Archive for the ‘Screeds’ category

If you see a 68-year-old in Manhattan wearing hipper jeans than you…

February 26, 2009

…he’s probably a European tourist.

Google Search

January 27, 2009

You might not realize this, but blog owners get to have a little daily fun by seeing all the particular google searches that found them on any given day.  We know I’m the king of being located with a “tapered jeans” search, natch, but today I was found via a fairly interesting and somewhat sleazy topic:

meet female tourists visiting new york

Yes, I’ve never written about this before, but having lived in the outskirts of tourist central (Hell’s Kitchen) for years, I have indeed come into contact with quite a few out-of-town females looking to get frisky with a jen-you-wine New Yorker.

Quite frankly, it’s pretty easy to pick-up a female tourist:  just go to one of those bland 8th Avenue corporate bars after dinner time on a Tuesday or a Wednesday.  I’m talking places like Social, Latitude, and the late and semi-great Scruffy Duffy’s.  The kind of tourists that will be looking for some action are also the kind that can’t afford to stay in the city on weekends and likewise stay in Times Square hotels.  They’re too scared to venture to “real” parts of town but adventurous enough that they’re tired of the Marriot Marquis bar and the gross Irish pub next to the Sbarro’s by their hotel.  So they walk west young man and soon they find 8th Avenue and they see a bar that kinda looks cool and, wow, pints are $6 (crazy!) and sure enough now they think they’re drinking with actual New Yorkers.  They’re probably not.  It’s all happy hour heroes that need to get back to Jersey soon.  Close enough.  And by 9:00, 10:00 PM, the bar’s thinned out and it’s you and some tourists and they, of course, can’t drink and, “Get out!  You really live just around the corner?  And we can go up on your roof?!  In New York City?!”

I suppose if you are a real scumbag you could go to hotel bars and hang out, but come on fella, that’s like shooting fish in a barrel.  If barrels full of fish sold Manhattans for $15 and were full of divorcees from Tampa on a ladies weekend.

One further point:  an ex-girlfriend of mine was an unabashed fan of Applebee’s–in a non-ironic fashion–and once made me take her on a date to the 50th Street location.  Two things galled me on that date:  1) paying $19 for a prepackaged and frozen piece of shit “Cowboy” burger and 2) the massive amount of fine tourist tail tippling Miller Lights with abandon in the restaurant bar.  I assume the same is true for the bars at fellow corporate dumps like the Olive Garden, Bubba Gump’s, TGIFriday’s, Ruby Tuesday’s, and if you’re a certain persuasion Red Lobster, though I won’t get any more politically-incorrect than that.

As for me, I’m never setting foot in an Applebee’s again and I’m likewise tired of tourist girls.  They’re too nice, too boring, too earnest, wear too much make-up, and don’t understand sarcasm.  I like my New York gals:  sassy, bitchy, aggressive, intellectual, promiscuous, transgressive, awesome…

My Father the NYC Tourist

January 15, 2009

In 1911 Sidney Goldfarb came from Russia to America via Ellis Island, setting up a new life in Manhattan.  Sidney beget Saul who beget Stanley who beget Alan who beget me, all of us born in New York City.  In 1982, my father moved the entire family to boring middle America and the second I became an adult I moved back to New York as quick as fucking possible.

My father lived in the city for thirty-some years, and has now been away from the city for almost as long.  He still speaks with a fairly thick New York City accent but for all intents and purposes he is now a tourist rube, the kind of man that arrives in town to visit me today wearing an ugly purple ski jacket (perhaps even a women’s?), pleated Dockers, bright white walking shoes, and a freebie baseball cap.

my-father-the-tourist

Lordy, lordy.   In the coming posts I’ll recount some tales of my father the NYC tourist.

STOP Kids on Shoulders!

December 30, 2008

Kids on Shoulders

Look, I’m all for children having fun.  And, I certainly understand how they would greatly enjoy riding on their father’s shoulders as he walks around, I certainly did back some 25 years ago.  But this is New York fucking City!  Not Main Street, U.S.A. at Disneyland or a Fourth of July picnic.  It’s simply not safe for a man with a kid on his shoulders to be wading through tourist quicksand, getting bumped left and right by other tourists and, even worse, fast-moving juking and jiving locals.  Now, walking as fast as humanly possible becomes a risky endeavor for me as I may lower a shoulder or shiver a forearm and teeter the top-heavy man, injuring the child when he plummets to the sidewalk.

Be scared, tourists…

November 20, 2008

Be scared.  Next time you decide to stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue to take a trite picture of St. Patrick’s Cathedral (ever heard of google image search?), next time you ride the goddamn subway escalator two-across like it’s some fucking amusement park ride, the next time your gigantic M&Ms store bags collide with my kneecaps, and the next time you nearly poke my eye out trying to hail a pedi-cab…think long and hard about whether I may be around.  Cause if I am, I will photograph your fat ass and put it on my blog.