Naked Go-Go Dancers, Confetti and Peace

After weeks of sweltering temperatures, BP oil spill coverage and MTA whining about budget shortfalls, we New Yorkers deserved some kind of break. It came in the form of a cool breeze and some Flaming Lips.

The band played Central Park's Summer Stage bandshell on Monday night. The titillating good time kicked off with projections of naked psychadelic go-go dancers. Now, The Boy will tell you that you can never go wrong with go-go dancers. Naked go-go dancers? Even better.

Did the show include Wayne Coyne in the giant plastic hamster ball? Yes. Confetti? Yes. Furries and Wormies on stage? Yes. Randoms dancing onstage? Yes. (How do they get that gig?)

Was there anything "new" about their show? Not really. They played the traditional crowd pleasers and some new stuff. But how can you be anything but psyched when there is confetti raining down on you? I left with a smile on my face and a commitment to catch their second show at Terminal 5 the next night. My hatred of Terminal 5 as a venue and my inability to root out free tickets led me to welch on that commitment. However, I will always recommend a Flaming Lips show as an antidote to clinical depression. Cheaper than therapy and you might get a contact high.

Check out brooklynvegan.com for pics and video.

Scenes From The East Village

With The Boy out of town, I took the opportunity to appreciate some girl time with The West Side Beauty and The Little Nolita Lady. Here are some shots of NYC life in the East Village.

Photos by Shanda Boyett. Copyright 2010.

Feather Dusting

Last week The Boy and I headed down to Union Square to run some errands and kept noticing something odd, even by New York standards. We saw several people walking down the street with pillows. The Boy reckoned there was some type of school bus trip meeting nearby. I thought maybe there had been an all night rave (I don't know why I thought it would have been appropriate to bring pillows to a rave, but hey, i'm old and out of touch, so what do I know.)

Anyway, we were both wrong. It was actually the celebration of World Pillow Fight Day. Eventually, The Boy and I ran right smack into the fight which was feather dusted pandemonium.

Photo by me.

A Month of Plays

One of the great things about living in Manhattan is access to all the city provides - the restaurants, the nightlife, the theater. And theater generally means Broadway.

When we lived in Texas, we would catch a touring show from time to time, but it wasn't a frequent event. In fact, I'm lucky The Boy ever agreed to attend a show with me again after the great Hairspray fiasco of 2005. We had bought tickets to the touring show, along with about a dozen of my female relatives. At the last moment, I had to go out of town for work and couldn't attend. The poor Boy was left to chauffeur a gaggle of high-cheekboned women around downtown Houston. Since then, he's never really loved musicals.

This month we tested his affinity for plays, seeing three Broadway plays and one off-Broadway play during the month.

We began with A Behanding in Spokane, chosen for the good reviews and Christopher Walken in the starring role. We had front-row seats and were mesmerized by his creepy cool performance. However, the play was inexplicably racial. The slurs and bigotry, which didn't seem to be necessary for the story, really turned me off.

I was ready for a little racial provocation the next week at the performance of Race.

The David Mamet play stars James Spader, the prick hottie Steff from Pretty in Pink but now one of the quirky lawyers in Boston Legal, Kerry Washington, David Alan Grier and Richard Thomas, of Walton's fame.

The reviews of the play have been mixed, and so is my own take on it. I found the play itself interesting, as it explores preconceptions and everyone's own built in racial biases. But I thought the performances were flat and leaden across the board. Pity.

On the other other hand, God of Carnage, about parents whose young boys have had a school yard fight and who devolve from idealized adults to immature barbarians over the course of the play, was pretty fun to watch.

The story, dialogue and characters were sharp and hilarious. The Boy

laughed out loud several times, always a good sign.

Finally, we had the good fortune to have a Broadway and TV actor living

in our building. He is currently starring in an off-Broadway play called

The Temperamentals.

"Temperamental" was code for homosexual in the 1950s and the play

explores coming out during that period as two men create the first gay

rights organization pre-Stonewall.

The performances were amazing, probably most enjoyed of all the

plays I saw in the month. Michael Urie, from Ugly Betty, was freaking

adorable and so talented. My neighbor as well blew me away with

the unique physicality he demonstrated via the different the characters

he played.

So there it is, our month of culture. This month, The Boy's in charge,

so we're probably gonna watch consecutive episodes of 'Deadliest

Catch' instead.

Can't wait.

Don't Just Mind The Gap

Last week, a most horrendous turn of events led me to be ever more cautious in the wake of a coming subway. A woman, apparently in an effort to rescue the bag she had dropped down into the tracks, jumped down to retrieve it and was crushed by an oncoming train.

Now I generally play it super cool in the subway. I peer ever so cautiously down the track for oncoming trains, not out of fear but impatience. And I step behind the yellow caution line when the train barrels up. The one time I did happen to drop something into the track (my house key while I was living in Washington, DC), I notified the station staff and was able to pick it up on my way home that evening. It didn't even occur to me to jump down into the hole with the live third rail and active vermin.

So I'm amazed that anyone would put themselves at risk this way - apparently, according to some reports, merely to save her workout clothes and deodorant.

Not really worth it. I'm just saying.

I was mindful of this cautionary tale a few days later, though, when a hurried commuter ran past me as I was adjusting my iPhone, jettisoning it to the edge of the track just as a train came crashing through. With visions of crushed appendages dancing in my head, I stood still, completely at attention, waiting for the train to rumble by. For those few moments I was lost, disconnected from my phone, my music, my world. But I didn't want to make it permanent, so I played it safe, waiting until the train came to a complete stop to retrieve my blessed extension.

How (not) To Wait Out A Snowstorm

A couple of weeks ago, I mocked the city's response to an impending snow storm. Schools were closed. My company told us to stay home if we could. I cheerfully worked at home that Snow Day, watching the pristine flakes fall all day long, accumulating about 10 inches in the city. However, it was hardly the storm of the century. I didn't get a chance to play in the snow, but ventured out for a movie that evening. Pretty tame stuff, even for someone like me who's still only experienced snow about a dozen times.

Fast forward two weeks and another impending snow storm. The response this time was more measured. The city didn't cancel school until the morning after the worst of it hit, but most of my co-workers were prepared to stay home again. This time, that was indeed the right choice. The city was ultimately covered in18 inches of snow.

After putting in a series of 14-hour days for a Friday deadline, I didn't have the choice of staying home. I tromped through a foot of pristine powder at 6:30 am to ensure I arrived at work in time for an 8 am meeting with the Grand Poobah. I passed a cross-country skier taking advantage of the relatively deserted sidewalks. It was just he and I and the swoosh swoosh of passing skis. I expertly navigated the cross-town trek from the subway to my office, past the World Trade Center site which was also ambling to life despite the treacherous weather.

It continued to snow all day, I noticed, as I watched it's frenetic descent in the windy enclave of downtown Manhattan. At lunchtime, I shared a social moment with a nearby table as we watched, incredulous, as a jogger outside loped by in shorts and no shirt.

I hoped to leave the office before it was dark, before the temperature dropped and the powdery snow turned to ice. Instead, I worked until almost 9 pm. When I left, the city was quiet. The streets and sidewalks were clear. The snow had stopped and I headed home. It was as if the snowstorm never happened. I was just another workaday career girl in waterproof boots making her way to the subway and the long trip home.

Photo by me.

Jammed Up

One of my favorite memories from growing up is the amazing breakfasts my dad would prepare on weekends and special occasions. Bacon and grits and pancakes, Oh My! Round eggs. Toast. Yummy biscuits. With jam.

Fast forward 20+ years later, and I still love me some breakfast. Unfortunately, The Boy doesn't do Kitchen, so if I want a comforting breakfast meal prepared for me, I've got to do what the rest of the New Yorkers do, and head out for brunch.

The West Side Beauty and I usually head down to Soho on Saturday mornings for a little Physique 57 action and post-workout celebrating at the neighborhood's vast array of restaurants.

I love the ritual of determining our location each week and the wonder of checking out a new menu and all the possibilities it represents foodwise. We've checked out Balthazar, The Cupping Room, Hundred Acres, Country Cafe, Jane, etc.

We've drooled over the $16 bread basket at Balthazar (though never purchased it), we've stared breathless at the southern inspired morsels from Hundred Acres. But one thing we've noticed almost across the board, is that jam and toast are often missing.

That's right, fellow feasters. We've been to locations that were "out of jam" (Country Cafe) or "only serve jam on Sundays" (Jane). Wha?

At the other locations, toast (or the infamous Balthazar Bread Basket) are extra. They don't come with the meal. Really?

Now seriously, New York is supposed to be the center of civilized living. That means I'm paying $15 to $20 for eggs and breakfast meats. So I gotta tell you. There ain't nothing civilized about a breakfast without toast and jam (or biscuits and jam or croissants and jam).

I think we need to band together to make things right. Let's protest! Save the Jam! Support the Toast! Your breakfast will thank you.

Head Over Heels

Well, it finally happened. After more than three years of living in New York, I took a tumble on a busy public street. I was crossing Broadway in Soho and came across the 'black ice.' It wasn't near the curb or helpfully marked by police tape and cones. Oh no. It was just there, lying in wait for the toe of my sleek over the knee boot to strike. Then ass over teakettle I flew, bags flying, arms flailing. Flat. On. My. Back. I was a piece of performance art, my shopping bags artfully arranged around my flaccid form like flower petals.

And oh was there a large audience for my performance! Tourists in leather pants, their tiny guidebooks their talisman. Tightly coifed ladies in mink coats. Gum smackers from New Jersey. Covens of stroller moms. But it was a man with a crutch who helped me up. Yes, it took a handicapped person to alight me from the ground. The irony burned.

I walked away with a sore wrist, a bruised butt, and a major case of embarrassment. But it wasn't as bad as the travails suffered by the West Side Beauty. It's supposed to snow again this week. Let's hope we can both keep our feet on the ground!

Urine-nation

Are you one of those folks, like The Boy, who refuses to listen to reason and wash produce before he eats it? Well here is a cautionary tale. As I was walking to work, I heard a Family-Guy-type voice screaming.

"Oh yeah, go ahead and just let your dog go on my box of vegetables."

As i looked up, I noticed a big truck with a big guy in it yelling down to a lady and her dog which had just, um, baptized the beets, so to speak.

"Just keep walking. Don't do nothing about it," he screamed down.

"Well, I don't think he meant it," she said.

"Well I think he did," said the guy.

I kept walking. And I will be extra vigilant about washing my veges from now on. Fo sho.

The Case of the Stalker Pastry

I'm being stalked. By killer pastry. Not only is my block bordered by cupcake stores, but there are food trucks that seem to be following me around, tempting me with the promise of heaven. One truck sells cupcakes(!?!). The other sells waffles, including bacon waffles or waffles with nutella.

I know it's wrong, but I can't get them out of my head. No means no, ok, trucks?

Pursed Off

It was one of those packed subway days where I was lucky to get my preferred commute location - standing in front of the doors on the non-open side for the express commute. This is the best location. You don't have to hold onto a pole, you are out of the high-traffic areas, and you can spread out to read your paper. Well, usually you can. Last week my primo location was compromised when a giant-purse-wielding hussy wedged her way into my consciousness.

So as I understand it, the polite thing to do when entering the subway with a giant purse, backpack or baby in a stroller is to fold them up and rest them on the floor (the babies especially love this.) Put another way, if anything you are holding has the potential to poke someone in the eye or sack them like a quarterback, you should remove it from your shoulder and find a less dangerous place to store it during the duration of the subway ride. Apparently this bristly gal didn't get the memo. Her giant purse had me cornered. I gave up reading my paper altogether. And when her sleuth moves threatened to fill the tiny gap between us, I balked! I asked her (somewhat politely) if she could move her bag. "It's got me cornered here," I said, good naturedly as I pretended to be boxed in.

She snarled. "You're on a subway. Get over it." She didn't move her bag.

Not to be outdone, I mumbled, hand on hip, eyes full of disdain, "The polite thing to do would have been to move your bag." Thanks for stating the obvious. What a comeback. It was one of those moments where you want to be pithy and precise, but just. Can't.

Anyway, the moral of this story is, I bought a smaller bag. I don't want to be a purse whacker or a bag bully. I just want to stand in my corner and read my paper.

Good Help Ain't Hard to Find - Even in New York

I know. I know. New York is supposed to be full of hardened creeps (and there are some, as documented here). But New York has a good side too.

I rushed out of the office last week with bags and computer, detoured to Whole Foods to buy some Belgian beer, and hopped in a cab headed to the East Village to meet The Boy, Easy E and Ms. Foliage at Sigiri Sri Lankan Restaurant. As I got out of the cab with all my gear, I stuffed one of the giant beer bottles under my arm and shuffled toward the restaurant door. But as I turned, the bottle slipped and was hanging precariously from my armpit. My armpit! I was about to waste a whole bottle of beautiful Oomegang brew into the gutter.

So there I was, bags akimbo, squeezing the hell out of that beer neck trying not to let it fly.

"Help me. Helllp meee!" I pleaded to someone, anyone on the street.

Now, I would have done the right thing - averted my eyes and scurried past quickly. But there she was - a samaritan in platform heels who helped me right my bottle, saving its poor soul from the indignities of the street.

Later that weekend, I was faced with a horrible turn of events. At Manhattan Diner, there was NO MILK for my coffee on the table. My god! The humanity! I looked around and located my waiter, shooting him a pained look and pointing to my sad and liquid-challenged creamer. As he scurried away, no doubt pumped with pride to deliver my much-needed lactose, a funny thing happened. The guy at the table next to me valiantly offered up his full creamer, enabling my coffee to achieve its special purpose.

So yes, Virginia, there are nice New Yorkers. Like so many other things, it just takes beer and milk to flush them out.

Jury Duty - Take 3 - The Story

Essentially the story was this:

 

Two crackheads meet at rehab - 40-year-old Wayne Hunter and 47-year old Carolyn Johnson. They become friends, lovers and then live-in lovers. That, it seems, is where things began to go awry. They both began using again, and the week prior to the incident had been on an almost 24-hour crack binge. On the morning in question, Mr Hunter attacked Ms. Johnson with a hammer, wounding her head and breaking bones in both her hands. Depending on whose story you believed, he either held her hostage for several hours and raped her, OR after he bludgeoned her with the hammer, they reconciled and had makeup sex. 

He was charged with 26 crimes - several contempt charges relating to an order of protection which Mr. Hunter disregarded when he contacted Ms. Johnson over several months during his initial incarceration, two assault charges and three rape charges.

Ultimately our decision came down to their two stories, some shaky forensic evidence, and the letter of the law.  I knew it was going to be a tough decision when we argued for 3 hours about one of the contempt charges. The assault charges were easy. There was DNA evidence from the hammer. But the rape charges . . . we just couldn't agree. Most of us were leaning toward guilty except for two jurors. One of them TOTALLY had a Rihanna complex and felt sorry for the defendant and thought we were all being unfair to him.  Geez. I made her cry about that crazy business. Anyway, after the judge clarified for us that the defendant had to KNOW he didn't have consent in order to be charged with rape, several of us changed our mind. There just wasn't enough evidence to prove what went on in that apartment.

So, unable to come to unanimous agreement on the rape charges and one of the contempt charges after 12 hours of deliberation, the judge took a partial verdict from us on the remaining charges, assuring, at least, that he would stay in jail a bit longer.

After the trial was over, the attorneys wanted to talk to us, and we gave them a bit of insight into our thinking. They said the defendant had a history of violence against women, and they were planning to retry him in a couple of weeks on just the rape charges. 

They should be picking the new jury this week.

Jury Duty - Take 2 - Juror #11

 

I know when it happened. During the Voir Dir (which they pronounce the French way, not the Texas way wink wink Lady Lawhorn), I got all Type A - wanting to answer all the questions correctly. What a jackass.  So when the assistant district attorney, a competent young Asian woman, asked if a victim had to fight back in order for a rape to occur, I said no, that I could imagine a scenario where someone could be held against their will, threatened or too fearful to fight. Ding ding ding!  You are the next contestant on The Perp Ain't Right.  So that's how I became Juror #11 in The People of the State of New York vs Wayne Hunter, a trial that would last 7 days.

Let me set the scene first. Windowless courtroom. No cool murals like on TV. Ramshackle judge's desk. Clerk desk, computer and file cabinets NEXT TO the judge's desk.  1 baliff and 3-4 other security personnel with two desks behind the attorney's tables, equipped with phones (which they would use in the middle of testimony. Wha?)  Anyway, not the pristine environment they show on TV. 

Then there's this little side story. It took two days to pick the jury. I was chosen on Day 2. Apparently the Day 1 jurors really bonded, to the point that when the Day 2 jurors showed up, Day 1 had created their own clique - one that didn't include the Day 2 jurors. They would sit together, eat lunch together, share vacation photos. The exclusion was tight. One day four of us ran out for coffee during a break. I was last to get my order. The other three left together but did not wait for me. Wah wah.

A little more drama happened on the second day of testimony. Midday, the judge began to look purple. He stopped the trial and shuffled out the back door. An ambulance was called. We were all sent home. No one knew what had happened.  Turned out he had the "flu". Read: the runs. We were dismissed for the day and only worked half day the next day.  As a result of THAT little trend, on the following day of testimony we were dismissed for two hours for lunch.  (I know. Two hours, WTF. We started at 10 am and had two hour lunches. No wonder the trial took 7 days . . .) Anyway, one of the jurors, an older gentleman with two hearing aids "misheard" the judge and thought we were dismissed for the afternoon again. He didn't return after lunch. Jesus Christ.

So finally, the trial got underway in earnest. We heard from the victim, the defendant, CSI, SVU, two detectives, two doctors, some friends, etc.

The worst day? When they displayed the GIANT va-jay-jay diagram ALL DAY and kept pointing at it and drawing on it. Shudder.

Jury Duty - Take 1

The State of New York got their money's worth out of me recently when I got nabbed for jury duty. Remember, awhile back I had to go downtown to account for my absence at an earlier session.  

Feeling annoyed, I showed up at the appointed place, at the appointed time, dreaming of ways to "get out of it."  I mean, what kind of fresh hell was this?  First of all, I was worried about what to wear. I had googled myself gaga the night before trying to find a dress code. I'm pretty sure they have this in Texas. No dice.  I went with warm and comfy.  Second, I couldn't determine the coffee situation, i.e. whether I could bring Starbucks into the building.  I did.  Third, jury duty appears to be another of those no-buffer-seat-zones. So even though I arrived promptly, even early, I ended up having to give up my bag holder/buffer seat because I couldn't stand watching the infirm and cane-wielding older folks amble up and down the aisles looking pained. I mean, I'm not an animal. Finally, my indignance reached its high when I found out how this crazy New York jury system works. Despite my hopes, this was not going to be over quickly.

See, in Texas, you show up, you read a few book chapters, you likely don't get called for the jury, and you go home, hyper with the knowledge that you just got out of something truly repugnant, like cleaning the litter box.  As with so many of life's petty activities, this was not to be the case in New York City.  Although it is not disclaimed on their site, you can expect to commit AT LEAST two days to jury duty. The system is kind of like rolling out dough for cookie cutter cookies. You roll it out, cut the cookies, then roll the waste back in and re-roll another batch. The jury system keeps re-rolling and re-rolling the potential jurists, assuring that most folks called are going to get chosen for one trial or another. If you don't get chosen for a jury by the end of the second day, you're free to go. It wouldn't play out like that for me.

I got called up in the first group of potential jurors, and, of course, because the universe is a snarky old biddy, I got chosen. For a rape trial. That's right. It's an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, and i'm playing the role of Juror #11. 

Blow Hards

"I haven't taken a subway since January," pronounced the investment banker sitting at the table next to me.  I know exactly what he said because a) the tables were so close I could have jacked him off without leaning over, and b) he was speaking so loudly I would have had to stuff my ears with the generous cup of bread sticks not to hear him.  He apparently lived in the neighborhood around Blue Hill, the restaurant I dragged The Boy to for dinner. He'd just gotten back from Japan. He was going to Florida on Monday, but would be home for Easter. As a boy, he fell down while playing soccer. Annoying? Yes. Pretentious? Also yes. The Boy and I hovered in the corner next to them, praying for a hasty exit. The waitstaff was, sadly, on the side of the Loud Talker. They. Moved. At. The. Pace. Of. Snails.  Thankfully they didn't leave a glistening trail behind, although that might have been cool. 

It's the economy, stupid

Spring is supposed to be a time of growth and rebuilding. And though technically it's not quite spring, Manhattan is in a perennial winter, both literally and figuratively. The weather can barely stay above freezing, and businesses around town are closing up every day. I came across the deliberate and careful disassembling of a furniture store's marquee sign today, the giant letters resting in nests of bubble wrap on the street. I think the whole world wishes it could curl up in a bolt of bubble wrap until this giant mess is resolved. 

Xmas Time Is Here

Retailers aren't waiting until next week to get the city all gussied up for what I'm sure they are hoping will be a less than dreadful Black Friday. On my walk home tonight, I noticed designers in the shop windows of Club Monoco, Bergdorff Goodman, a jewelry store and a furniture store making magic. The city is beginning to sparkle. Now if only the economy would follow suit.

Poo, on you

So I guess the universe was listening yesterday when I railed on people who overuse cabs. I guess the universe believes in punishing judgementalism. 

This morning on the subway, it smelled like poo. I mean REALLY. It smelled very bad. And it didn't dissipate at any point during the ride. I am pretty certain there was a little pile of poo somewhere in the car. I even kept checking my shoes, you know, like you do when you're walking through grass and you smell something foul. Anyway, I never did find out for sure what was causing the smell. I just left the car. I think that was the best course of action, all things considered. I didn't take a cab though.  Take a little poke in the eye, universe!

Obnoxious Commuting

In these more thrifty times, I have recently heard something that horrified me! Several of my co-workers, even those who live far uptown from our office, sometimes or even daily take cabs to work. Cabs! In this era of layoffs and economic meltdowns and mortgage foreclosures. Just to give you some perspective, it probably costs at least $18 one way to take a cab downtown to my office. That's with no traffic! That's almost $40 a day both ways! $200 a week! That adds up to more than you people in Texas are paying for gas in a month. 

Now I admit to taking a cab from time to time, especially after an evening of rambunctious frivolity. But to get to work? Whatever it's faults, the subway system in New York beats sitting i traffic any day, is better for the environment, and is CHEAPER at about $2 per ride (even less if you have a monthly pass). I like to spend money just as much as the next manhattan goddess (just ask The Boy if you need confirmation), but cabbing it to work from uptown just strikes me as lazy and economically moronic.