As a fan of the band The Negro Problem, I was delighted to pick up the following throwaway tidbit from a New Yorker blog post by John Colapinto: {Spike] Lee's next excursion into the question of race in America is his filmed version of "Passing Strange,"
My scotch-loving friends in New York will want to hear about an email I just received from the Brandy Library. (Yes, I can't bring myself to unsubscribe from their mailing list.) The 16th Annual Single Malt & Scotch Whisky Extravaganza is coming to the Roosevelt Hotel on Thursday,
I loved this LCD Soundsystem song even before I saw the video, but now I love it even more.
We had a fine, fine time at the SFWA mill-and-swill last night, saw tons of great people. But what we appreciated most about the evening was that when we got back to our hotel—not even drunk!—and found that room service wasn't answering its phone even though
We're back. Not five minutes on the street, as we're walking down Ninth Avenue, a guy leans out a car window and asks, "Do you know where the Latin Quarter is?" So I put on my best wiseguy and say, "Yeah, it'
Speaking of electrical problems, do you remember that nine-day blackout we had in Queens a couple of years ago? I swung by the old apartment one day last week to pick up our mail (which our stupid old post office has thus far utterly failed to forward), and found amongst
I realized an odd thing yesterday, which is only meaningful to me. September 11th very nearly and neatly bisected my time in New York. I rolled into the city for the first time in a moving truck on (I think) October 9, 1995. Just shy of six years later, well,
Seven years on, what does September 11th mean? Nothing. Perhaps it would be less confrontational to say it means everything, or anything. I had a terrible argument with a relative of mine during those bleak last months of 2001. I said something to the effect that a person's
THE LIVER IS EVIL. PUNISH IT HERE.
We're on our way to New York! Well, I'm waiting in line for a shoeshine at O'Hare, but excitedly. We bought lunch anonymously for three soldiers a little while ago in a concourse restaurant. Going home makes us feel happy.
Going home to New York City is as comfortable as slipping on an old shoe. I flew there Tuesday afternoon with just a backpack and the parka on my back, and I was immediately at ease and confident in a way I don't yet feel in Chicago. The
Getting to O'Hare Airport on Saturday morning should have been simple and relatively quick. (Since this is Chicago we're talking about, that's heavy on the "relatively.") We allowed ourselves a bit of wiggle room, even, and hauling our suitcases over to the
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