The Happiest Tourist

I hate tourists, so a movie tour of the city was not at the top of my list of awesome things to do on a Sunday. But I went to support GD, who was writing a piece about it for her job, had an extra ticket, and was kind enough to invite me.

At 11:45am walked to meet GD at the corner of 51^st and Broadway. Somehow I missed the gigantic tour bus on the corner and called GD to ask her where she was. Upon seeing the massive vehicle, however, I scorned my mother for all those years of blonde highlights (what have those chemicals been doing to my brain for 16 years?) and promptly crossed the street.

We snagged ourselves some seats, and I looked around the bus. It reminded me of an awful middle school bus trip around New York and New England, except this time there were no smells of tween b.o. and LipSmackers. Instead, the front of the bus was moderately populated with quiet, not-bad-smelling adults, some, not all, of which were tourists. They all seemed happy to go around the Upper West and East Sides for three hours viewing spots from cinema classics.

I’ll admit, while I do love classic cinema, the three hour bit was daunting to me. I would be on a bus for three hours and technically I wouldn’t be going anywhere; in that much time I could hop on a flight back to Fort Lauderdale and, if we caught a nice tailwind, even arrive before the tour was over. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

The tour began. Our guide was a young actress/producer/stand-in who was really quite knowledgeable about the movies of which she spoke. We started almost right away, hearing about movies filmed on certain sites like: 1954’s It Should Happen To You! in Columbus Circle, 1978’s Superman on Central Park South, 1984’s Ghostbusters all up Central Park West. As we passed each site, we also saw clips of the films in which the sites appeared, doubling the impact of what we were looking at.

We stopped briefly in front of The Dakota, where Yoko Ono lives, just hundreds of feet from where her husband was assassinated. We were also able to leave the bus and visit John Lennon’s Imagine memorial. Then it was back up the West Side to Zabar’s, the fantastic gourmet food store (that is, incidentally, my favorite grocery store in Manhattan), where we picked up free-with-the-tour Zabar’s mugs and GD got a Nova bagel with cream cheese.

At this point, I was no longer skeptical—in fact, I would be quite happy to do this for three hours. Maybe I’m a huge film nerd, but learning about movies for three hours and getting to see some sites I wouldn’t normally see (and getting a free mug!) really is my cup of tea. I thought we would be packed in the bus like a herd of cramped cattle—instead, we were free-range cattle, moving about our stops as we pleased.

We traveled through Central Park to the Upper East Side, down Museum Mile, past the Guggenheim and sites from movies like 1981’s Arthur and 1976’s Marathon Man. One of my favorite stops on the tour, however, was the front of Holly Golightly’s brownstone from 1961’s divine Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It turns out the brownstone was chosen because it got enough natural sunlight—the filmmakers wouldn’t have to spend extra money to light it unnaturally with equipment. The sun really did hit it beautifully, and I was so happy to stand on the steps of the brownstone and take a picture like a big, huge tourist and be in the steps of the lovely Audrey/Holly even for a few brief moments.

Then it was back to the bus for a few more sites, then my absolute favorite part of the tour: the tiny little park/sitting area on the corner of 57^th and York where Woody Allen and Diane Keaton sit and look out onto the river in 1979’s Manhattan. That scene in Manhattan is one of those scenes in a New York film where you really get to feel what the city is like. It made my heart happy. Somehow, something in the universe went right and I was able to be here, just like Woody and Diane. “And we can come back any time we want,” GD said.

I think this idea was perhaps my favorite part of the entire tour (that, and standing on the very spot where Marilyn Monroe enjoyed the subway grate breeze in 1955’s The Seven Year Itch. Amazing.). The city was ours to do whatever we liked with it, be it visit movie sites, sit by the river, go to Zabar’s, or what have you. These aren’t things someone can tell you not to do—it’s just the city offering itself up to you, saying please, enjoy. Like the Giving Tree but hopefully much more long-lasting.

Seeing New York as a tourist made me appreciate it that much more. It reminds me of when I used to have to leave New York, not to return for months, if not years at a time. But now, along with so many others, the city is mine; it is my home, my workspace, my playground. It’s the scene of zillions of fictional and non-fictional stories—romances, dramas, tragedies, comedies, you name it—and every day there are only more and more. By some happy twist of fate, I get to be here too, and I don’t know if I will ever get over that.  

The SCAR Project

“Oh! Let’s go in here.”

I quickly swerved my pace into the stark white open space of the Openhouse Gallery at 201 Mulberry Street as TDS, ALiCo and Krito followed, curious, behind me.

I had seen a flyer for The SCAR Project as I stepped off the bus one day after work. Taped humbly on a lamppost, the small white flyer displayed a pregnant woman with a large scar where her breast had once been. As a member of a family twice afflicted with breast cancer, the exhibition was something I definitely wanted to see but, with friends visiting that weekend, I didn’t think I would be able to.

Somehow, though, as my friends and I were traipsing through SoHo, Little Italy and parts of Chinatown, we wound up heading north on Mulberry Street, right past the gallery. I saw the photo of the same pregnant woman, this time in a larger than life portrait, and dragged my friends inside.

On the stark-white painted brick in the Openhouse Gallery were a series of these portraits. Portraits of breast cancer patients and survivors diagnosed with the disease at age 35 or under who had undergone disfiguring surgeries like double or single mastectomies to get rid of it.

Courageous women who allowed themselves to be photographed shirtless, scars fully displayed. They were beautiful beyond the disease, even in spite of it. And the photos gave the women a persona beyond the disease—each woman was distinctive, whether it be with a pair of glasses, a special piece of jewelry, tattoos, makeup. The photographs allowed the women to be women again, to transcend disease and no longer be a patient or a number.

I was especially struck by the photograph of Cary G., a beautiful, raven haired woman with dark lips, porcelain skin, and eyelashes for days. She reminded me of my grandmother who passed away from breast cancer in 2004, a woman who spat fire and wore red lipstick until she couldn’t anymore. I paused in front of Cary’s photograph for a long time, eventually quietly crying in the middle of the gallery.

The project, ongoing, is the work of photographer David Jay, a fashion photographer based in New York. Jay began the project after a dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer at just 32.

Subjects of the SCAR project are between the ages of 18-35, a group of women with breast cancer who are often overlooked. It is for this reason that the mission of the SCAR Project is to “raise public consciousness of early-onset breast cancer, raise funds for breast cancer research/outreach programs and help young survivors see their scars, faces, figures and experiences through a new, honest and ultimately empowering lens.”

The project is a challenging one to look at, especially if one or one’s family has experienced the effects of breast cancer. And it’s true, some people may not want to look. But that doesn’t mean breast cancer will stop affecting women early on. According to photographer Jay, “For these young women, having their portrait taken seems to represent their personal victory over this terrifying disease. It helps them reclaim their femininity, their sexuality, identity and power after having been robbed of such an important part of it. Through these simple pictures, they seem to gain some acceptance of what has happened to them and the strength to move forward with pride.”

If you get a chance, please visit the SCAR Project website at www.thescarproject.org or on Facebook. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month but, as the SCAR Project says, breast cancer is not just a pink ribbon.

Night Moves

“Is it weird that I like this smell?” asked TL as we stepped out of the D train and onto the corner of Chrystie and Grand. A stunning stench of wet paper, rotting fish and shitty pleather handbags, the streetcorner in Chinatown was no bucket of rose petals.

“…yes,” replied TDS while we decided which side of the street to cross. We were looking for 131 Chrystie Street, and tried to spot building numbers buried in a word search of Chinese characters (“Ugh, everything’s written in Asian,” joked our half-Chinese friend ALiCo). After a short jaunt in the wrong direction, we found our way there. Past closed up grocery stores, bundled up homeless men on benches and wet sidewalks littered with a smattering of early fall’s yellow leaves, was Home Sweet Home.

Every Friday night at Home Sweet Home is the funky fresh dance party called “Shakin' All Over Under Sideways Down!”, the brainchild of acclaimed DJ Mr. Jonathan Toubin (yes, both DJ and Mr.) The party features “maximum rock and soul dancing,” to grungy fifties and sixties (and occasionally seventies) blues, jazz, and R&B deliciousness. We’re talking for real old school, like Little Richard’s “The Girl Can’t Help It”—the kinda stuff our parents and grandparents weren’t supposed to listen to.

“Shakin’!” is just one of the parties Toubin runs almost nightly known as “New York Night Train.” All of the parties involve virtually only 45rpm records of the early rock and soul variety and a whole lotta dancing. I love me some dancing no matter what form, but New York clubs tend to be expensive ($20 cover? Ouch.). When I read that the Night Train parties are $5 or less, though, I simply had to get on board.

Who would go with me? My Etas (our college crew of  twentysomething disaster areas; short for Eta Alpha Mu, long for HAM, short for Hot Ass Mess) were coming to visit. And sometimes it’s just better to try something out with a bunch of people who simply won’t say no to a good time. So there we were: TL, TDS, EH, ALiCo, Krito, SC, JCB, and me (Eta President-for-Life RE sadly couldn’t be there).

“Is this 131?” I asked the brunette girl with the choppy bangs. “Yeah,” she laughed as she checked our IDs and sent us below street level, down the steel stairs to a brick alcove lined with darkly comedic taxidermy. A curly-haired girl stamped our hands and took our $5. Normally the party was $3 (if you know the password, so they can “root out the d-bags”), but tonight was special.

Punk legend David Johansen of the New York Dolls would be spinning along with DJ Mr. J, and I could barely contain my excitement. I would be in the same room as the voice of “Vietnamese Baby,” “Puss in Boots,” and countless other early punk gems, a man who was one of the unwitting godfathers of an entire music and cultural movement.

We entered the bar, which is about as close to the literal definition of “hole in the wall” as you can get, with walls of brick, a floor of concrete, and exposed pipe up above. A disco ball with the word “Wierd" happily misspelled on it spun over the dance floor while  cardiganed and plaid-shirted hipsters flapped their arms and feet in strangely cool-looking and jerky movements. We put a little Eta bump and grind into our steps because, well, that’s just how we roll.

DJ Mr. J was spinning when we got there but eventually David Johansen took the booth. “Ohmygodthereheis,” Krito and I whispered to each other, fully aware unlike many others that we were in the presence of greatness. He was a skinny thing, with shoulder length hair pressed into the shape of a perfect upside-down U, thick, round black glasses and a long-sleeved t-shirt that read “Village” instead of “College.”

He played some sweet jams, and I even recognized his voice on a couple of tracks. Comically enough, though, he wasn’t the greatest DJ, leaving a rather large pause between songs—an act at which the dance crowd repeatedly groaned. Well, okay, maybe punk gods weren’t meant to be DJs. But that doesn’t mean he’s any less cool when you go outside and end up standing less than 10 feet from him while he smokes a cigarette.

Overall, though, the party was great—I would gladly descend into a hole in the wall for some old school jams, riding the New York Night Train until it falls off the tracks.

If you’re interested, visit the New York Night Train site here or check it out on Facebook. Better start working on your night moves.

A City of Contrasts

Something that’s starting to become one of my favorite things about New York is its role as a city of contrasts. On any given day, you’ll come across innumerable scenarios that seem paradoxical but somehow end up making perfect sense. Because it is so big, I find New York allows me to see the beauty in the everyday, the mundane and the contradictory, almost like a landscape photograph of a beach that upon closer examination is made entirely of fruit.

This past weekend was filled with such contradictions. First, as I was walking to Central Park to see JA, HS, and HH (I will henceforth refer to the group as The British Ladies), I walked past the new Ralph Lauren store on Madison Avenue. Soon to have its grand opening, the store was still under some phases of construction. Workers in dingy navy t-shirts and jeans heaved wood from the sidewalk in front of the building, wiping sweat from their brows with canvas-gloved hands. Supervising the activity was the one man in a baseball cap, who sat inside a window display with a chicly attired female mannequin as if he was instead keeping the lady company. Ralph Lauren, known for his classic American leisure style, has probably never worn a dingy navy t-shirt in his life, and he certainly hasn’t heaved wood off of a sidewalk in a while. Nevertheless, men who might be unlike him in many ways slowly gave life to his new store, painting the inside displays, cleaning the windows and cleaning up the entrance to the premises. Sometimes what happens behind the scenes is more important than what happens in front of them.

Then, walking along the oh-so-posh Fifth Avenue, cluttered with quiet mansions and apartment buildings of traditional gray stone and concrete, I stumbled upon the National Hispanic Day parade. The parade was an explosion of color and sound, with each Hispanic country represented, its New York transplants delightfully waving flags down the avenue. People young and old in sparkling traditional dress waltzed along the street waving happily to watchers. As they exited the parade route, however, their smiles dissipated and they bent down to loosen their Nikes or Converse sneakers just a little bit to let their feet breathe. A man in full regalia ate a sandwich and sipped a beverage from a brown paper bag. Tattoos peeked out from behind a fallen shoulder of a dress. The costumed paraders almost instantly became human again when they were out of the public eye, perhaps as most people do. It’s almost like catching Mickey Mouse drinking a beer on the other side of the Disney fences (but definitely not upsetting).

 

Maybe the biggest contrast of the weekend, though, was Central Park itself. Wandering through the seemingly endless green space with The British Ladies, I had a new appreciation for the park. I had been in it a couple of times, to the zoo, to the Obelisk and whatnot, but never an extended walk as this time. Grass laid over small twisting hills and curves, a path following its curves to anywhere you could possibly want to go. We found ourselves discovering many statues and landmarks along the way, from fountains, ponds and boathouses to oversized sculptures of Hans Christian Andersen and depictions of Alice in Wonderland. October’s early sunset slowly eased orange into the sky as we made our way to a castle overlooking much of New York’s East Side. Central Park is a gift to New Yorkers, who every day make their way through or underneath the concrete jungle. It is a taste of nature available at any moment. The park is almost overwhelmingly large—inside it feels like there’s no way you could possibly ever see all of it. Maybe it’s better that you don’t, though. New Yorkers have a tendency to be very “been there, done that” about some things, but Central Park is one place in a city of perpetual display that will always retain a sense of mystery. I don’t know if there’s a better contrast one could ask for.

The Commute

At 8 a.m., RuPaul wakes me up. It’s going to be a good day. But I decide to put my head back down on the pillow for a few more minutes.

At 8:30, Nirvana is pissed that I’m still sleeping, so they throw a little “Mexican Seafood” at me and zap me to life. I have to leave by 9:15.

“Okay, okay,” I say, wiping sleep from my eyes as I sit up and look around my room. It’s a mess, probably. Handbags thrown left and right, yesterday’s rejected outfits piling up on my chair. I hobble into the bathroom and ask my roommate the weather report. Rain? Ugh. Sunshine? Sweetness. I start compiling my outfit in my head. Light colors, tan handbag; dark colors, black handbag. What heels? Boots? What color tights? 8:40 a.m.

I turn on my desk lamp and apply my makeup in the mirror that I sit on top of my pencils. Concealer to cover the number of minutes I should have already been sleeping the night before (30-60). Eyeshadow painted on in spritely strokes. Eyeliner glided smoothly across my lids. Mascara in thick Bettie-Page like swipes. 9:02 a.m. I always think I am going to be late, but that has only happened twice.

Then the clothes, the hair (down unless it’s greasy). I throw together a lunch—one day I brought a whole cucumber with me then cut it in the office and ate it with some hummus; it requires zero effort and it’s healthy—and grab a yogurt which I will then eat with a fork because I can’t seem to remind myself to go buy plastic spoons.

I run my fingers through my hair on my way to the bus stop, and the garbage man tells me “Your hair looks fine!” and smiles. The teamsters on the corner say, “Hey miss, how you doin’ this mornin’?” I smile and keep walking, stepping over the questionable substances on the ground because chances are great they were left by a dog.

As I keep walking, I see nannies taking their child charges to nursery school. The children stretch their hands upwards to hold onto Nanny as their Batman or Dora the Explorer backpacks thump happily on their backs.

The woman with the corgi walks her dog along the gates in front of the apartment building near the bus stop. It is the happiest dog, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth and its bright brown eyes. It always makes me smile, even when I am the most tired.

The bus will arrive 2-8 minutes late, which usually makes for an interesting morning. Especially in the rain when the bus is nearly exploding with people and the bus driver has to actually reject some passengers. But by 9:21 I am on the bus with the dental hygienist who never tucks in her shirt; the older woman with a bright auburn pixie haircut, red lipstick and purple eyeshadow who sits elegantly in her wheelchair as if she was on a sightseeing tour at Disney World; men in their early fifties who still wear pinstripe suits to work; younger men in slick tan trenchcoats; fashionista girls who read Women’s Wear Daily; and many an elderly person with whitish hair and glasses.

If we are not yet on Lexington Avenue by 9:40, I start to worry, but that has only happened twice. I sit and watch all the different people interchange stops—some bolt out of the bus as if they’re on fire, others solemnly press forward as if they’re about to slog through another day. I greet Seventh Avenue with a pulse in my step as I catch the walk sign and make my way toward 54th Street.

Tourists crowd the area, wearing fanny packs and sneakers and “I Heart NY” shirts, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to read their guidebooks. I brush past them as I head to my building, past the old Chinese Restaurant that now holds a For Sale sign.

Inside the building, I step up the white marble stairs and head to the elevator. The operator presses the button for me, which is a luxury I will never truly get over. I press the button for the eighth floor and change into my heels as the elevator creeps higher to my destination. As the doors ding open, my shoes are on and I trot a few steps to my office. It’s five minutes to ten. My boss is not in yet, so I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and start my day.

Ain’t Nothin’ Wrong With A Little Bump and Grind

Standing for an hour in front of B.B. King’s in Times Square, my roommate and I hoped against hope we’d get in. The line was bursting with ticket holders, including but not limited to fishnetted, tattooed ladies in glittery, glamorous updos and dapper gents in pinstriped pants with suspenders. We so wanted to be inside with them later on. As we waited some more, we heard all tickets were sold out. But we waited anyway, since we would have been happy to even stand in the back of the New York Burlesque Festival’s Saturday Night Spectacular. And eventually we got in, standing room only, right behind the spotlight for a fantastic view of the stage.

Now in its eighth year, the NYBF was literally bursting at the corsets for three days with over 120 performances by some of burlesque’s greatest artists the world over. The Saturday Night Spectacular, the biggest show of the NYBF weekend, was no different. Luscious performers done up with red lips, eyelashes out to the moon and garter belts galore took the stage at B.B. King’s in all shapes and sizes, sensually shimmying, bumping, grinding and twirling with a wink and a smile.

Burlesque hearkens back to the days of vaudeville, when a striptease act was performed in between comedy, dance, or musical acts. Originally, to “burlesque” something meant to make fun of it, “to tease and lampoon it with theatrical flair,” and the stripteases that came out of burlesque also became parodies, sometimes done with a “gimmick,” a “something special” that made each performance different from the last.

Though the ladies in the clip above describe their performance as “strippin’”, that term isn’t really correct. Though, yes, they do remove their clothing, it’s a more of an art form than that—the sexy removal of a glove or the teasing release of a garter belt is something that comes with practice. Details like these characterize modern American Burlesque performances, also called ‘Burlesque Striptease,’ performances where, according to the Ministry of Burlesque, “humor or pastiche is combined with the classic (non-nude) striptease.” And everyone gathers at the New York Burlesque Festival for a little bit of this cheeky, sexy (and sometimes raunchy) humor.

The event was hosted by famed emcee and drag king Murray Hill, who performs in the style of a 1960s lounge lizard. Hill spares no detail, decked out in a pink ruffled shirt, bow tie, and thick black-framed glasses. His hair is slicked cleanly to the side and large, square shiny rings grasp his substantial fingers. A thick brown line mustachioes his upper lip as he happily bullshits the audience in some jovial combination of Don Rickles and Sammy Davis, Jr.

Hill introduced each sensual performer with a hearty “Holy Shit!” and “Jesus, wait’ll you see our next act.” But Jesus had nothing to do with these performances.

Each artist, girl or boy (as in “boylesque”), puts on a five-minute, original performance—some are elegant, political, sexual, or even animalistic, but always creative. The lively audience—male and female, straight and gay—hoot and holler as each performer’s clothing leaves their bodies, extra applause for a happily twirling set of pasties.

Marilyn Monroe-lookalike Kitten Deville played a Hollywood starlet disrobing for an invisible Hollywood producer, eventually landing a contract after a spirited bumping session.

Sweet lotus blossom Amber Ray sat on a slowly spinning flower as piece after piece of her handmade pink rhinestone flower ensemble made its way to the floor.

Sporting a shiny hot pink wig, Miss Saturn removed her clothes while revolving upwards of 20 hula hoops around her body.

My favorite performance of the night, though, was Ms. Tickle’s “Living Doll”, in which she mimicked the objectification of women while wearing an almost robot-like pink latex body suit and blank face mask. She eventually disrobed down to a g-string (all performers are required to wear a g-string and pasties by law, though there were some occasional slips), out of which she pulled a tube of lipstick she then used to write “For Sale” on her stomach. It was a pleasant surprise, especially since I thought most of the performances that evening would be just erotic humor. But I learned that while being sexy, burlesque also has the power to make one think, just as with any art form.

Many of these burlesque performers are celebrities in their own right, such as Dirty Martini who has appeared in films that have shown at Cannes; World Famous *BOB* who has been photographed by David LaChapelle; and New York School of Burlesque Headmistress Jo “Boobs” Weldon who has appeared on CBS Sunday Morning and Gossip Girl.

Amidst all the glitter, makeup and, well, boobs, these burlesque ladies and gentlemen truly know how to put on a show. Burlesque is sexy, funny, and smart—performers know that sometimes a tickle and a tease is all you need. That, and a really good set of pasties.

Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

I remember the first thing my father said I had to do when I got to New York was go to the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy. I figured it would be like festivals usually are in Florida—one long row of vendors, some treats here and there, things like that. But in New York, it’s a little different. Like “Go Big or Go Home” different.

The Feast of San Gennaro runs the length of Mulberry Street, throughout all of Little Italy. It stretches from Canal Street up north to Houston Street, which is six short city blocks, and from Baxter Street to Mott Street, which is two long city blocks. In reality, this isn’t a grand space—it’s only a quarter mile long. But the streets are jam-packed with any kind of Italian food and/or novelty item you can imagine.

My mother initially laughed at me on the phone when I asked her before I went, “Oh, so there’s food there?” I thought by ‘Feast’ they meant festival, I guess.

“Uh, YEAH, ‘there’s food there.’ Are you kidding? There’s practically only food there!”

It is, literally, a feast.

 Cannolis, braciole, sausage and peppers, rice balls, gelato, lasagna—the list of foods simply goes on forever. And the vendors are thick, brawny men with dark hair and names like Vinny or Gino who all shout out at you in thick New York accents—“GETCHA CANNOLIS HERE! WHO WANTS A CANNOLI? YOU WANT A CANNOLI? COME HAVE A CANNOLI!” They smile and gesture wildly, like children on a playground trying to show their parents a really cool rock.

But it is all really cool. The Feast of San Gennaro is actually an annual celebration of the Patron Saint of Naples, started in New York by Italian immigrants carrying over the celebration from the homeland. Originally the Feast was only one day, but now in New York it’s 11 days, and draws usually around one million visitors during the entire span of the event. The Feast has now been a New York tradition for 84 years, beginning with the first saint’s day celebration on September 19, 1926.

The streets are decorated in every kind of red, green, and white decoration imaginable, from tinsel tto crepe paper streamers, cellophane fringe, and more. All of the Italian restaurants up and Mulberry Street put special tables outside and decorate with curtains of Christmas lights in the colors of the Italian flag. Restaurant entertainers play Italian-American standards while women over fifty merrily dance and spin white cloth napkins over their heads like helicopters in time with the music. There are bounce houses and carnival games for kids, Pina Colada stands for adults, and karaoke for those somewhere in between. People walk in endless streams and down the streets, carrying their street food dinner in their hands up and down the length and width of the festival.

At the southernmost end of the event is the Franciscan church, where followers can pray in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary or the Holy Cross, both twinkling with Christmas lights. The festival involves a parade and religious services at the Most Precious Blood Church on Mulberry Street, which holds the National Shrine of San Gennaro.

But even for those without religious background, the festival is a sight and an experience to behold. It’s really just another thing I love about New York—people from whatever backgrounds come together to celebrate holidays just because it’s fun. And probably also because of the cannolis.