Nothing

There are times during the week when I come home, swamped with deadlines and personal projects, and flop onto our massive futon, thinking, “Dear God, I just wish I had time to do absolutely nothing.”

Strangely, though, I am a person to whom the concept of “doing nothing” is sometimes lost. Doing nothing is different for everyone, I suppose. My “nothing” always involves something, but some people really can just sit there and be perfectly comfortable doing that. Occasionally I envy them but I am often too caught up in my own nothing to think about it. I find myself utterly incapable of just sitting there, though I often wish I could—and I find this especially prevalent living in New York. There is just something to do all the time. Anywhere. If you want it you can find it. Sometimes I find that I start to “itch” if I’m not doing anything. I’m worried that if I am not going out and finding “it” then I am not taking true advantage of living here.

But this is simply not the case. Months ago, MS warned me of this very phenomenon. Because there’s so much to do, so many distractions, we have to focus our attention on the things that really matter. Is it so vital that I go to the Union Square Farmer’s Market right now? No, I can go next weekend. Do I have to go to the Guggenheim tomorrow? No, it will be open many other days during the year. Part of living in New York and learning to be a New Yorker is that you have to learn to live here as if it weren’t the city that never sleeps. Sometimes you have to wake up with nothing on the schedule and then go forth with doing that nothing because that’s what normal New Yorkers do. They are not tourists who have to see something every second of the limited time they’re here. Grand Central Station will be here next week, next month, next year and the next ten years—I can go in any of those time segments I choose. There’s no rush.

Instead, occasionally you have to sit in your pajamas all day and read the fashion magazines that have been piling up on your desk and drink your tea and maybe you’ll eventually decide to rustle your bones and jaunt down to the grocery store so you don’t wind up eating stale Cheerios for dinner during the week. That’s it—that will be your day. And it’s okay because that’s the “nothing” you’ve been wanting to do for a while (if you’re me, anyway).

The nothings, no matter what they may entail, are necessary in New York. If you do something all the time you’ll really just burn yourself out. And what kind of a way is that to enjoy living in such a bustling, lively place? It’s better to have the energy to do the things you love than have no energy because you were doing a bunch of things that didn’t matter to you. The “nothing” moments are far more important than we think they are, but unfortunately we only appreciate them when they’re unavailable. So it’s important to have a lazy Saturday, and maybe even a lazy Sunday if you’re feeling ambitious. Because without your own silence, you can’t appreciate the city’s music.

Not For the Faint of Heart

At 20 minutes til, I was one of the first people there, but we could not go in until the exact hour. In front of the dingy iron door, more and more women, and the occasional brave man, began to line up as the clock neared 11.

And then, 11:03. A stout, unibrowed man held open the door with a fleshy palm. He wore an army green v-neck t-shirt that danced atop his swollen stomach. The shirt swayed in gust of wind created by the first 10 or so women in line rushing past him to fill the industrial elevator that would bring them to the fourth floor, the location of their long-awaited treasure: the Lutz and Patmos sample sale.

Lutz and Patmos is the child of Tina Lutz and Marcia Patmos, who joined design forces to produce timeless, casual knitwear for all seasons. Together since 2000, Lutz and Patmos created a niche market for both themselves and their customers. However, the two split up after this past Fall collection, each desiring a different path in the fashion world. Now the line no longer exists, so the sample sale was highly sought-after.

Retailers, like Lutz and Patmos, use sample sales to get rid of excess merchandise. Shoppers can purchase near-mint condition garments for a fraction of the original price and when it comes to designer labels this fraction is a significant one.

All of the women in the elevator knew this, and knew that this would for the most part be their last chance to get anything Lutz and Patmos at such a slashed price. The unibrowed man heaved open the elevator door, and a barrage of women walked quickly to the metal doors where the sample sale lay in wait. A cacophony of clacking heels and boots and the shuffling of ballet flats resounded along the hallway.

The sample sale was not in a large room, a room perhaps no bigger than a family living room. The beige walls were lined with silver wheeled clothing racks. In the center of the room were tan cardboard boxes filled with scarves, fur accessories, belts, skirts, tank tops, and silk dresses. On the racks were the famous Lutz and Patmos knits—cardigans, shrugs, sweaters, capelets, dusters, and even knitted fur jackets and vests, all soon to be torn through and flung about by the same women who were making their way down the hallway at that very moment.

Hearts racing, the women practically threw their coats and handbags at the coat check girls and flew into the racks of clothing. It was every woman for herself—if they even had an inkling that they might like an item of clothing, into their arms it went. I was no exception. As I made my way through the first rack, I was particularly charmed by a long red knit cardigan and a silver and grey argyle shrug. I wrapped them in my arms and held onto them for safe keeping—I had visions of Monica on Friends pinning down a woman at a sample sale who wanted her same wedding dress, and I did not want to be that other woman.

When I began looking at the second rack, I found something quite wonderful, however. A jacket of woven navy blue rabbit fur for more than 70% off the original price not only in my size but the last one on the rack. I grabbed it and wrapped it around my arm for security. Nobody was getting near this jacket until I tried it on. Suddenly, I seemed to be infected with the same sample sale fever as the women slinging clothes around me left and right.

Stray, unwanted clothes began piling up on tables, fallen soldiers littering the pathways between and underneath the racks. Clothes covered the chairs where women tried on their finds, keeping them close and in sight. I expected some of them to burst out with an unearthly “My precioussssss,” like Golem in the Lord of the Rings movies, but thankfully nobody did. Instead, they quickly stripped out of their clothes, bras exposed, underwear on display, to jump into the Lutz and Patmos creations and see if the garments were worth the trip to the register, suspiciously eyeing any woman who came near their stash mid-try on.

Yet again, I found I was no better, as I piled my own belongings on top of my stash to mark my territory while I tried my pieces on (thankfully they were mostly jackets so no stripping was required). The two sweaters were okay, but the rabbit fur jacket was exquisite. But did I have the funds to bankroll this garment? I put the two sweaters back from whence they came, holding tightly to the fur jacket, and found a people-free zone near the entrance to telephone my financier (aka my mother).

The jacket was a go. I found a place in the line for the register, which extended the length of the room. Clothes and their women still flew around behind me, but being in the line was a welcome lapse in the chaos. I paid and exited, donning my new rabbit fur coat proudly (and warmly, I might add). I was not a sample sale victim who had their garment of choice ripped from them by a cruel woman in a passionate fashion frenzy. I had bravely protected myself against the masses and emerged victorious with a fabulous coat.

Entering the elevator, the chaos finally stopped. Strangely, I felt my pulse slow down. Sample sales, I realized, were not for the faint of heart.

My precious...

The Meat District?

A story of an evening out, for no reason in particular.

At 2am, Feebs, ALiCo and I hustled ourselves into a cab.

“We’re going to Little West 12^th and 7^th, the Meatpacking District.”

“That does not exist,” the cab driver said. Problem. ALiCo quickly dialed LO, who corrected us—Little West 12^th and 9^th.

“So what’s it called, the Meat District?” said Feebs, who was visiting from Florida.

“Yup. Something like that,” I said.

Just below Chelsea and just above the West Village, "the Meatpacking District isa 20 square block, 24-hour neighborhood on the West Side of Manhattan, flanked by Chelsea Market to the North and Gansevoort Street to the South." About 100 years ago, it was home to 250 slaughterhouses but now contains numerous high-end designer stores, restaurants, bars, hotels and more, all housed in grungy-gorgeous old buildings, surrounded by thick, uneven black brick streets. In the past 20 years, after serious renovation, it's become what some say is "New York's most fashionable neighborhood." I don't know how much I believe it myself, but I'm sure everyone there thinks it is.

Leaving the cab, we walked past the sleek Hotel Gansevoort, subtly lit up with thin red neon lights and down underground to 675 Bar. Once we walked down the stairs  and passing through a door covered in graffiti, we entered through two glass doors into what looked like a brick lair for hip young people (with complimentary coat check). A red pool table lit by a giant horse lamp—an actual size horse with a bulb atop its head—occupied the front half of the room and the four of us found ourselves there for the rest of the evening. Turns out Feebs, ALiCo and LO are all really good at pool, winning something like four or five games in a row while I sipped a Tom Collins in a spiffed up barber’s chair nearby.

Eventually Feebs left us, having been up for 21 hours and desperately needing sleep, and we went off in search of food. ALiCo said loudly and happily to LO and I, “I WANT SOME PIZZA!” So we crossed over the Meatpacking District’s black streets and wandered down 14^th Street until we found Rocky’s. The pizza place was still open because, well, this is New York and that’s how we do it here.

Around 4am, I sat on a newspaper vending machine and bit into a slice of ALiCo's Penne Vodka pizza. Anything tastes delicious at that hour, excluding or not excluding whatever beverages may have been involved up to that point.

Top 40 radio blasted in the background while I popped pirouettes and arabesques near the cash register, waiting for LO and ALiCo to get their food. LO shook roasted red pepper onto her pizza as ALiCo heaved her pizza outside. “Holy crap there’s pasta on my pizza!” she said. We sat and talked about nothing except how freaking delicious the pizza was while men who had hit on us at the bar walked past and tried to get our numbers yet again.

I jumped into a cab not too long after that and as we made our way down 14^th Street, I watched all the lights go by. There were still people on the street, still traffic rustling past. “I love New York!” I said to the cab driver, just because I felt like it. He didn’t acknowledge me. I must be one of millions who have said that in a cab here at 4:30 in the morning. I didn’t care.  

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Run, Forrest, Run

One of my favorite things about New York is the crazy things you can see from your window. On Halloween, people with apartments overlooking 6^th Avenue got to see the parade, but this past Sunday people all over Manhattan and its four sister boroughs got to see the New York marathon.

At around 11am, I stepped up to those somewhat iconic police barricades and snapped pictures of the runners as they trickled onto the street from another borough’s bridge nearby. They ran in the sunlight on the left side of the street, as if they might freeze if they ran in the shadows on this already chilly day.

Runner after runner crossed in front of us, strides long and powerful on even the shorter entrants. Their legs were unbelievably toned, one long line of definition extending from hip to ankle with nothing jiggling in between. No two runners were dressed alike, from short black shorts to full pink bodysuits.

Earlier in the morning you catch the stronger athletes, the ones who break away from the pack either on foot, or wheels for the disabled (nobody is excluded from the marathon). People fly past with their names on their shirts so people they’ve never met, like me, can shout out “Go Tony!” or “Come on, Joe!” to support them as they make their way through the marathon’s 26 miles. That’s part of the great fun of the marathon, really—cheering on people who need your support.

And they deserve it, too. You don’t just get up one day and say hey, I want to run 26 miles. You train for it for months and months, maybe even years. People come from all over the world to participate in the marathon, too. I saw people proudly displaying their flags on their running attire, from places like Australia, England, Canada, the Netherlands, Italy, Venezuela and Germany, just to name a few. Onlookers gather behind a giant flag and go nuts when they see one of their own, hoping they’ll win.

There’s one winner for the marathon overall in the open division (there’s $130,000 in it for the winner of the open division, $200,000 if they’ve won the marathon once before). There’s also a winner for other divisions: Age-group divisions for ages 18-19, 20-24, 25-29, 30-34, 35-39, 40-44, 45-49, 50-54, 55-59, 60-64, 65-69, 70-74, 75-79, 80-89, New York Road Runners member divisions (open, ages 18-39; and masters, age 40+), wheelchair division, and handcycle category.

When I first started watching around 11, I saw mostly male runners and while I am not at all averse to this sexy man parade, I was a little disappointed. Where was the womenfolk representation? But then, at around 11:10, I saw the first lady I’d see for another 20-30 minutes at least. I was so proud of this girl for keeping up with, and even surpassing some of, the men.

I left and came back later in the afternoon, around 2:30, when you get more joggers and even people in costume—I saw a Minnie Mouse, some woodland creatures, a man in KISS garb, a guy in a bunny mask, and more—and of course that one guy who just walked alongside runners and took a bunch of pictures. Oh, and there was also the guy who juggled while running.

 

It’s incredible for anyone to do the marathon, though. Person after person ran, or wheeled, or walked, or crutched (yes, a man on crutches!) past me and I just thought to myself, Hero. Hero. All of them.

A Present from New York

On Wednesday I was practically tripping over myself with happiness all day because, well, that is what I do on my birthday. And not only was it my birthday, it was my birthday in New York, which is cause for even more celebration. So anything else great that happened on Wednesday was really just icing on the cake.

I walked into work and was greeted with a cupcake (topped with chocolate buttercream frosting and M&Ms) and a present, a beautiful art-deco candle that smelled like flowers and mimosas. My boss also said I could take off early because it was my birthday, so I’d actually be able to do my favorite walk home before it got dark.

On the walk home after work, I remembered that one of the things I really wanted to do on my birthday was go into a classic bar at a chic New York spot and have a drink. I sighed, I wish I could still do that. Then I remembered, uh, why can’t I? This is New York, for crying out loud. I could find any place like that in a stone’s throw, if I really wanted to. So I immediately made a right and went inside Petrossian.

Photo courtesy of The Wallman Report

Petrossian is known for its caviar, foie gras, smoked fish, and “French-influenced contemporary menu.” It is consistently placed in the prestigious Michelin restaurant guide. On the inside of the restaurant, up a small marble staircase, the seating area is made up of tables clothed in white linens. According to the restaurant, it was designed by Ion Oroveanu, and features “Lalique crystal wall sconces, bronze sculptures from the 1930s, Limoges china, and a Lanvin chandelier.” There is also a pink marble bar behind which the walls are mirrors etched with glamorous Erte drawings.

I went in, sat down at this bar, and ordered a glass of Nicolas champagne rose. The vested bartender removed the cork from the bottle with that signature champagne pop and poured the sparkling liquid into a triangular champagne flute. I sipped the fruit bubbly and smiled. This is what birthdays in New York are supposed to be like, I decided—simple, classic, fabulous. I think there are very few other cities in the world where you can just take a right and end up in such a place.

I left and continued on the walk home, up the Central Park side of Fifth Avenue. Leaves blew around my feet as I walked on the park’s cobbled sidewalk, past the avenue’s beautiful old structures on my right, the bristling park trees on my left. I was reminded yet again of how wonderful it is to be here. Thank you, New York, for a wonderful birthday present.

Halloween, Village Style

NP and I sat on the curb eating dumplings and scallion pancakes as we waited for the parade to start. We found a nice empty space, free of women in New York Yankees ensembles who would indignantly tell us no, we could not stand in the space next to them because they had been waiting there for an hour blah blah blah. Our spot was all our own, directly in front of the silver police barricades. The wind seethed through us like ghosts in some Harry Potter movie. I suppose it was fitting because it was Halloween, after all.

I had read about the Village Halloween Parade many times and decided that I would drag my roommate and GD along with me to go see it for our first Halloween in New York. The parade actually began in 1973, when a mask maker and puppeteer would walk from door to door with his children. A year later it was picked up and expanded by the Theater for the New City and a year after that the parade became its own freestanding non-profit organization. The parade is now a huge grassroots event in the West Village, drawing approximately 60,000 costumed participants. It is also broadcast on local New York television station WPXI.

The parade itself begins on Spring Street at 6^th Avenue and travels all the way up to 16^th Street in Chelsea. We stationed ourselves on the corner of 10^th and 6^th and had a nice side view of the action, on the street and on the sidewalk behind us. People were decked out as Elizabethan monarchs, superheroes, genitalia (yes, genitalia), biblical figures, Chilean miners, witches, Teletubbies, Elmo, and the list goes on.

Once the parade started, though, we forgot all about them. Puppets are such a large part of the parade’s history, and the legacy continues today. Not creepy ventriloquist puppets, though—awesome, Lion King on Broadway-type ones, all handmade by artists for the sheer pleasure of participating in the parade. Some of the most famous (and awesome!) puppets in the parade are the 20-year old skeleton puppets, all larger-than-life and not at all creepy. The skeletons are placed at the front of the parade coinciding with the Day of the Dead traditions, not to be “grim expressions of the morbid but rather joyful reminders of all that is vital.”

Beyond the puppets, anyone can be in the parade, from the volunteers who maneuver the puppets to the costumed participants, to bands to dance troupes to vehicles painted in crazy designs. There was a marching band that played Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance,” a dance troupe from the Broadway Dance Center doing “The Time Warp,” belly dancers, and oh so much more. One of my favorite things about the parade, I think, is that it’s so democratic—it is literally by and for the people of New York, no exclusions.

Once the parade started, it was definitely a neat thing to see, but next year I might try to actually be in it…

Here are some of my favorite costumes from the night:

This was actually on the train down to the parade, but it's still a favorite.

Brilliant.

Edward Scissorhands!

The fiercest jellyfish I've ever seen.