Tag: New York

  • Spot the Dalmatian, Manhattan, New York

    Spot the Dalmatian, Manhattan, New York, United States of America

    Dogs love chasing cars, but this pooch actually caught one. Of course, it helps that she’s 38 feet tall! Spot the Dalmatian is the pet project of roguish sculptor Donald Lipski, and can be found loyally guarding the Hassenfeld Children’s Hospital in Manhattan.

    Playful, joyous and large enough to stand out amongst the chaos of the city, Spot’s not only man’s best friend – she’s man’s BIGGEST friend!

    A remarkable example of urban roadside architecture that blends the comical with the hyperreal, Spot consists of a stainless steel frame covered by a rather fetching fiberglass dog body. Toyota donated a full-sized Prius taxicab to balance upon her snout and, whilst the engine has been removed, the headlights work when it’s dark and the wipers wave whimsically during inclement weather.

    Donald, ever the altruist, designed the doggy to take the spotlight off the tribulations of the hospital’s young guests.

    “It’s a privilege to be able to do this for the kids,” the artiste growled. “I wanted to make something so astounding it would distract even those arriving for the most serious procedures, and so loveable that young patients coming back again and again with chronic conditions would see it as an old friend.”

    The local kiddies are probably begging for a broken leg or a case of the sniffles!

    “I like to think that the parents, the doctors and nurses and staff, the neighbours, will all be smitten by this playful, heroic young dog doing the impossible,” Don yapped. “Art has actual healing power. That’s a fact!”

    Proving that you can, indeed, teach an old dog new tricks, Donald saw this as an opportunity to spruce up an aging part of Manhattan. The massive mutt was adopted by the city in 2018 and given the humorous moniker of Spot, surely a commentary on the inhumane naming conventions of modern American pets.

    Personally I would’ve called him Bark Obama, or named him after that famous New York pop artist, Andy War-howl!

    Dog-tor, dog-tor, gimme the news
    I got a bad case of lovin’ you!

    Laughter is the best medicine, but a two-and-a-half storey dog must be a pretty close runner-up. Fortunately, you don’t need to be sick to see Spot, just bound through the East Side of New York and you’re bound to spot her. But please consider printing off a map before you leave your hotel, as phone reception can be quite spotty – teehee!

    When I visited Spot, she was wearing a mask – probably to ward off COVID canine-teen! She’s a good girl and very approachable, but there are a few ambulances around, so be patient. And remember, Dalmatians to the hospital are always welcome!

    Oh, and if she’s not there when you visit, don’t bother putting up a giant lost dog sign, because Spot’s probably swanning about in the Meatpacking District!

    Come on, these jokes surely deserve a round of a-paws!

    There may be 101 Dalmatians, but there’s only one Spot. There are, however, many other Bigs around the Big Apple, such as Private Passage and Adam. Forget dining in Michelin-starred restaurants or taking in an acclaimed Broadway show when you’re in New York – do what your old friend Bigs Bardot did and spend all your time traipsing through the traffic in search of oversized architecture.

    Of course, if Spot has you frothing at the mouth at the prospect of seeing more massive mongrels, you’re in luck. From The Big Golden Dog and Pat the Dog to Big Dog and Joaquin the Dog and California’s Yard Dog, the world really has gone to the dogs!

    Hey Mr DJ, put a record on, I wanna dance with my puppy

    As I worshipped at Spot’s prodigious paws, a pair of slender hands covered my eyes from behind, their owner struggling to suppress a giggle.

    “Guess who,” came a syrupy, yet all-too-familiar voice. The hands were removed and I turned to see my close friend, beloved character actor DJ Qualls. You might know him as the skinny guy from the 2000 comedy classic Road Trip. I just know him as Deej.

    We first met, quite appropriately, at a dog obedience school out in Calverton. Neither of us owned a dog, it was just a good way to meet people. And it worked, because it was puppy love at first sight.

    “I certainly hope you’re here for the enormous Alsatian, and not for something more serious,” yelped Deej in his trademark southern cadence, and my heart broke as I saw genuine concern in his chocolatey eyes. He may be a renowned Hollywood hard man, but DJ Qualls does indeed have a softer side.

    “He’s a Dalmatian,” I replied with an impish grin, drawing Deej to my bosom for a hug. “And I’ve never felt more alive.”

    The details of our conversation shall accompany me to the grave but that afternoon, in the blooming shadow of Spot the Dalmatian, DJ Qualls and Bigs Bardot – two wandering souls thrust together by happenstance – explored life and love and the metaphysical realm that flows between us all.

    And dogs. We talked a lot about dogs.

    Hours later, Deej yawned one of his complex yawns, and looked from the yellow cab atop Spot’s nose to me with those eternal puppy dog eyes.
    “Well Bigs, I have a taxicab confession to make – I’m beat,” he uttered. “Hopefully we’ll run into each other beneath another Big Thing soon.”
    “I’m sure we will, Deej, I’m sure we will.”

    We lingered in each other’s embrace for a sumptuous moment, then DJ Qualls scurried up Spot’s back and ripped open the taxi’s door. After one final sleepy grin, he climbed inside and curled up on the front seat, safe for the night.

    Well, New York is notoriously expensive, even for a Hollywood heartthrob.

  • Adam (and Eve), New York, New York

    Adam sculpture, Columbus Circle, New York, United States of America

    New Yorkers, I’m sad to say, are a pack of perverts. Adam here simply wants to live a peaceful, naturist lifestyle amidst the hustle and bustle of The Shops at Columbus Circle. With his robust physique and cheerful disposition, even his lack of genitallic girth can’t wipe the optimistic smile from his dial.

    But it seems the locals can’t stop molesting him.

    Adam, 15 feet of brawn and bravado, was created by the irrepressible Fernando Botero in 1990 and took up residence in The Big Apple in the early 2000s. He’s paired with the equally statuesque Eve but, ew, who would want to look at a gigantic naked woman? Especially one as bosomy as Eve.

    Since Adam first came, so many sickos have rubbed, clutched and stroked his doodle that the bronze paint has been stripped away, leaving a shiny gold penis in its place.

    Honestly, New Yorkers, act your age and not your shoe size!

    Making things worse is the fact the Center’s management do nothing to stop this dispoliation of such a congenial Big. In fact, they encourage this foul behaviour, claiming that groping poor Adam might bring good luck.

    I can assure you that anyone I catch giving Adam an unwanted hand shandy won’t be blessed with any good luck at all. They’ll find themselves sleeping with the fishes in the Hudson River, wearing a fancy new set of concrete slippers – so keep your hands to yourself.

    The Man with the Golden Gun

    My threats of ultraviolence towards those who interfere with Adam’s willy proving futile, I sought the advice of beloved New York thespian Paul Reubens, who I befriended whilst bussing tables together at the Dairy Queen in Yonkers back in the early-80s.

    Nobody back then could’ve guessed that we would each reach the apex of our chosen careers – Paul as a quirky character actor and I as the world’s foremost expert on Big Things and roadside attractions.

    Paul’s ballooning ego in the wake of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure had driven a wedge between us, of course, but we’d since rekindled our friendship during a bawdry soiree thrown by our mutual friend – and fellow Dairy Queen alumnus – Bronson Pinchot.

    Oh, look at me, dropping names quicker than an upper-eastside lawyer drops her standards after her second cosmopolitan!

    Paul had been ordered by a court of law to ‘keep his hand off it’ after a moment of madness in a movie theatre several years earlier, so I felt he was the man for the hand job.

    Paul’s words, however, touched me in the most private parts of my soul.

    “Bigs,” Paul said in his sweetly sanguine cadence, as we wandered down Fifth Avenue, munching on freshly-baked pretzels. “You can’t fight nature. Trying to stop the people of New York from abusing Adam’s appendage is as futile as asking the East River to stop flowing.”

    “Wise words from a wise man. But surely there’s something we can do? Soon that remarkable man’s pee-pee shall be worn away to a nub. A nub!”

    “Mauling Adam’s member is the one small sliver of hope and joy in these people’s lives. Without that, who knows what may transpire? Adam’s reproductive organs are, indeed, the thin gold line between tranquility and anarchy in this city.”

    “You’re right, as always,” I squelched, biting into the pretzel’s piping hot flesh. “The very fate of New York rests betwixt Adam’s zaftig thighs.”

    Pee-wee’s BIG Adventure

    With the final, decadent inches of pretzel dangling precipitously from my gaping maw, I pushed my prejudices to one side and approached Botero’s husky masterpiece. The penis, resplendent in the fading afternoon light, beckoned me with its whimsy and candour.

    I gulped, not noticing the pretzel fall to the marbled floor, and reached out for the famous phallus. Time stopped as I touched it for the first time. The cold, yet supple metal warmed my very essence, and a sense of peace washed over me that I had been seeking my whole life.

    If touching a a blubbery bad boy’s golden gigglestick is dong, I don’t wanna be right!

    To poke Adam’s pecker is, in fact, to live. To waggle Adam’s weenie is, in truth, to love. I learnt more about myself in that single moment of casual groping than I had in a lifetime of electroconvulsive therapy and substance abuse.

    Taking me gently by the elbow, Paul flashed one of his trademark smiles. “I knew you would see the light,” he cooed. “Now, let me shout you to a movie to celebrate. There’s a cinema out at Uniondale that hasn’t banned me… yet.”

    “Are you paying for the choc tops?”

    “Of course, Bigs,” Paul smiled warmly. “Anything for you.”

    A word of warning…

    If you’re the sort of creepazoid who thinks you might be able to paint yourself bronze and stand next to Adam in the desperate hope that someone will accidentally fondle you instead, don’t bother.

    All you’ll get is some really unfortunate remarks from New York’s brutish schoolkids and a swift beating from some overly aggressive security guards.

    Trust me on that one.

  • Private Passage, New York

    Private Passage, New York, New York

    Ayy, I’m drinkin’ here! Grab a slice o’ pie and raise a zesty glass of cab sav as we toast Private Passage, a bottle of wine so massive it’s sure to arouse even the most grizzled New Yawker.

    I’m your sommelier, the irrepressible Bigs von Bubbles; effervescent Upper East Side socialite, lifelong substance abuser, and self-indulgent wine snob. But then you already knew that, ya putz!

    Private Passage is a truly bombastic vintage, carefully curated by Malcolm Cochran in the sun-dappled summer of 2005. Eminently approachable yet amply idiosyncratic across the tongue to demand introspective exploration, this most remarkable variety can only be experienced at the evergreen Hudson River Park.

    The regal, almost clandestine shape of the bottle is emphasised by its rhapsodic proportions – measuring 30 feet from classy cork to bulbous bottom. Womanly curves are, at once, both sensual and functional, luring in the unsuspecting with an irresistible siren call.

    Tapered edges and bold, zaftig angles create a sense of place and space, consummately connecting Private Passage to its Bohemian surroundings.

    “I was able to work closely with the landscape architects,” Malcolm Cochran explained, “to site the bottle smack in the middle of the granite esplanade and without visible support to suggest impermanence. That it might have washed up or could float downstream into the Atlantic. Passage is intended both on a literal and figurative level.”

    Or something like that. Hick!

    Malcolm in the Middle (of a lot of Big Things)

    For Monsieur Cochran, a proud Ohio man who has dedicated his life to fermenting oversized attractions, Private Passage presented an opportunity to return to the very womb of his cultural and artistic gestation.

    “When considering this commission I knew I would want to explore my personal relationship to the Hudson River Park site,” the vionary wined. “In 1955 my father had a Fulbright to teach English in Helsinki. We sailed from New York to Europe that summer (I was six years old) and returned the following year on the Maasdaam, a Holland-American liner.

    “The interviews for artists were held at the HRP Trust offices in Pier 40. I realized on entering the lobby that it was a former Holland-American Line terminal; I had disembarked in that building 45 years earlier.”

    You truly were destined to birth this exquisite design, my friend. Just as it’s destined that I shall guzzle three bottles of Cab Franc this evening and then crash my Prius into a hot dog vendor’s cart over by 45th and 3rd. Hick!

    You’re always on my wine

    Those adventurous enough to peak betwixt the Bottle’s stately portholes shall be treated to an opulent representation of an interior stateroom from the legendary ocean liner, the Queen Mary. Fashioned from sheet metal in a monochromatic colour scheme, it’s sure to leave you dripping with nostalgic wonder.

    “The cabin is outfitted for a single individual, and it contains no personal effects,” Malcolm pulpiteered. “I aimed to create the sense that the room was ready to be occupied, that the viewer could project her-or-himself into the space and imagine a solitary journey.”

    Fearless yet considered, vibrant and complex, this carafe de vino is a truly sumptuous expression of purity and balance. A decadent experience across the palate with fine, quasi-baroque tannins, Private Passage provides the perfect accompaniment to a debaucherous platter of ocean-fresh shrimp and a visit to the nearby Spot the Dog statue.

    With subtle hints of dark cherry, gooseberry and black olive, this most elegant of the Bigs boasts earthy nuances and a zesty bouquet of urine and hobo socks.

    Yes, there are other varieties of Big Wine Bottles, such as those found in less civilized regions of the world, such as the comparatively ghastly Pokolbin and Rutherglen in Australia. But honesty, as a member of New York’s cultural elite, I’d rather slurp water from a dog bowl than be seen with swill like that that.

    Whilst your common New Yorker, with his brash and braggadocious attitude, may bristle at the suggestion, I believe it’s time to distance this cultural hub from a nickname so boorish as The Big Apple. The Big Bottle of Full-Bodied Merlot Boasting Deep Purple Hues and Incandescent Memories of Nutmeg Complemented by Herbaceous Notes and Oaky Flavors, Quirky Textures and a Velveteen Finish sounds about right to me. Hick!

    A word of caution

    If a slightly overweight gentleman in a trench coat approaches you late at night and asks to see your private passage, don’t take him down to the docks for a historical tour of New York’s most unusual tourist attraction. That’s not what he’s after, and he’ll have little interest in an oversized wine bottle other than to use it as the backdrop for his sordid shenanigans.

    Call me sometime, Alejandro!