That Guy in the White Wig? Every other day, it seems we’re all making a
quick trip to the ATM to grab $300 to get us through the night. Then we head
out like a bunch of suckers with a wallet or purse full of $20s. Even worse–for
some reason known only to the banks–we’re increasingly heading out
with wallets or purses full of $50s. Well, the banks are keeping a little secret
from you. Every one of those banks has tellers that sit inside those walls during
the daylight hours. And every one of those tellers is obligated to take a bank
customer’s $300 and break it down into smaller bills. If that doesn’t
seem like a big deal, then you’re one of the many Manhattanites who long
ago began taking their rights for granted.
come with responsibility. Keep in mind your own obligation as a good bank customer.
Flimflam men still walk our streets, and some banks have a policy to limit change-making
transactions. Your teller will be a lot more receptive if you show up with a
small note detailing how you want that $300 to be divided. Keep a token $100
in twenties. Go with another $100 in tens. This will keep the $5s flowing in
change from purchases. The $50 in fives from the bank will spend quicker than
you expect. Then indulge yourself with $50 in ones, and keep the unused ones
in your bedside bureau next to your gun. Grab a handful as you head out for
the day, and replenish when necessary.
benefits will be immediate. Aren’t you sick of that bodega clerk staring
at your $20 and trying to figure how much he owes you for a purchase of $12.75
in magazines? Give him $13, and watch the transaction get narrowed down to a
mere five minutes. Your bartering clout will become vastly improved with the
ability to peel off a precise $17 at the vintage clothing store. Lend your friend
$5 you’ll never see again instead of that $20 you’ll never see again.
Oh, and fuck
the waiters of this fine city. How long have they kept you waiting for change
while your date is giving you a smoldering stare that offers your sex life a
precious 10-minute window of opportunity? Now leave the exact amount, while
enjoying the freedom to be very precise with your tip. Or, if you’ve already
had sex with your date, pay the bill in $20s and see if the bastard brings you
back the proper change for leaving a fair 20 percent tip. If he tries to get
cute, use your secret stash of cash to carefully count out an exact 10 percent.
What can he do about it? You’re the one with the money.
Housing Works Used Bookstore Cafe
126 Crosby St. (betw. Houston
& Prince Sts.)
& Scored. Housing Works Used Bookstore Cafe is one of our favorite used
book haunts. On rainy days, sit on the mezzanine level staring out the windows
at the rain falling on Crosby’s cobblestones and it’s easy to think
you’re in your own private library. We’d gotten so used to escaping
into dusty volumes that we nearly missed the record bins. But once we saw them,
we obsessively combed through each disc until we ended up with a heavy, cumbersome
load of used vinyl: The Rolling Stones’ Rolled Gold double-pack
vinyl, $5; J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Hobbit, including a 12-page storybook,
$5; Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense, $3; Earl Klugh albums up the
wazoo; Blondie’s Parallel Lines, one measly dollar; Klaatu, Earth
Wind & Fire, more Talking Heads, Nina Simone’s Baltimore, the
soundtrack to Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.
bought cost more than $5. We were sorry to be so greedy, when we had to carry
that beast of burden load uptown, but we got more records for our money than
we ever have. Most of the vinyl’s in good condition, although some of the
jackets are a little roughed up. But that’s not the point–we’re
not talking fancy collectibles in polymer bags here, we’re talking sheer
weight. For that, no place we’ve ever been to can possibly beat Housing
Works. You can almost feel good about being neurotically packratish when it
comes to vinyl: Housing Works donates all of its proceeds to programs for homeless
people with AIDS.
Girls’ Surfer T-Shirts
109 Spring St. (Mercer St.)
You’re damn right we’ve got fat arms. And as much as we lift and curl
and flap our arms up and down in obsessive counterclockwise rotations, our fat
summer; dreaded the arrival of the shoulder-baring chick fashions we longed
to wear. So what a relief it was to find really cool, very comfortable t-shirts
that hide our faults and that happen to be cut in such a way as to flatter our
good parts (like, if we may say so ourselves, our shoulders). Roxy t-shirts
for girls are boxy. The hem falls right above the hip and the sleeves are cut
at an angle, shorter than regular t-shirts, so that your arms stay hidden. But–and
this is the best part–it won’t look like you’re hiding them.
Plus, they’re designed to look a bit retro, with a little of that 60s-in-Huntington-Beach
groove. The best one’s hot pink, with neon lettering.
We wore our
Roxy t-shirts everywhere this summer. Over swimwear at the beach; under Helmut
Lang pantsuits to boites; everywhere. Buy the whole lot and resist that
unfortunate tube-top-and-shrug combination, which looks like hell and is way
Pascal at Anne Bruno
115 W. Broadway
(betw. Duane & Reade Sts.)
in Every Bathroom? Live a Little. With a Tintin haircut and sexy accent, Pascal
always produces the best floral arrangements downtown. Tell him French-style
or open and he’ll provide. Needless to say, the flowers are always fresh,
and maybe because it’s a new business the service is top-notch. Nothing
carnation or cheesy, everything in the finest of taste. And who wouldn’t
like a guy named Pascal?
420 9th Ave. (betw. 33rd
& 34th Sts.)
Gallery. Back when we were still overexposing Tri-X and making a mess in the
bathroom darkroom, it was more fun to shop for camera stuff than to suffer the
out-of-focus gray blobs that were the result of our early photography. And for
camera addicts here in the world’s center of photo retailers you could
spend a whole day bouncing from little shops like Adorama to B&H to Cambridge
to Olden. While most of those camera stores are still crammed into overflowing
storefronts that can barely contain the stock, let alone the customers, B&H
has hugeified and moved into immense digs on the west side.
From the new
block-long store B&H peddles everything a shutterbug can use. It’s
the likeliest place in the world to find the perfect tripod, weird infrared
films, funky large-format equipment and even old cut-film holders. B&H isn’t
stuck in the dark ages, though: They’ve aggressively expanded their selections
of electronic imaging gear, and are an excellent source for video cameras, electronic
editing consoles and all the other space-age gadgets you’ll need to record
all the oh-so-precious minutiae of your life. (We love our Epson Stylus photo
printer that B&H’s resident digital image guru Phil Mistry sold us.)
warehouse is over there on 9th Ave., overflowing with stuff for both the finger-over-the-lens
amateur and the highest-end professional. Even if you don’t own a camera,
go to the new store just to check out the Metropolis-like conveyor system
that delivers your purchases from sales counter to pickup area via overhead
Department in Macy’s
151 W. 34th St. (B’way)
On. Oh, we hate Macy’s most days. The crowds blow, the staff varies from
indifferent to incompetent and is often both. There was the time recently a
lady was standing behind a locked appliances counter. We asked if we could see
one of the appliances. No, she said. She was just standing there watching the
counter, she explained, and didn’t have the key. Ooookaaaay, we said, who
does have the key? The woman who really works this counter, she said. And she
is…? we ventured. At lunch, she replied, quite calmly. Is there anybody else
who can help us? we asked. I really don’t know, she admitted. We said,
Can we ask you something? If you don’t have a key and you don’t know
who does and there’s nothing you can do for customers, why are you standing
here? She shrugged. Because they told me to, she said.
Macy’s. Except, for some reason, the luggage department. Not like we’ve
bought tons of luggage, but when we have, over the years, we’ve kept coming
back to Macy’s. The selection is very broad. There almost always seems
to be a damn good sale going. And the staff actually knows the products and
can help you comparison-shop and decide. Then they hustle into a back room and
hustle right back with the just-unpacked version of the piece you picked out.
They’re somehow neater, more presentable and much more polite than most
What can we
say? Much as so many businesses in Manhattan try to beat this out of us, we
still like it when the salesperson is a clean, neat, courteous and informed
salesperson, not some ignorant dick who makes us want to shove the goods up
his or her ass. We’re funny that way, you know?
Village CD Store
6 St. Marks Pl. (betw. 2nd
& 3rd Aves.)
Still Rocks. Admit it–Other Music was cool at first, but now it’s
just a pain in the ass. We, too, were impressed when the place opened across
from Tower, but now, squeezing into that cramped, always-crowded space, where
elitist atmosphere forever effuses from the store’s tippy-top-high-end
speakers, we figure we’d just as soon support downtown’s other
independent. The prices are mostly the same, the clerks are no less helpful,
the selection is wider (yeah, it’s not quite as deep in German soundtrack
music or Japanese noise, but how many times do you need to flip through Other’s
musical stamp collection until you’re over it?), the elbow room is refreshing
and the “Used” sections are far more likely to house something worthwhile.
Kim’s is the See Hear, the Porto Rico Importing, the Yaffa Cafe of music
retail. Other Music is the Bowery Bar.
355 Madison Ave. (45th St.)
Good Bastards and Fly
Bitches. Is there an outdoorsman’s indulgence known to man that involves
more screwy crap than fly fishing? We’re stumped. Hunting? Rifle, shells,
maybe some camo, maybe not. Dog. There you go: Hit the duckblind, beat the brush,
flush the quarry, don’t shoot anybody. Skiing? Close, but not quite: skis,
poles, boots, duds–done. Okay, lift tickets. Attitude. Grog for the lodge
bimmies. But now we’re pushing it, grasping. Golf? Sorry. It’s a game,
not a sport.
on the other hand, compels its enthusiasts to participate in an orgy of gadget-buying
matched only by devotees of…hell, we don’t know. Cakewriting? Spelunking?
Microsurgery? There are days when, trapped up by Grand Central and loath to
paw shirts at Paul Stuart or slip into Nat Sherman for an illicit cigarette
of exotic provenance, we choose to kill our time in idle fashion at Orvis. We
enter. The humid musk of waxed-cotton Barbour stormcoats accosts our decidedly
non-Anglophilic nostrils. To our left: a dishabille heap of corduroy
and tattersalls. To our right: a flight of stairs, bedecked with Labrador plush
toys and WASPy whatnots, ascending to the more serious sanction, the realm of
variable-flex rods, high-speed-retrieve reels, breathable waders, vests composed
almost entirely of velcro and pouches. Directly ahead: a strip of chalkboards
reporting the angling conditions on a variety of local rivers. We give the forest-green
“Battenkill” luggage a jiggle. We ponder the schlubby tweed jackets,
which appear to function less as garments and more as tasteful frameworks for
a dizzying array of concealed pockets. We tug on a Barbour, judge its damp heft–because
we’ve always wanted one and because CNN’s Christiane Amanpour wore
one to assay the most recent cruise-missile fusillades in Baghdad, and she looked
gallant, Euro, prepared (Barbour should sign her to an endorsement contract).
dawdling. Time to gird ourselves for the business of scrutinizing the store’s
upstairs merchandise, its raison d’etre. Orvis is a rinky-dink shop,
wedged here in the shadow of the monolithic former Pan Am Bldg., but Lord God!
What a bevy of wares they’ve crammed into this meager square footage! At
this juncture in our fly-casting self-education, the essentials are a tad off-putting–the
$600 rods and $400 reels–but we’re game to study the relatively inexpensive
flies themselves, of which Orvis has thoughtfully provided hundreds, neatly
categorized in display cases accompanied by a dry-erase “What’s Workin'”
white board that, we guess, is constantly updated according to local word of
mouth. The flies are an education in fanciful Yankee nomenclature, a poetic
taxonomy, a diverse catalog of etymological whimsy. Check it out. Among dry
flies there are the workaday “Mosquito” and “Black Gnat,”
but also the “Light Cahill Parachute,” the “Blue Winged Olive
Thorax” and the regal-sounding “Comparadun Mahogany” (all $1.95).
Want a fish story? How about “Herter’s Bastard Midge” for narrative
allure? Who was “Herter’s Bastard”? Or was the midge itself a
“bastard,” and if so, a bastard because the fish couldn’t resist
a gulp? A good bastard, a bad bastard? There’s a “Crippled Midge,”
too. Descriptive of an insect’s plight? Or…possibly…something…else?
We’re partial to the “Nymphs” category, primarily because it
contains this incongruous customer: the “Disco Midge.”
Also in there
is the injuriously tagged “Bitch Creek,” as well as the “Flashback
Scud,” which puts us back in the mind of Christiane Amanpour. You want
drama? Dig the “Meg-A-Egg Sucking Leach,” a $2.50 steelhead fly. Furthermore,
if you’re inspired to try your own hand at this perverse escapade and hope
someday to name your own clever little windings of feather and thread, Orvis
has you covered. The “Premium Fly-Tying Kit” retails for $235 and
allegedly contains a least a few of the niftier tricks.
Next Stop, Astor Place.
We only saw him once, sitting on the corner of 7th and 32nd, but we haven’t
It was lunchtime,
so 7th was packed–yet there he sat, oblivious to the crowds: a distinguished,
gray-haired Australian in a sharp gray suit, sitting on a cardboard box, another
cardboard box full of children’s books open in front of him. There were
four other large boxes beside and behind him.
at these fabulous books, ladies and gentleman!” he shouted with an enthusiastic
authority. “This book here! Desmond the Dusty Dinosaur! As
beautiful a book as you’ve ever seen! Look on the back, and you’ll
see that the original price is $14.95. Now that’s very expensive, isn’t
it? But we’re not going to ask you to pay that!”
Then he opened
the book, and didn’t start reading the book aloud so much as he simply
described the pictures on each page, while making up his own story.
at these beautiful pictures, ladies and gentlemen! Here’s one of a dinosaur!
And he looks like he’s having fun, I’ll say! You don’t find artwork
like that just anywhere–and we all know that the kids love the dinosaurs!
Go on to the next page and what happens? Well, our dinosaur friend looks like
he’s about to get into trouble! There’s a big spider there! It’s
quite horrid–but I’m sure everything will turn out, don’t you?
And your kids will love it!”
He went through
book after book like this, never once looking at the crowd, opening each book
as if he had never seen such a thing before, describing each one with almost
childlike amazement. We stood against the wall and watched him, waiting for
some kind of punch line.
After 20 minutes,
we got it. He’d describe each book–nice $15 and $20 children’s
books these were, before putting it back in the box and grabbing another. When
he’d described every book in the box, he finally looked up and proclaimed,
“And this entire box, ladies and gentlemen–all these books–are
yours for a mere five dollars!”
Philippe Starck’s Karikter
19 Prince St. (betw.
Elizabeth & Mott Sts.)
Philippe Starck’s $13 flyswatter is a deliciously perverse object. Both
a practical household tool–you could definitely slaughter flies with it–as
well as a cheeky esthetic treasure, with silly tripod legs and a cleverly etched
visage on the swatter’s “face” (made visible by turning the flyswatter
at the correct angle), it possesses the necessary qualities–it’s both
incongruous and inexpensive–that we demand in our tchotchkes. Buy one of
each color, arrange them prominently in your apartment and you’ve got an
“installation” worthy of P.S. 1 in Queens, where the things are displayed
in exactly this manner.
newish decorative store in Little Italy, is one of the few locations that sells
high-end but low-priced goods from Alessi, that Italian manufacturer of architect-designed
toothbrushes and cheese graters. And Karikter also sells Little Prince watches,
Babar salt-and-pepper shakers and Tin Tin backpacks.
But stick with
the Flyswatter. For a mere $13, it brings a touch of postmodern whimsy to your
home. And God knows you could use it.
Josh at Rising Dragon
230 23rd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.)
We aren’t sure how we chose Rising Dragon for our third, but first large,
full-color tattoo. The day we visited, a blond almost-hayseed type asked us
what we were looking for. Though first impressions are usually right, ours wasn’t
with Josh, and within minutes of discussing placement and design, we were getting
pulled deeper into his diabolical plans. Our idea was relatively complex, but
we were too chickenshit to ask for the full forearm inkjob. Shit, we didn’t
even know you had to tattoo at a certain size to get the right detail.
it seems obvious, but now Josh might half-smile and nod, barely acknowledging
our understanding. Holding our pale, uncolored arm, he traced imaginary borders
and talked color schemes and symmetry. His shading and special outlining technique
(the yellow line) are trademark Joshisms, as is his ability to spin brown, yellow
and orange pigments into gold. After 12 hours of pain, we’ve never looked
back. Every day at least one person comments on the excellent quality of our
tattoo and wants to know who did it. Josh is already bugging us about our next
piece, which we’ll get soon. From Josh.
Gimme Your Cell, I Gotta
Call Carmela. If you have to have a cell phone (were they really invented for
prisoners to use to call home?), why not have one that looks and feels 21st
century and not, like so many of the models, like a buttony Kirby cucumber?
The Motorola StarTAC is now digital and analog, and has that nice flip mouthpiece
so you’re speaking at a real point, not just the ozone. It just feels good,
and unless you own a varied fleet of such phones and can compare them and thus
know better, it seems to work at least as well as others that are uglier.
Idea Manhattan Travelers Take for Granted
Boston & DC Shuttles
Shuttle, Not Bugged.
Only when you consider their absence can you appreciate the cordiality of the
existence of the shuttles between New York and Washington, and New York and
Boston. Even the most disorganized or procrastinating individual is never more
than a half hour from a flight to either place, or back home. One good result
is that it has made going to DC from NY a small deal–always a good political
stance. Amtrak promises to deliver even faster service soon on its moderne train,
and the agreeable ease of flowing from center city to center city will enhance
still more the psychic pleasure of that mode of transport. However, because
it is often necessary to reserve on the Metroliner, its superior comfort will
have often to yield to the desperation of the dunce who’s disorganized
And while we’re
at it, another good idea Manhattan drivers take for granted: only paying tolls
one way on river crossings. A stroke of humane genius.