307 West 26th Street. The UCB Theatre sits dark and forgotten next to the brightly lit mega (their word not mine) Gristedes grocery store–it's as if it had been picked up by a tornado, somewhere from the East Village maybe, and then re-plunked here, on this unexpected block. It doesn't fit in. But it doesn't stick out either.
Walking down the stairs I wonder if I'm going back in time, or rather down in time. In a way I am–I've arrived at the UCB Theatre to see a live taping of the radio show Seven Second Delay which airs at 6pm on 91.1 WFMU. Actually I've come to see AND hear. It isn't often we get to see the voices behind the radio speaker, so when my friend Laura, the producer of the show, invited me, I jumped. I quickly found her walking around, looking busy and important but carrying a beer. She evokes the show Portlandia, by way of Brooklyn.
There are only a few people scattered about, seated amongst the narrow rows of aging red velvet chairs. I pick a seat three rows back and get settled in for the show. It takes me a few moments to get comfortable, the springs in the seat circling their way up to my backside, ensuring I don't fall asleep (as I am known to do anytime the lights go out). Laura had warned me to be on time for the start of the show, and, as promised, it did, with fan fair from the squirrelly-haired keyboardist running his fingers up and down the keys to get the audience in the mood.
The mood adequately set, Ken and Andy, the two hosts, walked out to our applause and began the show with an announcement that they were having a contest to see who could hold their bladder longer, or maybe who could drink more water, or just who could avoid leaving the stage first. They'd each had one liter of water before the show and downed one more in the first ten minutes. There was talk of urethra's and ways to hold your bladder, Andy threw out his idea of cheating which was to just put "a little dab of crazy glue" to keep it in. Andy was the one sitting behind the desk, so he also pointed out that he could basically pee at any time and we wouldn't know it. Ken doubted he could keep it so silent. The bet was for $40.
The guest list was short (three) and comprised of two bloggers and a Brooklyn-based band called Hospitality. Julieanne Smolinski, the first blogger was amusing. She bantered and joked with the two fifty plus radio hosts with ease. Her 15-minutes of fame currently surrounds her recent coup in getting Will Shortz, the puzzle master for The New York Times to kinda, sorta admit that one of his clues was maybe wrong-ish. His incorrect clue was: Wack, (in Hip Hop) and the answer was: Illin'. Julieanne begged to differ. She also handed out his email address, which is wshortz at aol.com. I love meeting "older" people with aol.com email addresses, it's almost as if I can hear the modem dialing.
The next blogger almost put me to sleep, so let's skip him. The hosts then did some speed interviewing of audience members which proved fascinating and funny. And then the band came on, the singer, the only girl, was shy and jittery. They were adorable and I liked their music–a little raspy, a little unfinished. Their album comes out on January 31st on Merge records and on February 3rd they have a CD release party at Glasslands. I hope I can make it.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
On Flying.
January 17th, 2012. I am flying from Hailey, Idaho to New York. Via Los Angeles. Yes, I'm going a little backwards. I board the plane by doll-sized stairs at the back. One can also enter from doll-sized stairs in the front. It's about 7 degrees out. I take the window seat which isn't so great for legroom because the airplane is so curved that your left foot has no place to step, and has to move over into the space of your right foot. The man sitting next to me is about 60 years old–give or take a few. After stowing items above, taking items out, pushing items below, he sits and takes out the in-flight magazine. We're flying Horizon Air, not that it matters. As we take off I read a book, Joan Didion's essay collection Slouching Towards Bethlehem. The pages flip by with a speed that comes from focus and an incredible lack of distractions. (I have no window to look out of–which is usually the reason I even take the window seat–this seat should be called something else.) Windowless and uninterested in talking I read, yet, as I read I manage to take in all the details of my seat mate. He has hair the texture of dried shrubs. It's the color of sun-aged tracks in mud. His glasses are standard issue men-over-fifty, gold-framed bifocals. He wears a Sun Valley sweatshirt.
At the beginning of the flight I noticed a little more: the personal pillow on the back of the seat, The North Face backpack stowed under the seat in front, two protein bars–strangely without any branding, stuffed into the seat back in front of him. He took out a Ziploc baggie holding half a piece of bread, banana probably. The last thing I noticed was his book. Worn at every corner, curled at the edges–it looked thumbed through by generations of thumbs.
We exchanged a few "airplane" sentences–about the weather, the flight, meaningless words not to be bothered with here. Before we took off he ate the banana bread.
As we flew, and as he read the in-flight magazine, his eyes darted everywhere: through the slice of space between the seats in front of us, down the aisle, across the aisle, towards the back but never, or so it seemed, towards me. I thought to myself he definitely has some kind of attention disorder. The darting unsettled me. The flight attendant came by with drinks & snacks. She handed me a tiny package of biscotti. I asked for pretzels, in fact I said, "Do you have anything salty?" The man looked over at me during this exchange. On second thought I think I said,"Do you have anything that's not sweet?" and then I probably said the salty line. The plane lady did have something but she didn't look happy about giving it to me. It: a tiny bag, big enough for three bites. She then turned to the man and remarked how she had seen him a week or so ago, and then she walked off. The man ate the biscotti, then turned to me and said, "Yes, these are sweet." He said this with a bit of surprise. I decided not to point out that they were cookies, which are intrinsically sweet. He then ate his un-branded protein bar. As he ate it he smoothed down the wrapper in order to review the ingredients.
At this point he moved from the in-flight magazine to his book. Opening it up I noticed the headings–the book seemed like a combination bible and self-help book. The bold headings said things like, How To Talk To Your Children, followed by a short paragraph. It was at this point I recalled that the man had been on my flight eight days ago, from LA to Sun Valley. Reading the same book. He had sat across the aisle from me and while I couldn't read the words, I recognized the format. Do you ever notice the same people on a flight, you notice them on your outbound and then recall them on the inbound? I do. I'm both amazed it happens and impressed my memory captures their faces long enough to categorize them and to pull them back up when seen again (man on plane, January 9th). It's as if my brain is one of those microfiche machines, less controlled but always impressive when the data is returned.
When we finally land at LAX he stands up and pulls his things out from the overhead bin: a pair of white sneakers, a cane, and a plastic bag that says the Virgin Islands. "Have a nice trip home," he says. As I thank him, and, as I write this now, I wonder at my minds ability to see (visual) and to read (verbal) simultaneously. I wondered what to do with the useless information I had just catalogued on our two-hour flight. Now that it's down here maybe I'll have room for other things. Boarding my flight to JFK, I find my seat, open my book and look to my right. Well, hello seat 19J...
At the beginning of the flight I noticed a little more: the personal pillow on the back of the seat, The North Face backpack stowed under the seat in front, two protein bars–strangely without any branding, stuffed into the seat back in front of him. He took out a Ziploc baggie holding half a piece of bread, banana probably. The last thing I noticed was his book. Worn at every corner, curled at the edges–it looked thumbed through by generations of thumbs.
We exchanged a few "airplane" sentences–about the weather, the flight, meaningless words not to be bothered with here. Before we took off he ate the banana bread.
As we flew, and as he read the in-flight magazine, his eyes darted everywhere: through the slice of space between the seats in front of us, down the aisle, across the aisle, towards the back but never, or so it seemed, towards me. I thought to myself he definitely has some kind of attention disorder. The darting unsettled me. The flight attendant came by with drinks & snacks. She handed me a tiny package of biscotti. I asked for pretzels, in fact I said, "Do you have anything salty?" The man looked over at me during this exchange. On second thought I think I said,"Do you have anything that's not sweet?" and then I probably said the salty line. The plane lady did have something but she didn't look happy about giving it to me. It: a tiny bag, big enough for three bites. She then turned to the man and remarked how she had seen him a week or so ago, and then she walked off. The man ate the biscotti, then turned to me and said, "Yes, these are sweet." He said this with a bit of surprise. I decided not to point out that they were cookies, which are intrinsically sweet. He then ate his un-branded protein bar. As he ate it he smoothed down the wrapper in order to review the ingredients.
At this point he moved from the in-flight magazine to his book. Opening it up I noticed the headings–the book seemed like a combination bible and self-help book. The bold headings said things like, How To Talk To Your Children, followed by a short paragraph. It was at this point I recalled that the man had been on my flight eight days ago, from LA to Sun Valley. Reading the same book. He had sat across the aisle from me and while I couldn't read the words, I recognized the format. Do you ever notice the same people on a flight, you notice them on your outbound and then recall them on the inbound? I do. I'm both amazed it happens and impressed my memory captures their faces long enough to categorize them and to pull them back up when seen again (man on plane, January 9th). It's as if my brain is one of those microfiche machines, less controlled but always impressive when the data is returned.
When we finally land at LAX he stands up and pulls his things out from the overhead bin: a pair of white sneakers, a cane, and a plastic bag that says the Virgin Islands. "Have a nice trip home," he says. As I thank him, and, as I write this now, I wonder at my minds ability to see (visual) and to read (verbal) simultaneously. I wondered what to do with the useless information I had just catalogued on our two-hour flight. Now that it's down here maybe I'll have room for other things. Boarding my flight to JFK, I find my seat, open my book and look to my right. Well, hello seat 19J...
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Great for the Plane
I've decided there should be a new category of films. Along with Thrillers, Romantic Comedies, Action & Adventure, Drama, Chick Flicks, Bromances and the like, I think we need a new category called Great For The Plane. I just watched a film tonight called Morning Glory. Utterly basic in its premise and storyline but you know what, it totally made me happy through and through. Can I recommend it to friends? Well, I'm not sure. If it had it's own category, something that says Yes, It's Good But.
But, it's not Oscar good or art house good or Sundance good or date good or anything like that good. It's just a wonderful way to spend two hours with a smile on your face. Who wouldn't want to pass two hours on a plane (or late at night) with relative ease? I can think of a few other films to include in this category: About A Boy, Sliding Doors, No Reservations, Hitch, Friends With Benefits and Lucky Seven. Do you have some you can add to the category? Leave a comment if you do. Maybe if we get enough Netflix will add the category.
UPDATE: I just flew to NYC from Los Angeles on American Airlines and while I have dreamed up this new movie category I'd like to go on the record and say that many airlines are doing a terrible job with their own category. The movie shown on my flight was Footloose. Not the original starring Kevin Bacon but a remake. A Remake! How many times have you been on a flight where the movie featured is something you can't bare to watch?
But, it's not Oscar good or art house good or Sundance good or date good or anything like that good. It's just a wonderful way to spend two hours with a smile on your face. Who wouldn't want to pass two hours on a plane (or late at night) with relative ease? I can think of a few other films to include in this category: About A Boy, Sliding Doors, No Reservations, Hitch, Friends With Benefits and Lucky Seven. Do you have some you can add to the category? Leave a comment if you do. Maybe if we get enough Netflix will add the category.
UPDATE: I just flew to NYC from Los Angeles on American Airlines and while I have dreamed up this new movie category I'd like to go on the record and say that many airlines are doing a terrible job with their own category. The movie shown on my flight was Footloose. Not the original starring Kevin Bacon but a remake. A Remake! How many times have you been on a flight where the movie featured is something you can't bare to watch?
Monday, January 9, 2012
A Look Back At 2011.
When the new year hits we always seem to look ahead but then I thought, why not take a second to look back at 2011 and review what the heck I actually accomplished. It's my own little top 10 list that doesn't involve films, books or movies.
Top 10 Things I Did in 2011
10. Learned to skate ski in Idaho. (February 2011)
9. Attended my first SXSW with Derek and ALV. (March 2011)
8. Registered for Grad School. (April 2011)
7. Helped lead my first class at 18 Reasons. (April 2011)
6. Road Alpine Dam (aka Seven Sisters), a ride I had always wanted to do, but been afraid to do, with Bill and Yannis. (June 2011)
5. Packed, moved out and rented my San Francisco apartment. (June 2011)
4. Moved to NYC (July 2011)
3. Found an apartment in NYC (August 2011)
2. Found an even better apartment in NYC (November 2011)
1. Finished my first semester in my MFA program. (December 2011)
I can't wait to see what happens in 2012.
Top 10 Things I Did in 2011
10. Learned to skate ski in Idaho. (February 2011)
9. Attended my first SXSW with Derek and ALV. (March 2011)
8. Registered for Grad School. (April 2011)
7. Helped lead my first class at 18 Reasons. (April 2011)
6. Road Alpine Dam (aka Seven Sisters), a ride I had always wanted to do, but been afraid to do, with Bill and Yannis. (June 2011)
5. Packed, moved out and rented my San Francisco apartment. (June 2011)
4. Moved to NYC (July 2011)
3. Found an apartment in NYC (August 2011)
2. Found an even better apartment in NYC (November 2011)
1. Finished my first semester in my MFA program. (December 2011)
I can't wait to see what happens in 2012.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Why Didn't I Take A Cab.
My stairs are steep. They are narrow. I am wearing boots with a two-inch heel. As I pull my bags out the front door I eyeball them, and then I glance down those steep stairs. I wonder for just a moment if I can manage all three bags: the colossal duffel, the dense shoulder bag and the small lunch sack. No surprise that I am running late to the airport. No time to doubt my abilities, no sherpa to assist me, I shoulder the three bags and wobble slowly down the mountain. A neighbor on the second floor comes out her front door, looks up at me and says nothing. Ok, so maybe it's early, but she doesn't offer any help, doesn't offer a grimace to commiserate with me, if only to share in the pain by a turn of her lips. She just heads down the stairs, leading the way like a helpless guide. Continuing my downward spiral, just a little behind the nameless neighbor, I get down to the ground floor and make my way through the narrow hall towards the two front doors I must maneuver next. The first door you have to turn a handle and pull towards you. The second door, once you've made it through the first, has a large red button you must push (which then emits a warning buzz, which I've never quite understood) and then you pull the door in. The neighbor has made it through both doors, without a single glance back.
Exiting the complicated 2-door entry I stop on the street, confronted by the frigid air. The cold slices through me despite the heat I've just generated from the journey out the building. I decide not to put my gloves or hat on–the effort out the building already has me huffing and I think the heat is enough to take care of my extremities. Leaning down I pick up the handle to the giant duffel bag and begin the four block journey. As I pull it along I am slightly ashamed at the largeness of it, like it shouts to everyone that I don't know how to pack light. Three minutes later, proven dramatically wrong about heat spreading, I stop to put on my gloves and hat. The three minute exposure to the early morning wind is already too much; my hands are pink and stinging.
Walking again I can feel my torso throwing off more heat. I want to unzip my jacket. Again: foolish thought. As I near the station entrance, I mentally count off the steps remaining to boarding the train: down one flight of stairs, through the turnstile, wait on platform. Three more to go. I make it down the stairs without sideswiping any humans. Approaching the turnstile I realize there's no way we can all fit through. I drop the bag that feels as heavy as a dead horse, should I have ever felt the weight of a dead horse, and I ask the subway attendant what to do. She looks at me like I'm an idiot and says, "Swipe your card at any turnstile over there (pointing left), then walk through that gate over there (pointing right)." I do exactly as she instructs and make it to the platform just in time for an M train to pull up–it's not the train I need so I stand there and try to compose myself. I am sweating profusely and I feel weak.
As the M-train pulls away I look across the tracks to the other direction to see a J-train pulling up. That's when I realize I am on the wrong side of the tracks. Not only am I missing the train I need but I have unanticipated stairs ahead of me. I heft my bags up and onto my shoulders, move down a long flight of stairs, walk over to the other side and tread (slowly) up the final two flights of stairs to the correct platform. I throw my bags down, I rip off my leather jacket and I wonder to myself for the hundredth time: why didn't I take a cab?
Exiting the complicated 2-door entry I stop on the street, confronted by the frigid air. The cold slices through me despite the heat I've just generated from the journey out the building. I decide not to put my gloves or hat on–the effort out the building already has me huffing and I think the heat is enough to take care of my extremities. Leaning down I pick up the handle to the giant duffel bag and begin the four block journey. As I pull it along I am slightly ashamed at the largeness of it, like it shouts to everyone that I don't know how to pack light. Three minutes later, proven dramatically wrong about heat spreading, I stop to put on my gloves and hat. The three minute exposure to the early morning wind is already too much; my hands are pink and stinging.
Walking again I can feel my torso throwing off more heat. I want to unzip my jacket. Again: foolish thought. As I near the station entrance, I mentally count off the steps remaining to boarding the train: down one flight of stairs, through the turnstile, wait on platform. Three more to go. I make it down the stairs without sideswiping any humans. Approaching the turnstile I realize there's no way we can all fit through. I drop the bag that feels as heavy as a dead horse, should I have ever felt the weight of a dead horse, and I ask the subway attendant what to do. She looks at me like I'm an idiot and says, "Swipe your card at any turnstile over there (pointing left), then walk through that gate over there (pointing right)." I do exactly as she instructs and make it to the platform just in time for an M train to pull up–it's not the train I need so I stand there and try to compose myself. I am sweating profusely and I feel weak.
As the M-train pulls away I look across the tracks to the other direction to see a J-train pulling up. That's when I realize I am on the wrong side of the tracks. Not only am I missing the train I need but I have unanticipated stairs ahead of me. I heft my bags up and onto my shoulders, move down a long flight of stairs, walk over to the other side and tread (slowly) up the final two flights of stairs to the correct platform. I throw my bags down, I rip off my leather jacket and I wonder to myself for the hundredth time: why didn't I take a cab?
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Why is the day before a trip always so busy? I try my best to get the errands out of the way earlier in the week, but no matter how hard I try, there's my to-do list, bigger than a post-it.
Curious about the things I did today? I give you...the minutia of my day:
8:45am: wake up
8:46: bathroom
8:47: turn on NPR
8:48: lay in bed, check phone for emails
8:56: look in mirror, wrinkle on right cheek from sleeping on my stomach
9:01: try to motivate
9:15: get dressed
9:16: stuff dirty clothes in bag to take to laundromat
9:20: walk out front door
9:25: put clothes into washer
9:30: walk to D'Espresso, not the greatest coffee but its the best I can do in a 4 block radius
9:34: walk back to laundromat
9:35: sit in laundromat and wait, that show Doctors is on the air, try to watch
9:55: put clothes from washer into dryer, except a pair jeans and wool socks that can't tumble dry, set them on shelf
9:57: walk to library to return books
10:05: wait out front of library with at least 20 other people, even though it's supposed to be open at 10am
10:07: librarian shows up, she's smoking
10:09: walk back over to laundromat
10:10: realize on walk over that the detergent has been leaking and now have it all over purse and sweater
10:11: everything in purse is sticky and smells like laundry
10:12: fold clothes at laundromat
10:15: walk home to drop clothes off
10:16: bathroom
10:17: deal with purse and sweater situation
10:30: go online, send emails, go on Facebook, putter
10:50: decide to work out at lunch, sign up for class online
11:00: check in for flight, print out boarding pass
11:40: head to Bar Method class
11:55: shop for gifts at a bike shop on Lafayette
12:05pm: wander around Banana Republic to try and use birthday coupons, don't find anything
12:20: change into work out clothes
12:30-1:30: Bar Method class, lots of small painful movements called exercise
1:31: stretch
1:35: get changed back into street clothes
1:45: walk over to the Frye store to look at some shoes I've been wanting
1:50: try on boots and sneakers, decide neither are amazing and leave
1:58: walk over to 'Snice on Thompson Street for a lunch
2:10: have a bowl of Gumbo and a small coffee
2:30: walk over to UPS pick-up to get a package that I missed, it's freezing out, try to cover up all skin that is showing
2:45: take 1 train up to 14th Street
2:55: go to O Cafe to get another coffee, which I don't need but I have time to kill
3:30: go to eyebrow appointment
3:55: bathroom
4:00: take F-train downtown to Delancey
4:15: walk over to vegan bakery, Babycakes, to buy gifts
4:20: stop into vintage shop, wander
4:30: stop into another vintage shop, wander
4:55: walk over to laundromat to pick up jeans and socks that I left there this morning
5:00: walk home
5:01: bathroom
5:02: turn on NPR
5:03: wander aimlessly around apartment trying to decide what to do
5:04: realize blood sugar is a little low, eat randomly until it's better: 3 prunes, 1/2 piece matzoh, cottage cheese, cucumber
5:08: go online and purchase Louis C.K. special on his site, it's $5, which is like, nothing, download to watch later
5:10: put laundry away
5:15: put clean sheets on bed
5:20: pack
6:00: talk to my friend Holli who lives in Long Beach
6:45: make lunch to take on plane tomorrow, I never buy food on the plane, never
6:56: bathroom
6:57: take out trash
7:05: take plants upstairs for neighbor to watch while I am away, by watch I mean water
7:20: more packing
8:00: make dinner: tomato soup, salad, toast with goat cheese
8:10: eat dinner and watch Louis C.K. special
8:15: think about best places to run into Louis C.K.
8:20: think about what it would be like to meet Louis C.K.
8:25: wonder how I can work for Louis C.K.
8:30: re-focus, put away Louis C.K. pipe dream
8:50: eat an apple for dessert
9:30: decide to do this blog post
Curious about the things I did today? I give you...the minutia of my day:
8:45am: wake up
8:46: bathroom
8:47: turn on NPR
8:48: lay in bed, check phone for emails
8:56: look in mirror, wrinkle on right cheek from sleeping on my stomach
9:01: try to motivate
9:15: get dressed
9:16: stuff dirty clothes in bag to take to laundromat
9:20: walk out front door
9:25: put clothes into washer
9:30: walk to D'Espresso, not the greatest coffee but its the best I can do in a 4 block radius
9:34: walk back to laundromat
9:35: sit in laundromat and wait, that show Doctors is on the air, try to watch
9:55: put clothes from washer into dryer, except a pair jeans and wool socks that can't tumble dry, set them on shelf
9:57: walk to library to return books
10:05: wait out front of library with at least 20 other people, even though it's supposed to be open at 10am
10:07: librarian shows up, she's smoking
10:09: walk back over to laundromat
10:10: realize on walk over that the detergent has been leaking and now have it all over purse and sweater
10:11: everything in purse is sticky and smells like laundry
10:12: fold clothes at laundromat
10:15: walk home to drop clothes off
10:16: bathroom
10:17: deal with purse and sweater situation
10:30: go online, send emails, go on Facebook, putter
10:50: decide to work out at lunch, sign up for class online
11:00: check in for flight, print out boarding pass
11:40: head to Bar Method class
11:55: shop for gifts at a bike shop on Lafayette
12:05pm: wander around Banana Republic to try and use birthday coupons, don't find anything
12:20: change into work out clothes
12:30-1:30: Bar Method class, lots of small painful movements called exercise
1:31: stretch
1:35: get changed back into street clothes
1:45: walk over to the Frye store to look at some shoes I've been wanting
1:50: try on boots and sneakers, decide neither are amazing and leave
1:58: walk over to 'Snice on Thompson Street for a lunch
2:10: have a bowl of Gumbo and a small coffee
2:30: walk over to UPS pick-up to get a package that I missed, it's freezing out, try to cover up all skin that is showing
2:45: take 1 train up to 14th Street
2:55: go to O Cafe to get another coffee, which I don't need but I have time to kill
3:30: go to eyebrow appointment
3:55: bathroom
4:00: take F-train downtown to Delancey
4:15: walk over to vegan bakery, Babycakes, to buy gifts
4:20: stop into vintage shop, wander
4:30: stop into another vintage shop, wander
4:55: walk over to laundromat to pick up jeans and socks that I left there this morning
5:00: walk home
5:01: bathroom
5:02: turn on NPR
5:03: wander aimlessly around apartment trying to decide what to do
5:04: realize blood sugar is a little low, eat randomly until it's better: 3 prunes, 1/2 piece matzoh, cottage cheese, cucumber
5:08: go online and purchase Louis C.K. special on his site, it's $5, which is like, nothing, download to watch later
5:10: put laundry away
5:15: put clean sheets on bed
5:20: pack
6:00: talk to my friend Holli who lives in Long Beach
6:45: make lunch to take on plane tomorrow, I never buy food on the plane, never
6:56: bathroom
6:57: take out trash
7:05: take plants upstairs for neighbor to watch while I am away, by watch I mean water
7:20: more packing
8:00: make dinner: tomato soup, salad, toast with goat cheese
8:10: eat dinner and watch Louis C.K. special
8:15: think about best places to run into Louis C.K.
8:20: think about what it would be like to meet Louis C.K.
8:25: wonder how I can work for Louis C.K.
8:30: re-focus, put away Louis C.K. pipe dream
8:50: eat an apple for dessert
9:30: decide to do this blog post
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
On the surface.
Buildings aren’t nominated for Emmy awards, but at the corner of Bedford and Grove, in the West Village, there’s one getting so much attention you’d think it has already won. The five-story, brick building is steady and solid with big, pleasant, curving windows. On one side is the quintessential fire-escape, making it quintessentially photogenic. You’ll find it alongside quiet one-way streets, near a school where you can hear kids playing. If you had a bike and were afraid to ride in New York, you would enjoy riding it here.
A week ago I had been across the street, waiting for a leasing agent to arrive. Three months ago I had moved to New York and, still looking for my new home, I was hoping this tree-lined block would be the one. (Looking for real estate in New York involves a lot of crossed fingers.) While waiting for the agent I noticed a steady stream of visitors to the opposite corner. They’d walk up, look around, snap a picture and walk off. Odd I thought. When the agent arrived I asked if he knew what it was. “Oh, yeah, I don’t know. I think it’s where Bob Dylan lived, or something.” His answer seemed iffy, so I pulled out my phone and typed in 90 Bedford Street. There in front of my eyes was the reason: Friends, and a link to Wikipedia. We were standing in front of the exterior location shot of the long-time hit show of the same name. You know the one, I need only say their names to make it all come flooding back: Monica, Ross, Chandler, Rachel, Phoebe and Joey.
The apartment he showed me was as uncharming as Friends was charming. Too dark, too small, too depressing (it was in the basement) and it could be mine for only two thousand dollars. I walked away from the agent with a frown but, still feeling a bit like a tourist myself, my interest was piqued and a week later I went back.
Barreling down the sidewalk, past the corner, came a family, a four top. Speaking rapidly in French, wearing red backpacks and pointing, they craned their necks up and looked around. The father held a giant SLR camera in his hands and, if my High School level French served me right, the mother mentioned she was hungry. Their angular kids shrugged their skinny shoulders. I couldn’t tell if anyone was excited to be there. But then again, non-excitement is the French form of excitement. They wandered back and forth and corner to corner as if in a real world version of Pac-Man. Quick and darting movements. Is that it? Or is that it? I could see them, eyebrows thrown up in question marks. When I glanced over I noticed they were taking pictures of the wrong building.
Sitting on my bench outside The Little Owl, the restaurant that has occupied the ground level at 90 Bedford for the last five years, I watched this same scene unfold ten times in one hour. Couples, families, and tour groups alike. They came to pay homage to their version of television mecca. It’s been seven years since the show last aired but, if one goes by the languages spoken on that corner, the show has hit its syndication stride in France, Germany, Italy and Spain. As the Euros fanned out to their respective corners to take pictures they pointed their cameras up the building, down the block and then they stood in front to capture the moment in a digital memento to take back home; to show around to their real friends.
Friends first aired in 1994 and, over the course of ten years, produced a total of 236 episodes. If we track just one relationship of the group we see it come full circle: Ross wants Rachel. Ross and Rachel date. Ross and Rachel break up. Ross wants Rachel. Ross and Rachel date. And there they’ll remain, frozen in a prehistoric TV stratum for all eternity.
According to an article in The New York Times, the foreign interest in American entertainment has been particularly pronounced in the television industry. In many countries, particularly in Europe, American television shows, once relegated to late night, are being shown in prime time. With this shift in programming has come an increase in the number of hours given over to American programming on the European networks and this number has been increasing year over year, with no signs of downshifting. Sitting here on my corner, I could tell they loved America for our TV, but did it go any deeper?
Out of nowhere a stealth German group walked up, lead by a tour guide wearing a headset, the kind worn by a big pop star singing in a big pop arena. He lead a group of about 25 people that brought to mind a submarine suddenly surfacing for some much-needed air. I tried to follow, hoping to catch an occasional word in English, but it was too fast and too German. They made quick work of this tourist hotspot. They snapped pictures, they moved along.
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman walking past me into the restaurant. Tall and round with ruddy cheeks, she smiled but kept one hand on the opened door, striking a pose that said, don’t take too much of my time. She was wearing clogs so I presumed she was the chef. So, what’s it like to work at this location? “Well, it’s all part of the neighborhood charm, ya know.” So, it doesn’t get old? She repeated that it was fine but when I asked again, with slightly different wording, she gave in to my line of questioning. “Well, yeah, it can get a little boring.” One can’t miss all the cameras pointed at the restaurant, so I asked if she’d ever looked for the photos online. “Nope,” she said. Ok. Thanks. I guess I was also getting a little boring, so I thanked her for her time and promised to come back for dinner.
Despite the prominent New York backdrop the show never filmed in New York. The producers felt that shooting outside made the episodes less funny and so, not a single “Friend” left the sound stages of sunny Los Angeles for the urban grit of New York. Yet somehow, what’s made it into seemingly every European guidebook, is this building, used only for it’s exterior, in the opening scene. Once. Our biggest export of Friends is to entice world travelers to visit New York, to see the outside of a building, a building as meaningless as a square of cement with a stars handprint in it.
The Levin Institute says that many complain that this form of globalization should actually be called Americanization, since the United States is by far the biggest producer of popular culture goods. They go on to say that the U.S. entertainment industry generates more revenue from overseas sales than any other industry. In a world where a show like Friends earns us more money than hard goods, is it any surprise that we still don’t have enough jobs to go around?
Hearing Spanish I jumped up from my wooden bench to chat with a couple from Madrid. I asked them why they had come to see this building. “Ah, well, because we both watch the Friends.” But do you still watch the show? I asked. “Ah, yes, we watch again,” the husband said with the obligatory large camera held aloft in his palm. “We enjoy doing together,” his cute wife added, sportily clad in yellow jeans, navy puffy jacket and scarf. They asked me questions, my being “from New York” I instantly became the local expert. I pointed up to the top of the building mentioning that it was just used for the exterior. “Ah,” they said. “So, just uh, façade?” the husband added moving one flattened hand up and down. Yes, I said. The façade. Are you visiting any other locations? Places like this? I asked. “Ah, yes, we go to Tiffanys,” replied the wife, looking at me with that blue box glow in her eyes, “And to see Marilyn,” she said billowing her hands like a pretend skirt blowing up and out from her hips, “At Times Square. You know?” Oh yes, I know.
We stood there smiling for a second longer. I had run out of Friends trivia and they had run out of English. I wondered if they felt about Friends like I did, like they were family. I was 23 when the show first aired, it was almost like we had grown up together. But what did it mean to the Europeans? Was it a show about New York? These were questions I didn’t know how to ask. Before we said adios they asked me to take their picture. I crossed the street to another corner so I could get far enough away, panned up so that the whole building fit in the frame and said quietly to myself, Cheese.
A week ago I had been across the street, waiting for a leasing agent to arrive. Three months ago I had moved to New York and, still looking for my new home, I was hoping this tree-lined block would be the one. (Looking for real estate in New York involves a lot of crossed fingers.) While waiting for the agent I noticed a steady stream of visitors to the opposite corner. They’d walk up, look around, snap a picture and walk off. Odd I thought. When the agent arrived I asked if he knew what it was. “Oh, yeah, I don’t know. I think it’s where Bob Dylan lived, or something.” His answer seemed iffy, so I pulled out my phone and typed in 90 Bedford Street. There in front of my eyes was the reason: Friends, and a link to Wikipedia. We were standing in front of the exterior location shot of the long-time hit show of the same name. You know the one, I need only say their names to make it all come flooding back: Monica, Ross, Chandler, Rachel, Phoebe and Joey.
The apartment he showed me was as uncharming as Friends was charming. Too dark, too small, too depressing (it was in the basement) and it could be mine for only two thousand dollars. I walked away from the agent with a frown but, still feeling a bit like a tourist myself, my interest was piqued and a week later I went back.
Barreling down the sidewalk, past the corner, came a family, a four top. Speaking rapidly in French, wearing red backpacks and pointing, they craned their necks up and looked around. The father held a giant SLR camera in his hands and, if my High School level French served me right, the mother mentioned she was hungry. Their angular kids shrugged their skinny shoulders. I couldn’t tell if anyone was excited to be there. But then again, non-excitement is the French form of excitement. They wandered back and forth and corner to corner as if in a real world version of Pac-Man. Quick and darting movements. Is that it? Or is that it? I could see them, eyebrows thrown up in question marks. When I glanced over I noticed they were taking pictures of the wrong building.
Sitting on my bench outside The Little Owl, the restaurant that has occupied the ground level at 90 Bedford for the last five years, I watched this same scene unfold ten times in one hour. Couples, families, and tour groups alike. They came to pay homage to their version of television mecca. It’s been seven years since the show last aired but, if one goes by the languages spoken on that corner, the show has hit its syndication stride in France, Germany, Italy and Spain. As the Euros fanned out to their respective corners to take pictures they pointed their cameras up the building, down the block and then they stood in front to capture the moment in a digital memento to take back home; to show around to their real friends.
Friends first aired in 1994 and, over the course of ten years, produced a total of 236 episodes. If we track just one relationship of the group we see it come full circle: Ross wants Rachel. Ross and Rachel date. Ross and Rachel break up. Ross wants Rachel. Ross and Rachel date. And there they’ll remain, frozen in a prehistoric TV stratum for all eternity.
According to an article in The New York Times, the foreign interest in American entertainment has been particularly pronounced in the television industry. In many countries, particularly in Europe, American television shows, once relegated to late night, are being shown in prime time. With this shift in programming has come an increase in the number of hours given over to American programming on the European networks and this number has been increasing year over year, with no signs of downshifting. Sitting here on my corner, I could tell they loved America for our TV, but did it go any deeper?
Out of nowhere a stealth German group walked up, lead by a tour guide wearing a headset, the kind worn by a big pop star singing in a big pop arena. He lead a group of about 25 people that brought to mind a submarine suddenly surfacing for some much-needed air. I tried to follow, hoping to catch an occasional word in English, but it was too fast and too German. They made quick work of this tourist hotspot. They snapped pictures, they moved along.
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman walking past me into the restaurant. Tall and round with ruddy cheeks, she smiled but kept one hand on the opened door, striking a pose that said, don’t take too much of my time. She was wearing clogs so I presumed she was the chef. So, what’s it like to work at this location? “Well, it’s all part of the neighborhood charm, ya know.” So, it doesn’t get old? She repeated that it was fine but when I asked again, with slightly different wording, she gave in to my line of questioning. “Well, yeah, it can get a little boring.” One can’t miss all the cameras pointed at the restaurant, so I asked if she’d ever looked for the photos online. “Nope,” she said. Ok. Thanks. I guess I was also getting a little boring, so I thanked her for her time and promised to come back for dinner.
Despite the prominent New York backdrop the show never filmed in New York. The producers felt that shooting outside made the episodes less funny and so, not a single “Friend” left the sound stages of sunny Los Angeles for the urban grit of New York. Yet somehow, what’s made it into seemingly every European guidebook, is this building, used only for it’s exterior, in the opening scene. Once. Our biggest export of Friends is to entice world travelers to visit New York, to see the outside of a building, a building as meaningless as a square of cement with a stars handprint in it.
The Levin Institute says that many complain that this form of globalization should actually be called Americanization, since the United States is by far the biggest producer of popular culture goods. They go on to say that the U.S. entertainment industry generates more revenue from overseas sales than any other industry. In a world where a show like Friends earns us more money than hard goods, is it any surprise that we still don’t have enough jobs to go around?
Hearing Spanish I jumped up from my wooden bench to chat with a couple from Madrid. I asked them why they had come to see this building. “Ah, well, because we both watch the Friends.” But do you still watch the show? I asked. “Ah, yes, we watch again,” the husband said with the obligatory large camera held aloft in his palm. “We enjoy doing together,” his cute wife added, sportily clad in yellow jeans, navy puffy jacket and scarf. They asked me questions, my being “from New York” I instantly became the local expert. I pointed up to the top of the building mentioning that it was just used for the exterior. “Ah,” they said. “So, just uh, façade?” the husband added moving one flattened hand up and down. Yes, I said. The façade. Are you visiting any other locations? Places like this? I asked. “Ah, yes, we go to Tiffanys,” replied the wife, looking at me with that blue box glow in her eyes, “And to see Marilyn,” she said billowing her hands like a pretend skirt blowing up and out from her hips, “At Times Square. You know?” Oh yes, I know.
We stood there smiling for a second longer. I had run out of Friends trivia and they had run out of English. I wondered if they felt about Friends like I did, like they were family. I was 23 when the show first aired, it was almost like we had grown up together. But what did it mean to the Europeans? Was it a show about New York? These were questions I didn’t know how to ask. Before we said adios they asked me to take their picture. I crossed the street to another corner so I could get far enough away, panned up so that the whole building fit in the frame and said quietly to myself, Cheese.
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