Tell Your Friend Veronica

You're looking at the world's largest menorah...I think.

According to that sign and several internet articles, this menorah, set up in Grand Army Plaza at the south-east corner of Central Park, is the world's largest.

However.

There are other sites out there stating that the menorah set up near the entrance to Prospect Park (also, confusingly, named 'Grand Army Plaza') in Brooklyn is the world's largest.

Who to believe??

Both menorahs are said to be 32-feet tall.  Let's call it a tie.

This menorah weighs 4,000 pounds.  That's a lot of pounds.  I don't want to use the word 'fat,' but I will say this candelabra may have taken the tradition of consuming oily foods (latkes, donuts, etc.) for Hanukkah a little too far.   Try a salad, why don't you.

Those lanterns at the top enclose real-deal oil lamps, which are lit each night with the aid of a cherry-picker (orange, pictured in the background).

That's one large menorah.

The Parade Passed Me By

My commute to work on Wednesday was impeded by a parade of some sorts.  It seemed to end at St. Pat's, involved a lot of people wearing white, the occasional car draped in a Mexican flag, and these whirling feather-bedecked characters.  I snapped a picture, not exactly sure what I was looking at.

Where, once upon a time, I would have been forced to live with the mystery, now I instead live with Google.  Which informs me that this was a parade for the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  Now we all know.

But there's still something to be said for mystery...

Quitting Time

The Helmsley Building

This is my current view, each night as I leave work.

"Leave work" - does a sweeter pairing of words exist in the English language?

Monday through Friday, me thinks not.

(On Saturday & Sunday, though, "sleep" and "in" go together rather nicely.)

Spotted: Upright Bassist

Haul Out the Holly

This is the weekend Christmas seemed to start - a personal kick-off that had nothing to do with a liturgical season (which actually began last Sunday) or the date on the calendar (the 25th is still weeks away).

It was the weekend of the annual Christmas concert - one of my very favorite nights of the year.  A chance to gather with old friends in an even older drafty, candle-lit stone church and sing (older still) carols.  The mood of the place struck that fine balance between festive and reflective.  I greeted friends - some of whom had traveled far - with what felt like an honest "Merry Christmas."

* * *

The following morning was the children's pageant at church.  I arrived to find kids dressed as Mary & Joseph, shepherds, angels, wise men, and even a gold lamé star (reminiscent of Maggie Simpson in her snowsuit).

Their re-telling of the old tale was adorable, even if the baby playing Jesus couldn't be counted on to cooperate and lie still for the entire pageant.  And those words that Luke wrote - how many times have I heard them?  Yet they still makes my heart flutter with both familiarity and awe.  It was good to hear them.  It was good to sing "Joy to the World," again.

* * *

Afterwards we had friends over for cookie-decorating and champagne (my roommate's tradition, which I was happy to carry out).  Through the kitchen window I could see rainy sidewalks, but inside we were warm and there were plenty of sprinkles and peppermint frosting to go around.

When the party ended, I sat by the lit Christmas tree (which my roommate had dragged up four (4!) flights of stairs), listening to Frank sing his holiday standards, and thinking, "Now it is not just December; now it is Christmas."

And so it begins.

Seeing the Light(s)

Matthew McCaslin's "Being the Light"

My destination was Spanish Harlem, but upon crossing the park and realizing:

a) I was only 10 blocks from the Jewish Museum, and
b) there were just 3 minutes until 11am (opening time), plus
c) it was Saturday (free admission), not to mention
d) that night would be the first night of Hanukkah -

- I decided it was perfect timing to re-visit the museum's menorah collection.  So I detoured down to 92nd Street, let the security guard rifle through my bag, took the Sabbath elevator to the 4th floor, and spent a few minutes noting how artists across time and space (from Russia to Morocco to the Netherlands to the US) have interpreted the Hanukkah menorah (or hanukiah).

Pictured are a couple of the more...'interesting' ones, but the museum also has a wide range of more traditional lamps, made from a variety of materials (glass, brass, silver, copper, etc.), each bearing the distinct mark of the artist who birthed it, and the culture/country where it was made.

Mae Rockland Tupa's "Miss Liberty"

Afterwards, I continued my trek to Spanish Harlem, but progress was de-railed once again when I smelled a bakery too good to pass by. I left with the world's largest donut, which we could pretend I ate in honor of Hanukkah (it's traditional to eat donuts and other oily foods), but I only remembered that in retrospect.

In the moment?  I just really wanted that donut.

Thankful for the occasional detour in life...

Tannenbaum

Madison Square Park Tree

Buckyball

That variegated orb of light is an installation piece by artist Leo Villareal, currently on view in Madison Square Park through February.

According to the piece's website: 

"Relying on LED technologies driven by chance, BUCKYBALL’s light sequences will create exuberant, random compositions of varied speed, color, opacity, and scale. BUCKYBALL will trigger neurological processes within the brain, calling on our natural impulse to identify patterns and gather meaning from our external environment."

Maybe.  I dunno.  I just thought it was kinda pretty.

(Twenty) One For My Baby

The 21 Club is one of those storied New York institutions for fancy people (the kind of place I'd dare not darken the door.)  It's existed, in one form or another, for ninety years: from it's early life as a West Village speakeasy to it's current iteration as an exclusive midtown bar & restaurant.

According to Wikipedia, the 21 Club was at one point the epitome of cool - out-smarting the police and holding wine for Frank Sinatra (!):

"Although raided by police numerous times during Prohibition, the [owners] were never caught. As soon as a raid began, a system of levers was used to tip the shelves of the bar, sweeping the liquor bottles through a chute and into the city's sewers.  

The bar also included a secret wine cellar, which was accessed through a hidden door in a brick wall which opened into the basement of the building next door (number 19). Though still used as a wine cellar today, part of the vault has been remodeled to allow a party of up to 20 guests to dine in private.  

21 also stored the private wine collections of such celebrities as Presidents Gerald Ford, John F. Kennedy, and Richard Nixon; Joan Crawford; Elizabeth Taylor; Hugh Carey; Ernest Hemingway; Ivan Boesky; The Nordstrom Sisters; Frank Sinatra; Al Jolson; Gloria Vanderbilt; Sophia Loren; Mae West; Zsa Zsa Gabor; Aristotle Onassis; Gene Kelly; Gloria Swanson; Judy Garland; Sammy Davis, Jr.; and Marilyn Monroe."

Before I knew it's history, I knew the 21 Club as "the place with all the lawn jockeys," owing to the statues that line the facade, like tiny ineffectual guards.  Why the jockeys?  Enter, again, Wikipedia:

"In the 1930s, some of the affluent customers of the bar began to show their appreciation by presenting 21 with jockeys painted to represent the racing colors of the stables they owned. There are a total of 33 jockeys on the exterior of the building, and 2 more inside the doors."

Oh, of course.  Reminds me of how I'm forever gifting my frequented establishments with decorative anchors emblazoned with the name of my yacht, Felicity II.

Just kidding.

My yacht's name is Perpetua.

No Regrets

St. Patrick's Cathedral, with 30 Rock in the distance

When asked for a list of my proudest accomplishments in the year 2012, I would have to include this afternoon's Houdini-like escape from a company-wide (soul-sucking) two-hour meeting, and the ensuing afternoon in Central Park which I purchased with stolen freedom.

Best thing I've done all week.

The Importance of Having Game

Today I give you the Daily December Photo:

Courtyard of the Palace Hotel

...and a Heart-Warming Christmas Story:

Walking the four blocks home from a friend's house tonight, I encountered two neighborhood youths.

"Hey, you're kinda cute," one guy shouted as we passed each other on the sidewalk, "Wanna smoke a blunt?"

"Only *kinda* cute?" I shouted over my shoulder, indignant.

Kids today.

The End

The Color Purple

This week marks the first Sunday of Advent.  The cloths on the altar and the vestments of the priests (previously green, for Ordinary Time) switch to purple, and the Advent wreath (above) is brought out, dusted off, and put to good use.

Truthfully, some of the symbolism behind these liturgical elements is lost on me.  But I appreciate them for their role in marking time.  Time moves forward, even as it circles back around.  And the changing liturgical colors - like the autumn leaves - seem to say, "Hey - you did it!  You made it through again.  Welcome to a new/old season.  You've arrived."

The First of December

Tree @ Bryant Park

The start of December means the start of the December Photo Project - one picture per day of the holiday season.

Farewell, Fall

Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side

Reluctance, by Robert Frost

Out through the fields and the woods

   And over the walls I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

   And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

   And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

   Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

   And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

   When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

   No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

   The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

   But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man

   Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

   To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

   Of a love or a season?

That's a Wrap on Autumn

One last look back on my most favorite of seasons...

(Most of the above pics were taken in Central Park or on the Upper West Side, with the exception of that last yellow tree, which lives on the Upper East Side.)

Songs I Hear In Duane Reade

Episode 1: Get Lost

Occasionally I'll be shopping for something in the DR and I'll hear an awesomely bad (badly awesome?) song on the sound system.  Something so awesomely bad (or badly awesome) that it needs to be shared.  Ergo, this exciting new blog feature.  You're so very welcome.

Recently I stopped by Duane Reade after an Improv show, looking for a late-nite snack.  I've developed a Liz Lemon-like addiction to an off-brand corn chip called "Dipsy Doodles," which the bodega in my apartment building carries. Unfortunately, one of the cashiers in the bodega has taken to flirting with me, and the whole thing makes me uncomfortable.  "Here she is!" he exclaims each time I approach the front counter.  I'd prefer not to be recognized in such moments; I'd rather purchase my late-nite corn chips anonymously.

Anyways.  I clearly can't go to the bodega anymore, so I stopped by Duane Reade.  But DR doesn't carry Dipsy Doodles; they only have Fritos, which are not the same.  Dipsy Doodles are a far superior product in both taste & texture.

You know what?  Enough about corn chips!  Let's move on.

So there I was in Duane Reade, when I heard the opening strains of this song.  KABLAMMO - instantly I was ten years old again.  And reminded of the time my friend Terr and I - inspired by Ms. Gibson - decided to make a music video.  We put on our most bad-a** punk-rocker outfits (which, in my case, was a striped t-shirt and hot pink culottes - thanks, Mom!)

Unfortunately, it was soon discovered that neither of us had access to a video camera (plus, it was almost time for dinner) so the video never got made.  But I'm pretty sure it would have been epic ('epic' is a synonym for 'ridiculous', right?)

You know what else is kind of epic?  This video for "Lost in Your Eyes."  Enjoy the power ballad while watching Debbie and her David Hasselhoff-esque boyfriend frolic in autumnal Central Park!

Summing Up

In the midst of an email discussion with my Improv team about meeting up at a food truck rally, one team member mentioned he was writing while on a date at a Park Slope bar.  When pressed for details about said date, he revealed that, "Eh...best of times, worst of times comes to mind."

I don't know how that tension plays out on a date, but I do know how it plays out in life.  Not that I'm living in a Dickensian depiction of the French Revolution, exactly, but nevertheless - the phrase feels somewhat apt, as of late.

* * *

Beks came to midtown and met me for a workday lunch.  Over bowls of Thai curry, she asked, "What's new?" and I gave her the highlights reel, the "best" of my times: some exciting performance opportunities, fun creative projects, weekend getaways, a litany of lectures I've attended recently that are still running my motor, dinners out with friends, trips to the theater, a book I read that captured my thoughts completely, long walks in a park that I'm lucky to live just two blocks away from.

But when she looked at me intently and asked, "Are you doing ok?"  I had to shake my head and answer in tears.  No.  Underneath the busy-ness of those good things, there is hurt, there is longing that is loud; there is that frustrated feeling of being "stuck"; there is isolation, there is bruised faith, there are unanswered questions, there are tiny grievances, there are big fears.

It is the best of times and the worst of times.

* * *

It's that both that I've mentioned before; a good and a bad - existing together - in tension.

I've been thinking about it again, frequently, as I weave through midtown streets before and after work.  And I've been wondering about the math of it: why this good + bad doesn't net zero, exactly.  One might expect them to cancel each other out, leaving you neutral.

But no - the bad doesn't erase the good.  Neither does the good necessarily temper the bad; bad is still bad.  A success in one area of life can't always be a salve for a wound in a different area.

You feel them both - best and worst - together, at the same time.  And you're anything but neutral.

You Metcha*

A roof with a view

A friend came to town for the weekend, and wanted to spend some time in the Met.  I could relate.  Each time I visit the museum's familiar halls, I think, "Why don't I come here more often?"  I should go there more often.

Saraceno's rooftop installation / self-portrait

It was a nice day, so we climbed the stairs up to the roof and drank in those park and skyline views.  Amazing.  I should come here more often.

Statue of Diana

Whenever I visit the museum with a friend, I demand to know if they've ever seen "Please Don't Eat the Pictures," and when the answer is (invariably) 'no,' I make them listen to my plot synopsis of this adorable & underrated Sesame Street special from 1983, in which the whole gang (Cookie Monster, Grover, Luis, all of them) get locked in the museum overnight, Big Bird meets an enchanted Egyptian prince, Oscar finds some statues that really speak to him, and everyone learns a valuable lesson about art (and friendship).

[Note: this flick has never been released on DVD (much to my chagrin) (who can I write to about that?) but you can watch it on YouTube!  Start here.  It will save me from having to describe all the incredibly endearing scenes to you, the next time we're at the Met together.]

Warhol exhibit / balloon man in the park

Leaving the museum, it was still nice and light enough for a walk across the park (with more 'art' yet to be seen).  As we wound our way west, I promised myself, "I will come back more often."


*Oy.  That was uncalled for.  Apologies!

Glory Days

My Scrabble Lady left me a voice mail at 10am one Monday morning: "Kristy, darling, I just wanted you to know that the chrysanthemums are in their glory in the Conservatory Garden.  I don't know if maybe you can call in sick one day this week to go see them, but you should.  All the best - bye!"

I wasn't able to call in sick, but I made a point to swing by the garden that next weekend.  My Scrabble Lady was right - the mums were something to see:

 

Central Park's Seasonal Show

When up in the Catskills, we ate every morning at "Bread & Breakfast," an impossibly cute train-car-turned-diner, where hunters & bikers mingled with locals & tourists and we all stuffed our faces with pancakes and homefries and coffee.  In short: a little slice of heaven.

One morning, as we sat waiting for breakfast to be brought to the table, we gazed out a window across the train tracks, to a picturesque white house perched on a picturesque hill. As we watched, yellow leaves rained down, swirling and blanketing the hill as if on cue.

My friend T. remarked, "You guys - autumn is happening.  It is happening right now."

* * *

Autumn is the season my heart waits for, all year long.  But seasons are slippery and hard to grasp, and life never slows down exactly when you want it to.  Though I lie in wait for this season, I always seem to miss it somehow.  

I am the coyote and autumn is my road-runner:  I see it coming in the distance, I make elaborate plans for it, but in the end?  It speeds by every time, leaving a trail of leaves to let me know it passed through.

Not this year, I thought.  I can't make autumn slow down, but I can make me slow down.  I will slow down and notice autumn, because it is happening right now.

* * *

I spend 45+ daylight hours a week in a beige cubicle that is climate-controlled and season-less.  It is hard to notice autumn happening, from inside a cubicle.  So the past few weekends, I have made myself stop - stop the errands and the cleaning and the running around.  I've forced myself to put down the to-do list and pick up my camera and go for a walk in the park.  Because autumn is happening - it is happening right now.

And here are some of the haps:

More to come...