We’ve flipped folks throughout the city, turning them into spies—and they’re watching you.

SPY: Bartender K
OBSERVED: February 27, 6–10pm
Well, well, well, finance people, how the tables have turned. You know who you are: You come into my bar every day after work with your black AmExes and your repressed personalities, demanding drinks from the “help” standing behind the counter. You think nothing of freely sharing your confessions with each other because there’s no one around to mistakenly overhear the deep dark secrets of your lives. But I’m standing right in front of you, and I can hear you.

That’s right, buddy, I know you couldn’t care less that your potential client played soccer at Cornell, but you’re going to strategically bring it up to make him feel cool so you can “seal the deal.” And you, lady with the button-down cardigan and pearls, I heard you scoffing about your manager who didn’t know what to do with those files. You helped him, but oh, you were not happy about it. And you, Mr. I-wish-I-were-still-in-my-college-fraternity, I know all about your tee-time switcheroo last weekend. Yeah, you personally cancelled your 9am and secretly scheduled one later that day so that you wouldn’t have to play with your boss. You sneaky bastard. As for the rest of you, I’d be a bit more wary of the silent ears tuned in to your “private” conversations. And should you choose to continue to divulge your secrets, you might want to go out and get a life first so at least there’ll be something interesting to listen to for the four hours that you insist on sitting in front of me.

P.S. I also know that Black American Express cards require a minimum annual spending of $250,000. Just a suggestion: Think about throwing a couple of bucks out for a tip—might help make the minimum.

We’ve flipped folks throughout the city, turning them into spies—and they’re watching you.

SPY: Bartender W
OBSERVED: February 26, 1:15am
It’s slow. She’s already hammered. We’ve never met before.
“Just got off work. What are you up to tonight?”
“Well, as you can see,” I reply, “it’s a little slow around here.”
“Hmm,” she continues. “Let’s do a shot. When do you close?”
“Maybe in about an hour.”
Ten minutes later: “You going out after? Where do you usually go when you’re done? Oh, and let’s do another shot.”
“Maybe down to [Bar A] or [Bar B]. Depends on the time and how tired I am.”
“You want me to meet you there? You’re gonna close, right?”
“No, I’m not closing for at least an hour.”
“Oh.”
Ten minutes later: “Let’s do another shot. So, let’s meet up. Just tell me where you’re going after you close. I can meet you at [Bar A] or [Bar B].”
“Well. I’m not so certain that my girlfriend would really approve.”
“Tell you what. I’ll just wait for you at [Bar B], then. See you there.”

We’ve flipped folks throughout the city, turning them into spies—and they’re watching you.

SPY: Waiter X
OBSERVED: February 29, 8:30pm
It’s Friday night and my restaurant has entered the proverbial rush hour. We, the servers, are running around like chickens with our heads cut off. With only four tables in my section, I imagine tonight will be relatively easy for me. I approach my group of five, and that’s when things start going downhill. The older man greets me with a bellowing, “What took you so long?!? I’m out of whiskey!” The whole table shoots daggers at me with their eyes. I go and get drinks and water for everyone, allowing them time to look over the menu. While checking on my other table, the yelling begins again. “Miss, MISS!! EXCUSE ME! MISS!!!!!!!” I feel like I should be wearing a leash so they can yank to their heart’s desire.
As I proceed to take their orders, they become a five-man chorus led by mean ol’ baritone. “It says here it’s spicy, what does that mean? What is the duck ravioli? What do the scallops taste like? I want fish—why do you only have tuna and cod? I don’t like cod, but does it really taste like cod?” 
I want to tell him it tastes like mac and cheese, but I respect my tip more than that.
“Sir, of course it tastes like cod; it is cod. I recommend you get something else.” He gets the tuna.

You couldn’t ask for a better example of a lean, addictive as hell, all-action video game than God of War: Chains of Olympus, which is all the more remarkable for having been released on Sony’s handheld PSP. The graphics and controls are near-indistinguishable from those of last year’s knockout God of War II, a PlayStation 2 title that pushed the seven-year-old console to its limits and then some. Olympus soft-pedals the grim and gritty Heavy Metal take on Greek mythology that is a trademark of the franchise, but everything else that made the first two GOWs such spectacularly effective time-suckers—most notably the combination of puzzles and combat inspired by the Tomb Raider games, but far more polished and refined than any of Lara Croft’s adventures—has made the leap to the pocket-sized system with style to burn. Although the PSP has sold about half as many units in the U.S. as the Nintendo DS (which had sold around 20 million here as of December 31, versus around 10 million for the PSP), Sony’s system has always seemed to be the preferred handheld of New York subway riders, and I’d be willing to bet cash money that at least a third of the people using PSPs on public transportation this week are playing Chains of Olympus (which, lest I forget to mention it, is now available for $39.99 wherever video games are sold).

Last week’s amazing installment of The Wire (written by genius crime novelist George Pelecanos) was probably the best episode of the series’s five-season run, and with the grand finale coming up on Sunday, a lot of people have used it as an excuse to proclaim David Simon’s brainchild the greatest TV drama of all time. Last weekend, I discussed the topic with Newark Star-Ledger television critic Alan Sepinwall, a Wire man to the core, and freelance New York Times film critic/TONY contributor Matt Zoller Seitz, who considers Deadwood to be the high point of the medium. I myself am devoted to The Sopranos, and used the conversation to make a case for David Chase’s chef d’oeuvre. A transcript of the conversation can be found on Matt’s blog, The House Next Door, and fear not—while all three of us have seen The Wire’s final episode, our discussion is spoiler-free. A podcast recording of our debate can be found here (as an MP3) and here (as an MP4/AAC file—the link will expire in a few days, FYI), though it comes with a caveat: If you plan to listen with headphones, consider yourself warned re: the ambient-noise level—we were having breakfast at Joe Jr.’s in the West Village and had no choice but to sit in the booth next to the dirty-dish bin, so there’s a lot of clattering plate action going on.

We’ve flipped folks throughout the city, turning them into spies—and they’re watching you.

SPY: Bartender X
OBSERVED: February 27, 11:45pm
It’s a slow Wednesday night. I serve a vodka tonic and a vodka cranberry to the two women sitting at the bar. One’s in her early thirties, vaguely Latina looking, not much makeup. We’ll call her Sue. She’s sitting with another woman—whiter, younger, homelier—who listens intently. Let’s call her Jenny. “I used to be really into rubber,” Sue says, “and the way it feels on the skin.” Jenny giggles. Sue continues, describing a party featuring "a gimp who was kneeling and serving.” Jenny assumes this means ah, one thing, but Sue corrects her, explaining that the function of said gimp was in fact to serve drinks from his knees the entire night. “Don’t point at the gimp!” she recalls the host instructing. Sue continues, describing herself as “a former foot fetish model” who allowed men to massage her feet for money. It didn’t give her any sexual pleasure, she says, but the men liked it. “How does that have anything to do with being a model?” Jenny asks. Sue does not have an answer to that one.