Lost in History vol. 80: A Very HALy Memorial at the City Reliquary

Hal was a coyote. Possibly the most famous coyote to scamper the grounds of Central Park, score cover shots on both the Post and the Daily News, and pass from these terrestrial plains in two days' time; Hal had snuck his way into our hearts. Named after the Hallett Nature Sanctuary, where he was discovered on March 20th 2006, Hal enjoyed a short but exciting hustle before the NYPD shot him with a tranquilizer dart and ended his adventurous romp. While en route to the New York Zoo in the Bronx, Hal passed away unceremoniously, due to complications of heart worms and the digesting of a poisoned rat. So ended the saga of Hal . . .
. . . until a few Sundays ago when Brooklyn-based artist Dillon de Give hosted a memorial to this fallen figure of mystery. Dillon got it into his head that Hal never saw a proper send-off, and intended to do so with help from his friends at the City Reliquary. Dillon's intention was to create a reciprocal human trip by recreating Hal's 60-some-odd mile journey, from upstate New York to Central Park, but backwards, starting here and ending there. Dillon also planned on leaving impromptu memorials to Hal along the way. He wanted a proper send-off for his own journey, and we sent out the word and got a few speakers together for a late-afternoon lecture in our rotating exhibit gallery.
Audience members enjoyed Wile E Coyote cartoons and mingled around while waiting for the event to start. Dillon went first, explaining his childhood association with coyotes, growing up in New Mexico where there are a helluva lot of them, as opposed to here in NYC. He spoke about the evolution of the coyote and their predilection for living with humans as scavengers, much like pigeons, how the two are almost spirit animals, surviving on the cast-offs of us. We watched some live coyote footage and enjoyed the explanation for Dillon's impending journey.
I went next, explaining how Central Park was the first man-made creation of nature in the world to resemble nature itself. Prior to Central Park, parks in the world looked as if they were designed by humans - the National Mall in DC is a giant rectangle, with all the trees in a straight line, all the landscaping done very consciously. Ditto Versailles in Paris, but to the nth degree. With Central Park, Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux had the opportunity to make a obviously landscaped park in the middle of the most urbanized city to date, but they went the opposite direction, hiding the city from the park-goers.
Following the Central Park talk we had a sculptural artist, Nao Matsumoto show a slide of his sculpture hanging in the Pratt Sculpture Gardens in Brooklyn, and discuss the mythology of Wile E Coyote and the never-ending chase for the Roadrunner. It was completely impromptu, as Nao had just been contacted the day before the lecture and wasn't sure if he was going to make it. Nevertheless, his talk was brief and beautiful, discussing the experience of soul-searching and always hunting, and allowing the process of the hunt to be part of the discovery.
After Nao, Kay Turer, Resident Folklorist of the Brooklyn Arts Council spoke about the coyote as trickster in Native American folklore. "Coyote went along" was her gift to Dillon, in which she explained that at the start of every tale, these magical talismanic words impart the knowledge that Coyote the explorer, Coyote the adventurer, Coyote the unknown will always go "along" in his ways, no matter what obstacles or interruptions he might face.
Following the speakers our collected group of 60 audience members went to our spacious backyard and participated in a group howl, for all the dogs and coyotes of Williamsburg to share in. It was a wonderful event, and Dillon de Give took off the next morning on his 66 mile journey. We miss you Hal!

Lost in History vol. 79: A Fowl Affair

Our neighbor, Shai Kessler, happens to be a highly accomplished chef, having worked for such NYC institutions like Bloomingdales as well as hotshot new restaurants like Dovetail on the Upper West Side. Regardless, we are all busy New Yorkers and hardly ever get to sit around and appreciate the man's talent for cookery. Its not like we want to give tours to our friends on our days off, and he sure as hell isn't interested in cooking for neighbors and hangers on.
But when his roommates, Thomas & Samantha, a wonderful married couple from Tennessee had their fancy digital SLR camera stolen from them, off Sam's neck, while they were asleep on the L train on Christmas Eve! . . . Shai decided to do something about it. He did the thing he's best at - get friends and neighbors together for a homecooked meal / benefit to help the kids buy a replacement camera. That's how we found a quirky invitation with a plump bird slapped up top slipped under our door.
We put on our fancy dinner jacket and slippers, walked the 20 feet down the hall with a bottle of organic red and the requested $20 donation in hand, and joined a raucous party in progress. We also did our part in party production by donating our banquet table and most of our chairs. We nibbled on olives and introductions before the first course, a sumptuous Roasted Quail in a sherry reduction augmented by a tart lentil salad.
The benefit seemed on the successful side, as had any more than 20 arrived, there'd be no place to put their butts or wine glasses. Two couches, a flight of stairs, three tables, seven chairs and various flat surfaces were all quite accommodating, and plates of food were being balanced on bookshelves, countertops, hands, laps and the aforementioned banquet table. Sam and Thomas (pictured above left and right) made a speech that brought a few to wipe their moist eyes. More wine!
Second course was a delightful Coq Au Vin, surrounded in a pomme puree and augmented by wilted winter greens. As the various party people (and Josh, above,) can attest, the dishes were basically licked clean by slightly tipsy revelers.
With dessert - a scrumptious Cardamom Flan encircled by a Rose Petal sauce - came the post-prandial Ports and Sherrys, as well as a rousing game or three of Apples to Apples, the best party card game in the world. After hysterical comparisons and more wine, port and sherry (but no more food - we all had our fill) it was time to head home. We, in the most delicious food and wine induced coma, thanked our fortunes to know such good people who have such good taste.

Shai is already planning future dinner parties and benefits - if so inclined, shoot us a line and we'll gladly put you in touch with this DIY chef superstar.

Lost in Philly vol 78: Twentyfour hours of Philidelphia, Beer, and Boys will be Boys

Josh the freelance journalist sent out the first email. "Yo. Goin' to Philly for their Beer Fest. Who wants to come along? Wheee!" Josh has a preternatural tendency to tap into excellent food and drink adventures, which makes him a natural when exploring the outer boroughs of our own city. The deal only got sweeter when Josh scored a free hotel room as well as a 2 free passes for the opening night's event. One for him and one for me! Wheee! Off to Philly for me! I invited Jonah for the beertivities.
Josh and Aaron Wilson (known as Wilson) had bused down earlier that Friday, so when Jonah and I arrived at 4pm sharp, Wilson and Josh had been wandering and drinking. We parked the Eggplant Xpress, made our way to the bar, and gulped down the first of many a beer. I started with a Marzen, a heavy, malty 6.8% whopper of a beer, auspiciously heralding my arrival in this beer-mad city.
Countless dorm rooms are plastered with the wonderful Benjy Franklin (mis)quote "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." How trite, yet how true. Just like Brooklyn's Brewers Row in today's East Williamsburg / Bushwick, Philadelphia had its own hood, Brewerytown, in the northwestern part of the city. Throughout the 19th and into the 20th century, Philly boasted more than 90s breweries in the city itself, with another 100+ in the metropolitan region. However, the one-two punch of post WWI anti-German sentiment, followed by Prohibition shuttered most of these industries for good, in both Philly and BK.
But just like Brooklyn, Philly has seen a beer resurgence, with dozens of breweries and brewpubs reopening and jumpstarting the microbrew revolution with delicious results. The Philly Beer Week, now celebrating its 2nd year, is a 10-day festival spread out over over 50 bars with hundreds of events and thousands of pints poured into thirsty maws. None of us could spend more than 24 hours celebrating, so we got straight to liquid business.
After the first pub, after the hotel check-in, we set off on a bar bounce. But its not all booze and blues - many bars and breweries offer feel-good reasons to drink. Our next bar gimmick, called "Save a kitten, drink a fish!" was in donating all dollars spent on Flying Fish beer to an animal rescue fund. Following bar #2 was Bob & Barbara's Lounge, where every square inch was dedicated to PBR paraphernalia and ads from as far back as the 40s.
Then, it was a quick cab ride to the Comcast center and the Opening Tap event. Over 50 brewers offering 2 to 3 different samples of their luscious, liquidy wares. Each participant was handed a 6 ounce plastic tumbler in which to taste the beers, but with one entry ticket each, we could sample as many beers as we wanted. And lord, did we sample!
Following the opening tap, two more Brooklyn Boys - Aaron #2 and Ben Haas were waiting to meet. We found them, surprise surprise, in another bar. So we joined them for beers (hoppy, spicy) and charged onwards, to more bars for more beers. At some point a cheesesteak was devoured. At another point, a strip club was entered. Sadly, Philly shuts down for the night at 2am and our gang all passed out, a day well drunk.
The next morning was a little painful, so we decided, rather spectacularly, to head to Johnny Brenda's in the north end of Philly, for an authentic Port Brunch, in which we had over a dozen microbrewed ports to choose from.
Naturally, we tried them all. A wise decision.
Following our port brunch, we marauded our way across town in the brilliant Philly haze and sunshiney smog, enjoying the resurgent industrial neighborhoods.
Somehow, through blind, drunk historical luck, we stumbled upon a historical marker declaring the very first Lager brewed in America! To celebrate, we went to the bar.
And then another one. And then . . . it was time to leave this magical world of hefeweisens and hopbacks, of IPAs and Bells for Boobs (Bells Brewery which donated proceeds to breast cancer research) in which our drinking would certainly save the world. Maybe not our livers . . . but who needs them?!? Philly, we love you and we'll be back! As soon as our throbbing headache goes away . . . More than enough pictures of our adventures can be found here, here, and here!

Lost in History vol. 77: 3way Bro-date Bike ride to Flushing; Farewell Shea Stadium.

Every forecast we checked promised a perfect weather weekend, considering this was still February. Saturday's bright sunshine, clear blue skies, slight breeze and mid-to-high-50s meant one thing: bicycling! And where better to ride our trusty two wheelers to, but a far-off land of outer-borough exoticism and tongue-numbing food, Flushing! Rounding out the adventure team were our buddies Josh Bernstein, food writer extraordinaire, and Jean Barberis, a dapper and delightful Frenchman of extraordinary abilities.
First Josh biked from his place in Crown Heights to mine in Bushwick, a total of 3.5 miles. Together, Josh and I then hustled up to Jean's pad in Woodside, another 4.3 miles. Once we pickedup the Frenchman, we all boogied our way to Flushing, tallying another 4.5 miles, but we got turned around in Flushing Meadows-Corona Park and ended up in the Queens Botanical Garden before hitting the magical land of East Asian delicacies along Main street, Queens, USA.
Flushing started out its lengthy history as a Dutch trading village called Vlissingen. Always a center for ethnic diversity and religious tolerance, proved as such way back in 1657 with the Flushing Remonstrance, which allowed Quakers and others to worship freely, against the wishes of the New Netherlands Governor (and mean son-of-a-bitch) Peter Stuyvesant. The Remonstrance is widely considered a birthplace of religious freedom in the new world.
A few hundred years have gone by since, and the diversity (both ethnic and religious - there are over 200 houses of worship within 2.5 sq miles!) of Flushing pulses up and down the streets. Before Flushing became NY's largest Chinatown, it was mostly Italian and Greek. They left during Great White Flight in the 70s, and the immigrants from SE Asia started pouring in. Nowadays Flushing is crammed with Koreans, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, Indians, and Chinese from the Sichuan, Fujian and Hunan provinces.
Our aim was the Flushing Mall on 39th avenue. On our way in, we were greeted by a very friendly Chinese dragon, a remnant from the Year of the Ox celebration last weekend. The Flushing Mall is a split-level, split-personality spot, with clothing stores, tailors and two small cafes on the ground floor surrounded by plain decor and uninspired mall decor. Turn a corner and go down some stairs and one enters a subterranean food court and electronics shops surrounded by multi-colored flooring and walls, with a space-age modern Asian design scheme. We went ground level for Korean-Chinese dumplings, and underground for spicy Dandan noodles, spicy hot and sour soup with rice noodles and lamb, and spicy fried chicken over sticky rice with salad. Needles to say, we weren't in it for the bland or boring. Everything was cheap, delicious, and spicy, but unfortunately not the face-melting-off spicy we were looking for, just the caught-in-the-back-of-the-throat-type-cough spicy. Next time . . .
Filled to the gills with szechuan foods and fantastically happy, we went two separate ways - Josh for some food shopping and Jean and I towards the Queens Museum. En route we passed the almost-entirely-gone Shea stadium, formerly home to the NY Mets, the lovable/hateable underdogs of MLB's National League. Its not that they suck, the way the Knicks suck, its that they try really hard but never make it to the finals. (Don't ask me, I don't do sports.) However, I DO do NY's iconography, and the vision of the classic Shea Stadium, all but its Western Wall pulled down to make way for a parking lot for the new Citi Field (which should be named the Citi / Taxpayer Field, but don't get us started) was heavy on the heart.
Off to the QMA, for short films on Queens and a Q&A at the QMA with the filmmakers. Following, we had a fantastic bike ride back to Bushwick, (6 miles), first stopping & dropping Jean in Woodside. Magical, marvelous mouthfuls of Queens on a beautiful bizarrely blue-sky Saturday in February should be on everybody's life list. Next up, the Bronx!

FREEZING in History vol. 44: Inauguration Vacation (and so much more)!!!

It had been quite the 3 week jaunt. First up, the American Bus Association Marketplace, held this year in Charlotte, NC. A full week of schmoozing, boozing, bad luncheon eating, business card swapping, small talk with big people from all over America & Canada, and the slow but sad realization that Charlotte, although pretty and pleasant, is as dull as its former cotton fields turned into financial skyscrapers. Although Gideon and I did come across the World's Largest Duncan Phyfe Chair, in Thomasville, NC.
That, and we took a few spins around the NASCAR racetrack.
Nextup, Gid goes to Miami and Matt makes a lovely little visit to old college friends in Athens, GA. Indie rock noise and beer before noon, Golden Corral Buffets and lots and lots of coffee. Scott, small-time author and music-romantic drove me around Athens on a personalized tour of the old stomping grounds of Elephant 6. E6 was a legendary lo-fi recording collective who's members made the greatest indie-pop album of all time, Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea among other albums by other bands including Elf Power, Olivia Tremor Control and Of Montreal. Drove like a maniac across South Carolina, stopping to visit the World's Largest Fire Hydrant;
as well as check out fragments of an Atom Bomb that was accidentally dropped on Mars Bluff, SC in 1932.
Picked up the girlfriend in Wilmington, NC and headed to the Outer Banks to meet her entire family as well as consume outrageous amounts of oysters at Aunt Susan & Uncle Richard's yearly OYSTER FEST!! Everything good was here: hand-built stove, five bushels of the aphrodisiac, chowder, beer, wine, salad, more food, good vibes, great music and homegrown people. Our Brooklyn 'tude went great with the gf's fam and so on so forth. We'll be back for more oysters. Until then, these pictures will have to do.
However all these personal and familial experiences can't compete with the events in our Nation's Capital on January 20th, every four years (give or take). After the oysters (and after a pitstop for BBQ with the GF's Dadster in northern NC) we went to DC for the crowning of President Obama. With our HQ in McLean, VA - 6 miles from the Capital; a sturdy group of 5, prepared for everything including the bone-shivering chills we told the Inauguration to bring it on; crack a dawn; with our friend Pokemon; bring it on!
Wokeup 3:30am on the 20th. Layered up like it was Himalaya-stompin time. Piled into the minivan (muchas gracias Mama Goldblatt, la princessa de McLean y mi corazon!) and jumped out on the side of the highway, west of the Potomac and the Great Mall.Walked a mile over the bridge and towards the Lincoln memorial, then past it, past the Reflecting Pool, the Washington Memorial, onto the Mall itself.
Closer and closer to the Capital building. Close enough to see the thing, but far enough away to need the jumbotron positioned right over our patriotic heads. And we waited.
And waited. And shivered. And puppy-piled. And used up all our hand- and foot-warmers. And shuddered. And watched the sun rise. And chillied.
And watched the concert from the day before. And tried to think about anything other than the toes-numbing, nose-running, skin-burning, finger-churning, soul-stabbing cold. And finally, finally, the party started. And the energy rose. The flags waves, the voices shouted out, the chants tumbled in their polysyllabic glory OH- BAM- AH! OH- BAM- AH! We saw Hillary, we cheered a bunch. There was W, and we politely kept out bad-ass mouths shut. But nothing compared with the man of the hour, our confidant and commander, our superhero and superstar, Mr. Personality himself, the 44th Prez of the U. S. of A. We holla'd for the world to hear, which they promptly did, and holla'd right back. It was glory itself. You shoulda been there. If you were, good job. If not, our pictures are here.
We wont recount the hellhole of trying to escape the streets of DC, of taking 3 hours to walk 2 miles because of the seething mass of humanity all trying to do the same thing, namely, get the hell outta there. We didn't take any pictures of the aftermath because we were trying to forget it even as it was happening. Lets all just remember the moment of magic: that hand on Lincoln's bible, that calm and steadfast demeanor, that hopeful upward glance towards a brighter future. And lets hope he gets to work quickly.

Lost in the ArtChurch vol. 1: Awakenings, Asleepenings, Adreamenings, Aschemenings

A few weekends back, we attended the sanctification of an an antinomian church, located deep along the border between Bushwick and Ridgewood. We'd been to the Christian Center Sanctuary of Hope before & had participated and written about the experience and art-exorcism of Gordon Matta-Clark. So we were excited about returning and reviewing the latest event slash artattack to take place far away from the well-trod artist paths of Williamsburg and the LES. The Christian Center Sanctuary of Hope (for simplicity's sake, CCSH) is a former storefront-turned-Latino-Roman-Catholic-church-turned-vacant-room-turned-artist-haunt-slash-performance-space, run by three friends of ours: Matthew Blair, Lech Szporer and Andrew Wingert.
The playbill promised a lot: performances, photography, hot liquored drinks, theater, mime, noise band, and possibly the sacrificing of a live chicken named Lucy. When we arrived at the CCSH we were impressed by the full house of young creative peoples jamming the floor, drinking hot toddies and exploring the decor, which included: tree branches rising out of dirt mounds on the wooden floor; two enormous church pews built on risers facing the stage; a ceiling-suspended rope web large enough to climb into, laden with dangling church organ pipes; candles spinning on a Victrola player; vintage radio microphones and more. The carefully constructed aesthetic of slow but beautiful decay contributed to the atmosphere.

Someone in the audience shouted "Cold as hell tonight" and the burbling laughter belied the fact that CCSH is a church, but instead of religion, it offers experience. The experience, like regular churches, is to pull the church-goers out of their expected levels of comfort, to shift their mode of intake and let that shift permeate other processes of life. To enter the building one way and leave changed. Such is the process of Artaudian theater, named after the great pervert of French theatrical aesthetics, Antonin Artaud. Not an easy accomplishment, especially with today's jaded and ironic youth. However it wasn't for CCSH's want of trying.
The opening act consisted of a not-quite-goth girl playing some plaintive songs on guitar, with good intention. Following the music, Becky the Burlesque performer as Neurotic Jewish Mother Necrophiliac. The stand-up routine that followed would've given Woody Allen a hard-on and material for his analyst. The act subsited of both a comic monologue and a live example of teabagging corpses set to Celine Dion. Subtlety it wasn't, and life-shifting it absolutely aint. Then the third act.

A stocky, not unattractive but not particularly engaging actress in a blond wig took the stage and started to do a Tammy Faye Bakker self-help shtick. The southern accent, the "Yes, you can do it too!" power attitude, the 80s music, all of it, a little tiring and expected. Until she stripped down naked in the middle of this unheated church, and proceeded to give a hygiene and sex-ed course on the proper way to insert objects into one's anus and vagina. It was astonishing - by the gaping mouths and wide-eyed shock it seemed that no-one in the audience had seen anything like it. The performer, Ann Liv Young, was using her own splayed legs as the easel and her cunt and asshole as the anatomy chart. Eventually Ms. Young got up, butt-ass naked and all, and thrashed her way around the church, grinding against audience members as 80s house music thumped. Her aggressively sexual dance piece would have been at place in a megaclub in Chelsea, but performed by a naked woman in a blond wig in the middle of an Art-Awakening truly blew this church-goers mind.
Then Lucy the chicken came into the picture. Lucy was supposedly due to meet the chopping block right on the floor of CCSH, but an unnamed woman in tears (who according to Mr. Blair, wasnt part of the show) rushed the stage and made a plea to spare the chicken's life. Another shifting moment, bringing an audience member to interrupt the show. Lucy, along with Ann-Liv Young eventually escaped, courtesy of Ms. Young, her videographer Michael, and a getaway car waiting outside.

The next act started when an argument exploded between two audience members, who moved down to the central staging area and expounded, in Shakespearean English, the accurate process to live a passionate life. It was entertaining, if a bit too pretentious. My lady and I liked the part where both gentlemen chomped down on raw cow heart, only at the insistence of each other. After the argument, it started to rain inside the church, and a group photograph was called for, so the crowd reassembled themselves outside and all posed, shiveringly.

There was still the noise band and mimery to follow the intermission, but we had experienced enough moments of suspended comfort, and besides, I had worked all day while fighting a cold. It was a fast, long walk to our apartment where a warm bed and hot tea were waiting to soothe our souls. Following burlesque necrohiliac stand-up and naked lessons in sexual physionomy, after the almost-slaughter of a chicken and consumed raw cow hearts, tea and sleep will do just fine.

Lost in History vol. 76: Hindenburg Tour: The Humanity, the History, the Joisey Diner.

34 seconds. That's all it took for the Hindenburg, the greatest airship in the history of Hydrogen-fueled aviation to explode into flame, sink to the ground and change the world. 34 seconds from the first fire on the tail to the epic crash-landing. What's more, it all happened next door - at the Lakehurst, New Jersey Naval Airforce Station, about 90 minutes from NYC. The good volunteers at the Navy Lakehurst Historical Society provides tours free of charge to interested citizens, only on the second Saturday of the month, only at 9:30 in the morning, and only if all attendees provide their home address and social security numbers two weeks in advance. It is an active Naval Airbase after all.
We couldn't possibly pass up such a geek-a-licious historical adventure, even if, two weekends ago, it was pissing rain like Heaven's plumbing had gone haywire. Off to Joisey! Three cars from three different parts of Brooklyn took off for Lakehurst - the Levy boys plus Alisa car; the Eggplant Xpress carrying yours truly, friends Josh & Jenene, and yours' trulys' lovely new girlfriend Emily; and the roommate car with Steve and GF Zan. After swimming our way south on the Garden State Pkway we arrived at the Airbase and on our way into disaster-history!
The Hindenburg was built between 1931 and 1936 in Friedrichshafen, Germany. 803.8 feet long and 135.1 feet wide in diameter - which is roughly the length of an 80 story building. When fully inflated, she carried approx. 7 million cubic feet of hydrogen in 16 separate cells; this allowed for easier inflation. The German government paid for the Hindenburg's construction; therefore, enormous swastikas painted onto her tail and fin. Her cabins included a piano room, a reading room, a dining room and a smoking room (which utilized pressurized gases, neutralizing the hydrogen.) Her trip to the States on May 6th, 1937 was the first of 10 scheduled trips kicking off the '37 airship season.
Our guide, a well informed volunteer and former navy man Donald Adams, led our caravan onto the wide open field where the Hindenburg went down; we approached a somber airship-shaped memorial complete with historical bronze plaque. There was also a rough hand-painted little Hindenburg on a post, flapping in the tough winds. Donald gave us hard facts - the Hindenburg hovered approx 300 feet in the air, mooring lines out and down and waiting for mooring. This was when (most reports claim) the static electricity in the atmosphere (or a lightning strike) coupled with the wet weather made a deadly combo for the airship, which was venting hydrogen in order to land. Oxygen + Hydrogen = extremely combustible; within 34 seconds, it was all over.
We also learned that the legendary Oh the Humanity! newscast with Herbert Morrison was recorded at a slightly slower speed, so in the sped-up real-time version, his naturally sonorous voice seems high-pitched & charged with extra emotion. What's more, the newsreel wasn't broadcast until the next day out of Chicago, and no-one heard it live unless they were present at the crash. Out of 36 passengers and 61 crew, 13 passengers and 22 crew members died, plus one ground crewman. Two survivors are still alive, including then-14-year-old cabin boy Werner Franz.
Following a lot of snapshots, we made our way into the hangar and airship museum. Along with scale models of the Hindenburg there were relics and pieces from the wreckage. We bought some souvenirs (Hindenburg coffee mug! Naval Air force Base jacket patch!) and made our way into the hangar, large enough to fit two Hindenburg airships side-by-side with 12 feet of clearance. This double-airship hangar is the largest in the country and one of only two in the world. Hidden within the hangar was another museum, filled with model airplanes, ships and jets as well as walls upon walls of Navy, Air force and Army patches, all of which were supremely awesome.
All of this disaster and naval history and air force patches and old men flying model airplanes made us pretty hungry, so off to a Joisey diner we went! Although most of us had our hearts set on a classic stainless steel, Formica counter, burgers / grilled cheese / meatloaf style joint, but instead we settled at a quaint, cute little cafe in downtown Lakehurst. Good food, but the attitude and atmosphere was top notch thanks to the owner, a former local Bronx boy (he and Dad Levy both attended the same high school!) After some homemade ice cream from the parlor next door, we piled back into our vehicles and called it a historical disastery day.