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.
