Carpetbaggers(ish): Reflections on Fleet Week

They come to town when the war is over
Dirty boots in the middle of the night
Trolling the bars, hitting on the soldiers
Boys give it up without a fight

-“Carpetbaggers” by Jenny Lewis

*note: I realize at this point we are a few weeks outside of Fleet Week, but the thoughts and statements below hold true.

During Fleet Week, for just seven days the city is flooded with men in crisp military uniforms as massive ships dock in harbors around the city. The week is raised to mythic proportions—go out and find yourself a sailor (or Marine, or Coast Guard), love him, and then release him back into the water, as if capturing a goldfish for a short time purely for the shimmer of its gills. Rest assured that you have completed your duty and showed your appreciation for our troops. Aspire to that scene in An Officer and a Gentleman. Or just bang a sailor and have bragging rights.

I went out with AD last year, much to her success: “I have hooked up with a sailor every Fleet Week since I’ve been able to go to bars!” she said with a smile. While my goal is usually more to get one of those sailor hats on my head and take kissy-face pictures with the men in uniform, I respect a single lady’s right to get her some!

That being said, I was after a similar Fleet Week experience this year.

“Are you going to Brooklyn Navy Yard to take pictures of the men?” my mother asks, excited, no doubt recalling her days as a young single lass in the city. Well, no. But if all went as planned there would be pictures of a different kind.

AS, MD, and I plotted our plan of attack, down to finding a list of the best bars to pick up sailors (the West Village is quite good, especially on Macdougal Street). We gave ourselves a point system of buoys, seamen (ha-- mostly because we didn’t know enough nautical terms), lieutenants, admirals, etc.—three buoys for taking pictures with a sailor, five for kissing, and so on. Five buoys equal one seaman. Five seamen equal one lieutenant. The winner would be declared Queen of Fleet Week. This year, like last year, I hoped to rack up buoys photographically rather than…any other way. Who doesn’t love taking pictures wearing military garb that’s not actually yours?

So we met up first at a lovely, tiny little bar called The Otheroom on Perry and Hudson, and sipped wine and sparkling water. The evening was already going in a different direction than intended, but I didn’t realize it yet. Pinpointing our next destination (I had seen herds of sailors walking toward Macdougal, as anticipated), we made our way there.

But I had forgotten that the bars the sailors prefer are, shall we say, not my taste. They stink of aging frat boy, beer pong, and girls with bad dye jobs (on our scale, two anchors (negative points) for her.)) In we went anyway, thinking it wouldn’t be that bad. It was, though.

All of the sailors were drunk—and really, who can blame them, it’s their week off—and chatting up some not-so-nice-looking girls. We realized we had no interest in being one of these girls and found ourselves aching for drinks that didn’t have “-bomb” at the end of them. So we left.

To be fair, it would have been fun in theory. But I have never played beer pong, and I decided I would like to keep it that way. Stepping into that bar, I felt myself regress five years, actively surrounded by people I don't really enjoy and having beer all over my shoes. I had experienced great personal growth in the past year. Is this really what I wanted? The answer was unequivocally no. I have had several epiphany-style “I’m getting older!” moments since moving to New York, but this was one of the bigger ones I can remember. I just wanted to get out of there and have a martini. And I prefer men who don’t play beer pong as post-grads.

Incidentally, we found ourselves in a lovely bar just down the street after that, called Shade (241 Sullivan Street). I had a vodka martini made with pickle juice and garnished with a cornichon. We ate crepes. Ah, the taste of personal growth.

Life's a (Manhattan) Beach

Having only been to the beach once last summer, I made it a resolution this year to get to the beach early and often. And, like most people, I started this past Memorial Day weekend. I had already been to Brighton Beach and Coney Island, so I wanted to try something new. Well, sort of. I consulted New York magazine's  handy-dandy beach guide to see what options were most feasible. I was looking to get to the beach in less than two hours (a far cry from the 30 minutes it takes at home in Florida!), and I was certainly not looking to pay for beach access! To be honest, I could not believe there was such a thing-- feel free to call me a full-on beach communist. I also didn't want to schlep anywhere that didn't take my MetroCard. So my choices were Brooklyn or the Bronx, and I chose Brooklyn. Tantalized by the suggestion of nearby beachside mansions to photograph, I chose Manhattan Beach, which is a hop, skip, and a jump from Brighton Beach.

Setting sail on the Q train with my bagel and iced coffee like a good New Yorker, I headed out to my stop at Brighton Beach. Then I hopped on the B1. Unfortunately, I hopped on it going in the wrong direction, so I had to catch it again going back. Luckily it didn't take too much time and I was still able to hit the sand with plenty of sunshine to spare. Once I was going in the right direction, I got off at Oriental Boulevard as New York magazine suggested. The only problem was that it didn't say exactly where to get off, so I just hopped off on the first Oriental Boulevard stop. Little did I know, there are many more after that, all of which would have gotten me closer to the beach. No matter, I thought. Walking is good for you and it's a lovely day. Besides, getting lost is good for building up your sense of direction (judge away, iPhone users, but I bet my sense of direction is better than yours!). I just didn't really know where I was going. I knew I had to continue straight, obviously the same direction as the bus, but how far?

I passed a man and asked him how far to the beach. He uttered a response in a language I did not understand. Instantly noticing my confusion, he asked, "You do not speak Russian?" I had forgotten that this may have been an issue. Brighton Beach is considered "Little Russia," and a hop, skip, and a jump to Manhattan Beach is just close enough to maintain the language. "No," I smiled, remembering how much I love New York. How wonderful to be in a place where such a thing happens! He gave me directions in Russian-laden English, and I made my way on.

Manhattan Beach is essentially inside a park. It has picnic tables for people to barbeque, a playground and basketball courts close by, and a concrete boardwalk. Though the concrete boardwalk does not rival the wooden boardwalk on Brighton Beach or Coney Island, the beach itself is much smaller, with far fewer people. That means more space, more openness, more beach-y feeling and less New York-y feeling. And trust me, I love New York, but I don't want to feel like a taxi is going to drive past me while I'm on the beach. Sometimes it's nice to get away from the hustle and bustle, even if in a hot second you'll be back there on the train.

The water was a little too cold to swim in, but I waded close to the surf, taking pictures of the jetty (had never seen one of those in person! They sure make beaches differently up north.) and people on the beach. The sand was kind of powdery and hard under my feet, almost like I was walking in broken eyeshadow. Though perhaps Manhattan Beach is not the most scenic of beaches, I liked it because it was small and secluded--it felt like a place not many people go to. In fact, at a party recently I mentioned I went to Manhattan Beach and people, New Yorkers, looked at me quizzically--you mean California? No, no, it's in Brooklyn. Ohhhh.

All the more reason for me to want to go back. Here are some photos from the day:

Pop Souk

It's no secret that I have more than a passing interest in downtown nightlife. This is not to say by any means the clubs of the Meatpacking District, but rather the sublime underground culture where deliciously gender-bendy or genderless sparkling denizens of the night dance away in lavish costumes, makeup, and the occasional pair of Doc Martens. On the occasions that I have been able to inhabit the same spaces as downtown legends like Amanda Lepore, Ladyfag, and Susanne Bartsch, my heart has leapt and my breath has become as short as others' might upon seeing Brad Pitt or a Kardashian. 

Oftentimes, these people have created themselves from nothing, have put every last penny into a fabulous closet and have dedicated their lives to the artwork that is, well, their life. My brain pauses even thinking about the glitter, platform shoes, makeup and fishnets involved in such a lifestyle. Part of me is incredibly jealous.

So when I had the opportunity to attend Ladyfag's Pop Souk at Greenhouse last weekend, my heart leapt again. Every surface of Greenhouse was populated with delicious castoffs from the lives of these nightlife personae, from Gaultier corsets to vintage fashion magazines to sequined dresses to caftans to...anything you could imagine, really. But the event really describes itself best:

Nightlife personalities, artists, musicians, DJs, designers, fashion junkies, drag queens and the rest of us who make up the creative landscape of Downtown NYC, are usually blessed—and cursed—with fabulously overflowing closets.

More than just a marketplace, Pop Souk is an event where you’ll find some of the most talented New Yorkers hanging out in their own personal pop-up shops and hocking treasures from their own closets, selling their own designs, or tempting you with delights from their own kitchens. Come hear your favorite New York DJs spin, hang out with cocktails in the lounge, have your make up and nails done, get tattooed, taste the delicacies you never knew these night creatures could make and, of course, shop for your new Spring wardrobe!

Though I didn't come away with new additions to my wardrobe, I did snag some fabulous photos. Many thanks to Ladyfag for a delightful event!

The Chris Gethard Show-oh-oh

Before I continue, I must clarify: the gentleman’s last name above is pronounced “geth-ard.” This is not a post about porn.

The only live talk show taping I had been to previously was Live! With Kelly, and while it was certainly an experience, it wasn’t a goal of mine to ever again be apart of an audience filled with the Real Housewives of Middle America cooing at Daniel Radcliffe.

I was excited, though, when MV and AS invited me to attend a taping of The Chris Gethard Show. I had seen Gethard perform at a friend’s comedy show, the now defunct Mish-Mosh. I remembered that not only was he super funny, but he had an approachable-ness to him that I find a lot of comedians don’t have. It wasn’t just the fluffy blond hair or the thick-frame glasses because, let’s be real, you can find that anywhere in Williamsburg, but there was a silly goodness on the inside that came through. To the taping we would go!

At around 10:30 on a Wednesday night, we walk to the Manhattan Neighborhood Network television station (“You’ve always wanted to be on TV. Now’s your chance!” says the MNN website). What’s interesting about The Chris Gethard Show, or TCGS, is that it’s filmed on a public access channel. Even so, the show has a cult following and has been on the air since 2011. This following began at the legendary Upright Citizens Brigade improv theatre in 2009, where the show (not yet filmed) was known for attempting and following through on wild stunts like “using Twitter to book Diddy as a guest, staging a show to make a depressed teenager from Ohio have the best night of his life, and pulling off a cross-country tour.” Since then, the show has seen press in the likes of New York magazine and Splitsider.

Inside MNN, MV, who at this point is somewhat of a regular, says hello to some familiar faces in a small space already crowded with people. There are Taco Bell tacos up for grabs. Man-boys and girl-women with glasses wear brightly colored shirts with cute, funny cartoons on them and talk loudly about other times they’ve gone to see the show. A man with red glasses wears a banana costume and dances about. I have no idea what to expect when they say things like ‘Human Fish.’

At 10 minutes to 11, we’re ushered in to the small space, which includes a white sheet painted with ‘The Chris Gethard Show’ in giant black letters set up to designate a stage on the left. It is signed in permanent marker by all the bands that have played in front of it. On the right, there’s a series of chairs, a screen, and a three-person band called the LLC (including a singer who uses a kazoo and maracas).

Normally the show is centered around a theme, be it an International theme and ‘Foreign Language Bingo’ (in which audience members were given bingo boards with names of countries and languages written on them and asked to mark them off when a caller from a particular country called in) or ‘Fuck School, Fuck Math,’ (where callers were asked to share education horror stories and math problems). Then, Gethard talks to guests along with a cast of characters including but not limited to Random Melissa (a dark-haired young woman with thick black eyeliner and a hole in the knee of her jeans), 40-Year-Old Goosie (who is actually a 20-something man in a parrot costume, but was named such by a child who called in one time), Human Fish (a rather hairy gentleman wearing swim trunks, goggles, and flippers), Bethany (a sweet redhead with bangs wearing black thick-framed glasses who is known as the show's conscience)  and probably even more. In the background an older woman performs hula hoop tricks (“and we’ve got Mimi on the hoops!” Gethard says). There will also be shenanigans, stunts, and a musical guest who will perform twice during the hour-long show.

Viewers can watch the show on MNN or livestreaming online and tweet at Gethard as it’s happening—there’s a screen on the set that’s constantly refreshed, that Gethard and crew occasionally turn to to read especially hilarious or relevant tweets audience members have sent through. Viewers can also call in to the show and talk about anything related to a set topic up for a discussion on a particular night. Regular callers and Tweeters are known by name.

There are regular audience members, too. As we enter the seating area, they rush over to the seats they have perpetually chosen for themselves, like in college where you always sit in that same, perfect spot so you’re close enough to hear the professor, but far enough away so you don’t get accidentally spat on.

Tonight the show is purposely unplanned: “Whatta we got? We got nothin’!” we’re asked to sing, and we all comply with delight. As the LLC finishes playing the theme song (“Come take a ride with the weirdest guy I know!”), the audience begins chanting “Taco Night, Taco Night!” for the sole purpose of making Gethard uncomfortable (“Chris hates it when people chant things for an extended period of time,” MV tells me. But people do it anyway, for laughs.)

But the show doesn’t go poorly at all—Gethard, an amicable host who’s man-sassy with a lot of heart, takes some calls from viewers, who literally ask him about everything from the current state of hip-hop (Gethard prefers De La Soul) to advice on a ‘get wasted’ high school graduation trip. Human Fish contemplates ‘Bowties versus Taye Diggs’ and ‘Tupac Shakur versus Yom Kippur.’ A girl, Random Jean, gives out Swedish treats from Ikea that we all share and pass around the audience. Superfunky hip-hop/soul band Electric Monday performs and everyone gets up and dances. I’d say it was quite a success!

After the show, MV tells me, everyone—audience, cast, and crew alike—heads out to a bar called Lincoln Park close by. There’s a terrific sense of community that revolves around the show, a sense of belonging that’s not off-putting or exclusive. To be around it is to feel others’ excitement for it, quite honestly. And how delightful that Gethard and his zany television show are at the center of it, a playground for absurdity with a big heart.

If you’re in the New York area and interested in attending a taping, just email zerolaughs@gmail.com (it’s free, and you might get free tacos). To watch the show live or view past episodes, just visit thechrisgethardshow.com. Happy viewing!

Not-So-Merry Weather

New York, I love you, but your weather is bringing me down.

What is the meaning of this weather? I simply cannot understand where or why it’s coming from, and why now, of all times. It is early May. I should already be wearing the delightful spring dresses I bought in that heat wave we had back in March. I should be spending evenings up on my rooftop with a glass of wine. I should be able lay in the sun in Central Park.

But no. I have been relegated to my layers for yet another week. I leave my house wearing jacket layered upon cardigan layered upon t-shirt. I am still wearing boots and SOCKS of all things. I hate socks, and always have, yet my wardrobe has, annoyingly, been incomplete without them these past few months. At the beginning of March, I got antsy, but I understood. Then the beginning of April rolled around and I chalked it up to Mother Nature taking her revenge for a rather warm winter. But now it’s May and to say I am peeved is beyond an understatement.

And for the past few days, it’s not just been cold, it’s been rainy and, weirdly, warm. So when I leave the house, it’s a gust of chill, followed by an awkward slap of moisture, followed by warmth gathering in my sleeves as I walk anywhere, be it around the corner or to the train station. It’s like as if good ol’ Mother N doesn’t want to get rid of the cold just yet, but can’t fight the inevitable change. I don’t like being forced to deal with her menopause.

The warm-moist hybrid (what normal folks call ‘humidity’) is on a scale now where it reminds me of post-hurricane weather in South Florida, when the air conditioning is off because there’s no electricity and all you want to do is lie on the Mexican tile in the house until sanity is restored. Water pools in the air but doesn’t fall and sticks to your face if you try to walk around. Except in New York, on top of all of that, there’s that chill again. WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON.

I’m trying to choose my outfits sensibly, checking the weather every day, which is something I don’t normally do (chide away, CH). I usually look outside and wing it which, granted, is not the best way to conduct oneself as a New Yorker, but those are some old South Florida habits I can’t often be bothered to fix. But choosing an outfit for this weather is impossible. For once, everyone I see on the street is just as awkwardly, improperly dressed as I am—it runs the gamut from solo cardigans to winter coats to trench coats. Nobody understands what’s happening and I’m glad to feel like less of an idiot.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m annoyed when I wake up in the morning. UGH, ANOTHER DAY OF THIS? The weather affects people’s moods significantly, so it’s not really a surprise, but I feel like I’ve been in a mediocre mood for a little bit each day just because of the stuff.

All I want is sunshine and weather warm enough so I don’t have to wear sleeves. Seventydegree-ish, if I had my choice . I don’t think this is so much to ask. It’s certainly happened before. Oh, Elyssa, you might say! You poor, naïve little thing. We will never have such weather. But I disagree. Every day until it happens, I will wake up hoping for the best, whether or not weatherchannel.com seems to say otherwise. It’s time to get your act together, New York. But I believe you can do it! Here’s to bootless, jacketless, rainless weather. It’s May, and it’s about time.

P.S.-- It's 80s and sunny as I sit and write this from my weekend jaunt in Pittsburgh (more about that later). Get your act together, NYC!

How to Spot a Tourist

Perhaps the greatest downfall of living in New York is having the sidewalks in certain parts of the city crammed with people standing still directly in the middle of them staring up at the skyline: tourists. They have many sorts of faces, these people, but more often than not they have consistent characteristics that allow those of us not on vacation to identify them, sidestep them with an exasperated sigh, and continue on our way. In the case that you have not yet been able to identify these persons or if you are planning a visit to New York and do not want to be considered such, kindly read on.

They wear one or all of the following:

Backpacks (men/women); North Face jackets or similarly fleeced constructions; absurd things like anoraks that they carry in said backpacks in a convenient plastic pouch; gym sneakers with lighter-wash jeans (a heinous crime of fashion I have rarely seen New Yorkers commit); sweatshirts, especially those reading ‘New York City’, the name of a university, or similar institution that sells sweatshirts as memorable paraphernalia (Hard Rock Café, etc.). Some women, in an attempt to look less touristy, will wear a cross-body bag. Do not be fooled—if you look closely, you will see their city map(s) sticking out of it. These people are most likely Middle Americans. True New Yorkers like TBW will openly sneer at them and we will all find this behavior acceptable.

Some will be attired differently; that is, they will actually be dressed like acceptable human beings, their attire smart, stylish, and not slovenly. These people are mostly Europeans. They might carry maps in their back pockets, and will only be identifiable when they chat rather loudly to their friends on the other end of the subway car. Although I did once see an entire family of European tourists clad in orange anoraks. I imagine it was a means to find each other should they get lost, which is an admirable tactic for safe city visiting, but it unfortunately did not protect against looking like an idiot.

This is a good time to revisit the map question. If someone has a map, they are a tourist, no exception. Avoid them if you have the opportunity, but if they stop you and ask a question, be kind. Just because we actually hate them is no reason to perpetuate the stereotype of the rude New Yorker.

Tourists will also stop at the top of the subway stairs upon exiting and try to figure out where they are, much to the chagrin of everyone behind them at the bottom of the stairwell. It is acceptable to be rude to these tourists: perhaps even slightly shove them out of the way as you leave, or utter a completely infuriated ‘EXCUSE me’ as you brush past—you won’t have to pretend to be infuriated, either, which will make this easier. Imbeciles like these are clearly not fit for New York, as they have no sense of common courtesy and are dumb enough to block an exit. We don’t want them coming back. Ditto for the aforementioned tourists who stop in the middle of the sidewalk to figure out where they are.

There are certain areas of the city to avoid at all costs because of tourists:

Times Square

I once heard a comedian tell a joke about Times Square, which went something like this: You know you’re a real New Yorker when you hear about bomb threats on Times Square and you think to yourself, ‘Good.’ Times Square is a horrific explosion of corporate disgustingness, teeming with people who don’t know better and actually think a giant Olive Garden is heaven on earth. If you are worth knowing as a human being, you will want to avoid such people.

I will concede that Times Square is home to Broadway, which has numerous, beautifully crafted shows worth going to see in wonderful old theatres. It is a shame they are so close to the bright lights of the shallow nothingness that is Times Square. On a semi-related note, if you do go to the theatre, tourist or not, please dress well. Professionals have poured their blood and guts into these performances and it’s only decent to respect that by dressing well. If you were in my theatre in jeans and a t-shirt, I would throw you out immediately.

I recommend post-theatre dining at one of the many delicious restaurants on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen or, if you are feeling elegant, Sardi’s, where I recommend the spinach cannelloni.

Herald Square

Again, more corporate slatherings, this time of the retail and fast food variety. Macy’s is actually worth a visit, but never on a weekend—the store will be exploding with people and, if you do not like idiot tourists, you will hardly be able to control your rage. Any of the stores in this area exist in other parts of New York, and you are better off figuring out where they are.

Fifth Avenue

Sadly, the joy of window shopping at Tiffany’s, Harry Winston, and Henri Bendel is overshadowed by the trudge of people who don’t know where they’re going or what they’re looking at. If you are there on a weekday, you will occasionally see rather handsome men in suits walking past, which is always a delight. On a weekend, again, it is best to avoid the area. It is impossible to walk up and down the street if necessary as it is, but on the weekend it’s worse—numerous flagship stores (which, again, all have other locations throughout the city) make for immense numbers of people sloshing in and out.

Then, you will also find tourists downtown occasionally, but to be honest I don’t mind them as much. They are few and far between, and anyone who goes out of their way to look for something unusual is okay by me. It makes me remember my days as a tourist when I used to actively seek out interesting places downtown, writing down their addresses in a book and hiding my map so as not to let anyone know my secret. These people don’t take what the rest of the world hands them and says what New York is or isn’t.

My dear friend SC once asked me to show him the ‘real’ New York when he was visiting, and I had no answer for him. Not because I was clueless, but because the ‘real’ New York is different for everyone. My New York is different from my neighbors’, is different from my friends in the theatre industry, is different from my friends in the art world. What our ideas of New York all have in them, however, is the fire and passion that keeps the city in perpetual motion. The places packed with tourists like Times Square have no life because they’re a stagnant idea. Elsewhere in the city, we’re always changing, moving, growing. I wish more tourists had the guts to explore them. Well, not too many more…

Four Days

As I’ve said many times, there are things that happen in this city that don’t happen anywhere else. Sometimes on one day right after the other.

Wednesday, April 11

Gallery opening of photographer Jonathan Alpeyrie at the Anastasia Photo gallery on the Lower East Side. CN and I drink wine and look at photographs of WWII veterans. They’re diptychs, with veterans on either side of the war juxtaposed against each other. One photograph stands alone, of a singular veteran and in its power—an aged Scottish man sits, frowning and jowly, in a graveyard. He wears a bright red kilt and he’s surrounded by bright red flowers. I like him.

Artsy types fill the space—older guys with sprays of gray in their hair, elbow patches on their tweed jackets, younger guys in skinny jeans and oxford shoes. A girl compliments me on my shoes and I smile. We’re invited to an afterparty at the Gramercy Park Hotel.

A bouncer stands inside the hotel bar, in front of two glass doors and red velvet curtains. We give the right name and in we go. Young people sip cocktails. The velvet couch is prickly under my fingertips.

Thursday, April 12

A client’s assistants are out for the day. I sit in his car while he gets takeout dim sum for a friend recovering in the hospital. He also gets me a ball of fresh mozzarella cheese. It’s creamy and sweet and salty and cold and warm all at once. I probably should have eaten less of it in one sitting. What I haven’t picked apart from it sits in the fridge in a bowl of water, waiting for my eager fingers. It tastes just as creamy and sweet and salty as the first day.

Friday, April 13

On Thursday I realized I had no plans for the weekend. Not feeling especially excited about a Netflix evening, I called SD. A dramaturg for a new play written by a friend (Ramona Clay by Stan Richardson), I was invited. Another thing on the list of things I love about New York is the opportunity people have to develop their creativity. It was great to see a new play written by someone I knew watched in its beginning stages in front of an excited audience. I also realized I had forgotten how much I liked meeting new people.

Saturday, April 14

Japanese food and drinks with GD and her sister. Thick, slippery udon noodles and lightly crispy tempura. Cupcake wine. Afterward I walk to Emack and Bolio’s and get Cookie Monster—oreos and cookie dough—ice cream because I felt like it. In honor of the passing of a great man, I walk to the Met. Gold light pours over the steps and a security guard paces back and forth in front of the big, glass doors. It lightly starts to rain and I walk home. I fold the sleeves of my cardigan over my hands and clasp them tight. I walk home.