An open letter to Miss N:

     

Dear Miss N:

Darling, I truly love you but I'm afraid that our relationship may have to end soon.  That is, if you don't keep up your end of the bargain.  I keep trying to make things work but relationships cannot run on one individual's steam.  I have been trying so hard, and you continually give me very little effort.  You see, it wasn't supposed to be like this.  Things were supposed to be very different.  You promised me success and riches.  You told me I had lots of promise and that you'd take care of me.  Yet, all you've done is use and use me time and time again.  You hold fickle promises of better days and keep promising that things will improve for us.

See, you are so beautiful.  You're way out of my league.  You're intelligent, charming, dazzling, and always seem to be the life of the party.  I just can't keep up with you.  You're always up late at the most upscale parties canoodling with the who's who of NYC.  I never ever get invited.  I just sit home and wait for your return to me.  I'm always on the outside looking in.  You promised that I'd be part of your world but so far it's just empty promises.  Talk is cheap, but you charge nearly $3 a minute.  I don't see this relationship ending on a positive note so I'm writing to you to explain why I might need to leave you.

I don't think it will matter to you, though.  You have lots of friends and lovers, nearly 8 million of them to be exact.  If I left, you wouldn't even notice my absence.  I can't keep beating myself up thinking that  I'm the one who is in the wrong.  The fact is that you're just too upscale for my taste.  I never even had a chance with you.  You're smarter, prettier, and more successful than anyone I've ever known.  And that scares the hell out of me.  I always feel like I'm running on a treadmill stuck at the same speed while you speed by in your shiny Lamborghini.  I'm just dead in the water staying with you.

The only way I'll be able to stay together with you is if you change your tune with me.  You have to pay more attention to me and make me feel that our courtship is worthwhile.  Make me feel like all the gambles, that I took to be with you, are worth it.  I want you to directly tell me that I'm special and that every pitfall was worth the risk.  But I barely get anything from you nowadays.  You're too busy flitting around with losers and schemers who don't appreciate you like I do.  I do.  I'm the real deal.  I'm a dreamer and still have lots of hopes that have been left unanswered.  You should know that I love you.  I love you more than you know.  I have dreamed of being with you since I was a teenager.  I had pictures of you on my dorm room wall.  You were the only one I ever wanted to be with.  I love and adore you more than you'll ever know.  Why waste your time with people who don't respect and honor you like I do?  Get rid of all those deadbeats you call friends.  I'm a true friend.  But you don't see that.  That's why I think it's over. 

If things don't change in the next few months, then I'll have no choice but to look for love and attention elsewhere.  I cannot run on empty like this for much longer.  The blank stares and empty promises are too much.  I keep hoping that you'll look at me and say I'm totally right.  That you think I'm important and special.  That things will change permanently.  That you'll spend more time with me and give me the things you promised in the first  place.  That would be the day my dreams come true.  The day that you look into my eyes and let me share a piece of your luminescent universe would be the greatest day of my 31 years of life.

But I don't see that happening.  What I foresee, if we stay together, is catastrophe.  Total and utter chaos.  I barely see you anymore.  You don't make me happy anymore.  The magic that was in our relationship, at the very beginning, has fizzled out.  I'm broke, metaphorically and literally.  Financially, I can't take advantage of all you have to offer.  Even having coffee with you for nearly $5 is too rich for my blood.  A night out is $12-$15 per drink, and you never pay.  Though I always offer to pay for you, you hardly ever reciprocate.

I'm tired of running in circles, doll face.  You're beautiful but  a lot of it is an artifice, a veneer.  I see through all the make-up and glitter.  Truth is you're vapid and shallow.  You promised me so much and have only let me down.  You said I was the only one for you.  Though, I'm sure you say that to every young ingenue and sycophant.  Even though you told me I wouldn't find anyone as amazing as you, I know that I could.  And I will.  I can find someone else who makes up in loyalty for your complete lack of it.  And I know about all the others.  The young souls you lure to you and promise the same things.  Yet, you give them what they want because they sacrifice things that I cannot.  They don't have children, a family, the same kind of morals as I do.  But I've said too much already.

I think my blathering on does not help to change your mind about anything.  Even if I did leave tomorrow, you wouldn't give a damn.  You'd laugh your raucous, empty cackle and light your electronic cigarette while in the bed of yet some other young, handsome, but more naive lover.  You never cared how much I admired or loved you.  Showering you with praise and affection didn't do anything except feed your ego.  What's more is that I was always first to defend you in coversation to friends and relations.  They thought I was wasting my time and told me how dangerous you were.  I ignored them and laughed at their advice.  I knew that all of the time I put into our  relationship would one day pay off.  But I'm slowly realizing that the naysayers were completely right.

I can't live like this anymore.  We are going to have to go our separate ways unless things turn around drastically after you reading this.  And if we do have to part ways, I hope that we're able to remain friends.  I'll still come to visit you and admire your greatness from afar.  I just will not be able to remain in the center of your shadow.  I hoep you understand this 'dear John' letter from me.  It comes from the bottom of my heart.  I also know that you get letters like this on a daily basis.  But hopefully the words, because they're coming from me, mean a little bit more.  You will never know how much I love and fawn over you.  But I fear that what I have come to love is an illusion, a fiction that never was real. The truth is too ugly to face.  Beneath all the make-up, jewels, furs, and silk, you're just like any other.   

So with that, I'm going to do what I have to do in order to come to terms with what has come to pass.  I will make sure that my surrvial and well-being come first, for once.

Adieu,

 ~R~

PS: This song is dedicated to  you Miss N.

cover of Frank Sinatra's 'New York' by Cat Power 

Big Apple Bytes: Advice for NYC

  'Empire State of Mind'- Jay Z and Alicia Keys (2009)

                                              'Welcome to the Jungle'- Guns n' Roses (1987)

It's the city that everyone has seen in movies and television shows.  New York City has both a mythical and a realistic persona.  Of course, what people see of New York in every movie and TV show is not exactly the New York that I know and love.  That fictional New York is romantic and sexy.  It is a place where the idea of 'New Jack City' permeates every street and subway car.  Graffiti riddled and trash ridden, filled with crack and cocaine.  Junkies and hookers on corners selling their wares and gangs running rampant.  Well, that NYC is long gone.  The NYC of 'The Warriors' and 'Coming to America' is non-existent.

What you have now is still gritty but a more polished, colorful version.  There are lots of eccentric and crazy folks running around.  Sure, there is still crime and random acts of violence.  There are gangs and graffiti, but this is a NYC where one can where a wedding ring or jewelry without worrying that it will be ripped off.  Many previously, 'unsafe' and 'undesirable' neighborhoods are now getting gentrified (ex. Bushwick, Flatbush, Harlem, Bedstuy, Crown Heights, Jackson Heights, Morningside Heights, Red Hook, Ditmas Park, Sunset Park..the list goes on).  Of course, gentrification is, in some ways inevitable.  And I will throw out something that my wife has said, that if you cannot take care of your own neighborhood and new 'tennants' come in who clean it up then you have no one to blame but yourself.  I agree. 

Today, NYC is a place where families can walk around Times Square without seeing prostitutes and XXX peep shows and adults only theaters.  Believe me, I remember something of the old Times Square.  Before former NYC Mayor Guiliani cleaned it up, Times Square and many other areas were a mess.  The first memory I have of NYC, is of walking through Midtown with my family and seeing a homeless woman going to the bathroom in the middle of the street.  She just hiked up her skirts and cackled at us staring straight at us the whole time.  That's the old NY.

Part of it, however, is just natural change and the ebb and flow of different socio-economic groups moving in and out.  I'm not saying, of course, that certain groups of people are synonymous with bad or good neighborhoods, of course not.  It is a lot more complex, having to do with the ratio of residential to commercial and to what kinds of commerce come into each neighborhood.  Also weighted in are the property taxes and rents of any given street.  And it is even more complex than that.  What was once affordable and dirt cheap is now only accessible to the creme de la creme of NYC.

I did not grow up in NYC, so I haven't seen all of the changes first hand.  I, however, have recently had people tell me that they're surprised I'm from the Midwest.  People think I'm making it up, as they thought I grew up here and am a 'New Yorker'.  Hey, I consider it a compliment!  It means I've successfully made the reboot.  And, I'm nearing my three year anniversary of being a NYer so I'm pretty much official.

What makes me love this city is that I find it interesting to delve into the city's history and track which neighborhoods used to be posh (or not) and how they have become better (or not).  SoHo used to be grungy and decrepit and now it's fashionable and chic.   Bushwick in Brooklyn used to be a no-man's land but now it's a trendy artsy hipster retreat.  Things change, especially in NYC.  A store or restaurant can be there one day and be gone the very next.  Things happen quickly here. 

Take my neighborhood, for instance.  About thirty years ago, it was the Jewish 'hood.  Many people who go to my synagogue in Midwood grew up in my neighborhood.  The Seventh Day Adventist Church down the street used to be a synagogue, as there is a plaque on the side demarcating this.  There are also many churches that still have stained glass windows showing Stars of David.  Then, as the Jews all moved into Midwood and that became the new Jewish 'hood, a strong West Indian population moved in.  My wife, being from Trinidad, grew up in this neighborhood where you can experience life, getting a taste of the islands.  You can get: roti, Sorrel, doubles, macaroni pie, salt fish and bake, Escovitch fish, jerk chicken, meat patties.  I wouldn't trade this for anything.  However, now hipsters and yuppies are moving in, and have been steadily for the past 3-5 years.  I remember a time when I was the only white person walking around.  Now, however, you see tofu, craft beers, and organic cleaning supplies in the super markets and corner bodegas.  I'm fine with the change, just as long as my neighborhood retains its original character and flavor. 

My point?  Change is inevitable in many ways.  People move into a neighborhood and then move out if they feel they can 'move up' or if the neighborhood starts changing in ways seen as uncomfortable or threatening (which can easily mean too many hipsters).  I want to, however, offer some advice for those brave souls thinking they can live and survive in this: nitty gritty city; it used to be shitty but now it's oh so pretty!  Not everyone can live in a place like New York but I will give you some pointers.

1: Always have one eye straight ahead of you and the other looking either right or left.  There is ALWAYS something happening in NYC.  It could be a western style shootout or it could be a 5K furry race.  When I say anything, I mean anything.  You always have to be on the lookout and you cannot get distracted by shiny, glittery things.

2. Carry the following: Purell, a plastic silverware set, Kleenex, water, and a book. Most of these are obvious.  A book  (which includes fiction, non-fiction, or a crossword puzzle) are for those times you're stuck in a stalled subway car waiting for a train to pass or a sick passenger to get taken care of.  The others are necessity out of never knowing where you'll find a bathroom to wash your hands or blow your nose.  You also can't depend on every eat-in-carry-out restaurant to have (clean) silverware).

3. Always charge your electronics before leaving the house.  Your Ipod, Ipad, Iphone, e-reader, laptop and other electronics are a necessity but make sure you charge them overnight or at least give enough time for a half charge before leaving the house.  If you are apt to forget, then make sure to get a portable charger.  In NYC, you will need to send e-mails away from home, often on your way to/from work (even on days off).

4. Always carry at least $20 in cash.  These days, especially with apps that charge your account, less people carry cash.  However, in NYC there are still many places (not just corner bodegas) that do not accept anything other than cash.  And, many places make a minimum that makes it hard to reach if all you want is a Snapple and some gum. 

5. DO NOT depend on the MTA.  As Ana Matronic says, "MTA stands for mother fuckers touching my ass."  It's true!  The fares are always going up and the services getting taken away.  There are inevitably always service changes and track work.  The more discreet and unannounced, the better.  You can check the MTA website and download apps for your phone (the MTA has apps of its own) but they won't help.   You'll be stranded without a train in sight so prepare for the unexpected when it comes to public transportation.

6. You will ALWAYS be late or early but NEVER on time.  I was pleasantly surprised upon moving here that the majority of the time, if you are late, just call ahead to let your party know and it will work out.  I've been late to work, to doctor's appointments, and usually as long as I let someone know, there is an understanding that it's not my fault.  I don't get in trouble or have to reschedule an appointment for another day.  I just call and say 'Hey I'm running late.  Yea, these damn trains!  What can you do, huh?!' and then laugh about it.

7. Dress like you are meeting the most important VIP you can think of.  NYC has a fashion sense.  It is eclectic and it doesn't matter what you wear as long as you own it.  And if you do dress to impress, have the attitude like you just don't give two shits.  'Oh, this, it's just something I threw on in the dark.  I didn't even have a mirror.'  You can wear a neon green tutu and ten inch pink glitter platform boots and no one would care.  You do, however, want to dress like you might meet someone important.  You never know who you'll run into on the streets, in the subway.  It could be your boss, it could be the Mayor, or it could be Donald Trump.  Well, who gives a trump about him, but you get my drift!  I've often squinted my eyes at someone, thinking 'that person looks soo familiar'.  Well, I'm probably staring down a famous musician or actor without knowing it.  You just never know here in NYC!

8. If you think you're the best, smartest, most talented ______, think again!   NYC has many of  the nation's top private schools and universities.  People are cut-throat to get their toddler into the top preschools.  Yes, even four year olds have resumes in NYC!  There is always going to be someone smarter, better looking, and more talented than you.  Oh, wait, you had lead roles in all your school plays and triple majored in college?  Who cares?!  Someone else has four majors along with two masters and a PhD; that person also got into a Broadway play at the first try.  Yes, someone will be better than you at anything you list.  It doesn't matter how good you think you are, there is someone better.

9. Ignore and pretend you don't know rule #8.  No matter what field you're going into, you must know that you are the best.  You have to sell yourself to any potential employer, no matter the field.  Yes, this is true anywhere.  However, in NYC, the competition is fierce and the pool is just as talented (if not more) than you.  So you always have to walk around thinking you've got something special.  You are the guy/gal for the job/part/chance.  No one but you is willing to do what it takes.  You are perfect for whatever it is you're gunning for so sell it.  Be a salesman for yourself.  You are your biggest cheerleader.  Realize that, yes, there are very smart and talented people vying for what you want, but you are going to get it because only you make sense in said role.  No one else will do/offer what you can.  So believe in yourself and don't be afraid to try, fail, and then try again.

10.  Breathe in through your mouth.  When in the subway or in an elevator (especially in the subway) do not breathe in through your nose.  I don't think I breathe in through my nose except for when I'm at home.  And even then sometimes the foul feces-like cooking odors from my neighbors seep in, and I'm still breathing in through my nose.  You will experience some of the worst smells on earth in NYC.  Smells that mix: wet farts, candy, feet, body odor, rotting animals, burning hair/plastic, methane, sulfur, horse shit, and Lysol.  All of those things rolled into one.  Yes, that bad!

BONUS. FREE!  FREE!  FREE!  My motto is, if it's free it's for me.  If you gotta pay, stay away.  NY has a lot of great freebies.  Check out Time Out NY or NY Magazine for some hints at what you can do for little to no cash.  In the spring/summertime, there are tons of street fairs that are always free (if you don't buy food or schlock).   You can get discount tickets to plays if you look in the right places.  Stay away from gimmicks and seemingly 'too good to be true' deals.  If you want a salon haircut without paying the salon price, be a hair model.  Eat at a street cart or food truck instead of a fancy schmancy restaurant.  Although now, food trucks are so trendy that I'm sure some of them get pretty pricey.  Whether you're a tourist or a resident, there are ways to live here on a budget.  Believe me, I know. 

So that's my advice for how to live and survive in NYC.  I hope it has been useful.  Whether you're visiting for a couple of days or if you're staying for a week or two, please be careful but also realize that the world is at your fingertips.  Some of the things I LOVE about living here is the meld and mix of languages and cultures, religions and ethnicities.  People come here from every corner of the world.  You can go down one street and feel like you're in India, then go down another feeling like you're in Jamaica.  It is an amazing place. And, if you visit as a tourist, DO NOT buy a stupid I heart NY shirt.  That is so cliche.  I actually want to get a t-shirt that says 'Go love your own fucking city'.  Also, don't just go explore the 'tourist spots'.  Yes, go see the Statue of Liberty and go up to the Empire State Building.  But also go out to Queens, the Bronx and Brooklyn.  Explore the nooks and crannies of the city.  NYC has the most amazing thrive and hum of city life anywhere.  There is always something happening.  It is truly the city that doesn't sleep.  So, sleep when you get home.  When you're here, just pull an all-nighter, drink some Red Bull and call it a day!

Proud to be a NYer,

~R~

Dead City

As always, if you want to give me feedback, please e-mail me at blochster@gmail.com.  This is a beginning draft of this story.  I encourage constructive criticism only and doing so in a personal message would be best.  I appreciate you reading and giving tips on how to improve this story and my writing.  My hope is to one day become a published writer. 
PS: This is not a zombie story!!!
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Dead City
(this is my original work and any attempt to reprint or copy needs my written permission)

“No tomorrow.  I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad.  The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.  I find it hard to tell you cause I find it hard to take.  When people run in circles it’s a very very mad world.”  This was my new soundtrack to life.  Mad world.  Two words that reflected my new reality so very poignantly.  I don’t need any other description to you just: mad world.

            I have always been a huge fan of apocalyptic fiction.  I’ve read Max Brook’s zombie fiction as well as The Road, The Stand, and Zone One.  A zombie apocalypse would have been exciting.  A story of cannibalism by live  would be way more interesting than what actually happened.  I really thought I would have been prepared for anything except for this.  There was no book on earth that could have prepared me for this, the reality.  Strange how reality is a lot stranger than fiction.  The end of the world?  This is it!  No fucking way!  My brain was still registering everything that had happened in only a couple of very long, drawn out weeks.

            What’s funny is that even my dreams could not have prepared me for what actually transpired.  I used to have dreams of fires and floods, earthquakes and tornadoes; each one resulting in traumatic pandemonium and unprecedented heartache.  In each dream, I was either alone or with one surviving family member.  We always united in search of our other lost family, knowing deep down that the others were dead.  In my dreams, I heard screams and whales.  I saw miles and miles of bulletin boards stretched out with people’s faces and names, numbers, places.  People scrambling to find lost loved ones and best friends.  Each person knowing what I knew, that whoever they were searching for was dead.  Dead like the brown leaves in late November.  Dead like a black, decaying toenail.  Dead as in absent from the role call of life.

            The first day, the day when things started going awry is a day that will be etched into my memory forever.  A day just like 9/11.  I remember exactly where and what I was doing on that day too.  On September, 11^th, 2001, I was a sophomore in college.  I was coming back from taking a shower, and the cleaning woman for my residence hall, with the same (female) version of my name, Frankie, told me that a plane had crashed into some tower.  At first, I thought she was talking about some television show or a dream that she had.  Frankie and I often had very animated conversations in the hallway of the dorm. 

            However, this time I could see the panic in her eyes and hear the fear in her voice.  What she was saying didn’t make any sense.  I went into my room, closed the door, got dressed and came back out where Frankie still stood in the hallway, like she was waiting to guide me to knowledge.  She took my arm and led me into the rec room with the lone television on our floor.  I saw other students glued to the TV set and gathered around on couches hugging their knees and each other for comfort.  It was a blue sky Tuesday fall morning and usually the television was off and students were lazily lolling out the door to class.

            Today was different.  I watched, horrified, transfixed, as the first plane hit the World Trade Center.  I thought I was watching a movie.  It didn’t seem real.  Worst of all is that I had to rush out the door to get to my meeting with my History Professor.  I was meeting to discuss my thesis.  However, that meeting like all of my classes and activities for the day would be cancelled. 

When I knocked on my professor’s door, I saw a body hunched over a desk, sobbing.  I wrote a note on her door, and went to the dining hall to eat.  It was emptier than usual.  I didn’t see any friends which was fine and good because I wanted to eat in silence.  In fact, I spent the whole rest of the day in silent meditation.  That’s when I heard screams coming from the entrance to the dining hall.  “The second one fell.    They got the second tower too.  And the Pentagon is under attack!”  The world was in pandemonium.  I decided to split and return to my dorm room.  I wanted to spend the day in sequestered silence, like a monk high in the mountains.  I thought it was the end of the world.

            The first day of my new life was just like this.  The first day of the end was etched on my memory like a branded cow.  It really was a day like any other.  A day full of promise and hope.  It was a blistery winter day.  All the trees were naked and exposed to the elements.  The sky was a sheet metal shade of grey.  I had to hold my scarf to my chest to keep it from blowing away. 

            I didn’t think it strange to find my apartment empty, as it was almost lunchtime.  People were at work, doing laundry, watching soaps, maybe cooking soups over their stoves.  I walked out onto Bedford and didn’t notice that there were no cars or people.  I usually was pretty oblivious to what was happening around me.  As a New Yorker, you know to keep one eye in front of you and one eye roaming to your left and right.  However, when it’s cold and you need orange juice and bread, you just plug in your Ipod and keep your eyes straight ahead.  So, no nothing seemed strange.  That is, not until I got to Flatbush Avenue, which was usually bustling with activity this time of day.

            As I turned a corner and hit Flatbush Avenue, that’s when I first noticed IT.  The ‘change’.  It was mid-day and most storefronts had their metal gates down.  It looked like a Sunday morning.  Flatbush Avenue with its wig  shops, beauty salons, Chinese restaurants, and dollar value stores was empty.  Not a soul, not a peep.  I could hear the wind in the trees and a few dogs barking in the distance but that’s all.

            Was I dreaming?  Had there been a terrorist attack?  A natural disaster?  Nothing else seemed amiss.  There was just an absence of people and sound.  It reminded me of an exhibit I saw once at a museum in Massachusetts where vintage carnival equipment was set up in a large room.  A few lights went on and off but there was little movement and an absence of sound.  The laughter and merriment that you associate with a  carnival were stripped from the room.  It was eerie just like the moment I was experiencing.  I felt like I had gone deaf but I knew my ears were working just fine.  Did I step into some alternate reality?

            It was at that moment that I decided to go into one of the only open storefronts, a Dunkin’ Donuts.  24 hours.  At going in, I would regret opening that door the minute I entered the warmth and silence of my usual haven for reasonably priced coffee and donuts.  The stench was unbearable.  Have you ever had a dead mouse in your apartment?   It smells like dead leaves and rotting vegetables.  The stench is unforgettable.  Well, almost immediately I felt like vomiting.  I covered my entire mouth and nose with my scarf.  But even then, that particular smell of death still permeated my lungs.  Death and donuts.  I saw one of the cashier’s bodies strewn across the counter still clutching a now gone cold cup of coffee.  Another cashier was lying on the floor under the donut display where some Boston Creams were blocking a view of her disfigured and rotting face. 

            I saw other bodies too.  A West Indian woman clutching a toddler to her breast.  A little girl not past the age of two or three.  The woman had long, grey and brown dreadlocks which covered most of her face.  I, however, could see the dried blood seeping from her mouth.  The little girl had blood all over her dress.  Her tiny hand was clutching a chocolate munchkin in a napkin.  I turned away in horror.  Then I noticed an elderly Chinese man seated in a chair, slumped over a table.  His hot beverage spilled and sticky all over the tiled floor.  There was a pool of blood under his face that mixed in with whatever he had been drinking. 

            What had happened here?  Murder?  Carbon Monoxide poisoning?  This Dunkin Donuts had a Grade Pending after all.  I ran out of the Dunkin Donuts and screamed a blood curdling horror movie scream.  Nothing.  No one came running.  No undead came shuffling down the street.  Whatever had happened had possibly involved the entire neighborhood, the entirety of New York City.  Maybe even the whole nation, the whole world.  I then realized that I couldn’t make any calls because I had left my cell phone to charge at home.  A common occurrence when I ran out quickly to pick up a few things at the grocery store.  Thank goodness for my photographic memory.  So, I went back into the Dunkin Donuts and noticed the Iphone on the floor right next to the dreadlocked woman.  I picked it up.

            I went back outside and did what anyone living in the 21^st century would do.  I tried to call my girlfriend, Marita.  I kept getting a fast paced beep. Busy.  Busy.  Busy.  I tried to call her again.  Nothing.  All the lines must be tied up, that or dare I say it, dead.  I tried calling 911.  A nasalized voice said ‘I’m sorry, but the party you’re trying to reach is unavailable.’  Unavailable?  How could the NYPD be ‘unavailable’?  What exactly was going on?

            I walked up and down Flatbush Avenue.  Either stores had their grey metal gates up or the ones that were open had the same internal organs as the Dunkin Donuts.  I would look in the glass window and see bodies on the floor, on the register, strewn out over clothing racks, hands outstretched like mannequins of the macabre. 

            It was the one time in my life, being a New Yorker that I longed for company.  I wanted to hear a voice or a laugh.  To breathe in cigarette smoke or car exhaust would mean an explanation.  Seeing a vagrant or widowed housewife would mean I could understand.  It was like my senses were handicapped, AWOL. 

            I tried calling a slue of phone numbers.  All of them got the same response.  Everyone I knew was quite possibly dead.  Their fate being similar to every corpse I had already seen.  Why weren’t there any bodies laying in the street?  Was everyone waiting for death silently in the warmth of modernity?  That’s when I saw it.  A pillar of smoke and flames.  There was a massive pile-up of cars down by Caton Avenue, by the Caton Market.  When it happened, it must have blocked off all traffic.  Semi-trucks and mini vans, livery cabs and sedans, vans and city buses.  There were about fifty or sixty vehicles and more stretched out past my field of vision.  I didn’t have to go any closer to see that each driver was dead and rotting like the bodies I first saw in Dunkin Donuts.

            Whatever traffic there had been on either side of Flatbush must have created one giant human puzzle of carnage.  A barrier to any cars and buses getting through to the part of Flatbush I had been walking down.  And in this reality, no bodies came walking out of the flames.  Everyone was dead as reality.  Nothing supernatural about burning flesh and bloodied corpses. 

At least I wouldn’t have to worry about fending off swarms of mobs, dead or undead.  I could still waltz into the grocery and get needed supplies.  Well, first thing on my list would be a cloth mask.  A few dozen packs of them.  Maybe an air freshener or two to stick on the inside of my scarf.  Apple Cinnamon or Hawaiian Breeze?  Funny how I still had these choices of an American consumer.  Yet all of the people coming up with the ideas for flavors and advertising were probably now deceased.  Their products would live on with the memory of the minds that came up with their concepts at a board meeting.

            What would I do now?  Well I guess I had an eternity to figure that out.  Maybe I’d just find a penthouse overlooking Central Park, one devoid of bodies.  Could I look for other people like me?  Did I want to find anyone?  Yes, I think so.  Today Brooklyn.  Tomorrow Manhattan.  Then Queens, the Bronx.  Staten Island if I could get to it at all.  The rest of Long Island.  Rochester, Albany, Schenectady, Buffalo.  Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Vermont.  South America, Mexico, Alaska.  I’d go anywhere my feet or a vehicle could take me. The world was now at my fingertips. 

            Just put in my Ipod headphones.  Continue to walk on and explore my new world.  That’s what I would do.  “I know you didn’t realize that the city was gone.  You thought there would be advertisements to give you something to go on.  And so we search the sky for any flashing signs.  We’ve gone too far beyond the borders, it’s just you and I.  And if this is the end, best place I’ve ever been.  It feels so good to just get lost sometimes.  Only the horses.”  Yes, indeed, now it’s only just me and the horses. 

------------
mmm...brains,
   ~R~

Epidsodes from My Unconventional Life

 

I used to own this t-shirt.  It says 'Get me out of my- Missouri.  The 'show me' state'. 

So despite feeling a little lost these days, as I'm not on track with any of my goals in life, I do have to say that I'm glad to be living in NYC.  I have ALWAYS wanted to live in New York.  To me, living in NYC meant unequivocal success and triumph.  Living in NY meant you had made it in the world, well, at least you were a step up from everyone else in America.

See, I grew up in suburbia.  I went to a very white, WASPY preparatory school, one of 'the best' in the country.  Really, my high school has a notorious reputation for churning out politicians, poets, playwrights, artists and leaders of society.  However, never wanting to subscribe to the young Republicans, I was always left out in the cold.  I never liked wearing ties and sports coats (our strict dress code).  I was not part of a blue blood family and I did not belong to a country club.  That and my family have a multi-million dollar house in Ladue (La-doo).  This was the name of the suburb my school was in.  And yes, it is actually just as pretentious as it sounds.  Some days, I went to school and I felt like I was going to throw up or run away to the desert.  And that feeling never went away for the thirteen years I went to that school.  I just never felt that I fit in.  I was Jewish and I did not care to become 'part of society'.

Funny, however, that my mother always dreamed of not only 'keeping up with the Jonses' but in being the Jonses.  She wanted to live in Ladue with an estate on the country club grounds (despite most of the people who lived there being anti-Semitic and racist).  She made me do cotillion and take dance/social etiquette lessons to train me.  I thought it creepy to go to a country club where stuffed animal's heads were on each wall, where I had to converse with peers who I abhorred and resented (the feelings were mutual).  When I told her I wanted to quit, just before high school where we would have to wear a tux and learn the place settings, I told her I wanted absolutely no interest in 'being part of society', at least the society of white gloves and black tie.  I never wanted to go to a debutante ball, let alone marry an actual debutante (even if they did let Jews attend).  What I wanted was to live in a society where I defined what success and well being were. 

My idea of success and living life was not the same as my peers.  I never cared about money or popularity as a means to life.  I also never saw it vital to my being to drink massive amounts of alcohol on weekends or play sports.  My school was big on both of these.  Every student HAD to play a sport for two seasons, and I chose PE.  I did not like team sports, though I could have easily done track or soccer.  I just didn't care.  Also, being part of the jock culture meant that you went to a lot of parties (just like in every John Hughes film).  Every weekend, some guy or girl would have a party at his/her house and yes, most often the parents were home.  They preferred to have their precious babies and their friends drinking under their own roof.  Sometimes, and I kid you not, the parents would pay off local cops to circle around their street so that if other police officers showed up, it wouldn't put a dampening spirit on the party.  If the parents weren't home, and off on a cruise in the Caribbean or skiing in Europe, then an older 'responsible' sibling was left in charge.  However, that sibling was usually busy trying to get into the pants of some high school hotty, that or getting high in the basement (or both).

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not bitter or regretful about what I did or didn't do in high school.  I'm really glad I never ran with the popular crowd.  Anyway, most of them are either fat or gay (or both).  Believe me, my school had a raging case of homophobia but what's more is that many of the football and basketball jocks were gay and used their gay bashing as a mask.  I still remember when a senior came out in the literary magazine when I was a freshman.  I also remember him being tossed into lockers and called 'fag'.  I don't remember any teachers or staff batting an eyelash.  Or anyone doing anything when the word 'nigger' was written on a Jet magazine in the library.  At least there was no public forum or assembly to address the topic (not that I remember anyway).

What I do remember, however, was that two of my classmates called people out on their homophobia.  One girl, Katie wrote an article in the paper about the use of the words like 'fag' and 'gay'.  Another girl, Susan made a speech about it in assembly.  That made some people think, but most of the student population didn't care.  And believe me, I also had friends who called others out on their racism too.  Though, bigotry was running in the water, mostly due to naivety and blissful ignorance.  I asked a friend of mine once what her views on homosexuality were.  She just said 'My religion doesn't agree that it's okay.'  When I repeated to her, 'What do YOU think'.  She just repeated what her religion and parents thought.  I knew how lame that was.  I knew that most of the students at my school had little capacity for humanitarianism and culture.  Yes, they were book smart but being asked to think outside of their box, confused and scared many. 

See, most of the kids I went to school with believed things only because their peers believed them or their parents told them to think those things.  We had very few kids who could actually think for themselves.  That's why I hung out with the uncool, artsy, theater kids.   The kids who everyone thought were all gay or vampires, or both.   The kids who chose to create art over throwing a football.  The kids who were intellectual and kept a black book filled with poetry and art.  Other people sneered at our group and made fun of us.  I purposefully did not give two shits.  At one point, the principal (who was a major dickhead) locked the female bathroom in the area my friends hung out in because there was a 'rumor' that lesbian sex was going on in there.  However, the heterosexual oral sex that was going on in the chapel (where we had secular assembly) was never challenged.  I saw through all of it!

I was even asked, at one point, by a peer to stop hanging out with certain people to increase my coolness status.  Of course I refused.  No one told me who my friends were and none of the bullying and taunting could stop me from being myself.  I did what I did; I lived my life the way I wanted to and could care less what others said or thought.  In fact, a lot of kids, who I later became friends with, were at first scared of me.  That's because in ninth grade I pretended to be a vampire and actually did things like cut myself with a protractor during study hall to keep people away.  My shield was my weirdness because since I was a fish out of water, why not accentuate it and play the part everyone expected?  It's funny too, because a lot of people thought I did drugs (heroine chic), had multiple piercings and tattoos, and went to bondage clubs and raves on the weekend.  None of those things were true.  But, I let people make up their own stories because it was easier that way. 

I was very well aware of the stratification of popularity and the rules my peers abided by.  I took a shit all over those very same rules.  I have a feeling that a lot of my teachers like me purely because I was a rogue, a rebel.  I raged against the night.  We had a strict dress code, but I chose to get clothes from Salvation Army and Goodwill rather than Brooks Brothers and J. Crew.  What's funny is that now I love J. Crew and Brooks Brothers and abhor Goodwill.  But, seriously, I had to wear collared shirts, okay I would wear snapping cowboy shirts and work shirts with name tags of names like Biff and Bubba.  I also began dying my hair; My hair has been every single shade in the rainbow.  By senior year, I had bleach blond hair and would spike it with glue (yes glue).  I rebelled full throttle.  I made people accept me because they knew that I saw through all the bullshit.  And my plan always was to get the hell outta dodge (Missouri) and get my ass to New York, where I truly belong. 

I've always had a good bullshit detector and have always had little tolerance for people being fake and flaky.  I've always told people, what you see is what you get and if you don't like it, then fuck off.  That's why I love New York.  You can run naked down the street here and no one cares (no, I haven't done that).  There's the annual Santa Con where people dress up in Santa suits and go from bar to pub until you see thousands of Santa's puking in alleyways.  Of course, New York has fashion week twice a year, in September and February.  So that brings out the eccentric and bizarre as well.  Of course there's Halloween and New Year's where all the freaks come out at night.  New York is live and let live.  You can be anybody here.  And, if you're not anybody, you can reinvent yourself again and again and again.  However, New York is very critical about people's persona, in that you have to contain a lot of talent and passion to impress anyone.  Egos will be checked at the door.  New York is unforgiving in first impressions which is why I always dress for a part when I walk out the door.

So yes, New York is not judgemental.  At the same time, though, you never know who you will meet and so you have to expect anything.  You don't want to walk around in sweats or pajama pants, not event when doing errands.  Something that I learned very quickly being out of the Midwest.  Though people have a blase attitude about just about everything, you are being watched and judged here.  The city that never sleeps have eyes out everywhere.  And  you know what, I like that.  On one hand you can be anything and anyone, but at the same time there is no tolerance for mediocre.  Living in New York, you have to aspire for greatness and shoot for the stars.  Otherwise, why move here?  Go to some more laid back place like Colorado or Oregon.  New York is NOT for the faint of heart, and that's why I love this city.  I feel like it truly is MY city.  And I'm a New Yorker!  Thank goodness!

 Reinvented and Renewed,

~R~

Blotter test

       

WHAT DO YOU SEE?

  Alice Russell performing 'Crazy' at Union Chapel in London (2010)

 

'The Sound of Silence', Simon and Garfunkel (1964)

"I remember when I lost my mind. There was something so pleasant about that place.
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space [...]. Come on now, who do you
Who do you, who do you, who do you think you are?  Ha, ha, ha bless your soul.  You really think you're in control? -Crazy (originally performed by Gnarles Barkley)

"The words of the prophet are written on the subway walls.." -Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel



I will attempt to list most of the crazy incidents that I have been witness to on the subway. This compilation is due to the fact that I seem to magnetize crazy people, and they literally seek me out.  I think it's largely because I am partially crazy myself, and you know what, I embrace it.  Hell yea, it feels good to be a little crazy! (in a good way)

 The following piece is an homage to those interesting people who pass me by all the time and often go unnoticed in a city where being a little 'touched in the head' is the water we drink and air we breathe in. All of the following pieces are bits from various observations I've made and recall of run-ins with the unusual.

One time while I was standing on the platform, I saw an older man with white hair, perhaps in his 60's, who was doing Tai-Chi (is it?) He looked at me on the opposite side of the platform for the uptown Bronx bound B train, while I stood on the downtown Brooklyn bound side. But, what the hell was he doing? He was moving his arms and hands around in small circles, positioning his feet in a way that totally weirded me out. Thank goodness he was far away! How many times has this exact thing happened? I'm here, the weirdo over there.  Or am I also the weirdo, and 'they' stare at me thinking what I am about them.

Always while waiting for a train or while actually on the subway, I see the weirdest shit possible. I always wonder if anyone else is watching but me? Now that I live here, in New York, it's like a cattle call, open casting audition for lunatics. Like how taxi and car services send a dispatch for waiting customers. Or, how day laborers sit on a bench waiting for that job to get their daily pay stub to feed their family.

Just in the past few days, I've seen a hell of a lot.  Yesterday evening, while waiting for the Q, I saw a man dressed nicely in a white button down shirt, black dress shoes, nice dress slacks, and a chapeau.  He kept laughing and going 'ehh ahh ecch ahh' in the back of his throat.  He was holding a conversation with someone who wasn't there.  He kept looking at people, standing on the opposite platform, standing around him, pointing and laughing.  He kept moving his eyebrows up and down opening his eyes wide.  His smile was eerie, his laugh a little sinister.  He kept this performance up on the train as well.  The yuppies around me told themselves that if this man came near them, they'd drop kick him onto the tracks.

Then, the other day, I saw a rapping transexual.  She was dressed in a tight leopard print skirt, some colorful print stockings, and a tight fitting shiny top.  She was colorful, wore lots of clinky jewelry, and had bright red hair.  Her face had lots of piercings and she wore spikey heels.  Everyone looked at her because they could tell she wasn't 'truly' a woman in their opinion.  To me, she was 'born this way'; I didn't really care.  The thing is, if she were born a woman, this outfit would be considered outlandish (though the transexual part is beside the point).  What made this woman stand out was the fact that she was hardcore rapping.  When I say hardcore, I mean every other word was a cuss word.  She was gangsta rapping using swears and rapping overtly sexual lyrics.  The woman next to me was offended because there might be kids around and didn't like the language.  I agreed.  Then on the train, I had a conversation with an African American woman about how this transexual rapper needed to be on stage.  It was so entertaining to watch her, the outfit combined with her low voice and choice of lyrics.  She was a good rapper too, very talented. 

The day before this, I was on a G train on the way to an interview.  I was late.  The reason?  A woman (crazy) decided to threaten to jump in front of the train.  So, they had to stop the train and call the police.  They had to contain us inside the car without opening the door for at least 15-20 minutes.  The woman also threw a jacket on top of the train car.  She muttered something about the enemy putting a computer/laser control device in her head.  She had to get away before her mind was taken over, before it was too late.  These are the facts I gathered from the subway control operator and other passerbys.

That's not all though!  One time, I saw a man open a gym bag, only to reveal a three foot Boa Constrictor.  As soon as the snake came out of the bag, the man started slapping/petting the snake.  People freaked out and moved away to one side of the subway car.  I couldn't believe it when I saw it.  My mouth/jaw dropped wide open.  I couldn't believe that I was seeing a snake on the subway.  Forget snakes on a plane, man!  What is even more hilarious is that this man was selling exotic animals on his phone.  He had alligators, lizards, other snakes, and iguanas.  Not all in the bag though.  They were on his farm somewhere upstate.  He was handing out his name and phone number for people interested in buying his pets.  Unbelievable!!  That's not all, though.  As I went upstairs to Union Square, the Occupy Wall Street protesters were making noise and attracting a crowd.  Then, I saw a woman, bare breasted (with no shirt) taking pictures/video of people walking around her (who were mostly taking pictures/video of her).  She also had a moustache drawn on her upper lip and a blonde wig!  Performance art?  Or was she just another crazy person?

Here's the thing!  Sometimes, I imagine a room, maybe padded, where the world's crazies wait and then...'Calling all nuts and weirdos..here comes Charlie!..calling all nuts...Charlie is walking down 14th and Broadway..send out 'Screaming Jesus' or 'Psychedelic Suzie'. It's like the movie 'Running Man', a 1980's not quite cult classic with Arnold Schwarzenegger as the star. The basic premise is that he is placed in a game/reality show for criminals (though he and his delinquent friends are all innocent due to being framed by host Richard Dawson). 'The Terminator' has to battle different characters including an opera singing fat guy in an electric suit. I've digressed from the main point here, but I feel like the governor of California when I walk through the subway. I'm minding my business and all of a sudden a Chinese man in a hockey suit is blocking my path toward safety.

Best subway rides of all time:

C) Female preaching how females wearing pants is against the Bible, and she knows because it's right next to the prohibition on homosexuals (which she also talks about). Then, she starts telling everyone how to pray, not to Allah, Hashem (which I think she pronounces like Hashish), or Mary but to the big J-man. There were many older people on the train, and she said that for them, time was slipping away fast. They had, five, maybe ten good years left on them, describing these senior citizens like they are a vacuum cleaner or a washing machine. She pointed to them, especially, making them more aware of Jesus (did I mention there was a man sitting by her with a Bible making sure she was quoting it correctly?), but more importantly what they knew already, that they were going to die. In the words of Stephanie Tanner from 'Full House': HOW RUDE!

R) Oh, and how can I forget the woman asking for money for food. She was an older woman, too rouged up in old sweats. Maybe a power walker going on some errands or a love sick Jane Fonda workout groupie. She looked like she had been jogging for the last fifteen years. She started bending down like she was trying to sit in an invisible chair. She had her eyes closed and kept doing it slowly, over and over again. I thought that maybe she was delirious and tired from hunger, or perhaps she would just keel over right there. Maybe she was sick. She just kept rising an falling like that in a tiresome, repetitive motion. She was like this sad, slow, old elevator. Then, she just stopped, departed, and went on her merry way.

A) Then, what about this one woman who was opening and closing her mouth wide and stretching her fingers. She was tapping her nose and moving her hands and wrist like she was drumming for a band only she could hear. I watched her for the duration of my subway ride. I suppose that she had some tics, but it was beyond something one can just ignore. Was she a marionette?

Z) Or, the guy who preached that homosexuality was a conspiracy of evil and sent by aliens to corrupt us. We should all be watchful of evil crumbling priests who are really robots in disguise. Or, something along those lines. I lost his train of logic after he mentioned homosexuals and aliens.

Y) The famous one that I tell all the time, is of this Indian looking guy with most of his teeth missing. He had wiry, gray hair and was wearing beach wear for what was now mid-November. He was rocking back and forth very fervently like he was in an Orthodox synagogue. I was watching him closely to make sure he didn't get close to the group I was with. I got on the subway car, and watched our guy to make sure he didn't get in with us. He did one better than that. As the car was pulling away, he started moving toward it. He looked right at me and waved. I looked around in a state of confusion. He pointed his bony finger at me, smiled a wry, toothless grin and waved again. Then he started saying something emphatic as if we knew each other for years. I was astounded at this expression of gratitude, like I was a god of craziness and he was merely paying homage.

What is it about me and crazy people? Sometimes I think that other people on the subway look at me and stare thinking, wow, look at that guy. OR, maybe crazies flock to me because they feel safe, like I'd understand them and their plight. Maybe that I landed off of the same spaceship they did. Well, at least they aren't me, and next to me their flaring shit for brains space antics are barely noticeable. All of these people who I've seen that I classify as deranged either talk to themselves in muli-harmony voices, look like they might erupt with violent outbursts, or dress like they selected their wardrobe in a blackout.

I don't know why so-called batshit crazy people flock to me. Since, I've moved to NYC, it seems I always have some story involving public transit though. Like the time I was on the bus and this man going to the hospital could barely stand up, let alone keep his pants up, because he was so drunk. Then, the time that the subway got delayed because someone got sick and passed out. That isn't the bizarre part though; Right before the authorities came, everyone was crowding on the platform and there was this woman trying to box fight this guy for no apparent reason other than being annoyed that he was trying to sell candy bars on the train. By the way, this prize fighting woman looked just like Flavor Flav's little sister!

I also recall the guy who had too much to drink the night before. I was on the train with my brother-in-law at the time of this incident, so he can vouch for it's authenticity. The drunken party guy was eating Funions and not very gracefully might I add. He was playing darts with the chips and his mouth, and losing badly. He also was drinking something out of a paper bag, and I guess it was of the alcoholic variety. He began to pass out and spill beer all over himself while also slumping on my brother-in-law. My brother-in-law told me that as we got off the train, to get up slowly so that he'd spring release the drunk onto the seat. As we did, he spilled bear all over himself, but did not wake out of his drug induced/drunken stupor.

I figure that in New York, dressing like it's Halloween when it's March or dancing and singing in a line a the post office or Associated supermarket like it's an American Idol audition just adds to the flavor of this place. Why not tell the checkout girl that you're so angry that you'll blow the place up? By the way, all of the suggested scenarios have happened to me in some shape or form. Right now, you're probably scratching your head, going Oh shit, this guy really does have a crazy magnet.

When does the noticeably idiosyncratic get abrasive and plain terrifying though? Once, when I was on the subway, and it was packed to the brim during rush hour. About five or six kids thought it would be funny to get into the car, begin talk/beat boxing/rapping very loudly and treating the car like their own personal mosh pit. Then, they were telling obscene jokes and commenting on various women's (on the train) anatomy while telling anyone who challenged them to 'shut the fuck up'. I think I have a pretty high tolerance for erratic behavior. But, in that situation, even I made sure to alert the MTA woman, hanging out the window of the train, as I walked off the train.

All my life, no matter how or where I travel, I'm followed by some strange individual who wants to reach out and embrace me with 31 flavors of insanity. The person always looks me in the eye as if acknowledging that I'd understand my compatriots' point of view. Sometimes, I really do wonder if these people see me and think, "Wow he's crazier than I am! That makes me feel much better.

I embrace my craziness.  I know it takes one to know one.  I also dedicate this post to my dear friend, Mary.  She understands this concept and we are kindred souls, peas out of the same pod.  Mary, I wouldn't change my artsy fartsy crazy ways for anything in the world!  Embrace your crazy!!

Crazy is as crazy does,

~R~

Note to crazy people (in a sarcastic tone): Leave me alone. The joke's not funny anymore. Don't speak, look, terrorize, or bother me. Go find some Wall Street suit or German tourist. Let's make a deal; take your technicolor hallucination fantasy that you really are Abraham Lincoln and go enlist in a Civil War reenactment ceremony.

ARTsy FartSY

When you think of eccentric artists, who comes to mind? Salvador Dali, Andy Warhol, Vincent Van Gogh.

One name is missing from your list. Possibly one of the most genius artists who exists in the world of photography AND fashion, snapping photos of clothes is Bill Cunningham. I would argue that he is by far one of the most revolutionary and important artists/photographers of the 20th/21st century. The man is in his mid-eighties and still rides around the city of New York on a bicycle taking photographs with a non-digital camera (that is a camera that still takes film that one gets developed). He lives alone; he isn't married nor has he ever been in a significant romantic relationship. Probably a lot of people think he is 'gay', but to me Bill is Bill. He defies conventional definitions and cannot be boxed in. His sexuality isn't something Bill Cunningham thinks about often or really has time for. He isn't sad at never having started a family, nor does he seem regretful about his life. He lives his life doing what he loves and seems content.

After watching the documentary about his life, made one year ago, in 2011, Bill Cunningham in my new hero. It is 85 minutes that you will not regret. Bill Cunningham New York. Do yourself a favor. Watch it. Now! (PS: It's on Netflix!) He lives by his own rules and not by other people's expectations. Growing up, his Catholic family did not really want him entering into the fashion world because it isn't a man's territory. However, rather than being a banker or businessman like other men in the 50's and 60's, he took pictures of clothes. He is one of the last true artists of our generation. He has defied being conventional and mundane by being unique and reaching outside of the box. Labels defy him, they bounce off like bullets.

For the last 40 to 50 years, he has been riding around NYC on his bike taking pictures of street fashion, high society galas, and runway shows. He has been to Paris many times, and he is on a first name basis with many socialites and designers. However, Bill Cunningham is everything but pretentious. He is so humble, that it is almost hard to believe how modest he is. He gets hundreds of invitations to functions that are typically reserved for the socially elite and well known celebrities around New York City. He, however, chooses the ones where he is inspired by the charity and finds something intriguing about their cause and work. What's more is that he doesn't sup at these events. It would be anyone's dream to sit down and eat caviar and sip expensive wine while rubbing elbows with New York's rich and reputable. However, Bill Cunningham refrains from touching anything, even sitting, at these events. He is there to photograph clothes and make honest reflections and societal commentary, through his pictures, about the story that clothes and people tell. He has upper crust NY eating out of the palm of his hand, yet he prefers to eat at the corner deli.

He doesn't buy the most expensive equipment. In fact, he uses the same camera he has for years and often reuses materials instead of buying something expensive and new. He just doesn't see a point to spending money frivolously. Bill Cunningham also lives in a very modest apartment above Carnegie Hall, or at least he did at the shooting of the film. As he went apartment hunting in nicer, loftier, more expensive looking places, Bill looked rather embarrassed. Bill also has a very small work studio. One would think that for a man with his prestige and credentials that he'd have a whole floor of a building to use as his work space. Bill Cunningham is not a man of pretension and artifice. Though, he admits in the film the irony of how he lives his life since it contrasts with the fact that he loves to photograph clothing.

He has worked with the New York Times since 1978 and still has a regularly and popularly read section. His career began with the Chicago Tribune, and during that time he also worked with Women's Wear Daily. However, despite being the toast of the town for his photos, he stopped with work with Women's Wear because they were doing things with his work that he didn't approve of. For example, Bill has always taken photos of street fashion. He especially likes to profile regular non-model types wearing runway clothing. In Women's Wear, they took the opportunity to make fun of and mock the regular women wearing designer looks. They also would use Bill's pictures to point out the 'worst' and 'best' dressed. Bill Cunningham, however, would not have this. To him, no one is 'better' or 'worse' because a person wears or doesn't wear something in particular. He takes pictures of the elite and mundane people as a way to equate them. What people wear on a day-to-day basis is just as artful as what the runways premieres. To Bill Cunningham, all of fashion is art.

What inspires me the most about this man is that he is completely humble. Every designer around the globe knows his name. He can get into any fashion show and rub elbows with the crème de la crème of the fashion world. However, to Bill, it's just life, c'est la vie. It doesn't get to his head. He likes going to fashion shows and being allowed to photograph because, to him, it's fun. This is his livelihood. He still goes to church every Sunday. He admits in the film that he goes to church 'to hear music' since he wouldn't have time for music otherwise. Photography and fashion is what he eats, sleeps, and breathes, literally!

I think the biggest compliment ever would be if I were walking around Manhattan and I see Bill sidle up next to me in his blue smock and bicycle snapping shots of what I'm wearing. That would be the greatest honor of life, just because the very act of acknowledging my clothes as art would acknowledge me as a person. Bill Cunningham's art is empowering to people of every race, class, and culture. He has captured NY history through clothes. He has photographed major fashion trends from the hippified, bohemian sixties to disco seventies to flashdance/volumized eighties to grunge/alternative nineties. Bill Cunningham's art has transcended time. He has captured movements and styles that will be forever remembered. He takes the notion of whether everyday people create fashion as art or fashion instructs all of us to wear what we do.

One quote from the movie really struck a chord with me. Bill Cunningham said, "The wider world that sees fashion sometimes as a frivolity that should be done away with in the face of social upheavals and problems that are enormous. The point is, in fact, that fashion, you know it is the armor to survive the reality of everyday life. I don't think you could do away with it; it would be like doing away with civilization."

I never really thought of fashion in this way. We all deal with what life throws at us through clothing. It reflects every mood and event in our life. In a world seemingly out of order, our clothes are one thing we can always have control over. More inspiring is that we are all empowered, as artists, through our clothes. It is our way to show who we think we are to the world. We can create a character for ourselves, we can reinvent ourselves, we tell others what to think through our clothing. For Bill Cunningham, he truly enjoys the art of taking photos of clothes because it is the clothes that speak about who we are as people and individuals. He doesn't do it to be famous or noticed. He shies away from public recognition. He acts just like someone's fun-loving grandpa or eccentric uncle, so down to earth.

He can exist within every level of society, multiple worlds. This is a gift that most people never attain. He can slip in and out of high society functions. He is the only photographer who people like Anna Wintour will stop and pose for. He was good friends with Lady Astor. He is one of the last bastions of old artist New York, as he lived in Carnegie Hall with Editta Sherman (photographer/dancer) and Toni 'Suzette' Cimino (artist), the last artistes to reside above Carnegie Hall. Bill Cunningham is a legend and an inspiration to artists everywhere. He lives for his art, and makes his work passion. He is unassuming and lives the same way an NYU film student would live (penny to penny). For year he didn't want to get paid the full worth of his photos when he shot for Details magazine. To Bill, money ruins everything and as an artist, without it, you are more powerful.

Bill Cunningham is like a infusion of Mister Rogers mixed with The Mad Hatter. By the way, he was a milliner, hatmaker; he used to design and make his own hats. I would seriously give my left eye to meet this man and shake his hand. Through his art, he is a revolutionary, a rogue, a visionary. He defies the labels of class through his photos and equates all levels of NY society through their clothing. A street punk, street performer, and art student are just as important fixtures of NY society as any Rockefeller or Carnegie. Through his photos, he blurs the line between fashion, art, and sociology/history. He is a true maverick. I can proudly say that Bill Cunningham is my new hero. In an age where heroes are dead, I have found one worth looking up to and aspiring to be.

Bon nuit,
 ~R~

Further resources/reading:
=The Film site
=Bill Cunningham's NY Times column
=NY Times article on Bill

Passion for Fashion

I'm not a fashionista OR a metrosexual, the term for men into fashion. In fact, my wife thinks I'm one of the least fashionable men around. Mostly because I don't give a crap about how I look most of the time. I don't remember the last time I combed my hair, and sometimes I skip taking a shower (depends on my mood). As for clothes, I do have some stylish pieces and looks, but in general, I'm not that into fashion! However, since being in NYC, I cannot help but be drawn to the fashion movement and have an ear to the ground for what's hot and cool.

I have learned major designers names and now coo at hearing about designers making exclusive lines for particular stores like Gap or J. Crew. Before moving to the big city, however, I couldn't tell you who Diane von Furstenburg, Alexander McQueen, or Isaac Mizrahi, or Marc Jacobs were. Now, I'm HOOKED on the show, Project Runway (thanks Kim) its spin-off Project Accessory as well as 24-hour Catwalk and the Fashion Fund mini-episodes (on Hulu). I still sometimes say to myself, 'Who is that?' and my wife goes, 'WHAT! you don't know (fill in the name of some really famous designer)? Then, I look up what the designer does on the computer and google about biography, background, style, etc. I was clueless about this world before living in Brooklyn.

In fact, just yesterday, I hung out with an old friend (she's not old..I've known her for a while). I actually consider her a 'phantom high school' friend. I just created that myself. We didn't go to high school together (in the same generation or at the same school). However, I KNOW that if we had gone to school together, that we would have been really good friends. She used to dress in vintage styles from different decades; she shopped at thrift shops. I wore snapping cowboy shirts and Dickies work pants. We both dressed in kooky styles put together from other decades, and didn't care about brand names or labels.

So yesterday, as we're walking around Manhattan, she tells me that being in NYC, you cannot escape being somewhat inspired/intrigued by the fashion world. She was saying that every single magazine in her hotel room had to do with fashion. Not only this, but her son (who is more brand conscious, as are most teenagers nowadays) bought some green Nike shoes. He needed new shoes, and he wanted Nike shoes, so I recommended they check out Nike Town (surprisingly, the shoes weren't astronomical as expected). I have to say that the shoes are wicked cool, and my friend's 13-year-old will be the toast of his middle school upon returning.

Other people walking around noticed the shoes and remarked how cool they were. In fact, my friend and her son were directing people to Nike Town. They were a walking advertisement. I, thereby, challenge anyone to come to New York and not be enchanted by fashion and trends. You see ads and fashion references on billboards, in the subway, on passing buses, even in any newspaper or news broadcast. And don't say, 'I don't have a lot of money!' There are cheap-o brand name shoe and clothing stores in Brooklyn and even Manhattan has deals. Heck, go to Chinatown and buy some knock-off purses (although I've been told that the city has cracked down).

My own history with fashion isn't completely null and void. I started getting into J. Crew and Brooks Brothers back in college. Actually, I had three personal shopper: my best friend Sarah T.; my sister, Margaret; and my wife Clair. They got me into wearing pink shirts and pin stripe trousers. My wife and I, back when we were JUST friends used to go to Easton (a posh outdoor mall in Columbus) and go to Abercrombie and J. Crew. Back then, Hollister and American Eagle was considered 'fancy' for me. Though, now I'm more of a Brooks Brothers/J. Crew sort. My first wool trousers were purchased at J. Crew, as was my first cashmere sweater. At the advice of the women mentioned above, I began to embrace color and style. I took advice on what 'looked good' on me and what didn't. In fact, I still have some of these recommended purchases in my closet!

Since living here, in New York City, I find myself actually caring about how I look before I go out (especially if I'm going to Manhattan). There is a poster I always see in the subway, and advertisement for Manhattan Storage: "New Yorkers don't dress better than everyone else, we just act like it." That pretty much sums up the persona.

Below, you will find shots I took of mannequins/store displays around Manhattan and Brooklyn:







Even from the shop windows and mannequins, you can see that fashion is art in NYC. And, there is a style for EVERYONE under the sun! Plus, here you don't have to look very far to see inspiration and unique ideas. On the subway, bus, and in the streets, you are bombarded by different styles and ways of wearing clothes. I have noticed that the 80's has come back in full style here: big shoulders, big hair, clunky jewelry. However, I often see other decades too. I've seen dapper looking men with wax in their moustache (to style in circa 1900's) wearing suspenders, a bow-tie, and then mixing it up with a 70's style polyester suit. I've seen women with punk hairstyles and tattoos wearing a 50's dress silhouette/style. People here are all about fashion, and it crosses cultures, religions, ages, genders, sexualities, nationalities. Often different groups get inspiration from each other.

I would have never in a million years thought that I'd admit that the first thing I'd do at becoming famous and/or wealthy is to get myself a personal shopper/stylist at Bloomingdale's mens' department. Seriously, you walk into the basement where the menswear is, and you are bombarded by classic suits and hip urban chic men's clothing. It is NOT some middle America Macy's or commercialized mall department store. You see items at Bloomingdale's that are unlike anything you've ever seen. They have top designers and signature brands (like Ralph Lauren Polo, Calvin Klein, and Tommy Hilfiger). But, there are also designers you've never heard of, or at least ones that I haven't heard of. The mens' department at Bloomingdale's is amazing! If you are male, go there, and try not to be hypnotized by cool fashion styles and trends. I include the website below, BUT be warned that for the full effect of male fashion obsession to take place, you have to go in person for the ambiance and effect. The prices will make you cringe, but then you'll wish you had that amount of cash so you could look so cool!

(below): pics of Bloomingdale's menswear department:





~Bloomingdale's Mens'Department

I think it's great that straight men are embracing a once man taboo. Of course men can be into fashion and this hobby have no bearing on one's sexuality. After all, the days of 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy' are over. Men are learning how to dress themselves and embrace v-necks, Italian suits, and bright colors. It is cool to be fashionable if you're a guy. Guys of the world, know that you are not a 'sissy' for being interested in brands, designers, and fashion. The trend is growing, and sooon...

Below are some pics of NYC street fashion (the last three are my own pictures):







You will become a FASHUN-MISTA (or a Man-shion-ista)! That's my new term for guys who are into fashion (I like the former better). And just so you know, guys of all stripes are fashionable these days. That includes men in both the gay and straight worlds. There are plenty of straight, macho men who are into fashion (especially in NYC). In fact, men are blogging about it and it is consuming the mans' world. Nascar, football, baseball, and golf are pastimes of yesteryear. The new 'guy' thing to do is to be a fashun-mista!

~NY Observer article on Men and Fashion

Fashionably yours,

~R~