Worst Store Name Ever (1.22.09)

What’s the worst store name you’ve ever seen? Give me your comments. This is what I came across this morning on my commute. Pretty terrible, but I know there are worse.

Video Hospital

If your video equipment is sick enough to require a hospital, this place is on 12th and 4th.

Poetry Society of America, Let Me In (12.30.08)

Dear great Poetry Society of America,

Won’t you please, please let me in?

On my New York City commute,

I pass by and salute,

And am always with chagrin.

 

Chagrin is a word I would never ever use,

Except in a poem this sappy.

For the word in my head,

The one you would surely dread,

Is that you make me oh so happy.

 

Robert Frost, Langston Hughes,

These men I surely do love.

But as for the art,

The woman who holds dearest my heart,

Is the Laureate Miss Rita Frances Dove.

 

And your Shelley Award for “genius and need,”

Which so many great poets have had,

It’s in the case for me,

And this is my plea –

One out of two ain’t so bad.

Poets Society of America

15 Gramercy Park South

This building is located at 15 Gramercy Park South (map).

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Rod Stuart Loves the Hamptons (12.3.08)

OK. What’s the deal? I’ve been seeing graffiti of “Rod Stuart Loves the Hamptons” all over Manhattan. Apparently it’s in Brooklyn too. This shot here was taken near my office at Morton and Greenwich St.Note the misspelling of Stewart, a smart move for whoever is creating these works. I looked it up and Rod Stuart Loves the Hamptons has its own MySpace page. T-Shirts can be found at RareChic, which leads me to believe that it’s a brilliant artist’s marketing ploy. (Or someone is making a nice buck off of it.) And the shirt costs $73! For a t-shirt!

Rod Stuart Loves the Hamptons

It’s got a ring to it, right? Can anyone tell me what is going on? I feel so out of the loop.

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Drifter (12.2.08)

When you think about drifters you probably don’t think about New York City. You think open fields, praries and high plains. It’s definition is someone who drifts, or a person who goes from place to place, job to job, etc., remaining in each for a short period, esp. a hobo.

A hobo? There’s a word that has slipped through the cracks of society. But I’m not talking about hobos here. I want to turn your attention to a different kind of drifter, a New York drifter. New York drifters are people who, when in a crowd, can’t walk in a straight line. They move ever so slightly to one side or the other, always to the same exact spot you are heading. You go one way. They, as if sensing your intentions, drift in front of you. Any move on your part to pass is swiftly thwarted. (You know who you are, readhead in the puffy North Face sleeping bag jacket on 23rd and 5th!)

Now you’re boiling over, helplessly caught behind this person and pinned on either side by other commuters.  In a NASCAR-like fashion you position yourself. Jeff Gordon nudging into the lane. You’d commit murder over the two inches that would allow you to slip past. “Move it!” or “Come on!” your inner voice cries out.

At some point, never soon enough, the drifter’s path allows for enough room to squeeze by. Then you’re home free. Until the next block. When you are stopped at a light, waiting for traffic to pass. The drifter appears at your side.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

Driving (11.29.08)

I’ve been home for a few days and away from the walking world of New York City. My commutes thus far have been 30 minutes to my grandparent’s house for a Thanksgiving feast that left me asleep on the couch by 6. (Eating begins at two o’clock and runs straight through until dinner, which begins promptly at four-thirty). The other commute was a drive of a little over an hour to visit my friend’s new house.

After both of these drives I can’t help but reflect on how not present I as during either of them. The car is moving you. You make minor adjustments – pressing a peddel an inch closer to the ground or letting it come an inch up or moving a hydraulicly assisted wheel to the right or left – but really it’s the car doing all the work. Not so when you have to walk through New York every morning and night in the now cold and windy weather. With walking you feel every step. You hear your breathing change. You know one second to the next how you feel.

When I was driving I swear there were entire miles when I was zoned out. And I now realize why people stay in New York their entire lives. Because it’s there that they feel something. Whether it’s good or bad. Even with the sting of walking a half an hour on a twenty-degree morning. Smelling the dog urine that covers one block or the aromatic flower shop on the next corner. Seeing a homeless man wrapped in blankets or a movie star, kids playing the the park or a super hot movie star (yes, I have walked past Uma Thurman and Debra Messing). Good or bad, you know you’re alive. You’re not a drifter, being carried along a highway.

No matter how fast that car can take you, the feeling is never as permeating as the thoughtful steps you take from one block to another.

Just a thought.