stirring

I woke up this morning to "your the best" from the karate kid running in my head, knowing that i have to play two games of broadway league softball back to back in the NY summer heat. I rolled out of bed and immediately put my uniform on to get in "game-mode". Crap - i got oatmeal on my jersey making an imiginary double play. Thinking about my pitching moves... 1st pitch down the middle or a touch outside for an easy strike. 2nd pitch low and inside to draw a pop fly. 3rd pitch off-speed - and look for instructions from mr miyagi - perhaps use the crane technique.

Today was a special day. It was my first day off in two and a half weeks. I celebrated by doing laundry. And bailing on my trainer. And seeing my friend Michael.

We went to Central Park. It had rained earlier but was muggy by the time we found ourselves at the pond.

We ended up at the AOL Time Warner Center, sitting in big couches on the fourth floor, staring out over Columbus Circle.

It was exactly what I needed.

Hung out with the coolest kids in Williamsburg the other night. The drinks were flowing, the conversation was raunchy and good times were had by all.

There are these enclaves in New York. Area where time has stopped. Whereas real estate developers have taken over the obvious parts of Manhattan (Upper West Side, all of central Midtown, Chelsea), and begun building in the trendy areas (Lower East Side, Alphabet City), there are some neighborhoods that still have an old world charm, like the Upper East Side and Hell's Kitchen. More specifically, Hell's Pantry. Oh fuck it, this neighborhood is Hell's Armpit and it looks and smells like it. I'm not talking about the tree lined streets running between 8th and 10th Avenues from 43rd right up to Colubus Circle. I'm talking about the part of New York City that can only be described as gray, even on sunny days. From Penn Station to Port Authority from 9th to 11th Avenues, you are faced with three story buildings, some absolutely crumbling, bodegas, and tons of dive bars, where you can start drinking at 7am and be pissed in under eight dollars (believe me, i know). This is not a desireable part of the city. Part of it is called the Garment District, and though it may conjure up images of super models prancing around with their Chloe bags, trying on Jimmy Choos, the neighborhood was actually given that name because of the many textile manufacturing warehouses in the area. For Jimmy Choos and celebrities you're better off heading to the Meatpacking District, a neighborhood that just a few years ago was unsafe after nightfall and now boasts the title of the richest neighborhood in the world.

I work behind Port Authority, on a block with an outrach center, a small pizza place, an International Grocery, and the Sea Breeze fish market. At every hour of the day, the street stinks of fish and there are homeless people parading up and down the block. Not dejected homeless people, begging for money, but energetic and aggressive homeless people who shout, curse, tell loud jokes, and completely block the sidewalk. This all takes place under a Port Authority overpass which leaves the entire block in shadows most of the days. Pedestrians take one look at the people and trash on this dark dank block, they sniff the acrid scent of very fishy fish and they quickly cross the street. Not many wander into my little coffee shop. Which is a shame, because it's gorgeous and run by the Cupcake Cafe, one of the best bakeries in the city.

The Cupcake Cafe has been on 9th and 39th for the last fifteen years. When this neighborhood was still seriously threatening, when the hookers and crackheads still wandered down here from Times Square (not the Times Square we know) to shoot junk and give head in doorways, Mike and Ann, my bosses moved their tiny business in and struggled to find the residents and business people in this area and turn them into customers. Fifteen years later, Cupcake Cafe flourishes, with a satellite coffee shop across the street (where I sit now) and a large location in the shopping mall that is 18th Street. Wedged on a block between Bed Bath and Beyond, Old Navy, Express, and the GAP (I kid you not) is a small out post of Cupcake Cafe, inside the Books of Wonder children's bookstore.

But soon that will be the only Cupcake Cafe, since the original one, the FIFTEEN YEAR OLD ONE, is being pushed out of Hell's Kitchen due to real estate development. Their building has been bought and I'm not sure what is happening with it but I know that Cupcake Cafe has to go. And it seems ironic doesn't it, that a business that helped to make this neighborhood what it is, that invited people to this neighborhood when no one would set foot here, is being forced out because of how desireable the neighborhood now is. Mike and Ann refused to sell out and now they have to pay the price because of others who didn't.

It's funny, the Times ran this article a few days ago. Front page of the Real Estate section, praising this neighborhood and all it has to offer. Using a picture of Cupcake and mentioning it as a local attraction. Never once mentioning that in a month it will be gone. And the residents of this neighborhood, those who have lived here for more than the six months since Venus and Serena bought a loft nearby, the real residents are heart-broken. And a bit pissed off.

When you walk down these few blocks, there is a friendly feeling. Most of the shops on these blocks are food based. There is a meat market, Stilers vegetable and fruit stand, another fish market a block down, and assorted other family run businesses. The owners all know and purchase from each other. Many of them live in the neighborhood. The nice thing about working for Cupcake Cafe is that once you are hired, you are part of the family and many of the employees live in the same small building just a few blocks away. A building that was threatened with demolition if the West Side Stadium bullshit had been approved. Can no one leave this neighborhood alone? What will happen to that communal building when these blocks are infiltrated with Starbucks, Baby Gap, and thirty-floor apartment buildings? What will happen to the unexpected friendly feeling of this little neighborhood behind Port Authority that up until recently had been pleasantly ignored. What will happen when we are all forced out of Manhattan due to sky-rocketing real estate and capitalist greed?

I have older artist friends who remember when Soho was the heart of the arts movement and lofts were under $200 a month. Now Bushwick is the center and Soho is a laughable mixture of designer stores and gawking tourists. Our city is changing every day. It is becoming richer and greedier and more exlusive. Someday we will find it impossible to live on this Island at all. Where will we all go?

I'm telling you, if I didn't have a boyfriend, I'd be all over this guy. And he's single. Ladies beware.

I peddled free samples on 18th street today. WIth Joy. New Yorkers are gluttons.

i went home to michigan last week.

the beans were exciting

not much else

it is ... how you say? ... "uhmerricin as apple pie"

So we went to see a play last night, and if you're in New York, go see this, because one of my favorite people is in it...

Then we had a drink at Telephone. The East Village is kind of over, and I'm certainly over it, but the play was there, so we went. It was a nice little establishment on 2nd Ave and we ate and drank outside. Me, Charles, Jen, and a vegan. I had steak. I recognized the bouncer from a heavy metal band, but then I realized it was this guy Kevin I used to know and he's grown his hair long. He gives big hugs and is always happy to see me, even when it's been years. This has been happening lately. At dinner at 107 West the other night, I recognized our waiter as the roommate of a girl I used to do a lot of inter-nasal drugs with in college.

New York gets smaller and smaller.

So I went inside to see my other friends...I have a girly crush on one of them (play the video! she's the brunette...). We drank and yelled and at midnight Jen and the vegan headed off. A certain Southern stand-up comic showed up and Charles and I opted for a late night and brought the republican to Angel Share. I'm not going to link Angel Share because it is a bar so cool and so hidden that if you don't know where it is, you don't deserve to go there. First rule of Angel Share, don't talk about Angel Share.

I set into the sake, while Charles had bourbon on the rocks and the republican had a Harvey Wallbanger (I know, right) and texted some young filly he hoped to rendez-vous with later. The boys liked the sake and we had another round. Around 2:30 we set off in search of food. We wandered around, looking for a certain hotdog place that Charles claims is holy. We never found it and ended up in a gay bar on Avenue A. Though Charles and the republican would have been fine there, both being attractive young men, most of the patrons of this establishment were looking at me like I was the worst post-op they'd ever seen, so we headed across the street to BOA. I think I went on a blind date at BOA, with a film critic a couple of years ago. I had a red stripe, Charles fell back to vodka and tonic and the republican indulged in some ice water. The beverages only cost $7.50, or as the rotund man at the bar said, "That's a lot of drink for a little money!" I winked at him and headed back to the table, where I wowed the boys with my new IPOD, the newest IPOD and the music I'm currently playing. (Mostly Regina Spector, Modest Mouse, and Snow Patrol).

The republican yawned one time too many so we hopped in a cab, me in the middle, dropped the boys off in Hell's Kitchen and then rode the West Side Highway all the way up. I was in bed by 4.

It finally feels like summer in New York.

She may be red, but we're not in hell, just Hell's Kitchen, the Film Center Cafe to be precise.

Those we were with were apparently out until 5. We left around midnight, like good girls.

That's right. He pours drinks. Of course this was taken right after he took a big swig out of the bottle behind the owner's back...

To quote Britney, he's "not that innocent"

So I'm pretty busy right now, but here is a great email I got from my friend Michael the other day. He sent it in hopes of getting a bunch of phone numbers back from people. He lost all his numbers since his cell phone...well...read on...

quote:

I was at a party at Opaline last Wednesday night.  It was the eve of my good friend Hana's birthday and I'd promised her a birthday drink...she however didn't know if she wanted to come to the party so I met her next door at 85A for a celebratory drink or three.  I excused myself to use the loo (lew, lue?  you know what I mean), and as I stood there about to flush, what should happen but my trusty old cell phone, whom many friends had referred to as the smallest cell phone in the world ("...oh my god!  That has got to be the smallest cell phone in the world!"), decides that it has had enough of this world and being tucked into my pants pocket.

With the grace of a leaden swan, Celli (I will refer to him as "Celli" from here on out...one needs to speak respectfully of the deceased and it seems respectful to refer to them by name at very least)...Celli lept three feet straight up into the air, did a triple backwards axle somersault-thing and landed right in the golden-hued water.

Now, perhaps it was the three drinks I'd shared with Hana in 45 minutes, and perhaps not.  I think back on that fateful day and like to think that I would have made the same decision stone cold sober.  At least that's the position I've taken.  I looked at the floundering device named Celli thrashing about in the bowl as any cell phone in his predicament would and thought, "I can't put my hands in there, it's unsanitary."  BUT, if I were to flush right at this moment, Celli would be too big and heavy to go down the pipes and the rush of clean water would make the concept of fishing him out a bit more bearable.

Now friends, I tell you that nothing prepared me for what came next.  It still haunts me light a nightmare, a ghoulish vision.  I did it.  I pressed the chrome plated lever and watched in horror as Celli, whom you will recall is the smallest phone in the world, was washed away into the nether regions of the NYC sewer system in a torrent of water, urine and tears.

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


His time had come.  In this my hour of grief you can understand that I need the love and support of my friends.  The healing has already begun.  My replacement phone provided by Cingular's mobile device insurance has already arrived, but the address book therein is sadly devoid of contact information.  Please don't let it remain so.

If for some reason we're not THAT close and you don't feel comfortable with me having your # or you gave me an email address purposely instead of a phone #, of course I can only respect your wishes and won't in any way take it personally.  I hope the story of my foolhardiness made you smile.  For all others, your support in this my time of need is greatly appreciated.  At no other time does the old addage ring so true:  "If it's yellow, let it mellow.  If it's brown, flush it down."

My friends, Celli was not brown.  Thank you for listening and for caring.

 

I don't drink gin and tonics. I used to. About five years ago I did, whilst under the influence of someone not so savory, I would suck 'em back like water and wonder why I never felt myself GET drunk, but just WAS drunk.

I don't choose gin and tonics. I am a sensible girl and stick to my favorite beer. However last night, I was amongst dear friends, dear Southern friends who can drink my weight in gin and live to tell, and it was an open bar, and I had already consumed half a bottle of a really good pinot noir (yeah, my man knows wine. It's a perk) at Bistro du Vent, so I said fuck it. Gin and tonic please. Another gin and tonic please. Um, another gin and, um, yeah. Could I jusht pleash have another...

Because I live with someone very responsible, I made it out of the Xth Avenue Lounge before any damage was done. I cannot say the same for my Southern friends who, at 12:45, were still chasing tail and throwing drinks down. At least that's the rumor today. I wish I could party like them. And I realize I might have to go into training for this summer in Edinburgh. Sort of like people who start going to tanning beds before their trips to Barbados, I feel I should start working my blood alcohol level up to a good fighting weight. If I want to win the championships. Which I do.More so than I want to live another day like today, head-achy, bitchy, and cursing every whisper of lime flavored gin that passed my lips last night.