What is wrong with white people?

Ethan and I moved into the “Best Address in Harlem” back in April. We were living in way the fuck out Brooklyn and decided we wanted to shorten our commute. We love the complex and the apartment….couldn’t be happier. It was startling at first, because we found something we’d never encountered before – friendly neighbors.

It was amazing. From day one, people would say hello and tell you to have a nice evening. They’d introduce themselves and ask if we were new to the building. They hold doors and elevators for each other. This is all very unusual for New York City in my opinion. Definitely nothing we ever experienced in Brooklyn. The most we ever heard from our neighbors in Brooklyn was when the asshole downstairs would come up to yell at the top of his lungs to our elderly deaf neighbor. Welcome to the neighborhood.

This past Sunday, our building had its Holiday Party in the lobby. Several of our neighbors asked if we were attending, so we decided to check it out. We arrived a bit late, and as soon as we stepped off the elevator more than one person told us that everyone was already drunk and that we had some catching up to do. My kind of party. There was a ton of food…appetizers, desserts, you name it. There was music and toasting and merriment aplenty. We met even more of our neighbors and even Kevin, one of the building doormen, brought his adorable daughter and joined in the fun. People spoke to us about joining the Concerned Tenants Committee and voting for officers. There was a student there filming her documentary about gun violence and how strong community ties reduced such crime. People of all ages were doing the electric slide (no shit) and no glass was left unfilled. Oh, did I mention that we were the only white people there?

There are other white people in our building. In fact, several of them entered through the lobby while the party was going on, and continued up to their apartments without saying as much as hello. These are the same people that never say hello to anyone and who never press the elevator button for you, no matter how full your hands are. These are the people who moved to Harlem because the apartments are half the price you would find in other Manhattan neighborhoods, but who still feel uncomfortable walking down their own street. So, I implore you, what is wrong with white people? I sure as hell haven’t been able to figure it out.

Goodbye Kitty

I would not call myself a Hello Kitty “freak”, but I am a fan.  My apartment isn’t full of Hello Kitty stuff, but I do have a few items.  I will admit that one simple pleasure I always enjoyed was browsing the Sanrio store on 42nd Street.  It seemed that they always had new merchandise.  Even if I didn’t buy anything, it was fun to see what they had.  I take comfort in knowing that if I so chose, I could wake up to my Hello Kitty alarm clock, enjoy a breakfast of Hello Kitty toast and Hello Kitty waffles while watching the morning news on my pink Hello Kitty television.  I wouldn’t, of course, but I could.  Generally, I might purchase something every so often…a pair of gloves, a watch or maybe a wallet.  Nothing too extravagant.  I was always amazed at some of the merchandise they had in the front of the store.  It was all imported from Japan (mostly) and they were very high ticket items.  Hundreds of dollars for a designer purse or a set of Hello Kitty golf clubs. I always wondered who bought that stuff.  

Recently, the store closed for renovations.  I was very excited.  I anxiously checked back several times over the last month or so and every time was met with the familiar oversized bow in the window with the message that they would reopen soon.  This evening, my husband and I went to the movies.  I insisted that we stop by the Sanrio store just to see if there were any developments.  Much to my surprise, the store was reopened.  Yay!  When I first entered, I could tell that the store had been remodeled, but the major changes didn’t jump out right away.  I needed a new pair of gloves, so I went up and down the aisles searching for a pair that might do the trick.  Sadly, I discovered something that made my heart sink.  There wasn’t a single pair of gloves under $75 in the entire store. Or anything under $75 for that matter.  There were shoes for $350 in three different colors.  Cashmere scarves, designer bags…wait, where was the Hello Kitty toaster?  Or the guitar even??  I looked around and noticed a large glittery sign in the back that said “Sanrio Luxe”.  WTF?  Where was Kitty?  I don’t think she would stand for this.  She likes to dress up now and then, but at the end of the day, she’s a simple cat.  She doesn’t need all this fancy crap.  This isn’t 5th Avenue, it’s 42nd Street!  I was devastated.  

Clearly, I am no longer the clientele that they seek to purchase Hello Kitty wares.  I left without buying anything (since I couldn’t afford anything).  I hope that Kitty and I can still be friends.  And I hope that she hasn’t forgotten her other friends, as they were very obviously absent from all merchandise in the store.  It was a sad day for me.  I used to go into the Sanrio store every time I passed it.  Now, I fear I will never go back.  Goodbye, Kitty.  You will be missed.

What Would Jesus Do?

If the guy wearing the W.W.J.D. bracelet on the bus last night is any indication, Jesus would:

• Not shower or bathe.
• Wear his jeans below his ass Lil Wayne style.
• Try to pick up chicks on the M11 bus headed downtown.
• Tell said chicks about all the Italians who are staying at the hostel with him.
• Be a douche.

The Sandwich Guy

Anyone who lives in New York and rides the subway has inevitably run into “The Sandwich Guy” on the train.  He always makes a grand entrance and carries a large bag with him that he explains is full of food for anyone who needs it.  He claims to work for a “charity” that does not receive any government funding, so they rely solely on the donations of others.  I had a pretty awesome encounter with one of these guys on the train the other day and I must share.

So, this particular sandwich guy took his position in the center of the train and began his speech.  He rambled on and on about how he used to live on the streets and then he found some church that helped him, so now he works with them to help other homeless people.  He’s wearing a makeshift ID badge around his neck that has a very generic name and logo on it…I think it said something like “NYC Hope”.  He explains to us how unsafe the streets are these days because “thugs” go around setting homeless people on fire and beating the crap out of them.  But thanks to his organization, now you can find them sleeping safely and soundly on park benches.  Gee, thanks for making park benches safe again…sounds like we’re really on our way to solving the problem of homelessness in NYC.  He goes on to say that one of the things they do is provide food for anyone who is hungry.  He has a large nylon bag filled with “sandwiches, water and milk” and anyone who wants the food is welcome to it.  At this point, I’m thinking “Milk??”  How long has he been carrying that unrefrigerated milk around??  He ends by walking up and down the train with a can, soliciting donations.  And he always says the same thing, “God bless the ones that give.  God bless the ones that don’t.”  I suppose that’s a nice gesture.  It certainly doesn’t encourage me to give.  I think, “God bless the ones that give and the rest of you are going to hell,” might be a better approach.  But I guess his way works.

As he’s making his rounds, something I had never seen before happened.  A woman, who looked like she was going through some bad times, asked him for a sandwich.  Now, in all the times I’ve witnessed this scam, I have never seen anyone ask for food.  So, now I’m like…yeah!  Let’s see what you have in that bag.  I have to say, he looked less than thrilled that this woman asked for a sandwich.  Seriously, WTF?  That’s his whole deal…food for anyone who wants it.  He rifles through his bag for a long while and places a sandwich and an orange in a separate plastic bag.  Then asks the woman if she wants milk or water.  Choose the water…choose the water, please choose the water.  She replies with a fervent “Milk!”  Oh my god!  She picked the milk!  So, he places the milk in the bag and hands the bag full o’ food to the woman.  And then he disappeared.  Just like that. 

The woman reaches into the bag and pulls out the sandwich.  It’s a pre-packaged egg salad sandwich that that you’d buy at a 7-11 or something.  Great…egg salad and milk that’s been sitting in a warm bag for who knows how long…bon appetite!  The sandwich is completely squashed and the woman looks at it with absolute disgust.  She throws it back into the bag and pulls out her little carton of milk.  She looks at the milk and declares, “What? They ain’t got no low-fat milk?” 

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why people don’t give to charity.  There’s just no appreciation for genrosity anymore.

Bloody Sunday

Ok, I’m going to make a very long story short because I am tired and I need to put this day behind me.

So…Ethan and I got up around 11am this morning with plans to attend the matinee of The Marriage of Bette and Boo by Christopher Durang (my favorite playwright) at 2pm.  At 12:45, I am showered and getting ready to go while Ethan is planted in front of the TV watching an episode of “Generation Kill” (that he’d recorded on Tivo).  I tell him he’d better get in the shower because we need to leave at 1pm.

We are out the door at 1:15 and at the subway by 1:20.  Ethan’s Metrocard is empty and the machine is giving him problems by not accepting any of the credit/debit cards he tries.  We finally get on the train at 1:30.  I know we are not going to make it to the theatre by 2pm.

We step off the train at 1:53pm.  Maybe if we sprint, we can make it.  The theatre is on 46^th Street between 5^th & 6^th Ave, so we exit at the 43^rd Street entrance and take off toward 6^th Ave.  The area seems to be more crowded than usual, even for Times Square.

We reach 6^th Ave and attempt to make a left to head up to 46^th Street, when a police officer tells us we can’t go that way.  We look up and the whole street is blocked off and there is a large stage set up with some kind of performance going on.  Maybe it’s a concert?  Not a good one…I don’t know.  So we head toward 5^th Ave.

We get to 5^th Ave and hang a left when JESUS CHRIST; WHERE THE FUCK DID ALL THESE PEOPLE COME FROM???  There are people everywhere, we cannot move.  They are all dressed in green and yellow and what the hell?  I try to look at the t-shirts they are wearing as we maneuver through the crowd as quickly as we can.  My shins are killing me.  I finally get a good look…Brazilian Day 2008 New York City…GODDAMMIT!  I hate fucking pride celebrations.  Nothing angers me more living in NYC.  I don’t care if you’re Puerto Rican, Costa Rican, Dominican, Gay, Irish, Brazilian…I don’t give a shit.  Be as proud as you want…just not all at the same time on the same day in the same place, OK?

By now, I am almost having a panic attack.  I don’t do well in large crowds.  They freak me out and it makes me violent.  A woman is trying to hand me a postcard of some kind while she shakes her ass to the horrible music that is everywhere.  I grab it from her hand and throw it onto the ground in front of her with as much force as you can throw a 3 oz. piece of paper.  We keep moving.  Well, we try.

We reach 6^th Ave and I don’t see the theatre.  WTF?  Oh, Ethan just realized that it’s between 6^th & 7^th, not 5^th & 6^th.  I cannot even tell you how angry I am at this point.  I look at my phone and it is 2:05.  I hate being late.  I hate people even more.  I see an opening on the sidewalk and dart to get ahead, but I am thwarted by a tranny who spins in my direction out of nowhere.  We are face to face as she dances.  She is about 6 feet tall, so I am eye level with her very tiny, although very pointy unsupported tits.  I huff, throw my arms up and shove past her.  I can hear her friends laughing.  I don’t care, I really need to be out of the crowd. 

We finally arrive at the theatre at 2:10.  The “festival” is still going on outside and you can hear the drums from inside the theatre.  I am sweaty and angry and trying to calm myself down from the panic attack I just had.  The usher tells us that we will have to sit in the back until intermission.  Our regular seats were in row D, they were free, but still much better seats.  I tell Ethan I don’t want to go inside.  He looks at me with disappointment and says, “But it’s closing this week.”  I acquiesce. 

We get to our seats and I’m sitting there for less than a minute when I feel it coming.  Tears start streaming down my face.  I am trying to stifle my audible crying so as not to disturb the people around me.  I cannot stop.  I don’t want to be here.  This isn’t even my favorite Durang play…it’s actually not that funny at all.  Snot is dripping from my nose.  I have no tissue.  I don’t want to sniffle because I don’t want other people to know I’m crying, even though I’m sure the guy sitting next to me could tell.

Ethan reaches over and attempts to grab my hand.  I struggle because I don’t want to hold hands right now.  He is stronger and manages to pry my bag away from me and places my hand in his.  I am still crying.  My eyes are blurry from the tears and I can’t even see the stage clearly.  When the doctor in the play throws the dead baby on the floor, I can actually hear people in the audience get offended.  This pleases me and I start to calm down a little.

I decide to use the jacket I had brought as a handkerchief (that reminds me, I need to wash that) and I am settled down by intermission.  Thank god, Ethan says he wants to leave because the drums from outside are bothering him and the people behind us kept talking.  I know that’s only half the reason, but I’m still glad.

We make our way outside and as far away from Times Square as we can get.

The End.

Sorry about that, I guess that wasn’t so short…but it’s better with all the little details. 

Later.

The Turks and The Bathhouse

“THE BATHHOUSE”

My husband and I recently moved to Harlem from way the fuck out in Brooklyn.  We love our new apartment and our new neighborhood.  One of the highlights of said neighborhood is that we live right next door to the Hansborough Recreation Center aka “The Bathhouse” at 134th Street.  Our favorite feature is its “mosaic-tiled, sky-lighted “Natatorium”, or indoor swimming pool”.  We both love to swim.

Since we’ve already established that I am a Jesse Bradford fan, I feel there’s no shame in admitting that I love the movie “Swimfan”.  I know it’s not a good movie, but I think it’s an awesome movie.  Hot guys in Speedos, a crazy bitch and Dan Hedaya.  That’s good shit.  Anyway, since Ethan and I love to swim, we decided to check out Hansborough and go for a dip.  The moment we walked in, Ethan turned to me and said “Are you sure they didn’t film ‘Swimfan’ here?”  For some reason, I thought that they’d filmed the pool scenes at the Harlem YMCA, which is a couple of blocks west of us and way more expensive to join.  I can’t deny that I felt the same thing.  It was very familiar.  I never gave it a second thought until this past Saturday, when I felt like popping “Swimfan” into our new XBox HD DVD player to see how it looked on our new HD TV.  I immediately skipped to the first scene at the pool and said “Holy crap, that is totally our pool!”  I checked out the end credits and sure enough, there was a special thanks to the Hansborough Recreation Center.  Dude, we swim in the pool where they shot “Swimfan”!!  This will totally motivate me to swim every day now.  I’ll just have to be careful that I don’t get distracted by some guy’s pubes while I’m swimming and bump into a dead body.

 ”THE TURKS”

Yesterday, Ethan and I decided to take advantage of the fabulous weather we’ve been having and take a trip to Central Park.  We pack my iPod speakers, the essential game pieces needed to play Yahtzee and head out. 

As we are walking through the park, we notice a bunch of large tents set up near 100th St.  We wander in and see a sign that reads “NY Turkish Festival”.  It seems like they are setting up for an event the next day and nothing is going on, so we keep moving.  We find a shady spot on the other side of the tents and set up camp.  Natasha Bedingfield is playing on the iPod and I am kicking Ethan’s ass in our second round of Yahtzee when Ethan notices something going on behind me.

Several yards away, two oiled up men wearing only what looks like the bottom half of a wet suit emerge from one of the tents.  One is carrying a bottle of olive oil and there’s a guy with a camera with them.  We think maybe it’s a photo shoot?  They mill around for a bit and then three more oily guys come out of the tents, followed by three more shortly after that.  So now there are eight oily (we assume Turkish) dudes hanging out on the grass, all dressed in the same wet suit pants.  We start to rethink our initial theory that this is a photo shoot because the last few guys who show up are less hot than the others.  They are now running back and forth, slapping each other as they pass, like they’re warming up.  Maybe they’re acrobats?  And then, magic happened.

They pair off, grab onto each other and start to wrestle.  But not normal wrestling, like you’d see on Spike…no, they’re doing some kind of wrestling that I can only assume is popular among gay dudes in Turkey.  They are climbing on each other and touching up their oil and using techniques that I can’t imagine would even be legal in the wrestling I’m familiar with.  One standard move seems to be sticking your hand down your opponent’s pants as far as you can…front or back, doesn’t matter…and groping?  I’m not sure what they actually do once their hand is down there.  A guy with a dog who’s been observing this whole thing a few feet away from us turns to us and says, “Is this an audition for gay porn?”  We laugh and continue to make fun of the “wrestlers” with the stranger for several more minutes.  By now, they have attracted a small crowd, some of whom appear to be with them (they applaud and take pictures anyway).  I am unsettled that there are children present.  Ethan and I eventually grow bored of the homoerotic theatrics (or outwardly gay show) and leave.  Our new friend says, “I’m going to go over and ask if they need a place to crash tonight.  I guess I’ll be going to the Turkish Festival tomorrow.”  I had the same thought…but decided to stay home and organize my new Nutrisystem food instead.

Later.