chivalry in the city

It took me a while to recognize some of the courteous gestures that men make here in the city. Maybe it sounds strange, but chivalry takes on a different look in a place as big as this.

Back home, a courteous date (at least on the first outing) might open the car door. He might also catch the door at the restaurant for her, and he'll probably watch her walk to her front door to make sure she gets inside without too many June bug attacks.

It's a little different here. In New York, courteous men watch the walking path for puddles, subway grates and sidewalk cracks. If there's a puddle, the guy might steer the chica out of the way so she doesn't catch one of those icky mystery drips that fall from scaffolding and air conditioners. Subway grates and sidewalk cracks tend to break heels, so considerate sweethearts are careful to walk over the grates themselves, sparing the possibly expensive shoes of his date. (Unless the guy is a cross-dresser and he's the one in heels. Adjust as appropriate, of course.)

I've also felt a little grateful flutter when I'm all dressed up and my date does the cab flagging/chasing. Sometimes you've got to get a little aggressive to catch a cabbie's eye, what with the arm waving and the lurching into the street. So when I'm all dolled up, I don't mind taking the princess route and letting the fella hail a ride.

Other dates have made me feel all girly by offering to carry my bag or purse after we've been walking through the city for a while. I don't usually take them up on this one, (My ipod is in there!!) but I'm always flattered. And, finally, up here, dates who want to go the extra mile (no exaggeration) have walked me to my subway stop, even if it's not the station they need to get home. I walk around the city by myself a lot, but I think it's a sweet gesture.

So maybe the fact that I'm wooed by these little things makes me a frilly princess. Oh well. I balance my own checkbook, take out my own trash, buy my own erotic novels and clean my own toilet. I'll take the ocassional mushy moment.

see jane squirm

I was not prepared to see Jane Fonda's nipples. But there they were, staring at me from my new TV screen as soon as I turned on a movie my MOTHER recommended, Barbarella.

If you haven't seen it, I won't spoil all the fun, but it's basically a young Jane Fonda learning to get her rocks off by having kinky sex with a handful of freaks. We're talking about having your clothes ripped off by mean children's toothy dolls, animal skin lovin with the president of the New Orleans Grizzly Bear Club, and nesting with an ego-bruised angel.

But I was very impressed with her ability to change into a new sexy outfit every three minutes, and I would love to know where she to get one of those rooms with shag carpeting all over.

Wow.

Currently listening: Barbarella By Scott Weiland Release date: By 02 June, 1998

lucero

Ben Nichols, if you're reading this, know that you'll have a fan base in any town I call home. And it adds something special that Katie's always there to scream for you to take your shirt off. Hopefully, you'll take her seriously someday....

I went to see Nichols and his band, Lucero, at the Bowery Ballroom this week. Nichols still had the Arkansas flag waving on his arm, and he still holds a handful of my heartstrings. I've seen them in four cities now, which I think is my record for any band, and they just have such a good time singing about drinking and pining while they tear their strings apart. Their sound is sort of Bruce Springsteen meets Bob Dylan.

Currently listening: I Drove All Night By Roy Orbison Release date: By 01 July, 1991

I survived

New York is hardly predictable.
The weathermen all swore that this three-day weekend would bring a gush of rain and chilly weather -- more than enough to dampen my plans to sun on the rocks of Central Park. Instead, we were blessed with abundant sunshine and blue skies.
The weekend turned out to be one of the best I've had up here. On Friday, I went salsa dancing and saw The Longest Yard, a surprisingly hilarious movie. (Who knew Nelly could act?!) Saturday, I went to a Czech/Slovak festival in the beer garden in Astoria, where I met a bunch of interesting new people and ate just enough dumplings and kielbasa to offset all the cheap beer I'd consumed. On Sunday, my two best NYC girlfriends and I went on a day trip in a zippy little car with our new Greek buddy (we met him at the beer garden the night before.) We drove up to the outlet malls upstate and spent 8 hours shopping for the perfect shoes. Then today I wandered the empty city and bought a TV, which my friend Keith so kindly set up for me.
In all, it was a fabulous way to celebrate my first anniversary in New York. I could get used to this.

Southern Living

I live in New York City because Southern Living -- the magazine that every dedicated Southern woman proudly features on her coffeetable -- turned me down for a job during my junior year in college. Admittedly, the magazine was right for booting me out of the interview, since I hadn't even read the sections for which they were hiring, but it still stung when they smiled sweetly and said, "Thanks for playing, honey."

So after they said no, I went into business journalism, which I thought would bore me to death (what's EBITDA?!) but ended up intriguing me all the way to New York. After a few years of talking earnings before interest, tax, depreciation and amortization, I pretty much started thanking God that I didn't get hired on at Southern Living. It's a beautiful magazine, but I think I would have gotten bored quick.

Still, if I'd landed that job, I could have been closer to my roots, some of which I went to visit this last week. A lot of the people I grew up with are still living in the deep South, and this trip allowed me to check in on their lives over frozen daiquiris at Applebees. We talked about minivans and SUVs, softball and dance recitals. Even though they had changed a lot over the years (what's Junior Civitan?!), they were still the same crowd I remember.

My accent slid right back into place after five minutes in the Little Rock airport, and I suddenly wasn't the only one calling people "dear" and "honey." It made me wonder what my life would have been like if I'd stayed closer to home after college.

homeward bound

i'm heading to arkansas at the end of this week, so i'll be out of touch with the Internet, seeing how my mom only goes to the library to check her "electronic mail" once a month. but don't worry, the twangy southern drawl that i'll have when i return to the city will be worth it!

we're kicking off the week with a family fish fry. from there, i fully intend to eat spaghetti and fried chicken in tontitown, spudnuts in el dorado, liz's tamales in little rock and cheese dip in every restaurant along the way!!

my ass will be wider, but so will my grin!

Currently listening: The Perfect Country and Western Song By David Allan Coe Release date: By 01 January, 1996

mole people

My commute to work gives me about an hour of reading time on the train every day. I usually read one of the freebie newspapers and then zone out with my iPod.

But I just started a new book, The Mole People, and I'm only reading it while I ride the subway. It's about the homeless people who live underground in New York City and settle in abandoned tunnels and subway stations beneath Manhattan. The book tells the stories of the tunnel people who author Jennifer Toth got to know during her research.
It came out 12 years ago, but the book is still amazing.
I use the subway as a convenience to get from my big red couch to work and parties and dinners. These folks live in the dark that my trains zip through every day and make homes out of cracks in the walls.

Good morning to you, too!

I was filing off the train this morning, and a short, kinda shabby-looking guy was standing right in the middle of the moving crowd, handing out pamphlets of some sort. (Ever since I figured out that the "Free Stress Test" in Grand Central was really a cover for the Dianetic extremists, I rarely answer anyone calling out to me or take the papers people try to shove into my hands.)

So this little guy was trying to get folks to take his handout, and most everyone was just brushing past him on their way to Starbucks. I was about five people away from him when I realized he was chanting "Bitch, bitch, bitch" to everyone who didn't take his pamphlet. (Except in his accent, it sounded like he was saying Beech, beech, beech.) So when I walked by him, I put my hands up and said, "Oh, no, I'm a beech, too. Sorry."

That just made my day.