Band of Outsiders

This morning, I passed through Central Park to get to the UWS. Most people are at work, naturally, but there were a few stragglers walking their dogs, casually smoking and staring off into the distance and a lot of tourists.

I know they were tourists because a lot of snapshots were being taken in front of the Great Lawn, the large field where sunbathers gather at the first hint of warm sunlight but is now caked in sludgy snow, and I did not hear English once. New York is diverse, so the varied languages are no anomaly- the tour books and maps and photo snapping, however...


New York magazine featured a great story about Andy and Kate Spade, the original creators of the oft-bootlegged brand, Kate Spade.

a far cry from my first (albeit faux) Kate Spade: a fake zebra print bag purchased in Chinatown in 7th grade by a friend. Yeesh.

"The Spades are from the Midwest. They like to get together with their old friends and stay up late. They like things to be classic and they like the color Kelly green. They came to the city, but they didn't set about erasing the people they were before they got here, and they still have that outsider's endless thrill of how cool is this art gallery? How great is this weird smelly record store?" Amy Larocca

My group of friends and acquaintances up here is comprised mostly of fellow Southerners. and we all left for a reason: something about life in the South didn't satisfy us. This is not to say we will never return or that we regret our upbringings, but we were seeking something else, even if we cannot articulate it. But the day I find New York commonplace, devoid of magic and glitz, that's the day I pack it up.

I relish being an outsider here. That's why I will take pictures of the tourists, if they ask in broken English, in front of the mannequins at Macy's or lounging near the Great Lawn (within reason):

Gosh, it is pretty great, isn't it?

I Swear Sometimes That Man Is Out to Get Me

A dear college friend visited me this past weekend, and I'm ashamed to say it, but we spent some time in Times Square. Yes, 'twas in pursuit of getting some last minute lottery tickets to this; our efforts were in vain.

But! All was not lost! After dodging gawping visitors and dawdling children, we obtained lottery seats to 9 to 5: The Musical, the new show based on the original movie starring Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, and of course, Dolly Parton.

courtesy of" Marquis Theatre

If you, like me, have yet to see the film {it's on my NYPL queue}, here's a synopsis: three hard-working women quickly tire of hitting their heads on the glass ceiling amid the sexist office politics and kidnap their misogynist boss. Chaos and hilarity ensues, but in any real-life situation not set to lyrics by Dolly, this sounds like a nightmare, right?

The various positions I have taken in this industry have placed me alongside equally ambitious women and a handful of gay men who have no reason to sexually harass their female counterparts. Even though I have never encountered ogling and suggestive remarks, gender differences will always come into play and create interesting situations.

Ever signed XOXO on an email to your male colleagues? Notice how women always feel like apologizing? She has and does, "she" being Construction Barbie. Construction Barbie and Dolly could swap stories and hair tips.

Construction Barbie: Stories, Adventures, and Observations from Women Who Work in Male-Dominated Industries

See Something, Say Something

I am not one to make light of casual threats by any means. My paranoia is such that why, just the other evening,  I convinced myself that I was suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning and was mentally divvying up my few worthwhile possessions amongst my friends should I not wake in the morning. So yes, you tell me a mysterious package has been found on the 1 train, and I will wake up an extra hour and a half to walk the 50 something blocks to work. 

So this I say: tourism is the new terrorism. 

I work in midtown Manhattan, the confluence of traffic from Times Square, Herald Square, Broadway shows, and Rockefeller Center. The height of the holiday season, I swear the city doubled in size, and I barely managed a shuffle on the sidewalk while I darted in and out of gawking visitors comparing pashmina colors and awkwardly getting amateur self-portraits from their friends in front of the M&M store. I would rather stay inside than tell them where the nearest Applebee's is. 

I had to run an errand in -shudder- Times Square today, and I am disheartened to tell you the threat of tourism is alive and thriving. I'd say we're at a burnt orange risk. 

But New Yorkers! Don't let them stop you from carrying on with your merry lives! Don't we have enough to deal with besides the influx of unwelcome guests? Last night you smelled maple syrup again, and this morning, you could have sworn that woman on the bus looked like she was about to faint and-ohmygod-if-she-vomits-these-are-brand-new-flats-and-even-though-they-violate-my-feet-in-10-different-ways-they-cost-me-3-days-of-meals-and-I-really-can't-deal-with-someone-ralphing-today-but-I-think-my-shoe-is-filling-up-with-blood-gotta-run, and even though you emerged unscathed, your bag was scanned for questionable particles by the NYPD en route home.  Thankfully, hand sanitizer is not deemed a hazardous liquid.

Sure I've been here just shy of four months, and I realize that's nowhere near the 10-year-minimum prerequisite for obtaining legit New Yorker status, but should you dare suggest I am no different than a tourist, so help me God, I will eviscerate you.

We can't let them win.