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I

MAGAZINE

VOLUME ONE

ISSUE ONE


Built in 1873, New York City’s narrowest house resides in the West Village at 75 1/2 Bedford Street and boasts a mere width of 9 1/2 feet. The three-story, 990-square-foot townhouse was once home to actor Cary Grant, anthropologist Margaret Mead and Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, among others. While it may be thin, Cary Grant’s former digs sold for the fat price of $2.175 million in January of this year.

Cover Photograph by Mushi King Right Photograph by hairygrumpy@Flickr

UPPER EAST

1. Ambien. And a glass of champagne 2. The G train. Sketch 3. Somewhere in Brooklyn, ideally in a brownstone with a dog and cat 4. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” Brad C., 56, 1. Rehearse guitar. I’m not as good as I used to be, so I leave the apartment so i don’t wake anyone and sit across the street and try to remember old songs 2. The BQE during rush hour. And the hours surrounding it 3. Here; I’ve been here over 25 years 4. “The Godfather” Saga

BROOKLYN

The Skinniest Building in New York

Carey M., 19

Gossip Girl Here The Palace Hotel @ 455 Madison Avenue Shaking Boredom in the Shack Line Shake Shack in Madison Square Park @ 23rd Street & 5th Avenue Brian Jonestown Massacre Webster Hall @ 125 East 11th Street Waiting for Alejandro Think Coffee @ 248 Mercer Street New York’s Nooks Tudor City Park (Cover Image) 41st Street between 1st & 2nd Avenue

Charlie M., 27

Sakura Park 122nd Street & Riverside Drive

1. I eat Frosted Flakes until I run out of milk. I can usually sleep by that time

Greenacre Park 51st Street between 2nd & 3rd Avenue

2. I don’t avoid anywhere, but I guess I don’t go uptown that often 3. Williamsburg is where it’s at! 4. I don’t watch TV Jessie H., 26 1. I sit on my fire escape and smoke 2. Times Square; it’s too busy for me 3. Anywhere with a view of the city 4. I don’t watch television Elizabeth M., 24 1. I call my brother; he rarely sleeps 2. East Bushwick at night; it gets desolate at night in some places 3. Anywhere high up 4. I don’t watch television

Plane View Park Grand Central Parkway & 85th Street @ LaGuardia Airport Close Escapes Roosevelt Island in East River between Manhattan & Queens City Island in Long Island Sound North of the Bronx A Victorian Oasis in Brooklyn Tickets for Sale @ Temple Beth Emeth @ 83 Marlborough Street, Flatbush Japan in Brooklyn Sri Textile @ 18 Eckford Street, Brooklyn


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Issue One Staff Letter

I

MAGAZINE

This month, we launch the inaugural issue of I. It’s been a long and winding road — and an amazing enterprise. When we first convened at our Algonquin Round Table — pardon us, Gallatin Round Table — the profusion of disparate interests among us was palpable. Between a graphic artist, computer animator, fashionisto, design-obsessed editor and a brave reporter who was soon-to-be India-bound for a year, there were diverging opinions as to how we’d like our magazine to take shape. Along the way, we sadly lost a staff member to a competing publication, but gained a print-loving insomniac to further diversify our bunch. We forged ahead — two Charlottes, two Matthews and a Suzanne. Despite our varying interests, we brainstormed and unearthed commonalities: our love of narratives, photography and, especially, New York City at its most underground and offbeat. Six weeks later, I was born.

Charlotte Bounous Matthew Feniger Suzanne Hatcher Matthew So Charlotte Wayne

2

O ' + + N P& O N Q $& R%Q%333

A few weeks later, I traveled back Uptown to where I read they were filming an outdoor scene in front of Blair Waldorf ’s “house.” I arrived at the set, and there they were. Spotted: Blair Waldorf on the set’s television screen, shooting an indoor scene, with Darota (her maid) and her mother walking in and out of the house; Nate Archibald, Chuck Bass, and Vanessa Abrams practicing their lines outside; and countless swooning fans watching the spectacle from across the street. I took out my camera and snapped away. I went back and forth from the location to where their trailers were stationed. While the girls stood staring at Nate Archibald’s trailer door, I noticed Vanessa Abrams sneakily exiting hers and scurrying down the street. And of course, I ran after her. Once I caught up to her, I admitted I was a fan and asked for a picture. Vanessa looked behind me to see if anyone else had followed me to her. No one had. She wrapped her arms around me for the picture. Vanessa Abrams was not just taking a picture with me… She was hugging me. We obviously had an instant connection or else she would not have made so much body contact. After the picture was taken, I watched her walk away feeling the void in my heart grow with every step she took. I knew she must have been feeling the same way. I’m sure if I saw her again, she would instantly recognize me, and this glorious reunion, narrated by the unknown Gossip Girl blogger, would blossom into an everlasting friendship: “A fire was ignited the first time V and M touched, but this time was a full-on California forest fire. But will someone get burned? I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Until next time, XOXO, Gossip Girl.”

by Matt Feniger I cannot lie. I’m a fan of “Gossip Girl.” When I moved to the city, I was determined to stalk the set and meet the cast. The first time I went to the GG set, it was at the Palace Hotel where the Van der Woodsen family lives in the penthouse suite. Standing across the street from the hotel amongst hysterical fourteen-year-old girls, I could not see anything other than the film crew moving equipment back and forth. My friend and I then ventured to the hotel’s side entrance and sat in the lobby, pretending we were staying in the hotel. We even took the elevator to the top floor to see if they were shooting in the penthouse. I was determined; my embarrassment was overshadowed by my excitement to see the cast. I asked a security guard where they were filming and he told me in the hotel’s library. In case you are unaware, the Palace’s library is next to the hotel’s bar. My friend and I sat at the bar, staring at the library’s entrance blocked off by a huge partition. Once we were told that we have to order a drink and realized that one drink was $12, we left. I ventured back downtown with my goal unachieved, but my heart racing at the thought of how close I was to the Upper East Siders. 3


Issue One Staff Letter

I

MAGAZINE

This month, we launch the inaugural issue of I. It’s been a long and winding road — and an amazing enterprise. When we first convened at our Algonquin Round Table — pardon us, Gallatin Round Table — the profusion of disparate interests among us was palpable. Between a graphic artist, computer animator, fashionisto, design-obsessed editor and a brave reporter who was soon-to-be India-bound for a year, there were diverging opinions as to how we’d like our magazine to take shape. Along the way, we sadly lost a staff member to a competing publication, but gained a print-loving insomniac to further diversify our bunch. We forged ahead — two Charlottes, two Matthews and a Suzanne. Despite our varying interests, we brainstormed and unearthed commonalities: our love of narratives, photography and, especially, New York City at its most underground and offbeat. Six weeks later, I was born.

Charlotte Bounous Matthew Feniger Suzanne Hatcher Matthew So Charlotte Wayne

2

O ' + + N P& O N Q $& R%Q%333

A few weeks later, I traveled back Uptown to where I read they were filming an outdoor scene in front of Blair Waldorf ’s “house.” I arrived at the set, and there they were. Spotted: Blair Waldorf on the set’s television screen, shooting an indoor scene, with Darota (her maid) and her mother walking in and out of the house; Nate Archibald, Chuck Bass, and Vanessa Abrams practicing their lines outside; and countless swooning fans watching the spectacle from across the street. I took out my camera and snapped away. I went back and forth from the location to where their trailers were stationed. While the girls stood staring at Nate Archibald’s trailer door, I noticed Vanessa Abrams sneakily exiting hers and scurrying down the street. And of course, I ran after her. Once I caught up to her, I admitted I was a fan and asked for a picture. Vanessa looked behind me to see if anyone else had followed me to her. No one had. She wrapped her arms around me for the picture. Vanessa Abrams was not just taking a picture with me… She was hugging me. We obviously had an instant connection or else she would not have made so much body contact. After the picture was taken, I watched her walk away feeling the void in my heart grow with every step she took. I knew she must have been feeling the same way. I’m sure if I saw her again, she would instantly recognize me, and this glorious reunion, narrated by the unknown Gossip Girl blogger, would blossom into an everlasting friendship: “A fire was ignited the first time V and M touched, but this time was a full-on California forest fire. But will someone get burned? I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Until next time, XOXO, Gossip Girl.”

by Matt Feniger I cannot lie. I’m a fan of “Gossip Girl.” When I moved to the city, I was determined to stalk the set and meet the cast. The first time I went to the GG set, it was at the Palace Hotel where the Van der Woodsen family lives in the penthouse suite. Standing across the street from the hotel amongst hysterical fourteen-year-old girls, I could not see anything other than the film crew moving equipment back and forth. My friend and I then ventured to the hotel’s side entrance and sat in the lobby, pretending we were staying in the hotel. We even took the elevator to the top floor to see if they were shooting in the penthouse. I was determined; my embarrassment was overshadowed by my excitement to see the cast. I asked a security guard where they were filming and he told me in the hotel’s library. In case you are unaware, the Palace’s library is next to the hotel’s bar. My friend and I sat at the bar, staring at the library’s entrance blocked off by a huge partition. Once we were told that we have to order a drink and realized that one drink was $12, we left. I ventured back downtown with my goal unachieved, but my heart racing at the thought of how close I was to the Upper East Siders. 3


+9.;7<5&#621=6> 7<&-91&+9.?;&$7<1

We arrive. I witness the horrendous line with my own eyes and think, “Good things come to those who wait.” Shake Shack’s burgers may be worth the task of waiting, but the black & white custard milkshake is what truly propels me toward the end of the line. Note: Boyfriend is already griping, as he is accompanying me under duress.

SATURDAY, 12:35 p.m.

Some boyfriend! He’s already abandoned me to purchase water and lounge in the park while I wait in line so that he can simply reap the rewards of my fortitude. 12:45 p.m.

After seven minutes of staring at branches swaying in the breeze and squirrels frolicking, I’m beyond bored. I pull out my iPhone to hunker down and sift through emails. Since learning of David Allen’s work-life management plan GTD (Getting Things Done) and his theory on Inbox (0), I feel a sense of urgency to increase my productivity, and Allen would be ashamed that I’m consistently stuck at Inbox (100+).

12:52 p.m.

Instead of whittling down my inbox, I find myself already lacking focus and texting with my boyfriend. He found a shady bench and wants a status update. I hate to shatter his hopes and dreams, but it is going to be a while. 1:08 p.m.

1:14 p.m.

Bored. “Good things come to those who wait.”

1:27 p.m. I’m more bored than before while visions of burgers and shakes dance in my head.

Foursquare, I completely forgot to check-in on Foursquare! I check-in and find myself at Shake Shack with 41 others. With my iPhone out again, I return to the task of my inbox. 1:30 p.m.

1:35 p.m. Twenty-seven minutes later, my focus remains lackluster,

by Charlotte Bounous Patience is a virtue, they say. Well, the first individual to utter such words may as well have been a New Yorker. And on a warm summer day in the city, the old English proverb, “Good things come to those who wait,” better be your mantra when strolling up to Shake Shack’s original Madison Square Garden location and proceeding to stand in the harrowing line. Ah, yes, the ubiquitous Shake Shack; it’s written about in The New York Times and New York Magazine, it’s mentioned on blogs and Twitter, it’s featured on Food Network, and its newest location will debut in the Theater District this July. To further illustrate its ubiquitousness, the chain is expanding in and outside the city and state — and the country! In time, residents of the Upper East Side; Saratoga Springs, New York; Miami Beach, Florida; Kuwait City, Kuwait; Saudi Arabia; and Dubai will be devouring Shake Shack’s scrumptious burgers, fries, milkshakes and more. These poor folks have months (and quite possibly years) to wait 4

before they get their hands on — and greased by — a Shake Shack burger; you would think that would give me a little perspective. But, wait, I still have to wait an hour and a half in Manhattan, and while I’m not pleased about it, I do it for the food. Glancing at the online Shack Cam prior to departing my apartment, I decide to go prepared with my boyfriend and iPhone in tow. Of course, convincing him to join me is a feat in itself since he unequivocally loathes lines. I figure, I’ll let my boyfriend keep me occupied, and in those moments where his iPhone is keeping him preoccupied, I’ll let mine do the same.

and I find myself getting lost in the conversations of those around me; to put it bluntly, I’m shamelessly eavesdropping. The loquacious group of girls in front of me has broken down into pairs, and they’re chatting about everything from light-hearted stories to deep issues. I learn that Girl #1 is a medical school student who has recently taken a leave of absence from school due to personal reasons and is spending her year off completing research at Mount Sinai. Girl #2 is probing her with questions but also reassuring her that she made the correct decision. Their conversation has my mind reeling, and I find myself reflecting on my decision to take time away from being an undergrad years ago. I remember my parents reassuring me, and I drift off… After twenty-three minutes of a contemplative and reflective journey into my past, something jolts me to the realization that I have moved past the Shake Shack line sign. Seriously, I was daydreaming — if you will — for twenty-three minutes? I am so close to the walk-up window where I place my order that I can taste it. Yuck, it tastes like steel and wood. I need to a burger and shake immediately to wash down the imaginary aftertaste.

1:58 p.m.

Top: The Shack line winds and wraps through Madison Square Park. Bottom: The brave ones celebrate their victory by placing their orders.

“I would like two single cheeseburgers, an order of fries and a black & white shake, please.” 2:02 p.m.

Victory! I alert my boyfriend via text that I have our food in tow.

2:08 p.m.

Needless to say, our black & white shake, etc. were worth the wait, but maybe I should commission Danny Meyer to alter the name of his popular burger chain because that line at the Shack is barely “shaking.” In a city such as New York, though, lines are everywhere. You just have to take a lesson from David Allen’s GTD and learn how to utilize your waiting time. While I did not do so effectively this particular time, at least I came with a plan; I will have to focus on execution next time. Just remember, the task — and misery — of waiting in lines can be alleviated a bit through the company of others, daydreaming, gadgets like iPhones, or whatever else suits your fancy, including books and puzzles. Note: If you plan to catch up on your laundry list of unreturned phone calls during your line-downtime, be aware that others are most likely eavesdropping. Oh, and if you have the disposable income, just pay someone else to wait in line for you! 5


+9.;7<5&#621=6> 7<&-91&+9.?;&$7<1

We arrive. I witness the horrendous line with my own eyes and think, “Good things come to those who wait.” Shake Shack’s burgers may be worth the task of waiting, but the black & white custard milkshake is what truly propels me toward the end of the line. Note: Boyfriend is already griping, as he is accompanying me under duress.

SATURDAY, 12:35 p.m.

Some boyfriend! He’s already abandoned me to purchase water and lounge in the park while I wait in line so that he can simply reap the rewards of my fortitude. 12:45 p.m.

After seven minutes of staring at branches swaying in the breeze and squirrels frolicking, I’m beyond bored. I pull out my iPhone to hunker down and sift through emails. Since learning of David Allen’s work-life management plan GTD (Getting Things Done) and his theory on Inbox (0), I feel a sense of urgency to increase my productivity, and Allen would be ashamed that I’m consistently stuck at Inbox (100+).

12:52 p.m.

Instead of whittling down my inbox, I find myself already lacking focus and texting with my boyfriend. He found a shady bench and wants a status update. I hate to shatter his hopes and dreams, but it is going to be a while. 1:08 p.m.

1:14 p.m.

Bored. “Good things come to those who wait.”

1:27 p.m. I’m more bored than before while visions of burgers and shakes dance in my head.

Foursquare, I completely forgot to check-in on Foursquare! I check-in and find myself at Shake Shack with 41 others. With my iPhone out again, I return to the task of my inbox. 1:30 p.m.

1:35 p.m. Twenty-seven minutes later, my focus remains lackluster,

by Charlotte Bounous Patience is a virtue, they say. Well, the first individual to utter such words may as well have been a New Yorker. And on a warm summer day in the city, the old English proverb, “Good things come to those who wait,” better be your mantra when strolling up to Shake Shack’s original Madison Square Garden location and proceeding to stand in the harrowing line. Ah, yes, the ubiquitous Shake Shack; it’s written about in The New York Times and New York Magazine, it’s mentioned on blogs and Twitter, it’s featured on Food Network, and its newest location will debut in the Theater District this July. To further illustrate its ubiquitousness, the chain is expanding in and outside the city and state — and the country! In time, residents of the Upper East Side; Saratoga Springs, New York; Miami Beach, Florida; Kuwait City, Kuwait; Saudi Arabia; and Dubai will be devouring Shake Shack’s scrumptious burgers, fries, milkshakes and more. These poor folks have months (and quite possibly years) to wait 4

before they get their hands on — and greased by — a Shake Shack burger; you would think that would give me a little perspective. But, wait, I still have to wait an hour and a half in Manhattan, and while I’m not pleased about it, I do it for the food. Glancing at the online Shack Cam prior to departing my apartment, I decide to go prepared with my boyfriend and iPhone in tow. Of course, convincing him to join me is a feat in itself since he unequivocally loathes lines. I figure, I’ll let my boyfriend keep me occupied, and in those moments where his iPhone is keeping him preoccupied, I’ll let mine do the same.

and I find myself getting lost in the conversations of those around me; to put it bluntly, I’m shamelessly eavesdropping. The loquacious group of girls in front of me has broken down into pairs, and they’re chatting about everything from light-hearted stories to deep issues. I learn that Girl #1 is a medical school student who has recently taken a leave of absence from school due to personal reasons and is spending her year off completing research at Mount Sinai. Girl #2 is probing her with questions but also reassuring her that she made the correct decision. Their conversation has my mind reeling, and I find myself reflecting on my decision to take time away from being an undergrad years ago. I remember my parents reassuring me, and I drift off… After twenty-three minutes of a contemplative and reflective journey into my past, something jolts me to the realization that I have moved past the Shake Shack line sign. Seriously, I was daydreaming — if you will — for twenty-three minutes? I am so close to the walk-up window where I place my order that I can taste it. Yuck, it tastes like steel and wood. I need to a burger and shake immediately to wash down the imaginary aftertaste.

1:58 p.m.

Top: The Shack line winds and wraps through Madison Square Park. Bottom: The brave ones celebrate their victory by placing their orders.

“I would like two single cheeseburgers, an order of fries and a black & white shake, please.” 2:02 p.m.

Victory! I alert my boyfriend via text that I have our food in tow.

2:08 p.m.

Needless to say, our black & white shake, etc. were worth the wait, but maybe I should commission Danny Meyer to alter the name of his popular burger chain because that line at the Shack is barely “shaking.” In a city such as New York, though, lines are everywhere. You just have to take a lesson from David Allen’s GTD and learn how to utilize your waiting time. While I did not do so effectively this particular time, at least I came with a plan; I will have to focus on execution next time. Just remember, the task — and misery — of waiting in lines can be alleviated a bit through the company of others, daydreaming, gadgets like iPhones, or whatever else suits your fancy, including books and puzzles. Note: If you plan to catch up on your laundry list of unreturned phone calls during your line-downtime, be aware that others are most likely eavesdropping. Oh, and if you have the disposable income, just pay someone else to wait in line for you! 5


#QN"*& &S'*%+!'T* &&&U"++")Q%

and the audience. It’s even alleged that he once stabbed a guitarist backstage. I guess he chilled out. His hair is in front of his face, and he practically has his back to the audience while he mumbles the lyrics in a low voice.

by Charlotte Wayne

4. No new material, much to my relief. The new album is fun, but it’s a huge departure from the dark, psychadelic music that BJM has released for the past eight years. Anton recently moved to Berlin, and the newest album is a collaborative effort that resulted in a sort of experimental European dance-rock album. One song has lyrics in Russian (“Dekta! Dekta!” whatever that means), but it’s still groovy and fun. No matter, I’m happy that they’re playing older material. The crowd goes wild during “When Jokers Attack,” the closest approximation to a “hit” single that BJM has ever had. It’s a great song, and I am happy to hear it live, but halfway through, I get a little uncomfortable with the sudden rise in enthusiasm from the crowd. I’ll admit it now: I’m a fucking snob! I didn’t think I was, but I kind of lose interest once I see that all the people around me who previously didn’t seem to give a shit are suddenly losing it for this one song. Still, I sway to the music, makings eyes at guitarist/second vocalist Matt Hollywood to amuse myself. 5. “Is it just me, or is Matt Hollywood looking at me?” I whisper/yell to Tim, who has suddenly arrived with Zoe. They are both quite stoned, and Tim looks at me with sleepy eyes, takes a minute, then replies “Well, he does keep

1. Brian Jonestown Massacre, one of my longtime favorite bands, played a show at Webster Hall on June 6th. I arrive at the venue around 8:30 p.m. and immediately head toward the smoker’s cage, a fenced off area beside Webster Hall, full of herded nicotine-addicted concert-goers. I know that I’m in for a long show, and I want one last smoke; I also want to see if my friends Zoe and Tim have arrived. While standing there, I see a girl in a pink tank-top sobbing and dry heaving outside the venue: “Please let me in! I’m 18! I left my I.D. in Brooklyn... And I have no money!!” I feel really sad for her and momentarily think of chiming in, in her defense, but knowing her case is futile, I head inside instead. 2. I trudge up the dimly lit stairs and find myself in the dark concert hall, next to the bar. The bartender hands me a list and after I choose the cheapest beer, the menu is swiped from my hands. I then head to the merchandise booth even

6

looking over here.” Hollywood is kind of dopey looking; he has a doughy face and is sporting a light blue ruffled shirt. Coupled with the fact that I don’t know him at all, and he isn’t psychotic Anton, I decide that a groupie’s life is not for me. But still, whenever the spotlights delve into my section of the crowd, I look him right in the eye, looking away whenever he seems to return my gaze. Did I mention that I’ve had to pee the entire time? 6. They begin a fifteen-minute-long version of “Sue,” one of my favorite songs. But as the extended jam-session begins to repeat the same four chords over and over again, I realize that I can no longer wait to pee. After emerging from the bathroom, I watch the rest of the show from the back of the room. The sobbing girl in the pink tanktop storms past me, dragging some boy into the bathroom with her. Good, she got in! All is right in the world.

though I rarely buy memorabilia at concerts, preferring to enjoy the memory for free. However, I’ve liked BJM forever, and I think going to this show might deserve a physical token. At the invitation of the small bald Aussie behind the table, I go behind the booth to rummage through sizes, often being mistaken for the merch girl. I listen sympathetically to a goth guy’s request to keep the record he bought behind the table until the show finishes before confessing that I don’t actually work here. But I will put in a good word with the Aussie for him, I promise with a wink. 3. Finally! Anton Newcombe walks on stage, stops at the mic, and without saying a word, begins to strum his guitar. He hardly says anything during the whole show, which is surprising since all of the BJM concert reviews that I’ve read discuss how every show is a violent fight between Anton and the band, Anton and the sound guy, Anton

7


#QN"*& &S'*%+!'T* &&&U"++")Q%

and the audience. It’s even alleged that he once stabbed a guitarist backstage. I guess he chilled out. His hair is in front of his face, and he practically has his back to the audience while he mumbles the lyrics in a low voice.

by Charlotte Wayne

4. No new material, much to my relief. The new album is fun, but it’s a huge departure from the dark, psychadelic music that BJM has released for the past eight years. Anton recently moved to Berlin, and the newest album is a collaborative effort that resulted in a sort of experimental European dance-rock album. One song has lyrics in Russian (“Dekta! Dekta!” whatever that means), but it’s still groovy and fun. No matter, I’m happy that they’re playing older material. The crowd goes wild during “When Jokers Attack,” the closest approximation to a “hit” single that BJM has ever had. It’s a great song, and I am happy to hear it live, but halfway through, I get a little uncomfortable with the sudden rise in enthusiasm from the crowd. I’ll admit it now: I’m a fucking snob! I didn’t think I was, but I kind of lose interest once I see that all the people around me who previously didn’t seem to give a shit are suddenly losing it for this one song. Still, I sway to the music, makings eyes at guitarist/second vocalist Matt Hollywood to amuse myself. 5. “Is it just me, or is Matt Hollywood looking at me?” I whisper/yell to Tim, who has suddenly arrived with Zoe. They are both quite stoned, and Tim looks at me with sleepy eyes, takes a minute, then replies “Well, he does keep

1. Brian Jonestown Massacre, one of my longtime favorite bands, played a show at Webster Hall on June 6th. I arrive at the venue around 8:30 p.m. and immediately head toward the smoker’s cage, a fenced off area beside Webster Hall, full of herded nicotine-addicted concert-goers. I know that I’m in for a long show, and I want one last smoke; I also want to see if my friends Zoe and Tim have arrived. While standing there, I see a girl in a pink tank-top sobbing and dry heaving outside the venue: “Please let me in! I’m 18! I left my I.D. in Brooklyn... And I have no money!!” I feel really sad for her and momentarily think of chiming in, in her defense, but knowing her case is futile, I head inside instead. 2. I trudge up the dimly lit stairs and find myself in the dark concert hall, next to the bar. The bartender hands me a list and after I choose the cheapest beer, the menu is swiped from my hands. I then head to the merchandise booth even

6

looking over here.” Hollywood is kind of dopey looking; he has a doughy face and is sporting a light blue ruffled shirt. Coupled with the fact that I don’t know him at all, and he isn’t psychotic Anton, I decide that a groupie’s life is not for me. But still, whenever the spotlights delve into my section of the crowd, I look him right in the eye, looking away whenever he seems to return my gaze. Did I mention that I’ve had to pee the entire time? 6. They begin a fifteen-minute-long version of “Sue,” one of my favorite songs. But as the extended jam-session begins to repeat the same four chords over and over again, I realize that I can no longer wait to pee. After emerging from the bathroom, I watch the rest of the show from the back of the room. The sobbing girl in the pink tanktop storms past me, dragging some boy into the bathroom with her. Good, she got in! All is right in the world.

though I rarely buy memorabilia at concerts, preferring to enjoy the memory for free. However, I’ve liked BJM forever, and I think going to this show might deserve a physical token. At the invitation of the small bald Aussie behind the table, I go behind the booth to rummage through sizes, often being mistaken for the merch girl. I listen sympathetically to a goth guy’s request to keep the record he bought behind the table until the show finishes before confessing that I don’t actually work here. But I will put in a good word with the Aussie for him, I promise with a wink. 3. Finally! Anton Newcombe walks on stage, stops at the mic, and without saying a word, begins to strum his guitar. He hardly says anything during the whole show, which is surprising since all of the BJM concert reviews that I’ve read discuss how every show is a violent fight between Anton and the band, Anton and the sound guy, Anton

7


WAITING FOR ALEJANDRO by Matt Feniger

MONDAY, JUNE 7 The Gaga music video for her third single “Alejandro” comes out today. Well, I guess it technically comes out tomorrow

since it premiers at midnight. Since seeing the preview on “Larry King Live” and the Steven Klein photoshoot that she modeled the video after, my fingers have been clenched into a monster claw. 11:55 P.M. I gather around the computer with friends, constantly clicking refresh on her website. 12:01 A.M. Still no video, no word. I check her fansite (gagadaily.com); it tells me that she has announced it is coming out later in the day. TUESDAY, JUNE 8 Studying at Think Coffee before I have to leave for class, I receive a text on my phone from a friend asking what I think

about the latest installation. Latest installation? I have no idea what he means. Looking down at my claws resting on my keyboard, I remember. ALE-ALE-JANDRO! After entering ladygaga.com and clicking play on the video, the Armani army appears on screen before an androgynous Gaga. Amongst crosses, nuns and Illuminati imagery, Gaga and her men break into dance to the catchiest song of the summer. The music video provides ample references and ideas for my next analytic Gaga essay — Nazism, the army’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy; religion’s influence on sexuality; and so much more. The question will always be, though: Who is Alejandro? I don’t know, and I’m sure we’ll never know. But frankly, I don’t care. Time to watch the video again. Watched “Alejandro” again. THURSDAY, JUNE 10 Watched it again. 3.9 million YouTube views! FRIDAY, JUNE 11 Watched the video again... Still love it. WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9

8

*%T&V'QWG+&*''W+ 9


WAITING FOR ALEJANDRO by Matt Feniger

MONDAY, JUNE 7 The Gaga music video for her third single “Alejandro” comes out today. Well, I guess it technically comes out tomorrow

since it premiers at midnight. Since seeing the preview on “Larry King Live” and the Steven Klein photoshoot that she modeled the video after, my fingers have been clenched into a monster claw. 11:55 P.M. I gather around the computer with friends, constantly clicking refresh on her website. 12:01 A.M. Still no video, no word. I check her fansite (gagadaily.com); it tells me that she has announced it is coming out later in the day. TUESDAY, JUNE 8 Studying at Think Coffee before I have to leave for class, I receive a text on my phone from a friend asking what I think

about the latest installation. Latest installation? I have no idea what he means. Looking down at my claws resting on my keyboard, I remember. ALE-ALE-JANDRO! After entering ladygaga.com and clicking play on the video, the Armani army appears on screen before an androgynous Gaga. Amongst crosses, nuns and Illuminati imagery, Gaga and her men break into dance to the catchiest song of the summer. The music video provides ample references and ideas for my next analytic Gaga essay — Nazism, the army’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy; religion’s influence on sexuality; and so much more. The question will always be, though: Who is Alejandro? I don’t know, and I’m sure we’ll never know. But frankly, I don’t care. Time to watch the video again. Watched “Alejandro” again. THURSDAY, JUNE 10 Watched it again. 3.9 million YouTube views! FRIDAY, JUNE 11 Watched the video again... Still love it. WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9

8

*%T&V'QWG+&*''W+ 9


I go to the park to read On the Nature of the Universe, but when I get there, I end up reading people instead. In New York, I walk by thousands of people every day, but sitting on a park bench makes it possible for me to actually see all the people that pass me by. I notice the young, self-aware women sitting with their ankles crossed, reading paperback novels. Tattooed gutter punks are rummaging through the trash; a man walks by me twice with his spotted bulldog. He seems lost in thought, oblivious that he’s been walking in circles. Sitting diagonally across from me is a man with a cane; he yells obscenities at anyone who walks by. Most people ignore him; a tall man with red hair keeps walking but turns around to dismissively laugh at the man and his insults. A couple sits down next to me.

Tudor Gardens

Sakura Park

Sakura Park 10

The man keeps leaning into the woman; she’s wearing sunglasses, and she pulls back when he leans toward her. “I thought your people weren’t allowed to kiss,” she says. “No, I can kiss you,” he says. “Nice tie,” she replies, giggling and pulling her body away from his. Sometimes, witnessing the romantic trials and tribulations of strangers is interesting, but other times it’s too much. There’s no voyeuristic pleasure for me in watching the woman’s slow rejection of the man and his tie. I get up to leave, and the man with the cane doesn’t harass me when I walk by. I wonder why he’s spared me the slurs that every other passerby has been subjected to. I turn my head and see that he’s grinning maniacally, looking my way. I smile back at him: a real grin, with my teeth showing and everything. I merge into the stream of people walking along 14th street and dodge teenagers and old men without really looking at them. I smile at no one in particular, at everyone, all the way home.

Greenacre Park 11


I go to the park to read On the Nature of the Universe, but when I get there, I end up reading people instead. In New York, I walk by thousands of people every day, but sitting on a park bench makes it possible for me to actually see all the people that pass me by. I notice the young, self-aware women sitting with their ankles crossed, reading paperback novels. Tattooed gutter punks are rummaging through the trash; a man walks by me twice with his spotted bulldog. He seems lost in thought, oblivious that he’s been walking in circles. Sitting diagonally across from me is a man with a cane; he yells obscenities at anyone who walks by. Most people ignore him; a tall man with red hair keeps walking but turns around to dismissively laugh at the man and his insults. A couple sits down next to me.

Tudor Gardens

Sakura Park

Sakura Park 10

The man keeps leaning into the woman; she’s wearing sunglasses, and she pulls back when he leans toward her. “I thought your people weren’t allowed to kiss,” she says. “No, I can kiss you,” he says. “Nice tie,” she replies, giggling and pulling her body away from his. Sometimes, witnessing the romantic trials and tribulations of strangers is interesting, but other times it’s too much. There’s no voyeuristic pleasure for me in watching the woman’s slow rejection of the man and his tie. I get up to leave, and the man with the cane doesn’t harass me when I walk by. I wonder why he’s spared me the slurs that every other passerby has been subjected to. I turn my head and see that he’s grinning maniacally, looking my way. I smile back at him: a real grin, with my teeth showing and everything. I merge into the stream of people walking along 14th street and dodge teenagers and old men without really looking at them. I smile at no one in particular, at everyone, all the way home.

Greenacre Park 11


and ascending: %Good afternoon! passengers. This is your captain speaking. The weather is fair, and with the tailwind on our side, we are expecting to land in San Francisco fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The weather in San Francisco is partly cloudy, with a high of 65 degrees this afternoon...& """"Half a mile away and yet within sight, the airplane grows smaller, flies farther away. People are going home, going to work, going away. Half a mile away and yet within sight, other airplanes taxi on the runway, waiting for departure. Other people are on those flights. A heavy rain forms over the airport, and with the wind in our direction, we are beneath it within a minute. We sit on the damp bench, and I take out an umbrella; we sit in the shade of its yellow canopy, listening to the irregular drum of rain, angling the umbrella against the shifting direction of wind. """"Most of the park#s inhabitants have left, save for the man asleep on the bench. The man with the bike has left. Another plane crosses overhead and grows smaller. It breaks through the thick roof of clouds, and I imagine that up there it is very bright and sunny. But I think to myself, it is very cold so high up. The park is not so bad. It is a nice place to sit.

P0.<1 I71C& P.2; by Matthew So Pey and I take the Q33 bus from Jackson Heights, Queens! up to LaGuardia Airport on a Sunday. It is an overcast day; we heard of a tornado warning on the radio an hour ago. Indeed, asphalt and sand whip up against our legs in stinging gusts as we walk from our bus stop in the direction of the radio and control towers, which peek over the line of trees and four-story airport hotels. Initially, we mistakenly walk past the park, which consists of a narrow, triangular strip of grass, chain-linked fenced off on the long side closest to the highway that runs parallel to both it and the airport. Walking back, I admit I feel a little disappointed. The park is 12

much smaller than what I had envisioned, what it could have been. I had imagined a lush green field busy with kite flyers, picnickers"and the occasional group of airplane hobbyists. We get our bearings, which doesn#t take long. There are six other people there $" on the grass or sitting on the park benches along the length of the northern, fenced side of the park. The litter in the park consists mostly of empty cigarette packs and juice boxes and film canisters. Aside from the three people sitting near a tree next to a parked baby stroller, the others look like local, temporary visitors on their way from somewhere nearby going somewhere nearby. One leans against a tree, motionless; I imagine he is taking a quiet break from his day. Another man stands near the fence, one hand holding the seat of his bike leaned against him, the other with his fingers entwined in the chain links of the fence. He looks like he has been standing there for a long time, and will continue to do so. The last is sprawled across the length of a park bench, the visor of his dirty cap pulled down, low over his face. """"A light shower descends upon the park. We take pictures for a while and watch a few planes leave the ground at the airport for the airspace overhead. A pattern of time forms from the intervals between the passing of each plane. It begins to rain in earnest now, but the possibility of a tornado seems unlikely. Another plane flies overhead, a small two-turbine, most likely a domestic flight. I imagine the captain speaking to his passengers above me, one thousand feet, two thousand feet! 13


and ascending: %Good afternoon! passengers. This is your captain speaking. The weather is fair, and with the tailwind on our side, we are expecting to land in San Francisco fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The weather in San Francisco is partly cloudy, with a high of 65 degrees this afternoon...& """"Half a mile away and yet within sight, the airplane grows smaller, flies farther away. People are going home, going to work, going away. Half a mile away and yet within sight, other airplanes taxi on the runway, waiting for departure. Other people are on those flights. A heavy rain forms over the airport, and with the wind in our direction, we are beneath it within a minute. We sit on the damp bench, and I take out an umbrella; we sit in the shade of its yellow canopy, listening to the irregular drum of rain, angling the umbrella against the shifting direction of wind. """"Most of the park#s inhabitants have left, save for the man asleep on the bench. The man with the bike has left. Another plane crosses overhead and grows smaller. It breaks through the thick roof of clouds, and I imagine that up there it is very bright and sunny. But I think to myself, it is very cold so high up. The park is not so bad. It is a nice place to sit.

P0.<1 I71C& P.2; by Matthew So Pey and I take the Q33 bus from Jackson Heights, Queens! up to LaGuardia Airport on a Sunday. It is an overcast day; we heard of a tornado warning on the radio an hour ago. Indeed, asphalt and sand whip up against our legs in stinging gusts as we walk from our bus stop in the direction of the radio and control towers, which peek over the line of trees and four-story airport hotels. Initially, we mistakenly walk past the park, which consists of a narrow, triangular strip of grass, chain-linked fenced off on the long side closest to the highway that runs parallel to both it and the airport. Walking back, I admit I feel a little disappointed. The park is 12

much smaller than what I had envisioned, what it could have been. I had imagined a lush green field busy with kite flyers, picnickers"and the occasional group of airplane hobbyists. We get our bearings, which doesn#t take long. There are six other people there $" on the grass or sitting on the park benches along the length of the northern, fenced side of the park. The litter in the park consists mostly of empty cigarette packs and juice boxes and film canisters. Aside from the three people sitting near a tree next to a parked baby stroller, the others look like local, temporary visitors on their way from somewhere nearby going somewhere nearby. One leans against a tree, motionless; I imagine he is taking a quiet break from his day. Another man stands near the fence, one hand holding the seat of his bike leaned against him, the other with his fingers entwined in the chain links of the fence. He looks like he has been standing there for a long time, and will continue to do so. The last is sprawled across the length of a park bench, the visor of his dirty cap pulled down, low over his face. """"A light shower descends upon the park. We take pictures for a while and watch a few planes leave the ground at the airport for the airspace overhead. A pattern of time forms from the intervals between the passing of each plane. It begins to rain in earnest now, but the possibility of a tornado seems unlikely. Another plane flies overhead, a small two-turbine, most likely a domestic flight. I imagine the captain speaking to his passengers above me, one thousand feet, two thousand feet! 13


!R%&(%UN*N*%&UV+!NXY% !

!!!!!!!!a photo essay by Charlotte Wayne


!R%&(%UN*N*%&UV+!NXY% !

!!!!!!!!a photo essay by Charlotte Wayne


A SKINNY LIL’ WOMAN WITH A SKINNY LIL’ DOG.

<<YOU SEEMS LIKE A HAPPY WOMEN>>


A SKINNY LIL’ WOMAN WITH A SKINNY LIL’ DOG.

<<YOU SEEMS LIKE A HAPPY WOMEN>>


N * + ' U * N ") & & & & & *.-76< by Matthew So My room is completely dark but for the two narrow vertical bars of gray morning creeping in from behind the edges of my curtains. The small volume of light passed through becomes brighter, and, pulling my

eyes away from the screen for the first time in five hours, I emerge from the previous day to the present. Having not slept, there has been no sleep to divide the two days for which I have been awake. What was today is now yesterday, and tomorrow becomes the now. Today’s

commitments force me to adapt to and accommodate this change. I step away from my chair, leaving the creased, leather imprint of hours of mindless activity and solitude. I pull on clothes, slowly. The inebriation of my sleep deprivation will follow me throughout the duration of the day.

We live in a world with twenty-four hour days, but we are not all twenty-four hour people. Surely there are those whose sleep and wake cycles constitute the sum of shorter or longer cycles. Thirty, fortyhour days. Days that span the borders of morning, day and night and result in a frame-shift relative to the established institutions of breakfast, lunch, and dinner; work, play, and sleep. During the day, time marches on in a steady, unwavering procession of events and constant reminders of time’s unforgiving certainty. Traffic lights, the workday, train schedules; even your lunch break is a measured interval. Activity and progress are measured. The distance between point A and point B and whether to make the journey relies on time. But in the long hours when the world within my time zone is asleep, as I wait for sleep to come to me but won’t, the flow of 18

time is entirely dependent on one’s activity, and time is compressed and expanded accordingly. Lost in the processes and actions that distract us our perception of time, the night, time alotted to sleep, creeps closer, then overlaps more and more into the day, time alotted for activity. Perceptions of time and experience mix, confuse each other, and are forgotten. An occasional glance at a clock is an uncomfortable jolt of awareness, the time having escaped or eluded me. Clocks disturb my oblivious reverie, eliminating the gap between the perception and reality of the hour. There is so much nothing to do, and however much time you fathom or perceive it to do it in. All the time you ever wanted to squander away doing mundane activities like sitting with bad posture, staring at uninteresting things, laying down and re-calibrating your

spine, stuffing your face, hanging up your clothes, revisiting old writing, standing in the shower for an inordinate amount of time, playing with a flashlight in the dark, blowing bubbles. The internet. The night, potentially spent in sleep, unremembered dreams, and piecedtogether firings of impossible fantasies of flying and falling, spent instead picking up books and movies read and watched time and time again, eating when you’re full but just bored and awake. No eyes to pass judgment, no expectation to maintain normal standards of behavior. Freedom to be a deviant but too lazy to indulge. We are afforded the childish refusal to quit consciousness, revisited. I truly believe that spending a lot of time by oneself doing a lot of nothing and learning to enjoy it is key to discovering many sublime, meaningful conclusions about life. The night is yours. 19


N * + ' U * N ") & & & & & *.-76< by Matthew So My room is completely dark but for the two narrow vertical bars of gray morning creeping in from behind the edges of my curtains. The small volume of light passed through becomes brighter, and, pulling my

eyes away from the screen for the first time in five hours, I emerge from the previous day to the present. Having not slept, there has been no sleep to divide the two days for which I have been awake. What was today is now yesterday, and tomorrow becomes the now. Today’s

commitments force me to adapt to and accommodate this change. I step away from my chair, leaving the creased, leather imprint of hours of mindless activity and solitude. I pull on clothes, slowly. The inebriation of my sleep deprivation will follow me throughout the duration of the day.

We live in a world with twenty-four hour days, but we are not all twenty-four hour people. Surely there are those whose sleep and wake cycles constitute the sum of shorter or longer cycles. Thirty, fortyhour days. Days that span the borders of morning, day and night and result in a frame-shift relative to the established institutions of breakfast, lunch, and dinner; work, play, and sleep. During the day, time marches on in a steady, unwavering procession of events and constant reminders of time’s unforgiving certainty. Traffic lights, the workday, train schedules; even your lunch break is a measured interval. Activity and progress are measured. The distance between point A and point B and whether to make the journey relies on time. But in the long hours when the world within my time zone is asleep, as I wait for sleep to come to me but won’t, the flow of 18

time is entirely dependent on one’s activity, and time is compressed and expanded accordingly. Lost in the processes and actions that distract us our perception of time, the night, time alotted to sleep, creeps closer, then overlaps more and more into the day, time alotted for activity. Perceptions of time and experience mix, confuse each other, and are forgotten. An occasional glance at a clock is an uncomfortable jolt of awareness, the time having escaped or eluded me. Clocks disturb my oblivious reverie, eliminating the gap between the perception and reality of the hour. There is so much nothing to do, and however much time you fathom or perceive it to do it in. All the time you ever wanted to squander away doing mundane activities like sitting with bad posture, staring at uninteresting things, laying down and re-calibrating your

spine, stuffing your face, hanging up your clothes, revisiting old writing, standing in the shower for an inordinate amount of time, playing with a flashlight in the dark, blowing bubbles. The internet. The night, potentially spent in sleep, unremembered dreams, and piecedtogether firings of impossible fantasies of flying and falling, spent instead picking up books and movies read and watched time and time again, eating when you’re full but just bored and awake. No eyes to pass judgment, no expectation to maintain normal standards of behavior. Freedom to be a deviant but too lazy to indulge. We are afforded the childish refusal to quit consciousness, revisited. I truly believe that spending a lot of time by oneself doing a lot of nothing and learning to enjoy it is key to discovering many sublime, meaningful conclusions about life. The night is yours. 19


)&$&'&+&%&&&%&+&)&"&P&%&+ by Suzanne Hatcher Sometimes summer sucks in the city. Tourists blocking sidewalks, rats, sewer smells and seemingly sentient trains that refuse to arrive all collaborate in congress to make New York the new Land of Uz; wherein, I often find myself trudging through the sideways and pouring rain, pondering the nature of the sin I must have committed that has in my mind likened me to Job. When all the buildings begin to look the same and I realize that my mind has given all the holes in the sidewalk names, it is time to leave. However, youth and poverty limit many means of escaping the New York sweaty labyrinths, and my friends and I often seek asylum in two closer havens: Roosevelt Island, off Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and City Island, one of the larger (and public) Pelham Islands claimed by the Bronx. Roosevelt Island is an easy get-away. It is the first stop out of Manhattan on the uptown F train, and even has an aerial tram over the Queensboro Bridge, accessible at 60th Street at 2nd Avenue. Unfortunately for our trip, the tram has been closed since March for a hypothesized six-month “modernization” project. So, on my latest trip to the island, we stumbled out of the depths of the F train into the bursting flora and cool river breezes that greet lucky commuting islanders daily. Exiting the train also accorded me with a spectacular view of the Queensboro Bridge and Manhattan, contrasting ever so symbolically with the greenery and bright pink flowers of my escape. After a quick stop for pretty decent Japanese at Fuji East, one of about four restaurants on the island (most of which are situated within 50 feet of the train station), we made our way to Main Street and encountered my favorite part of Roosevelt Island’s charm — DOGS. One of the hardest parts of adjusting to city life for me was the absence of canine companionship, and Roosevelt Island, being in itself basically one giant park, is the perfect place for happy city dogs. And they are everywhere; we’d not walked a minute when an Alaskan Shepherd puppy bounded up my leg. I instantly tried to kidnap him, despite the family at the other end of his leash. Our next friends were two pit bulls we met run20

ning through the fountain in the Riverwalk Playground, one of the four official parks on the island, and the only park with swings. After a political struggle with two toddlers who also wanted to enjoy the swing set’s resources, soaked and covered with dog hair, we then visited the Blackwell House that, when built in 1796, became the original namesake of the island. Deciding against the 25¢ red bus ride, we walked north on Main Street through the town center that is lined with many of the old project buildings that gave the island its twentieth century nomenclature of “Welfare Island,” only changed to Roosevelt in 1973. In the center of town is the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, built in 1888, and, as we found, not open to the public on Saturday mornings. However, we surmised that, based on postings around the church, it serves as a public meeting place for many local community groups. Roosevelt Island is essentially a small town within the metropolis of Manhattan. Posted about the island were notices for senior aerobics swimming classes, local artist displays, ping-pong nights and town council meetings. Everyone on the street seemed to know each other, and when my friend and I walked into the rundown Gristedes, the cashier knew we were not “from here.” We purchased delicious ice cream snacks and then hopped on the big red bus to the top of the island, where the Octagon residences are located. The five-story rotunda of the main building was originally designed as the entrance to the New York City Lunatic Asylum in 1834 and now services the most luxurious apartments on the island. Behind the Octagon and up to the top of the island are rolling hills and grassy meadows, filled with families picnicking and grilling out that Saturday afternoon. As we ate our ice cream under a tree looking out across the Manhattan skyline, one such family offered us their extra soy burgers off one of the many grills provided by the housing services of the island. Everyone we met on Roosevelt Island just further convinced us that the extra commute was worth re-connecting with small-town kindness and hospitality. The northern most tip of Roosevelt Island holds a 50-foot tall, Gothic-style lighthouse built in 1872 to aid boats passing through nearby Hell’s Gate. I chased a puppy around the structure as my friend received fishing lessons from a kindly old man who insisted nothing we could do would worsen the day’s catch for him. Fishing poles lined the island’s sea walls, and we spent the rest of the afternoon resting upon them, dangling our feet in the disgusting East River between fishing lines, chum and trash until we hopped onto the quarter-bus home. Roosevelt Island’s Southpoint Park is closed for construction, with the opening date unknown. This is extra-upsetting in the summer months because the tip of the island is the best place in the city to watch fireworks on Independence Day. The island council sets up rows of chairs and sells spots for $18, all of which offer a completely uninhibited view of the celebrations. Fourth of July here is a family affair, and everyone cooks out and brings picnics to spend the afternoon playing games and bonding as a community.

21


)&$&'&+&%&&&%&+&)&"&P&%&+ by Suzanne Hatcher Sometimes summer sucks in the city. Tourists blocking sidewalks, rats, sewer smells and seemingly sentient trains that refuse to arrive all collaborate in congress to make New York the new Land of Uz; wherein, I often find myself trudging through the sideways and pouring rain, pondering the nature of the sin I must have committed that has in my mind likened me to Job. When all the buildings begin to look the same and I realize that my mind has given all the holes in the sidewalk names, it is time to leave. However, youth and poverty limit many means of escaping the New York sweaty labyrinths, and my friends and I often seek asylum in two closer havens: Roosevelt Island, off Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and City Island, one of the larger (and public) Pelham Islands claimed by the Bronx. Roosevelt Island is an easy get-away. It is the first stop out of Manhattan on the uptown F train, and even has an aerial tram over the Queensboro Bridge, accessible at 60th Street at 2nd Avenue. Unfortunately for our trip, the tram has been closed since March for a hypothesized six-month “modernization” project. So, on my latest trip to the island, we stumbled out of the depths of the F train into the bursting flora and cool river breezes that greet lucky commuting islanders daily. Exiting the train also accorded me with a spectacular view of the Queensboro Bridge and Manhattan, contrasting ever so symbolically with the greenery and bright pink flowers of my escape. After a quick stop for pretty decent Japanese at Fuji East, one of about four restaurants on the island (most of which are situated within 50 feet of the train station), we made our way to Main Street and encountered my favorite part of Roosevelt Island’s charm — DOGS. One of the hardest parts of adjusting to city life for me was the absence of canine companionship, and Roosevelt Island, being in itself basically one giant park, is the perfect place for happy city dogs. And they are everywhere; we’d not walked a minute when an Alaskan Shepherd puppy bounded up my leg. I instantly tried to kidnap him, despite the family at the other end of his leash. Our next friends were two pit bulls we met run20

ning through the fountain in the Riverwalk Playground, one of the four official parks on the island, and the only park with swings. After a political struggle with two toddlers who also wanted to enjoy the swing set’s resources, soaked and covered with dog hair, we then visited the Blackwell House that, when built in 1796, became the original namesake of the island. Deciding against the 25¢ red bus ride, we walked north on Main Street through the town center that is lined with many of the old project buildings that gave the island its twentieth century nomenclature of “Welfare Island,” only changed to Roosevelt in 1973. In the center of town is the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, built in 1888, and, as we found, not open to the public on Saturday mornings. However, we surmised that, based on postings around the church, it serves as a public meeting place for many local community groups. Roosevelt Island is essentially a small town within the metropolis of Manhattan. Posted about the island were notices for senior aerobics swimming classes, local artist displays, ping-pong nights and town council meetings. Everyone on the street seemed to know each other, and when my friend and I walked into the rundown Gristedes, the cashier knew we were not “from here.” We purchased delicious ice cream snacks and then hopped on the big red bus to the top of the island, where the Octagon residences are located. The five-story rotunda of the main building was originally designed as the entrance to the New York City Lunatic Asylum in 1834 and now services the most luxurious apartments on the island. Behind the Octagon and up to the top of the island are rolling hills and grassy meadows, filled with families picnicking and grilling out that Saturday afternoon. As we ate our ice cream under a tree looking out across the Manhattan skyline, one such family offered us their extra soy burgers off one of the many grills provided by the housing services of the island. Everyone we met on Roosevelt Island just further convinced us that the extra commute was worth re-connecting with small-town kindness and hospitality. The northern most tip of Roosevelt Island holds a 50-foot tall, Gothic-style lighthouse built in 1872 to aid boats passing through nearby Hell’s Gate. I chased a puppy around the structure as my friend received fishing lessons from a kindly old man who insisted nothing we could do would worsen the day’s catch for him. Fishing poles lined the island’s sea walls, and we spent the rest of the afternoon resting upon them, dangling our feet in the disgusting East River between fishing lines, chum and trash until we hopped onto the quarter-bus home. Roosevelt Island’s Southpoint Park is closed for construction, with the opening date unknown. This is extra-upsetting in the summer months because the tip of the island is the best place in the city to watch fireworks on Independence Day. The island council sets up rows of chairs and sells spots for $18, all of which offer a completely uninhibited view of the celebrations. Fourth of July here is a family affair, and everyone cooks out and brings picnics to spend the afternoon playing games and bonding as a community.

21


Making the trip to City Island takes a bit more effort than just hopping on the F Train. We rode the 6 all the way to the top of the map, exiting the train at the Pelham Bay Park station. From there, the Bx29 bus took us through the preserves and bogs of the upper Bronx onto City Island and stopped just about every other block for passengers to disembark. The island is just about an hour and a quarter from downtown Manhattan, and one of my favorite getaways. After some friendly chatting with locals on the bus (which served as the means to finding the perfect luncheon destination), we immediately headed to find the Pell Mansion, one of the island’s main landmarks and the filming location of my favorite movie of all time, “Arsenic and Old Lace.” Filmed in the 1940s starring Cary Grant and Priscilla Lane, the movie is entirely set at the Samuel Pell Mansion at 586 City Island Avenue, which was built in 1876 by one of the leading oystermen on the island. The house supposedly is operated during the summers as an inn; however, as we walked around the grounds, it looked like it had been deserted and no one was coming back. From the Pell house, we walked down the beach for about a mile, admiring the scattered Victorian mansions from the past century and noting the blatant differences between the private and public access areas. While bright green parrots abounded throughout the various spaces, the public beaches were drowning in glass, newspapers, food wrappers, and broken boats and pieces of wood were everywhere. The whole walk was hurried because we didn’t want to get caught on the private beaches — and didn’t want to be on the public ones. Eventually, we reached the Pelham Cemetery, the only waterside cemetery in the five boroughs. Yachts and boats passed by us as we played a game to find the oldest grave, finding that the dates on the stones spanned from the turn of the twentieth century to modern day, with one of the plots being as recently dug as the day before our trip. A twenty-year old boy’s picture lay on the ground in front of the stone, and on the raised earth, his friends and family had laid tokens and notes and flowers. Apparently, he was a skateboarder. Determined to lift our spirits with food, we followed the local’s instructions that we had received on the bus ride over and went to the Crab Shanty, a small seafood restaurant on the water on the north side of the island. While for lunch it was a little high for our student budgets, everything we had was delicious. City Island is known for its seafood, as the sea has always been the island’s lifeblood, and it has been providing the mainland with seafood, shipyards and City Island Nautical Museum: Open Saturdays and Sundays from 1 to 5 p.m. at 190 Fordham Street. Located in an old public school building, admission is free, and the collection is vast, documenting over a century of life on the fishing island. “City Island,” starring Andy Garcia, Alan Arkin and Julianna Margulies, won the Audience Award at the 2009 Tribeca Film Festival. It was released in March 2010.

22

coastal protection since its annexation into New York City in 1895. The restaurant was loud. All the tables were packed, and it seemed like everyone else there was shouting to each other across the entire restaurant. People were switching tables and eating off each other’s plates; however, the waiters assured us that it was a normal Saturday afternoon on City Island. While half the town was at the Crab Shanty, the rest were in booths lining City Island Avenue, selling their handcrafts, services and old stuff in a giant street fair that carried on down the entire island. Handmade jewelry was everywhere, and often the booth’s

proprietors would offer individualized pieces. Scattered through tables of jewelry and creams and dresses, we found antiques, musicians, face painting and plenty of ice cream to keep us cool and happy on the warm summer day. Two of us paid for flowers to be painted on our cheeks, while our other friend photographed the entire festival — bright green parrots and all. Yet the afternoon was waning and clouds were rolling in, so after a few more glances through the locals’ wares, we boarded the bus home, passing the sailors as they brought their boats in to weather the storm.

23


Making the trip to City Island takes a bit more effort than just hopping on the F Train. We rode the 6 all the way to the top of the map, exiting the train at the Pelham Bay Park station. From there, the Bx29 bus took us through the preserves and bogs of the upper Bronx onto City Island and stopped just about every other block for passengers to disembark. The island is just about an hour and a quarter from downtown Manhattan, and one of my favorite getaways. After some friendly chatting with locals on the bus (which served as the means to finding the perfect luncheon destination), we immediately headed to find the Pell Mansion, one of the island’s main landmarks and the filming location of my favorite movie of all time, “Arsenic and Old Lace.” Filmed in the 1940s starring Cary Grant and Priscilla Lane, the movie is entirely set at the Samuel Pell Mansion at 586 City Island Avenue, which was built in 1876 by one of the leading oystermen on the island. The house supposedly is operated during the summers as an inn; however, as we walked around the grounds, it looked like it had been deserted and no one was coming back. From the Pell house, we walked down the beach for about a mile, admiring the scattered Victorian mansions from the past century and noting the blatant differences between the private and public access areas. While bright green parrots abounded throughout the various spaces, the public beaches were drowning in glass, newspapers, food wrappers, and broken boats and pieces of wood were everywhere. The whole walk was hurried because we didn’t want to get caught on the private beaches — and didn’t want to be on the public ones. Eventually, we reached the Pelham Cemetery, the only waterside cemetery in the five boroughs. Yachts and boats passed by us as we played a game to find the oldest grave, finding that the dates on the stones spanned from the turn of the twentieth century to modern day, with one of the plots being as recently dug as the day before our trip. A twenty-year old boy’s picture lay on the ground in front of the stone, and on the raised earth, his friends and family had laid tokens and notes and flowers. Apparently, he was a skateboarder. Determined to lift our spirits with food, we followed the local’s instructions that we had received on the bus ride over and went to the Crab Shanty, a small seafood restaurant on the water on the north side of the island. While for lunch it was a little high for our student budgets, everything we had was delicious. City Island is known for its seafood, as the sea has always been the island’s lifeblood, and it has been providing the mainland with seafood, shipyards and City Island Nautical Museum: Open Saturdays and Sundays from 1 to 5 p.m. at 190 Fordham Street. Located in an old public school building, admission is free, and the collection is vast, documenting over a century of life on the fishing island. “City Island,” starring Andy Garcia, Alan Arkin and Julianna Margulies, won the Audience Award at the 2009 Tribeca Film Festival. It was released in March 2010.

22

coastal protection since its annexation into New York City in 1895. The restaurant was loud. All the tables were packed, and it seemed like everyone else there was shouting to each other across the entire restaurant. People were switching tables and eating off each other’s plates; however, the waiters assured us that it was a normal Saturday afternoon on City Island. While half the town was at the Crab Shanty, the rest were in booths lining City Island Avenue, selling their handcrafts, services and old stuff in a giant street fair that carried on down the entire island. Handmade jewelry was everywhere, and often the booth’s

proprietors would offer individualized pieces. Scattered through tables of jewelry and creams and dresses, we found antiques, musicians, face painting and plenty of ice cream to keep us cool and happy on the warm summer day. Two of us paid for flowers to be painted on our cheeks, while our other friend photographed the entire festival — bright green parrots and all. Yet the afternoon was waning and clouds were rolling in, so after a few more glances through the locals’ wares, we boarded the bus home, passing the sailors as they brought their boats in to weather the storm.

23


"&Z7?-627.<&'.,7, 7<&#266;0F< by Charlotte Bounous

I have a confession: I anxiously anticipate the arrival of the new issue of House Beautiful each month. Once it arrives, I love to get lost in its pages. Stephen Drucker, editor-in-chief since 2005, continues to captivate me with his editor’s letter time and time again. His adoration of interior design shines through in every sentence — every word. Something about his decorating wisdom, the tactility of the pages and the beauty of the decor featured in the spreads drives me to read it cover to cover and has me dreaming of tufted, velvet settees and longing for that new glistening blue Horchow lamp. In short, great decorating simply lures. So, given my passion for decorating, touring Victorian homes in Flatbush, Brooklyn, was like cutting into a wedding cake. Venturing into the homes of others and seeing how they decorate — and live — is fun for me, especially in an area so rich in history. Developed over a century ago, Flatbush — merely minutes from Manhattan and right in the heart of Brooklyn — was designed to mimic suburban living. While the beautiful neighborhood has, depressingly enough, been beset with crime in recent decades (including being consumed by a rampant drug epidemic in the 1980s and 90s and plagued by shootouts and street gangs), Victorian Flatbush nurtures a warm, inviting atmosphere today. The house tour was scheduled for a summer Sunday in June. Ten homeowners were gracious enough to open their stunning homes to the public. (Although, during the tour, I overheard a homeowner mention to a tourist that Victorian Flatbush homeowners were notably reluctant to participate this year and that the community barely managed to corral ten homes for the event.) Being that I had only ventured over to Brooklyn three times previously, with one trip presenting itself accidentally when I neglected to transfer from the N to the R/W at Canal Street, I awoke that Sunday bursting with excitement to board the Q train and stroll the sidewalks of a neighborhood that I had yet to explore. 24

As I exited the subway station in Brooklyn, I was immediately captivated — and rather mesmerized — by the lushness of the neighborhood. While a few homes here and there appeared to be condemned, the perserved homes were immaculate — and enormous by New York City standards. Yards were meticulously manicured, flowers were abloom, and the grass was a brilliant green and felt luscious to the touch. German cars filled driveways. Children frolicked in streets. To my bewilderment, I felt as if I had stepped out of an urban Northern city and into a quaint Southern town; Victorian Flatbush was an oasis amid an asphalt jungle, and it emitted such allure. I had always considered myself a Manhattan girl, but in mere moments, I was daydreaming about a life in one of the charming historic homes; their grandeur was intoxicating. How could this place be entangled in crime?

Facing Page: Pamela Lawton’s beautiful, three-story historic home is located in Ditmas Park, a neighborhood in western Flatbush, Brooklyn; Ditmas Park is an officially designated historic district.

25


"&Z7?-627.<&'.,7, 7<&#266;0F< by Charlotte Bounous

I have a confession: I anxiously anticipate the arrival of the new issue of House Beautiful each month. Once it arrives, I love to get lost in its pages. Stephen Drucker, editor-in-chief since 2005, continues to captivate me with his editor’s letter time and time again. His adoration of interior design shines through in every sentence — every word. Something about his decorating wisdom, the tactility of the pages and the beauty of the decor featured in the spreads drives me to read it cover to cover and has me dreaming of tufted, velvet settees and longing for that new glistening blue Horchow lamp. In short, great decorating simply lures. So, given my passion for decorating, touring Victorian homes in Flatbush, Brooklyn, was like cutting into a wedding cake. Venturing into the homes of others and seeing how they decorate — and live — is fun for me, especially in an area so rich in history. Developed over a century ago, Flatbush — merely minutes from Manhattan and right in the heart of Brooklyn — was designed to mimic suburban living. While the beautiful neighborhood has, depressingly enough, been beset with crime in recent decades (including being consumed by a rampant drug epidemic in the 1980s and 90s and plagued by shootouts and street gangs), Victorian Flatbush nurtures a warm, inviting atmosphere today. The house tour was scheduled for a summer Sunday in June. Ten homeowners were gracious enough to open their stunning homes to the public. (Although, during the tour, I overheard a homeowner mention to a tourist that Victorian Flatbush homeowners were notably reluctant to participate this year and that the community barely managed to corral ten homes for the event.) Being that I had only ventured over to Brooklyn three times previously, with one trip presenting itself accidentally when I neglected to transfer from the N to the R/W at Canal Street, I awoke that Sunday bursting with excitement to board the Q train and stroll the sidewalks of a neighborhood that I had yet to explore. 24

As I exited the subway station in Brooklyn, I was immediately captivated — and rather mesmerized — by the lushness of the neighborhood. While a few homes here and there appeared to be condemned, the perserved homes were immaculate — and enormous by New York City standards. Yards were meticulously manicured, flowers were abloom, and the grass was a brilliant green and felt luscious to the touch. German cars filled driveways. Children frolicked in streets. To my bewilderment, I felt as if I had stepped out of an urban Northern city and into a quaint Southern town; Victorian Flatbush was an oasis amid an asphalt jungle, and it emitted such allure. I had always considered myself a Manhattan girl, but in mere moments, I was daydreaming about a life in one of the charming historic homes; their grandeur was intoxicating. How could this place be entangled in crime?

Facing Page: Pamela Lawton’s beautiful, three-story historic home is located in Ditmas Park, a neighborhood in western Flatbush, Brooklyn; Ditmas Park is an officially designated historic district.

25


Cindy Harden and Donald Bussolini’s beautiful home with the expansive front porch was my last stop of the day. Harden grew up in middle Georgia, where front porches abound, and she had always longed for her own someday; she procured this dream — even in New York City. While their deep red dining room, grandiose doorways, and Donald’s humorous decoy collection are all deeply rooted in my mind, I found it most interesting that their family room had no sofa but rather four comfortable lounge chairs snugly surrounding a maple coffee table, especially after reading a piece in House Beautiful’s May issue, addressing our nation’s sofa-obsession and noting that sofas are not always necessary when it comes to great interior design. While the homes were certainly memorable, the tourists — and their audacity — proved to be even more so. (To set up the anecdotes to come, I should note that all homeowners were home during the tour, answering questions about their homes and happily socializing with tourists.) In Marion Lipton’s home, visitors traipsed in with sopping shoes and clothing and then took the liberty of sitting down in her living room and other parlors to relax. While seated, they chatted, texted on their

26

Raindrops soon began to fall outside, and I feared for the homeowners. The tour noted rain or shine, though, so I trudged along Beverly Road. Having read online that each home was “lovingly preserved and restored,” the thought of filthy, wet shoes trampling through gorgeous historic homes terrified me. I thought to myself, “These homeowners must not be as Type A as I am.” The interiors of the ten homes were lovely. And because the rain seemed to have dissuaded tourgoers, I allowed myself to amble and truly soak up my surroundings. Three homes, in particular, still linger with me now: the first residence I toured, a widow’s majestic white home with a grand piano in the living room; an African American woman’s three-story beige abode, bursting at the seams with amazing African art; and my last stop, a family of three’s home with a lofty wraparound porch and perfectly placed porch swing. It’s intriguing which memories and little details remain with you after the fact. In Marion Liptons’s grandiose white home, I, of course, recall the grand piano in the downstairs living room. But even more memorable is her spacious, tastefully decorated pale pink bedroom upstairs that I simply adored, and if I close my eyes, can envision now. On her bedside table, placed beneath a lamp, her daughter’s wedding and granddaughter’s birth announcements were sitting in gold-leafed wood frames, illustrating how meaningful family is to her. And in a sitting room upstairs, she had the famous (and my favorite!) New

Yorker cover New Yorkistan from December 10, 2001, framed and ornamenting a wall. Back downstairs, vintage Lipton coffee and tea canisters sat atop a glass and mahogany bookcase, showcasing her surname, which I felt commemorated her late husband, Henry. Her drapery throughout the house needed a little sprucing, as it was threadbare, but I can only assume this imperfection went unnoticed, for most are not little Miss Anal McPerfectionists like I am, nor do the majority obsess over silk drapes like I do, especially not most men. With all the marvelous African works of art adorning the walls, Pamela Lawton’s house felt rich in culture, history and the arts. I found the story of her restoration moving. When she first moved into the home with her daughter nearly a decade ago, the house was in abhorrent condition with significant water damage. Pamela and her daughter resided on the only inhabitable floor, the third, for well over a year while they refurbished the floors below. A truly wonderful hostess, Pamela had her daughter and other schoolchildren from the local community playing the piano and flutes as tourists explored her home, further displaying her family’s love of the arts, while their poor, anxietyridden poodle was tucked away in a crate in the home office. Poor little guy; I wanted to adopt him. Most memorable for me, though: In a home so steeped in African culture, her daughter idolized Audrey Hepburn and opted to garnish her bedroom’s closet door with the glamorous celebrity’s classic, pearl-filled portrait.

phones and emailed on their BlackBerrys. At Pamela Lawton’s house, a tourgoer, dressed in what appeared to be a colonial Chinese costume, had the pluck to pose on a windowseat while her husband snapped dozens upon dozens of photos of her; a docent was not pleased by this behavior and insisted that the couple have the homeowener approve each and every photo. And to top it all off, at the Harden-Bussolini residence, out on the front porch, a mother lifted her shirt, unhooked her bra and nursed her walking, talking fifteen-month-old in front of all us. At that point, my boyfriend said, “We’re out of here!”

Facing Page: A portrait of Audrey Hepburn hangs on the closet door of Pamela Lawton’s daughter. Below: The Harden-Bussolini home with its majestic wraparound porch resides in Ditmus Park, Flatbush.


Cindy Harden and Donald Bussolini’s beautiful home with the expansive front porch was my last stop of the day. Harden grew up in middle Georgia, where front porches abound, and she had always longed for her own someday; she procured this dream — even in New York City. While their deep red dining room, grandiose doorways, and Donald’s humorous decoy collection are all deeply rooted in my mind, I found it most interesting that their family room had no sofa but rather four comfortable lounge chairs snugly surrounding a maple coffee table, especially after reading a piece in House Beautiful’s May issue, addressing our nation’s sofa-obsession and noting that sofas are not always necessary when it comes to great interior design. While the homes were certainly memorable, the tourists — and their audacity — proved to be even more so. (To set up the anecdotes to come, I should note that all homeowners were home during the tour, answering questions about their homes and happily socializing with tourists.) In Marion Lipton’s home, visitors traipsed in with sopping shoes and clothing and then took the liberty of sitting down in her living room and other parlors to relax. While seated, they chatted, texted on their

26

Raindrops soon began to fall outside, and I feared for the homeowners. The tour noted rain or shine, though, so I trudged along Beverly Road. Having read online that each home was “lovingly preserved and restored,” the thought of filthy, wet shoes trampling through gorgeous historic homes terrified me. I thought to myself, “These homeowners must not be as Type A as I am.” The interiors of the ten homes were lovely. And because the rain seemed to have dissuaded tourgoers, I allowed myself to amble and truly soak up my surroundings. Three homes, in particular, still linger with me now: the first residence I toured, a widow’s majestic white home with a grand piano in the living room; an African American woman’s three-story beige abode, bursting at the seams with amazing African art; and my last stop, a family of three’s home with a lofty wraparound porch and perfectly placed porch swing. It’s intriguing which memories and little details remain with you after the fact. In Marion Liptons’s grandiose white home, I, of course, recall the grand piano in the downstairs living room. But even more memorable is her spacious, tastefully decorated pale pink bedroom upstairs that I simply adored, and if I close my eyes, can envision now. On her bedside table, placed beneath a lamp, her daughter’s wedding and granddaughter’s birth announcements were sitting in gold-leafed wood frames, illustrating how meaningful family is to her. And in a sitting room upstairs, she had the famous (and my favorite!) New

Yorker cover New Yorkistan from December 10, 2001, framed and ornamenting a wall. Back downstairs, vintage Lipton coffee and tea canisters sat atop a glass and mahogany bookcase, showcasing her surname, which I felt commemorated her late husband, Henry. Her drapery throughout the house needed a little sprucing, as it was threadbare, but I can only assume this imperfection went unnoticed, for most are not little Miss Anal McPerfectionists like I am, nor do the majority obsess over silk drapes like I do, especially not most men. With all the marvelous African works of art adorning the walls, Pamela Lawton’s house felt rich in culture, history and the arts. I found the story of her restoration moving. When she first moved into the home with her daughter nearly a decade ago, the house was in abhorrent condition with significant water damage. Pamela and her daughter resided on the only inhabitable floor, the third, for well over a year while they refurbished the floors below. A truly wonderful hostess, Pamela had her daughter and other schoolchildren from the local community playing the piano and flutes as tourists explored her home, further displaying her family’s love of the arts, while their poor, anxietyridden poodle was tucked away in a crate in the home office. Poor little guy; I wanted to adopt him. Most memorable for me, though: In a home so steeped in African culture, her daughter idolized Audrey Hepburn and opted to garnish her bedroom’s closet door with the glamorous celebrity’s classic, pearl-filled portrait.

phones and emailed on their BlackBerrys. At Pamela Lawton’s house, a tourgoer, dressed in what appeared to be a colonial Chinese costume, had the pluck to pose on a windowseat while her husband snapped dozens upon dozens of photos of her; a docent was not pleased by this behavior and insisted that the couple have the homeowener approve each and every photo. And to top it all off, at the Harden-Bussolini residence, out on the front porch, a mother lifted her shirt, unhooked her bra and nursed her walking, talking fifteen-month-old in front of all us. At that point, my boyfriend said, “We’re out of here!”

Facing Page: A portrait of Audrey Hepburn hangs on the closet door of Pamela Lawton’s daughter. Below: The Harden-Bussolini home with its majestic wraparound porch resides in Ditmus Park, Flatbush.


B.8.<&7<& A266;0F< by Matt Feniger During his several trips to Asia as a curator for a private art gallery, Stephen Szczepanek developed a passion for antique Japanese folk textiles. He then quit his job and decided to run a gallery out of his Brooklyn loft. Sri Textile gallery focuses on boro-patched or mended Japanese textiles. Opening in 2001, Sri textile gallery has been operating ever since. The first thing one sees when walking into Stephen’s loft is a tableful of artifacts ranging from Wistoria vine yarn and fabric swatches to handmade Japanese bowls and other trinkets. To the immediate right of the table is the kitchen; his oven mittens made out of vintage Japanese fabric rest on the counter. “I love living with all of these pieces,” Stephen explains. “This is my passion. I learn more about it by being around the textiles all the time.” The apartment walls are

adorned with hanging kimonos, patchwork blankets, eyecatching fabrics and numerous books. It’s hard to step somewhere without noticing a new piece. I touch a kimono to feel the texture; it’s rough. “It’s partly made from tree bark,” Stephen says. “The women would venture fifteen times into the forest to strip a tree of bark and use it to make fiber for a garment.” Stephen rushes to the bookshelf. “All clothing was worn by real people during hard times — farmers, fisherman, people without money,” he shouts from across the room. “I’m not sure if you know this, but life in Japan was difficult before the 60s. They recycled so much,” says Stephen. All the items in his apartment are antique, ranging from the mid-19th to mid20th century. Everything is also “recycled,” meaning reusing and repurposing existing fabrics. Stephen ushers me over to the kitchen table and opens a book. “This is a picture of women making thread from Wistoria vines. They also used paper,” says Stephen excitedly, as he goes to retrieve something. He hands me what he says is paper yarn and tells me to look at it closely. I can actually see little Japanese letters in the thick thread.

I wander around the gallery, looking at all the different patterns and fabrics. Most of the pieces are for sale. I ask Stephen who visits his gallery. He says that everyone from people who like textiles; to those who like Japan; to those who like fashion, including people who work for Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein; to those who collect for museums and institutions. “Because of the website and blog, all types of people call from all over the world,” Stephen adds. As our visit ends, Stephen hands me a small swatch of fabric. The thread lines are inconsistent and scattered, but it makes the textile more interesting since the women did it all by hand — counting threads. I walk toward the door and trip over a chair stacked with fabric. Stephen laughs, “I know, there is stuff everywhere. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Note: All one must do to visit is make an appointment. Stephen also updates his blog with inventory and inspiration. Visit his website, srithreads.com, and blog, threads.srithreads.com. 28

29


B.8.<&7<& A266;0F< by Matt Feniger During his several trips to Asia as a curator for a private art gallery, Stephen Szczepanek developed a passion for antique Japanese folk textiles. He then quit his job and decided to run a gallery out of his Brooklyn loft. Sri Textile gallery focuses on boro-patched or mended Japanese textiles. Opening in 2001, Sri textile gallery has been operating ever since. The first thing one sees when walking into Stephen’s loft is a tableful of artifacts ranging from Wistoria vine yarn and fabric swatches to handmade Japanese bowls and other trinkets. To the immediate right of the table is the kitchen; his oven mittens made out of vintage Japanese fabric rest on the counter. “I love living with all of these pieces,” Stephen explains. “This is my passion. I learn more about it by being around the textiles all the time.” The apartment walls are

adorned with hanging kimonos, patchwork blankets, eyecatching fabrics and numerous books. It’s hard to step somewhere without noticing a new piece. I touch a kimono to feel the texture; it’s rough. “It’s partly made from tree bark,” Stephen says. “The women would venture fifteen times into the forest to strip a tree of bark and use it to make fiber for a garment.” Stephen rushes to the bookshelf. “All clothing was worn by real people during hard times — farmers, fisherman, people without money,” he shouts from across the room. “I’m not sure if you know this, but life in Japan was difficult before the 60s. They recycled so much,” says Stephen. All the items in his apartment are antique, ranging from the mid-19th to mid20th century. Everything is also “recycled,” meaning reusing and repurposing existing fabrics. Stephen ushers me over to the kitchen table and opens a book. “This is a picture of women making thread from Wistoria vines. They also used paper,” says Stephen excitedly, as he goes to retrieve something. He hands me what he says is paper yarn and tells me to look at it closely. I can actually see little Japanese letters in the thick thread.

I wander around the gallery, looking at all the different patterns and fabrics. Most of the pieces are for sale. I ask Stephen who visits his gallery. He says that everyone from people who like textiles; to those who like Japan; to those who like fashion, including people who work for Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein; to those who collect for museums and institutions. “Because of the website and blog, all types of people call from all over the world,” Stephen adds. As our visit ends, Stephen hands me a small swatch of fabric. The thread lines are inconsistent and scattered, but it makes the textile more interesting since the women did it all by hand — counting threads. I walk toward the door and trip over a chair stacked with fabric. Stephen laughs, “I know, there is stuff everywhere. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Note: All one must do to visit is make an appointment. Stephen also updates his blog with inventory and inspiration. Visit his website, srithreads.com, and blog, threads.srithreads.com. 28

29


%,?.81&/26>&*1C&V62; New York is a melting pot of people vying to escape some aspect of their lives... New Yorkers escape crowds by discovering the city’s hidden nooks or hunkering down inside their apartments with take-away food. They escape loneliness by venturing to places like Times Square. They escape the concrete jungle by flocking to Central Park. They escape modernism by admiring classical architecture. The dejected escape to Coney Island in hope of recapturing a glimpse of their childhood. Sinners escape to churches like St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Trinity on Sundays to repent. The men and women of Wall Street escape to happy hours to drink away their daily stresses. And the luckiest among them escape the city’s extremes of swelter and frigidity by fleeing to the Hamptons and Florida. So, what happens in New York when you are trapped? Read on to catch the stories of two of our editors who found themselves physically trapped in two of the boroughs of New York City — when they both had flights to catch.

Courtyard Consternation by Suzanne Hatcher I didn’t know what a panic attack was until I had been locked in that courtyard for half an hour. We all use that term —“panic attack” — so freely and, before that day, I considered attacks to exist only in brief encounters with anxiety. But as I watched the minutes pass by on my cell phone that continued to rest silently in my hand, I really thought my world was over. I had flown into the city the night before from North Carolina to break up my journey to Ghana. My residence that night was my friend’s Williamsburg apartment, 30

which was really a small house behind an apartment building connected to the street (and main building) by a small courtyard, filled with dead plants and my now-rising despair. Having left her keys inside, the locked courtyard door was not an obstacle I had foreseen, as there was no key for that particular lock on my borrowed pink, flouncy keychain. Unable to go back and unable to move forward, I dialed, with the intensity of a radio contest caller, all the numbers in my phone, hoping anyone I knew would love me enough to journey down the L

line and release me from my sunny prison. Time ticked on. I called the car service, which was luckily just down the block, to tell them I would be late. They wouldn’t come let me out of the courtyard. Two old men sitting in the parking lot on the other side of the ten-foot fence wouldn’t let me out of the courtyard either; I’m sure it would have spoiled their cigarettes and silence. I yelled, tossed stones at windows and called my mom sobbing every two minutes as I sawmy bright future as a freelance reporter flee through the holes of the barbed-wire fence. I called my friends, my friends’ parents, friends of friends whom I’d never really met, and I eventually reached my host’s father as he was doing rounds at the hospital.

He gave me the number of his daughter’s therapist, and I interrupted her session, screaming and crying that I was already going to be forty-five minutes late to meet my group at JFK. My friend then called the real estate agent whose office was in the downstairs of the main building, and I was freed. Luckily, it took the car service only twenty-five minutes to pick me up from twenty yards away, and I made my flight.

Apartment Anxiety by Charlotte Bounous Back in November, I attended an event at the Paley Center for Media in Midtown. With a cocktail in my hand, I was engaged in conversation with a journalist at Bloomberg News. When I learned he was from the Midwest, I heard myself unabashedly admit that I never intend to live there. Anticipating the humiliation, I went on to explain with a colossal grin, “I have a fear of being landlocked.” Note: I blame my mother; she, too, possesses this absurd fear. He guffawed and inquired; he had never heard of such a fear. As the evening wore on, another acquaintance at the event interrupted us to say goodnight before making her trip home to Harlem. As she walked away, I commented, “Oh my, I could never live there either.” He laughed again and probed me. I elaborated, “Subway stations are few and far between in Harlem, and cabs are scarce, especially past midnight. I mean, there’s simply no exit strategy up that way. What’s a girl to do?” Another guffaw abounded. He then gazed directly at me and declared rather profoundly with a smirk, “Dare I say, you may have a fear of being trapped in life.” Do I?

Yes, it is true, I have regrets and skeletons hiding in my closet just like the next Tom and Sue. I have run from burdensome circumstances before and abandoned dreams far too quickly, but my collection of experiences, as tainted as some may be, steered me to the place where I am now, and I feel content. I am finally pursuing my passions. So, psychologically speaking, do I feel in trapped in life? I prefer to think not. However, being physically trapped someplace, such as the Midwest for a decade or Harlem at midnight or within the confines of my very own apartment, is enough to make me overwhelmed with anxiety to the magnitude that hives will dramatically flare up all over my body. Months before, it was Friday, June 12: the day before my brother’s high school graduation. I had rushed home from my internship at Shape Magazine to collect my luggage and hop in a taxi en route to LaGuardia. My disposition was merry; I was all packed and organized, the sun was shining, and I would soon be North Carolinabound to see my brother in his cap and gown as well as the rest of my family. But things went awry. Frantically, and in between sobs, “Mom, I don’t think I’m going to make my flight home tonight, and it’s the last flight out this evening. All later flights have been canceled due to approaching thunderstorms. I’m screwed.” From my end of the line, I can tell she is slightly miffed, “What do you mean you’re not going to make your flight?” Rather perplexed myself, “Well, believe it or not, but I’m locked inside my apartment.” My mom is even more perplexed, “You jest?! How does one get locked inside her own apartment?” “If only I knew, then I may actually be able to free myself. I’ve valiantly battled the doorknob for fifteen minutes. If I weighed more than ninety-three pounds, I may have been successful at tearing it directly off the door.” An option: the fire escape. After tossing around the idea of climbing down it to freedom — and a LaGuardia-bound cab, my mom finally vetoes it. “Safety first,” she laughs. Being a physician, of course she

would say something of that nature. At this point, the scenario is more comical than anything, and my adrenaline now has me giggling rather than pacing. We hang up so that I may forge ahead with my rescue mission. Next step: Contact my roommates. I first text my roommate Alex. Maybe she can rescue me. It is now 5:48 p.m., and she is entrenched in meetings. Strike one. However, she divulges that our other roommate Missy has also had the pleasure of being trapped in our apartment before. Time to prod Missy for details — and help! I reach Missy. Unfortunately for me, she has slipped out of work early for the day and is already sitting pretty on a train home to Connecticut for the weekend. Strike two. Before hanging up, though, she does brief me on our fickle doorknob. Had no one cared to do so before? I come to learn that the automatic locking mechanism on our door is dysfunctional, as it was improperly installed by our landlord, Brian. The knob broke prior to my arrival in the apartment, and Brian took the liberty of replacing it himself — backwards. The automatic locking mechanism when flipped into the locked position locks the door from the inside rather than the outside, rendering the tenant trapped inside; our cleaning lady, Monica, apparently has an infinity to flip this mechanism when leaving after a day’s work, and she had been here this morning. So, I arrived home, allowed the door to shut behind me and, in return, imprisoned myself on Cedar Street. Mystery solved. But I remain trapped inside. Fortunately, Missy goes on to mention that if I phone our building superintendent, Adam, I can slide my key beneath the door to him, and he can unlock it from the outside, freeing me. During all of this sleuthing, my mom phones to get a status update on the apartment-imprisonment. I swap over to speak with her briefly, and she says that my brother has slumped into a bit of a depression. “He apparently accredits you for his noteworthy class rank and GPA, admission to a good college and the sheer fact that he is graduating. He says you are the only one whom he cares is present tomorrow. Ha,

guess he doesn’t care about your father and me.” And with those words, I am frenzied again. I cannot not let my one and only brother — one and only sibling — down. Dreading ringing Adam, I think to myself, “They say the third time’s a charm.” I scroll through my iPhone contacts and press send. With his remarkably thick Ukrainian accent, I ponder whether I will actually be able to communicate my sense of urgency to him or, for that matter, decipher a thing he says. After a quick phone call riddled with awkward silences, I hope I have effectively communicated my need to be rescued, so I pace and wait for his arrival. Fifteen minutes drift by and nothing. It is now 6:10 p.m., rush hour still ensues outside, and my flight is scheduled to depart at 7:30 p.m. With no time to squander, I phone Adam again, “Adam, where are you? I’m trapped inside my apartment, and I need you to come unlock my door now, now, now!” A reply in broken English, “Oh, I sought you ver only kidding wif me. I be right down.” At this point, I am on the verge of suffering a mental breakdown or wringing someone’s neck, but I manage to keep my sanity intact. The last thing I want is to be alluded to in a textbook someday. Minutes later, Adam arrives and, with the turn of one key, rescues me from my imprisonment just like the prince rescued Rapuzel. Unfortunately, Adam is not a strapping young man. And even if he were, I doubt my boyfriend would approve. As the door opens, I feel my heart leap and my legs propel me forward; I shout, “Thank you, Adam,” as I vanish into the elevator. I still have one prodigious obstacle ahead of me: catching my flight. “Thank you for choosing Delta. Our flight time this evening is one hour and fifteen minutes. Sit back, relax and feel free to now roam about the cabin.” I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I was no longer trapped — except on an airplane for the next hour and a half. Needless to say, I was there to witness the smile on my brother’s face and snap photos as he received his diploma — along with my mom and dad even though he was indifferent to their presence. 31


%,?.81&/26>&*1C&V62; New York is a melting pot of people vying to escape some aspect of their lives... New Yorkers escape crowds by discovering the city’s hidden nooks or hunkering down inside their apartments with take-away food. They escape loneliness by venturing to places like Times Square. They escape the concrete jungle by flocking to Central Park. They escape modernism by admiring classical architecture. The dejected escape to Coney Island in hope of recapturing a glimpse of their childhood. Sinners escape to churches like St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Trinity on Sundays to repent. The men and women of Wall Street escape to happy hours to drink away their daily stresses. And the luckiest among them escape the city’s extremes of swelter and frigidity by fleeing to the Hamptons and Florida. So, what happens in New York when you are trapped? Read on to catch the stories of two of our editors who found themselves physically trapped in two of the boroughs of New York City — when they both had flights to catch.

Courtyard Consternation by Suzanne Hatcher I didn’t know what a panic attack was until I had been locked in that courtyard for half an hour. We all use that term —“panic attack” — so freely and, before that day, I considered attacks to exist only in brief encounters with anxiety. But as I watched the minutes pass by on my cell phone that continued to rest silently in my hand, I really thought my world was over. I had flown into the city the night before from North Carolina to break up my journey to Ghana. My residence that night was my friend’s Williamsburg apartment, 30

which was really a small house behind an apartment building connected to the street (and main building) by a small courtyard, filled with dead plants and my now-rising despair. Having left her keys inside, the locked courtyard door was not an obstacle I had foreseen, as there was no key for that particular lock on my borrowed pink, flouncy keychain. Unable to go back and unable to move forward, I dialed, with the intensity of a radio contest caller, all the numbers in my phone, hoping anyone I knew would love me enough to journey down the L

line and release me from my sunny prison. Time ticked on. I called the car service, which was luckily just down the block, to tell them I would be late. They wouldn’t come let me out of the courtyard. Two old men sitting in the parking lot on the other side of the ten-foot fence wouldn’t let me out of the courtyard either; I’m sure it would have spoiled their cigarettes and silence. I yelled, tossed stones at windows and called my mom sobbing every two minutes as I sawmy bright future as a freelance reporter flee through the holes of the barbed-wire fence. I called my friends, my friends’ parents, friends of friends whom I’d never really met, and I eventually reached my host’s father as he was doing rounds at the hospital.

He gave me the number of his daughter’s therapist, and I interrupted her session, screaming and crying that I was already going to be forty-five minutes late to meet my group at JFK. My friend then called the real estate agent whose office was in the downstairs of the main building, and I was freed. Luckily, it took the car service only twenty-five minutes to pick me up from twenty yards away, and I made my flight.

Apartment Anxiety by Charlotte Bounous Back in November, I attended an event at the Paley Center for Media in Midtown. With a cocktail in my hand, I was engaged in conversation with a journalist at Bloomberg News. When I learned he was from the Midwest, I heard myself unabashedly admit that I never intend to live there. Anticipating the humiliation, I went on to explain with a colossal grin, “I have a fear of being landlocked.” Note: I blame my mother; she, too, possesses this absurd fear. He guffawed and inquired; he had never heard of such a fear. As the evening wore on, another acquaintance at the event interrupted us to say goodnight before making her trip home to Harlem. As she walked away, I commented, “Oh my, I could never live there either.” He laughed again and probed me. I elaborated, “Subway stations are few and far between in Harlem, and cabs are scarce, especially past midnight. I mean, there’s simply no exit strategy up that way. What’s a girl to do?” Another guffaw abounded. He then gazed directly at me and declared rather profoundly with a smirk, “Dare I say, you may have a fear of being trapped in life.” Do I?

Yes, it is true, I have regrets and skeletons hiding in my closet just like the next Tom and Sue. I have run from burdensome circumstances before and abandoned dreams far too quickly, but my collection of experiences, as tainted as some may be, steered me to the place where I am now, and I feel content. I am finally pursuing my passions. So, psychologically speaking, do I feel in trapped in life? I prefer to think not. However, being physically trapped someplace, such as the Midwest for a decade or Harlem at midnight or within the confines of my very own apartment, is enough to make me overwhelmed with anxiety to the magnitude that hives will dramatically flare up all over my body. Months before, it was Friday, June 12: the day before my brother’s high school graduation. I had rushed home from my internship at Shape Magazine to collect my luggage and hop in a taxi en route to LaGuardia. My disposition was merry; I was all packed and organized, the sun was shining, and I would soon be North Carolinabound to see my brother in his cap and gown as well as the rest of my family. But things went awry. Frantically, and in between sobs, “Mom, I don’t think I’m going to make my flight home tonight, and it’s the last flight out this evening. All later flights have been canceled due to approaching thunderstorms. I’m screwed.” From my end of the line, I can tell she is slightly miffed, “What do you mean you’re not going to make your flight?” Rather perplexed myself, “Well, believe it or not, but I’m locked inside my apartment.” My mom is even more perplexed, “You jest?! How does one get locked inside her own apartment?” “If only I knew, then I may actually be able to free myself. I’ve valiantly battled the doorknob for fifteen minutes. If I weighed more than ninety-three pounds, I may have been successful at tearing it directly off the door.” An option: the fire escape. After tossing around the idea of climbing down it to freedom — and a LaGuardia-bound cab, my mom finally vetoes it. “Safety first,” she laughs. Being a physician, of course she

would say something of that nature. At this point, the scenario is more comical than anything, and my adrenaline now has me giggling rather than pacing. We hang up so that I may forge ahead with my rescue mission. Next step: Contact my roommates. I first text my roommate Alex. Maybe she can rescue me. It is now 5:48 p.m., and she is entrenched in meetings. Strike one. However, she divulges that our other roommate Missy has also had the pleasure of being trapped in our apartment before. Time to prod Missy for details — and help! I reach Missy. Unfortunately for me, she has slipped out of work early for the day and is already sitting pretty on a train home to Connecticut for the weekend. Strike two. Before hanging up, though, she does brief me on our fickle doorknob. Had no one cared to do so before? I come to learn that the automatic locking mechanism on our door is dysfunctional, as it was improperly installed by our landlord, Brian. The knob broke prior to my arrival in the apartment, and Brian took the liberty of replacing it himself — backwards. The automatic locking mechanism when flipped into the locked position locks the door from the inside rather than the outside, rendering the tenant trapped inside; our cleaning lady, Monica, apparently has an infinity to flip this mechanism when leaving after a day’s work, and she had been here this morning. So, I arrived home, allowed the door to shut behind me and, in return, imprisoned myself on Cedar Street. Mystery solved. But I remain trapped inside. Fortunately, Missy goes on to mention that if I phone our building superintendent, Adam, I can slide my key beneath the door to him, and he can unlock it from the outside, freeing me. During all of this sleuthing, my mom phones to get a status update on the apartment-imprisonment. I swap over to speak with her briefly, and she says that my brother has slumped into a bit of a depression. “He apparently accredits you for his noteworthy class rank and GPA, admission to a good college and the sheer fact that he is graduating. He says you are the only one whom he cares is present tomorrow. Ha,

guess he doesn’t care about your father and me.” And with those words, I am frenzied again. I cannot not let my one and only brother — one and only sibling — down. Dreading ringing Adam, I think to myself, “They say the third time’s a charm.” I scroll through my iPhone contacts and press send. With his remarkably thick Ukrainian accent, I ponder whether I will actually be able to communicate my sense of urgency to him or, for that matter, decipher a thing he says. After a quick phone call riddled with awkward silences, I hope I have effectively communicated my need to be rescued, so I pace and wait for his arrival. Fifteen minutes drift by and nothing. It is now 6:10 p.m., rush hour still ensues outside, and my flight is scheduled to depart at 7:30 p.m. With no time to squander, I phone Adam again, “Adam, where are you? I’m trapped inside my apartment, and I need you to come unlock my door now, now, now!” A reply in broken English, “Oh, I sought you ver only kidding wif me. I be right down.” At this point, I am on the verge of suffering a mental breakdown or wringing someone’s neck, but I manage to keep my sanity intact. The last thing I want is to be alluded to in a textbook someday. Minutes later, Adam arrives and, with the turn of one key, rescues me from my imprisonment just like the prince rescued Rapuzel. Unfortunately, Adam is not a strapping young man. And even if he were, I doubt my boyfriend would approve. As the door opens, I feel my heart leap and my legs propel me forward; I shout, “Thank you, Adam,” as I vanish into the elevator. I still have one prodigious obstacle ahead of me: catching my flight. “Thank you for choosing Delta. Our flight time this evening is one hour and fifteen minutes. Sit back, relax and feel free to now roam about the cabin.” I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I was no longer trapped — except on an airplane for the next hour and a half. Needless to say, I was there to witness the smile on my brother’s face and snap photos as he received his diploma — along with my mom and dad even though he was indifferent to their presence. 31


I nterviews

MAGAZINE

Rick Scott, 30 1. Take Tylenol PM or down some NyQuil 2. Sightseeing Bus Pick-up/Drop-off Points. Oh, and JFK w/ its ridiculous wait times now that their busiest runway is closed for four months 3. Right here on the Upper West Side. Although, I’d like to upgrade to a view of the American Museum of Natural History and Central Park. But I always plan to reside someplace between 72nd & 76th and Columbus & CPW

FINANCIAL

What do you do in NY when you can’t sleep? Which parts of NY do you try to avoid? What is your dream neighborhood in NY? What is your favorite NY movie and/or TV show? Christine G., 25 1. Take a Lunesta. Then, till it kicks in, watch “Friends” or “Sex & the City” in bed. I also shop online. When I see order confirmation emails the next morning, I’m like, “Uh-oh.” Lunesta is funny like that 2. Canal Street; I hate crossing it. It’s unnerving that child labor goes into producing all those goods. Ugh 3. Upper West Side; I dream of days filled with tree-lined streets again

4. TV Show: “Friends”; Movie: “Seven”

4. TV Show: “Friends”; Movie: “You’ve Got Mail”

Michael S., 26

Razia S., 20

1. I go on social networking sites 2. Times Square 3. Gramercy Park; ideally, I’d have a penthouse overlooking the park 4. “Law & Order SVU” Tara M., 36 1. Organize my apartment! I hate cleaning, but it helps put me to sleep 2. Soho on Saturdays 3. Upper East with a view of the park 4. It’s cheesy, but I love “Friends” Dan S., 14 1. Skateboard around Union Square 2. I ain’t scared; I go everywhere 3. 12th Street between 1st and A 4. “Taxi Driver”

LOWER EAST

UNION SQUARE

UPPER WEST

1. 2. 3. 4.

1. Go to union square and smoke cigarettes 2. Jamaica 3. East Village 4. “Sex and the City” Mark D., 28 1. Play guitar in bed 2. Times Square 3. Lower East Side; it’s really fun to live here now, but it’s becoming a bit too popular. I guess that’s always how it works, though, right? 4. The Woody Allen Film “Manhattan”


Built in 1873, New York City’s narrowest house resides in the West Village at 75 1/2 Bedford Street and boasts a mere width of 9 1/2 feet. The three-story, 990-square-foot townhouse was once home to actor Cary Grant, anthropologist Margaret Mead and Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, among others. While it may be thin, Cary Grant’s former digs sold for the fat price of $2.175 million in January of this year.

Cover Photograph by Mushi King Right Photograph by hairygrumpy@Flickr

UPPER EAST

1. Ambien. And a glass of champagne 2. The G train. Sketch 3. Somewhere in Brooklyn, ideally in a brownstone with a dog and cat 4. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” Brad C., 56, 1. Rehearse guitar. I’m not as good as I used to be, so I leave the apartment so i don’t wake anyone and sit across the street and try to remember old songs 2. The BQE during rush hour. And the hours surrounding it 3. Here; I’ve been here over 25 years 4. “The Godfather” Saga

BROOKLYN

The Skinniest Building in New York

Carey M., 19

Gossip Girl Here The Palace Hotel @ 455 Madison Avenue Shaking Boredom in the Shack Line Shake Shack in Madison Square Park @ 23rd Street & 5th Avenue Brian Jonestown Massacre Webster Hall @ 125 East 11th Street Waiting for Alejandro Think Coffee @ 248 Mercer Street New York’s Nooks Tudor City Park (Cover Image) 41st Street between 1st & 2nd Avenue

Charlie M., 27

Sakura Park 122nd Street & Riverside Drive

1. I eat Frosted Flakes until I run out of milk. I can usually sleep by that time

Greenacre Park 51st Street between 2nd & 3rd Avenue

2. I don’t avoid anywhere, but I guess I don’t go uptown that often 3. Williamsburg is where it’s at! 4. I don’t watch TV Jessie H., 26 1. I sit on my fire escape and smoke 2. Times Square; it’s too busy for me 3. Anywhere with a view of the city 4. I don’t watch television Elizabeth M., 24 1. I call my brother; he rarely sleeps 2. East Bushwick at night; it gets desolate at night in some places 3. Anywhere high up 4. I don’t watch television

Plane View Park Grand Central Parkway & 85th Street @ LaGuardia Airport Close Escapes Roosevelt Island in East River between Manhattan & Queens City Island in Long Island Sound North of the Bronx A Victorian Oasis in Brooklyn Tickets for Sale @ Temple Beth Emeth @ 83 Marlborough Street, Flatbush Japan in Brooklyn Sri Textile @ 18 Eckford Street, Brooklyn


I

MAGAZINE

VOLUME ONE

ISSUE ONE


I Magazine