Good Day, Sunshine

With the spring sun once again radiant atop the New York skyline, I spent this afternoon wandering the streets, mainly observing, in store window reflections, that I am exceedingly, cadaverously pale.

I am, by nature, a light-skinned person – having inherited my coloring more from my red-haired mother than my oft-mistaken-for-Italian father. But, after a winter spent in New York City, blanching under the glow of overhead fluorescents, I’ve moved well past past ‘fair’, and into ‘look kids, there’s Casper!’

Still, there’s more than just vanity behind my concern. Research seems to indicate that being tan is actually good for your skin, whereas it’s getting tan, and particularly getting tan fast, that’s particularly dangerous. And as, during the summer, I’m likely to be spending long hours on at least some days under beating solar rays, I’m hoping to ease myself in, rather than scorch to lobster on a first extended outing.

So, over the course of the next few weeks, I’ve been trying to engineer my schedule to allow for at least short periods of daily time in the sun. And, equally so, trying to schedule them as, say, shirtless morning jogs; having learned from past years how permanent a base my first spring sun forays can leave, I’m eager to avoid a repeat of one year’s redneck-ready farmer tan.

Mainly because I realize I’ll eventually want to hit a beach. And I don’t own nearly enough NASCAR-logoed bathing suits to back up the look.

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April 30, 2006

Loopy

As I’ve written about in the past, people tend to tell me things; taxi drivers in particular. This morning, for example, on the way back home from brunch in Chinatown, one told me this:

At about 5:00 in the morning, a young woman flagged him down at the corner of 56th and 7th.

“Where to?” he asked.

“56th and 7th,” she replied.

As he tried to point out that they were already at 56th and 7th, it became quickly clear that the woman was exceedingly, belligerently drunk. So, after a few minutes of slurred excoriation, the driver shrugged and told her to buckle up. He drove a block down, a block West, a block up, and a block back East – a perfect one block loop.

“Which corner?” he asked.

“Near left,” she replied. The exact same one on which he had just found her.

The fare was the morning minimum: $3. She handed him a $10.

“Keep the change,” she said, “for getting me here so quickly.”

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March 18, 2006

Synchronicity

I was in the Delta Grill for a business lunch yesterday, talking about films Cyan had recently acquired, and about other films we were still trying to chase down, like the great Slamdance documentary Holy Modal Rounders – Bound to Lose.

And just as the description “like a non-fiction Mighty Wind” came out of my mouth, the front door directly across from me opened, and in walked Michael McKean.

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February 28, 2006

[Bemusedly Shaking Head]

Why, in short, I’m not a member of the Yale Club of New York:

ìBlazers & Blingî All-Ivy Dance at The Yale Club

Friday, February 24, 9:00 pm – 1:00 am

The Yale Club turns into a nightclub for an evening of preppy fabulous fun. Roll up in your Benz to the Tap Room where young members from the Ivy League circuit will be chillin. Once (and if!) you get past the velvet ropes, the DJ will be spinning four hours of hot tracks to get your freak on. Early birds are in for a treat since PatrÛn Tequila is sponsoring a complimentary open bar until 10:00 pm. Starting with the PatrÛn Spirits Company will make your night ìSimply Perfect.î Beer, wine, and soda are included throughout the night along with other discount drink specials. If you dare, don your Prada sunglasses in the roped-off VIP area, where bottle service will be available for big spenders. Complimentary hors díoeuvres including cheese and chocolate fondue are included. The cost is $30 in advance or $40 at the door, cash only, at the bouncerís discretion, open only to Ivy Club members and their guests (Club I.D. required). Bring five of your friends and you come free. The dress code is ìpreppy fabulous,î so wear your best blazer, status denim, and iced out jewels to rock Club YC. Dressed to the 9ís in your finest Louis Vuitton or Lilly Pulitzer, be prepared to dance the night away on Vandy Avenue. Word up, you Ivy playasÖ

Sadly, I’m not making that up.

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January 9, 2006

Back Together Again

Since I first noted the slow disintegration of my cherished possessions, household entropy has continued at a distressing pace, spreading to, apparently, pretty much everything I own.

By now, the list of items that have broken at some point in the last two-and-a-half months includes:

1. Overhead kitchen light
2. Shure E4c headphones
3. External computer monitor
4. Desk keyboard drawer
5. Dishwasher
6. Plasma television
7. Treo 600
8. Cordless land-line phone
9. Folding music stand
10. Bathtub drain

And though my first attempts at home repair ended rather poorly, today, I think, I finally stemmed the tide. Armed with a slew of hardware store odds and ends, I managed to piece my desk back together, and to clear out my bathtub drain, albeit not without shedding large amounts of sawdust snd chemical-infused water throughout much of my apartment.

With my landlord stopping by tomorrow to fix a few of the remaining items, and with exceedingly kind gifts and hand-me-downs on their way from my parents, friends, and relatives, I should, shortly, be back to square one.

In other words: I’m ready to let the next round of falling apart begin.

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Weathered

I remember, as a kid, being endlessly fascinated by vertical cutaway maps of the miles beneath New York City. Layer after subterranean layer, the parking garages piled atop subways atop water mains atop the electrical grid. I loved that each layer seemed to exist in silent parallel to the ones above and below. That each was its own little world.

I thought of those maps again this afternoon, climbing down the stairs to the C/E subway line. While the day’s suddenly wintry air whipped along the sidewalks above, thirty feet below, the stop was still, luke-warm, stale. And, as I passed into a waiting subway car, I hit yet another little weather system. Though, during the summer, the subways are brisk, ventilated by strong air conditioning, now, as the heaters are just put back into use, each car bakes slowly in its own languid cloud.

Nine years after coming East from Northern California, I’m still a bit unused to these manufactured ecosystems. Growing up, we had no air conditioning, only ran the house’s radiant heat during wintry nights. The difference between temperature indoors and out was usually, quite literally, a matter of degree.

But here, on the East Coast, the little worlds we create seem to operate in complete divorce from/ the larger one surrounding them. In the midst of summer, as humidity threatens to turn spontaneously into midair raindrops and the mercury clears 100, we push air-conditioners to full throttle, toting sweaters to the office to wear over short sleeves. In winter, we bundle layer upon layer to brave snow-bound treks, only to enter homes and stores so blisteringly heated we strip to near our skivvies the moment we clear the door.

Which, for years, always struck me as rather strange. But, today, as I rode the subway and thought of those cutaway maps, started to make a bit more sense. New York, after all, is nothing but a collection of separate little worlds, of sewers and cables and subways below, of streets and buildings and even taller buildings above. And while each might be intimately intertwined with the others, with so many all wedged in to such little space, we’ve no choice but to pretend they’re all separate, parallel, self-sustaining. No choice but, as the wind howls outside our windows, to crank the heat to full high in our little apartments, tied so tightly to the millions surrounding us, yet desperately, willfully, setting ourselves apart.

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November 18, 2005

Things Fall Apart

In the past few days, my physical belongings have been self-destructing at an alarming pace. The right earbud on my Shure E4c’s stopped playing. The screen on my Treo 600 suddenly developed rainbow stripes, and ceased responding to touch. And then, this morning, with an alarming thud, the keyboard drawer fell clean off of my desk.

Which, in short, has left me more than a bit paranoid: avoiding walking under light fixture or sitting too close to my heavy bookshelf. I may not have a clue what’s about to come down next, but I’ll be damned if it takes me with it.

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October 28, 2005

Sweater Weather

Normally, trips out to the Bay Area leave me with a severe case of climate chagrin. With New York drippingly humid, or frigidly icicled, Palo Alto weather mocks me with its comparative moderation.

But, this time of year, for a month (or, in good years, two), New York weather miraculously pulls ahead of Palo Alto’s, passes nearly through perfection.

Right now, back in NYC, leaves are turning, the air is cooling to a crisp, bright edge, a box full of wool knits waits to be unpacked from closet-top summer storage. And I can’t wait to head home.

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October 3, 2005

Distanced

Among the random topics on which Google deems me an expert is the important science of urinal etiquette. Which, for female readers, is essentially the code of conduct that dictates all men’s room behavior: conversations stop, even mid-sentence, at the door; a veil of silence descends; eye contact – even oblique – becomes strictly taboo.

Apparently, this runs counter to female bathrooms, places where even inter-stall conversations are reportedly common. The reason, I’ve hypothesized, is men’s rooms’ total lack of physical privacy. Sure, urinal use might leave you, equipment in hand, shoulder-to-shoulder with a complete stranger. But so long as you both steadfastly refuse to acknowledge each other’s very existences, you can continue on as if there’s nothing unusual about the situation.

Recently, I’ve begun to suspect something similar is at work in much of New York life. Consider that most of us, for example, live in hundreds-of-unit apartment buildings, yet never meet more than one or two neighbors. Separated by acres of grassy space, the next-door Smith’s sex life is a fascinating topic of dinner discussion; faced nightly with aural evidence of such, it becomes a bit too close for comfort.

Packed liked sardines into the can of our little island, we silently ride elevators and subways, elbow our way down crowded streets and supermarket aisles, and load full our iPods with hours of musical detachment. Were we to see the surrounding hordes as real people, rather than as obstacles on the noisy slalom course of city life, the constant empathizing required would fast run dry our emotional reserves. But create just enough psychological distance 90% of the time, and we’re spared the ability to communicate and share with the people in our lives who matter most during the other 10%.

So, as summer tourist season rolls around, if you’re planning to pass through New York City, if you love it as much as we do, and if you want to help keep the city moving seamlessly ahead: shut the hell up and leave the people you see on the street the fuck alone. It’s the neighborly thing to do.

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May 15, 2005