Move to Beautiful Soho

Look at this gorgeous condo for sale on Sullivan Street in the heart of Soho. You enter your shower through the living room.

And how about this cozy bedroom?

Yours for only:

My favorite feature is the rotting wood in front of the shower. Didn’t the previous tenant put a bath mat down?

6’6 x 13’2 is the size of a roomy coffin. This listing blew my mind and I wanted to share it with you. I try not to be judgmental but only a fool would spend almost a half million on this dump.


I hurt my Achilles tendon running. It’s my own fault. My shoes were old. A physical therapist poked and prodded and gave me a series of stretches and exercises to perform. One of them involved a leg press machine at my gym. I did it wrong and wrenched a muscle in my back.

My Achilles is okay but I’m back at a physical therapist for my back. I went to a different PT because I’m too embarrassed to visit the same guy who fixed my Achilles. The pain has migrated from my lower back down into my gluteus maximus. Not so great if you sit your ass all day, as I do.

This all happened because I was trying to stay healthy. I know people who never move a muscle. Their Achilles and assess are fine. I’m a bit of a dope.


This piece was mesmerizing. I must’ve walked a dozen laps around that pedestal, taking in every angle.

Constantin Brancusi
La muse endormie
Painted bronze with gold leaf
Est: $25,000,000-35,000,000
Sold for $57,367,500

I said goodbye knowing I’d never see her again.



April 30, 1993

I have $8.98 in my savings account. I poured what little money I had into that stupid medical mutual fund and it’s tanking. I was inspired by an article in The Economist titled, “Hide From Risk and you Hide From Reward.” What little fool I am.

I took Laura to a dance performance at the Joyce Theater. I am falling hard. She’s a natural beauty. She wore a lacy, black top and caught me starring at her breasts. I was embarrassed. But should I be? Don’t girls expect that sort of thing when they dress provocatively? She has taken to calling me pet names like ‘hon’ and ‘dear.’ They go right through my heart like a blazing hot ice pick.

Man, I love dating actresses. They talk a good game. Typically, I have to do all the heavy lifting. The extent of Margaret’s scintillating conversation is limited to, ‘So, what’s up.’ I don’t think she ever gets an original thought in that pretty, racist, red head of hers. If she does, she’s incapable of articulating it. Laura can talk the talk.

We had a few drinks after the show. I was looking forward to a drunken backseat taxi make-out session but the driver had such powerful and overwhelming B.O. that it killed the mood. When she got out of the cab she held her nose and pointed to the driver. I said out loud, “Oh. I thought it was you.” She laughed. Boy, can that girl smoke. One after another. It’s worrisome.

I was on the M15 stopped at a traffic light next to a white delivery van that was caked with black soot. It was the filthiest car I’ve ever seen. Someone had written in the filth, “SCIENTIFIC TEST DIRT. DO NOT REMOVE” and “LICK MY BALLS.” I laughed and everyone on the bus turned to look at me.


My daughter took these. She’s just a kid. I can’t tell you how proud I am.

Felt Good

bo·de·ga (bōˈdāɡə) noun. A small grocery store, especially in a Spanish-speaking neighborhood.

Bodegas are 7-Elevens with character. They were once an essential part of New York life but their numbers are dwindling. British artist Lucy Sparrow not only has a charming name, she also has recreated an old fashioned bodega except that it’s stocked with goods and produce made of felt. Her medium is felt. Here is Ms. Sparrow in her Fauxdega in a pic I cribbed from the New York Times.

The individual pieces are for sale. All are painstakingly assembled by hand.

The idea was to open the exhibit until June 30th but the pieces are selling so quickly that they estimate the store will be stripped bare by next week. They occasionally have to close the store to restock the shelves.

They carry a nice selection of personal hygiene products.

There’s a variety of soft drinks and liquor.

If you buy a Corona, you get a lime with it.

And speaking of lime…there’s a fruit and vegetable section.

Mmmmmm. Bacon.

In the back is a room with larger pieces mounted in Plexiglas cases for sale.

Totally Custard
Edition of 1

Edition of 10

Top: Clean Me Up Scotty
Edition of 20

Bottom: Cereal Killer
Edition of 20

I Want Candy
Edition of 20

Under the checkout counter is a selection of gum and candy.

Lucy Sparrow is the checkout girl. Is that part of the exhibit?


I left my wallet in Starbucks. Have you ever lost your wallet? Your whole world is upended. Among the usual horrors, it was June 1st—only one day into my $400/month commuting pass. I raced back from my office, down 40th Street, overwhelmed with hopelessness and self-loathing.

A customer—a girl—turned it in. A Starbucks employee went to the back room, brought it out and handed it to me. Nothing was missing. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t.

I mentioned this episode to a few friends and more than one said I’m lucky Starbucks attracts an honest, worldly clientele. Is that true? Would I have been less likely to recover my wallet if I’d dropped it in a White Castle or a Burger King? This opens up uncomfortable questions about economic class. Perhaps the customers at McDonald’s are just as honest, but in more dire circumstances? Or perhaps my well-meaning friends were reducing them all to a stereotype?

I’ve returned to the same Starbucks several times hoping the girl who returned my wallet could be identified but to date, she has not been. I’m haunted by this. Someone did an incredible kindness for me and I never thanked her.

My First Class Face

I drained my frequent flyer account for a first class upgrade on a flight to Las Vegas. It’s only the third or fourth time I sat in first. It’s not a subtle difference. It’s a significant improvement. It’s like the scene from The Wizard of Oz when everything goes from black and white to color.

I was praying my seatmate would be a wealthy boor. Someone who’s accustomed to luxury and whose standards are so impossibly high that nothing is ever good enough. Hypersensitive, unaware of their good fortune and not afraid to point out the inferior. I love having my prejudices and preconceived notions validated. Well, I got what I wanted. That’s only happened three or four times as well.

I boarded right away. Group 1. Other passengers started their slow Bataan Death March past me to coach. I imagined them looking down at me and thinking I must be a person of substance. Someone with gravitas instead of just regular, which is what I am. I put on my best blasé face. Like I’ve been there so many times before.

A beautiful, stately older gentleman sat next to me. Late 60s. A plume of white, expensively cut hair. A mahogany tan with alabaster teeth. An easy smile. Effortlessly dressed in a casual jacket, crisp, white, open collar shirt, linen trousers and woven loafers without socks. He was going to Vegas to give a talk at a conference. That’s what he does for a living. He travels the world and gives talks.

Soon after takeoff our steward set two small, white porcelain bowls of nuts on our ample armrest. He popped one in his mouth. “They’re not warm.” This led to a discussion on the deteriorating quality of first class air travel. He said it’s lost its élan. “It sure has,” I said.

He asked if I was going to Vegas for wine and women half my age. I told him I’m past all that and just want to shoot craps a bit, see some magic shows and sleep. He winked and said he understood. Said that, in his experience, the men who talk about it the most are the ones who get it the least.

I think he thought I was being coy but, good Lord, I don’t have game anymore. If a woman half my age threw herself at me I doubt I’d realize her intention until after she stormed off insulted. I really did just want to get some sleep.

*     *     *

“Where are you staying?”
“The Palazzo.”
“That’s a nice place. *sniff* I’m staying at The Wynn. I’ll only stay at The Wynn. It’s written into my contract.”

*     *     *

He refuses to eat airline food. For lunch, I ordered the chicken and he said, with 100% certainty, that I was going to regret it. He pulled a zip lock bag out of his soft, leather carry on. It was filled with high-fiber granola cereal. It looked like a bag of stuff he scraped out of his backyard. He told (told, not asked) our steward to bring him a bowl and some milk.

The chicken *was* pretty awful. Even by my low standards.

*     *     *

We finished our meals and he said, “At least the warm cookies are still good. They haven’t ruined those yet.”

When they weren’t forthcoming fast enough, he beckoned our steward over and asked for his cookies. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t serve those anymore.” He gave me a conspiratorial sideways glance and said, “See what I mean?” I nodded, knowingly.

I was reading the new David Sedaris book. He said he’s published two books and likes to keep up with contemporary literary trends but never heard of Sedaris, which I found hard to believe. I told him that Sedaris has a worldwide audience and has sales in the millions.

“Let me see that a minute.”

I handed it over. He opened it in the middle of the book, read a page and handed it back.

“That stuff’s not for me. I stick with biographies of the greats. Margaret Thatcher. Benjamin Netanyahu. Ronald Reagan.”

*     *     *

There were two children sitting in first class. They were about five and 10. How will they ever acclimate themselves to hardship and suffering?


The next time you go to your favorite seafood restaurant and order the mussel appetizer and go to throw the shells away, DON’T.

Marcel Broodthaers
Poêle de moules
Mussel shells, frying pan and resin on painted wooden base
Est: $350,000 – 450,000
Sold for $439,500

I have a stack of newspapers in the corner of my garage that look exactly like these.

Robert Gober
Est: $20,000 – 30,000
Sold for $56,250

Almost double the high estimate. So worth it.