It happened the other day. Okay, it happened a couple of weeks ago and it’s exactly the kind of thing I should come home and write about immediately. But instead I let it sit in my brain.
I was on a late-morning, let’s-get-ready-for-lunch run to Giacomo, my favorite deli. On West 72nd Street. And the lovely woman who makes the best sandwiches on the planet was there. She was bantering with a pal, a guy who was harassing her from near where I was standing. But harassing in a good, friendly way. She was telling him to get lost. Also in a good, friendly way.
They were talking about her background, her ethnic heritage. I had always assumed that she was Italian, given that she makes the best Italian sandwiches. But she said that since her school days she’s been known as 3P. She grew up in Puerto Rico, but she’s Palestinian and Panamanian.
Almost instantly, that struck me as so New York. All those different backgrounds coming together in one woman, who I think of as Italian.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Finding Faith at the Marriott Marquis
“Retail is my detail,” famed realtor Faith Hope Consolo told a panel last Friday afternoon.
You got the feeling she’s used the line before.
You got the feeling that Consolo, famous for getting her name—and the names of her clients into the papers—has used a lot of her lines more than once. In person, she’s a force of nature. Funny in an old-school way.
I had wanted to see her in person, since I’ve quoted her in newspaper pieces and blog items for many years. And because she sends me stuff with her name on it, like pads and pens. She takes a fair amount of heat for her self-promotion, but she made it clear that she can live with that. If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen. And all that.
“You take the kisses. You take the hits,” is the way Consolo put it at the panel, which was part of a city real estate expo at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Also on the panel: an old pal of mine, Linda Alexander, a p.r. guru with her own shop, Alexander Marketing Corp.
I love Consolo cause she’s so darn quotable, and so darn willing to share those quotes when an ugly deadline looms. She’s even good at getting back to me to tell me that she cannot get back to me, so that pretty much makes her a journalist’s favorite.
She’s enough of a traditionalist to believe in print, even in a digital age, and she says that her clients want to see their properties publicized in what may seem like an old-fashioned way. She held up an imaginary magazine and said, “They like to say, ‘Oh, my God. She looks terrible.’”
There’s something inspiring about Consolo, about the mix of gritty and funny, about the way she even bothers to have a public persona when so much about real estate in this city has become rote or tired. On Friday afternoon she was weary bright red and passing out candy, taking names and talking about making deals. But the warmth of her jokes and the talent of remembering names only goes so far. She’s tough too.
“We’re not here to make friend,” she said. “We’re here to make business.”
You got the feeling she’s used the line before.
You got the feeling that Consolo, famous for getting her name—and the names of her clients into the papers—has used a lot of her lines more than once. In person, she’s a force of nature. Funny in an old-school way.
I had wanted to see her in person, since I’ve quoted her in newspaper pieces and blog items for many years. And because she sends me stuff with her name on it, like pads and pens. She takes a fair amount of heat for her self-promotion, but she made it clear that she can live with that. If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen. And all that.
“You take the kisses. You take the hits,” is the way Consolo put it at the panel, which was part of a city real estate expo at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Also on the panel: an old pal of mine, Linda Alexander, a p.r. guru with her own shop, Alexander Marketing Corp.
I love Consolo cause she’s so darn quotable, and so darn willing to share those quotes when an ugly deadline looms. She’s even good at getting back to me to tell me that she cannot get back to me, so that pretty much makes her a journalist’s favorite.
She’s enough of a traditionalist to believe in print, even in a digital age, and she says that her clients want to see their properties publicized in what may seem like an old-fashioned way. She held up an imaginary magazine and said, “They like to say, ‘Oh, my God. She looks terrible.’”
There’s something inspiring about Consolo, about the mix of gritty and funny, about the way she even bothers to have a public persona when so much about real estate in this city has become rote or tired. On Friday afternoon she was weary bright red and passing out candy, taking names and talking about making deals. But the warmth of her jokes and the talent of remembering names only goes so far. She’s tough too.
“We’re not here to make friend,” she said. “We’re here to make business.”
Monday, November 1, 2010
My Kind of Town
San Francisco is my kind of town.
Evidently.
At least that’s what the weird Facebook quiz just told me. In a test to see which city I should be living in, I wound up in California. At least metaphorically.
Granted, I was trying to wind up in New York. That’s why I voted for a place with high housing costs. Or at least said that I don’t mind high housing costs. Cause the places with low housing costs tend to be spots in which I do not want to live. Anyway, I think that my pro-Asian-food answer may also have helped land me in San Francisco. The truth is that I’d just as soon have a pizza, but there was no place to say that.
Usually I avoid Facebook quizzed like the plague. They seem like gigantic time-wasters. But after reading one jerk’s post about how the test sent him to live in Denver, Colorado…well, I began to wonder what kind of response I would get.
It was weird, too, cause I’ve been feeling a little bit under assault in the city lately. I mean that literally. Last night, Halloween, I was in a car that was hit by…was it a pumpkin? Something hard and squishy that landed on the car we hired to bring us back from the Bronx last night. It was no big deal, but it was no small one either. Cause it reminded me of being harassed on the street about two weeks ago at Herald Square. And of that time a couple of years ago I was bugged by a screaming teenager on a subway.
The little assaults start to add up. And I’m at the age where they become a little bit harder to shake off. Or is that nonsense, blaming age? I know the key to this, and to just about everything else, is to bounce back as quickly as possible. My basic rule—the one I carry around in the New York part of my brain—is to say to myself that if I have not been murdered and if there’s no slicing of my skin, then I’m fine. Good to go. Back to the streets of the big city.
The truth, though, lies somewhere else. I feel just a tad less safe than I used to. In New York and in general. I wish this were not so, but pretending otherwise, ignoring how I feel about things, would hardly be a New Yorker's kind of move. We do tend to call them as we see them. Right now I'm admitting to a sense of danger out there, but I also see the amazing interactions each day in this city. The woman in Washington Square who hands cash to the fellow standing next to her who lost it. The oh-so-many people who do things like that for me. The guy over the weekend who picked up the woman who was falling at Whole Foods.
I can think about those people instead of the incredibly flying objects. Think about the people who help instead of the ones who harass. It helps. I may be better off switching thoughts instead of switching cities.
Evidently.
At least that’s what the weird Facebook quiz just told me. In a test to see which city I should be living in, I wound up in California. At least metaphorically.
Granted, I was trying to wind up in New York. That’s why I voted for a place with high housing costs. Or at least said that I don’t mind high housing costs. Cause the places with low housing costs tend to be spots in which I do not want to live. Anyway, I think that my pro-Asian-food answer may also have helped land me in San Francisco. The truth is that I’d just as soon have a pizza, but there was no place to say that.
Usually I avoid Facebook quizzed like the plague. They seem like gigantic time-wasters. But after reading one jerk’s post about how the test sent him to live in Denver, Colorado…well, I began to wonder what kind of response I would get.
It was weird, too, cause I’ve been feeling a little bit under assault in the city lately. I mean that literally. Last night, Halloween, I was in a car that was hit by…was it a pumpkin? Something hard and squishy that landed on the car we hired to bring us back from the Bronx last night. It was no big deal, but it was no small one either. Cause it reminded me of being harassed on the street about two weeks ago at Herald Square. And of that time a couple of years ago I was bugged by a screaming teenager on a subway.
The little assaults start to add up. And I’m at the age where they become a little bit harder to shake off. Or is that nonsense, blaming age? I know the key to this, and to just about everything else, is to bounce back as quickly as possible. My basic rule—the one I carry around in the New York part of my brain—is to say to myself that if I have not been murdered and if there’s no slicing of my skin, then I’m fine. Good to go. Back to the streets of the big city.
The truth, though, lies somewhere else. I feel just a tad less safe than I used to. In New York and in general. I wish this were not so, but pretending otherwise, ignoring how I feel about things, would hardly be a New Yorker's kind of move. We do tend to call them as we see them. Right now I'm admitting to a sense of danger out there, but I also see the amazing interactions each day in this city. The woman in Washington Square who hands cash to the fellow standing next to her who lost it. The oh-so-many people who do things like that for me. The guy over the weekend who picked up the woman who was falling at Whole Foods.
I can think about those people instead of the incredibly flying objects. Think about the people who help instead of the ones who harass. It helps. I may be better off switching thoughts instead of switching cities.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Near-Marriage Ceremony
Thirteen days ago, we got sorta married.
Well, we did as well as you can do, legally speaking, within the confines of New York City. My boyfiend and I went to the marriage bureau downtown and registered as domestic partners. It’s not like we live someplace civilized, like Boston or Des Moines, where we could get married.
The first big surprise: the New York City bureaucracy not only worked, but it was shockingly pleasant. Everyone we dealt with was professional and speedy and made us feel great about the process, which began online when we pre-registered as a couple. Then we went in and were amazed at how quickly our domestic partnership happened.
We may have been inspired by a recent piece in the Times, in which what seemed like a lovely lesbian couple had a short service to accompany their domestic partnership. We opted out of the service, partly because I liked the whole “elopement” aspect of just the two of us doing this together and partly because we had read that Times piece. In it, the woman representing the city called the women by their last names—and, if I remember correctly, only their last names—and that made the proceeding seem like it lacked warmth.
Now that we’re domestic partners, we’re getting around to studying the rights we have. So far the answers are: not many, and we’d have more if we worked for the City of New York. We’re left feeling a little like second-class citizens in our own town and especially in our own state. The New York Times keeps telling me that Andrew Cuomo was terribly slow to embrace gay marriage here and did next to nothing to push a legal change when he was most needed. I hope he gets a chance his allegedly checkered past on the issue—and that the in the Republican rampage that is coming next week, enough Democratic state senators survive to help make gay marriage a reality in New York State.
Well, we did as well as you can do, legally speaking, within the confines of New York City. My boyfiend and I went to the marriage bureau downtown and registered as domestic partners. It’s not like we live someplace civilized, like Boston or Des Moines, where we could get married.
The first big surprise: the New York City bureaucracy not only worked, but it was shockingly pleasant. Everyone we dealt with was professional and speedy and made us feel great about the process, which began online when we pre-registered as a couple. Then we went in and were amazed at how quickly our domestic partnership happened.
We may have been inspired by a recent piece in the Times, in which what seemed like a lovely lesbian couple had a short service to accompany their domestic partnership. We opted out of the service, partly because I liked the whole “elopement” aspect of just the two of us doing this together and partly because we had read that Times piece. In it, the woman representing the city called the women by their last names—and, if I remember correctly, only their last names—and that made the proceeding seem like it lacked warmth.
Now that we’re domestic partners, we’re getting around to studying the rights we have. So far the answers are: not many, and we’d have more if we worked for the City of New York. We’re left feeling a little like second-class citizens in our own town and especially in our own state. The New York Times keeps telling me that Andrew Cuomo was terribly slow to embrace gay marriage here and did next to nothing to push a legal change when he was most needed. I hope he gets a chance his allegedly checkered past on the issue—and that the in the Republican rampage that is coming next week, enough Democratic state senators survive to help make gay marriage a reality in New York State.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Why 'The View' Looks Like Charlie Rose Today
It’s the upside to a freelancer’s life: I can spend my lunch hour watching TV.
Today that meant catching the series premiere of “The Talk.” And therein lies the downside.
“The Talk” is CBS’s answer to ABC’s “The View,” which is a semi-addiction of mine. “The Talk” makes “The View” seem like Charlie Rose.
At least that was the case on Day One, during which the women of “The Talk,” none particularly memorable, spent the first-half hour congratulating themselves on having a talk show. Julie Chen, the ostensible and forgettable host with hair that is a triumph of technology, made me feel better about Whoopi Goldberg. Over on CBS, the one from “King of Queens,” Leah Remini, was okay, although she struggled to be the officially sanctioned funny one. Also there: Sharon Osbourne, who I think is also on every other TV show. Among the others: Sara Gilbert, who I loved on “Roseanne,” explaining that she thought up the show after she joined a mom’s support group. It might have been more honest if someone had mentioned that ABC started a similar women’s panel a decade ago.
The first guest on “The Talk” was Christie Brinkley, who somehow managed not to meet my low expectations. The chatter was about Botox. Brinkley left audience members actually looking like they could not follow her alleged thought process. The whole enterprise came off as incredibly loud, almost depressing so. There was a depressing taped sequence about talking to kids about sex, which was more infantile than the children could ever be. If aliens arrived from another planet and watched “The Talk,” they would assume that women are morons.
Over at “The View,” there’s also plenty of silly chatter, but it’s mixed in amid some surprisingly relevant chat about the political state of the union and even changing sexual and workplace mores. I’ve heard recently that Barbara Walters, the powerhouse behind the ABC show, credited the success of the show with having picked the right women. After seeing the CBS version today, well, I think Walters may actually have a point. Take the dumbest “View” co-host and put her on “The Talk” and she would be my favorite.
Over the weekend, there was another, more subtle development in the women’s-talk-show wars. There was a “View” ad in the Sunday Times. In the news section. I think it was a pretty obvious shot at developing a sense of gravitas about a show that has been much-imitated but not always respected. But the best ad for “The View” ever could be “The Talk.” That’s only based on one episode, but a terribly bad one.
Today that meant catching the series premiere of “The Talk.” And therein lies the downside.
“The Talk” is CBS’s answer to ABC’s “The View,” which is a semi-addiction of mine. “The Talk” makes “The View” seem like Charlie Rose.
At least that was the case on Day One, during which the women of “The Talk,” none particularly memorable, spent the first-half hour congratulating themselves on having a talk show. Julie Chen, the ostensible and forgettable host with hair that is a triumph of technology, made me feel better about Whoopi Goldberg. Over on CBS, the one from “King of Queens,” Leah Remini, was okay, although she struggled to be the officially sanctioned funny one. Also there: Sharon Osbourne, who I think is also on every other TV show. Among the others: Sara Gilbert, who I loved on “Roseanne,” explaining that she thought up the show after she joined a mom’s support group. It might have been more honest if someone had mentioned that ABC started a similar women’s panel a decade ago.
The first guest on “The Talk” was Christie Brinkley, who somehow managed not to meet my low expectations. The chatter was about Botox. Brinkley left audience members actually looking like they could not follow her alleged thought process. The whole enterprise came off as incredibly loud, almost depressing so. There was a depressing taped sequence about talking to kids about sex, which was more infantile than the children could ever be. If aliens arrived from another planet and watched “The Talk,” they would assume that women are morons.
Over at “The View,” there’s also plenty of silly chatter, but it’s mixed in amid some surprisingly relevant chat about the political state of the union and even changing sexual and workplace mores. I’ve heard recently that Barbara Walters, the powerhouse behind the ABC show, credited the success of the show with having picked the right women. After seeing the CBS version today, well, I think Walters may actually have a point. Take the dumbest “View” co-host and put her on “The Talk” and she would be my favorite.
Over the weekend, there was another, more subtle development in the women’s-talk-show wars. There was a “View” ad in the Sunday Times. In the news section. I think it was a pretty obvious shot at developing a sense of gravitas about a show that has been much-imitated but not always respected. But the best ad for “The View” ever could be “The Talk.” That’s only based on one episode, but a terribly bad one.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
A Not-So-Cool Cafe
I couldn’t help but be horrified. And offended.
My eightysomething mom was in need of a cup of coffee. So we stopped at At65 Café, that glittery new place along Broadway in the newly revitalized Alice Tully Hall. Looks nice. I’d been thinking of going in there for quite awhile. So we did.
Big mistake. The hostess told us that we could sit anywhere along the wall (glass, of course) or outside or in the high bar seats, which I suspected might pose a challenge to my mom. The other, non-challenging seats inside were all taken. There were plenty of seats throughout the room, in what was apparently cordoned off as a dining area for meals. But it was late afternoon, and there was only one table taken—two at the most.
The sullen hostess never looked around to see that she was basically, by way of her instructions, tossing us out of the place. But she was. So we left.
Something else was left, too: a bad taste in my mouth. My mom was supporting Lincoln Center back before this hostess-bitch was born. Mom deserves better.
But it reminded me of something bigger and even worse. Many months back, before the latest round of needed construction at Lincoln Center, there was a mural up to hide some of the work. On the mural were pictures of many people enjoying a newly-revitalized Lincoln Center. It was a nice little hustle-and-bustle scene, a great New York night. Only on close examination did I realize I could not find any old people in the illustration. Here it was, a young yuppie’s dream: a Lincoln Center where nobody is aged.
If the people at Lincoln Center greet other seniors the way they met my mom’s needs last week, the dream could become a reality.
In the meantime, I'm left associating a center I love with some feelings I don't. I think if my mom had been younger and I had been thinnner, if we had been hipsters, we would have been treated more attentively. Or at least allowed to sit down.
My eightysomething mom was in need of a cup of coffee. So we stopped at At65 Café, that glittery new place along Broadway in the newly revitalized Alice Tully Hall. Looks nice. I’d been thinking of going in there for quite awhile. So we did.
Big mistake. The hostess told us that we could sit anywhere along the wall (glass, of course) or outside or in the high bar seats, which I suspected might pose a challenge to my mom. The other, non-challenging seats inside were all taken. There were plenty of seats throughout the room, in what was apparently cordoned off as a dining area for meals. But it was late afternoon, and there was only one table taken—two at the most.
The sullen hostess never looked around to see that she was basically, by way of her instructions, tossing us out of the place. But she was. So we left.
Something else was left, too: a bad taste in my mouth. My mom was supporting Lincoln Center back before this hostess-bitch was born. Mom deserves better.
But it reminded me of something bigger and even worse. Many months back, before the latest round of needed construction at Lincoln Center, there was a mural up to hide some of the work. On the mural were pictures of many people enjoying a newly-revitalized Lincoln Center. It was a nice little hustle-and-bustle scene, a great New York night. Only on close examination did I realize I could not find any old people in the illustration. Here it was, a young yuppie’s dream: a Lincoln Center where nobody is aged.
If the people at Lincoln Center greet other seniors the way they met my mom’s needs last week, the dream could become a reality.
In the meantime, I'm left associating a center I love with some feelings I don't. I think if my mom had been younger and I had been thinnner, if we had been hipsters, we would have been treated more attentively. Or at least allowed to sit down.
Monday, October 4, 2010
That Wild Card Still Feels Wrong
All these years later, it still feels like there’s something wrong with the wild card.
Just reading the back pages of the tabloids this morning reminded me of that feeling.
Yes, having a system with a wild card means that more teams can compete, ostensibly livening up the playoffs. But I’m old enough to be nostalgic about the times when the winners of the AL East played the winners of the AL West. And then on to the series. Before that set-up, I've read, the winners of the American League simply played the top team of the National League. Imagine that.
Having a wild card still feels like cheating to me. There's something weird about losing your division and winding up calling yourselves World Champions. Isn't there?
This all bothered me, at least up until yesterday, when the Yankees landed their wild card ticket to the playoffs. Then it was okay.
No, I’m kidding. It’s not okay. And so this morning I found myself feeling sad about the way the Bronx Bombers are heading into postseason play. Not bad enough to stop rooting for my traditional team this time of year. But bad enough to wonder all over again about the wild card.
I know I’m not alone. The fellow at the front desk in my building yesterday, listening on the radio to a Yankee loss, said that that if the Yanks win and get the number-one spot in their division, then they might just keep winning. But he could not picture the Yankees this year going from wild card status to winning the World Series. Maybe he was just being superstitious. I think what he was really saying was that he could not see this team winning the Series—period.
His skepticism may be earned. The Yanks did not look too good in the last couple of weeks. All shall be revealed to us over the course of the playoffs, which traditionally have been decent territory for the Yankees. We’ll see how wild it gets.
Just reading the back pages of the tabloids this morning reminded me of that feeling.
Yes, having a system with a wild card means that more teams can compete, ostensibly livening up the playoffs. But I’m old enough to be nostalgic about the times when the winners of the AL East played the winners of the AL West. And then on to the series. Before that set-up, I've read, the winners of the American League simply played the top team of the National League. Imagine that.
Having a wild card still feels like cheating to me. There's something weird about losing your division and winding up calling yourselves World Champions. Isn't there?
This all bothered me, at least up until yesterday, when the Yankees landed their wild card ticket to the playoffs. Then it was okay.
No, I’m kidding. It’s not okay. And so this morning I found myself feeling sad about the way the Bronx Bombers are heading into postseason play. Not bad enough to stop rooting for my traditional team this time of year. But bad enough to wonder all over again about the wild card.
I know I’m not alone. The fellow at the front desk in my building yesterday, listening on the radio to a Yankee loss, said that that if the Yanks win and get the number-one spot in their division, then they might just keep winning. But he could not picture the Yankees this year going from wild card status to winning the World Series. Maybe he was just being superstitious. I think what he was really saying was that he could not see this team winning the Series—period.
His skepticism may be earned. The Yanks did not look too good in the last couple of weeks. All shall be revealed to us over the course of the playoffs, which traditionally have been decent territory for the Yankees. We’ll see how wild it gets.
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