Like the plagues of locusts and famine, another another sweltering summer of biblical proportions has descended upon New York. It's not uncommon to see people drenched in waterfalls of their own perspiration, duck in and out of bodegas for air conditioning, and gratuitously take the newer trains with more potent air conditioning vents. Last week alone, there were four days where the mercury wavered in the hundreds, and cooling centers have popped up all across the city.
There have to be ways to cope. Summer in New York is something that causes most to feel a wave of heat nausea, then a wave of anger towards tourists, then another wave of wishing you had some friends in the Hamptons, then one final wave of hating your poor city friends for not having rooftop access or cabanas. For me, it's mostly been the aforementioned. Until, of course, last night, when I decided to embrace the heat, rather than shutting up in my room with the AC on moderate blast (as I'd like to think I'm not entirely wretched to the environment, or my ever-escalating ConEd bill). I plodded, yoga mat in tow, to Yoga to the People on St. Marks.
Yes, I belong to a gym. But there, it's all the sort of glossy media types (er, well, you know). Yoga to the People is different. First off, it's donation based, so it's pay as you will. Yogis drop anywhere from a dollar to a Hamilton in the tissue coiffure and set up mats in the large, rectangular room. It was a good 85 degrees in the space before it filled in; it got a lot, lot steamier as the class progressed. There was no judgment if you couldn't do Warrior Two. There were, however, buckets of sweat pouring down as everyone slowly succumbed to the heat. There wasn't anything special about the yoga - it was hatha flow - but the mood was relaxed, serene, and quite tranquil. I left with a mind not exhausted from city life, and about 25% less water weight.
And, of course, no spiritually liberating workout is complete without fro-yo. Conveniently, 16 Handles is blessed steps away. And I proceeded to eat my weight's worth (well, .32 of a pound, at least) of four fro-yo flavors (Red Velvet, pistachio, mango, and peanut butter).
Namaste.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Friday, October 9, 2009
Cat on a Wet Stone Roof
The types of animals one encounters in Manhattan are not the fauna David Attenborough would ever feature. Rats, mice, pigeons, cockroaches, cats. But, the wonderful thing about some animals is
Bleary eyed and still nearly comatose from a late reporting shift the night before like some impossible Rip van Winkle insomniac, I shuffled into the kitchen yesterday to pour my morning coffee. Brazilian roast with a dash of nonfat vanilla creamer. It is always a bit disconcerting to come back to an apartment when flatmates move things, change things, rearrange things - to always find things in a slightly different place. But that's only plates and magazines. What I did not expect was to see was a calico cat, sitting outside the kitchen window on the air conditioner.
This was curious for any number of reasons. One, that I live on the second floor, inaccessible by fire escape, ladder, terrace, or balcony. Two, cats don't materialize out of thin air to come to rest on cooling units.
Baffled by this feline invader, I tapped on the window. The cat looked at my quizzically, as though asking why I found it necessary to bother a leisurely 2nd story lallygag. "Cat, why are you here?" I asked, realizing how nonsensical it was talking to said Cat. A slow blink. A yawn.
I guess I got my answer.
I spent the morning trying to coax Kitty to a safer ledge. No luck. Then my roommate comes back. "A cat?" she says. "A kitty? On our window?" We called Animal Control. If they came, Kitty was on the express train to the pound. And the fire department, sadly, no longer practiced the long-cliche of rescuing cats from high, inconvenient places.
And thus began the ridiculous cum absurd rescue mission. Kate and I ran to the hardware store and purchased a few cardboard boxes, a long pole, duct tape, and (strange that it was sold at a hardware store) a feathery cat toy. As soon as we got home, we set out for the task ahead. The boxes were unceremoniously torn apart and fashioned into a crude kitty bridge. We put small bits of salmon on the end of the feathery toy. And we opened the window, hoping to lure her to safety. The cat would not budge.
Our landlord comes out into the alley between our building and the next. "What are you doing?" he calls up. We told him we were rescuing a cat. He brought up an old wooden plank that smelled of mildew. "Try this," he grunted. "and let me know if I have to clean up a dead cat."
No luck with kitty bridge/mildew plank. And Kate and I had to get to work. So the next day, Kitty was - without explanation - lodged in a small drainpipe across the alley. It was raining, she was cold and miserable. And then the landlord knocked on our door. "We found out whose cat it is," he said. "It belongs to your neighbor...on the seventh floor." The crazed owner was right behind him, in the emotional equivalent of a 15-year-old gymnast who just sprained her ankle at the Olympics. Nervous, to the point of tears, and without any trace of hope.
"You found Sheeba?" she sniffed.
It would have been a lost cause. Sheeba was stuck in the drain pipe. Luckily, our hipster neighbors came home at that very moment. Their window overlooked a small awning that had direct access to the pipe. Hipster Boy leaned out of the window and grabbed Sheeba, who was a little worse for the wear. Success!
Moral of the story? Don't let your cat by open windows, especially on the seventh floor. Another lesson to learn?
Cats fall out of the sky in Manhattan.
Bleary eyed and still nearly comatose from a late reporting shift the night before like some impossible Rip van Winkle insomniac, I shuffled into the kitchen yesterday to pour my morning coffee. Brazilian roast with a dash of nonfat vanilla creamer. It is always a bit disconcerting to come back to an apartment when flatmates move things, change things, rearrange things - to always find things in a slightly different place. But that's only plates and magazines. What I did not expect was to see was a calico cat, sitting outside the kitchen window on the air conditioner.
This was curious for any number of reasons. One, that I live on the second floor, inaccessible by fire escape, ladder, terrace, or balcony. Two, cats don't materialize out of thin air to come to rest on cooling units.
Baffled by this feline invader, I tapped on the window. The cat looked at my quizzically, as though asking why I found it necessary to bother a leisurely 2nd story lallygag. "Cat, why are you here?" I asked, realizing how nonsensical it was talking to said Cat. A slow blink. A yawn.
I guess I got my answer.
I spent the morning trying to coax Kitty to a safer ledge. No luck. Then my roommate comes back. "A cat?" she says. "A kitty? On our window?" We called Animal Control. If they came, Kitty was on the express train to the pound. And the fire department, sadly, no longer practiced the long-cliche of rescuing cats from high, inconvenient places.
And thus began the ridiculous cum absurd rescue mission. Kate and I ran to the hardware store and purchased a few cardboard boxes, a long pole, duct tape, and (strange that it was sold at a hardware store) a feathery cat toy. As soon as we got home, we set out for the task ahead. The boxes were unceremoniously torn apart and fashioned into a crude kitty bridge. We put small bits of salmon on the end of the feathery toy. And we opened the window, hoping to lure her to safety. The cat would not budge.
Our landlord comes out into the alley between our building and the next. "What are you doing?" he calls up. We told him we were rescuing a cat. He brought up an old wooden plank that smelled of mildew. "Try this," he grunted. "and let me know if I have to clean up a dead cat."
No luck with kitty bridge/mildew plank. And Kate and I had to get to work. So the next day, Kitty was - without explanation - lodged in a small drainpipe across the alley. It was raining, she was cold and miserable. And then the landlord knocked on our door. "We found out whose cat it is," he said. "It belongs to your neighbor...on the seventh floor." The crazed owner was right behind him, in the emotional equivalent of a 15-year-old gymnast who just sprained her ankle at the Olympics. Nervous, to the point of tears, and without any trace of hope.
"You found Sheeba?" she sniffed.
It would have been a lost cause. Sheeba was stuck in the drain pipe. Luckily, our hipster neighbors came home at that very moment. Their window overlooked a small awning that had direct access to the pipe. Hipster Boy leaned out of the window and grabbed Sheeba, who was a little worse for the wear. Success!
Moral of the story? Don't let your cat by open windows, especially on the seventh floor. Another lesson to learn?
Cats fall out of the sky in Manhattan.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Bon Anniversaire!
Time is a funny thing. Sometimes, the minutes are slippery minnows that slip, silver and shining, from your fingers. Other times, it is a snail, dragging through a sweet stream of thick molasses. These two components mix, and now I wake up mornings to the notion I've been in this good city for a year now. It is a pleasant thought, knowing the initial "new city" smell has worn off and now I can break out the curlers and cold cream and reveal my true self to my city. Sorry, New York. This is what you signed up for. The long haul.
For a year, I've ridden the subways. For ten months, I've ridden subways successfully. I buy cherries and strawberries off fruit carts on avenues, I go to open-air theatre in Central Park to watch "Twelfth Night," I run through the streets of Manhattan with my reporter's Steno pad, finding the scoop and yelling journalistic things a la His Girl Friday. I go to gala's in ballgowns and perform Vaughn Williams in Carnegie Hall. The knowledge comes with a price. Living in New York City is exhausting, there are few things that I can imagine are more tiring. One, training for an Ironman. Two, training for an Ironman with an 800 pound gorilla on my back.
In many aspects - or all? - I live the life of a New Yorker. Status is given only to those who have been in the city ten or more, but I'd like to think of this as the honeymoon period. The first year is always the most difficult, and I've done my fair share of slumming, going to Garden of Eden for free samples of shortbread and jam because I felt too poor to buy dinner, I still recall quite vividly the icy discomfort of having January slush embedded in my Chucks (important life lesson number 39: WEAR APPROPRIATE FOOTWEAR!)
So, at the apex of my year-long continuance in Manhattan, what do I have to say? That I live for the adventures presented to me, that I love the city that was once only a means to an end? Yes. And I hope these silver minnow moments won't slip away too quickly, nor in a way that discourages reminiscence.
For a year, I've ridden the subways. For ten months, I've ridden subways successfully. I buy cherries and strawberries off fruit carts on avenues, I go to open-air theatre in Central Park to watch "Twelfth Night," I run through the streets of Manhattan with my reporter's Steno pad, finding the scoop and yelling journalistic things a la His Girl Friday. I go to gala's in ballgowns and perform Vaughn Williams in Carnegie Hall. The knowledge comes with a price. Living in New York City is exhausting, there are few things that I can imagine are more tiring. One, training for an Ironman. Two, training for an Ironman with an 800 pound gorilla on my back.
In many aspects - or all? - I live the life of a New Yorker. Status is given only to those who have been in the city ten or more, but I'd like to think of this as the honeymoon period. The first year is always the most difficult, and I've done my fair share of slumming, going to Garden of Eden for free samples of shortbread and jam because I felt too poor to buy dinner, I still recall quite vividly the icy discomfort of having January slush embedded in my Chucks (important life lesson number 39: WEAR APPROPRIATE FOOTWEAR!)
So, at the apex of my year-long continuance in Manhattan, what do I have to say? That I live for the adventures presented to me, that I love the city that was once only a means to an end? Yes. And I hope these silver minnow moments won't slip away too quickly, nor in a way that discourages reminiscence.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
For the Rain it Raineth Every Day
June in New York City.
There's a reason Dylan didn't sing about it. With record rainfalls and many pitfalls for the aspiring artists and poets, it is, in a sense, a bleak and wavering Manhattan. The city is all but flooded. And, while there is some vague comfort of falling asleep to the sounds of rainfall on my air-conditioning unit juxtaposed against the angry cabbies on 1st Ave, there is no comfort in being blasted by a sideways spray of biblical-strength rain in Brooklyn.
The rain adds a bit of melancholy to the city. After a winter of discontent, the natural progression of things is a summer of sunshine to atone for the squalls, blizzards, and piles of grey-soot snowheaps on 14th Street. Coming out of my Midtown buildings late nights, I look up to see the skyscrapers obscured by mist and haze. Only the first 30 or so floors of the GE Building are visible at all. I half expect to see a dementor flying through the sky.
I marvel at anyone, at this point, who can justifiably leave the house without a glance outside, a look at the Weather Channel, or consulting their respective horoscope. It's been raining. For. The. Past. Three. Weeks. These people may be more optimistic than I, but as the saying goes, optimists do not survive nuclear warfare by hiding under their desks (or was that just schoolchildren in the 1950's middle-America?) In any case, my umbrella has been getting much more use than would be in any other sundry June.
But, in the rare glimmers of sunshine and nice weather, there is fun to be had. Fun to be had on city streets and dive bars and parks. Central Park is a magical place, with rumored secret portals to Narnia and Terabithia, and unicorns and fauns prancing about in the dregs of twilight. So, aside from the beautiful footpaths of the Rambles, the reptile inhabitants of Turtle Pond, and the carousel somewhere around W. 60th Street, is thanks to the Delacorte Theater, which presents free plays every summer. This summer? A stellar production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, followed later this summer by Euripides' The Bacchae. Free tickets! Central Park! Theatre! Pretentiousness! It was perfect. Or so it would seem.
Of course, there were unforeseen dilemmas. Namely, that my friend Laurie and I had to wake up at 5 o'clock that morning to get to Upper East Side to get H&H bagel to sustain us to get us all the way up to the 77th Street entrance of Central Park, to go past the statue of the Polish Conquerer, King Jagiello, through the Great Field overlooking Belvedere Castle, then past the avid theater fans who spent the night in Central Park to wait eleven hours in line in the cold and inconsiderate park to come back later that night to see Anne Hathaway and Audra McDonalad in the play. Oi. That is the way it must be done in New York, I suppose. And I can cross several things off my list:
Camping out in Central Park
Nearly dying in Central Park due to hypothermia
Ordering delivery to an undisclosed location in the Park
Seeing Anne Hathaway
Pointing and smiling at Oscar Eustis
Eating a Whole Foods dinner to a glorious sunset (the fact that the dinner is Whole Foods is superfluous information)
And, by the grace of the gods, it did NOT rain on the performance. Though a cool air creeped in through the copse of trees into the Delacorte, and as the sun went down, the audience began rummaging in their bags for shawls and sweaters, every bit - every aspect - was so well-wrought, very well executed. Sir Andrew Aguecheek stole the show through his witty fool rendition. I will save the academic insight for an academic blog. But suffice it to say, it rivaled the production I saw at the Stratford Festival in Ontario. Which is one of my first loves. Besides Callum Blue, of course.
Until the sun shines again in my fair city, I remain enchanted.
Quote of the Day: "With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain."
There's a reason Dylan didn't sing about it. With record rainfalls and many pitfalls for the aspiring artists and poets, it is, in a sense, a bleak and wavering Manhattan. The city is all but flooded. And, while there is some vague comfort of falling asleep to the sounds of rainfall on my air-conditioning unit juxtaposed against the angry cabbies on 1st Ave, there is no comfort in being blasted by a sideways spray of biblical-strength rain in Brooklyn.
The rain adds a bit of melancholy to the city. After a winter of discontent, the natural progression of things is a summer of sunshine to atone for the squalls, blizzards, and piles of grey-soot snowheaps on 14th Street. Coming out of my Midtown buildings late nights, I look up to see the skyscrapers obscured by mist and haze. Only the first 30 or so floors of the GE Building are visible at all. I half expect to see a dementor flying through the sky.
I marvel at anyone, at this point, who can justifiably leave the house without a glance outside, a look at the Weather Channel, or consulting their respective horoscope. It's been raining. For. The. Past. Three. Weeks. These people may be more optimistic than I, but as the saying goes, optimists do not survive nuclear warfare by hiding under their desks (or was that just schoolchildren in the 1950's middle-America?) In any case, my umbrella has been getting much more use than would be in any other sundry June.
But, in the rare glimmers of sunshine and nice weather, there is fun to be had. Fun to be had on city streets and dive bars and parks. Central Park is a magical place, with rumored secret portals to Narnia and Terabithia, and unicorns and fauns prancing about in the dregs of twilight. So, aside from the beautiful footpaths of the Rambles, the reptile inhabitants of Turtle Pond, and the carousel somewhere around W. 60th Street, is thanks to the Delacorte Theater, which presents free plays every summer. This summer? A stellar production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, followed later this summer by Euripides' The Bacchae. Free tickets! Central Park! Theatre! Pretentiousness! It was perfect. Or so it would seem.
Of course, there were unforeseen dilemmas. Namely, that my friend Laurie and I had to wake up at 5 o'clock that morning to get to Upper East Side to get H&H bagel to sustain us to get us all the way up to the 77th Street entrance of Central Park, to go past the statue of the Polish Conquerer, King Jagiello, through the Great Field overlooking Belvedere Castle, then past the avid theater fans who spent the night in Central Park to wait eleven hours in line in the cold and inconsiderate park to come back later that night to see Anne Hathaway and Audra McDonalad in the play. Oi. That is the way it must be done in New York, I suppose. And I can cross several things off my list:
Camping out in Central Park
Nearly dying in Central Park due to hypothermia
Ordering delivery to an undisclosed location in the Park
Seeing Anne Hathaway
Pointing and smiling at Oscar Eustis
Eating a Whole Foods dinner to a glorious sunset (the fact that the dinner is Whole Foods is superfluous information)
And, by the grace of the gods, it did NOT rain on the performance. Though a cool air creeped in through the copse of trees into the Delacorte, and as the sun went down, the audience began rummaging in their bags for shawls and sweaters, every bit - every aspect - was so well-wrought, very well executed. Sir Andrew Aguecheek stole the show through his witty fool rendition. I will save the academic insight for an academic blog. But suffice it to say, it rivaled the production I saw at the Stratford Festival in Ontario. Which is one of my first loves. Besides Callum Blue, of course.
Until the sun shines again in my fair city, I remain enchanted.
Quote of the Day: "With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain."
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Broadway, Sheet Music, and a Dozen Eggs
New York is the city where any bland platitude may be applied--the rich wealth of dreams and sayings are compared only to the thick layers of grit and grime painted on this fine island. Whispers of Ol' Blue Eyes saying something about making it here, endless rom com's boasting the Illusion of New York et. al. made it difficult for me initially to like or understand New York.
Whether I like it or not, my careers and blip-on-the-radar jobs have colored my New York experience. The first internship allowed me the first unsavory view of the City -- that there are no quick and dirty ways of making it in advertising, writing, or any other career for that matter (Madoff and Ponzi schemers excluded, of course).
My second showed me the lavish and extravagent side of the city. At this agency, hundreds of dollars were spent on floral arrangements, catered luncheons, and a personal driver. Expense accounts ranneth over, and even I, as an intern, was told to take cabs to my frequent visits to the Fashion District to fetch a yard of brown ribbon. I regularly bumped elbows with Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker at Chelsea Market, along with numerous "Project Runway" contestants and winners, and Food Network guru's. Bobby Flay does not look intimidating in person. Though I wouldn't object to him making me a five course dinner.
And now, at a major news publication, things are again different. There is no glitz or gloss, only deadlines, bylines, and headlines. The technology is a good decade behind what it should be, and even as I write this on a circa 2000 Compaq, it has frozen and crashed no less than two times. But I have learned a different part of New York ... walking in through the doors is a bit like stepping into the Twilight Zone. This is a world of arraignments in Queens, murders in Brooklyn, and celebrities frolicking around Manhattan. Plus, I look sexy in a press pass.
I sing in a Chorus here. I figured there was a serious need for a musical outlet, especially since I've yet to develop the courage to busker my clarinet skills on the NRQW train. So I performed in Carnegie Hall again on Thursday night. More on that in the next entry.
What does a dozen eggs have to do with Manhattan? Well, turns out New York is a rather costly city. You average a night at the bars to be at least a twenty spot, or at the very least, talking to unsavory, uneducated frattastic Smitty Smitterson. So, one comes up with alternative means to going out. Favorites include gallery openings in Chelsea, shopping at farmer's markets, exploring Battery Park City, and scrambling for free screeners from The New York Observer. Now, you might be seeing a pattern. These are all daytime activities. So, when Netflix fails to delight, and Crunch Fitness seems an unseemly quarter mile away, one needs to improvise. Last Tuesday was such a day. Rainy, miserable, with turrential downpours. There was no chance of going out. So, I looked in my refrigorator. A dozen eggs nested in its cardboard sarcophagus. I heated up my economy stovetop, and cracked the first egg in. That's right. Poached. Sunny-side-up. Scrambled. More scrambled (attempted over-easy). And that, dear friends, is what a starving artist in the East Village does on a quiet night in.
In the end, I know three things to be true. One: that New York only becomes mundane if you let it. I woke up this morning thinking I would maybe get a bagel and go to work. I ended up being swept up in two separate parades and waiting outside Shubert Theater to talk with Angela Lansbury.
Two: New York is not for the timid of mind or spirit. You have to have your balls to the wall (that saying disturbs me, but there it is anyways). This applies with making restaurant reservations, getting a quote from a politician, and getting in exclusive clubs.
Three: After a winter of being slapped around by Mother Nature, a day like today (high in the mid-eighties) is a time to rejoice, be outside, and "accidentally" misdirect tourists to seedy parts of Harlem.
Whether I like it or not, my careers and blip-on-the-radar jobs have colored my New York experience. The first internship allowed me the first unsavory view of the City -- that there are no quick and dirty ways of making it in advertising, writing, or any other career for that matter (Madoff and Ponzi schemers excluded, of course).
My second showed me the lavish and extravagent side of the city. At this agency, hundreds of dollars were spent on floral arrangements, catered luncheons, and a personal driver. Expense accounts ranneth over, and even I, as an intern, was told to take cabs to my frequent visits to the Fashion District to fetch a yard of brown ribbon. I regularly bumped elbows with Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker at Chelsea Market, along with numerous "Project Runway" contestants and winners, and Food Network guru's. Bobby Flay does not look intimidating in person. Though I wouldn't object to him making me a five course dinner.
And now, at a major news publication, things are again different. There is no glitz or gloss, only deadlines, bylines, and headlines. The technology is a good decade behind what it should be, and even as I write this on a circa 2000 Compaq, it has frozen and crashed no less than two times. But I have learned a different part of New York ... walking in through the doors is a bit like stepping into the Twilight Zone. This is a world of arraignments in Queens, murders in Brooklyn, and celebrities frolicking around Manhattan. Plus, I look sexy in a press pass.
I sing in a Chorus here. I figured there was a serious need for a musical outlet, especially since I've yet to develop the courage to busker my clarinet skills on the NRQW train. So I performed in Carnegie Hall again on Thursday night. More on that in the next entry.
What does a dozen eggs have to do with Manhattan? Well, turns out New York is a rather costly city. You average a night at the bars to be at least a twenty spot, or at the very least, talking to unsavory, uneducated frattastic Smitty Smitterson. So, one comes up with alternative means to going out. Favorites include gallery openings in Chelsea, shopping at farmer's markets, exploring Battery Park City, and scrambling for free screeners from The New York Observer. Now, you might be seeing a pattern. These are all daytime activities. So, when Netflix fails to delight, and Crunch Fitness seems an unseemly quarter mile away, one needs to improvise. Last Tuesday was such a day. Rainy, miserable, with turrential downpours. There was no chance of going out. So, I looked in my refrigorator. A dozen eggs nested in its cardboard sarcophagus. I heated up my economy stovetop, and cracked the first egg in. That's right. Poached. Sunny-side-up. Scrambled. More scrambled (attempted over-easy). And that, dear friends, is what a starving artist in the East Village does on a quiet night in.
In the end, I know three things to be true. One: that New York only becomes mundane if you let it. I woke up this morning thinking I would maybe get a bagel and go to work. I ended up being swept up in two separate parades and waiting outside Shubert Theater to talk with Angela Lansbury.
Two: New York is not for the timid of mind or spirit. You have to have your balls to the wall (that saying disturbs me, but there it is anyways). This applies with making restaurant reservations, getting a quote from a politician, and getting in exclusive clubs.
Three: After a winter of being slapped around by Mother Nature, a day like today (high in the mid-eighties) is a time to rejoice, be outside, and "accidentally" misdirect tourists to seedy parts of Harlem.
Friday, February 6, 2009
...the Only One in the Vill-age.
So what, you ask, is life in the East Village like? Do we have bonfires, or weekly kum-by-yah sing-along's? Do we sojourn on a weekly basis to consignment and thrift shops? Or go to hipster bars and talk about the consistency and bushiness of our hipster beards? Nay, dear readers. Though life in the Village is quite different from that in, say, Upper East Side or FiDi (although no one calls it that,) East Village is its own pillow of atypical wonder.
To set the stage: in early September, I moved into a cozy (read: I've purchased shoes that come in boxes bigger than) studio, complete with 20 square feet, a cupboard, and enough closet space for three overpriced shirts from Anthropologie. However, I have rooftop access, which means panoramic views of Peruvian Chicken restaurants, CVS, and - oh, and the Empire State Building.
There is no lack of gastro-diversity. Pick an Avenue - be it B, A, 1st, or 2nd, and walk down. In a quarter mile, you will pass Japanese, Thai, Chinese, Ethiopian, Indian, sushi, pubs, vegan, organic, and, of course, the American Staples of Dunkin' Donuts, McDonald's, and Taco Bell. A foodie's paradise. Luckily, all that walking cancels out any negative affects of so much gluten, starch, protein, and saturated fat. And let's not forget Hot & Crusty, the staple of my Manhattan existence. Though it sounds vaguely like a venereal disease, H&C is the mecca for late-night eats, early morning brunch, or a mid-afternoon munch.
My newest obsession is liquiteria, an organic, vegan-friendly smoothie and soup place on Second Avenue. I've been a flip-flopper on the healthy/fried eating habits for weeks. Literally, weeks. But now that I have liquiteria on my side, the battle's a bit easier. It's always the texture of vegetables that get me - I abhor cooked carrots, mushy cauliflauer, anything that has been steamed or baked too long. So the fact that I can get all those healthy, hippie benefits of veggies from drinking juice? Um, oui, s.v.p.
If there are only two reasons as to why I love East Village so, one is because of the food. The second, there is no lack of interesting bars and watering holes. I've even become a "regular" at one of these said drinking establishments, something that would have made the me of six months ago ridiculously giddy and irritating to the passer-by.
And, with that in mind, I'm off to frequent one of those fine places. Pip pip, cheerio.
New York Fun Fact of the Day: I live only two blocks from where Billy the Kid squatted after committing a line of heinous crimes against society.
To set the stage: in early September, I moved into a cozy (read: I've purchased shoes that come in boxes bigger than) studio, complete with 20 square feet, a cupboard, and enough closet space for three overpriced shirts from Anthropologie. However, I have rooftop access, which means panoramic views of Peruvian Chicken restaurants, CVS, and - oh, and the Empire State Building.
There is no lack of gastro-diversity. Pick an Avenue - be it B, A, 1st, or 2nd, and walk down. In a quarter mile, you will pass Japanese, Thai, Chinese, Ethiopian, Indian, sushi, pubs, vegan, organic, and, of course, the American Staples of Dunkin' Donuts, McDonald's, and Taco Bell. A foodie's paradise. Luckily, all that walking cancels out any negative affects of so much gluten, starch, protein, and saturated fat. And let's not forget Hot & Crusty, the staple of my Manhattan existence. Though it sounds vaguely like a venereal disease, H&C is the mecca for late-night eats, early morning brunch, or a mid-afternoon munch.
My newest obsession is liquiteria, an organic, vegan-friendly smoothie and soup place on Second Avenue. I've been a flip-flopper on the healthy/fried eating habits for weeks. Literally, weeks. But now that I have liquiteria on my side, the battle's a bit easier. It's always the texture of vegetables that get me - I abhor cooked carrots, mushy cauliflauer, anything that has been steamed or baked too long. So the fact that I can get all those healthy, hippie benefits of veggies from drinking juice? Um, oui, s.v.p.
If there are only two reasons as to why I love East Village so, one is because of the food. The second, there is no lack of interesting bars and watering holes. I've even become a "regular" at one of these said drinking establishments, something that would have made the me of six months ago ridiculously giddy and irritating to the passer-by.
And, with that in mind, I'm off to frequent one of those fine places. Pip pip, cheerio.
New York Fun Fact of the Day: I live only two blocks from where Billy the Kid squatted after committing a line of heinous crimes against society.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Happenstance and Fauxlebrity Sightings
It is said that those who move to New York require some nerve, some appreciation for bagels and/or panini's, and some blind luck. New York is a city made of people who believe in things - it's the commonality that links everyone from janitors to CEO's together. They're all fighting for something. So, it would follow that in the Blind Luck category, a charmed life - a serendipitous existence, might follow. That is, compared to the old life I once had - trekking a mile in the snow to class, discussing 18th-century British poets, and going to chapter meetings is part of a hazy past - well liked, certainly, in its own capacity, but distant.
These past two weeks have been a bit like that. Last Wednesday, for instance, my friend Linda and I were heading to Chelsea to visit her friend's gallery. It was around six at night, and I was iPhoning the directions. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man in a black pea coat and silver hair walk by. He looked oddly familiar. Turns out, it was Tim Gunn, freshly evanesced from Liz Claiborne. I whisper to Linda: "So, that was Tim Gunn," thinking she would nod, smile, and we would continue our quest for elusive, pretentious Chelsea art.
Not at all the case.
She begins power-walking after Tim, motioning frantically for me to take a picture with said iPhone. We catch up to Tim at the the street crossing, and I snap a picture. Ironically, he was on his merry way to Gristede's, the New York chain of grocery stores, perhaps in search of the perfect non-clothing clothing item to fashion into the next couture gown. To those of you who do not get this reference, please watch Seasons 2 and 5 of "Project Runway," and then we'll talk.
The next involves running into other said fauxlebrities - that is to say, celebrities that think they are more famous than they really are. Case in point, Taylor Momsen (little Jenny Humphrey) of the CW's "Gossip Girl." One Sunday eve, I was waiting for the NRQW in Times Square: Momson had a posse of impossibly gay guys, and a girl who had "never taken the subway before."
"That's so cute!" Momson editorialized. Not that she had to. As a moderate fauxlebrity, is it ever necessary to take the layman's form of transportation? I know times are hard, but she was obviously there only for the Gawker tips.
Enough of that. I must try and occupy my mind with more intellectual pursuits. Time to analyze the existential meanings of reality television.
Quote of the Day: "Where's Andre?"
These past two weeks have been a bit like that. Last Wednesday, for instance, my friend Linda and I were heading to Chelsea to visit her friend's gallery. It was around six at night, and I was iPhoning the directions. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man in a black pea coat and silver hair walk by. He looked oddly familiar. Turns out, it was Tim Gunn, freshly evanesced from Liz Claiborne. I whisper to Linda: "So, that was Tim Gunn," thinking she would nod, smile, and we would continue our quest for elusive, pretentious Chelsea art.
Not at all the case.
She begins power-walking after Tim, motioning frantically for me to take a picture with said iPhone. We catch up to Tim at the the street crossing, and I snap a picture. Ironically, he was on his merry way to Gristede's, the New York chain of grocery stores, perhaps in search of the perfect non-clothing clothing item to fashion into the next couture gown. To those of you who do not get this reference, please watch Seasons 2 and 5 of "Project Runway," and then we'll talk.
The next involves running into other said fauxlebrities - that is to say, celebrities that think they are more famous than they really are. Case in point, Taylor Momsen (little Jenny Humphrey) of the CW's "Gossip Girl." One Sunday eve, I was waiting for the NRQW in Times Square: Momson had a posse of impossibly gay guys, and a girl who had "never taken the subway before."
"That's so cute!" Momson editorialized. Not that she had to. As a moderate fauxlebrity, is it ever necessary to take the layman's form of transportation? I know times are hard, but she was obviously there only for the Gawker tips.
Enough of that. I must try and occupy my mind with more intellectual pursuits. Time to analyze the existential meanings of reality television.
Quote of the Day: "Where's Andre?"
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