Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...for Six Months!

At first I didn’t know if I could keep up with the project at all. I didn’t know if I’d just be too busy, if I’d be able to find people, if I’d be skipping weeks out of sheer sleepiness. And yet here we are, six months since I started Miss Manhattan Hangs Out.

Maybe in the grand scheme of things that’s not a lot, but in a life where we pick up so many projects only to put them down a few weeks later, I consider it an achievement of sorts. I wish I could say something at this juncture like “This project changed my life!” but it didn’t so much change it as add to it, giving a name and a title to what I’ve always loved doing: spending time with fascinating people and having experiences.

Sometimes people don’t know what to do—“Do I just…look at you? Do you want me to pose? I’m worried I’m not very interesting.”

“But that’s the thing,” I say. “You’re already interesting. And just pretend the camera’s my face.”

Sometimes a person has a long day and it’s easy. Other times, we’re in a room for a short amount of time and I worry, how do I make a narrative here? But both ways it’s a positive challenge, one I’ve come to look forward to. There are stories everywhere, and part of the fun is discovering how to tell them.

Since beginning this project, I’ve gone to drag bingo nights, rehearsals, dance classes, podcast workshops, pottery studios, museums, people’s kitchens, and more. I get to be a fly on the wall of someone’s existence for a day, and it’s such a gift. There are countless times when I’ve left inspired, unable to believe that for a single day I got to be a part of it.

In honor of the people who have so graciously given me their time, I’ve decided to put together some images this week from a few past shoots. These are never-before-seen images, ones I wanted to use but didn’t for a variety of reasons: maybe the image just didn’t further the narrative; maybe I had another image just like it and I chose a smirk over a smile, a concentrating pout over a more relaxed one; maybe I just had too many pictures and some had to go. I’m grateful for all the moments, big and small, and I’m happy to share a few with you below. I like the idea of doing this every six-months to reflect, so we’ll try this again at one year and see how it goes.

As ever, if you haven’t already, please subscribe to Miss Manhattan Hangs Out, and if you have, tell a friend to! And by all means, if you’re interested in being a subject for Miss Manhattan Hangs Out or know someone who might be a good fit, please give a shout at elyssa@miss-manhattan.com. I already can’t wait until we hang out.

Until next time!

Yours,
Miss M

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Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Chris Duffy

In a corner office of a shared workspace, Chris Duffy is writing. His laptop is perched on a small metal shelf (he worries we’re all going to end up hunchbacks because of the way we look down into our computers and phones), his keyboard below. He’s working on a comedy pilot.

Chris has been doing comedy for seven years, since leaving his job as a fifth grade teacher in Boston. He hosts podcast You’re the Expert, which features three comedians trying to figure out what exactly scientific experts study. The show, which is taped live, has been featured in PBS, The Washington Post, Time, The Boston Globe, and The A.V. Club, among others. Chris also co-hosts Mic.com’s podcast The Payoff, for which he and journalist Antonia Cereijido invite expert guests to talk about how they can be better with money. He performs standup across the country, too, and will be hosting a variety show at new New York venue Caveat beginning in September.

To say that Chris is no stranger to podcasts, then, is an understatement. He even gets recognized by his voice on the street sometimes. So it makes perfect sense that he’s teaching a Podcasting 101 Seminar at The People’s Improv Theatre the day we meet. When Chris’s students arrive, they form a chair circle and he begins, speaking with both an approachable lightness and a respect-worthy knowledge. They hurriedly scribble at his every phrase. This is what microphone you need, this is the editing software you use, this is the kind of space you should record in. He listens kindly when students have ideas or questions, focused on crafting a thoughtful response, maybe the way he did as a fifth grade teacher but, you know, for adults.

After the class, we grab lunch at Dos Toros, diving into burritos wrapped and not while sitting in Union Square. We discuss literature—he’s in a comedians book club where they recently read George Saunders’s Lincoln in the Bardo. For part of the club, they discuss the book, and the other part they discuss whatever they want. One comedian is sort of a doomsday prepper, he tells me, and she’s made him promise to get a water filter in case he ever needs to drink from the East River. So we go to REI in Soho. Chris also needs a sleeping pad for camping, so we head over to a wooden container of what look like pool floats. He tests one, laying it on the floor, and ultimately decides to take it along with the water filter.

We head into Brooklyn for a show he’s doing called Comedians in a Blanket, which is under a tree in Prospect Park, designated with big white balloons. The sun is golden, approaching twilight, while we eat gummy worms and wait for the show to start. A sizable crowd shows up and Chris, talking on a microphone while standing in between two logs in front of a giant tree, makes every one of them laugh.

Follow Chris on Instagram.
Follow You’re The Expert on Twitter. The next live tapings of the show are September 17 in Brooklyn and October 27 in Washington, D.C. 

Clam Strips and Magazines

Having planned our outing weeks in advance, I made my way to the Cape House in Bushwick, where HanOre and I had decided to read magazines and eat clam strips. New Yorkers are perhaps some of the busiest people you’ll ever meet, so time to sit and do (almost) nothing has to be thought out ahead of time. 

“Can you do next Wednesday?” I might ask a friend.

“Agh, no, maybe the following Sunday?” 

That’s really how it goes. I think to some extent the city is filled with people who are constantly doing, and to make plans at the last minute often really isn’t an option unless you know someone really well. And even then it’s not a guarantee. 

So I was looking forward to this day where I would not only get to sit and tackle the giant stack of magazines that had been building up on my dresser, but to share them with my friend who appreciates nothing if not the finely worded phrases, beautifully designed layouts, chic photography, and lush wardrobes associated with what becomes monthly-assembled and bound printed pages. 

I stuffed the stack of magazines in my red backpack, tied a leopard scarf around a bun on my head, swept on a splash of red lipstick, and made my way to Brooklyn. 

The Cape House is a lovely yet idiosyncratic spot just off the Morgan stop on the L, its white wooden walls and sailboat decor featuring a nautical kitsch not shared by its industrial surroundings. Freight trucks rumble past us in the Saturday summer sun as we sit outside on wooden benches cordoned off by more white wooden walls from aged warehouses still in use. 

HanOre jokes that today we have both dressed very much like the embodiment of ourselves, me in a tacky button-down top printed with storybook scenes and red shorts, she in loafers and a Juicy Couture sweatsuit, an item she is perhaps singlehandedly, shamelessly bringing back into vogue. I make a joke about my eyes bleeding. Understanding this is how I show I care about people, she laughs. Secretly (although I guess not so much as of right now), I love how she loves what she loves without apology. 

Thank RuPaul for people like her, I think to myself. People who get it, who get me. Who get any of us. That there’s some cross-breeze in the universe that deposits people at our doorstep who either love the things that we love or understand us for everything that we are or both, no explanation required. 

My friendship with HanOre started over our love of magazines, an inexplicable love we still have despite what we’re told is a dying age of print media. Who else before her had I met in the world who understood the beauty of the newsstand at a bookstore, the glamour of a masthead, the excitement of a September issue, who would understand why I kept every issue of ElleGirl ever published? It was like finding a friend who spoke a language I thought nobody else knew. 

So to be able to sit and read magazines with my friend for an entire day felt not just like a luxury, but a gift. 

Ultimately, we decide on clam bellies as our snack of choice instead. “You’ve never had them so let’s get them,” HanOre says. Growing up in New England, she is a relative expert on the stuff. They arrive and they’re crispy, meaty, with a taste of iron and sand (but like, in a good way). Topped with a squirt of lemon, they mash gently against my teeth with sprightly acidic pops. 

In between bites, we gasp at the gorgeousness of font choices, the smoothness of papers in our hands, the creative headline choices that made us bubble in appreciation and joy. We are, by definition, nerds: single-minded in what is perhaps a niche field and totally unapologetic about it. And goodness, it’s a beautiful feeling. 

We sit there for hours with a giant stack of magazines: T, Vanity Fair, Elle, V, others.

“It looks like a work project,” says a man passing by our table, trying to make conversation with us. 

“No,” HanOre says, polite but curt, from behind black cat-eye glasses. “It’s for fun.”

I holed up at a Cape Cod-inspired clam shack in Bushwick with @missmanhattanny so we could read approximately 15 pounds of magazines each — a perfect Saturday.

A post shared by Hannah Orenstein (@hannahorens) on Aug 5, 2017 at 3:34pm PDT

Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Jeffrey Goodman

Jeffrey Goodman is many things: a husband, an avid reader, a retired financial advisor of nearly 40 years, a dad. My dad. Though he lives in South Florida, he was born and raised in the Bronx. He was born in Montefiore Hospital, went to DeWitt Clinton High School, went to delis on Jerome Avenue and teen dances at Bronx House community center, enjoyed visiting the International Center of Photography and The Jewish Museum. He worked at Saks Fifth Avenue, taught math at a junior high school in Williamsburg, then moved to Israel where he lived on a kibbutz for two years selling oranges.
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He moved to South Florida in the late 1970s and started a landscaping business but, still entranced from a young age by a Technicolor stock an uncle had given him for his bar mitzvah, decided to become a financial advisor instead. Somewhere in the middle he met my mother, to whom he has been married for 31 years. He retired last September and now goes to the beach, reads, goes to the gym, has a cigar and occasionally, like the day I chronicle, also has a haircut and a pastrami sandwich. He still has a New York accent.

We are in the car driving to get haircuts and my father wears his signature black Ray-Ban aviators, linen shirt, dark jeans, and moccasins. Tito Cruz has been cutting my family’s hair for something like 16 years. We’ve followed him as he’s traveled from salon to salon because we find nobody cuts hair quite like him. My father waits his turn sitting on the leather couches at the front of Sullo salon. Soon Tito is washing and cutting his hair.

“Your hair grows so quickly,” Tito says to my dad. “What’s in your diet?”

“Ice cream,” my father laughs.

Watching Tito cut my father’s hair, I realize I never knew how much work went into a man’s haircut. There are several kinds of combs and scissors and razors involved, and ultimately a shine treatment my father refuses with a firm yet polite hand.

Then we’re off to my father’s favorite part of the day, going to Pomperdale, a New York-style deli right in the middle of Fort Lauderdale. He orders pastrami on rye with a sour pickle and gets a Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda, a classic New York brand, from the refrigerator in the back. The sandwich arrives, and he slathers the cured, seasoned meat with brown deli mustard—“What’s with this ‘Yellow Mustard’ they have here?” he asks of the French’s on the table. “Who uses that, goys?”—and the Russian dressing and cole slaw that comes on the side. He bites into it and a deep “Mmmh!” comes from his throat. There’s silence while he finishes his sandwich.

“Did you enjoy it?” I ask.

He smirks. “I had been dreaming about this all week.”

After we come home from lunch, he sits on the patio smoking what’s left of a cigar, thick puffs of smoke rising into the air.