I have written before about NYC and the almighty buck. New Yorkers will do anything to make a buck. Recent sightings include:
- A man was seen in the middle of six lanes of traffic, selling ice water out of a blue cooler to motorists stopped at red lights.
-A woman was spotted near Kitty's school, selling homemade tamales out of a shopping cart (that was stolen from Key Foods). Yes, we tried them. They were delicious.
-Craig's List ads include "rooms for rent", "apartments for rent" and "Hole-in-the wall for rent."
-A woman was seen on Myrtle Street outside a porta-potty. There was a sign on the door, "$1 per use."
It isn't just about making money, it is also about keeping money:
-A man refused to tip a cab driver because he was unable to understand the accent.
-A woman was seen at a store, trying to return a dress that was obviously worn once.
-A couple's printer broke and they bought a new one, only to return it the next day after they finished a project.
And it isn't just about money. In many ways, New Yorkers are both striving for more and protecting themselves in little ways. I believe that because of the proximity of everyone, we put up walls to protect those small things that make us who we are. If we were to give ourselves to everyone, there would be nothing left.
My in-laws, "The Ts" came to visit for Memorial Day weekend. The city may never be the same again.
On their Friday, I caught up with Kitty and the Ts at a happy hour at Town Tavern. As we sat drinking our beers, some shots went out to a table nearby. Mr. T gives a big smile and interrupts the waitress on her walk, "Hey, what are those shots?"
"SoCo and lime. They are pretty good," she smiles.
Our beers are getting shorter and shorter and the waitress comes back. She's a bit of a cutie and when she asks if anyone wants another, Mr. T puts on a bashful act. He acts out a moment of "I'd really like another beer, but I probably shouldn't because I'm ahead of everyone else, but boy it would be great if you got me one 'cause aww shucks it would taste so good on this hot, hot summer day." Not a word crosses his lips, but she understands him implicitly and gives a laugh as she walks away.
She returns a couple of moments later with a beer and a small shot glass. "Here is your beer, and this is a little something for you," she smiles, "SoCo and Lime." I think she even winked. We all roar with laughter as he gives another silent sheepish grin of "awww thanks for letting me try that, it looks so good and you knew all along that it was what I was hoping for."
"Thanks so much," he says.
NYC-, Mr. T- 1
It's Mrs. T's birthday and we are sitting in the bar of the Rainbow Room. I'm drinking a Planter's Punch, Mrs. T has a Bellini, Kitty has a glass of Pinot and Mr. T has a Rob Roy. As we sip our drinks and enjoy the view, we realize that our waiter has abandoned us for more thirsty (lucrative) guests. Our lifeline of mixed nuts is fading fast. As we munch, Mr. T gets up to stretch. He appears a moment later with a full bowl of nuts. Looking behind him, we see a veritable cauldron of legumes leaning against a column. He smiles, "Don't worry, they were all busy and didn't see me!"
New York- 0, Mr. T- 2
On our trip to Little Odessa, we prepared Mr. T for the challenges ahead. "Don't bother trying to engage them in any meaningful way way, they are surly folk at best. They would just as soon punch you in the groin as help you out. Oh, and for God's sake... don't sample anything!" I said.
We made it through the shopping trip without any errant samples. It was pleasant and quiet enough. As Mr. T was paying he said, "So... are all of you Russian?" to the woman behind the counter.
"No." Her blue eyes are a frozen river.
He smiles. "Well, where is she from?" indicating to the woman at the next register.
"Russia." Her face is as cold as Siberia in December.
He smiles again, "Where are you from?"
"Uzbek." The wind from her "z" holds the icy north wind.
He smiles agian, "Well, nice talking to you. Oh... Dasvidanya!"
Her face cracks slightly, I see the edges of a smile and a bud of green grass is seen on the tundra.
NYC- 0, Mr. T- 3.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
You're in NYC- Get over it!
It is a beautiful sunny day. People are out walking, laughing, enjoying the fair weather. As I walk under the elevated S-Train, that fragrance of spring hits me. Urine. I don't know why both men and dogs like to take a whizz under the train tracks, but the smell can be overwhelming.
It isn't just there. On the swanky, Upper East Side, you can smell it. In the heart of the West Village, it's there too. Mostly it's dogs, but don't be fooled, it could be any mammal you see as you walk along. Yesterday on the subway, the smell was overpowering. How does it happen on a train?
Urine NYC- Get over it!
It isn't just there. On the swanky, Upper East Side, you can smell it. In the heart of the West Village, it's there too. Mostly it's dogs, but don't be fooled, it could be any mammal you see as you walk along. Yesterday on the subway, the smell was overpowering. How does it happen on a train?
Urine NYC- Get over it!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Jane, Get Me Off this CRAZY THING!
To say that Kitty is an independent woman is a complete understatement. She backpacked across Europe with a girlfriend (and spent a good bit of time by herself on the trip). She has sky-dived. Kitty has climbed 14,000 mountains and kept up with her wild brothers as they skied down. I am a HUGE fan of my wife's independence.
Needless to say, I was shocked when she called me today. "I'm at the laundromat. I can't get the car out."
"Is it broken? Did you get in an accident? Are you ok? What's going on?" Gripped by panic, I'm already pulling on my shoes and grabbing my wallet and house keys.
"No. Nothing like that, I'm fine. I can't get out of the parking spot at the laundromat."
"Okay..." I reply. "So you are fine and I don't have to worry."
"Well, not exactly. I parked, looked inside the laundromat and it is completely filled up and there is no chance in H-E-L-L that we are going to get to do laundry this morning. Some woman in an SUV pulled in and she's so close that I can't get out. Could you come help me out? I'll go shopping next door and get the last of the groceries."
By the time I walk up, Kitty is coming out of the store. "Thanks for meeting me. I'm really stuck." Surveying the situation, I realize that this is no ordinary parking crisis. First off, the parking lot is tiny. The owners have also added more lines than you can actually park cars. It is par for the course, in NYC. If you are driving down the 278 (the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway), you will see that their are 3 lanes going in either direction. It is the same width as a two lane road in Colorado, except that they have painted three incredibly narrow lanes and their is about 6 inches between you and the taxi cab doing ninety as it passes you on the right. I think I have illustrated my point.
I do some mental measurements. There is an SUV on the left of our car. It is about 5 inches away from our car. Bad. There is a car on our right that is a couple feet away. Good. There is not enough room to back straight up and out.
I wiggle into the drivers seat and lower my window to hear directions from Kitty. As I start to back up, I hear, "Betta NOT hit my car!" A woman wearing Mary-Kate, Fly-eyed-shape sunglasses, tight jeans and a bad attitude has come out.
As I back up, I see a flash of a Mets jersey. The guy to our right has run behind my car to get to the back seat of his car to retrieve his laundry detergent. There was at least one safer way to make it to his car. Behind me was not the right choice. He stops to look. After he assesses that there is no way he will be hit, he jogs back behind my car to his waiting socks and underwear, causing me to slam on the brakes again. "Betta not HIT my car!" the woman yells again.
I start to back out again. Another guy is now standing behind my car. He starts making hand gestures. Keep coming back, he seems to say... stop... he mimes. Great, I need auditory help and I get Marcel Marceau. If I see him doing a glass wall, I will get out and beat him. "Betta not hit MY car!"
I start to back out and rather than try to turn away from the SUV, I back out of the parking lot. Again, Marcel is pointing, thinking that I'm turning in the wrong direction. When he figures out my plan he tries to get me to keep backing up. "Betta not hit my CAR!"
I realize that now I will have to back the car about 25 feet, through two 90 degree angles and now I've got Kitty, the Mime, "BETTA not hit" and three other people watching as I try to negotiate all the parked cars that are lined up like barbed wire around my narrow path to freedom.
5 minutes later, Marcel is standing in the parking lot miming "VICTORY!"
Needless to say, I was shocked when she called me today. "I'm at the laundromat. I can't get the car out."
"Is it broken? Did you get in an accident? Are you ok? What's going on?" Gripped by panic, I'm already pulling on my shoes and grabbing my wallet and house keys.
"No. Nothing like that, I'm fine. I can't get out of the parking spot at the laundromat."
"Okay..." I reply. "So you are fine and I don't have to worry."
"Well, not exactly. I parked, looked inside the laundromat and it is completely filled up and there is no chance in H-E-L-L that we are going to get to do laundry this morning. Some woman in an SUV pulled in and she's so close that I can't get out. Could you come help me out? I'll go shopping next door and get the last of the groceries."
By the time I walk up, Kitty is coming out of the store. "Thanks for meeting me. I'm really stuck." Surveying the situation, I realize that this is no ordinary parking crisis. First off, the parking lot is tiny. The owners have also added more lines than you can actually park cars. It is par for the course, in NYC. If you are driving down the 278 (the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway), you will see that their are 3 lanes going in either direction. It is the same width as a two lane road in Colorado, except that they have painted three incredibly narrow lanes and their is about 6 inches between you and the taxi cab doing ninety as it passes you on the right. I think I have illustrated my point.
I do some mental measurements. There is an SUV on the left of our car. It is about 5 inches away from our car. Bad. There is a car on our right that is a couple feet away. Good. There is not enough room to back straight up and out.
I wiggle into the drivers seat and lower my window to hear directions from Kitty. As I start to back up, I hear, "Betta NOT hit my car!" A woman wearing Mary-Kate, Fly-eyed-shape sunglasses, tight jeans and a bad attitude has come out.
As I back up, I see a flash of a Mets jersey. The guy to our right has run behind my car to get to the back seat of his car to retrieve his laundry detergent. There was at least one safer way to make it to his car. Behind me was not the right choice. He stops to look. After he assesses that there is no way he will be hit, he jogs back behind my car to his waiting socks and underwear, causing me to slam on the brakes again. "Betta not HIT my car!" the woman yells again.
I start to back out again. Another guy is now standing behind my car. He starts making hand gestures. Keep coming back, he seems to say... stop... he mimes. Great, I need auditory help and I get Marcel Marceau. If I see him doing a glass wall, I will get out and beat him. "Betta not hit MY car!"
I start to back out and rather than try to turn away from the SUV, I back out of the parking lot. Again, Marcel is pointing, thinking that I'm turning in the wrong direction. When he figures out my plan he tries to get me to keep backing up. "Betta not hit my CAR!"
I realize that now I will have to back the car about 25 feet, through two 90 degree angles and now I've got Kitty, the Mime, "BETTA not hit" and three other people watching as I try to negotiate all the parked cars that are lined up like barbed wire around my narrow path to freedom.
5 minutes later, Marcel is standing in the parking lot miming "VICTORY!"
A wellspring of creativity (with links!)
In all of the wonderful surprises of New York City, nothing could prepare us for our first trip to the Rainbow Room. Our story begins at my design firm's Christmas party last year. The Scottsman's wife, Chippy, asked us if we would help her out with a project. "I'm doing a show for the big Sir John Soane Museum gala in April at the Rainbow Room. I'm doing a Masque that will depict his life in approximately five minutes. I'm calling the show, "The Apotheosis of Sir John Soane!"
A couple of months later, Chippy emailed us, "Could you send me both your measurements? I'm making your costumes for the show!" Luckily, my real job (opera) requires that I have my measurements on hand and up to date. I did spend an enjoyable evening measuring Kitty.
I bumped into Chippy in March during a quick stopover at their house in the country. "The costumes are coming along! I've made her dress entirely out of old newspapers!"
At this point, my expectations have changed slightly. It turns out that our costumes were made entirely out of reused items. There were plaster-of-paris masks, hats made out of funnels, cat food cans decorating kilts made from scraps of fabric, wigs made of braided plastic newspaper bags... I could keep going, but words can't really describe the variety and inspiration that was involved in producing these costumes.
Kitty and I drove out to the country for the rehearsal and gave two cast members a ride out. One has been a friend of the Scottsman since before he was married. She had participated in several of these shows. As it turns out, many different productions have happened over the years. For one show, Chippy and the Scottsman rented a theater on Broadway for the night. They wrote all of the songs and the audience included Andy Warhol! Our other passenger is an agent for animal talent. Her number one client? Toonces, the Driving Cat! Unless you were a teenager during the Dana Carvey years on Saturday Night Live, you would not know how important this is. When I learned this, I felt like signing, "You complete me," a la Jerry Maguire.
We met the rest of our castmates at the first rehearsal in the ballroom of Chippy and the Scottsman's country home. They included an architect on the board of the museum, Chippy's fashion designer friends, and friends who had been in previous productions. Everyone was thrilled to be there and threw themselves into the performance and rehearsal with gusto.
On our lunch break, we sat in the formal dining room at the small table with Chippy and her designer friends. Prior to her career as an accomplished book author, Chippy had spent several years working in the fashion district, designing clothing for several different companies. Kitty made instant friendships when we started asking our the three gentlemen at our table about life in the fashion industry. "Oh, Donna? (yes, Kitty verified, as in Karan), She is such a bitch! We worked together for years and, oy! what talent and a what a temper!!" one cackled. The name dropping continued and I doubt we stopped laughing throughout lunch.
It's the day of the show, y'all!
The show opened with Chippy singing an old musical theater tune. She creatively altered the words of the song to explain the what a masque was and also tell a bit about Inigo Jones, an archicect who, in addition to developing sets for these types of shows, also was an influence on Sir John Soane. The play itself was a poem in rhymed couplets, narrated by Chippy, that described the life of Soane. We, dressed in our mad costumes, acted out the action. Each of the 10 actors had different roles. Kitty and I helped act out a bit with Sir John Soane's favorite columns. Thankfully, we had one task to do besides dance across the stage at the beginning of the show. There is a video out there somewhere and if I can figure out how to get it on YouTube, I will definitely upload it.
After the show, performed on the 65th floor in the ballrooom of the Rainbow room, Kitty and I changed and met our fashion friends for dinner in the staff area. As we sat and drank wine from the open bar, Kitty and I were regaled with stories of the fashion world. A world of brutal deadlines and gigantic personalities. We heard stories from Ann Klein and, just as the stories were winding down, some of the donors walked by on their way to the restroom, dressed in their tuxes and gowns. "Oh, honey, that color makes you look like forgot to put your face on." "That's it, I'm going after her, someone needs to save her from herself, look at those ties down the back of her dress!... she's like a muffin top with 5 muffins!" We grab his arms to keep him from running after the girl. "If her dress had on the top what it lacked on the bottom, she would look beautiful!." "Some girls can pull off orange-- honey, you ain't one of 'em!" Tears of laughter are streaming down Kitty's face as they dig in like only gay fashionistas can do.
The herd of donors started to thin and our eyes were drawn to the table of "thank you" bags that guests were supposed to take as we left. "Do you think we can take one?" asked Fashionsta #1. "Darling, I just spent an hour dressed in woven trash bags-- yes, they were fabulous, but simply must have one as a reminder of the evening," said Fashionista #2. "That's IT! I've had it with this dump!" said Fashionista #3. He picks up his jacket and puts it on. He throws his head back and announces, "I'm LEAVING!" We grab our things to follow as he storms out of the restaurant, grabbing a gift bag as he goes. Of course, we all follow suit. (pun intended)
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Theater District that I never knew
Change is constant here. Recently, I found myself with enough singing gigs that I decided to bid "adieu" to Tom and the Scottsman, the famous Interior Decorators. I began working as an office assistant in the firm and, by the end of my tenure there, I was promoted to Assistant Designer and ran my own small jobs (the largest being a three bedroom apartment). I didn't really make any design decisions, but I would manage the details of the work and try to make sure that things ran smoothly.
To say that it has been a good job is an understatement. The Scottsman is a great guy and he and Tom took such good care of Kitty and I while I was working there. We stayed at their country homes, went to fabulous parties and enjoyed the company of all of the staff socially, as well as professionally.
To celebrate my departure, the Scottsman and his new assistant organized a big send-off for me and The Dancer, one of the other assistants who had just taken a job with another firm. When I found out that it would be in the Theater District, I was skeptical, to say the least. I don't go there very often and when I do go, I try to time myself so that I won't get crushed under the weight of so many collective tourists standing and gawking on the sidewalks.
When Kitty and I arrived, sour after getting drenched by a stormy evening, we entered a page of history. Swing 46 is a restaurant and swing bar. It feels a little bit seedy as you go in. The decor is straight out of the twenties. I mean that it was decorated in the 1920s and it hasn't been updated since. It wasn't that it was ugly, just slightly used. The details of the space were not clean and fresh, but showed the liver spots and wrinkles of a generation of lonely drunks and cheap jazz. There was water leaking from the ceiling near our table, but once we got comfortable in our seats and had a drink, we were in for a surprise.
The Food
Again, I wasn't expecting much. American food. Rubber chicken. Why did he choose this place? Then I saw the menu. Slightly nouveau American and French food. The appetizers were delicious and as we were wrapping up, out attention was brought to the band that had been quietly setting up. "Felix and the Cats" broke out into a lively swing number. This was going to be no average night.
The Band
There are hundreds of musicians here in New York. They are singers, instrumentalists, jazz-cats, musical theater pretty boys, and infinite small groups performing every manner of music from around the world. In addition to many bad musicians, there are some of the best that you have never heard of in your life.
As a professional, I could see that many of the musicians in Felix and the Cats were just session players. They had received the charts for the first time that night, looked them over, talked out the tempo and then they ROCKED! There was only one false start that night and I forgive them that because the solos were uniformly outstanding, the rhythm was tight and the band leader and singer had great energy.
The Main Course
I had the steak. It was perfectly cooked. Kitty had the salmon. It was outstanding. The big surprise? The presentation. It looked like they opened a Gourmet Magazine up on our table. Artful displays of shredded vegetables, layers of potatoes to frame my steak-- it was a genuinely exceptional culinary production.
The Dancing
It was absolutely a blast. By the time we finished the main course, the band was on their first break. A couple came out and gave a brief lesson in swing dancing. I was all left feet as we worked in the group. When I sat down, my co-workers looked at me skeptically. "You kind of fell apart out there, man." "I thought you said you were a singer who could move. What the hell was that?" Friends can be too honest sometimes.
By the time the band kicked up for their second set, I had processed the lesson. Kitty and I hit the dance floor and I made vast improvements by the end of the first song. I sat down to, "Well, we were worried about you after that class, but you really pulled it together out there." It's not like I'm a pitcher in a Major League Game, guys.
As we rested and had our sixth glass of wine for the night, we saw Bill Nye across the dance floor, sitting alone and drinking water. It was our Celebrity Moment of the night and though no one else could care less, I was thrilled. I can still sing the main riff of his kid's show. He was awesome with his lab coat and wicked cool experiments. Ok. I digress.
That cat can dance. After checking out people for awhile, he came over to our table and asked my co-worker (a former professional dancer) if she would care to dance. She said yes and we watched the best dancing of the night. She came back all flustered and said, "Damn. He is good. That man KNOWS how to lead."
And you thought he was just a dorky scientist. Shame on you.
The End
Bombed out of our mind, we threw the Scottsman in a cab. Luckily, Tom, the other partner of the firm, hopped in and got him home safely. We staggered out into the night. The rain had broken and we hopped on the train. We nodded off as we rode home, missed our stop and had to stagger an extra two blocks to our apartment.
I'm looking for an excuse to go there and drop a fortune on food and drink and dance. Next time, I'd like to wear a tux, slick my hair back and imagine that I'm reenacting a scene from "The Great Gatsby."
To say that it has been a good job is an understatement. The Scottsman is a great guy and he and Tom took such good care of Kitty and I while I was working there. We stayed at their country homes, went to fabulous parties and enjoyed the company of all of the staff socially, as well as professionally.
To celebrate my departure, the Scottsman and his new assistant organized a big send-off for me and The Dancer, one of the other assistants who had just taken a job with another firm. When I found out that it would be in the Theater District, I was skeptical, to say the least. I don't go there very often and when I do go, I try to time myself so that I won't get crushed under the weight of so many collective tourists standing and gawking on the sidewalks.
When Kitty and I arrived, sour after getting drenched by a stormy evening, we entered a page of history. Swing 46 is a restaurant and swing bar. It feels a little bit seedy as you go in. The decor is straight out of the twenties. I mean that it was decorated in the 1920s and it hasn't been updated since. It wasn't that it was ugly, just slightly used. The details of the space were not clean and fresh, but showed the liver spots and wrinkles of a generation of lonely drunks and cheap jazz. There was water leaking from the ceiling near our table, but once we got comfortable in our seats and had a drink, we were in for a surprise.
The Food
Again, I wasn't expecting much. American food. Rubber chicken. Why did he choose this place? Then I saw the menu. Slightly nouveau American and French food. The appetizers were delicious and as we were wrapping up, out attention was brought to the band that had been quietly setting up. "Felix and the Cats" broke out into a lively swing number. This was going to be no average night.
The Band
There are hundreds of musicians here in New York. They are singers, instrumentalists, jazz-cats, musical theater pretty boys, and infinite small groups performing every manner of music from around the world. In addition to many bad musicians, there are some of the best that you have never heard of in your life.
As a professional, I could see that many of the musicians in Felix and the Cats were just session players. They had received the charts for the first time that night, looked them over, talked out the tempo and then they ROCKED! There was only one false start that night and I forgive them that because the solos were uniformly outstanding, the rhythm was tight and the band leader and singer had great energy.
The Main Course
I had the steak. It was perfectly cooked. Kitty had the salmon. It was outstanding. The big surprise? The presentation. It looked like they opened a Gourmet Magazine up on our table. Artful displays of shredded vegetables, layers of potatoes to frame my steak-- it was a genuinely exceptional culinary production.
The Dancing
It was absolutely a blast. By the time we finished the main course, the band was on their first break. A couple came out and gave a brief lesson in swing dancing. I was all left feet as we worked in the group. When I sat down, my co-workers looked at me skeptically. "You kind of fell apart out there, man." "I thought you said you were a singer who could move. What the hell was that?" Friends can be too honest sometimes.
By the time the band kicked up for their second set, I had processed the lesson. Kitty and I hit the dance floor and I made vast improvements by the end of the first song. I sat down to, "Well, we were worried about you after that class, but you really pulled it together out there." It's not like I'm a pitcher in a Major League Game, guys.
As we rested and had our sixth glass of wine for the night, we saw Bill Nye across the dance floor, sitting alone and drinking water. It was our Celebrity Moment of the night and though no one else could care less, I was thrilled. I can still sing the main riff of his kid's show. He was awesome with his lab coat and wicked cool experiments. Ok. I digress.
That cat can dance. After checking out people for awhile, he came over to our table and asked my co-worker (a former professional dancer) if she would care to dance. She said yes and we watched the best dancing of the night. She came back all flustered and said, "Damn. He is good. That man KNOWS how to lead."
And you thought he was just a dorky scientist. Shame on you.
The End
Bombed out of our mind, we threw the Scottsman in a cab. Luckily, Tom, the other partner of the firm, hopped in and got him home safely. We staggered out into the night. The rain had broken and we hopped on the train. We nodded off as we rode home, missed our stop and had to stagger an extra two blocks to our apartment.
I'm looking for an excuse to go there and drop a fortune on food and drink and dance. Next time, I'd like to wear a tux, slick my hair back and imagine that I'm reenacting a scene from "The Great Gatsby."
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Victory, snatched from the jaws of Defeat
Every New Yorker has a story from the Department of Motor Vehicles. Most of them are stories of woe and pain, anger and misery. Here is my humble addition to the oveure:
The process begins by scrutinizing the website to find out what I need to get a license and register my car. After living in NYC for over a year and a half, it seems that the time has come to admit to God, the Universe and the DMV that I am, indeed, a New Yorker.
Ingredients:
1 out of state license
6 "points" of identification- Passport= 4 points, Credit card=1 point, Union card= 1 point.
1 title for Silver Saturn
1 proof of current insurance
1 proof of release of Lien from bank.
1 invoice for sale of the car (to ensure that I paid my sales tax)
1 credit card (to pay for it all)
I arrive at about 10 a.m. There is a line and it takes about 20 minutes to get through it. I am amused and entertained by the security guard who is chatting up two young ladies. At first he is flirting, but then he starts to tell them that he can send them to the back of the line or prevent them from getting their license. Apparently getting through the line for these girls involves giving out their digits. An employee comes up to the front of the line and yells "All those that are here for a LEARNER'S PERMIT TEST. COME TO ROOM 2!!!!" The girls look relieved as they file past the security guard.
I finally arrive in front of a nice woman. She tells me that the office now requires a Social Security card for every transaction involving an out-of-state license. I protest that I have 6 points of identification. "No good, hon. It's required because of terrorism threats." I roll my eyes and gather up my paperwork to leave. "Now wait a minute, hon. Let me make sure you have everything else that you need." She pauses and leafs through all my documents. "Yep. Just grab that SS Card and you'll be good to go."
About 20 minutes later I return with my Social Security card. The line has grown and stopped moving entirely. It is so big that it stretches out of the office and into the Atlantic Terminal Mall, where it stops, pauses to allow people to walk through, and restarts off to the side. I begin my wait at the far end of the second line. Several more announcements about Learner's Permit Tests happen and as they announcement are passed along down the line, I move forward and into the DMV proper. Two hours later, a short Hispanic woman gives up. "I'm not waiting in this fucking line any more." She pushes her way under the two dividers and she stakes a place behind about three people from the front. She has just cut in front of about 25 people. No one says a word. She stands and looks at everyone with a defiantly homicidal look in her eye. Silence from the crowd.
Another half hour passes I make it to the friendly woman again. "Hon! You're back! Do you have that Social Security Card?" She goes through every one of my documents one more time. "Here's a number, take a seat." I look at the slip of paper. Estimated wait: 29 minutes. I sit. 45 minutes later, I my number appears on an electric billboard. I approach the desk and I'm faced with a new person. She isn't as friendly. She looks at me suspiciously and then carefully looks at every piece of documentation. "I guess we can do BOTH your license and your registration. We don't usually do registrations here. You're going to ruin someone's day." My mood gets slightly darker.
"Oh, come on, baby... smile a little. You look like you're dead." I finally crack a smile. I come back and look at the monitor. It's me smiling back. "I threw out the other pictures. They were terrible. You looked like you were dead, baby. Now take this slip and wait for your number. Oh wait, let me check those documents again." She pauses and looks over every piece of paper that I have. "Yeah, baby, you're ok. Take a seat." Approximate wait time: 29 minutes.
One hour later: "Honey, here's your temporary license... wait... you want to register your car?" She gets a glint in here eye. I'm at a third woman now. She is wearing two sets of glasses at the same time and slouches to see her monitor. "Child, I HATE doing registrations." She picks up my documentation. She goes through it once. She starts to enter things into the computer. "Wait... this insurance form doesn't have your name on it. Just Kitty's name. Where is she? Can I see her license?" I tell her that my wife paid for the insurance. I'm on it also, but this was just her card. Three times, people checked my pape... "Child, I don't care how many people checked your paperwork. Without your name on the insurance, it don't matter!" I get a pit in my stomach.
"Jesus luuuuuvs me today!" She cackles. "He knows I hate those registrations and God surely wouldn't make me do one today!" She gets up off her stool, leans in and laughs in my face, "Here are your documents, and have a nice day. I hope I don't call you when you come back." I'm shocked into silence. "Child, take this." She hands me a piece of green paper. "You won't have to wait in line if you come back today." She leans in again, laughs in my face again, praises Jesus and rings for the next customer.
I stumble out of the office in a stupor. It is now 2:45. How can I get this fixed by 4, when the DMV closes?
I immediately call my insurance company and explain the situation. A very helpful woman with a British accent who says she is in Tampa answers. She sympathizes, adds my name to the card and stays on the line as I go back to the DMV. I cut directly to the front of the line.
"Do you have a fax machine where I can have my insurance sent?" I ask. "We don't do that here. You can go down the hall to the insurance company and ask to borrow their fax." The Brit is still waiting on my cell phone.
I run down the hall. "Can I receive a fax on your machine?"
A fat man sitting at his desk eating Sesame Chicken points to a sign behind me. $3 for the first page, $1 for each additional page. I have a silent heart attack and read the number to the Brit. 10 minutes later, $9 poorer and a little bit happier, I race down the hall and back to the DMV.
I cut the line. I hear people howling with rage behind me as I run up to the information desk. "Hon, what are YOU doing back here?" I hand her the papers. "Oh, I didn't notice that your wife's name was on the original paperwork. Silly me!" She pauses and hands me a number." Take a seat. Someone should help you in 29 minutes."
I thank my British friend from Progressive and tell her that she was the highlight of my day. I take my seat. When my number gets called, it 3:30. Not too shabby, I think I only waited for 40 minutes. The woman behind the desk rolls her eyes and looks at my documents. "Well, do you want to have Kitty on your title? Because she needs to be here and I really can't process..."
"NO! I just have her on my insurance so that she can drive the car. It's MY car, it stays in MY name!"
"Well, I don't know about that..." she trails off, hoping that I will take the hint that she doesn't want to do my registration.
"Tough," I reply. "I've been through the line twice and you are the fifth person that I've seen today. You will now register this car to me." I lower my voice and give her my best Jedi mind trick. "I need to get this car registered NOW."
She takes my credit card and brings out two license plates. She fills in the paperwork and loads her printer with the stickers for my windshield. Nothing happens. "Well," she says, "it looks like my printer just broke. I guess I'd better call the manager. Or maybe tech support." She looks around, hoping that I might just give up in disgust. I stand my ground.
Tech support ambles over with a new toner cartridge. He replaces it and starts to click on things with the mouse. Nothing happens. "Uh... did you... uh... try... uh... rebooting?"
Have you seen the Matrix? Do you know about bullet time? Everything slows down and you can see individual bullets flying through the air. I can see each word coming out of their mouths. I dodge left and right, trying to make sure that I get to my goal of those license plates. All of a sudden, things speed back up. I don't know what happened, but she is handing me the plates and paper work.
"Sorry about the delay. Your first credit card transaction may or may not have gone through. If it went through twice, call your credit card company and then come back here to get the charges reversed."
She gives an evil chuckle.
The process begins by scrutinizing the website to find out what I need to get a license and register my car. After living in NYC for over a year and a half, it seems that the time has come to admit to God, the Universe and the DMV that I am, indeed, a New Yorker.
Ingredients:
1 out of state license
6 "points" of identification- Passport= 4 points, Credit card=1 point, Union card= 1 point.
1 title for Silver Saturn
1 proof of current insurance
1 proof of release of Lien from bank.
1 invoice for sale of the car (to ensure that I paid my sales tax)
1 credit card (to pay for it all)
I arrive at about 10 a.m. There is a line and it takes about 20 minutes to get through it. I am amused and entertained by the security guard who is chatting up two young ladies. At first he is flirting, but then he starts to tell them that he can send them to the back of the line or prevent them from getting their license. Apparently getting through the line for these girls involves giving out their digits. An employee comes up to the front of the line and yells "All those that are here for a LEARNER'S PERMIT TEST. COME TO ROOM 2!!!!" The girls look relieved as they file past the security guard.
I finally arrive in front of a nice woman. She tells me that the office now requires a Social Security card for every transaction involving an out-of-state license. I protest that I have 6 points of identification. "No good, hon. It's required because of terrorism threats." I roll my eyes and gather up my paperwork to leave. "Now wait a minute, hon. Let me make sure you have everything else that you need." She pauses and leafs through all my documents. "Yep. Just grab that SS Card and you'll be good to go."
About 20 minutes later I return with my Social Security card. The line has grown and stopped moving entirely. It is so big that it stretches out of the office and into the Atlantic Terminal Mall, where it stops, pauses to allow people to walk through, and restarts off to the side. I begin my wait at the far end of the second line. Several more announcements about Learner's Permit Tests happen and as they announcement are passed along down the line, I move forward and into the DMV proper. Two hours later, a short Hispanic woman gives up. "I'm not waiting in this fucking line any more." She pushes her way under the two dividers and she stakes a place behind about three people from the front. She has just cut in front of about 25 people. No one says a word. She stands and looks at everyone with a defiantly homicidal look in her eye. Silence from the crowd.
Another half hour passes I make it to the friendly woman again. "Hon! You're back! Do you have that Social Security Card?" She goes through every one of my documents one more time. "Here's a number, take a seat." I look at the slip of paper. Estimated wait: 29 minutes. I sit. 45 minutes later, I my number appears on an electric billboard. I approach the desk and I'm faced with a new person. She isn't as friendly. She looks at me suspiciously and then carefully looks at every piece of documentation. "I guess we can do BOTH your license and your registration. We don't usually do registrations here. You're going to ruin someone's day." My mood gets slightly darker.
"Oh, come on, baby... smile a little. You look like you're dead." I finally crack a smile. I come back and look at the monitor. It's me smiling back. "I threw out the other pictures. They were terrible. You looked like you were dead, baby. Now take this slip and wait for your number. Oh wait, let me check those documents again." She pauses and looks over every piece of paper that I have. "Yeah, baby, you're ok. Take a seat." Approximate wait time: 29 minutes.
One hour later: "Honey, here's your temporary license... wait... you want to register your car?" She gets a glint in here eye. I'm at a third woman now. She is wearing two sets of glasses at the same time and slouches to see her monitor. "Child, I HATE doing registrations." She picks up my documentation. She goes through it once. She starts to enter things into the computer. "Wait... this insurance form doesn't have your name on it. Just Kitty's name. Where is she? Can I see her license?" I tell her that my wife paid for the insurance. I'm on it also, but this was just her card. Three times, people checked my pape... "Child, I don't care how many people checked your paperwork. Without your name on the insurance, it don't matter!" I get a pit in my stomach.
"Jesus luuuuuvs me today!" She cackles. "He knows I hate those registrations and God surely wouldn't make me do one today!" She gets up off her stool, leans in and laughs in my face, "Here are your documents, and have a nice day. I hope I don't call you when you come back." I'm shocked into silence. "Child, take this." She hands me a piece of green paper. "You won't have to wait in line if you come back today." She leans in again, laughs in my face again, praises Jesus and rings for the next customer.
I stumble out of the office in a stupor. It is now 2:45. How can I get this fixed by 4, when the DMV closes?
I immediately call my insurance company and explain the situation. A very helpful woman with a British accent who says she is in Tampa answers. She sympathizes, adds my name to the card and stays on the line as I go back to the DMV. I cut directly to the front of the line.
"Do you have a fax machine where I can have my insurance sent?" I ask. "We don't do that here. You can go down the hall to the insurance company and ask to borrow their fax." The Brit is still waiting on my cell phone.
I run down the hall. "Can I receive a fax on your machine?"
A fat man sitting at his desk eating Sesame Chicken points to a sign behind me. $3 for the first page, $1 for each additional page. I have a silent heart attack and read the number to the Brit. 10 minutes later, $9 poorer and a little bit happier, I race down the hall and back to the DMV.
I cut the line. I hear people howling with rage behind me as I run up to the information desk. "Hon, what are YOU doing back here?" I hand her the papers. "Oh, I didn't notice that your wife's name was on the original paperwork. Silly me!" She pauses and hands me a number." Take a seat. Someone should help you in 29 minutes."
I thank my British friend from Progressive and tell her that she was the highlight of my day. I take my seat. When my number gets called, it 3:30. Not too shabby, I think I only waited for 40 minutes. The woman behind the desk rolls her eyes and looks at my documents. "Well, do you want to have Kitty on your title? Because she needs to be here and I really can't process..."
"NO! I just have her on my insurance so that she can drive the car. It's MY car, it stays in MY name!"
"Well, I don't know about that..." she trails off, hoping that I will take the hint that she doesn't want to do my registration.
"Tough," I reply. "I've been through the line twice and you are the fifth person that I've seen today. You will now register this car to me." I lower my voice and give her my best Jedi mind trick. "I need to get this car registered NOW."
She takes my credit card and brings out two license plates. She fills in the paperwork and loads her printer with the stickers for my windshield. Nothing happens. "Well," she says, "it looks like my printer just broke. I guess I'd better call the manager. Or maybe tech support." She looks around, hoping that I might just give up in disgust. I stand my ground.
Tech support ambles over with a new toner cartridge. He replaces it and starts to click on things with the mouse. Nothing happens. "Uh... did you... uh... try... uh... rebooting?"
Have you seen the Matrix? Do you know about bullet time? Everything slows down and you can see individual bullets flying through the air. I can see each word coming out of their mouths. I dodge left and right, trying to make sure that I get to my goal of those license plates. All of a sudden, things speed back up. I don't know what happened, but she is handing me the plates and paper work.
"Sorry about the delay. Your first credit card transaction may or may not have gone through. If it went through twice, call your credit card company and then come back here to get the charges reversed."
She gives an evil chuckle.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I said, "Not in MY house..."
Angry confrontations. Those of you who might know me, understand that I'm not really a "fighter." I roll with the punches. I sway in the breeze. It takes a lot to really rattle me and if you do get to that point, well, you'll probably never know. Probably because I don't raise my voice and holler. I just move on.
I've described those stereotypical City Moments when I have observed angry people really letting it go. The can scream, holler, rant and curse. Today was my day to join them. Allow me to set the stage:
Across the street from our house, right by the elevated platform for the S-train, there is an open, grassy lot. Because of the demographics of our neighborhood, the lot tends to be dirty. Over the course of the several months that we lived there, the lot became absolutely filthy. Finally, about three weeks ago, a big trash truck backed onto the sidewalk and men started bagging and removing all of the trash. It was a big job and took most of the day.
This morning as I was walking to work, I saw a man with a bag of trash walking towards the lot. I walked past him and turned to watch him put the bag in the gap between the chain link fence in front of the lot.
"HEY! This is my neighborhood, man! Do NOT dump your stuff there!"
I could have really gone to town on the guy but he immediately grabbed the bag, turned around and followed me. He didn't have any front teeth and his dirty blonde hair (in ever sense of the phrase) was almost shoulder length.
"thorry man. I wathn't going to dump it there. I was just going to leave it while I ran an errand."
I just kept walking.
"Man. I don't dump trash. I wath jutht leaving it there for a minute... thee?" He drops the bag into one of the public trash bins as we walk by a bus stop.
I still don't say anything. I jaywalk acroth--- damn it--- across the street and head down into the subway, leaving him to protest his innocence.
I've described those stereotypical City Moments when I have observed angry people really letting it go. The can scream, holler, rant and curse. Today was my day to join them. Allow me to set the stage:
Across the street from our house, right by the elevated platform for the S-train, there is an open, grassy lot. Because of the demographics of our neighborhood, the lot tends to be dirty. Over the course of the several months that we lived there, the lot became absolutely filthy. Finally, about three weeks ago, a big trash truck backed onto the sidewalk and men started bagging and removing all of the trash. It was a big job and took most of the day.
This morning as I was walking to work, I saw a man with a bag of trash walking towards the lot. I walked past him and turned to watch him put the bag in the gap between the chain link fence in front of the lot.
"HEY! This is my neighborhood, man! Do NOT dump your stuff there!"
I could have really gone to town on the guy but he immediately grabbed the bag, turned around and followed me. He didn't have any front teeth and his dirty blonde hair (in ever sense of the phrase) was almost shoulder length.
"thorry man. I wathn't going to dump it there. I was just going to leave it while I ran an errand."
I just kept walking.
"Man. I don't dump trash. I wath jutht leaving it there for a minute... thee?" He drops the bag into one of the public trash bins as we walk by a bus stop.
I still don't say anything. I jaywalk acroth--- damn it--- across the street and head down into the subway, leaving him to protest his innocence.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Holy Cats!
Every two weeks or so, I try to treat myself to one of those delicious deli breakfast sandwiches. Usually tuck into a bacon, egg and cheese on a hard roll. It's a great way to start a Friday morning as you sit by your computer and temp.
This morning I took ten minutes out of my work day to run down to the West End Deli and grab breakfast. The deli is much like any of the hundreds of others all around the city. It has the same menu and basically the same prices. Considering that New Yorkers will frequently order in their breakfast, it isn't a surprise that the market supports so many of the same store.
The guys behind the counter were nice and, as always, I noticed a cat sitting by a bag of potatoes, watching the world go by. I kind of like cats. I don't love them, but they do add something to the neighborhood feel of a little shop. New York delis, vegetable stands and even restaurants frequently keep cats around. It is not just for the ambiance.
When we first arrived in the city, Kitty and I were out and about in the West Village and we went to a little Indian restaurant to grab lunch. They had a $5.95 lunch special that was absolutely fantastic. As we were sitting there, Kitty noticed the house cat and commented on how cute it was. As the cat moved on about its business, I looked past my wife, deeper into the restaurant and towards the kitchen. A mouse scurried across the floor between some empty tables. I watched as the cat slowed down and started to creep along the floor. Kitty (my wife- I realize that this might get confusing!) was talking about something or another, but I really can't remember because I was enthralled by the stalking that was going on.
Some things to know about Kitty. If she sees a spider, mouse, rat, snake or small insect, she is known to scream. She is also known to attempt to kill it and then explain how the cockroach was actually 7 inches long with razor-sharp fangs and it was heading for her throat.
The tension was palpable as I saw the, well, cat-and-mouse game play out ubeknownst to my wife. The mouse survived and we got dessert. A few weeks later, Kitty reminded me of how good the food was and how she wanted to go back. After holding out for so long, I confessed what I saw. She didn't take it very well.
Now though, Kitty is definitely doing better with the variety of life here. Cats, mice and insects are a common place here in the city. It can be tough to get used to and it isn't really about cleanliness, it is more about what is discussed in Jurassic Park, "Life breaks free. Life expands to new territories. Painfully, perhaps even dangerously. But life finds a way." You can kill them, but there will always be more. It was true about velociraptors and it is true for living in a big city.
This morning I took ten minutes out of my work day to run down to the West End Deli and grab breakfast. The deli is much like any of the hundreds of others all around the city. It has the same menu and basically the same prices. Considering that New Yorkers will frequently order in their breakfast, it isn't a surprise that the market supports so many of the same store.
The guys behind the counter were nice and, as always, I noticed a cat sitting by a bag of potatoes, watching the world go by. I kind of like cats. I don't love them, but they do add something to the neighborhood feel of a little shop. New York delis, vegetable stands and even restaurants frequently keep cats around. It is not just for the ambiance.
When we first arrived in the city, Kitty and I were out and about in the West Village and we went to a little Indian restaurant to grab lunch. They had a $5.95 lunch special that was absolutely fantastic. As we were sitting there, Kitty noticed the house cat and commented on how cute it was. As the cat moved on about its business, I looked past my wife, deeper into the restaurant and towards the kitchen. A mouse scurried across the floor between some empty tables. I watched as the cat slowed down and started to creep along the floor. Kitty (my wife- I realize that this might get confusing!) was talking about something or another, but I really can't remember because I was enthralled by the stalking that was going on.
Some things to know about Kitty. If she sees a spider, mouse, rat, snake or small insect, she is known to scream. She is also known to attempt to kill it and then explain how the cockroach was actually 7 inches long with razor-sharp fangs and it was heading for her throat.
The tension was palpable as I saw the, well, cat-and-mouse game play out ubeknownst to my wife. The mouse survived and we got dessert. A few weeks later, Kitty reminded me of how good the food was and how she wanted to go back. After holding out for so long, I confessed what I saw. She didn't take it very well.
Now though, Kitty is definitely doing better with the variety of life here. Cats, mice and insects are a common place here in the city. It can be tough to get used to and it isn't really about cleanliness, it is more about what is discussed in Jurassic Park, "Life breaks free. Life expands to new territories. Painfully, perhaps even dangerously. But life finds a way." You can kill them, but there will always be more. It was true about velociraptors and it is true for living in a big city.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The Friendly Mohawk
Times have changed. With my occasional switch to the F-train, I'm exposed to a much different cross-section of the NYC population than when I stayed on the C. Envision for me, if you will, core samples taken from the ice of the Antarctic (before it all melted, of course). Scientists would drill down and remove layers of ice and some of the frozen ground. By looking at it, they can make educated guesses about the origins of life.
I also development patterns as I switch trains. Back in the early 1980's, the punk scene became big at clubs like CBGB. Many of these angry, young musicians sported mohawk hairstyles and it shocked the uptight world of the Reagan years. People feared the punks and sporting a mohawk easily identified you as someone who would just as soon spit on you as talk to you.
This morning I boarded the F to find a young man sporting a mohawk. He wore a pink button down shirt and a hankerchief like an ascot. I was almost scared until I saw his Prada sunglasses and his terminally hip shoes.
How has mankind evolved so far so fast?
I also development patterns as I switch trains. Back in the early 1980's, the punk scene became big at clubs like CBGB. Many of these angry, young musicians sported mohawk hairstyles and it shocked the uptight world of the Reagan years. People feared the punks and sporting a mohawk easily identified you as someone who would just as soon spit on you as talk to you.
This morning I boarded the F to find a young man sporting a mohawk. He wore a pink button down shirt and a hankerchief like an ascot. I was almost scared until I saw his Prada sunglasses and his terminally hip shoes.
How has mankind evolved so far so fast?
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Story Time
I've found that after a year of long wait lists, I've finally made the big move. Instead of reserving books from the New York Public Library, I'm getting them from the Brooklyn Public Library System. What a difference! I've already scored the new Tolkein book, "Children of Hurin." The wait at NYPL was about 800 people. I had my copy from BPL in 2 days.
We have started getting DVDs from the BPL as well. They usually arrive in a day or two. Netflix will be cut back soon!
We have started getting DVDs from the BPL as well. They usually arrive in a day or two. Netflix will be cut back soon!
The Long Walk
In an effort to increase my overall health, I recently purchased a pedometer. The goal is to reach 10,000 steps a day. When you work in an an office, though, it can be tough to reach 3,000.
My brilliant solution, which has led to the last couple of OC posts about the subway, is to walk from the West 4th Street Station to my office in Hell's Kitchen. It is about 40 blocks uptown and three long blocks west. It is only about 6,000 steps, but with the walking around the office, I make my goal. Yay me.
What a difference Seven Minutes makes
The great side effect is that I take a great walk through the West Village every morning. I walk down Greenwich Street. If I don't get delayed by the F-train, Greenwich is practically empty. The shops are closed and it is one of the most peaceful ways to start your day when living in the city.
Yesterday, being seven minutes late, the street was much more crowded and cafes were beginning to open up and people were getting their morning coffee. One of my favorite moments in film is in a movie called, "Smoke." Harvey Keitel plays the owner of a cigar store the story revolves around his customers at the store. Every morning, Mr. Keitel's character walks out the front door of his shop at exactly the same time, raises a small camera and snaps a picture. He adds it to his "photo collection." It is his way to track those small changes that happen in a small corner of the world, which seems to be the same day in and day out. Being out and about in the Village always makes me think of that movie. I don't know if it is a "great film" but it is one that has stuck with me through the years. Walking each day, I wish I could capture that feeling of motion and compare it to yesterday and tomorrow and store it in an album.
Decaffeinated
I've mostly given up caffeine. For those of you who didn't know, I was the first kid in high school to become addicted to coffee. It took me through the long days and short nights of undergrad, the courtship of Kitty (we met at the copy machine, but fell in love in Starbucks) and through the tribulations of simultaneously managing grad school, my apprenticeship and my first major database job. I am now down to one half cup of "half-caff" per day and sometimes a cup of decaf in the afternoon. I sleep better at night and I'm less edgy during the day.
My walk through the Village is a test, though. Quaint pastry shops abound and there are vendors on the street in small metal cubes on wheels that provide our fair city with carbohydrates, caffeine and chemicals to make it through the long work days. If that weren't enough, there are delis that sell an egg and cheese on a toasted hard roll and a cup of coffee for $1.50. It's enough to make a grown man cry out for mercy. The Seven Minute difference means that instead of being practically alone, I see New Yorkers walking down the street with small cups with greek key designs, large cups with mermaids, or cell phone and sandwich in hand.
Barcelona and Modernism
Getting to work has become harder since my last trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I saw the exhibit on Barcelona and Modernism. The artists who were a part of the movement, met at Le Quatre Gats, a cafe. They talked politics and talked about their art and were inspired to create. The Village makes me want to turn into one of the cafes and sit and leave behind the obligations of a day job. I could just sit and plan out my singing career and beyond. I could meet my neighbors and get inspired to put on a show in the city. I could find out about the next great revolution that is being planned in the, now bourgoise, heart of artistic New York. Instead, I turn up my music and walk out of the Village and on to Chelsea and my job.
My brilliant solution, which has led to the last couple of OC posts about the subway, is to walk from the West 4th Street Station to my office in Hell's Kitchen. It is about 40 blocks uptown and three long blocks west. It is only about 6,000 steps, but with the walking around the office, I make my goal. Yay me.
What a difference Seven Minutes makes
The great side effect is that I take a great walk through the West Village every morning. I walk down Greenwich Street. If I don't get delayed by the F-train, Greenwich is practically empty. The shops are closed and it is one of the most peaceful ways to start your day when living in the city.
Yesterday, being seven minutes late, the street was much more crowded and cafes were beginning to open up and people were getting their morning coffee. One of my favorite moments in film is in a movie called, "Smoke." Harvey Keitel plays the owner of a cigar store the story revolves around his customers at the store. Every morning, Mr. Keitel's character walks out the front door of his shop at exactly the same time, raises a small camera and snaps a picture. He adds it to his "photo collection." It is his way to track those small changes that happen in a small corner of the world, which seems to be the same day in and day out. Being out and about in the Village always makes me think of that movie. I don't know if it is a "great film" but it is one that has stuck with me through the years. Walking each day, I wish I could capture that feeling of motion and compare it to yesterday and tomorrow and store it in an album.
Decaffeinated
I've mostly given up caffeine. For those of you who didn't know, I was the first kid in high school to become addicted to coffee. It took me through the long days and short nights of undergrad, the courtship of Kitty (we met at the copy machine, but fell in love in Starbucks) and through the tribulations of simultaneously managing grad school, my apprenticeship and my first major database job. I am now down to one half cup of "half-caff" per day and sometimes a cup of decaf in the afternoon. I sleep better at night and I'm less edgy during the day.
My walk through the Village is a test, though. Quaint pastry shops abound and there are vendors on the street in small metal cubes on wheels that provide our fair city with carbohydrates, caffeine and chemicals to make it through the long work days. If that weren't enough, there are delis that sell an egg and cheese on a toasted hard roll and a cup of coffee for $1.50. It's enough to make a grown man cry out for mercy. The Seven Minute difference means that instead of being practically alone, I see New Yorkers walking down the street with small cups with greek key designs, large cups with mermaids, or cell phone and sandwich in hand.
Barcelona and Modernism
Getting to work has become harder since my last trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I saw the exhibit on Barcelona and Modernism. The artists who were a part of the movement, met at Le Quatre Gats, a cafe. They talked politics and talked about their art and were inspired to create. The Village makes me want to turn into one of the cafes and sit and leave behind the obligations of a day job. I could just sit and plan out my singing career and beyond. I could meet my neighbors and get inspired to put on a show in the city. I could find out about the next great revolution that is being planned in the, now bourgoise, heart of artistic New York. Instead, I turn up my music and walk out of the Village and on to Chelsea and my job.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Follow-up
If an F-train is not waiting in the station, don't switch trains. I lost 11 minutes total because of slow train traffic.
I think I'm going to write a thesis, "Abstract Transportation Issues: An Authoritative Guide to the Arcane New York City Transit Authority." It will read like the instruction manual for your new digital camera. (only much less entertaining.)
I think I'm going to write a thesis, "Abstract Transportation Issues: An Authoritative Guide to the Arcane New York City Transit Authority." It will read like the instruction manual for your new digital camera. (only much less entertaining.)
Monday, May 07, 2007
Crossing over
Well, I'm starting to make the leap into Web 2.0. Feel free to check out myspace. I'll be blogging about books and art and other random things. Send me a friend request or let me know where you are. I'd love to say "hello."
Shaving off 4 minutes.
Riding the Subway- PhD lesson #1
Conventional wisdom says that train transfers are slow you down.
Case Study- You are riding from Franklin St. (in Brooklyn) on the C train and you need to get to Spring Street. Fastest route? Stay on the C. Both are local stops.
Case Study 2- You are riding the train from Franklin Street (in Brooklyn) to W4 th. It is only one stop farther on the C than Spring Street. What is the fastest route? Conventional wisdom says, "stay on the C." Aha, says I... Switch at Jay Street to a waiting F-train and you bypass all of lower Manhattan. Today I saved about 4 minutes. I'd like to do a test next time Kitty and I go to the Village. I'll do the switch at Jay Street and she will stay on the C-train and we'll see who gets there faster.
Yes, these are the esoteric issues that plague New Yorkers after they have mastered the basics of the transit system.
Conventional wisdom says that train transfers are slow you down.
Case Study- You are riding from Franklin St. (in Brooklyn) on the C train and you need to get to Spring Street. Fastest route? Stay on the C. Both are local stops.
Case Study 2- You are riding the train from Franklin Street (in Brooklyn) to W4 th. It is only one stop farther on the C than Spring Street. What is the fastest route? Conventional wisdom says, "stay on the C." Aha, says I... Switch at Jay Street to a waiting F-train and you bypass all of lower Manhattan. Today I saved about 4 minutes. I'd like to do a test next time Kitty and I go to the Village. I'll do the switch at Jay Street and she will stay on the C-train and we'll see who gets there faster.
Yes, these are the esoteric issues that plague New Yorkers after they have mastered the basics of the transit system.
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