Tag Archives: new york city

Lame Adventure 214: Wedding(s) Crasher

The brides.

Today is a lovely 91 degree day in the city – hot but not humid, and a perfect day to get same-sex married in one of the two pop-up chapels near Columbus Circle at the Merchant’s Gate entrance to Central Park.  The area seemed equally divided with well wishing onlookers as well as police and wedding staff.

Well wishing onlookers.

The crowd was behaved although one onlooker’s father, a grumpy tourist who was more hungry for his lunch than storybook-New-York-City-style-romance, continually groused to his wedding-loving-daughter:

Grumpy Dad:  C’mon, we’ve watched enough of this!  Let’s get lunch!

Wedding-Loving-Daughter:  You get lunch.  I wanna watch!

Grumpy Dad:  Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Wedding-Loving-Daughter was adorable, and a thought occurred to me:

Me:  People meet at weddings all the time.  Give her your Lame Adventures card.

Then a second thought occurred to me:

Me: She’s at least thirty years younger than you.  You’re older than her dad.  And, hello, you’re not a cougar!

I kept my card and returned my focus to the festivities.

This event offered free weddings including officiating, photography, champagne, witnesses, and of most importance to every New Yorker, cupcakes, to 24 first come, first serve couples that responded to the Pop-Up Chapel web site.  The weddings are co-sponsored by an on-line wedding planning site called the Knot.  The number 24 was selected because June 24th was the date that the bill was passed to legalize same-sex marriage in New York.

The two chapels were selected from 56 design entries.  Two of the stipulations were that these chapels had the capacity to be constructed within two hours on the morning of the event, and they measure no more than eight by eight feet.  The winners were Kiss by Z-A Studio and a cube of rainbow ribbons by the design firm ICRAVE.  What I liked most about Kiss, aside from the simple elegance of the design, was that when separated, the two pieces could not stand alone.  Gee, if I was the sappy type, I might have popped a tear when I wrote that.

Here are some pictures of the two chapels of love Gotham City-style and some of the loving couples.  Click on this loving couples to link to learn a little about fourteen of the couples that were wed today.  They’ve been together between three and thirty-seven years or according to my abacus, an average of eleven years.

Sign and Keeper of the Sign

The Knot's staff.

ICRAVE's rainbow ribbons chapel.

Jay & John, together almost 37 years, exchanging vows.

Z-A Studio's empty Kiss waiting for next couple.

Deb & Jazell (in traditional dress), together five years after meeting over a cantaloupe, exchanging vows.


Deb and Jazell mingling post-nuptials.

Next couple preparing to exchange vows.

Cameracrew recording ceremony.

Exchanging I do's.

Post-kiss under Kiss (missed kiss due to snail slow shutter speed).

Just married Tom & Scott after almost 30 years together.

Lame Adventure 207: Lost and Wondering

A while ago, I was in the Chambers Street subway station waiting to board an uptown express train when I noticed this sorry site of a pair of sunglasses lying on the concrete platform floor.

Undignified end.

I figured that Someone Somewhere would soon be exiting the station at their final destination, enter the glare of sunny daylight, reach for their missing shades and would soon be searching their pockets or satchel at that very moment, wondering:

Someone Somewhere:  Where are my sunglasses?  What’d I do with them?  I know I was wearing them when I entered at Chambers Street …

My train arrived, I didn’t pick up the lost shades, nor did I hear Big Foot Bozo step on them, but I figured that was likely.  Or possibly someone might kick them into the tracks accidentally or intentionally.  Those shades, once valued by Someone Somewhere were now toast and their final destination was probably a landfill.  Of course, looking around my apartment as I write this post I suppose everything in my humble abode will eventually end up in a giant trash pile, too.  If my demise is remotely natural, my carcass will meet its end in the crematorium, and my ashes will be distributed evenly – one third by the Upper West Side’s Fairway Market (good food), one third by Film Forum (good film) and one third by the Public Theater (good plays).  It’s so much more emotionally satisfying to knowingly unload one’s possessions and self at will rather than suffer that sick feeling in the pit of one’s being and wonder:

Me (wondering):  Hey, what did I do with my [keys, gloves, American Express card, New York Film Festival ticket, umbrella, one hundred dollar bill from my dad, that phone number, lip balm, pen, mind]?

The follow-up phrase I always think as I perform that futile pat-down on myself:

Me: I know I just had it right here!

Then, there’s the moment of sick recollection:

Me (recalling):  Did my keys fall out of my pocket when I impulsively slipped into that screening of Hairspray when no one was looking?

Answer:  They sure did, and that multiplex’s kind lady in Lost and Found had them.  My unusual French key fob was quite a topic of cheerful monologue with her, but all I was thinking about was lying through my teeth about losing my ticket stub should she ask me to produce one.  She didn’t.  It is very likely that when she asked:

Lost & Found Lady:  Are these keys on this cute unique key chain yours?

And I gushed:

Me:  Oh, I lost my ticket stub, too.  Yes, those are my keys!

She thought I was spastic.

Recovering my keys in response to my being a movie-going cheat that day was a rare and lucky break.  Most of the time when I’ve lost something, even if I have a solid clue about what happened to it, I know like Someone Somewhere’s lost shades, that item is a goner and no amount of certainty that I still have it in my possession will bring it back.  Suck it up to fate and replace it.

Lame Adventure 205: Sniffling and Sneezing

After a day of denial where my loyal friend, Coco, insisted I was fine and that my sniffling and sneezing had been caused by exposure to mold, a conclusion likely reached as she reflected on the mold-covered bathroom in my think-tank department, Tile Labeling.  Yet, that problem has been eradicated.  Recently, Elsbeth, my lord and master, was motivated to have the mold removed after I said the twelve magical words every employer longs to hear:

Me:  Our bathroom’s a real health hazard, Boss.  Do we want a lawsuit?

Fast-forward to a few days ago, as Coco and I are sitting in a watering hole pounding beers while I sniffle, sneeze and wonder aloud:

Me:  Do you think I’m sick?

Coco (reasoning):  No, you’re fine.  You live in New York City.  The whole city’s covered in mold.

I have quit denying the obvious, and for the first time since February 2010, I have admitted that I am actually suffering a cold.  Even though this is not a monster, phlegm-filled, butt-kicker of a cold, I opted to stay indoors where I sneezed and sniffled for most of the July 4th holiday.  While on a tissue replenishment run, I did take a few photographs.  This one made me think that if Milton and I had ever mated, our spawn would have been this creature.

"You can take my picture, but do not, I repeat, do not photograph my left side!"

Meanwhile, Coco emailed me a slightly more dramatic shot as she observed the barges in the river that would launch the fireworks over the Hudson that night.

Waiting for the works!

When I returned to work on Tuesday, still sniffling and sneezing, I emailed Milton the details about my cold that had primarily nestled in one eye:

Me: It seems completely confined to my left eye where I feel like I’m holding three gallons of fluid.

Milton: Yuck! I have so many different allergies now that I have no idea when I have a cold.

To take my mind off my flowing eye and my sniffling and sneezing, Coco emailed me a video she shot of the fireworks display I did not attend because I was too busy – sniffling and sneezing.

Lame Adventure 204: Yankee Doodling

My sidekick, Greg, is very excited about the July 4th holiday since his long weekend will extend into ten-days of personal independence, a period where he’s completely free of crowded subway trains, tile labeling, and me.  Before heading off to the Missouri wilderness for a back to nature roughing it excursion with his buddies in the woods, coincidentally prompting the trailer for Deliverance to play continually on a loop inside my head all week, we recorded a free jazz video of Yankee Doodle at Hudson River Park’s Pier 25.

Please forgive the camerawoman’s evident delirium tremors at the start.  She’s still in Pride withdrawal.

Lame Adventure 203: New York City 2011 Gay Pride Euphoria!

We were somewhere under this rainbow.

Between the two of us, Milton and I have attended many Pride celebrations through the years, but following Friday night’s historic same-sex marriage vote by the New York State Senate, neither of us had ever experienced a celebration quite like the glorious one we witnessed from the sidelines on Sunday.  The gratitude expressed to Governor Andrew Cuomo for completing the work that his predecessor, former Governor David Patterson, had started to legalize same-sex marriage in the Empire State, was expressed throughout.  Andrew Cuomo is a hero who has earned the vote of every LGBT New Yorker forever.


Milton and I met at our usual undisclosed meeting place in the West Village.  Everything seemed to be going according to plan until we were pounding the pavement en route to staking out a good picture-taking spot.   I stepped off a curb and one of my gunboats landed in a fetid puddle of garbage soup.  I was generously splashed with toxic stink but fortunately my attire was not stained.  I simply smelled like I was wearing a fragrance that could have been called Vomit by Chanel.

This year, the turnout seemed much larger than in earlier years.  There was more of everyone in both the ultra inclusive crowd and the march itself.  There were gay people, straight people, oldsters, youngsters, drag queens, butch and femme types of both genders, punt dogs, families with children and couples of all persuasions.  The lovely warm weather was the perfect compliment to the celebrating.  We never once felt like we might collapse from heat prostration.

There was also an unseen heroine at Sunday’s march who was there in spirit.  She’s Lady Gaga and her anthem, Born This Way, blasted triumphantly from so many of the floats.  Milton hailed:

Milton (hailing): That’s the song of a generation!

I pondered his assessment and groaned.

Me (groaning):  We had Material Girl for ours.

Clearly, the country is moving in a progressive direction.  Posted below are some of the over 1,200 pictures Milton and I shot of this year’s victory march.  Enjoy!

Waiting for the march to start.

The traditional kickoff featuring Dykes on Bikes leading the way.

Throng of jubilant marriage equality supporters marching, including one wearing her pet snake as a scarf.

Victorious marriage equality float.

Grand Marshalls, It Gets Better Project creators, Dan Savage & Terry Miller.

Gay man's burden.


Flag bearer.

Grumpy the Care Bear.

Senator Chuck Schumer

NYPD marching band.

New York City Police Commissioner Ray Kelly

Easy riders.

Hand in hand in awe of the crowd.

FDNY couple.

New mother pride.

Five decades ready to make it legal.

Super soaker boys.

Boxers with a fighting chance.

Milton's dreamboat financial advisors.

Can your financial advisor do this?

Hand in hand.

Fitness king.

Rainbow attire.

Uber rainbow attire.

Rainbow diva.

Naked Cowgirl and Friends.

Asian pride boys.

Asian pride girls.

What Milton and I will wear to 2012 Pride.

Handsome scooter kid.

Topless joy.

Leg up on pride.

Got it and flaunting it.

If anyone's missing feathers, they're over here.

Nice hats.

Nice boots.

Winged victory.

Dominique Strauss Kahn's nemesis*, Manhattan District Attorney Cyrus Vance, Jr.

*Not anymore!

Great view.

New York State Senator Tom Duane and his spouse Louis Webre.

Rainbow flag bearer.

Thanks for sharing.

Modern family.

Dads and daughter.

Pedal power.

Milton and I have tried to do this at home with me peddling and he pole dancing. He told me his concussion wasn't that bad.

The reliably lovely Juno.

Marching with the Yorkie.

Marching with the Dachshund.

Punk Batman.

Princess Bear.

Showing off their little girl side.

Banner says all.

Leatherman and friend.

Latin women marching.

Latin guys marching.

Evita's here!

Ready to be wed.

Super ready to be wed.

Hey sailor!

Together at last, blue bikini undies and white chiffon.

Say cheesecake!

Happy dance.

Daughter of Divine: Miss Liberty with attitude!

News to us.

Happy face.

Pretty dudes.


Good question.

Good observation.

Shake it.

Michael Lucas of Lucas Entertainment waving Israel's flag.

Blue masked man.

Living color.

Lamba Legal.

Lesbian action heroines.


Quakers marching.


Hedda Redda.

Whistle blower.

Shirtless smile. Yes, that is a penismobile in the backgound.

Superhero pride.

Turkey baster son with his lesbian mom.

Daughter proud to have a lesbian mom.

Hula hoopster.

Sandwich board pride.

Interesting concept: sobriety.

Viking man.

Viking woman.

Stonewall law students.

Silver Surfer's spawn.


Subtle signage.

As the saying goes, little flag, big smile.

Nice glasses.

Big wheels.

Big stilts.

Out and proud journalist Jane Velez Mitchell.

Dancing duet of joy.

Muscle Beach Fabio.

Pride and joy.

Post pride water canons in the Hudson at sunset.

Big bang fireworks over Hudson.

Lame Adventure 201: Close Encounters of the Worst Kind

Every so often I encounter a complete stranger that is so unnecessarily inconsiderate they catapult to frontrunner status for the Unbearable Dense-ness of Being Award.  This has happened to me twice this week and so I have two nominees.  The incidents occurred at two reliable sources of combat pay in an average New Yorker’s daily life – the subway and the laundromat.

On my way into work at rush hour, I boarded a crowded 2 Express train at the 72nd Street subway station heading downtown.  Using my Elastigirl skills, I elongated my being into a slot of space the width of a pencil next to a lean businessman.  Between the two of us, we easily allowed four more passengers entry including Drizella the Hair Whipper who parked herself next to me.  Initially I did not even notice her, but once the train pulled out of the station and began to pick up speed, Drizella started twirling her ponytail in a circular motion, oblivious that it was continually hitting me in the face.  I think the obvious:

Me (thinking):  Huh, my new low beaten with hair.

I bellow aloud:

Me (bellowing aloud):  Give the hair twirling a rest.  You’re hitting me in the face!

Drizella stops and looks at me with this expression:

What'd I do?

Earlier in the week on an evening that was warm with a nice breeze, perfect weather to be sitting outdoors sipping a cold beverage with any member of my posse, I instead chose to do laundry since I was fast approaching the underwear-I’ve-yet-to-ditch-but-if-I-were-caught-dead-wearing-it-my-corpse-would-be-mortified phase.  This is underwear I would not even photograph for this site for fear that would be the one image from this blog that goes viral.

As I was waiting for my wash to finish, I wheeled over a cart that looks identical to the one pictured below.

If this cart could talk, what might it say?

A woman in my own over-forty-under-death age group, mumbles something incoherent, and makes a point of taking that cart and placing it in front of her own washer that will finish several minutes after mine.  I have a moment of, “Huh?”  I don’t ask questions since this is New York, Loon Capital of America.  As I go to take another cart since there are several to choose from, she gives me the stink eye as if I deliberately took the cart that must have sentimental meaning to her.

Cluster of seen one, seen them all carts - not to everyone!

She elaborately lines it with a white plastic bag, further staking her cart-turf.

My wash finishes and as I load my wet clothes into my new cart, I wonder if she is also going to flash her crazy at me in the direction of the dryer I select even though there are several available?  Normally, I unload the washer and load the dryer at warp speed, and return home until five minutes before my dryer finishes.  As I ponder this next potential confrontation with a dryer, I move so slowly I give the impression that I’m doing Tai Chi, so I look like my own brand of oddball.  The dryer I choose does not set her off, but then I have an even more dreadful thought.  Will she open m y dryer once I leave and pull something out such as a sock?  If I were to enter her abode, would I discover mountains of lost socks belonging to laundromat patrons she’s targeted?

Me (thinking):  Am I in the presence of the Missing Sock She-devil?

If so, how inconvenient for I do need to return home to retrieve my laundry bag. I am now loading my dryer Tai Chi-style, but I’m also waiting for her wash to finish.  When it does, I notice that she doesn’t use the plastic bag lined cart she took away from me.  She removes her wet clothes by hand and carries them to a dryer.

The music from The Twilight Zone plays on the iPod in my head.

Then, a miracle happens.  She leaves!  The combination of my intuition and infinite paranoia suspects her departure could be brief.  Even though she has timed her dryer for almost half an hour, I sense she is going to return much sooner.  I race home, grab this week’s issue of The New Yorker along with my laundry bag, and boomerang back at warp speed.  Within minutes of my return, Missing Sock She-devil is back, too.  There are two other women, one folding and the other, a woman in her early twenties, loading her wet clothes into a dryer. Missing Sock She-devil now focuses her wrath on the woman half her age.

Me (thinking):  What the hell has she done? Leave my daughter alone!

Then, I recall I’m both not this young woman’s mother and I’m also a dedicated non-breeder.  Once the young woman has inserted her quarters into her dryer she leaves the premises.  Missing Sock She-devil removes her clothes from her dryer, even though her load appears to be damp, and her machine still has fifteen minutes to go.  She could have given those minutes to the young woman.  As she walks past me, I resist having myself beaten to within an inch of my life with a bottle of bleach by asking:

Me:  Helped yourself to any socks lately?

Lame Adventure 197: Temperature Wars

Much of the country is in a heat wave.

Channeling my inner Bill Cunningham, interesting sun bonnet from behind.

On Thursday, temperatures in Gotham City reached a high of 96, but the heat index – whatever that is — the “real feel” temperature (?) made it feel more like 102.  All I knew was that it felt hot as a kiln outside.

My go-to source of weather news, the sidewalk on Greenwich Street.

Thursday was also the day when I inconveniently left my quart-size Cold Brew iced tea bottle at home, but I did remember to bring a new box of tea.  I realized this snafu as I was hotfooting my way up to the subway station, running late as usual.  There was no time to return to my sanctum sanctorum to retrieve this vessel I value on the level of my glasses, cell phone and camera, nor was there time to purchase an overpriced inferior iced tea on my way into work.  The most practical solution for me to savor a caffeine fix would have been to sit at my desk and chew on one of my new tea bags, preferably with the tag hanging out of my pie-hole, but I resisted pursuing that course of desperate action and was in a predominantly foul mood until my 1 pm feeding.

My boss, Elsbeth, had a dental appointment and arrived around eleven.  Outside my window I noticed that the usually bickering pigeons I call Israel and Palestine perched on the air conditioner have called a temporary truce and are actually sharing the space in peace.

Israel and Palestine making nice.

As seen in the above photo, Israel does not even have the energy to stand, or possibly it was further weighted by the humidity.  It is at this same time that Elsbeth starts fiddling with the thermostat, one of her favorite pastimes all year round.  I hear her repeatedly turning buttons on and off.  She shifts the gage from 72 to 85 announcing:

Elsbeth:  I’m cold.

Instantly, I can feel my body temperature soar.

Me (screaming inside my head):  Christ on a cross, woman, it’s the hottest day of the fucking year, open your window!

Me (saying in a helpful cheery tone):  Just open your window, Boss.

Elsbeth (epiphany):  That’s a good idea!

She returns to her office and opens her window.  I hurdle my desk and slap that gage back down to 72.  A few minutes later I have to visit the Accounting department three floors away.  When I return, I see the gage has been raised to 79.

Hands off!

I emit my trademark monosyllabic sound effect that’s a cross between a gasp, a sigh, and an acid-reflux induced retch.

My colleague, Ling, is looking flushed.  She’s wearing a tank top and her hair is puddled atop her head.  Chilly Elsbeth is wearing cargo pants and a long sleeve tunic.  I must remember to suggest she bring her fleece or a wool blanket.

Ling (definitive): It feels hot in here.

This is due to the heat wafting in through Elsbeth’s open window.  I give up the fight and announce that I have to run an errand.  I step outside into the soup and invest 26 cents into the purchase of a single banana, my contribution to reviving the stagnant economy.

Even the Dominique Strauss Kahn stalkers in the press abandoned their posts across the street from his lair, it was that hot. They completely missed DSK standing in his doorway clad only in flip flops asking for maid service.

Lame Adventure 187: While pondering litigation in front of a crackhouse-style doorway …

Not far from where I work in Tribeca is Staple Street, two short blocks west of Hudson Street sandwiched between Duane, Jay, and Harrison Streets.  Staple Street is one of those impossible to find places in this giant metropolis, but I’m familiar with it since I’m drawn to the impossible like metal to magnet.  I also knew that this was the ideal location for my sidekick, Greg, and I to shoot a video birthday card for our friend, Albee, provided we managed to avoid arrest for disturbing the peace. We did, but by our third take, every dog in Tribeca was barking and someone was too shy to scream:

Silent Screamer:  Shut the hell up!

That someone was compelled to hammer lead pipes with religious fervor instead.

Picturesque pedestrian bridge on Staple Street that does not appear in our video.

Although Albee was not expecting a gift from either of us, which was a sane expectation since Greg and I both work get-rich-slow jobs, Greg is a musician and I am just a spewing fountain of creativity.  Therefore, I felt we had to do something, but what?  Then, I had a brainstorm.  I would shoot a video of Greg on my obsolete first generation Flip video camcorder playing Happy Birthday on his saxophone in front of this graffiti-covered doorway on Staple Street.

This must be the place doorway on Staple Street.

When I initially ran this stroke of genius by Greg, he did not do the Toyota jump.  He stood paralyzed holding a tile label and looked rather expressionless.

Greg (mulling): I’ve never played Happy Birthday on my sax before.

Me:  Then play it on your sitar.

Greg:  No, I’m not going to bring my sitar into work.

Me:  Okay, play it on your harp, your xylophone, your castanets …

Greg is massively musical.  He thought more about it and decided that playing it on the sax was the way to go.  Then, he told me something interesting:

Greg:  You know, Happy Birthday’s not in the public domain.

I did not know that.  Greg is right, but luckily for us, we don’t make a dime off Lame Adventures, and we’re both inclined to live on the edge.

The origins of Happy Birthday is as follows, in 1893 two sisters Patty and Mildred J. Hill published the melody, Good Morning to All, which scored a big hit with the children Patty taught in her kindergarten class in Kentucky.  Mildred was a pianist and composer.  The kids were so taken with that song they began to sing it at birthday parties where they changed the lyrics Patty wrote from:

Good morning to you,

Good morning to you,

Good morning, dear children,

Good morning to all.


Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear (insert name here)

Happy birthday to you.

Fast forward 118 years to today where the Time-Warner Corporation now owns the rights to this traditional song, especially the lyrics.  They’re like the mob; if you sing it in a restaurant and they find out, they’ll come around trying to extort a chunk of change.  In 2008, they collected $5,000 a day from the singing of this song, or $2 million per year.  Strike up the theme to The Sopranos.  Better not for that surely is not in the public domain.

Many legal minds that tower over mine intellectually, or just anyone that did better in math, think (not necessarily in these words) that this is a steaming pile of crap.  Many logical thinkers, including Associate Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer, believe that this song with it’s long history of problems over authorship (think about it, anonymous five-year-olds essentially revised the lyrics from Good Morning to All to Happy Birthday), and problems with the notice and renewal of copyright, makes it no longer under copyright.  That means it does belong in the public domain, and should not be a cash cow for a media conglomerate that charges sky-high for Internet and cable.

Yet, to play it safe, my inner weasel is compelled to declare here and now that what Greg actually played for Albee in front of that crackhouse-style doorway on Staple Street was a free jazz version of Good Morning to All – and that coincidentally happens to be in the public domain.

Give jazz-man Greg a listen:

Lame Adventure 183: The Rusty Nail Incident

While I was walking across the ancient wooden floor in my company’s warehouse to recycle a piece of paper, my heavy soled motorcycle boot caught onto a rusty nail emerging from a floor board.  Fortunately, the nail did not penetrate my boot nor did the g-force of my foot lift it off with the ferocity of a rocket launch.  Then, in its descent it could pierce through some soft, exposed tissue on my being such as my D-cup nose.  A rusty nail protruding from my nose; what a humiliating injury that would be.

Questioner:  What happened to your nose?

Me:  It got hit with a nail at work.

My closest friends would probably lie through their teeth and insist:

My Closest Friends:  It doesn’t look that bad.  From certain angles, you can hardly tell.

Translation of  “certain angles” means the back of the head.  Overall, I am grateful that I dodged a bullet (or nail) and did not suffer any harm physically or emotionally.

Had I been wearing flip flops, swim fins, or been walking barefoot, and proceeded to step onto that nail, I would have been hightailing to the doctor’s office for a tetanus shot instead of trekking to the recycling can to alleviate the immense boredom I endure daily at my desk.  My sidekick, Greg, witnessed this incident.  Before I could dramatically bark:

Me:  Remove that nail before someone gets killed!

He grabbed a claw-tooth hammer and was ripping it out of the floor.

No-nonsense Greg getting the job done.

How someone can sacrifice his or her mortality to a single rusty nail in the foot (or nose) would take effort, but it can happen.  If that nail were implanted deep in the victim’s foot (or nose), and that victim, a stoic idiot named Og, was compelled to ignore his or her excruciating pain completely, that would allow the wound to be a breeding ground for Clostridia bacteria, a bacteria that produces toxins that attack the central nervous system.  Once that happens, it’s checkout time for Og.  At the risk of sounding a tad hard-hearted, maybe the world would be a better place with one less doofus.

My sister, Dovima, is currently suffering an ingrown toenail.  We have emailed each other so extensively about it one might think she had stage four cancer.  Yet, I think maintaining one’s health should be high on the “to do” list.

The building where I work was probably built sometime in the 19th century, so it’s possible that that nail was around when Abraham Lincoln was president.  How impressive.  It’s likely that it was produced from bar iron on a nail cutting machine that looked like this.

Nail cutting machine used in Charles Dickens' day.

When Greg showed me our nail, I was compelled to remark:

Me:  That looks like something used in a crucifixion.

Realistically, I’m certain that the nails used in crucifixions were much larger. From where I was sitting I might have had a slightly distorted perspective on our nail.

In your face nail.

Our nail with its historic past.  If only it could talk, what would it say?

Nail:  I’m a nail, you moron.  I’ve been stuck in the floor for 150 years until today.  If you’re so interested in the past, read a history book.

Greg then proceeded to trash it, so it’s final resting place will soon be a landfill – better than anyone’s foot (or nose).

Lame Adventure 182: Space Invader visits Tribeca!

Generally, my energy level plummets the second I arrive at the workplace and it rockets the instant I leave.  Wednesday was no exception.  There I was, the portrait of lethargy sitting at my desk, using the little that remains of my cobweb-cluttered mind proofreading the floor tile equivalent of the Dead Sea Scrolls.  My sidekick, Greg, had just returned from taking a walk.

Greg:  You know that graffiti artist, Space Invader?

Me (groggy):  Yeah.

Disclaimer:  the name Space Invader did ring an anemic bell but at that very moment white noise was predominantly playing in my head.

Greg:  I think I just saw one of his mosaics outside the parking lot on Hudson and Worth.

Me (still muddle-headed):  What’s the name of this parking lot?

Greg:  I don’t know.  It’s the one we walk past whenever we walk south on Hudson.

That reasoning now rings the gong in my head and jars me out of my stupor.  I regain full consciousness, indeed recall Space Invader, recollect watching the documentary film about street artists, Exit Through the Gift Shop, and hack up a feather.

Me:  Yes!  I know that parking lot.

Greg:  The mosaic’s starting to crumble.  It probably won’t be there much longer.

Me:  I should photograph it!

Greg:  You should.  It’s outside the parking lot.

I hurdle my desk and I’m in my boss, Elsbeth’s office, in a single bound requesting a Get Out of Jail Free pass.  She grants it.  Within moments, I’m hightailing down Hudson.  I see the parking lot but no sign of Space Invader’s mark.  Frustrated, I am wondering what Greg meant when he said this mosaic is outside the parking lot.  This parking lot is an outdoor parking lot.  Then, I step off the sidewalk and just as I’m almost hit by a beer truck …

Looking north on Hudson at Worth and simultaneously defying death.

Keep looking.


One rainstorm away from disappearing.

I return to my desk, satisfied with the sighting that was even more rewarding than the deeply philosophical street art I encountered when my friends and I were in the East Village last Saturday.

The Fickle Finger of the East Village.