Surely it can’t really be healthy to put your body through such cruel turmoil.
Heroic, right? There’s one wee problem—once he arrived with the big news and said something like, “Joy to you; we have won!”, Phidippides fell over dead. From exhaustion.
That’s right. The winner of the first marathon (OK, he was the only runner, but still) died from the effort. You might think that such a story would become a cautionary tale.
A stranger, [apparently jokingly] re. my Dodgers television choice, just jokingly jumped up behind me and touched my shoulder saying “dya wanna ta—” but before he could “—ke this outside,” I punched him in the face. He’s bleeding. I’m sorry. I’m a New Yorker. Don’t sneak up behind people.
"I remember sitting in a lot of apartments with a slight headache about five o’clock in the morning. I had a friend who could not sleep, and he knew a few other people who had the same trouble, and we would watch the sky lighten and have a last drink with no ice and then go home in the early morning, when the streets were clean and wet (had it rained in the night? we never knew) and the few cruising taxis still had their headlights on and the only color was the red and green of traffic signals."
Joan Didion, from her essay “Goodbye To All That” referring to her time in New York
Like her I too am now having “hallucinatory flashes” of times like this in a place unlike any other. Though not always the most comfortable, this time of day was oddly cathartic and refreshing, when, as James Murphy would say “the sun comes up / and we still don’t want to stagger home”
Or, as Loesser put it:
“My time of day is the dark time
A couple of deals before dawn
When the street belongs to the cop
And the janitor with a mop
And the grocery clerks are all gone
When the smell of the rain-washed pavement
Comes up clean and fresh and cold
And the streetlamp light
seems to sputter with gold”
After all the reports and rumors and even with brown paper up in the windows, I still thought there was a chance for Pizza Box. The typical New York slice shop was part of a dwindling tribe, having been in business since 1957. Box’s owner had assured me on several occasions that they were…
This is sad — another sign of the decline of the mid-price slice. It seems more and more there’s no room for a decent “New York slice” between the hordes of $1 slice shops and (often subpar) more expensive gourmet pizzerias.
I used to go to Pizza Box often between classes at NYU. Its backyard garden seating area was an oasis of quiet solace (and, later due to declining business, solitude) in an increasingly commercialized area filled with chain restaurants, overpriced dying music venues and loud bars. I imagine things on this stretch of Bleecker will be even more different once it lives in the shadow of the new high-rise buildings NYU is about to construct a few blocks over.
It’s true, he does have many arms…
(real-life Night Vale narrator Cecil Baldwin with the New York Neo-Futurists)
Nothing quite says Los Angeles like a mediocre pastrami sandwich on a white hot dog roll at a dodger game
"I was in love with New York. I do not mean “love” in any colloquial way, I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person who ever touches you and you never love anyone quite that way again. I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out out of the West and reached the mirage. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later — because I did not belong there, did not come from there — but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs. I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any month."
— Joan Didion, Slouching Toward Bethlehem
Yes, 19th st. may well be the closest theatre to this NYU building, but is it not ‘janky’ as hell? Mind you I rarely use either of those words, “janky” nor “hell,” but I feel as if they apply in this situation. That theatre has so few screens, still playing movies that came out in 2012, and with snacks limited to 90s movie fare (not that I’ve ever really wanted fries or pizza or cappuccinos at a movie) but man is this place strange.
I can’t be the only one to think so. Anybody? …
Tonight might have been the best Sidewalk open mic I’ve ever been to
So true. Wow. Solid song after solid song from so many good performers, including the newcomers and visiting people. Never thought I’d see “House of the Rising Sun” performed three times by three different performers at the Sidewalk — each better than the next, even if the purpose was initially to lampoon that random a capella group. I actually stayed until the very end, which I’ve only ever done once before — it was an “early” night, according to Ben Krieger (ended at 1:20 AM), and he too remarked about what a great, great night it was.
More useful things from the world of tomorroooowwwww!!!!!!
"Joke." is the description from the uploader, but I’m a fan. This from Ben Krieger (Sidewalk head honcho ever Lach departed about a decade ago) under the moniker Yossarian Feedback (a Catch-22 reference?) which usually consists of samples and loops of found sound. One very striking piece I recall included recordings of his young daughter asking about a river, then laughing, then crying, juxtaposed with a Barack Obama speech about 9/11 and also Vietnam-era pro-America propaganda. Man…