Is Barack Obama obligated to speak about Michael Jackson?

One of my Facebook friends’ wrote in her status box that she “is planning on moving out of the country if Prez Obama attends Michael Jackson’s funeral. Ridiculous.”

Strong words. Curious to see what her FB buddies thought of her post, I clicked on her page to read the comments. Three friends seconded her statement with one writing “enough of the Michael Jackson story… Why can’t the media (and government) focus on the real issues?” Another gave it a thumbs up.

The other day I chatted with another friend, who was upset that President Barack Obama had yet to personally make a public statement about the King of Pop’s death, although the Prez did send a condolence letter to the Jackson family. I told this friend that maybe Barack didn’t like MJ. We know he likes Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin. But have we ever heard him saying anything about being a MJ fan?

“Who didn’t like Michael Jackson?” she replied.

Good point but there had to be some. Like the aforementioned FB friend and her buds. That’s not to say they didn’t like his music. Who couldn’t? I’m sure Barack, like so many of us, grew up on the Jackson 5 and followed Michael’s amazing solo career. But there are those, me included, who were unable to see his musical genius after while for  all of the news constantly surrounding the troubled star. Dangling his son Blanket over a hotel balcony. Allowing young boys to sleep in the bed with him.  The child molestation charges, although he was found not guilty. The supposed blood bath he took to supposedly put a curse on his enemies, including Steven Spielberg and David Geffen. The seemingly countless plastic surgeries that changed the cute face on  the Right On! magazine covers I taped to my bedroom walls.

My friend compared him to Albert Einstein, saying that all geniuses are just a bit weird so why should MJ be any different.

But the question really is, should Obama be obligated to make a statement about the death of the King of Pop?  Do people expect the Prez to make a statement because he, like MJ, is Black? Would President George W. Bush be expected to talk about Michael Jackson’s death? Interesting enough, Obama adviser David Alexrod reportedly said that Obama was prepared to speak about MJ’s death during a press conference with German Chancellor Angela Merkel last Friday but no reporters asked the President about MJ. Now when does a politician wait to be asked anything that they really want to say. Um, never! Obviously, if Obama felt strongly enough about the untimely death of arguably the most-talented entertainer in our generation then he would have said something. He didn’t. Sometimes not saying something says a lot.

I admit I got lost in the salacious side of MJ and forgot about his musical ability. I’ve now been reminded and last night bought one of his CDs on Amazon.com. I wonder if I should have bought two and sent one to the Prez.

Oz is no wizard at moving

Oz Moving and Storage calls itself the wizard of moving but I, for one, dispute that. If it was a wizard, my goods would have been here already. Instead, I sit and wait. It’s been two weeks since it picked up my shipment in New York. Maybe the company got confused and thought I wanted to store my stuff. How else do you explain my belongings sitting in a NY warehouse for 10 days while I wear the same clothes and try to explain to an editor that my story is not ready because I accidentally packed my notes, which are on a slow boat from China?

Fingers crossed that today is the day I receive a call telling me the truck has arrived. That’s barring bad weather, mechanical problems, pirates from Somalia overtaking the truck and whatever else could happen between New York and Los Angeles. And to think, the company touts itself as having the “fastest delivery time available” between NY and LA because it has full service operations on both coasts. It says “unlike smaller companies that need to wait until they have a full trailer before they sent it across country, we fill our trailers daily.” It even says they can have a shipment from one coast to another in as few as four days. Lies. Lies. Lies.

It’s not until you commit that an e-mail arrives saying delivery time is 7 to 14 business days, or 21 business days if going west of Illinois/Tennessee. Even so, Molly, my “relocation consultant” at Oz told me that because the company handles so many moves from New York to California that I could expect my goods sooner. I believed her. And a friend said she recently used Oz and her things arrived to Los Angeles from Brooklyn in less than a week. I figured the same would happen in my case. Wrong!

Undoubtedly when the movers finish unloading the last box the foreman will look to see if I pull a wad of cash out of my bra. Don’t bother. Although my estimate contains a line that states “Gratuity is optional,” it is clear that I am expected to tip. The confirmation letter reads, “Tips for the movers are not included in the hourly rate. The industry standard is 15-20% of the total move (as you may tip a restaurant meal) divided among the crew (not per person). Tipping is not mandatory, and you may give them as you wish. OZ MOVERS WILL NEVER ASK YOU FOR A TIP.”

Yet, the foreman in NY stressed to me that tips should be paid in cash, not by credit card because it takes 30 days for them to get their money. Well, considering my shipment is seemingly taking 30 days to get here then that’s about right. And considering the grand total of my move was $1776.00, that between a $266.40 and $355.20 tip.

Recession or not, tipping Oz is out of the question at this point. It would be like if I went to Jean Georges restaurant, was seated immediately, my order was taken immediately then I had to wait three hours for the food to arrive. Maybe the food arrives and it is delicious, the best meal I’ve ever eaten. Would I tip after waiting an extraordinary amount of time? Only if there was some logical explanation to the delay, such as the kitchen catching on fire. Neither Or, a female Oz employee in NY, nor Ori, a male Oz employee in LA, (I am not making up these names) has given me any logical explanation for why a company that touts its coast-to-coast service is so slow in my case.

Or figured I had never moved between states but I told her I’ve moved from California to Iowa to Pennsylvania to Texas and back to California and I’ve never had a shipment sit for 10 days before leaving its origin.

I assume Oz, whose trucks I always spotted throughout Manhattan and which has been used by many notables and reputable companies, won’t include my testimonial on its wonderful testimonial page on its website. Thank goodness for blogs. It’s one way to spread the word: Don’t use Oz if you’re moving coast to coast. It is not the wizard it claims to be.

Who takes the bus in L.A.? I do!

 

I’m rather enjoying not having a car in L.A. It’s day five and I’m managing just fine with my feet, good friends and even public transportation. You read that right: I took the bus yesterday.

I used to be queen of the RTD, back when it was called that (officially the Southern California Rapid Transit District). But somewhere along the way, the RTD wasn’t good enough and L.A.’s bus system changed its name to Los Angeles County Metropolitan Transportation Authority, or Metro for short. How original.

I decided to try the Metro yesterday. As I walked to the bus stop, one zoomed by. Drats! I figured I was in for a 10-minute wait. But no sooner had I positioned myself on the bench and noted how dangerously close the bus bench is to traffic that a bus pulled up in front of me. I didn’t even have time to pull out my BlackBerry to send a quick status report. I boarded the bus and searched for somewhere to put my coins. I saw where bills went. Finally the bus driver kindly pointed out the coin slot to me.

“Oh,” I said sheepishly. “I haven’t been on the bus in 30 years.”

“Really?” she said. “A lot has changed.”

I sat behind the woman and we chatted about her route once I saw that she was turning when I didn’t expect her to. But she circled back to where I had to get off and I bid her adieu. I ran three errands and returned to where I was let off. I checked to make sure the bus sitting there was going in my direction and boarded. Wouldn’t you know it? It was the same bus driver.

“You’re ready to go back?” she said.

“Yes.”

It was like I had my own personal bus driver. I sat near her and explained how I had arrived from New York and I hadn’t bought a car yet. I remarked how I like the bus service and just might become a regular rider rather than buying a car. My fellow passengers smiled and noded, as if there were rebelling against buying a car as well.

When we were near my stop, an elderly woman who had boarded with me and wore plum lipstick to match her plum outfit leaned toward me and asked if I was a nurse or an actress.  I explained that I am a writer. She looked perplexed. Journalist, I said. Not really caring what I did she went on to tell me that she had problem with her ear, how she had put peroxide in it but it hadn’t seemed to work. How she went an Arab female doc but the doc couldn’t find any problem. The lady turned to me for help with her ear problem. I reiterated that I am not in the medical field and wished her well finding someone. I thanked my lucky stars that I had arrived at my stop.

I once again bid Robin, the driver, goodbye and told her I would see her later.

It was quite a pleasant experience. And cheap too. A bus ride in L.A. is only $1.25, compared to $2.00 in New York, which will soon raise the fare to $2.25.

I later told my brother Kevin that I rode the bus and he suggested that I not make a habit of it. I don’t see anything wrong with it for short rides. I probably don’t want to take a bus to a glam event but for nearby errands it works.

That evening Tina picked me up for cocktails. And when I had lunch with a friend the other day he picked me up but that was because he didn’t want to wait 30 minutes for me to walk to the restaurant, which I was more than willing to do. While we were out we went to a used car lot where he knows the owner. No good cars though. Just high prices. I asked him to drop me off at Home Depot and I walked home from there, stopping at the health club to pick up a 7-day guest pass.

But for the most part, I’m still walking though. This morning I left my house at 6:05 a.m. and walked to Home Depot. I returned home to drop off my bag and plywood and then walked to the health club. I mentioned to Shindana that I walked today and she said she told a friend about my walking to the grocery store. The friend said she walked to Larchmont Plaza once and she felt like a street walker because people were honking their horns.

No one bothers me when I walk. I’ve even passed a couple of other people walking as well so I’m not alone on the sidewalks. 

And at least in L.A., no one flashes their headlights at me like they did when I walked in Naples, Italy.

My Lasts

It never escapes me that everything I do in my neighborhood is now the last time.

As I walked to the subway this morning, to return Time Warner’s equipment, a friendly owner of a store that seems to sell any item I need such as string, hooks to hang photos, etc., said “hello beautiful” to me as he always does. That will likely be the last time we see each other.

As I descended the stairs at the 145th Street station, I thpught, this is the last time I will go down these stairs.

When I return from running this errand I will likely stop in the Subway sandwich shop and order my final BMT on roasted garlic bread at this location. I’ll enjoy it as I wait on my movers to arrive.

I am glad I got to experience Harlem for there are some wonderful things, such as the abundance of parks. No, I didn’t go to them when people were there but seeing the greenery is nice. Jackie Robinson Park is just north of me and St. Nicholas Park to the west. I sometimes walked Lucy through JR in the morning.

And I liked walking down the historical Striver’s Row, 139th and 138th Streets between Frederick Douglas and Adam Clayton Powell. Being on those streets were inspirational. Having the streets named after many deceased African-American leaders was nice and kept their accomplishments fresh in my mind. Who knows when I will hear their names again.

I just got off the A train at Columbus Circle and spotted a rat scurrying around the tracks. Earlier this year there was one on the platform, waiting for the train I guess. As I wait for the D or B train to take me to 34th Street I am forced to listen to a former crack head turned preacher. At least he’s not begging for money. Just spreading the word and telling how he used to steal from his mother to support his habit. Glad he saw the light.

Counting down the chicken bones

As soon as I walked out of my front door last night, en route to the Art Bar in the West Village for my going away party, I heard music blaring from a parked car. Now that winter is over, the natives are getting restless and beginning to hang out at night.

I am leaving just in time. Just as I was silently counting my days until I lived in civilization again, I spotted, just three buildings down from mine, a lone chicken bone on the sidewalk. I whipped out my BlackBerry and snapped the accompanying photo. Yes indeed, summer is approaching. And thankfully I will not be here to experience another.

I hate to leave New York, a city I really do love, on such a sour note. I don’t prefer my last memories of New York to be that of uncivilized Harlem any more than I want my last memories of my mother being her months in a skilled nursing facility, unable to respond to commands, talk or eat without a tube. But such is life. We don’t always get what we want.

A while back my friend Karen asked me if I had problems with Harlem because it was a black neighborhood. Hardly!! I know almost nothing but black neighborhoods. I grew up in Windsor Hills. Bought a house in Ladera Heights. For most of my life the overwhelmingly majority of my neighbors have been black. But of a different ilk than the majority of those I have encountered in Harlem. I know there are plenty of sophisticated folks in my ‘hood but I don’t see enough of them for they are not hanging out on the corners, shooting dice against stoops, leaving chicken bones on the sidewalks, peeing in the street.

I have witnessed so much public urination that I have been scarred. No lie. It has gotten to a point that whenever I see a man standing still with his back to me I think he is peeing. A couple of days ago I saw a man standing in front of a wall in the subway station at Rockefeller Center. Being that I can’t keep my mouth shut, I walked toward him to chastise him for urinating. Then I saw another set of legs. His girlfriend was standing with her back to the wall and the two were making out. I left them alone. Relieved that he wasn’t peeing.

But I hate that New York has put that fear in me. I can be in the cleanest city in the world but when I am out at night I am constantly looking for rats and mice. I don’t blame Harlem for that because I have never seen a rat outside of the train station. The rats are fierce on the streets of Tribeca and SoHo, daring you to cross the street when you encounter them from the opposite way. Mice ruled the Upper East Side. I don’t know how long it will take me to get over searching for rodents when I walk.

L.A. has its share of creatures too. I’ve seen possums wandering the streets of Ladera at night. Lizards are plentiful in the hillside behind me. One even got in my dining room one day. I’ll never forget going over to pick it up, thinking it was a leaf. When I realized it was a lizard, I screamed and ran away. I called my mother at work and asked her how to kill a lizard. She said to hit it on its head with a stick. I did just that, whacking the poor creature so hard that it went flying into the living room.  Not knowing what to do next, I picked up a stack of newspapers and dropped it on the lizard, flattening the poor sucker. When my date came over that evening, I asked him to pick up the papers and dispose of the lizard underneath.

Every city has something.

When I was in L.A. last month, my friend Cheryl joked that she was going to put chicken bones outside my house to make me feel at home. We laughed. But it’s really no laughing matter.

Getting run over by a jitney was not on the countdown!

My countdown of things to do before I leave New York continued with an unexpected adventure yesterday. Just like I had never been to the top of the Empire State Building until last week, I had never had my foot run over by a livery cab driver and taken to a hospital emergency room in an ambulance until last night either.

The misadventure began after 7 p.m. as my friend Karen and I got in a livery cab in Harlem. She put a heavy box in the middle of the seat and I went around to the other side to get in. The driver saw that Karen was in and took off – as I was halfway in the car. My left shoe remained behind as Karen and I screamed for him to stop. He stopped. I got out to retrieve my broken shoe and climbed back in. Karen, an endodontist, examined my foot. There was no blood, which was a good sign, but the skin on my ankle was broken. She felt my foot, checking for pain and I explained how high my threshold for pain is, especially when it comes to my foot. How I never took one pain pill after having surgery on both feet 11 years ago. She thought I was OK but we both decided X-rays were necessary to rule out fractures, especially with me leaving soon. But first we needed to file a police report because who knows when the hospital or insurance company may need documentation.

The driver was not happy. He explained that he was from the Congo and had a family. I told him I had been to Africa many times and I don’t know how things work in his country but this is the way it is in the States. I explained that he had run over my foot and I needed to get it checked out. My health trumped his family as far as I was concerned. He was reluctant to show me his identification until I told him I was a reporter during our brief stop at Karen’s to drop off her box. He produced his driver’s license, I jotted everything down and we proceeded to the 135th Street police precinct. I had to walk in a broken wedge sandal, dragging my foot to keep the shoe on (I wouldn’t dare walk down a NY street barefoot!!!). So Karen went home to get a pair of flip flops for me while I sat and waited for a white woman to finish filing her report about a strange, unwanted man leaving tokens of affection for her, and the driver went to park the car.

Karen returned with a pair of stark white slippers from a hotel in Calistoga, which she recently visited, and the driver surprisingly came back as well. I thought he would have high-tailed it back to the Congo. The officer told the three of us we had to go back to the scene of the “crime” and call 911 from there because a vehicle was involved.

The driver, Ghouraysiyu Tall, explained that he had left his car on 137th Street and would meet us at the corner. He said if I could just let it go he would be happy because he is concerned about his family. I explained I wasn’t trying to get  him in trouble but I did need to have the proper paperwork done just in case. He turned north to go get the car and Karen and I waited at the corner. Soon a jitney pulled up and Karen said for us to get in. I noticed that this jitney looked a little nicer than the scratched up one we were in but it was getting dark, I didn’t have my glasses on and my mind was spinning. I said nothing and hopped in. I thought to myself, “Wasn’t the interior of the other car black? This one is gray.” But still I said nothing because I was more worried about whether I had suffered any damage. Once back at the “scene of the crime” I called 911. The driver was uncooperative when I asked him questions the 911 operator asked me regarding the make and model of the car and his license plate number.

“You ran over my foot,” I screamed at him.

As it turns out, it wasn’t the driver who ran over my foot. It just happened to be another African driving yet another black car!!! Karen and I laughed. They are a dime a dozen in Harlem. Karen paid him and the grateful driver went on his way. Karen realized she had left her mobile phone in driver No. 1’s car. It was a sign from above, I told her! Now I could reach the culprit. I called Karen’s cell and sure enough driver No. 1 answered her phone. I told him we were back at the scene of the crime and to come there. He never showed. Karen and I kept calling back but she realized she had only one bar left on her battery so maybe the phone was dead.

In the meantime, Emergency Medical Services arrived. One technician, Manuel, was very nice and the other had the personality of a flea. I sat in the back to give my report and entertained them with my humor. Once Manuel started pressing on my feet, I was grateful I had used a gift certificate from Lori for a spa pedicure at Trevi Nails just hours ago. My feet were beautiful and callous free! Mr. No Personality took my blood pressure, which had skyrocketed to 150/90. I don’t have hypertension and my usual blood pressure is 120/80 or 110/80. But I explained that I had never been in an ambulance before so all this excitement had me going.

Manuel called for NYPD again since we had been waiting a while. A cruiser finally pulled up but then suddenly sped off after probably getting a more important call. Karen, who has her own dental practice on the Upper West Side but does some work at Harlem Hospital, Manuel and I debated about which hospital I should go to. Harlem Hospital? Harlem North General? St. Luke’s? Where would the wait be the shortest? Which is the cleanest? Has the best equipment? If Karen had her phone she could have made a call to Harlem Hospital to ensure that I was seen immediately. We finally decided on St. Luke’s.

Finally a NYPD officer arrived and said the officer at the 135th Street Precinct should have taken the report but was too lazy to do so. This officer said he couldn’t take a report because I didn’t have Ghouraysiya’s license plate number. He said if I had gotten the license plate number then they could arrest him for hit-and-run. I briefly imagined Ghouraysiyu being deported. This wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted his name on a report. I showed him the culprit’s driver’s license information and clueless officer asked if the nine digit driver’s license number was the driver’s telephone number? Last time I checked, there are 10 digits (not nine) in a telephone number. The young officer gave me a blank form to fill out and give to my insurance company should I need it. Thanks for nothing. But at least Manuel noted the badge number on his report. It seems to me a driver’s license is more useful because with cabs, usually 2 or 3 different people drive them so arresting someone on a hit-and-run because they’re driving a car that was used in a hit-and-run doesn’t make sense to me. Don’t they need the driver’s number? Anyway, I digress.

Now it was time to go to the hospital. I bid Karen goodbye because she should have been en route to Maryland for Mother’s Day. Only thing is she couldn’t reach the woman she was riding with because she didn’t have her number. It was stored in her cell phone, which Driver No. 1 had refused to answer again and/or which had a dead battery. Like many of us today, she hadn’t memorized the woman’s number. We’re all too dependent on our cell phones storing numbers and don’t memorize them. Let this be a lesson. She tried other people who may have the friend’s number but couldn’t reach anyone. Her parents were in a movie. Another dentist was at an event. She had to find this woman and I told her I would be OK. She told me to call her home number so she would have my BlackBerry number. I did just that and a few minutes later she called me. “How cute is that young guy?” she blurted out. Yes, Manuel is a cutie, I agreed. And here I thought she was concerned about my foot!!

I hung up from Karen and of course told Manuel what Karen said about him. He blushed. He buckled me in the ambulance but I asked would it be better if I lay down on the stretcher and be wheeled in. He said if I wanted the full treatment then he could certain give it to me but assured me that they would use a wheelchair when we got to the hospital. OK. I sat up for the ride. On the way to the hospital Manuel and I chatted about expensive insurance premiums, deductibles, union dues, etc. I asked him if he could put me on his insurance but he said we would have to get married. He wasn’t flirting, just stating a fact. I told him I could marry him, as long as he didn’t want any children. “I’m only 21,” he informed me. Yikes! I had no idea he was that young. He knew my age and we joked that he could be my boy toy.

Once inside the hospital my vitals were taken. Not only was my blood pressure higher but my heart rate was at 92!!! Would I have a heart attack too? Oh no! At least I was already in the hospital. Manuel continued to stay with me and answered questions for me so I didn’t even have to speak. I was impressed that he remembered information I had told him like what I was allergic to (aspirin). I love this guy!

Thankfully I got sent to the Fast Track. “Whoo-hoo, this is like an EZ Pass lane. I’ll be in and out in no time,” I said to Manuel, who suggested I not get too happy just yet. He wheeled me to a private room, making sure to back me in so I would be able to see out and not face a wall. How thoughtful! Finally it was time for him to go too and I told him goodbye and thanked him for all of his help.

A lady came in to have me sign away my life and give me a Bill of Rights that included a proxy. Such serious stuff. Organ donation, etc. She told me how beautiful my teeth are. How nice of her to notice. These people are great. A few minutes later Dr. Resa Lewiss came in and examined my foot. I was wheeled to X-ray and the male technician complimented me on my well-manicured feet. “You should see what comes in here,” he said. The technician wheeled me down the hall and toward a a waiting room with the general population. No, I wasn’t here, I told him. “Oh, you were in Fast Track,” he said. Yes! He wheeled me to an area with three other people but I explained that I was in Exam Room A, looking out at the other people. I wasn’t really mingling with the masses. I got my private room back. Yeah, baby. I liked this hospital. I’m showered with compliments and treated like a V.I.P. Then I decided I wanted to go to the bathroom. The nice gentleman wheeled me to the bathroom and waited for me. After I relived myself in a pathetically, unclean bathroom for a hospital he wheeled me back to Exam Room A.

I barely had time to read one article in USA Today when the RN Carlos Cruz came in and said that the x-rays showed no fractures. I was grateful. The doctor came in and talked to me. Carlos wrapped my foot and ankle in an ace bandage, which I don’t think I’ve ever had on before. He too complimented me on my feet and told me what he often sees. I got up to walk to the desk and talk to the doctor. She and Carlos expressed shock because they were going to get me  cane. “No, I can walk just fine I said. It’s just that everyone was so nice about wheeling  me around that why would I walk on my own?”

Carlos pointed out that I was wearing hotel slippers so I figured he’s a traveler. I explained that my shoe was broken thanks to the culprit driver and a friend who had just been in Calistoga gave me the slippers. The doctor asked, “Don’t they have springs in Calistoga?” Yes, I told her. She said she had been there. Oh, I love this traveling staff.

I was sent to discharge and Princess (I told her I always wanted that name) told me that because it was a “no fault” that I wouldn’t be billed.  Hooray! Manuel had already told me that a ride in the ambulance was $600. And we only went from 121st and Frederick Douglas to 114th and Amsterdam. Not even a mile. Talk about an expensive ride.

I caught a jitney home. Exhausted and hungry. I have no food because I eat out every day now that I am moving on Tuesday. I only have protein bars. And since I’m in Harlem, my choices for food include Popeye’s and potato chips, cookies and bananas with brown spots at the bodega. I’ll go hungry. I watched a few minutes of the Lakers’ game and, convinced they would beat Houston, climbed into bed, knowing I would fall asleep in two seconds, thus forgetting that I hadn’t eaten dinner.

Now it’s morning.  My stomach is growling. My ankle hurts a wee bit but I’ll tough it out without taking anything. I’m not big on pain medicine. I had hoped to make it to the gym for my final workout before my membership expires at the end of the day but I don’t dare chance working out.

Karen, who made it to Maryland around 1 a.m., already called to check on me – and to tell me how lucky I was to have cutie pie Manuel feeling up my feet. I’m just glad I got that spa pedicure. Too bad the driver Ghouraysiyu didn’t return her phone. What a pain since she doesn’t have her numbers backed up  anywhere. But I gave her his address, 325 E. 109th Street, Apt. 2B., NY, NY 10029. DOB 8-7-67. Driver’s license number 548-807-042. Class E, issued 3-19-09.

My foot is still wrapped in the bandage and I’m wondering if after I take my bath, if I’ll be able to wrap it as well as Carlos did. I also wonder how my bandaged foot and ankle is going to look in my Jimmy Choos at my going away party tonight.

The countdown lands at the Double Eagle Steak House

I hadn’t put Del Frisco’s Double Eagle Steak House on my list of things I must do before I leave NY because it is a restaurant I have frequented often during the past 4 years. And there are plenty of great steakhouses in LA. There is no Yankee Stadium or Coney Island in Cali.

But last week when I received an email from Lori, who introduced me to Del Frisco’s a few years ago, saying we have to go to Del Frisco’s before I leave, I gave it some thought. And not just because I coincidentally was walking past the eatery, on Avenue of the Americas and 49th Street, at the time. I had stopped by the restaurant the previous week, on a beautiful, sunny, spring day. But turned around and left when I saw the shades were drawn to block the rays. I am big on sunlight.

When I suddenly found myself with some free time on my schedule today, I decided to pop in for a  late lunch. I emailed Lori and asked if she wanted to meet me but she was in Bristol. I tried to get Tiffany from People to meet me but she had interviews, meetings and a mandatory Cinco de Mayo celebration.

So I went alone, as I usually do anyway. I don’t come here every week or every month but I am known here. Lori introduced me to Felix, the gregarious host, a few years ago. And I later met the executive chef Clarence Van De Mark and the folks behind the bar.

I love coming here as much for the atmosphere as the food. This photo taken with my BlackBerry does the place no justice. Housed in a former bank, Del Frisco’s is a gorgeous, two- story restaurant with a long L-shaped bar, a lot of wood and glass, a beautiful staircase and floor to ceiling windows stretching 38 feet and offering views of Radio City Music Hall, the bright red news crawl wrapping around the Fox News Corp bldg., Simon & Schuster, the McGraw-Hill flag blowing proudly in the wind next to Old Glory. Skyscrapers galore from the windows! Because it is a block away from the Time Life Bldg., I became a semi-regular a while back. There was a point where I went into People’s offices every day for a few months, and came down here after work. Outside of that then it was occasionally but faithfully.

Even during the Fashion Week, which takes place just down the street at Bryant Park, I would stop in here in between shows, carrying my Women’s Wear Daily and The Daily. I would sit at the bar and stuff my little face, providing the perfect excuse as to why me, being a size 8 (OK maybe 10 on a bad day), was not on the catwalk with the size 2 and 4 bean poles.

And the music is always incredible. As I am sitting here now typing this post on my BlackBerry, I am listening to the Isley Brothers’ Who’s That Lady. The Staples Singers’ Mr. Big Stuff, Stevie Wonder’s You Are the Sunshine of my life, the Marvelettes’ Mr. Postman. Music gets no better than this!

At nighttime it so packed that you can’t hear the tunes. But I usually come in after the lunch crowd has dispersed and before the happy hour madness begins and sit at the bar and have a long, leisurely lunch. Like today. Lunch stretched 90 minutes. Felix came by to say chat.

Then Clarence, the executive chef, came over. I said something about going home to Harlem and he said he was moving there from Jersey City next month. I told him what a big mistake he was making. He is going to be further south than me and on the east side. I don’t know that area but to me it is still Harlem. I told him I would send him my “Farewell to 2008″ email about Harlem, comparing it to walking off the set of “The Jeffersons” and onto the set of “Good Times” when I moved there from the cultured Upper East Side.

I won’t miss Harlem but I will miss coming to Del Frisco’s. As I sit here now, I wish I could stay here and eat and drink as the place fills up. But I’m stuffed after fried oysters, fillet tips of beef and potatoes, a chunk of bread with a bowl of butter and two glasses of Malbec.

I just asked for the check and was informed that Clarence had picked up my tab. How sweet of him! Here I was just an occasional (albeit faithful) customer who was leaving town. He didn’t have to do that. But that’s the kind of guy he is. I remember the first time I met him and he suggested I should try the crab cakes. I balked but eventually gave in. So glad I did. They are THE best crab cakes in Manhattan. No lie. I should have had them today, now that I think about it. But it’s always a toss-up on whether to go with the oysters or crab cakes when I have beef, a must. Maybe I can come back for the crab cakes?

Rainout on the Countdown

I must be living right!

I awoke today to steady rain this morning and the dread of sitting in inclement weather to watch a baseball game. But there was no way to back out. My friend Stacie had agreed to pony up $86 each for two tickets for us to share our virgin experience of Yankee Stadium together before I head back to L.A. on May 12. This says a lot because Stacie is no sports fan. She’s a fashion chick and while the two do mix in a lot of cases – not this one. She has little to no interest in sports and has been to one sporting event in the past seven years. So for her to want to not only join me at Yankee Stadium but pay for the tickets was huge and a testament to our friendship, which started when we both lived in Florence.

Neither she nor I would back out. We spent last night texting each other after hearing that rain was expected to start during the game. I told her the rain wouldn’t be heavy enough for the game to be called and if it is raining during the game we’ll spend most of our time at Tommy Bahama’s Bar and then leave early.

As you know from reading my previous post, I made my first trip to Yankee Stadium on Wednesday. But no game was being played. I went for an event at the Tommy Bahama bar. Today marked my first real trip since the Yankees were scheduled to play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. (I HATE that name!!) I was excited but Stacie was more psyched than me when she arrived at my apartment, wearing her huge Versace purse and a bright orange rain slicker that would make it easy for me to find her should we get parted at the stadium. I wore my Earnest Sewn skinny leg jeans tucked inside my bright red Sigerson Morrison rain boots and my bright yellow Martha’s Vineyard rain jacket. She’d have no trouble locating me either.

We arrived and first went to check out our seats in Section 324 in the terrace. Yep, in the rain. No overhang to protect us. I checked my watch and saw it was beer o’clock. We grabbed brews, a slice of pizza for me and nachos for Stacie. We walked, talked, drank. Eventually we noticed it was nearly 1:30 p.m. and the tarp was still covering the infield. Oh well, time for more beer. We walked, talked, drank. While in the loo, the announcement came that the game was being postponed due to rain. Oh well! We headed to the Yankees store so Stacie could buy something for her 11-month-old son Alessandro. The store was so crowded I thought I was at Bloomingdale’s the day after Christmas. Stacie grabbed a cute pinstripe outfit for her toddler and we plotted our next move. I craved a burger since I didn’t go to Johnny Rockets at the stadium. The adjoining Hard Rock Cafe had a two-hour wait, according to one man who had just gotten his table.

We decided to head back to Manhattan. We went to Vnyl, on Ninth Avenue, in our old neighborhood, where our friendship blossomed. It was halfway between her house and mine when we lived in the 50s and where we usually gathered, just like Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha at their diner on Sex and the City.  But we were SOL. The kitchen closed after brunch and wouldn’t reopen for another hour or two. We cabbed it to  the Shake Shack on 77th and Columbus, where I got my burger fix on and enjoyed an ale and Stacie had a meatless cheeseburger. I felt the day was complete and it really was the best of both worlds. We got to eat our junk food at Yankee Stadium, which is my number one priority at a ballpark, and Stacie now can exchange the tickets for another game within the next 12 months so she’ll get her money’s worth at some point.

It’s OK that I didn’t get to see the Yankees suit up. It really is all about the junk food and beer for me. I remember eating a Dodger dog at Dodger Stadium with my dad, who died in 1969. As a little girl, I rooted for the Dodgers. Don Drysdale, Sandy Koufax and Vin Scully were names I learned early on. But mostly I rooted for the Dodger dogs and time with my dad. Maybe that’s why I still get such pleasure from eating junk food at sporting events.

Stacie enjoys her nachos.

Yankee Stadium makes it a trifecta countdown!

I was not supposed to write about visiting the new Yankee Stadium, on my list of things-to-do-before-I-leave-New York City, until AFTER I attended this Sunday’s game. But two days ago, I was invited to stop by tonight to sip cocktails made with Tommy Bahama Rum at Tommy Bahama’s Bar at the new Yankee Stadium then take a private stadium tour. I didn’t let the fact that I already had tickets for an upcoming game and had a Mets’ game that afternoon stop me from saying yes. Complimentary cocktails (I write about cocktail trends and research is a must) and a private tour don’t come along often.

But by this afternoon I was tired and in desperate need of a nap after the Mets’ game and my Empire State Building visit. I figured the sugar from the cocktails would temporarily wake me up. I took the D train to 161st Street and, for the first time, went up the stairs that said “Exit.  No transfer.” I never went to the old Yankee Stadium but for the  past 11 months saw it when I changed trains at 161 Street or when I walked my dog north. Now it was time to go inside the spanking new ballpark that I had watched being built.

While I was dazzled by the Mets’ new Citi Field just hours before, I can’t say the same about the new Yankee Stadium. I found it too sterile and cold with all of the concrete and steel. But I did love Monument Park, where former Yankee greats such as Babe Ruth, Billy Martin, Reggie Jackson, Lou Gehrig and Mickey Mantle are remembered. I love that the Yankees honored Jackie Robinson here since his number 42 is retired throughout baseball. There’s even a plaque to remember those whose lives were lost in 9/11. And there’s a pretty cool shrine that pays homage to Don Larsen’s perfect game, has trophies and other phenomenal memorabilia in it as well. From a historical standpoint, it’s fantastic. But there is no charm like at Citi Field.

I’m sure I’ll have a better take on Yankee Stadium once I go back on Sunday for the game against the (gulp) Los Angeles Angels. (What was wrong with calling them the California Angels???) Maybe the stadium will appear warmer with bodies in it. Still, visiting it with just a handful of people was pretty cool. And it made for a great ending to my trifecta countdown: the Empire State Building, Citi Field and Yankee Stadium all in one day.

Jackie Robinson is one of the many players honored in Monument Park

Yogi Berra

No one wins like the Yankees.

Countdown marches on: Citi Field

I am not a baseball fan  but I am a fan of eating junk food at ballparks, which is why I wanted to check out the Mets’ new Citi Field before I leave New York.  I had been to Shea Stadium one time during my four-year stay in New York. I took my pooch Lucy a few summers ago when the Mets had a “Dog Days” promotion, where fans could pay $5 per pet to bring their dog and the money went to an animal shelter. That was fun. Lucy and I ended up on the JumboTron during the 7th inning stretch. Her dog sitter, who watched from his home in the Bronx, called me during the game to tell me that the camera zoomed right in on the two of us as I held her in my arms and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to her.

Lucy didn’t go to Wednesday’s game against the Florida Marlins with me. It was just me – in the first row in the Pepsi Porch section, which overhangs the right-field wall and is an area I recommend. Not a bad seat for $36. Plenty of leg room and a cup holder for beverages.  I wondered how many 46-year-old, non-baseball fan females who aren’t groupies and trying to bed Johan Santana or David Wright go to ballparks by themselves. I looked around and didn’t see any other women who appeared to be alone. The gentleman two seats away (there was an empty seat between us and on each side of him) was alone so I wasn’t the only singleton. When I pulled out my camera he offered me his binoculars; but I told him I had my own. Because I didn’t want to come off as one of those chicks who doesn’t need a man, I told him that his were probably more powerful than mine though. The male ego is so fragile that I thought this would be nice for him to hear. I still didn’t use his though. Although his were bigger, I could see the numbers and noticed that mine were more powerful. I didn’t point this out to him though.

Instead, I took photos, cheered for the Mets, wolfed down a Nathan’s dog, French fries and Coors Light and tried hard to stay awake. I usually only watch baseball on TV when I want to go to sleep immediately. Never has baseball put me to sleep in person. In fact, I even kind of like the sport in person because of the beautiful grass. Maybe I was just tired but I found myself dozing and wondered if the French people behind me noticed my head bobbing.

Finally, at the seventh inning I got up to walk around, wake up and find the sushi. I stumbled upon a Shake Shack and cursed myself for not scouting out all of the food offerings before I opted for Nathan’s because it was close to my seat. (For those of you unfamiliar with Shake Shack, it is Danny Meyer’s answer to In-n-Out burger.) With the game nearly over, practically all of the sushi was gone and I don’t think there was any eel to start. So I passed. I figured I might as well get another beer and went to the lone bar that offered Bud Light Lime, my new favorite beer. Too late. No beer sales after the 7th inning. Who came up with this stupid rule? We’re in New  York. A lot of us are on the subway so few of us are getting behind the wheel of a car. Oh well, I decided to call it a day if I couldn’t drink anymore. The Mets were up 3-2 at the time but ended up losing 4-3. On my way out I noticed the Jackie Robinson Rotunda. I started heading that way but then thought, what if I go check it out, the game ends and suddenly I find myself on the subway platform with thousands of people. I kept walking toward the 7 train, determined to beat the crowds. Shame on me!

I loved Citi Field though. I don’t know anything about the ballpark but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it was designed by the same people who designed the Baltimore Orioles’ ballpark. Not that I’ve been to that one but I remember seeing pictures of it when it was unveiled years ago and thought, now that’s a ballpark. That’s the same way I felt about Citi Field. Old school charm oozed from it as soon as I entered. I was so taken with it that I even considered buying a $5 program then thought better of it. I needed that $5 to pay for food. My little meal was $16.75. I considered getting a lobster roll but saw it was $17 and thought, well maybe not.

I love to eat at ballparks but I don’t love the prices. Why does it cost more to eat and drink at entertainment venues? I went to Nathan’s on Coney Island over the weekend and paid $18 and some change for one hot dog, 2 regular fries and 2 beers. And now I pay almost $17 for one hot dog, one order of Fries and one beer. Something isn’t right here.

It’s bad enough that consumers are required to pay $2.50 to use their own ink, paper and printer to print tickets to Major League Baseball games after they purchase them online. I instead opted to pick up my ticket up at the ballpark. I walked to a machine, where there was no line, swiped my AmEx card used to buy the ticket online and my ticket was printed in two seconds. The cost? Nothing. Which meant more money for the concession stand.

My view from the Pepsi Porch.