4Knots

In which we attended a free music festival on the historic South Street Seaport, we passed along crowd-surfers and were photographed in the process, and we endured the heat from both the sun and the fire that only temporarily shut down operations.

Contrast

http://microapp.villagevoice.com/4knots/2012/

My view

His view.  You can't see me because I'm, well, under his left leg.  Monica and Kyle are enjoying the proceedings to the left, while Nick (who felt the need to remove his green cap for the occasion) is anxiously trying to keep in touch with the excitement.
[Image: C.S. Muncy http://www.villagevoice.com/slideshow/4knots-a-moshing-crowd-surfers-eye-view-37306941/#3]

Putting out the vending machine fire.
[Image (with more photos and videos): http://www.brooklynvegan.com/archives/2012/07/fire_at_the_sea.html]

Still working on it as we were leaving.

The Village Voice also supplied a hilariously-captioned report of the fire "told by an idiot":  http://www.villagevoice.com/slideshow/the-pier-17-fire-as-told-by-a-drunk-4knots-attendee-37306992/

Rockaway

I’m pretty sure that I haven’t been to a sandy American beach since my last RYM in 2004.  Who knew that moving to New York City would be my opportunity?

Hopping on the A train, heading past JFK airport, following the surfboards and bathing-suit clad groups of friends leads you to Rockaway, home of several beaches where the chill of the Atlantic makes the high heat of the city bearable.  Crowded, yes, but manageable. 

Despite the tide rolling onto our towels twice, two bags still full of sand, and the most painful back sunburn I’ve had in many years, I had a fantastic day at the beach (due, in large part I know, to fantastic company).  I will return.  With extra sunscreen.

After-work Socializing Spontaneity

As many pretentious people as there may be in New York, as many over-ambitious and narcissistic young adults with too much money congregate here to make it big in finance or business, and as cliche as it may be in Manhattan to go to an after-work bar, I have to say that I rather enjoy the happy hour drink in the city. Especially on a Friday. TGIF isn't just a clever acronym; it's the cry of my heart on Friday at 6pm.

I was invited to join some girls* (2 of whom I'd met) at the Standard's Biergarten.  I'd been there before and knew to expect–wrestling through the crowds of the somewhat overrated place–but it was still worth it.  Big beers, bratwurst, and good company: my German genes were well-pleased with my choices.

Afterward, I decided that I wasn't ready to go home, so on the invitation of one of the girls whom I had just met, I accompanied her to 230 5th and its rooftop bar, where drinks are pricey and you can't sit down unless you want to pay for bottle service.  Where the view is legitimately stunning and if you're cold, you can wear the provided red robes (read: Snuggies).  Where you unknowingly attend a birthday party for a very social guy from Hong Kong who studied in England, who therefore has a very thick hybrid accent that you're ashamed to say you can't really understand.  But you get a picture with the guy anyway because he's taking a picture with everybody and repeatedly telling you about how much he's already pre-gamed at the apartment (that you can understand).

A bizarre series of circumstances...but more enjoyable for the fact that it was all unexpected and spontaneous.

*I met the girl who graciously extended the invitation while I was singing with the volunteer choir at Hunter College; we all got brunch afterwards and decided to continue being social together.

From the wings of the Hunter College auditorium

Ballet Hispanico

Celebrate Brooklyn, a summer-long series of music, spoken word, and dance performance, takes over the Prospect Park bandshell, much to my delight.  Though some performances (Wilco, The Dirty Projectors, etc.) require a ticket purchase, most are free (with a $3 suggested donation.)  While my schedule does not permit me to see everything (I opted to miss Laura Marling to go see The Tempest with Christopher Plummer, in theaters), I definitely want to take advantage of as much as possible.

So on Thursday, June 28, I went to see a dance company, Ballet Hispanico.  The hot day had turned into a fantastically perfect night for an outdoor event.  Being solo, I found an ideal seat, right in the middle, not too far from the front but in perfect view of the entire stage.

My own experience with dance is somewhat limited. When I was six, my cousin and I were in Dance together in Bedford, MI.  Jazz dance.  The recital featured a cherubim six-year-old me in a magnificent ‘90s leotard of neon confetti.  The music played, and the "dancers" moved in from the wings in two rows, stepping together in unison…except for the girl on stage left, the second from the front, smiling with extra wattage because she knew she was doing it right even though everyone else was a beat too fast.  Yeah, that was me.  This glorious dance exposure has been immortalized on home video: the First Grade Leah Dance.  Truly a spectacle not to be missed.

More recent exposure has been a shameless love of So You Think You Can Dance, the shrill Mary Murphy notwithstanding.  Actually seeing a real dance company—and for free, no less—was just what I needed to begin my weekend.

The dancers were beautiful and exciting, performing with more theater and humor and playfulness than I had expected or seen before.  I didn’t take the time to capture much on film, but it is just one more excuse to love the opportunities for entertainment and personal enrichment that only a city like New York can provide.

The Old Ball Game

On May 5, I attended my first Major League Baseball game.  Baseball has such a deep-seated history in New York, especially, so I figured I should partake. I went on a friend’s invitation to the Mets game versus the Arizona Diamondbacks.*

I have never been much of a baseball fan, per se, but I have always enjoyed being at baseball games, even in the nosebleed section (where our fine tickets granted us seating).  I like the leisurely pace, the white-noise drone of the announcer, the good-natured nostalgia of it all.  Citi Field did not disappoint. Nor was it without its adorable old men who had probably attended every game since before they hit puberty, sitting beside their admiring grandchildren, dressed identical to their elders: the next generation of fans in training.  The blowsy old women could bellow at the players with the best of them, and every single fan had the most stereotypical New York accent that even the LaGuardia planes flying overhead couldn’t drown out.

The Mets won that day.  But really, I think we came out ahead: we got free Tom Seaver bobbleheads.

*Next on the NY sports docket, hopefully a Yankees game.

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name!
Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress!
Play the old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes it!

One of my favorite places in Brooklyn is the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM), which hosts an astonishing array of cultural events, many of them designed to celebrate local artists.  One such event was Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, a 3-day music event featuring films and musical acts by people either from, currently in, or formerly of Brooklyn. 

My friend and I attended the Friday night festivities on May 4.  After convincing the manager that we were good, pleasant folk who weren’t trying to weasel our way in once we discovered that Friend had lost her ticket, we wristbanded and enjoyed a frothy brew (having just snuck in before the 2-for-1 deal ended – score!).  Before the first act, I endeavored to convince Friend of the campy greatness that is Dolly Parton. 

We stood in the front for the first band, Ava Luna—an unknown to us who we found ourselves quite enjoying.  The frontman was an entirely nervous, nerdy fellow—a Rivers Cuomo type—who threw himself into the music—literally and quite surprisingly.  I liked the sound, the harmonies, and the clothing style, but I just wanted so badly for the girls to do something with their faces.  A little expression won’t hurt, girls.  I promise.

[DISCLAIMER: The sound (and, largely, the video) quality on the videos in this post are pretty abominable.  Maybe just play for the visual? Or skip it and search for legit videos of these bands.]

Next up: The Antlers, a band I was first introduced to by a music-addicted friend who was always handy with a recommendation.  They sounded great live (and the show had some great light effects, too.)

Then: I headed back upstairs for a bit to see Buke and Gass, a two-person outfit and the favorite of the aforementioned friend, who insisted I must see them live.  I hadn’t been entirely keen on their recorded music, but hearing them live with their self-constructed instruments truly was a better experience.  All hail the geniuses who conceived local music festivals!

Finally, the headliner: St. Vincent.  I could give plenty of details about the show, about what it was like to be in the orchestra pit and look up at the stage from the good-natured mob of energy at the foot of the stage.  I could talk about the funny moment when the entirely overzealous fan shouted “I love you Annie!” with such fervor that the emotional strain resonated in his voice as he bounced up and down as if on a trampoline.  Or I could humorously report the girl close to him who calmly commented to Annie in response, “I appreciate what you do.”

Or I could just sum it all up and say: Annie Clark is a badass.  Even if you don’t like the heavier punk turn to the music, you really can’t disagree with her badassness in her beauty, theatricality, and musical talent. 

A better, professional video of the show (we were in the orchestra pit):

A night well-played by friends, artists, and Brooklyn, indeed.

What's Making Me Happy This Week(end)

Friends

Specifically, unexpected communication with friends

On Friday, on the advice of a haphazard Facebook message sent my way by a friend, I attended a concert/sing-a-long with Sandra McCracken (who helped begin Indelible Grace and led to all of the beautiful musical reinterpretations made familiar to me as a college student through RUF) and Derek Webb.

When I returned home after this (for me) quite emotional event, I received a phone call from a grad school friend—a very happy occurrence for a variety of reasons. First, as I was commuting on the subway that day, I had literally been thinking of how long it had been since he and I had spoken. Second, he was slightly intoxicated, which—I have to admit—is one of my favorite versions of him.  Third, what he said.  He did his best to assure me that while he may have had a few PBRs in him (to to his dismay in failing to adequately grill beer chicken), that in no way affected the truth behind his words: “Leah Rang. You’re one of the good ones, and I love you.  We’re going to be best friends forever.” At the tail end of a long, lonely week filled with career and personal frustrations augmented by the oppressive possibility of New York, I don’t think he knew how incredibly wonderful it was to hear that.
(A sidebar: in all of our relationships, I am a firm believer in constant encouragement and positive words.  We have a tendency only to reveal our true feelings or say kind words in times of strife or sadness; why?!? I could write an entire essay about this, but I’ll refrain here.)

Furniture delivery

A couple weeks back, I once again gave into mass consumerism and bought a chair and bookcase (among other things) at Ikea.  Since one of the items was out of stock, I had it delivered from the warehouse, which took a surprisingly long time. But finally, on Saturday, I confirmed the delivery.
One sign of growing older and more (sigh) adult is how excited you become about objects you once took for granted, such as chairs.  It’s a chair, after all, a receptacle for your posterior.  But now that I have it all set up in my closet/side room, I have created a nook, an escape, a place where all I want to do is curl up in my chair and read.  (I honestly look forward to retreating to my closet for the few minutes I have in the morning and at night when I return home—to read and solidify my old-woman status.) 

Even better, the delivery was early.  Usually when you receive a “11am-3pm” delivery time, it will show up at 5pm; they delivered it at 10am. Such good luck rarely happens to me; I always manage to choose the grocery line that takes the longest or the “express” train that sits in the station for 10 minutes while two local trains pass through.

Figment

The early delivery allowed me to accept my friend’s invitation to go to Governor’s Island for an event called Figment.  This brought together all things of which I am fond: picnics, beautiful weather, grass under bare feet, art, friends, history, boats, and events/people/situations of such randomness that you cannot help but laugh and enjoy the moment.



Despite some raindrops, we boarded the ferry at Pier 6 (in the developing Brooklyn Bridge Park) to Governors Island.  After a good 45 minutes of waiting to board and boarding, the actual ferry trip was a resoundingly anti-climactic 3 minutes.  But it did afford some great views of Lower Manhattan.
I didn’t even know that Governors Island existed until about two months ago.  The island is a national monument, boasting a history of exclusivity (NY royal governors only, thank you very much) and military happenings (there are three forts on the island, and it was most recently in the service of the U.S. Coast Guard before becoming a National Park).  Walking on the island is surreal: the financial district forms the backdrop, but it’s difficult to feel its impressive capitalistic power when you feel the grass under you feet as you walk through the “moat” around Fort Jay.  Abandoned buildings (old barracks?  Offices?) surround the grassy areas—I would live there in a heartbeat, making up for the ferry (kayak?) commute with some kickass parties.

According to the website, Figment is a “spectacularly colorful event” sponsoring “over 200 participatory art projects in every conceivable medium, a bigger-than-ever-before TreeHouse, a delightfully whimsical interactive Sculpture Garden and inspired Minigolf Course...And whatever you can think of to make your dreams come true!”

Need I say more?
 

Familiar Faces on unfamiliar streets

I decided to walk along Atlantic Avenue from the Pier to Target (I’m still assembling my room).  As I strolled through Cobble Hill, admiring the charming store fronts that assuredly contain items that I cannot even dream of affording at the moment—and, of course, wishing I lived in that neighborhood—I came across Adam, a new acquaintance (and in due time—friend?) who also lives in Bed-Stuy.  After a quick hug in greeting and a quick exchange in which we both established that we were just spending the Saturday running errands, we went on our merry ways.  Recap: I ran into someone I know. On the street.  In New York.  (Do I really live here?)

Frigid Air (and sweet friends that have cars)

My high school senior class president happens to live in Brooklyn, and he happens to be my friend.  He also happens to have a car and likes helping friends in need, so he assisted me in buying and transporting an air conditioner to my apartment on Saturday, with promises to come back and help with the installation.  If you know anything about my contentious relationship with summer heat, you’ll know that this was a necessary measure.  I haven’t needed to use it yet, but knowing it’s there is sweet, sweet assurance.

Frolicking

After not seeing (and hardly speaking to) someone for five years, it makes the invitation to their birthday party a little more meaningful.  I had been trying to meet up with a former classmate from my study abroad days in Florence for some time (we took an Italian cooking class together at Apicius), and attending her birthday on Saturday night was a way to guarantee that would happen—that’s right, I had never before seen her in the U.S..  So I made my way to Williamsburg and met up with her and her friends at Good Co., where I found myself having to explain to people what the game of corn hole was and how to play (it’s truly a different world, people.)

Food (that turns out well even when you’ve never made the recipe before)

This Sunday, it was my turn to make the sweet treat, and I decided to try two new recipes (via Pinterest—yet further affirmation that I am turning into a middle-aged woman already): Key Lime Bars and Healthy Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Dip (that is, surprisingly, made from chickpeas).  Both were tasty enough.  Phew.  Making them also made me miss hosting dinner parties and get-togethers (I say as I squash the suburbanite longings that threaten to rear up within the middle-aged me.)

Podcasts

(Yes, I know I’ve destroyed the alliterative list.  Alas.  I couldn’t figure out a way to turn this into an “f” word (heh) without leading with an arbitrary adjective, thereby demolishing my strict Scattegories ethical code.)

Podcasts are basically what get me through the week: I listen to them at work non-stop.  NPR’s Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me and Pop Culture Happy Hour (from which this title is charitably stolen) always delight, and ExtraHotGreat is a weekly must, but I dabble here and there—and I am always open to suggestions. For instance, I just downloaded some iTunesU podcasts for running.  As I ran my 5k this morning through parts of Clinton Hill, Fort Greene, and Bed-Stuy, I brushed up on my Modern Social Theorists.  Yes I’m a nerd.  Don’t hate.
 

Links:

Governors Island
Figment
Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Dip
Key Lime Bars
Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me
Pop Culture Happy Hour
ExtraHotGreat

Best Week EVER

What do you get when you mix soul music, gin, ragtime, brunch, Central Park naps and bike rides, *ice cream fights*, pizza, the Brooklyn Bridge, Egyptian Rat Screw, breweries, truly honest conversation, newly minted catch phrases, an itty bitty living space, improv comedy shows, wine stains on sheets, snow in Brooklyn, beer, more brunch, bagels, jazz, FUN, and a trio of people who say “y’all” with abandon, even while tearing up the big city?

(Besides a tired joke construction and a shameless reference to Disney’s Aladdin?)

Answer: BEST. WEEK. EVER. And more consistent laughter than I can remember in a long time. Or maybe ever.

It's true, folks.  Team Gin NYC Takeover 2012 was a smashing success.

There is no way to effectively sum up everything that happened or every emotion I had while it was happening, but my two visitors managed to do a pretty good job.  Justin, who stayed for an entire week, summed up one predominant emotion as JOY and managed to record a brief outline of our adventures and jokes:

Just remember that only a few, we privileged few, know the full extent and context for these (and sometimes context is necessary)

 And how could Whitney Miracle sum it up any better than with design, images, and haikus? (She does want me to point out that this is a VERY ROUGH draft of the ultimate end-product, but I already told her that I cannot express how much I love it already.)

*This aforementioned MIRACLE worker is also responsible for the previous design on even this pithy blog, and hopefully she’ll come up with something awesome for this new venture based on a big decision I've made, which I will discuss in my next post. You should read it.

I plan to post some of my own pictures in the near future, but for now, this will do brilliantly. 

My heart is full. I love New York, yes, but even more, I love friends in New York.

Weekend Update (and it really is about to be Saturday night live)

I’ve recently put my literary landmark and bookstore quests on hold.  Part of me grieves for the loss of this brief exploratory chapter of my New York life, but never fear, intrepid readers; it will resurface – hopefully when the weather warms and the days lengthen. This moratorium results from developing a schedule: I now have a (pseudo-)job to occupy my hours, and I’m finding other weekly commitments to add to the schedule for Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.* And those are just the standing commitments.

Having a weekly schedule gives me a stronger impression of rootedness in the city.  I go to work during the week, then I plan events for nights…or I go to a class at the Y, a very mundane local-y way to spend an evening, no? Last night, I’m happy to say that, at least a little bit, I initiated my first New York gathering.  I suggested a trip to the independent theater, and the final group consisted of two of the girls I knew when I moved here, a guy who was a friend of theirs in college, and one of my coworkers.  Could I be getting comfortable enough to allow the social engineering strand of my personality to resurface??  Well, let’s not get too hasty.

Afterwards, in a stunning feat of indecision (“What do you want to do?” “I’m up for whatever.”  “I could be persuaded to do whatever.”  “Whatever you want to do.”  “Whichever way we go is fine.”  “You choose.”  “It doesn’t matter.” “Right or left?” “Left or right?”  “What do you want to do?”), we found our way to a nearby, nondescript bar (literally, I think the sign was a letter-size chalkboard above the door) and had a few drinks.  For some reason, I found myself in a surprisingly upbeat, chatty mood, which I think can only be the result of feeling comfortable even though I had never before spent time with two of my companions. In that calm, mundane Friday night kind of way, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

And what better to follow a “mundane” New York night than with what I perceive to be more “New York” than the historic landmarks: brunch?  I met my friend Sarah for brunch at Cafeteria, a trendy, almost-touristy spot in Chelsea which, I’m told (by Sarah), was featured in a Sex and the City episode.  It’s certainly not one of those “you have to be in the know” places because everyone seems to know about it, but that doesn’t necessarily make it less of a destination. We split a spinach salad, we split a country flatbread dish, and we split a delightful conversation about ourselves, our friends, men, relationships, New York (wait, were we in that episode of Sex and the City?).  We did not, however, split our brunch cocktails.

(I regret to say that I did not take any photos; I am determined to improve in that area.)

So the great literary adventures may be paused temporarily, but I think I like the prospect of everyday life adventures, too.  Perhaps a mixture will suffice?

(Of course, the fact that I find any of this worthy of commentary probably speaks to the fact that I don’t really live here, at least not yet; if I did, the aforementioned events would be second nature and the social activities forgettable. But that’s the benefit of being a newbie.)

*On a personal note, I wonder why I am so quick to fill my schedule.  Perhaps I have more energy than I give myself credit for; perhaps I am just too averse to spending time alone.  To be sure, this scheduling tendency reveals my inability to find satisfaction with my current situation (whatever it may be).  One month I’m complaining about grading, grading, grading all the time and the next I’m whining about being bored, bored, bored.  The ascertainable difference, I feel, is that my time as a teacher occurred while I had established relationships and social events in which I could participate or organize, but the grading kept me from them.** In my New York weeks of “freedom,” I had plenty of time to find interesting things to do, but once darkness rolled around, the few friends I had upon arrival lived too far away or were busy recovering from the workday, and stores and shops closed early, and since darkness rolls around in the 5 o’clock hour…this limited me.  And I can only stare at the pink walls of my small room for so long.

Essentially, it comes down to supply and demand, that age-old economic concept of which I only know the basics but will still attempt to use to provide a fitting analogy: the more one works, the less free time one has, so the more one relishes the thought and, at times, the experience of having nothing to do. However, as our deficient human nature would have it, when this hardworker actually has free time, his/her conditioning to keep busy often prevents enjoyment of time off, which leads to self-induced busy work and even more grumbling.

**There were certainly other issues with grading, and I’m not saying that I dearly miss it.  Or really miss it at all.  But I do miss students and teaching.***

***Wait a tic, this is my blog, not my personal journal…apologies.

UCB

Last Friday night, I went with a small group of friends to the UprightCitizens’ Brigade Theater to watch some improv comedy (inexpensive, too! $10).  We went to the original theatre, which apparently used to be a seedy strip club.  The theatre itself is still very cramped and run-down, but that only added to the immediacy of the comedy, I think. 

The most famous founding member of UCB is probably Amy Poehler.  The group that we saw was The Stepfathers.*  Most people probably recognize Zach Woods the most; he now plays Gabe on The Office, and I found him to be the funniest.  I loved it.  It’s incredible how well they know how to read each other, how to take a joke and run with it, how to create a hilarious backstory out of a surprising one-liner.  They were also adept at referencing old jokes, keeping the random sketches coherent while also feeding off the audience, who, at the recognition of a previous bit, would laugh louder. 

Jokes included hostile yet sensitive robots made out of copiers and laminating machines who were sympathetic to their mad scientist creator's feelings of inadequacy; a troupe of bad trapeze artists whose failures led to decapitation and, somehow, the revitalization of Walt Disney’s cryogenically frozen body; a video store clerk who re-edits all the films to show suicide followed by an image of a crying baby; and more bizarre storylines.

*Before you tell me, I know, I know, I need to see ASSSSCAT.

Being Cliche Can Be Fun

Winter in New York City. Cold air, warm coats, images of...ice skating in the park (or at Rockefeller Center).  I'm fairly certain that every romantic comedy set in New York during winter involves an ice skating scene of some kind. 

My life clearly isn't a rom-com, but I did go ice skating Saturday night at Bryant Park with an old friend from high school, Clif Brown, and his wife Lauren. 

Being here a week has shown me that as "brave" as I fancy myself to be because of the act of moving here, I would not know what to do with myself if I didn't have some friends already here to welcome me in, even in small amounts. 

On to the skating.  Truth be told, it was so packed with skaters that people who oppose either the act of skating or large crowds (e.g. Clif) would find it miserable.  However, people who optimistically reconceive the crushing mass of skaters on a small rink as a living obstacle course, more prone to surprises and hilarious spills in which show-offs eat the ice (e.g. me), then it was quite enjoyable.

Blurry shot, mid-skate, pre-avoiding people who fell in front of me

Crazy eyes

Let it be known that cell phones and cameras were "strictly" prohibited.  New York is clearly turning me into an anarchist already.