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Space Odyssey in Washington Heights
This installment sits in the secluded woods of Fort Tryon Park by the dog run. I think it is a cleverly disguised black monolith from the movie: 2001: A Space Odyssey. Instead of apes jumping up and down to its presence and hum, you have dogs barking around it, perhaps triggering some evolutionary spark in them so that dogs evolve into their anagram: gods. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, visit the black monolith link.
If it’s not a disguised black monolith, then it is an ode to the types of radiators we have in Washington Heights.
Your thoughts?
Ode to… Cecilware Fe-100
I was sipping my coffee in Reme diner in Washington Heights, and I was struck by a wave of taste bud goodness. The coffee was the perfect temperature. Hot. Even when you put cream in it. I was in heaven. I was sitting at the bar, so I looked up to see where the magic came from- again a Cecilware Fe-100. Ode to Cecilware Fe-100! It turns any cheap coffee bean into cafe heaven. Reme has a good relationship with its Cecilware Fe-100. Because when the waiter saw my cup half empty, he said, “Here, let me give you a fresh, hot cup…” and whoosh! took it away and replaced it with more black liquid goodness. They didn’t pour more into my stale coffee, probably knowing it would make it luke warm. I adored them immediately. Hail Cecilware Fe-100 in Greek diners.
Ode to… Héctor Lavoe
Ode to Héctor Lavoe by Dister
Afro-Punk Festival, Brooklyn NYC
July 5th, 2009
Ode to… Good Food
The irony of traveling to the eastern coast of Sicily, where Helios unleashed his firery wrath upon the crew of Odysseus for eating something they shouldn’t have (the Oxen of the Sun), on a food trip does not escape me. And it almost didn’t escape us, because one of us almost literally ate ourselves to death.
Never in my life have I seen so much food. So much good food. So much really, really good food. I’ve also never traveled with foodies before. I’ll try to make this my only generic entry on Sicily (the rest more regional). Sitting at a table in the Sicilian coast or countryside with foodies is no different than group sex, I kid you not. The moans and groans from our table, the bulging eyes at the variety of dishes splayed in front of you- the pure ecstasy of flavors coating tongues. Love hath taken new meaning with a group of foodies unleashed in Sicily. We traveled miles, made three hour car drive pilgrimages to specific restaurants, one trip simply to eat one dish- a pistachio granita.
Ode to… Good Food – continue reading …
Ode to… Frappé
Perfect timing now that Red Bull has been outed as having traces of cocaine. Are you next, precious Frappé?
I’ve mentioned them enough, so for those of you wondering, too lazy to click on the wikipedia links I occasionally provide, or don’t care enough but are still reading now… What are frappés? And how are they relevant to one’s urban odyssey?
Frappés are the idler’s rice and beans. They are frothy ice-coffees drunk by the entire population of Greece, contributing to fast talking, hyper arm gestures, and tachycardia. Made from crystals from the Mines of Moira by minions of Nescafe, they provide hours of liquid sustenance for people watching at cafés.
I’ve never met a Frappé drinker who’s taken their shake straight (without milk). I honestly think one would die of a heart attack from the potency of not being diluted. Don’t believe me? Drink your frappé down to just the mucky bottom, and fill your frappé glass up with water. It’ll taste just as strong. Order a decaf and you’ll either get a laugh (doesn’t exist), or they’ll lie and bring you a regular.
Frappés are the cool man’s drink. It shows you don’t have to worry ’bout notin. You can lounge in your café chair for hours behind sunglasses. Watch. Sip. Watch.
Ode to Frappé! To not sleeping for two days! To stomach cramps! To hyperactivity! Ode to you, Frappé.
Ode to… the Hot Dog Guy
There is a hot dog guy in my parents’ neighborhood who has been there since we were little street rats running around our block. He’s been there for every baseball game we had in North Meadow, before gentrification institutionalized the fields so that only corporate softball teams and those with money, means and planners can use them. And that’s before they erected tight fences around our fields so that you can no longer enjoy the wonder of an open field at dusk where the skyscrapers of our city break.
Hot dog guy (he does have a name which we call him by, and the picture to the left is NOT hot dog guy) packed our dogs before heading to double-headers at Yankee stadium. And every day at 5pm as he rolled his cart to his van to head home he’d call for us as we played bottom’s up, chinese handball and man hunt along the entrance of our building and once-upon-a-time concrete backyard (until gentrification closed that play space too). We’d race over for our sodas, but more so for the fifteen cent gum balls encased in crinkly plastic. They had a sour taste, and their sugar lasted all of five seconds, but they reminded me of rainbow beads, or a candied caterpillar.
Hot dog guy is still there. He still gives me a hot dog, soda and pack of gum for a dollar, refusing to take any more than that. I’ll forget for now that hot dog guy might be a bit fresh. Things change when you leave girlhood and become a woman, that part of our odyssey I know. Hot dog guy might very well deserve a place in Dante’s Inferno. But right now I say Ode to you, Hot Dog Guy, for giving us some fond childhood memories to look back on.
Ode to…
Ode to grandma. Ode to you, I say, you with the 12 pack of Budlight that I have to buy for you every time you come over (and drink them you do, all with a straw). Ode to your high-heel wearing, flamboyant make-up ways. You are la reina sitting on your plastic covered couch in your flowing flowery moo-moo, rocking back and forth to old salsa serenades, remembering in tears old lovers, the husband and not-exactly-husbands, the one daughter that didn’t make it out of the projects, whose picture is nestled between the candles and saints atop your dresser–the glow from the candlelight radiates her youthful Boriqua beauty, now forever preserved by death. A true Amazon, you birth only daughters, you help raise grandchildren, you were, are, and always will be a grand salsera who burned the floor of the Palladium back-in-the-day, you hauntingly flaunt your title, Sinvergüenza, whispering it to anyone sitting next to you with a wink. Ode to you for letting us watch McGuiver every time you babysat us, and teaching us to say back to the TV “Holy Shit” and “Mother F*cker!” (Sorry also that that was the last time you babysat us).
You celebrate and embrace the diversity of your descendants, smiling, smiling because somehow you planted a seed of yourself in all of us who originate from you, so that we continuously celebrate your spirit.
Budweiser beer would approve this message, as you are their unofficial sponsor: Grandma, this Mother’s Day’s for you!
Ode to…
Ode to the old-timer Spanish Harlem Nuyoricans out there who pilgrimage through the neighborhood on your decked out, bejeweled, banana-seat bicycles with a PR flag planted on your trumpet blasting 1980s stereos strapped down with elastic ropes, like Neil Armstrong landing on the moon. Ode to you, I say, because I now see the light of your ways. The haughty smile contained behind your shiny oversized sun glasses, your tropical colors swimming through a sea of gray cement and grind. You are your own universe, inviting everyone in. I used to snicker at you as a NY anomaly, with pride. Now though, I understand that you’re Paul spreading the gospel of salsero life, alluring us with your Taíno, African and Spaniard beats.
I do it now too, in my own way, via ipod in the subway and streets, horrifying those next to me, practicing my 1-2-3’s and 5-6-7’s. So what that I’m learning it on 1 in a city of 2? Hats off to you. Looking forward to seeing you again in the summer.
