Remembering Memorial Day

Photo by myself on lower Broadway, around Rector Street.

Along the 'Canyon of Heroes', where championship teams and events are awarded ticker tape parades, over 200 plaques with stainless steel lettering are set into the sidewalk. All along Broadway, you can see a record of each parade in history.

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As humans, we have the need to commemorate. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, even ticker tape parades.

One of my coworkers just celebrated his 50th birthday. I asked him how he felt, since he wore a look of disbelief.

'I feel like I'm 22,' he said sadly. This made me wonder what was worse - feeling your age, or not feeling your age?

Memorial Day is this weekend. Every year, I'm immersed in work, and the holiday sneaks up on me. I usually stay in the city, which empties out.

I would find myself alone with the tourists, which isn't such a bad thing. I walk around and enjoy the city, which is remarkably less crowded. But the feeling is like being at a party when the cake arrives in the next room, and you find that you're suddenly alone.

This year, I'm happy to say, the holiday is not going to sneak up on me. No, I won't be a victim of the calendar.

Mark and I may go to a barbeque or throw a barbeque of our own. Or we might drive out to Long Island to see his mom, or we'll cook a few things, or walk around and enjoy the city that we're blessed to live in. Or we might do nothing at all.

It doesn't matter what we'll be doing. I'm just glad to look forward to the three-day weekend for once.


For more on the Canyon of Heroes, click here

Related posts: Past Times and Tourists for a Day.

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On Photography - Before and After

Photo by myself in front of a vintage furniture store on Wythe and South First Streets in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I really loved the colors at work here.

There are several stores that sell vintage furnishings in Williamsburg. Some are more of the 60's office variety, others include funky Scandinavian-inspired pieces.

Either way, you will come away with something that no one else has.

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For those interested in current photography, I suggest a wonderful article in a recent New Yorker magazine about gifted photo retoucher Pascal Dangin.

I wish I could find the two photos that were printed in the article. An original black and white photo of a nude model by Patrick Demarchelier was published alongside the photo after Dangin's handiwork.

In the retouched photograph, the model's torso has been rotated, the back of her pelvis better lit. The lighting of her hair, background and body is even and flattering. Her bony hip is eased, to look less severe. The images are strikingly different.

From the reporter's description, you get the sense that Dangin performs minor tweaks based on a full knowledge of anatomy. He sits with photographers over raw photos to discuss his vision for an image, and is even present during photo shoots to offer his expertise.

Dangin has admitted to retouching Annie Liebovitz's photos for Dove the soap Campaign for Real Beauty, which were supposed to have been untouched images of 'real' women. So much for reality!

Here's the Dove evolution ad showing a model from sitting to billboard:



Related posts: The Arts - Live and one Videotape, Inspiration and Random Shots

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The Hills Are Alive in Prospect Park, Brooklyn

Photo by myself, in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

On our way over to the Brooklyn Museum of Art on Saturday, Mark and I passed by a fellow walking his pet, a long-eared rabbit, on a leash.

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Many people have heard of Central Park, that many acre-ed space in the middle of Manhattan, designed by Frederick Law Olmstead.

Until this weekend, Mark and I hadn't really seen Prospect Park, another Olmstead park, in Brooklyn. We were surprised by how enormous the place was. (According to Wikipedia, Prospect Park is 585 acres large, compared to Central Park's 840+ acres).

Less manicured than Central Park and without the backdrop of tall buildings, Prospect Park rambles on and on. We walked by Little League games for kids of all ages, from teens to little ones who must have been around 5 or 6 years old.



There were couples sprawled out on the rolling lawns, people walking their dogs, people walking their rabbits (!), people throwing birthday parties at picnic tables complete with balloons and kites, people tending barbeques.

We exited the park to find a farmer's market in Grand Army Plaza, another Olmstead design. There were stalls offering homemade goat cheeses, baguettes, maple syrup and all else.

Mark and I wound up having a wonderful picnic lunch. We'll soon be back!



Lower photo by Mark, of the Little League games at Prospect Park.

Related posts: Out Getting Some Air and Keeping Your Dogs in a Row.

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At the Brooklyn Museum - The Dizzying World of Murakami

Photo by myself, part of a massive Murakami sculpture at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

The Murakami exhibit is going strong until mid-July at the BMA, located near Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn.

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Mark and I walked through Prospect Park today to the Brooklyn Museum of Art to see the Murakami exhibit that is currently on view.

Takashi Murakami is one of Mark's favorite artists. Recently we saw a television program that showed him fastidiously choosing every color in his large scale murals, in a paint-by-numbers way. If you're not familiar with his art, I'd describe it as playful, colorful and prolific.

Murakami combines cartoon characters, a huge palette of glorious colors, logos and comic book techniques into a dizzying array of work. Sea green topped mushrooms bare their teeth, surrounded by swirls of pinkish orange and coral. In another room, the walls are covered with cartoon eyeballs of different sizes.

For a slide show of the BMA exhibit, click here.

Some of the murals are gigantic, comprised of several panels into works 30 feet long. They are glorious and colorful, often with backgrounds of matte gold or silver. Some of the images resemble patterned wallpaper and was reproduced to cover the galleries from floor to ceiling. There were also incredible sculptures, as well as products on sale, produced for Louis Vuitton.

Recently the exhibit has been heavily advertised on the subway, and I hope parents are warned at the door. Some of the art is for adults only. I can only wonder what some children thought of a couple sculptures with exaggerated anatomical features. Ahem.

In general, the exhibit was fantastic and inspiring. If you're in New York in the next couple months, do make the trek over to the Brooklyn Museum.



For a the Times review of the exhibit, click here.


Related posts: How to Get From Here to There, and East Side Versus West Side.

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Architectural Detail, Above

Photo by myself of the vaulted ceiling outside Tabla, an upscale Indian restaurant at Madison Avenue and 24th Street, at the base of the MetLife Tower. You can sit outside for drinks and watch the goings on of Madison Square Park, across the street.

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The weather here has been sporadic lately. Not nice enough at all to have drinks and dine outside under an ornate vault.

The weather reminds me of San Franscico. It's cold in the mornings, at times nice during the day and cold again at night. You see a mix of flip flops and winter boots on the train.

Well, it's been a long week and I've run out of words. I'm absolutely knackered.

More, tomorrow. Happy weekend, everyone!

Related posts: Among Beautiful Things

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'This American Life' on the City Streets

Photo by myself on 13th Street and University Place.

I was walking along when I found this gentleman cutting beautiful paper animals on the sidewalk. I'd love to know his story.

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You meet all types on the street, often by accident: dog walkers, transvestites, women with triplets, men in clown suits, veterans, gangs.

There are teachers, students, people from every country imaginable. People walk with their dogs, their cats, their parrots, their musical instruments. It's a little like The Breakfast Club.

There are commoners and there are celebrities, too. Like Jackie Onassis.



The graphic artist Chris Ware created a lovely animation for This American Life on just such a situation: running into a celebrity on the streets of New York.

Enjoy.

Related posts: The Sublime and Ridiculous, Or Why I See Few Celebrities in New York and A Bit More on Celebrity, Past and Present

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The Low Down on Walk Ups

Photo by myself on the Upper West Side, at 78th Street and West End Avenue.

I love the variations you can find among townhouses. Here, a gracious arch becomes a skin with volumes shifting behind it. There is a sculptural quality to this entrance that I find compelling.

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Townhouses were called tenement buildings at one time. They are called 'walk-ups' by New Yorkers, to mean that the building is divided up into apartments on each floor that you walk up to.

Having a townhouse to yourself is a lovely fantasy. The New York Times recently printed that single-family townhouses comprise between 3 and 4 percent of the available habitable real estate in Manhattan. So good luck on having a whole townhouse to yourself!

Widthwise, these buildings were made to be just wide enough for a parlor and a straight run of stairs. They're typically four or five stories high. Five floors are just enough to make it humanly possible to come home with a bag of groceries, trudge upstairs and then find that you forgot the milk.

I knew someone who lived on the seventh floor of a walk-up, who routinely threw large parties (!). His poor guests trudged up the six flights and the poor smokers soon trudged all the way down again to get their fix.

Five floors are also an ideal distance for plumbing, because New York City water is just pressurized enough within the pipes to get to the fifth floor without relying on a pump.

Buildings taller than five floors use water tanks located on the roof. You see these water tanks silhouetted on top of older buildings. A pump in the basement pumps water up to the rooftop tanks, which use gravity to get the water down to apartments when needed.

The above photo shows a handrail that is completely illegal by today's US building codes. These days the vertical struts of any railing have to be at most 4 inches apart, which is about the size of a baby's head.

Other countries have their own building codes. You see improbable railings in Europe that would allow babies, the sight impaired and their households to fall through.

Related posts: Building for a Greener Environment, 42nd Street and Things to Come.

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Cheers

Photo by myself in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

One of the many bars in Williamsburg. There's an old-timey feel to this place.

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My Dad has a fantasy of traveling to China and eating at a different restaurant for every meal. He could travel from town to town and could go on forever.

So I bought him the Lonely Planet guide to China a couple Christmases ago. It's enormous, about two inches thick. Of course he hasn't gone yet, and when (and if) he ever goes, the book will be out of date. But it's the thought that counts, right?

In the same way, you could have a drink each night in a different bar in New York and Brooklyn and not run out of places until your liver gave out.

There are sports bars and old timey bars and very, very trendy bars. There are hotel bars and tacky theme bars (airplane interiors, beauty parlors, thatched tiki huts, old railway cars).

There are underground bars without signs. There are wine bars and champagne bars. And on and on.

Related posts: Pub Crawl.

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The Cycle of Decay

Photo by myself in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

Behind a series of warehouses near the water, there is a ruined building from a different time. There's a mysterious and sculptural air about it, like a Rube Goldberg contraption.

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There's a community garden a few streets from us in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where members pay yearly dues to work a plot of land. People plant flowers and vegetables, landscape gardens and create little ponds with koi.

Most neighborhoods have a community garden. It seems as if there are quite a few in Red Hook for instance, for whatever reason. There are some prominent ones in the East Village, along Houston Street. You're welcome to wander off the street and walk inside, provided you stay on the paths.

As a city dweller it's great to be able to get your hands dirty or compost your food stuff. Mark and I feel like we're doing our little part.

We haven't joined the garden near us, but we're going there to compost. On weekends, we dump a week's worth of odds and ends into the bin. People are there constantly, shifting the heaps from one bin to another, then using the final, rich compost for their gardens.

Last weekend, I was in such a rush, I brought the wrong bag with me. When I emptied the bag in the bin, I was surprised to find a pair of shoes I was going to leave out on the stoop. Egad!

The woman tending the compost pile and I were both surprised. I made some sort of lame-o half-funny comment, then took the shoes and skedaddled.

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Could You Keep It Down?

Photo by myself in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

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When we first walked by this fellow lying across a stoop, he was out cold. I don't know if he was homeless, but he looked like he'd had a rough night out. It was Saturday afternoon, a brightly sunny day. I took a few photos from behind the railing.

'You should stand above him and take a photo,' Mark said, making the universal hand gesture for picture taking.

It'd make a great shot, but I didn't have the courage to do such a thing. We went about on our errands. When we returned, the man had rolled onto his side.

I snapped a few photos while Mark talked about whatever he was talking about. Then suddenly the man woke up, looking confused and a little annoyed.

My heart pretty much just leaped out of my body and bounced on the ground. I walked away very quickly, pulling Mark by the elbow.

Related posts: Castaways and The Underclass.

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Where the Kids Are - Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Photo by myself in Williamsburg, Brooklyn around Wythe and North 7th Streets.

Mark and I visited Williamsburg today. We ran some errands and toured our favorite furniture stores. This old wooden door had personality and caught my eye.

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Fellow Daily Photo blogger Fredrik in Sweden had asked me about Williamsburg a while back.

Some of our favorite furniture stores are in Williamsburg. The Future Perfect is inventive and expensive, a little like an art and product museum. Next door, its cousin A&G Merch sports more affordable items. And down the road is our all-time favorite, The Golden Calf, which offers antiques, Thomas Paul pillows and cool tableware. Mark and I just love to go and look at stuff.

Williamsburg has great restaurants, too - a modern Vietnamese place, a couple upscale bars, a delicious Italian wine bar, and a French bistro. There are a couple extremely popular Thai places, too, that are packed on weekend nights.

I liken Williamsburg to Cambridge, Massachusetts. There's an informal vibe. Select surfaces are covered with graffiti or stickers, and the kids there dress in that shlumpy hipster way.





We encountered an old fashioned record store abuzz with customers, and an independent movie in the making. Parts of the neighborhood look sketchy, with their old warehouse buildings, but it's all very safe. New condo buildings are under construction near the water and real estate prices have escalated hugely over the last few years.


Other posts on Williamsburg: Hipster Douchebags, Artsy Fartsy.

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If You're Happy, Clap Your Hands

Photo by myself on the subway tonight.

After a long day, it was something else to witness someone singing to himself and shimmying on the subway. This dude was twirling about, chanting and twitching frantically in front of his reflection in the subway window.

You see all sorts on the train. People are usually sullen, or tired, or angry, or crazy, or neutral. This person was so obviously happy. I've never seen anyone like him. How refreshing after a tough day.

Other passengers felt the same and broke out into giggles. Some looked about to cry. I tried to take photos, but it was useless. I was hanging onto a pole with one hand, tottering around in heels while the train went stop-go.

I didn't get any good pictures, but I felt this one captured the feeling of the train tonight: energized, fun and a little nuts.

Related posts: Au Secours, My First Run-In With the NYPD, and The Rules.

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Every Day is Kid's Day

Photo by myself in Bryant Park, at 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue.

There are a couple areas for bocce games at this park. This gentleman was among a few sharing a serious game the other day.

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TGIF, everyone. By the way, it's Mother's Day this weekend.

We'll be in Lawn Guyland to see Mark's mom. Plans are vague. Hopefully we'll have nice enough weather to drive near the water and have a nice lunch.

And I'll call my Mom in California. It'll be nice to chat with her.

When I was little I asked my Dad why there wasn't a 'Kid's Day', since there was a Mother's and Father's Day. Of course he told me that 'Every day is Kid's Day'.

I was disappointed by his response, but I now share his thinking. Oh to be a kid. They can run around, have fun and generally not worry too much.

I hope everyone is either spending time with his or her mom or is wishing her well. And if you can't be together, well, I hope you're thinking of her.

Related posts: Tricks are for Kids.

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Clever Cat (Not)

Photo by myself around Sixth Avenue and 32nd Street, I think.

I actually don't recall where I took this photo. There are many kiosks that sell papers, cigarettes, gum and snacks on the sidewalks and in subway stations.

I was drawn to this kiosk because it was particularly tiny. The owner knew I was taking a photo and hid behind the displays, to my frustration.

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Sorry for digressing from New York to my cat, but I cannot resist. I posted earlier about my cat Dida, who had a peeing problem.

For the longest time, Dida had trouble peeing inside the box. We had to move the litter box into the bathroom because she always missed. It didn't matter if the box were in the middle of the room or in the corner. There was always a puddle on the floor.

Mark was tempted to explain to the vet that Dida's 'pee hole' was located incorrectly. We did take her in to see if there was a physical problem, but I couldn't say such a thing without giggling.

It turned out there is nothing physically wrong, even though she's gone through two bouts of bladder stones. The peeing is a psychological issue.

Fortunately, Mark saved the day by changing the litter box. Ironically, the box for the cat that can't pee correctly is called a 'Clever Cat'. It's basically a very deep plastic container, so deep that there's no way Dida could pee out of it, no matter where her pee hole is.

After using the litter box a few days, we placed the lid on, which is solid but for a large hole. Theoretically, Dida jumps up and through the hole, does her business and hops out.

We've never seen this happen, though. The whole phenomenon is a little like the Loch Ness Monster. We're so happy there's no more mess in the morning and are considering setting up a hidden camera.

Related posts on Dida: Tempting Fate and Our Extended Family.

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The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

Photo by myself on Prince and Greene Streets in Soho.

Just across the street from the Apple Store is this historic cafe with its distinctive neon sign. I've never been there but I have the feeling they serve great desserts.

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Sometimes I feel that I present New York as this amazing place to live.

Well it can be. Sure.

But then I worry that I'm misrepresenting this place. Because while you can find the greatest people and experiences, you can also find the worst.

Mark swears that the most virulent strains of people live here. I agree. You find often them in leadership positions, because they'll do anything to succeed. They yell at their employees and then turn around and schmooze their clients.

You find them driving crazily on the roads without signaling, stopping in the middle of crosswalks, and making pedestrians walk around them. You find them littering. You find them sitting on the subway, not thinking about the elderly or pregnant women standing nearby.

Every place has its share of awful people. But what makes the horribleness disappear at the end of the day is coming home to a nice dinner with Mark. Then I sit on the sofa between him and the cat.

I power up the computer, respond to comments on this blog and try to figure out what to write next.

You can survive any place if you have a little refuge. I hope everyone has theirs.

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It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Photo by myself in Riverside Park on the Upper West Side, around 69th Street.

This structure, with its winches and chains, must have been used to load ships. Now it looks about to topple over. The Hudson River and New Jersey are in the background.

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We've had some beautiful days here in New York.

Yesterday for the move, it was gloriously sunny. Mark and I were walking to his apartment in Greenpoint when we encountered two of his neighborhood buddies. One is an artist who works as a creative director by day. The other escaped a tough life in LA and will soon be a Greenpoint restauranteur.

We all stood on the sidewalk, reminiscing about how empty the neighborhood had been just three years ago. Now it's hopping.

'It's become Williamsburg,' one of the fellas said, referring to the trendy neighborhood next door.

'You get out of the subway and there's a ton of people,' said the other, holding his hands out wide.

I said goodbye to the cat who lives in the corner bodega. He was asleep on a box of detergent but was good enough to crack open a yellowy eye. At the cashier, I ran into one of the women who had helped rescue the homeless cats with me last fall. The grey cat in her care has been adjusting well.

Small world. Saying goodbye to Greenpoint was bittersweet. We had our frustrations with finding consistent restaurants, and how sleepy it was at times. But the people were great. Despite what you might think about big cities, you can get to know your neighbors.

Finally, we said our farewells to Mark's downstairs neighbors, his landlord and another neighbor down the street. Then we packed up the fish and motored off.

'Well that's the last pizza we'll have in old Greenpoint,' Mark said.

I assured him he was wrong. No, we'd be back for pizza and a beer soon enough. I can't imagine never going back.

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On Japanese Food and Fish

Photo by myself on East 9th Street and Second Avenue.

Otafuku, a tiny Japanese eatery, is a standing-room only gem. There are two cooks crammed in the front, who cook pancakes or octopus fritters. The dishes are piled high with fish flakes, mayonnaise, seasonings and dried seaweed.

People will stand outside in the wintry cold to eat this stuff, it is that delectable.

I love it, I love it, I love it.

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Today Mark and I moved the last of his things from Greenpoint, his old neighborhood, to Park Slope, Brooklyn.

It happens every month - you see moving trucks all over the place. People are moving to and fro. The last couple months, we've been making little trips back and forth. Today was the last of it.

Most importantly, this morning we drove up early to get Mark's fish. Geared up with two large beverage coolers to transport them and their fish water, we looked like EMS workers ready to perform an organ transplant.

Getting the fellas (there are several little ones) and the water into the coolers was no problem. The stones, fake plants, and equipment came along too. We gingerly placed everything in the back of Clive, Mark's Mini Cooper, leaving the fish until the last possible minute. A lid covered the cooler so the water wouldn't splash out.

Then we were off. We soon discovered that many of Greenpoint's streets were closed off because of the Five-Boro Bike Tour. Thousands of cyclists biked through all five boroughs, starting in Battery Park City and ending in Staten Island.

The police had blocked many of the streets with wooden sawhorses, and there were no signs directing anyone. I could hear the water sloshing around as we tried to figure a way out of Greenpoint.

Eventually, we made it out (yay!), taking several detours and back roads. In the end, fish, water and equipment were delivered and re-installed intact. The fellas are now swimming around quite gaily in their tank, as if nothing happened.

Note to everyone - if you're planning a move, check whether parades or races are going on.

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Decisions, Decisions

Photo by myself around 14th Street and Fifth Avenue, today.

The ice cream truck with its familiar tinkling jingle is a symbol of suburban summer. You'd be surprised how many of these trucks litter the streets of New York, when the weather is nice.

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Today Mark and I ventured into the East Village. While walking around, we noticed a couple of movie theaters participating in the Tribeca Film Festival.

Very, very informal queues were arranged on the streets, between metal police barricades. A cool drizzle of rain made the scene especially unglamorous.

Still, I told Mark that we should try going to the Film Festival next year. In our years living here, neither of us has managed to go.

I think part of the trouble is that since many of the films shown are equally unknown, it's tough to figure out which of the 250+ films to watch. A quick look at the movie roster is overwhelming. I feel like I'd have to sit down for a few hours before making my educated choices.

Anyway, we have a whole year to figure out which movies to see. Hopefully, it won't be raining.

Related posts: The Arts - Live and on Videotape and For Your Viewing Pleasure.

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Lost in Translation

Photo by myself in Koreatown, on 32nd Street and Sixth Avenue.

There is always an assembly of smokers outside this building. Mostly Korean businessmen while away their stress, regardless of the weather.

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After a long week of quiet dinners and drinks relaxing with Mark, last night we went a little nuts (hence the delayed post).

An old coworker friend was leaving her job, and a group of us went out for drinks, followed by a few hours in a karaoke booth. A couple of martinis, beer and sake later, I was giggling uncontrollably, watching Mark belt out 'Hotel California'.

If you're interested in a surreal, 'Lost in Translation'-like experience, karaoke is the solution. Every city with a strong Korean or Japanese population has these places - small karaoke booths where you can sing and celebrate and embarrass yourself.

Each booth is individually climate controlled. There are unlimited drinks and food. People pay a set fee per hour to have free reign over the karaoke machine. Meanwhile, cheesy dated images of couples and sunsets play on the video screen with subtitles.

In New York, there are some random bars that have Karaoke night, but the individual booths in Koreatown are the real deal. Walking down the hall to the ladies room, hearing the various parties around me, I felt like I was in another land.

Even though the experience was tame, the place felt seedy and transient. Everyone was engaged in pure excess - food, drink, enjoyment.

I'm not sure Mark and I would ever do it again. We'll have to recover from last night first.

Here's the trailer of 'Lost in Translation':

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Food for Thought

Photo by myself on East 10th Street and Second Avenue, in the East Village.

A typical pretty street shows stoops, trees and quaint sidewalks. There are even little iron things that cordon off the trees.

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The other night, Mark and I had dinner in a small place with an open kitchen. We had front row seats to the cooks and the grill.

The head cook was reading the tickets in a sharp tone. The others bent to work, heads down, with a quiet intensity. It was a treat to watch.

The cooking shows on TV have elevated line cooking to a new level. The restaurant business has always been a macho profession, but because of Anthony Bourdain and Gordon Ramsey, everyone now knows exactly how macho - late nights, stress, competition and the hint of danger. There's a performance aspect to the whole thing as well.

Speaking of cooking, has anyone noticed the following tendency among Top Chef contestants?

The nervous chef describes his or her dish: 'I've made a honey-glazed (whatever) with a little bit of (whatever), over a bed of (whatever). It's tossed with a little bit of (whatever), covered in a (whatever) gelee, a little bit of (whatever) and finished with a (whatever) jus. Enjoy.'

The operative phrase is not the 'whatever', nor the French terms thrown in, but 'the little bit of'. And when the nervous contestant speaks, the phrase is reduced to 'alittlebitta', over and over.

I just want to get on the show to have the chance to say, 'I cooked a whopping amount of (whatever). Enjoy.'

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Signs of Hope

Photo by myself at Union Square, at the Farmer's Market.

This chalkboard sign advertising fresh, local meat drew appreciation from the crowds this afternoon.

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Thanks again to everyone for the kind wishes for my dear cat, Dida. She is humbled to be in the spotlight. Hopefully Dida will get used to her new feeding schedule before her owner keels over.

I've been listening to podcasts at work. It's my small attempt at multitasking and maximizing what few brain cells I have left. Today, an episode of Fresh Air, an NPR favorite, moved me to tears.

The story is set in LA. Steve Lopez, a columnist for the LA Times, met a homeless man named Nathaniel Ayers. Ayers turned out to be a musician. In fact, he also once lived in New York, where he trained at the Julliard School of Music, but dropped out due to mental illness.

I know how many readers of this blog love street musicians. Here was one who was homeless, who could play the violin and picked up the cello and trumpet. And here was Lopez, a writer just trying to do the right thing, who didn't know much about classical music but was learning about it through his new friend.

Lopez published articles in the Times about the homeless man, and his readers donated musical instruments in response. Lopez used the instruments as rewards to try to get his subject off the streets and into rehabilitation.

I don't want to give too much away, but you get the point. Lopez has written a book about the experience, and a movie is in the making. Called 'The Soloist', it stars Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr. It's that good a story.

Should you hear the podcast, be prepared. It's moving.

Well, I was moved. I sat there at my desk, sniffling away. All the elements are there - the talented man tortured by inner demons, the ardent writer trying to save the situation, the lessons learned on both sides.

If every one of us were as actively involved in our cities as Steve Lopez, what kind of world would this be? Or if every one of us had a Steve Lopez to watch out for us and help us reach our potential, what then?

The possibilities are beyond our imagination.


For the Fresh Air podcast, click here.

For the articles Lopez wrote in the LA Times, click here .

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Tempting Fate

Photo by myself on the subway platform during the rush hour commute.

Some people stand awfully close to the edge of the platform. The painted yellow line and tactile warning bumps guide passengers where to stand.

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This weekend, Mark and I went to Whiskers, an alternative pet store on Second Avenue and 9th Street in the East Village.

Good friends of ours had recommended the place to us last year. They have two cats, and after initiating a new diet, the cats have lost weight and their previously scaly skin is back to normal. Happily, too, they're not shedding as much.

Our friends had told us to talk to Phil. When I walked in and looked around, I spotted an older guy perched in the corner with his chin in his hand. We locked eyes and he waved me over. This was Phil Klein, the pet guru.

I was whisked into the world of homeopathic pet dieting. My way of feeding my poor cat, Dida, has been completely wrong. I walked away with vials of enzymes and vitamins for Dida's rehabilitation. (Last week, after what we thought was a pulled muscle, we took her into the vet. She was diagnosed with a heart condition and was given medication for a blood clot in her hind leg).

Phil advocates feeding your cat limited amounts of food several times a day, and fresh foods, if possible. Earlier this month, Phil was interviewed on NPR about his holistic approach. Phil gives advice to dog owners too. A friendly woman with a miniature dachshund was next in line for a consult.

Little does she know, Dida is now my science experiment. Already she's grumbling about the feeding schedule. Food is taken away just before we go to bed, so there is no snacking. At 4:30 in the mornings, I am awakened by her meowing and standing next to me, stamping her foot. Eek.

I'm hopeful for the whole process. Tests from the vet show that she has a heart murmur but that there's no immediate danger. Her heart is clear of blood clots, which is great news.

I'll post about her progress from time to time. It would be amazing to have Dida's tests come back next year clear of a murmur.


For Phil's interview on NPR, click here.

For a recent post on Dida, click here

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Behind the Curtain

Photo by myself on Prince Street in Soho.

It was drizzly outside on Sunday morning, a typical rainy New York day.

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I walked through Soho the other day to get to the Film Forum.

It was drizzly outside and early for a Sunday. All the shops were closed. Virtually no one was out, save for residents walking their dogs and a couple tourists.

It was wonderful.

I walked quickly down Prince Street, crossing a few cobblestone streets on the way that were wet with rain. Someone was sweeping the sidewalk, clearing away evidence from the night before. I felt like I was backstage just after a performance.

When I reached the Film Forum, I found my friend James inside with a mimosa in hand.

'I walked through Soho just now,' I said, still a little breathless. 'It's so quiet. No one's there.'

'I love that.'

James knew exactly what I meant. It's a familiar feeling, walking through the city when it's just waking up. It's a sliver of time when the city is yours alone.

For my experience at the Film Forum, click here.

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For Your Viewing Pleasure

Photo by myself at the Film Forum at Houston and Varick Streets.

This arty New York institution shows classic, foreign and independent first-run films.

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This morning I met my friend James at the Film Forum.

Every spring, members are invited to a brunch and movie showing. I've been James' guest for the last few years. I must be the only one of his friends who is awake at 10 am on a Sunday.

We were lucky enough to see the most recent movie by Werner Herzog, 'Encounters at the End of the World', a documentary Herzog made of his trip to Antarctica. I highly recommend it.

Herzog has directed a number of movies over the last thirtysome years, including Nosferatu. He recently became more known to the mainstream with 'Grizzly Man', a documentary about the (crazy) man who thought he could communicate with grizzly bears.

Herzog is an incredible narrator, full of philosophical and quirky insights. The movie features stunning footage underwater below a heavy crust of ice and at the edge of an arctic volcano. Herzog also interviews the characters he meets at the end of the world, a motley assortment of scientists and wanderers.

Luckily this movie will be released to a larger audience, soon. If you're in New York, Encounters will be playing at the Film Forum, beginning June 11th.


Lower photo by myself, showing the line outside the Film Forum this morning.

Related posts: The Arts - Live and on Videotape

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A Pedestrian City

Photo by myself at the subway station at 34th Street, Penn Station.

These gentlemen drew a small crowd with their enthusiastic jazz performance.

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Saturday Mark and I drove to the city. We planned to do some errands in the East Village, then drive up to Hell's Kitchen for some grub.

We should have taken the subway.

Around 14th Street and 8th Avenue, traffic came to a stop. Gridlock.

Cars were trying to make a turn when the light changed, but cars were already stopped in the middle of the intersection. People were honking and there was no movement for several minutes.

The reason for the hold up? Another one of those street fairs. Several blocks of Eighth Avenue were blocked off for kiosks selling hot dogs, fajitas and hats. Apparently we'd encountered the 'Chelsea Visiting Neighbors Festival', whatever that is.

I'm not vehemently against street fairs. They're a symbol of summer and as a pedestrian, they can be nice. It seems like there are so many of them though, and they all look the same. Traffic is terrible as it is. Why intentionally make things worse?

A quick look at the NYC.gov calendar shows that every Saturday and Sunday, several neighborhoods will be shut down for fairs and parades.

My advice? Walk, don't drive!

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Among Beautiful Things

Photo by myself on Riverside Drive, around 76th Street.

Many precious architectural details can be found on the old buildings on the Upper West Side. Here, a beautifully curved double hung window is protected with an elaborate metal grille. Carved brackets support a balcony overhead.

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Today, my coworker Cheryl and I went to survey an apartment for renovation.

Our clients, a lovely middle-aged couple, own a spacious apartment on the Upper East Side at 85th Street. The building fronts Gracie Square, which is a park along the East River with views out to Roosevelt Island.

The clients are avid collectors of traditional art. Framed Impressionist oil paintings and ink drawings were hung on every wall. I've been in some very fancy homes before, but this was fancy. There were bronze statues and marble fireplaces. There were heavy curtains at every window, each trimmed with colorful ribbon and tassels.

The apartment spanned two floors. There were several bedrooms, a media room, Living Room, Library, Dining Room, Powder Room, his and her bathrooms and dressing rooms. The Master Bedroom had a spacious sitting room. There was a maid's room, laundry room and crafts room. A graceful internal stair in the front hall connected the two floors. On paper, the place resembled a spacious two-story home except that it was on the high floors of a Manhattan apartment building.

Cheryl and I worked all afternoon, tip toeing around little tables arranged with bric-a-brac. We carefully measured all the walls and doors and windows. I had visions of little tables toppling over, spilling priceless objects to the floor.

Of course, our day was emergency-free. At the end of several hours, Cheryl and I measured all the rooms and documented the apartment with plenty of photographs.

The job was exhausting. Even though we were surrounded by ornate beauty, all we wanted to do was hurry home, pour a glass of wine and put our feet up.

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All That Glitters

Photo by myself at Columbus Circle, at Central Park West and 59th Street.

The fountain in front of the AOL Time Warner Building is lit up in the evenings. This glamorous location makes you feel like you're in the midst of everything.

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The other night I was watching the last episode of The Real Housewives of New York City, which I'd recorded. What can I say? I couldn't help myself.

Mark settled on the sofa next to me. After a couple minutes he asked, 'Who are these people?'

Obviously he can't understand us girls. Even though I started out resisting this show, these women grew on me. I admit it. They're a bit ridiculous. Some should just get over themselves. But like so many of Bravo's reality shows (Top Model, Top Chef, that tattoo show in LA), Real Housewives is seriously addictive.

No, these five women don't represent New York in the least. Their experiences and concerns reflect a very small demographic. I doubt any of them have taken the subway in years. What makes the show addictive are their personalities, which are strong, over-the-top and a little nuts.

Incidentally the top random keyword search that is referred to this blog is for the name 'Bethenney', for Bethenney Frankel, a natural foods chef on the show. Bethenney is the wittiest one of the bunch. Her troubled childhood and unsettled relationship status makes her the 'housewife' most women would find compelling, I think.

Anyway, Season 1 of Real Housewives is over. Mark has a reprieve.


For earlier posts on the show, click here or here.

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A Glimmer of Nature

Photo by myself at a Turkish market on 41st Street and 5th Avenue.

A salad bar and fresh produce are nicely presented to customers. Incidentally I was with coworkers when I took this photo, who don't know about this blog. One turned to me with a big grin on her face and said,'You're really crazy, you know that?'

One woman's bushel of zucchini is another woman's photo-op.

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Thanks for all the kind wishes yesterday. Dida is very touched.

Mark and I will be going to a holistic pet food store in the East Village this weekend for advice. Thanks Brooklynite Kizz for making the suggestion. We'd heard about Whiskers from friends who radically changed the diets of their two cats, which are now sleek and happily interested in their food. We'll keep you posted!

It's been beautiful here these last few days. One great thing about living in Brooklyn is that many of the subways travel over bridges in the mornings. They emerge from dark tunnels to an expansive view of the Brooklyn Bridge and lower Manhattan skyline.

I hope to get a photo from the train one of these mornings. Usually people are too busy making cell phone calls or checking their messages to even look outside, the instant they see sunshine.

It's too bad. They're missing the best part of the ride.

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Our Extended Family

Photo of Dida by myself last year, in one of Dida's favorite locations.

Dida, our calico, likes to hide between the shower curtain and the shower liner when she's nervous. She thinks that no one can find her there.

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Lately, Mark and I are dealing with our cat Dida, who is going through some health issues.

Dida suddenly started limping this weekend. She had a spazz attack Friday night in front of us, where she gallivanted all over us and the furniture. The next couple days, she had trouble getting up on the couch. She looked nervous and frankly a little weird. She spent a lot of time sleeping and alone which is unusual - she is usually very sociable.

Monday morning, Mark persuaded me to take Dida to the vet, since she was still acting strange. I'd call her name and try to make eye contact, but she'd stay sitting, hunched over, looking off into the distance.

Well, long story short, Dida has heart trouble. One of her hind legs was injured by a blood clot. It's my theory that Mark and I were witnesses to the exact moment of the clot, that is, when she had the spazz attack Friday night.

I raised two of Dida's kittens until they were around 7 years old, when they passed away suddenly a couple years ago. It's now coming together that all three have had congenital heart trouble.

Missy, a beautiful tiny calico that was so sweet and dear probably had an aneurysm. Suzy, an equally beautiful grey calico that was adventuresome and spirited had a blood clot to her hind legs. I had to put her to sleep after a long, distressed night at the emergency room.

Dida is lucky in comparison because we can try to medicate her condition. She's not an easy cat, however, and giving her pills or getting her in the carrier means a half-hour run around the apartment, much hissing and a wrestling match.

It's the plight of every pet owner - you commit yourself to your pet, making decisions for her best interest without knowing if you're doing the 'right' thing. I'm realistic about Dida's future. I'm prepared to keep her comfortable, pamper her, but not go to any extreme lengths where her dignity is compromised.

Tonight, Dida is extremely happy to be home from the vet, and is settled beside me on the sofa. She's forgiven me for our earlier wrestling match and is purring, with full knowledge that she's very much cared for.

Dida and her original litter of five kittens were rescued from the rail yards near Hell's Kitchen, around 42nd Street. Since the rescue, she hasn't stepped outside. She loves to watch birds and squirrels in her spare time.

Dida considers herself to be a true New Yorker.



Lower photo by myself last week. Dida rested comfortably on Mark's leg, while he slept.

For earlier posts about Dida, click here or here.

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The Cost of Living Here Part II or, Life in Playland

Photo by myself at Times Square at 42nd Street and 7th Avenue.

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Yesterday, I wrote that The New York Times reported that rent for an average Manhattan studio apartment reached $2,200 a month. I remember when the rent for a studio apartment reached $1,400, which seemed like a lot.

By the time I moved from my apartment on the Upper West Side three years ago, the rent for my rent stabilized two room studio reached $1200. It was a good deal and I managed to save a little money, which went toward a down payment for my apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I wound up moving after I met Mark, since the place was claustrophobic for more than one human.

I know people who've shacked up with several roommates in loft apartments until their 40's. I have to wonder whether peopl