I was frustrated with the subway this morning. I needed to get down to Lafayette to teach an aerobics class and the B train wasn’t running. The D was 20 minutes late because of an issue with doors not closing and I waited on the N at Washington Square another 10 minutes due to construction. The subway on the weekends is always a little slower, but this was ridiculous.
My spirits were lifted however, on my ride home. The third stop in, a man and his son boarded the train with a giant bubble machine. They were selling bubbles to all the kids (and their parents) and bubbles of all sizes soon filled the car. The next stop a six piece Mexican band came and on and started playing music. They all had guitars and sang in harmony. Amidst the cascading bubbles, it was really quite a scene. I laughed out loud as the universe reminded me of why I love this city. No matter how irritated you are at the crowds or the subway construction, it’s nothing a few bubbles and a mariachi band won’t fix.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
How Fun is THAT?
The other day I actually had this thought: “New York is so flippin’ fun, I don’t understand why everyone in the world doesn’t live here!” And then I took the subway to work and thought, “oh. I guess they do.”
I really don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun. There’s so much to see and do. In Seattle, it was all about routine. I had my job, my friends, and my classes. Here, it seems like every day is an opportunity for a new adventure.
There is an entire magazine, Time Out New York (TONY), dedicated to what you can do in the city that week. There are newsletters you can subscribe to – the Skint, Flavorpill – whose sole purpose are to list activities for that day. Every day they pop up in your in box like a gift. If you’re into art, there are hundreds of galleries and the top museums in the world. If you like theatre, there are readings, discussions, festivals and a little something referred to as the “Great White Way.” Dance? There are dozens of options every night to be a participant or a spectator. Opera? Poetry? Swedish Karaoke? It’s all happening tonight in New York.
In the last week, I’ve gone to see a French band, a fashion show at a thrift store Grand Opening (with an open bar no less), Patricia Clarkson read poetry in a neighborhood book store, Ben Stiller discuss his latest movie at the SOHO Apple Store, a musical premier near Herald Square with an audience of 70 that included Spike Lee, and Philip Seamore Hoffman at the Apple Theatre celebrating Tennessee Williams 99th birthday.
I’ve been to markets (flea, farmers, and flower) and classes (dance, yoga, and aerobics). I’ve enjoyed a gin and tonic at Pete’s, the oldest bar in New York, and a macaroon at Georgia’s on 89th (free of charge in celebration of National Macaroon Day).
For every show I see or activity I do, there are five more just as enticing. The challenge here isn’t finding stuff to do, but sorting through the options and choosing what to do. There’s a famous New York saying: “If you’re bored in New York, you ’re boring.” After six weeks here, I’m thinking if you’re bored in New York City, you’re probably dead.
I really don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun. There’s so much to see and do. In Seattle, it was all about routine. I had my job, my friends, and my classes. Here, it seems like every day is an opportunity for a new adventure.
There is an entire magazine, Time Out New York (TONY), dedicated to what you can do in the city that week. There are newsletters you can subscribe to – the Skint, Flavorpill – whose sole purpose are to list activities for that day. Every day they pop up in your in box like a gift. If you’re into art, there are hundreds of galleries and the top museums in the world. If you like theatre, there are readings, discussions, festivals and a little something referred to as the “Great White Way.” Dance? There are dozens of options every night to be a participant or a spectator. Opera? Poetry? Swedish Karaoke? It’s all happening tonight in New York.
In the last week, I’ve gone to see a French band, a fashion show at a thrift store Grand Opening (with an open bar no less), Patricia Clarkson read poetry in a neighborhood book store, Ben Stiller discuss his latest movie at the SOHO Apple Store, a musical premier near Herald Square with an audience of 70 that included Spike Lee, and Philip Seamore Hoffman at the Apple Theatre celebrating Tennessee Williams 99th birthday.
I’ve been to markets (flea, farmers, and flower) and classes (dance, yoga, and aerobics). I’ve enjoyed a gin and tonic at Pete’s, the oldest bar in New York, and a macaroon at Georgia’s on 89th (free of charge in celebration of National Macaroon Day).
For every show I see or activity I do, there are five more just as enticing. The challenge here isn’t finding stuff to do, but sorting through the options and choosing what to do. There’s a famous New York saying: “If you’re bored in New York, you ’re boring.” After six weeks here, I’m thinking if you’re bored in New York City, you’re probably dead.
New York Pride
I was on my way to the dog park in Riverside Saturday afternoon with Taetu. He ran into a black lab named Boris and I started talking to Boris’ owner, Anne. Anne was in her late 80’s and her frail frame was topped off by a startlingly white head of hair. She sat hunched on the park bench peering out onto the water through over-sized sunglasses. She started our conversation abruptly. “I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the world.”
I smiled back at her. I was wearing my purple “I Heart NY” t-shirt, so my affection towards out city was apparent. “New York is wonderful,” I replied benignly.
“No,” she said. “Right here. On this street.” She indicated Riverside behind her, “with this view.” Anne had moved into her fourth floor apartment on Riverside in 1969. “Back then,” she said, “this was a shady area of town.” There were different gangs on Amsterdam and Columbus and Anne generally didn’t venture out after dark. When she went out alone – to the grocery store for instance – she would clutch her “$15” in one hand and her mace in the other. “Did you ever have to use the mace,” I asked. “One time,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate.
Her love of her neighborhood was fierce. “I’ve never been to another city and thought, ‘I could live here.’ I couldn’t live anywhere but on this street.”
“My daughter lived in London for eight years,” she continued, looking me square in the eye. “London is fucking boring.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I was not expecting the f-bomb from Grandma Anne. “The people there have no spark, no electricity. They lack the kind of….life…of people here.” The pride and love she had of her address is not unique to New York. I’m sure there are residents of Topeka, Kansas that feel Topeka is the best place on earth. In New York however, this sentiment is intense and nearly ubiquitous.
I passed a group of women in CP this morning and joined in briefly on their conversation as Taetu sniffed their toy poodle’s butt. One of the women was visiting New York for the first time, and the rest of the group was showing their shock at the idea.
“You love it,” one of the New Yorkers said to the first-time visitor. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A fact. “I Heart NY” isn’t just a t-shirt slogan, it is the New York Creed.
New York pride permeates every nook and cranny of this city – from what’s on tap (Brooklyn Ale) to the New York-centric art in Herald Square. New Yorkers will dispense the fine attributes of the city at large to people outside the city, but within the borders of the East and Hudson rivers, that pride drills down to the neighborhood. A man last night actually said to me, “these are the best four blocks in New York.” Wow. The regional pride is now down to the block.
Jerry Seinfeld echoed these sentiments in a recent interview with Parade Magazine. Asked if he could live anywhere outside of New York he said: “Never in a million years. I couldn’t live four blocks from where I live now.”
Sometimes I’ll make the mistake of referencing “Manhattan” to friends at work and they’ll immediately correct me. “Actually SOHO,” they’ll say. Defining your locale in such general terms as Manhattan is like telling a Spaniard you’re from the Western Hemisphere – a little broad. In fact, if you told the Spaniard you were from New York City, they would likely respond with, “yes…but what borough?”
Neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Village actually have their own newspapers. Advertisers have caught onto this neighborhood pride as well. “Vitawater. The way Spanish Harlem rehydrates.”
People wear their metro stop on t-shirts. That’s specific. I mean, it’s not enough you live in the upper Westside – are we talking the 1 or the B train? It’s the difference of three blocks, but to New Yorkers, those three blocks can mean the world.
I smiled back at her. I was wearing my purple “I Heart NY” t-shirt, so my affection towards out city was apparent. “New York is wonderful,” I replied benignly.
“No,” she said. “Right here. On this street.” She indicated Riverside behind her, “with this view.” Anne had moved into her fourth floor apartment on Riverside in 1969. “Back then,” she said, “this was a shady area of town.” There were different gangs on Amsterdam and Columbus and Anne generally didn’t venture out after dark. When she went out alone – to the grocery store for instance – she would clutch her “$15” in one hand and her mace in the other. “Did you ever have to use the mace,” I asked. “One time,” she replied, but didn’t elaborate.
Her love of her neighborhood was fierce. “I’ve never been to another city and thought, ‘I could live here.’ I couldn’t live anywhere but on this street.”
“My daughter lived in London for eight years,” she continued, looking me square in the eye. “London is fucking boring.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I was not expecting the f-bomb from Grandma Anne. “The people there have no spark, no electricity. They lack the kind of….life…of people here.” The pride and love she had of her address is not unique to New York. I’m sure there are residents of Topeka, Kansas that feel Topeka is the best place on earth. In New York however, this sentiment is intense and nearly ubiquitous.
I passed a group of women in CP this morning and joined in briefly on their conversation as Taetu sniffed their toy poodle’s butt. One of the women was visiting New York for the first time, and the rest of the group was showing their shock at the idea.
“You love it,” one of the New Yorkers said to the first-time visitor. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A fact. “I Heart NY” isn’t just a t-shirt slogan, it is the New York Creed.
New York pride permeates every nook and cranny of this city – from what’s on tap (Brooklyn Ale) to the New York-centric art in Herald Square. New Yorkers will dispense the fine attributes of the city at large to people outside the city, but within the borders of the East and Hudson rivers, that pride drills down to the neighborhood. A man last night actually said to me, “these are the best four blocks in New York.” Wow. The regional pride is now down to the block.
Jerry Seinfeld echoed these sentiments in a recent interview with Parade Magazine. Asked if he could live anywhere outside of New York he said: “Never in a million years. I couldn’t live four blocks from where I live now.”
Sometimes I’ll make the mistake of referencing “Manhattan” to friends at work and they’ll immediately correct me. “Actually SOHO,” they’ll say. Defining your locale in such general terms as Manhattan is like telling a Spaniard you’re from the Western Hemisphere – a little broad. In fact, if you told the Spaniard you were from New York City, they would likely respond with, “yes…but what borough?”
Neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Village actually have their own newspapers. Advertisers have caught onto this neighborhood pride as well. “Vitawater. The way Spanish Harlem rehydrates.”
People wear their metro stop on t-shirts. That’s specific. I mean, it’s not enough you live in the upper Westside – are we talking the 1 or the B train? It’s the difference of three blocks, but to New Yorkers, those three blocks can mean the world.
Chivalry Lives On
There are certain things that happen here I’m pretty sure are an “east coast” thing and not a “New York” thing. In general, New York defies east coast stereotypes. It’s what Austin is to Texas; a little oasis that goes against the tradition and culture of the greater geographic region.
The East Coast has a reputation of being rather stuffy, especially to people on the left coast. People regard east coasters as an aloof group that marinates in tradition (not unlike the olives in their collective martinis). This tradition is one of class, blue bloods, cardigan sweaters, headbands, pearls, swinging clubs and joining clubs, Ivy league educations, meals with more than one fork, season opera tickets…you get the idea. Think Connecticut or the window of Brooks Brothers – this, for better or worse, is the Northern East Coast stereotype.
But New York? It ain’t like that. Sure, you can go 40 miles due north or northwest and run smack into it, but New York City is too diverse to play that game. The East Coast may have a white bread reputation, but New York is multigrain.
One of the carry-overs though, has to be chivalry. I don’t think I’ve opened a door for myself in a public building. If there is a man in the vicinity, he does it for me. On the elevator, women are always the first ones on and the first ones off. If there’s a large group waiting for the elevator, women get on first…even if they weren’t there first!
A man got in front of me yesterday as we filed onto the subway. I didn’t think anything of it, but as the doors closed he turned to me and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said. Out loud. It’s not like he elbowed me in the ribs. I mean, he was there first, yet he still felt compelled to apologize. He had breached social etiquette by not stepping aside and allowing me on first.
This is so weird to me. It’s a lovely gesture but it all seems rather old fashioned, especially for such a progressive city. Walk my street late on a cool evening and you’ll see woman after woman with men’s’ coats draped over their shoulders. Women are so accustomed to having doors opened for them, they often don’t even thank the man doing it. I suppose these little gestures have become invisible to people who have lived here a while, but it puts me on edge. I’m just saying – men in Portland or Sacramento or Seattle are getting on elevators in front of women every day – and no one’s feeling all that bad about it.
The other carry over is in professional dress. Now, this is based on personal experience only, I’m sure there are casual organizations and businesses in New York, but from what I’ve seen, women are expected to dress nice, and men even nicer.
I’m going to my first trade show next week for work and I have to wear (and this means, of course, purchase) a (gulp) suit. A suit? In 2010? Bill Gates and Howard Schultz are closing multi-billion dollar deals in designer jeans and mock turtlenecks, but I have to wear a suit. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. In Seattle, I was the most formal person in the office because I wore slacks instead of sweat pants.* Here, the standards are a little higher.
So I have to spend time and money to purchase something I’ll dread wearing. I guess it could be worse. I could be a man. Men in the office wear suits every day. Every. Day. They shave every morning and put on a tie, like Cary Grant or something. It’s amazing. There are actually eight shoe shining stands on my commute into work. I’ve counted. What’s more – there are often men having their shoes shined! I don’t think men in Seattle know what shoe polish is. But to be fair, it’s tough to shine converse sneakers.
This is a weird juxtaposition. New York is a city of trends. It leads the world in the latest fads, from film to fashion. Our gyms have karaoke spinning classes and DJs in the weight room. Our restaurants feature cuisine like Japanese-Cajun fusion. Our bars have nightly themes like ukulele burlesque – and yet amidst this perpetual hipness, there’s an element of old-fashioned charm thrown in. This town of trends is also a town where men have their shoes shined and still hold doors for ladies….on their way to trapeze cardio aerobics.
* I’m only slightly exaggerating. Hoodies were not uncommon at my previous place of employment.
The East Coast has a reputation of being rather stuffy, especially to people on the left coast. People regard east coasters as an aloof group that marinates in tradition (not unlike the olives in their collective martinis). This tradition is one of class, blue bloods, cardigan sweaters, headbands, pearls, swinging clubs and joining clubs, Ivy league educations, meals with more than one fork, season opera tickets…you get the idea. Think Connecticut or the window of Brooks Brothers – this, for better or worse, is the Northern East Coast stereotype.
But New York? It ain’t like that. Sure, you can go 40 miles due north or northwest and run smack into it, but New York City is too diverse to play that game. The East Coast may have a white bread reputation, but New York is multigrain.
One of the carry-overs though, has to be chivalry. I don’t think I’ve opened a door for myself in a public building. If there is a man in the vicinity, he does it for me. On the elevator, women are always the first ones on and the first ones off. If there’s a large group waiting for the elevator, women get on first…even if they weren’t there first!
A man got in front of me yesterday as we filed onto the subway. I didn’t think anything of it, but as the doors closed he turned to me and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said. Out loud. It’s not like he elbowed me in the ribs. I mean, he was there first, yet he still felt compelled to apologize. He had breached social etiquette by not stepping aside and allowing me on first.
This is so weird to me. It’s a lovely gesture but it all seems rather old fashioned, especially for such a progressive city. Walk my street late on a cool evening and you’ll see woman after woman with men’s’ coats draped over their shoulders. Women are so accustomed to having doors opened for them, they often don’t even thank the man doing it. I suppose these little gestures have become invisible to people who have lived here a while, but it puts me on edge. I’m just saying – men in Portland or Sacramento or Seattle are getting on elevators in front of women every day – and no one’s feeling all that bad about it.
The other carry over is in professional dress. Now, this is based on personal experience only, I’m sure there are casual organizations and businesses in New York, but from what I’ve seen, women are expected to dress nice, and men even nicer.
I’m going to my first trade show next week for work and I have to wear (and this means, of course, purchase) a (gulp) suit. A suit? In 2010? Bill Gates and Howard Schultz are closing multi-billion dollar deals in designer jeans and mock turtlenecks, but I have to wear a suit. I’ve been dreading it for weeks. In Seattle, I was the most formal person in the office because I wore slacks instead of sweat pants.* Here, the standards are a little higher.
So I have to spend time and money to purchase something I’ll dread wearing. I guess it could be worse. I could be a man. Men in the office wear suits every day. Every. Day. They shave every morning and put on a tie, like Cary Grant or something. It’s amazing. There are actually eight shoe shining stands on my commute into work. I’ve counted. What’s more – there are often men having their shoes shined! I don’t think men in Seattle know what shoe polish is. But to be fair, it’s tough to shine converse sneakers.
This is a weird juxtaposition. New York is a city of trends. It leads the world in the latest fads, from film to fashion. Our gyms have karaoke spinning classes and DJs in the weight room. Our restaurants feature cuisine like Japanese-Cajun fusion. Our bars have nightly themes like ukulele burlesque – and yet amidst this perpetual hipness, there’s an element of old-fashioned charm thrown in. This town of trends is also a town where men have their shoes shined and still hold doors for ladies….on their way to trapeze cardio aerobics.
* I’m only slightly exaggerating. Hoodies were not uncommon at my previous place of employment.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Whoa, Danny Boy. Pipe down those pipes!
It was St. Patrick’s Day this past Wednesday, that magical time of year when people get drunk before noon and New Yorkers actually wear something other than black. March 17 brings idle talk of clovers and rainbows in celebration of….what are we celebrating exactly? Aw…it doesn’t matter. It’s Irish, it’s festive and it’s a great excuse for a party.
New Yorkers celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. The parade is a big deal in this town. There are no floats, no costumes, and the bands are small and lack batons. Basically, the parade consists of waves and waves of Irish American New Yorkers walking down 42nd. That’s not a parade. That’s a typical Thursday.
No matter, New Yorkers are proud of their parade. When my morning CP group found out the parade started in front of my office, they were very excited. “That’s fantastic,” they said. I told them I had actually been to the parade as a tourist and was not impressed. “Well,” Bill said, “it’s no Macy’s.” Exactly.
On my walk into work I passed dozens of large Irish flags and bright green lights shining from every light post. The parade kicked off at 10, but the jarring sounds of bagpipes were already blaring through the office when I arrived at 8:30. By 9:30, the drums had kicked up and the poor guys in sales had to yell into their headsets to be heard above the clamor. The whole thing escalated throughout the morning to a dull roar. It fed my excitement, though, and every so often I would glance down 8 floors to watch the groups of Irish merge into formation.
At lunch, I decided to venture out to see some of the parade. The crowd was thick around noon, but I managed to weave through them and gain a decent view. I bored of the lines of Irish after about three minutes and decided to set out for some food. As I maneuvered through the crowd I noticed something strange. Everyone I came in contact with apologized to me. “Sorry.” “Oh! I’m sorry.” The “sorrys” buzzed in my ear like gnats. I didn’t understand at first, but realized later they were probably tourists and not used to constant human contact. It’s just a theory, of course. It might also be that well whiskey makes people exceedingly polite – who knows?
Anyhoo – I tried to make my way to 42nd, but police had blocked it off. I could get out, but I wouldn’t be able to get back. As I made my way past groups of high school students* chanting “USA”** I ran into a woman distributing green flowers. I took one for myself and some for co-workers. She was very sweet and was standing outside an already over-flowing Irish pub. I made my way towards Madison and was affronted by the overwhelming smell of beer. It was as if the entire street had turned into the basement of a frat party. I’m certainly not one to throw stones, but was turned off by the putrid smell of beer – both going in and going out – and did another about-face from the crowd.
I got a quick salad at a deli near the office and almost ran into a girl being held up by a man on either arm. It wasn’t even 1:00 and she literally could not stand up – a classic example of too much of a good thing. As I got back to 5th, an overweight 6’4” man dressed as a giant leprechaun asked me how to get to the parade. I guess maybe there were costumes. I stand corrected.
Throughout the day, people in the office would return from the festivities with stories. Here are some of the gems:
- Marissa, a sweet woman with a big personality and hair to match, claimed she saw a topless woman in an alley doing cartwheels. I was not able to confirm this claim, but even if Marissa was exaggerating, I’ll give her credit for originality.
- Damon, an Irish sales guy who sits directly behind me, said he saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than 15 wearing a shirt that said, “get me drunk” on the front and “enjoy the show” on the back. That’s the thing about St. Patrick’s Day – it lacks the refinement and sophistication of other holidays – like Mardi Gras.
- Alex, a younger woman who works in my department, said she passed a port-a-potty with a man screaming non-stop from within. She was on the phone with her mom at the time and her mom grew very concerned. “Get out of there Alex” she yelled into the phone, “be safe, those people are crazy!”
St. Patrick’s Day does bring out a bit of the crazy in everyone, but that’s part of the fun. By the time work let out and I rode the subway home, the environment felt significantly less frantic. It was a gorgeous day and Riverside Park was crowded with a much more sober crowd. After dinner, I went over to Amsterdam to a nice Irish pub that was doing a good business. I ordered a whiskey and ended up talking mostly to the bartender, the only one (aside from myself) who could actually still speak in full, coherent sentences. These people had been going all day, and there was no way I was going to catch up. I paid for my drink, tipped generously, and made my way home.
All in all, it was a good holiday. I wore my green, listened to enough bagpipes to last me a year, and had a nice smooth Jameson to top off the day. When these Irish eyes shut for the night, they were definitely smiling.
*Is St. Patrick’s Day a school holiday now? The median age in mid-town midday was about 14.
** Did these kids know what this holiday was about? Maybe they needed some more school time and a less school-ditching-beer-drinking time.
New Yorkers celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. The parade is a big deal in this town. There are no floats, no costumes, and the bands are small and lack batons. Basically, the parade consists of waves and waves of Irish American New Yorkers walking down 42nd. That’s not a parade. That’s a typical Thursday.
No matter, New Yorkers are proud of their parade. When my morning CP group found out the parade started in front of my office, they were very excited. “That’s fantastic,” they said. I told them I had actually been to the parade as a tourist and was not impressed. “Well,” Bill said, “it’s no Macy’s.” Exactly.
On my walk into work I passed dozens of large Irish flags and bright green lights shining from every light post. The parade kicked off at 10, but the jarring sounds of bagpipes were already blaring through the office when I arrived at 8:30. By 9:30, the drums had kicked up and the poor guys in sales had to yell into their headsets to be heard above the clamor. The whole thing escalated throughout the morning to a dull roar. It fed my excitement, though, and every so often I would glance down 8 floors to watch the groups of Irish merge into formation.
At lunch, I decided to venture out to see some of the parade. The crowd was thick around noon, but I managed to weave through them and gain a decent view. I bored of the lines of Irish after about three minutes and decided to set out for some food. As I maneuvered through the crowd I noticed something strange. Everyone I came in contact with apologized to me. “Sorry.” “Oh! I’m sorry.” The “sorrys” buzzed in my ear like gnats. I didn’t understand at first, but realized later they were probably tourists and not used to constant human contact. It’s just a theory, of course. It might also be that well whiskey makes people exceedingly polite – who knows?
Anyhoo – I tried to make my way to 42nd, but police had blocked it off. I could get out, but I wouldn’t be able to get back. As I made my way past groups of high school students* chanting “USA”** I ran into a woman distributing green flowers. I took one for myself and some for co-workers. She was very sweet and was standing outside an already over-flowing Irish pub. I made my way towards Madison and was affronted by the overwhelming smell of beer. It was as if the entire street had turned into the basement of a frat party. I’m certainly not one to throw stones, but was turned off by the putrid smell of beer – both going in and going out – and did another about-face from the crowd.
I got a quick salad at a deli near the office and almost ran into a girl being held up by a man on either arm. It wasn’t even 1:00 and she literally could not stand up – a classic example of too much of a good thing. As I got back to 5th, an overweight 6’4” man dressed as a giant leprechaun asked me how to get to the parade. I guess maybe there were costumes. I stand corrected.
Throughout the day, people in the office would return from the festivities with stories. Here are some of the gems:
- Marissa, a sweet woman with a big personality and hair to match, claimed she saw a topless woman in an alley doing cartwheels. I was not able to confirm this claim, but even if Marissa was exaggerating, I’ll give her credit for originality.
- Damon, an Irish sales guy who sits directly behind me, said he saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than 15 wearing a shirt that said, “get me drunk” on the front and “enjoy the show” on the back. That’s the thing about St. Patrick’s Day – it lacks the refinement and sophistication of other holidays – like Mardi Gras.
- Alex, a younger woman who works in my department, said she passed a port-a-potty with a man screaming non-stop from within. She was on the phone with her mom at the time and her mom grew very concerned. “Get out of there Alex” she yelled into the phone, “be safe, those people are crazy!”
St. Patrick’s Day does bring out a bit of the crazy in everyone, but that’s part of the fun. By the time work let out and I rode the subway home, the environment felt significantly less frantic. It was a gorgeous day and Riverside Park was crowded with a much more sober crowd. After dinner, I went over to Amsterdam to a nice Irish pub that was doing a good business. I ordered a whiskey and ended up talking mostly to the bartender, the only one (aside from myself) who could actually still speak in full, coherent sentences. These people had been going all day, and there was no way I was going to catch up. I paid for my drink, tipped generously, and made my way home.
All in all, it was a good holiday. I wore my green, listened to enough bagpipes to last me a year, and had a nice smooth Jameson to top off the day. When these Irish eyes shut for the night, they were definitely smiling.
*Is St. Patrick’s Day a school holiday now? The median age in mid-town midday was about 14.
** Did these kids know what this holiday was about? Maybe they needed some more school time and a less school-ditching-beer-drinking time.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
New York State of Mind = Mimosa Buzz?
After an invigorating Broadway jazz dance class and my second failed attempt to find the Brooklyn flea*, I made my way to Nowhere Land, an area of the city not defined with a neighborhood. Manhattan is a city of neighborhoods – some large (Upper East Side, West Village), some small (Nolita, Stuyvesant Town), but all essential to the city. Neighborhoods add the charm to this mass of concrete. They make it liveable…and loveable.
I was heading to Nowhere Land in search of this week’s brunch and found a great spot. Vinyl is a 30-seat, bustling diner with a retro look and hipster soul. I knew I was in the right place when I walked into the delicious smells of coffee and sautéed onions and the delicious sounds of the Scissor Sisters. I sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a gay couple to my left. One of them was enjoying a hearty plate of eggs Benedict, but the other just sipped on a mimosa. “No breakfast for you,” I asked him.
“This is my breakfast,” he said, “bottomless mimosa.”
This was it. I had found that legendary tale of Manhattan brunches – the bottomless mimosa. For $15 I got myself a Latin Scramble and a champagne flute that never went empty. As soon as I got 2/3rds of the way through my glass, one of the five waiters would come by with a pitcher to top it off. After 90 minutes of slurred conversation with my new BFFs (Brunch Friends For-now), I decided to take a little walk. The rain had mellowed to a Seattle drizzle and I needed the air. I walked to the Hudson and traversed up along the water. The air had been cleansed by the two days of intense run and it almost seemed…fresh. I enjoyed the horizon, something you don’t see much in Manhattan and turned back in towards the city at the meat packing district.
The meat packing district (MPD) is eight square blocks of hipness. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings brick, and the retail expensive. If you’re not a gallery, designer, or buzz-worthy restaurant, well….you’re not here. I was feeling the confidence of 3-ish mimosas and decided to venture into an art gallery. The gallery was showing Warhol-esque pop art featuring legendary personalities like Alf and Pee Wee Herman. In the center was an over-sized bucket of paint, lying on its side with a huge puddle of acrylic red “paint” spilled across the room. The 5-6 people milling about all wore black and peered at the art through thick-rimmed glasses.
It occurred to me that this was a quintessential New York experience – viewing art that created a buzz after catching one at brunch. Dance, art, brunch, and getting lost in Brooklyn….sounds like a great Sunday in New York.
* Side note: The Brooklyn street grid is an intricate maze of angled street and dead ends designed to confused and frustrate the average pedestrian. I’ve not stepped foot in that borough without becoming completely, utterly, and hopelessly lost.
I was heading to Nowhere Land in search of this week’s brunch and found a great spot. Vinyl is a 30-seat, bustling diner with a retro look and hipster soul. I knew I was in the right place when I walked into the delicious smells of coffee and sautéed onions and the delicious sounds of the Scissor Sisters. I sat at the bar and struck up a conversation with a gay couple to my left. One of them was enjoying a hearty plate of eggs Benedict, but the other just sipped on a mimosa. “No breakfast for you,” I asked him.
“This is my breakfast,” he said, “bottomless mimosa.”
This was it. I had found that legendary tale of Manhattan brunches – the bottomless mimosa. For $15 I got myself a Latin Scramble and a champagne flute that never went empty. As soon as I got 2/3rds of the way through my glass, one of the five waiters would come by with a pitcher to top it off. After 90 minutes of slurred conversation with my new BFFs (Brunch Friends For-now), I decided to take a little walk. The rain had mellowed to a Seattle drizzle and I needed the air. I walked to the Hudson and traversed up along the water. The air had been cleansed by the two days of intense run and it almost seemed…fresh. I enjoyed the horizon, something you don’t see much in Manhattan and turned back in towards the city at the meat packing district.
The meat packing district (MPD) is eight square blocks of hipness. The streets are cobblestone, the buildings brick, and the retail expensive. If you’re not a gallery, designer, or buzz-worthy restaurant, well….you’re not here. I was feeling the confidence of 3-ish mimosas and decided to venture into an art gallery. The gallery was showing Warhol-esque pop art featuring legendary personalities like Alf and Pee Wee Herman. In the center was an over-sized bucket of paint, lying on its side with a huge puddle of acrylic red “paint” spilled across the room. The 5-6 people milling about all wore black and peered at the art through thick-rimmed glasses.
It occurred to me that this was a quintessential New York experience – viewing art that created a buzz after catching one at brunch. Dance, art, brunch, and getting lost in Brooklyn….sounds like a great Sunday in New York.
* Side note: The Brooklyn street grid is an intricate maze of angled street and dead ends designed to confused and frustrate the average pedestrian. I’ve not stepped foot in that borough without becoming completely, utterly, and hopelessly lost.
Monday, March 15, 2010
A Chance of Rain
I know I’ve been writing a lot about the weather, but you have to remember, I’ve been living in a constant state of 55-overcast-skies-with-a-70%-chance-of-showers the past seven years. So here we are again, covering the subject of weather. It’s starting to feel like we’re polite co-workers on the elevator.
This weekend, we had a hurricane. I know what you’re thinking. “hm….I don’t remember hearing about a hurricane hitting Manhattan.” Okay. True enough. Perhaps it wasn’t technically a hurricane, but it sure felt like it.
People started talking about the coming rains on Thursday. “Big storm coming this weekend,” I heard more than once at the park. By Friday, people were already planning on how they were going to hunker down. “See you tomorrow,” I said to my friends on my way out of the park Friday morning. “Oh, maybe,” was the response. “You know, rain’s coming tomorrow.” Internally, I rolled my eyes. These were the same people who carried golf umbrellas in the mist – a little rain wasn’t going to faze this Seattleite.
Saturday morning, Taetu and I woke up to a downpour. The rain was heavy, but I had an umbrella and coat and Taetu seemed game, so we headed to Central Park. In the entire Great Lawn area, we only ran into two dogs. Luckily, one of them was Teatu’s friend Clifford, a 90 lb poodle with a huge afro and a goofy, delightful disposition. He and Taetu (all 15 pounds of him) get along great. After an hour, I was pretty wet, but nothing major. I still managed to get to the grocery store, laundry mat, bagel shop, and gym without feeling like this storm was living up to the hype.
When I got back from the gym I grabbed Taetu again to run a few more Aarons. We live on 85th and I had to go as far north as 97th. Those 12 blocks were some of the most harrowing of my life. The wind rushed down the narrow street in small waves and with the heavy, sideways rain, you could actually see the wind coming before it hit you. When it did hit, it was a powerful slap that made pedestrians leaning forward actually take a step back. The question wasn’t if your umbrella would get blown inside out, but how many times that would happen before the wind actually snapped it apart. Corner trash bins were filled with them.
The rain fell with such force it felt like standing under a showerhead – but much colder. When wind gusts would hit back to back, people on the street would actually scream out loud with shock from the force. In these few blocks I saw not one, but two umbrellas flying past, having been picked up by the power of the wind. Taetu, being very close to the ground, wasn’t at risk of flying away, but every few blocks, he would stop and look back at me wearily, clearly not enjoying himself. After our four stops, we were both over the rain. Taetu kept trying to sneak into restaurants and barber shops whose doors had blown open. When I got home, I cancelled plans to head to SOHO in favor of a trip to the local movie theatre a block away. Taetu fell asleep immediately, curling up in his dog bed by the heater.
The storm knocked out power in 400,000 homes in the area and was blamed on three deaths over the weekend. Edison called it the worst storm in decades. So the pre-storm buzz was warranted. And in six weeks, I’ve seen a “hurricane” (all-be-it an unofficial one), a weekend of spring-like beauty, and not one, but two major snow storms. This may be global warming or it may just be the transition of seasons. Whatever it is, here in New York, nothing is dull, not even the weather.
This weekend, we had a hurricane. I know what you’re thinking. “hm….I don’t remember hearing about a hurricane hitting Manhattan.” Okay. True enough. Perhaps it wasn’t technically a hurricane, but it sure felt like it.
People started talking about the coming rains on Thursday. “Big storm coming this weekend,” I heard more than once at the park. By Friday, people were already planning on how they were going to hunker down. “See you tomorrow,” I said to my friends on my way out of the park Friday morning. “Oh, maybe,” was the response. “You know, rain’s coming tomorrow.” Internally, I rolled my eyes. These were the same people who carried golf umbrellas in the mist – a little rain wasn’t going to faze this Seattleite.
Saturday morning, Taetu and I woke up to a downpour. The rain was heavy, but I had an umbrella and coat and Taetu seemed game, so we headed to Central Park. In the entire Great Lawn area, we only ran into two dogs. Luckily, one of them was Teatu’s friend Clifford, a 90 lb poodle with a huge afro and a goofy, delightful disposition. He and Taetu (all 15 pounds of him) get along great. After an hour, I was pretty wet, but nothing major. I still managed to get to the grocery store, laundry mat, bagel shop, and gym without feeling like this storm was living up to the hype.
When I got back from the gym I grabbed Taetu again to run a few more Aarons. We live on 85th and I had to go as far north as 97th. Those 12 blocks were some of the most harrowing of my life. The wind rushed down the narrow street in small waves and with the heavy, sideways rain, you could actually see the wind coming before it hit you. When it did hit, it was a powerful slap that made pedestrians leaning forward actually take a step back. The question wasn’t if your umbrella would get blown inside out, but how many times that would happen before the wind actually snapped it apart. Corner trash bins were filled with them.
The rain fell with such force it felt like standing under a showerhead – but much colder. When wind gusts would hit back to back, people on the street would actually scream out loud with shock from the force. In these few blocks I saw not one, but two umbrellas flying past, having been picked up by the power of the wind. Taetu, being very close to the ground, wasn’t at risk of flying away, but every few blocks, he would stop and look back at me wearily, clearly not enjoying himself. After our four stops, we were both over the rain. Taetu kept trying to sneak into restaurants and barber shops whose doors had blown open. When I got home, I cancelled plans to head to SOHO in favor of a trip to the local movie theatre a block away. Taetu fell asleep immediately, curling up in his dog bed by the heater.
The storm knocked out power in 400,000 homes in the area and was blamed on three deaths over the weekend. Edison called it the worst storm in decades. So the pre-storm buzz was warranted. And in six weeks, I’ve seen a “hurricane” (all-be-it an unofficial one), a weekend of spring-like beauty, and not one, but two major snow storms. This may be global warming or it may just be the transition of seasons. Whatever it is, here in New York, nothing is dull, not even the weather.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Becoming part of a LIVE studio audience
Here’s a bit of irony for you: Now that I live in New York, I don’t have a television, yet I have numerous opportunities to see national TV shows filmed. So while I can’t see these personalities on the boob tube, I can see them live…in the flesh! SNL, David Letterman, the View, and numerous daytime / late night shows in front of a live studio audience are all shot right here in the big apple. While it is a ton of fun to see these shows up close and personal, it is a giant, royal pain in the ass to go through the process. I found myself in this situation recently as I ventured out west of 9th to see the Daily Show.
The process starts online. You go to the show’s website to see when free tickets are available. The shows are generally sold out months in advance, with some shows, like the Colbert Report, booked out over a year. If, miracle of miracles, you see a date on their calendar where tickets are actually available, you register and are sent confirmation e-mail, much like you would when purchasing airline or concert tickets. The process is remarkably similar. There’s just one difference: these are not tickets. It looks like a ticket, it feels like a ticket, but it is not, in fact, a ticket. The e-mail is simply an indication you’ve been put on this list for that night. It absolutely does not guarantee you entry into the show.
Once you have your e-mail, the show will send you a few follow up reminders on the date and location. The reminders are upbeat and make it seem like they’re looking forward to your visit. But make no mistake, they have not promised you a thing. You are not guaranteed entry. They will slam that studio door in your pretty little face. It’s best not to be naive.
The day of the show, they’ll send you one final e-mail that begs and pleads with you to show up and says if you’re thinking of canceling, to let them know so someone else can get your “ticket.” Do not let this give you confidence. You do not have a ticket. You are not guaranteed entry.
These various e-mails give you detailed instructions. Here’s what mine said from the Daily Show:
WHAT YOU NEED TO DO:
Everyone must be 18 years and older. Please make sure you and your guests have City/State ID. If person(s) looks under age they will be carded if the person(s) in question does not have valid ID they will be asked off the general line and be denied entry. Our suggestion on arrival time is between 4:00pm and 4:30pm. Your guests may meet you on line until 4:30pm. Past 4:31pm they will not be allowed to meet you on line. Please understand other people have been waiting outside just like you and courtesy is a must. If your guest shows up past 4:31pm they will be asked to get on the back of our General line. Entry into the studio is on a first come first serve basis. You reserved your tickets with us but you will not be confirmed until we start giving out our studio tickets. Our doors open at 5:15pm. Show ends around 7:15pm. You may not obtain tickets for auctions, fundraisers, raffles or any kind of benefits through this method. Groups larger than four will be turned away at the door, even if they are separate reservations. The parking garage at 680 12th Avenue is offering all audience members a discounted parking price of $10.00. You will need to have your parking ticket stamped and dated by a Daily Show staff member. Parking is non-refundable and does not guarantee your entry to the taping.
So tickets have been reserved, but not confirmed, and they are very up-front that there will be some waiting involved.
Today, I decided not to chance it and showed up at 10 to 4:00. The line snaked around two city blocks when I arrived and my heart sank a little. I knew immediately my chances of actually getting into the studio weren’t great. I made my way to the back of the line with a cup of hot Starbucks and my latest book on New York. I wasn’t ready to give up hope quite yet, and things weren’t so bad. I got out of work early, was seeing a new area of Manhattan (not the most beautiful….I imagine Stewart’s there for the cheap rent), and the weather was divine.
Before long, I started talking to the three people behind me. They were around my age, relatively new to the city and all lived in Brooklyn. Making small talk made the time go faster, and before I knew it, it was 5:00. A man working for the Daily Show came out and started distributing passes to the crowd. When he got closer to us, the passes changed from yellow to white. When he got to me, he didn’t give me a pass, but did check off my name on his official clipboard and put not one, but two stars next to it.
He stepped back from the crowd and made a general announcement. “I’m very sorry ladies and gentlemen, but we have reached capacity. Please keep looking on the Daily Show website for future available dates. “
He concluded with (and this is verbatim): “Seriously. There’s no chance of you getting into tonight, so it’s best to be on your way.”
There were five of us who got stars by our names and he pulled aside next. “Okay,” he said, “since you were so close to getting in, we’re going to give you VIP tickets for a future taping. This means, you will not have to wait in line next time. Just e-mail the Daily Show with your information and they’ll give you a list of dates to choose from.”
The small group started scattering. I held back a moment collecting my things (I had made myself quite comfortable in my little area of line), and the man returned to me. “Listen,” he said, “we just got a call from Colbert and they’re a little short tonight, so if you really want to see a show today, you can head over there.” I’m not sure if he took pity on me because of my slight “bag lady” appearance or because I was the only one not in a large group, but I immediately lit up and almost skipped over to the Colbert Report – two short blocks away.
There weren’t nearly as many people milling about and I went up to one of two women in front holding clipboards. Clipboards apparently are very important in this process. They smiled at me and asked for my “ticket.”
“I actually don’t have a ticket,” I said, “but the man over at the Daily Show said there might be room for me tonight.”
“It’s just you,” asked the young woman. I get that a lot.
“Yep, just me.”
“I’m not making any promises,” she said, “but we are a little skimpy tonight, so you might be able to get in.” She checked my ID, wrote down my information and asked me to stand aside. I waited over 40 minutes against a gate. As I waited, more and more people showed up with confirmation e-mails and soon the line was rather long. There were also more people standing with me in standby, so as the sun started to set, I was feeling doubtful about my chances. If I didn’t get into this show, I would have waited over two hours for absolutely nothing. I shifted back and forth and tried to avoid the man standing next to me. He was from Phoenix and would not take off his sunglasses. He talked about how much he loved reality television and NASCAR (so we had a lot in common) and at one point said, “Hey – if we don’t get into this show, maybe we can get a drink somewhere.” Ugh.
So my line-waiting experience at the Colbert Report was not going well. At 6:15, the young woman who spoke to me earlier called my name. “Erin Gilbert?” she said above the small crowd. My heart leapt and I nearly ran up to her. “That’s me,” I said. She reached inside her satchel and pulled out a light blue laminated ticket, about the size of a postcard. Not a reservation mind you…a real life confirmation! I was thrilled! I didn’t have to talk to Mr. Phoenix anymore AND all my waiting was going to pay off.
I went to the back of yet another line (my third of the evening), but this was by far the best one. Not only was this line a guaranteed entry into a show, but when I walked down the hall, a man handed me a glass of wine! Things were definitely looking up.
After a few minutes, another man ushered a small group of us through a side door to an ugly waiting room (white walls, white doors, fluorescent light…your basic insane asylum look…) through thick black curtains and finally, into the studio. The studio was tiny – I bet it held less than 100 people. It was bathed in a red-ish, purple light and had a cozy feeling, even though the air conditioning was pumping. I didn’t even take off my jacket.
I was sat to the far left of the stage with a pretty good view of Colbert’s desk. I had a partially obstructed view of the interview table, though. No matter. I was just glad to be sitting after such a long time of waiting and to finally be there.
The man who led me in stood in front of the group and made some general announcements. There was no gum chewing, no talking during the shoot (but of course we could laugh), and absolutely, positively, no cell phone use. No pictures could be taken of any kind and all cell phones had to be turned off. They were serious about the cell phones!
A few minutes later, another man came up with a microphone and started talking to us like we were all friends. He was pretty funny, asking people where they were from and what they did, and soon I realized what he was doing: He was warming up the crowd. He went on for about 20 minutes and introduced Stephen Colbert, who looks completely different in person.
Just kidding.
He looks exactly the same. The crowd had the chance to ask him questions, but I couldn’t think of any. Stephen was warm and genuine and immediately likeable. He had none of the arrogance that’s laid on so thick once the cameras roll. He chatted with us much like the other comedian and was extremely relaxed. His hands stayed in his pockets most of the time and his retorts were as smooth as a politician’s.
When he left the stage, he announced we were about to start the show and thanked us for coming.
The man immediately over my left shoulder kicked things off, counting down in his booming voice. Suddenly, the theme music pumped through the studio and I had my second wave of excitement. Remember, I haven’t had a TV in six weeks. I was actually looking forward to watching the program.
The show is shot in real time. The night I was there, there were no second takes or flubs. Stephen was smooth, professional, and animated. In the time where there are commercial breaks, hair and make-up people come out to touch him up. He also frequently checks in with the audience during the breaks, making sure we’re still excited and pumped up.
The entire shoot took 30 minutes and after taping, he was gone and a team of interns were shuffling us out of the studio the same way they shuffled us in. Yes, it was a lot to go through for 30 minutes of entertainment, but it was a nice New York experience. I’m looking forward to my VIP taping in July with John Stewart – all the fun with none of the hassle. That’s more my style.
In the meantime, I think I’ll stick to entertainment that has a confirmation ticket, not just a reservation. I like doing things I can depend on.
The process starts online. You go to the show’s website to see when free tickets are available. The shows are generally sold out months in advance, with some shows, like the Colbert Report, booked out over a year. If, miracle of miracles, you see a date on their calendar where tickets are actually available, you register and are sent confirmation e-mail, much like you would when purchasing airline or concert tickets. The process is remarkably similar. There’s just one difference: these are not tickets. It looks like a ticket, it feels like a ticket, but it is not, in fact, a ticket. The e-mail is simply an indication you’ve been put on this list for that night. It absolutely does not guarantee you entry into the show.
Once you have your e-mail, the show will send you a few follow up reminders on the date and location. The reminders are upbeat and make it seem like they’re looking forward to your visit. But make no mistake, they have not promised you a thing. You are not guaranteed entry. They will slam that studio door in your pretty little face. It’s best not to be naive.
The day of the show, they’ll send you one final e-mail that begs and pleads with you to show up and says if you’re thinking of canceling, to let them know so someone else can get your “ticket.” Do not let this give you confidence. You do not have a ticket. You are not guaranteed entry.
These various e-mails give you detailed instructions. Here’s what mine said from the Daily Show:
WHAT YOU NEED TO DO:
Everyone must be 18 years and older. Please make sure you and your guests have City/State ID. If person(s) looks under age they will be carded if the person(s) in question does not have valid ID they will be asked off the general line and be denied entry. Our suggestion on arrival time is between 4:00pm and 4:30pm. Your guests may meet you on line until 4:30pm. Past 4:31pm they will not be allowed to meet you on line. Please understand other people have been waiting outside just like you and courtesy is a must. If your guest shows up past 4:31pm they will be asked to get on the back of our General line. Entry into the studio is on a first come first serve basis. You reserved your tickets with us but you will not be confirmed until we start giving out our studio tickets. Our doors open at 5:15pm. Show ends around 7:15pm. You may not obtain tickets for auctions, fundraisers, raffles or any kind of benefits through this method. Groups larger than four will be turned away at the door, even if they are separate reservations. The parking garage at 680 12th Avenue is offering all audience members a discounted parking price of $10.00. You will need to have your parking ticket stamped and dated by a Daily Show staff member. Parking is non-refundable and does not guarantee your entry to the taping.
So tickets have been reserved, but not confirmed, and they are very up-front that there will be some waiting involved.
Today, I decided not to chance it and showed up at 10 to 4:00. The line snaked around two city blocks when I arrived and my heart sank a little. I knew immediately my chances of actually getting into the studio weren’t great. I made my way to the back of the line with a cup of hot Starbucks and my latest book on New York. I wasn’t ready to give up hope quite yet, and things weren’t so bad. I got out of work early, was seeing a new area of Manhattan (not the most beautiful….I imagine Stewart’s there for the cheap rent), and the weather was divine.
Before long, I started talking to the three people behind me. They were around my age, relatively new to the city and all lived in Brooklyn. Making small talk made the time go faster, and before I knew it, it was 5:00. A man working for the Daily Show came out and started distributing passes to the crowd. When he got closer to us, the passes changed from yellow to white. When he got to me, he didn’t give me a pass, but did check off my name on his official clipboard and put not one, but two stars next to it.
He stepped back from the crowd and made a general announcement. “I’m very sorry ladies and gentlemen, but we have reached capacity. Please keep looking on the Daily Show website for future available dates. “
He concluded with (and this is verbatim): “Seriously. There’s no chance of you getting into tonight, so it’s best to be on your way.”
There were five of us who got stars by our names and he pulled aside next. “Okay,” he said, “since you were so close to getting in, we’re going to give you VIP tickets for a future taping. This means, you will not have to wait in line next time. Just e-mail the Daily Show with your information and they’ll give you a list of dates to choose from.”
The small group started scattering. I held back a moment collecting my things (I had made myself quite comfortable in my little area of line), and the man returned to me. “Listen,” he said, “we just got a call from Colbert and they’re a little short tonight, so if you really want to see a show today, you can head over there.” I’m not sure if he took pity on me because of my slight “bag lady” appearance or because I was the only one not in a large group, but I immediately lit up and almost skipped over to the Colbert Report – two short blocks away.
There weren’t nearly as many people milling about and I went up to one of two women in front holding clipboards. Clipboards apparently are very important in this process. They smiled at me and asked for my “ticket.”
“I actually don’t have a ticket,” I said, “but the man over at the Daily Show said there might be room for me tonight.”
“It’s just you,” asked the young woman. I get that a lot.
“Yep, just me.”
“I’m not making any promises,” she said, “but we are a little skimpy tonight, so you might be able to get in.” She checked my ID, wrote down my information and asked me to stand aside. I waited over 40 minutes against a gate. As I waited, more and more people showed up with confirmation e-mails and soon the line was rather long. There were also more people standing with me in standby, so as the sun started to set, I was feeling doubtful about my chances. If I didn’t get into this show, I would have waited over two hours for absolutely nothing. I shifted back and forth and tried to avoid the man standing next to me. He was from Phoenix and would not take off his sunglasses. He talked about how much he loved reality television and NASCAR (so we had a lot in common) and at one point said, “Hey – if we don’t get into this show, maybe we can get a drink somewhere.” Ugh.
So my line-waiting experience at the Colbert Report was not going well. At 6:15, the young woman who spoke to me earlier called my name. “Erin Gilbert?” she said above the small crowd. My heart leapt and I nearly ran up to her. “That’s me,” I said. She reached inside her satchel and pulled out a light blue laminated ticket, about the size of a postcard. Not a reservation mind you…a real life confirmation! I was thrilled! I didn’t have to talk to Mr. Phoenix anymore AND all my waiting was going to pay off.
I went to the back of yet another line (my third of the evening), but this was by far the best one. Not only was this line a guaranteed entry into a show, but when I walked down the hall, a man handed me a glass of wine! Things were definitely looking up.
After a few minutes, another man ushered a small group of us through a side door to an ugly waiting room (white walls, white doors, fluorescent light…your basic insane asylum look…) through thick black curtains and finally, into the studio. The studio was tiny – I bet it held less than 100 people. It was bathed in a red-ish, purple light and had a cozy feeling, even though the air conditioning was pumping. I didn’t even take off my jacket.
I was sat to the far left of the stage with a pretty good view of Colbert’s desk. I had a partially obstructed view of the interview table, though. No matter. I was just glad to be sitting after such a long time of waiting and to finally be there.
The man who led me in stood in front of the group and made some general announcements. There was no gum chewing, no talking during the shoot (but of course we could laugh), and absolutely, positively, no cell phone use. No pictures could be taken of any kind and all cell phones had to be turned off. They were serious about the cell phones!
A few minutes later, another man came up with a microphone and started talking to us like we were all friends. He was pretty funny, asking people where they were from and what they did, and soon I realized what he was doing: He was warming up the crowd. He went on for about 20 minutes and introduced Stephen Colbert, who looks completely different in person.
Just kidding.
He looks exactly the same. The crowd had the chance to ask him questions, but I couldn’t think of any. Stephen was warm and genuine and immediately likeable. He had none of the arrogance that’s laid on so thick once the cameras roll. He chatted with us much like the other comedian and was extremely relaxed. His hands stayed in his pockets most of the time and his retorts were as smooth as a politician’s.
When he left the stage, he announced we were about to start the show and thanked us for coming.
The man immediately over my left shoulder kicked things off, counting down in his booming voice. Suddenly, the theme music pumped through the studio and I had my second wave of excitement. Remember, I haven’t had a TV in six weeks. I was actually looking forward to watching the program.
The show is shot in real time. The night I was there, there were no second takes or flubs. Stephen was smooth, professional, and animated. In the time where there are commercial breaks, hair and make-up people come out to touch him up. He also frequently checks in with the audience during the breaks, making sure we’re still excited and pumped up.
The entire shoot took 30 minutes and after taping, he was gone and a team of interns were shuffling us out of the studio the same way they shuffled us in. Yes, it was a lot to go through for 30 minutes of entertainment, but it was a nice New York experience. I’m looking forward to my VIP taping in July with John Stewart – all the fun with none of the hassle. That’s more my style.
In the meantime, I think I’ll stick to entertainment that has a confirmation ticket, not just a reservation. I like doing things I can depend on.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
We've been SPRUNG!
On my way to the dog park, I was waiting for the light to change and a woman sided up next to me. “I woke up this morning,” she said unprovoked, “went outside and thought ‘thank GOD..it’s SPRING!” My reaction was one of complete agreement. “It’s awesome,” I replied.
It was so warm today I wanted to weep with gratitude. The bright blue sky was like a cozy hug. People were downright giddy. Elderly men walked down the street smiling for no reason, strangers slapped each other on the back, people laughed out loud. I was sitting in a restaurant in the lower east side having brunch (see “best deals in the city” for more on that), and three men came in carrying bright orange frisbies. It’s like the winter thaw took 20 years off the average New Yorker. We’re all kids again.
At long last, it seems like spring has arrived in New York. Break out the sunglasses and hang up those sleeping bag coats. It’s time to celebrate…outside.
It was so warm today I wanted to weep with gratitude. The bright blue sky was like a cozy hug. People were downright giddy. Elderly men walked down the street smiling for no reason, strangers slapped each other on the back, people laughed out loud. I was sitting in a restaurant in the lower east side having brunch (see “best deals in the city” for more on that), and three men came in carrying bright orange frisbies. It’s like the winter thaw took 20 years off the average New Yorker. We’re all kids again.
At long last, it seems like spring has arrived in New York. Break out the sunglasses and hang up those sleeping bag coats. It’s time to celebrate…outside.
I'm not a Native, but I play one on TV
Man, today in spin class I felt too cool for school. I was warming up next to this guy before class began and we started chatting. He just moved here from Georgia and asked me about the neighborhood and the city in general. I found myself recommending areas to visit, restaurants, other neighborhoods, and bike paths – and even being able to tell him the subway lines to get there. I felt like a real New Yorker.
That’s the thing about this city – people are constantly moving in. So no matter how new you are to New York, you’re an expert in the eyes of someone even newer. I’m confident Alex, the guy from spin class, thinks I’m an expert on the city. He doesn’t need to know I still head north instead of south and this morning I thought Broadway was west of 8th. That can be our little secret.
That’s the thing about this city – people are constantly moving in. So no matter how new you are to New York, you’re an expert in the eyes of someone even newer. I’m confident Alex, the guy from spin class, thinks I’m an expert on the city. He doesn’t need to know I still head north instead of south and this morning I thought Broadway was west of 8th. That can be our little secret.
A Glorious Place to Live
47% of New Yorkers speak a language other than English at home. There are more Irish here than Dublin. More Jewish here than Tel Aviv. It is the most multi-cultural city in the entire world. It’s the main reason the UN is based here.
Add to that the fact that there are over 8 million of us living in 22 square miles and another 12 million commuting in and out of the city and what you get is an atmosphere dense with diversity. Every time I step outside my door, I hear different languages. I am in constant contact with people of different background, histories and ethnicities. The idea of America as a melting pot started and continues to thrive here. What this type of complexity produces is a culture of “live-and-let-live.” Some might say people here are simply jaded, but I prefer to think of it as complete and utter acceptance. If you’re a bald man who chooses to dress in drag, no one will look at you twice. An albino with a red afro? Please. I saw him on the Q last week. Here’s a short list people I saw the last three days that might cause a second look anywhere but New York:
1. A bearded man in business suit….and pink leg warmers.
2. A man with a dragon tattoo….on his face.
3. A woman in thigh high boots and a teddy. That’s it. On second thought, she may have been working….
They were able to walk down the street, ride the subway, hail a cab…and not only were they not harassed, no one else really seemed to notice them.
When my mom was here and we spent a week frantically trying to furnish my apartment, she found herself carrying a floor lamp eight blocks up Broadway. “Anywhere else, I would feel conspicuous,” she said. “But in New York, no one bats an eye.” In this city, you are constantly bombarded with people of all different shapes, looks, cultures, and backgrounds. They are on top of you all the time. There simply isn’t the room or time for judgment.
In other areas of the country – Boulder, CO even Seattle, WA, people’s look and language is rather consistent. Wander into a random Portland bar and you’ll see so many Horne-rimmed glasses and tight jeans, you’ll wonder if you’re at a Moby look-alike convention. It’s easy to stand out in a place like Portland (if you wear contacts, for instance). In New York, it’s nearly impossible.
I was telling this to my friend Helen at work, and remarked on how much I loved the fact that people didn’t react to idiosyncrasies the way they did elsewhere. “Everyone always talks about that,” she said, “but I think they give us too much credit.”
“You just haven’t been out of New York in a while,” I replied. “The minute someone commented on your outfit or the fact you have a ‘boy haircut’ you’d get completely annoyed.”
“You’re right,” she said. “If a stranger gave me a weird look or made a comment on something I was wearing or saying, I would feel completely affronted. What business is it of theirs?”
“Exactly,” I said. “But New York is very special in that respect.”
New York is one of the most tolerant cities in the country because it has to be. Essayist EB White said it was essential. Without this acceptance, “it would explode in a radioactive cloud of hate and rancor and bigotry.” So here New York sits, home of the world’s largest synagogue and the world’s largest Protestant Church. Home of bald drag queens and Fox News. The harmony in which such diversity exists is quite special, and as someone who deeply values this idea, it makes New York a glorious place to live….and let live.
Add to that the fact that there are over 8 million of us living in 22 square miles and another 12 million commuting in and out of the city and what you get is an atmosphere dense with diversity. Every time I step outside my door, I hear different languages. I am in constant contact with people of different background, histories and ethnicities. The idea of America as a melting pot started and continues to thrive here. What this type of complexity produces is a culture of “live-and-let-live.” Some might say people here are simply jaded, but I prefer to think of it as complete and utter acceptance. If you’re a bald man who chooses to dress in drag, no one will look at you twice. An albino with a red afro? Please. I saw him on the Q last week. Here’s a short list people I saw the last three days that might cause a second look anywhere but New York:
1. A bearded man in business suit….and pink leg warmers.
2. A man with a dragon tattoo….on his face.
3. A woman in thigh high boots and a teddy. That’s it. On second thought, she may have been working….
They were able to walk down the street, ride the subway, hail a cab…and not only were they not harassed, no one else really seemed to notice them.
When my mom was here and we spent a week frantically trying to furnish my apartment, she found herself carrying a floor lamp eight blocks up Broadway. “Anywhere else, I would feel conspicuous,” she said. “But in New York, no one bats an eye.” In this city, you are constantly bombarded with people of all different shapes, looks, cultures, and backgrounds. They are on top of you all the time. There simply isn’t the room or time for judgment.
In other areas of the country – Boulder, CO even Seattle, WA, people’s look and language is rather consistent. Wander into a random Portland bar and you’ll see so many Horne-rimmed glasses and tight jeans, you’ll wonder if you’re at a Moby look-alike convention. It’s easy to stand out in a place like Portland (if you wear contacts, for instance). In New York, it’s nearly impossible.
I was telling this to my friend Helen at work, and remarked on how much I loved the fact that people didn’t react to idiosyncrasies the way they did elsewhere. “Everyone always talks about that,” she said, “but I think they give us too much credit.”
“You just haven’t been out of New York in a while,” I replied. “The minute someone commented on your outfit or the fact you have a ‘boy haircut’ you’d get completely annoyed.”
“You’re right,” she said. “If a stranger gave me a weird look or made a comment on something I was wearing or saying, I would feel completely affronted. What business is it of theirs?”
“Exactly,” I said. “But New York is very special in that respect.”
New York is one of the most tolerant cities in the country because it has to be. Essayist EB White said it was essential. Without this acceptance, “it would explode in a radioactive cloud of hate and rancor and bigotry.” So here New York sits, home of the world’s largest synagogue and the world’s largest Protestant Church. Home of bald drag queens and Fox News. The harmony in which such diversity exists is quite special, and as someone who deeply values this idea, it makes New York a glorious place to live….and let live.
Who Exactly is Rushing in this Rush Hour?
Rush hour on the subway is generally the pits. I hate it. It’ s the first official thing I can say I hate about New York. It’s not a word I use lightly. Let me draw you a picture. 5:00 comes and you walk the four blocks (2 short, 2 long) to 42nd street. What seems like 27 subway lines converge on 42nd, so the place is swarming with bodies, all moving fast and in what feels like random patterns and directions, and all generally in your way. So you navigate this chaos of humanity to your line, file downstairs, and wait for your train to arrive. As you wait, that platform grows more and more crowded, filling up until you’re standing shoulder to shoulder. Literally. Both of your shoulders are touching someone else’s shoulder. Are you still with me? Trains are at either side of the platform so there’s a steady ebb and flow of movement – all cramped and stifling. When your train arrives, you have to push total strangers to be the first or second in line or you simply won’t make it on the train and you’ll be stuck in this growing crowd another five minutes.* So you elbow and push and squeeze your way to the front so when the door opens you can jump onto the train. If you find a space to stand, it quickly becomes non-existent as people continue to push their way onto the packed train. So now you’re standing there with your nose in some stranger’s shoulder and your butt up against another stranger’s briefcase. You literally cannot move.
There are conductors that act as over-zealous coaches in this process. They’ll motivate and cajole people over the loud speaker: “All right people, now move in…move in move in movinmovinmovin….we’re closing the doors…let’s go! Lets move…let’s go…move in…moveinmoveinmovein….let’s keep this going..come on people…” This is an exact quote from my train Tuesday night. It’s insanity.
The other day, heading home from work there was a group of children on the train. They all held playbills from the Lion King. The top of their collective hats reached the armpits of the other passengers. “Ugh,” the exclaimed aloud as we filed in an squeezed together, “it’s too crowded!”
“I hate this,” another one whined. “This is awwwwfuuuulllll.” I looked at them wearily as I realized they were voicing my sentiment exactly, they just had the luxury of saying it out loud.
Rush Hour on the subway gets the official thumbs down. Well, if I could move my hand that is….
* Note: If you are thinking five minutes isn’t that long, you’re not paying enough attention to the story. In this crowd, five minutes is an eternity.
There are conductors that act as over-zealous coaches in this process. They’ll motivate and cajole people over the loud speaker: “All right people, now move in…move in move in movinmovinmovin….we’re closing the doors…let’s go! Lets move…let’s go…move in…moveinmoveinmovein….let’s keep this going..come on people…” This is an exact quote from my train Tuesday night. It’s insanity.
The other day, heading home from work there was a group of children on the train. They all held playbills from the Lion King. The top of their collective hats reached the armpits of the other passengers. “Ugh,” the exclaimed aloud as we filed in an squeezed together, “it’s too crowded!”
“I hate this,” another one whined. “This is awwwwfuuuulllll.” I looked at them wearily as I realized they were voicing my sentiment exactly, they just had the luxury of saying it out loud.
Rush Hour on the subway gets the official thumbs down. Well, if I could move my hand that is….
* Note: If you are thinking five minutes isn’t that long, you’re not paying enough attention to the story. In this crowd, five minutes is an eternity.
Who are you Calling Cheap?
Everyone thinks New York City is the most expensive city in the world. New York is expensive, and some things (rent, Broadway tickets…) shockingly so, but there are definitely deals to be had. Here is a short list of inexpensive things in New York:
1. Hummus - a HUGE tub for $1.99 – where else can you find that? In Seattle, I was paying $3-$4 more.
2. Brunch -everyone has a deal. $10-$12 for a huge plate of food, all the coffee you can drink, and the cocktail of your choice.**
3. Central Park – 84 acres of totally free fun
4. The Metropolitan Opera – This is not a type-o. The first 200 people in line for rush tickets get $20 tickets every night. $20!
5. Diner Lunch Specials– Diners have lunch deals because they do most of their business between 2-5 AM. $8 will get you enough food for lunch and dinner!
6. Book Readings – Every night authors go to bookstores around the city and read from their latest books. Absolutely free and a great place to meet interesting people.
7. Performances – Whether you’re in Union Square, Central Park, or the local subway terminal, art is everywhere in New York. This weekend, I saw break-dancers outside the Public Library, steel drummers in Central Park, and a violinist in the subway who played 80’s punk. He was awesome. All entertaining – all absolutely free of charge.
8. Pizza and Hot Dogs – If you’re paying more than $1.00 for either, you’re paying too much….or you’re in midtown.
** A note on the brunch phenomenon. I think I found the best deal in the city. On 14th between 8th and 9th there’s an Italian restaurant named Carbineras. Their deal is this: $12 for brunch, coffee and unlimited cocktails. The only caveat is they get to kick you out after two hours. Two hours of boozing for $12? This has to be the best deal in town. Forget the gym, now you know where to find me Sunday mornings.
1. Hummus - a HUGE tub for $1.99 – where else can you find that? In Seattle, I was paying $3-$4 more.
2. Brunch -everyone has a deal. $10-$12 for a huge plate of food, all the coffee you can drink, and the cocktail of your choice.**
3. Central Park – 84 acres of totally free fun
4. The Metropolitan Opera – This is not a type-o. The first 200 people in line for rush tickets get $20 tickets every night. $20!
5. Diner Lunch Specials– Diners have lunch deals because they do most of their business between 2-5 AM. $8 will get you enough food for lunch and dinner!
6. Book Readings – Every night authors go to bookstores around the city and read from their latest books. Absolutely free and a great place to meet interesting people.
7. Performances – Whether you’re in Union Square, Central Park, or the local subway terminal, art is everywhere in New York. This weekend, I saw break-dancers outside the Public Library, steel drummers in Central Park, and a violinist in the subway who played 80’s punk. He was awesome. All entertaining – all absolutely free of charge.
8. Pizza and Hot Dogs – If you’re paying more than $1.00 for either, you’re paying too much….or you’re in midtown.
** A note on the brunch phenomenon. I think I found the best deal in the city. On 14th between 8th and 9th there’s an Italian restaurant named Carbineras. Their deal is this: $12 for brunch, coffee and unlimited cocktails. The only caveat is they get to kick you out after two hours. Two hours of boozing for $12? This has to be the best deal in town. Forget the gym, now you know where to find me Sunday mornings.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Subway....not the sandwich joint
At 2:00 today (Sunday) I wanted to go to the Village and I wanted to be back to the upper west side by 4. This is no easy task. I wrote down the ACE lines, but had completely forgotten I was supposed to walk to Central Park West, and instead was on autopilot and went to my local stop at 86th and Broadway. I didn’t panic though, when I realized my error on the train since I knew I could transfer at 42nd. At 72nd, I saw the 2 across the platform and ran across the 12 feet of concrete to catch the express. I got off at 42nd, walked over to the blue line and caught the next A train in a matter of seconds. I felt fabulous. I was negotiating the tangled web of subway lines like a seasoned New Yorker. I made last minute adjustments to bob and weave underground and get to the Village in 28 minutes. I was coming into my own.
The New York City subway is one of the oldest and most extensive in the world. There are 468 stations and 656 miles of track across four boroughs. Last year there were over 1.6 billion rides. Yours truly will account for roughly 700 of those rides this year. The New York City subway carries more passengers than all other rail mass transit systems in the US….combined. So the L and the Bart can suck it.
Technically, pan-handling in the NYC subway system is prohibited, but people still do it. I was carrying over-sized packages from midtown on the 2 and a man boarded the train. He was blonde, with spiky hair and hallowed cheeks. He wore a brown polo shirt and matching pants. He looked like your local UPS man. He raised his voice and spoke of how he and his family had hit a rough spot the last few months. He had a stroke, his wife was unemployed and his insurance didn’t cover his medical bills. “We couldn’t even afford cable television,” he said. I thought this wasn’t the best approach. Food? Yes, that would warrant some sympathy. The fact that you were missing the latest American Idol wasn’t worth my petty cash. The tourists gave him some money, but everyone else turned their shoulders. They weren’t buying it.
The other day I saw it snow in the subway. It was surreal. Here I was, submerged in the dark grit of the New York underground, and when I looked up, there was a shock of pale blue light and the gentle fall of snow drifting onto the tracks like powdered sugar. There was a hole in the ceiling that extended up to the street. It was beautiful.
I was on the Q crossing the Manhattan bridge in rush hour and we suddenly came to a stop. The announcer crackled onto the PA system. “Please excuse the delay. We are paused here due to rail traffic up ahead.”
I was a little annoyed because I was trying to get to a studio to teach for the first time, and I definitely did not want to be late. My aggravation turned off like a faucet however, when I glanced behind me. What made me turn was the look on the faces of those looking out the window over my shoulder. They were bathed in warm light and all shared a look of wonder, like children gazing on a bright collection of sweets. Their eyes were wide; almost giddy with unexpected delight. So I turned.
I turned and rested my eyes on the east end of the Brooklyn bridge, floating out in front of me – so close it felt I could reach out and touch the interlaced web of suspension wires glittering in the light of dusk. Beyond the bridge, the sky was a deep orange, the sun setting in a majestic explosion of color, and there, nestled in the lower right of my view, the statue of liberty stood triumphant – her bronze arm raised to the sky. It looked as if her torch had lit up the entire horizon. It took my breath away.
The Subway is convenient. The Subway is dirty. The Subway is crowded. But sometimes, on a Monday night in March as you are suspended over the east river in a silver capsule….the Subway can be magnificent.
The New York City subway is one of the oldest and most extensive in the world. There are 468 stations and 656 miles of track across four boroughs. Last year there were over 1.6 billion rides. Yours truly will account for roughly 700 of those rides this year. The New York City subway carries more passengers than all other rail mass transit systems in the US….combined. So the L and the Bart can suck it.
Technically, pan-handling in the NYC subway system is prohibited, but people still do it. I was carrying over-sized packages from midtown on the 2 and a man boarded the train. He was blonde, with spiky hair and hallowed cheeks. He wore a brown polo shirt and matching pants. He looked like your local UPS man. He raised his voice and spoke of how he and his family had hit a rough spot the last few months. He had a stroke, his wife was unemployed and his insurance didn’t cover his medical bills. “We couldn’t even afford cable television,” he said. I thought this wasn’t the best approach. Food? Yes, that would warrant some sympathy. The fact that you were missing the latest American Idol wasn’t worth my petty cash. The tourists gave him some money, but everyone else turned their shoulders. They weren’t buying it.
The other day I saw it snow in the subway. It was surreal. Here I was, submerged in the dark grit of the New York underground, and when I looked up, there was a shock of pale blue light and the gentle fall of snow drifting onto the tracks like powdered sugar. There was a hole in the ceiling that extended up to the street. It was beautiful.
I was on the Q crossing the Manhattan bridge in rush hour and we suddenly came to a stop. The announcer crackled onto the PA system. “Please excuse the delay. We are paused here due to rail traffic up ahead.”
I was a little annoyed because I was trying to get to a studio to teach for the first time, and I definitely did not want to be late. My aggravation turned off like a faucet however, when I glanced behind me. What made me turn was the look on the faces of those looking out the window over my shoulder. They were bathed in warm light and all shared a look of wonder, like children gazing on a bright collection of sweets. Their eyes were wide; almost giddy with unexpected delight. So I turned.
I turned and rested my eyes on the east end of the Brooklyn bridge, floating out in front of me – so close it felt I could reach out and touch the interlaced web of suspension wires glittering in the light of dusk. Beyond the bridge, the sky was a deep orange, the sun setting in a majestic explosion of color, and there, nestled in the lower right of my view, the statue of liberty stood triumphant – her bronze arm raised to the sky. It looked as if her torch had lit up the entire horizon. It took my breath away.
The Subway is convenient. The Subway is dirty. The Subway is crowded. But sometimes, on a Monday night in March as you are suspended over the east river in a silver capsule….the Subway can be magnificent.
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