I know better than to raise an eye to the skyline while in the city. I have seen the beautifully decorated ceiling of Grand Central Station only in pictures. I know this much. After many a trip I still may not know whether I should exit onto Lexington or 42nd to shave a right turn or two toward my destination in SoHo, yet I have come to acknowledge that if I wave down one of the psycho yellow blurs that dominate the roadways of the city that I do not "own" that cab. Even the tame can be feral, and in the city one must be primal.
Instincts have lead to much adaptation in the New Yorker. One denizen I have known in a former incarnation as a yokel in our youths has begun teaching me the hunting, the eking out, the survival strategies of this one wild island. These skills are artfully and individually honed. Let me tell you, the meek will not a bagel receive.
Take for instance, two delis. To the admiring, unassuming early-morning hungry-man they would appear to have the same varied sundries, one an approximate of the other...save the continent of the proprietor's heritage. Not so, says the distinguishing South Houston-ite. One is desirable solely for the bagel, where the recipient must know afore ordering (with no visual cue or clearly posted protocol) to quiet oneself on the particulars of preparation or "shmear" options. It will, God willing, come as it may. One way. Not the other. Coffee is taken from the adjacent deli. prepared and served by self, cream offering God willing.
Yes, one must lose themselves into the mist of uncertainty and embrace the primalities that the vast labyrinth of places sought, shunned and stayed clear of. On my last trip, just this month past, my survival instincts were put to the test in such a way as I could look back on the crucible with angst and consternation or pride and personal growth. I knew this then, and searched my baser needs to answer the enigma.
The four of us, two by two, city mice and country mice, stood shoulder to shoulder awaiting a table. Cloudy mirrors and lengths of brass, this hipster haunt was a destination. And we were destined to wait. As country mice, my consort and i fall victim to one of our many pastimes. Standing patiently for our name to be drawn in the great lotto of dining tables. The city mice stirred.
It was to pass that the 1.5 hour approximated wait served to our party by a darkly bedecked and complexioned host would not do. Would not suffice. My hosting steward and I would venture forth into the night to garner a better offer, at the bequest of our dinner-dates. Prompted on cell phone functions, and pointed in the an appropriate heading, we set out into the night, a table was our fleece, our chalice to hold above all else. We were to be Lewis and/or Clark, whoever would happen upon an open table within a four-block radius. And we were ready to take the quest. Or at least feign a try rather than while the time away gazing in like Tiny Tim at the platters, plates and glasses passed. Wishful.
I have never seen a meth-amphetamine-addicted person. Until that night. The cursing was a tell-tale. The frothing was hard evidence. As my compatriot in this fellowship of open-booth-seeking made the call to arms, the dinner-bell-ring to our significants, still ogling the fed and hearty, signaling a wellspring of seats not two blocks west of our previous locality, I was treated to one of the many side effects of city living. The train-wreck-rubberneck-that is inspired by the open ragings of the lunatic elite that is ever-present in major cities. I will grant this, I was inspired by this particularly "touched" woman's sense of indignity and the courage she embodied, as she spat insults, saliva and acrimonies as the tattoo parlors brightly lit windows...a thin glass layer shielded the gathered occupants whose incredulity grew in direct relation to the gathering of spittle and absurdities that rained across the neon-lit window.
To make matters approximately more unsettling, the woman had just walked out of the very establishment that we had deemed an opportune end to our February night sojourn. It did not bode well, however it did have an open table. Hers?
And so we were met, shown to our table, and comfortably attended to. Though the bottle we selected was not readily chilled, though the entree I salivated for was sold out, the syncretic overtures and simple charm of The Pink Pony, the coffee shop/book haven cum French-Moroccan taste-haven easily and modestly displays its assets. From classically prepared Escargot in garlic and parsley to the Eggplant Napoleon, whose sautéed vegetables barley and green curry sauce transcended the lowly and oft under appreciated station of vegetarian menu fare. From our plush, not posh, round booth at the back of the restaurant, replete with bookshelves and mirrored walls, the mice ate well and comfortably in the care of the Pony. Lest we overlook the F. Scott Fitzgerald's grand message regarding reserving judgment, we did well by not letting the bohemian, coffee house cover, nor the babbling brook of insults issued by the angel-dusted harpy dissuade us from seeing for ourselves what lay inside. Hunger and situation also played a role, but doesn’t it always.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Hear and Now
This is the Age of Introversion. Enmeshed with that is the penumbra in which we seek technological means to dissuade others from interacting with us. This is cutting edge. This is what fads obsessions lead us to purchase...it is what the American public at large moves toward as a society, a quieting of Americans as an antisocial-social movement.
The top selling products in America today are almost solely personal electronics. In the great arena of competitive commercial outfits, the names that jump out as contending gladiators are that of Apple, Sony, and all things Blue Tooth. Now, one ,may be apt to utter defiantly that among these electronics producers, the goal of many of the leading products sought after are communication devices; cell phones, internet able "smart phones" and computers. Rightly so. These are all connecting people with a rapidly expanding speed and distance conquering aptitude. Yet what matters is the manner and depth to the communication taking place, or the lack of it.
Around cities across the nation, I-Tuned out youths gambol to and fro. Insulated by their ear buds, they may walk as if ghosts, undeterred by the sites and sounds beyond their own mumbling or humming. No polite words spoken to passersby, taking in the few sounds that nature can interject in our ever-urban realities, these silent masses robotically negotiate their travels to the soundtrack of their hermetic selfs.
Differing from the selectively deaf meandering souls, if only slightly, are the glossolalia plagued Blue-Toothers. Seemingly speaking in tongue, the indifference displayed to those surrounding the babbling schizophrenics is amplified ignobly toward those who attempt to answer awkwardly the speaker-of-tongues or even less sensibly, attempt to entreat the orator to say, place an order, direct the taxi toward a destination or otherwise interact with a person presently in the same vicinity as the blue-tooth baron.
Recently found in in the pages of a suburban high school newspaper was a full-page advertisement for a device so introvert-ably awesome that I presume the internet will be slowed to a trickle at the hurried clamor of click-clack texting, typing and hyping. The inspired cure-all nostrum that will prove to ward off any non-cellular communicant:
"Myvu’s personal media viewer is everything you need for a hands free private viewing experience, at home or on-the-go."
The gimmick is easy: Take one I-pod or other leading brand isolation machine, add one pair dark sunglasses, and enjoy. Text away, watch a video, a movie, your choice. The benefits are incalculable. At once watching a downloaded video, ignoring the people around you and being blinded of the bank teller, fellow diners and oncoming buses; you now appear to be deaf, dumb and blind.
The act is complete. In the pursuit of the latest communications gadgets you have sufficiently drowned out the hear and now. Through popular technology and fad movement , Americans are slowly and selectively opting out of the community. Finding a backward avenue to social pariah has become an achievement that Steve Jobs et al have found to be a financially rewarding antisocial-social movement.
The top selling products in America today are almost solely personal electronics. In the great arena of competitive commercial outfits, the names that jump out as contending gladiators are that of Apple, Sony, and all things Blue Tooth. Now, one ,may be apt to utter defiantly that among these electronics producers, the goal of many of the leading products sought after are communication devices; cell phones, internet able "smart phones" and computers. Rightly so. These are all connecting people with a rapidly expanding speed and distance conquering aptitude. Yet what matters is the manner and depth to the communication taking place, or the lack of it.
Around cities across the nation, I-Tuned out youths gambol to and fro. Insulated by their ear buds, they may walk as if ghosts, undeterred by the sites and sounds beyond their own mumbling or humming. No polite words spoken to passersby, taking in the few sounds that nature can interject in our ever-urban realities, these silent masses robotically negotiate their travels to the soundtrack of their hermetic selfs.
Differing from the selectively deaf meandering souls, if only slightly, are the glossolalia plagued Blue-Toothers. Seemingly speaking in tongue, the indifference displayed to those surrounding the babbling schizophrenics is amplified ignobly toward those who attempt to answer awkwardly the speaker-of-tongues or even less sensibly, attempt to entreat the orator to say, place an order, direct the taxi toward a destination or otherwise interact with a person presently in the same vicinity as the blue-tooth baron.
Recently found in in the pages of a suburban high school newspaper was a full-page advertisement for a device so introvert-ably awesome that I presume the internet will be slowed to a trickle at the hurried clamor of click-clack texting, typing and hyping. The inspired cure-all nostrum that will prove to ward off any non-cellular communicant:
"Myvu’s personal media viewer is everything you need for a hands free private viewing experience, at home or on-the-go."
The gimmick is easy: Take one I-pod or other leading brand isolation machine, add one pair dark sunglasses, and enjoy. Text away, watch a video, a movie, your choice. The benefits are incalculable. At once watching a downloaded video, ignoring the people around you and being blinded of the bank teller, fellow diners and oncoming buses; you now appear to be deaf, dumb and blind.
The act is complete. In the pursuit of the latest communications gadgets you have sufficiently drowned out the hear and now. Through popular technology and fad movement , Americans are slowly and selectively opting out of the community. Finding a backward avenue to social pariah has become an achievement that Steve Jobs et al have found to be a financially rewarding antisocial-social movement.
Catch and Release
I would estimate that if I had to keep all the fish I caught that I would still have room in the freezer for last year's Thin Mints. That aside, I know that others may not have such spare lodgings if not for the increasing popularity catch and release. Though it does not effect me, it has become an effective movement to ensure the viability of trout, bass and other sport-suitable specimen but has also drew into fishing a lively folklore.
Considered a sub-genre of fiction, the greatest tool a catch and release artist has in his tackle box is his unique ability to bend a rod under the ghost weight of "big one". Thought to be standardized, many rulers and scales fluctuate on the lilt and loquacious expirations dockside.
An important aspect of the catch and release technique pairs the use of barbless hooks as they allow the fish to be more readily loosed, and the ready use of loose-truths. One cannot be mired by facts under the onslaught of bait eager beauties, almost jumping into the boat, threatening to capsize the vessel under their bountiful weight.
Having to rely on physical evidence, mounted and from head to tail, many ill-fated anglers would be without their due share of tales. One wonders at the quieting of round tables in seaside bars, the firesides of fishing camps and business class airline cabins...
Though there may be some naysayers, the disquieting doubters and some more epic stories may land upon recalcitrant ears, the practice of sending back what one catches into the mother waters from whence it came is unquestionably the most noble and perhaps Nobel of techniques.
Considered a sub-genre of fiction, the greatest tool a catch and release artist has in his tackle box is his unique ability to bend a rod under the ghost weight of "big one". Thought to be standardized, many rulers and scales fluctuate on the lilt and loquacious expirations dockside.
An important aspect of the catch and release technique pairs the use of barbless hooks as they allow the fish to be more readily loosed, and the ready use of loose-truths. One cannot be mired by facts under the onslaught of bait eager beauties, almost jumping into the boat, threatening to capsize the vessel under their bountiful weight.
Having to rely on physical evidence, mounted and from head to tail, many ill-fated anglers would be without their due share of tales. One wonders at the quieting of round tables in seaside bars, the firesides of fishing camps and business class airline cabins...
Though there may be some naysayers, the disquieting doubters and some more epic stories may land upon recalcitrant ears, the practice of sending back what one catches into the mother waters from whence it came is unquestionably the most noble and perhaps Nobel of techniques.
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