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Feb 24, 2004
A frontline report from the breakfast wars
Recently, we were pleased to hear from The Indestructable Charles Ehrlich. He had just returned from his annual Buddhist retreat in the “Big Sky” country of Wisconsin—an affair that saw him reunited, in an apparently plutonic way, with his ex, Karla Richardson. While some of you may be picturing a relaxing week spent drinking jasmine tea and discussing the impermanence of all things, Mista Chuck reports that the retreat was “challenging in an extreme and spiritually brutal way.” We’re not sure if we should put this down to Ehrlich’s usual bravado when it comes to all things dharmic, but we’re willing to accept that the Jewel Heart teachers kept him in a sweat.
Anyway, his missive has nothing to do with practices Buddhistical. Instead, in true Shpotzir fashion, he writes about breakfast and his friends. We reproduce it here, with Immense Charles’ characteristicaly unusual spelling and punctuation intact:
”last week saw a pair of impromptu mini-reunions of far flung fellow travelers: G. Ehrlich popped into the city last week for 48 hours, on business from San Francisco.
Speaking of Californication, C. Wilcha has been holed up in the Governator's state all month with John Cleese, who is starring in the still youngish Wilcha's first TV spot (for a bread company run by--you guessed it--Christopher's dad, Mr. John "I have lots of bread goods but no place in my heart for nepotism" Wilcha). Graf and G. Ehrlich and brother Charles rejoined in Soho, where they were seen enjoying a sudden schpotz on Wednesday morning at some fancy french joint.
Speaking of "fancy" and "French," Rob Clores and his lovely wife Carrie had a baby girl the very next day, and named her Gwendolyn Rose. The name is auspicious: Gwen was J. Moskowitz's mom's name and Rose was the Ehrlich grandmother's name and is also the middle name of Alexis and Bruce Menken's girl baby, Sonia, and it seemed especially appropriate this week, as spring is not far off.
Speaking of things that warm our gonads, the very next day, long lost schptoz member Noel "Noodles" Dowd emerged from his haunt in the mountains of Georgia for a Friday schpotz with Milo Graf's old man and Charles Ehrlich. Noodles had come north, he said, to retrieve his old sneakers and a lamp he left in Brooklyn, at his previous apartment, which according to Well N. Dowd, is now occupied by a hot Israeli woman. Mrs. Phineas Dowd stayed in Georgia where she is running a "spa." Happy endings after all. “ Posted at 04:45 pm by Shpotzir
Jan 28, 2004
A sudden explosion of words and photos
The victorious agents of the Shpotzir continue to expand our movement's presence in cyberspace, bringing closer the day when all thoughts in all brains shall be variations on the theme of Shpotzir-thought. Large Charles, finding himself with some free time on his hands, has weighed in with his new weblog, designed by Blastmaster G. Graf. Kudos for his condemnation of New York University's shiteries and fuckeries regarding the Bottom Line. Even though we had not been there in over six years (the last artist we can remember seeing was Shawn Colvin, who we were dragged to see by a former girl friend), we always got a warm feeling knowing that the place existed and that we could, if so inclined, pay $35 for a sentimental journey to our early 20s.
Continuing his triumphant campaign, our Asian correspondent Dan Friendly has escaped the evil dictatorship of Minyamar with his wife and children. He smuggled out a veritable coffee table book of photos, which you can view here. As always, his work is searing in the extreme--a powerful and relentless indictment of Western cultural imperialism and post-Cold War realpolitik. To which we say huzzah!
And, as always, our West Coast correspondent G. Ehrlich continues his prolific output, which includes this photo of a man in a mushroom suit. Oh, the freaks they have out West!
We applaud, praise and glorify the efforts of our Comrades in Shpotzir revolution! We villify and abhor the weak, watery attacks of our enemies! We call on out Shpotzir armies to continue and expand their heaven-mandated march towards domination!
Posted at 11:57 am by Shpotzir
Jan 15, 2004
Returning after a long absence...
It’s been over a month...
...since our last posting, and there are many developments to be discussed. Sadly, not all those developments are happy ones. Nevertheless, we feel its our duty to report them, as they impact—sometimes directly, sometimes not—on the nebulous Shpotzir community.
In Memory...
First and foremost, we note with sorrow the sudden passing of Milt Liebman, of Riverside Drive. The father of sometime Shpotzirist Kate Liebman, and father-in-law to founding member “Bones” Moskowitz, Milt was as fine a fellow as you could hope to meet, almost universally applauded for his dry wit and affable manner. Though never a Shpotzirist himself, Milt had the sort of passions that any of us would applaud—he liked horse racing, smoked salmon and travel; his wine collection was widely admired, he made potato pancakes every Christmas-eve, and he never passed up a good spy novel. And--praise of praise—he brewed the finest cup of coffee some members of our community have ever tasted. In the words of J.H Moskowitz: “His pots of joe got me through many a morning made wretched by his wine from the night before.” It’s a pity he came on the scene after our regular meals had ceased, because he would have been a star attraction.
This guy belongs at the Shpotzir...
Greenville Hot!
Though a trivial loss in comparison, another sad and shocking event impacts more directly on the Shpotzir community. That is the fire that lately engulfed the Ehrlich ancestral estate in Greenville, NY. This catastrophe was witnessed by T. Newman, who, warned by the barking of a dog he was taking care of, barely escaped a good crisping by the rapacacious flames. Stumbling out into the snow covered yard in nothing but a bathrobe, Theo watched in horror as the conflagration shot through the building, ultimately burning out the entire upstairs and much of the livingroom area. Lost in the blaze were such irreplaceables as the antique Victrola with which we willed away so many delightful hours, a box of artifacts from a branch of the Ehrlich dynasty wiped out in the Holocaust, and many knick-knacks and momentos that called to mind the farm’s heyday in the mid-to-late 1960s. As these few photos show, the damage was intense. No word yet on the Ehrlich clan’s plans to rebuild or replace the house.
Exposed beams.
The view from outside...
The view from inside.
Not good. Not good at all.
Fender, Stat!
Descending several more magnitudes of significance, we turn to the fiasco of Bones Moskowitz and the Kisch/Wolochow Subaru Outback. While the New Jersey based couple were in California with their angelic son Lucien, Moskowitz borrowed their car for several days—during which he managed to avoid any fender benders, tire slashings or break-ins, all of which might be expected in a thriving metropolis like New York City. Ironically, as soon as he took the car to beaucolic Leonia, he smashed the fender pulling out of the Ehrlich family driveway.
Perhaps appropriately, this notoriously tricky stretch of black top was the scene of the last accident that Moskowitz can remember being involved in. It was nearly 20 years ago, Kisch was in the passenger seat, and Moskowitz was drunk on Pepsi and licorice sticks. He swung out of the driveway in his father’s K-Car (the fabled “silver fox”) and backed into a quite expensive looking Toyota on the far side of the street. There was a sickening thud, and he saw that he had put a good size dent in the back passanger seat door. As it was 2:30 in the morning, he felt duty bound to flee the scene without leaving a note. Alas, this time he had to pay the piper, as the car was owned by a friend and honor dictated that he replace the damaged part. Fortunately, the relatively small dent had only damaged the bumper cover. Unforunately, the bumped cover costs several hundred dollars to replace. Chastened, Moskowitz has sworn to take public transportation from now on.
Recent Shpotzirs
December did see its share of actual Shpotzirs (as opposed to the virtual kind we attempt to create on this site). On Friday, December 18, D. Ehrlich sent out the following e-mail:
graf, greor and i are having a Conqueror's Breakfast and Schptoz of the Victorious Ones tomorrow (Friday) at 8:30AM at MY FAVORITE BISTRO (west 72nd & Columbus, surprisingly good food & coffee.) PLAYA HATAS NEED NOT APPLY.
This was followed the next morning by an real, honest-to-God breakfast, which was attended by Hurdles Grebin, Egon Graf, The Ehrlich Brain Boys (Gregor in from San Francisco), Moskowitz and some special quests, including G. Ehrlich’s wife The Wadenius. My Favorite Bistro served a fairly good cup of coffee, and some entirely acceptable omlettes, but any question of it becoming a regular gathering place is complicated by its proximity to the Large Charles residence, as questions of favoritism might be raised.
Said residence was the site of another Shpotzir, this time on New Year’s Eve. A quiet dinner of salmon, swordfish and shrimp cocktails, the delightfully adult event was attended by Graf and his pregnant wife Annie Sanford-Hewitt, Bobby Sloan and his pregnant wife Sadie (actually, we’ve forgotten her real name, no offense meant to Mrs. Sloan) as well as Moskowitz, who was sans wife and child, and The Wadenius, who was sans husband. At various points, the soundtrack included Frank Sinatra, old blues records, R. Kelly remixes and Andre 3000’s “The Love Below.” The company ascended to the roof deck (which is currently—and terrifyingly—unpossessed of side rails, making a plunge to the street below a distinct possibility) and watched the fireworks over Central Park. Traditionally set off to mark the beginning of the midnight run around the park, this year’s display was unusually long and quite spectacular. The only fly in the ointment was the vague uneasiness occassionaed by the hightened terrorism alerts of that week, an uneasiness which translated itself in this case to some furtive glances south in the direction of Times Square in the fear (and perhaps secret hope) of seeing some spectacular explosion rock the city. Fortunately, the only explosions were above Central Park West.
And finally...
...we’d like to close this post by directing you to some websites we have found amusing and/or informative in the past few weeks. As always, Arts & Letters Daily is an essential starting point for any number of interesting articles, though we’d recommend you stear clear of the one that begins “The detonation of a nuclear bomb…” We’re still getting the night sweats after reading that two weeks ago. There’s a highly amusing piece from an Australian newspaper about the personals section in the New York Review Of Books (the last few paragraphs have some fine writing) and, as always, we direct you to Greg Ehrlich and Moth Productions, Greg Graf’s Groupshow and the photography and journal entries from our Asian correspondent D. Friendly (who, if a recent email is to be believed, is at this writing vacationing in the repressive police state of Myanmar). Posted at 10:55 am by Shpotzir
Nov 21, 2003
A forgotten fragment or two
The other day, during an undeserved break from work, we started to randomly Google people we haven’t seen in a while. We turned up nothing of particular interest, so in a spirit of what-the-hell we googled the term “shpotzir” to see what would come up. It would be gratifying to report several thousand hits, but in fact there were very few. Many pointed to the site you’re reading now. However, there was one that we didn’t recognize, and clicking on it we were taken to a page that offered a definition of a shpotzir, as well as some other diverting material.
We vaguely recall this as being part of Grandmaster Milt Ehrlich’s original website. It’s certainly his voice, though there is a strong possibility it was written by one of his sons. At any rate, we were highly amused by this bit about garage sailing (we choose to adapt the author’s colorful coinage)::
I think many items are highly collectible. Once or twice, I have guests on my garage sailing. Depending on who is in town, some novices sit in as a navigator, which is position #3 in the heirarchy of garage sailing. Sometimes this is my extremely fearful wife, who likes to buy Japanese bisque dolls and keeps her hair in a bun. Sometimes a spiky haired friend of my son who has a rubbery face and a somewhat big nose came garage saling with me. He bought Americana. I consider that type of 20th century stuff crappy, but I didn't tell him so. I did manage to talk him out of buying a clock, which I then deftly bought after he put it down.This type of power move is for advanced players only.
You can read the whole thing here.
This find gave us an idea. As you may know, our staff has been trying to put together a comprehensive archive of the Shpotzir Newsletters produced on paper between 1995 and 1997. It’s been daunting enough just compiling the text, let alone designing a web-based recreation of the original designs. Re-reading the newsletter has been quite enjoyable, however, so we thought we’d post some of the better passages here, just to wet your appetite. The following is from the January 10th, 1997 issue. Some of the names have been changed to protect us from liability:
The Talking Cure
We start off the New Year at the Talking Cure with some backative from the well-known author, Buddhist scholar, and self-described obeah-man Aram “Hebrew Styles” Ehrlich:
Old fashioned swimsuits
I’ve never worn one, but once when I was eleven I went to Prince Edward Island with my father. I was wearing a tank-top with trunks, and he said “Michi, you look like me when I was when I was a boy at Coney Island.” I think it would be a good idea for those to come back in. It would be so out that it would be in. On the other hand, the far greater truth is that the notion of fashionable—”out” and “in”—should be permanently unfashionable. All magazines that have “What’s Hot and What’s Not” columns are wrong-headed. They’re a source of tremendous resentment and ennui.
Brits
I think Britain is an inherently cataclysmic society which undergoes periodic disasters and yet somehow survives. Their entire empire fell apart and they became a floating aircraft carrier for the United States, after more or less controlling the world a hundred years ago. And they had the Black Plague and so on. It’s just an incredibly awful, tooth-rotting society. I don’t know why they don’t have jobs, how they have the time to do this, but they actually have rallies anytime anyone tries to introduce fluoridation. Because they’re violently opposed to having teeth.
Applesauce
Probably one of the eleven great joys of my life. It calls to mind the 2nd Avenue Deli. New York when it was a Yiddish newspaper town. Rodgers and Hart. Of course, the first association is with latkas. But applesauce is also good on other things that you wouldn’t expect, like brisket, hamburgers, walnuts. It’s very diverse.
Sloth
Sloth is a huge issue. I have a problem being moderately active. I seem to vacillate between total hyperactivity— relentless, self-killing suicidal intensity—collapse—total exhaustion and immovable depression. I think a lot of my behavior is a reaction against fear of depression. Napping is a big issue for me. I can’t take a nap when it’s light out and wake up when it’s dark. The sun has disappeared and I find that appalling.
Ineze S. vs. Satrine B.
Ineze is more dangerous, but Satrine is more scary. Ineze is a powerful, crafty, Machievelian character, whereas Satrine is just. . . more like a Nazi, the banality of evil come to life. Faux Martha Stewart, Connecticut housewife who would be stirring this giant pot with your bones melting in it. Whereas Ineze would be more the type of person who, when she murdered you, it would be a crime of passion, and she’d be bashing you over the head with a candlestick and sweating and, like, grunting. You know, making some not very pleasant sounds.
Chris Wilcha
Well, because Wilcha is one of the most avid praisers I’ve ever met, he engenders this wild, nervous energy in me that has grooved itself into a repeated habit: whenever I see him now, I can’t stop praising him. I go into these semi-theistic worship sessions. Wilcha is kind of like the Buddha. The Buddha was just a human who was a symbol of the fact that we have the opportunity to achieve enlightenment. In the same way, Wilcha is a source of refuge. In times of stress you can say to yourself “Chris Wilcha is this guy from New Jersey who was into Eric B. and Rakim back in ‘86.” Which I, at least, find enormously comforting. He’s incredibly accurate in the way that he sees and articulates reality—he perceives its absolute essence with unblind accuracy. But the thing is, I also think that to some degree his intellectualism actually gets in the way of the functioning, or revelation, of his emotions. There might be a protective shield there. And please don’t receive this as a dis, Chris. But really, the most admirable thing about him is his persistent use of the words “dialectic” and “slushy” in the same sentence.
London
For a long time a very over-rated city. It was cool in the 1890s, and in the 1950s with the Edward Agee era, and of course the 60s. And I guess it was cool in the 70s, but it was really not that cool in the 80s, when I was there. And now its actually cool again because of the drum and bass thing. Drum and bass is a new musical idiom. Very post-jungle. What it is is two kinds of beats played simultaneously: a techno beat, at 200 beats per minute, and a hip hop beat, at 80 beats per minute. And this gives you a heart attack. Apparently there’s a real scene going on right now. Everyone’s talking about drum and bass.
Bill Appleton
I was thinking how awesome the surface of the tops of his hands are. Like anaconda snakes crawling across a white, opalescent surface. I also admire him because he got thin and muscular, while we all got fat.
Posted at 05:00 pm by Shpotzir
Nov 14, 2003
We were delighted this morning to receive another excellent report from our Eastern correspondent D. Friendly. He takes stock of the work ethic and moral caliber of our Central Asian allies the Turks -- and finds both lacking. It’s a wonderfully written essay—but there was one sentence (or, rather, fragment of a sentence) that sent a shiver up our collective spine. To whit:
“They [the Turks] may have donned the attire of Old Europe -- in this case jeans, sport coats with vests, and duck-billed caps -- but I wear a sarong around the house and that hardly qualifies me for an Indonesian passport.” [our italics]
It’s going to take several gallons worth of whiskey sours to wash that image out of our head.
Other Shpotzir observations:
* We are pleased to see that West Coast correspondent G. Ehrlich is as prolific as ever. He has several new entries at his own site which are worth reading. And he still has that wonderful photo of Brother Newman that we mentioned before. Excellent.
* We’re dismayed that there has been so little activity at Brother Graf’s Groupshow website. Most of the photos posted there are from the summer. That means there are at least three months worth of wonderful photographs piling up and waiting to be displayed. We urge their immediate release.
* We’re irritated that we haven’t finished the Shpotzir newsletter archive—or indeed posted any of those historic issues. We make no excuses—our failure to reconstruct that fruitful period of Shpotzir literature is unforgivable. We hope to rectify this in a week or two. Posted at 10:44 am by Shpotzir
Nov 6, 2003
Paul Christian: Published Poet
We can't really remember--and we're too lazy to check previous posts--but we think we mentioned that original Shpotzirist Paul Christian (né Milton Ehrlich) was recently published in both The New York Times and The Christian Science Monitor. Well, his poetry is now out in force on the Internet, at this site, for any who are interested--and you should be interested--and if you're reading this webloge you are probably a Shpotzirist so it behoves you to read the works of one of your predecessors--and besides the poems are fascinating coming from someone normally so close-mouthed--much more dark than we would have expected--and ironic too in that he got published so easily in two big publications when his sons have had to work very hard in order to achieve same--and heartening to all of us slipping towards middle age by showing that the creative spark is not limited to the young--and providing a benchmark for how to live once you've retired and your children are out of the house--and just good because they are good poems.
In other news, G. Ehrlich continues the attack on T. Newman's self-image that we began a few posts ago (see below), by running this photo on his website. We're not sure if Theo is imitating the fashion lady from the Old Navy ads, Interview dominatrix Ingrid Sischy, or Brain Trust patriarch Etta Ehrlich (to whom, we believe, the glasses belong). At any rate, it's amazingly disturbing--more so, in its own way, than the threat from Al-Qaeda (see the good folks at MEMRI) which so unnerved Messrs. Moskowitz and D. Ehrlich yesterday that they ran home and hid under their respective beds.
In other news, Bones Moskowitz and his wife recently bought an upper West Side mansion for a cool 4.5 million, thereby ensuring their son Jakob will be attending community college 18 years from now. Meanwhile, A. Kisch recently finished renovating his family room, expanding it to the size of two football fields. He intends to use the room "to take my exercise of a Sunday morning."
That's all we really have time for now. The Shpotzir staff is currently hard at work putting together an archive of all the old Newsletters, which we hope to post a link to soon. And, as always, we welcome posts from other Shpotz alum, either emailed to us or posted directly by their authors.
Posted at 11:54 am by Shpotzir
Oct 31, 2003
The perils of language and other perils of other things
We were gratified to receive two emails in our inbox this morning. One was from our Asian correspondent, D. H. Friendly, who alerted us to an update in his Hanoi journal. This short and amusing piece details the pitfalls of trying to learn a new language late in life, particularly one as devilishly tricky as Vietnamese. Of course the story ends with Holmes propositioning some innocent female (which of his stories doesn't?), but it is a good read nonetheless. You can read the entire thing here.
The other mail came from J. Bones Moskowitz, who quickly jotted down these thoughts after arriving late at work (a not uncommon occurrence, we believe).
"I woke up at 5:00 this morning and played with my son for over an hour. Contrary to what you might think, waking up at 5:00 does not insure that I will get to work on time--quite the opposite. Inevitably I fall asleep again at 7:00 or so, having passed the boy off to his mother and told myself I was just taking a quick refresher. I wake up two hours later, at 9:00, far more exhausted and disoriented than I was at 5:00, and attempt to go through my morning ritual. My son, in the meantime, has had another nap, and is near bursting with energy, which he has recently learned to express through a series of high pitched and surprisingly resonant screams. His tone expresses neither anger nor joy--he is experimenting with volume, I think, and his yelling is monotone, and, alas, not at all cute (it's the first time I've ever had to say that about him). He's always been a very amiable baby, but it's obvious his relative placidity up to this point was merely the process of storing up his noise.
Anyway, that's not actually what I wanted to write about. I stumbled out of my in-laws' apartment (we were staying on the Upper West Side last night) and made my way down to the 96th street subway stop to find the 7th avenue line was completely shut down. There were several fire trucks parked on Broadway with their lights flashing, and a line of policemen stood in front of the station entrance directing people to the C stop three avenues away. It looked very much like an Operation Atlas job (for those not in the know, Operation Atlas is the name of the NYC anti-terrorism force). I asked one of the cops what had happened, and he said "Fire" in an automatic way. A woman next to me asked how many stations were closed and he said "The entire 7th avenue line," with a trace of annoyance. I asked him when the fire had started and that seemed to trip him up. "Uh, I don't know," he said uncertainly, "I guess around 9:00."
I immediately resolved to take the cross town bus and catch the 6 train downtown, which was better for me anyway, as it would let me out half a block from work. I crossed Broadway to the bus stop, where a crowd of people were already waiting, but as the bus pulled up an EMS guy jumped out of his truck and banged angrily on the driver side window. "Keep moving! Keep moving!" he yelled and we all watched astounded as the bus pulled away without opening its doors. Only one person reacted, a frizzy haired woman who started screaming at the EMS guy with the relish of a seasoned New Yorker taking an authority figure to task. "Why? Why?" she bellowed, and the EMS guy shot back "Because it's blocking traffic!" as if it was the most absurd question he'd ever been asked. "But you told us to take the cross-town bus!" she countered, gesturing emphatically with her hand to include the cops, medical and fire department personnel in a general indictment of incompetence. "It will block emergency service vehicles!" the EMS guy spat back. "What if all the people hurt down there need ambulances?" I didn't hear any more of the conversation, because, like most of the people there, I had started running towards Amsterdam, hoping to catch the bus when it stopped there.
Fortunately, there was already a line at the next stop, and so we were all able to get a space. By now I was fairly paranoid, wondering if this was just your run-of-the-mill track fire or an elaborate plot to blow up American commuters. Just then I noticed an older woman in a head covering and sun glasses, holding a big canvas bag in front of her and looking fixedly downward with a serene countenance. I remembered reading about suicide bombers in Israel, and how they always seemed happy and smiling right before they blew themselves up. I stared at her for a while with dread, then (I'm ashamed to admit) I started trying to position myself so as to keep the maximum number of people between the two of us. I figured I'd let some strangers shield me from the main blast and take my chances scampering out the window when the worst was over. Despicable, really, but that's how my mind was working. Of course, she wasn't a suicide bomber: she got off at the same stop as me, lugging a folded-up baby stroller and followed by her daughter, who was holding the small child at whom the grandmother had been beaming the whole time.
I caught the down town 6 and figured my day was settling into its normal routine. Then I noticed a young black man pacing up and down the car, who seemed to be confronting people, or at the very least talking to himself in the loud, disassociated way of the truly berserk. I had my headphones on at this point, and was listening to a recording of "The Pickwick Papers," but I turned the sound down in order to suss out the situation. To my surprise, he turned out to be a preacher, or at least an enthusiastic Christian trying to convert his fellow sinners. But he must have been new at it, because he had neither the over-brimming good cheer of someone delivering the Good News, nor the blood-and-thunder authority of someone prophesying about the Last Judgment. He talked about Jesus in a slightly pissed off way, reminding us that the Lord was the only thing we could truly rely on, but saying it in the same kind of tone he might have used to tell us to fuck off. He hesitated a couple of times, and then imperfectly quoted scripture. He hadn't yet learned the trick of proselytizing with absolute faith while completely ignoring the reaction of his audience. I got the sense that if someone had rolled their eyes at him, he would have gotten offended, rather than laughing off the obtuseness of a non-believer. He got off after a few stops and I silently wished him well and hoped he could gain some confidence in his sermonizing. I felt very charitable, all in all.
I wasn't expecting to witness any more strange behavior but almost immediately a young, balding guy sat down next to me, and started avidly reading the paper. That in itself is quite normal. But a few minutes later five German tourists in track suits entered the train and stood over us, talking among themselves, and the guy next to me looked up abruptly and regarded them with a look of hatred on his face. After a few moments I heard him say to one of the tourists "Are you German? I hope you know that Germany is the source of all the evil in this world." The tourist looked down at him blankly. "More evil has come from that country than any other place in the world!" he said with rising vehemence. I looked up at the tourists, but plainly they didn't understand. They looked down on the man--not with the cool Aryan superiority of scientists regarding a slug in a Petri dish, but with the bafflement of people who thought they were just minding their own business. "Nothing good ever came out of Germany!" said the man with a sneer, and snapped his head back down to his paper. Now, I'm no great fan of the Germans, but I thought this was uncalled for. I considered pointing out to him that Austria is clearly more evil than Germany, as it had produced both Hitler and linzer torte. Germany, on the other hand, was responsible for Beethoven, Yiddish and Elke Sommer (wait, maybe she was Swedish). At any rate, those tourists weren't doing anything wrong, and didn't deserve to have their country so contemptuously slagged off.
The train pulled in to 33rd street and we all alighted on the platform. The German-hating fellow had to brush by one of the tourists and he looked like he was going to spit on the pavement in disgust. As I emerged into the sunlight on Park and 32nd, I saw a black guy and an Indian guy arguing in front of one of those pushcart coffee-and-donut stands and I thought about how much I loved New York."
Posted at 03:20 pm by Shpotzir
Oct 28, 2003
Chinatown Shpotz, plus an amusing site for you record collectors
More shots from Chairman Wilcha, these of a recent mini-Shotz at the famous New Chow-Cho (sorry for the Anglicized spelling) on Mott Street. Attending were...well, you can just look at the pictures.
And, for those music fans who still appreciate kitsch, there is this site.
For Some, There Is Hot Sauce...
For Others, There Is Coke...
Bones Takes A Seventh Inning Stretch
The neon is not nearly as bright when you're there.
Posted at 12:01 pm by Shpotzir
Oct 27, 2003
We’ve always known that The Wilcha was an inveterate shutterbug, and he proves it once again by sending in the following shots. For those of you who don’t remember, these photos were taken on a windy boat trip last May, on the day before G. Ehrlich’s wedding. Though a gorgeous spring day on shore, it was a bit windy out on the Hudson, and the cold is reflected in our sometimes pained expressions.
In addition, the ride turned out to be a weird tour-of-horror, narrated by one of the most depressing (and unintentionally hilarious) guides we’ve ever encountered. Reading between the lines of his deadpan, Steven Wright-ish monologue, you could hear how much he relished the grisly details with which he felt obliged to regale us. In addition to recounting the burning of The General Slocum in 1904—a disaster which killed over 1,000 people and effectively wiped out New York’s Little Germantown—and dwelling in inappropriate detail on the World Trade Center attacks, he told some insane story of a woman who was in an elevator in the Empire State Building when it was hit by a B-25 bomber during the war. She fell something like 80 flights and survived, eventually marrying the fireman who rescued her. If we recall correctly, the guide couldn't resist finishing the story with the information that both lived into their 80s but eventually succumbed to disease—cancer in the case of the husband, pneumonia in the case of the wife. Hope you enjoyed the tour and have a wonderful day.
There was a lot of wind...
The sun was blinding.
Almost too much...
Some of us had to wear shades...
But we had a good time nonetheless.
The sky above him...
And the sea below.
We originally intended to post the above pictures last Friday night, but various technical snafus prevented us from doing it until today. In the meantime, we dug up a few pictures from our own archives, both to show the Chairman hard at work taking the photos you've already seen, and to give a little context to the weekend. To wit:
"Yes! The camera loves you! IT LOVES YOU!"
Mario, get me another roll of Tri-X...
Taking calls the night before...
Everything had a certain glow...
Graf's in the woods...
...and Theo's bugging out
(note evil bottle of beer, tempting our young swain with its siren call).
Posted at 01:38 pm by Shpotzir
Oct 24, 2003
A real "blog"-type blog entry
Generally, I'm turned off by the way many blog writers spend their time quoting each other. That kind of self-referential dialogue gets boring rather quickly. (And yes, I'm well aware of the irony of me saying that). On the other hand, we as Shpotzirists do appreciate good writing--or, at the very least, clever phrasing. So I thought I'd post the following recent passage from James Lileks, a famous name in the so-called "blogosphere." I particularly like the phrase at the end, which sounds like something Theo would say.
The market doesn’t make high-quality judgments if the people driving the markets have low standards, or they have a variety of standards that don't put product quality first. I’d rather have a slightly great cup of coffee in an incredibly cool cafe than a great cup of coffee in a dive festooned with Nazi memorabilia. I’d rather have a so-so burger in a dive with a friendly waitress than a great meal in a place where the staff sneered at me and never refilled my drink.
It’s very complex. Starbucks’ regular coffee tastes like old donkey hooves soaked in burnt crankcase oil. But their Americano coffee is okay by me.
Posted at 02:49 pm by Bones
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