Speaking Spring

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.