New York and I haven’t been together very long. We’re still in the infatuation stage where everything is fresh and exciting. We have that kind starry eyed adoration where you overlook the flaws of smelly garbage and crowded subways and only see the sparkle of the Crysler Building – the storybook beauty of Bethesda Fountain. I’m gitty – I’m smitten – I’m head over heels. I’m falling in love.
So you can understand my heightened anxiety when my father came to visit. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted New York to be on its best behavior so my dad would love this city as much as I did. I carefully planned a series of events that would show off New York in the best light. I arranged trips to the Union Square farmers market, Broadway and the Public, the canine gathering on the great lawn and the jewel that is the 92nd Street Y. I had dressed my boyfriend New York in his best duds. I made him shave, shower and cover up his tattoos. I was ready to show him off. New York was ready to impress.
Unfortunately, after a few short hours, the New York blemishes started to show. It continued to be crowded on the subway (even on a Sunday – unheard of) and confusing to a fault (was that 45th and 6th or 46th & 5th?) and loud, abrasive and generally…overwhelming. It continued to be New York.
When a man peed in front of my dad and me on E 16th, one of the most charming areas of the city, I had to restrain myself from putting my hands on my hips, pulling my shoulders back and saying: “Come ON New York! Pull it together!” And then, under my breath, in a fierce whisper: “You’re embarrassing me.”
I’ve always been like this with New York, especially with people experiencing the Big Apple for the first time. I long for them to love it. I know it shouldn’t matter to me so much, but somehow it does. I remember coming to New York with a group of ladies a few years ago, many of whom hadn’t been here, and I was struck with anxiety right before the wheels of our plane touched down. I felt responsible for their enjoyment. It made no sense, but somehow I felt like a strange matchmaker. I wanted to create a love connection.
The truth is, there’s nothing I can do to make people fall in love with a city. I just need allow the events to unfold naturally. Whether it’s my dad or a group of ladies, they will have their own experience and reaction to New York, regardless of what I do or say or plan. They don’t have to love New York simply because I do. It’s just like the attraction between lovers. Sometimes it’s there and sometimes it’s not – an outsider is powerless in whether the affair heats up or turns cold. It’s a matter of chemistry.
So New York showed its grit during my dad’s visit this weekend. It showed the dirt under its fingernails, the grease in its hair, its tendency to speak a little too loud and chew with its mouth open. Although I felt New York was on display, New York absorbed my father with the “take it or leave it” attitude it’s had since the days of the Dutch. The good news is that despite its flawed appearance, my Dad, like so many others, was drawn in.
Together, the three of us had a great time. It wasn’t perfect…and that was perfect.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
An Emergency
Last weekend, I found myself in a New York City emergency room. When I realized where I was going and what was happening, I immediately got a sinking feeling deep in my stomach. A New York City emergency room?!? There were going to be flying gurneys filled with moaning gun shot victims, gang members meddling about, doctors running through the crowded corridors with blood splattered on their scrubs.
Men hunched over in chairs with a knife protruding from their torsos.
A woman in labor running through the lobby with her cabbie, recently befriended amid quips, romantic banner, and heavy breathing on the cab ride to the hospital.*
Weary nurses pulling a double shift…or is it a triple shift….peering across the fluorescent soaked room.
Basically, I was anticipating pandemonium. Pandemonium is not what I got.
My friend and I were at a show Sunday afternoon. Prior to curtain, she commented on a sore back, so I wasn’t surprised when an hour into the production she started shifting slightly, leaning forward and back in her chair. A while later, she leaned over and whispered: “I have to go.”
“Do you want me to go with you,” I asked in a hush. She nodded and we took off. The usher found us immediately and quickly led us out of the dark auditorium. My friend started to black out as we moved quickly through a secret hallway behind the risers and she crumpled onto the floor. At that point, I knew this was much bigger than just a back issue.
When we got into a little more light, I saw that she was shaking with the chills and her lips were a light shade of blue. We quickly decided that this was something that wasn’t going to just go away, and we needed an expert to check her out. So that’s how foud myself at the emergency room in the east village on a Sunday afternoon. And how I found myself with that pit in my stomach, anticipating all the hospital commotion primetime television has to offer.
AS we made our way through the double-doors marked “emergency room,” we were greeted by two clean-cut, smiling security guards who directed us to the left. There were no wounded thugs lining the wall. No running doctors. No yelling. It was as quiet as a library. They were calm and pleasant. This was the emergency room? Where was George Clooney? Zach Braff? Where was the drama? The drama had left this emergency room long ago.
They checked us in, took my friend’s temperature and moved us into a private room. A nurse came by followed shortly by a gum-snapping doctor and two back-up singer residents. The three of them declared my friend had a fever and prescribed a week’s dose of antibiotics.
So here’s the deal with a New York City hospital: The halls are empty and clean. The people are calm, cordial, and for the most part, extremely helpful. We were out with a diagnosis and prescription in under 60 minutes.
So it wasn’t the experience I expected out of a New York City emergency room, and that’s probably a good thing. While it would make for a dreadfully boring episode of ER, it made an efficient, effective healing resource for my friend. And that’s all that really mattered.
* I may have seen Look Who's Talking a few too many times.....
I need 30 milligrams of Tatianam Expositus….Stat!
Men hunched over in chairs with a knife protruding from their torsos.
We’re going to lose him!
A woman in labor running through the lobby with her cabbie, recently befriended amid quips, romantic banner, and heavy breathing on the cab ride to the hospital.*
Clear!
Weary nurses pulling a double shift…or is it a triple shift….peering across the fluorescent soaked room.
Basically, I was anticipating pandemonium. Pandemonium is not what I got.
My friend and I were at a show Sunday afternoon. Prior to curtain, she commented on a sore back, so I wasn’t surprised when an hour into the production she started shifting slightly, leaning forward and back in her chair. A while later, she leaned over and whispered: “I have to go.”
“Do you want me to go with you,” I asked in a hush. She nodded and we took off. The usher found us immediately and quickly led us out of the dark auditorium. My friend started to black out as we moved quickly through a secret hallway behind the risers and she crumpled onto the floor. At that point, I knew this was much bigger than just a back issue.
When we got into a little more light, I saw that she was shaking with the chills and her lips were a light shade of blue. We quickly decided that this was something that wasn’t going to just go away, and we needed an expert to check her out. So that’s how foud myself at the emergency room in the east village on a Sunday afternoon. And how I found myself with that pit in my stomach, anticipating all the hospital commotion primetime television has to offer.
AS we made our way through the double-doors marked “emergency room,” we were greeted by two clean-cut, smiling security guards who directed us to the left. There were no wounded thugs lining the wall. No running doctors. No yelling. It was as quiet as a library. They were calm and pleasant. This was the emergency room? Where was George Clooney? Zach Braff? Where was the drama? The drama had left this emergency room long ago.
They checked us in, took my friend’s temperature and moved us into a private room. A nurse came by followed shortly by a gum-snapping doctor and two back-up singer residents. The three of them declared my friend had a fever and prescribed a week’s dose of antibiotics.
So here’s the deal with a New York City hospital: The halls are empty and clean. The people are calm, cordial, and for the most part, extremely helpful. We were out with a diagnosis and prescription in under 60 minutes.
So it wasn’t the experience I expected out of a New York City emergency room, and that’s probably a good thing. While it would make for a dreadfully boring episode of ER, it made an efficient, effective healing resource for my friend. And that’s all that really mattered.
* I may have seen Look Who's Talking a few too many times.....
Arts that go "BAM" in the Night
A couple of weeks ago, I went to see my first dance performance in New York City. New York has a plethora of dance companies and spaces. Dance is an integral part of the arts scene. Generally, I enjoy dance as a participant more than a spectator, but I was excited about the evening. A small group of us accompanied my friend to BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music) to see Pina Bausch's Vollmond (Full Moon). My friend worked at BAM for several years, so I was also excited to see her old stomping grounds.
After a quick bite to eat, we arrived to the theatre right before show time. BAM is located the heart of Fort Green in a trendy area of Brooklyn. The outside of the building is unassuming grey concrete, not unlike a high school. Once you step out of the elevator and into the theater however, the imposing beauty hits you like a wave. The walls of bright gold and deep red are lined with the delicate, intricate detail of 100-year-old craftsmanship.
We were in the upper balcony in a packed house on opening night. From our vantage point, we were able to absorb this beautiful theatre in all its glory. The lights dimmed and the dance began with two muscular men running frantically around the circumference of the stage. A high pitched synthesizer pumped through the theatre. In the center of the stage was a large, fake rock that stood two stories high and was a deep, charcoal grey. As the show went on, it started to rain on stage. The downpour fell among the dancers, creating a slow moving river that flowed under the giant rock. The 16 dancers cascaded through the water with their overblown, sweeping movements. They leapt, convulsed, and sashayed around the stage as their costumes grew wetter and clung to their taut bodies.
A female dancer dressed all in white commanded the stage for seven minutes in an impressive solo.
A man leapt from the top of the rock into the river below. Women swam in the water on their bellies as their long dressed flowed gracefully around them.
An older lady with hair of bright frizz periodically took center stage and yelled in her scratch of a voice about the joys of booze and men.
The show ran 2 ½ hours and while the dancers were athletic and energetic, throwing themselves into the piece with abandon–overall, the show was a little disjointed and confusing.
And long.
It was very long.
Afterwards, we discussed the art scene in New York City. There are so many performances and productions going on at any given night, the sheer quantity of artistic outpouring can be overwhelming. Because this outpouring shows no sign of diminishing, one has to assume that there’s an audience in this city to support it. But you have to wonder how many of these patrons are sitting in these dark auditoriums because they want to be there and how many are there because they feel like they should be. How many use the theatre to create his or her self-identity?
Everyone says they love to travel, but most people, when they travel, go to a secluded beach, lie in the sun and sand and read novels while sipping boozy candy cocktails. So really, they love to relax – they don’t necessarily love to travel.
Everyone claims to love the indie music scene, but how often are you at a show on a Wednesday night, standing in a dark room with other hipsters, waiting for the show to start, and longing to be in the comforts of your home?
When people visit large cities, museums are often the first thing on their list. They simply must go to the Louvre, the Prado, the Met….but museums are often overwhelming. And boring. Museums are often too big. You end up glazing over the art and worrying more about your sore feet than the artistic expression hanging on the walls.
So maybe the arts are (at times) more about reputation and less about experience. But, I’m still glad that there’s a demand to support this artistic supply.
New York is a city built on commerce. Making money efficiently is in the roots of this town, from the flow of the harbor to the structure of the streets. It’s been this way since the days of the Dutch and continues to thrive on Wall Street. Without the arts to soften the edges of this tangled concrete, it would be a very difficult place to live indeed. The arts provide the creativity, the frivolity, the humanity of New York – and whatever their motivation, I’m glad people continue to frequent the arts as much as they do. I will certainly continue to be one of them.
After a quick bite to eat, we arrived to the theatre right before show time. BAM is located the heart of Fort Green in a trendy area of Brooklyn. The outside of the building is unassuming grey concrete, not unlike a high school. Once you step out of the elevator and into the theater however, the imposing beauty hits you like a wave. The walls of bright gold and deep red are lined with the delicate, intricate detail of 100-year-old craftsmanship.
We were in the upper balcony in a packed house on opening night. From our vantage point, we were able to absorb this beautiful theatre in all its glory. The lights dimmed and the dance began with two muscular men running frantically around the circumference of the stage. A high pitched synthesizer pumped through the theatre. In the center of the stage was a large, fake rock that stood two stories high and was a deep, charcoal grey. As the show went on, it started to rain on stage. The downpour fell among the dancers, creating a slow moving river that flowed under the giant rock. The 16 dancers cascaded through the water with their overblown, sweeping movements. They leapt, convulsed, and sashayed around the stage as their costumes grew wetter and clung to their taut bodies.
A female dancer dressed all in white commanded the stage for seven minutes in an impressive solo.
A man leapt from the top of the rock into the river below. Women swam in the water on their bellies as their long dressed flowed gracefully around them.
An older lady with hair of bright frizz periodically took center stage and yelled in her scratch of a voice about the joys of booze and men.
The show ran 2 ½ hours and while the dancers were athletic and energetic, throwing themselves into the piece with abandon–overall, the show was a little disjointed and confusing.
And long.
It was very long.
Afterwards, we discussed the art scene in New York City. There are so many performances and productions going on at any given night, the sheer quantity of artistic outpouring can be overwhelming. Because this outpouring shows no sign of diminishing, one has to assume that there’s an audience in this city to support it. But you have to wonder how many of these patrons are sitting in these dark auditoriums because they want to be there and how many are there because they feel like they should be. How many use the theatre to create his or her self-identity?
Everyone says they love to travel, but most people, when they travel, go to a secluded beach, lie in the sun and sand and read novels while sipping boozy candy cocktails. So really, they love to relax – they don’t necessarily love to travel.
Everyone claims to love the indie music scene, but how often are you at a show on a Wednesday night, standing in a dark room with other hipsters, waiting for the show to start, and longing to be in the comforts of your home?
When people visit large cities, museums are often the first thing on their list. They simply must go to the Louvre, the Prado, the Met….but museums are often overwhelming. And boring. Museums are often too big. You end up glazing over the art and worrying more about your sore feet than the artistic expression hanging on the walls.
So maybe the arts are (at times) more about reputation and less about experience. But, I’m still glad that there’s a demand to support this artistic supply.
New York is a city built on commerce. Making money efficiently is in the roots of this town, from the flow of the harbor to the structure of the streets. It’s been this way since the days of the Dutch and continues to thrive on Wall Street. Without the arts to soften the edges of this tangled concrete, it would be a very difficult place to live indeed. The arts provide the creativity, the frivolity, the humanity of New York – and whatever their motivation, I’m glad people continue to frequent the arts as much as they do. I will certainly continue to be one of them.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Time for a Better Apartment
I’m starting to think I have the smallest apartment in Manhattan. I know this can’t possibly be true, but everywhere I look, people have these amazing pads.
First, a comparison:
The Mediocre:
My apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up in the upper west side. The front door opens onto a narrow hallway. The kitchen is immediately to the left upon entry. I use the word “kitchen” loosely. I generally think of a kitchen as a room with four walls, but in New York, that’s not necessarily the case. My kitchen consists of an oven, sink, and a mini-fridge that all stand shoulder to shoulder at attention. This row of kitchen “appliances” (another word I use loosely) is my kitchen. The opposing wall is actually a closet where I keep most of my clothes. Yes, that’s right: I keep my clothes in the kitchen. There’s an additional, smaller linen closet in the hall that’s meant for towels and sheets. I use it for pants.
Our “tour” (loosely) continues past a regular bathroom to the main feature: the living room. My living room is lovely. I’m not trying to brag, but it’s a very nice room. There's a couch, a couple chairs, a desk, a wine rack – it’s extremely comfortable. The problem is that in essence, this room is my entire house. There’s a “sleeping loft” which is technically a loft, but has about 6” of clearance from the ceiling, so no one’s sleeping up there. I don’t even think my 15 lb. dog could sleep up there. So that’s where I keep my winter sweaters and suitcases. Yeah – it’s more of a storage loft than a sleeping loft.
The Good:
I was complaining about the size of my apartment to a friend a couple weeks ago. His response? “Move to Brooklyn.”
He lives in Brooklyn Heights, pays the same rent I do, and has an apartment more than twice my size. “I was walking from my bed to the kitchen the other day and I got so tired I had to rest on my couch.” Ha ha, Carl – you’re hilarious. Point taken, though. While I’ve never been to Carl’s house, it does appear he has quite a few more square feet for the dollar.
The Better:
Another friend has his own home uptown that he purchased 10 years ago with the help of his parents. The three floors (three. floors.) has a real kitchen with four walls, extra bedrooms, and a living room. Three floors! He’s now putting a circular staircase up to his roof (roof access – that’s like four floors!). It's a ton of space for Manhattan and it's impressive. I mean, the last time I was over, he asked if I had some bad sushi because I was turning a subtle shade of green. “No,” I said, “That’s just envy.”
But it leads me to my next point, which is that good real estate in New York takes time. You can trade your own time via your commute and get more space, as is the case in Brooklyn, or you can buy early (like 10 years ago) and hunker down in a spot for a long time. It’s almost like being “grandfathered” into your own apartment.
The Best:
This idea was really brought to life last night at dinner. I was invited over to the house of my step-father's former professor. His apartment, in the mid-sixties and 5th Ave, was a grand old building with a doorman. He and his lovely wife live on the 16th floor. The entire floor. The top floor. The elevator opens to an expansive living room with a huge grand piano, a marble fireplace...the works. The apartment has several bedrooms, a large kitchen, a back-up kitchen, and a full formal dining room. The pièce de résistance is the wrap-around balcony which offers the view of a lifetime. To the left, the flashing, garish lights of Times Square. Further down, the soft, warm, yellow hue of Columbus Circle. Across the back, the smattering of buildings that make up the west side which traverses up to the lower, squatter buildings of Harlem. Directly in front, the rich, lush expanse of Central Park – shockingly dark compared to the rest of the city. The view is so incredible it almost takes your breath away. I had a physical reaction in the pit of my stomach as I realized a limited number of people would ever see a view like this. This apartment was so phenomenal; Richard Geer lived on the 13th floor. Neat. I was on the 16th. Enjoy your “view” Geer, (if you can even call it that). AND this apartment had roof access! The view from the roof was isolated, majestic, causing the city to drop out from below. The entire thing was ridiculous. Ridiculous! How do people live like this? I’ll tell you how: time.
The entire building was purchased from the professor’s father in 1946 after a little war you may have heard of. The building was being liquidated at the time, so they got a good price for the space. The apartment has been passed down for 64 years, but will no doubt stay in this family for generations. Sure, they could sell today for a premium and make a ton of money, but the time it’s taken to acquire this property in this place at this time (plus the view….Good God that view!) is absolutely priceless.
Not like my pad. My pad definitely has a price tag – and it ain’t cheap. I think however, if I take the extra time come February to find a better apartment (more than the three hours I had to find this place), I’ll be more successful. New York real state is pricey, but I’m learning it’s not exclusively a monetary expense. In addition to spending cash on a deposit, rent and a Broker’s fee, to get a bigger, better apartment in New York you have a to spend a little time as well.
First, a comparison:
The Mediocre:
My apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up in the upper west side. The front door opens onto a narrow hallway. The kitchen is immediately to the left upon entry. I use the word “kitchen” loosely. I generally think of a kitchen as a room with four walls, but in New York, that’s not necessarily the case. My kitchen consists of an oven, sink, and a mini-fridge that all stand shoulder to shoulder at attention. This row of kitchen “appliances” (another word I use loosely) is my kitchen. The opposing wall is actually a closet where I keep most of my clothes. Yes, that’s right: I keep my clothes in the kitchen. There’s an additional, smaller linen closet in the hall that’s meant for towels and sheets. I use it for pants.
Our “tour” (loosely) continues past a regular bathroom to the main feature: the living room. My living room is lovely. I’m not trying to brag, but it’s a very nice room. There's a couch, a couple chairs, a desk, a wine rack – it’s extremely comfortable. The problem is that in essence, this room is my entire house. There’s a “sleeping loft” which is technically a loft, but has about 6” of clearance from the ceiling, so no one’s sleeping up there. I don’t even think my 15 lb. dog could sleep up there. So that’s where I keep my winter sweaters and suitcases. Yeah – it’s more of a storage loft than a sleeping loft.
The Good:
I was complaining about the size of my apartment to a friend a couple weeks ago. His response? “Move to Brooklyn.”
He lives in Brooklyn Heights, pays the same rent I do, and has an apartment more than twice my size. “I was walking from my bed to the kitchen the other day and I got so tired I had to rest on my couch.” Ha ha, Carl – you’re hilarious. Point taken, though. While I’ve never been to Carl’s house, it does appear he has quite a few more square feet for the dollar.
The Better:
Another friend has his own home uptown that he purchased 10 years ago with the help of his parents. The three floors (three. floors.) has a real kitchen with four walls, extra bedrooms, and a living room. Three floors! He’s now putting a circular staircase up to his roof (roof access – that’s like four floors!). It's a ton of space for Manhattan and it's impressive. I mean, the last time I was over, he asked if I had some bad sushi because I was turning a subtle shade of green. “No,” I said, “That’s just envy.”
But it leads me to my next point, which is that good real estate in New York takes time. You can trade your own time via your commute and get more space, as is the case in Brooklyn, or you can buy early (like 10 years ago) and hunker down in a spot for a long time. It’s almost like being “grandfathered” into your own apartment.
The Best:
This idea was really brought to life last night at dinner. I was invited over to the house of my step-father's former professor. His apartment, in the mid-sixties and 5th Ave, was a grand old building with a doorman. He and his lovely wife live on the 16th floor. The entire floor. The top floor. The elevator opens to an expansive living room with a huge grand piano, a marble fireplace...the works. The apartment has several bedrooms, a large kitchen, a back-up kitchen, and a full formal dining room. The pièce de résistance is the wrap-around balcony which offers the view of a lifetime. To the left, the flashing, garish lights of Times Square. Further down, the soft, warm, yellow hue of Columbus Circle. Across the back, the smattering of buildings that make up the west side which traverses up to the lower, squatter buildings of Harlem. Directly in front, the rich, lush expanse of Central Park – shockingly dark compared to the rest of the city. The view is so incredible it almost takes your breath away. I had a physical reaction in the pit of my stomach as I realized a limited number of people would ever see a view like this. This apartment was so phenomenal; Richard Geer lived on the 13th floor. Neat. I was on the 16th. Enjoy your “view” Geer, (if you can even call it that). AND this apartment had roof access! The view from the roof was isolated, majestic, causing the city to drop out from below. The entire thing was ridiculous. Ridiculous! How do people live like this? I’ll tell you how: time.
The entire building was purchased from the professor’s father in 1946 after a little war you may have heard of. The building was being liquidated at the time, so they got a good price for the space. The apartment has been passed down for 64 years, but will no doubt stay in this family for generations. Sure, they could sell today for a premium and make a ton of money, but the time it’s taken to acquire this property in this place at this time (plus the view….Good God that view!) is absolutely priceless.
Not like my pad. My pad definitely has a price tag – and it ain’t cheap. I think however, if I take the extra time come February to find a better apartment (more than the three hours I had to find this place), I’ll be more successful. New York real state is pricey, but I’m learning it’s not exclusively a monetary expense. In addition to spending cash on a deposit, rent and a Broker’s fee, to get a bigger, better apartment in New York you have a to spend a little time as well.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Hot "Child" in the City
This city is competitive. It moves fast. Bars are open until four. Restaurants serve $14 martinis that could double as hot tubs. Hundred of clubs, trendy wine bars, and strip clubs dot the streets. It’s almost as though the city has a large “Adults Only” sign at its entrance. In reality, however, that’s not the case. Kids live here too!
I was reminded of this on Friday night at the Armory, a monstrous structure that looms over midtown east. The armory is so expansive it’s almost overwhelming in a city that constantly forces you to shrink, squeeze and hunch to fit into smaller and smaller spaces. It’s so large in fact, they installed an entire carnival there over the weekend. The carnival had a large slide, rotating swings, food booths, a tiny magician tent and an enormous, flashing Ferris Wheel that loomed over the activities in the center of the room.
Usually, Friday activities for me involve standing around in a crowded room with fellow 25-42-year-old professionals dressed in black and sipping alcoholic beverages out of sparkling, over-sized glassware. This Friday evening involved very few people taller than my waist. To be fair though, I was wearing heels.
These little “whipper-snappers” screamed, squealed and ran around the expansive room with abandon. They flew down the slide, watched the magician with wide-eyed wonder, and periodically stood still just long enough for their parents (or nannies) to snap their picture. Admission to the carnival was only $5 – so it felt like every kid from Manhattan and the Bronx was there. It was an abrupt reminder that kids share this city too.
When I started to take note however, I noticed kids everywhere. A handful of kids take the subway to school in the morning with their parents. I’m not sure where they go and I don’t see them every day (some mornings I’m running a little later than others), but they always get off on 79th street. Their over-sized backpacks and lunch boxes stand out in the mass of briefcases and power ties. I started to notice other evidence of children in Manhattan as well.
Nearly every weekend you’ll see a frazzled, exhausted mothers on the train with a sleeping toddler in a stroller. Manhattan generally is not built for strollers. The sidewalks are narrow and packed with people, and the subways only have elevators at express stops, so bringing strollers into and out of the subway almost always takes two people. Doors are narrow and heavy and have you ever tried to take a stroller through a rotating door? Me neither, but it sounds like a bitch. Even if you’re willing to take on the challenge of a stroller in Manhattan, some places just won’t allow you. The pizza place next to my building has the largest dining area in the five boroughs (I’m convinced). Even they have a sign on the front door that specifically prohibits strollers. Trying to navigate a stroller in a typical Manhattan restaurant is impossible so a sign is unnecessary. It would be easier to bring an unruly St. Bernard with you to dinner.
A colleague of mine just had a daughter last week. I was shocked to learn yesterday that he lives my neighborhood. “The upper west side,” I asked, when he told me. “But you just had a child!” He apparently is ready to take the stroller challenge head on.
I have a good friend who was born and grew up mere blocks from my current residence. In the past few weeks, I’ve met some of his elementary, middle and high school classmates. So I know these native Manhattanites exist, it just took a random Friday carnival for me to put the reality of their childhood in context. They didn’t ride a yellow school bus, they rode the nine train. While I took 8th grade Social Science, they enjoyed classes in philosophy, origami, and current events (where the required reading included the New York Times. In eighth. grade.). They didn’t have a backyard to throw the ball around, but they did have access to a 90 acre park. They didn’t get a drivers license when they turned 16 (many of them still don’t know how to drive) because they’ve been hailing cabs since they could hold out their hand. Instead of Cheerios, they enjoyed bagels for breakfast. Their building blocks likely created Maslows Hierarchy of Needs. Instead of movies, they went to the theater. I saw a little boy at Gatz last weekend who liked he was about 8 years old. The 2:00 PM show let out about 9:00 PM. If I was 8, it would be torture to sit in a dark theatre for seven hours. Heck, as an adult I was dubious and I dropped some serious cash to do it! So native New Yorkers are out there. They grow up in a forrest of concrete. Their parents tackled the challenge of strollers, private schools, and precocious dispositions to successfully raise children in Manhattan.
As I grow older myself, it’s encouragig that this opportunity exists. I was in a marketing training this week and the instructor presented a case study of baby formula. He showed a series of pbaby pictures and talked about the psychographic segmentation of women with children. The instructor, raising his voice over the ticking of my biological clock, revealed that every woman in his example lived in New York City. I smiled to myself. Yes, it would be a huge pain in the ass, but having a family in the city was possible. I had a case study, my friend, the subway school kids and a midtown carnival to prove it.
Footnotes: I wrote this blog yesterday and when I got home last night, I had the movie "Babies" waiting for me in the mail from Netflix. Ha ha, Universe, you're hilarious.
I was reminded of this on Friday night at the Armory, a monstrous structure that looms over midtown east. The armory is so expansive it’s almost overwhelming in a city that constantly forces you to shrink, squeeze and hunch to fit into smaller and smaller spaces. It’s so large in fact, they installed an entire carnival there over the weekend. The carnival had a large slide, rotating swings, food booths, a tiny magician tent and an enormous, flashing Ferris Wheel that loomed over the activities in the center of the room.
Usually, Friday activities for me involve standing around in a crowded room with fellow 25-42-year-old professionals dressed in black and sipping alcoholic beverages out of sparkling, over-sized glassware. This Friday evening involved very few people taller than my waist. To be fair though, I was wearing heels.
These little “whipper-snappers” screamed, squealed and ran around the expansive room with abandon. They flew down the slide, watched the magician with wide-eyed wonder, and periodically stood still just long enough for their parents (or nannies) to snap their picture. Admission to the carnival was only $5 – so it felt like every kid from Manhattan and the Bronx was there. It was an abrupt reminder that kids share this city too.
When I started to take note however, I noticed kids everywhere. A handful of kids take the subway to school in the morning with their parents. I’m not sure where they go and I don’t see them every day (some mornings I’m running a little later than others), but they always get off on 79th street. Their over-sized backpacks and lunch boxes stand out in the mass of briefcases and power ties. I started to notice other evidence of children in Manhattan as well.
Nearly every weekend you’ll see a frazzled, exhausted mothers on the train with a sleeping toddler in a stroller. Manhattan generally is not built for strollers. The sidewalks are narrow and packed with people, and the subways only have elevators at express stops, so bringing strollers into and out of the subway almost always takes two people. Doors are narrow and heavy and have you ever tried to take a stroller through a rotating door? Me neither, but it sounds like a bitch. Even if you’re willing to take on the challenge of a stroller in Manhattan, some places just won’t allow you. The pizza place next to my building has the largest dining area in the five boroughs (I’m convinced). Even they have a sign on the front door that specifically prohibits strollers. Trying to navigate a stroller in a typical Manhattan restaurant is impossible so a sign is unnecessary. It would be easier to bring an unruly St. Bernard with you to dinner.
A colleague of mine just had a daughter last week. I was shocked to learn yesterday that he lives my neighborhood. “The upper west side,” I asked, when he told me. “But you just had a child!” He apparently is ready to take the stroller challenge head on.
I have a good friend who was born and grew up mere blocks from my current residence. In the past few weeks, I’ve met some of his elementary, middle and high school classmates. So I know these native Manhattanites exist, it just took a random Friday carnival for me to put the reality of their childhood in context. They didn’t ride a yellow school bus, they rode the nine train. While I took 8th grade Social Science, they enjoyed classes in philosophy, origami, and current events (where the required reading included the New York Times. In eighth. grade.). They didn’t have a backyard to throw the ball around, but they did have access to a 90 acre park. They didn’t get a drivers license when they turned 16 (many of them still don’t know how to drive) because they’ve been hailing cabs since they could hold out their hand. Instead of Cheerios, they enjoyed bagels for breakfast. Their building blocks likely created Maslows Hierarchy of Needs. Instead of movies, they went to the theater. I saw a little boy at Gatz last weekend who liked he was about 8 years old. The 2:00 PM show let out about 9:00 PM. If I was 8, it would be torture to sit in a dark theatre for seven hours. Heck, as an adult I was dubious and I dropped some serious cash to do it! So native New Yorkers are out there. They grow up in a forrest of concrete. Their parents tackled the challenge of strollers, private schools, and precocious dispositions to successfully raise children in Manhattan.
As I grow older myself, it’s encouragig that this opportunity exists. I was in a marketing training this week and the instructor presented a case study of baby formula. He showed a series of pbaby pictures and talked about the psychographic segmentation of women with children. The instructor, raising his voice over the ticking of my biological clock, revealed that every woman in his example lived in New York City. I smiled to myself. Yes, it would be a huge pain in the ass, but having a family in the city was possible. I had a case study, my friend, the subway school kids and a midtown carnival to prove it.
Footnotes: I wrote this blog yesterday and when I got home last night, I had the movie "Babies" waiting for me in the mail from Netflix. Ha ha, Universe, you're hilarious.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Rules of the Rail
The true, accurate, genuine, bona fide, unofficial rules of the New York Subway System
The following is a list of ten rules to be applied when utilizing the New York public subway system. Infringement of said rules will result in no punishment or law enforcement or retribution of any kind, but will officially label you as a “douche” by fellow riders on said Subway system. These rules are technically unauthorized and unsanctioned, but all readers and riders should make every attempt to abide by these rules at all times when riding the subway. Please note: these rules can be altered, enhanced, augmented, modified, amended, revised, reworked, and are subject to change without notice or warning:
Rule 1:
Subway traffic flow will always be initiated with exiting passengers followed by entering passengers.
Amendment 1A: Riders of the New York Subway (hereby referred to as the “subway”), should avoid pushing into the subway prior to the full and entire exodus of outgoing passengers.
Amendment 1B: Those exiting the subway should do so quickly and efficiently. Lollygaggers will not be tolerated and will result in said lollygaggers being stepped on and walked over from incoming subway traffic. If it’s your stop, do not pause, take a breather, suspend, wait, or halt: get off damn the train.
Rule 2:
Upon entering the train, incoming passengers should move to the center of the train. Even if it appears you are the last person on the train, assume you are not. Someone will inevitably jump on the train after you, nano-seconds before the doors close, causing a domino effect of shoving and teeter-tottering bodies and will cause said subway doors to open and close 7-8 times sequentially, thereby delaying the departure of the train. You are never the last person on the train. Never.
Amendment 2A: Moving to the center of the train means physically moving away from the doors. This will likely mean standing in front of a seated passenger. That’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.
Amendment 2B: Headphones do not exempt you from Rule 2. While headphones (or “i-buds” as the kids call them these days) have the potential to hinder your ability to hear what’s going on around you, headphones actually have no affect on your visual competence or your capacity to notice that someone behind you is trying to get on the train. Headphones may make it feel like you’re somewhere else, but you know you’re on a train. Make room for the person behind you.
Rule 3:
Under no circumstances should a rider lean, hug or otherwise embrace the holding pole* thereby warranting the pole useless for other riders. The pole is meant to be shared.
Amendment 3A: Respect the holding pole. Don’t sneeze into your hand and then grab the pole. Come on! No one likes a snotty pole.
Amendment 3B: If you have children, don’t let them lick the pole. Note that all riders do not adhere to Amendment 3A – so – eeeww….
Clause 3B1: As a general rule, it’s good to avoid letting your kids tongue anything on the subway – the poles, the seats, the windows – kids should keep their tongues in their mouths while on the train.
Clause 3B2: Clause 3B1 also applies to adults.
Rule 4:
The following is prohibited during rush hour:
- Over-sized luggage
- Bicycles
- Walkers
- Mariachi Bands
- “Let’s Go Europe” backpacks
- Break-dancers**
Rush hour is about transporting as many bodies as possible in a condensed time period. One bike = 3 bodies. It’s simple math. If you have a bike, perhaps you should ride it.
Amendment 4A: In the rare occasion where a seat is available during rush hour, it is mandatory that the nearest passenger must sit. An empty seat = a potential rider whose been left behind on the platform and will have to wait 3-5 minutes for the next train which could mean the difference between a clean carpet and a dog emptying his bladder because he just couldn’t hold it that last 90 seconds. Basically, it comes down to doggy pee. So take the seat because that stuff is hard to get out.
Rule 5:
Yes, Amendment 4A spoke of “taking the seat,” but Rule 5 is about giving up your seat. The following is an official chart of seat hierarchy:
- Elderly Female***
- Pregnant Female****
- Child with crutches
- Adult with crutches
- Elderly Male
- Adult with stroller *****
- Child (male or female) under 12
- Adult Female (able-bodied)
- Adult Male (able-bodied)
- Male (16-18)******
Rule 6:
If you choose to tell your story about being homeless and having a wife / husband with a deadly disease and having three children under the age of three and a sweet yellow lab with one eye who needs doggy treats and an aging mother suffering from Alzheimer’s aloud to your fellow subway passengers and you say something like “anything will help…money….food…” and a good-hearted subway user from the west coast gives you a perfectly healthy, unopened, delicious, pecan flavored granola bar, you can, under no circumstances reject the granola bar. This is prohibited. You must take the granola bar. It doesn’t matter if it is the tenth granola bar you’ve received that day. You asked for food and must take the food. A “thank you” would also be appreciated.
Rule 7:
Your music is awesome. It is so awesome you want to play it really loud. If I’m in the next car however, and can hear the music on your i-pod, it’s probably a little loud. Listen to your music. Love your music. But don’t share your music…it’s yours! Other passengers don’t want to hear it.
Rule 8:
Eating on the subway is permitted but should be limited to contained, compact and easily edible food. All foods with excessive crumbs, globs, girth, sauce, or packaging should be avoided. This is rule is subject to interpretation and passengers should use their best judgment. Prohibited foods include, but are not limited to the following:
- Falafel
- Over-sized Philly Cheesecake sandwiches where th e cheese oozes out the back
- Crumb Cake
- Spaghetti
- Juicy, over-sized, hamburgers
- Anything that takes both a knife and fork to consume
Amenment 8A: Foods with pungent odors should also be avoided whenever possible.
Rule 9:
In a crowded subway, if you are closest to the door and the train comes to a stop, you must temporarily step off the train to let people off. You will be guaranteed premium access back on the train once the exiting passengers have departed.
Amendment 9A: If you are waiting for a train and see someone step off the train to let exiting passengers off - you must let them get back on the train before stepping on yourself. Stepping in front of them to enter the train will lead to automatic douche status.
Rule 10:
Do not urinate on the train.*******
* At time of publication, the author of this publication could not think of a better term for “holding pole.” The “holding pole” is the stripper-like pole in the center of the train that exists for people to hold onto so they don’t fall down during the general turbulence of subway travel.
** It’s all fun and games until someone gets kicked in the face….which I’ve seen happen. Let’s keep the break-dancing where it belongs –1986.
*** Less defined by age and more by fragility. If she could play a sweet old grandmother in a black and white movie, she gets the seat, hands down. On the subway culture, elderly ladies rein supreme. They should always have a seat. No exceptions.
****If the pregnancy is questionable, use caution. Giving up your seat to an overweight woman could be offensive to her and create an uncomfortable ride for the person sitting next to her.
***** Please note: The stroller MUST have a child. If the stroller is carrying groceries, clothes, or other miscellaneous items, this person should not get a seat and should not be riding during rush hour (see Rule 4).
****** It may not be fair, but teenage boys are almost always standing on the train. Don’t shed too many tears though, they have the metabolism to eat six meals a day topped off by a liter of Coke and jumbo pack of king-size Oreos (double stuffed!) without gaining an ounce – so the cosmic karma all shakes out.
*******This may seem like an obvious one, but apparently it's not. Urinating on the train creates a phenomena called "stinky car", which, not unlike "unair-conditioned car" in the summer, leads to a mass exodus of passengers at every stop running frantically for the next car over. Also, pee on the train runs down the length of the car, so no one is safe from its path. Pee on the train is just no fun for anyone.
Thank you for taking the time to read these 10 rules and regulations in regards to the New York City Subway. If we can all follow these ten simple rules, subway transit will run smoother and every ride will be a little more pleasant for us all.
The following is a list of ten rules to be applied when utilizing the New York public subway system. Infringement of said rules will result in no punishment or law enforcement or retribution of any kind, but will officially label you as a “douche” by fellow riders on said Subway system. These rules are technically unauthorized and unsanctioned, but all readers and riders should make every attempt to abide by these rules at all times when riding the subway. Please note: these rules can be altered, enhanced, augmented, modified, amended, revised, reworked, and are subject to change without notice or warning:
Rule 1:
Subway traffic flow will always be initiated with exiting passengers followed by entering passengers.
Amendment 1A: Riders of the New York Subway (hereby referred to as the “subway”), should avoid pushing into the subway prior to the full and entire exodus of outgoing passengers.
Amendment 1B: Those exiting the subway should do so quickly and efficiently. Lollygaggers will not be tolerated and will result in said lollygaggers being stepped on and walked over from incoming subway traffic. If it’s your stop, do not pause, take a breather, suspend, wait, or halt: get off damn the train.
Rule 2:
Upon entering the train, incoming passengers should move to the center of the train. Even if it appears you are the last person on the train, assume you are not. Someone will inevitably jump on the train after you, nano-seconds before the doors close, causing a domino effect of shoving and teeter-tottering bodies and will cause said subway doors to open and close 7-8 times sequentially, thereby delaying the departure of the train. You are never the last person on the train. Never.
Amendment 2A: Moving to the center of the train means physically moving away from the doors. This will likely mean standing in front of a seated passenger. That’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Sometimes it’s unavoidable.
Amendment 2B: Headphones do not exempt you from Rule 2. While headphones (or “i-buds” as the kids call them these days) have the potential to hinder your ability to hear what’s going on around you, headphones actually have no affect on your visual competence or your capacity to notice that someone behind you is trying to get on the train. Headphones may make it feel like you’re somewhere else, but you know you’re on a train. Make room for the person behind you.
Rule 3:
Under no circumstances should a rider lean, hug or otherwise embrace the holding pole* thereby warranting the pole useless for other riders. The pole is meant to be shared.
Amendment 3A: Respect the holding pole. Don’t sneeze into your hand and then grab the pole. Come on! No one likes a snotty pole.
Amendment 3B: If you have children, don’t let them lick the pole. Note that all riders do not adhere to Amendment 3A – so – eeeww….
Clause 3B1: As a general rule, it’s good to avoid letting your kids tongue anything on the subway – the poles, the seats, the windows – kids should keep their tongues in their mouths while on the train.
Clause 3B2: Clause 3B1 also applies to adults.
Rule 4:
The following is prohibited during rush hour:
- Over-sized luggage
- Bicycles
- Walkers
- Mariachi Bands
- “Let’s Go Europe” backpacks
- Break-dancers**
Rush hour is about transporting as many bodies as possible in a condensed time period. One bike = 3 bodies. It’s simple math. If you have a bike, perhaps you should ride it.
Amendment 4A: In the rare occasion where a seat is available during rush hour, it is mandatory that the nearest passenger must sit. An empty seat = a potential rider whose been left behind on the platform and will have to wait 3-5 minutes for the next train which could mean the difference between a clean carpet and a dog emptying his bladder because he just couldn’t hold it that last 90 seconds. Basically, it comes down to doggy pee. So take the seat because that stuff is hard to get out.
Rule 5:
Yes, Amendment 4A spoke of “taking the seat,” but Rule 5 is about giving up your seat. The following is an official chart of seat hierarchy:
- Elderly Female***
- Pregnant Female****
- Child with crutches
- Adult with crutches
- Elderly Male
- Adult with stroller *****
- Child (male or female) under 12
- Adult Female (able-bodied)
- Adult Male (able-bodied)
- Male (16-18)******
Rule 6:
If you choose to tell your story about being homeless and having a wife / husband with a deadly disease and having three children under the age of three and a sweet yellow lab with one eye who needs doggy treats and an aging mother suffering from Alzheimer’s aloud to your fellow subway passengers and you say something like “anything will help…money….food…” and a good-hearted subway user from the west coast gives you a perfectly healthy, unopened, delicious, pecan flavored granola bar, you can, under no circumstances reject the granola bar. This is prohibited. You must take the granola bar. It doesn’t matter if it is the tenth granola bar you’ve received that day. You asked for food and must take the food. A “thank you” would also be appreciated.
Rule 7:
Your music is awesome. It is so awesome you want to play it really loud. If I’m in the next car however, and can hear the music on your i-pod, it’s probably a little loud. Listen to your music. Love your music. But don’t share your music…it’s yours! Other passengers don’t want to hear it.
Rule 8:
Eating on the subway is permitted but should be limited to contained, compact and easily edible food. All foods with excessive crumbs, globs, girth, sauce, or packaging should be avoided. This is rule is subject to interpretation and passengers should use their best judgment. Prohibited foods include, but are not limited to the following:
- Falafel
- Over-sized Philly Cheesecake sandwiches where th e cheese oozes out the back
- Crumb Cake
- Spaghetti
- Juicy, over-sized, hamburgers
- Anything that takes both a knife and fork to consume
Amenment 8A: Foods with pungent odors should also be avoided whenever possible.
Rule 9:
In a crowded subway, if you are closest to the door and the train comes to a stop, you must temporarily step off the train to let people off. You will be guaranteed premium access back on the train once the exiting passengers have departed.
Amendment 9A: If you are waiting for a train and see someone step off the train to let exiting passengers off - you must let them get back on the train before stepping on yourself. Stepping in front of them to enter the train will lead to automatic douche status.
Rule 10:
Do not urinate on the train.*******
* At time of publication, the author of this publication could not think of a better term for “holding pole.” The “holding pole” is the stripper-like pole in the center of the train that exists for people to hold onto so they don’t fall down during the general turbulence of subway travel.
** It’s all fun and games until someone gets kicked in the face….which I’ve seen happen. Let’s keep the break-dancing where it belongs –1986.
*** Less defined by age and more by fragility. If she could play a sweet old grandmother in a black and white movie, she gets the seat, hands down. On the subway culture, elderly ladies rein supreme. They should always have a seat. No exceptions.
****If the pregnancy is questionable, use caution. Giving up your seat to an overweight woman could be offensive to her and create an uncomfortable ride for the person sitting next to her.
***** Please note: The stroller MUST have a child. If the stroller is carrying groceries, clothes, or other miscellaneous items, this person should not get a seat and should not be riding during rush hour (see Rule 4).
****** It may not be fair, but teenage boys are almost always standing on the train. Don’t shed too many tears though, they have the metabolism to eat six meals a day topped off by a liter of Coke and jumbo pack of king-size Oreos (double stuffed!) without gaining an ounce – so the cosmic karma all shakes out.
*******This may seem like an obvious one, but apparently it's not. Urinating on the train creates a phenomena called "stinky car", which, not unlike "unair-conditioned car" in the summer, leads to a mass exodus of passengers at every stop running frantically for the next car over. Also, pee on the train runs down the length of the car, so no one is safe from its path. Pee on the train is just no fun for anyone.
Thank you for taking the time to read these 10 rules and regulations in regards to the New York City Subway. If we can all follow these ten simple rules, subway transit will run smoother and every ride will be a little more pleasant for us all.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Quiet Down!
New York is loud. It's the rumble of the train, the honk of the horn, the blare of the siren, the wail of the guitar from a street performer, the pounding of 4 million pairs of heels, the base from a boom box, the constant chatter of the people always around you. It's the white, incessant noise of the city. Like the blazing lights that shine off this island, the noise of New York is omnipresent.
For the most part, you don't really notice this constant noise. There are few exceptions, however. When you're waiting for the train, for example, listening to the latest Radio Lab on your i-pod. You can have the volume maxed out and you won't be able to hear a word if the express train rumbles by. Not one word.
Or if you're taking the subway home late on a Saturday night when everyone is wired and chatty. If you try to have a conversation with the person next to you, you'll have to raise your voice just to be heard and even then they won't hear everything even when they're right next to you.
I really started to notice the noise of New York after I lost my voice two Sundays in a row. I couldn't figure out the cause at first. I hadn't been to a rock show or anything and I hadn't been teaching a large number of classes. The only thing both weekend had in common were birthdays.
Both birthday parties were held at dark, trendy, intimate bars below 30th St. Both birthdays had packed the bar with interesting, lovely, lively people and both had loud music flowing trough the room in addition to the gin and whiskey. Loud Music + Great People = Damaged Vocal Chords. I found myself literally yelling into the ears of people I had just met. An evening of this creates a husky voice the next day. Ten years of it, though, can cause serious damage.
I have a dear friend who just went to the doctor last week to see why his voice was always raspy. It turns out he has developed nodules on his vocal chords that will only shrink if he keeps his speaking voice at a soft whisper for 3-4 weeks. I don't know how he is going to do it. We both agreed that any kind of socializing was completely out of the question. He can't even take his girlfriend to dinner. In New York, restaurants are small, tables are set within inches of each other, and most are usually packed. That means a romantic dinner for two often involves yelling at each other across the table. So dinner is out, bar hopping is out, and any kind of rock concert or sporting event that actually encourages yelling is, of course, out of the question.
He can't even have a conversation with someone while walking down the street. Such a mundane activity might seem benign, but between the roars and honks and blares of the city, you must project forcefully to be heard. After a while, you do this conversational yelling without even thinking about it. It's when you're forced to stop when it becomes a real challenge.
My friend is just going to have to lay low for a while. The city isn't accommodating for someone forced to whisper. Simply put, to succeed in New York, you have to be able to yell.
For the most part, you don't really notice this constant noise. There are few exceptions, however. When you're waiting for the train, for example, listening to the latest Radio Lab on your i-pod. You can have the volume maxed out and you won't be able to hear a word if the express train rumbles by. Not one word.
Or if you're taking the subway home late on a Saturday night when everyone is wired and chatty. If you try to have a conversation with the person next to you, you'll have to raise your voice just to be heard and even then they won't hear everything even when they're right next to you.
I really started to notice the noise of New York after I lost my voice two Sundays in a row. I couldn't figure out the cause at first. I hadn't been to a rock show or anything and I hadn't been teaching a large number of classes. The only thing both weekend had in common were birthdays.
Both birthday parties were held at dark, trendy, intimate bars below 30th St. Both birthdays had packed the bar with interesting, lovely, lively people and both had loud music flowing trough the room in addition to the gin and whiskey. Loud Music + Great People = Damaged Vocal Chords. I found myself literally yelling into the ears of people I had just met. An evening of this creates a husky voice the next day. Ten years of it, though, can cause serious damage.
I have a dear friend who just went to the doctor last week to see why his voice was always raspy. It turns out he has developed nodules on his vocal chords that will only shrink if he keeps his speaking voice at a soft whisper for 3-4 weeks. I don't know how he is going to do it. We both agreed that any kind of socializing was completely out of the question. He can't even take his girlfriend to dinner. In New York, restaurants are small, tables are set within inches of each other, and most are usually packed. That means a romantic dinner for two often involves yelling at each other across the table. So dinner is out, bar hopping is out, and any kind of rock concert or sporting event that actually encourages yelling is, of course, out of the question.
He can't even have a conversation with someone while walking down the street. Such a mundane activity might seem benign, but between the roars and honks and blares of the city, you must project forcefully to be heard. After a while, you do this conversational yelling without even thinking about it. It's when you're forced to stop when it becomes a real challenge.
My friend is just going to have to lay low for a while. The city isn't accommodating for someone forced to whisper. Simply put, to succeed in New York, you have to be able to yell.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Taking Myself Out
I've met a lot of great people in New York. In my short time here, my circle of friends has grown from tiny to small. What I lack in quantity however, I more than make up in quality. Each friend offers something unique and precious. I feel grateful every day to have them.
That being said, because I now have friends, I no longer venture out to the city alone very often. When I first moved here, I would go out solo quite a bit out of necessity. I didn' t know anyone and I didn't want to stay home, so out I would go. I would almost inevitably find an interesting person or have a great experience.
When you go out with friends it's also wonderful, but it becomes more about the friend and the interaction with them and less about the experience. I've decided to try and take a day a week where I take myself out. I don't want loose that feeling of giving myself completely to the city - to seeing where it takes me.
I started last Friday. I took myself out to a lecture at the Met with the famous director Norm Jeweson. He was being interviewed on stage by a New York Times film critic about his famous movie In the Heat of the Night. I had never seen the movie and thought this would be a good way to do it. I got free tickets online and took the 6 to the upper east side.
It was a grey, cool, drizzly evening and I got to the neighborhood early. I ducked into a small French restaurant and made myself comfortable at one of the four stools at the tiny bar. The oversized bartender was washing glasses when I came in. He turned immediately to take my order - a Manhattan.
As he made my drink, he revealed that this was his first shift at this bar and my Manhattan was his very first drink. I felt honored. He also said he was excited about my order - he didn't want his first drink to be a white wine or beer - or worse, some fancy concoction known only by the truly wealthy. I assured him his Manhattan was delicious and it was.
We started talking about his upbringing in Brooklyn and a recent finishing trip with his Dad in the Hamptons. He was 24 and had worked in a small bar in Brooklyn since he was 16. He viewed this move as a way to venture out and spread his wings. It was a big step for him and I felt lucky to be a part of this momentous move. Our conversation was extended by complimentary appetizers and pleasant company and I was 30 minutes late to the lecture.
My tardiness was inconsequential. Norm Jeweson had a family emergency and wasn't able to make it.
The movie was great, but wasn't the highlight of my evening. I was grateful to be a part of helping a fellow New Yorker start his own adventure and take a big step toward reaching his full potential. The city is full of stories - that evening I felt privlidged to be part of one about new beginnings.
That being said, because I now have friends, I no longer venture out to the city alone very often. When I first moved here, I would go out solo quite a bit out of necessity. I didn' t know anyone and I didn't want to stay home, so out I would go. I would almost inevitably find an interesting person or have a great experience.
When you go out with friends it's also wonderful, but it becomes more about the friend and the interaction with them and less about the experience. I've decided to try and take a day a week where I take myself out. I don't want loose that feeling of giving myself completely to the city - to seeing where it takes me.
I started last Friday. I took myself out to a lecture at the Met with the famous director Norm Jeweson. He was being interviewed on stage by a New York Times film critic about his famous movie In the Heat of the Night. I had never seen the movie and thought this would be a good way to do it. I got free tickets online and took the 6 to the upper east side.
It was a grey, cool, drizzly evening and I got to the neighborhood early. I ducked into a small French restaurant and made myself comfortable at one of the four stools at the tiny bar. The oversized bartender was washing glasses when I came in. He turned immediately to take my order - a Manhattan.
As he made my drink, he revealed that this was his first shift at this bar and my Manhattan was his very first drink. I felt honored. He also said he was excited about my order - he didn't want his first drink to be a white wine or beer - or worse, some fancy concoction known only by the truly wealthy. I assured him his Manhattan was delicious and it was.
We started talking about his upbringing in Brooklyn and a recent finishing trip with his Dad in the Hamptons. He was 24 and had worked in a small bar in Brooklyn since he was 16. He viewed this move as a way to venture out and spread his wings. It was a big step for him and I felt lucky to be a part of this momentous move. Our conversation was extended by complimentary appetizers and pleasant company and I was 30 minutes late to the lecture.
My tardiness was inconsequential. Norm Jeweson had a family emergency and wasn't able to make it.
The movie was great, but wasn't the highlight of my evening. I was grateful to be a part of helping a fellow New Yorker start his own adventure and take a big step toward reaching his full potential. The city is full of stories - that evening I felt privlidged to be part of one about new beginnings.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Great White Way
When I first moved to New York, one of the objections I got from friends in Seattle was that I wouldn’t enjoy New York if I lived in New York. They worried I would get bogged down with daily rituals and routine and wouldn't take the time to relish in all New York has to offer the way I did as a visitor. I would say that while they were 90% wrong, there was 10% that was right.
Since I’ve moved to New York, I haven’t been to the Empire States Building, the Statue of Liberty or Carnegie Hall. And as a theatre lover, I have to admit I have not been to the Great White Way in months. New Yorkers generally don’t go to Broadway. It’s amazing how people who will throw down $100 on a few cocktails without batting an eye will balk at Broadway prices. I attended a fundraiser for the lower eastside where plates were $1000 and my host, who paid for my admission, told me he thought Broadway was “too rich for his blood.” Reactions when I first moved here and went to shows varied from: “Wow. Really? Did you come into some money?” to “Dollah dollah bill y’all!” Somehow the value equasion for Broadway does not jive for natives. Broadway is almost exclusively a tourist destination.
That does not, however, mean I have been void of theatre. In fact, I’m seeing more theater here than ever before. There are off-Broadway shows and tons of festivals that keep original theatre flourishing throughout Manhattan. Last month it was the New York Fringe Festival. They extended 30 of the top shows in the month of September and I made an effort to attend three of them. The quality ranged from good to bad to (of course) ugly.
The Good
The best show was the first one I saw – a little piece called Jurassic Parq the Musical. It was a gem. At a running time of 70 minutes, they jammed in a musical repertoire that ranged from gospel to rap to ragtime, and dramatic themes that ranged from gender identity to existentialism to the supreme question of faith versus science – and it was a scream! The audience laughed the entire time. It was everything good musical theatre should be – entertaining, thought-provoking, fun, and you left the theatre singing the songs from the show. I loved it so much, I saw it twice. I wanted to share the joy and was not disappointed the second time around.
The Bad
The final show I took in was called Bunked about camp counselors. The talent was incredible, but the story, music, and dialogue were so mundane I found myself dozing off at certain points. Every song sounded the same, every character was a caricature and the set was hokey and distracting. Even the pacing of the storyline was abrupt and awkward. That being said, the cast gave it 100% and were incredibly talented. Their voices shone through the theatre and they threw themselves into the mediocre score. Their talent simply wasn’t enough to overcome the stinky script and music. It was too bad, but they did manage to salvage the production to a point where it wasn’t a total and complete waste of time. I went to the show with a friend who screens musicals for a living. His reaction was more direct. “I’m not spending a dime on that show,” he said as we left the theatre.
I was sorry I did.
The Ugly
For my birthday, I could think of nothing better than taking in some original musical theatre. I bought tickets to the audience winner of the Fringe Festival – a little production called Viva Los Bastarditos. The story seemed weird and the reviews were mixed, but I was optimistic. I knew it was going to be great.
I was wrong.
It was the story of these three band members, the "Pickles," who move back to some land they own in Western Massachusettes. No, I'm not making this up, this was the actual story. An evil wrong-doer played by a man with tiny nostrals and pointy eyebrows decides to forge a document that says he owns all the land and starts creating crazy laws that make the "towns folk" (all four of them), miserable. It's up to the "Pickles" to don masks and homemade capes and save the day.
We left at intermission.
I went with a friend whose only comment throughout the first act was: "What the fuck is happening?" Exactly.
What was happening, in fact, was New York theatre. Real New York theatre isn't neccessarily the glossy pop you find on Broadway, where every decision is based on money. Why else would 90% of the shows come from movies or books or TV shows? These musicals cater to tourists who shell out a lot of money and don't want to be disappointed.
I paid $20 for Los Bastarditos and I was pissed! Imagine if I had paid the Broadway prices of $125+. I would be beside myself. It would reflect poorly on New York. So instead, musicals are produced with familiar characters and story lines. Everyone knows walking into the theatre that they like Shrek or Spiderman or Mary Poppins. Their love is prepopulated. The real risks are taken off Broadway - south of 14th street. That's where theatre still soars, and sometimes falls flat.
So my friends in Seattle turned out to be right - I don't go to Broadway as much as I thought I would. Instead, I enjoy a different kind of theatre - just as I enjoy a different kind of New York.
Since I’ve moved to New York, I haven’t been to the Empire States Building, the Statue of Liberty or Carnegie Hall. And as a theatre lover, I have to admit I have not been to the Great White Way in months. New Yorkers generally don’t go to Broadway. It’s amazing how people who will throw down $100 on a few cocktails without batting an eye will balk at Broadway prices. I attended a fundraiser for the lower eastside where plates were $1000 and my host, who paid for my admission, told me he thought Broadway was “too rich for his blood.” Reactions when I first moved here and went to shows varied from: “Wow. Really? Did you come into some money?” to “Dollah dollah bill y’all!” Somehow the value equasion for Broadway does not jive for natives. Broadway is almost exclusively a tourist destination.
That does not, however, mean I have been void of theatre. In fact, I’m seeing more theater here than ever before. There are off-Broadway shows and tons of festivals that keep original theatre flourishing throughout Manhattan. Last month it was the New York Fringe Festival. They extended 30 of the top shows in the month of September and I made an effort to attend three of them. The quality ranged from good to bad to (of course) ugly.
The Good
The best show was the first one I saw – a little piece called Jurassic Parq the Musical. It was a gem. At a running time of 70 minutes, they jammed in a musical repertoire that ranged from gospel to rap to ragtime, and dramatic themes that ranged from gender identity to existentialism to the supreme question of faith versus science – and it was a scream! The audience laughed the entire time. It was everything good musical theatre should be – entertaining, thought-provoking, fun, and you left the theatre singing the songs from the show. I loved it so much, I saw it twice. I wanted to share the joy and was not disappointed the second time around.
The Bad
The final show I took in was called Bunked about camp counselors. The talent was incredible, but the story, music, and dialogue were so mundane I found myself dozing off at certain points. Every song sounded the same, every character was a caricature and the set was hokey and distracting. Even the pacing of the storyline was abrupt and awkward. That being said, the cast gave it 100% and were incredibly talented. Their voices shone through the theatre and they threw themselves into the mediocre score. Their talent simply wasn’t enough to overcome the stinky script and music. It was too bad, but they did manage to salvage the production to a point where it wasn’t a total and complete waste of time. I went to the show with a friend who screens musicals for a living. His reaction was more direct. “I’m not spending a dime on that show,” he said as we left the theatre.
I was sorry I did.
The Ugly
For my birthday, I could think of nothing better than taking in some original musical theatre. I bought tickets to the audience winner of the Fringe Festival – a little production called Viva Los Bastarditos. The story seemed weird and the reviews were mixed, but I was optimistic. I knew it was going to be great.
I was wrong.
It was the story of these three band members, the "Pickles," who move back to some land they own in Western Massachusettes. No, I'm not making this up, this was the actual story. An evil wrong-doer played by a man with tiny nostrals and pointy eyebrows decides to forge a document that says he owns all the land and starts creating crazy laws that make the "towns folk" (all four of them), miserable. It's up to the "Pickles" to don masks and homemade capes and save the day.
We left at intermission.
I went with a friend whose only comment throughout the first act was: "What the fuck is happening?" Exactly.
What was happening, in fact, was New York theatre. Real New York theatre isn't neccessarily the glossy pop you find on Broadway, where every decision is based on money. Why else would 90% of the shows come from movies or books or TV shows? These musicals cater to tourists who shell out a lot of money and don't want to be disappointed.
I paid $20 for Los Bastarditos and I was pissed! Imagine if I had paid the Broadway prices of $125+. I would be beside myself. It would reflect poorly on New York. So instead, musicals are produced with familiar characters and story lines. Everyone knows walking into the theatre that they like Shrek or Spiderman or Mary Poppins. Their love is prepopulated. The real risks are taken off Broadway - south of 14th street. That's where theatre still soars, and sometimes falls flat.
So my friends in Seattle turned out to be right - I don't go to Broadway as much as I thought I would. Instead, I enjoy a different kind of theatre - just as I enjoy a different kind of New York.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Take me Out to the Ballgame
The Yankees have a certain reputation across the country. They’re spoiled, over-paid, pretty boys who complain about their diamond shoes being too tight and their wallets not having enough room for their hundreds. Basically, they’re the privileged youth - the Blaine, not the Ducky - of Major League Baseball.
This reputation is polarizing. Across the country and across New York, people either love or hate the Yankees. 2010 marked the inaugural year of the new Yankees Stadium and last week I was fortunate enough to take in a game there for the first time.
My friend Ian and his girl have eight season tickets and are avid fans. Last Tuesday they had an extra ticket and invited me to tag alone. They were the perfect hosts to the new stadium – they weren’t your garden variety special-occasion-walk-off-the-street kind of fans. No, they had a whole system going on and were more than happy to show me the ropes.
We started at the Yankee bar, a small hole in the wall with friendly service and stiff drinks. I had a bit of a throat issue going on, so I sipped whiskey, but their group’s drink of choice was universally Bud Light. This Bud Light affection continued through the night. There was a group of six – which was a great size to take in a game. We watched the first inning on television as the real game happened less than 200 yards away. The Yankees took a strong lead (5-0), so we were rather casual about getting to the stadium.
After the drinks, we meandered over to the field. I don’t exactly know where our seats were, because we immediately went to a small area right behind home plate. Ian seemed to know everyone in the area and introduced me around. It felt a bit like going to a cocktail party (or a barbecue – wink) as it was 80% socializing and drinking and 20% actually watching the baseball activity happening literally in front of our eyes.
We talked of puppies and parking, women and warts- anything and everything but baseball. We stayed posted at this spot until the seventh inning stretch and then hiked up three flights to another viewing spot they scouted.
This one was outside a restaurant, so there were actual tables on which to place your drinks. The view was amazing a more expansive than the first. We stayed there through the end of the eighth inning. At that point, while it wasn’t the end of the game, it was time for us to go.
The group continued to party and went from the game to another bar in the area. I opted out and said my farewells. It was past 11:00 and I was teaching in the morning. I had a great time, though. It was so different than the experience I would have if I just went there alone. I would undoubtedly get to the stadium and go directly to my seat . I would likely be there on time and stay through the end of the game. I would probably avoid purchasing any beer at the stadium (at $10 a pop….for Bud Light!), and would have had a perfectly lovely time at the game. As it happened though, it felt like the baseball was secondary and it was all about hanging out with friends. It was a more intimate, social experience that made me feel like a true New Yorker....and I loved every minute of it.
This reputation is polarizing. Across the country and across New York, people either love or hate the Yankees. 2010 marked the inaugural year of the new Yankees Stadium and last week I was fortunate enough to take in a game there for the first time.
My friend Ian and his girl have eight season tickets and are avid fans. Last Tuesday they had an extra ticket and invited me to tag alone. They were the perfect hosts to the new stadium – they weren’t your garden variety special-occasion-walk-off-the-street kind of fans. No, they had a whole system going on and were more than happy to show me the ropes.
We started at the Yankee bar, a small hole in the wall with friendly service and stiff drinks. I had a bit of a throat issue going on, so I sipped whiskey, but their group’s drink of choice was universally Bud Light. This Bud Light affection continued through the night. There was a group of six – which was a great size to take in a game. We watched the first inning on television as the real game happened less than 200 yards away. The Yankees took a strong lead (5-0), so we were rather casual about getting to the stadium.
After the drinks, we meandered over to the field. I don’t exactly know where our seats were, because we immediately went to a small area right behind home plate. Ian seemed to know everyone in the area and introduced me around. It felt a bit like going to a cocktail party (or a barbecue – wink) as it was 80% socializing and drinking and 20% actually watching the baseball activity happening literally in front of our eyes.
We talked of puppies and parking, women and warts- anything and everything but baseball. We stayed posted at this spot until the seventh inning stretch and then hiked up three flights to another viewing spot they scouted.
This one was outside a restaurant, so there were actual tables on which to place your drinks. The view was amazing a more expansive than the first. We stayed there through the end of the eighth inning. At that point, while it wasn’t the end of the game, it was time for us to go.
The group continued to party and went from the game to another bar in the area. I opted out and said my farewells. It was past 11:00 and I was teaching in the morning. I had a great time, though. It was so different than the experience I would have if I just went there alone. I would undoubtedly get to the stadium and go directly to my seat . I would likely be there on time and stay through the end of the game. I would probably avoid purchasing any beer at the stadium (at $10 a pop….for Bud Light!), and would have had a perfectly lovely time at the game. As it happened though, it felt like the baseball was secondary and it was all about hanging out with friends. It was a more intimate, social experience that made me feel like a true New Yorker....and I loved every minute of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)