Explorers Club President Lorie Karnath, third from left, and other Club members pose before releasing the carabiner at the newly renovated building's "ribbon cutting."

Though the Explorers Club claims as members the first people to reach the North and South Poles, the summit of Mount Everest and the surface of the moon, they have currently turned their attention to a more familiar location: 46 East 70^th street.

Last week they revealed “a bit of archaeology unseen for years” in a public open house – complete with bagpipe music – at the international club’s headquarters; scaffolding had been removed after five years from a portion of the Lowell Thomas Building’s façade. Phase I of the building’s renovations was complete.

Walking by an entryway photograph of member Buzz Aldrin hopping across the moon (another member later noted to us that they had once helped him find his glasses), The Observer began the ascent up the creaking, century-old, dark-wood stairs. On the landing, we discovered one of many club artifacts on display for the day – a “polar time capsule,” which was set adrift from the North Pole in 1986, rediscovered three years later and 2,000 miles away.

The club took over their Upper East Side mansion in 1964, but it was built in 1912 by Stephen Clark, with family money amassed from his grandfather’s role as head of the Singer Sewing Machine Company. Club president Lorie Karnath began the building’s current $2 million, two-phase renovation a little over two years ago when she was elected.

Karnath – who walked the streets of New York,  inspecting other buildings in order to select an architect for the project -- welcomed us, and about 20 others, to the open house with a building-shaped pin on which the project slogan was printed: “Cultural Heritage Starts at HQ.” The six-story building was lit largely by natural light shining through the newly revealed three-story bay windows overlooking the terrace. Rows of science books lined the room inside, while a chronology of Explorers Club flags hung on the wooden walls of the adjacent lecture room. The completed renovation also included repairing 114 stained-glass windows. Phase II will focus on the terrace and colonnade.

Architectural heritage aside, the club’s history exists also in its members.

“There are a lot of people here who are unusual,” said Don Morley, who had just arrived from Texas wearing his Explorers Club tie. “Your peers are doing very interesting things as a rule.” (On one expedition with club members, Morley traveled in a submarine to see the remains of the Titanic, and as a souvenir he kept a Styrofoam cup on which he had scrawled a note that shrank to the size of a thimble due to the change in pressure.)

“I feel that it’s all about curiosity and asking questions,” explained Ms. Karnath, who had just returned from digging up dinosaur bones in Canada the weekend before.

We asked Ms. Karnath, sitting in her office cluttered with more books and artifacts, about the acceptance rate: “If you’re qualified, you get in. Let’s put it that way,” she said. In the NYC chapter, there are more than 500 members.

According to cultural preservation enthusiast Mabel Purkerson who was visiting from her chapter in St. Louis, even the cat went through a selection process: he was chosen by the president of the Philadelphia Explorer’s Club chapter out of 32 felines “interviewed.”

Their strategy for being in front of as many New Yorkers as possible—New York is the media capital of the world, their site notes--was to host the final tournament in Grand Central Terminal’s Vanderbilt Hall, where media elites traipsing home to the suburbs would practically trip over it.

The $12,500 per day rental fee marks the most expensive installation that Teen Masters tournament founder Gary Beck says he has ever hosted.

“We’re telling a very compelling story, and if you’re going to do that, you need to tell the story where it can be heard,” Mr. Beck, who lives about 20 miles outside of Charlottesville, explained. “There’s no other place in the world you can reach as many people as New York.”

Already, the event has been mentioned by New York media sources such as DNAinfo, the New York Times, and HuffPost.

But at 2 p.m. today, though several media sources had already arrived for the 1 p.m. start, no bowling balls could be heard.

A man bent over the bowling lane with a saw in hand, trimming the end.

They had begun setting up the lane and surrounding bleacher seating last night at 8 p.m., working through logistical issues. 18 hours later, Mr. Beck still had not slept.

When the contractors had arrived this morning to work on the lane, their attire had not met required safety standards, so they had to go shopping for items such as metal-toed shoes before beginning work.

“We had problems because it has never been done before,” said Mr. Beck, adding that the 1,600 pound pin deck had to be carried from the loading dock three blocks away. “It’s more complicated but it’s worthwhile… You wouldn’t be talking to me if we weren’t here.”

“We have all kinds of wacky events in Grand Central,” said MTA spokesperson Margie Anders.

An annual squash tournament, cooking demonstrations and fashion shows have also taken place in the train station’s Vanderbilt Hall. A wedding – complete with a 53-piece orchestra and 500 guests – is scheduled for later this month.

“You never know what you’re going to see in there,” Ms. Anders stated.

The space was converted from a 650-person waiting room to event venue in 1998. Just one lane was being set up for the tournament – the design already approved to meet MTA engineering and safety standards – with the oil pattern determined by the current tournament leader.

Still, with 700,000 people passing through the terminal on a given weekday, Grand Central is no average tournament bowling alley.

“I believe it’s going to be so distracting and nerve-wracking,” said 18 year-old Ryan Ventillo, who had moved onto the final round. “I think it’s a good idea for exposing the sport and the tournament, but as far as bowling I think it’s going to be real difficult… You can’t let all these distractions and all these obstacles get to you.”

While no competitors are city residents, several are from New York State, and as Long Island resident Jeffrey Juarez described, can often be identified because they “tend to be very loud and obnoxious when they bowl.”

After all, 15-year-old reasoned, “You want the intensity level to stay right where it is.”

The Teen Masters Bowling championship participants had taken a party bus from New Jersey to Manhattan that morning for the opening ceremony and final rounds. Many said they play for school teams, attend tournaments weekly and practice daily for about three hours. Of five participants from New York interviewed, three said they took up bowling because their parents bowl.

“I pretty much grew up in a bowling alley,” Tommy Genova, a 17-year-old participant competing for the $64,000 scholarship prize, said, adding that he hopes the event brings attention to an often overlooked sport.

“That’s a shame he had this delay,” an onlooking father noted of Mr. Beck, as he tested the event microphone.

But rush hour was still a ways away.

What they have all been waiting for, beyond the line. (Sølve Sundsbø / Art + Commerce, metmuseum.org)

Already 582,000 visitors have passed through the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met since it opened in early May, but as the show counts down to its final days, the otherworldly lines will most likely be longer than ever. The museum, however, would prefer that you think of it not as a wait, but as an experience.

Around 400 people are admitted to the exhibit every half hour, and last week a record 51,000 visitors stood in line to see the collection, meaning some waited for two and half hours. (Last Saturday alone saw over 10,000 visitors, marking the first day 10,000 was reached since the museum began controlling access three weeks into the show.) But the line was designed to take visitors on an eclectic art tour beginning with Japanese ceramic figures in the Great Hall balcony before entering the ancient Near East room, moving on to Cyprus and finally arriving to the hall of European paintings and sculptures.

“One man’s obstruction is another man’s inspiration!” said senior spokesman Harold Holzer.

Realizing wait times could grow long, the museum created a pamphlet – “McQueen Line Trek the Taming of the Queue” – in May to help entertain patrons, and also developed a corresponding SCVNGR app. As the line snakes among the exhibits, connections “on this tailor-made route” are drawn to fashion: the patient patron is encouraged to examine the “fabulous footwear!” of Mesopotamia and the “animal accessories” from the Near East.

After all, as the pamphlet reads, “At the Metropolitan, there is beauty even in the wait.”

“Look, we know it’s not ideal,” Mr. Holzer said. “We know that people are not going to have an ideal view [but] this kind of thing happens once every ten years and hopefully people who are in the line will see enough that they’ll come back.”

Despite the crowd-calming distraction of art, the line must be maintained. In addition to the full time staff, the museum hired and trained a team to monitor the McQueen crowds, shuttling museum-goers from one section of golden rope to the other and ensuring no one cuts in front (unless, of course, he or she is a museum member).

The Observer stopped by last Wednesday, just in time for the line’s 4:30 close, an hour before the museum itself shuts its doors Tuesday through Thursday. The woman at the desk informed us that the wait had been about 2 hours between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. that day, but had shortened to an hour and a half in the late afternoon.

Melissa Ward and her friend, who held up the back of the line Wednesday evening, seemed unfazed. They had arrived to the museum at 3, and browsed other exhibits before simply sauntering into the end of the line for a 20-minute wait, without ever being offered a scavenger hunt guide.

“It’s moving quickly!” they declared, as they were shuffled in by 4:55.

Those exiting the exhibit, though, did manage to find one last line in which to spend their remaining Met minutes: the one leading to the gift shop cash register.

from @cocorocha

Chelsea Clinton arrived at the 44^th floor of Hearst Tower Tuesday night (“with amaaaaze makeup and an impeccable blowout,” one fan tweeted from the publisher’s headquarters) and soon began whispering with Randi Zuckerberg in the corner. The Observer, taking notes on the surrounding scene (high heels, designer dresses, crispy cheesesticks), lurked nearby, waiting to speak with her.

“Let’s keep private conversations private,” said Ms. Clinton’s aide. She had materialized on our right and was eyeing our pen.

“First, hear what she has to say,” she said, offering us her e-mail address.

Ms. Clinton had joined Marie Claire editor in chief Joanna Coles for a panel on social media, along with Facebook marketing director Randi Zuckerberg (and sister of Mark), Common Sense Media executive Amy Guggenheim Shenkan and ESPN sportscaster Erin Andrews, to discuss “the perils and the possibilities of living in a digital world.”

Among the first to arrive was supermodel Coco Rocha. With 45,783 Facebook fans (personal profiles have a 5,000 friend limit, she explained to The Observer), she also maintains accounts on Tumblr, Vimeo, YouTube, Google Plus and Twitter. The last celebrated its two-year anniversary two days earlier.

“I just felt like I’d like to have a little bit of a voice,” said Ms. Rocha, whose métier is to be seen, not heard. “It’s letting people into my world and into the fashion world.”

The Canada native (she is working on her green card) kept her followers updated throughout the event, posting a photo of herself and her agent posed in front of windows overlooking Central Park.

Barbara Walters was seated in the audience, somewhat unexpectedly. Her name had been omitted from the invitation because she RSVP’d late, but she arrived as close to on time as anyone.

“I thought I’d learn something,” Ms. Walters told The Observer, admitting she was neither on Facebook or Twitter.

Asked if she thought social media was helping the field of journalism, Ms. Walters, 81, said, “Well, it’s there… so I think you need to know how to deal with it.”

“Truthfully, between e-mails and iPads and the little job I have on the side, I don’t have time for it,” Ms. Walters had explained. She didn’t have time to stay for the entire length of the panel discussion, either.

After Ms. Clinton gave short remarks, she sat in the audience, and Ms. Coles told the audience a Wall Street Journal reporter "rather depressingly" had muttered to her earlier that evening that “these kind of things" weren’t usually very engaging.

The debate surrounded bullying on the internet; Ms. Andrews described what it was like to have a video of her nude passed around online, after a stalker filmed her through the peephole of her hotel room and posted the clip to the internet.

Next on the ladies’ agenda were issues of children’s online safety, which seemed aimed at Ms. Zuckerberg. She stated that age limits exist on Facebook and argued teenagers are savvier than they are given credit.

Ms. Walters piped up with a question from the audience: If she could, what legislation would each panelist propose?

“I thought this was going to be a vacation!” exclaimed Ms. Zuckerberg, who resides in California.

But it is safe to say the night went off without any un-friending. The next morning Ms. Zuckerberg tweeted “such a wonderful girl-power evening & panel,” and posted photos of the event to her Facebook page.

“I went to a very interesting symposium that was mostly made up by young women in the audience with great shoes,” Ms. Walters reported on The View.

As for Ms. Clinton, who made one interjection during the discussion and offered a few lines to wrap up the evening, Ms. Walters said, “She was so articulate, she was so intelligent…this is a girl who has a political future.”

Beekeeper Andrew Coté on "The Martha Stewart Show" in NYC in 2010. Photo: David M. Russell/The Martha Stewart Show

Urban beekeeper Andrew Coté waited seven days before offering The Observer his phone number. He has no personal website, no business card.

“They’ll bother me,” he said. “I’m just going to keep working my bees.”

As the self-proclaimed largest single beehive owner in New York City, Mr. Coté has his work cut out for him. And despite his policy of privacy, Mr. Coté is constantly handling a swarm of media.

In a city dense with media companies in need of an expert source on the latest story, a local professional who submits to an interview runs the risk of becoming the spokesperson for their field.

Since a 2008 New York Times profile, Mr. Coté has had a hard time staying out of the news. In the past year alone he's appeared on virtually every American news source, and then some, including: the Martha Stewart Show, NPR, PBS, CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, The Wall Street Journal, The Times of London, The Sydney Morning Herald, Time Out New York, AP and the BBC.

"Who else are you going to come to if you're doing a story about New York City beekeeping?" Mr. Coté asked.

The middle-aged man isn’t exactly sure how the press -- or even his clients, for that matter  -- know to contact him.

"The truth is I just happen to run the club," Mr. Coté said, referring to the New York City Beekeepers Association (NYCBA).

Indeed, the Association's website was how we had contacted the reluctant super-source, our interview request just one of the roughly 180 emails he receives each day.

"Please send me whatever questions you have and I will do my best to respond," Mr. Coté wrote to The Observer, from a g-mail handle that includes the word "beekeeper". He later asked for a sample of our writing.

MR. COTE DOES NOT vet his media requests, apparently, out of reluctance to talk. Once he granted us access, Mr. Coté was eager to give The Observer some good material.  Upon learning that we had never been stung by a bee, Mr. Coté suggested we initiate ourselves to the club. It would make a good war story for the article.

We declined.

We accompanied Mr. Coté, clad in grungy jeans and orange NYCBA tee shirt, to a housing complex in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. There we met Brooklyn Beekeeping Club President Mike “Mickey” Hegedus, who is gaining notoriety for his naked beekeeping videos. He would be Mr. Coté’s partner in removing a hive from an apartment wall.

Mr. Coté began the job by snapping pictures of the scene on his iPhone, on which 580 photos were already saved.

“Time is money!” shouted the apartment manager.

But Mr. Coté insisted the “Before” photos were protocol. He e-mailed them as attachments later that night with a written explanation of the job to those he thought might be interested.

Mr. Coté and Mr. Hegedus propped a ladder on the side of the building, climbed up, and – with help from two apartment contractors – pounded away the brick to reveal the bees’ hidden lair. Mr. Hegedus assured the contractor that he had brought an epipen.

“Did you hear that? Did you hear how prepared the beekeepers’ club is?” he noted to The Observer.

Then Mr. Coté discovered honey. With an exclamatory “Ah!” from his perch atop the ladder, he grinned down.

“I wanna taste it. It’s wall honey!” He filled his Nalgene water bottle with the sticky comb and climbed down the ladder to slice off pieces for the building employees and passerby who had gathered to spectate. He instructed us to eat the whole chunk at once, like a piece of gum.

We popped the light-colored honey and comb into our mouth. Immediately, the comb melted and an overwhelming taste of sugar, with a hint of mint, melted over our tongue as the comb shrunk.

A novice beekeeper in his twenties named Elie Miodownik came to observe the “swarm kings” perform the hive removal. Mr. Miodownik took Mr. Coté’s introductory class through NYCBA and is heading to veterinary school in the fall. He scrambled up the ladder, poking his veil-covered head into the hole to see the hive. When he descended, Mr. Coté offered the apprentice a copy of The Beekeeper’s Lament.

By noon the the comb had been cleared from the wall and the professionals let Mr. Miodownik try his hand at vacuuming the bees from the wall. Mr. Coté had escaped with just one sting near his elbow. (He believes the ear is the worst place to be stung.) The three then stopped for beers and to talk shop on the stoop of Mr. Hegedus’s Brooklyn home.

MR. COTE LIKES TO SAY that he enjoys the beekeeping because it makes him feel closer to his dad, who taught him the trade. His father Norman, now almost 70, says he did not have to deal with the media to the same extent that his son does.

“I sort of shied away with that. I’d rather be out with the bees,” he said.

On a board next to his booth at the Wednesday farmer’s market in Union Square, Mr. Coté’s clippings from the New York Times and Bon Appetite are mounted. As a customer passed him money, she said to him, “I tried a different kind of honey because I ran out of his and it was disgusting.” Mr. Coté called us over.  He asked her to repeat the comment.

“Come back and say that every twenty minutes!” he joked.

“He’s turned into a celebrity with the outdoor sales,” said Adam Weprin, manager of Bridge Café bar in the financial district, just below the Brooklyn Bridge as it reaches Manhattan.

Two years ago Mr. Weprin hired Mr. Coté to install hives on the café’s roof. Before Mr. Coté had agreed he arrived unannounced at the cafe, to survey Mr. Weprin’s character.

He consented, but he required Mr. Weprin take his beekeeping class first.

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, Mr. Coté was back in front of cameras, filming an episode for TLC’s reality show Cake Boss on Bridge Café’s roof. As bees flew about their ankles, Mr. Coté demonstrated how to harvest honey from urban hives alongside a shirtless Mr. Hegedus. Mr. Weprin, who is allergic to bees, observed and whispered footnotes to The Observer.

"He does love this and he really loves the bees," Mr. Weprin explained as Mr. Coté puffed spray on the hives so the bees would be less aggressive. “I like to say he’s the father of the bees. I’m just the uncle.”

The cameraman noted, “They seem to be really nice bees!”

Encouraging Mr. Weprin to have the crew film him in front of the restaurant’s sign for the sake of publicity, Mr. Coté descended the Bridge Cafe’s rickety stairs.

Discussing the taping on the drive back from Brooklyn a few days earlier, he had already summed it up: “It'll just be another in a long series.”

He then asked us if it was okay if he stopped to get gas, then pick up his laundry.

“The bee world could probably do better, but until that person comes along, people are going to have to suffer through my remarks,” Mr. Coté joked, stepping out of his white truck to fetch his clean towels.

“Do you know how to swim?” asked Lev Grote, president of the New York Kayak Water Polo Club. “That’s key.”

We turned our attention down to the clipboard and signed a liability form, kicking ourselves for having skipped the intro session earlier that month. Though Grote had offered us the option of the “Friendly Friday program,” which had been promised to be less crowded and slower-paced, here we were - armed with a swimsuit and towel as our only preparation for the two hours to come.

“We want to make it possible for people to enjoy the sport right and for people to learn about it,” Grote said of the group. “Most people don’t know what kayak polo is, of course.”

The sport is meant be played on flat water, such as a pool or a 35 by 75 meter space called the “pitch” according to official rules, but in the summer months the New York Kayak Polo group embraces its local home, hosting practice sessions at the Hudson several times a week.

Formed in 2003, initially the group was “sort of a ramshackle operation” according to Grote, storing its boats at the nearby Frying Pan restaurant. Two years ago, the paddling enthusiasts applied for space next door at Pier 66. With membership remaining around 25 people (the fee is $150 per year), a core bunch now practices two to three times a week, though more sporadic attendance is common among the others.

“The thing about the club is there’s so many different interests,” said Margaret Mann, coach of the women’s team who also competes internationally. “There are people who are super competitive…  and then there are people who just want to have fun.”

These different motivations, Mann continued, can create conflict and make it difficult for those at the top to improve. The club oftentimes does not have enough “top notch players” to select from for tournament teams, added founding member Dmitri Bougakov who is gearing up for a Canadian tournament this weekend. A neuropsychologist, he speculated that perhaps the group needs to recruit younger members (most now are in their 30’s).

Drinks in hand, onlookers from the deck of the Frying Pan always cheer on the players, pointing down at the bumper-equipped boats as members dribble, pass and shoot the ball at nets suspended a paddle-length above the water. Cheers arise as they “hand-tackle” or “kayak-tackle” in a flurry of water and paddles. Occasionally, the temporary fans ask them to toss a ball up, but they never ask to join in. As Mann put it: “It’s a really hard sport to get people to play for so many reasons… For me, personally, I just feel like I was meant to play this sport.”

Lucky for them, The Observer was ready to learn yesterday. We were not bothered by the conversion of the typically serene kayaking hobby into an aggressive team sport. We were not afraid of the blue and yellow polo ball. We were not part of that “certain proportion of people who has no interest in getting into the Hudson,” as one member described.

Ready for the challenge that lie ahead, we snapped on life vest #91, pulled up the kayak skirt and buckled our helmet. But just as we prepared to enter the water, another member dragged her boat out.

Feces were floating under the dock.

After some deliberation, several of the group who milled about the boathouse decided that since The Observer was certain to go under, it would be wise to pack up for now and learn another day.

Turning to go, we explained our plight to Bougakov, who shrugged and argued that his immune system had been built up over the years, so he would be just fine. “By now it’s our natural environment,” Bougakov said in his Russian accent, moving to get his gear.

Other members made preparations to enter the water as well, pulling boats from their racks and dragging them out onto the dock. After all, when a rainstorm blew through during practice last week, they had played on. A handful of excrement wasn’t going to stop them.

The article now stands corrected by an Editor’s Note: “This post was submitted to us by the Harlem Children's Zone as a piece co-authored by Geoffrey Canada and Marion Nestle. Dr. Nestle subsequently informed us that she had not, in fact, co-written the post, so her name has been removed. We regret the confusion.”

It recalled another episode in creative bylining in the HuffPo's brief history, the last one featuring celeblogger George Clooney.

Nonetheless, Arianna Huffington was one of five “distinguished leaders of new and traditional media worldwide” named today as having been elected by a vote to join the board of directors for the Committee to Protect Journalists, an organization which aims to “promote press freedom worldwide.” Other new members include: John Carroll, a previous editor of the Los Angeles Times and Baltimore Sun, and Jacob Weisberg, chairman of The Slate Group.

But Huffington certainly has a name that stands out among the bunch. (Her CPJ bio mentions her appearances on “numerous” television shows, ten of which are listed, and also reminds us that Huffington was named not once but twice to Time’s list of the world’s 100 most influential people.) As Jacob Weisberg tweeted earlier this morning: “Delighted to be joining the CPJ board with Arianna & others. It’s such an important organization.”

CPJ Chairman Sandra Rowe said they were “pleased” to have Huffington on board due to her “entrepreneurial experience, digital news expertise, international background and leadership" skills, while Weisberg said he too was “incredibly pleased” that Huffington would be joining him and the three others, citing her “incredible energy” and range of contacts.

Weisberg was not surprised by the choice, speculating that he too had been chosen because CPJ was looking to add “some people to supplement their online expertise on the board.”

UPDATE: In a subsequent post on her blog yesterday, Marion Nestle clarified the "mysterious ghostwriting episode" and apologized to HuffPo, explaining that after receiving an e-mail from Deputy NYC Mayor for Health and Human Services Linda Gibbs she was reminded of her "willingness to edit and sign an op-ed about the proposed SNAP ban prepared by [Gibbs'] staff that was to be submitted to the New York Times."

Nestle continued: "I vaguely remember reviewing such a piece and approving its submission.  When I heard that the Times had rejected the piece, I promptly forgot about it."

Nestle added that although she had not been aware the article was then submitted to the Huffington Post (and two other media sources), she does not remember discussing "co-authorship with Geoffrey Canada, and the piece submitted to and published in the Huffington Post does not mention the involvement of the NYC health department," Nestle concluded that she nonetheless is "happy to have the piece published" with her name attached and looks forward to meeting Geoffrey Canada some day.

Strauss-Kahn leaves court amidst a mob of press on July 1. (Getty Images)

When Steven Hirsch arrived at 100 Centre Street on July 1, he grabbed his two cameras from the pressroom cabinet and went to find the stool labeled “New York Post.” A coworker had marked the spot among the sea of press gathering on the courthouse steps to await the arrival of Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

“Everybody knows it’s a media ‘gang bang,’” said Marco Caruso, who does freelance film work for Eurovision and had arrived at 5 a.m. that morning, noting the throngs of press people lining the sidewalk and steps. His partner Jeb offered the phrase “goat fuck,” while another photographer groused: “We’re sitting here like cattle.”

Hirsch, who has snapped for the Post at Centre Street for about five years and is the only photographer stationed at the Manhattan courthouse five days a week, was just one in the mob. As an observing court police officer put it: “Usually he’s a big fish in a small pond. Now he’s just a minnow.”

Throughout the summer, international media members have followed Strauss-Kahn’s trial closely, with photos of the French economist -- on his "perp walk" and later, celebrating his freedom -- splayed across the tabloids on both sides of the Atlantic. With the prosecution's case teetering on his accuser's credibility, the mass media had descended once more, disrupting Hirsch's courthouse routine.

“We don’t have to do this thing on a regular day,” Hirsch grumbled to The Observer. “You know, stand out here.”

Bloomberg photographer Jin Lee referred to Hirsch as “the veteran;” while Hirsch, 63, called himself the “senior court person.” His sage advice for handling the Strauss-Kahn assignment? Follow everyone else.

Hirsch, however, didn’t heed his own advice. When Strauss-Kahn arrived a few minutes before 11 a.m., Hirsch was sitting on a bench outside the 13^th floor courtroom, trying to talk his way in. (He was missing what photographers Joe Corrigan and Paul Zimmerman called the “bonding experience” of hours spent on the court steps.)

A photographer for The New York Times had already been designated the day’s pool photographer inside the courtroom, but Hirsch wanted in, too. For state trials like Strauss-Kahn’s, a photographer simply needs a media request signed by the judge in order to enter the courtroom, and Hirsch, along with two others, was hoping he could weasel permission at the last minute, a request that's often granted on a normal day.

The benefits can be big. On his day as the pool designee, Polaris photographer Allan Tannenbaum caught a shot of Strauss-Kahn flashing a creepy smile, which became the ubiquitous image for weeks, even making the cover of that morning’s Post.  “My pictures went all over the world for that!” Tannenbaum said.

(The courtroom scenes are so compelling, and potentially lucrative, that news agencies even hire back-up. Four courtroom artists were present that Friday as “a protective measure,” artist Jane Rosenberg explained, in case the judge refused access to photographers. “Basically I’m trying to get the same things they’re getting,” said Rosenberg, who has drawn court scenes for over 30 years but says her workload has dwindled in recent years.)

Hirsch offered some advice for those unaccustomed to the court's particular rules. He warned the nearby ABC cameraman not to film anything in the hall if he wanted to return. Even a girl who snapped a picture on her smartphone was confronted by a police officer and asked to delete it.

But Hirsch also has no qualms about defending his territory. A woman approached and stared where Hirsch’s black backpack took up coveted bench space. She asked if anyone was sitting there. He responded that his equipment was.

“Well I’d like to sit here,” she said, and he unhappily tossed his backpack to the ground, asking her not to touch his cameras.

“Why are you sitting here?” she continued.

“I work here,” he said curtly.

When Strauss-Kahn finally exited the courtroom around noon, Hirsch sprinted to the first elevator down, and scared away two people trying to squeeze into the overly packed space: “Okay, it’s not moving. Now get out.”

Hirsch arrived downstairs just in time to snap a dozen pictures of Strauss-Kahn entering his car, then helped a fellow Post photographer shoot the press conference, offering advice as they worked. After that, Hirsch decided he’d “had enough.”

While Hirsch and Marc Hermann, who shoots for the New York Daily News at criminal court three times a week, appreciate that with larger cases such as Strauss-Kahn’s their pictures are more likely to be used, the pair say they prefer the pursuit of the low-profile, true New York defendant. “These are real stories about real crimes and real drama,” Hermann said of their usual subjects. “When a big case happens … it’s no longer just our place to do our thing.”

There simply was just not enough elbowroom during Strauss-Kahn’s most recent appearance to have the usual fun. While a pair of photographers had joked earlier that morning about employing an old standby – “Hey you dropped your wallet” – Hirsch and Hermann have their own set of tricks. (Hirsch attributes his training to the Enquirer and the Globe, “which was quite a school” but he said became too celebrity-centered.)

One is the Spin and Bag, a form of “synchronized shooting” in which they walk side-by-side in front of the subject, count to three and spin to take the person’s photo by surprise. Then there is the Pinball Machine in which the “Perparazzis,” as Hirsch has dubbed them, split to either side of the subject and function as bumpers, firing their flashes back and forth causing the shy person to turn between them. And then, at the most extreme, there is the Food Cart, when Hirsch hides in the food vendor’s cart outside the courthouse, shooting with a camouflaged lens through the steam of the hotdog cooker.

“This has become a goldmine for material in the papers,” Hirsch said of the court's rotating cast.

The post-trial press conference for Strauss-Kahn was still going on the courtroom steps when Hirsch sought refuge inside the cramped, but comfortable, lair that serves as the courthouse pressroom. Six desks fit like a puzzle in the L-shaped space, and Hirsch settled into his usual desk.

But photographers from other agencies – including the pool photographer from the Times – had crowded in as well, editing and sending files along with captions rather than transferring them from the steps outside or, as one photographer did, a nearby Starbucks.

Hirsch and Hermann cordially share the space with their visiting colleagues, but it clearly belongs to them.  The walls are papered with old covers from the Post and Daily News. Broken umbrellas with which one or two unhappy subjects have beaten the photographers hang on the wall, as does a Twizzler, given to Hermann by Remy Ma, who shot her boyfriend in the stomach and is serving an eight-year sentence.

“Look, those two guys live and breathe down there,” explained court spokesman David Bookstaver of Hirsch and Hermann. “They have found a niche and they have found a home… They know the drill.”

For the regular courthouse press corps, the trial's latest delay -- a hearing scheduled today was pushed back two weeks -- was something of a welcome reprieve.

“They cover the goings on in that building,” Bookstaver said. “Not every case is DSK or Puff Daddy.”

But you won’t find this controversial politician on a big screen in New York.

Ten cities were selected for the limited opening – including Phoenix, AZ, Grapevine, TX, and Independence, MO – based on Palin’s book sales and fan groups, among other sources. NYC didn’t quite make the cut.

While Palin stopped at a Rochester Borders store during her 2009 Going Rogue book tour, she didn’t come to NYC on the tour. (A HarperCollins spokesperson explained to The Observer that the company aimed to select strong stores where they “felt she had the most fans.”) The politician's ongoing “One Nation” East Coast bus trip this summer, however, passed through Manhattan around the first of June.

During Palin’s New York visit someone tagged her bus with a sign reading “I, the media whore,” echoing sentiments of what Bill Keller would call Palin's “Tom and Jerry Problem” with the press, as the ex-Alaska Governor continued to travel the country without announcing her presidential race plans. (Some may see the movie debut as part of a cry for media attention; during the film’s Iowa premier, the Times reported Palin was “still thinking about it,” with regard to entering the race.)

Donald Trump was more friendly: the pair shared a piece of pizza in Times Square. Palin also tweeted a thank you to what she believed to be a New York flower shop for the peonies and Calla Lillies they delivered, commenting, “Man, people are nice around here!”

The flower company is actually located in Jersey City, but still there is potential for the Palin film to expand to New York. According to statistics from a poll used so that the public could weigh in on where the movie should be played, New York ranks in the top quartile, and as CEO of the film's distributor (ARC Entertainment) Trevor Drinkwater said, expansion beyond the first week will favor those markets.

All things considered, Drinkwater noted that although New York's poll activity "has been pretty active," New York consumers can always buy a copy of the documentary on DVD if the film doesn't open here.

On the whiteboard hung in the back of David Burke Kitchen, the overnight chef had scrawled the phrase “Let’s kick ass this week.” Beneath, a recipe for success was listed: teamwork, dedication, passion and more teamwork.

But when asked about preparations for Monday night, opening night of New York City’s Summer 2011 Restaurant Week, David Burke Kitchen Executive Chef Jedd Adair joked, “We just get ready to get our ass kicked.”

Choosing among four starters, five main courses and three desserts, Restaurant Week diners could order a three-course meal for just $35. Over 200 people took advantage of the deal at the main dining room of the Kitchen last night, whereas the summer Monday night diner average usually hovers below 100.

Still, Adair maintained the week is “anticlimactic” because the chefs prepare a smaller range of dishes and production simplifies.

“I mean I had an extra martini last night because of it,” Adair laughed. “You worry about it because the number is somewhat daunting [but] once you get used to it, you do the same thing over and over and over.”

Sporting a Yankees baseball cap at the beginning of the night, Adair serves as Kitchen team coach, shouting instructions laced with encouragement and critique. About five minutes after orders are placed, receipt tickets print through a machine stationed at his right and then he “fires,” reading the ticket aloud to the surrounding chefs: “Fire lobster soup. Order in two skate, side of fries.”

Monday night in the kitchen--for which food preparation began over the weekend--is an intricate balancing act for Adair: he reminds one chef to make sure the hamburgers are hot, sprinkles salt and drizzles sauce, and wipes the rim of plate after plate, erasing fingermarks. He receives the occasional waitress reporting that customers have been waiting for too long, asserts in a matter-of-fact tone that some servings need be redone, and even offers The Observer a glass of water.

“Pick up the scallops, short rib,” Adair demanded.

(All is quiet except the clanking of dishes and the sound of his voice. Adair pivots to poke chicken skewers into a slab of pineapple, as another order prints from the machine.)

The ordered chaos continues: “Pick up four skate, two scallop, two chicken, a short rib, two sides of fries and a fried green tomato. Pick it up.”

Around 7:45, after checking on his rooftop party (one of two private events Monday evening) and making small talk with guests about exercise, David Burke headed back down into the main restaurant’s kitchen, noting that something in the elevator smelled like vanilla.

“Right behind, right behind, right behind you,” warned one waiter bustling through with a box of spoons. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” sang another returning briskly with plates scraped clean. Burke scooped up a strawberry and popped it in his mouth. Fueled by adrenaline, a hectic rhythm had been established.

“This is nothing,” Burke maintained. “People are ordering the same things.”

Meanwhile, the dessert chef, overwhelmed with dessert tickets declared, “This is insane.”

Next came the order ticket over which Adair scrawled, “I am an asshole!” The list included two skate, two ribeye, two Cobb salads (no egg), two short rib, one tuna taco, one barbecue chicken, one burger medium, two spicy spaghetti, three fried green tomatoes and two french fries.

Apparently not everyone was ordering from the Restaurant Week selections.

At table 11 dined a PPX--restaurant code for VIP. (The code is employed so that visitors do not look at the hostess list and see VIP written next to their names.) Calling the diner the “cheesemonger,” Adair made sure to keep an eye on his expansive order as well, checking in with the chefs on their progress for “the guy at eleven.”

Plates continued to fly out of the kitchen, but around 10:00 came a desperate dessert plea for help, as the chef threw her hands down at her side in exasperation: “Can you help please? We’re like completely gone. We need help.”

Shouting for runners and asking waiters to push out carts of food, Adair sprang to the rescue, sweat dripping down his face: “Guys, we need hands.” He drizzled each plate with a ring of caramel, plopped an apple tart in the center, scooped on a ball of ice cream and poked in a piece of fennel.

Glancing up, the dessert chef asked The Observer, “Can you come back tomorrow?”