The truffle one. Or the cupid one? Maybe it's just Jobs' thing.
Today at work I realized that I'm the kind of guy that thinks that every time a pretty person laughs angels get their wings.
And that process is magical and painless and there's not gut-wrenching noise of muscle, bone and skin tearing out of their shoulder blades and stretching out in one satisfying creak.
I'm the kind of guy who thinks every time a corny line is used and meant on a girl, we add value to our race.
I saw relatives all over the place this weekend, from my brother Jimmy to her sister Billy.
I saw one of my favorite bros and met a couple of his relatives.
I mean relatives in the most loose adaptation of the word. Relatives are those we get to pick if we're lucky. They are the friends - bros, GIRLfriend! (screamed in a high pitch squeal), friends and best friends - we surround ourselves we. Life throws a countless number of people in front of us everyday and we get to click with personalities.
Strangely nice ones in the subway who want to tell us nothing more than their life lessons and how we should conduct our life's from here on out. Her name was Ashley and she told us to do something between college and the real world - like teach in France. Her friend Alix (pictured in the same frame here) was proof enough that it was worthwhile. She then commented on a perfectly matched height situation and yelped FRIENDS!
One or two or three of them might be your friends friends. A good enough standard by which to measure most enough yields the discovery of great friends. And then they fight about how good oreos are and they offer kit-kats with devilish grins on their faces because they hope you'll say no because all they really want is to enjoy the chocolatey/caremely/cookiesh goodness of the candy bar.
One of them will tell you she really likes her shirt because it's like she's naked.
And the bonding continues over a multi-colored fish bowl of happiness that stands as a stark contrast to the army of black-cloth-clad youngsters lining up around the block for a Japanese artist who may or may not be the next big thing. Only in NY.
Meet friends and have a pickle.
A fried pickle.
Frickles.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Remember sunlight?
It comes from the windows brightly shining in the dark.
It's in a basket and in the form of two alkaline batteries powering a flashlight.
It's in the middle of a battlefield and it flickers eerily every other beat. The other beat is the rat-tat-tat of a gat.
According to a certain man's band it's in the smile of a pretty girl.
As of late I've thrown myself, like I've done some times before, head first into waters unknown. Head first, arms holding my sides and nose and my feet pointed - low profile. Or low key as some west coasters would be inclined to say. But it's different know because someone is swimming already.
I've been delving in this coward old world (if only to make a play on a well known piece of literature).
The nice man at the Chockful'o'nuts knows that when I walk in I'll have a large, skim, 2 splenda french vanilla latte...and a red bull. And today I discovered a secret recipe behind the energizer bunny's brilliant drumming: a drink, one part coffee and three parts coke zero. Saying it's a rush of caffeine to the head would barely do it justice. Saying it makes me the life of the party, the shadow-caster in the room (a positive no matter how negative it sounds) or the big kahuna - would be an understatement. I made two new friends this way - their eyes equally wired in a similar stasis of sugar and raw, FDA approved POWER.
But enough about the fast pace of the week and more of the gentle lapping of the east river.
Picture a suburban town with an urban feel and a hipster vibe. The major of the town wear skinny jeans, pointy shoes, wears a fedora and carries an old SRL leica. His clothes are vintage.
And then there's a stage awkwardly placed so that you face the conundrum: stage or view? Because behind you, quite quite quietly, like a cobra before striking, stands New York - boldly proud. Rand would have been proud. In front are 4 men sporting various degree of facial hair reminiscing about equine ways.
The choice is simple, go with the beard.
It's in a basket and in the form of two alkaline batteries powering a flashlight.
It's in the middle of a battlefield and it flickers eerily every other beat. The other beat is the rat-tat-tat of a gat.
According to a certain man's band it's in the smile of a pretty girl.
As of late I've thrown myself, like I've done some times before, head first into waters unknown. Head first, arms holding my sides and nose and my feet pointed - low profile. Or low key as some west coasters would be inclined to say. But it's different know because someone is swimming already.
I've been delving in this coward old world (if only to make a play on a well known piece of literature).
The nice man at the Chockful'o'nuts knows that when I walk in I'll have a large, skim, 2 splenda french vanilla latte...and a red bull. And today I discovered a secret recipe behind the energizer bunny's brilliant drumming: a drink, one part coffee and three parts coke zero. Saying it's a rush of caffeine to the head would barely do it justice. Saying it makes me the life of the party, the shadow-caster in the room (a positive no matter how negative it sounds) or the big kahuna - would be an understatement. I made two new friends this way - their eyes equally wired in a similar stasis of sugar and raw, FDA approved POWER.
But enough about the fast pace of the week and more of the gentle lapping of the east river.
Picture a suburban town with an urban feel and a hipster vibe. The major of the town wear skinny jeans, pointy shoes, wears a fedora and carries an old SRL leica. His clothes are vintage.
And then there's a stage awkwardly placed so that you face the conundrum: stage or view? Because behind you, quite quite quietly, like a cobra before striking, stands New York - boldly proud. Rand would have been proud. In front are 4 men sporting various degree of facial hair reminiscing about equine ways.
The choice is simple, go with the beard.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Visibility
Hundreds of people breeze past the sad duo every day. They both sport the prerequisite bright green shirt with company logo and carry a clipboard or a binder in a death grip that makes you wonder how much they are charged if they ever lose it. ***Note to self: interesting career choice. Snatcher of binders from the street solicitors.*** I wonder how many people they actually touch with the meaning[fu(l)]ness of their message.
Hi do you have some time today for [Insert Reasonable cause like saving Baby Whales or Protecting the Ecosystem of the blue footed armadillo in the Mississippi Delta as a result of the spill]?
Yes! Thank you! I often stroll the streets hoping to pass the time with perfect strangers in an engaged conversation neither of us want to have. I'm so glad there's always two of you and you face opposite directions of the street so you don't have to miss people like me! Yes I was reading about the family news in my email on my blackberry but psha! that can be saved for later.
There are very few times when I find myself at the right place and time - whenever I find "them" I know it'll be a good day.
I wonder how the delivery men who bring my food nearly daily now get by speaking such rudimentary english. Then again, I wonder how they got a work visa and how uncomfortable that interview must have been with the official.
Name? Blank (stare). Purpose of request? The applicants eyes quietly but expressively reflect a deep desire to make Food Delivery Systems that will blow the minds out of the average Domino's technician who tracks your pie from creation, to baking, to en-route, to in-yo-face. Do you have a job here? Giggles. A sigh, I'm not sure from who, and a stamp later and he's on the pursuit of happiness.
-"Hi...Delivery...Food...Here?"
-Thanks. I'll be right down."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Elevator Music
I had a man in combat boots, soviet issue army fatigues and white bandana offer me 40 dollars in the elevator if I could name the actor, winner of two Obie awards, born today some time ago.
I said I couldn't, not even for a hundred dollars. The rain maker in me considered a Monte Carlo approximation to it figuring out how many name combinations I could spew in the time the elevator travelled from the fourteenth floor to the third floor laundry room. The exercise was futile. Instead I went with the awkward nodding of the head as I muttered something lacking in words in an attempt to convey NO.
A banker today showed me what it's like to be boss. Not in the Hugo Boss kind of way. Not in the "Olivia! Fetch my coat and hat - I'm due at the Waldorf in 10 minutes" way. In the nerdy kind of I've done this particular lecture enough times to know what you will ask, how you will ask and when you will ask it. He also showed prodigal skill at hot key shortcuts.
In a matter of seconds he formatted and linked and hyperlinked things on screen without taking his eyes off of his audience in a quiet, passive challenge.
BRING IT.
I suppose this is how people in the real world. Wake up in the morning, go play with hundreds of millions of dollars and notional amounts of trillions and then go home and grill (for) the kids.
And now I get to spend afternoons dissecting seconds and interpreting verses written 10,20,50 years ago. The building I'm standing on has a shell that's ancient but an inside that hollow and sparse but the window outside looks at my second home - lit up for the night.
Often I travel so far away from the two little blocks I know as home to enjoy a taste of the tobacco continent only to hopscotch to a city of soup (Alphabet please) and then non-chalantly stroll through a village (or two if you walk for long enough. A place where you can run into friendly were-once's and sit on a stage while eating brunch. The elevated platform just enough to comfortably allow for one's imagination to fit in an idea that we are VIP.
And at the end of the day I get New York the way I liked it best.
Dark, gloomy and rainy while it holds my hand.
I said I couldn't, not even for a hundred dollars. The rain maker in me considered a Monte Carlo approximation to it figuring out how many name combinations I could spew in the time the elevator travelled from the fourteenth floor to the third floor laundry room. The exercise was futile. Instead I went with the awkward nodding of the head as I muttered something lacking in words in an attempt to convey NO.
A banker today showed me what it's like to be boss. Not in the Hugo Boss kind of way. Not in the "Olivia! Fetch my coat and hat - I'm due at the Waldorf in 10 minutes" way. In the nerdy kind of I've done this particular lecture enough times to know what you will ask, how you will ask and when you will ask it. He also showed prodigal skill at hot key shortcuts.
In a matter of seconds he formatted and linked and hyperlinked things on screen without taking his eyes off of his audience in a quiet, passive challenge.
BRING IT.
I suppose this is how people in the real world. Wake up in the morning, go play with hundreds of millions of dollars and notional amounts of trillions and then go home and grill (for) the kids.
And now I get to spend afternoons dissecting seconds and interpreting verses written 10,20,50 years ago. The building I'm standing on has a shell that's ancient but an inside that hollow and sparse but the window outside looks at my second home - lit up for the night.
Often I travel so far away from the two little blocks I know as home to enjoy a taste of the tobacco continent only to hopscotch to a city of soup (Alphabet please) and then non-chalantly stroll through a village (or two if you walk for long enough. A place where you can run into friendly were-once's and sit on a stage while eating brunch. The elevated platform just enough to comfortably allow for one's imagination to fit in an idea that we are VIP.
And at the end of the day I get New York the way I liked it best.
Dark, gloomy and rainy while it holds my hand.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Pigeons
I'm allergic to them but I'd use them in a pinch if I had to send a message.
In so many ways the advent of the text message and the bbm and the email have allowed me to express myself best - though I rather enjoy the conversation I end up having with friends and friendly strangers.
But those who know me know that I've never been a fan of speaking on the phone. The cold feeling of plastic pressed up against my ear or barking at a loud speaker sized conversation have never appealed to me. Skyping is barely tolerable and most my conversations are quick splinter cell operations:
Hi! How are you? Stated purpose of phone call. Ciao!
But as of late I find myself hoping to call. Hoping to get a call and hear the angsty screams of Caleb drive me to the phone.
What's worse? From the moment the sometimes bad connection based on poor reception in the new york subway allows me a breath of voice I smile.
And then I find myself speaking. No... Talking. On the phone. And as I walk past other people I'm not the Wall Street type clearly angry both at the phone and the entity behind it. I'm enjoying a conversation with a person and I get to laugh and be silly like I usually do when I'm in person.
I like 215.
In so many ways the advent of the text message and the bbm and the email have allowed me to express myself best - though I rather enjoy the conversation I end up having with friends and friendly strangers.
But those who know me know that I've never been a fan of speaking on the phone. The cold feeling of plastic pressed up against my ear or barking at a loud speaker sized conversation have never appealed to me. Skyping is barely tolerable and most my conversations are quick splinter cell operations:
Hi! How are you? Stated purpose of phone call. Ciao!
But as of late I find myself hoping to call. Hoping to get a call and hear the angsty screams of Caleb drive me to the phone.
What's worse? From the moment the sometimes bad connection based on poor reception in the new york subway allows me a breath of voice I smile.
And then I find myself speaking. No... Talking. On the phone. And as I walk past other people I'm not the Wall Street type clearly angry both at the phone and the entity behind it. I'm enjoying a conversation with a person and I get to laugh and be silly like I usually do when I'm in person.
I like 215.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Jitters
Jeepers creepers
Goosebumps
Translated from Spanish: chicken skin
And then there's the heebiejeebies
I imagine a chilly breath of I don't know what that makes me arch my back - cat-like.
The soft graze of a hand on my chest or an arm lazily draped around your shoulder.
Everywhere you look in this city is anything you could ever want.
One moment I have a portobello mushroom stuffed with fresh provolone and toasted to perfection exploding at first bite and the next one I have a nice gentleman dressed in a button down and slacks threatening to urinate on my face. Yes! Hello! And Thank you VERY much!
And then there's the helpless family of 5 with all three children safely tethered to the mothership and a confused father, fanny pack and all looking at a MAP completely bewildered by the brightly colored metro lines. The problem is he's never heard the words courier bag and man used in a sentence that heightens the sexuality of the male. He needs to make it in the big town for that.
We sat at a place - McSorley's - where the sawdust on the ground, the gray vested all-male employees and the track broadcasting on the TV indicated that this wasn't a place for music. Two drinks offered: light or dark. No more questions asked although their specialty in fare is crackers with mustard. I wish that last part was a joke.
The place reeks of musty humidor and foam and history. And you meet strangers who either shyly or proudly tell you they work for the machine (a bank) or joyously tell you they've been flying regional jets since age 18. They have a family back home and enjoy conquering their fear of heights by controlling a flying tube. There was a nice man from Long Island with a compelling story of the Mexican Chrysler General Manager asking him to fly down to Mexico with a gift of canned peanuts. He was very eager and would constantly lie flat across the table in order to introduce himself and the rest of his adoptive entourage if only briefly and quite drunkenly.
His wife later dragged him to a show.
And when you're ready to wrap up and get either a late night dinner or go trolling around the town you close your tab with Scott (great man who refers to his customers in a loving voice as - F****ers). One look and then.
I'll bring you one more round so you finish at an even 100.
Goosebumps
Translated from Spanish: chicken skin
And then there's the heebiejeebies
I imagine a chilly breath of I don't know what that makes me arch my back - cat-like.
The soft graze of a hand on my chest or an arm lazily draped around your shoulder.
Everywhere you look in this city is anything you could ever want.
One moment I have a portobello mushroom stuffed with fresh provolone and toasted to perfection exploding at first bite and the next one I have a nice gentleman dressed in a button down and slacks threatening to urinate on my face. Yes! Hello! And Thank you VERY much!
And then there's the helpless family of 5 with all three children safely tethered to the mothership and a confused father, fanny pack and all looking at a MAP completely bewildered by the brightly colored metro lines. The problem is he's never heard the words courier bag and man used in a sentence that heightens the sexuality of the male. He needs to make it in the big town for that.
We sat at a place - McSorley's - where the sawdust on the ground, the gray vested all-male employees and the track broadcasting on the TV indicated that this wasn't a place for music. Two drinks offered: light or dark. No more questions asked although their specialty in fare is crackers with mustard. I wish that last part was a joke.
The place reeks of musty humidor and foam and history. And you meet strangers who either shyly or proudly tell you they work for the machine (a bank) or joyously tell you they've been flying regional jets since age 18. They have a family back home and enjoy conquering their fear of heights by controlling a flying tube. There was a nice man from Long Island with a compelling story of the Mexican Chrysler General Manager asking him to fly down to Mexico with a gift of canned peanuts. He was very eager and would constantly lie flat across the table in order to introduce himself and the rest of his adoptive entourage if only briefly and quite drunkenly.
His wife later dragged him to a show.
And when you're ready to wrap up and get either a late night dinner or go trolling around the town you close your tab with Scott (great man who refers to his customers in a loving voice as - F****ers). One look and then.
I'll bring you one more round so you finish at an even 100.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Suburbia, USA
Cities are built differently in every country.
Sometimes public transportation has to pass through the wealthy neighborhoods to allow for the "help" to come in in the morning. In some cases, public transportation is kept away from the rich neighborhoods lest it be too easy for the mob to invade the small castles built on their foundation.
People can't wait to live in the city and experience all the excitement. Up to a point. Then you get a house out in the country and mock the hicks mercilessly as you realize you also enjoy Friday nights filled with PBR and dip.
In Some Cases WE FAIL to understand WHY it iS thaT we crave living in a shoebox.
Or read in mild shock about Hoovervilles - the cardboard cities that are all pervasive in the third world. I know my government hides them by planting tall and meager trees to prevent drivers from appreciating the magical delight they represent. Engineers and architects could attempt to build such tittering structures safely and they wouldn't be able to match the ingenuity and creativity of master builders.
It's cardboard and mortar and tin and sheets of plastic. It's city planning where city is a substitute for destitute and planning is in place of living.
The streets are dirt - packed hard by hundred of feet and pickup trucks (the kind that carry 20 people in the back for 5 pesos a head). The government has spewed patches of pavement here and there.
Those are my suburbs.
Suburbia existed inside the city and behind high, electrified fences. They'd have security guards and outposts so as to better simulate the sense that we lived in a safe first world country - if only for an isle.
Except here instead of a melodrama based around murder and desperate moms we have the very real force of green. And no. We don't recycle.
Swat style and armed to the teeth with 20 year old Kalishnikovs that jam in the middle of the night the army rushes into one of the house on any given day with the hopes of arresting the ultimate businessman. 9 out of 10 they won't get the right guy or the right house will be empty having been alerted.
The largest industry in Mexico has powerful businessmen with families and vested interest in protecting their little slices of heaven.
Now that we have LV and Cartier in Mexico - they don't even need the visa.
Sometimes public transportation has to pass through the wealthy neighborhoods to allow for the "help" to come in in the morning. In some cases, public transportation is kept away from the rich neighborhoods lest it be too easy for the mob to invade the small castles built on their foundation.
People can't wait to live in the city and experience all the excitement. Up to a point. Then you get a house out in the country and mock the hicks mercilessly as you realize you also enjoy Friday nights filled with PBR and dip.
In Some Cases WE FAIL to understand WHY it iS thaT we crave living in a shoebox.
Or read in mild shock about Hoovervilles - the cardboard cities that are all pervasive in the third world. I know my government hides them by planting tall and meager trees to prevent drivers from appreciating the magical delight they represent. Engineers and architects could attempt to build such tittering structures safely and they wouldn't be able to match the ingenuity and creativity of master builders.
It's cardboard and mortar and tin and sheets of plastic. It's city planning where city is a substitute for destitute and planning is in place of living.
The streets are dirt - packed hard by hundred of feet and pickup trucks (the kind that carry 20 people in the back for 5 pesos a head). The government has spewed patches of pavement here and there.
Those are my suburbs.
Suburbia existed inside the city and behind high, electrified fences. They'd have security guards and outposts so as to better simulate the sense that we lived in a safe first world country - if only for an isle.
Except here instead of a melodrama based around murder and desperate moms we have the very real force of green. And no. We don't recycle.
Swat style and armed to the teeth with 20 year old Kalishnikovs that jam in the middle of the night the army rushes into one of the house on any given day with the hopes of arresting the ultimate businessman. 9 out of 10 they won't get the right guy or the right house will be empty having been alerted.
The largest industry in Mexico has powerful businessmen with families and vested interest in protecting their little slices of heaven.
Now that we have LV and Cartier in Mexico - they don't even need the visa.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Taco Tortilla Grill
It saddens to see my compatriots so downtrodden and lacking that general sprit de corps that characterized our nations in the younger political years where ideas were supported by weapons and impassioned speeches by half-educated pseudo-religious catholic priests with a penchant for women and something akin to honey mead.
We've named our cultural embassies whatever string of stereotypes we can fit onto a billboard. In some cases we've forgotten the idea of Mexican food and gone with the Mexican inspired salads, baby-sized burritos and something called "hard" tacos.
But this isn't a tirade against a particular brand of restaurant which I love which doesn't carry the namesake sauce.
This is about the cosmo part of cosmopolitan. It's about the tomato, lettuce, cucumber, onions, raisin, tofu and oil and vinegar mixed in the salad bowl I'm living in right now. Perhaps I should see it as my castle with a moat to keep outsiders funneling through the tunnels - drawbridges - in which they transport their wares from the outskirts.
I stand upon a hill, Murray's actually. But I'm caught next to a piece of flat metal triangles and place they call Grammercy.
I walked back from the 70s in a time traveling machine all they way down the 20s. Throughout it I saw flappers and pant suits that would have made American Dreams shed a tear of happiness. But I also saw hot little pencil skirts paired with running shoes and flipflops. A man wearing camo shorts with cowboy boot and a tank escorting a nice little emo girl with an obvious desire to become vampire.
In a building for a minute. Then a storm that lasts but 5 minutes. Then out again as you paddle your own little canoe into this curious stream where I'm learning how to set the rhythm. I don't like the swinging arms, burrowed brow and slight hunch of back that some of them sport. I don't have the swagger that some sport accompanied by track jackets, 3/4 basketball shorts and shinny Dwayne Wade's. The power walk characterizing the suits is intimidating but easily replicated - a sense of purpose without one. The leisurely tourist pace seems to taunt everyone behind them as they fly in concord formation.
The place around the corner is called the American Dream. Apparently it involves grimy windows and yellow artificial light.
TBC.
Incommunicado
and the uncertainty of guessing.
It would be great if I could reveal some insight into a city that for a very long time has held a place of awe and inspiration in my mind. My day was consumed by a trip uptown, a trek through a jungle from the East to the West (in what I'm sure will be seen by historians as my second expansionist movement), Zabar's and an expression of new york sparkle.
Seems to me that it would be fitting for me to write about berries and how to pluck, harvest and make into a sweet sweet tasting smoothies of communication.
Because I want to walk down Madison
Yelling into my phone
SELL! SELL YOU MORON WHAT DO I PAY YOU FOR!!!!!
Follower by a series of expletives
Like 3rd rater
Monkey
Arse
(All three of those for warm-up)
And run over an old lady
not bothering to excuse myself
f'get about it!
I am young and hip
and executive and associate
and analyst and a wannabe MD,VP
Hear me meow!
But rather than do that, I stand in a clinical white bathroom with a nice lady waiting outside the door. I imagine her ear is plastered to the door with a cup to amplify her hearing, ready to barge in swat-style with her stethoscope and rectal thermometer to accuse me of turning the water on.
And the truth is I'd rather whisper stories of my youth and hear thoughts often left unspoken but brought forth by request and giggle () about the silly things we might say.
LML
It would be great if I could reveal some insight into a city that for a very long time has held a place of awe and inspiration in my mind. My day was consumed by a trip uptown, a trek through a jungle from the East to the West (in what I'm sure will be seen by historians as my second expansionist movement), Zabar's and an expression of new york sparkle.
Seems to me that it would be fitting for me to write about berries and how to pluck, harvest and make into a sweet sweet tasting smoothies of communication.
Because I want to walk down Madison
Yelling into my phone
SELL! SELL YOU MORON WHAT DO I PAY YOU FOR!!!!!
Follower by a series of expletives
Like 3rd rater
Monkey
Arse
(All three of those for warm-up)
And run over an old lady
not bothering to excuse myself
f'get about it!
I am young and hip
and executive and associate
and analyst and a wannabe MD,VP
Hear me meow!
But rather than do that, I stand in a clinical white bathroom with a nice lady waiting outside the door. I imagine her ear is plastered to the door with a cup to amplify her hearing, ready to barge in swat-style with her stethoscope and rectal thermometer to accuse me of turning the water on.
And the truth is I'd rather whisper stories of my youth and hear thoughts often left unspoken but brought forth by request and giggle () about the silly things we might say.
LML
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