Monday, August 06, 2018

The Bridge or the Tunnel Crowd?

If you want to hit the beach from Manhattan your choices are pretty simple. Either sit in fumes in the Lincoln Tunnel for three hours on your way to the Jersey Shore, or sit in fumes on one of the East River bridges for three hours on the way to the Hamptons. Like everything in Manhattan, there's no arbitrage. If you were about to say the Blade that's not true, because 600-buck one way transaction costs are a legitimate limit to arbitrage that doesn't invalidate efficient markets hypothesis.

You probably could have beaten Daddy here by a good hour or two with that dual horsepower engine.

First stop on a back-to-back weekend beach double header, the Jersey Shore. You can tell because there's a monster truck patriotically crushing some Fake News in front of the Star Spangled Banner.

Keep your Montauk Summer Ale in your Yetis boys, this is Bud Light territory and proud of it.

Even the biggest Long Island snobs would be hard pressed to find fault with this fine patch of sand. Especially when they see the property tax bill is about the same as one hedge trimming out east.

Oh look, a handy built-in floatation device.

Kids these days have no appreciation for culture, how can you have no reaction to Jaws theme? Too much time on the Instragrams, let me tell you.

Cheers Jersey, through a rosé-tinted glass you're right up there with the best.

No Teslas in sight. If you don't have a NASCAR bumper sticker you maybe should have taken the bridge not the tunnel.

These dunes will make a handy bunker when those IPA-swilling liberals come and try to trod on our God-given right to bear Buds.

Keep running kid, you'll make it back to the city a lot quicker than braving the Sunday afternoon traffic.

Or you could crush your way to the tunnel entrance. It's ok, it's Jersey, they'll probably cheer you all the way.

Fast forward one weekend and six traffic hours and you're in Sag Harbor, one of the most picturesque hamlets in all the Hamptons.

Daddy, I didn't see any wind power down on the Shore, just Raptor F-150s hauling dune buggies.

I don't get it Daddy, this beach is just like the one last weekend.

Daddy, those kids over there told me my monster truck was a tool of oppression used to subjugate the free will of underprivileged cars. I told them to watch out, because monster trucks don't really do microaggressions.

Goldberg's Bagels of East Hampton is surely the only place where Bentleys and Ferraris wait in line with everyone else for a poppy bagel with lox.

Speaking of institutions, it's not summer unless the line at Jack's Stir Brew in Amagansett goes out the door.

It's tiring trying to keep up with all these Porsches.

Two Mile Hollow Beach is empty on a windy day; I think it's safe to pull out Grave Digger kid.

What, scored an actual table at Eleven Madison Park's Summer House? That's what happens when you fall from #1 restaurant in the world to #4, suddenly you're overrun with riffraff. Why rumor has it these folks were spotted on the Shore last weekend!

Trying to act like a cool New Yorker and not gawk at Neil Patrick Harris' son who is also testing out the swings.

Back at Goldberg's. Gold probably doesn't cut it around here, perhaps Platinumberg's?

Oh the joys of being a kid. A beach is a beach is a beach. There's sand and surf and sky and that's all you need.

Sunday, August 05, 2018

The Full English Brexit Part 2: Pomp and Happenstance

You can take the boys out of the Gravel Pit but you can't take the Gravel Pit out of the boys. Raise a chop to Gymkhana, the kind of Indian fusion that helped propel London out of the fish and chips era and into the top echelon of global foodie cities. You know, just like Mr. India propelled Palmerston North out of the Fishtown era. 

Daddy, I like it when the restaurant comes to my room. I could get used to this whole work travel thing.

Enjoy it while it lasts, come March next year there won't be any baristas left who know how to craft a milky silver fern.

Make sure you raise the drawbridge before all those French regulations come swarming across.

That's the Thames Daddy? I just kind of assumed it was the Volga.

Let me tell you son, the food in the Shard may be overpriced but it's still better than the Tower. It's hard to eat with no neck.

Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the roundest of them all?

Borough Market is where you go when you're feeling a wee bit peckish.

Sun? In London? Tariffs on German weather must be part of the Brexit package.

Mommy, does baby sister live in a gold plated house too?

The mighty London Eye, the original wheel that started the Big Wheel craze. Luckily the Staten Island Eye seems to be hold, because once that's up you might as well shut down your Instagram account and go hang out with the grannies on Facebook.

Mommy, do you think this big wheel came from a monster truck?

Sand on the Thames!

Time to get down and dirty in one of the world's great nightlife capitals. Don't worry, the tube basically shuts at Ryan's bedtime anyway.

Yeah tell me about it son, the Empire clearly didn't design the thigh armor with the Cahan physique in mind.

Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper? Sorry, just had to be said.

Daddy, which pieces are the midiclorians?

Fast trains? That's just insidious trickery from those Continental bureaucrats. Bring back Steam and Glory. Bring back the Fat Controller. Bring back the Empire! No not that Empire, the one where New Zealand is the outer rim not Tatooine.

You can tell you're in Shoreditch because everything is a false front designed purely for Instagram.

Albert "The Rock" Einstein. That's the new summer blockbuster where Dwayne Johnson plays a cyborg Einstein who terrorizes London with his lethal relativity rays. The hairdo is CGI-ied, just in case you were wondering.

Vintage transistor radios and pixelated Star Wars lightsaber battles on an abandoned parking garage. That's like why they invented hashtags.

A rooftop pool in London? What is the world coming to?

There's something cool about swimming in the shadow of The City. Soon to be a lot less shady after all those bankers clear out their offices and head to Frankfurt.

Ok, Shoreditch has officially crossed the graffiti-street art inflection point.

Party like it's 1999. Oh wait, that would involve hauling four computers and 20 meters of CAT5 to an all-night LAN party.

Best go back to chasing Lara Croft with your joysticks, this isn't really working.

Hmmm... Daddy looks a little tired this morning even though I was a good boy and slept all night. I wonder?

Dishoom serves up an exceptional Bombay-Iranian breakfast, which must irritate those Brexiteers no end. Where's the black pudding?

My thoughts exactly when contemplating the upcoming seven hours over the Atlantic.

Sorry kiddo, those days are long gone. Keep right on walking. And walking. And walking. Until you get to 47F.