Out of Time

My watch stopped Saturday at 9:30 a.m. I know this because, well, that's when my watch stopped. I panicked a bit. This wasn't a repair I could do by myself. I own a Swiss Military-brand watch, and not even a Swiss Army knife could pry open the back. And I haven't had a lot of luck in the timepiece department.

Let's wind back the hands a little: It started with my first "grown-up" watch, an Omega that had belonged to my grandpa Jack. (Prior to this I favored cheap Armitron digital watches. I still get a warm feeling seeing that company's name at Yankee Stadium, though it now adorns an analog model.) My uncle had passed the Omega down to me. I was tremendously fond of that watch, even though I had to wind it every day. As time wore on, though, the winding wouldn't last a full 24 hours. Something was awry. But an old man in an old shop on Spring Street in Manhattan (Ennio, if I'm recalling correctly) did a nice job cleaning out the gears, and the old boy was soon happily ticking again.

I employed this gentleman's services on a few more occasions, until alas, his shop closed. And it was only a question of time before the Omega broke down again. Luckily, a store called... um... A Question of Time had opened on nearby MacDougal Street. An Eastern European couple ran the place, and also did nice work. Yet, despite doubling as Rosenberg's Jewelers which blew up in Men in Black, A Question of Time also went out of business.

By now I had given up on the ancient Omega. It was an emotional decision, but the frequency of repairs had gotten just too great. So I moved on to the aforementioned Swiss Military watch. Now I was in the modern world. No more winding. A cool-looking black face. Glow-in-the-dark hands. Day-of-the-week, day-of-the-month displays. Waterproof to 100 meters (for Swiss Navy SEALs?).

But no winding mechanism meant a battery that would die at some point. Which it did. So I took it to the nearby Swiss Army store on Prince Street. No, no, the Aryan woman behind the counter sniffed at me, that is a Swiss Military watch, and this is a Swiss Army store. I was about to draw her a Venn diagram when she produced a form which I could fill out and mail in with my watch, and shooed me out of the store. (Their website confusingly explains, "Victorinox Swiss Army Watch SA does not make the Swiss Military watches, a company called Wenger does. However, since summer 2005, Wenger is now part of the Victorinox family.")

I was not going to mail away my watch. I like looking at my wrist and knowing what time it is. And I don't realize how often I do that until I'm not wearing a watch. My fill-in watches, a Timex Ironman and a chintzy knockoff Clinton/Gore inauguration model, were not cutting it. My life was off-kilter. I needed to bring the Swiss Military watch back to life immediately.

Joon Lee Gifts on Hoboken's main drag saved the day. And all remained calm until 9:30 a.m. last Saturday. Which I knew was, coincidentally, the shop's last day in business. On a previous visit to purchase a calculator battery (I'm a dork, OK?), the proprietor had explained that the rents had gotten too high, so he was retiring. Or was he just too polite to mention… the Silbert Watch-Repair Curse? At any rate, I rushed to the store, as I didn't know what time he was closing. Nor what time it was.

I was too late. They had packed up the batteries. He kindly told me somewhere else to go, but his accent was too thick, so I just nodded and thanked him.

Great, now I had to find another watch-repair shop. I did some Googling that night and set out the next day. A new jewelry shop, advertising watch repair, had opened in downtown Hoboken. I walked over, but they were closed on Sunday. So I walked to another jewelry store in midtown Hoboken. A handwritten note on the door said that "Vicki" was at their uptown location that day. I schlepped up there… and it was also closed. So I high-tailed it back downtown to a weird combination jewelry/comic-book shop. They were open on Sundays… but closed at 4 p.m. It was now 4:15, according to my phone. Had I really become one of those animals who check the time on their phones?!?

The next morning, on my way to work, I tried the new jewelry store again. The door was locked. A woman inside mimed to me that they'd be open in one hour. And how was I supposed to calculate that? Follow the sun's passage across the sky? So I crossed into Manhattan. And there, on Hudson Street, was a place I had probably passed 100 times but never noticed:



Shoes and watches. Normally that might have given me pause for thought, but, when you've seen jewelry and comic books intermingling, everything's fair game. I stepped inside. It looked like they'd been there a while. In the back, an older fellow worked steadily at what I have to imagine was some sort of shoe-repairing machine. A wide assortment of shoes, belts, and handbags lined sagging plastic shelves. An old glass case held a variety of polishes. In the front of the shop, on the right side, sat a younger bearded fellow sporting a yarmulke. He was surrounded by watches and clocks—cuckoos, "Drink Pepsi," you name it.

I handed him my wounded watch. He asked if I wanted to wait…or come back later. The anxiety of being without my watch for even another moment began to rise, but I calmly inquired how long the wait would be. "Eh, five minutes," he shrugged. Now, I know New York City has a reputation for being fast-paced, but are there really people out there who wouldn't wait five minutes?

"The band is very worn, would you like me to replace it?" he asked. Oh, here it comes: the upsell. I didn't want to get suckered into some fancy-pants New York wristband. "How much would that cost?" I replied. "Twelve dollars," he said, which seemed totally reasonable. But before I could even say yes, he added, "I could let you have it for ten." Were we now haggling, or was I just receiving the "Tribe" discount? (And I hadn't even expressed interest in joining the mincha minyan advertised on the front door.)

I casually mentioned that I needed a 20-millimeter band. (It was that same impulse where, at the auto mechanic, you reassert your threatened manhood by referring to any car parts you know the name of.) Then, to while away the five minutes, I turned to my left, where I finally noticed a large display of bright, whimsically patterned plates, bowls, and cups. I was getting accustomed to the shoes and watches—they're both vaguely in the "accessories" family, and they both dig leather—but this threw me for a loop. There were PETA signs, photos of Moby; it all felt very… goyish. But as it turns out, David's Shoe & Watch Repair shares storefront space with Rose & Daisy's. And why not? Tight real estate makes for strange bedfellows. I love this crazy city.

Five minutes later, I knew I was exactly 18 minutes late for work. And all was right in the world.

Earning My Bedford Cred

The distance is the same but it’s more aesthetically pleasing: This is the reason I’ve always given for walking to work from the Christopher St. PATH station rather than the 9th St. station. And it really is a pleasant little walk, as Bedford Street cuts diagonally through the West Village.

In 15 years of this commute, I’ve gotten to know the street very well, and recognize its characters. There’s Larry, who once asked if I would fetch a piece of trash from the gutter that he couldn’t quite reach. There was gruff Kenny sleeping in the front booth of his restaurant’s original location. Of course, not everyone in the neighborhood has been the subject of an indie documentary. There’s the bespectacled Danny DeVito-type who sits outside a bodega and wishes an enthusiastic good morning to every young woman who walks by. (Though I’m occasionally the recipient of a grudging hello, I’m still envious of that attention.) A tough-looking old guy often sits nearby; I’d been a little worried when he started sporting tubes in his nose for some sort of breathing difficulty. And there was even older fellow who could be counted on each morning to be enjoying an iced coffee in a glass mug. He’d be sitting on a stoop next to a bearded younger man. The old man was developing the red sunken stare that I’d labeled “Bob Hope eyes,” a condition I’d noticed in the legendary comic and then in my own grandfather in their final months. Indeed, I no longer see that particular gentleman out on the steps.

And yes, Bedford Street has folks of even greater fame. On several occasions I’ve walked past Patti Smith, though have never had the nerve to tell her how much I admire her. And just the other night I caught a glimpse of our soon-to-be Supreme Court justice.

In fact, it was a mistaken celebrity sighting that promoted me from observer to participant on Bedford. I’d often pass a cheerier Phil Leotardo-type on my walk: robust, with a shock of prematurely white hair, a permanent tan, and a stylish tracksuit. He’d be holding court not far from the southwest end of the street. And one day a few winters back, as I strolled by, he called out, “Hey, you’re that guy from TV, right? Peyton (sic) Oswalt?”

I stopped in my tracks. This was the second time someone had made the comparison, and sure, I understood where they were coming from:












But I was not flattered. I slowly turned to face my accuser.

“Come on,” I pleaded. “He is much heavier than I am.”

“There’s a resemblance,” he countered with a smile. “Obviously you’re much better looking.”

That definitely broke the ice, and sweet-talker Russell and I quickly became chummy. And I’ve become even closer with Russell’s friend Rich. I was intrigued to learn that Rich—a slight man his early 70s—was an actor of some repute. He had been the priest in A Bronx Tale. On cable, I made an effort to watch Sidney Lumet’s underrated Find Me Guilty, in which Rich had a small role but plenty of screen time.

I can count on seeing Rich on Monday and Thursday mornings, when he and other residents sit in their cars awaiting the street cleaner. They’ll circle the block when the street cleaner arrives and then reclaim their spots. I imagine it was this recurring scene that inspired the parking-themed novel Tepper Isn’t Going Out by Calvin Trillin, who lives just around the corner from Bedford.

Rich and I talk often about auditions he’s going on, parts he’s been cast in, and times I’ve spotted him on TV (as a prominent extra in both 30 Rock and Flight of the Conchords). I’m a bit more savvy than Rich with the Internet and cable TV, so I’ve let him know release dates of his movies, and kept an eye out for his appearances on an ESPN.com web series, in a New York Lottery commercial, and as an extra on Comedy Central’s Michael & Michael Have Issues. Though he liked rubbing elbows with Don Johnson while making the film When in Rome, he was more interested in the upcoming release of The Private Lives of Pippa Lee. The reason was obvious: Rich isn't just an extra in this one—his character has some dialogue.

I was having just such a conversation with Rich the other morning, when Mr. Hello-To-All-The-Girls came by in a panic. A police car was slowly coming down the block at the exact moment that tubes-in-nose guy had “gone to take a piss.” Apparently, you are not supposed to be parked on that side of Bedford from 9 till 10:30 a.m. on Monday and Thursday, the allotted window for street cleaning. But, if the owners are in or near their cars, the cops will kindly look the other way.

“Do me a favor,” hi-to-girls said to me. “Stand near that black car, willya?”

“Sure thing,” I said. Wow, was I possibly reaching a new plateau with the Bedford crew?

He handed me the keys—which I was not expecting—and I hurried over next to the black SUV parked behind Rich’s car.

Sure enough, the police car stopped at the corner. As an officer approached, I grew increasingly nervous.

“Whose car is that?” the officer asked, looking toward the SUV.

What was I supposed to say? “Mine”? “It’s my uncle’s car”? “That little guy forced me to take the keys! I’m just a patsy! And, he only says hi to pretty young girls!”?

“That’s his car,” said hi-to-girls guy, gesturing to me.

The officer seemed perfectly satisfied with that information, returned to the cruiser, and drove away.

After being thanked, I said my goodbyes and continued on toward the office. I was pleased that I’d been able to help my Bedford friends. I was also glad that I hadn’t actually said anything to the officer to incriminate myself. And yet, I must admit, I was a little bit disappointed to not have a speaking role.

More Bad News for the Print Industry

Newsweek has announced that rather than producing a magazine, they would now only exist in brick wall form.

NYC Manger Scene

I'll Donate $25 to the Catholic Church

...if Benedict XVI heads down to Bleecker Street on Sunday and proclaims, "Now I'M the Pope of Greenwich Village, beyotch."

Letter Writing

I like to write letters to publications when something bothers me. Vogue published an article about female circumcision. I wrote them a strongly worded letter how I didn't feel that what was happening to these women in Africa could be named such a thing, unless of course circumcision entails cutting off a man's entire penis. My letter was succinct, and downright disgusting in the way I described what was actually happening. I did get a response that they'd be printing my letter, but it didn't make the cut (no pun intended).
One of my favorites was a letter to CNN about this . Since I worked there at the time, I knew of the man "creating" the calendar, and also knew he just simply made up this idea of what he wanted to do. I asked CNN in my letter, every time some possibly unstable man comes up with an idea (with no execution or support in place whatsoever) is this news?
My latest letter I just wrote to the New York Times is a bit trickier for me, as it's about vernacular. Merill Perlman is a copy editor, and occasionally takes questions from readers.
I wrote to her and asked her her thoughts on an article in my local paper, the L.A. Times. In brief, here is the paragraph that bothered me:

Giving away products can backfire when people have a bad experience with them. Brooke Morgan, 13, said she received a sample of Suave deodorant but wasn't happy with it. And bad word gets out: Keller Fay found that teens are slightly more likely than the general public to dis a product if they don't like it.

Dis?

I wonder what Merill will think. I also asked about 'bling"-- which graces the pages of both these newspapers. I hope she answers my question in her column.

NY

Dianna and I spent a quick weekend in New York. We made no plans to look up friends due to lack of time, but we were walking down Broadway just as two of Dianna's friends stepped outside for a cigarette. We'd heard they were paying thirty-thousand a month for their loft, so eagerly accepted their invitation to go upstairs. I'd expected something amazing, but it was merely nice. In New York, thirty-thousand a month will get you a nice place.