Becoming Carrie

Looking for Love...of Labels

2009-09-02T22:39:00.024-04:00

This is one homo that never got the fashion gene. Or jeans, for that matter. Growing up in Georiga, it wasn't just accepted, it was expected to wear the exact same polo/kaki combo as everyone else. The only part we got to play around with was whether or not to tuck your shirt tail all the way in or leave it partially hanging out, frat boy-style. Later on in California, I could easily get away with wearing t-shirts, holey jeans and flip-flops all year. In fact, you were seen as kinda pretentious if you didn't wear the carefree costume of those blessed by the beach.

But as soon as I arrived in New York, I immediately felt uncomfortable. I mean, people look GOOD here. They put thought and purpose into their sense of style. Their ambition bleeds from their tapered wrists, waistlines and cuffs. And the shoes! God forbid I click-clack around in my flip flops or clunk down the street in my tattered boots. Shoes are to New Yorkers what cars are to Californians. Nothing so readily reveals your style.

I could get away without being fashionable for a little while under the "he just moved here" guise. But I've now been here for over a year and that just doesn't cut it anymore. So when my friend Richie invited me to his black & white-themed birthday party, it's no surprise that I panicked. I love my friend Richie, but there was no way I was prepared to stand in front of the firing squad of his fashionista friends. The flames shooting out of their disapprovingly pointed fingers would sear away what little material was left of my jeans.

You see, I always pretended I never cared about fashion. That I simply wasn't built to be that materialistic. I'd rather put my money into dinners with friends (or kitschy kitchen appliances) than clothes. I'm the type who goes shopping once a year with my grandmama's Christmas money. I buy everything all at once, usually in three of every color. It seemed so silly to me to spend $200 on a pair of jeans, when that money could just as easily be spent on a candy apple red Kitchen-Aid mixer.

But I'd also happened to have recently watched the Vogue magazine documentary, The September Issue. At the start of the movie, Anna Wintour (aka The Ice Queen) says, "On the whole, people that say demeaning things about our world, I think that's usually because they feel in some ways excluded or not part of the cool group. So as a result, they just mock it. There is something about fashion that can make people very nervous." Something about that hit home to me. Why was I so afraid to be nervous? Wasn't the whole purpose for moving to New York to push myself outside of my comfort zone? So when Richie offered to take me to his friend's high fashion store, Behaviour, I pulled on my track pants and bravely, if grumpily, relented.

I have to hand it to the store personnel. They hid their smirks well and were really helpful. I was thinking I would get some black pants and a simple white shirt. After all, I already had this black skinny tie I'd bought from Armani Exchange that I was immensely proud of and dying to put to good use. I would look just like Justin Timberlake! But the sales guy just rolled his eyes at me and said, "No. It's a black & white theme party. Everyone will be doing that. You need to go with something more unexpected." I didn't have the heart to tell him that just tucking my shirt in would, for me, be unexpected.

Next thing I knew I was being shoved into the changing room with a tight, black button-down and a pair of black skinny jeans. Wait, let me repeat that 'cause I don't think you heard me: skinny jeans! I mean, seriously? How would the cuffs ever fit over my boots? And did this guy really expect me to wear all black? I mean, how New York can you get, right?

Sighing heavily, I painted the jeans onto my considerable calves and did my best to hide my backfat in what little there was of the shirt folds. As I stepped out of my fashion closet and into the light of the showroom, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the reaction. The cute, young sales guy turned around and said simply, "you look very handsome." Well, as you can imagine I all but beamed back at him and immediately handed him my credit card. I left just as excited about that compliment as I was about getting back into the expandable waistline of my track pants.

But my outfit was not yet complete. Richie explained that the shirt had these little built-in slots that a pair of suspenders were meant to be pulled through. So next I found myself at American Apparel buying a pair of black ones. Having had quite enough for one day, I refused to try the entire outfit on in the store. I instead satisfied myself with seeing how everything looked together later that night in the comfort and privacy of my own home - where I could later feign a flu that would render me unable to attend the party.

Getting ready that night I sucked down three glasses of wine in rapid succession, put on some country music to calm my nerves, and tried everything on. Now, if you've never tried on suspenders by yourself let me tell you, you need to be nothing short of a contortionist to get those things on. As soon as I clamped down one side of this black bra without boobs, the other side would snap off. I was like a dizzy dog turning in circles, chasing my skinny jean tail. But I finally got everything together and looked into the mirror: black shirt, black jeans, black suspenders, black shoes. I felt like a freakin' mime.

That night at the party, I actually got a lot of attention. My hipster friend Marvin couldn't stop complimenting me and I even ended up making out with this hot trendy gay I met. It wasn't until later that I found out I'd unfortunately committed a deeply offensive faux-paus. Oh, my outfit was mostly well received. But for those who happened to look all the way down, they found square-toed shoes anchoring me to the ground. Apparently, square toes went out about ten years ago. You know...about the time I'd actually bought the shoes.

But New York is about nothing if not dusting yourself off and trying again. So here I am, all ready to look for labels. And hopefully some new shoes to point me in the right direction.

Rest In Peace, Michael

2009-06-26T21:56:00.019-04:00

I was having a wonderful dinner at Sushi Samba in midtown. The food was exquisite. The drinks were flowing. And the company was endearing. All was a picture-perfect New York moment when suddenly my phone began blowing up with text message after text message. I couldn't believe what I was reading: Michael Jackson passed away!

And it wasn't just my phone. It seemed everyone's phones were going crazy with random jingles and buzzes. The effect was immediate. Cries of outrage and sadness. The whole rhythm of the restaurant was heightened with confusion and denial.

I left shortly after, walking home in shock. All of these memories came flooding back to me. Humming "Man in the Mirror" with my dad while fixing something in the garage. Roller skating hand-in-hand with my elementary school girlfriend to "Bad." My entire 4th-grade class singing "We are the World" for our parents in the gym. Memories of raw reflection, unadulterated fun and hope-spirited togetherness. Michael had the kind of music that you knew was really good, but that would later sneak up on you in the most poignant ways. You'd realized, "he knew what I was feeling then before I did."

Years later, I had the honored privilege of actually going to the Neverland Ranch. It was truly a paradise for anyone with the spirit of a child. Cotton candy, ice cream, any sweet treat you could imagine was there for the taking. The carnival rides lasted five times longer than you thought they would. There was even a yellow-brick road there, which a client and I skipped down, arm-in-arm singing at the top of our longs, "Come on and...ease on down, ease on down the rooooaaaad." And then at the end of the day, there was Michael himself less than ten feet away from me. We sang happy birthday to him and he, in a fit of passion, shoved both hands into his cake and threw fistfuls of icing right onto us. No walls, no pretensions, just silly, crazy fun.

So it's no wonder than when my friend Yogen texted me telling me to get my ass down to Union Square, an impromptu MJ celebration was happening, that I immediately hopped the closest train there. What I came upon was a group of kids, really. Oh we were across all ages, but we all had the spirit of children within us that night. People were playing whatever Michael songs they had on their phones and we would all sing as loud as we could and dance, dance, dance. And when we ran out of cell phone songs, we sang from memory. Inspiration coming from the back of the ever-growing crowd in the form of, "Where did you come from baby?" Then someone else from a separate corner would shout back, "And ooooh won't you take me there" and off we'd go, the song being passed round and round until the entire square was singing "Pretty Young Thing" in unison. And when we lost the thread of that song's lyrics, we'd simply move on to the next one as someone shouted, "Share that beat of loooove..."

It started out with the classics, the dance songs. But as the energy of the crowd surged there was a decided shift in tone. "Heal the World," "You Are Not Alone," and finally, one that we all shouted over the others. One that made us look at each other, notices the differences in our skin tones and facial features, accept them and embrace them all as one, "If you're thinkin of being my brother, it don't matter if your BLACK OR WHITE!" That's when arms were wrapped around strangers and we swayed as one, hands high in the air, keeping the beat by nothing but the clapping of our hands. Because everything we needed we had already with us: our memories, our voices, our hands and our love. Towards the end I started to get hoarse from all the singing. I turned to the girl next to me and said, "I'm losing my voice!." And she looked at me, smiled and said simply, "It don't matter...Michael can still hear you. Keep singing!"

New York is a city filled with preoccupied people, typically living in isolation among the multitudes. But what you realize is when the important moments happen, they let all that go and reach for one another. And boy how we make up for it then. It's a kind of brotherhood I have very rarely experienced in my life. But one that is powered by an incredible force of humanity that only such a condensed city as this can express.

On that night, Michael gave us that experience again. He went beyond age, beyond race, beyond gender. He was often terribly misunderstood, but I think he understood something we didn't. Something he was trying to tell us all those years with all of those wonderful songs. Something that continues to be impossible to articulate even as this blogger ends this post with a sigh of peace. So I'll just end it with a message from Michael, sung by the people who loved him: We are not alone.

Stairway to Heaven

2009-06-26T19:07:00.014-04:00

It's no secret to anyone that's been to my apartment that my guilty, if not bittersweet, pleasure is my six-floor walk-up. Yes, it's a total pain in the ass on days when I'm loaded down like a pack mule. And it's not exactly booty-slimming. But the payoff is when I have visitors.

As soon as I buzz them up, I immediately crack open my door and turn down any music that's playing in the background. I grab my beer, settle back against the wall and just listen, a grin slowly blooming on my face. Oh, most of my friends are younger and they're steadily stomping until floor three. But something interesting happens at floor four. Those stomps become plods. The timing between each consecutive footfall gets longer and longer. By floor five, I can hear their hand slapping the rail and deep gasps for breath. By the time they finally make it up the final flight to my door, they usually have a look of pure hatred on their face. Oh, they're not that mad at the stairs. They're mad at me. Because by that time my grin has become a series of guffaws.

But I also love the strangers you encounter on the way up and down the stairs as well. I cannot remember any of their names and I barely know them. Some float by like ghosts with secrets they lock behind their doors. But the ones I do know are interesting characters indeed.

In the basement is Carlos, our building super. I took to him immediately after I'd been here two weeks and caught him outside decorating for Halloween. Now, Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday and any friend of cotton webbing is a friend of mine. Noticing how I was doing an excited little pee dance, he asked me if I wanted to help. Next thing I knew I was on his step-ladder hanging a gigantic rubber bat from a light fixture. This year we want to find a gigantic spider so the bat has company.
On the first floor are a group of Mexicans who smoke weed constantly. It cracks me up that good old Mary Jane is the first smell to hit you when you walk in my building, in part because I think it's so bold. I commented on this one day and they just laughed and offered me a hit. I didn't accept, but every now and then when I pass by I shout, "Immigration!" and pound on the door. Oh how they laugh! At least when they aren't in a state of wild-eyed paranoia.

On the fourth floor lives a very old, but colorful gay man. He wears khaki safari suits with ascots and a sailor's cap. I'm quite certain he has no boat to speak of, but the simple fact that he looks and acts like a cross between the Skipper and Gilligan is enough to make me love him. When he passes by he always tips his hat, and no matter how antiquated or silly the gesture seems, it always makes me feel like a passenger about to board a luxury cruise ship instead of the Minnow.

Finally, on my floor lives the cutest straight guy. He's literally tall, dark and handsome in that classic Hollywood way. But what's even better is that he always goes out of his way to engage me in conversation when he sees me. He moves beyond the simple "hello" and always asks where I'm headed. This usually sparks a conversation that lasts all the way down the stairs until we get to the front door. Here, he always shouts, "Let me get that!," takes two quick steps to get ahead of me, rushes to open the door in time and holds it while I walk through (taking my time, I might add). While I try to keep myself from swooning straight to the pavement, he just shrugs, smiles and wishes me a great day. I always do seem to have a great day after that, too. But judging by the looks she gives me when she's with us, his girlfriend never does.

A friend of mine recently pointed out that my apartment is only 350 square feet. But to me, it's not the size of the apartment that matters. It's the uniqueness, the character and the environment it sits within that makes me fall in love with it. And with all these fun stairs to climb on the way to my Empire State Building-views, it's no wonder I named my apartment, "La Vela del Cielo"...or "The Candle of the Sky."

Sam and Charlie

2009-05-23T12:22:00.008-04:00

I thought I would miss my jeep. The California sun shining down, tanning my arms. The Santa Ana winds blowing through my increasingly scarce hair. Belting out songs from Chicago on the 405. But all of that seems like a distant dream now. And here I've discovered a new kind of beauty.

Whether going to and from work, carrying hefty groceries and awkward palm trees up to my apartment, or out simply taking a stroll, walking has become a curious new adventure of it's own. On the sidewalks there are no lanes to cross. No traffic jams - at least not unbearably long ones. Just me and Sam and Charlie.

At first it was the experience of walking around with your ipod. In your own little universe of music where anything can happen in your head. You don't really have to focus, so your mind is left to wander. And now instead of singing showtunes, I'm able to perform entire dance numbers in my head. Your steps fall to the rhythm of the music as you imagine the passersby suddenly joining in a dance routine a la Rent or Fame. And all the while, it's your own little secret. No one else knows what you're listening to, what world you're in at that moment.

When the summer came, I would look up to feel misty droplets falling to my face under a clear blue sky. It took me a moment to understand that it was simply the air conditioning units sweating from their windows. Then there's the fashion. With no car payments to make and no shining automobiles to brand you, people turn to their shoes to make statements. Loafers, stilettos, boots, sandals. All on parade. Nevermind the endlessly widening holes in your socks. No one can see those.

This evershifting city can change your mood in an instant. One day I was crossing 8th avenue, rushing on some errand, too much in a hurry. An old lady with a cane tapped me on the shoulder. In typical New York fashion, I threw her a wary look and prepared to bolt into the crowd. But then she asked me if I would mind walking her across the street. My Southern gallantry kicked in and I of course obliged her. On our painstakingly slow way across, her seemingly frail hand gripped like iron around my arm. But her voice was soft and sweet and she kept me company all along the way and thanked me with a broad smile. I took my time for the rest of that day.

And then there are moments when the city can throw something unexpectedly serendipitous your way. I was in the foulest of moods, pushing my way through crowds in Wall Street. Lost, perspiring, anxiety growing deeper every second. But then I turned a corner to find a smiling face in the most unlikely of places. And everything suddenly seemed okay. No. Everything suddenly felt right. Like I was where I was supposed to be. Because no matter how much the city can drag you down, a little walk is sometimes all you need to regain perspective.

Speaking Spring

2009-04-10T18:40:00.009-04:00

We made it!!! Give or take a few more chillier days, SPRING HAS COME. I was beginning to think we were too far up North in Yankeetown for it to ever get its lazy ass here.

I celebrated the first warm day by simply walking through the city. What I noticed was:

- mother nature waving her arboreal wand, turning on blooms in random trees and bushes like light bulbs
- freshly planted tulips in the little boxed-in tree gardens along the avenues
- gusts of wind so sudden and warm i found myself grinning so widely it forced the ipod buds out of my ears
- the more adventurous restaurants opening up their patios to the even more adventurous patrons who stopped by for a cappuccino or salad on the street
- a few simple souls chucking their scarves and jackets, bravely exposing their fish belly-pale skin and comfort food-fed stomachs
- passersby actually returning my smile with an appreciative one of their own
- patches of sunlight beaming down on me like a good ol' jazz song

I told myself before I moved here that I wanted to witness the changing of the seasons again. After 9 years in California, I became spoiled and felt it was time to jump into the real world. Apparently, I was in for more of a shock than I expected. The winter came with her hardened witch's fingers creeping down each vertebrae of my spine.

But now I can feel her relenting, knot by knot. With each one released I am reminded of what it means to feel the cycle of seasons whole and raw again. And I am comforted. Soon I will break out my flip flops, my coconut tanning oil and the mojitos and margaritas. Ah, New York, you are finally beginning to speak a language I can understand...and in doing so, becoming my New York.

Sank you, Pantyboy

2009-03-30T12:39:00.007-04:00

One thing I've come to love about city life is dropping my laundry off at the nearest Wash 'n Fold. Every couple of weeks, I simply sling my bag of dirty clothes in the front door and by the end of the day it's waiting for me, perfectly fresh and folded and sealed in plastic. Sure they don't speak Engrish beyond "sank you," and you practically have to guide their fingers on the number pad to type in your phone number, but they always do it with a smile. And I never have to set foot in a laundromat.Now, the truly beautiful thing about this is that I never see the dirty work happen. I simply hand them my golden ticket and, POOF!, my clothes are clean. But during my last pickup visit, I got an unwelcome surprise when I came in just a little too early. There was the tiny Asian man at the front counter, cheerily handling my intimates! I mean, it's not that I expect him to wear gloves or anything. Hell, I probably wouldn't even care if he brought them up to his face and breathed in. But I don't want to SEE it happen. What's more, he was folding them right there in the front where anyone who walked in or by the store would see MY undies.

Unfortunately, all the rest of my clothes had already been folded. It would have been stupid to leave and come back when he would be done in five minutes. So there I stood, distractedly fingering my BlackBerry and trying not to meet his gaze while he primly placed each pair of my briefs on top of the next. What made matters worse is that, as a gay man, I don't have baggy boxers or even simple white Calvin Kleins. No, I have to have pink undies with animals on them. And I just KNOW he was suppressing a smile and thinking in whatever language is native to him that this white ladyboy has some seriously girly panties. I am convinced I am going to be forever known as "pantyboy" to him and his family of workers. After a few minutes of turning beat red and gritting my teeth, I mumble something like, "You know, you don't have to finish folding. Just throw everything in the bag." He just nods agreeably, smiles and continues folding as I shift to my right leg uncomfortably.Finally, after five minutes going on five hours, he's done. He wraps everything up and stuffs it in my laundry bag. He smiles again, hands me my change and says, "Sank you, pwease come again" just as he always does. And I realize something as I heft my load onto my shoulder and head home. Maybe he gossips to his wife later about me and maybe he doesn't. Either way, my undies are just a handful of hundreds that pass through his hands every day. He'll probably forget all about it by the time he's hitting his wok if he hasn't already. After all, in a city this size, it's easy to get lost in the fold.

Meet Me At Playground Ave & Recess St

2009-02-05T15:15:00.009-05:00

In a city where there are nearly no backyards, people find ways of making do. The first time I saw two guys tossing a football in the middle of 8th avenue I clenched my teeth in sympathy fear of the oncoming traffic. The second time was in the subway where I gazed in wonderment, pondering if they would go in after the ball should it fall into the tracks. The third time it wasn't even a football but a pink, stuffed shark. Unfortunately, the shark fell to great casualty when the plucky little girl tossing him tossed a bit too high and a tree nabbed him.But this phenomenon doesn't seem to end with contact sports. There are TONS of gigantic polar bears, horses and lions in this city - otherwise known as dogs. You see, if you're walking a giant dog around, it means you must have the space to keep it in. Which in turn means you can afford a very large, expensive apartment, which in turn means you are a successful New Yorker. But just because you have an apartment large enough for the dog to fit in, doesn't mean there is enough room for it to run around in. Those things need exercise and when they don't get enough of it, they take matters into their own hands.

EXHIBIT A
EXHIBIT B
EXHIBIT C
Okay, that last one was a real horse. But it's what the cops in my neighborhood "drive" and I just had to throw it in there. But my favorite so far is when upon walking home from a delicious Thai restaurant I came upon a snowman hailing a cab. New Yorkers are nothing if not resourceful.

Riding the Scary-Go-Round

2009-01-28T12:51:00.006-05:00

It happened today. I finally mastered the revolving doors of my office building.

I can still remember what it was like those first few days. There is a terrible kind of coordination one must have to enter these things and arrive out the other side safely. Unfortunately, apart from when I dance, I tend toward utter gracelessness. Needless to say, I looked at this mobile monster with no less dread than if it was the centrifuge ride at the county fair. I mean, what if I got stuck in there and found myself running round in tight circles like a dog chasing its tail for hours on end?

I'd begin by looking both ways, trying to make sure no one would witness my ridiculous (but sadly necessary) approach to this entryway. Then I'd grab my bag close to me, steel myself for any impending impact, take two steps back to get a running start...and be off!

Preparations and prayers aside, whether or not me and my bag both made it through without being pinched, clamped or thrown against the glass was all up to the will of the revolver gods. On a good day, I'd trip along within that tiny triangular frame of space and stumble out with the smallest amount of dignity in tact.

But today I wasn't paying attention and what happened was amazing. My ipod earbuds in, my stride confident, I simply walked right on through those doors in perfect subconscious timing...and shot out the other side with no problem at all. In fact, I even continued right on walking toward the elevators without missing a beat - a pretty spectacular feat if I do say so myself.

They say if you can make it in New York you can make it anywhere. Well now I can at least make it through the front doors so I'm sure I'm well on my way. This is how a New Yorker goes through a revolving door...

Christmess in New York

2009-01-08T13:29:00.012-05:00

I've watched enough Christmas in New York movies to have a pretty skewed version of the holiday season here in my head. What I imagined were merry passersby freely passing out "Seasons Greetins!" to their fellow shoppers. Beautiful banks of pure-white snow giving a magical glow to the picturesque scenery. Why, certainly even the cabbies would be all smiles and warm wishes too.

What I discovered was quite different, but in the end no less Christmassy.

Shopping is an absolute free-for-all frenzy here. You fight your way through narrowed aisles and crowded lines only to hunt down overpriced items. And God forbid your store doesn't have what you're looking for. Because that means you have to drag all your bags with you onto the subway where you will be consequently bumped and prodded by everyone else's bags and boxes. Eventually, I gave up and settled for expedited shipping and online shopping. In the comfort of my own home, I sat by the lights of my little tree and sipped cocoa on my couch. Cozy as could be.

But those beautiful banks of snow you can forget about. By hour four, they've turned into brown slush. What's more, the areas between the sidewalks turn into full-on booby traps. Oh they may look like concrete, innocently shining with rain. But one step into it and you're ankle-deep in freezing cold water. You learn to cautiously tap your toes against every surface like a cat batting at a tub of water.

On one of these fine days, I went out for lunch and battled three sidewalks in the blizzarding sleet just to get a sandwich. Just before embarking on the last one, this old black woman and I eyed each other warily. We were of course hoping we'd both make it across. But if one of us happened to fall, it better be the other one. As we precariously tip-toed and zig-zagged our way across the street, we finally both found solid purchase and sighed a simultaneous, "Whew!" As our eyes met again, we laughed together knowingly (and with no small amount of relief). Kindred spirits in the spirit of a New York Christmas, we went on our separate ways.

I always wondered where in the hell people get their Christmas trees here. But like with garbage, old TVs and used mattresses you find them where everything else is - on the sidewalks. I used to love going out to the little tree farms set up in our neighborhood in Georiga. Walking among the stands, finding the perfect one. So I was horrified at first to learn that they'd be stacked up on the streets on every Duane Reade, Rite-Aid and CVS street corner. But it actually wasn't horrific at all. Every few blocks you're stunned by the beauty of naturally snow-flocked trees. And a wave of fresh pine scent floats around you as the slimmed sidewalks force you closer to other people. And though people still won't say Merry Christmas, they will smile warmly at you. After all, Christmas in New York may be a mess...but it's our mess. And it can be quite charming when it wants to be.

Umbrellafragilisticexpialatrocious

2008-11-17T13:13:00.012-05:00

In the first week I was here I was forced to buy an umbrella. I simply did not need one in California, where the rainy season consists of a light mist for two weeks in February. And because I was so unused to having one, I had to buy two more as replacements within the first three weeks. I kept leaving them at restaurants or friends' houses. I soon learned, however, to think of my umbrella as a permanent appendage, no less useful than my left arm.

But while umbrellas are generally useful in staving off the rain, you get a good gust of wind underneath those things and they essentially become sails. No matter how fortified you think your umbrella may be, when that wind hits through the concrete canyon walls, you're off like Marry Poppins. I've literally seen small women dragged back several feet.

But that's if your umbrella is strong enough to withstand the winds. If it's a cheap one, the metal skeleton gives way immediately and you're left with an awkward, arachnidan mess on a stick. Which led me to my ultimate question: with so many New Yorkers battling their umbrellas on a weekly basis, why hasn't someone come up with a better idea?

In my quest to solve this riddle, I came across the "nubrella" pictured below. It claims to be absolutely wind-impenetrable and defiantly durable - all while keeping out even more rain than a normal umbrella. What a brilliant idea! Unfortunately, it has one very fatal flaw: no self-respecting New Yorker would be caught dead looking as much like a douche as this guy. Umbrellas, 1. New Yorkers, 0.

Do I get off at Nose or Ear?

2008-11-12T12:48:00.004-05:00

The endless ins and outs of subway-riding culture never cease to amaze me. In the summer, you have to make sure the particular car you're walking into is air conditioned before you step into it. Especially if it's a car with one or more more homeless people already on it (which you should avoid 1: unless you plan on wearing eau de armpit that day and 2: unless you LIKE a little crazy with your morning coffee).

Next, you have to perfect the art of being aggressive enough to actually muscle your way IN to the damn car, but being careful NOT to touch anyone with more pressure than the normal brushing of clothes. If you do, you will be lucky to receive a look of condescending hatred. You will be unlucky to receive a much sharper shove back.

Then there are those brave, idiotic souls who venture BETWEEN cars while the train is still moving. This always fascinates me. I keep facing straight ahead, but with a careful watch out of the corner of my eye, my cell phone in-hand. I want to be prepared to snap a quick photo of their twisted body dangling to the tracks for the 6 o'clock news.

But my favorite. The one that is always good for a laugh are the people who sit on the part of the bench right in front of the subway map. It never fails that there will be that one person who has to study the map for at least five minutes. And if you're sitting in front of it, that means ducking your head left, right and downward until they're done. It's an incredibly awkward situation. And as long as it's not me, I giggle like mad. Note to newbies: the Times Square and Penn Station stops are especially good for this as they're typically tourist-saturated.

Here are some fantastic rules from New York Magazine:

Rules of the underground:
(1) Knees may be no more than six inches apart.
(2) If you can't control your offspring, watch as a stranger does it for you.
(3) What did we say about checking out the girls?
(4) The Post is only 25 cents—buy your own.
(5) Holding the subway door makes everyone on the train love you.
(6) As does loud music.
(7) Lie down on subway only if dead.

The Sun Also Rises

2008-11-06T15:35:00.004-05:00

In moving from West to East I have taken the opposite path of the very sun. I’ve gone from peace-inducing evenings of sunsets to eye-widening mornings of sunrises. It’s the sun, it seems to me now, that shapes the cultures of the two coasts.

On the West coast, the sun was seducingly sedative. Every evening, I would peek out of the corner of my kitchen window at the ocean. Or I’d walk down to the sand to feel its breezes. The sun would set slowly at first, lazily strolling across the sky. But as it reddened and tightened into a little ball, it would suddenly and very visibly quicken its way through the draining sky. Finally, it would dip beneath the waves and I’d be left with the cooling, magical realm that is twilight. It was so easy to surrender yourself to the beauty and simplicity around you. But then, that could also leave you complacent and stale…which is what would have happened to me had I overstayed my time there.

Here on the East Coast the sun is quite the opposite. It comes raging out of the East River, the jagged skyscrapers absorbing its light and reflecting it back a thousand-fold like so many jeweled attendants. The windows of my apartment – all which share the Western wall, unobscured by obscurities - are temporarily blinded. The temperature of my apartment is immediately warmed by several degrees, even on the more winter-like mornings. Like a vampire, I hiss and reach for a non-existent marble lid that will block out this beast. But there is no sleeping in late by such windows.

This is a city where the sun itself orders you to get your big butt out of bed and carpe damn diem. I’m beginning to learn I better do exactly as he says.

In the Spirit of Lee Greenwood

2008-11-05T16:04:00.006-05:00

One of the things I love most about my apartment is that I can see the Empire State Building clearly from the windows in all of my rooms. And on any given Holiday, they light it up with the appropriate colors. For example, it was spooky orange and creepy purple for Halloween - which I naturally adored. But what impressed me last night was what they did for Election Day.

Now, I'm fully aware and thankful that this election has been so insanely popular all over the US. But it seems even more palpable here in New York. Here, it's not a badge to say you follow politics...it's a prerequisite. Just a couple of weeks ago my co-workers didn't even attempt to disguise their gasps of disdain that I did not know who Joe the Plumber was. They're a group of mostly Latin-Americans and they were following US politics way more closely than I was. I felt not just un-American, but un-New Yorkian.

Yet listening to WNYC and constantly refreshing the election map page on nbc.com last night (bite me, I don't have a television yet) changed all that. I was talking and texting with friends all night. And even though I was technically alone and didn't go to any election day parties or events, I felt very much a part of something greater. The feeling was positively electric. You could literally feel it building up and down your spine, leaving tingles in your toes.

By the time Barack was being announced the winner, I'd heard stories from friends of American flags draped over hundreds of people in Union Square. Times Square was filled with New Yorkers and tourists alike, transfixed by the giant screens. I received txts of both "Yes we can!" and "Si Se Puede!" Hope filled the air in the form of cheers, shouts and honking horns for hours all over the city.

Before bed I looked out of my window to see that great beacon, the Empire State Building. It was all lit up in the center of the city in bright red and blue. And I smiled and then sighed, very proud to be in New York and very, very proud to be an American.

Coat Check It or Keep It On

2008-11-04T14:47:00.004-05:00

As part of my introduction to this city, I've learned there's a whole coat culture out there. In the South, jackets are purely functional (the last trend I can remember more recent than Member's Only were those forest green LL Bean ones everybody just HAD to have). In LA people don't even bother with jackets, although the ladies will wear UGGs with shorts, which just breaks my poor, gay heart.

But here in New York, you have to have all kinds of jackets. Bubble jackets or Northfaces for everyday casual warmth. Trench coats for when it rains. Wool coats for, well, just to be a New Yorker. Not to mention all the different lighter jackets you have to have to match each and every outfit. I recently went to Burlington Coat Factory, but came out with nothing because I got lost in the choices. Waist, knee or ankle length? Grey, blue or black? Do brands matter? It was an ocean of options I had no idea how to navigate.

That's why it was doubly upsetting that while I was supposed to be decreasing my closet space, I actually lost a jacket. And not just any jacket, mind you. My favorite one. A brown, leather jacket from the 70s that was my Dad's when he was my age. This jacket was one of my prized possessions. But while out at a club last night, I made the fatal mistake of setting it down for no less than five minutes. When I returned...no jacket. I searched and searched, called the Lost & Found the next day and even put up an add on Craigslist. The damn thing is apparently gone for good.

Below is a photo of my beloved jacket (isn't she sexy?).

NOTICE: If you see someone wearing this jacket, you are required to immediately pummel that person to the ground, rip the jacket off of him and call me. If you do, I will love you for life. Just like my jacket.

Duet with the City

2008-10-25T21:09:00.002-04:00

Tonight I took a friend to go see the Top of the Rock - this trully breathtaking view of the entire city as seen from the top of Rockefeller center. (Yes, it's touristy but still worth it.) So we're next in line to get our tickets taken. The guy taking the tickets is this black guy, mid-30s with a great big smile on his face. When we approach him, he randomly starts singing a song. And I quickly notice it's one of my favorite songs of all time. An old 50s song. He's singing (rather loudly I thought), "Cuuupid. Draw back your boooowwww." And I can't help it - I immediately jump right in and return "and let...your aaaarrow goo-oh-whoa". Naturally, we have no choice but to sing together the final piece of the verse: "straight to..my lover's heart..for meeeeee."

I first learned of the song from Innerspace, a silly romantic comedy from the 80s with Dennis Quaid and Meg Ryan that I absolutely adore. It's "their song." Here's a snippet:

Of course, for me and the city, it's now "our song."

When Bikers Go By

2008-10-24T21:08:00.000-04:00

Picture it. 9pm outside of a Cuban restaurant in Chelsea. I was on the street (okay almost in the middle of the street) getting ready to hail a taxi. I thrust one strong, open-fisted hand in the cool, autumn air - confident now in my cab-stopping abilities. But before a cab could come, a guy on a bicycle comes barreling down in the opposite direction, facing me. Before I knew it, he smiled...and hi-fived me as he went by! I laughed into the night, loving the strangeness of the city.

But I'm a 917 Girl

2008-10-23T14:18:00.006-04:00

So today I went ahead and switched my cell phone number to a New York one. I thought it would be a simple thing to do to make me feel more at home here. I immediately learned otherwise.

After sending out the new number, instead of congratulations I received mostly gripes and groans. The West Coast people were like "that was so unnecessary." The East Coast people were like "I can't believe you didn't get a 917 area code. How tragic."

In a city where even phone numbers are fashion statements, I find myself wondering how people ever keep up. Take the Sex And The City movie, for example. When Carrie has to replace her phone and realizes she can't get her 917 back, she whines,
"But I've ALWAYS been a 917 girl."

And it's not just the number. EVERYONE here has an iPhone. They'll tell you it's because of something functional like the map feature ("I need it to find my way around!"). But if that were the case, I don't think people would be continuously playing with them on the subway...where there is no reception. Recently my friend dropped his iPhone outside of a taxi never to be found again. Within two hours he'd hit a store and replaced it. $500 bucks swiftly swirling down the drain. When I questioned his priorities, he turned to me with the kind of pittying look one reserves for children attempting to tie their shoes. "I cannot live without it" was his only reply.

In my new phone email, I bragged that I was finally becoming a New Yorker. Here was my favorite response:

HAHA - no you're not. Here is a list of things you MUST do before you'll ever be a New Yorker.

# 10 - get a 917 area code
# 9 - learn to hate time square
#8 - visit all landmarks and declare "they're okay" when asked about them
#7 - tell people you go to new jersey ONLY for ikea
#6 - find YOUR number one new york pizza spot and say IT IS THE #1 NY pizza spot
#5 - hook up with as many foreigners as you can - in one night
#4 - after partying hard fall asleep drunk in a subway car and wake up in queens
#3 - have several encounters with CRAZY people and have trouble picking the worse one
#2 - have everything delivered
#1 - slip and fall on your ass, hurt, suck it up, stand-up and keep going NO BLUSHING

Apparently, I have a very long, slippery walk ahead of me.