When I moved to New York from Germany, I didn’t have words. I had written for prominent papers in Hamburg, but in New York my German faded quickly and English was slow to take its place. After a few months here I found myself close to aphasic. All I had now was a hasty, unhappy marriage and an apartment in Bushwick that was cheap and hot. Through the window bars I could see glimpses of a trash-filled backyard and an alley cat with kittens. During the day I could hear the termites in the backyard destroying the wooden benches that were built by the old German winemaker who owned the [...]
Via the Intelligencer: Bill Cunningham—NYT photographer, devoted biker, and general national treasure—can't get enough of these public bikes in New York. "It's really hilarious to watch two of them come around the corner when they're face-to-face, and neither of them will stop!" he says, giggling, of Manhattan pedestrians. He finds bikers "endlessly funny." I could listen to this man speak for hours. (You can, too—if you've never seen Bill Cunningham New York, it's available for streaming on Netflix, and it's a delight.)
Small as it might be, the winning design was chosen for the way that it maximized light, airiness and storage space through the use of 9-foot-high ceilings, large windows, lofts and Juliet balconies.
This is a couple days late, but The New York Times reports on the results of the Great New York Tiny House Competition (not its official name), and links to what a Juliet balcony is, too. (A place to stand where hot guys can whisper things about you from below.) The rendering is frustratingly if appropriately small, but it does include a mysterious picture of an old man who appears to be in pain, [...]
A beautiful piece from a June 1998 issue of the New Yorker:
Every window in New York was open, and on the streets venders manning little carts chopped ice and sprinkled colored sugar over mounds of it for a couple of pennies. We kids would jump onto the back steps of the slow-moving, horse-drawn ice wagons and steal a chip or two; the ice smelled vaguely of manure but cooled palm and tongue.
People on West 110th Street, where I lived, were a little too bourgeois to sit out on their fire escapes, but around the corner on 111th and farther uptown mattresses were put out as night [...]
You probably know and love the Coney Island Mermaid Parade, whether you’ve woven your way shamelessly and toplessly down its Brooklyn streets, leaving a trail of glitter and fish scales in your wake, or just admired it the way Gatsby watches that green light across the water. But it’s been there, glowing, since 1983, filling the streets of Coney Island with mermaids for one gorgeous and solstice-y Saturday every summer. And whether or not you’ve built a mansion to woo it, the Mermaid Parade is now in danger, due to the ravages of Hurricane Sandy, and needs your help. Otherwise it might be cancelled, leaving tens of thousands of mermaids [...]
Every trip I take has a soundtrack. When I was young, I used to make mixtapes with new stuff that I’d imagine sounding perfect driving through the desert, skiing down a mountain, or lying on a quiet beach. As a result, I still have many of the cassettes, labeled "Arizona," "Aruba," and "Road trip ’89." When I listen to those tapes now, I can remember exactly where I was and how I felt at each song. It’s like looking at a photo album, but with more of the senses.
Last week, my soundtrack song was "Empire State of Mind," and as my family and I flew over New York City [...]
Maybe the spring weather eroded my self-discipline. Or maybe the festive red-and-yellow umbrellas tipped the scales the day I was overcome by a sudden, inescapable craving for a dirty water hot dog. Heading up 3rd at about 48th Street, I clutched my husband by the wrist and pointed at the hot dog cart. "Come on, let's get one!"
Surprised by my uncharacteristic impetuousness, Allan pushed out his lower lip in an expression of consideration. We sidled over to the cart. I was mesmerized by its decor—colorful photos depicting an array of hot dog-topping combinations. I could see I was in for a radical break from my salad-and-grilled fish habit. [...]
The Comme des Garçons warehouse sale is the kind of New York-y event you either understand or you don’t. You either understand why you would happily wait in line for 45 minutes to strip down to your underwear next to a total stranger to try on a deeply discounted plaid shirt that has built-in fabric tumors that obscure your boobs, or you don’t. For those of us who know and love Rei Kawakubo’s designs, it all makes sense.
Yet even those who know and love may have a moment of uncertainty. When I entered the building where the CDG warehouse sale was held this weekend — it ends today — [...]