SURVEY RESULTS

Shelter
Bellevue Men's

Best Public Assistance Office
Job Center, 14th St.

Best Public Bathroom
Grand Central Terminal (Tie for second-place: Port Authority and McDonald's)

Best Foodline/Soup Kitchen
Holy Apostles, 28th St. & 9th Ave.

Best Holiday Meal
Thanksgiving

Best Place to Sleep
The chairs at St. Agnes

Best Free/Cheap Internet Access
Public Library

Best Free/Cheap Health Care
Medicaid

Best Free/Cheap Dentist
NYU School of Dentistry

Best Place to Spend New Year's Eve
Times Square

Best Resource for the Homeless
Coalition for the Homeless

Best Way to Pass Time
Walking around. (Other responses: Meeting people in the same boat, Slow Death, sleeping, reading newspapers, studying, sports, hiking, watching a movie, traveling upstate.)Sleep? Probably your house.

Toby Van Buren is a soon-to-be 65-year-old formerly homeless client of Grand Central Neighborhood, now employed there as a part-time typist and data-entry clerk. He's written numerous articles for their streetpaper, BIGnews.

Best Shelter, Best Drop-in Center I can answer that, but I'd better start off by stating I detest them. I was a street person all the way, from the beginning to the end, for five years. Though I always chose the street over being cooped up indoors, basedon the little experience I have, I'd choose Ward's Island. For the drop-in center, Grand Central Neighborhood—they offer meals, clothing, on-hand staff and have been helpful to me in many ways.

Best Public Bathroom At the 34th St. and Madison Business and Science Library, there's a large bathroom—basically clean—with many stalls and sinks. You just have to be sure you are not seen by security washing more than just your hands and face. Bring a bar of soap and a large cup. Fill it with warm water, and do your body washing in a stall. Show respect for others and leave things clean and orderly. You can even shampoo your hair in a stall, using that cup of warm water with soap or shampoo you may have (the soap dispensers there can be a good source of shampoo), then rinse with toilet water, making sure the toilet has been flushed and is clean. Or, just do a quick rinse job in the sink, dry your hair with the electric hand drier on the wall, again, doing it quickly, not to be noticed by security. Or, just go out with wet hair. It'll eventually dry.

There are many McDonald's in New York with bathrooms, but they're smaller, not as easy to do what you need to do in them. They are at least open later at night, some all night, but you really need to buy something, even just coffee, not just go in and just use the bathroom. This way, you will not be bothered as much by security.

Best Foodline/Soup Kitchen At Holy Apostles at 28th St. and 9th Ave. there's good food—and you can have seconds. They serve Mondays through Fridays. At St. Bart's at 51st St. and Park Ave., there's fair food, three days a week. At St. Peter's at 54th St. and Lexington Ave., they only serve on Tuesdays but it's really good food.

Best Way to Pass Time This is a challenge, especially if you're trying to keep from going out of your mind and becoming too depressed. One thing not to do is nothing, which is easy when you have no money.

Instead, look into yourself and find what your talent is. (You finally have the time you never had before.) For me, it was creative writing. You can buy a notebook that school kids use, a bag of Bic pens and write away. Maybe start a diary of your everyday experiences in this strange life you're now leading. Write down everything, whatever, especially your most inner thoughts.

The thinking itself is a way to pass the time—noticing what's around you, for the first time in your life maybe. Take for example a trip to Central Park—you actually "leave" New York City. I sat for long periods of time there; it became a sanctuary.

Another thing to do is panhandle or collect bottles and cans and with the proceeds go to the movies or the Easy Internet Café.

Best Part of Being Homeless There really is a best part. You have managed to lose everything—including such burdens as old debt. There came a point with me that all I had was what I was wearing—Bermuda shorts, a t-shirt, socks, cheap sneakers, a baseball cap and a watch. Though this was difficult, for the very first time I felt as light as a bird, without a care in the world. You have the opportunity, once having lost everything, to rediscover what's important again. I felt like I was at camp—just for a very, very long time. A real adventure!

I found myself using my imagination. A meal at a big soup kitchen was a mess hall at some hotel. The endless walking? I was on a hike.

The holiday season was the hardest, but since I've always loved the Christmas decorations, lights, the big tree, etc., I embraced it all (even though I became homeless, two days before Christmas 1995). Finally, by Christmas 2000, I got my housing and ever since, I've gotten further and further away from that five-year-long experience. But I've never doubted its worth.

TOBY VAN BUREN

BEST THING YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM THE GUY NEXT TO YOU ON THE TRAIN

"Hey look—I can just peel my skin right off… Look at that. That ain't right, is it?"

BEST PERVERT
WATCHING

SHEEP MEADOW, CENTRAL PARK

Pervertus erectus. For some, the Meadow is a kind of picnic heaven—a place to hack yourself silly and score shitty weed. Some old hippies we know are always out here, taking long hard tokes from a giant purple bong. When we're in the right mood, we join them.

Also relishing the serenity of this quiet urban haven are the shady exhibitionists. Always comfortable with a crowd, they spread themselves eagle, exposing their most private of scaly, withered parts. Young moms who notice this collect their tots and scatter, leaving behind what's left of the potato salad.

Such are the local fauna in any populated outdoor environment. It's the crafty ones, however, who take us by surprise. They sneak up on us while we work on our tan, sweating away the week's pressure, absorbed in a particularly spine-tingling novella. Staring hard at the page, we find ourselves reading the same sentence over and over, distracted by the pssssssst made by our creepy eager-beaver stalker. While this hiss is impossible to respond to, it is mercifully very easy to ignore.

Over the years, these meadow creeps—also known as perverts—have perfected their non-mating rituals. While these often involve gold chains and heavy doses of hair gel, an overwhelming number of the species relies on skin-tight Speedos to conjure up revulsion in the opposite sex. Scientists studying Central Park's pervert population have found that they need not roam very far from the Meadow—there's ample nourishment in this enclosed habitat.

This year's data describes a population that is far from dying off, as some reported in years past. On the contrary, from our own observations we can conclude that their numbers are on the rise, with one species in particular, the Coked-Up Horny Frat Boy, reaching record numbers. He is best spotted at dusk.

BEST DRUG DEALERS WE WISH WERE STILL AROUND

CARL & JOSE

The dealers fold. Everyone has a favorite Carl and Jose story. One night, as we approached their car, we saw a woman running out. We assumed it was a runner until we realized, "Oh, it's my neighbor"—also scoring.

Or another: A friend had started working in a straight-laced office. One day, around the water cooler, someone said something about Carl and Jose. Suddenly everyone started talking at once: "You mean you know Carl and Jose?" "You mean…?" Yep, everyone had scored from them.

In October, their underling, Michael, said Carl and Jose were at the Yankees' playoffs. "But those tickets are impossible to get," we said. "Well, they have connections high-up in the Yankee organization."

Hmmm…Daryl or Dwight? We never did find out.

Like all high-flyers, Carl and Jose made the mistake of believing they were invincible. Their downfall came after New York magazine ran an article about the resurgence of drugs among the elite and quoted them by first name.

BEST HOME ROBBERY

Barren robbers. For the benefit of our neighbors, we posted our warning in Spanish as well: ÁLos plomeros son ladrones!

The plumbers are thieves!

Come morning, the thieving plumbers were pounding on our door, somehow having sussed us as the responsible party. And boy were they pissed off.

Fuck them. Not six hours earlier, at 2 a.m., we'd arrived home to find our apartment robbed. There was, as they say on Law & Order, no sign of forced entry. The fire- escape-side window was closed, and the only people with keys to our apartment were us and the plumbers, who were repairing a faulty gas lines.

It was a curious thievery, one befitting these idiots who every morning ambled through the building like retards at a petting zoo: They left behind our shiny new Powerbook; they left behind the television. They left behind the boombox and the VCR and $3000 worth of camera equipment.

All they took was our Xbox and the games that were in the closet.

The robbers carefully disconnected the console and disentangled the two controllers from the other cords on the floor—no small feat considering the jumbled state of our tech. They took pains to not disturb the abovementioned laptop, which was sitting next to the Xbox, and they didn't put a single other item out of place. In the closet, they slid four games from the bottom of a stack that boasted a dozen DVDs.

The plumbers, of course, pled innocent. "Must've been someone in the building, man! We'll keep a look-out in the other apartments, man!"

But we know that's bullshit. No one in the building had the opportunity. And a real thief would've at least snagged the laptop.

BEST REASON TO
MOVE TO TORONTO

RANDOM SUBWAY SHOOTINGS

Could you at least wait 'til we're outside? A single random nutjob pulling a pistol and shooting someone on the subway—fine. Big city. Four separate nutjobs doing it within weeks of each other at some of the busiest subway stops in town—not so fine. This summer had us afraid to ride the subways for the first time in our lives. We know the chances of getting shot were minuscule, like winning the lottery, but we couldn't help feeling jittery every time someone stepped on the train who looked a little…odd. (And we do play the lottery, fully expecting to win.)

On the subway, there is nowhere to run or hide. If someone pulled out an AK while the 2 was stalled under the East River, it would be like shooting fish in a very thin barrel. And we'd be lying if we said we haven't had this nightmare several times in the last few months. It's not that we're so afraid of death. We just really, really don't want to get shot on the subway for no reason at all by someone who is never going to be caught.

BEST RESPITE FROM FEARS OF FORCED ENTRY

THE MUTANT JERSEY MOSQUITO ATTACKS!

Incoming!! A friendly neighbor named Yolanda kindly informed us that the previous tenants had moved out after being robbed. In fact, according to her, every apartment in the building (all 16 of 'em!) has been robbed at some point over the years. She urged us to upgrade our flimsy locks, put bars on our bedroom window and invest in a security system.

When we went to bed that night, we were naturally a little uneasy. We chose a lower setting on the air filter that provides soothing white sleep noise, and found ourselves snapping into alertness at every sound. Sleep finally arrived, but it was shallow.

And praise Jesus for that.

Mosquitoes have assaulted us in the night enough that we know what insistent, sleepy itching means. This night, we cursed the blood-sucking bastard's timing with particular bitterness. It was 4 a.m. on a Sunday, and we had to get up early for work. But when an evil whining buzz tickled our ear, confirming the attack, we had no choice but to bolt out of bed, throw on the light and survey the damage.

We gasped in horror. The welt from the bite was the size of a 50-cent piece—and the shape of an octopus. A chill ran through us. Surely, this was a bite of some genetically altered mutant, perhaps an escapee from Plum Island. We began the frantic, obsessive itching, and gazed up and around warily, certain the offender was somewhere.

Turns out he was right behind us, and small and furry—the most nefarious strain. We planned our counter-attack methodically and with secretive nonchalance, but when the September Harper's sailed in for the kill, mutant Jersey mosquito hightailed it—fueled, no doubt, by our top-quality hemoglobin.

We turned on every light, peered into every nook and cranny, shook out the bed linens (their cleverest and most horrifying hiding place), looked high, looked low—to no avail. We donned a hat, a balaclava, did a full-body tea-tree-oil smear and wrapped ourselves tight in the sheet.

At least your average prowler is likely to pass on the apartment where, lights blazing, a crackpot in a balaclava is stumbling around with a cookie in one hand and a rolled-up Harper's in the other, hissing, "Come on out, you little bastard!"

BEST BRONX
MAKE-OUT SPOT

PELHAM BAY PARK

The making in Pelham, 1-2-3. The uptown 6 train starts to empty out by 86th St., where white, fresh-out-of-college Tara Reid look-alikes scurry to their overpriced apartments to apply more makeup and otherwise stare at themselves in the mirror or at people that look like them on reality tv. Which is a shame. Just another 50 minutes north is an oasis in the Bronx called Pelham Bay Park. The park, at more than 2700 acres, is the city's largest. More important, its seclusion and pastoral setting was made for couples to take a stroll, stare at the sky and make out.

For optimal privacy, try the gardens of Hunter's Island, the lonesome sands of Orchard Beach (around dusk) or the magnificent fauna of the Meadow that lies to the south. Or take your date on a hike through the Split Rock trail and secure a spot under the Hutch to take in the traffic or gaze at each other, both of you thinking: How the hell are we going to get back?

BEST REASON YOUR GIRLFRIEND HAS FOR AVOIDING SEX

YOGA CLASS GOT HER STRESSED

You're kidding, right, baby? Every year or so, there's a new dream on the horizon for urban career girls. At first, they used to all just take the yoga classes. Now they all want to teach them. But this is New York City. And everything is a fight to the death. Behind those spiritual epithets and the neo-hippie speak is a girl out to unseat the master. Being that we see the whole world as sketch comedy, we can only imagine as some gourmet vegetarian teacher on a higher pedestal strolls into the studio to give the ambitious girl behind the desk terrible grunt work. They smile at each other, drop words like "lovely," "peaceful" and "fluid" into their conversation, but a cat fight is on the horizon.

"Baby, just challenge her in the studio to a stretch-off. This will let everyone know you're the best and can hold the longest Lotus position."

We see torn Lycra, pulled hair and the one gay teacher who tried to intervene tied up in a chair by turquoise beads. This isn't going to happen, though. Her stress with the master just means you'll be getting laid a lot less. And you thought stretching was supposed to clear the mind.

BEST BUS DRIVER MOST IN NEED OF A KNUCKLE SANDWICH

We'll take the minimum sentence gladly. It's possible he was having a bad day. We were too. It was 23 degrees outside, and the bus was half an hour late. So when the B48 appeared like a wraith, we were ecstatic. We clambered toward the door, holding a sixer of Bud, only to be slapped by a power trip.

"Get that damn beer off my bus or I'm leaving you on this goddamned corner," the acne-scarred driver said.

"Why?" we questioned, shivering in front of the kneeling-bus sign.

"Because those bottles are potential weapons," he said, flexing knuckles inked with jail-quality cross tattoos.

Frostbitten and lacking cab fare, we dumped our freshly bought brew on the street corner. Then we stepped on board and swiped our MetroCard. We took our seat next to the driver and struck up conversation.

"So those bottles are potential weapons, huh?" we asked, making small talk. "Well, what about my fists. You gonna make me cut off my hands?"

Just like the movies, the bus squelched to a stop.

"Are you going to shut up, or make me throw you off the bus?" he asked, stroking his God-fearing fingers. "It sure looks…cold outside," he said, cracking a brown-toothed grin.

We pursed our lips and jammed hands in pockets, daydreaming of the street justice we could mete out in a city not run by a transportation cabal.

BEST BODY OF POISONOUS WATER TO CANOE DOWN

GOWANUS CANAL

Bring Evian. This competition was a close one. What body of New York City water is not poisonous? Our forefathers were so proficient at dumping mercury, toxic industrial runoff and PCBs into rivers, canals and oceans that munching more than two locally caught fish a month is hazardous to our health. Luckily, we hate eating fish something fierce. What we do like is canoeing, though the area's aqua could render us as impotent as a mule.

Nowhere do we love tempting fertility and stretching our sea legs as much as a smelly Brooklyn strip known as the Gowanus Canal. To scratch our canoe itch, we contact the Gowanus Dredgers (gowanuscanal.org) and schedule a journey through idyllic sewage runoff. Formerly South Brooklyn's dumping ground for waste water and Mafia informants, the "Lavender Lake" (so-called because of its stench and Technicolor hue) is loaded with a reported 30 feet of contaminated sludge. That'll make for an army of mutants—and a most peaceful afternoon.

We love canoeing on the Gowanus for precisely the reasons most people don't: the car graveyards and cement plants composing the waterfront. Bring the junk on, we say. Who needs herons, swans and fish when bald tires and junked shopping carts keep us company? Tune out the BQE and F-train rumble and it's as close to nature as we dare—or want—to travel. None but the Purell-hardy venture into the canal, still toxic enough to merit a full-body, post-paddle scrub. For now. The Dredgers are doing their damnedest to cleanse the canal. For the past few seasons, jellyfish and crabs have plumbed the poisonous depths. We treasure our DNA too much to follow.

BEST FASHION NO-NO

MUSHROOM HAIRCUT

Beyond the bowl. We hadn't seen anything like it since our seventh-grade class photo. You know who you are. You were riding the 6 train on Wednesday, Sept. 8 around noon, and you got off at the 51st St. stop. You were fighting with your girlfriend. She was probably berating you for your phallic-shaped mop.

Please do us all a favor, leave that do for Prince Valiant and the Backstreet Boys, and crawl back to whatever hole you emerged from.

BEST MOVIE PALACE

LOEWS 175TH ST. THEATER

Now Rev. Ike's Christ United Church

4140 B'way (betw. 175th & 176th Sts.)
212-568-6700

Picture perfect. In the days before television, multiplexes and Netflix, going to the movies was a big deal. New Yorkers dressed for a night at the bijou as if they were attending church, a fitting response to theaters that looked like temples. Built mostly between the mid-teens and late 1920s, these "movie palaces" provided an atmosphere of escapism for the lavish tales of swashbucklers, Arabian sheiks and princely romance that populated silent movies. Reflecting the era's fascination with Orientalism and the Far East, design elements in the theaters often drew upon Chinese, Moorish, Indian or Egyptian motifs.

The Loews 175th Street Theater—one of the most remarkably ornate palaces—boldly used all four of these, throwing in some Mayan and Aztec for good measure. It was over the top, but nothing less would have been expected from architect Thomas Lamb, the Cecil B. DeMille of theater designers. Loews billed the 175th as the last of its five New York "Wonder Theatres," and everything about it—from the seven-story organ to the monumental staircase—was crafted to inspire awe. Boasting close to 3500 seats, it was one of the largest movie houses in the U.S. when it opened on February 15, 1930.

Decadence on such a grand scale was hard to maintain, structurally and financially, and by the Depression no one could afford to build such grandiosities (Radio City notwithstanding). Many of New York's palaces, including the Roxy, Capitol and Strand, were razed or allowed to die slowly, drawn and quartered in the "cinema 1-2-3-4" style before getting bulldozed for office buildings. The Loews 175th fared better: Two years after its closing in 1967, the theater was purchased by evangelist Dr. Frederick Eikerenkoetter—better known as Rev. Ike, "The Success and Prosperity Preacher."

Regardless of what you think of Rev. Ike and his unabashed commercialism (sample quote: "The lack of money is the root of all evil") there's no doubting that he's kept the Loews 175th in glorious shape. It's a shame more New Yorkers don't know about this paean to Roaring 20s excess. Fortunately, you can visit during one of Ike's weekly services on Sundays at 2:45 p.m. If that sounds like a bit much, try attending one of the Latin or gospel concerts the building often hosts. While you're there, reflect upon Thomas Lamb's stated desire for the theater to cast "a spell of the mysterious and, to the Occidental mind, of the exceptional."

BEST MOM

THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS

What a mother. She really seems to know what she's doing. Whether it's giving such wise advice as screaming, "Pick up your fucking shoes or I'm gonna whack you!" or words of encouragement like, "You are such a freakin' moron. Shut the hell up!" she's the shining example of motherhood.

Her kids' actions, like poking that stray cat for hours or throwing rocks at other kids at school, just show how worthwhile her mothering has been. We especially enjoy the smacks the kids get at the local grocery store for being "retarded" or "smart-ass."

She's not like those annoying yuppie moms who just coddle their kids with books and tutors and ballet classes. No, she really knows how to toughen her kids up for the real world.

If only our own mother had taken such a keen interest in our upbringing, maybe we would have amounted to more.

Way to go, upstairs mom.

BEST FAUX ATTEMPT
AT WORK

DOORMAN AT PORT AUTHORITY'S
SUBWAY ENTRANCE

Thanks for nothing. When we first spied him four years ago, we were charmed. "Oh, look at the kindly old man holding open the door for weary Port Authority passengers," we thought, making sure we tipped him a quarter when making our monthly New Jersey pilgrimage to visit our aunt. Cane in one hand, door in the other, he'd stand there, a gently wrinkled African-American man nodding to young and old, Puerto Rican and Armenian alike, wishing everyone well on their journeys to wherever. A real upstanding gent, we thought.

That is, until the day he didn't show up at the bus station.

And the door still stayed open.

On its own.

Our soft spot was bamboozled.

But we give him credit. While too many itinerants are content to sit on their duff and the dole, this gent took the path of least resistance toward personal welfare. If he had to work, why not do the least work possible? Hell, unlike saps trolling the subway for commuters' pity change, this man walked nowhere, much less talked. He rested his paw on the door, graciously accepting handouts for his tireless—and sweatless—job. Little work, lots of money—kind of like temping, right?

BEST IN-STORE ADVICE

DVD EXPLOSION

557 8th Ave. (betw. 37th & 38th Sts.), 212-239-0469

Lube and enlightenment. We're shopping at the innocently named DVD Explosion for the usual porn, when we suddenly find ourselves feeling enlightened and better about our miserable existence. The reason why is scrawled on the shelving that separates a row of bondage DVDs from a selection of anal extravaganzas.

"Take a little time," says the graffiti, "to do whatever it is to make you happy."

We're so inspired that we head straight for the private booths.

BEST NEW SELLING POINT FOR CANDY
ON THE SUBWAY

THE TRUTH

One Starburst, please. "Hello ladies and gentleman, can I please have your attention. My name is Jamal. And no, I'm not here trying to raise money to buy new basketball uniforms for my school team. I'm just a kid tryin' to earn a few extra dollas. I got M&M peanut candies and Starbursts fruit chews for one dolla. Take the street out of the kid and the kid out of the street. Thanks. And God bless."

BEST FREE GAMES AND MONKEY-AID

MONKEY ROYALE

175 2nd Ave. (betw. 11th & 12th Sts.), 212-260-1620

Two words: Nutella, banana. "They got Wi-Fi, we got Pinball" reads the coffeehouse mantra of Monkey Royale, a relatively new addition to the East Village. We were riding past when the foosball table caught our eye through the window. The guy behind the bar, a few espressos into his day, picked up a microphone and said "C'mon in." Generally, that would be a sign to stay away, but with promises of pinball and foosball, well...

With muted wallpaper and all-counter seating, the place is charming in the style of 50s diners and British-schoolboy bedrooms. The fare is simple: egg salad, chicken salad and tuna salad sandwiches are all under $5. For something sweeter, there are mini doughnuts or the house special sandwich: The Monkey Royale is three layers of nutella, banana and peanut butter on toasted bread.

The coffee is fresh and tasty with no Starbucks-style frills, though it's a bit costly at $2 for a cup of regular. But then, there is unlimited free foosball. And pinball (they leave out a cup of dimes to feed the machine). There's an optional $1 donation to help monkeys in need at the Bronx Zoo: Make a donation, and they'll ring the monkey bell, the sort usually reserved for big tippers in bars.

While the ambience borders on kitsch, the old-fashioned "glad to see ya" welcome is genuine. An egg salad sandwich and a face-off of little footballers on rods really is the prescription for a simple good time.

BEST AL FRESCO
BOOKSELLER

THE BUM ON EASTERN PARKWAY

Got any Hardy Boys? New York's streets are filled with sidewalk book peddlers, from the men pushing Xeroxed screenplays on the Upper West Side to the perv who sold back issues of yesteryear's Playboy and Juggs on Astor Pl., but the bearded schlub on Eastern Parkway gets our vote. He sells nothing but garbage pickings.

Mysteries of the Ancient Americas, A Wizard of Earthsea, Introduction to Greek Philosophy, a plethora of romance books with Fabio gracing the cover, all in the shadow of Prospect Park. That's why we love him, the hardscrabble hobo hawking discarded tomes for pennies. On our Saturday walks to the Grand Army Plaza green market, we stop and browse his latest treasures, secretly hoping for a gem. With his toothless smile and gnarled index finger, he beckons us to his books. The volumes, rescued from the trashcans and stoops of the adjacent neighborhoods of Park Slope and Prospect Heights, are tossed willy-nilly on top of urine-soaked, shit-stained sheets, a bottle of Granddad comfortably resting near his cash cow.

Other passersby barely deign to glance at the Brooklyn bum and his stash. Not us. Once we found a first edition of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's In Evil Hour. We looked inside: 99 cents. "How much for this book?" we asked. "One-fifty," the bookmonger replied. We weren't gonna have any of that, and haggled until we bought it for a buck.

BEST COMEUPPANCE

L-TRAIN SHUTDOWNS

B-b-b-but Death Cab is going onstage soon. On the whole, we're avid proponents of schadenfreude. We revel in George Bush's pretzel-choking and garbled syntax. Tiger Woods hooking a nine-iron into the water hazard. Cynthia Cotts getting the media-crit cane. Which is why we're so elated that the L train has so regularly held Billyburgers hostage with weekend shutdowns.

We listen to our friends complain: "The car services are charging $30 to go to Manhattan!" "Where am I going to buy groceries?" "How can I get to work?" A pain in the ass, yes, and we couldn't be happier. How often have we listened to you extol loft-living? Or the fact that you're "just a few minutes from Manhattan"? And your excellent bars and restaurants, restaurants and bars, and bars and restaurants?

You'd better like eating at Planet Thailand and drinking at Red & Black, because your MetroCard just got trumped. Remember when you laughed at us for living in downtown Brooklyn, pooh-poohing our six-stop city access? "I'm only 10 minutes to Union Square," you said, fixing your $50 Mousey Brown coif. Who's laughing now? You'd better lace up those Air Force 1s and start walking. The bridge is waiting.

BEST PLAYGROUND
TO WATCH SPOILED RICH KIDS

5TH AVE. & 67TH ST.

Mommy's little monsters. The Ancient Playground (a playground actually modeled after ancient Egypt) directly north of the Met may be a hotspot for moms in the know, but it's sometimes filled with museum-tourist riffraff and even—God forbid—public school kids. The better choice is at 5th Ave. and 67th St., and it looks conspicuously like a Zen garden.

Upon visiting the playground for the first time, one often sees a remarkably attractive homeless man sleeping on the bench outside, a man who seems himself a child of Park Ave., with the high cheekbones and lithe frame of a runway model. Enter the playground and find a landscaped space dotted with small wooden pavilions. The slide is a vast expanse of granite set into a hill (beautiful, but it doesn't make for an exhilarating ride; the savvier nannies bring cardboard for their kids to slide on). There is no red or blue plastic to speak of.

What we find more fascinating than the amount of money spent on building the place are the people within its walls. It is an excellent place, of course, to spot people like Harrison Ford knee-deep in the sandbox, but even those who do not inspire immediate name recognition can put on a good show. They are, for example, great fans of the euphemism. When we once informed a bratty little kid that his nanny was looking for him, he responded, "That's not my nanny. That's my French teacher!"

The nanny-to-parent ratio is about three-to-one, but the neurotic micromanaging of the parents and their replicant offspring is better than a Woody Allen movie.

BEST SUBWAY
DIRECTIONS

So it's an express? We were waiting for a friend on the Broadway-Lafayette platform. We were also watching a disheveled old man pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, muttering to himself. He'd been doing this for as long as we'd been waiting. Trains would come and go, but he paced and muttered on, staring at his feet, showing no interest in getting on any of them.

A V train pulled into the station, and as it did, an NYU student came galloping down the steps, backpack flapping. Before charging through the open doors onto the half-empty train, the kid paused by the old man.

"Hey," he asked hurriedly, "is this an F or a V?" (It's best to make sure at that station.)

The man said nothing, concentrating on his pacing.

"Excuse me?" the kid tried again, his eyes darting at the doors, which could close at any second. "This train—is it an F?"

Again the man ignored him.

"Please? Sir? Does this train go to Brooklyn?"

The old man finally stopped and looked up, staring at the kid for a second before screaming, "Raaahhhhhh!"

BEST ADVICE

Suicide is Painless. It was early, and 23rd St. was pretty empty except for ourselves and the couple. She was letting her dog take a dump in the street as she chatted with the guy on the sidewalk. We didn't even realize they were arguing until we passed them.

"All right, fine," she said in the raspy, nasal voice of a woman who's been on the skids for a long time, "Go ahead then. Shoot yourself. Yeah, just shoot yourself. Ya know why? 'Cause it'd be funny, that's why!"

BEST PUBLIC URINAL

THE CHILD-MOLESTER MEMORIAL

Let 'er rip. Looking for a place to piss, but not willing to soil any part of this fine city? There's one small area that's always in need of being besmirched. Go to the famed Strawberry Fields in Central Park and find the small plaque honoring the despicable Michael "Irish" McMorrow. He's the miserable drunk who—as far as we're concerned, and don't you fucking lie to us, oh grieving friends and family—was trying to have sex with 15-year-old Daphne Abdela back in 1997. In a nice try at cleaning up New York, Daphne's young pal Christopher Vasquez killed the creep, and she helped dispose of the body. Too bad they didn't do that great of a job. Daphne's out of jail now, and we certainly hope she goes on to have a pleasant life. McMorrow's presence continues to offend, though. Heck, let's all line up to take a piss on that plaque—and we'll certainly understand if Yoko Ono wants to be first.

BEST REASON TO
MOVE OUT OF STATE

GUITAR BOY

Three chords and the annoyance. Somewhere in Williamsburg along the polluted stretch of Metropolitan Ave. between the East River and the BQE, near a small median known to area dog-walkers as the "triangle of poo," resides a paunchy twenty-something with thinning hair who's predisposed to pastel Izods. His mother gave him a name, but, inspired by 90s Brit-pop masters Heavenly, we call him Cool Guitar Boy.

Until a couple years ago, everyone on our block had lived there for five to 10 years, and most of our neighbors were fellow queer artists. We watered each other's plants, fetched soda and crackers during flu season—hell, even fed a string of extension cords from our apartment to that of our downstairs next-door neighbor when a fire broke out and the crap-ass landlord didn't restore electricity for days (five years later, the hole in the ceiling's still there). For a long time, we enjoyed a genuine sense of community.

Guitar Boy moved in over the summer of 2003. He seemed innocuous enough at first; we said hello a few times and answered his questions about neighborhood safety. Then one evening, a curious, deafening sound bludgeoned our fragile sleep. The very floors and walls shook. It wasn't music—that was for darn sure. Whatever it was, it went on for hours. We eventually traced the din to Guitar Boy, his guitar and, most woefully, his amplifier, and we talked to him about the noise, sure that he'd be reasonable. We work primarily from home, and his "guitar studio" was below our office. He apologized, but over time, the noise our boyfriend dubbed his "insipid noodling" continued. The hateful strum, strum, strum never got any closer to being music. Maybe he was taking lessons. If so, he should get a refund.

Conflict agitates our irritable bowel syndrome, so we abandoned our home office, deciding to take advantage of the good light and pretty view from our living room and work out of there instead. Finally, though, it was 1:30 a.m. on a Tuesday night and the insipid noodling had our walls and floors a-quiver. We had little choice but to knock on his door.

"Guitar Boy," we said, "we have to get up early for work."

In response, the paunchy brat stamped his foot and huffed, "We're trying to work, too, you know!"

And slammed the door.

Not long after, our landlord set the house on fire after his weeding-with-a-blowtorch endeavor went ever so slightly awry. The other downstairs neighbor got in the habit of chain-smoking on the porch below our living-room window. Crazy landlord put a second barking pit bull in the backyard. Our kitchen ceiling started to fall down.

It was then that we found ourselves at Google, typing "Jersey City real estate."

BEST MINIATURE PARK

BROOKLYN BRIDGE PARK

The grass is real. New York has myriad large, world-famous parks: the pair of Olmsted-designed behemoths, Central Park and Prospect Park; Riverside Park; Fort Tryon Park, where the Cloisters sit. Among the smaller offerings, though, you can't beat the Brooklyn Bridge Park, a tiny jewel nestled between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges in Dumbo.

The park has an air of coziness created by the frenzy surrounding it on all sides: racing traffic on the bridges, boats shooting down the East River, the enormous skyscrapers that provide a stunning backdrop. Lie on the grassy hill and take it all in, have a picnic on one of the park tables, or dip your toe into the water—the river's tide washes up gently on a sandy mini-beach at the park's edge.

Best of all is the park's southeast corner, where a former tobacco warehouse is remembered by just its walls. A fascinating relic of New York City's tobacco-producing past, the warehouse is open to the sky and is a spectacular spot for a crisp autumn afternoon. Wedding planners take note: The warehouse is available on weekends for weddings and other parties, as is private use of the park after hours.

BEST STOMACH FLU

ROTAVIRUS

And a rat emerged from the gutters of Park Slope… Our friend was home alone with her infant, while we had her husband out and about, whooping it up near Times Square. Then, the call came in—and he was gone, off to the hospital on Atlantic and Hicks in Brooklyn. The next day, we learned that their child had had a grand mal seizure—eyes rolled back, face purply blue, the whole heart-stopping nine yards. The doctors did a CAT scan and a spinal tap, and though our friends each had a few new gray hairs, the kid would be okay.

The culprit was rotavirus, a bad-ass motherfucker that cut a swath through Brooklyn's yuppie-baby population earlier this year—as evidenced by the crowd of wee tots we saw at the hospital, all wearing mini hospital gowns and plugged into IVs. Our dear little friend was a real heartbreaker—glued to the Teletubbies on a portable DVD player, covered in bruises from needle pricks. Her spinal-tap owie made us queasy.

The second heartbreak came about 48 hours later, however, when we doubled over with stomach cramps and experienced the worst nausea we'd had in almost 20 years. Violence and grossness related to our nether-region soon commenced—that is, we had really gnarly diarrhea—but the nausea was worse. (At least something happens with the shits.) For nearly a week, we were on a rollicking adventure with nausea, but we never once puked. Apparently, we were the exception: Rotavirus usually attacks both ends.

For more than a week, we couldn't bear to touch food, yet the shit maelstrom—and about eight pounds—continued to storm forth. When the ordeal was over, our size-six clothes hung off a newly skeletal ass.

So if you're trying to lose weight, forget counting your carbs. Our buddy rotavirus can kick the crap out of any wimpy Atkins Diet. Instead, have a cuddle with a rotavirus-infected youngster. (Our little pal caught it again last week, so it's going around.) You'll puke and shit your way to a brand-new you in no time.

BEST OFFICE THEFT

.11 LITER OF JAGERMEISTER

Brown gold. It had been a rough day, not unlike any other rough day—just worse. A drink was called for. We crossed our fingers and dragged ourselves to the micro-fridge, hoping to find a stray bottle of beer. Nothing.

But what's this? Ah, yes, jammed in the tiny freezer compartment: the mickey of Jagermeister that a friend brought back from Germany. We grabbed two cups, called over a likewise-bedraggled coworker and poured two fat shots. We noticed that the liquor looked less viscous than usual, but our eyes could be playing tricks. Rough day and all.

Cheers!

Cheers!

And down went the shot.

Of coffee.

To the skint bastard who stole our rainbow: You suck.

Why replace the liquor? Why not just empty the bottle, then throw it out?

Why? Why? Why?!?

Again: You suck.

And you owe us a tiny bottle of Jagermeister.

Drop it in our mailbox. No questions asked.

BEST THING YOU
DON'T WANT TO HEAR ON THE ELEVATOR

Drop dead. The day last August when it was reported that a man had died after the elevator he was riding slammed to the top of the shaft, we stepped aboard the elevator here at the office, on our way down to get some lunch.

There was one other person on the elevator, a tall Jamaican woman we'd never seen before. After the doors closed and we began to descend, she asked, completely out of the blue, "Do you suppose if he'd laid down on the floor, he would've lived?"

BEST CELLPHONE MOMENT

At least she got the phone back. On the afternoon of Feb. 10, 19-year-old Lina Villegas was waiting for a V train at the Grand Ave. station in Elmhurst, Queens. In recent days, she'd started a new job and, presumably to celebrate, she bought a new cellphone. On this day, she stood on the platform admiring her new toy.

When the phone slipped from her hands and clattered down to the tracks, Villegas did what any smart young go-getter would do: She hopped down onto the tracks to retrieve it. After all, that was her connection with the world, a sign to all those around her that she was important and had important things to talk about, no matter where she happened to be.

Whether Villegas knew the train was coming before she hopped on the tracks, nobody can say for sure. Certainly not Villegas.

In the days that followed, we found ourselves asking the same question time and again: "Why can't more people drop their cellphones on the subway tracks?"

BEST EPICENTER OF ASS

THE UNION SQUARE STEPS

Ain't no question, son. There are times when it's a little thin, like in the early afternoon on a Friday. But in general, especially when it's warm out, if you want to be at the place where the classiest and best-looking people in the world are advertising themselves to the world, you go to Union Square. There's a steady stream of girls and boys from NYU, which of course houses the Most Outrageous Collection of Attractive Youngsters Ever Assembled on God's Green Earth, as well as plenty of Asians who clearly took classes on how to dress hot. You won't find us there much because we're usually busy. But when we walk through, we always slow our pace just a little.

BEST AIRPORT TO MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE AT LAGUARDIA

NEWARK INTERNATIONAL

Eighteenth Amendment, now boarding. We've been flying our entire lives. As a kid, we loved take-offs more than anything. But somewhere around age 20, we started to get a little nervous during the 15 minutes or so between the runway and the "bing" that meant the seatbelt light had gone off. Maybe it's because we learned it's during the ascent that most crashes occur, or maybe we just started thinking too much about a gigantic hunk of steel propelling itself upward 30,000 feet and staying there.

We never stopped flying, we just started to drink a bit before boarding. We'll swallow a pill if we have it, but usually a stiff one or two is enough to relax the nerves and make us a little sleepy as the plane's tires leave the ground. Over the years, we've come to depend on this little pre-flight ritual. And during a lifetime of frequent air travel, finding a place to enjoy these drinks has never been a problem.

Until we flew out of Newark one Saturday morning in July.

With half an hour until boarding, we hit an airport restaurant with a bar visible from outside.

"Bloody Mary, please," we said.

"I'm sorry, the bar doesn't open until one," replied the waitress.

"What do you mean?"

"We don't serve alcohol until one."

"But I see the bar right there."

"I'm sorry, sir. We can't serve until one."

"Okay, can you direct me to a place where I might be able to get a drink?"

"I don't think anything is open right now, but you can try."

Lo and behold, she was right. It was impossible to get a drink at an international airport just minutes from New York City. Not only was the place a complete mess, replete with unreliable shuttle service to the train station, but it was dry on a Saturday morning—the first dry airport we'd ever encountered. You could buy fucking sushi at dawn—but no booze until one.

Left with no choice, we boarded our plane stone-cold sober. Sure enough, take-off was more nerve-rattling than it had been in years. By the time the stewardesses came around with drinks, we no longer needed one.

BEST SIGNAGE

PHIL'S STATIONERY

9 E. 47th St. (betw. Madison & 5th Aves.) 212-688-4144

Two Underwoods, please. Phil's Stationery looks like it was plucked from 1960 and brought back as a happy reminder of a time when selling even business supplies was glamorous. The big plastic stars twinkle with passion, and the dramatic swoop of the "Phil's" lettering declares that you're dealing with a proprietor who has a real sense of pride. Don't think you're dealing with any lame retro signage, either. Phil's proudly advertises that they provide "Zerox copies"—which is just the way an innocent sign guy would've spelled it way back when.

BEST SUICIDE

ANN YORK

Encore! You could hardly turn around this year without hearing about another public suicide. Spalding Gray presented You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone, a new one-man show aboard the Staten Island ferry. A kid paused in the lobby of a housing project just long enough to blow his brains out for the security cameras, ensuring that the record of his final moments would be passed around the internet for all of eternity. NYU students seemed to be dropping like overripe fruit both inside and outside of tall buildings everywhere. And there were more subway jumpers than you could shake a stick at.

But as far as suicides that blend tragedy, comedy and pure showmanship are concerned, no one (at least this year) could top 77-year-old Ann York.

Maybe it makes sense—York was a former circus contortionist and a one-time Broadway showgirl, appearing in such musicals as Almost Crazy. She clearly had show biz in her blood—and early last May her blood was all over the sidewalk of E. 57th St.

In her later years, long after retiring from the stage, York had been a professional dogwalker. But as arthritis crippled her feet and legs, she was forced to give that up as well. She became a bitter recluse, according to neighbors in her East Side apartment building. "She was not very friendly," one of them said of the late York. "She complained a lot."

Well, he won't have to listen to her complain anymore. At about 9:30 one bright, spring morning, York set up a stepladder next to the window of her 17th-floor apartment. She then opened the window and hurled her much-hated aluminum cane to the street below, nearly striking one passer-by and prompting several others to look up. Then, with the eager eyes of an audience upon her again, she took her final bow.

BEST TIME-TRAVEL

OLDE GOOD THINGS

124 W. 24th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.)
212-989-8401

Return of the century. It was our favorite kind of New York Sunday. We met a friend for brunch at Orlin on St. Marks, where on rare occasion we'll risk dairy-allergy hell for their delectable goat-cheese and tomato omelette. Belly warm and happy, we walked and talked ourselves all the way to Chelsea. On 24th off of 6th, we looked up and found ourselves in front of Olde Good Things. Intrigued by the old, good-looking things we spied through the plate-glass window, we entered. And didn't come out for two solid hours.

Olde Good Things is a group of architecturologists who salvage beautiful pieces of buildings slated for demolition, and otherwise scavenge bits of architectural intrigue for their growing body of stores. We found stately mirrors, mantels, columns, all manner of antique furniture, tapestries, ceramics, ancient photos and postcards. Sometimes, riffling through photos of people and families from other eras throws us into a funk ("All those people, all those lives, where are they now?") but here, it was irresistible. We journeyed back to 19th- and early-20th-century England, Africa, France and Italy as we pored over the black and white images strewn across imposing hand-carved bureaus. We forgot the time in the basement's free-for-all of ceramic tile, the odd medicine chest, endless drawers of hooks, knobs and other domestically useful bits.

For so much treasure in such a neighborhood, we can almost forgive OGT the creepy Bible quotation and their offer to "discuss this with you anytime" tucked in the "locations" section of their website.

BEST RED-LIGHT
DISTRICT

QUEENS PLAZA, LONG ISLAND CITY

Bring lots of single bills. Trying to find the train back from a warehouse party on a Saturday night of this past year, we took a stroll through the Queens Plaza vicinity and made a surprising discovery, namely that a lot of the strip clubs and smut shops that were shaken out of Midtown seem to have landed in the Long Island City vicinity. We cruised through the post-industrial neighborhood past notorious strip bar CityScapes on the way to the subway stop, then realized that there were still a couple more clubs within easy walking distance—plus some girls on the street who looked like they were, um, working.

The vibe was one part Grand Theft Auto III, one part outer-borough shabby (our favorite esthetic, by the way) and one part the Times Square of old, though not so much the garish porn-carnival atmosphere as the unmistakable seediness of sex