I went to the cleaners the other day and as I pulled out my last item of clothing I saw a crumpled claim ticket in the bottom of the tote bag. I used to put my cleaners tickets on the refrigerator so I’d remember them, so of course I didn’t. My refrigerator is a jumbled graveyard of baby pictures of grown people, save the date wedding invitations for divorced couples, calendars from the turn of the century, and business cards for defunct companies. I know. My refrigerator really needs to get its shit together. So I decided to put my cleaners ticket in the bottom of the bag of clothes to be taken out. Makes sense right? A good plan predicated on going to the cleaners on a fairly regular basis... Read the Post
Archive for the 'NYC' Category
In Dunkin Donuts there was a Young Woman sitting at the table next to me. She was talking on her cell phone and upset because another girl had deliberately shoved her out-of-the-way to get on the bus. And in an I-can’t-take-it-anymore moment she shoved the girl back and they got into a fight. Tearfully she said, “This happens all the time. I don’t want to fight. This is not who I am. I’m sorry. This doesn’t happen when I’m with you. I feel safer with you.”
The first straight play (non-musical) I did in college was Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge. That was the semester I was supposed to be taking a break from theater to focus on my studies. I only went to the audition to help out as a reader. And because I had nothing to lose I gave it my all and I got cast in lead. And so it was a wonderful surprise when my then director and former professor recently invited me to see a matinée performance of the new Broadway production of the show at The Lyceum Theater.
New Yorkers are not rude people. It’s just that we can get through the day without a lot of extraneous chitchat. We can communicate with each other with a quick chin lift, a head nod, and if need be, a series of simple yet eloquent hand gestures. When I first began travelling outside the City, I was baffled by the strangers who spoke to me for what seemed like no reason. ‘Good morning?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is this a set up? What kind of scam are you running here? ...
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“Baby Girl.” That’s what James Evans, the father on Good Times, called his daughter, Thelma. Years later it’s also how Bernie Mac referred to his youngest niece on his self-titled TV show. Baby Girl is a familial term of endearment within the African-American community. In my family I’ve had many pet names including – but not limited to – Boo, Slow Poke, Madam, and She Who Must Be Obeyed 2.0. READ THE BLOG
One day when I was waiting for the subway, a young woman with an expensive camera introduced herself as a Columbia University graduate student in its photojournalism program and asked permission to take my picture. If it was a scam – and I always think everything’s a scam – it sounded like a good one so I said, yes. When my train came and we were about to part ways I gave her my business card hoping she’d send me one of the pictures but equally sure I’d never hear from her again. But she emailed me that night and asked if I would be the subject of her day-in-the-life class project. Again, I said, yes. READ THE BLOG
I am a Native New Yorker. That’s not a typo. It should to be capitalized. It’s not pride in an accident of birth but it’s staying here long after many friends and family members have pulled up stakes and moved to more hospitable climes. I survived 9/11, the mortgage meltdown, and a nanny mayor who would be king. I survived a house fire, Hurricane Sandy, and the Polar Vortex. But New York City’s 25 miles per hour speed limit has got me thinking about packing my bags...