Deborah and Signe were both doing well selling their creations at the BUST Magazine Craftacular in SoHo yesterday and neither of them wanted to risk losing a sale by leaving their booth, so shortly after I arrived to visit, I offered to get them lunch. Although the Craftacular is billed as a “craft and food fair,” the only vendor I could find that wasn’t selling cupcakes, cookies or other chocolaty snacks, was a booth selling meatballs. “Mother’s Balls” they were called. Neither Deborah nor Signe wanted a sandwich, so I got them each an order of what was listed on the menu as, “Just the Balls.” Funny, I suppose, but slightly awkward to order.
Other than coffee when they first arrived, the only thing Deborah and Signe had to drink all day was some wine supplied by a girl at the neighboring table. After delivering the balls, so to speak, I offered to go outside and get a couple of bottles of water.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said.
The craft fair was crowded, but not more crowded than the bustling streets outside.
After picking up a few things at a nearby deli, I navigated my way back to the craft fair. Between the thousands of pedestrians shopping and window shopping on the narrow SoHo streets, and the hundreds of street vendors selling scarves, T-shits, jewelry and paintings, making those narrow streets even narrower, it wasn’t easy.
While passing the entrance to one particularly fancy store, a slim guy in a stylish wool suit with Dudley Do-Right posture, marched out of the store’s entrance as if expecting the great unwashed masses on the sidewalk to part for him. He threw his scarf over his shoulder and let out a boisterous laugh as he cut me off. Following behind him was a lithe young woman in stiletto boots taking large strides to keep pace. Although the guy had just room enough to avoid colliding with me, the woman wasn’t so well timed. She yelped as she tripped over my foot and headed face first toward the cement. She didn’t fall. In a heroic effort that nearly toppled them both, she clawed the guys shoulder and managed to salvage her modeling career. As she righted herself, she swung her head around and shot me an expression that was impossible to decipher.
My initial reaction was to apologize, but it’s surprising sometimes how quickly a second thought can follow the first, and in the instant it took for the supermodel’s hair to swish around like a shampoo commercial, my throat cramped up and an apology never came. Instead, I just held up my hand as if to say, no harm, no foul.
Every year I see an article proclaiming the streets of New York to be more crowded than ever. “It’s staggering when you think how many people are walking the streets of New York City at any given time,” A recent article in The New York Times quotes Janette Sadik-Khan, the city’s transportation commissioner, as saying. Very true. Later she adds, “With 8.4 million people, you don’t live here unless you like people.” Less true.
It might be more accurate to say, “You don’t live here unless you like complaining about people,” since that’s what everyone I know seems to do.
In any case, if you actually do like people, the Craftacular continues until seven o’clock tonight.
Photo courtesy of Wade Schields
When the loosely organized local vintage motorcycle community, of which I am a loosely organized member, got word that the critically acclaimed British documentary “TT3D: Closer to the Edge” about the infamous Isle of Man Tourist Trophy motorcycle races was going to have a short run at a Manhattan movie theater, the group made plans to see it. When, for some reason, the theater pulled the movie from its schedule, Corinna, who runs the weekly moto-themed movie night Cine Meccanica at Otto’s Shrunken Head, took it upon herself to make it happen anyway, DIY style.
After sorting out the logistics, Corinna sent an email confirming that the movie would be shown at Matchless, a motorcycle-friendly bar in Brooklyn that has a projector and screen and often shows motorcycle races on Monday nights.
I arranged to meet my friend Wade for dinner ahead of time. Wade, like me, is underemployed at the moment and dinner at 5 o’clock wasn’t a problem for either of us. Although Matchless is a couple of miles from my apartment, it lies directly in the path of my local bus route. The bus schedule being as it is — for entertainment purposes only — makes it impossible to predict how long a ride will take. Twenty minutes? An hour? I gave myself a little extra time, but the ride was quick and I was early. Wade, however, came from Manhattan and after a few connections, had to walk a few blocks from the subway. He was soggy and wet, shook off the rain and took a seat.
Wade is a photographer and he hired me to assist on a recent photo shoot. It was an admittedly boring tabletop shoot for a cosmetics company but he was happy to have the work, and was hoping to get more of it. So was I.
“Thanks again for hiring me to assist,” I said. “You really didn’t need two assistants.”
After the shoot, Wade’s other assistant, Kiritin, told me she was glad I was there to keep her from falling asleep. But, of course, if I hadn’t been there, she would’ve had more to do.
“I think I actually did need two assistants,” said Wade. “We ran late even as it was.”
“True,” I said. “Either way, I was happy to have the work. Things are starting to feel desperate. I wish I had something I could sell on ebay.”
“It’s barely worth it,” said Wade. Wade has an impressive collection of vintage motorcycles — four BSAs and a Triumph– along with a variety of spare parts to go with them. Although he’s determined not to sell any of the bikes, he’s been cleaning gas tanks, wheels, carburetors, etc, and putting them up for auction. “By the time you clean, photograph and ship everything, it’s hardly worth the trouble.” In addition to motorcycles, he also collects fine art photography and he told me about some signed prints he recently sold on ebay for half of what they’re worth.
We had a couple of beers and ate some food, then got our check and prepared to leave. “Shit,” I said, pulling out an insufficient wad of bills from my wallet, “Speaking of low funds, I’m a little short.”
“I can cover it if you want to go find an ATM. I’ll meet you at the bar.”
Photo courtesy of Wade Schields
The rain was coming down hard and by the time I got cash at an outdoor machine and walked to the bar, I was soaked. A couple of guys followed me inside, carrying motorcycle helmets. “Not a very nice night for riding,” said Wade, nodding toward the guys.
“Not a very nice night for walking, either,” I said, shaking out my hat.
For the most part, the people featured in the move are from the UK and their accents made them difficult to understand, but with the added din of the bar, it became nearly impossible. “They should have turned on the closed captioning,” I said. Regardless, despite the noise and the distractions of people bumping into me from all sides, ordering beer and food and asking, “Where’s the toilet?” the movie was — in movie-critic parlance — spellbinding. It really was.
Tourist Trophy motorcycle racing at the Isle of Man began in 1907 and since then, there have been over 240 deaths. The movie focuses on the 2010 season and, statistics being what they are, it’s not surprising that a racer dies in one of the 2010 races. The racer’s surviving wife is philosophical about it and, at one point, says something like, although it’s a cliché, it’s true that people can die any day at any minute from any number of things. It’s something you hear people say all the time, “Hey you can get killed just walking down the street.” Point being to do what you love and live life to the fullest.
After the movie, I called Deborah to tell her I was on my way home. “Just waiting for the bus,” I said.
The bus was nearly empty when it arrived and it didn’t make many stops. By the time we hit Driggs Avenue and Broadway, I was the only passenger. The bus idled at the intersection for a long time. Siren lights lit up the busses foggy windows. The bus driver got off the bus. I walked to the front of the bus and poked my head out the door to see what was happening. The intersection was cordoned off with police tape.
When the bus driver returned, I asked him, “What’s the story? Are we going to be moving soon?”
“The police marking off the ground with chalk,” he said in broken Polish. “Like a…a…a…fatality.”
The driver gave me some alternate bus options, all of which involved multiple transfers. I was still a mile and a half from home but I decided to walk. Standing at the corner of the intersection, I could’t see much. A garbage truck, a few police cars, siren lights reflecting on the slick pavement, rain catching the light of the street lamps. I didn’t see an ambulance, I didn’t see any chalk.
The cold rain got under my collar and began to trickle down my back. I pulled my coat’s zipper tight around my neck and walked home. Within minutes I was utterly drenched, but I didn’t mind. I was going home to a warm bed, a hot cup of tea, and a wife who loves me. I was alive.
Deborah sent me a link to a story she found the next day with details of the accident.Katharine Yun, NYU Grad, Struck And Killed By Sanitation Truck In Williamsburg
You can get killed just crossing the street.
Why I haven’t taken more photographs of my beautiful friend, Signe, I can’t explain. This one is a couple of years old now, but it’s the only one I can find. She didn’t complain when I first posted it so hopefully she won’t mind that I post it again. We’ll find out.
Despite there being a million and one style sites on the web already, after reading Signe’s guest-post at threetwentyeight.com, I’m convinced she should start one of her own. (And not just because she included Deborah’s jewelry in her post.)
As well as being a successful stylist and an excellent writer with a keen eye for cool things, Signe is also a talented ceramist and will be sharing a table with Deborah at BUST Magazine’s Craftacular and Food Fair this weekend.
Bust Magazine Craftacular and Food Fair 2011
Saturday: 11 AM – 8 PM; Sunday: 11 AM – 7 PM
82 Mercer St. between Broome and Spring, New York, NY
I have a theory. I actually have a lot of theories, but most are best kept secret. This one is based upon what I think is a generally accepted scientific belief, but since Science is always updating and refining these things, it’s possible I’m behind the times. But so what, this isn’t my PhD thesis.
From what I understand, the ratio of brain to body mass correlates to the general intelligence of a species. For instance, the average 150 lb. human has a 3 pound grapefruit inside it’s noggin while a 20 ton brontosaurus has had a peach pit. You with me? Okay.
I theorize that when a guy sits down behind the wheel of a car, his brain-to-body mass ratio effectively goes from 1:40 to 1:1500 putting him in line with your average hippopotamus.
In other words, as soon as someone gets in a car and starts driving, they are suddenly a whole lot dumber than they were standing in the parking lot.
Again, it’s only a theory.
Okay, so maybe “dumb” isn’t the right word. A shark has a brain-to-body ratio of about 1:2500 and nobody here is calling a shark dumb. How about primal?
Regardless, I had to rent a 6000 pound U-Haul truck the other day to do a little schlepping — moving art from one secret location to another — and I gotta say, I sure felt stupid driving it. Like a little old lady driving to church, I lumbered through Brooklyn at 10 miles an hour, inhaling and holding my breath as if it would make the whole truck thinner whenever I had to thread my way through parked and double parked cars. Holding my breath probably made me even dumber still.
By the way, I was suprised by the U-Haul rental office on Carlton Avenue, near the Brooklyn Navy Yard. There’s a beautiful waterfall fountain and koi pond outside the office door, and inside, the office looks like an Old West mailstation. There was a large brass cash register on a wooden platform against the wall and a counter with barred windows. I felt like I should be sending a telegram rather than renting a truck.
“Hey guess what? STOP The U-Haul office looks llike a telegraph office STOP There’s a koi pond outside STOP Who knew?”
Time Out Magazine used to have a regular item called “What’s Up With That?” where readers would write in with questions about things they found curious and or confusing and the staff would answer them. For instance:
Q What’s up with the black obelisk on the northeast corner of Ocean Parkway and Avenue U in Brooklyn?
I remember seeing one where someone asked: “What’s up with Staten Island?”
As I inched my way through the toll booth on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge from Brooklyn to Staten Island, I started to wonder the exact same thing. I’ve driven over the bridge countless times — usually as a shortcut through Staten Island from my apartment in Brooklyn to my parent’s house is southern New Jersey — and I was well aware of the astronomical 13 dollar toll to cross it, but when I handed the toll collector a 20 dollar bill and he barked, “Twenny six.” I was stunned.
“Pardon me?”
“It’s twenny six, pal.”
I don’t drive trucks very often (my little Ford Ranger is smaller than a lot of cars) and I had no idea the toll would be double for a U-Haul. According to the U-Haul website, the 10′ truck I was driving weighs 5790 pounds empty — or roughly one hundred pounds lighter than a Ford Escalade — and it hardly seemed fair, but I wasn’t about to argue with the guy. He was bald, muscular and stern like a made-for-TV prison guard. I had enough cash to cover it, but just barely.
There were more tolls to come so as I pulled away from the booth I asked Deborah, who was in the passenger seat with me, if she had any cash.
Deborah had been sick the previous couple of days and wasn’t keen on coming along, but I convinced her that all she had to do was keep me company. “No, I didn’t bring my wallet,” she said.
The job was straightforward. Pick up some art from one warehouse, drop it off at another, and go home. The truck was booked for six hours which gave us about twenty minutes for lunch. I handed Deborah a few bucks and waited in the truck while she ran into the rest area to get us some food. Pickins were slim. There was a Nathan’s, which was closed, a Starbucks and a Burger King. Deborah stood in line at Starbucks with two plastic-wrapped ham and cheese sandwiches. She thinks they were ham and cheese, anyway, she said they were too smushed up to be certain. As she neared the counter, the cashier warned her before ringing up the order, “those are seven-fifty each.”
Oh well, when trucking, do as the truckers do. “Two Whoppers with cheese, please.”
With bellies full of bio-fuel, we got the rolling box back on the road and began the last leg of the trip. The Verrazano Narrows Bridge only collects tolls in one direction so I felt safe from the robber barons, but before we got that far, we had to cross the Goethals bridge across Arthur Kill — from New Jersey into Staten Island. (What’s up with Staten Island?) Normally a 12 dollar toll, I saw signs as we approached which read “Trucks 13 dollars per axle.” I didn’t need to be a math wiz to know we were driving on two and that the 13 dollars in my wallet would only cover one. I pictured being allowed halfway throughout he toll booth. But at least it would be the front half, where Deborah and I sat. Halfway through, we could ditch the truck and walk the rest of the way.
“Why didn’t you get money out of the ATM when we stopped for lunch?” said Deborah.
“Uhh…” I struggled to explain my brain-to-body mass theory.
Thankfully, the toll collector was more forgiving in his definition of a truck. He leaned his head out of the booth and looked at the U-Haul. “Twelve dollars,” he said.
And so, with one dollar to spare, we rumbled through the forgotten borough. Home again, home again jiggity jig. I stepped out of the truck in the U-Haul parking lot and allowed my brain to readjust to its puny human housing. Too bad it took so long, otherwise I might’ve been smart enough to take some pictures of the Wild West U-Haul corral. Next time.
Chronically underemployed for the past couple of months, I was excited to finally have a small job. An honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work. Unfortunately, as I sat down to start, my hard drive went kaput. (My computer’s hard drive that is, although my own was on the verge of crashing, too.) I tried every recovery trick I knew with no luck and resigned myself to buying a new one. Although I continue to be amazed at how much storage capacity you can get for your money these days, it’s not something I was happy to have an excuse to buy. Even when times are good, internal hard drives rate only slightly higher than a power cord or a cable on the list of least interesting computer-related things you can buy. But I couldn’t do the job without it, so another straw on the camelback of my credit card.
A clerk disappeared into the stockroom and came out with a silver bag. He punched a few numbers into his computer and found the price. “A hundred and twenty-nine ninety-nine,” he said. “One forty-one with tax. You want it?” Cursing his flannel shirt and facial hair, I told him I did. “Right on,” tick tick tick, ka-ching, sign here, “Have a good one.”
“You, too,” I said, ducking out the door and into the rain. The rain was coming down hard and I nearly collided with a Hasidic guy in a plastic-wrapped Borsalino who was running for shelter. His glasses were fogged and speckled with rain drops. Mine were, too.
I pulled my cap down over my eyes, hunched my shoulders and speed-walked to the bus stop. I was stopped halfway up the block by a readymade still life made up of a coffee cup, a Coke bottle and a plastic cup from Dunkin Donuts filled with melted ice. Like a hipster Morandi painting. I stopped, dug my camera out, took a picture, and tucked my camera back into my bag and out of the rain as quickly as I could.
I hope you’re not waiting for a point to this story because the only point is that it’s been several hours and I’m still not done installing, copying and updating files and software. (My internet service couldn’t be any slower if i used a soup can and a length of twine.) Since I’m determined to get back in the habit of writing every day, I decided that writing something pointless was more productive than watching a progress bar.
I honestly thought that Cyber Monday was a brand new idea conceived in response to the shitty economy but after a quick google search I discovered it’s been around since 2005. Who knew? I guess maybe I did, I don’t know. I sure as hell never paid any attention to it before. I’m not sure why, since I hate shopping in real stores. I guess I’m just so freaking generous the rest of the year that Christmas shopping feels unnecessary. Like an alcoholic on New Year’s Eve: Amateur Night.
My darling wife will probably beg to differ, but she’s a girl and girls are never satisfied.
Seriously, though, I realize that some people are more predictable in their holiday gift-giving and actually buy Christmas presents in time for Christmas. If you’re among them, I have a gift for you. (I told you I was generous!)
Tomorrow only, a one-day Cyber Monday special, Deborah is offering a 15% discount on her jewelry.
Just go to Deborah Rice Designs and use the code:
DRCYBERMONDAY
Tell her Jamie sent you.
