Today’s soundtrack: Stetsasonic’s “Talkin’ All That Jazz” as remixed by Dimitri From Paris
Today at 12:02pm: still sweating



First of all don’t say “bartend,” you sound like a goddamn ape, or a talking rhinoceros or something. It’s “tend bar.” A housekeeper doesn’t housekeep, they keep house. People who think “bartend” is a verb are the same people who don’t understand the difference between “your” and “you’re,” and if I were king they’d all be wearing striped jumpsuits and digging ditches for my ditch-inspecting pleasure.

I also hate people who write with ellipses...like this...that don’t serve any purpose...I think they’re retards...but I’m starting to digress. So.

If you wait tables or tend bar, you spend a lot of goddamn time on your feet, and can’t wait to get off them. At the end of a shift I couldn’t wait to introduce my ass to the nearest horizontal surface. If you had a heart attack and dropped to the floor in front of me the second I clocked out, I’d have to sit on your trembling chest before I called EMS.

One night I was coming off shift and Jimmy the Bartender (can’t remember his last name, so he gets a vocational description) was coming on. I’d spent five years working in restaurants but I wasn’t yet twenty.

“How’s it going,” he said.

“Feet are killing me,” I muttered. He looked down at my no-frills kicks, which I’d selected because I didn’t care if I spilled New Castle all over them.

“You mean you’re killing your feet,” he said. (Please note usage of “you’re” and “your.”) “You gotta get yourself some of these,” Jimmy continued, raising a foot off the ground to reveal running shoes. “They weigh the least, and they’ve got the most cushioning.”

Been a big fan of running shoes ever since, and have concluded that the Nike Air Presto is the absolute perfect footwear. Lightweight, breathable, lots of cushioning, plenty of traction. Several years ago I was lucky enough to stumble across a non-flashy all-black pair on sale for $40. If I knew they were gonna discontinue them I’d have bought a case. I do more walking than Kwai Chang Caine and my feet never get sweaty or achey in these bad boys. Next best thing to being barefoot and with springs in your feet.

You can still get the Prestos here and there, notably on eBay, but they’re all in those god-awful colors. I hate bright and flashy. My nondescript black kicks are losing some bounce, but I can’t go back to wearing regular shoes.

People love secrets. They also love secret places, particularly in this city. Feels good to go someplace fun that not many people know about.

Guy I know runs a streetwear company, and a few years ago he threw a Christmas party. The address didn’t jive with where I knew his store to be; it was a number on Elizabeth, but his joint was on Orchard. I mapquested it to figure out the venue but was puzzled to find a dead spot on the block, nothing but residences.

The night of the party I stood in front of the building number, looking at a blank wall. A door in it opened up, and a bouncer one inch smaller than a gorilla suddenly filled it. Behind him I could hear the sounds of merriment.

“Name?” he said, and stepped aside to let me in only after he’d checked me off on his clipboard.

What I’d thought was an empty space fronted by a blank wall was, in fact, a hidden Nike gallery, filled with hipsters. It was bizarre. If there was a superhero named Nikeman, this would be his lair; walls lined with concept drawings, shelves filled with paraphernalia from Beaverton, dramatically backlit sneakers suspended in cylindrical glass cases, that sort of thing.

Inside I found Handsome Dan and some other heads I knew, drinking free drinks and chowing down on a gratis Christmas dinner. “What the hell is this place?” I asked him.

“S’been here for a while,” he said. “It’s a Nike boutique, appointment only.”

“Did everyone know about this place except me?”

“Sneakerheads, I guess,” he shrugged.

The place was, for lack of a better term, a sneakeasy.

Two nights ago I passed the sneakeasy after not thinking about it for years. They apparently “went daylight,” having replaced the blank wall with a large glass window. Filled with rows upon rows upon rows...of Nike Prestos. But it was late, the door was locked and the inside of the store was darker than the new Harry Potter book. Figured I’d come back when it was open.

A very bad man, or woman, lives somewhere around Elizabeth Street between Prince and Spring. They have a dog and don’t pick up after it so the entire west side of that block is always covered in shit. I have yet to step in it but it’s only a matter of time; it’s like navigating a minefield. This person must be found and punished, with feces integrated into his or her retribution package.

I traveled this block today, on my way over to the Nike place. All the dog shit is right by that out-of-the-blue sculpture garden on Elizabeth. In the garden I saw a crew of workers putting up or taking down a wedding tent. One of the workers was asleep on one of the antique Roman stone benches. He lay completely horizontal and motionless with his cap over his face. Across the street, two construction workers were climbing in and out of a hole in the pavement.

The Nike joint looked open. I pulled the handle to turn the door into a doorway and went from disgusting Manhattan summer humidity into air-conditioned corporation-ness.

Found myself in a spartan anteroom with a young, attractive receptionist of indeterminate ethnicity. Lounging on a couch to the right was a woman who was clearly white and a man who was clearly black. I look clearly Asian, so if the four of us were playing a game called “Stump A Racist” the receptionist would clearly be winning.

All eyes were on me, like Tupac. “Can I help you?” said the receptionist.

I’d been expecting to enter a proper store and wasn’t ready to deal with being recepted/received. “Uh...is it still appointment only?” I asked, looking around. Where the hell are the Prestos.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“What?”

She repeated the question and I gave her my address, about seven blocks away.

“That’s kind of far,” she said.

“What, is there like, a delivery zone?” I asked.

“Yep,” said the black guy.

“And I’m off the map?”

“Yes,” said the receptionist.

“So I can’t make an appointment?”

The black guy got up, walked over and picked a brochure out of a stack on the receptionist’s desk.


(Here I have to interrupt the story, which I’m sure you’ve found riveting, to introduce a significant piece of background material. My name is Rain, but when I’m ordering dinner on the telephone or talking to a customer service rep, I am “Ray.” No one gets “Rain” right the first time, and I don’t need another step between me and dinner. I will now rewind slightly.)


The black guy got up, walked over and picked a brochure out of a stack on the receptionist’s desk. “You can go to the website,” he said, handing me the brochure and pointing out the URL. “What’s your name?” he asked, sticking out his hand.

“Ray,” I said.

“No kiddin’...Ray!” he said, grinning and indicating himself.

I felt a little guilty; his enthusiasm at discovering we both had the same name was built on a lie. I shook his hand but was unable to maintain eye contact.

“So I can make an appointment for this store at the website?” I asked, trying to untangle the logic.

“Um, no,” said the receptionist. “This place is only for people who live in the neighborhood.” For chrissakes. In Manhattan seven blocks is a world and a half. I’m surprised they let me into Nolita without a fucking passport.

“You can still design custom shoes at the website,” said Ray, the real Ray.

“Thanks,” I said, making tracks. I already tried the website. All the options for custom Prestos are obscenely garish.

On the way back I walked down Elizabeth. The two construction guys were now ripping up the street with a jackhammer. What a racket it was making. Across the street in the sculpture garden, the worker who had been sleeping on the bench was now sitting bolt upright. I wended my way between them, trying not to ruin my soon-to-be-extinct kicks by stepping in dog shit.

Today’s soundtrack: I swear it’s getting warmer
Today at 12:02pm: Doing the same thing everyone in this city is doing. Sweating.



To those of you who read regularly, sorry I’ve been away so long, was in the backyard cutting up bodies.

I am of course lying. I have no backyard and the only thing I’ve been cutting lately is fucking two-by-sixes. When people ask how it’s going and I say “Oh, I’m just busy with the studio renovations” they say “Still?” with an air of slightly disgusted incredulousness. Well it’s a lot of work my friend, and I still have to find a way to make the rent in between.

The good news is I am cutting the two-by-sixes with a miter saw, the kind you plug into the wall, not that shit with the metal guide rails and the wooden handle. Remember those? Those were a bitch. I’m saying “Remember those?” like all of us were carpenters in the 1950s. Well at the (first) art school I went to, the shop guy was old-school and made us develop a proficiency with the old-fashioned joints before we could touch the table saw. The bed in my dorm was filled with sawdust and occasionally, a very tired freshman with a sore shoulder.

I made my own bungie cords yesterday. Thought that I needed some so I took some elastic fabric I stole from a sweatshop (long story) and banged grommets into them. Noisy as shit, grommet-banging. Anyways the homemade bungies worked perfectly, but it turned out for what I was doing, which was trying to induce rigidity through tension in a 4x8 plastic sheet, did not call for bungies after all. This was disappointing, like coming up with a clever answer for a question no one asked.

My parents moved away. Did I tell you? Do you care? I suppose the whereabouts of some conlific* blogger’s family ain’t exactly breaking news. Anyways they’re gone, gone, gone; I am the last Noe left in this state. Before they left I had to go up to their newly-sold house and clean out all my shit. A different version of cleaning out your desk; it was like I’d been fired as their son. “You are no longer our son, now take this box and fill it with your possessions and then security will escort you off the premises.”

Except “this box” was actually a carful and a half. Books mostly, some old records, trinkets and knicknacks. Shit that’s important to you in high school. I found a couple boxes of letters, too. One was from a girl in college. I remember we were just friends but I can’t remember what the hell she looked like. I had a brief temptation to Google her but her last name is Jones.

I’m selling all the books off, and the comic books and all that crap. And the records even though I have a bad feeling they’re not worth a damn. Fire sale, everything must go. I will convert all my worldly possessions into cash which I will then give to Delta. I am going overseas in August because if I sit still for too long, my soul does this thing where it turns black and shrivels up.

Good times around the corner.

I took a box full of my Fantastic Four to the post office today, addressed to some citizen of eBay. Did anyone see that movie? Did it suck as bad as War of the Worlds and everything else that’s come out this summer? Except Rize, that is. Rize was easily the best thing I’ve seen all year. The movie’s not actually about dancing, by the way. I got kinda twisted up when Tommy the Clown discovers what he discovers after the competition.

Hope I didn’t just spoil it for you. While I’m throwing out spoilers, here’s another: At the end of War of the Worlds, all the aliens die of SARS. What the fuck.

Well, I’ve gotta run. Got a shoot tomorrow, and my bed is waiting for me along with a nice, new, crisp edition of The Economist.

Say, if I come up with anything that I think you, random citizen and not just some eBay freak, will actually want to buy, I’ll post it up here.

*I am aware that this is not a word, but it’s late and I’m tired, man.

Today’s soundtrack: leaving the bodega I say “suavé”
Today at 12:02pm: paparazzi without the payday



Even if I didn’t see the trucks I would know they’re filming a movie because of the hot dog stand on the corner. It looks patently absurd and has an umbrella the diameter of a parachute. There are not and have never been hot dog stands in my neighborhood. It’s funny what Movie People think New York really looks like.

“Are you in the movie?” the middle-aged Greekish woman asks me.

“No,” I say, giving her a what-the-hell-is-the-matter-with-you look. (Casting Call: Short, slight, shorn-headed Asian man with enormous nose sought for Bruce Willis/Mos Def action vehicle.)

Or maybe she thought I was an extra. Across the intersection in one direction is a line of them, make-upped, pretty, leaning against a building in the shade. It’s a hot, sunny day in Manhattan.

The crew is set up across the intersection in the other directions, shaded by a scaffolding. Cameras, cables and tables with monitors. Fat, unhealthy-looking guys in director’s chairs.

Two catering trucks are cranking out assloads of food to feed the enormous crew swarming the sidewalk. Through the open back door of one of the trucks I can see burners going, and a girl in her twenties sweating over them, scurrying back and forth. Looks like the ass-end of the deal to me.

It’s total chaos on the sidewalk, with crew members bustling this way and that. In the confusion I am able to wander unnoticed into an open doorway of the building on the corner. PA’s have begun directing sidewalk traffic so if anyone stops me I’ll say I live here, which is only a few doors from the truth.

But no one does stop me, and I ascend two flights of dusty stairs to find exactly what I was hoping to see: A door leading to the roof. I love New York roof access. My building has only partial access but this one has no padlock, just a simple bolt latch that opens from the inside.

I figure out the latch and go through the door quick, shutting it behind me and hoping no one locks it. Instantly I’m practically blinded; while most buildings in the city are roofed with black tar, the surface of this roof is fucking silver, reflecting the midday sun and magnifying it. I squint and turn my head sideways like I’m in a sandstorm and make for the corner of the roof nearest the intersection.

I reach the edge and look down to see I’m standing directly over most of the crew, and looking down on the camera units across the street. A perfect perspective.

An enormous blue truck that says WATER on the side of it rolls slowly up the block, spraying its payload all over the street. It goes around the block and appears again, now traveling perpendicular to its original route, and again wets the street down. Judging by the area getting hosed, I’m at the exact intersection where the action will take place. A guy with a hose comes out and covers those hard-to-reach areas.

A traffic cop stops traffic in one direction. A plainclothes cop (low-rent blue suit, badge on his belt) and a lanky black guy in a tan shirt walk into the middle of the intersection and stop.

I’m wondering why the PA isn’t telling them to get the hell out of there--then I realize it’s Bruce Willis and Mos Def. I could throw my keys and hit them from here, though I’m not sure why I’d do such a thing, or why it even occurred to me.

I’m surprised at how old and...dowdy Willis looks. His hair has been dyed a faded blond. I guess it’s all for the part.

A PA comes into the intersection and sprays their faces with some kind of aerosol. An older guy, a prop guy I assume, then hands Willis what looks like two halves of a sawed-off shotgun. After the two crew members clear the intersection, a guy with a megaphone enters the crosswalk.

“Okay, places everybody,” he yells. The extras take up places in the crosswalks. I hear a couple other people yell things out, “rolling” and “sound” I think, then someone yells “Action!”

Bruce hustles Mos Def diagonally across the intersection, clutching his pieces-of-shotgun. A row of taxis, three abreast lurches towards them--and the one in the middle almost hits Bruce.

“Stop! What the hell are you doing!” he bellows, slamming his hand on the hood, pissed. They continue going through the intersection, then Bruce dumps the shotgun halves in a small construction dumpster on the corner. They hustle down the sidewalk and disappear into the crowd.

A few moments later someone yells “Cut!”

Willis and Mos Def come back through the crowd, making their way towards the table with the monitors on it. The sidewalk is crowded with extras and crew, and Bruce gets through them by putting his hand on people’s backs and guiding them out of the way. At first I thought it was rude but as I continued watching him do it, it reminded me of when I was waiting tables, and that’s how we’d make our way through the crowded kitchen when it got hectic. Putting your hand on people to sort of announce your presence rather than actually pushing them.

Bruce watches the monitors intently, though I can’t make out the image from across the street. After he’s done Mos Def has a look while Bruce goes into the intersection. The three taxis, and an entire row of cars behind it have reversed down the street, back into their original positions.

Willis exchanges words with the driver of the taxi that almost hit him. Then he walks around to the front of the taxi. The taxi lurches forward again, aiming straight for him while he slams his hand onto the hood and jumps back to avoid getting hit.

He approaches the driver again, has another mini-conversation and they do the whole thing over. Lurch, slam. Lurch, slam. I’m impressed by how close the taxi comes to hitting him, there were a couple times when I thought Bruce’s legs were gonna get broke.

They shoot the scene several more times, with the centermost taxi stopping short at various distances, ranging from wow-you-scared-me to motherfucker-I’m-gonna-kill-you. Bruce alternates between yelling “What the hell are you doing!” “Goddammit!” and “God, dammit!” at the driver.

Every time they shoot the scene the (real) traffic cop has to come out and stop traffic, and the cars are queueing up. I’m amused to see a fight nearly break out down the block between a pedestrian and a motorist in a BM who are screaming at each other. The motorist starts to open his door and the pedestrian backs down.

It’s pretty hot up on this roof, and apparently it’s just as hot on the street. Between takes Willis takes his jacket off and his shirt is soaked through. From a perspiration point of reference he looks kinda gross, like if you saw him coming towards you on the subway you’d back up and be like “I hope this sweaty motherfucker doesn’t bump into me.” He and Mos Def start spraying their own heads with that aerosol can.

I’m beating the heat with a Snapple I had in my bag, but Bruce gets the next level of service: A PA starts following him around with an umbrella. Must be nice.

I could put a hole in that umbrella with my keys.

What is the matter with me?

Between takes, the driver of the center taxi gets out and stretches, and I have to laugh. When the driver’s door of a New York taxi opens up you expect to see a Bangladeshi or a Haitian or a Russian, but here comes this burly, sandy-haired white guy in a white dress shirt, jeans and sandals, and with the George Hamilton Hollywood tan. His look screams “stuntman.” He looks like he owns a speedboat and has a dog-eared copy of the J. Peterman catalogue on his coffee table.

I had my camera on me so I recorded video of takes three, four and five, and I was going to post it but thought better of it. I mean if I was making a movie and some asshole snuck onto a nearby roof and video’d it, then posted it online before the movie was done, I’d be like “What a douche.” Maybe I’ll put it up after the movie comes out.

Or maybe not; I’m sure this whole sequence, which took nearly forty minutes to shoot, will amount to less than ten seconds of footage. I’ll probably be the only person in the entire theater who gives this scene any additional thought.

Years ago I saw Die Hard 3 at the Sony Theater up on 68th Street. At one point it cuts to a shot of Bruce Willis and Sam Jackson arguing in front of a payphone, and everyone in the theater started laughing--the payphone was right up the block by the 72nd Street subway entrance, you could almost see the theater we were in in the background. Half of us had come out of that station to get to the theater.

Another time I saw 25th Hour (great movie) at my favorite theater, the one down at Battery Park. It opens up with a shot of the post-9/11 memorial spotlights--which were mounted right in front of the building we were in. It’s a weird feeling.

After they shot the final take, which didn’t look that different to me from the first take, a silver Yukon pulled up to the curb and Willis sauntered over to it. A PA scurried over to open the door for him but Bruce opened it himself and got in the back. The truck took off. The PA turned around awkwardly.

I looked around for Mos Def but he was already gone. Probably sitting in the back of his own SUV going “What rhymes with ‘Willis?’”

I turned around myself and headed for the roof entrance, hoping the damn thing wouldn’t be locked.

”Lemonade was a popular drink and it still is...”