Miss Manhattan

I Died and Went to Rock 'n' Roll Heaven

2012-02-28T00:25:00.002-05:00

Let me be clear about one thing: I hate jam bands.  

Well, at least I thought I did. 

I thought jam bands played pseudo-Grateful Dead covers and plucked a lot of bass while audience members with varying degrees of dreadlocks spun in circles and stared toward the sky (sorry JAL, I still love you). It’s not so much a roller coaster as, unsurprisingly, an acid trip. One drop and you’re off on the music’s whim. Not to get dark, but it makes me feel trapped: WHEN WILL THIS SONG END ALREADY?!? 

My best friend, JAL, mentioned above, has taken me to a few of these kinds of shows before. (Though, to be fair, she is not so much a dirty hippie as a clean one. That is, she is happiest barefoot but still shaves her armpits.) But my tuneage is more than a little different.

Like many angst-ridden youths, I began raising myself on punk in middle school. Not thrashy, yell-y kinds of things, but loud, fast guitars purred over by deep-voiced men. Old school goodness like The New York Dolls, the Ramones, and The Velvet Underground; new school stuff like The Pink Spiders. Then there was also my never-ending love for The Rolling Stones, instilled in me by my father. To this music, there was a reckless abandon that I so desperately wanted to duplicate in myself. It was the sound of streaking, of making out in the backseat of cars, driving really fast, and smoking cigarettes, all of which were deliciously taboo to me as an adolescent. In punk and in good old blues-infused rock and roll, I was able to liberate myself from myself and pretend that I was just a little bit dangerous. You know, like Sandy at the end of Grease.

I went out of my way to learn a lot about my music, but JAL’s I have not really touched too much—it was too soft, too smooth. It was not until two weekends ago, actually, that I realized all jam bands do not fit the aforementioned description and perhaps I just dislike endless funk. I learned that it is, in fact, possible to jam and simultaneously rock your face off. 

Photo by Carlos Henriquez, www.chenriphoto.com

Enter Iced Ink, the brainchild of St.   Paul, MN native Mike Krenner. Krenner has spiky dark hair with matching beardy business and thick, goggle-like (but in a cool way) black-framed glasses. Krenner writes in the band’s biography that the idea for Iced Ink arose when:

“Suffering from severe M.A.D.D. (not the moms/drunk driving one but the Musical Attention Defecit Disorder one), he wanted to be in too many different styles of bands at once – metal, funk, surf, pop, rock, jazz, rockabilly…. It was decided that in the interest of time and not lugging guitars and amps all over the Twin Cities that it would be most efficient to just cram all of his desired genres into one sole cohesive glob of sound.”

Iced Ink has gone through a few lineups since it began in 1998, along with a move from the chilly depths of Minnesota to the mostly less chilly Brooklyn in 2009. Krenner (guitar) found his two current bandmates, Gregg Mitchell (bass guitar) and Ethan Meyer (drums), in Spring 2011. Fast forward to February 2012, when CH invited me to see them them play in a small, two-room bar on the Lower East Side. 

The fellas picked up their instruments and I realized there would be no singing. Oh no, I thought. Is this really going to be another of JAL’s bands? But then…the thrilling squeal of electric guitar, the thumping crash of drums, the heat of a perfectly necessary bass. My feet started moving independently of themselves, followed by my hips, my arms, and my neck. B, Mike’s delightful pixie wife (who also makes the band’s gig buttons…I now have a full set proudly tacked onto my bulletin boards) grabbed my hand. “Come on!” she said. “Let’s go dance!” To the front of the room we went, and everything but sound fell away. 

My body followed the band’s fantastic lack of pattern, a surprise in every new and different chord.  I didn’t know when it would end, but I didn’t care; I didn’t want it to. My feet stomped, my hair flicked back and forth; it was like I had been possessed and dear god if this is what the devil felt like then please let me go to hell. 

Iced Ink was all of the things Mike had wanted it to be. It was rockabilly, it was surf, it was punk, it was rock and roll. I heard all of these familiar twangs and beats from my adolescence—Brian Setzer Orchestra, Dick Dale, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC—but all smushed together in an incredible music sandwich—it was like when you don’t think a Fluffernutter will be the most amazing thing ever but then you eat it and you can’t imagine your life without it. 

“Yes, I’m alive!” I heard my brain say. “Please never stop lusting for life!” All of the recklessness I wanted as a teenager I heard in this music and for once I was able to cut myself loose. In Iced Ink, there was electricity and life and energy and bright red blood bleeding from rock and roll hearts onto dirty punk shoes and it was one of the most beautiful things I had heard in a long time. 

I left, converted. 

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Beauty Behind the Scenes

2012-02-19T22:44:00.001-05:00

Hands-down, my favorite thing about Fashion Week is going behind the scenes at the shows and seeing them all get put together. One dresser lacing up a model's Doc Martens for the runway while the model reads War and Peace, another dresser lint-rolling a model while she stands texting backstage. A designer adjusting a model's belt so it hits just the right spot, a hairdresser making a hairstyle just messy enough. Then, the show goes on and the models strut their stuff, their hair falling perfectly (or purposely imperfectly) on their shoulders for a mere 15-30 minutes for a runway, much longer if it's a presentation.

Incidentally, while models are standing for presentations they, understandably, do some of the most mundane things, like scratch their hair or their noses that are just so much funnier because they're giant Barbie dolls doing it.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to capture these little moments, and wanted to share some of my favorites from the week.

One Day You're In...

2012-02-11T16:43:00.001-05:00

From February 9 to 16 is New York Fashion Week, and that means I’m running around in a swirl of models, dresses, makeup and god knows what else taking pictures and writing about what I see. And as strange as it may seem, I absolutely love the hours I spend on my feet snapping away for just the right shot, the crowds that show up at some of these events in impossibly high heels (men and women), and the nervous energy of designers hoping to make a good impression. The pressure is high—what editors, buyers, and whoever else sees at these runway shows and presentations affects what happens to the designers next. Sometimes designers have one bad collection after another and they fall off the planet, never to be heard from again.

I saw this play out on a much smaller scale at a show I went to last night. It was at a gallery in Chelsea, as so many shows are. To get to the presentation, one had to alight in the passenger elevator which really looked like the freight entrance just next to it. 

“Who are you here with?” 

A cleanly bald man in a blue velvet jacket with seafoam green pocket square looked at me inquiringly as I moved past him. “I’m with the PR company,” I said, as I made my way inside. What’s interesting is that even the smallest designers’ shows will have a very strict guest list, as if to say, no, not just anyone can come inside. But then you confidently say your name or what brings you there and move past the entrance without a pause and people let you go. 

I was expecting a typical evening of shooting, models, clothes, socializing, etc., without any fireworks. People were swishing their wine glasses, staring at the models on display occasionally, chatting with the designers—it was really just a cocktail party overseen by models on raised white platforms. 

One woman seemed a little out of place. She wore an acid-washed denim dress that went down to her shins worn over black leggings fringed with stones. The dress was belted with a magenta patent leather belt and on her feet were carnation pink heels encrusted with various kinds of stones. She walked around with one of those large, plastic-looking totebags given out by some grocery stores. There was no sense of irony in her look though, as is common with the somewhat questionable fashion choices people make today. “Can I take a picture of you for my blog?” she asked a young girl sporting patterned pants and a tan jacket. 

More power to you, I thought to myself. It’s about time one of these industry events got a little shaken up, made a little uncomfortable. There was a brightness to her that seemed just a bit off—she was not one of these cold fashion girls who look you up and down before looking you in the eye. It’s sad that being a happy girl made her not fit in. I felt people looking at her and judging. I couldn’t watch it happen, so I just turned back to taking pictures, making my way through the room to do my job. 

I continued on my way for a while, squeezing past the row of other photographers who had set themselves up in one location with their tripods and other accoutrements. About a half hour later, I heard a crash behind me. Trying to squeeze between a model on a platform and that same row of photographers, the woman in the denim dress had tripped and fallen, crashing to the floor with her wine glass still in her hand, the stones on her heels scattering. Someone helped her up quickly, I’m sure, but others gasped and stood around her, staring. What was scary is that I saw less concern in their eyes than a kind of twisted voyeurism, almost like they were laughing at her. I still couldn’t watch.

When she fell, her wine glass broke in her hand and spattered some blood on the floor. As soon as she was helped up and taken to the makeup room, people with the designer instantly rushed over to wipe up the blood. A circle of onlookers had formed around them, and as soon as the blood was gone, they filled up the space and continued socializing. It was like nothing had happened, that people just wanted to forget the incident as soon as it was over. It was almost startling. Time passed and more people filled the room. 

For me, the situation held up a mirror to the industry. It highlighted those certain somethings that we all choose to ignore—the classism, the status battles, the creative frustration—and instead embrace only the things we like about it—the glamour, the artistry, the exclusivity. Not only that, but it showed me how quickly one fall can make someone—a designer, a model, a blogger at a party—disappear forever. 

*

Eventually the women reemerged, her thumb wrapped up tight with makeshift bandages. The designer went up to the woman to make sure she was okay. The woman drank another glass of wine and continued with her evening. 

恭禧發財!

2012-02-02T00:28:00.002-05:00

It means 'Happy New Year' in Chinese! And this past weekend in Chinatown was the annual Chinese New Year parade. Small children threw firecrackers on the ground from thin plastic bags, confetti burst into the air, and red and gold dragons abound all over the streets. This year is the year of the dragon, my year, the luckiest year. Elderly women wave their hands, trying to touch the dragon for luck. They smile and their thin, wrinkled hands twinkle with delight. Even with the cold gripping my hands, their happiness is catching.

Shaking it Off

2012-01-25T00:05:00.000-05:00

There are days when, after sitting put as the brilliant community manager I am, I simply need to get up and shake off the last few hours. I need to feel like I have moved my bones across this great city and taken advantage of this strange, 50-degree “winter” weather we’ve been having, eschewing the sluggish, Jabba the Hut feeling that plagues me when I sit for too long. Sunlight beams onto the building across the street and I begin to itch, like a dog who needs a walk. And as soon as I finish my hours for the day, I am off, headed toward Central Park with my camera at my side. 

I think about nothing but the pursuit of concrete under my feet and the last few hours wither away slowly. I am moving again like I used to when I had my “real” job, to the subway and back twice a day at least, if I didn’t go out at night or if my boss didn’t have some wild errands for me to run around midtown (“Go to Chanel,” she said one day. And do what? “Nothing, just go.” Fine by me). I need to start using the main library as my workspace like I used to, since the train is, I think, over a mile walk from my house. I love walking around the city, rain or shine, snow or slush, because I love the hum it puts in my blood. It’s a hum that starts slow, but gets faster once it begins synching with the fast pace of the nameless and driven others around me. 

And it’s funny, that even at 3pm on a Tuesday, the city still hums with life. Maybe quieter in my neighborhood than most, but a hum nonetheless. I walk up Fifth   Avenue and the sun greets me at every intersection. I cross the street to be on the side of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Met as it’s known in these parts, and admire the wares (some faux and some not faux) of the merchants who have set themselves up on the cobbled path punctuated by the occasional tree leading up to the museum. Some of them sell Breakfast at Tiffany’s posters framed in black plastic they probably printed off the internet. One stands covered in colored dots behind canvases of small square faces he’s painted. A sign reading $50 that’s been scrawled with paint-doused fingers stands in front of him. I admire his gumption. 

My next stop is the steps of the Met, those infamous steps where tourist upon tourist has sat and taken that signature picture. Their friend stands at the base of the steps and the subject sits in the middle for just the right angle where you get the widest expanse of the building behind you. As I sit there, at least four of said picture are taken, usually as the photographer stands in front of the USMC vet’s hot dog and pretzel truck. Sitting on the steps as non-tourist is less interesting because all you see are the backs of heads, so I move on. 

Into Central Park I go, passing private school children and their parents as they make their way to the nearby playground. I swerve on a path I’ve never taken before and wind up at the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. The sign for it is covered in bars like a jail cell and I can’t help but be saddened by the irony. My feet sink a bit into the mud created by snow that has since melted and my feet squish on the path. I sit on a bench nearby and schoolchildren go by with their parents. Tree branches are grey and deadened by winter, reaching out into the air like skeletons grasping for life. The sun is setting and I have to be getting home. 

The Float Masters

2012-01-18T00:18:00.001-05:00

What's cool about New York is that there are performers in the subway stations who have been selected and sanctioned by the city to perform there. NYC recognizes there's a lot of talent out there, so why not give them a space to perform? One day I came upon The Float Masters, a breakdance crew performing at the Union Square station. This is what I saw.

Clubland

2012-01-10T00:55:00.003-05:00

The best kind of club, in my opinion, is one where I can boogie to awesome tunes for absolutely free, next to nothing, or a cover charge that’s totally worth it. I like bars with dancing, I like a club you don’t have to wear heels or a dress in, I like a club where there are no guys in tattoo-printed t-shirts or have so much gel in their hair I can see my reflection in it. 

Going out this past Friday in the Meatpacking District, I expected to find the usual assortment of tall, skinny girls in high heels being followed desperately by the men in suits who paid for them (the heels, I mean). The ladies would tiptoe across the black cobbled streets, searching for the next big party. Tonight I too was one of these ladies, decked out in heels, a fur, and a cleavage-tastic ensemble my roommate deemed “delicious.” We trotted from bar to club to bar and eventually settled on a venue none of us had been to before. Little did we know that it would be ferociously “bridge and tunnel” as it’s known in New York—very “Jersey Shore.” Very not-at-all chic or cool. Lots of hair gel. Lots of dumb, young twenty-something dudes probably still in college screaming “BALL SO HARD” and “THAT SHIT CRAY” along with Jay and Yeezy while I thought to myself, “Let’s leave it to the masters, shall we?” They sprayed champagne in the air and it’s got in my hair. I’m sure at some point in my life this could be amusing, but this was not that moment. What a waste of perfectly good bubbly. We left shortly after.

It made me nostalgic for some of my favorite clubs and dance spots in the city, which are for the most part hair gel- and champagne spray-free. You have to search for clubs like these anywhere, but it’s possible to find them, even here in New York. Places I find myself frequenting are (and I will try not to sound too much like Stefon as I write this):

Fat Baby—on the Lower East Side, there’s no cover charge and they play Top 40, which, though maybe not the world’s greatest music, is fun to dance to. The first level is super crowded and filled with people’s wiggling bodies covered in the club’s red light, but once you push past them you can head downstairs where it’s less crowded, there’s more places to sit, and it’s easier to get to the bar. 

The “Shaking All Over Sideways and Down” Party at Home Sweet Home—DJ Jonathan Toubin’s weekly New York Night Train party for uber-cheap (sometimes free if you know the password) at Home Sweet Home in Chinatown. Down the stairs you’ll find a narrow brick room with a dance floor in the back, young punks and older funky folks jamming to 1960s garage rock, Motown, and R&B. More here.

The Village Underground on Saturday Nights—in the West  Village, it’s by far my favorite place to go out dancing that I’ve found so far. Though the cover charge is a bit steep for a starving artist like myself ($15), when I do go once in a while I always have a blast. The club has a house band that plays an amazing amalgamation of hip-hop (old school and new school), soul, funk, rap and R&B. I always, ALWAYS bring people here to show them a good time and they leave asking to come back again. 

The Back Room at Beauty Bar—one of my favorite haunts, sparkly Beauty Bar has inexpensive drinks (one of their house drinks is a Platinum Blonde, a martini flavored with pineapple—YUM—for only $8) and a back room where a DJ plays good ol’ rock and roll from the ‘60s to today, sprinkled with pop confections that everyone knows the words to and actually sings along. You don’t have to worry about dudes grinding on you here because everyone’s just there to have a good time and dance it out. Don’t make me quote Dane Cook. More here. 

District 36—The first time I was at District 36 was for a gay night called Rockit Fridays, which is now hosted elsewhere. Even so, District 36 hosts a great party. It’s super fun, super big (lots of room to dance), and plays super great music. It’s one place I know where I can definitely get my Gaga on and giggle at the sight of some ripped go-go boys shaking their stuff. It’s fun for people from all walks of life, and is not too expensive a cover ($10 before midnight, $20 after). 

The Vandam Party Sundays at Greenhouse—This party was established by uber-fabulous downtown legend Susanne Bartsch, who is known for her elaborate wigs and stiletto boots. At the Vandam Party, there’s no cover and there’s a one-hour open bar when the club is more empty (beware: bring cash! There’s a $50 credit card minimum and the ATM downstairs costs $5) at the beginning of the night. Later, though, it fills to the brim with fabulous people from all walks of life, from drag queens to fashion boys to glamour girls. It’s one of my favorite places to get my Gaga on. Last time I was there with TDS and TBW, a fashion boy in leggings and combat boots dragged me up on the couch and grinded with me to “Born This Way,” hugging me and saying “I LOVE GIRLS!” It was adorable and I’d go back in a heartbeat.

Again, this is but a mere sampling! But these are the first that pop into my head when I think about places I’d rather be than anywhere populated by Bridge and Tunnel folks. What are some of your favorite clubs in the city? I’m always looking for new places to go!

Window Shopping II

2011-12-30T22:51:00.000-05:00

Last year when I blogged about the famous holiday window decorations  in New York, I discovered the only ones really worth seeing were those  at Bergdorf Goodman. The store's renowned team of visual designers  (planning for more than two years) proved me correct again this year  with their gorgeous, intricate displays, all themed 'Carnival of the  Animals.' According to Bergdorf Goodman, each window features a specific  material (paper, glass, and brass, among others) used to assemble the  entire display--that means entire ostriches made from hundreds of kinds  of paper, bright blue glass mosaic fish and, yes, brass monkeys, and  innumerable other kinds of animals made from varying materials (and  wearing various ensembles). It is a swoonworthy spectacle, and again  this year I offer you my original photographs of the displays. Happy  Holidays!

Christmas in Norway

2011-12-22T00:04:00.002-05:00

“Is this acceptable attire for Norwegian church?”

I turned to my dear new Norwegian roommate, CN, and did a spin for approval. I was wearing black pants, a sweater, and cowboy boots. It was a sentence I never thought I would say.

“Yeah, of course!” she laughed. “There are no rules in Norwegian church.”

That’s something I could get behind. I might convert to Norwegian yet! Any church that let me wear cowboy boots was obviously legit. But really, it’s not “Norwegian church” it’s a Norwegian Seaman’s Church, or Sjømannskirken (I asked my roommate to say this three times. I tried, and she repeated after I pronounced it incorrectly, twice. Finally, I just said”…Okay.” But, to her great credit she said, “Say it.” And I did. Correctly! It’s pronounced “show-man-sear-kin.” CN laughs. “It’s so funny when people try to speak Norwegian.”). The space functions, of course, as a church, but also as a kind of Norwegian community center. They’re located all over the world for Norwegians to congregate and meet each other. Here in New York, it’s located in Midtown East.

In the lobby there is a cabinet full of white teacups emblazoned with different Norwegian words and maritime flags. A portrait of King Harald and Queen Sonja, Norway’s current king and queen, hangs in the lobby (To this, I ask CN—“Who are the royal-looking people?” I am ridiculous). Their picture appears in all seamen’s churches and consulates. Since Norway has a state religion, Protestantism, they represent the religion as well. Signs in the lobby are all written in the language, as are the periodicals. I am tickled. I feel out of place, but in a good way.

On the program tonight are a selection of American and Norwegian Christmas classics, like “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and “Mitt Hjerte Alltid Vanker.” The latter is CN’s favorite Christmas song, which translated means “My Heart Stood Still,” and is voiced by Maria (You know, Jesus’s mom). While we are waiting for the concert to begin, though, there are thin gingerbread cookies in the shape of stars and hearts, called pepperkaker (“pepper-ka-kay”) with the beverage gløgg (“gloog”). Gløgg is a hot mulled juice served with a scoop of blanched almonds and raisins, and spiced with sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, cloves, and bitter orange.

As I write this, I am saying to CN, who is in the other room, “How do you say…” and “What’s does that mean…” It is hilarity and learning at the same time. Isn’t that all we want, really?

Both the gløgg and the pepperkaker are yummy, but together they’re divine. The hot juice moistens the cookie and it falls apart in my mouth. Like a classic, silly American, I say “The cookie tastes really good if you dip it in the drink!” I hear myself say this and shake my head at myself. CN laughs at me, or rather with me, and smiles.

The concert begins and a bevy of almost all Norwegian singers and musicians take the stage. One of them sings the American songs with a slight Norwegian twang and it makes me smile. America is this crazy place, New York is this crazy place where all this cool stuff happens on a regular basis and we just don’t know it because, really, how often do we go to Norwegian Seamen’s Churches? Not often enough, obviously.

One of them, Solfrid Nestegaard Gjeldokk, sings folk songs like “I Denne Søde Juletid” so beautifully I wish she would record an album so I can buy it and listen to it all the time. An awesome tenor, Nils G. Nilsen does a lovely duet of “The Prayer” with Kjersti Kveli, a soprano. And then there are American jazz musicians Art Baron (the last trombonist Duke Ellington ever hired, in 1973) and and Lee Hogans (who plays with Prince), who knock it out of the park, too. The last song of the concert is “Delig Er Jorden,” which means “Lovely is this World.” CN tells me it’s traditionally sung at Christmastime, which explains why everyone in the audience knows the words. A low hum of people singing filters through the space. “Norwegians are quiet,” CN tells me. The people I hear speaking loudly must obviously be Americans. Typical.

After the delightful show, CN and I saunter over to the stacks of Norwegian goodies, like salted licorice and lefse and flattbrød, the latter two of which are both thin, cracker-like constructions, one sweet (lefse) and the other salty (flattbrød).

CN buys the salted licorice and asks me to try one. She readies her iPhone to take a picture because, apparently, non-Norwegians find the stuff putrid. Always game for a challenge, I stare at the cylindrical salted candy and take a bite. It’s not putrid, but it’s really, really salty. And weirdly sweet. And licorice-y. Which I guess I should have expected from salted licorice candy.

Fully in the holiday spirit, we walk back to the subway train and resolve to order Chinese food when we go home. You can take the girl out of Manhattan…

What Do Your Moments Sound Like?

2011-12-17T15:31:00.002-05:00

There’s a certain way I like to walk around the city. Not a particular style of gait, I mean, but a beat. It’s a pounding and a pulsing that makes the 15 minute walk to the subway station a little bit shorter, puts an extra swing in my hips and makes me remember what the runway feels like (I modeled once in college). Though I’m not usually tottering around in stilettos—god bless the women who are, but I just don’t have the patience unless it’s a special occasion because I walk slow enough as it is—in the wintertime when I’m wearing boots, I feel like they’re made for walkin’. But not just walkin’. Struttin’. I put my headphones in my ears and suddenly every sidewalk is a runway, and I’ve got ‘wind in hair,’ the works.

The other night I accidentally hopped myself up on caffeine and walked from the West Village to 28^th and Park, about 25 blocks. Beats burrowed into my ears and wound their way out through my feet, cold air running parallel to my cheeks and fluttering through my hair. The long walk flew by as I listened to the music that somehow propelled me forward.

It was around 10pm. NYU kids in skinny jeans and beanies made their way to and from Bobst library in packs like tourists; Tuesday night drunks lined up in front of taco trucks; couples in blue jeans held hands despite the cold wind rushing over their fingertips. I saw the lights of cabs rushing past me, but I couldn’t hear a thing as the Pixies banged out the classic ‘Bam Thwok’— ‘they got the keys to the city but we got a lot of shakin’ in our hips!’ There’s something about Kim Deal meowing into my ears that will always put a bounce in my step. That and a dirty, catchy drumbeat that must have been made with walking around the city in mind. Tonight my caramel leather cowboy boots clicked on the concrete, and every so often I glimpsed down to catch the sight of my pointy toes eating up the street. Pixies shot me another drumroll and I put another grind in my step—at this point it was all I could do to keep from busting out pirouettes in the middle of the sidewalk.

My favorite music for walking around the city has that same grungy, punky edge or hot beat, or both— it depends on who I am on that particular day. Some days I’m roller boogie goddess in metaphorical hot pants (The Noisettes’ Wild Young Hearts), other days an intense supermodel about with an icy glare (Beck’s Modern Guilt) or a young punk figuring out life in the city (Ted Leo and the Pharmacists’ Shake the Sheets). Sometimes you own the city, sometimes it owns you, but there’s a soundtrack for every kind of walk.

I also love Girl Talk’s Feed the Animals (especially the opening track, ‘Play Your Part, Pt. 1’—it starts with a sample of UGK’s International Players Anthem--“My bitch a choosin' lover, never fuck without a rubber/Never in the sheets, like it on top of the covers”—laid on top of The Spencer Davis Group’s ‘Gimme Some Lovin.’’ I have literally walked around to just the first three verses over and over. The beat is so hot it’s really enough). Other killers are Heart’s ‘Barracuda,’ for when I’m feeling particularly sassy; Lauryn Hill’s ‘Doo Wop (That Thing)’ when I need a little bit of soul with my strut; and ‘Step Into My Office Baby’ by Belle and Sebastian, when I feel like a naughty secretary. We all have our moments.

And everyone’s got their headphones in on public transport, too. I have to wonder what their strutting music is, if they have any? Or are they just cruising or thinking or neither? When we have our headphones in it’s like we’re in a secret little world that only we know about, that might be populated by anything from the Spice Girls to Rod Stewart to Tyler the Creator. Everyone’s moments sound different. What do your moments sound like?

Taylor Mead

2011-12-10T19:00:00.002-05:00

A thin, curlicue of a man hobbles to the stage at the Bowery Poetry Club, his cane thumping quietly along the floor. He climbs onto the stage and arrives in his seat, at a small table topped with an even smaller stereo. He pulls the microphone toward his face, obscuring it almost entirely. A bright blue New York Rangers beanie hangs on to his head for dear life, his large glasses resting beneath his beady eyes. And then he talks and talks about nothing in particular.

“None of my affairs are secret. That’s why the Guggenheim won’t give me an award,” he says in a high-pitched but gravelly voice that gets choked every so often by a ball of saliva in his throat.

He is Taylor Mead, a downtown New York legend, an actor known for his performances in independent and experimental films from the 1960s (when the independent/experimental film movement as we know it today was just beginning) as well as in the films of Andy Warhol, where he was one of the famed Warhol Superstars. Mead is also a writer of things poetry and non-poetry, which is actually how he first made his mark on the 1950s/1960s counterculture. He and his work are considered to be an important link between the Beat Generation and the downtown New York art and theatre culture which arose around the same time. At 86 years old, Taylor Mead still performs at the Bowery Poetry Club every Monday night for exactly 30 minutes, courtesy of Bowery Arts and Sciences.

He reads poetry. “Now I’m going to read some Emily Dickinson for no reason at all except I can’t understand her….She’s so difficult she must be a genius.”

He talks about seeing Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway in the 1950s.

“His sweat dribbled down the walls of the theatre.”

He reads what he calls a “William Burroughs random choice,” from the back of an old, crumpled mimeographed flyer, the front of which reads ‘The Taylor Mead Show featuring Richard Hell,’ a famed New York musician who is said to have coined the term ‘punk’ in the 1970s.

He tells what he calls ‘a fairy tale,’ pressing play on the tiny stereo to release a fury of chaotic jazz into the microphone as he flips through a series of nonsensical and even primitive drawings in thick black ink, tossing the pages to the floor. He reads, “Nuns operate sex factory out of convent” and “Here’s a guy masturbating. It has nothing to do with the fairy tale.” I laugh out loud.

Unfortunately, very few people laugh with me. Seated behind long white plastic tables, they’re waiting for bingo to begin at 7pm, hosted by well-known drag personas Murray Hill and Linda Simpson. While Mead speaks, they’re talking, texting, eating sandwiches brought in from outside. They look at each other and raise their eyebrows, wondering who is this little old man telling dirty jokes onstage. I want to tell them to stop and listen, even just for a little while, to give him a chance instead of dismissing him entirely. I wouldn’t have known about him at all, either, if it wasn’t for Penny Arcade who said he was a genius and I should go see him. Before I get a chance to say anything, though, he opens his own mouth.

“THIS ISN’T BINGO SHMINGO. SHUT UP.” And they do.

He continues. “Is it time for my dirty poem yet?” he asks the man in the sound booth.

“Yes, I think it is,” the man says, his voice full of appreciation and good humor.

Mead begins to read, saying the poem was lovingly plagiarized by Allen Ginsberg. I am agog that he can even utter such a relationship in a sentence, but I try to listen anyway.

“A whispering rapist roundabout midnight…”

But before he finishes people begin talking again and he stops reading. “Oh fuck it, it’s too dirty,” he says. Shortly thereafter he hobbles offstage and sits in “his spot” at the edge of the bar. A beer is there waiting for him.

I go and sit with him. I don’t really know what I’m going to say when I first sit down, but then I ask about the poem he was going to read. “It’s my dirty poem,” he says. Sometimes the audience listens and sometimes they don’t, he says. Tonight, though, they weren’t worthy of his poem. He chuckles quietly. “Maybe it’s because of Christmas.”

Galleries Three

2011-12-03T19:35:00.003-05:00

“…where I shared so many cheeseburgers with my hustler husbands…”

Mx. Justin Vivian Bond’s feminine growl echoes throughout Participant, Inc., an arts exhibition space on the Lower East Side. The album is Dendrophile, the artist’s first, incorporating jazz and folk sounds with Bond’s cabaret-style vocals. A needle lays stiff on black revolving wax, making Bond’s voice a soundtrack to his exhibition, “The Fall of the House of Whimsy.”

Bond is a New York performance art and cabaret legend, notable for v’s (Bond’s pronoun of choice, preferring not to use either ‘his’ or ‘hers’) contributions to what’s known as a “radical queer” art culture. V does not so much play with gender as crumple it, rip it up and throw it in the shredder. Considering vself as neither man nor woman nor drag queen nor transsexual nor whatever, Bond simply is. V is a long creature with elegant, elongated features, a sharp, smooth jawline, and a rush of mahogany-auburn hair. Long-legged and glamorous, Bond has sung, acted, and performed all over the world, and was recently described by The New Yorker’s Hilton Als as “the greatest cabaret artist of (v’s) generation.”

Having read an intriguing article about Bond in New York magazine many moons ago, I decided to visit v’s exhibition, “The Fall of the House of Whimsy.” The exhibition is a small series of installations, photos and drawings all inspired by or featuring parts of Bond’s former loft on Second Avenue, which will soon be demolished. It is a flight of colorful nostalgia, all very personal. I felt Bond’s essence radiating through each book on display from v’s home, each ornate gold mirror, each plastic pot of makeup placed perfectly askew on various surfaces. Though I know I may never meet v, I know there is a person reflected in that space who has a penchant for a mixture of old-world meets new-world elegance and scandal—the Marquis de Sade’s Justine occupies the same shelf as books about Lillian Hellman, Weimar Berlin, and Sextrology. A collage of intricate black and white cut-outs of campy, made-up figures, lithe feminine hands with perfect manicures, and witchcraft symbols are placed in the corner of a mirror. A chair is littered with a barrage of cosmetics the colors of which remind me of a 96-pack of Crayola crayons. Drawings of gender-unspecific faces on thick, textured white paper are drawn with a soft, light hand. An old, brown, scratched Acrosonic piano with “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” from The Sound of Music with Mary Martin as its only sheet music, with a silver, disco-like fabric sign hung on the back of it. After walking around the gallery, I feel like I have known Bond for years, but am walking around v’s house after v has died. There’s a sadness in the collection of objects that reflects what must be Bond’s mourning of leaving v’s beloved home. I just want to give v a hug and say it’ll be okay, that v’s next home will be just as lovely. Because any space that such a person as v inhabits will be full of life and color and beauty.

Walking along East Houston Street, my next stop was supposed to be Salon 94, but on my way down Stanton Street I was struck by a gallery whose front was outfitted by an iron gate made of a wild collection of objects, from old toy boats to sun figurines to bicycles. How could I not enter such a space? It was Lambert Fine Arts, a gallery which opened quite recently, in October 2011. Hung on the walls were works by artists Brandon Friend and Jason Douglas Griffin. Friend’s work featured various colored and patterned papers decoupaged into figures and scenes, my favorites of which were an astronaut-like figure assembled on a variety of MetroCards. Griffin’s work also featured scenes done with decoupage and paint, an especially cool one done to show a dj and breakdancer, entitled “Windmills in the City.”

"Windmills in the City" by Jason Douglas Griffin

A very helpful gallery associate named Jean also showed me some of his own work. Outfitted in smart black pinstriped pants, a black sweater, black scarf and black shoes, Jean, originally from Haiti, has lived in the U.S. for 28 years and says every trip to New York is breathtaking. His most recent stay inspired him to do a series of watercolors based on Harlem. Jean digs out a watercolor pad from his bag and removes his creations. Brightly colored and drawn in ink with a loose hand, they feature a character named Queeny, whose exaggerated physical features are meant to act as a critique on the physical representation fed to us by popular culture. Jean’s speech is laid thick with a French but actually Haitian accent (he pronounces his country of origin like saying the letters “I-T.”) It feels like a gift to go into an art gallery and see not only what you’re meant to see but what you aren’t meant to see. I thank Jean and continue on my way.

The next stop is Salon 94, a gallery on Bowery and Stanton, for a Marilyn Minter exhibition. Minter is one of my favorite artists, whose brightly colored paintings often feature lushly made up mouths and eyes, sharp stilettos or other figures related to and commenting on the female experience. My favorite in this exhibition, though, was the video she made entitled “Playpen.” In the video, a child of maybe three or four splashes about in pools of silver glittered paint in slow motion. The glittering metallic droplets fly in front of the camera, morphing and changing shape as they hit the floor, long strands of paint flying from the child’s hands and feet as it splashes. I sat there, entranced, watching the paint fly and spray and fall. Was it possible for paint to hypnotize? If so, I could have doubtlessly been convinced I was a chicken and clucked all throughout the gallery.

Something I think people forget is that access to art doesn’t have to cost anything. Galleries are a great way to see both the new and the old in any art form. Not only that, but an educated gallerist can always offer a one-on-one education in whatever you’re viewing. While a museum like Museum of Modern Art is a brilliant American institution, admission there now clocks in at $25 for adults, so attending all the time is not necessarily an option for those starving artists among us. But galleries are always free and abundant, so if there’s not something you’re interested in seeing in one, you can just pop into another and doubtlessly be inspired. Free art for all!

Thanksgiving (Not) in New York

2011-11-25T14:01:00.001-05:00

Since my Thanksgivings usually happen down south, I cannot tell you what a typical Thanksgiving in New York is like. In South Florida, it’s 80 degrees and sunny. There are no leaves on the ground. But trust me, I’m not complaining—I’m going to the beach on Sunday. 

Every Thanksgiving I’ve ever had, though, always involves a piece of New York. That’s because my family always watches the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on NBC. I grew up seeing the world famous Rockettes kicking their faces in front of Macy’s before the parade arrived at Herald Square, along with the ever-popular Snoopy balloon, Garfield, Kermit, and many more. And somehow, at 23, I still haven’t tired of it. Yes, my comments during the parade have grown consistently snarkier as I’ve aged—ugh…what saccharine faux-popstar have they attached to this float now?—but it’s okay, because I’ve realized that my dad has actually been doing this all along. Yesterday he wondered where the wind was going to take Neil Diamond’s toupee as the singer lip-synched his song “Coming to America” atop the North Dakota float. “Everywhere around the world…” Diamond growled, with his usual Jewish Elvis bravado, arms reaching forth Greased Lightinin’ style. We laughed. This parade really is for all ages. 

My parents are both New Yorkers by birth, though only my mom has ever gone to the parade. She sits on our big, terracotta-colored leather couch in one of her signature homemade caftans (today it’s the one patterned with ocean life), telling stories about watching it. Her eyes light up as if she was sitting there once more. Her stepfather was the head buyer for the men’s and boys’ departments at Macy’s, so she was able to go for six years, starting when she was five, and sometimes accompanied by childhood friends Janie and Amy (who I both now refer to as “Aunt”). And they had good seats, too, directly on 34th Street and Herald Square, between 6th and 7th Avenues. Not those seats where you see people on TV, though, behind all the action—those people only see the backs of everyone because the parade was being filmed on the other side. But where my mother used to sit, there were no cameras, so everyone in the parade sang for them.

I wanted nothing more than to one day go to the parade for myself, but I have to say that I don’t think I’d still want to go. Maybe if I could see it the way my mother did, but not if I was just some rando on the parade route from  77th Street and Central Park West all the way down to Herald Square, where Macy’s is located. I’d much rather sit in my living room in South Florida, every so often glancing at the still-green hedges out back, the pool twinkling in the sunlight. 

The parade has been televised locally since 1946, and nationally since 1947, though the original parade was first held in 1924. This year marked the 85th Anniversary of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, originally called the Macy’s Christmas Parade. The arrival of Santa Claus at the end of the parade is said to start the holiday season. This year it seems especially true since exactly one month from Thanksgiving (on 11/24) it will be Christmas Eve (12/24). Dispersed throughout the parade are commercials about Black Friday sales, which used to start at 6am, but now start at 4am, 2am, and even 10pm the night of Thanksgiving. I wonder what the world is coming to—the thought of going anywhere near a shopping venue on Black Friday is utterly nauseating; and I’m sure as bad as it is in South Florida, it is far, far worse in New York. I don’t think there has ever been something I’ve wanted so badly that I would risk my sanity to stand in line and wait for it. Unless of course they’re handing out magazine staffwriting gigs. 

Perhaps one of these days I will have a New York Thanksgiving, but I don’t really know if I want it. To me, Thanksgiving means coming home to South Florida—it’s the traveling part of it, the knowing that for a few days my life will be just a little bit different than they are normally.  While I do without a doubt cherish New York and hope our marriage will be a long and happy one, nothing can replace the feeling I get exiting the Fort Lauderdale airport to a rush of heat and the sound of Beyonce blasting from convertibles. 

Take Me To the Candy Shop

2011-11-18T00:27:00.001-05:00

Peppermint is tall and muscular, with light cocoa skin and cheekbones like nobody’s business. Her eyelashes bat open and closed like hurricane shutters and her golden orange hair is thick and voluminous. In a long, emerald green dress, she takes the small stage at Therapy, a gay bar in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. Neatly coiffed men and the occasional woman sit behind bar tables and stools and in booths, their eyes glued to her as she greets the crowd. The deejay’s disembodied voice rings from the back, introducing her to rabid applause and cheers of “WERRRKKK!” “SERVE IT UP!!!” and even a “YES BITCH!”

Peppermint is a drag queen. Moments before, I met her and shook her hand, and with a breathless ‘Come on!’ she whisked me down a staircase speckled with red glitter. Having the pleasure of interviewing Peppermint for an article I’m writing for a magazine, I came to her show this evening and had little idea what to expect. Downstairs, in front of a mirror with seven other queens applying realistic wigs and exotic eyeliner, Peppermint takes a couple of fiery paddlebrush strokes to her hair. My camera flashes as I take pictures for my article. Seconds later she’s running up the stairs again.  

A tall drink of water who slightly resembles Jennifer Hudson, Peppermint hosts a show weekly at Therapy called Cattle Call, a talent show for both drag and non-drag performers. Almost all of them will lip synch, but Peppermint will also sing live, in a voice beautifully rich and creamy like chocolate fondue. She warms up the audience with deliciously witty, sassy and sexy banter, and she is absolutely magnetic. Stage presence like that is what makes or breaks a performer. That and “it.” That thing that everyone looks for in a brilliant performance, that thing where someone sparkles so much that you actually feel yourself begin to sparkle—that’s what Peppermint has.

Raised on drag, I have seen a few lip synchs in my day, but Peppermints are the tightest I have seen since Manila Luzon’s “Macarthur Park,” so perfectly performed and choreographed that I forget more than once she is not actually singing. She is a consummate professional, assembling her acts thoughtfully and creatively. My jaw drops and stays there until the end of her performance. Truth be told, I have trouble closing it back up after that, too. There are other queens on the bill, but they are amateurs and in comparison to Peppermint, they’re almost nothing at all. “She’s a star,” a man says to me in the audience. He is absolutely right. 

Peppermint is well established in the drag scene, touring the world, premiering songs on Logo, recording an album, and much more. Currently she hosts shows all over New York, including the one at Therapy (Wednesdays at 11pm), and others at XES (Sunday at 10pm) and Barracuda (Mondays at midnight). 

Going to see her show last night was one of those incredible things that I still can’t believe I saw. I sat in the cab on the way home talking to my roommate in halted speech because I could just not get the words out to describe this glorious creature. What also amazed me is that seeing Peppermint perform is entirely free. New York is bubbling over with fantastic performers like Peppermint and they’re not all on Broadway either. In fact, Peppermint’s was probably one of the best performances I’ve seen since I moved to New York, along with Douglas Hodge in La Cage aux Folles. I would go see her again in a heartbeat, so if you’re free any of the times listed above, you already know what we’re doing. 

Carousel

2011-11-08T00:23:00.001-05:00

Overlooking the East River, Jane’s Carousel sits, neatly enclosed in a glass pavilion designed by Pritzker Prize-winning architect Jean Nouvel on the edge of Brooklyn Bridge Park. How lucky this Jane is to have a carousel named after her, you might say. Well, if you were restoring a 90-year-old carousel way down to its original paint with an X-acto knife, you’d want your name on it, too. Brooklyn-based artist Jane Walentas and her husband David bought the carousel in 1984 and have just finished restoring it with a team this year. The carousel opened officially in September, but this past weekend when the sky was oh-so blue and the air was crisp, it looked far more beautiful. 

Originally made by the Philadelphia Toboggan Company in 1922, the carousel was the first carousel ever entered on the National Register of Historic Places. It is made entirely of wood. Even so, the horses’ manes look genuinely windblown, their feet suspended gracefully mid-gallop. Children sit on the horses with a look of unmovable glee on their faces while parents stand close by, making sure they don’t fall over. 

If you’re interested in going yourself, tickets are $2. The carousel is open in the winter from Thursday to Sunday, 11am to 6pm. Check out the photos for more. 

The Slope

2011-10-28T01:43:00.000-04:00

I will be the first to admit I know at best very little about Brooklyn. I know many people who live there and love it for its affordability in comparison to Manhattan. In my mind, there is absolutely nothing wrong with living in Brooklyn—in fact, I sometimes wish I had the opportunity to go there more often because I’m sure there’s lots of great places I’ve yet to explore.

So when I was brought to Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighborhood while working on an article for a magazine, I was pleased to have the opportunity to see someplace new. Walking out of the subway onto Flatbush Avenue and then Eighth Avenue toward my destination, I did not expect to be aflutter with marvelous visual overload. I am a big fan of beautiful architecture, and my walk was a drop-jawed, wide-eyed kid-inheriting-a-candy-store feast of 19th century architecture. Curved windows stacked floor by floor in rusty-red brownstones, home after home nestled by a charming collection of stairs, gorgeously detailed mouldings and windowpanes. I was in the Park Slope Historic District, and I wanted to walk up and down the streets in that area forever.

While forever wasn’t possible that day, I did decide to return later. I won’t lie, part of it had to do with the amazingly unreal coffee I had at Prospect Perk, on Sterling Place just off of Flatbush Avenue. While technically Prospect Heights, the neighborhoods are so close that in my mind it doesn’t really matter (although, having since learned more about Park Slope, its residents might…but more about that soon). The coffee at Prospect Perk is all fair-trade, and it’s an independent business—my favorite kind. I must admit, I am not a super-avid coffee drinker. I like my café au lait from time to time, but I don’t need a cup o’ joe to get my day started. However, when I was in Park Slope/Prospect Heights the first time, I wanted my iced coffee fix. I was rewarded with the Love Buzz coffee which, according to a little sign at the register, was supposed to have undertones of fudge. “Yeah, right,” I thought to myself. How freaking pretentious. But then I tasted the coffee. Mixed with some half-and-half, it was like drinking a creamy, dark chocolate milkshake. No, it was better than a milkshake. I don’t know what it was, really. It was liquidy but thick because of the half-and-half, and the fudge taste made my mouth water even while I was still drinking the iced coffee. This was without a doubt the best coffee I had ever tasted. I would make the hour-ish trip out to Brooklyn for this coffee.

And, last Saturday, I did.

Well, for the most part. I definitely wanted my Prospect Perk fix, but I also wanted to take another look at the architecture in the area, and see what the deal was with all of this Prospect Park hype. Like Central Park, Prospect Park was also designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, this time along with Calvert Vaux. I had heard multiple times that Prospect Park rivaled Central Park in beauty and, as I often do, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

This trip to Park Slope, my first stop was at Prospect Perk, this time for a warm coffee drink as we were now fully entrenched in fall (my last visit jean shorts were still de rigeur). This time I went further up Flatbush Avenue to Berkeley Place, and my jaw dropped open again. I had visions of little girls running around in petticoats and pigtails, little boys in overall shorts with cris-crossed suspenders chasing them, mother hens looking down at them from parlor windows in long gowns, long hair bundled and pinned into wispy updos. I felt like I had stepped into another world, and as I continued down the street, it stayed that way.

Berkeley Place eventually took me up to Grand Army Plaza. On the crisp fall day, there wasn’t a cloud above, the sky blue and clear. Also designed by Olmstead and Vaux, Grand Army Plaza features what is known as New York’s answer to the Arc de Triomphe, erected for Union heroes of the Civil War. Opposite that is the grand Brooklyn Public Library and, that day, the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket. The Greenmarket, like the one at Union Square, is home to local vendors of everything from cheese to soap to wool to pumpkin seeds and more. It’s just at the edge of the famed Prospect Park, too.

Instead of going into the park first, though, I instead made my way up Prospect Park West which, from my estimation seems to be a scaled-down version of the homes on the Upper West Side. Instead of immensely tall buildings, the townhomes lining the street are short, but I’m willing to bet they’re still palatial, even comparable to the ones on Central Park West. I am still in awe at the beauty of this neighborhood.

As I walk up this street, I realize something I had been missing in Manhattan—though it was now properly the middle of October, I had not yet seen leaves on the ground, much less changed in color. But Prospect Park West, and Park Slope in general, was swimming in them. Crunchy, brown, yellow, red leaves that are the signifiers of fall were nowhere to be seen anywhere I had been walking recently in Manhattan (I hadn’t been to Central Park in a while). I was shocked at how city living had deprived me of something so inherently Mid-Atlantic. It was, dare I say it, an out-of-city experience.

I then ventured into Prospect Park which, it’s true, is quite beautiful. I can’t say for certain whether it’s more beautiful than Central Park because I have just been in Central Park so many times, but I do still think Prospect Park is lovely and would certainly not mind going back. Amidst a big green field trees were on fire with red and yellow leaves; a yellow Labrador ran leashless; a group of young people set up a volleyball court. For a good while I forgot I was in New York, but in a really good way—that way where you feel a bliss of having traveled somewhere new…though you really haven’t traveled that much at all.

It would have been, by all accounts, fair to say that I loved Park Slope. I was not aware, however, of its rather unpleasant reputation for yuppie families and stroller bullies. As my friend AD says, “It’s kind of the douchiest part of Brooklyn.” The same sentiments were echoed by Lynn Harris in her 2008 New York Times article “Park Slope: Where is the Love?” Sad times! My love for the area was based mostly on the architecture, superficial, I know, so I do still feel justified and not like a douche in liking it. Though I would never actively choose to be anywhere near someone pushing a $500 stroller while bragging about their English Lit degree from Williams College. What I can hope, though, is that if I ever move to Park Slope, when I get there all of these stroller bullies will be living in Westchester. Maybe the suburbs are good for something after all.

Kimchi on My Hot Dog

2011-10-20T00:04:00.002-04:00

“I wanna eat something weird,” I say to SW. “Or a hot dog.”

Miraculously, we are able to combine my two cravings and we make our way to Asiadog, in the ambiguous SoHo/NoLIta/Chinatown area on Kenmare and Mott. Asiadog’s menu is quite simple—hot dogs with Asian-inspired toppings. For those who squirm at the thought of anything but ketchup, mustard, relish, etc. on a hot dog, Asiadog will certainly test your limits. However, if you are open-minded as SW and I were, then you will without a doubt have your mind blown.

The owners, known only as Mel and Steve, say on their website that “coming from mixed Asian backgrounds, we celebrate NYC's diversity by incorporating flavors found in China, Korea, Vietnam, Japan, and more.” There’s such simplicity in this statement, but that’s what's great about Asiadog as a whole—it’s a simple concept (a hot dog) topped with delightful, delicious complexities (the toppings).

The Asiadog logo. Brilliance.

SW and I almost pass the tiny storefront on Kenmare street, which I am only able to identify because of its chopsticks-holding-hot-dog logo. It is a tiny yet smartly-outfitted space, with one long l-shaped wooden booth in front of which sit three tiny tables and stools. Asiadog also pops up at places like Brooklyn Flea, Madison Square Eats, and more. The nature of the food is fast, though it’s certainly not “fast food,” because that’s just what hot dogs are. SW and I walk up to the counter and the friendly cashier takes our order on an iPad (SW and I are both utterly bedazzled already), swiping SW’s credit card on a tiny mechanism attached to the gadget. She text messages him his receipt from the iPad because, well, she can.

As far as dogs go, there are seven different kinds—Ginny, Ito, Mel & Steve, Vinh, Mash, Wangding, and Sidney—and their toppings collectively include things like potato chips, seaweed flakes, pork pate, sesame slaw, crushed peanuts, and pork belly. You have the option of ordering a flavor of dog, too, be it chicken, pork, veggie, beef, or organic beef. The store is also known for its Korean style Barbeque Bulgogi Burger.

Taking Asiadog up on their sweet deal of two dogs for $8 (they’re $4.50 individually), I order the Ito and Vinh dogs (both beef, whole wheat buns), while SW opts for Sidney and Mash (chicken and beef, white bread buns). The Ito dog is topped with Japanese curry and homemade kimchi apples. The Vinh is a Vietnamese bahn-mi style dog, graced with aioli, pate, cilantro, jalapeno and a slaw of cucumbers, pickled carrot and daikon radish. SW’s concoctions were as follows: Sidney –“Thai-style relish with mango, cucumber, red onion, cilantro, crushed peanuts, and fish sauce” and Mash – “Spicy ketchup, jalapeno mustard, crushed salt and pepper, and potato chips.”

SW and I are excited for these hot dogs, topped with crazy wonderful weird awesome ingredients. I’ll admit, I am generally one of those people who is frightened of non-traditional hot dog toppings (the thought of a chili dog makes my face do the same thing as the sight of dog droppings on the street or Donald Trump), but I have heard of Asiadog’s legitness (The New York Times, New York Magazine, etc.) so I am not worried this time.

Our dogs come out quickly and we dive right in, sharing bites to see what each tastes like. The Vinh has a nice crunchy, clean bite to it, but the Ito is my favorite. The Japanese curry is spicy but not too spicy, packed with delicious veggies like green and red pepper, and the kimchi apple is its perfect companion, clean and cool. What was even more interesting is that while the curry tasted oh-so-yummy on its own, it was even better atop the beef dog, sandwiched by the whole wheat roll.

I realize how much thought really goes into creating such a menu—not only do the combinations have to taste good as toppings, but they have to taste good on any dog the customer might choose to order, in any bun they choose. There’s math involved in there, but I forget what kind it’s called (I’m sure there’s similar math involved in all restaurants, but I find this math particularly interesting.). Even so, it’s cool that Mel & Steve have been able to guarantee that each dog will be a bearer of deliciousness. I am delighted that on a dark and seemingly abandoned street one can find such unusual, thought-provoking delicacies.

Had decency permitted, I would have licked my fingers clean and mopped up any stray toppings with the leftover hot dog bun. Oh wait…

Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-11T23:40:00.000-04:00

I went downtown to see what all the fuss was about.

Opportunity

2011-10-06T23:05:00.000-04:00

The sky is cloudless, the kind of blue Crayons hope desperately to be. Light pours directly into the intersection of 57th Street and 8th Avenue, spilling gold onto the asphalt. The air is cool on my legs and I worry I should be wearing tights of some kind, but it’s too late now. I click-clack on my heels across the street, eventually running on the tips of my toes to beat the light and make it across the street on time.

Sometimes I ask myself if I shouldn’t try living somewhere else (gasp! I know, me of all people…), just to try out a different life for a while, to explore somewhere else, to have new experiences, start a blog about living in another new place. I think to myself, New York is just a city, right? You can do the same things here that you can do anywhere.

Wrong. Absolutely wrong. Completely wrong.

Because, for me anyway, New York is where absolutely every opportunity exists. It’s in a park, it’s in a boutique, it’s at a conference, it’s on a damn street corner. Because this city is just crawling with ambitious, exciting people who do fascinating things for a living, many of whom are more than happy to tell you about it, and you can meet them anywhere. By some stroke of weird luck—although they say luck is when preparation meets, you guessed it, opportunity—they will maybe even like you and offer to help you with your goals. They’ve worked hard too, and they know how difficult it is to make it. This city is full of people who understand karma.

It gets to a point where you can prepare yourself into oblivion, but if you aren’t exposing yourself to any opportunities, then all of that preparation is lost on you. New York offers the opportunities. It is the center of industry after industry after industry, all waiting for little people like me to come in and just knock on their doors and say hello.

Too many people don’t think you can do that, though. You want to talk to someone at the top of their field? Who are you? A semi-recent college grad? Yeah, right.

I used to think that, too. But New York has taught me guts. Just reach out. Because in this city, sometimes you will be on the same street corner as Robert DeNiro or Judith Thurman or Ivanka Trump. These supposedly untouchable people walk around on the same streets that everyone else does. They put their pants on the same way. As the great Penny Arcade once said to me, “I’m just a person.” I learned another lesson from my mother a long time ago—the worst thing anyone can ever tell you is no. So why not say hello?

I ascend the escalator in the shiny, modern Hearst Corporation building. A glass fountain runs down either side of me, shiny metal beams crossing far above my head. I look at myself in the mirrored edge of the escalator and thank myself for having guts, for seeing an opportunity and going for what I wanted. Look what you did, I think. Look where you’re going.

I am headed to the floor of one of the most fantastic fashion magazines in the world, to have a meeting with a top editor. She had been kind enough to make time in her day to speak to me. I was, and continue to be, honored and humbled at the same time. What a gift to be given, by such a person. If you are reading this LB, there are not enough words. Thank you so much.

I open the door to the features department and step inside. I simply think, yes. This is why you live in New York. I make a mental note to remind myself of this feeling. This is what an opportunity feels like.

Reading Henry Miller on the Subway

2011-09-29T01:12:00.001-04:00

At 7pm, I exit the main branch of the New York Public Library, having spent all day inside a palatial reading room. I’m not complaining by any means, because I love staring at the ornate gold mouldings and rows upon rows of ancient wooden desks, but my feet were near frozen. I must remember to wear a closed shoe of some variety when I go there again because sandals that leave my feet mostly naked are not really an option.

I walk down the beautiful white stairs, holding on to the gold railing. I’m wearing a red dress, almost like Audrey Hepburn in that scene from Funny Face, if Audrey Hepburn were carrying a bagful of writing materials and wondering where the hell her cell phone is.

Outside, the air has the slight chill and stronger wind of early fall. It is already dark and if there were any traces of summer left they’re now gone. In true Elyssa fashion, however, I am still dressed for summer and the fall breeze rushes right through me. By the time I arrive in Grand Central Station, I am cold enough to buy a Café au Lait from Financier, which turns out to be a good choice because they give free, tiny pastries with each purchase. Scores of people rush past me, men in their late 30s and early 40s looking to catch the MetroNorth back to their suburban lives. My plans, thankfully, are different.

I am headed where I always go when I am by myself and have no plans in particular: The Strand. On the corner of 12th Street and Broadway, just off of Union Square, The Strand occupies four floors packed top to bottom, inside and out, with books, books, more books, and miscellaneous things book readers love, like Moleskines, calendars, and a variety of tote bags emblazoned with The Strand logo. The store is said to have in its clutches over 18 miles of used and new books, which is longer than the length of Manhattan. I always feel at home when I go there, running my fingers over the colorful paperbacks, reading the summaries in hopes of finding the next book that I will call my own and hold close to my heart as I walk through the city looking for a place to sit and read.

Today I found myself hovering in Fiction, a pleasant surprise since I am often drawn to other areas, like Sociology, Photography, New York History, Creative Non-Fiction, Journalism and, of late, Food Writing. I have to be in the right mood for Fiction, mostly because I have always preferred the truth to the imaginary. Staring up and up and up at the bookshelves, around each corner and into each crevice where books are stacked, I’m thinking a modern classic tonight, but I don’t really know where to begin. I contemplate Nabokov, Updike, Janowitz, and others before I spot Tropic of Cancer. The novel by Henry Miller I remember is advertised in the front window in a celebration of Banned Book Week (I will find out later that upon publication, Tropic of Cancer was banned in all English-speaking countries. I think this is pretty badass.) Deciding I could go for a bit of salacity and dry wit from the 1930s, I pick up the book and, involuntarily, hold it close to my heart. Miller and I have already begun our love affair, and I am eager to jump into bed with him later. I realize a smile crossing my face and remember just how long it’s been since I bought a new book—my income is not as disposable as it once was, so I am only the utmost selective when purchasing a book. Sometimes too selective. I think it has been almost six months. Nevertheless, I am glad to have chosen Miller to end the dry spell, in what is perhaps a perfect exercise in irony.

I tell the cashier no thanks, I don’t want a bag for my book and I walk out happily holding it in my hand. I am excited when I remember I will have time to start the book on the train, as it will take about 15-20 minutes to get to my stop. I enter the station, and sit and wait for my train. Another gift of reading time! The subway station is loud and clatters and clangs with the noise of incoming and outgoing trains and passengers, but funnily enough it is a perfect place to read. Once my eyes start taking in the words, external sounds fade to nothing and I am lost in a sea of quiet punctuated only by the words in the novel. Is this what being a New Yorker feels like?

A blond man to my left with a bag of Whole Foods groceries at his feet asks if I’m enjoying the book. I smile and say I’ve just purchased it, but I hope so! He is visiting for three weeks from New Zealand, he says, so he has a lot of time to read. I smile again and turn back to my book. I could have easily kept talking to this attractive man and perhaps we would have started a grand love affair, but I am not interested, especially since the far more interesting Miller is in my lap at the moment. Just call me Belle (start video at 1:02).

Eventually the man departs and offers his goodbyes, and my own train shows up. I get on and open the book again, wanting to ingest as much of the book as I can (I sometimes find it difficult to read elsewhere because I always think I should be doing something else). But I quickly realize I really am a funny girl with her head stuck in a book—I have gotten on a train going in the wrong direction, which I have not done since I moved to New York. This Miller chap has quite a spell over me it seems. Ah, well! More time to read on the train home.

Buttery, Flaky Deliciousness

2011-09-22T00:27:00.000-04:00

You wouldn’t think there’s a place called Sunnyside in a city that had three blizzards last winter, but strangely enough there is. It’s a neighborhood tucked away in Queens, right off the 7 train, that I had the pleasure of visiting when writing a story about it for a magazine recently. My assignment was to walk around the neighborhood and find cool things to do, places to eat, things to see. It turns out Sunnyside is a cultural fondue pot, with vendors and restaurants from places all over the world—everywhere from Nepal and Russia to China and Colombia.

Though it didn’t make it into the article, my favorite place was Nita’s European Bakery, a Romanian bakery in a little space snuggled right next to Greenpoint Avenue under a yellow vinyl sign for about 30 years. I absolutely loved its warmth. Two little tables sat to the slight left of the doorway, display cases filled with cookies, cakes, and pastries savory and sweet forming an L shape. Romanian crooners’ CDs were sold behind the counter, along with coffee, iced or hot, for $1.50-$2.25. Jugs of candy lined the edges of the cases. Signs in Romanian written in swirling, red cursive hung on the wall. In the back, the owner apologized for not being able to answer my questions right away because she was in the middle of making a meringue.

So often in Manhattan, or anywhere if you really think about it, you’ve got bored teenagers with lip piercings they’ll one day regret shoving your cupcakes into a paper box, smudging the frosting all over the inside, not even caring about where the sprinkles end up. The attendants at Nita’s, however, were just so kind. Yes, they knew I was there for a magazine, but I’ve had people respond not-so-nicely even upon hearing that. They offered me buttery, flaky pateuri—like a puff pastry, almost—stuffed with beef (or cheese, if you so desire), that melted in my mouth.

They helpfully explained all of the different Romanian pastries (it’s a Romanian bakery), like savarina (vanilla cake with orange syrup), amandina (chocolate cake with rum syrup, chocolate crème and chocolate icing), and mascota (chocolate ganache, dried fruit, lime, lemon, orange peel and dark chocolate). Each of the delicious-sounding treats, which were really quite large, clocked in at only $2.25 each. I couldn’t believe it—the mere sight of such delicacies in Manhattan costs $5 at least! But the bakery was inexpensive AND delicious (MASSIVE sugar cookies for only 75 cents!), though it is cash only.

“Here, have a Linzer tart!” the girls behind the counter smiled. Having already had my fill of pateuri, I laughed and declined, but they happily persisted. “No, it’s fine! You have that one savory, and this one sweet! You take it home and eat it later.” Okay, I said finally. Who was I to decline a Linzer tart that was half the size of my face? I thanked the girls profusely, and we all smiled. I just felt so welcomed into their store, even as a complete stranger. I think that they would treat anyone so kindly who came in there, however.

I know I am not wrong when an elderly woman sitting at one of the tables pipes up. Her name is Mary, and she was born and raised in Sunnyside. She has been coming to Nita’s for a very long time, she says. “She’s one of our best customers!” one of the girls smiles behind the counter. Nobody goes back someplace repeatedly if they’re not treated well, no matter how buttery, flaky and delicious the pastries may be. This makes me happy, and I’m glad that even when the reporter leaves the customers will still be treated kindly. Their delightful nature actually kept me in good spirits the whole day. There are few times I have felt so instantly welcomed upon entering a place, in New York or anywhere for that matter.

Not one for sweets usually, I didn’t actually get around to eating my Linzer tart until about a week later. I was expecting it to have gone stale and crumbly, but no such thing happened. The cookie was fluffy, if that’s possible, and the powdered sugar stuck deliciously to my lips as I sunk my teeth in. The raspberry jelly was fruity and not too sugary, and with the fluffy cookie it was surreal. For your fill of Romanian and non-Romanian deliciousness, check out Nita’s European Bakery, at 40-10 Greenpoint Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens (718.784.4047). I decided this is the kind of stuff they serve in Heaven, if such a place does actually exist.

Brighton Beach Memoirs

2011-09-11T23:56:00.001-04:00

Taking Neil Simon as my inspiration, I decided my next big adventure would be to Brighton Beach, in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach is Coney Island’s Russian exchange student roommate. Though it’s right next door to Coney Island (you can actually see the Wonder Wheel from the Brighton Beach boardwalk), Brighton Beach parties with the other Russian exchange students, accounting for its nickname, Little Odessa. European Jews were some of the first people to settle in Brighton Beach, but eventually these families made their way out of the area by the 1970s and 1980s. Then, a new wave of Russian immigrants entered the area and grew it into the bustling ethnic neighborhood it is today. I had never been to Russia, but I figured a visit to Brighton Beach was a good substitute for the time being.

GD, J, and I head to the shore in J’s car (a supreme luxury in itself since getting to Brighton Beach by train normally takes an hour and a half at least). Pulling up to Brighton Beach Avenue, there are grocery stores, cafes, and bars as usual, but all the signs are written in Russian first, with English underneath. It is all I had hoped for and more. “It’s like we’re back in the old country!” I exclaim to GD and J who, like myself, are of Eastern European descent. They roll their eyes and laugh.

Brighton Beach Boardwalk

After finding a parking space, the next order of business is food. I learned earlier that there are two primary competing Russian restaurants on the Brighton Beach Boardwalk, Volna and Tatiana. We decide on Tatiana. I wonder if anti-Tatiana people will start shouting at us and throwing things, but it must be a more friendly competition than advertised because nothing happens.

When we sit down, we hear the pitter patter and slur of Russian around us, which turns into broken English from our waitress as we order foods we can neither identify nor pronounce. GD and J order cheese vareniki, which turns out to be tortellini-like dumplings dusted with sugar and served with sour cream. I go for the borscht because, even as a person of Eastern European descent, I have never tried the stuff. They’re out of cold, though, so I order hot. It also comes with a side of sour cream. It’s salty and magenta-colored, with onions and celery floating about in it (they eventually sink to the bottom and hug the bowl as I devour the broth), but the salt is lessened by the freshness of the sour cream. J makes a joke about Russian rappers and hot beets.

We then make our way to the beach which, for Labor Day, is surprisingly empty. Along the boardwalk, elderly women wear burgundy velour track suits and have their hair backlit into blonde cotton candy. An elderly man snoozes on a bench wearing only a Speedo. More Russian whirls past our ears and, if it were not for Coney Island in the not-too-distant horizon, I’d think we were in another country. Even so, I’m glad the beach is empty—in my mind, that means there will be less garbage on the beach and less old men leering at me.

GD on the beach

I am right on the first count. The beach is clean, for the most part, but the sand is embedded with tiny broken pieces of glass that are on their way to turning back into sand. An old man sits on a towel close by and stares as we sit and play in the water. Can’t win ‘em all.

The waves are cold, but not too cold to play in. In the wake of Hurricane Irene, they come up to my waist which, granted, isn’t that high, but it’s bigger than you’ll get in South Florida. On the beach, a youngish mother yells at her son, Yakov, in Hebrew.

Innumerable varieties of beet products

We walk to Brighton Beach Avenue and head up and down the street, the neighborhood’s main drag. Pharmacies, supermarkets, butchers, fur vaults are all in Russian. We go into Food Heaven, which has a variety of prepared side dishes involving beets, as well as a fine selection of Russian candies and sodas.
“What’s this one?” GD asks me.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Why don’t you try it?”

Russian candy and soda

GD’s candy looks like a truffle on the outside but tastes like a strawberry marshmallow on the inside. I get one that looks like a piece of chocolate covered tofu, and kind of tastes like one, too. I also get a soda that’s bright green and has the licorice-y taste of anise. I guess you can carbonate anything if you try hard enough. We sit and watch Russian soap operas in the store as we finish our treats.

GD with Russian Harry Potter

Next up is a large Russian bookstore. We find a well-developed children’s literature section featuring Harry Potter in Russian. Throughout the rest of the store, there are also crossword puzzles with naked women on them, matryoshka dolls, CCCP t-shirts and Russian versions of magazines like Elle, Shape, and Cosmopolitan. You know, the essentials.

Last is a visit to the large local grocery store, which has cole slaw by the heaping helping in a buffet-style serving area. And the most beautiful strudels I have ever seen (rather, I did not think a strudel could be so beautiful) just hanging out in the open air. I think it’s funny how the culture of a country translates into its food markets. You don’t want? Don’t buy. We do not change for you. Take or leave. I wish I could say the same so easily for myself.

Finding our way back to the car, we head home, the ocean turning to river on our left, sun setting behind grey clouds. As we drive, I resolve to be more like that strudel.

Come On, Irene

2011-08-30T01:39:00.000-04:00

I should have trusted my instincts, which said unequivocally, it won't be that bad. Being from South Florida, I had slept through worse hurricanes than what was supposed to hit New York in the form of Miss Irene on Saturday night/Sunday morning. It’s true—I’d managed to live through Hurricanes Andrew, Wilma, and even Katrina sleeping peacefully. Yes, we lost power; yes, we packed up all our patio furniture and put it in the garage; yes, we were sweltering hot in the dead of a humid Florida October and I remember distinctly lying on the Mexican tile (which absorbs cool air) in my house wishing the air would just magically turn on and we’d all be saved. But those were Category 4 storms and above. Irene, as it approached New York earlier in the weekend, was merely a Category 2—small potatoes in comparison. By the time Irene hit New York, it was a Tropical Storm; in Florida, that’s like a sneeze. We’d be going to the beach to watch the waves at that point. 

I understand, of course, that in South Florida we are mentally and physically prepared to withstand such storms and the situation is quite different for New York. Trees up here are not as thirsty as they are in Florida, so when there’s too much water they simply pass out and fall over. Drainage systems are not the same, I’m sure. The list goes on. At the same rate, though, if those houses in Key West’s Stiltsville, perched precariously above the water, can weather storm after storm after storm, couldn’t New York City? 

I was firmly entrenched in my beliefs. Friends from New York who had never experienced a hurricane called and texted in distress. Was it really going to be that bad? No, I said, without fear. A bunch of wind and rain. Nothing staying inside wouldn’t cure. My confidence was catching, and I was grateful that I was able to set some minds at ease. 

I stayed confident until around around Saturday afternoon when, after repeated calls from my mother, from friends outside of New York who feared for my safety, and reading the Mayor’s office Twitter, I began to worry. See, I don’t have a television in my apartment, and I’ve never been much for the news (judge away), so I only knew snippets of what was going on. As I sat down to finally check out some of the details, I felt tiny bubbles of fear beginning to float toward the surface of my brain. I tried to burst them, but they just kept appearing. What kind of Floridian are you?, I thought to myself. But I realized they were the same fear bubbles I got when I was at home during a hurricane—I was never fearless, by any means. But being scared was never going to do anything. You had to roll with the punches, put your patio furniture in the garage, and snuggle up to some Nabokov with a book light when the lights went out. 

Since I didn’t have any patio furniture or a book light, I decided it would be a good idea to get some candles (I knew by the time I went out, at 1pm, all the flashlights would assuredly be gone), some non-perishable foods, and…what else did I get? Oh, right. Nothing. 

I left home, and there was a line in front of the hardware store near my house. Masking tape Xs began to appear on window after window. I scoffed, having never in my life owned hurricane shutters and never doing anything to my windows but closing the blinds. People roamed the streets with umbrellas searching for necessary hurricane gear. The air was sticky and wet, and after a while I didn’t know if I was sweating or if it was the air. 

The non-perishable food shelves at Duane Reade were bare, as were the diaper, battery, candle, and condom aisles. New Yorkers know how to prioritize. I grabbed some tasty apocalypse food—beef jerky with no corn syrup and white cheddar Pirate’s Booty—but couldn’t find any candles. Eh, I’d try another store. All the pharmacies were out of them and I began to worry. I only had two candles in my apartment, and I knew that these stupid fear bubbles would subsist a little bit if I could just get some damn candles. Eventually I found some fancy and not so fancy ones, along with some canned salmon and Chef Boyardees and headed home, satisfied. 

I tuned in to the Mayor’s office Twitter and NY1’s weather Twitter while working on an article and got all the updates I needed. The storm was supposed to start hitting around 9pm and be the worst between 2am and 2pm. I braced myself. Directly against orders, I sat next to the window in my apartment—I knew I would feel most unsafe if I couldn’t hear anything. If it got really bad I would just move. 

But it never did. Nine pm passed and I heard some wind whooshing outside. Two am arrived and I heard some more. I fell asleep eventually, but I kept waiting to hear the slap and screech of wind and rain against my window that I knew a real, big hurricane will make. No such sounds arrived. 

I woke up the next morning and looked out into the street—some leaves covered the wet ground…and that was it. I checked online for some news and found that many parts of New York were unscathed, but quite a few were not so. There was flooding, uprooted trees, more damage I’m sure, but nothing the city couldn’t really handle in the long run, I think. Frankly, I had seen far worse. I mean, almost all New York transit was up and running a day later. South Florida was out of commission for two weeks, if not more, during Wilma and Katrina. New York did not get the worst of this storm. Unfortunately, other parts of the East Coast did and they need our hopes, good will, and help more than we need our complaints. 

How do I feel about the way government officials handled the event? I think telling people if they didn’t evacuate they’d die was probably not the 100% best course of action, or true, as it turned out. But at the same token, if people didn’t think their lives were threatened, they wouldn’t move a muscle. Just in case they were threatened, it was important to get them to leave, so hyperbole I think was the only way officials knew how to deal with it. I think the city did its best to handle a storm it had never experienced before—evacuation centers, dissemination of instructions and information, and so on. In the future do think it will be different, though. 

I think experiencing a hurricane in your own home (i.e., not your parents’ home) is a rite of passage in South Florida. Okay, so I was a little more north for this one, but I feel good to have gotten through whatever it was on my own. Would I do it again? No. Next time I’m having a hurricane party. There will be tequila. You can come if you want. If there is a next time, of course. 

One Year

2011-08-14T22:27:00.001-04:00

If you have not already noticed, today is the first anniversary of Miss Manhattan! On August 14, 2010, I set forth to describe my Manhattan (plus) adventures, and I’m proud to have come so far, and of course to continue the process.

In a year, I haven’t just found my favorite spots in the city, but I’ve felt what it is to continually be inspired by the city every day. When people say New York is the city that never sleeps, they don’t just mean movement—New York never stops, well, being New York. The lights at the corner market will always be on, illuminating stacked tubs of unnaturally colored daisies ; there will always be “little skate fuckers (High Fidelity reference, anyone?)” in Union Square with their boards; deliciously chiseled men will always be running shirtless through Central Park; I will always be ‘accidentally’ shoved by a feather-haired old woman with a grocery cart in the cheese section of Zabar’s; there will always be friends sleeping on my couch after a night of debauchery on the Lower East Side. Some things you just learn you can depend on.

To celebrate my first year of living in New York, which was actually July 30, EH and I went out for Italian food then miraculously found a $5 bottle of wine at a store near my house and drank it on my roof. Happily, it wasn’t disgusting, and we were pleasantly buzzed as we headed to Fat Baby on the Lower East Side for bumps and grinds on the dance floor to some good, bad, and awesomely bad Top 40 hits. I was glad EH was able to come out to celebrate, as she was one of the first people I was able to hang out with in New York as a “real person,” i.e., a scared-shitless post-grad wondering how this whole New York thing was going to work. A year later, I am no longer scared but strangely blissful, floating about on a Manhattan high brought on by the sound of honking taxis, stilettos on the sidewalk, and the sizzle of gyro meat on a food truck at 3am.

I realized, however, that I made a very important step in earning the title “New Yorker” just this past week. On my way home Thursday night, I fell asleep in the back of a cab. In the midst of my sleep, I somehow knew how much time had passed, and knew exactly what neighborhood we were driving through (Murray Hill) on the way home (not Murray Hill), even with my eyes closed. I opened my eyes to test myself, and I was right. My eyes flickered closed and I smiled as the cab rushed through the neighborhood. When, even in the darkness of your mind, you can still tell where the hell you are in Manhattan, I believe you’re that much closer to earning “New Yorker” status.

And then there are days like today that make you realize even more how to be a New Yorker. I was never one for Sundays, finding them to be the days when you have to catch up and do all the work you put off the entire weekend; not something to be looked forward to, by any means. But today I worshiped at my temple (read: bought some fabulous new clothes at Bloomingdale’s) and then sidled up to Neil’s Coffee Shop with EmLa. We sat at the lunch counter on beige spinny stools, staring at the refrigerator case filled with pies, rice pudding, grapefruit and beer while we ate grilled cheese and tomato on wheat bread and drank coffee. The Sundays like these, when you may not do much but what you actually do makes you so happy, that’s what a New York Sunday is like. Some things about being a New Yorker you can’t seek out, per se—you just kind of stumble upon them and realize you’ve just learned another lesson.

There are some things that are so New York and “New Yorker” without even trying—white mugs and lunch counters and how wet your feet get walking up Lexington Avenue in the rain but you don’t even care because there’s no place in the world you’d rather get your feet wet. You’ll take off your shoes as you walk in the door, leave your umbrella out in the hallway to dry and sit down and write, because some days all New York can give you is inspiration and all you can do is honor the muse. Here’s to another year, and another, and another…

Oh, Penny: Part II

2011-08-10T00:56:00.001-04:00

Penny Arcade is a petite lady, of voluptuous shape. When I meet up with her, I notice she is much shorter than my own 5’1 ¼” inches, that she must have been wearing heels when I first met her. Her face is wiped clean of makeup, so her eyes are much brighter and friendlier, with the hint of the finest lines at the corners. I notice now she has small dimples on the tops of her cheeks, so whenever she swears it’s like listening to a delightfully foul-mouthed doll. She is wearing a black lace and sequin dress, having just come from a funeral, with royal blue ballet flats covering her tiny feet (her light pink high heels are wrapped in newspaper in her silver snakeskin bag, since she stepped in gum while wearing them earlier).

She called me this morning to tell me our itinerary for the day. I was to meet her at 2pm in the lobby of a building near Madison Square Park. We would then talk for a bit, get on the train, and I would then accompany her to her physical therapy session and wait for her in the lobby, and we would talk some more. I was happy to go wherever I was led.

As we leave the lobby, she notices her bag keeps messing up the sequins on her dress and asks me to carry it. On the way to Madison Square Park, she begins talking about exactly what I asked to hear—her life. Even before we sit down on a bench, I am enthralled. She reaches into her snakeskin tote and finds a yellow pack of Natural American Spirits, striking a flame from a Duane Reade matchbook with eventual success.

As the cigarette burns, I listen again with rapt attention as she talks about what it means to be an East Village artist, that close-knit community of out-of-the-box thinkers and doers of performance art, sculpture, music, you name it based solely in the East Village. It means to be a part of a kind of community that doesn’t exist like it used to, she says. People get further and further away from each other with technology, even though technically it brings them ‘closer together.’ I smile. I’ve believed for a while that no amount of text messaging replaces the warmth of someone’s voice, though I have been known to bend toward technology on occasion, much to the disdain of my mother.

She talks about art not being equal to poverty, that who the hell are these kids who live off their parents and do nothing and move to Williamsburg because ‘that’s where the artists are?’ She is incensed. No! The artists are here! Doing their art! Living amongst artists does not make you an artist.

She talks about the exclusionary nature of modern homosexuality (Arcade describes herself as a bisexual faghag), about the Howl! Festival and Debbie Harry and Patti Smith and performance artists like Ethel Eichelberger and Karen Finley and how 22-year-old women do not want to sleep with the 60-year-old men who hit on them at art galleries. She says nobody is enthusiastic anymore, that everyone thinks they’re an expert and they don’t value the people who came before them. It’s a youth culture, she says, which is good for entrepreneurship but bad for knowing where you came from.

As we walk to the subway, she tells me how she liked John Vaccaro’s Playhouse of the Ridiculous Theatre better than Andy Warhol’s factory crowd because the factory was too disorganized. On the train, she tells me how she went to Spain and performed with a communist puppet theatre. One night she brought home an American sailor and the leader of the group yelled at her the next morning, telling her she was a whore, that she smelled like a whore. “I don’t smell like a whore!” she said. “This is Kiehl’s! I’m wearing Kiehl’s! It smells like rain.”

Her eyes sparkle as she imparts story after story, idea after idea. Soon, she asks me about myself. I tell her freelance work is nice for me right now because I never really liked taking orders from anyone. I think this resonates with her and she squints with happiness. “I like you,” she says. “You’ve got guts.” I am floating. Penny Arcade thinks I have guts. There was never so fantastic a moment on the N train.

We walk toward Columbus Circle and into her physical therapist’s office. ‘I’ll be 30 minutes,’ she says with a smile. She leaves and I try to process everything. I want to remember all of the details, all of the stories she tells, all of the names she mentions. Quentin Crisp, a writer and dear friend who called her “Miss Arcade” and with whom she once went to a leather bar, among other things; Taylor Mead, a performer who, at 86 years old, still performs once a week at the Bowery Poetry Club; about being the ‘little sister of the avant-garde,’ because avant-garde is not a style, she tells me, her mouth moving around the word ‘style’ with disdain, it is an artistic movement.

While I am still processing, Penny comes back out, and we sit and chat some more but eventually our time comes to an end. “Do you have any more questions for now?” she asks, genuinely curious. No, I say, but I could listen to you talk all day. It’s the truth.

We walk outside and while Penny has another cigarette, I am happy that she wants to talk to me some more. She leans against the window of a Pax restaurant, her elbow in the photo of a giant wheat flatbread sandwich. She tells me about her book, ‘Bad Reputation,’ a collection of performances, essays, and interviews and its (non)review in The New Yorker. She tells me about the success of Bitch! Dyke! Faghag! Whore!, her long-running performance in the 1990s (her name still stands on the cornerstone of Le Poisson Rouge on Bleecker Street. The venue used to be the famed Village Gate nightclub, and Arcade's show was the last to be performed there, along with Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris). She tells me how people used to tell her she looked like famed Italian actress Giulietta Masina and wanted her to run off to Hollywood and join the circus (read: the industry), but she chose to stay here in New York and is always glad she did so.

I am too. I think the world needs people like Penny, who do whatever feels right for them despite what other people tell them is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. There’s grand happiness to be found following your bliss, not someone else’s. She wants to pass on what she knows to people like me, she says, because people did it for her, too. How else are you going to learn?, she says. I am honored that she has chosen me as a worthy vessel for her wisdom.

Penny’s cigarette burns out and I walk with her to her last destination for the day. We part ways with big smiles ‘I like our little relationship,’ she says. We give each other a great big hug and promise to get together upon her return. I wave and walk away, smiling. What is this life? Is it even real? I shake my head in disbelief. I still wonder if it really happened.

Oh, Penny: Part I

2011-08-04T00:58:00.000-04:00

This story starts with a book. It is torn, weatherbeaten, highlighted and tabbed into oblivion, and it is the closest thing I have ever had to a Bible. The book is ‘Please Kill Me: An Uncensored Oral History of Punk’, a book I have read and reread so many times that I see the story of punk unfolding in front of me every time; I know its plot twists and turns, and I know all of the characters by name. 

I elevate this book to mythical proportions because during a time in my life when I understood nothing, when I felt like a joke missing a punchline, I still understood this book. It starts in New York, the home of punk, tracing the development of the genre along with its side-genres and subcultures. More than the history of punk, though, Please Kill Me reaffirmed my love for New York, for all of its acceptance of wild, abstract thought and not-so-misspent youth. It made me understand the beautiful messiness of creativity, how the muse worked, what a community meant, how people learned about themselves. This book gave me hope that one day I would never have to see another minivan, that I could meet insightful, intellectual, artistic people who would become my friends, that the life of creativity I wanted for myself was real. 

As much as I relished every part of ‘Please Kill Me’, as far as I knew I would never come in contact with any of its colorful cast of characters—most were either far too famous (although I did meet David Johansen once), far too on the fringe or far too dead for me to ever really meet them. But New York is funny that way—it’s so big, but it’s still so, so small because so many of its communities overlap, especially in the arts—and you never really know who you’re going to meet or see where. 

**

This story continues last Tuesday, when I had the distinct pleasure of attending Book Club Burlesque, a raunchy, bawdy, and so, so smart burlesque variety show at the Parkside Lounge on the Lower East Side. Each monthly Book Club Burlesque is inspired by a particular work of literature (past shows have been themed Lolita, Mutiny on the Bounty, A Handmaid’s Tale, etc.), and the show I attended was themed after Louis L’amour, the prolific Western writer. A slew of performers in and out of drag and back in again performed Western-inspired acts, like a naughty Native American trading her clothes for whisky, or a drag Dolly Parton (portrayed by the incredible, chiseled and glittery artiste Faux Pas) disrobing to forget her sad, country heart. There were also musicians and comedians on the bill. None, however, was as unreal a surprise as the last guest performer on the bill, one Miss Penny Arcade. 

At the announcement of her name, I gripped the leg of CH, my guest that evening, in pure disbelief.  A shriek-whisper shot from my mouth. “HOLY SHIT I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! PENNY ARCADE! THIS IS NOT REAL THIS IS NOT REAL.” I covered my eyes with my hands and slid them down my face. If I were standing I would have fallen over. I was sitting and I still almost fell over. The entire synopsis of Please Kill Me ran through my brain again. One of its memorable characters sat before me. My jaw dropped, and my mouth stayed open for probably the next ten minutes, my eyes sparkling in the room’s darkness. What the fuck is my life right now? 

“Who is she?” CH whispered to me. I didn’t mind that he didn’t know because many don’t. To merely list the facts, Penny Arcade is an internationally renowned performance artist, famous for critiquing culture in a loud, opinionated and generally challenging way. She speaks openly about sexuality, art, cultural values, and what we need to do to fix each of them. She appeared in a film by Andy Warhol entitled Women in Revolt, is the author of her own one-woman plays, and has been a staple to New York’s downtown performance art scene (and the international performance art scene) for myriad years. One of the places she began her career with theatre director and playwright John Vaccaro’s Playhouse of the Ridiculous Theatre, a gay-friendly experimental theatre group in 1970s New York. It is here that she becomes part of Please Kill Me, narrating her experiences in the growing art movement downtown and coming into contact with people like Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. 

You don’t forget a lady like Penny Arcade. You don’t forget a name like Penny Arcade. 

She has bleach blonde hair with dark black layers underneath, thick black liner on her eyelids, darkened brows and pink lips. She is wearing a white dress and speaks in a throaty voice caressed by years of cigarettes. She reads a piece called Cowboy Mouth (not named for the Sam Shepard play, but rather for the Bob Dylan song “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands”), about being post-menopausal and feeling aroused for the first time in a while. In it, she says, “If The Vagina Monologues were really feminist, they’d be called The Clitoris Monologues.” I am sold. As I sit, rapt with attention and my mouth still hanging open, I know I must go talk to her after the show. I must say thank you, it was such a pleasure to hear you read. I must say I never thought in my wildest dreams I would get to see you in person, much less see you perform. 

Thankfully, though, I introduce myself and only say the first part. Penny is kind and says thank you and CH takes a picture of us. She asks about what I do, who I am. I answer coherently and we chat for a bit, but the only thing running through my mind is “PENNYARCADECARESABOUTSOMETHINGIHAVETOSAYOHMYGODOHMYGOD” I must sound flustered because she says with a smile, “You know, I’m just a person,” her big green eyes searching for recognition on my face. I smile, and my brain calms down a bit. But then she says, “Are you on Facebook? Do you have an email address?” and my brain talks in all caps again. “PENNYARCADEWANTSTOKEEPINTOUCHWITHME?????” I have more difficulty with the words this time, but I write down my info on the back of her piece like she asks. CH and I leave, and I bury my face in his shoulder, squealing with delight. “It’s like you’re starstruck,” he says. It’s true, I am. But at the same time, I don’t expect to hear from her ever again. I mean, I’m just some flustered person who talked to her after a show. What could possibly happen?

Well, she could friend me on Facebook and email me some articles she was featured in. I could nearly fall off my couch in excitement and then have the guts to ask if she would meet with me and tell me about her experiences and she would say yes of course and then I would cry tears of joy in my apartment. 

Penny is incredibly welcoming, and willing to make space in her very busy schedule for me before she leaves to Europe for a month and change. It is now a week later and my brain is still tripping over itself as I get dressed to go meet her. What does one wear to hang out with a legend, anyway?

**

DIVA

2011-07-28T01:18:00.000-04:00

There’s a certain feeling you get when you hear a completely perfect sound. It starts at the tops of your shoulders, then runs up and down your arms, prickling your flesh and making the hair on the tops of your arms stand up. There are tons of places one might expect to hear such sounds—on Broadway, at the Opera, in a recording. And in a gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen on a Monday night.

On a busier night, like a Friday or Saturday, there’s a line of people, mostly men with the occasional woman, waiting to offer up their IDs to the bouncers in front of the black, unmarked façade of Industry, on 52nd Street between 8th and 9th Avenue. Tonight there’s none, save for a few men smoking behind velvet ropes. Two them are young men in short shorts and canvas loafers, hair messed boyishly with just the right amount of product, cigarettes dangling from their lithe, manicured fingers. They speak with the lilt of high school valley girls about who’s on the bill tonight, taking drags of gossip between inhalations.

At Marty Thomas’s DIVA show, the ladies always on the bill are the accomplished and talented Kelly King, Kat Hennessey, Anne Fraser Thomas, and of course Marty Thomas himself. Each has performed around the globe in shows like Wicked, Xanadu, and Cirque du Soleil; they’ve won Grammys and topped the Billboard charts. And on Monday nights at Industry, they don only their most sparkly attire and present their voices to you for absolutely no cover.

Kelly King

TL originally took me to Industry to see DIVA, and I could not believe my ears. It was only in the theatre that I had previously heard such voices, belting powerful notes high and mighty. But on a tiny little stage in the back of a gay bar, I was treated to a sassy, silly, perfect little show where all four divas sang the greats—Whitney, Cyndi, “And I Am Telling You” from Dreamgirls, “Defying Gravity” from Wicked; you know, the things divas sing. Because you might be able to hit some notes honey, but if you can’t bring it home then get off the stage.

Kat Hennessey

Luckily, all of the divas bring it, free performance or not. Marty, the charismatic producer and emcee who Time Out New York once called ‘a human spangle’, hits notes I thought impossible for a man but still manages to make them sound impeccable; Kelly is a teeny woman in big ol’ stilettos whose voice is the flawless stuff of dreams; Kat is a redhead with a sweet, friendly belt; and Anne is another sassy belter who loves the crowd.

Anne Fraser Thomas

There is big, glamorous hair, shimmering stage makeup, shiny costumes, choreography, lights, a disco ball, the works—it’s nice to know that even though this is a smaller show in a gay bar, the performers take it seriously enough to put on a good, practiced show, but still have enough fun with it so the audience doesn’t feel ashamed to hoot, holler, snap multiple times in a row, and say “YES, BITCH!” and “WORKKK!” when they’re blown away by the performers’ sparkling high notes.

It’s the kinds of shows like this that are possible in places like New York, where people just love what they do and want to share it with others. The singers are a part of a tight-knit community of performers that support each other and come out to see each other no matter where they are (I was pleasantly surprised to find that several Broadway actors were in the DIVA audience along with your humble Miss Manhattan, snapping and shouting away with love at their favorite diva).

Thomas started the show to bring together fantastic entertainers from all across the New York performance scene, be they from cabarets or the Broadway stage. As he says in the DIVA promo, “I thought I’d bring my closest friends, who sing higher than anyone I know…” The rest falls together wonderfully, with Marty, the talented ladies and a weekly guest diva putting on a fun show that’s worth far more than you’ll pay for it. It’s delightful, it’s sparkly, it’s fierce. It’s DIVA.

Sleeps Well With Others

2011-07-21T00:46:00.002-04:00

The one thing you will love--or hate, depending on who you are—about your apartment in New York is the amount of people who will be staying with you for innumerable weekends of the year. I am one of those people who absolutely loves this—I love sharing my take on the city with others, painting the town red, finding new and crazy things to do, and experiencing the city through new eyes each time someone visits. 

When I was in high school, my house was never the house where everyone came to hang out because everyone I knew lived 30 minutes away from me. But because so few people have room for extra people in their apartment, mine is happily the one they choose for their weekend getaways. I enjoy hostessing an impossible amount: can I get you some water? There are towels in the linen closet. Something to eat? Because if your guests are visiting from out of town, why should they not feel like royalty? 

Every time people visit and ask me to take them out, my soul feels all warm and fuzzy. It means I get to share my part of the city, part of myself, with people I love. I’m sure every New Yorker feels this way. There are places that are your standbys, that even your visitors come to love and request specifically to visit when they’re in town. So far, for me, this includes: MacBar, Beauty Bar, The Sunburnt Calf, The Meatball Shop, and The Strand Bookstore, among others. 

Yes, there do get to be points where it feels like I’m running a Bed and Breakfast—so and so is in this weekend, what’s-his-face is in the week after that. It can get exhausting, and sometimes I just want a weekend to myself. Everyone comes to New York because, well, it’s New York. On the whole, though, I love the company and I love that with each different set of visitors your itinerary will vary. At least I’m not doing the same thing every weekend. For example, SD will come in and she'll want to go to the theatre and find some cool coffee shops. KriTo and TDS will want to shopppppping and danciiiiiiing and maybe to a museum. It tests and develops my New York know-how: how do I show these people a good time when they've already been to visit many times? But somehow I make it work and we all end up coffee-ing or dancing the night away.

I wonder if it’s a cyclical phenomenon, this people-coming-to-visit thing. Of course, who doesn’t want to go to New York, but maybe sometimes New York is just a happy side effect of seeing a friend? 

…maybe not. I mean, it is ‘The Greatest City in the World’ we’re talking about here. 

Even so, I’m happy to have people, no matter their reasons for showing up at my door. It’s been everything from auditions to interviews to school trips to vacations. And yes, maybe they wouldn’t be coming way down to South Florida to visit, but that’s a proximity thing. It’s one of the reasons I’m glad I live in New York, actually—it’s the Greatest City in the World, so it draws the Greatest People in the World. It made the college/real-life transition so much easier, knowing I’d see the shining faces of my college friends multiple times per year. 

So despite all the schlepping around Manhattan and occasionally Brooklyn, I adore my visitors. Especially at 4:30am when we all sit in my living room, partially hammered from a night out dancing our asses off at Fat Baby and Pianos on the Lower East Side, eating plantain chips with hummus and bullshitting about life, there is really no place else I’d rather be. 

Long and Hot

2011-07-14T00:22:00.000-04:00

…the summer, I mean.

I know what summer means, typically. It means barbeques, suntan lotion, saltwater, chlorine, tan lines, not feeling bad about having ice cream in the middle of the afternoon, and candy-colored drinks with little umbrellas in them. Some of these things you get in New York, others not so much; and some things are an entirely different animal.

Coming from South Florida, I know heat—sweating after being outside for a full minute in places you forgot you had glands. But New York is different. At least in South Florida, you have to drive everywhere, and if you’re lucky your car has air conditioning. Not so in New York, where walking and public transit are the norms. Walking to the subway, there’s a soft but intense heat that swaths itself around you as if it was an overcautious school nurse wrapping a bandage around your leg just a little too tight—it’s not uncomfortable, per se, but makes your limbs throb and it’s almost a challenge to feel your toes. As you descend the stairs underground, however, the bandage gets tighter and tighter and tighter…

Going underground is a little like being in a sauna against your will. Sweat begins to glisten on your face more and more with each minute you wait for the train. By minute five, sweat begins to form droplets on the upper lip and we all pray we are never the unlucky soul who waits more than 10 minutes for we will surely melt. It is, as KriTo would say, “some Wizard of Oz shit.” But when that train comes whizzing past, it brings a glorious rush of cool air that sweeps your hair up and the droplets away, saving the day each time. Inside the train, we lean voluntarily against cool metal poles that we would normally avoid like the plague for fear of actually catching plague. Summer means abandoning fear in pursuit of anything cold. The once calorie-conscious nursing student eats her frozen yogurt on the train with gusto. Teenagers recklessly sip Slurpee Big Gulps, for once not worried about looking cool. Even the financier on his way down to Wall Street chooses a pretty pink frappuccino to fight the heat.

Despite previous commentary, though, I don’t hate the heat. If anything, I find it a worthy adversary. I admire its wit and cunning. For example, when all year fashionistas pursue dewy, glowing skin with this potion and that cream, summer bestows it upon all of us for no charge and suddenly they prefer the matte look. I enjoy finding new ways to beat the heat, be it via my own frozen yogurt or eating a salad or even just letting it warm me up because, well, if you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. I like the way summer shines itself onto my nose and cheekbones because it makes me look alive, living in the moment. And summer makes walking in the rain almost enjoyable—it’s like the weather’s way of saying, ‘Oh, sorry for all that heat, bro. Let’s cool it off a little. My bad!’

Summer in New York is like a three month-long celebration. Everyone is outside all the time, playing on roofs and in parks. Some of this playtime includes rooftop and park movies. I had the pleasure of attending HBO’s Bryant Park Film Festival this past Monday. The festival shows classic films every Monday night all summer. I chose this night to attend the Bryant Park Film Festival for the first time because of Marilyn. Miss Monroe and I have always had a very important connection, though I cannot explain to you how it works or why it exists. When I saw Gentlemen Prefer Blondes was on the upcoming bill, I wrote it in my agenda weeks in advance and urged HL to come with me. Who wouldn’t love to sit in a park and watch a movie? I’m pretty sure this is one of the things that makes summer in New York.

There’s a big, flat lawn in the middle of Bryant Park, surrounded by tables, chairs, and a walk-up café or three. They roll out the lawn in the spring because in the winter it’s an ice-skating rink. And when it’s a Monday night in summer, it’s absolutely packed to the gills with people, all facing a tall movie screen at the front of the park, on 6th Avenue. Since the movie started around 9, I thought if I arrived around 8 there would certainly be a patch of grass for me somewhere.

Barely true. I wedged myself between a series of lady groups who had spread their picnic blankets over larger areas, leaving just enough room for a small lady like I to heave my giant bag next to me and save room for HL, who was coming later. I unwrapped my salad and read my GQ, waiting for the movie to start. Next to me, girls chattered drunken mistakes, couples laughed, and every so often someone would stand up and wave at a friend just entering the park, guiding them towards their sitting place. Said friend would then gingerly make their way on tiptoe through the spaces on the lawn not covered up by someone else’s blankets or towels. It takes more skill, balance, and precision than one might think.

Eventually, though, you sit, and the movie begins. There are a couple of previews and a Bank of America commercial (they sponsor the festival), and then the HBO intro. It’s an old one, from the early ‘80s probably, and everyone gets up to dance and clap their way through it. Then the movie begins with a giant roar of applause from the audience. Then, in a flash, there are Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell up on the screen in shimmering red sequin gowns and feather headdresses singing “We’re just two little girls from Little Rock…” The audience applauds at the end of each musical number, laughs in the proper places, oohs, aaahs, smiles and then the movie ends.

People filter out of the park in droves, down into the subway for more heat or walking for a bit to take in the refreshing night air they’ve been blessed with. That same summer dew nestles onto their faces as they enter their homes, opening the windows and letting the night air whisk in a breeze along with the sounds of dogs barking, taxis honking, and traffic rushing in the distance.

Coney Island Baby

2011-07-06T12:36:00.000-04:00

The only things I had heard about Coney Island raised it to mythical proportions, a seaside playland of colorful amusements, Nathan’s hot dogs, roller coasters, freak shows, burlesque, and much more. Upon my arrival last Thursday evening, I knew I would finally be able to sink my toes into some sand, which I had not been able to do since I left from my winter holiday in South Florida this past January. On the long D train ride south, my feet wiggled in excitement. The ever-game TBW met me there.

The first order of business TBW and I had was to gorge ourselves on junk food and be real Coney Island visitors, even for a short amount of time. When asking TBW where he wanted to eat, he simply replied “HOT DOGGSSS.” It was clear where we had to go. Our journey began under the flashing neon hot dog sign of Nathan’s, a renowned purveyor of hot dogs to Coney Island since 1916, with the rest of New York and even more parts of the U.S. following suit after that. Its big, green swirling letters represent a hot dog institution, really. An institution my father the hot dog maven had always made me especially aware of. In South Florida, we were lucky enough to have a few Nathan’s (Nathanses?) nearby, so I was introduced early on to the delights of crunchy, snappy salty sweet hot dogs kept like presents inside rectangular, golden yellow paper boxes. My mother also had a history with Nathan’s, telling me stories of driving all the way down from New York’s Catskill mountains with a group of friends for the sole purpose of eating a Nathan’s hot dog. Though I am by no means a junk food or fast food person, Nathan’s didn’t disappoint, and tasted just like it did when I was a kid sitting at the Broward Mall food court. With corn dogs, hot dogs, cheese fries and lemonades between us, I think Nathan’s is what Coney Island is supposed to taste like.

TBW's riflery sheet, mid-game

Post-Nathan’s, our travels took us to an area of grunge-tastic carnival games, with toothless women in their forties hocking impossible victories in the areas of riflery, horseshoes, and that thing where you try and get the ring around the swirling metal pole without touching it (though TBW did attempt the riflery challenge and was almost successful!). It was what all carnivals should be—bored teenagers running the Ferris wheel, men promising game wins to pretty underage girls, overstuffed and hopefully not flea-ridden stuffed animals that could double as lounge chairs suspended from all corners of the booths making you wonder, if you did win, where on earth you would put such a thing and how the hell to get it on the subway. I felt the remnants of a bygone era and wondered what Coney Island was like in its heyday, but was happy to appreciate it now in all of its wonderful, old-school, crusty, rusty twisted glory.

The Cyclone!

As we continued around the block, the world-famous Cyclone roller coaster appeared. Built in 1927, the track is 2,640 feet long and the whole ride takes about 1 minute and 50 seconds. Its steepest drop is 60 degrees, but it has a total of 12 drops, 16 changes of direction, and 6 180-degree turns. It was declared a New York City Landmark in 1988, and was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1991.

I had developed a taste for roller coasters as a middle schooler, when my mother told me never to ride the ones that went upside down. On a day trip to an amusement park, I went on four or more roller coasters that went upside down and had a blast. The feeling of one’s stomach rising into one’s throat on each downward plunge is almost addictive.

Though I didn’t know what kind of tricks the Cyclone was known for, I was curious about riding it—it had been years since I had a proper roller coaster ride, and there’s no time like a random Thursday night to cure that. I looked to see how much admission was--$8. Kind of a lot for a single roller coaster ride, no? But I decided it was worth it. How often do you get to ride a historic roller coaster, anyway? TBW indulged my childlike enthusiasm, and aboard we went. Squishing into hastily upholstered cars, TBW asked me, “So how old is this?”

“Old,” is all I could reply. I was a little nervous, but excited.

I would find out that the Cyclone was known for its plunges, steep dives where I felt that good old stomach-in-throat sensation. We rattled against the car as it clicked loudly on the wooden track, faces thrown back by the sheer force of movement. Don’t underestimate the power of wooden roller coasters! It was wonderful, though, and put a smile on my face that I could not unglue for about 20 minutes.

The boardwalk was next, surprisingly clean and lined with vendors selling funnel cakes, hamburgers, cotton candy, and other carnival food. An endless line of trash cans painted with different imagery of Coney Island by the eager paintbrushes of elementary school students created a kaleidoscope of painted metal down the center of the boardwalk. The sun set in front of us, making a milky pink, lavender, creamsicle and periwinkle sky. We stepped off the boardwalk and into the sand, littered with used Nathan’s napkins, beer cans, and red plastic Solo cups. It was a little sad to see a beach look this way, so I hope someone is responsible for cleaning it beyond the seemingly few who had been kind enough to clean up after themselves. Even so, it was lovely to feel the sand on my feet, to be at Coney Island feeling like an overgrown kid, smiling and pointing at all the bright colors. I imagine that’s what keeps people coming back. I’m sure the view doesn’t hurt, either.

Tonight, We Dine!

2011-06-26T18:44:00.002-04:00

Like most starving artists, I am not privy to the beauty of dining out every evening…except when TM and TF come to town. They enjoy good food, the experience of dining out, and having me along for the ride. So once every couple of months my nights are filled with sumptuous foods from all over New York. This trip, these are the places we’ve had the pleasure (and not-so-pleasure) of taking in.

Nancy Lee’s Pig Heaven

1540 2nd Avenue, Upper East Side

Nancy Lee’s is a Chinese restaurant on the Upper East Side, decorated on the outside with a sprinkling of alfresco seating and red paper lanterns. On the inside, it is pink pink pink and decorated with pigs pigs pigs, in reverence of the menu item for which it is best known—pig. In fact, it appears on the menu in the form of “Hot Pig,” “Cold Pig,” “Hot No Pig,” and “Cold No Pig,” among others. Of the most famous items for which Nancy Lee’s is known, however, are the spareribs, featured on the Travel Channel’s Food Paradise series in their Ribs episode. A connoisseur of spareribs, TF had written down Nancy Lee’s on his to-do list after TM saw it on television. I am not an active sparerib worshipper myself, mostly because I don’t like to get my hands dirty (how bourgeois, I know), but I am certainly open-minded when it comes to food. Away to Nancy Lee’s we went.

The spareribs arrived, thick strips of meaty bones reddish black and crispy, almost candied, with barbeque sauce. So far they were better than the standard sparerib fare I had seen, mere bones with a scrape or two of meat that must be gently gnawed loose with the front teeth. But these you could really bite, and bite we did. Each mouthful was sweet but not too sweet and perfectly savory. I don’t remember ever enjoying spareribs before. And TF, the rib connoisseur, was floating away on a rib-flavored cloud. After one bite, he looked at TM and I as if to say “My goose is cooked. These ribs have my heart and they’re never giving it back.” Though married to TF for 25 years, TM was quite a fan of the ribs herself and happily agreed to share him. Thankfully, though, I am not married and won’t have to split my love between the ribs and anyone else. I will doubtless be returning to Nancy Lee’s in the future.

Ed’s Lobster Bar

222 Lafayette Street, SoHo

Because the SoHo/NoLita overlap is one of my favorite places in the city, I was always walking past Ed’s Lobster Bar, a small white and yellow storefront with a bright red lobster logo, never really able to go in. At the behest of TF and TM, though, I was finally able to go this week. Done up nautically but intelligently, with white wood-paneled walls, booths and porthole-like mirrors, we made our way through the narrow restaurant and took our seats. As there are only lobster and seafood items on the menu, I plied myself with the aforementioned crustacean in the form of a lobster bisque appetizer and a lobster roll entrée. The bisque arrived, thick but not too thick, with just the perfect balance of lobster and sherry. It was accompanied by two small but mighty lobster ravioli floating in the soup, packed with shredded lobster. I swore to myself if I didn’t walk out with claws it would be a miracle. I happily made my way through the soup, leaving only the bowl, the dish, and the spoon behind. The lobster rolls were next, filled with thick chunks of tender lobster that practically overflowed from their sweet, butter-lined hot dog roll nest. The meat was dense but the roll was soft and somehow the combination melted in my mouth. Each bite of the roll was fresh, sweet magic. Though my budget does not often permit such dining, perhaps on a day when I am celebrating something wonderful or just on a day when I want to eat a fabulous lobster roll, I will be back.

Beauty and Essex

146 Essex Street, Lower East Side

I originally wanted to eat here because I thought it was cool that the restaurant had a pawn shop front, but I soon realized that would be one of the few things I liked about it. I thought the cool, grungy pawn shop vibe would be reflected in the restaurant, but I was mistaken. Filled with people who go to be seen, not necessarily to eat, the restaurant had a pretentious atmosphere that was just not for me. I had delicious merguez rigatoni, but wouldn’t eat there again unless I could get take out.

Balthazar

80 Spring Street, SoHo

I remember always hearing wonderful things about Balthazar until I was talking about the restaurant with MA as we walked through the East Village. I wondered aloud what it was like and a grumpy man walked past us and said, “Overrated.” I was disappointed to hear it, and I wondered how that could be true—it’s been so well-reviewed over and over. I finally got a chance to see for myself, though.

A well-crafted French Bistro in the heart of SoHo, upon first glance Balthazar conjures visions of an aged French brasserie, with splotchy, darkened mirrors, red leather booths, and white tablecloths. Tables are packed tightly together but still intimate. A wait without a reservation runs about an hour and a half on weeknights, probably even more on the weekends. I booked our reservation about a week in advance, just for good measure.

The food could have easily been traditional French, but what’s nice about the menu is that it takes a thoughtful spin on the classics, sometimes by adding global influences (chorizo, grits!) to their offerings. Highlights from our dinner in particular include French Onion Soup, Duck Shepherd’s Pie, and Profiteroles. Most French Onion Soups I’ve had are savory, but this soup was slightly sweet, and had a Vidalia onion flavor amplified by a creamy gruyere. TF ordered Duck Shepherd’s Pie which I decided upon tasting I would very much like to take intravenously. Tender, savory shredded duck mingled with creamy, almost puree-like potatoes, a single forkful of it melting in my mouth. Out of sheer politeness I had to stop myself from licking the plate. And then the profiteroles. Because Balthazar makes all of their own pastries (in fact, many restaurants across New York feature breads and pastries from Balthazar), I knew they would be even more delicious than they might have been normally. The profiteroles arrived, vanilla ice cream sandwiched by flaky pastry. The waiter poured warm chocolate over them. I sliced into them with the side of my fork, mashing the ice cream into the pastry a little bit more, and tasted the concoction. It was spongy and flaky, sweetly cooled by the vanilla ice cream. After each bite I felt the need to close my eyes and chew, turning my attention only to the chocolaty, pastry-y, creamy, vanilla-y parade happening in my mouth. That is what dining is supposed to be like.

If You Need Me, I'll Be on the Roof

2011-06-17T00:30:00.000-04:00

As happens when doing laundry in an apartment building, you meet some of your neighbors. This past weekend, I met Casey, who told me a story about how he and his wife recently held a party on our roof deck. I stopped him.

“I’m sorry, our what?”

“Our roof deck. You know, you just take the stairs up from the sixth floor. You didn’t know we had one?”

No, I did not. And after living in this apartment a year, it was about damn time I did! Yesterday was my first chance to visit. A white picket fence surrounds the deck, as does a sign marking the deck’s hours (only until midnight, apparently) like a pool, and as if someone might perhaps fall in and drown if sitting up there after the witching hour. Crossing onto the brown wooden deck lifted a few inches off the actual roof floor, I sat on one of the many generously provided deck chairs and faced the sun moving toward the western sky.

I sat for an hour or so in the five o’clock sun, tiny beads of sweat beginning to dot my face, but I didn’t care. How had I gone a year without coming up here? A couple of those months would have been insanely snowbound, but still. All of those fine fall and spring (or whatever we had resembling those seasons) days could have been spent atop my roof with a jagged skyline of buildings just sweetly caressing the sky, leaving a larger patch of blue than I had seen outside of a park in a long time. I resolved to repair this rift in my roof experience and ventured up there again this evening.

Walking home from an event around 8:15pm, the sky was not yet dark. It was one of those balmy, early summer evenings where the weather says, ‘Hey, sorry about all that heat a couple days ago,’ by sweeping a cool, light breeze down each street that rustles leaves and ever so slightly rushes through your hair. People sit outside on their stoops because they can, watching the light fall further and further away.

I made it home before it was dark, thankfully, and rushed up to my roof as I had the day before. I sat, and listened to nothing, save for the occasional car horn or whoosh of traffic. Growing up in South Florida, it was nothing I wasn’t used to—in fact, if a place is too quiet it creeps me out. After a while, I realized how loud my own thoughts were, so loud in fact that I had forgotten mostly silence danced around me. I wonder if this is a step on the path to becoming a New Yorker—where you’re able to ignore and forget the noise and somehow get lost. Everything else is background, and only what’s in the present matters.

I sat up there and I looked at the buildings, lights slowly popping on in apartments as time ticked past, as if surveying my kingdom. Soft grey clouds made their way across the sky as that same cool breeze drifted past. Staring up into the skyline, I knew. This, I thought, this is what I signed up for. I had never thought New York could belong to anyone; it was too wild a spirit to ever be tied down to one person. In that moment, though, I felt more than I ever had that New York could belong to a person, and that it belonged to me. I felt invigorated and alive, that I could call something so energetic and passionate and electric my own. But I also knew the moment would be fleeting—soon New York and I would be back to our old relationship, I the lovelorn teenager and New York the uncatchable catch. I also knew that every New Yorker must have had this experience at least once. The power of that moment keeps them around, coming back for more. We know that we can never fully own the city, but for a few moments once, we did. And that was enough to bind us here forever.