Oh Brooklyn!

As I've said before, I am moving to Brooklyn at the end of this summer. Despite having grown up in the New York suburbs, I don't know Brooklyn at all-- except for its reputation and the art museum (I roll my eyes at the former and like the latter). And I know how to get from the Music Hall of Williamsburg to Grand Central in time for the last train. But that's about it.

So I spent much of Saturday puttering around on a Dahon seeing what I could see. Here's some preliminary thoughts (and goodness knows I'll probably prove myself wrong in all sorts of ways come August).

Fixed gears are still a thing. Except now they have  tiny gear ratios, cruiser bars and little porteur racks on the front. I guess the first wave of fixiesnobs all blew their knees out? Also, no one wears helmets. 

Speaking of bikes, the lane situation is really confusing. They are everywhere, but they're also all over the road. I've heard enough horrific stories about cops fining cyclists for putting so much as a spoke out of line, so I found myself yawing all over the road trying to stay between my designated stripes. And the cabs give a lot less elbow room than their gentler Philadelphia cousins.

Riding through Williamsburg I got a lot of censorious looks from guys in hats: at my bare shoulders and  midriff from the Hasidic guys in their giant fur schtriemels, and at my dorky little bike from the scrawny hipsters in Cinelli caps.

Bed Stuy looks a lot like South Philly, if it were expecting a siege. Bars over everything. And no bars, to speak of. Or grocery stores. Or cafes. But plenty of hair salons. I might have just been going down the wrong streets.

The less bourgie areas have a layer of grime over them that is far more aggressive and permanent looking than laid-back Philly could ever achieve.

There is a bike vending machine!

PROOF!!

Brooklyn Bridge Park is stunningly gorgeous. I love rivers, bridges, and manicured parks, and this has the lot. I counted no less than five weddings. One of them involved a tandem bike, and reminded me to never try riding in a crinoline.

Red Hook is visually amazing too. There are giant fort-like buildings with gothic shutters along the waterfront. Out of sight of the river, it looks like Portland wants to look- so hip and quirky your teeth hurt. But at least it did it first.

It takes a kind of hiccup, a shift of perception, to see myself as a New Yorker again. For the first four years that I lived in Philadelphia I insisted on an outsider status- I wore black and walked fast and cultivated a superior attitude (in retrospect, I wasn't being a super-sophisticated New Yorker, I was being a hipster).

But then I fell in love and got a cool job and an independent life, and New York became the foreign place. Days flew by, happy, quiet days. I resented going to New York, almost, because it represented something I'd convinced myself I didn't need. But I got restless eventually, restless enough to give up the lovely, easy life I've led for nearly three years. And the other day, sitting by the river with the two great bridges overhead and the sun frying my black clothes, I thought 'I'm coming home.' 

--Isis

OH RIGHT, HEADLINE OF THE DAY!

Woman Finds Toad in Can of Beans

You're welcome.

Sorrow Fatigue and Eight Shiny Things

I spent too much of last week glued to the news- everything from Gawker to the New Yorker- and feeling a mixture of sick fascination, guilt for that fascination, and exhaustion.

Here's a good summation from Lindy West at Jezebel (Don't read if you're averse to cussing.) Incidentally, I've been reading her ever since she wrote for the Stranger and MAN has her writing improved. Smart, smartly evolving lady writers turn my crank in all kinds of directions.

Also, oh my lack of god, I wanted to name my cat Tamerlane. A good thing there was nothing in his goofy little face to justify the name of a hotshot historical warrior man/deranged Chechen yobbo.

So here are some things that are nice and not sad and that I think about to give my mind a rest from being miserable and anxious, which doesn't help anything but is impossible to avoid.

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1) The other day I was in one of those trashy South Street shoe stores buying their ONE pair of untrashy flats, and I noticed those giant neon heels and thought only a drag queen would wear those. And sure enough, there was a pretty dude trying them on. 'You look skanky!' his companion said. 'I know!' he said, and bought them. 'I'm always right,' I thought.

2) Chris Hoy, my favorite track cyclist, announced his retirement with extraordinary grace. While I'm sorry to see him go, it's unusual for an athlete to recognize he's done and not keep plugging on until he is embarrassed. Also, an excuse to post the legendary Hoy legs:

Eek!

3) The inimitable Bike Snob is doing a ride and book signing next month. Ya'll better be there! 

4) The simplest songs can be amazing: 

All you can do is do what you must.

5) If you can get through this video without tearing up a little, you're a cyborg:

6) France legalized gay marriage too! Also, who knew how many bigots conservatives there were messing up the boulevards? Well sucks to be them. 

7) The swallows are back! I saw them zipping around the Schuylkill when I rode out the other day. Soon the tubby fledglings will be popping their heads out of the nest boxes, gaping away. I love swallows. 

I think the one in the hole is an adult. Fledgelings are fatter. 

8) A blog post I wrote for work featuring my opinions on Claes Oldenburg's horrible paintbrush is creeping up the google results for 'Paintbrush drip Philadelphia'. It is number five. Let's make it number one, shall we?

AND, with that shameful bit of self promotion, I am out. 

Coming up will be a SERIOUS essay about writing about places that don't exist. I'm working on it, but the world keeps persisting to exist and it's getting to me. So it's taking some time. 

--I

Goodbye Mad City (Springtime and House Shows)

This is the second in a series of posts about things that could only happen in Philadelphia. Since I will be moving to New York in August these stories hold an extra bittersweet charge for me.

Green, how I love you green! Every pale, revelatory spring I think of that line, from Romance Sonambulo by Lorca. Here's the first stanza:

Green, how I want you green. 
Green wind. Green branches. 
The ship out on the sea 
and the horse on the mountain. 
With the shade around her waist 
she dreams on her balcony, 
green flesh, her hair green, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
Green, how I want you green. 
Under the gypsy moon, 
all things are watching her 
and she cannot see them. 

Here's the rest. The version I grew up with translated 'quiero' to 'love' rather than 'want', but I suppose this is more contextually accurate. 

But not this green. I HATE this green.

On an entirely unrelated topic: House Shows! I went to one last night, the first in a while. It reminded me how exhausting and great they are, and why I don't go too often. 

West Philadelphia is full of great big Victorian houses that were once very grand and are now bursting with punks. Some have huge pyramidal stacks of empty 40s on the stained marble mantlepieces. Others are full of paintings and Christmas lights. Some are houseplant jungles, most have dogs and cats and giant bike piles near the door. They are usually warm and friendly and dilapidated and smell of weed and zealous vegan sweat. 

Usually the shows are in the inevitably disgusting basement. I've found myself sitting on derelict washing machines, dancing in the slot between two filing cabinets, and trying not to knock over an extra bike pile. Usually the deliriously drunk and happy listeners are respectful of the house and appliances, though last night a particularly hammered young yob was punching the ceiling pipes for no particular reason and pulling the insulation off.  

The bands can be anything from absolutely terrible- a duo whose broken amp produced earsplitting shrieks at random intervals but soldiered on for half an hour anyway comes to mind-- but they can also be great. You never know, and I've enjoyed shows from the third floor of the house because to descend was to stop hearing music and just be subjected to vibrations and pain from the overamped band in the basement. 

But I like being clean and like my personal space and don't enjoy being sweated, spat or stepped on, so I hadn't gone in a while. But last night we went because a lovely friend lives in that particular house, and this guy called Erik Peterson was playing.  And damed if it wasn't an absolutely cathartic experience to be crammed into a living room (moving up!) with dozens of overexcited teenagers hollering 'SEE YOU IN HELL, BOYS!' 

'I'll be coming to recruit your rebel children!'

And yes, I felt a hundred years old, but it was nice to see that a bunch of suburban looking kids were just as into idealistic lefty punk as I was at their age (and still am in a corner of my cold and cynical little soul). 

There was another band I like, called Blackbird Raum. It was hard to hear them though, because the crowd (now relegated back into the basement) thought that an acoustic folk punk set is an appropriate time to start moshing. I stood on an end table to peek over the crowd, and could barely see the band past the roiling mass of tipsy young heads. I didn't miss being younger, when I would have stayed farther up in the throng. I didn't miss being clipped in the ear with studded pleather boots. I didn't miss concentrating on the band with half my mind and avoiding sharp spikes and elbows with the other half. 

But I missed enjoying these things, just a little bit.

It's better without the screaming kids.

And then I spent much of today dealing with taxes because I am a grownup.

Where else in this world will you be welcomed into a house and know that you'll recognize many of the faces, where you can sit in a colorful kitchen between sets, chatting away with new acquaintances, where you can pay seven bucks and hear three genuinely good bands? (The third was called Pale Robin). 

Oh mad city, I will miss you.

Isis