恭禧發財!

It means 'Happy New Year' in Chinese! And this past weekend in Chinatown was the annual Chinese New Year parade. Small children threw firecrackers on the ground from thin plastic bags, confetti burst into the air, and red and gold dragons abound all over the streets. This year is the year of the dragon, my year, the luckiest year. Elderly women wave their hands, trying to touch the dragon for luck. They smile and their thin, wrinkled hands twinkle with delight. Even with the cold gripping my hands, their happiness is catching.

Shaking it Off

There are days when, after sitting put as the brilliant community manager I am, I simply need to get up and shake off the last few hours. I need to feel like I have moved my bones across this great city and taken advantage of this strange, 50-degree “winter” weather we’ve been having, eschewing the sluggish, Jabba the Hut feeling that plagues me when I sit for too long. Sunlight beams onto the building across the street and I begin to itch, like a dog who needs a walk. And as soon as I finish my hours for the day, I am off, headed toward Central Park with my camera at my side.

I think about nothing but the pursuit of concrete under my feet and the last few hours wither away slowly. I am moving again like I used to when I had my “real” job, to the subway and back twice a day at least, if I didn’t go out at night or if my boss didn’t have some wild errands for me to run around midtown (“Go to Chanel,” she said one day. And do what? “Nothing, just go.” Fine by me). I need to start using the main library as my workspace like I used to, since the train is, I think, over a mile walk from my house. I love walking around the city, rain or shine, snow or slush, because I love the hum it puts in my blood. It’s a hum that starts slow, but gets faster once it begins synching with the fast pace of the nameless and driven others around me.

And it’s funny, that even at 3pm on a Tuesday, the city still hums with life. Maybe quieter in my neighborhood than most, but a hum nonetheless. I walk up Fifth Avenue and the sun greets me at every intersection. I cross the street to be on the side of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Met as it’s known in these parts, and admire the wares (some faux and some not faux) of the merchants who have set themselves up on the cobbled path punctuated by the occasional tree leading up to the museum. Some of them sell Breakfast at Tiffany’s posters framed in black plastic they probably printed off the internet. One stands covered in colored dots behind canvases of small square faces he’s painted. A sign reading $50 that’s been scrawled with paint-doused fingers stands in front of him. I admire his gumption.

My next stop is the steps of the Met, those infamous steps where tourist upon tourist has sat and taken that signature picture. Their friend stands at the base of the steps and the subject sits in the middle for just the right angle where you get the widest expanse of the building behind you. As I sit there, at least four of said picture are taken, usually as the photographer stands in front of the USMC vet’s hot dog and pretzel truck. Sitting on the steps as non-tourist is less interesting because all you see are the backs of heads, so I move on.

Into Central Park I go, passing private school children and their parents as they make their way to the nearby playground. I swerve on a path I’ve never taken before and wind up at the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. The sign for it is covered in bars like a jail cell and I can’t help but be saddened by the irony. My feet sink a bit into the mud created by snow that has since melted and my feet squish on the path. I sit on a bench nearby and schoolchildren go by with their parents. Tree branches are grey and deadened by winter, reaching out into the air like skeletons grasping for life. The sun is setting and I have to be getting home.

The Float Masters

What's cool about New York is that there are performers in the subway stations who have been selected and sanctioned by the city to perform there. NYC recognizes there's a lot of talent out there, so why not give them a space to perform? One day I came upon The Float Masters, a breakdance crew performing at the Union Square station. This is what I saw.

Clubland

The best kind of club, in my opinion, is one where I can boogie to awesome tunes for absolutely free, next to nothing, or a cover charge that’s totally worth it. I like bars with dancing, I like a club you don’t have to wear heels or a dress in, I like a club where there are no guys in tattoo-printed t-shirts or have so much gel in their hair I can see my reflection in it.

Going out this past Friday in the Meatpacking District, I expected to find the usual assortment of tall, skinny girls in high heels being followed desperately by the men in suits who paid for them (the heels, I mean). The ladies would tiptoe across the black cobbled streets, searching for the next big party. Tonight I too was one of these ladies, decked out in heels, a fur, and a cleavage-tastic ensemble my roommate deemed “delicious.” We trotted from bar to club to bar and eventually settled on a venue none of us had been to before. Little did we know that it would be ferociously “bridge and tunnel” as it’s known in New York—very “Jersey Shore.” Very not-at-all chic or cool. Lots of hair gel. Lots of dumb, young twenty-something dudes probably still in college screaming “BALL SO HARD” and “THAT SHIT CRAY” along with Jay and Yeezy while I thought to myself, “Let’s leave it to the masters, shall we?” They sprayed champagne in the air and it’s got in my hair. I’m sure at some point in my life this could be amusing, but this was not that moment. What a waste of perfectly good bubbly. We left shortly after.

It made me nostalgic for some of my favorite clubs and dance spots in the city, which are for the most part hair gel- and champagne spray-free. You have to search for clubs like these anywhere, but it’s possible to find them, even here in New York. Places I find myself frequenting are (and I will try not to sound too much like Stefon as I write this):

Fat Baby—on the Lower East Side, there’s no cover charge and they play Top 40, which, though maybe not the world’s greatest music, is fun to dance to. The first level is super crowded and filled with people’s wiggling bodies covered in the club’s red light, but once you push past them you can head downstairs where it’s less crowded, there’s more places to sit, and it’s easier to get to the bar.

The “Shaking All Over Sideways and Down” Party at Home Sweet Home—DJ Jonathan Toubin’s weekly New York Night Train party for uber-cheap (sometimes free if you know the password) at Home Sweet Home in Chinatown. Down the stairs you’ll find a narrow brick room with a dance floor in the back, young punks and older funky folks jamming to 1960s garage rock, Motown, and R&B. More here.

The Village Underground on Saturday Nights—in the West Village, it’s by far my favorite place to go out dancing that I’ve found so far. Though the cover charge is a bit steep for a starving artist like myself ($15), when I do go once in a while I always have a blast. The club has a house band that plays an amazing amalgamation of hip-hop (old school and new school), soul, funk, rap and R&B. I always, ALWAYS bring people here to show them a good time and they leave asking to come back again.

The Back Room at Beauty Bar—one of my favorite haunts, sparkly Beauty Bar has inexpensive drinks (one of their house drinks is a Platinum Blonde, a martini flavored with pineapple—YUM—for only $8) and a back room where a DJ plays good ol’ rock and roll from the ‘60s to today, sprinkled with pop confections that everyone knows the words to and actually sings along. You don’t have to worry about dudes grinding on you here because everyone’s just there to have a good time and dance it out. Don’t make me quote Dane Cook. More here.

District 36—The first time I was at District 36 was for a gay night called Rockit Fridays, which is now hosted elsewhere. Even so, District 36 hosts a great party. It’s super fun, super big (lots of room to dance), and plays super great music. It’s one place I know where I can definitely get my Gaga on and giggle at the sight of some ripped go-go boys shaking their stuff. It’s fun for people from all walks of life, and is not too expensive a cover ($10 before midnight, $20 after).

The Vandam Party Sundays at Greenhouse—This party was established by uber-fabulous downtown legend Susanne Bartsch, who is known for her elaborate wigs and stiletto boots. At the Vandam Party, there’s no cover and there’s a one-hour open bar when the club is more empty (beware: bring cash! There’s a $50 credit card minimum and the ATM downstairs costs $5) at the beginning of the night. Later, though, it fills to the brim with fabulous people from all walks of life, from drag queens to fashion boys to glamour girls. It’s one of my favorite places to get my Gaga on. Last time I was there with TDS and TBW, a fashion boy in leggings and combat boots dragged me up on the couch and grinded with me to “Born This Way,” hugging me and saying “I LOVE GIRLS!” It was adorable and I’d go back in a heartbeat.

Again, this is but a mere sampling! But these are the first that pop into my head when I think about places I’d rather be than anywhere populated by Bridge and Tunnel folks. What are some of your favorite clubs in the city? I’m always looking for new places to go!

Window Shopping II

Last year when I blogged about the famous holiday window decorations in New York, I discovered the only ones really worth seeing were those at Bergdorf Goodman. The store's renowned team of visual designers (planning for more than two years) proved me correct again this year with their gorgeous, intricate displays, all themed 'Carnival of the Animals.' According to Bergdorf Goodman, each window features a specific material (paper, glass, and brass, among others) used to assemble the entire display--that means entire ostriches made from hundreds of kinds of paper, bright blue glass mosaic fish and, yes, brass monkeys, and innumerable other kinds of animals made from varying materials (and wearing various ensembles). It is a swoonworthy spectacle, and again this year I offer you my original photographs of the displays. Happy Holidays!

 

    

  

 

 

Christmas in Norway

“Is this acceptable attire for Norwegian church?”

I turned to my dear new Norwegian roommate, CN, and did a spin for approval. I was wearing black pants, a sweater, and cowboy boots. It was a sentence I never thought I would say.

“Yeah, of course!” she laughed. “There are no rules in Norwegian church.”

That’s something I could get behind. I might convert to Norwegian yet! Any church that let me wear cowboy boots was obviously legit. But really, it’s not “Norwegian church” it’s a Norwegian Seaman’s Church, or Sjømannskirken (I asked my roommate to say this three times. I tried, and she repeated after I pronounced it incorrectly, twice. Finally, I just said”…Okay.” But, to her great credit she said, “Say it.” And I did. Correctly! It’s pronounced “show-man-sear-kin.” CN laughs. “It’s so funny when people try to speak Norwegian.”). The space functions, of course, as a church, but also as a kind of Norwegian community center. They’re located all over the world for Norwegians to congregate and meet each other. Here in New York, it’s located in Midtown East.

In the lobby there is a cabinet full of white teacups emblazoned with different Norwegian words and maritime flags. A portrait of King Harald and Queen Sonja, Norway’s current king and queen, hangs in the lobby (To this, I ask CN—“Who are the royal-looking people?” I am ridiculous). Their picture appears in all seamen’s churches and consulates. Since Norway has a state religion, Protestantism, they represent the religion as well. Signs in the lobby are all written in the language, as are the periodicals. I am tickled. I feel out of place, but in a good way.

On the program tonight are a selection of American and Norwegian Christmas classics, like “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and “Mitt Hjerte Alltid Vanker.” The latter is CN’s favorite Christmas song, which translated means “My Heart Stood Still,” and is voiced by Maria (You know, Jesus’s mom). While we are waiting for the concert to begin, though, there are thin gingerbread cookies in the shape of stars and hearts, called pepperkaker (“pepper-ka-kay”) with the beverage gløgg (“gloog”). Gløgg is a hot mulled juice served with a scoop of blanched almonds and raisins, and spiced with sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, cloves, and bitter orange.

As I write this, I am saying to CN, who is in the other room, “How do you say…” and “What’s does that mean…” It is hilarity and learning at the same time. Isn’t that all we want, really?

Both the gløgg and the pepperkaker are yummy, but together they’re divine. The hot juice moistens the cookie and it falls apart in my mouth. Like a classic, silly American, I say “The cookie tastes really good if you dip it in the drink!” I hear myself say this and shake my head at myself. CN laughs at me, or rather with me, and smiles.

The concert begins and a bevy of almost all Norwegian singers and musicians take the stage. One of them sings the American songs with a slight Norwegian twang and it makes me smile. America is this crazy place, New York is this crazy place where all this cool stuff happens on a regular basis and we just don’t know it because, really, how often do we go to Norwegian Seamen’s Churches? Not often enough, obviously. 

One of them, Solfrid Nestegaard Gjeldokk, sings folk songs like “I Denne Søde Juletid” so beautifully I wish she would record an album so I can buy it and listen to it all the time. An awesome tenor, Nils G. Nilsen does a lovely duet of “The Prayer” with Kjersti Kveli, a soprano. And then there are American jazz musicians Art Baron (the last trombonist Duke Ellington ever hired, in 1973) and and Lee Hogans (who plays with Prince), who knock it out of the park, too. The last song of the concert is “Delig Er Jorden,” which means “Lovely is this World.” CN tells me it’s traditionally sung at Christmastime, which explains why everyone in the audience knows the words. A low hum of people singing filters through the space. “Norwegians are quiet,” CN tells me. The people I hear speaking loudly must obviously be Americans. Typical.

After the delightful show, CN and I saunter over to the stacks of Norwegian goodies, like salted licorice and lefse and flattbrød, the latter two of which are both thin, cracker-like constructions, one sweet (lefse) and the other salty (flattbrød).

CN buys the salted licorice and asks me to try one. She readies her iPhone to take a picture because, apparently, non-Norwegians find the stuff putrid. Always game for a challenge, I stare at the cylindrical salted candy and take a bite. It’s not putrid, but it’s really, really salty. And weirdly sweet. And licorice-y. Which I guess I should have expected from salted licorice candy.

Fully in the holiday spirit, we walk back to the subway train and resolve to order Chinese food when we go home. You can take the girl out of Manhattan…

What Do Your Moments Sound Like?

There’s a certain way I like to walk around the city. Not a particular style of gait, I mean, but a beat. It’s a pounding and a pulsing that makes the 15 minute walk to the subway station a little bit shorter, puts an extra swing in my hips and makes me remember what the runway feels like (I modeled once in college). Though I’m not usually tottering around in stilettos—god bless the women who are, but I just don’t have the patience unless it’s a special occasion because I walk slow enough as it is—in the wintertime when I’m wearing boots, I feel like they’re made for walkin’. But not just walkin’. Struttin’. I put my headphones in my ears and suddenly every sidewalk is a runway, and I’ve got ‘wind in hair,’ the works.

The other night I accidentally hopped myself up on caffeine and walked from the West Village to 28^th and Park, about 25 blocks. Beats burrowed into my ears and wound their way out through my feet, cold air running parallel to my cheeks and fluttering through my hair. The long walk flew by as I listened to the music that somehow propelled me forward.

It was around 10pm. NYU kids in skinny jeans and beanies made their way to and from Bobst library in packs like tourists; Tuesday night drunks lined up in front of taco trucks; couples in blue jeans held hands despite the cold wind rushing over their fingertips. I saw the lights of cabs rushing past me, but I couldn’t hear a thing as the Pixies banged out the classic ‘Bam Thwok’— ‘they got the keys to the city but we got a lot of shakin’ in our hips!’ There’s something about Kim Deal meowing into my ears that will always put a bounce in my step. That and a dirty, catchy drumbeat that must have been made with walking around the city in mind. Tonight my caramel leather cowboy boots clicked on the concrete, and every so often I glimpsed down to catch the sight of my pointy toes eating up the street. Pixies shot me another drumroll and I put another grind in my step—at this point it was all I could do to keep from busting out pirouettes in the middle of the sidewalk.

My favorite music for walking around the city has that same grungy, punky edge or hot beat, or both— it depends on who I am on that particular day. Some days I’m roller boogie goddess in metaphorical hot pants (The Noisettes’ Wild Young Hearts), other days an intense supermodel about with an icy glare (Beck’s Modern Guilt) or a young punk figuring out life in the city (Ted Leo and the Pharmacists’ Shake the Sheets). Sometimes you own the city, sometimes it owns you, but there’s a soundtrack for every kind of walk.

I also love Girl Talk’s Feed the Animals (especially the opening track, ‘Play Your Part, Pt. 1’—it starts with a sample of UGK’s International Players Anthem--“My bitch a choosin' lover, never fuck without a rubber/Never in the sheets, like it on top of the covers”—laid on top of The Spencer Davis Group’s ‘Gimme Some Lovin.’’ I have literally walked around to just the first three verses over and over. The beat is so hot it’s really enough). Other killers are Heart’s ‘Barracuda,’ for when I’m feeling particularly sassy; Lauryn Hill’s ‘Doo Wop (That Thing)’ when I need a little bit of soul with my strut; and ‘Step Into My Office Baby’ by Belle and Sebastian, when I feel like a naughty secretary. We all have our moments.

And everyone’s got their headphones in on public transport, too. I have to wonder what their strutting music is, if they have any? Or are they just cruising or thinking or neither? When we have our headphones in it’s like we’re in a secret little world that only we know about, that might be populated by anything from the Spice Girls to Rod Stewart to Tyler the Creator.  Everyone’s moments sound different. What do your moments sound like?