Okay. I now have a new winner for the best Subway experience after this weekend…well, at least top three. I had just come from the theatre (pause for shock), so it was about 11:00 PM on a Saturday night and after a glass of wine at intermission and another with dinner four hours earlier, I was probably the most sober person waiting for the 2.
It started with a one-toothed woman asking which side of the platform was uptown (for the record, both sides went uptown), and doing a spontaneous dance when I told her she was the in right place. Because of the dental situation, she kind of freaked me out , so I made a conscious decision when the train arrived to stay out of her car. As a result, I followed this couple into the train that had obviously been drinking…heavily.
The woman got a seat and the man stood comfortably between her legs when the train closed its doors and started to accelerate. The train was packed and I stood roughly two feet away. I was getting off at 72nd to find a friendly bar on Amsterdam, which meant I was only on this train one stop. One stop and 30 blocks.
Early in on the five-minute ride, the woman reached into her purse and pulled out her i-pod. She turned up the music and handed an ear bud to the man, sticking the other in her own ear. They both started listening to the music and moving to the sexy beats only they could hear. By the end of the ride, they were full on grinding to the music. They used the bench, switched positions, got on the floor, used a pole, moved other people out of the way – it was amazing. They basically had sex with their clothes on in front of 60 strangers. Even the unshakable New Yorkers riding with me were a little fazed. We exchanged glances and occasionally laughed out loud at their outrageous, spontaneous performance. Did they realize they weren’t in a dance club? That they were, in fact, the only people who could hear this intoxicating beat? Or were they just drunk and horny?
You know, it was probably the latter, but whatever it was, it made for a great subway ride and a good shared laugh with my fellow New Yorkers. God, I love the Subway.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
I have a theatre habit. I might need an intervention:
In the last ten days, I’ve been to the theatre four times. Four. Times. Last weekend I went to see Lend Me a Tenor. An older play, to be sure, but it got fantastic reviews, was nominated for a Tony and in the Cheap Tickets line, the line for plays only had four people and the line for musicals had thousands. So Lend Me a Tenor it was. The show was tight, the blocking was clever the performances were great – but I still walked away wishing there was a little more….music.
The next day was dreary, so I went to a converted church around the corner from my house and saw Macbeth. I loved it. The weather and surroundings were perfect for such a macabre tale and I was immediately transported to that world. Leaving the theatre I had to blink several times to adjust to the light, despite the heavy clouds, not only because of my time spent in the dark room, but because of the dark subject matter.
Last night I saw a musical based on Dan Savage’s novel, The Kid, a memoire he wrote about he and his partner adopting a child from a homeless girl in Portland. The show had some old favorites – cast members from Title of Show, Avenue Q and Company – and the first act was tight, entertaining, edgy, and a lot of fun – some of the best theatre I’ve seen since I moved here. The talent was fantastic and it was a joy and pleasure to witness. The second act left something to be desired as it deteriorated into sap and schmaltz and slow, forgettable ballads about the joys of becoming a parent…blah blah blah….but overall I enjoyed myself immensely.
Today, I went to see White’s Lies with Helen, my friend from work. Helen used to work at BAM and has a membership to this online club that gets her free tickets to the arts. Once on this magical site, you can simply click a button and receive tickets to dozens of shows within a day or two of curtain….FREE! It is a dangerous site to which she’s graciously granted me access. It will be all I can do not to be on that puppy daily.
In fact, moving to New York for me is kind of like an alcoholic moving into a bar or a diabetic moving into a chocolate factory – maybe it’s too much of a good thing. I love the theatre. My very favorite, ideal, perfect day would definitely involve a visit to the theatre. I get goose bumps when the lights go down and the music swells – the energy and joy of the theatre is absolutely thrilling. It’s one of my favorite things on earth.
This is okay in a town like Seattle, where you can make plans to attend community theatre or touring shows ten times a year or so, but here, theatre is everywhere. There are four theatres within four square miles of my house. Four. And now with the obstacle of outrageous $125 Broadway ticket prices no longer an issue (thank you Helen!), I might be moving into the theatre.
I must show discretion. I must not overdose for fear of losing my love of the theatre or (heaven forbid) making it a less “special” experience due to overexposure.
I don’t really see that happening though. The theatre is magical. Every performance, every line, every note is a unique moment into and of itself. That’s an experience that will be very hard to touch, even if I see a show every single day.
So for now I’m going to push my fears aside and continue to utilize this great gift of New York City. For the next several months, you’ll know where to find me. That place where the lights go down and the curtain goes up.
The next day was dreary, so I went to a converted church around the corner from my house and saw Macbeth. I loved it. The weather and surroundings were perfect for such a macabre tale and I was immediately transported to that world. Leaving the theatre I had to blink several times to adjust to the light, despite the heavy clouds, not only because of my time spent in the dark room, but because of the dark subject matter.
Last night I saw a musical based on Dan Savage’s novel, The Kid, a memoire he wrote about he and his partner adopting a child from a homeless girl in Portland. The show had some old favorites – cast members from Title of Show, Avenue Q and Company – and the first act was tight, entertaining, edgy, and a lot of fun – some of the best theatre I’ve seen since I moved here. The talent was fantastic and it was a joy and pleasure to witness. The second act left something to be desired as it deteriorated into sap and schmaltz and slow, forgettable ballads about the joys of becoming a parent…blah blah blah….but overall I enjoyed myself immensely.
Today, I went to see White’s Lies with Helen, my friend from work. Helen used to work at BAM and has a membership to this online club that gets her free tickets to the arts. Once on this magical site, you can simply click a button and receive tickets to dozens of shows within a day or two of curtain….FREE! It is a dangerous site to which she’s graciously granted me access. It will be all I can do not to be on that puppy daily.
In fact, moving to New York for me is kind of like an alcoholic moving into a bar or a diabetic moving into a chocolate factory – maybe it’s too much of a good thing. I love the theatre. My very favorite, ideal, perfect day would definitely involve a visit to the theatre. I get goose bumps when the lights go down and the music swells – the energy and joy of the theatre is absolutely thrilling. It’s one of my favorite things on earth.
This is okay in a town like Seattle, where you can make plans to attend community theatre or touring shows ten times a year or so, but here, theatre is everywhere. There are four theatres within four square miles of my house. Four. And now with the obstacle of outrageous $125 Broadway ticket prices no longer an issue (thank you Helen!), I might be moving into the theatre.
I must show discretion. I must not overdose for fear of losing my love of the theatre or (heaven forbid) making it a less “special” experience due to overexposure.
I don’t really see that happening though. The theatre is magical. Every performance, every line, every note is a unique moment into and of itself. That’s an experience that will be very hard to touch, even if I see a show every single day.
So for now I’m going to push my fears aside and continue to utilize this great gift of New York City. For the next several months, you’ll know where to find me. That place where the lights go down and the curtain goes up.
All the Single Ladies
I was sitting in a meeting Friday afternoon with the entire marketing staff (all 39 of them) when I noticed something a bit odd. The department is overwhelmingly female. So around the table, there were 35 women and four men. We all were roughly 25-40 years old. Everyone was fit, fairly attractive, and based on the fact they were in the room…employed and relatively successful. Here’s what was weird:
Only one of the 35 women wore a wedding ring, yet ALL FOUR of the men were married. I found myself drifting to this phenomenon while the conversation moved from website design to social media. What was up with all these single ladies? ONE was married. ONE?!?
I started thinking about the women I had met in New York and realized that while some of them were in committed relationships, not one was married. I had to dig deeper.
It turns out the ladies from Sex and the City weren’t totally full of crap…it’s hard to get a man in this town. In fact, there are three single heterosexual women living in Manhattan for every one heterosexual man. In general, the women seem to be smart, driven, and very fit, yet walking down the aisle is a rarity.
Going to lunch at the deli across from the office, the dining room is full of women eating salads alone. The women are amazing here, too. They are primped, primed and ready. Between their weekly mani / pedis, monthly facials, and quarterly visit to the salon, they barely have time to walk down the street looking fabulous. Every day, I get completely made up for work. Every. Day.
I do my hair, put on full make-up and double check my outfit. I’m not necessarily looking for men, but a full primp is the expectation in this city.
I started talking to a woman after my group cycle class this past Sunday after she learned I just moved here. “New York is a tough town,” she said as I nodded in agreement. “There are people that learn after a year they really love it and there are people that learn after a year they need to get out.”
I continued to nod, taking this on as a challenge. So far, I was loving this town and I was hoping the love affair wouldn’t be short-lived. Then, she said something rather unexpected.
“I’m not sure if you’re dating or in a relationship, but there are a lot of women here who can’t find a man, so they move on. It’s hard. It’s really hard.” She quickly amended her personal situation by saying, “but not for me. I’ve been married forever.”
I found this incredible. I had personally noticed a lot of single women, but this conversation was all the validation I needed. Being single and female in New York was a highly precarious position.
I was at an east side bar the other night and not one, but three guys tried out this same line: “so, shall we go back to your place?’ Huh? Where’s the creativity in that? No double entendre, no inquiry into my astrological chart, nothing. But perhaps the come ons wee so unoriginal because they didn’t have to be. If one woman turned you down, there were two others lined up right behind her.
I was out with a friend last weekend in the lower east side and I told him if I were a man living in New York, I would never settle down – why would you? Odds are in your favor and the beauty is abundant. These women are well- read, coiffed, primped, polished and have likely just come from a class at the 92nd street Y on how to give a better blow job. This is a single man’s paradise. For single ladies...it's a challenge.
Only one of the 35 women wore a wedding ring, yet ALL FOUR of the men were married. I found myself drifting to this phenomenon while the conversation moved from website design to social media. What was up with all these single ladies? ONE was married. ONE?!?
I started thinking about the women I had met in New York and realized that while some of them were in committed relationships, not one was married. I had to dig deeper.
It turns out the ladies from Sex and the City weren’t totally full of crap…it’s hard to get a man in this town. In fact, there are three single heterosexual women living in Manhattan for every one heterosexual man. In general, the women seem to be smart, driven, and very fit, yet walking down the aisle is a rarity.
Going to lunch at the deli across from the office, the dining room is full of women eating salads alone. The women are amazing here, too. They are primped, primed and ready. Between their weekly mani / pedis, monthly facials, and quarterly visit to the salon, they barely have time to walk down the street looking fabulous. Every day, I get completely made up for work. Every. Day.
I do my hair, put on full make-up and double check my outfit. I’m not necessarily looking for men, but a full primp is the expectation in this city.
I started talking to a woman after my group cycle class this past Sunday after she learned I just moved here. “New York is a tough town,” she said as I nodded in agreement. “There are people that learn after a year they really love it and there are people that learn after a year they need to get out.”
I continued to nod, taking this on as a challenge. So far, I was loving this town and I was hoping the love affair wouldn’t be short-lived. Then, she said something rather unexpected.
“I’m not sure if you’re dating or in a relationship, but there are a lot of women here who can’t find a man, so they move on. It’s hard. It’s really hard.” She quickly amended her personal situation by saying, “but not for me. I’ve been married forever.”
I found this incredible. I had personally noticed a lot of single women, but this conversation was all the validation I needed. Being single and female in New York was a highly precarious position.
I was at an east side bar the other night and not one, but three guys tried out this same line: “so, shall we go back to your place?’ Huh? Where’s the creativity in that? No double entendre, no inquiry into my astrological chart, nothing. But perhaps the come ons wee so unoriginal because they didn’t have to be. If one woman turned you down, there were two others lined up right behind her.
I was out with a friend last weekend in the lower east side and I told him if I were a man living in New York, I would never settle down – why would you? Odds are in your favor and the beauty is abundant. These women are well- read, coiffed, primped, polished and have likely just come from a class at the 92nd street Y on how to give a better blow job. This is a single man’s paradise. For single ladies...it's a challenge.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Soooo Sleepy
The other day I got to work groggy and bleary-eyed and by accident turned off my computer instead of turning it on. As I sat down in my vinyl office chair, these words popped up on my screen:
Monitor Going to Sleep
I’ve never been more jealous of my monitor.
There’s a nasty side effect from the fun and festivities of New York City, a little something called sleep depravation.
I’m a sleeper. In Seattle, I regularly got 9-10 hours of sleep a night and that was with a 6:00 AM aerobics class. I often went to bed when it was still light outside, not unlike a toddler. I always felt refreshed, replenished, and downright bushy-tailed.
In New York, I struggle to fall asleep in the “PM” and I still wake up at 5. I did some rough calculations and figured I got about 40 hours of sleep last week. 40 hours. Over 7 nights. That’s just not enough. I’m not only of these people like Albert Einstein or Bill Clinton who both claimed they only needed 90 minutes – 3 hours of sleep a night. I happen to enjoy…and need…a good night sleep.
I’m not sure what the solution is at this point. Every night it seems I’m staying out until 9 or 10 or 11, and when I get home, the energy of the evening stays with me and I can’t even think of sleep. So I end up texting friends (many of whom conveniently reside in a time zone three hours earlier) or writing (like…right now) or reading or staring at the ceiling of my tiny apartment or planning my outfit for the next day or painting my toenails or surfing the web for more fun things to do in New York or well, or just about anything other than sleep. Eventually my energy starts to mellow a bit an my eyes start to feel heavier and around midnight or one I finally brush and floss, take the dog for one more walk around the block, and pull out my bed. I’m out seconds after my lights, and the alarm comes like a cruel joke moments later.
The pulse and drive and stimulation of New York allow me to keep up this pace. In the midst and mist of Seattle with its low grey cloud and easy-going disposition, I would be napping under my desk at work by noon. Remarkably, I generally make it through the day fairly well. My serious caffeine addiction helps me along, but really I just wake up excited to be in New York, even when it seems like the night has passed in a blink. That excitement carries me through to the next day…and the next. I don’t think I’m the only one who lives on this general lack of sleep, either. Whenever I reach out to friend at 11, 12, 1 in the morning, they almost always hit me back. In the office, I notice frequent yawns and droopy eyes. When I was talking to a New Yorker the other day about this, he confirmed my suspicions. “I don’t feel like I’ve slept more than give hours a night since I moved here,” I told him. “Yeah,” he replied. “And you won’t. There’s just too much to do to spend time sleeping.”
The most extreme example of this presented itself on a recent Saturday night. A friend invited me to visit an upper eastside bar since he was going to be bartending. I’d been having a pretty full day with a concert at the MET and a lovely meal complete with corn bread and green beans* in Harlem, and a little frat-esque party in the east village, so I was thinking I would only be at this bar an hour or so before heading home and calling it another successful day in NYC.
I ended up closing the bar down.
In Seattle, this would mean 2:00 AM, which is still late, but in New York closing the bar down means 4:00 AM. And if you’re closing the bar, you’re going to need to get waffles after you leave, especially if you’re name is Erin Gilbert. So, this meant I climbed into bed just before 5:00 in the morning, and actually was starting to fall asleep when my alarm went off. Some people may see this as a sign. A sign that perhaps this late night / early morning living is getting a little out of control and perhaps yours truly should think about putting more value on hitting the hay. Perhaps.
I still believe that if you truly want to experience all New York has to offer and keep your day job, there’s simply very little time for sleep. The old expression appears to be true. New York is truly the city that never….zzzzzzzz…..
**I'm not a huge fan of soul food, but the green beans are out of this world. I think they're about 2/3rds butter and 1/3rd green bean. Outstanding.
Monitor Going to Sleep
I’ve never been more jealous of my monitor.
There’s a nasty side effect from the fun and festivities of New York City, a little something called sleep depravation.
I’m a sleeper. In Seattle, I regularly got 9-10 hours of sleep a night and that was with a 6:00 AM aerobics class. I often went to bed when it was still light outside, not unlike a toddler. I always felt refreshed, replenished, and downright bushy-tailed.
In New York, I struggle to fall asleep in the “PM” and I still wake up at 5. I did some rough calculations and figured I got about 40 hours of sleep last week. 40 hours. Over 7 nights. That’s just not enough. I’m not only of these people like Albert Einstein or Bill Clinton who both claimed they only needed 90 minutes – 3 hours of sleep a night. I happen to enjoy…and need…a good night sleep.
I’m not sure what the solution is at this point. Every night it seems I’m staying out until 9 or 10 or 11, and when I get home, the energy of the evening stays with me and I can’t even think of sleep. So I end up texting friends (many of whom conveniently reside in a time zone three hours earlier) or writing (like…right now) or reading or staring at the ceiling of my tiny apartment or planning my outfit for the next day or painting my toenails or surfing the web for more fun things to do in New York or well, or just about anything other than sleep. Eventually my energy starts to mellow a bit an my eyes start to feel heavier and around midnight or one I finally brush and floss, take the dog for one more walk around the block, and pull out my bed. I’m out seconds after my lights, and the alarm comes like a cruel joke moments later.
The pulse and drive and stimulation of New York allow me to keep up this pace. In the midst and mist of Seattle with its low grey cloud and easy-going disposition, I would be napping under my desk at work by noon. Remarkably, I generally make it through the day fairly well. My serious caffeine addiction helps me along, but really I just wake up excited to be in New York, even when it seems like the night has passed in a blink. That excitement carries me through to the next day…and the next. I don’t think I’m the only one who lives on this general lack of sleep, either. Whenever I reach out to friend at 11, 12, 1 in the morning, they almost always hit me back. In the office, I notice frequent yawns and droopy eyes. When I was talking to a New Yorker the other day about this, he confirmed my suspicions. “I don’t feel like I’ve slept more than give hours a night since I moved here,” I told him. “Yeah,” he replied. “And you won’t. There’s just too much to do to spend time sleeping.”
The most extreme example of this presented itself on a recent Saturday night. A friend invited me to visit an upper eastside bar since he was going to be bartending. I’d been having a pretty full day with a concert at the MET and a lovely meal complete with corn bread and green beans* in Harlem, and a little frat-esque party in the east village, so I was thinking I would only be at this bar an hour or so before heading home and calling it another successful day in NYC.
I ended up closing the bar down.
In Seattle, this would mean 2:00 AM, which is still late, but in New York closing the bar down means 4:00 AM. And if you’re closing the bar, you’re going to need to get waffles after you leave, especially if you’re name is Erin Gilbert. So, this meant I climbed into bed just before 5:00 in the morning, and actually was starting to fall asleep when my alarm went off. Some people may see this as a sign. A sign that perhaps this late night / early morning living is getting a little out of control and perhaps yours truly should think about putting more value on hitting the hay. Perhaps.
I still believe that if you truly want to experience all New York has to offer and keep your day job, there’s simply very little time for sleep. The old expression appears to be true. New York is truly the city that never….zzzzzzzz…..
**I'm not a huge fan of soul food, but the green beans are out of this world. I think they're about 2/3rds butter and 1/3rd green bean. Outstanding.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Queen of Pole
This is a rather long preamble, but I feel the need to explain how I ended up at a pole dancing class last Friday. Alright….now you’re reading!
My friend Ian from work was bartending at the Black Fin on the east side Friday night. The Black Fin not only had a crazy happy hour, but if you handed $25 to the lovely lady at the door, she would give you a wrist band that would allow you to drink as much as you could until 10:00. Some people from work were planning on taking the challenge, and I was going to join them. My plan however, was that before the evening out, I was going to take a dance class in SOHO. I knew this woman Denise would be there (as she was every Friday night) and I wanted to “accidently” run into her and invite her to the Black Fin. This is certainly not as gay as it sounds (and this is a subject for future blogging – how can you make female friends without feeling like you’re coming onto them? I haven’t figured it out. Ask them for their number? Say you enjoy “hanging out with them”? Gay gay gay….)
I met Denise at an Equinox audition a few weeks back and we quickly hit it off. She was hilarious, full of energy, and we exchanged e-mails. We wrote back in forth and ran into each other at the gym a few times since, and I knew we could be friends in a more social – less “let’s –get-our-sweat-on“ environment. Friday night was my in. Alas, it was not meant to be.
Rubin, my dog walker, called me Friday morning and said he would not be able to walk Taetu. He had a last minute graduation (what graduation is last minute? I have no idea), and wouldn’t be able to come.
No fear. I was used to swinging home to take the dog out before going out myself. I did have to change the location of my dance class, however, so I looked up the schedule of my neighborhood gym and found a pole dancing class at 7:00. An hour there, and I could still head downtown to meet up with everyone and get my drink on…plus I would be armed with stories from pole dancing! I was in.
So this is how I ended up at my very first pole dancing class. Here’s what I thought. I thought it would be like the time I took “strip tease” in Seattle. It would be a sexy hip hop class where people thought they were being “edgy”, but really were just getting their heart rate up. Oh my God how wrong I was.
I showed up in my black pants and tank top thinking I looked pretty good. My hair was down, my pants were hip huggers…I felt sexy…I felt sexy that is until I stepped in the classroom and saw 19 other women in their underwear. “She’s exaggerating,” you’re probably thinking. “They were merely scantily clad.” Nooo…..they were in their underwear. Bra and panties. The variations ran from modest (boy short panties and sports bra) to not-so-modest (push-up bra and thong). The lights were dim and I wear glasses so at first I thought I was seeing things, but no…this was a Victoria’s Secret catalogue come to life.
I took the lead from others in the class and grabbed a mat. I started to stretch already dreading what was to come. The instructor entered. He (not a type-o…the only man in the room) wore a Crunch tank-top and tight shorts that left little to the imagination. “Okay,” he said to the class, “we’re going to warm up for about 20 minutes and then we’ll get started. Just follow me.”
He didn’t have a mic and didn’t really cue. Instead he would gyrate and grind on the floor and we would attempt to follow. I tried not to look to my right or left and concentrate on following the instructor. I soon realized this was kind of loose class. You didn’t have to do exactly what he was doing, and instead could “improvise” as you saw fit. I was not having it. There would be no improvising from this one. This was a gym for God’s Sake!
After the 20 minutes, he told everyone to stand by a pole. The problem was, there were 9 poles and 21 women. We were going to have to share. I was mortified. It was bad enough to be the “slow learner” in the corner by myself, but to have two other more experienced dancers wait for me to finish before they could take their turn. This all made it much, much worse. After our fearless leader instructed us to head to a pole, several of the women broke out their shoes. Oh yes…it was not bad enough they had floss up their rear, they now had on 7” platform shoes. This was getting ridiculous…(and why wasn’t every heterosexual man in Manhattan at this gym? I still haven’t figured that one out).
Our instructor stood in front of the room and demonstrated the first routine. There were 4-5 moves in quick succession. He showed us once, asked if we all got it, and I was the only one who didn’t enthusiastically nod my head. This was going to be trouble.
The first woman in our group went and she totally got it. She spun around the pole, circling her pelvis and whipping her long, blonde hair, and somehow ended up on the floor on all fours. She practiced a couple times and turned to me, smiling sweetly, “do you want to give it a try?” I think at that point I actually gulped. There was nothing I wanted to do less than give it a try, but I placed my hand on the pole and started to spin around.
I did not hide the fact that this was my first pole dancing class, so the instructor came by frequently. After the first routine, we were onto more advanced moves – climbing the pole to the ceiling. Okay – at this point I will give both of my readers a little “word to the wise.” You cannot climb a stripper pole in pants. It can’t be done. Obviously, this was my first pole class. Everyone in the room knew that when I showed up in my hip-huggers. When we started climbing…I had to remove my pants. I didn’t feel as self-conscious as you would think. I actually felt more out of place fully dressed…like wearing a turtleneck in a sauna.
So now I was in a tank top and my (thankfully clean, black, and modestly sexy) panties and ready to climb the pole. While the object was to “fan kick” our way up to the top, I simply grabbed the pole with both hands and muscled my way up. It was not the sexiest move, but everyone in my group was impressed. “You have great muscles,” one of the women said, “what do you do to workout?”
“Obviously, not pole dancing,” was my reply.
The instructor was, simply put, amazing. Every time he demonstrated our next routine, I would watch him with my jaw dropped. He had the grace, pose, and pure strength that made the most gravity-defying moves look effortless. The women in the class followed suit. Dressed in their prettiest panties and highest of heels, they swung, leapt, and twirled around the pole with grace. After an hour, I was ready to high tale it to the closest stiff cocktail.
The class lasted 90 minutes…..nine….zero….and the grand finale was a chance for us to “improve” on the pole for three minutes. Yay! What a treat! I was trying to figure out how to get out of there, and watching the Black Fin slip through my fingers, when I tried my hardest to dance “sexy” around the pole to an old Bon Jovi song. Really? Bon Jovi? Between my awkwardness and the smooth sounds of aging New Jersey rock stars, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
After our final stretch and mingling around to say goodbye to my gracious (and patient) partners, I was out of the gym at close to 9:00. There was no way I could change, grab the 2, and get down to the Black Fin in time to meet my co-workers. I ended up calling it a night and having a glass of wine with Taetu. To be honest, embarrassing myself on a pole for an hour and half with 20 nearly naked women was enough excitement for one evening. I was ready to hang low…and vowed never to return.
My friend Ian from work was bartending at the Black Fin on the east side Friday night. The Black Fin not only had a crazy happy hour, but if you handed $25 to the lovely lady at the door, she would give you a wrist band that would allow you to drink as much as you could until 10:00. Some people from work were planning on taking the challenge, and I was going to join them. My plan however, was that before the evening out, I was going to take a dance class in SOHO. I knew this woman Denise would be there (as she was every Friday night) and I wanted to “accidently” run into her and invite her to the Black Fin. This is certainly not as gay as it sounds (and this is a subject for future blogging – how can you make female friends without feeling like you’re coming onto them? I haven’t figured it out. Ask them for their number? Say you enjoy “hanging out with them”? Gay gay gay….)
I met Denise at an Equinox audition a few weeks back and we quickly hit it off. She was hilarious, full of energy, and we exchanged e-mails. We wrote back in forth and ran into each other at the gym a few times since, and I knew we could be friends in a more social – less “let’s –get-our-sweat-on“ environment. Friday night was my in. Alas, it was not meant to be.
Rubin, my dog walker, called me Friday morning and said he would not be able to walk Taetu. He had a last minute graduation (what graduation is last minute? I have no idea), and wouldn’t be able to come.
No fear. I was used to swinging home to take the dog out before going out myself. I did have to change the location of my dance class, however, so I looked up the schedule of my neighborhood gym and found a pole dancing class at 7:00. An hour there, and I could still head downtown to meet up with everyone and get my drink on…plus I would be armed with stories from pole dancing! I was in.
So this is how I ended up at my very first pole dancing class. Here’s what I thought. I thought it would be like the time I took “strip tease” in Seattle. It would be a sexy hip hop class where people thought they were being “edgy”, but really were just getting their heart rate up. Oh my God how wrong I was.
I showed up in my black pants and tank top thinking I looked pretty good. My hair was down, my pants were hip huggers…I felt sexy…I felt sexy that is until I stepped in the classroom and saw 19 other women in their underwear. “She’s exaggerating,” you’re probably thinking. “They were merely scantily clad.” Nooo…..they were in their underwear. Bra and panties. The variations ran from modest (boy short panties and sports bra) to not-so-modest (push-up bra and thong). The lights were dim and I wear glasses so at first I thought I was seeing things, but no…this was a Victoria’s Secret catalogue come to life.
I took the lead from others in the class and grabbed a mat. I started to stretch already dreading what was to come. The instructor entered. He (not a type-o…the only man in the room) wore a Crunch tank-top and tight shorts that left little to the imagination. “Okay,” he said to the class, “we’re going to warm up for about 20 minutes and then we’ll get started. Just follow me.”
He didn’t have a mic and didn’t really cue. Instead he would gyrate and grind on the floor and we would attempt to follow. I tried not to look to my right or left and concentrate on following the instructor. I soon realized this was kind of loose class. You didn’t have to do exactly what he was doing, and instead could “improvise” as you saw fit. I was not having it. There would be no improvising from this one. This was a gym for God’s Sake!
After the 20 minutes, he told everyone to stand by a pole. The problem was, there were 9 poles and 21 women. We were going to have to share. I was mortified. It was bad enough to be the “slow learner” in the corner by myself, but to have two other more experienced dancers wait for me to finish before they could take their turn. This all made it much, much worse. After our fearless leader instructed us to head to a pole, several of the women broke out their shoes. Oh yes…it was not bad enough they had floss up their rear, they now had on 7” platform shoes. This was getting ridiculous…(and why wasn’t every heterosexual man in Manhattan at this gym? I still haven’t figured that one out).
Our instructor stood in front of the room and demonstrated the first routine. There were 4-5 moves in quick succession. He showed us once, asked if we all got it, and I was the only one who didn’t enthusiastically nod my head. This was going to be trouble.
The first woman in our group went and she totally got it. She spun around the pole, circling her pelvis and whipping her long, blonde hair, and somehow ended up on the floor on all fours. She practiced a couple times and turned to me, smiling sweetly, “do you want to give it a try?” I think at that point I actually gulped. There was nothing I wanted to do less than give it a try, but I placed my hand on the pole and started to spin around.
I did not hide the fact that this was my first pole dancing class, so the instructor came by frequently. After the first routine, we were onto more advanced moves – climbing the pole to the ceiling. Okay – at this point I will give both of my readers a little “word to the wise.” You cannot climb a stripper pole in pants. It can’t be done. Obviously, this was my first pole class. Everyone in the room knew that when I showed up in my hip-huggers. When we started climbing…I had to remove my pants. I didn’t feel as self-conscious as you would think. I actually felt more out of place fully dressed…like wearing a turtleneck in a sauna.
So now I was in a tank top and my (thankfully clean, black, and modestly sexy) panties and ready to climb the pole. While the object was to “fan kick” our way up to the top, I simply grabbed the pole with both hands and muscled my way up. It was not the sexiest move, but everyone in my group was impressed. “You have great muscles,” one of the women said, “what do you do to workout?”
“Obviously, not pole dancing,” was my reply.
The instructor was, simply put, amazing. Every time he demonstrated our next routine, I would watch him with my jaw dropped. He had the grace, pose, and pure strength that made the most gravity-defying moves look effortless. The women in the class followed suit. Dressed in their prettiest panties and highest of heels, they swung, leapt, and twirled around the pole with grace. After an hour, I was ready to high tale it to the closest stiff cocktail.
The class lasted 90 minutes…..nine….zero….and the grand finale was a chance for us to “improve” on the pole for three minutes. Yay! What a treat! I was trying to figure out how to get out of there, and watching the Black Fin slip through my fingers, when I tried my hardest to dance “sexy” around the pole to an old Bon Jovi song. Really? Bon Jovi? Between my awkwardness and the smooth sounds of aging New Jersey rock stars, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
After our final stretch and mingling around to say goodbye to my gracious (and patient) partners, I was out of the gym at close to 9:00. There was no way I could change, grab the 2, and get down to the Black Fin in time to meet my co-workers. I ended up calling it a night and having a glass of wine with Taetu. To be honest, embarrassing myself on a pole for an hour and half with 20 nearly naked women was enough excitement for one evening. I was ready to hang low…and vowed never to return.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The Outsiders Part Duex
This past weekend, I took a group of 15 high school students around New York. They were members of the official travel club in Oak Harbor, WA – a small navy community in the Orcas Islands. Oak Harbor is so small when they say they’re “going to the city,” they mean Burlington, because it has a Target AND a Costco.
None of the kids had been to New York and one had only been as far as Seattle – 90 miles south on the I-5. They arrived when I was still in Jacksonville. I had given Ryan, my friend and their teacher, explicit instructions upon arrival: Head to 9th and go north to find a restaurant. If you don’t see anything by 46th, turn there for what’s called “restaurant row.” There are no less than 200 options in this six-block jaunt, but alas, she did not follow these instructions. Instead, they ended up drawn to the lights of Times Square like little pubescent moths, and paid $35 for a TGIFridays’ hamburger. Their first impression of New York was one of expense and tacky glitz.
The following day they took in not one, but two museums and the Empire States Building. Needless to say, most of this time was spent standing in line or walking – both activities equally exhausting in a group of 18. That night, they ate at McDonalds, but reported back to me that the servers were rude and got most of their orders wrong. Welcome to New York! You can eat overpriced food at chain restaurants and hang out with other tourists in long lines! It’s awesome here. Really.
When I met up with the group Thursday morning, they were all interested in shopping and shopping and more shopping in New York. They were thrilled I was there to show them the “insiders perspective”, albeit only eight-weeks in the making, and I was going to do my best to get them to fall in love with the city.
The first day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and worked our way toward Battery Park. We took in Tammany Hall, the Woolworth Building, Ground Zero and Wall Street before arriving at the park. It was a beautiful spring day with ample sunshine so the walk was lengthy, but we made frequent stops and it was great to be outside. Once at Battery, the plan was to hop a ferry to see the Statue of Liberty, but we were waylaid by some street performers and missed the last boat. We decided to postpone the ferry ride to the following morning and made our way back to the hotel for a much needed rest. That night the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The following day, I picked them up after their trip to Ms. Liberty, the “welcome mat” of the free world and we went to Little Italy for some famous pizza at Lombardi’s. After lunch, we headed over to Canal where I taught the ladies how to shop for knock-offs. We let them have two hours of free time and when their time was up, they asked for two more. They loved Canal street. It was hectic, loud, with shoulder-to-shoulder people, but they couldn’t get enough. That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The next day we rented bikes and rode around Central Park. It was a nice ride (another beautiful day) and the park was in full bloom. The kids, true to form, all went at different speeds, so it was difficult to keep track of everyone. After the ride, we had an hour of free time and dispersed in the afternoon to get Broadway tickets (me) and go to MOMA (everyone else). That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop, but that’s not what we did. We went to see In the Heights, a wonderful original musical that won the Tony a couple years ago. The kids’ response: “the chairs were uncomfortable.” Hmmm…well, maybe Broadway isn’t for everyone.
This group of kids were some of the nicest I’ve ever met. Granted, I don’t hang out with a lot of high school students, but I always anticipate a lot of teen angst and drama and eye rolling and a whole pile of hormones. These kids were mature, they got along, they followed instructions, and they were pleasant. It was like I was hanging out with the fictional characters from Saved by the Bell. There wasn’t a sarcastic comment or huff to be had the entire trip. They were remarkable.
The challenges came in, well, in doing anything. There was always someone who had to go to the bathroom. Always. And there was always someone who was hungry. Someone who wanted to stop and check something out. Someone who wished we were doing something different. Someone who wanted to stay somewhere longer and someone else who wanted to leave sooner. There was always someone who forgot something at the hotel– often important things like tickets or subway cards. Going six blocks took an average of 45 minutes. The way I move through the city, this pace was a tad frustrating.
At the end of the trip, I was sad at their impression of New York. I wanted to show them the city I love, and ended up showing them the city I avoid. I never go to Times Square or Canal street or Battery Park or the museums. Those places are stressful and crowded and expensive and overcome with tourists.
The last day, the group had three hours of free time. I grabbed Ryan by the hand and hopped the first subway to Union Square. We had a leisurely brunch on the plaza and meandered around the artists, discussing their work. It was sunny, it wasn’t crowded, it was perfect. “Now,” she said on our way back to the hotel, “I see why you love it here.”
I imagine a similar situation for a lot of visitors. There are so many things on the check list, it’s hard to see a New Yorkers New York your first trip here. People visit New York to see the legend from pop culture. They want to eat Breakfast at Tiffany’s and head to the Empire States Building where Tom Hanks first fell in love with Meg Ryan. This New York as you would expect, is one of complete fiction. The true soul of New York is found beneath the iconoclasts. It’s in the Italian stylist in the neighborhood or the kind gesture of a young man giving up his seat for a pregnant woman on the subway. It’s in neighborhoods not monuments. You just have to visit more than once to understand what that side of New York is all about. My fear is that after their experience of mass crowds and overpriced burgers, this group of high school kids may not want to return. But I hope I’m wrong. Incidentally, their favorite part of the trip? The street entertainers in Battery Park. That’s the thing about this city. The real jewels are found in unplanned moments. Hopefully this group will return to experience and enjoy the wonder of spontaneity that makes this city so fantastic. I think they will.
None of the kids had been to New York and one had only been as far as Seattle – 90 miles south on the I-5. They arrived when I was still in Jacksonville. I had given Ryan, my friend and their teacher, explicit instructions upon arrival: Head to 9th and go north to find a restaurant. If you don’t see anything by 46th, turn there for what’s called “restaurant row.” There are no less than 200 options in this six-block jaunt, but alas, she did not follow these instructions. Instead, they ended up drawn to the lights of Times Square like little pubescent moths, and paid $35 for a TGIFridays’ hamburger. Their first impression of New York was one of expense and tacky glitz.
The following day they took in not one, but two museums and the Empire States Building. Needless to say, most of this time was spent standing in line or walking – both activities equally exhausting in a group of 18. That night, they ate at McDonalds, but reported back to me that the servers were rude and got most of their orders wrong. Welcome to New York! You can eat overpriced food at chain restaurants and hang out with other tourists in long lines! It’s awesome here. Really.
When I met up with the group Thursday morning, they were all interested in shopping and shopping and more shopping in New York. They were thrilled I was there to show them the “insiders perspective”, albeit only eight-weeks in the making, and I was going to do my best to get them to fall in love with the city.
The first day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and worked our way toward Battery Park. We took in Tammany Hall, the Woolworth Building, Ground Zero and Wall Street before arriving at the park. It was a beautiful spring day with ample sunshine so the walk was lengthy, but we made frequent stops and it was great to be outside. Once at Battery, the plan was to hop a ferry to see the Statue of Liberty, but we were waylaid by some street performers and missed the last boat. We decided to postpone the ferry ride to the following morning and made our way back to the hotel for a much needed rest. That night the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The following day, I picked them up after their trip to Ms. Liberty, the “welcome mat” of the free world and we went to Little Italy for some famous pizza at Lombardi’s. After lunch, we headed over to Canal where I taught the ladies how to shop for knock-offs. We let them have two hours of free time and when their time was up, they asked for two more. They loved Canal street. It was hectic, loud, with shoulder-to-shoulder people, but they couldn’t get enough. That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The next day we rented bikes and rode around Central Park. It was a nice ride (another beautiful day) and the park was in full bloom. The kids, true to form, all went at different speeds, so it was difficult to keep track of everyone. After the ride, we had an hour of free time and dispersed in the afternoon to get Broadway tickets (me) and go to MOMA (everyone else). That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop, but that’s not what we did. We went to see In the Heights, a wonderful original musical that won the Tony a couple years ago. The kids’ response: “the chairs were uncomfortable.” Hmmm…well, maybe Broadway isn’t for everyone.
This group of kids were some of the nicest I’ve ever met. Granted, I don’t hang out with a lot of high school students, but I always anticipate a lot of teen angst and drama and eye rolling and a whole pile of hormones. These kids were mature, they got along, they followed instructions, and they were pleasant. It was like I was hanging out with the fictional characters from Saved by the Bell. There wasn’t a sarcastic comment or huff to be had the entire trip. They were remarkable.
The challenges came in, well, in doing anything. There was always someone who had to go to the bathroom. Always. And there was always someone who was hungry. Someone who wanted to stop and check something out. Someone who wished we were doing something different. Someone who wanted to stay somewhere longer and someone else who wanted to leave sooner. There was always someone who forgot something at the hotel– often important things like tickets or subway cards. Going six blocks took an average of 45 minutes. The way I move through the city, this pace was a tad frustrating.
At the end of the trip, I was sad at their impression of New York. I wanted to show them the city I love, and ended up showing them the city I avoid. I never go to Times Square or Canal street or Battery Park or the museums. Those places are stressful and crowded and expensive and overcome with tourists.
The last day, the group had three hours of free time. I grabbed Ryan by the hand and hopped the first subway to Union Square. We had a leisurely brunch on the plaza and meandered around the artists, discussing their work. It was sunny, it wasn’t crowded, it was perfect. “Now,” she said on our way back to the hotel, “I see why you love it here.”
I imagine a similar situation for a lot of visitors. There are so many things on the check list, it’s hard to see a New Yorkers New York your first trip here. People visit New York to see the legend from pop culture. They want to eat Breakfast at Tiffany’s and head to the Empire States Building where Tom Hanks first fell in love with Meg Ryan. This New York as you would expect, is one of complete fiction. The true soul of New York is found beneath the iconoclasts. It’s in the Italian stylist in the neighborhood or the kind gesture of a young man giving up his seat for a pregnant woman on the subway. It’s in neighborhoods not monuments. You just have to visit more than once to understand what that side of New York is all about. My fear is that after their experience of mass crowds and overpriced burgers, this group of high school kids may not want to return. But I hope I’m wrong. Incidentally, their favorite part of the trip? The street entertainers in Battery Park. That’s the thing about this city. The real jewels are found in unplanned moments. Hopefully this group will return to experience and enjoy the wonder of spontaneity that makes this city so fantastic. I think they will.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Outsiders
I took my first business trip last week. I joined 11 co-workers and we boarded a plane bound for Jacksonville, Florida. It was a three-day, two-night break from the cold, rainy weather plaguing New York the week prior.
This was my first trip as a “New Yorker,” and it was pretty funny. First of all, New Yorkers where a lot of black. In New York, you don’t really notice, but when you visit somewhere like Florida, where the general population is adorned in various shades of pastel, our look suddenly appears rather somber. We definitely stand out. People probably assumed we were either from New York or on our way to a funeral.
People’s reaction to “New York” is interesting as well. As a group, when a local asked us where we were from, the “New York” came from a representative like a short, staccato gunshot. People would retract immediately, put off from the “big city folk” in their fine town.
“Wheah ah yoah awfices,” they would ask with a smile, the vowels rounded with their southern cadence.
“New Yowak,” would be the reply, big as Manhattan itself. In the city, this would not seem out of place, but out of context it was like taking a bullhorn into a library. As a group our tendency was to intimidate and alienate.
We all took shuttles to the conference center directly from the airport and when the day was done, we had to figure out how to get back to the hotel. We stood in a group, looking at each other for the answer.
“They must have cabs,” Denise said, “let’s just flag one down.”
We waited a while to see the familiar yellow of a taxi service, but nothing turned up.
We started to head over to the city's lone monorail, when Michael suggested that we just walk. That's what he ended up doing. It was a healthy walk, but nothing a typical New Yorker couldn’t handle. New Yorkers are so accustomed to convenient public transportation, they become a bit lost when such a system doesn’t present itself.
When I checked into the hotel, the clerk asked for my office address, since that’s how the reservation was filed. I rattled off “535 5th Ave.”
“5th Avenue,” he said admiringly, “that must be an exciting street to work on!”
I smiled back at him; thrilled that I lived in such an iconic environment. Seeing New York through the local’s eyes made me feel like I lived on a movie set.
We did our best to live up to our reputation as brassy and rude. The second night, we all had dinner in a group and things got loud. In New York, the tendency to crescendo throughout the night is a necessity since wherever you’re enjoying dinner is bound to be crowded and voices naturally raise throughout the evening. In Jacksonville, however, it was just obnoxious.
“I would rather poke out my eyes than live in this hell hole,” someone in our group said in front of the waiter. I wanted to hide under the table.
The three days in Jacksonville were fine. The weather was beautiful, the people were friendly, the air was undoubtedly cleaner, but after the 72nd hour I was anxious to get back to feeling good in my black attire, talking a little louder, and returning to the faster pace of Manhattan. I was anxious to get back home.
This was my first trip as a “New Yorker,” and it was pretty funny. First of all, New Yorkers where a lot of black. In New York, you don’t really notice, but when you visit somewhere like Florida, where the general population is adorned in various shades of pastel, our look suddenly appears rather somber. We definitely stand out. People probably assumed we were either from New York or on our way to a funeral.
People’s reaction to “New York” is interesting as well. As a group, when a local asked us where we were from, the “New York” came from a representative like a short, staccato gunshot. People would retract immediately, put off from the “big city folk” in their fine town.
“Wheah ah yoah awfices,” they would ask with a smile, the vowels rounded with their southern cadence.
“New Yowak,” would be the reply, big as Manhattan itself. In the city, this would not seem out of place, but out of context it was like taking a bullhorn into a library. As a group our tendency was to intimidate and alienate.
We all took shuttles to the conference center directly from the airport and when the day was done, we had to figure out how to get back to the hotel. We stood in a group, looking at each other for the answer.
“They must have cabs,” Denise said, “let’s just flag one down.”
We waited a while to see the familiar yellow of a taxi service, but nothing turned up.
We started to head over to the city's lone monorail, when Michael suggested that we just walk. That's what he ended up doing. It was a healthy walk, but nothing a typical New Yorker couldn’t handle. New Yorkers are so accustomed to convenient public transportation, they become a bit lost when such a system doesn’t present itself.
When I checked into the hotel, the clerk asked for my office address, since that’s how the reservation was filed. I rattled off “535 5th Ave.”
“5th Avenue,” he said admiringly, “that must be an exciting street to work on!”
I smiled back at him; thrilled that I lived in such an iconic environment. Seeing New York through the local’s eyes made me feel like I lived on a movie set.
We did our best to live up to our reputation as brassy and rude. The second night, we all had dinner in a group and things got loud. In New York, the tendency to crescendo throughout the night is a necessity since wherever you’re enjoying dinner is bound to be crowded and voices naturally raise throughout the evening. In Jacksonville, however, it was just obnoxious.
“I would rather poke out my eyes than live in this hell hole,” someone in our group said in front of the waiter. I wanted to hide under the table.
The three days in Jacksonville were fine. The weather was beautiful, the people were friendly, the air was undoubtedly cleaner, but after the 72nd hour I was anxious to get back to feeling good in my black attire, talking a little louder, and returning to the faster pace of Manhattan. I was anxious to get back home.
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