Category: Architecture

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The Epically Boring Boston/BIO Post

The trip to Boston for the BIO show was productive; I made some good editorial contacts, was praised for the quality of our magazine, ate at some fine restaurants, and saw a bartender mix a drink with liquid nitrogen. Here’s a slideshow of my BIO pix, and another of my non-BIO Boston pix (including the aforementioned drink).

For the first time, the conference organizers forgot to put me on the press list (we exhibit at the show but, since we’re there as a magazine, I usually end up on the press list), which meant that I didn’t have 10,000 appointments lined up. At least half of these tend to be for

  1. economic development regions that don’t have any industries that overlap with what we cover, and
  2. companies that provide services or components that don’t overlap with what we cover.

So the exhibit hours were less stressful than usual. Sometimes it’s tough for me to keep the “that’s VERY interesting!” vibe going when someone’s discussing an innovative chromatography column. (I’m sure these columns are VERY interesting, but I’m not a scientist, so hey.) Similarly, when a region hits me up for editorial coverage, and I discover that it has zero pharma-manufacturing business, I have to break out the “I really wish we had more coverage of, um, translational genomics, but that’s not really our bailiwick” stuff.

Anyway, the night before the BIO began, my friends Paul & Deb came up from Providence. We meandered along the Liberty Trail for a bit, checked out some Brutarian architecture, then headed over to our restaurant in Quincy Market / Faneuil Hall. Unfortunately, the BIO reception was taking place in the area, so the whole place was under lockdown. We had to wait at a checkpoint, then got handed off to 4 different security guards as we closed in on Wagamama. But the meal was worth it. And our attempt at circumnavigating the security cordon gave us the opportunity to see an Elvis-on-stilts handing out giant sunglasses and plastic Elvis toupees.

As I noted in my Montaigne post on Monday, I got a terrible night’s sleep Sunday, due to a 3-second “bzz!” that occurred every 4 or 5 minutes. All night. I got it taken care of on Monday night, when an engineer came up to the room. He fiddled with the AC for a few minutes, even though I told him it hadn’t been on the night before. Then he heard the “bzz!”, realized it was something in the restaurant upstairs, and ran out to take care of it. No more noise = full night’s sleep.

I knew I would need plenty of caffeine to make it through the exhibit hours Monday, and this sort of conference always has plenty of exhibitors who have baristas making all sorts of coffee. I got by on that during the morning, but true salvation arrived when I began to venture out through the exhibit hall.

See, I may not be a detective, but certain details leap out at me. When I passed an empty booth-space and noticed a Tim Hortons cup sitting on a table, my sleep-dulled mind leapt into action! I knew it could only mean one of two things:

  1. an exhibitor or attendee picked up some Timmy’s from one of the New England outlets, brought it into the show, and discarded it here, or
  2. the Canada pavilion was serving up the best coffee around.

I looked above for the Canada banner, spotted it near the front of the hall, and headed over to the pavilion. I was expecting to find an exhibitor with a little Tim Horton coffee urn or somesuch, but found a full-service coffee-stand, replete with donuts and other insanely good pastries! Not wanting to spoil the client dinner ahead, I only grabbed a coffee. I went back to our booth and told my publisher about the place. He ran out with our dinner guests, and they all returned with donuts, pastries and coffee at 3 in the afternoon.

I was happy, knowing that my breakfast plans for Tuesday were now solidified: blow off the hotel fare and score some of that Timmy’s.

After the first day of the show ended, we took those clients to a great restaurant in the Eliot Hotel in Back Bay: Clio. My publisher & I arrived first and sat at the bar. I was cheered to see a bottle of Hendrick’s (even though I was hoping for Miller’s), and ordered a G&T. Gary ordered a mojito and then asked the bartender what the signature drink was. The bartender proceeded to open up a local magazine and pointed to an inset in a Q&A. It described the Screaming Ginger, which is made with an exotic vodka, green tea, ginger . . . and liquid nitrogen.

Now, I don’t know that it was really liquid nitrogen in the container, but I do know that it froze everything else in the glass instantly (he poured it in first, before adding the other mixed parts), and emitted so much steam that it looked like one of Grandpa Munster’s experiments. How do we know? Because Gary ordered one after his mojito:

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The bartender, Theo Ford (we asked him for his name in case I decide to include that pic in the BIO wrap-up in the June issue), took out a toothpick to poke the ice at the top of the glass and keep it all from freezing over. The result was a sort of slush/sorbet texture, with a little kick and a nice, subtle green tea taste.

Well, I had to try it! It’s the BIO show! You’ve gotta play with chemistry!

Dinner was fantastic: tuna & salmon appetizer, and two lobster tails for the main course. Gary suffered his usual fate of receiving the smallest portion of anyone at the table who had that order. We’re convinced that waiters think he’s a fat load and do this to him out of the goodness of their hearts. My dessert was a melting chocolate dish, but my neighbor’s was funnier. He & I were bonding over music and The 40-Year-Old Virgin all evening, so we did plenty of goofing on/with his dessert:

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And that was pretty much the night. I got back to my room, fell asleep by 10, and was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the second day of the conference. There’s little to say about that day, except that I subsisted entirely on coffee, apple fritters and maple & pecan danishes from Tim Horton, which I would come to regret. Oh, and the Nebraska pavilion, directly across from our booth, started grilling steaks at 10 a.m., which is a kinda weird time to start smelling steak. That lasted till 5 p.m.

Tuesday night’s dinner was at a fantastic restaurant, Number 9 Park, but was marred because our clients canceled on us at the last minute. Like, “when we were heading there in a cab we got the call from them” last minute. Still, we do as needs must when the devil drives.

(Speaking of which, Boston has the most talkative cab-drivers I’ve ever encountered, hands down. Except for my Wednesday ride to the convention center, every cab ride involved non-stop chatter from the driver. And it’s one thing when the passenger can just grunt to hold up his end of the conversation, but when the driver starts asking essay questions? Please: Get back on your cell phone and complain in a foreign language. And it turns out I wasn’t the only one to notice this; my coworkers and other attendees all made comments about the gabby cabbies.)

Once again, Gary & I reached the site early and parked ourselves at the bar. This time, I was got my Miller’s G&T, which made me a happy boy. Appetizer (no pix in a joint this classy) was Seared La Belle Farms Foie Gras (muscat grape salad, yogurt, candied walnuts), and entree was . . . Slow Cooked Pork Belly (consomme, radishes, braised leeks), because I’m bold like that. And I don’t keep kosher.

My coworkers were scared of my dinner choice, although two of them gave it a shot and admitted that it beat their duck pretty handily. For my part, I said, “How could I look my wife in the eye and tell her that I didn’t try pork belly in a restaurant as fine as this one?”

What followed dinner was a surefire sign of the apocalypse: I was able to find my way back to our hotel on foot. Now, this isn’t a joke about being drunk during a business trip. No, it’s about how Boston is the least sensical city I’ve ever visited. I have never failed to get lost during my trips there, and even when I knew the general direction back to Faneuil Hall, I was convinced that I’d turn a corner at some point and see a sign that read, “Welcome to New Hampshire.”

So it was pretty scary that I was able to manage that walk back from Boston Common. I’m sure the Bostonians in the audience are sneering over my pride at negotiating this short distance, but the absence of a grid is totally disorienting to someone whose idea of a city is Manhattan.

Once again, that was pretty much the night. I got back to my room, fell asleep by 10:30, and was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the last day of the conference.

It was beyond uneventful, except for really esoteric stuff about my magazine. No good anecdotes to share from the show floor, and the Nebraska pavilion was out of steaks (they sent 3 days’ worth to the show, but only 2 days’ worth arrived, so someone was having a tremendous barbecue on Nebraska’s dime). My only imperative was to get out of the show early enough to catch the 3:15 Acela. I was booked on the 4:30, but the exhibit hall closed at 3:00 and I thought I might be able to make it.

Unfortunately, there was a massive line for cabs, so I walked down Summer St. with my suitcase and briefcase. I got to South Station just as the 3:15 Acela was about to leave. I wasn’t able to get my 4:30 ticket exchanged in time (I’ve seen them kick a passenger off), so I killed 75 minutes in South Station, getting a late lunch and sneaking into the Acela Club to goof around on the internet for a while, before boarding the quiet car for the ride home.

I was hoping to get some reading or writing done, but I was unable to focus on anything (it was probably allergy-related). I surrendered, popped in my headphones, and set my iPod to shuffle for 3+ hours. I haven’t done that in a long time, just listening to music and watching the landscape, but that’s where I was.

Near the outset, the train picked up great speed (around 150 mph, I think), which made a blur of the scenery. When we zoomed past parking lots, and the afternoon sun gleamed off the windshields with sharp contrast, I felt like I was watching Trainspotting, or the beginning of Shallow Grave, pounding through the landscape at high speed. It didn’t feel the same in the open areas and fields, but the combination of our velocity and human surroundings somehow tripped me out.

It didn’t last long. Much of the trip was through those empty fields, and most of the civilized areas required that we slow down. Fortunately, the trip had an entertaining conclusion.

See, the Acela stops in Penn Station in NYC for about 10 minutes, before heading out for the second half of its trip. It’s the stop where the most passenger-flux occurs, what with NYC being the center of the world and all.

Anyway, one of the passengers who boarded the quiet car at that stop bore a strong resemblance to Christopher Hitchens. I wasn’t sure it was him, until he walked down the aisle a minute or so later and passed by my seat. I thought, “He’s probably looking for a seat in a less crowded car,” and went back to listening to my music.

A minute later, I thought, “You moron! He’s heading down to the cafe car to buy as much alcohol as possible to last through the trip down to Washington, DC!”

Five minutes later, I was proved correct. He came walking back up the aisle with a cardboard tray containing a couple of drinks. He was stuck by my seat for a moment, because a passenger was restowing a bag. I said, “Excuse me: Mr. Hitchens?”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to let you know that my wife and I really enjoy your books and essays.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, trying to balance the tray as he headed back to his seat.

Shortly, he headed back down the aisle to another car, carrying some trash. The train would shortly pull into Newark, so I got my bags and waited by the door. He came back up the aisle and re-greeted me, shaking my hand and thanking me for the kind words.

I said, “Actually, it turns out that we have a mutual friend in Elayne Tobin.”

He perked up. “You know Elayne? You’re from Pittsburgh, then?” It was a good guess, since she got her Ph.D. there.

I said, “New Jersey. A mutual friend introduced us. He met her when they were teaching at Temple: Samuel Delany.”

“I think she introduced us once. Science fiction writer?”

“Yes. With a huge white beard.”

“That would definitely be him.”

We talked for a few moments more, until the train pulled in. I wished him a a safe trip, and he told me to give Elayne a pinch on the cheek from him.

“She’d probably take a swing at me if I did that, but I’ll try.”

He smiled, and headed back to his seat.

So that was Boston/BIO, dear readers. Epically boring, as I warned.

(Go check out the slideshows of BIO pix and Boston pix , if’n yer interested.)

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“Good design” = bad cities

I meant to post this James Lileks bleat a while ago. He engaged in some “wretched, slanted cherry-picking of selected quotes” from a newspaper interview with professor Thomas Fisher, the dean of University of Minnesota’s new School of Design. The interview discusses “the Design Economy,” and Lileks uses some of Fisher’s quotes as a springboard to discuss cities (starting with Minneapolis), suburbs, and the economies that are tied to them. Starting point:

[I]f all you have is a degree in Design, everything looks like a design problem.

It’s a long post, but I recommend giving it a read, if only because it helps me justify my own life in the suburbs:

Boring people live everywhere. Interesting people live everywhere. People have reasons for wanting to live in certain places, and if someone wants to live in the city, it’s his business. If he wants to live in the burbs, it’s his business. I could argue that people who confine themselves to the city are removing themselves from the experience of suburbia, which is actually more germaine to understanding America’s future than experiencing some of the lousy blocks I drive through daily.

So there’s some Friday afternoon reading for ya, in case it’s a slow day at the office.

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High Times

I finally got to see the new NYTimes building up close this week, during my meanderings to and from the Javits Center. It’s a mighty impressive exterior. NYT design director Khol Vinh just got to move into the building, and has high praise for it:

It’s early yet, but I think I’m completely enraptured by this building. Maybe it’s just my first time being exposed so intimately to fine, contemporary architecture, but the whole structure feels energizing to me. And it makes a certain kind of sense, too; Piano eschewed organic curves and aesthetically suspect design flourishes in favor of a wonderfully, wonderfully rectilinear construction. It’s an ornate, beautiful grid, in essence; of all the buildings in Manhattan, I feel like this is the one that makes the most sense for me to spend my working days. Forgive me, but I feel like a lucky bastard today.

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Less than Zero

Here’s an update on the construction efforts of the Freedom Tower and environs. I know you’ll be shocked to discover that the budget is skyrocketing:

Barry LePatner, Hon. AIA, a real estate attorney and construction cost expert, contends that the Freedom Tower’s initial bid numbers were virtually meaningless — unless construction companies agree to sign fixed-cost contracts, which seems unlikely. The problem, he explains, is that contractors often lowball their estimates to win projects and then file change orders and add other fees to make up the difference later.

An additional problem, as Ron Rosenbaum wrote last year, is that it’s tough to get private companies to buy space in a building that will be the #1 target for domestic terror strike.

But I’m starting to think the budget issues — and attendant regulatory bickering — will grow so enormous that the building won’t be finished till we’ve, um, won the war on terror.

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Life’s Rich Pageant

Design Observer has a neat article about Rem Koolhaas and his CCTV building in Beijing. I’m on record — as much as this blog serves as record — as saying that there’s no goddamn way that building is going to stand up. But evidently it’s at 14 stories and rising.

Anyway, the article discusses Koolhaas’ wacky theorizing vis-a-vis designing such a massive structure in China. The writer, William Drenttel, launches some harsh criticisms of Koolhaas, as we see here, in an excerpt from K’s Beijing Manifesto (in italics) and Drenttel’s followup:

In the free market, architecture = real estate. Any complex corporation is dismantled, each unit sequestered in place. All media companies suffer a subsequent paranoia: Each department — the creative department, the finance department, administration, et cetera — talks about the others as “them”; distrust is rife, motives are questioned. But in China, money does not yet have the last word. CCTV is envisioned as shared conceptual space in which all parts are housed permanently, aware of one another’s presence — a collective. Communication increases; paranoia decreases.

It’s one thing to build the building. But isn’t Koolhaas sounding like an apologist for the corruption and extreme capitalism of Beijing? His manifesto seems to embrace the language of Mao for a media conglamerate that is one of the the great powers in the People’s Republic of China, and the source of much of the censorship in that country. According to Koolhaas’s thesis of Forward Compatibility: “China is characterized by the need to spread opportunity and information rather than protect manufacturers and other established interests. It could use its dominant position, the force of its numbers, its economic power, and its central government to lead the world into a digital future.” What would lead an architect of Rem Koolhaas’s standing to voice such propaganda? Perhaps Koolhaas is simply taking advantage of the pervasive authoritarianism that is still the Chinese norm. Design approvals? No problem, when everyone serves at the pleasure of the Party! He almost seems to be luxuriating in the absence of the nuisance of the free market.

“Lead the world into the digital future”? Maybe Koolhaas could try typing “tibet democracy” into a search engine in a Beijing internet cafe and see how that central government perceives the digital future.

Anyway, Drenttel condemns the building for using so damn much steel, which appears to be the only way that the thing is going to beat my prediction of tipping over in a stiff wind:

CCTV, at only 55 stories, requires 123,750 tons of steel for 4.8 million square feet of space, or 51 lbs/sq. ft. of steel [compared to 31 lbs/sq. ft. for the Twin Towers]. The punch line is that CCTV is the architectural equivalent of a gas-guzzling SUV. A structural engineer might talk about pounds of steel per square foot as a measure of a building’s structural efficiency. CCTV has a beautiful structural design considering what it is required to do, but any engineer, I believe, would describe it as a “heavy” building. By comparison, the World Trade Towers were a super tall, extreme structure and they were still 40% lighter than CCTV. There is a lot of extra steel (20 to 30 lbs/sf) in the CCTV structure simply to resist overturning because of the weight and stress of its free-floating bridge, even assuming contemporary code and seismic requirements.

The issue is simple: all this steel is there to support a design conceit, albeit a beautiful one, of “an eye catching megastructure which looks like it ought to fall over.” Rory McGowan, the ARUP director of the collaborating structural engineers, “admits that the structural gymnastics have a purely aesthetic justification.”

Getting back to my point about that digital future (and the lies we tell ourselves to make it through), I don’t think it’s a coincidence that so many major projects are going to China and places like Dubai, where there’s huge money and an authoritarian government. It must be a joy for architects to work in that environment, at least as much as they can gratify their “creative impulses” without getting derailed by local zoning boards. Of course, the buildings aren’t in a vacuum, and architects can decide how much they’ll take into account the regional politics that enable their personal freedom.

(Bonus VM tie-in: Just as this morning’s Montaigne selection helped characterize my own, um, peculiarities in communication, a quote from the article about Koolhaas’ architecture helped sum up the Gil Roth Experience: “raw, confusing, impersonal, uncomfortable, oppressive, theatrical and exhilarating.”)

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Yesterday’s meander

I took a half-day yesterday from work. Cousins of my wife were in NYC and we were meeting them for dinner. Rather than risk running late with traffic, I decided to head in early.

Based on the location of the restaurant where I thought we were eating, I parked down in the west Village. As it turned out, Amy’s cousins (Wade, Robin, and Wade’s parents) weren’t interested in Italian that night, so she switched plans and we met up at a BBQ place near Times Square. In-between, I had about 5 hours to meander.

You know what that means: you can just skip this post and check out my collection of photos from the afternoon, or you can read whatever ramblings I come up with as I recollect my walk. If you’re one of those stupid brave souls who wants to stick with me through thick and thin, you’ve been warned.

It was stupidly cold for the first week of April: around 35-40 degrees, after a week of 60-70-degree weather the previous week. I wore a warm coat and grabbed my gloves before I left the house in the morning, so I was taken care of for two-plus-mile walk uptown.

See, dear reader, I actually had a goal for this walk, and it didn’t involve buying a ton of Orwell books over at the Strand. (Sure, I made my obligatory stop there, but it was only to use the bathroom! I swear! Okay, so I spent some time among the art books on the second floor, but I managed not to buy anything.)

People with too much time on their hands Astute readers may recall my recent post about Muji, the Japanese “no brand” company, and its amazing products. The slideshow mentioned that the company has a store at the Design Store at the Museum of Modern Art, so I figured I’d see just how ingenious and wonderful their products are.

Look. I don’t tell you how to live your life, do I?

So I made my way uptown from the Strand. I walked through Union Square, was disappointed that no one was protesting Israel, and decided to give my buddy Mark a call. He’s a public school teacher, and I had no idea if he was on break this week. I left him a message and kept walking.

At this point, around 2:30, I was starting to get pretty peckish. See, I have this tendency to Just Keep Going when that happens, and I know for a fact that this leads to my doing incredibly stupid things, as it appears my IQ and my blood sugar have a linear correlation. I needed to stop somewhere to eat, but my decision to keep “Passover kosher” made this a problem. See, in my incredibly half-assed universe, I’ve decided that I’ll stay off the leavened bread (and ancillary stuff) this week, even though I was heading out for pulled pork and brisket at Spanky’s for dinner. It’s hard work, being this inconsistent.

As it turns out, I was already becoming stupid, because I ended up getting lamb from a street-meat vendor. This was a bad idea both in the short term (when I realized I had nowhere to actually eat the stuff, and had to stand on a street corner while I devoured the lamb, lettuce, tomatoes and onions) and in the long term (when I lay in bed that night gripped by heavy nausea and realizing that, since my wife and I shared our dish at dinner, that my lunch was the culprit). Anyway, the lamb was delicious, though indecorous and mildly poisonous. Since I didn’t get too ill from it (basically, I spent the day feeling hungover), I consider myself a stronger man, and none of you can convince me otherwise.

Mark called back while I was huddled under a construction awning, eating my lunch. We briefly played phone tag, but soon got in touch and made tentative plans to get together once I’d finished up at MoMA.

From there, I decided to walk up Madison till I reached 53rd, at which point I’d head west for MoMA, which is between 5th and 6th. I figured that, since 5th heads south, I’d stick with Madison and if I got too cold, I’d get a cab up to 53rd.

(Bonus VM wisdom: David Gates, one of my favorite contemporary writers, once mentioned a great mnemonic for the easterly progression of avenues in NYC: Fat Men Piss Less, which stands for Fifth, Madison, Park and Lexington. Just try forgetting that one.)

New York is composed of a bazillion neighborhoods and districts, so it’s always possible to discover new sites that everyone laughs at you for never having seen. In this case, it was the Morgan Library, which I’d never heard of. I was impressed by the 36th St. side (here’s a pic from my flickr set), but wasn’t so interested in the modern section on Madison. I’ll have to go back some time to check out the collections and reassess the new section, which was designed by Renzo Piano and is supposed to be All That.

Just because I didn’t spend time at the Morgan doesn’t mean I was in some sort of rush. I had hours before dinner, and was conscious of my tendency to start rushing to get somewhere for no purpose. I just felt that I should save the museum for some other trip, when I’ve some idea of what I’d be looking for there (I think they have some Rembrandt drawings in the collection, which could make it worthwhile).

A few blocks up, I headed over to the south end of Grand Central. I’ve made a few visits to the terminal lately, but I came from the north or west. So I stopped and took some pics of the facade, which was typically glorious. I tried to get angles where “MET LIFE” wasn’t in the background.

Paradoxically, I started to become absorbed by how little I was thinking about myself. By now, you’ve surely guessed that I’m my favorite subject of conversation, among other things. But despite the cold and the wind, I found myself simply enjoying a mid-day walk uptown. There was a background anxiety about making sure I could get together with Mark and still get back to the Village in time for dinner (the plans hadn’t changed at the point), but it wasn’t too pressing. It would sort itself out.

Instead, I just eased into the throng (as it were), making little observations about the styles of retail in this neighborhood, noting the flow of traffic on different blocks, and keeping my eyes open for good photos. (This generally involves buildings. I’d love to take pix of people, but worry too much about getting my ass beat. This afternoon, the town crazy was on his way into our supermarket, and I thought, “I oughtta take a picture of him,” and then thought, “That’s an awfully big walking stick he’s carrying.”)

So there’s no Joycean reverie about NYC for you, dear readers. Just a guy in a nice coat walking uptown, until he reached the Muji section of MoMA’s Design Store. If you wanna find out what I actually bought there, I’m afraid you’re going to have to go through the flickr set. I kept snapping pix as I walked, figuring I’d get up to the Time Warner Center, laugh at it, get a coffee, and call Mark.

He told me that he wouldn’t have time to come down there to meet me, since he was still cleaning up his apartment, and we’d likely only get half an hour together, but if I wanted to come up to his place, that’d be great.

Now, there are two things you need to understand about my reaction to this invite:

a) it involved using the subway, which is fine in theory, but I’m always convinced I’m going to get on the wrong or mislabeled train, and end up on Staten Island;

b) Mark lives in Harlem and, to paraphrase Avenue Q, I’m a little bit racist.

But Mark walked me through the subway setup (that is, which line to pick up, and where to exit the station near his place), and I remained a little bit racist.

See, when I came up out of the subway stop, I saw a neat building, took a picture, and immediately thought, “I shouldn’t show that camera around here.” Why? Because I’m a racist. I was only a few blocks from Mark’s place, and it was broad daylight, but the lack of people in the neighborhood just made me nervous. “But only because I’m wearing a nice coat” and because I’m white. It was utterly moronic of me. Within a block or two, I said, “Mark’s lived here for years, and never had any incident,” and concluded that it’s Just A Neighborhood. But it was one of those instances where my point of view of white-guy-in/from-the-suburbs really made itself known.

Passing a black guy in a tracksuit, sitting on a stoop, I felt a little nervous. Then he smiled and called out to the UPS guy, and I realized, “This is where the guy lives. Don’t be such a douchebag.”

So, of course, I got to Mark’s place, and we shot the breeze for a while about books, friends, economics, his dad, my dad, his dog (whom I got to meet), Harvey Pekar, Robert Moses, Ben Stiller, and Mark’s unexpected invite to the previous night’s Knicks game, which he enjoyed (he’s not a huge basketball fan). Somehow, this all took place in about 30-40 minutes.

Eventually, I got the call that our dinner plans had changed, so Mark joined me on the trip to the BBQ joint. We had a drink at the bar while waiting for Amy, and continued our rambling conversation. It was a nice way to cap the day, since our conversation tends to be very easy. Even when we’re talking about complex subjects, I always have this feeling that Mark’s able to parse my sentences, and that frees me up to speak better. Because it’s rare that I can use a ton of clauses when I speak, and I really do find them necessary to make and qualify my points.

There’s not a lot more to tell. Amy arrived, and the breeze-shooting continued. I took a picture of the two of them, and realized that we need to get a nice pic of Mark, a good-looking guy who doesn’t photograph well in bars. Her cousins soon showed up, and told us about their day-tour in southern Manhattan. A rowdy Yankees fan kept cursing at the TV over the bar, which led me to say, “It’s only the second game of the season, dude. There are 160 more of ’em. Pace yourself.”

But the meal was good, and the conversation was fun. I like getting the perspectives of out-of-towners. Wade’s dad commented about the walk over from Times Square: “There were some burlesque shows over there.”

It was a phrase so astonishingly archaic that I could only reply, “The Square was a lot seedier in the ’70s and ’80s.”

There isn’t much more to write about. I’m really sorry about the lack of introspection, angst or anything else that you’ve come to expect from my posts (literary references, naked chicks, etc.). But it was a nice day, it yielded some good photos, and there’s always the story of how I scorched my finger while trying to put up a cork board earlier today.