New York City, Redux: Part 2 (3/17/22-3/18/22)

We woke up at about 9 in the morning and headed out into the streets of New York to do what we could never do at home: go to Walgreens to look for Squishmallows. After that we went to my son's Mecca, Learning Express, whose Manhattan location had just received a new shipment, and if that sounds like they just got a crate of drugs, it is because I am saying they got a crate of polyester-fiber stuffed-drugs for children.

Since my son is luckier than whatever the opposite of 75 broken mirrors walking under a ladder is, Learning Express had all the Squishmallows he wanted, and guess who got to pay for them, the guy who is as lucky as 75 broken mirrors walking under a ladder. After this Learning Express visit, I told my son "Can we cool it with the Squishmallow's now?" and he agreed with me since he was now already short on luggage space, so we then left to go to the finest coffee shop in New York City, which actually happened to be right next door to Learning Express, Starbucks. While were sitting around drinking our frappuchinos and eating our egg-infused Starbucks food items, a few people dressed in green wearing green beads walked in to celebrate national Starbucks day because Starbucks is green. Just kidding, they were dressed that way for the NYC St. Patrick's Day parade, as this was St. Patrick's Day, possibly the reason Irishman, Glen Hansard, was playing a show in NYC that night, whose attendance was the way I had decided to celebrate my Irish American-ness, but also to take my wife to see him because she is in love with him. Speaking of my wife, she asked if my son and I would be interested in taking a tram to Roosevelt Island, and since we can't take a tram to Roosevelt Island back in Louisiana, we decided that might be a fun thing to do.
Roosevelt Island isn't actually named for either of the Roosevelt presidents. Upon its settlement, the first town upon it ran a lottery whereupon the town would name the island after the winner. In the end, many felt the result was rigged, as Roosevelt Roosevelt, the son of town mayor, Woody Von Roosevelt, won the prize, though rumors state that the actual winner was the town cobbler, Eli Schitzel, but alas the ruling class lord it over us all, and Schitzel Island is a place that could never be. Hence we rode the tram over the East River, through the misty sky, to Roosevelt Island.




After a pleasant ride full of excellent views and more Batman billboards, we landed on not-Schitzel Island. Instead of just getting right back on the not-Schitzel Island tram, I decided we should at least walk around a little bit, and we did, and it was wonderful, though again, my son and I realized that we were both tempted to throw not only our phones into the East River, but each other, so we walked around, even through Cornell Tech's campus, enjoyed the island's charming character and chill, neighborhood vibe, and then hurried back to the not-Schitzel Island tram before we and our phones got dunked. At this point, the weather shifted from misty to lightly raining, but considering there was predicted rain for over half the trip, and we only got this one ten-minute shower, I'll give those ten minutes a pass.


By this point, we were worn out from a lot of walking, and also tired of carrying around bags full of Squishmallows, so we decided to head back to our little Air BnB on 31st street. On the way, though, we stopped by a GameStop, which somehow tricked me into thinking it was a train station. Of course, for some reason, even though they're not a game, the GameStop had what I wish my son would stop making me buy for him, Squishmallows, but at least I found this sweet Jurassic Park Tiger Elecronics throwback game, which reawakened my passions for their late 80's to early 90's handhelds, and has me now buying the ones I used to have on EBay. Yesterday, I bought the 1987 "Skeet Shoot" model, and again, I have no idea where my son gets his collector gene from.



Once we got back to the AirBnB, we decided to take a break for awhile, so my son could arrange his Squishmallows, I could play Jurassic Park, and my wife could take a nap. Before you knew it, though, the Squishmallows were arranged, I'd gotten my fill of Jurassic Park, and my wife arose and shone, and it was time to go to Ravagh Persian Grill, because my wife is as Persian as the Shah's tits. "The Shah's tits" is a famous expression that Iranian people use to describe just how Iranian they are that I just made up 30 seconds ago while writing this travelogue. However, I am not making up that my wife is 100% Persian, one of two children born to her Persian parents in America, while her two older sisters were born in Iran, though now all four sisters live in South Louisiana and have incredible Southern accents that make me sound like I'm from New York City. The plan was to meet up with my wife's best friend, who now conveniently resides in Brooklyn, at Ravagh, eat, and then leave the friend to hang out with our son while we left to see Glen Hansard at the Beacon Theatre. This plan was so perfectly constructed, I'm not sure that this whole friendship wasn't a ruse devised by my wife 30 years ago to give us a New York City babysitter for this very occasion. The four of us had a good time at the restaurant, and the food was pretty good. My wife swears it's the best thing next to her mom's cooking.

We left the friend and our son to their own devices and my wife and I caught an Uber to the Beacon, arriving just in time to catch the opener whose name I didn't...catch. I don't know why I put an ellipsis there, I don't think it was necessary. Anyway, the solo artist girl played some folky indie stuff and it was fine. What wasn't fine was just how steep the steps are at the Beacon Theatre. I may be made out of recyclable materials, but I'm not made out of money, so our seats were up a ways. Still, I wasn't expecting to have to go up what was basically a stepladder to get to them. The cool architecture and art reminded me of the Saenger Theater in New Orleans, and as much as I hate to give credit to the Sodom and Gomarrah of the Mississippi, the Saenger is actually a more beautiful, and certainly more spacious theater. With that said, Hansard came out at about 8:00 pm with Markéta Irglová and a small handful of classical musicians and played the hell out of all of the movie Once's songs, as well as songs he and Irglová did as The Swell Season, and solo songs done by both. I'm a metal/alt-rock dude, but I can admit when something out of my musical lane is good, I mean damn, I just admitted that something in New Orleans is good, and Glen Hansard (who we've seen in New Orleans) and Markéta Irglová playing music and singing together is good. My wife and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and each other's company, the music of Once now a point of bonding for us for nearly 15 years now.



We then headed back to our AirBnB, where our son and my wife's friend had just gotten back from seeing that Nathan Drake movie because she didn't want to take him to the new Jackass movie because she said she didn't feel comfortable sitting next to him in a movie that features that many exposed penises, which I can understand. She stayed and talked for a while, then we all pretty much spontaneously passed out from exhaustion the second she stepped out the door.
The next morning we were surprised to wake up to the sun fairly high into the sky and 10 am on our phone faces. It turns out walking six or seven miles every day will wear you out. Our feet already looked like something even Quentin Tarantino would look away from, before slowly turning back to stare at them until we put our shoes on because that guy loves feet. We decided to use our feet to go see the biggest feet of them all, ones Tarantino has to wear an oxygen mask just to look at because they give him the vapors, the Statue of Liberty's feet. First, though, my wife had us get on a train going in the wrong direction. I'll take the blame for that, though. As I've stated on previous occasions, not only do I have a nearly flawless sense of direction, but a preternatural sense of where things are or should be in New York-it's probably my best quality outside of writing extremely stupid travelogues. However, I was feeling a little wonky right when we got to the city a couple days before, and my wife offered to take over navigation by using Apple maps. I should have said, "That's fine for now, I'll take over again later," as my wife is world famous for not even being about to answer the geographic question, "Can you point straight in front of you?" As such, I'll take the blame for allowing us to get on a train going North, across the East River toward Queens instead of South toward Quentin Tarantino's Viagra, her feet so free, yet so coy, just barely poking out from under her robe, dingy toes all water-stained and riding on their copper-sandal throne. After 15 minutes or so, I realized by looking at Subway stop titles that we were going in the wrong direction.

 
"We have to get off this train," I said, standing up.

 
"But my phone says..."

 
"If we keep listening to your phone, we're gonna be so far into Queens, it's gonna take us two hours to get to that Statue whose feet make Quentin Tarantino so weak in the knees, he brings a toe-handled cane to New York City just in case he catches sight of her" is a paraphrase of what I actually told her in that moment.

 
We got off at that stop, in not the best-looking area, businesses shuttered, garbage everywhere, and people looking dangerous, and all the things people had told me about how bad the crime had been in New York lately suddenly sprang in my head as trash blew across the Queens streets like tumbleweeds. We're about to get mugged, I thought, possibly irrationally. I had us cross the street to get to the Subway entrance on that side, then we trod down the mildew-slicked steps into a musty tunnel that held the air of a satanic sacrificial chamber.
"Hurry up," I told my family, "Get your Metro Cards."
Unfortunately, this dimly-lit station had one of those wall of revolving spiked gates instead of the regular turnstiles, so if your card wouldn't work, there was no way to just jump over it, and sure enough, with my wife already on the other side, my son's card wouldn't work. I scanned my card and sent him through, then attempted to scan his, to no avail. My heart started racing, and I began to sweat. This was it. There were only two possibilities: evil rapists were waiting on the other side of the fence to take my wife and son away, or guys with guns were going to come down the steps behind me, shoot me, and take the 12 bucks out of my wallet, which I worked really hard for. I mean, this was IT.
I started to scan the card more and more frenetically, but it only gave me a message that it had already been scanned. My son must have been too slow to try to get through the gate after he scanned his card, and had wasted his turn. The fool. He had killed us all!!! At that instant, and I'm actually not making this up, I heard some grungy, youthful voices, the sound of spray cans being shaken, and then I turned my head to see shadows around the corner, and symbols being painted on the wall in red.
Great! It's a gang. They're going to kill me and my whole family for infringing on their turf!
I should probably note at this moment that crime where I live in Baton Rouge is 4.42 times the national average, while it's
OH SHIT! I THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE CONSIDERABLY SAFER IN QUEENS THAN WHERE I LIVE SO THAT I COULD MAKE FUN OF MYSELF FOR OVERREACTING, BUT IN THAT NEIGHBORHOOD IN QUEENS THE CRIME RATE IS ACTUALLY 4.92 TIMES THE NATIONAL AVERAGE...SO I WAS RIGHT!!! IT WAS A DANGEROUS AND DEMON-FILLED HELLHOLE THAT WHOLE TIME, AND I WAS RIGHT TO PANIC! VINDICATION!!! ALSO, BATON ROUGE RANKS 6TH IN THE COUNTRY IN MURDERS. YIKES!
Thankfully, after doing that thing where their shadows looked like goblins on the walls, the spray painters rounded the corner and were nothing but a couple of skinny youths in hoodies that I could take with one hand tied behind my back. They passed me disinterestedly, while saying, "Let's tag Steinway next," passed by my wife and son on the other side of the gate and got onto a train to Steinway. I'm sure they painted something lovely there. As for this demonic subway stop, thankfully, it was visited by an angel in the visage of a middle-aged man in a worn jacket and glasses, who saw that I was trapped, scanned an extra card he had for me, and made sure we got on the right train back toward Quentin Tarantino's Freedom Slut. We thanked him, and I made the executive decision to take over navigation duties for the rest of the trip. After a couple of train transfers, we finally made it to South Manhattan...and I have to say, it was good to be back.




We didn't go to the top of the Freedom Tower like I did seven years ago, but we did take my son, who watched United 93 and some documentaries for the 9/11 20th anniversary last year, to Ground Zero. I'm glad he understand its importance.
At this point, my wife declared that it was like noon, and she hadn't had her morning coffee yet, and I have to correct my above comment giving Starbucks the title of best coffee shop in New York City because in South Manhattan, we went to this place called Dunkin Donuts, and it was amazing. We then walked down to Battery Park to get some ferry tickets to the Statue of Liberty, which I'll call it from now on because I'm tired of the Quentin Tarantino foot fetish jokes. Unfortunately, the online pay portal was down, so I had to wait in a veeeeeeeeerrryyy long line to get the tickets, and we ended up not leaving for the Statue of Liberty until nearly two. Thankfully, my wife's sense for her family's hanger is better than her sense of direction, because she forced us to get hot dogs, chips, and drinks to consume once we got to the Statue of Liberty, and boy was she right because after the long ferry ride, all we wanted to do was sit at the Statue of Liberty's feet and eat something...and film those toes...in close up...with a wide angle lens...









I didn't make it out to the Statue of Liberty on my last trip, and some people had told me she was a little underwhelming, but I thought she was a babe. We spent quite a while there, checking out the spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline, even exploring the museum for a minute, then rode on the top of the ferry back to the city, where it was as cold as the Shah's tits. We were a little short on time by that point, as we were supposed to go see the Knicks play at MSG that night, but we really wanted to visit Little Italy and be little gluttons, and with me now behind the navigation helm, we got there in record time.
I know that at this point, no actual Italian people live in Little Italy, and that it's basically just a tourist façade smack in the middle of Chinatown, but that does nothing to diminish its incredible cuisine and charm. My wife wanted to go to a place named Caffé Palermo that was famous for cannoli and holyyyyy...damn, what's a word that rhymes with "holy," these cannoli were so good, some of the best things I've ever eaten. The waiter said that March was the month of St. Joseph, and that there was a special, very religious cannoli in his honor--St. Joseph, not the waiter. I told the waiter that my maternal grandfather was Sicilian and a big fan of Catholicism, so I'd definitely order that cannoli in his honor, after which my wife and son mercilessly mocked me, as they did any time I talked to anyone in New York, for being "such a dad," but NO SHIT! We also got some pizza, which was very good, and then high-tailed it back to the AirBnB to get a little rest and to get ready for the Knicks game.






In the 90's, the best decade, I was a huge New York Knicks fan. The Knicks were my favorite professional sports team to a large degree, completely because of the fact that my name is The Nicsperiment. They have the same name as me. That was all it took for me as a kid, and I spent my formative years, late elementary, middle, and high school pulling for the Knicks only to see them lose in the Eastern Conference finals every year to stupid Michael Jordan and the stupid Chicago Bulls I hate Michael Jordan and I hate the Bulls, and one time, as the Bulls eliminated Patrick Ewing and my precious Knicks from a chance at reaching the NBA Finals yet again, I cried so hard, and screamed "I HATE MICHAEL JORDAN!!!" so hard into a pillow, my mom almost called the cops if you can believe it and you shouldn't, at least not the "called the cops" part, but I did scream and cry into a pillow because the Knicks could never win an NBA Championship, even when Michael Jordan switched to baseball for the sole purpose of giving them a chance to do so, so that when he came out of retirement and beat the hell out of the Knicks yet again, I finally gave in and admitted that Jordan was the greatest of all time simply because those poor blue and orange bastards couldn't even win it all when he tried to get out of their way. Yeah, emotional about The Knicks.
Anyway, once Patrick Ewing left the team at the end of the decade, I stopped following the Knicks and just decided to pull for whatever team Shaq played for, since Shaq is a local hero, and I grew up watching him play just miles from my house on LSU's campus back when he was in college and the Knicks hadn't yet broken my heart a thousand times. I love Shaq, and I forgot about the Knicks, but a few weeks before the trip, my wife said, "How about we go to a Knicks game." She must have understood I needed to go more than I did myself because the Knicks are objectively terrible at basketball and have been since the 90's ended, but I am all in again. Madison Square Garden, a place I've dreamed of visiting for any occasion since I was a kid, just happened to be on 31st street, our street, so we walked a few block down, and boom, we were there, where countless incredible sporting events have occurred, and the Knicks have lost countless games, and Godzilla had its babies until Jean Reno and Matthew Broderick killed them all. The building was lit up by blue and orange LED's, and I felt that great New York Is Home feeling I did when I came here seven years ago. MSG was everything I always wanted it to be, the Blue Seats way at the top where we sat had just as great a nosebleed view as I always thought they would, and miracle of miracles, the Knicks actually won. I also went on a hunt for an old school blue Knicks shirt like the hoodie I had in middle school. Yes, I, the Nicsperiment, who grew up in a rural, agricultural, swampy south Louisiana village, surrounded by guys whose shirts said "My Other Pickup Truck is a Pickup Truck," wore a blue New York Knicks hoodie in middle school. Bite me. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a shirt in the style of that hoodie, but did find a dry-fit orange one I thought was alright, and a good symbol of my reborn fandom. I'll write an entire post on the Knicks soon, as I'm sure anyone who somehow got through all those gross Quentin Tarantino feet jokes is probably tired of me talking about the Knicks here. Anyway, we had fun.




We walked back down 31st street under the full moon of a New York night, very tired, but very happy. Thus ended the third day of the trip, on reflection, one of my favorite days of my 40 years on Earth so far. If this day was Margot Robbie's dirty feet, consider me Quentin Tarantino.