4/10/03 I wrangle Robert's Dog from Brooklyn; Ipswich; Richard makes Shrimp Apspra Sauce; UCB w/Louie, Peter & Friends; Owen's Jamaica:





Today was planned to be a normal day. It was anything but.


It all started when I heard the phone ring in my sleep. I woke up enough to hear the message. It was one of the concierges who works in my lobby, Robert. He requested my presence downstairs immediately. I was in bed, too tired to compute such complicated concepts as intrigue or immediacy. I rolled over and went back to sleep.


A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. This is more unexpected, and gets me out of bed. I have a machine to answer the phone, but not the door.


I throw on some pants, and answer the door. It is one of the handymen who work in the building. He says "Robert would like to see you." I now remember the phone message. I am confused, but not the point of being alarmed. I tell him I will call downstairs.


The handyman leaves, and I call the front desk. "88 Greenwich Street, Robert speaking, how can I help you?"

I ask him where the fire is, and he asks me if I work as a freelance. "Maybe." I'm wary of such questioning. Yes, I'm a freelance, I say, but there are some things I like to do, and some things I don't.


Robert then tells me that he will pay me $100 to complete the following tasks:

I am to go to Brooklyn on the subway, to his house, where his wife is. I am to pick up his car and his dog, drive both to a photo shoot in Manhattan, and wait for him to show up when his shift is over.


I'm cool with the subway part. I'm cool with the driving part. I'm a mass-transit advocate that loves to drive cars. What I'm iffy about is the dog part. In a building of dog owners, Robert has to call me.


But, it's $100 on what would have been a non-income-producing day, and I figure, how bad can it be? I just have to drive the thing from Brooklyn to Manhattan, and I'm done. Easy.


So I tell him I'll be downstairs in a half hour, I take a shower, get dressed, and come down to the lobby:




Robert gives me more information about my mission. Apparently someone in the building works for Pottery Barn, and wants Robert's dog to be in the catalogue. Robert shows me an example from another magazine he happens to have at the front desk:



Apparently his dog is one of those squished-faced pugs. The ugliest animal alive on the earth. And he warns me that his is particularly dumb, and farts a lot. Why someone would willingly bring one of those things into their home is beyond me. But... I'm on a mission. I don't have to love it, I just have to transport it.



Here's Robert explaining some of my mission. That's Isaiah in the back, who can't wait to see this all go down.


There's another dog in the building going to the same photo shoot. It's the lovely calm one with the gorgeous coat, and the propensity to lay flat on the lobby floor, or have a rubber chicken in its mouth. Why can't I take that dog?!


Awwwww.


So I write down everything I need to know, and begin the mission:

I took a Q train to Kings Highway. Then I had to take a Brooklyn bus to 33rd St.



I love this ad. And it's true.


The bus took me into a neighborhood in Brooklyn that I had never been to before, so I took some photos. Kings Highway was a lovely mish-mosh of ma & pa stores, and small chains. Really eclectic commercial strips are one of my favorite features of Brooklyn.








I had to take a photo of this building, which is bizarrely overt in its advertising. This would not fly in suburbia.


I got to the house, greeting Robert's wife and baby daughter and... dog. "Spike." Here he is:



The next part was the most exciting of the day:

We had to get the dog into the jeep, which was a totally new experience for him... somehow secure him in such a way that he wouldn't attack me, which he was fond of doing, and send me on my way. So, if you can imagine, there I am in Brooklyn, the mom hands me the daughter, who behaves like a confused doll, staring at me motionless, arms straight out at her sides as though her puffy winter coat were over-starched, while the mom wrangles the dog, who is trying to attack/make-love-to me, as I sit in the front seat of an old Jeep on a service road of Kings Highway. This is one of those moments when you ask yourself, "how did I get here?"


Finally the dog was tied to the ceiling in such a way that he couldn't quite get to me, and I handed the daughter back to Robert's wife, and I was ready to go.


The car was old, and the gas was far more responsive than the break, which is a bad combination. Easy to start, hard to stop. The radio is playing girlie music, and I can't find the buttons to change channel, volume, or shut it off. The dog wants to see out the window as this is his first time in a car, so I roll it down for him to lean out a bit. And I'm trying to read the directions I have on a piece of paper on my lap. Needless to say, I miss my first turn, and three rights DO NOT make a left in Brooklyn.

Ten minutes later, I pass the house again, this time making the correct turn. Apparently, Robert's wife happened to be looking out the window as I went by the second time. Worried about seeing her car go by her own house, she calls Robert at the front desk at my building, and he then calls my cell phone to ask, "if everything is all right."


I explain my mistake and assure him I'm on the right track. I'm looking for Ocean Parkway, but I get excited when I see Ocean Avenue, and I make the wrong turn. After about 20 minutes, I realize my error, and have to improvise to get from Grand Army Plaza to one of the bridges to get to Manhattan. I've not done it in a car before, but I have a few good hunches.


And all the while, I'm snapping photos of the mutt:





It was a lovely day, weather-wise, and Spike enjoyed it by standing on his two back legs and sticking his face out the window. Many other drivers were looking and smiling. I was actually surprised by how responsive people were to seeing this dog in the window. Everyone I saw that saw me was smiling at the dog. It was amazing. Nobody smiles at me like that.




Here we are going over the Manny-B. The Manhattan Bridge.



And here we are in Chinatown.




Through a few more cell phone conversations on the way, we decide that I have enough time to swing by 88 Greenwich St before heading up to the photo shoot. Here's Robert and his dog.


And this is Isaiah learning how to walk the dog. I also gave it a try.





Another tenant has the same kind of dog that Robert has. She brings hers down to play. At first, the smelled each other:



But then things got a little out of hand. Spike is apparently so horney, and so stupid, that he tries to hump male dogs.





To my horror, this was allowed to go on for about 10 minutes, after which, Rob put his dog back in the car, and the two star-crossed lovers looked wistfully at each other from a distance:





Isaiah was also disgusted by Spike. Here he is, inspecting dog and car. He commented that the car didn't look to sturdy, which I could attest to, and that it felt like he could tip it over. Here he is, testing that theory:



He did get the thing swaying back and forth at an alarming clip, which we could monitor on the oscillometer that was on the dash board, which displays the tippage of the car:





Car and dog.


Luckily, it was decided that Robert should accompany the dog to the shoot himself, as I had no experience with it, and he wasn't very responsive anyway. So, Robert changed into his civilian clothes quickly, and drove off, with dog, to make him a celebrity. And I went to the Oyster Bar at Grand Central to unwind. It had been a stressful morning.


Ipswich Clams. Mmmm.


Then I came home, and edited for a while, until Richard came home with a bunch of groceries, all ready to make a dish for dinner that he invented: Shrimp and Asparagus in a garlic cream sauce. So, here are some photos of that creation:




Groceries.


















It was really quite good. Restaurant quality. The asparagus was cooked in the sauce with the shrimp and garlic, and sucked up all of that flavor. I sound like the Food Network. Richard and I eat what he concocts and discuss what we think he did right and what he could improve. He definitely has his Mother's cooking genes.


Here's Richard taking his own first bite:

Click here to see a movie of Richard's first bite.





With dinner over, we ran out to meet Louie and friends at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre for Cagematch, when two improv teams compete, and the audience votes for the winner. It's a great thing to do on a Thursday night at 11:00pm for $5!


We met up with Louie and Peter (Merelis) and his two friends, Brendan and Kara, from Rubin Hall. Here they are in the audience:




This is my favorite improv troupe at the UCB. They're "The Swarm." Their comedy is very very smart. No potty humor. And they are so sharp, I usually end up crying from laughing so hard.

The show ended, the Swarm won again, and we started walking. Kara took a wonderful picture of me. She has a future in portraits:




We then all went to Chelsea Papaya on 23rd and 7th Av, which is sort of near the theatre and we often end up there afterwards. It's a total rip off of Gray's Papaya on 8th St. and 6th Avenue or on the Upper West Side, and this one isn't as good as they are. They don't have the behind-the-counter-hot-dog-factory thing down as well.



They do have the stare-at-you-like-you're-a-terrorist thing down quite well, though.



Chillin' at Papaya.



Gumballs at Papaya.



Two of Louie's Improv buddies... at Papaya.




At one point Peter asked Richard "what's the difference between MiniDV and DVCAM tape?" Richard's explanation lasted from 26th and 8th Av to well into our time at 23rd and 7th av.



Kara also obviously has a career as a spokesperson for Pepsi. She just needs to figure out a more clever way of displaying the product.


So then we all parted ways. Louie to his uptown abode. Peter and friends to a cab (spoiled brats), and Richard and I downtown via the underground.

Louie waited for an uptown train on the other side of the station, and I could see him through the columns:





So, I yelled to him the story about the dog that I drove on an interborough trip this morning. He made like he didn't know me, reading his magazine. But I yelled the whole story to him anyway, for the benefit of anyone who was listening. It was silly. [He told me days later that he didn't understand a word I said from the opposite platform, and that if I wanted him to hear the story, I had better tell him again. I referred him to this site.]


Eager to tell the story of my morning to someone who would listen, I told Owen, who was working the front desk. Here he is, reenacting his own shock:




Richard and I then spent at least an hour, possibly two, listening to Owen tell us about Jamaica, his home country. The island, not the train station in Queens. It sounded like a paradise. Fruit growing on trees. 100 kinds of mango, all better than the best you can get in New York. The weather, the water, the life. It was great to hear it from someone who grew up there. But, he's here for the American Dream. Money. It's the one thing you can't really do in Jamaica. But, he said, if you come here, and make some money for yourself, you can go back there and live like a king in paradise. I would explain more, but I have no photos of that, as I've not been. And this site doesn't work so well for hearsay.