparently they split the shop right down the middle--one half of the minuscule room was now devoted to this other venture, called The Plumpling House. A ridiculous name, methinks (sounds like something out of Dickens, actually). The slogan? "The quest for the ultimate dumpling." My guess, then, is that by "ultimate," they mean "plump." And expensive. A po-mo, hybrid sort of fare--Chinese dumplings with a Latin American twist. Sounds a little too, uhh, yuppy-ish for my tastes.

I take that back. The dumplings--errr, plumplings--do sound interesting, and perhaps I'll come back someday and try one. But it would be weird--I don't like the fact that they're making me choose. My cheesesteak dealer, this guy whom I've visited once a week (if not more) over the last year--each time giving the same simple request: "One to go, please"--he's still right there. How awkward would it be to walk into the restaurant, go up to the other counter (the one now set up right beside his) and say, "Three filet mignon plumplings to go, please?" And then to look over at the sandwich man. Would I feel in that moment the shame that Peter felt when his eyes met Jesus' the very moment the cock crowed? The Sandwich guy? I swear, I do not know the man! I do not know of his delectable sandwiches! I'm sure I'd hang my head in shame.

OK, but all loyalty/betrayal issues aside, this is just a weird set-up, period. It probably means that the sandwich business wasn't doing so well, so the owner probably had to bring in another tenant to make the monthly rent payments. And that makes me sad, 'cause this guy's sandwiches are soooo good. The dining room (correction: his half of the dining room, now) is adorned with newspaper and magazine clippings that rave about the sandwiches. And to think that, despite the critical praise, it's not enough. Not in this city. Not on West 3rd Street, in the heart of Greenwich Village. You gotta sell your soul to the dumpling man (I'm sorry, plumpling man) just to survive here.

Well, I took my cheesesteak back to the office, and thoroughly enjoyed it, as always. May that always be the case, at least while I'm still working in this neighborhood. And may the sandwich man have mercy on me should I ever decide to experiment for once and try one of the dumplings...I mean...ahh, you get the idea!