Posts tagged ‘New York’

February 11, 2011

Oh, Come On!

Well, hey there, stranger.  Back from Morocco, had an amazing time, and I will blog about it, but I’ve been buried in work all week and then I had this really fun stomach bug that knocked me out for two days, blah, blah.

Anyway, I just want to quickly note that it’s amazing how much New York can take something as cool and seemingly simple as underground fight clubs and turn them into some scene-y precious bullshit that makes you want to go to sleep.

At 6-foot-3, with a chiseled face and some amazing tattoo work, the 20-year-old is as unique a New York character as they come. He’s a pretty boy boxer. His day job is working with 2-year-olds in a nursery school. He rolls with a tight-knit crew called the Big Gunz that has been together since freshman year of high school — all good looking, all boxers. . . . he has been getting into modeling and may sign with an agency. Asked about the obvious tension between boxing and making money off your face, Charlie doesn’t engage. “I like a good lifestyle,’’ he says, “and teaching nursery school and boxing don’t pay well.” . . . He’s undefeated in his weight, and a title would propel him toward the Olympics and then a pro career.

Really?  That’s “as unique a New York character as they come?”  If this kid’s bound for the Olympics, I’m on track for a six-figure book deal.

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Photo via.

October 28, 2010

Mandatory Fun Isn’t Very

It will come as no shock to regular readers of this blog that I have a bit of a fun allergy, and the one thing I hate more than an ordinary Saturday is an extraordinary Saturday.  Perhaps it comes from being a teenager who never had anywhere to go or anyone to go with, but holidays that demand the procurement of awesome plans automatically put me on the defensive.  I can have a really awesome time out, but I have to be in just the right mood; otherwise, I’ll stand around grumpily wondering why everyone thinks it’s a scream a minute to mill around in a crowded location to pounding music and flashing lights, when if you turned off the music and lights, it would be indistinguishable from waiting in a crowded airport for a delayed flight.  So mandatory fun days don’t really work for me.  Being told when I must turn out for some fun is too much like a camp counselor bellowing at the tent flap that it’s time for games, so put the book down. 

And Halloween is really a one-two punch of fun fascism because, in addition to being told that you must have fun, you are also told how you must dress for it.  This whole idea of needing a day in which everyone agrees to look crazy so that you can feel comfortable dressing up is beyond me.  Isn’t the whole point of costuming yourself to stand out and be noticed?  Why demand that a unified front screen you?  Grow some balls, people.  Someone recently was saying that Halloween as a concept is pointless for anyone who’s a performer/ex-performer – remind me if that was you, or you know who was saying it, because you/they phrased it really well, and now I can’t remember.    

Anyway, I really enjoyed this Sloane Crosley article about how Halloween in NY is the new New Year’s:

Beyond dressing-up, it’s that creeping pressure to do something insanely fun for Halloween. This is a trickle-back attitude from New Year’s. What a smack in the face of fun. Other holidays don’t have this problem. The words “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” invoke turkey, familial dysfunction and airport security. It’s a sincere question, not a fishing expedition. Never has someone said “I’m going to my aunt Hilda’s house in Wooster” and been met with a “That sounds great. When are we leaving?”

I don’t know why I’m bitching, really, because I have some awesome plans for Halloween this year (although no costume, unfortunately – I’m thinking I will wear a few slips, black my eyes, rat up my hair and go as Helena Bonham Carter in something).  On Sunday, I am going to see THE DRESDEN DOLLS, and I am SO EXCITED! 

Also, despite all my protests above, last year I participated in a group costume that was probably the greatest Halloween costume ever.  Someone else thought it up and someone else put it together – all I had to do was put it on.  If that were the case every year, I’d have no problem dressing up.  Anyway, we were sexxy Dharma initiative and we were amazing.  Regard:

  

October 19, 2010

LA v. NY

I recently visited LA for the first time ever.  I visited a friend over the Columbus Day weekend, and, while apparently three weeks to a month is plenty of time for me to make sweeping, authoritative observations about entire countries, I don’t feel like five days qualifies me to say anything about LA.  So, I’ll just compare it to New York, because traditionally NYers and LAers pretty much define their cities in opposition to each other.

Before visiting, I feared I’d want to move to LA immediately, because I love sunshine and warmth and hate winter and darkness (feared, because moving to LA would mean getting a car and driving for the first time in a decade).  But it turns out, I’m not as much as a sun person as I’d thought.  My skin doesn’t lie, apparently.  I kind of thought that everyone in LA would be as sun-phobic as NYers are – I mean, LA is the land of eternal-youth obsession after all.  My friends in NY would sooner attack their delicate facial skin with razor blades than sit in direct sunlight without a high SPF.  We are shade seekers.  But in LA, it’s all, ‘Let’s have brunch on the patio – no need for an umbrella!  Aren’t you hot in that sweatshirt and wide-brimmed hat?  Don’t you feel insane in that veil and poncho?’  And then there was all the driving – hours and hours of driving with direct sunlight just plowing through the windshield.  I felt like an ant under a magnifying lens.  I could hear myself sizzling and feel melanomas and sun spots springing up from deep in my dermal layers.  I could feel the thin skin around my eyes and lips shriveling into dry, crone-like crepe.

So, there was that.  But LA is really beautiful.  Just postcard pretty, everywhere you go.  And all the people are really beautiful, too, which is annoying.  It doesn’t feel urban, though – more suburban.  I always think I hate crowds here in NY, but being in such semi-deserted big spaces while clearly still in a city made me uneasy, like maybe someone had sounded an alarm and I hadn’t heard it.

Socially, LA is more outgoing than NY – I’m pretty sure I can say that definitively, even based on my limited experience.  I mean, twice while I was reading in public, a total stranger came up to ask what I was reading and introduce themselves.  And they weren’t even creeps, or crazy people!  Never before in my life has that happened, and actually, I liked it.  I wish I could always make friends without having to take my nose out of my book and initiate eye contact.  Otherwise, people do ask you what you do in LA and expect you to have an answer, which I hate, but they do that in NY, too.

Money-wise, rent isn’t that much less in LA, but you get a lot more for it.  My friends out there mostly live in gorgeous, sunny spaces with washer/dryers.  I thought food and alcohol was considerably pricier, but maybe that’s just because I’ve lived in NY long enough to know where and where not to go.  Thrift stores are much, much cheaper, and apparently, they don’t have bedbugs out there yet.

Overall, I think that unless you have a career-related reason to be in LA (which I’m sure most people do), it’d be better to live in Southern California, somewhere more remote.  There are definite advantages to being right in NYC, rather than outside NYC, but I don’t think LA itself is that much of a draw – it’s more the general atmosphere of the region.  NYC is a cooler city, but LA is more livable and a prettier place.  There, that’s my (terribly original) sweeping pronouncement on the subject.

Here are some pictures, and I’ll probably post more, too, at some point:

August 30, 2010

A Night Walk

Usually, my Brooklyn neighborhood is pretty sunny and wholesome, but last night, I walked home from a friend’s apartment, where I had just watched Brick, and I don’ t know if it was the movie’s influence, but all down the dark, deserted stretch of Manhattan Avenue, it seemed I was in the gritty, Hopper-esque NY of yore. Piles of garbage and busted furniture lined the curbs. The stores were all shuttered behind their graffiti-covered security gates. The usual drunks were passed out in the usual doorways. Outside the Associated Grocery, an emaciated shirtless man combed through a bag of bottles. A tattooed strung-out couple helped each other try to jimmy into the money slot of the exterior Chase ATM, and glared at me as I passed. In the darkened rear of a nearby bagel store, a security alarm blared. An older lady sniffled on the steps under the Polski church’s towering Gothic spire. In front of me, a woman glided down the sidewalk iin an ankle-length dress; as she passed the OTB, a gust of stale wind blew a stream of paper plates and takeout bags into a halo around her head, and a man’s profile emerged from a shadowed doorway as he turned to watch her, a pipe hanging from his lower lip. The moon was nearly full above the upper floors, where, behind open curtains, tatty furnishings were strobed by blue TV light. Down the empty street, a bus rattled, its few sullen passengers staring into their laps, lit bright against the night. The very air smelled of despair and oregano. As I rounded the corner onto Norman, a clown stood in the center of the empty street, holding a slowly rotating pinwheel and weeping, his tears making tracks through his white makeup. In the gutter outside my apartment, an infant kicked and whined; moments later, a sewer rat dragged it away by the ankle. In the hallway outside my door, a group of refugees huddled around an oil-can fire. They begged me for something to eat, and I gave them half a box of Tic-Tacs. Inside my apartment, my beloved was asleep beneath a pile of newspapers. His tuberculous cough rent the night sky and my heart as the Cimices watered themselves at his shriveled veins, and a buzzard kept patient vigil from the mantelpiece. Rent was due – I stood beneath a bare bulb and forged a check for $2500, as a pipe burst and drywall rained down around me like manna. Ah, New York. New York, New York.

February 22, 2008

The Ever-Increasing Cost of Pizza Slices

First of all, this week’s funniest freaking thing I’ve seen (this week): Stuff White People Like. I never thought I’d manage to conform so absolutely to a stereotype.

One of the few (very few) ways in which I deviate from that stereotype, however, is my solid commitment to eating nothing but absolute crap, preferably the kind that can be paid for with laundry quarters. Which brings us to this week’s gripe:

Attention, New York pizzerias! A cheese slice is $2. It’s not $2.25, it’s not $2.50, and it’s sure as hell not $2.75. Since moving here a year ago, pizza has been my go-to because, weighing cost against fullness factor, it ended up being the best all-around solution to insane food prices everywhere (and my near-constant unemployment). But with every price hike, you pizzerias are tipping the balance away from you and toward hot dog carts, or the candy aisle at Duane Read. I’ve only been here for a year, and the standard price has shot up $.75? In two more years, we’ll all be paying $5.50 for a damn slice of pizza.

Also, the taco and burrito joints here suck. I have no idea why this has to be the case.

And, related to both the above, is there some sort of horrible city-wide cheese shortage that I am unaware of? Because seriously, if I wanted to work this hard at getting a decent amount of melted cheese, I could have stayed in Asia.

March 30, 2007

Your Waitress Responds II

The restaurant where I work is across Broadway from Lincoln Center, and the vast majority of the waitstaff are aspiring actors. A lot of our patrons like to ask their server if s/he is an actor, which annoys me because hey, maybe I’m just a server – is there something wrong with that? And two, did I ask you what you do? No. No, I did not.

Anyway, I’ve come up with the perfect response to that question, and this is how I hope it plays out:

Nice, but Tactless Old Lady: So, tell me, honey, are you really an actor?

Me (squatting down and resting my elbows on the table): You know, it’s a funny story about that. Years ago, when I was just a little girl in East Tennessee, my mother found herself in possession of a small amount of mad money. After careful consideration, she decided to spend that money on a trip to the Big Apple, where I had always wanted to go. We were here for four, glorious days, and on one of those days, we visited Lincoln Center, right across the street there. It was my wildest dream to one day attend Julliard, and then to sing at the Met. My Mom drew a picture of me standing in front of that fountain, and then we ate lunch at this very restaurant. I had the berries with mascarpone cheese. They tasted like hope.

(I stand, and smile at the distant past for a moment, lost in happy reminiscence. Then, glancing down at the sticky bussing tray in my hands, I am brought back to the present.)

Me (Cont’d): Well, that was years ago now. I never made it to Julliard. And I certainly never made it to the Met. I don’t sing anymore. But I did get a job in this very restaurant! So, every day, I can look out those big, front windows at that paradise across the street and remember…a little girl’s dreams.

(I pause for a moment, gazing out the large front windows that afford a view of Lincoln Center, then blink rapidly several times, and swallow.)

Me (Cont’d): I’ll be right back with your bloody Mary.

[Scene]

March 22, 2007

Your Waitress Responds

I’m a server at a restaurant in Manhattan. I find that, this time around at least, I actually quite enjoy dealing with people…most of the time. As anyone who has ever worked in the service industry knows, however, there are more than a few real winners out there. Because I (a) have a horrid temper, and (b) don’t really give a shit about this job, I am afraid that I may very well say what I’m really thinking to a customer one day, at which point I’ll be immediately fired. So, in an attempt to preempt this event, I’m going to use this blog (it’s my blog, after all, and I can write whatever I want) to record all the things I really want to say to my customers. It’s possible that the people who need to hear these things might accidentally stumble upon them, and hopefully the knowledge of this (admittedly unlikely) possibility will grant me enough relief to continue providing smiling, patient service to my more horrid customers.

This past Tuesday evening, a lady wanted my opinion on the wine list. There is nothing I hate so much as people wanting me to give my opinion on our extensive, totally-unfamiliar-to-me wine list. I am not a sommelier. I am a waitress. You should know that if you ask your server about wines, your server just makes something up. We all do it – our aim is to make you look smart in front of your dining companions, because that is what you really want. You never know what you’re talking about, and you never complain when the wine arrives (because you wouldn’t really know a pinot from a grape Kool-Aid), unless you were planning to complain all along because you’re the sort of person who likes to make a big stink and get a lot of attention (i.e. an old and/or French person).

The woman in question asked which of the three (nearly identical) reds she was considering was the most full-bodied, and when I said, ‘Uh…’ and paused half a second for inspiration, she said, in a tone dripping with sarcasm,

‘Do you drink wines at all?’

What I really said was yes, and then I pointed to the most expensive of her three choices and told her that was the most full-bodied and she’d love it (and she did), but what I thought was:

‘If you’d like to know which is the least repulsive magnum you can get for $7.99 to obliterate the consciousness of having danced attendance on rich, superior bitches all day, I can help you out. Otherwise, as you can clearly see, I am a waitress, and so do not make a habit of buying $30 bottles of wine to compliment my microwave burrito.’

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