The New York Press does Brooklyn and, according to Curbed it makes for "excellent Friday reading." And so does Curbed. Except they provide excellent urban reading Monday through Friday.

The second 30th High School Reunion Planning Meeting of the progressive Upper West Side high school (PUWSHS) that no longer exists went pretty well.  I guess. We’ve settled on a date. Sort of. And we’ve decided that it’s okay to bring spouses. There was some debate on this point but finally it was decided when TV PRODUCER said, "Let’s do it the PUWSHS way: If you want to bring your spouse bring them. If you don’t, don’t!"

You don’t get to be the executive producer of a major network TV show for nothing.

We discussed the continuing process of finding our fellow classmates. Here are the numbers: Of the 29 members of our class: 16 of us know about the reunion. Of those 16, 13 are planning to attend, and 3 are non-committal (though somewhat interested).

Sadly, one of our classmates died a few years ago. 3 were so weird we’re not sure it’s a good idea to invite them, and 9 are "missing in action."

Of the missing, much conversation centered on PROM QUEEN. I call her that even though we didn’t have a prom at PUWSHS: we were too progressive Upper West Side for that. But if we’d had a prom (and we did have lots of parties) she was the closest thing to a prom queen.

OPERA SINGER, a dear friend, has become an avid reunion detective and thought she’d tracked down the phone number of PROM QUEEN’s parent’s country house in the Southwest. CORPORATE LAWYER was also on the case and thought he’d found another contact number on Verizon.com.

At the meeting, SCREENWRITER and I rolled eyes and wondered why everyone was so intent on locating PROM QUEEN. She wasn’t much of a girl’s girl, if you know what I mean: she "went out with" (we didn’t say "date" back in the too-cool ’70’s) all the "cutest"  guys in our class and even to this day seems to have snagged their unflagging attention.

This morning, LIFE INSURANCE, from the class of ’75 got on-line and wrote, "You kids never ask the older students for help. Here’s Prom Queen’s CELL PHONE NUMBER." Just like that.

Whoa. That took my breath away. LIFE INSURANCE AND PROM QUEEN were an item back in the day. They were practically a high school institution until they weren’t.

"PROM QUEEN has been located," I said to SCREENWRITER on the phone mid-morning. She was, uncharacteristically, speechless. By noon, OPERA SINGER actually reached PROM QUEEN at her office. "Our
conversation was very odd, and it was clear she was uncomfortable," write OPERA SINGER. "Not everyone wants to go back in time

On Thursday January 19th at 8 p.m. Brooklyn Reading Works presents fiction writers, Paola Corso and Ann Marie Cunningham at The Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park in Park Slope. Fifth Avenue between 3rd and 4th Streets. 718-288-4290. Refreshments and books available.

Paola Corso, author of Giovanna

A reader of OTBKB is now the proud owner of that Brooklyn Industries down jacket my sister and I bought for my father on final sale. Otto, pictured above, e-mailed me on Monday. Our correspondence went something like this:

OTTO; Is the Brooklyn Industries jacket still available. And what color is is.

OTBKB: Yes. It’s maroon-ish. Aubergine is what I think it’s called. It’s lovely really. Would you like to try it?

OTTO: I can stop by tonight – try it and pick it up.

 OTBKB: Sounds good.

OTTO: Good. I’ll pass by after 8:00 pm. What’s your cross avenue?

OTBKB: I can’t make it tonight, I have a meeting in Manhattan that is going to run late. How about tomorrow at my office?

OTTO: OK. that would work. I can drop by your office in the afternoon. I’ll probably go with my dog

OTBKB: Sorry for all the changes in plans. Where did you find out about the jacket? On Craig’s List or OTBKB?

OTTO: I read about the jacket on OTBKB. I forgot what color it is.

OTBKB: It’s aubergine. Otherwise known as maroon. It’s good looking (hey, I bought it for my Dad and he loved it).

OTTO: Parents love anything you give them. I still remember, last year, my mother being effusive with loving praise even as she was having trouble breathing from this 10 sizes too small. Ann Taylor sweater I’d given her. Contemporary sweaters don’t have a "mom" size. See you there. I’ll practice my photo look.

So after more than 10 emails, I met Otto, a web site designer who lives in the Gowanus with a pitbull, at my office. A lovely man, he showed up in a beautiful bright orange Ecuadorian sweater that he said he’d bought on on Seventh Avenue in front of Key Food. I worried that the jacket might not fit over the heavy sweater but Otto put it on and was happy with the fit. "I don’t think I’ll be zipping it up over this sweater. But that’s okay."

He asked if I had a mirror in my office and I took one off the wall and held it up so he could see himself in it. He decided very quickly that he wanted it and handed me $35 dollars in cash. Then he went upstairs with my husband and had his picture taken.

Thanks Otto and, as my grandmother would say: Wear it in good health.

The second 30th high school reunion planning meeting, of a progressive high school on Manhattan’s Upper West Side that no longer exists, is happening tonight.

It’s been in the works for months. Well, ever since the first planning meeting which was before Thanksgiving. In the interim more of my fellow graduates  have joined the group. It’s a growing movement, this 30th reunion planning. People have surfaced, the e-mail list has ballooned out to 20 people by now.

We’ll meet again at the home of our generous and prosperous classmate, who lives in an art-filled loft in the Gramercy Park area. It is sure to be a larger group this time. We’ll probably have a lot to share  about the friends and teachers we’ve unearthed.

The big question is: where to have the reunion. The school no longer exists though the building is now occupied by another school. We asked if we could use the school auditorium on a particular Saturday night in May but no go: it is booked.

So that will probably be item numerou uno on the agenda tonight. Also, how much will people be willing to pay to attend this event. Other topics may include: food, entertainment, guest list (do we invite other classes, etc.), are spouses invited, children? (Dang, you know someone’s going to want to/or have to bring their child).

There was talk of a reunion picnic on the Sunday after the reunion. But I think that’s out of favor for now.

So tonight’s the night. I feel like a mess. Have been working like a maniac all day. I feel bloated and out-of-shape.  I need a haircut, highlights, a manicure.

Yeesh. Should I even go?

Actually, I’m not filled with as much fear and loathing as I was the last time. It doesn’t feel quite as scary, quite as threatening.

I did it once and it wasn’t THAT bad.

Wonder who’s going to show up….

So today I gave my dad the army green down jacket – the EXPENSIVE ONE – and he loves it even more than the other one. He oughta. It cost 4x as much as the other one. It looked smashing on and he loves the hood.

DONE.

I put an ad on Craig’s List about the coat and I’ve already gotten two response. I responded to both of them and haven’t heard a thing. Friendofficemate said that she wanted it but then decided she didn’t like the way it fit on her.

So it’s back to the drawing board. IF there’s anyone out there that wants it, let me know. And remember the BONUS: a picture of YOU wearing the COAT by Hugh Crawford.

So. Blogorrhea NYC, the blogwatcher on Gawker, who sometimes mentions OTBKB, caught wind of OTBKB’s La Bagel piece.

DONTCHA HATE FINAL SALE ITEMS OR DO YOU WANNA BUY A DOWN JACKET?

Case in point. For my dad’s birthday, my sister and I decided to buy him a Brooklyn Industries down jacket. We went to the Brooklyn Industries on Fifth Avenue at Union Street and looked around. We noticed in the back of the store a rack of marked-down Glacier Down jackets in aubergine, gray, and yellow marked down to $35.00 from $98.00. Just what we were looking for.

We knew it was risky to buy a final sale item for a gift but we figured what the hell. We liked the jacket, it was a good price and we’d cross just our fingers that it would fit. To be fair, the sales person made it VERY CLEAR THAT IT WAS A FINAL SALE ITEM. IT’S NOT RETURNABLE AND NOT EXCHANGABLE.

But since it was only $35, we figured, if it doesn’t fit or he hates it, we’d give it to Son or chalk it up to a shopping fiasco.

"To be honest," my sister now says, "we weren’t really thinking."

At The Garden Cafe on Saturday night where we celebrated my father’s birthday, Dad loved the jacket and tried it on. It seemed to fit but when he went to the restroom to see how it looked in the mirror, he decided that the next size might be a better fit.

"Surely you can exchange it for the next size?" my stepmother said. My sister and I looked at each other nervously. "Actually, we can’t," I explained. There was a moment of shocked silence. "But don’t worry about it we’ll get if for you in the next size." We were between a rock and a hard place. If we admitted how little the jacket cost we might seem cheap…

On the way over to Brooklyn Industries Sunday morning, my sister said: "You can handle this. I don’t think they’re going to let you exchange it for the next size. But I don’t to have a scene with the salesperson. " I knew she was probably right but I wanted to try to appeal to their humanity.

ha ha.

"I know this is against the rules," I said cheerfully to the woman behind the counter. "But I’d like to exchange this for an XL because I bought it for my dad and it was a little small." She then launched into the "WE TOLD YOU IT WAS A FINAL SALE SPEECH" and explained: "final sale means we’re trying to get the merchandise out of the store and to bring it back in defeats the purpose. We’re not the Gap or Banana Republic, you know," she added.

Anger was mounting inside of me.  I’m from the customer is always right school of thinking. Especially in a community like this. "I know you’re not the Gap or Banana Republic," I said. "That’s not the point. It’s more of a customer satisfaction issue. I just wish he could have the size he needs. But I understand," I said with all my resevoirs of restraint. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to move an inch on this matter.

Besides, they didn’t even have the jacket in XL.

TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT,  I picked out a slightly more expensive army green jacket for Dad (try 4x more expensive: $138.00). It wasn’t on sale and is returnable or exchangable for 14 days.

But now I appeal to readers of OTBKB. Does anyone need a  brand new, never worn aubergine  down jacket that looks something like this one except it doesn’t have a hood.  http://www.brooklynindustries.com/Glacier-Down-P353C50.aspx

It’s really nice and I can give it to you for $35.00. Email me at louisecrawford@gmail.com if you interested. SPECIAL BONUS: BUY IT HERE AND HUGH CRAWFORD WILL TAKE A PICTURE OF YOU IN THE JACKET AND WE WILL POST IT ON NO WORDS_DAILY PIX.

Kate, a reader of OTBKB, saw this on Craig’s List and sent it my way. It gave me a laugh. Thanks Kate.

I prefer the Lime over the Orange and recently bought what appears to be an Orange-heavy pack.  If you have a Lime Lifesaver, we can do an even swap.

Sorry, no Gummis.

* this is in or around Brooklyn, NY
no — it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Yesterday, one of the guys at La Bagel Delight learned that the store figures prominently in a scene in Paul Auster’s new novel, THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES.

"I just found out about in The Park Slope Paper," he said. "We really oughta get a copy of that book in here."

I asked him if it was true that a customer had once ordered a cinnamon Reagan bagel to which one of the guys responded: "I don’t have any cinnamon Reagans but I can give you a pumpernixon."

He said it happens all the time. "People ask for Pumpernixons and Sesame Street bagels. It happens all the time."

DAMN these standardized tests that have our third graders so nervous. Daughter’s teacher is pissed off, too.  "They’re so young. They’ve never taken tests before. They don’t even know how to fill in the bubbles," she told me. This very experienced and sensitive teacher really feels for her students.

And so do I. Daughter has been taking the whole thing very seriously. On Monday night she came home from school and said, "No homework because tomorrow’s THE TEST.  I have to get a good night’s sleep and eat a good breakfast."

We didn’t talk much about the test but we worked hard on the good night’s rest part. Daughter got into her footy pajamas at 7 pm and was in bed before 8.

"I’m not tired," she said less than five minutes later. By 9 p.m. she was FINALLY asleep. But that after I read her two picture books and three chapters of BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.

Fast asleep, she looked so adorable and young in those footy pajamas with the reindeer design. Too young to be taking a god-damn bubble test that will determine her promotion to fourth grade.

Tuesday morning, Daughter wanted scrambled eggs. By the time she was ready to eat, they were a tad cold.

"Heat them up, please," she said. "They said we should have a GOOD breakfast!"

This morning we dispensed with the scrambled eggs and were out of the house before 8 a.m.

"I really want you to have a toasted bagel with cream cheese at the Mojo. Remember you need to have a good breakfast," I told her walking up Third Street toward Seventh Avenue.

"Just because they said that doesn’t mean we have to," Daughter said, ever the one questioning authority.

"You know why they say to have a good breakfast? Because your brain works better when there’s food in your stomach. It’s hard to think when you’re hungry." I explained.

"Don’t you think you can think VERY CLEARLY when you’re SCARED TO DEATH that you’re going to FAIL THE TEST." Daughter said.

Daugter ate a rainbow sprinkled Krispy Kreme donut at the Mojo. My girl. She doesn’t have anything to worry about at all.

I was surprised to learn that Tom and Honey, two characters in Paul Auster’s new book BROOKLYN FOLLIES, move into an apartment not unlike mine.

From page 281: "In March of 2001, they moved into a co-op on Third Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues; an airy light-filled place on the fourth floor with a sizable living room in front, a modest kitchen and dining room in the center, and a narrow hallway, tht led to three small bedroom in the back (one of which Tom converted into a study)."

Our apartment is notable for its sizable living room AND dining room. I guess you could call the kitchen modest. And yes, a narrow hallway leads to three small bedrooms in the back. They are very small. We never thought we’d last here this long. We didn’t think a teenager would fit in one of those bedrooms. But he does. Quite nicely, I might add.

Husband had a computer-filled office in one of the bedrooms before Daughter was born. But then he had to vacate it and he got a job in the city. Then he did photography in the living room. Now he’s got a job in the city again.

It took days and days for Husband to pack up that office. It was amazing how much in the way of equipment, wires, electronic devices, magazines, and manuals he fit into that office.

Now it’s Daughter’s room, filled with all kinds of tchotckes, a huge Fisher Price dollhouse found on the street the day after Christmas, books, stuffed animals and American Girl dolls in various poses on the window sill.

There are at least ten identical limestone apartment buildings on Third Street. Some have the kitchen near the front, some in the back. Some have three small bedrooms. Or two slightly larger bedrooms. Still, there are approximately 80 apartments that are practically the same between Sixth and Seventh Avenue.

I wonder which building Auster was talking about. 

Now we know that Husband is indispensible.

He left for California on Saturday morning. On Monday morning, Son got dressed according to his school’s dress code: in black khakis, a white button-down shirt, lace-up shoes. He was about to leave when…

"My tie. Dad’s not here to tie my tie," he said.

Panic set in. We’d completely forgotten about the tie. Husband has been meaning to show Son how to tie it since September but both of them were loathe to give up their bonding moment every weekday morning. Or so it seemed.

"I’ll get in trouble if I don’t wear my tie," Teen Spirit said. "I can’t go to school."
"Not so fast young man," I said. "I’ll call Ed." I dialed the number of our neighbor downstairs but there was no answer. I tried again to no avail. Then I did a quick accounting of our other male neighbors. Most of them leave very early in the morning…

Then I called my sister. "Do you know how to tie a tie?" I asked.
"Nope," she said.

Then I remembered that Daughter knows how to tie a tie. She’s watched Husband do it so many times for Son that she figured it out.

"I don’t remember how to do it," she said in a manner that made me think she was either telling the truth or trying to sabotage her brother.

"Well, I guess I can’t go to school," Son said.

Unfortunately, I was in a big rush: had to be in the city at 8:30 a.m. My hands were tied, so to speak.

"Can’t you ask the school administrator or one of your friends?" I asked. Son looked pained. Clearly, he didn’t want to share with his school friends or the school administration that he can’t tie a tie.

"Do what you think is right," I said running out the door with Daughter.

"Okay. And I’ll spend the morning learning how to tie a tie. I’ll google it on the computer and figure it out." he waved cheerfuly.

When I got home that afternoon, Son had, indeed, figured out how to tie a tie. There were ten ties tied hanging on various pieces of furniture in the living room.

Ten ties ready to go. He won’t have to miss any more school this week.

Daughter’s friend Sarah had a piano recital on Sunday at the Castle Living Residence on Prospect Park West at Union Street. It turned out we knew quite a few other kids who were in the recital, either playing piano or flute.

Old age homes make me nervous. Always have. I grew up down the street from something called "The Riverview Willard," a really depressing old age home on West 86th Street, where the ancient-looking residents would sit out on the street in wheelchairs, on benches, and folding chairs, looking terribly bored, unhealthy, and sad.

That was back in the 1970’s and things have changed quite a bit. The Castle Living Residence has a lovely lobby with a doorman; more like a luxury apartment building. A sign in the elevator said: Yoga in the morning, the children’s recital at 2 p.m. and "North" a Rob Reiner movie that evening.

By the time we got to the social room on the fifth floor, there were barely any seats left. Priority, of course, went to the dozens of residents who had come out for the show. Then there was the big crowd of parents, siblings, grandparents and friends of the performers.

Standing Room Only.

With 14 performers and a a long program, I nervously expected the show to last hours. But piano/flute teacher Helen Richman is well-organized and clearly knows what she’s doing. The recital ran  smoothly and quickly, starting with a simple but impressive etude played by a 4-year-old followed by a double-threat flutist/pianist in baggy red tights and an adorable plaid party dress with a sash.

A dramatic rendition of the "Star Wars" theme came soon after, as did versions of "Ode to Joy," the "Dreidel song," "When the Saints Go Marching In," "Greensleeves" and more.

An impressive trio of pre-teen flutists made beautiful sounds with their flutes —  something that is not very easy to do.

The audience, many of whom were in wheelchairs, with walkers, or canes, listened attentively. Some sang along. Two dozed. One snoored.

What impressed me most was the poise and ease of the performers. Helen had obviously tutored them in the art of the gracious bow.

After the performance, the performers gave out handmade snowflake and harp ornaments to all members of the audience.

And then there were hot pink and bright blue frosted cupcakes, fruit punch, rice krispy treats and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

The event reminded me of something I experienced or dreamed of: the small town piano recital. Maybe it was the baggy red tights or the fruit punch mix of orange juice and ginger ale; the nervous performers clutching their flutes, their sheet music; the loud clapping of the parents, relieved that their child had survived with no mistakes too glaring, too humiliating (for the child, of course).

Being in the Castle Living Residence, seeing the elderly people living the way they do: it brought up a mix of disbelief, fear, denial, a "not me" kind of distance.

But I sat with it for the duration of the recital. Watching young children make music, tooting their flutes, pressing piano keys while observing those at the other end of their lives. Bitter. Sweet. Mostly sweet.

The Noguchi lanterns in the front  of the new Fifth Avenue restaurant, Perch, were, for me, the deal makers. I just love those kind of round Japanese paper lanterns.

The new cafeandsomuchmore, which is between Fifth and Sixth Streets, is lovely to look at and a pleasant place to be. In front there are tables, roomy enough for strollers, high chairs, and leggy people. In other words, the built-in banquettes are comfy.

The middle of the shop is the cafe, kitchen, and counter by day, bar by night. That’s right, in the morning, Perch has the GREAT COFFEE neon going. And in the evening, it says: COCKTAILS.

In the back of the restaurant, a light filled area with more Noguchi lamps and a stylish couch for sitting. Plus the place has wireless Internet access.

Perch is owned by a husband and wife team, who live on Fifth Avenue near 9th Street with two kids under five. They knew that Fifth Avenue needed a child-friendly cafe with good, healthy food. "All of our friends were desperate for a place like this," says Dierdre Jones, the owner, a former jewelry designer, whose husband, a mill worker, designed and built all the built-ins  in the restauarant.

One gets the sense that they’ve created just the kind of place they wanted and needed there to be on Fifth: a place you can go to in the mornings, for brunch, for lunch, and for dinner and  drinks in the evenings.

Not just a restaurant, a way of life: you eat, you compute, you admire gorgeous square paintings by Amy Rubell, you meet friends, maybe you have some coffee or dessert. Cinamon toast for the kids. That’ll work just about any time of day.

For a couple of people who’ve never been in the restaurant business before, they’ve created what I would call a sucessful hybrid cafe/restaurant. It’s self-service: order at the counter and take a red plastic number to your table. The service is speedy, the food is great and you leave a tip in the glass "Karma Boomerang" tip jar.

Easy. Good looking. Tasteful. A nice place to be .Just what the Avenue needed.

I really do get the sense that Commerce Bank is trying VERY hard to make up for the fact that everyone is pissed off at them.

Thanks to Aaron Naparstek and others who fought the original drive-thru design and sucessfully got the bank to reconsider, the bank is now just a banal glass and glitz Florida-style bank (or what I imagine a Florida-style bank to be).

How do you spell non-contextual architecture?

As one Fifth Avenue resident said, " Too bad they didn’t do a nice, apporpriate facade that would have blended in with the Avenue."

But what would they have done with all the glass and glitz?

They must know that everyone is pissed off. The scowling, growling, "I can’t believe this place" looks from passersby might be a tip off.

Also, they being so darn nice. Giving out nice blue pens, lollipops, free savings accounts for kids, toasters.

Maybe it is a nice bank. A useful bank. On Sunday, Daughter and I used their Penny Arcade coin-counting machine. The bank manager, an attractive young woman in super high heels,  helped us, even standing over us and hitting the "Go" button with her long, polished nails as we poured our El Pico can of coins into the slot. BRIGHT RED NAILS.

I love the Penny Arcade. And I love that the place is open 24/7 (what’s the deal? do they ever close? Can you open an account at 3 am on a Saturday night?). There’s this big glitzy conference room and I can’t help but wonder what’s gonna go on in there.

The bank does have an old-fashioned, "when banks had tellers" feeling to it. It’s decidedly not about ATM access. And that’s really new in an old sort of way. They called me today because I put my name on a list for a Safe Deposit Box.

:"The keys came in today, Miss Crawford. Come in anytime, we’re here."

So do we love them or do we hate them? I’m leaning toward liking the bank and resenting the building.  And really disliking the corporation for even thinking that Park Slope needed a drive-thru.

Yet, the fact that they were willing to modify their plan says a lot.

But the fact that they even wanted to do it in the first place is pretty awful.

–Did they even bother to learn the architectural history of this neighborhood?

–Did they bother to admire the Slope’s fine turn-of-the-century architecture?

–Did they really think we drive cars around here (I guess people do but we’re walkers god-damnit – walkers).

The whole thing is as weird-minded as that bank manager in her high heels thinking we needed to be watched over like that while we counted our pennies.

Hey guys,  FIFTH AVENUE is an incredible example of an early 20th century American shopping streets. It’s STILL a lot like that tinted photographic mural on YOUR wall (of turn-of-the- century 7th Avenue).

Fifth Avenue’s old/new balance is changing. Now, the new is out-numbering the old. It’s mostly new shops now. But you gotta love the way the old shops are hanging on: The Pork Shop, the Dance Clothing Store, Shoe Problems, Ask Joe. Next door to Joe’s, the social club, has been rented, I hear, by Steve Buscemi and the guy from The Sopranos, so that place will live on too (it’s okay to clean it up, but keep the aura, guys).

So Commerce Bank, you’ve made quite a splash bringing your big, Florida-style bank to Brooklyn. What were you thinking? Really, what were you thinking?