Hum A Little Tune

There are certain songs that remind you of a specific time in life.

For example, whenever I hear Penguin Café Orchestra’s “Perpetuum,” I’m thrown back to senior year of college.

It’s well past 2am.
Three of us are slouched over laptops in Katelyn’s room.
We smell like stale coffee.
And as I glance at my lit review, I realize it’ll be another all-nighter. I won’t sleep until after my first class. So I play this upbeat, wordless song on repeat, knowing the tune will get me through the next hour of research.

Another example: During my first year in the city, “Like a G6” blared from every grimy Lower East Side bar. The beat was guaranteed to make people dance, and the lyrics were easy enough to remember. (I also recall one friend drunkenly screaming “Like a CHEESE STICK!” to a crowd of uninterested onlookers while dancing her way to another drink. Said friend shall remain anonymous…)

I remember Death Cab for Cutie’s “Expo 86” while riding a stuffy N train to Coney Island in the summer. My hair was piled on top of my head, and I happily tapped my foot to the beat, relishing in an endless Saturday.

I remember playing “Good Ol’ Fashion Nightmare” over and over again on my way to work after ending things with a boy.

I remember moving to New York and blasting The Avett Brother’s “I and Love and You,” while driving up I-95N. (But then that became too depressing, so I switched to “Empire State of Mind.”)

There was this one song by Ra Ra Riot that played in Bloomingdales – and I loved it so much, I’d avoid customers for a precious 2 minutes and 43 seconds. You could find me in the dressing room, humming along with my eyes closed.

I first listened to Mumford and Son’s new album while walking in the Flatiron District with a leather jacket and a cheeseburger.

The Great Lake Swimmers sung their soft lyrics to a frustrated writer in her kitchen throughout a gusty fall day, while The Naked and the Famous announced the arrival of spring.

M83 “owned the sky” in 2011 (and probably in 2012 too). This band produces epic I-have-to-walk-miles-to-work music.

I danced my way through the Parents magazine internship with Passion Pit, and dubstepped my way through the eight-month Huffington Post gig.

Ray Lamontagne walked with me around Washington Square Park, while Bison’s “Switzerland” played on road trips to Newark. Edward Sharpe took on the East Village and the Shins maintained their persistent role in my life via an outdated iPhone playlist.

But that’s not even half the songs, or half the stories.
In fact, I’m already forgetting some of the details.

There were plenty of lyrics; plenty of remarkable rhythms that matched my mood as I was freaking out and making out and falling down and looking up and trying to remember to laugh, laugh, laugh.

So I thought I’d write a few down… for memory’s sake.

Because each street has a cadenced beat.
Each avenue possesses a subtle symphony.
And, what music we make.

"Could I Trouble You For A Photo?"

My friend Laurie and I typically wind up in the most amusing situations.

We’ve crashed a few parties, gone to numerous book signings, and weaseled our way into some fascinating scenarios. 

But for this particularly cold Saturday in January, we had simple plans: Attempt to purchase student rush tickets to a Broadway matinee, and then enjoy a reasonably-priced brunch.

So we waited in line at the box office of The Heiress, completely frozen, though high in spirits. There were only two people in front of us, meaning our chances of grabbing discounted seats were greater than usual.

Forty-five freezing minutes later, we had two tickets to the show (but, admittedly, we had lost all feeling in our fingers and toes).

The rest of the morning was spent at a diner in Hell’s Kitchen, where we warmed up over coffee and eggs. Next we found ourselves traipsing through Soho, amongst the discounted stacks of books at Housing Works. Finally, by 1:45 Laurie and I were ushered into the Walter Kerr Theatre on West 48th Street.

A man checked our tickets.
“Oh, first row,” he said, pointing down, down, down, toward the stage.

Laurie and I exchanged excited glances. We had noticed our tickets were listed as "orchestra," but we hadn’t realized our good luck until seated approximately a foot away from the stage. If I had reached my hand out far enough, I could have grabbed the velvety red curtain – and all for a lovely $30.

The play starred Jessica Chastain (The Help, Zero Dark Thirty), Dan Stevens (Downton Abbey), and David Strathairn (Lincoln, The Bourne Ultimatum).

It was a well-done show with ornate costumes and a lavish set that was even more fascinating from the front row. I’m certainly no theater critic, but I was most impressed by Chastain’s flood of real tears in Act II and Stevens’ ability to completely snuff out his British accent, transforming himself into an earnest Yankee.

After the curtain fell, Laurie suggested we find the stage door to see if any of the actors appeared. As you might guess from previous Facebook posts and squeals of delight via Instagram, the performers did indeed grace us with their presence.

Somehow I found myself relatively close to Dan Stevens, or Matthew Crawley as you might know him from the British miniseries, Downton Abbey.

(And let’s be honest… he’s the main reason I wanted to see The Heiress.)

I passed our Playbills over a girl’s head so that he might quickly sign them. Suddenly, space opened up, and I was standing right in front of the actor, congratulating him as he initialed our programs.

Picture. I… I need a picture, I thought to myself while fumbling to pull out my cell phone. He just stood there and looked dashing.

Don’t act crazy.
You are starting to look a little crazy.
Just focus on opening the camera app.

Laurie asked if I wanted a picture with Stevens. No, no… I didn’t want to bother him, I replied in haste. Meanwhile I attempted to snap a photo of the actor while he signed another fan’s playbill.

But panic ensued.
My phone…my brand NEW iPhone… was completely frozen. Apparently, he too was star struck by the great and admirable Downton Abbey character. I silently cursed all the technology ever created in the world.

Click, click… CLICK! Nothing.
Now you really look crazy, my mind politely told me. But augh! I needed a picture of Dan Stevens, aka Cousin Matthew, aka the sudden love of my life. I’m not crazy!

Click, click… nope. It wasn’t happening.
Right then, I almost chucked my iPhone at Dan Stevens’ head.
WHY NOW!? Whhhhhhy!?

Luckily, Laurie remained calm. “Just ask him for a picture Brit,” she said with her camera ready.

“Uh… could I trouble you for a photo?” I hesitantly questioned, with as much poise as possible.
“No trouble at all,” he smiled.

You should know that Stevens has a perfect British accent.
You should also know that while I have a picture with him, my heart is not beating in said photo.

What a good ol' New York kind of day. 

[Editor’s Note: I promise I am not as bananas as this blog post may suggest, though I do have a certain weakness for all things British. Also, my bashful iPhone and I are on speaking terms again.]

Laurie and I pre-show. 

The cast was uber sweet and signed a ton of Playbills, despite the temperature outside. 

Dan Stevens, Matthew Crawley, Morris Townsend; whatever you best know him as. 
(I really did try to be cool. *Try*) 

Well, Hello 2013

We all drift.

Slightly touching, slightly bruising – we move through periods of life at an undetermined speed, where the future becomes hindsight and the present slips quickly into the past.

I was at a New Year’s Eve party near Washington D.C. only hours ago, and noticed this so-called “drift.”

It was approximately 11:52 when I carefully climbed the back of a couch in heels, and perched on a ledge above the chaos. My friends and I held our champagne in noisy expectation, surveying the packed room.

The large crowd below us was also prepared. Everyone held some sort of beverage while haphazardly watching the television pan Times Square’s cold faces. (I silently thanked God I was not anywhere near Midtown, Manhattan.)

New Year’s celebrations are always slightly bittersweet. Yes, it’s the beginning of the next chapter, and a good ol’ party is certainly appreciated.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

But it’s also the birthday of time. And time seems so vastly limiting.

“Seven, six…”

Take for instance, this party: Old friends, long ago acquaintances, new faces, names I’ve forgotten… they’re all blending together for this one moment in time. But it’s not enough! Within hours of midnight, I’ll be back on a bus traveling to New York.

“Five, four…”

And then what? On January 2, time is more or less forgotten. We retreat to our routines pre-holiday season in anti-climactic huffs. Another year has passed and we’ve drifted in and out of jobs, relationships, and homes.

Sometimes it seems as though we’re counting down toward the end, and not the beginning.

“Three…”

(Am I bringing you down? Well, I warned you about my bittersweet thoughts on the New Year.)

“Two…”

The less sour side of my opinion reveals a more optimistic outlook:

How extraordinary the connections we form; how fascinating our webs of finely-weaved hellos and goodbyes. Are there not so many people still left to meet and so many intriguing opportunities left to conquer? The thought of harping extensively on what’s already happened suddenly seems cruelly stifling.

The clock may be ticking loudly in our ears on January 1, but it certainly never stops. So embrace this fluid motion.  

Slightly touching, slightly bruising, or full-on crashing into one another…
We drift on.

“One!”

Happy New Year.
May 2013 lead to some of your greatest adventures yet.

Something Closer To What We Call "Stability"

I suppose it’s time to tell you about my new "big girl" job.

I’ve owed you this blog post for quite a few weeks but, as you might understand, the dust from my last shaky jump into the unknown needed to settle before I blasted any inner thoughts over the internet.

So let’s flashback to New York’s mild days of mid-October:

That’s me. I’m sitting at my desk in the vast Huffington Post newsroom. Most likely on deadline, and probably a little bit hungry, I’m frantically typing something tech-related. There’s two disposable cups perched on the edge of my shared desk – one full of water; the other drained of coffee.

Someone nearby is smashing a sandwich into their face, and the noise becomes distracting. While I struggle to find the correct turn of phrase about Apple’s latest whatever, all I can hear is the smack, smack of lips.
Then a phone rings.
Then two reporters start talking.
Someone’s laughing.
The TV blares above my head.
My Gchat pings…. and pings, and pings, and pings.

I quickly grab my headphones and stuff them into my ears, praying I can block out the nasty sound of what is probably a mild form of OCD. Now we can see me glance at the clock. Did you catch that twitch? Yes, I’ve got 30 minutes to make this article into something publishable.

Oh... that face. 

But before continuing, I stare at the empty, coffee-stained paper cup still sitting on my desk. Can you see those wheels turning? That’s right… I’m thinking about the promise I made to myself in 2010.

Many temporary jobs ago, I decided I wouldn’t bring a coffee cup to work until I had a salaried, fixed position within a company. This future mug was my secret reward, while this cynical thought was my slight motivation and persistent reminder that every publishing job I’d obtained thus far had been as stable as that damn paper cup.

It’s not that I wasn’t happy. In fact, the longer I worked for good ol’ Huffy, the more I appreciated my experience. I was getting paid to write! I had national bylines, and relevance, and editors tearing apart my work, and deadlines to make, and valuable lessons to learn – that’s the dream, right? “THAT’S why you’re HERE,” I would think to myself.

But the truth is, loan payments loomed. PB&J sandwiches began to make my stomach revolt. I craved a certain responsibility, and maybe even the next experience. I also knew there wasn’t a permanent position for me at HuffPost.

So I left.

Last day on the job. 

I won’t lie; the process wasn’t quite that easy. There was a series of interviews and edit tests that dominated my evenings, while a growing pit in my stomach reminded me that I’d become quite fond of my home at AOL headquarters.

Still, there’s never been a job I haven’t enjoyed, and already I’ve happily immersed myself back into the world of print publication. I’m now the official web editor of Kiwi Magazine. (An editor? An editor! Insert silly squeal of delight here.) Social media growth, blogger platforms, daily site updates, quick copy – these are my pet projects I’m more than thrilled to develop.

But let’s flashback to New York’s not-so-mild days of late November:  

That’s me. I’m standing in the lobby of 770 Broadway, receiving my first job offer. It’s raining, so my hair is probably a mess, but then again so is everyone else’s. Boots are squeaking across the marble floor. Umbrellas are opening and closing on cue, like life has been previously choreographed.

I’m all genuine smiles as my next boss tells me the good news, though I know my departure from Huffington Post will inevitably be bittersweet.

But do you know the first thing I thought? Over salary negotiations, and vacation days, and contracts -- the very first thing to cross my mind as a full time employee was this:

"I can finally bring a coffee mug to work."
And so I did. 

The new office, located  in mid-town.

"Yes" To The Dance Of Conversation


I was standing on the balcony of a penthouse apartment, located deep within New York City’s gentrified East Village.  It was a seasonably warm Monday night in December, and the town sparkled like stars under our noses.

The man to my right (whom we shall call M) and the woman to my left (whom we shall call B) appeared to be actors, or at least the “theater type,” with their perfect diction piercing the night air alongside the clink of half-filled wine glasses. Our hostess was The Reverend – a striking and dignified woman – who joyfully stated that “the choir came over every week for dinner.”

My new friend B had a high-pitched voice and cat-eyed Kate Spade glasses. Her hair was cut short and her clothes fell just right, giving the actress a casually posh appearance. To put in simply, B was the kind of go-getting gal you’d write a book about. 

Then again, nearly every person who occupied that penthouse had the look of a fascinating story about them.

“How’d I get here?” I thought to myself as M and I discussed everything from art exhibits to hurricanes to the sheer brilliance of some new flick.

Oh, I do so love a random soirée! How we dance that conversational waltz, attempting to briefly bond with strangers, never to be seen again... It’s fascinating to care about the trivial or noteworthy, half in jest and half for the challenge of greeting humanity’s neediness with a sure quip and clever grin.

Not to mention the captivating tales of life one can uncover. If I had the time (and if you cared enough) I’d write down the dozens of observations my brain clung to as M, B, and a whole cast of others glided effortlessly around the apartment -- sequins, cheese platters, and all. 

But I suppose the true story is that my friend Kortlyn has a set of benefactors, or “sugar parents” if you will, who graciously bought us poor girls tickets to see a show. The performance was something else, with music written by Larry Hart, a few songs preformed by Linda Hart, and a little ditty by The Reverend herself that had something to do with “stomping your Prada for God.”

Sneaking pictures

Then, before we knew it, Kortlyn and I were led to the cast's after party by the generous upper crusts of New York. To the northeast we walked -- bubbly in hand, patchwork makeup on our faces.

Finally, up an elevator we went. As our motley crew stepped into the  apartment, the greeting ritual commenced with a few “I’ll take your coats,” and several “The food and beverages are right this way.”  The top floor apartment was humble by city standards but the space and view were something I rarely witness.

So that’s how we got to the balcony of penthouse in New York.
On a Monday night.
In December.

And all of this just to say…

There will be those quixotic moments in life when you’ll want to say “yes” to any offer that comes your way. And then there will be those sulky periods of time when you’ll simply want to say “no,” "no way," or "hell to the no" at even the best of requests.

I suggest refraining from the later. 

 *****


Here  was my favorite clip from the performance:



"Big hair" gets you closer to "Gaauhd." 
Yeah.... it was like that. 

Ask All You Want, But I Don’t Have The Answer

Which way is home?

I thought about this while barreling up the East Coast toward New York’s Penn Station. Pebbly roads and snaking streams cut the surrounding landscape, like a post card from some old country store.

I was leaving home – or I was going home?

We passengers stared silently out of our individual windows, all of us likely trying to peg down a certain emotion.

Richmond, Ashland, Fredericksburg

… the train continued north as winter’s hesitantly sunny skies kissed any remaining flecks of red and orange in the barren treetops.

With each year I live in New York, it becomes more difficult to imagine residing anywhere else. The addiction of city life is all encompassing; that ever-present spark in the night air, the endless possibilities each hour might bring, the hoards of people you’ve yet to meet, touch, know….

But oh, how easy it is to be home (which, in this case, I’m defining as that familiar place harboring your most distinct memories of childhood). The normalcy of life is comforting and triggers a specific type of relaxation unobtainable in any other environment.

Home has the smell of coffee in the mornings.
Kitchen stools, lined up in a row of three.
A Weezer CD left in your car since high school.
Dogs barking, cars parking,
That revolving side door of continual visitors.

These things are native.
Natural.
Normal.

But now, too, are the rooftops and subway stops of New York City.
Home has a crack in the pavement that you always trip over.
Bars you know, friends you meet.
Italian bagel guys who make you laugh.
People walking, cars honking,
That perpetual feeling you’re living, being, doing.

These things are native.
Natural.
Normal.

These things are home - that place where you were, and where you must go back.

With these oh-so insightful thoughts brought on by obvious train boredom, I decided stubbornly (if only at my own indecision) that I was, in fact, allowed to have two “homes.” Who doesn’t fancy a little juxtaposition anyway?

So you can keep asking me to pick one place over the other.
Ask all you want!

But I won't choose because, at least for now, I simply don't have the answer.
And I may never have one.

The great American railroad -- where, incidentally, my train was delayed due to a man on the tracks who was "armed and dangerous" outside of Philly. But, that's another blog post.  

New York And Hurricane Sandy, Part Two: We Are Hit



“Unless you own a submarine, there is no way you are getting out of New York City,” a frantic reporter stated on television.  

My roommate and I looked at each other, slightly wide-eyed. It seemed as though the island of Manhattan was on its own tonight.

Hurricane Sandy officially made landfall in New Jersey around 8pm on October 29, 2012. Wind gusts reached 90 mph, as a 13-foot storm surge encompassed lower Manhattan. By 9:30pm, news anchors announced that nearly every building located under 39th street was without power.

So why did the glistening lights of our city flicker out? Some of the blame can be attributed to the explosion that occurred at a Con Edison power plant on East 14th and FDR. The video footage is shown below:


New York’s subway tunnels (not all that surprisingly) were also damaged, but the murky water rose higher than expected. Our 108-year-old underground system has never before "faced a disaster as devastating as what we experienced last night," MTA Chairman Joseph Lhota recently told several news sources. And air traffic isn’t looking much better, with over 15,000 flights cancelled throughout the last several days.
I thought the subway would flood but... 
Source: ninjapito

So, in essence, everyone is stuck.
This also means, by the time you’ve read this post, I will be uncontrollably stir crazy.

Still, where I reside in Queens, we were relatively untouched. Sometime around 5pm yesterday, when storm winds were just picking up, the largest tree on our block snapped and took several power lines down with it. Lucky, the sporadic electricity lasted us through the night. (Because let’s face it: Without the local news mishaps, sensationalism, and awesome accents, Hurricane Sandy just wouldn’t have been as fun. And was anyone watching Ali Velshi of CNN!?)

 Entertainment aside, what transpired in Breezy Point, Queens (located here) was pretty petrifying. A massive 6-alarm fire reportedly wiped out 80 to 100 houses in one flooded neighborhood, with some pockets continuing to burn through morning. The unexpected, ashy pictures were pretty unnerving.

I also received a short message from Ivy, Harlem resident extraordinaire, during the middle of our epic storm. Apparently, one of her windows was flung open from the gusts, shattering a nearby vase. But not to worry -- after exclaiming that Sandy “better not mess with this Floridian!” Ivy covered her window with two chairs and a vintage boat propeller (phew).

And me? Well, the internet and cable have been off the majority of the day so I did what I do best.

I went and bought bagels.
Because you KNOW New York didn’t run out of those.

 For some legit pics, check out The Atlantic or The Huffington Post's coverage of the storm. Here's what we Queens kids have been up to...
Our street in Queens, with multiple trees down. 

Internet = Out. 

Steinway Street storefronts had some damage.

Hanging out the window during the storm. 

RIP "Big Tree." The neighborhood shall miss you. 

Two of the trees down on our street. 

The dark city skyline from my rooftop.