The Days So Far

Been going through the archives and decided to share a few pictures from the last couple of months. No cohesive theme here. Just random moments.

I’ve been capturing things a bit differently now that Instagram has become my default channel. But this is still my favorite space for posting pictures.

It’s a lot quieter.

Which means, fewer people see what I post.

Which means, I feel more free.

Which means, this is really how I take pictures.

Funny how that works.

Let’s do dis.

IMG_6409 (1) Quite proud of this rug and its dust bunny friends.

One night Franco and I watched these guys change this sign to an identical, much cleaner sign. We were on our way to a distant bar in Brooklyn late one night to pick up the credit card I’d left behind a few days before (yes, I’m an adult). It was an hourlong slog. When we got there, the place was closed.

Whenever possible.

My super glamorous studio. See that mic stand over there? Swivels 360 degrees to and from your mouth. Patent pending.

A friend and I stumbled upon this cute little park right after this asinine dialogue courtesy of me:

Friend: What’s this?
Me: Ugh. Probably one of those rich-people parks you need a key to get into.
Nice old lady holding open the gate on her way out: Come right in, you cynical asshole.

Then we got chased by a chicken. It was glorious.

One day I dug up my cheapo watercoloring set that I’d bought about seven years ago and completely failed at but still lugged around through my many, many moves. I learned that when you’re bad at colors and coloring, you can get away with picking and choosing what to color.

Office permapup. Fully grown and pocket-sized. Want.

This is how Franco watches sports. You might think it’s really awkward to have a big ol’ window with no curtains. You would be right. But… we’re too lazy to ask the landlord if we can drill holes, so fish tank living room featuring a singing-dancing duo it is. You’re welcome, neighbors.

One of the first nice days of the year we decided to hang at Central Park at the last minute. That blanket is actually a plastic tablecloth from the dollar store.

A book about the joys of spinsterhood. Franco gets nervous whenever I read it around him.

Times Square After Midnight, one of my fave places in the city.

Another creep session. These guys had a synchronized routine. They marched to a spot, lifted some things, hammered some other things, and did it all over again.

Pretending to read the Times, but really we’re about to watch “Gossip Girl” while lunching.

One of those perfect days in the neighborhood.

Best wings in the biz and nicest people ever.

And with that,
~20 pics down, thousands more to go.
Until next time, friends.

Angela Chase Is My Homie

IMG_0628_v2

I’m always in my head.

Whenever something big happens, I imagine Future Me reflecting on that very moment years later in full-on Angela Chase mode, narrating every furrow of the brow, out loud and angst-filled—all while I’m living it.

That’s what happens when you grow up on The Wonder Years. And Blossom. And Clarissa Explains It All. And, the great overthinker’s bible, My So-Called Life.

It also does a couple things to a young person’s underdeveloped brain:

One, you decide talking to yourself, out loud and often, is acceptable.

Two, overanalyzing becomes your default way of thinking.

And three, you kind of miss out on some things.

You preoccupy yourself with trying to figure out what everything means before it even has a chance to become anything.

You even set some ground rules.

Big moments, you decide, come with symbolic tchotchke like streamers and cake to let oblivious you know that THIS IS A BIG DEAL, IDIOT, PAY ATTENTION.

Little moments, meanwhile, have an easier time slipping by unnoticed.

In most cases, it’s fine. I mean, they’re usually boring and lame and why waste brain space on what kind of pants your neighbor was wearing this morning unless he was wearing, like, MC Hammer pants, because, AMAZING.

What complicates things is when big moments disguise themselves as little moments, only to reveal their true selves long after they’ve passed.

I’ve tried to remedy this by always carrying a camera or a notebook and pen. It helps me relive everything, over and over, the good and the bad, with the benefit of hindsight that I use to craft neat narratives in order to make me sound much wiser and well-adjusted than I actually am.

Those otherwise inconsequential MC Hammer pants? Now they’re a symbol of my lost youth and spontaneity and inability to say, “Fuck You, slacks. I’m wearing MC Hammer pants to work today.”

But just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, a transition rears its ugly head.

Neither big nor small, transitions are merely preludes to either.

Nowhere are transitions more apparent than in New York, where your favorite noodle joints, jobs, and friendships dissipate overnight, sometimes without saying bye. The city conditions us not only to accept it all with a stiff upper lip but also to expect them.

It’s why when the rare transition that you recognize as a transition passes by, in its really fucking beautiful kind of way,

you go outside

and take a picture.

IMG_0558_v2

How to cross the street

You can tell a lot about a couple by the way they cross the street.

On Saturday, I witnessed four coupled-up street-crossers in the span of about 30 minutes. That’s what happens when you’re strolling down Fifth Ave in search of the perfect suit.

(The suit wasn’t for me, by the way. I spent most of the shopping portion of the day reading on the so-called boyfriend chair.)

On Saturdays, Fifth Avenue becomes a fashionable version of football. The teams are shoppers decked in their best leopard print ensembles, sizing each other up from opposite sidewalks. The “walk” sign flashes, and each team – a herd of maybe 20 or so – must reach the other side in the time allotted with little injury.

You must be ruthless. Standing between you and the end zone are a clueless tourist pointing at the sky, a mom who refuses to carry her barely mobile toddler, a grandpa recovering from a hip replacement. An elbow here, a jab to the ribs there. All’s fair in the sport of crosswalk.

Further, you must be prepared for the unforeseen. A stiletto-wearer might step into a crack or a carriage-carting horse might sideswipe a straggler.

Most interesting is how people reveal their true selves in the face of possible death by cab. In most cases, they will fall under one of two categories: Leave No Man Behind or It’s Every Man For Himself.

It is in that split-second decision that the couple is put to the test.

At Crosswalk No. 1, I watched a man cross just as the light turned green. Behind him, his wife or girlfriend was just stepping off the sidewalk. She was on the phone. She stopped.

“We can’t go yet!”

But it was too late. The man was almost across the street, barely acknowledging her.

At Crosswalk No. 2, another possible death by cab. This time, the woman was stepping out into the street just as the light turned green. She wasn’t looking. The man, waiting with the rest of us, reached out to pull her back.

As cars passed, they looked at each other, she with the sheepish “Oops” face, and he visibly annoyed.

At Crosswalk No. 3, the couple was hand in hand. They stepped out into the street together, confident the cabs were going to stop for them. They kept talking, never missing a beat.

At the fourth crosswalk, the couple was in the midst of conversation. A cab approached, but there was enough time to get to the other side. The woman darted across the street; the man hesitated.

“Ha,” she told him seconds later. “You’re always hesitating.”

It’s likely I’m looking too far into this. (Lucky for you, dear reader, I’m a fervent too-far-into-this-looker who likes to inject stories where they may not belong. As for the rest of you.)

Where the rest of you might see a man who saved a woman from certain doom, I see a woman so used to the man shielding her that she doesn’t even bother to look both ways anymore.

After all, relationships are made of little crosswalks. They are unpredictable. They are risky. You never know if, in the face of adversity, the person you’re with is going to look out for you or leave you behind.

Which makes it all the more frustrating. I mean, life would be so much easier if we could employ a reliable test to gauge a person’s crosswalk mettle. Like: Hey, you, let’s meet at a crosswalk, where I will close my eyes, step out into the street and, though I will not tell you this beforehand, you will pass my test by making sure we both make it to the other side.

But that’s not exactly foolproof. For one thing, you could be crushed by an overzealous texter should your mate be distracted by a unicyclist, a no-pants-wearer, a Uniqlo of epic proportions.

The more accurate measure, I think, is the one taken over time, time and time again. Because should you both survive one crosswalk mostly unscathed, albeit clumsily, there’s always the next one.

And maybe, hopefully that one will be a hand-in-hand kind of thing.

Better Late Than

In true Karen fashion, I’ve neglected to blog without much explanation. I could say I’ve been super busy, running to and fro, working nutty hours, forgoing sleep and rest. Oh wait, I used that excuse last time.

The only solace I can offer you, dear reader (note the lack of plural), is that when all else fails, I’m usually micro-blogging on Twitter. Need updates on my coffee habits? Read about the tragic loss of my Moleskine? Feel enraged over the unjust thievery of the Snuggie that was rightfully mine? All detailed in 140 characters on Twitter. Your excitement is palpable.

As to what I’ve been up to, well, let’s just say life. I’ve delved into a new project and have traveled here and there. Visitors are constantly coming and going. The free weekends I have I use to sleep or catch up with friends in the city (We really do have to – and I’m sorry for using this – pencil each other in). I was determined to update the blog over Thanksgiving break in Richmond (I had a week – a week!), but instead I caught up with friends and family. More Rock Band than actual writing was had, and I can’t say I regret it. To top it all off, I have to make time for visits by the hoodie-clad gentleman in this post.

Which brings me to now. Er, October. On a beautiful fall day, I took Lola and Phil to Central Park. Last fall I was a few weeks too late, and the trees were bare. This year, as soon as color returned to my neighborhood I grabbed my necessities – boy, dog, and camera – and headed out the door.

I’m notorious for my horrible sense of direction, and the only time it’s forgivable is when I’m in exploration mode. I pretend I mean to walk in circles, pass the same bush five times, and say, “Oh hey, that’s a neat bridge!” even after the fourth encounter.

Luckily, each Central Park visit is never like the last.

Though I love capturing passersby, Lola and Phil are my favorite photo subjects because they don’t mind when I trail them like a creeper. There’s also something about unapologetically invading someone’s space that’s so damn satisfying.

It’s so easy to lose all photo skills, at least in my case, after taking extended breaks. Some pictures were crooked or awkwardly cut off extremities, and I reluctantly banished them to the junk folder. This one survived, thanks to color.

To everyone else, Lola’s a hyper ball of fluff. When Phil’s around, she’s his shadow.

Setting up for her favorite pastime.

Score!

What’s that, girl? Timmy fell down the well?

Manhattan envy.

Central Park, un-blossomed

I leave for Toronto in a day and a half.

I haven’t packed. I don’t know where I’m staying (Well, my friends do, but I’ve neglected to ask. We’re also flying in on different days). Don’t ask me why I’m leaving New York’s somewhat chilly weather for Toronto’s somewhat chilly weather. But here and there, warm weather creeps in (At times it oddly feels like summer).

It never lasts.

Good news is, the warmth has dragged people out from their caves. Weekends are filling up. Work is picking up. Things are happening. Everyone is nicer, in a way New Yorkers are not supposed to be (For the record, I haven’t encountered a particularly mean New Yorker, born and bred or otherwise). They hold doors, let you sit on the train and even sing a jingle or two while skipping to the subway. Or maybe that’s just me.

I haven’t laid out an itinerary for Toronto, but I’ll be sure to document it here. For now, here’s Central Park, un-blossomed.

I did manage to take pictures of non-cherry blossom things that day.