Hi, I'm German Boy from Queens

While visiting my sister in Rhode Island a few weeks ago, I stopped by an Army Navy surplus store. There, I found a surplus German Army shirt/jacket thingy that I really liked.

For a guy who can't shoot straight and who has not done a recorded chin-up, I have to say I look good in surplus military gear. The problem is that there is a small German flag on the upper portion of each sleeve, which leads to a lot of misidentification. 

"Where are you from?"

"Queens"

"I mean, before that."

"You mean, where I was born? Where I was living before? Are we talking Maine, here?"

"No, are you German?"

"Huh?"

"Belgian?"

"Oh, you mean the jacket? It's surplus."

"So, you're not from Germany, then?"

"No, like I said, I'm from Queens."

"Oh, you're boring then."

I was lucky in that last week, my friends Carla and Andrew came down from the aforementioned state of Maine to visit, share some fun time with the cast of Cinematic Titanic, and eat cupcakes. We took a ride on the Staten Island Ferry to confirm that the Statue of Liberty was returned to its rightful place after Bill Murray took it for a ride in Ghostbusters II (and it looks like it did--so much, in fact, that I'm starting to wonder if the events in Ghostbusters II ever really happened).

The fun thing about the ferry is that they serve beer on board, which means you get to meet plenty of friendlies, such as these women, who seemed concerned that I get a good photo of the aforementioned statue. "We'll find you on Facebook," one of them told me later. "German-Boy from Queens."

"That's me."

Also on board was Kevin from New Jersey. I know this, because as the ferry was returning, he said, to no one in particular, "I'm Kevin from Jersey!" And so he was. We talked about a great many things, such as TV's Alf. I wish we had time to make more memories. Now, all I have is these photographs. Good-night, you weary wayward wanderer, you Garden State Prince.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to come up with a German Boy from Queens Facebook profile.

These are the places in the neighborhood

Instead of going to the gym tonight, I decided to take a walk around my neighborhood for an hour. I discovered that I'm in easy walking distance to:

• a movie theater
• an appliance store
• the most garish bar with a Capt. Morgan statue and half a car sticking out of the wall
• several gyms
• several more gyms with boxing rings and mixed-martial arts
• at least two Baskin Robbins
• a Popeye's Chicken
• several night clubs
• car wash
• various convenience stores and delis
• two liquor stores
• a Soup Guy
• several bakeries, one which specializes in cakes
• several pizzerias
• 12 million Greek cafés
• couple slow dancing outside a store to music

At some point I wandered into a neighborhood that I can only describe as "Little Morocco," with several hookah bars, an array of middle eastern restaurants and men with beards.

How the hell did I end up here?

The Hipster Question

I spent a long time on a post dealing with how I view hipsters. Specifically, I've been trying to figure out why I find the presence of men with patchy beards, moppy hair, glasses with thick black plastic frames unsettling. Yeah, there's a guy on the subway wearing frames with fake lenses, and yeah, it looks kinds dumb, and yeah, he was probably going for "kinda dumb." So what? Why this urge to take his fake glasses and grind them beneath my heel?

I'm realizing that making a broad generalization about a population or subculture is difficult to do, especially when it's based primarily on dress. I work with a lot of people who, judging on style alone, could be considered of the Hipster Class. 

Hipsterdom is a little disconcerting, because where I just came from, clothing wasn't judged just on style, but on practicality. Here, you would rarely be asked, "That's a great looking sweater, but would it hold up when you had to use your sleeve to wipe the snow off your windshield, because the car door's frozen shut?"

As much as I dislike the idea of men walking around in skinny jeans that, let's face it, were probably bought in the women's section of JC Penny, a lot of my hipster coworkers seem like decent folks with great senses of humor. (Of course, if you are a man purposely wearing women's jeans, you probably have a sense of humor about yourself by default.)

There's no doubt that the hipster culture makes me feel every one of my 33 years. It's a sub-culture I don't understand. Why the obsession with Pabst Blue Ribbon? Moustaches? Sweaters that should only be wore by your grandmother or the late Kurt Cobain? I feel like I'm on the outside, a square, an old man banging on the pipes yelling at them to "turn down that god damn rock and roll!"

On the plus side, I do like their old-timey hats.

All hail Falafel!

April 7

Dear Diary,

Yesterday I went to the King of Falafel truck in my neighborhood for the first time. While waiting for my kebab, I was given a free falafel ball. I just wanted to say: That's some good shit right there.

C is for …

A coworker introduced me to an espresso bar where they have cookies that remind me of the ones my paternal grandmother would make me. That was a good thing.

These guys …

I wrote this a while ago, but since this … art … is still around, then I guess I can still post this. …

In other news, the suicide rates seem to be increasing: One of these freaky-ass things is on a ledge on a building across from where I work, and I also passed one in the park this morning. I have to say: I don't get it. I'm just not a fan of seeing schlongs in public, even if they are made of iron and fiberglass. I also find it narcissistic that these are casts of the artist's own body. Really, he's made statues of himself overlooking the city. You just don't get to do that unless you're a war hero with at least 50 kills under your belt.

Celebrit-A-Go-Go

I saw some very amazing people recently. I'm of course, talking about my Maine friends Carla and Andrew (and also Tara, who gets another, upcoming post). Carla and Andrew visited in February during Carla's birthday. In celebration of which, we attended a taping of The Colbert Report.

I had never been part of a live studio audience before, but I have to say this was a good introduction, albeit a little surreal. There we were, after hours of waiting, sitting in our seats, and on the set below us was Stephen Colbert, telling jokes, interviewing people, and saying the most horrible things in character in order to make us laugh. Colbert, the guy whose audio book I owned, and who I watched every night when I had cable.

Colbert was the second famous person I've seen since moving to New York. The first was David Blane, making an appearance in Times Square to raise money for Haiti. I hadn't planned on seeing Blane--I was wandering Manhattan on my day off, when I saw a crowd of people and television cameras. Wow! THE David Blane! Amazing!

Who the hell is David Blane?

I made it my business to Google him a few days later, when I remembered there was a guy people thought was famous doing coin tricks in Times Square. Turns out, Blane enjoys suspending himself in water and locking himself up in a cube for days at a time in order to, well, I don't know why. Here's a(nother) photo I took:

Notice, he's not contained in a block of ice, and he hasn't set himself on fire. He's just standing there, being famous, but at least he's raising money for earthquake victims this time. It's not about being weird.

I got a lot closer to Blane than I did Colbert, but I found Colbert a lot more entertaining, and judging by the cheers, Carla and Andrew had a fine time as well. The next day, after the taping, we went out for brunch near Central Park. The pancakes were fine and the sausage was sausagey, but the most important part of brunch came while I was in the bathroom line, where I over heard:

"Tony Bennett is here, eating. He doesn't like to be bothered, though."

I walked back through the restaurant.

And there he was. Tony Bennett. Eating, and not being bothered. He wasn't at a table secluded from everyone. He was just ... being a normal guy. So I didn't bother him, just glanced briefly, before telling Andrew who, likewise, looked but didn't bother.

I don't consider myself big on Hollywood. I don't read People, I stay away from E! (barring "The Soup," I can't be bothered with extraneous punctuation), Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, or whatever.

I am, however, as susceptible to curiosity as the next guy, and within many people, there is an unconscious, lingering question that is rarely answered: Are the people we see on TV, whether we care about them or not, really real?

where'd I go?

… I muttered somethin’ underneath my breath
She studied the lines on my face.
I must admit I felt a little uneasy
When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe …

Lately, I can't help but notice the lines in my face. Where did these bags under my eyes come from? I'm getting older, a little bit each day. Pretty soon I'll be feeling around the back of my head for a bald spot.