Bruner Blog

I just finished the last of a box of Varsano’s Chocolates that a colleague gave us at our party the other night. OMFG those chocolates are good.

A college buddy of mine recently moved to NYC; more specifically to Greenwich Village. It’s become unfashionable in recent years to refer to “Greenwich Village.” New Yorkers almost all say the “West Village” anymore, but I’m going to go out on a limb, because his place is on Bleecker and Sullivan, a block from Bleecker and McDougal, above which hangs the lacy sign of lights proclaiming “Welcome to Greenwich Village.”

As a result of his move, I’ve been spending more time exploring this most classic of NY neighborhoods recently. If you can get over the constant throngs of bridge and tunnel tourists (granted, it’s a big “if”), there’s actually some fun to be had. In fact, the area is so dense with eateries, bars and clubs, it will be a long while before I’ve settled on lasting favorites. But I figured I’d give you the benefit of a few early picks.

A couple of nights ago, we were persuaded by a leaflet guy to check out standup at Comedy Corner. (I’d link to their web site, but they don’t seem to have one. McDougal and Bleecker.) There are several other comedy joints in the neighborhood, and I haven’t seen standup for years, so I can’t claim it’s the best around, but it was a fun scene. I don’t remember any of the comics’ names — a bunch of striking writers for the likes of SNL, Conan, The Daily Show — though I wish I remembered the hot blond SNL writer, as funny sexy female comedians are too few. It was the 11:30 show, so sparsely attended and quite blue, and altogether an awkward but fun vibe in the room. Note to self: always sit in the back at a comedy place, unless you want to get picked on all night (we, two 40-something dudes sitting alone, didn’t have it as bad as the couple who were the only blacks in the room and obviously on a date). $15 cover plus two-drink minimum at reasonable prices.

Last night we started our prowl looking for a slice of pizza. You wouldn’t think that should be such a challenge, given that there are at least two pizza place on every block down there, but with a third friend visiting from DC we were decision-challenged group. We wandered blocks, passing up numerous joints, until we finally reached out at whatever came into view next, which happened to be Bleecker Street Pizza. We decided it had credibility in that the employees were all white (we reasoned that after all white people invented pizza, and it’s rare to find non-Spanish speakers making your pizza in NY anymore). You could tell just looking at the slices in waiting it was quality stuff, and while we waited a guy who was obviously a regular came in to pick up an order and shouted to the waiting patrons, “This is the best pizza in Manhattan!” Certainly a good sign, and although I won’t commit to that yet, it was uncommonly good. So confident in their product, they had only three varieties of pizza on offer: plain, mushroom and extra mozzarella, which they ran out of as soon as it was our turn to order. The plain, however, was transcendent.

We then checked out the trendy “secret” bar Little Branch. Secret bars, as a trend, are apparently so passe that even dishing on how passe secret bars are is itself passe. Thankfully, we’re so old and uncool we’re still easily impressed. The 15-minute wait outside in the cold with the charming gravelly voiced doorman Kevin (I’d compare his sound to Satchmo’s, except I’m sure he’s gotten that so often he wouldn’t be impressed) proved entirely worthwhile after we were shown in, as the function of his selectiveness is more about keeping the crowd inside of a manageable size than creating false pretension. Not that the place isn’t pretentious, for it is, but it’s the kind of pretentiousness that is actually merited. The atmosphere is cool, subdued, classy, grownup, and the emphasis is on fine cocktails.

I’m generally not much of a cocktail drinker — I’m almost exclusively a drinker of red wine or straight scotch or whiskey anymore — but it seemed a shame not put the foxy little mixologist through her paces, so I had a Manhattan. I added after ordering it, “dry.” The gentleman to my left turned and asked if I had just ordered a Manhattan Dry, which is apparently an obscure version of the drink, quite different than a dry Manhattan. He turned out to be none other than the establishment’s proprietor and kingpin of the NYC neo-speakeasy scene, Sasha Petraske. He was quite pleasant and chatted with me for a few minutes, and even though I hadn’t really ordered the cooler cocktail (it was too late by then to change my order), he handed me a business card to his most exclusive joint, the appointment-only Milk & Honey.

We were soon after seated in perhaps the best booth in the place, at the far end next to a display of ’20s-era bar-tending paraphernalia. We agreed it would be ideal if we each had a pretty lady with us, but the prime spot was wasted on three stag dudes. Also, we were out of cash and it’s a cash-only place, so we moved on after soaking in the scene and nursing our superior (and not especially over-priced) cocktails for a few minutes.

After that, we were ready to call it a night, and the new Prince of Greenwich Village did so, but the out-of-towner needed to take a leak, so he he made a pit stop in another bar, then urging me to stay for one more, as the scene was so cool. Indeed, Arthur’s Tavern is now my favorite NY nightspot of the moment. Far from trendy, it’s been around since 1937. Hard to encapsulate the scene succinctly (especially since this post is already too long), but it featured live music, no cover, no pretensions at all and a serious groove. A small, dark, wood-paneled place. The band was the highlight. Most black, the musicians were very good, focused on ’70s funk and soul. The real surprise came when the singer hit the stage, a short white guy, 60ish, of indeterminate ethnicity (Greek? Italian? Syrian?). Decidedly not a black man, who most resembled a deli employee, he was committed artist of soul-stirring song stylings. At 3am, when we left, they were still funking strong.

Meet Kocsma, our new kitten, a lilac point Siamese.

We rode the motorcycle out today to Queens to visit her. She is still spending some time with her mommy till she’s big and strong and will move into our loving household in about three weeks.

Lucy Liu is scrumptious. Last night she came to see a 9:40pm showing of Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead at the Angelika with some boy toy.

I thought it was weird that they’d see this movie, a so-so Hollywood film that’s been in theaters for weeks. Why wouldn’t she have seen it in some insider’s preview much earlier and seen some arty film last night, instead?

My friend and I tried to be too cool for gawking, but we stole a few glances (she had her head on his shoulder at one point…awwwww). Leaving, they were walking out behind us. I held the door for them. I believe she mutter thanks.

She’s tiny.

It frightens me more than slightly that I feel a special bond with people such as this gentleman.

I made this delicious loaf of bread yesterday with some Pain de Campagne flour my mom and stepfather send me from King Arthur Flour. I like making fresh bread. Reminds me of my grandmother. My stepfather took over that tradition after she was gone. Adi was very impressed. Let’s hope it’s the start of a wholesome new hobby.

Adi and I have a history of throwing fun parties. I can think of at least two marriages, with four kids between them, that can trace their hook-up to one of our parties.

I don’t know the marriage count yet, but last night’s shindig was in good keeping with tradition. By 10pm, we had the usual doubts as to whether this party would ever quite take off, as there were only 6 guests an hour after the scheduled start.Compounding the anxiety were a week’s warnings of the onslaught of a massive Nor’Easter due at midnight.

By midnight, the weather was confirmed by sleet, but enough of our guest list stayed true to the party spirit, and the joint was officially jumping.

I’m not sure what time we formally cranked the dance music and moved the coffee table into the bedroom (by coincidence, I landed on the CD that begins with Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s “Let’s Get This Party Started”) — maybe 1ish — but the dancing ran pretty solidly for 2-3 hours. TBone plaid backup DJ but ultimately came to trust the funkitude of the house mixes. The one bummer was the usual: my speakers are better than my receiver, and the latter takes frequent breaks, typically at the crescendo of an ass-shattering groove. Thankfully, a quick reboot rectified this deficiency , picking up at nearly the same spot in the song. TBone wisely observed this was an excellent opportunity for an Xmas gift: a new receiver (hint, hint).

The crowd included the usual mix of mix of artists and East Europeans, and what it lacked in bloggerati it made up for in would-be Googlers.

A highlight was the 45 minute ukulelaoke jam, a dozen or so of us singing and me strumming my solid body Japanese Eleuke with the fabulous Roland Micro-CUBE amp in our funky little utility room.

The best of the night for me, though, was sledding for 45 min with two colleagues at 4am on slushy hills behind Grant’s Tomb. Of the many grades and slopes we tried, the most thrilling by far was a steep hill that shot you across a southbound stretch of Riverside Drive highway. We bombed it 7-9 times varying pairings. The biggest hazard was the curb on the other side of the road, which came up fast. Heading home, we sledded Tiemann Place, veering at the last moment to avoid shooting straight into Broadway at 125th. Loads of fun.

I only thought to pull out the camera after that, for the remaining stragglers, predictably mostly East Euros, plus the crazy Israeli. Somewhere in there, we busted out the vinyl collection.

The evening ended with Adi and I alone at 6am dancing the robot dance to Kraftwerk’s “The Robot’s,” off The Man-Machine (which may have been the first album I ever bought with my own money). “That’s marriage,” Adi said this morning at the recollection. I left her dancing alone to Trans-Europe Express and went to bed.

If you were invited and skipped it, you missed out on fun. But there’s always next time.

Oh, and if any readers are gluttons for party photos, here are shots from the company holiday party.

Happy Holidays!

Rock legend George Harrison was a great proponent of the uke. Here he is with some small orchestra in a charming rendition of “Between The Devil and The Deep Blue Sea.”

Lil Doctor Sparkles sing “There’s A Special Place” in Golden Gate Park, SF. Amazing to think this guy only recently got around to moving to San Francisco.

Surfing around looking for another good UkeTube vid, I came across a uker new to me who goes by the UkeTube handle of f3rt. He’s quite the talent, as he boldly demonstrates in my favorite uke performance of the day, a rendition of John Cage’s classic composition 4′33″. It perfectly suits my mood tonight. Some might argue it is the composition best suited for the ukulele, though not me.

The angles are singing in Heaven tonight to welcome the sweetest kitty to have ever graced this earth. We had to put our beloved cat Cini down today. Age 16-17, a good age for a cat. Kidney disease. Very sad. Such a loving spirit. Feeling blue.

Somewhere we have loads more pictures of her, which I’ll dig out and make a memorial of in a bit, but meanwhile, here are a few.

If I were a teenage girl, I’d throw my underwear at this guy in concert. Mark Occhionero is my uke hero. This song in particular was a kind of inspiration for me. I can play it, and it’s probably my best song, but mine’s a far cry from his version.

I just heard the news that Evel Knievel just died. Needless to say, I was a major fan as a kid. I love that in this article, he left a death-bed message urging his fans to “chase their dreams and get up if they fail.” Spoken by a man who has been there.

Here are two of his classic wipe-outs.

Ouchie. A man who can get up after those failures is indeed bad to the bone. Bad also in the sense of his jumping technique. My friend was telling me about a BBC video he saw but now can’t find online where modern motorcycle jumping experts commented that Evel was in fact a terrible jumper, with atrocious technique, which one might conclude had something to do with his many spectacular crashes. Obviously, I am no motorcycle jumping expert myself, but in those two videos above you can see the point. First of all, he’s jumping with cruiser-style bikes, Triumphs and American Eagles. Even back in his day, there must have been lighter bikes more suited to his purposes. Also, check out how he’s just sitting on the bike as he flies through the air. It’s like he’s just ambling down the highway. Classic. A true Amerikan hero.

Bosko & Honey are too cute for words. Add to that uke virtuosity, and they may well be the reigning strummers of the Southern Hemisphere (based in Australia, such that they are). Unfortunately, they don’t include the name of this song in the clip.

Curiously, it appears they borrowed their name from some 1930s cartoon characters I’ve never heard of.