Strawberry Fields Forever

Strawberry Fields in Central Park is a playground for the urban hippie—a Disneyland attraction with nary a remnant of the decade that inspired it, noted my collaborator Dr. Venture. Intended as a memorial to John Lennon, who was shot across the street 27 years ago, the Neapolitan mosaic centerpiece is surrounded by a pitiful gathering of undrafted former dorm lawn hacky sack players, second-rate jammers, and random cripples and vets. Way to branch out, guys.

None of this, however, deterred a pretty girl from sitting on a bench across from yours truly and Dr. Venture and reading a book. Rapt in the bloom-in-progress and the spiraling descent of cast-off flower petals, I failed to notice a middle-aged gentleman sit right next to the girl. Gentleman is a stretch. He looked very much like the owner of a take-out kitchen in Curry Hill—a short and stout brown-skinned midget in dark dress pants that didn’t mesh with a wrinkled windbreaker. His ride and mobile home—I thought at the time—a shopping cart filled with trash bags and the bric-a-bracs of an inner city nomad.

The crippled veteran doing doughnuts around the word IMAGINE on his wheelchair had a Yankees game to his ear on a portable radio. “Wang’s perfect through seven!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. The little man on the bench was in full mackin’ mode, his right arm now firmly planted behind the top plank on the bench. I made an instinctive move to get up, but there was no further encroachment. The girl, stoically reading the book at first, was now smiling; pleased at the attention, disgusted by the source. “I do, but guys my own age,” I heard her mutter, shortly followed by “none of your business.”

Dr. Venture sat still, admiring the gall of this pudgy little man with no prospects to open his mouth to a woman without asking for loose change. The shopping cart crammed with trash bags parked next to him turned out to belong to a tousled couple who now claimed it. And then there was me, sitting on the bench, debating whether I am a writer who enjoys and collects these scraps of life, or the hero who eats them up.

Blair is Blair

Three cheers to Tony Blair, a true adherent of the great Anglo-American alliance, and one of the great leaders in modern history. Bohemigrant hopes his formidable legacy will stand the test of time--and tarnishing by Iraq.

And What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up, Little Boy?

I've mostly retired from asking rhetorical questions about media bias. But last night's debate among republican presidential candidates temporarily forced me out of my bearhole. Sorry, but I don't remember Obama or Clinton being asked to delineate the differences between a Sunni and a Shiite last week. Or Kucinich presented with an effigy of Bush to tar, feather, and quarter. Between the retarded questions asked by some snot-faced Politico.com editor and Matthews' Tourette-like maniacal stage-pacing, I wasn't sure if I was watching a pre-primary debate or a 5th grade spelling bee. The normally tame Matthews stalked the stage like a rabid chimp, trying to "stump" the candidates and squelch carefully scripted answers by cutting them off and trying to elicit controversial "Republican" positions on abortion, global warming, and evolution. I guess the democrats couldn't be bothered with such insipid screener questions, they are the party of nuance, after all. Imagine Sean Hannity moderating between Edwards, Clinton, Biden, and co. In fact, why don't we, since political debate has been degraded to the level of shameful soundbites?

Have No Fears, We've Got Stories for Years...

Bohemigrant is embarrassed to have missed the third annual Immigrants Week. But hey, we're assimilated! You can't expect us to catch wind of every OTB shindig.

What does trouble Bohemigrant is the recent degradation of The Sopranos. Now in its last season, David Chase has abandoned fidelity to his characters and building the more subtle strory arc of seasons past to rush the ending of the series. Tony the gambling addict? Tony the ugly husband? Paulie's "flashbacks"? More and more, Sopranos is putting distance between itself and superior drama like The Wire and Deadwood.

Wine of the Week

This week we have a quaffer from Costa Brava, Spain--a fairly new viticultural region in northeast Spain, close to the Pyrenees. It's 60% granacha blanca and 40% macabeo, one of those obscure Spanish grapes you never hear about outside of Spain. You can find it for around $10-15 bucks at your local wine shop. It's a nice spring/summertime sipper, with a floral bouquet, citric fruit, and even slight acidity. It's light, but like an entertaining story, has a beginning, middle, and an end. 83 points. ( PS: I've decided to get off the tannins/antioxidant craze for a bit. Stay tuned for more white wine reviews, including the amazing '05 vintage of Rieslings.)

Guest Blogger

Many exciting things are in store for Bohemigrant. Guest blogger Duke Nobbins of the Society of Nobbins/Chinese Laudromat will soon make his blogging debut.

Also, the sex offender of the week is Efim Bronshteyn of Bath Beach, Brooklyn.

woot

who wouldn't want their kids wearing one fo these.

On the Attack

Props to Armenian Jewish chess machine Kasparov for trying to check Putin's scale-backs of democratic institutions. After all, I don't see Viswanathan Anand decrying train bombers from Bangladesh. Still, this guy is in serrious danger of having an accident in the next 2 years, or being taken out by a reprogrammed Deep Blue. Tread lightly, Garik.

Douchebag Brotherhood

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Wine Review

Rosso dei Monti comes from the Montefalco region of Umbria. It's a mix of Sangiovese and Sagrantino, a native Montefalco grape. It came highly recommended from the vendor and some douchebag at the checkout who didn't know what he was talking about. Grade-school nose followed by about 2 seconds of straightforward fruit. Light and smooth but bland in the mouth. Good for a picnic or a barbecue. 75 points.

funny link

http://sjl.funnyordie.com/v1/landing.php
this is pretty funny

Immigrants Against Violence

New York, NY (April 17, 2007)

In light of yesterday's horrific slaying at Virginia Tech, Bohemigrant would like to reaffirm its steadfast commitment to this nation and its laws and customs. We would also like to remind everyone that both of its co-founders are holders of American citizenship naturalization certificates.

perfect strangers the remake

Looks like the trend of remakes continues to flop. This latest remake of a classic tv show recieved only 1 star out of 4.

Revolution Now!

In a bid to displace the Eyeman from headlines, one crazy refugee makes his move. It seems the Berezovsky-Kasparov Jew Cabal's nefarious plot to bring Putin to his knees is in full swing.

TV-Shopping

In many ways, I'm still a kid. But that's what happens when you lead a sheltered existence--even a sheltered immigrant existence. So, when I needed to trade in my 14-year-old TV set for a new one, I brought my dad along to PC Richard, the torch-bearer of semi-sleazy chain electonics stores now that Nobody Beats the Wiz is no longer a factor. Knowing what I wanted, I approached a guy named Max, one of those Midwesterners with a perfect smile who look as foreign in Bensonhurst as an African on the North Pole. Max had a hypnotically reassuring demeanor that agreed with me before I uttered a word, and convinced me that I was right to buy whatever I chose, unless I didn't want it.

After he made the sale, Max skeptically, but gently, accepted my refusal of the extended warranty. He also informed me that I qualified for a PC Richard credit card with $5,000 of credit. He was positively shocked with this nice surprise. Again, I declined. Still, a beautiful bond was forged with the swipe of a debit Master Card. Life was great and full of happy, smiling salesmen named Max--even in Brooklyn.... Until, the box.

Max, eager to start a new friendship with the Italian couple with a flurry of alarm-system questions, hastily returned from the stockroom with my LCD (yeah baby!). We were ready to exit when Dad, ever watchful, noticed a huge tear in the cardboard. I sighed and interrupted Max from his friendly pitch, "Umm, Max, there's a tear on the side of the box."

"Oh yeah, they are all like that--want me to show you the other boxes? We don't work like that," he vouched, anticipating my thoughts, "we're not Harry's--we're PC Richard!" he demurred.

I was satisfied but Dad remained skeptical. Max was back at it with the Italians. "Let's see those other boxes," Dad said. This is the part where I usually get annoyed at Dad's officiousness, argue, create a scene, only to either do exactly what he asked in the first place, or leave and be lectured about my lack of audacity. But I, too, suddenly became disatisfied with Max's offhand dismissal of the huge fucking tear in the box, staring at me like the slit throat on a hog. Friends or not, he had to be held to account. "Uhh, Max?"

"Yes, more concerns?" Max was still cordial, but made his remarkable patience known.

"We're going to need to see that box now," I said, with a hot-off-the-presses receipt in lieu of a badge.

"Aww, geez, God...Lou?!" he called to the portly Italian man who was leaning against a camera display case. "We're going to need to see another box." Max then excused himself from the customers and swung around the box. The expression on his face changed from annoyed professionalism to annoyed apology. "Aaah, I see, I thought you were talking about the scratches on top. Sorry about that, I misunderstood."

Seconds later, a pristine sealed box appeared next to the damaged one, and I bid Max adieu, one friend poorer, but one almost certainly non-refurbished TV richer. I love my dad.

Wine of the Week

Bohemigrant's wine of the week is a 2004 Cousiño-Macul Antiguas Reservas Cabernet Sauvignon fom the Maipo Valley in Chile.




An earthy attack rich with native terroir releases a nose that hints of vanilla and herbs, followed by a fruity palate including blueberry, currant, and cherry. This is a medium-bodied wine meant to be popped open and glugged today. Score: 87 (from a non-Cabernet fan).

Chingui!

Where is Sacha "Baron" Cohen on this one? With no Borat movie to promote, who will provide a satire of the "Russian space nerd" blasting off into space from Kazakhstan? Is Kazakhstan a technologically advanced, oil-wealthy nation? Why have we been misinformed by Borat? I am waiting for the mock skit to hit the internet. In the meantime, let's all celebrate this historic space jaunt by pissing on our respective car tires, a long-observed consmonaut tradition.

Egress

This may be news to some of you. To others, it may rank somewhere between clipping your nails and the latest cricket standings. However, for one long-suffering Bohemigrant, today is the last day in the employ of Satan, and it that can't be named. However, it makes one wonder--is it possible to escape the death-grip of Murray Hill/Grammercy Park? 3 jobs and counting, we shall see.

To Wash, or Not to Wash

Countless "research studies" show that the number of people professing to wash their hands after using the loo far exceeds the numbers of people observed in the act. I can see random strangers in divey bars and bus stations readily dispensing with the time-consuming anachronism of washing your hands after handling your anus, member, and/or balls. What I don't understand is a coworker in a small office flagrantly doing this on a daily basis. Especially a coworker who finds enough time to brush teeth after every meal/snack. Seeing this individual later hand packages, shake hands, and high-five someone over a sports-spectating triumph, I can't help but see his urine-saturated hands performing these activities. I have never been an informant, but I am tempted to go Elia Kazan on him.

Watch Out, Yeltsin Dance

As scripted as this probably is, it is still track-stoppingly disturbing.