More lights and cameras, no action

They're at it again. What began last week has developed into a full-blown shoot; film crews closed off Mott Street to vehicular traffic and rolled in their equipment this morning, chief among them the awesomely named SuperTechno camera crane. [I looked it up -- the SuperTechno 30 costs well over $2000 a day to rent, and hiring the guy who operates it costs another $550 per ten hours.] Tonight, they strung up lights in the trees and are filming a night scene on the corner of Mott and Prince. I can hear the Paramount Production Support trucks outside my window right now.
I went home for lunch this afternoon, hoping to catch a glimpse of actual filming, but was disappointed. This is common, of course. Very little "action" happens on film sets; most of the time, you sit around and wait. And no, no sightings of stars Isla Fisher or Hugh Dancy, though I didn't try very hard. I did, however, brush past the director sitting in the proverbial director's chair on my way back to the office. Boy, did he look bored.

To be honest, I'm not much a gawker. Will Smith filmed parts of I Am Legend outside my office in SoHo, and although I heard that there were throngs of people hoping to get an autograph, I was not among them. If I were a celebrity, I'd want to be left alone. Do unto others, I say.

Saturday night ride

The best time to ride the NYC subway is on a Saturday night. That's when you run across the most compelling cross-section of New Yorkers and bridge and tunnel people.
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Tonight, I stepped into the uptown E train with my guitar case and sat across from two guys who eyed me suspiciously. One of them literally eyed me with one eye -- he had a big black eyepatch over his left eye. Both men were dressed in black from head to booted toe, looking like a pair of Eastern European assassins. Perhaps they wondered if my guitar case contained a couple of automatic weapons. I, on the other hand, have no doubt that their leather attache cases contained Makarov pistols.
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At the Port Authority station, a man walked past me wearing a cowboy hat. You don't see many of those in this part of the world.
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Three or four Saturdays ago, I was carrying my guitar case toward the uptown F train platform. A gaggle of teenage girls stopped me and asked if I was carrying a keyboard. "It's a guitar," I said. "Ooh, I love the guitar," one of the said through a mouthful of braces. Later, they met me again on the platform and one of them came right up to me and pretended to take my guitar case, as if we were buddies waiting for the bus at school.
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I've blogged about my guitar case before, and nothing much has changed. I'm still getting approached by all kinds of people who would normally never give me a second glance, like the massive dude at Port Authority who looked like he could play center for the Knicks. "Is that a Fender Strat in there, man?" he yelled. I told him no it's a Parker, and expected him to say, "A what?" but he surprised me by saying, "Oh, you got a Fly in there." I wanted to shake his hand.

Rare Air

When I was a kid, I really wanted a pair of Nike basketball shoes. I never got them because they were expensive, and a growth spurt meant that my feet outgrew new shoes in mere weeks, a fact that my parents took pains to drill into my 13-year-old head.

Remember back in the late '80s and early '90s when Air Jordans were just about the coolest things you could put on your feet? I'm not much of sneakerhead, and I never gave Jordans much thought until a couple of years ago when the red Jordan XX1 came out and floored me with all that beautiful suede. It's funny how you can develop an appreciation for a certain aesthetic if you are open-minded enough. I used to think Air Jordans were really funny-looking; now I think many of them are fantastic.

So that's why, today, I finally got my first pair of Air Jordans ever, the stealth XX3, and thanks to SoHo shoe retailer Michael K, I got them two days before their official release. Ah, to be an adult making his own financial decisions...
Like I said, I'm no sneakerhead, though some of my co-workers happen to be very serious about their sneakers. I mean, if they were looking for a new apartment, one of the requirements would be enough space to store at least a hundred pairs of sneakers, in shoe boxes. They are the reason that limited edition sneakers sell out fifteen minutes after they are released. I, on the other hand, own a grand total of six pairs of sneakers, three of which are so ratty that I wouldn't wear them in public. I also have one pair of Nike Air Max 360 running shoes, which are slightly, ah, under-used. So it's a big step for me to own a pair of Jordans, which is why I'm happy I waited until the XX3, the twenty-third iteration, came out (23 was Michael Jordan's jersey number, in case you somehow missed the '90s).

Now, while I love my new sneakers, I can't decide if I should wear them or leave them in the box. After all, what's the point of buying cool shoes if you don't wear them? These things are beautifully crafted; the pattern on the side is hand-stitched. On the other hand, Air Jordans generally appreciate in value over time, but only if they are deadstock (never worn, kept in the original box). Plus, there's no way I'd wear these to actually play basketball in. I'd be laughed off the court, but only after I get thoroughly schooled and the shoes get thoroughly stepped on due to my utter lack of game. So it may be a better idea to leave them in the box.

Werewolves of New York

Tonight, for a brief moment, I caught the total lunar eclipse as I walked down Houston Street, and I wasn't alone. People were emerging from various watering holes to peer at the moon, which, at approximately 10:00 PM EST, was looking rather muddy, like an aged bloodstain. Alas, there was no sign of pranksters in werewolf costumes, or even real werewolves.

On location

How do I know the WGA writers strike is really over? Because they're shooting movies in New York again.

Remember this post from last September? That's when I first heard about the movie Confessions of a Shopaholic. I guess the location scouts decided that the street I live on would be a good place to shoot part of the film, because there was a film crew out on the street this morning. I wanted to take pictures of the real action -- they had Panavision cameras rigged to the sides of yellow cabs -- but I'd left my camera in my apartment and couldn't get it until lunchtime. By then, filming had ended and all that was left was a massive collection of lights arrays, tripods, and other important but ultimately boring things being packed up.It's not likely that I'll see the film when it eventually comes out. But if you do, and you watch a scene in which a character steps out of a cab and into a boutique with beach balls in the window, you'll know where it was shot.

Off day

It's a pretty dreary Monday. As winter days go, it's insufferable. The only good thing is that it's also Presidents Day, which means I get the day off. Also, it's not Blue Monday, which, if you believe the "research," is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year, statistically. Blue Monday this year fell on January 21. I went back to look at what I'd written in this blog on January 21; it wasn't exactly puppies and bunnies and sugar-sweet sunshine.

Howard, the dunk

I spent my Saturday night watching this on TV: the Orlando Magic's resident beast Dwight Howard flying toward the rim in his Superman getup to win this year's NBA Slam Dunk Contest. Hilarious and amazing. [Click through here for the full picture ©Getty Images]

Judd or junk?

I learned two things in art school: (1) Art is not "anything", and (2) Some art is good, some art sucks, and you are allowed to hate both kinds.*

Well, I don't hate the art of the minimalist sculptor Donald Judd, but I don't really like any of it either. And I'm writing from having experienced his artwork first-hand, not simply seeing them in books. A lot of Judds, I think, are uninteresting. But I would never dare accuse them of not being art. I wouldn't even call them "bad art" -- in fact, most Judd sculptures are really good. I just don't have a place in my heart for them.

So what's my point? The point is, I came across this brilliant and audacious quiz called Donald Judd, or Cheap Furniture? (via The Morning News), which illustrates how difficult it can be to distinguish between priceless works of art and everyday objects. Art may not be "anything" but it can certainly look like any thing. Can you tell the difference? Take the quiz here and see if you can best my score of 83% (I'd never seen any of the Judd artworks in the quiz until I took it).

*To be fair, I learned more than just two things in art school. For example, I learned turpentine is fairly poisonous, nude modeling pays $12.50 an hour if you have no experience, and painters are poorer, but nicer, than graphic designers.

Powdered

Finally! 53 days into winter, New York is experiencing a good powdering. It doesn't look like it's going to last (the temperature is going up tomorrow, bringing rain), so I won't be able to do everything on my list of five favorite things to do when it snows. But it's okay. It was just nice to be able to walk outside, even if the snow is coming down really hard and the snowflakes are, much like a kiss from Angelina Jolie, big, wet and nasty. The great thing about New York when it snows is how quiet it is. Cars drive slower, there are fewer people out on the street, and all that snow smooths out the rough, echo-y edges of the sidewalks and buildings.

[The photos below and above were taken from my office in SoHo.]

Desk drives

Now added: zebra van, tree and monkey, safari car, elephant, and more. See previous version here.

I'm going to have to explain this zoo diorama on my work desk. On my birthday, one of my co-workers, GR, bought me a box of plastic Japanese toys. They're part of a set that, when put together, make up a mini zoo. Since three other co-workers have also had birthdays in the last month, GR went out and bought other parts of the same set. We've been putting the whole thing together on my desk.

My desk at work is 6 feet wide and probably three feet deep. Until I put the diorama together, the only things on it were my keyboard, monitor, and Wacom tablet. The funny thing is my desk at home is a junk pile. Since I spend more time at work than I do at home on most days, I guess it's not such a funny thing.

Let me eat cake

Today, Tuesday, February 5th, turned out to be one heck of a day. It's Super Tuesday, which is important for reasons thoroughly detailed on this Wikipedia page (in case you were wondering, no, I did not vote today, but that's because, as a non-citizen permanent resident of the United States, I cannot vote). It was also the day of the New York Giants parade here in the City, which I wrote about in my previous post. And it's Mardi Gras, which, at least in New Orleans, is a day marked by drunken revelry, public nudity, and king cake.
What is king cake, you ask? Until this afternoon, I had no idea, but someone brought in a king cake to the office (sent from New Orleans, even) and educated me. King cake is a ring of bread and icing eaten on or around Mardi Gras, which, I decided, was a good enough reason to have a slice. No one told me about the baby, however.
Every king cake contains a little plastic baby. Guess who found it. Tradition dictates that the finder of the baby gets ten days off from work, $500 in cash, and a puppy. No, that's not true. But I wish it were, except for the puppy part. I want an electric guitar instead. If you really must know about the baby, read about it here.

Giants unseen

This morning, the City hosted a ticker-tape parade for the New York Giants, who rode into town like the conquering kings they are. I and two co-workers left the office for a couple of hours to see if we could get close enough to high-five Eli Manning (yeah, right). There were three things going against us: We didn't leave early enough, we did not know anyone who worked in an office overlooking the parade route, and we were not cops.

So, along with about twenty bajillion other people, we ended up walking around lower Manhattan in circles, prevented from getting close to the parade by the NYPD's best. We had to return to our office and watch the live video feed streaming on CNN.com, but not before I snapped these photos:

About half the people wore Giants apparel. Those who didn't bring their own could buy them from sketchy street vendors peddling t-shirts with slogans like, "Patriots: From Spyin' to Cryin'." Predictably, the most popular jerseys worn were those of Manning, Strahan, Shockey, Burress and Jacobs (I also saw a couple of Gary Reasons jerseys, which looked like they hadn't been washed since 1989).

To give you an idea of how crowded it was, this photo was shot at least five blocks from the parade route.

The Naked Cowboy may rule Times Square, but the rest of Manhattan is fair game for the Naked Author, who showed up in "eye-black" face paint and little else. I'm glad I didn't have to ride next to him in a crowded subway train on the way back.

Finding it before losing it

What's almost as good as finding something you lost? Finding something you didn't know you'd lost. I must have dropped a glove coming home from work, because when I took the trash out a couple of hours later, I found that someone had helpfully wedged it into the bannister of the stairs.

I've lost a couple of things since moving to New York, which is notable because I almost never lose anything. This is in contrast to my brother in his youth, who somehow managed to lose a brand-new soccer ball before he'd even had the chance to play with it, and, on another occasion, a whole shopping bag of Capri-Suns entrusted to his care (the Capri-Suns were very important because our whole thirsty family was looking forward to drinking them for the first time). My brother has since turned into a responsible adult who doesn't lose so much as his temper. But I still think about that soccer ball every now and then...

My most devastating loss happened a couple of years ago. I dropped my Wenger Swiss Army Knife that I'd been using as a keychain for almost 20 years on the street, right outside the apartment. My dad had bought the knife for me in 1988 in a mall in Singapore, on our way to Australia. It was small and discreet, almost a trinket, with a virtually useless pair of scissors built in. But it went with me to six different countries over the next eight years. I used it to open letters in Indiana, to cut leeches in half in the jungles of Borneo, to slice strawberries in Perth, and to remove tags from new clothes in Hong Kong. I only stopped traveling with it after September 11, when it became impossible to carry on an airplane. After I finally lost it in New York, the bitter lesson I learned was this:

For the love of all your favorite keepsakes, stop wearing jeans with holes in their pockets!

The strangest thing has just happened

As I type this, I can hear a whole city of people yelling from their apartment windows. The New York Giants have just won the Super Bowl.

And you don't want to know the words they're using to refer to Tom Brady.

UPDATE: Now women are flashing passers-by on the street. It's like Mardi Gras out there.

Bike l'orange

Spotted today at the corner of Prince and Mulberry Streets:

A few of my favorite things

Thinking of moving here? Wondering what will make your NYC life much more pleasant? Here are three things I'm glad I have:

1. Noise-canceling headphones. I have the Audio Technica ANC7, which I absolutely love, but go ahead and get a pair of overpriced, overrated Bose headphones if you want. Either way, noise-canceling 'phones make a long subway ride or a noisy office much more bearable.

2. An always-loaded Metrocard. Because you never know when you'll need to rush to catch a subway train.

3. A digital video recorder, like TiVo. I have no idea how I lived without a DVR. It completely changes the way you watch TV by giving you virtually complete control over what and when you watch; I've never had to worry about getting home early enough to watch the new episode of House.