Read Me, New York City

Lately I’ve felt overloaded by all the options in Internet reading, streaming, listening and watching. It’s hard not to feel like Lucy racing the speeding conveyor belt in her famous chocolate factory scene. Instead of candy, it’s too many stories pouring down the e-tunnel. Where’s the quality in all that quantity? Choice paralysis sets in.

Overwhelmed, I head to the quirky communal atmosphere of any one of my favorite local independent bookstores. New York City teems with them. Here’s one list.

I’ve got company. It turns out sales of physical books have increased every year since 2013. The number of indie bookshops across America has increased by more than a third from 2009-2015 (all stats from the American Booksellers Association). It’s newly trendy to promote your indie bookshop-loving inner nerd on social media with “shelfies” on #bookstagram. More than 25 million Instagrammers have done it, reports Vox.

Local bookstores are full of surprises and things you would never find without them. Take these “Read Me If You Liked…” brown-paper wrapped books sold at Book Culture on Columbus. Here’s your own psychic librarian. The burden of choice is essentially gone. When you don’t even know what you’re buying, how can you choose wrong? Best of all, you can unwrap it at home like a present.

When you cut out small decisions, you save your bandwidth for the more important things. This year I resolve to choose less.

Uplifted, New York City

Everyone knows that balloons are just for kids, except, of course, they’re not. Adults send and receive them all the time. With their short little lives and tender thin skins, balloons—like cut flowers, chocolate and childhood—are a vote for joy in the moment. You have to be resilient to enjoy them.

Surprising someone you love in Manhattan with a big bunch of balloons is fun, but it’s not easy. Forget the backseat of a taxi, walking is the way to go. Still, casualties are inevitable. If scaffolding pops a few, hang tough. Pickpockets got all my cash while I was walking two dozen to a party in the park. Never mind. Balloons had long ago taught me how to weather small loss.

It’s entirely possible to hate clowns but love balloons. I certainly do. In her book, The Principles Of Uncertainty, artist Maira Kalman asks, “We see trees. What more do you need?” My answer is, balloons, of course. At the end of all those strings is someone’s loving hand.

Street Party, NYC

This New Year’s Eve in Times Square was a soggy mess. The television broadcasters looked wet and miserable. The entertainers looked downtrodden. Then, as the hyped Waterford Crystal Ball began to drop, a cloud moved in front of it. Three days later, the rain was long gone but the confetti remained. It spun with the wind in colorful spiral updrafts. It played catch me if you can with children. Bicyclists and cars raced through it like winners at the finish line. One woman held her arms high in victory so that her friend could photograph her with the swirl behind her. A normal January afternoon in Times Square became an extended celebration. Sometimes the best party is when you least expect it.

Holiday Sweet, New York City

My childhood dream was to own a lollipop tree. I figured if I could grow my own, I’d have pops all year. The landscaper at the garden shop promised me a seedling by Christmas. When the day came, I was too old to be fooled by the scotch tape fixing lollipop to branch, but I did love the effect.

Decades later, I’m still a sucker for genius confections. This year’s holiday windows at Bergdorf Goodman take the cake. Themed “Bergdorf Goodies” and up until January 3, 2019, the windows contain fanciful chocolate bears, licorice zebras, gingerbread clocks, and macaron giraffes in vibrant candy and fashion tableaux— no scotch tape visible. To see all, watch here.

Carted, New York City

As the holiday countdown accelerates, Christmas trees are on the run. Or more precisely, on the roll—in shopping carts and wheelbarrows—and on the lug, by hand. Streaks of deep green dot the dull gray landscape as the trees move by. I’ve seen them slung over shoulders like children, tucked under arms like medieval spears, and propped up like commuters on the subway. The doors open and the tree steps off, a memory of pine needles on the train floor. Sometimes the whole family chips in. Parents hug the end like goal posts while a couple of little kids lift the saggy middle. The whole street smiles at the effort. A grand behemoth is a joyful burden. Ten blocks home or five flights up can loom like eternity. But it’s an essential New York tradition—the tree must go on.

Transported, New York City

“I’m almost dead.”

I realized after a second that the skateboarder rolling slowly to a stop near me was calling to his friend about battery power. Not health.

I see the future and it is e-assisted. Soon we will have bionic hands and plug-in feet and chip-implanted brains. Until they arrive, we are in the clunky appendage boom. We strap smart watches to our wrists. We cradle iPhones. We pedal-assist our bikes, Li-ionize our scooters, electrify our skateboards. In cities across the U.S., dockless Bird and Lime e-scooters duke it out with pedestrians and local laws. Personal transporters ‘R Us.

I snapped these two night riders at Columbus Circle just as dusk began to fall. Their boosted boards sent small cones of light ahead like tiny lighthouses across a pavement sea. Intrepid but practical, they were sensibly geared up in helmets, heavy jackets, gloves and backpacks. I figured the fellow with knee pads and fierce red tail-light had fallen once. His talismanic level of protection spoke to me of caution born of experience.

I was curious to know where they had started and for how long they had been going. I wanted to hear what brand they were riding and if they had tinkered with the design. But before I could get my nerve up to ask, the traffic light changed. They leaned back, tilted up, and off they went, across the circle and into the muffled velvet dark.

Alight, New York

Attracting attention in the chaotic neon crossroads of the world is nothing short of a miracle. But if you load two men and a giant menorah into a pickup, play Hanukkah songs from booming loudspeakers, and dance along exuberantly in shirtsleeves in freezing weather, people might just notice.

Even in Times Square.

And if your truck back bounces up and down in glorious rhythm as you rock it out, you might uplift local drivers stuck in standstill traffic and international tourists jostled by crowds. As they smile and snap videos to upload around the globe back to their friends, they amplify your contagious message of joy and celebration. Even singleminded theatergoers might stop hurrying to their curtain times and pause for a minute to watch your al fresco musical. I did.

It takes a lot of chutzpah to drive and dance across the city singing, “Hey, it’s Hanukkah!” But in New York City, where public menorahs are, let’s say, not exactly in short supply, creative swagger is essential. You have to put yourself out there.

Joy to the jammed! Even a nearby Sephora billboard got into the celebratory spirit and put “HORA” in my photo. Seriously. There’s no business like show business.

Standing Guard, New York City

There they are, lined up like sentinels behind the scaffolding. I am always excited when the Christmas trees come to town, even if I never buy or own one, because they transform barren concrete sidewalks into magical tiny forests. Every time I walk by the fragrant firs, pines and spruces, I am transported from grey New York to my own private Narnia. Arriving around Thanksgiving and lasting until Christmas Eve, the seasonal trees elevate mundane places and turn routine chores into an adventure. You never know who might run out for a tube of toothpaste to a 24-hour drugstore at 2 a.m. and come home instead with a ten-foot spruce. And I can’t help wondering, are these truly just trees, or maybe—for those with special vision—a line of deep green uniformed soldiers guarding a dark red castle? Each time I walk by, I breathe deeply and stand a little straighter. You never know who might be watching.

Just Sayin', New York City

Just Sayin’

I have eaten
the Brussel Sprouts
that were on
the sidewalk

And which
you were probably
saving
for customers

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so bold

(Thanksgiving homage to William Carlos Williams, “This Is Just To Say”)

Yellow Wave, New York City

Fall put up its own form of resistance this year. Days stayed warm into late October. Leaves refused to turn. I looked everywhere for seasonal progress but couldn’t find it in the usual places. A trip upstate to hunt color on Columbus Day disappointed. In the city, crews strung holiday lights around trees with bright green leaves, as if they were in Florida or California.

The day before the midterm elections, change blew in overnight. Locusts and lindens filled the streets with their golden glow. Ocher leaves lifted and scattered in the wind. Coming up from the grimy subway underground, I entered a forest of light. It was a harbinger.

Bellows, NYC

Accordionists are rare birds these days. Like supermarkets, landlines and cash, they speak to me of a disappearing time. I first fell in love with its elegiac sound at the age of two, when my parents hired a dark and handsome accordionist to perform outdoors at a garden party. I was never sure if it was him or his miniature piano-like instrument I was crushing on, but watching him turn squeezed air into music was mesmerizing. Walking across Central Park on a moody November day, I found this contemplative performer perched near the angel fountain at Bethesda Terrace. His eyes were closed and he was lost in a contagious reverie. Soon, I’d caught it too.

Worlds, New York City

It’s common to walk around carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. What about on your feet? Would the world feel a little lighter?

In our current political realm of black is white and up is down, maybe the most appropriate response is to upend yourself. Artist Kathy Ruttenberg does that with her dreamlike sculpture of a woman on her head balancing a luminous globe in the Broadway median at 117th Street. That location is purposely centered between the gates of Barnard College and Columbia University, where I studied real news journalism. The cast silicon bronze, “Topsy-Turvy,” expresses the artist’s belief that pursuing knowledge can create a better world.

The fantastical sculpture is one of six from Kathy Ruttenberg on Broadway: in dreams awake, on the Broadway Mall medians from Lincoln Center at 64th Street to Washington Heights at 157th Street (until February, 2019). To see a video of all six, click here.

Pumped, Millerton

Warts are in, at least on pumpkins. So are lumps, bumps, wrinkles and diverse colors. These compelling and unique “Super Freaks,” seen on a day trip to Daisi Hill Farm in Millerton, New York, wore their weirdness proudly. Back in the city, I was bored by the smooth-skinned orange pumpkins sold street-side at corner groceries. Now I wanted a Jack O’ Lantern with some serious battle scars. Looking in the mirror, I felt more tolerant of my own. Imperfection is organic. It is honest. And, at heart, it can signify rebellion.

Reflection, New York City

A grey-haired woman sitting in the Broadway median stares intently at me as I cross. Does she really see me? Or am I just a shadow of someone she once knew? Her eyes burn cigarette holes in my coat sleeves. Farther down, a pug squats, then scrapes. A mother bends to tie her child’s kicking sneaker. Up and down it goes, a tiny bow compass drawing arcs in air. A homeless man sleeps but hangs on to his hand-held sign: “Today’s my birthday.” His long hair and beard, his tilted face, sing like Jesus. Cars are lined up along the curb, nose to toe. In the windshield of a white Ford van, I see an etched universe of branch and sky. The intricate reflection stops me in my tracks. Everywhere I look, there’s opportunity to color in the blanks.

Car Park, NYC

I don’t want a Maserati, I want a flying car. Ever since reading Ian Fleming’s Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, I’ve dreamed of a vehicle I could drive over gridlock, through rivers and under mountains. Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved these ingenious outdoor car parks. I like to imagine that the cars have swooped into their individual resting spaces like swallows into nests. I love seeing big metal machines stacked tidily like spice or wine bottles, two-ton weight be damned. At the push of the button they come carefully down, though there may be a wait if you’re the guy at the top. Even if cars can’t fly yet, they can still always pile up, up, up.

Super Tall, NYC

Like its ambitious citizens, the Manhattan skyline is always reinventing itself with an eye to the competition. The newest super tall skyscrapers—some still with cranes—look like fishing lines to the stratosphere. Are they trying to catch birds, helicopters, clouds? Here are views for billionaires (and maybe global criminals) who need to show they are on top of the world. Not just the one-percent, but the one-upper percent—the “my treehouse is higher than yours” club. Like NBA basketball players or super models, the towers look down imperiously on older buildings. The formerly imposing now looks short and squat. But reflected in the dimpled water of the Central Park Reservoir, the Super Talls shrink like Legos and belong to everyone. Nature brings them down to size, and wins.

DNA, New York City

DNA evidence has saved many a convicted felon and sent the guilty to prison. It’s useful, for sure. But there’s a kind of crazy land grab going on now around consumer DNA, I think.

Hereditary traits have become infotainment. Television and internet ads tout the joy of finding out your ancestry. Movies, books and news articles brim with stories about lost siblings reconnected or terrible genetic diseases stalled. I downloaded a fitness iPhone app that immediately urged me to send off saliva to their DNA partner in order to optimize my workout.

Honestly, I’m tempted. Curiosity is probably in my DNA.

As an optimist, I’d love to discover that I’m related to Beethoven. Confirmation of “unique super-hero traits” would be great, too. Yet caution prevails. There is emotional danger lurking in sending off your saliva to consumer DNA databases like ancestry.com and 23andme. You could just as easily discover you’re related to Benedict Arnold, have familial ALS and a bunch of half-sisters and half-brothers who need a loan. Great.

In fact, the plot of the popular novel, The Forever Summer by Jamie Brenner (Little, Brown and Company, 2017), revolves around the difficulties faced by surprise siblings united by their DNA reports.

I’m more concerned with privacy and marketing issues. This Guardian article on DIY genetics by Arwa Mahdawi lays them out well. Consumer DNA gatherers have figured out a way to market your genetic info while you pay them for the privilege. It’s just like the “game” of Facebook—how many levels of privacy are you willing to be seduced into giving up in exchange for entertainment and information? Imagine if your DNA could be used to predict your party affiliation, spending habits or health insurance risks.

Consumer DNA products have expanded to our pets, too. After Barbara Streisand lost her beloved curly-haired Coton de Tuléar, Samantha, she cloned her from stomach and mouth cells and got three little Sams. The company she used, Viagen Pets, is easily found online. All it takes is one simple click, a compliant pet and about $50,000 a pop (or is it pup?). I do miss my adorable departed Havanese. But dealing with loss is part of life, isn’t it?

Taken to its most extreme, what’s next? The convenience of 3-D baby printing over pregnancy?

I wonder, isn’t identity ultimately a story we tell ourselves? A textured web of love and experience and ancestry and tradition? Personally, I choose the poetry of lived and oral history. It may not be full of scientific details, but it’s rich and beautiful and reassuringly opaque.

Sorry, ancestry profiteers. I’m keeping this spit private.

Cooled, NYC

My immigrant great grandparents ran a small grocery on the Lower East Side. It was essential that my Grandma Mary drop out of school at age sixteen to help in the store so the family could save money on staff. Her educational sacrifice paid off in helping “the boys,” her brothers, go on to college.

Since then, all of the siblings’ future generations, male and female, have graduated from fine colleges and universities. And the Lower East Side has morphed into a chic destination that contains expensive condos, craft cocktail bars and artisanal ice cream shops. The pushcart past has pretty much disappeared but can be glimpsed in a visit to The Tenement Museum on Orchard Street or during a historic walking tour of the old neighborhood.

My brilliant grandmother went on to educate herself through wide reading and concert-going. She was highly self-disciplined and aspirational and always rued her lack of higher education. One of the many things she did out of pride was train herself to pronounce “th” and “r” properly. Others might say “toity-toid” (Thirty-third) Street, but not her.

I can only imagine how she might have loved this trendy CornerGrocers at Delancey and Rivington that looks like a home refrigerator on the lam. Whoever stocks it has a keen eye for display—it’s organic street art. And best of all, perhaps the convenience of the self-service aspect (though you have to pay inside), has allowed future Marys to stay in school.

Spied, New York City

The city streets used to be places where you could blend in and disappear. No longer. As a resident New Yorker, I hate to think of how many tourist selfies I’ve accidentally appeared in. I imagine little pieces of myself in phones all over the world. Somewhere, in some remote place, a returned tourist is undoubtedly giggling over my backside in leggings in one of their shots.

Between ubiquitous cell phones and street cameras, you are more likely to be tracked, recorded, photographed and broadcast while going about your daily business than ever before. According to the World Atlas, New York City is the fourth most surveilled city in the world after London, Beijing and Chicago. It’s making the streets safer, but in exchange for what exactly?

I took this photo of artist JR’s giant Peeping Tom pasted onto Galerie Perrotin’s brick facade this past summer just as a man walked by. It’s art about the act of looking: from the outside in, as a curious act, and as an intervention. Ironically, as I captured the image, I became a spy on the man walking by underneath. I was watching the guy watching his phone and capturing it for the Internet.

It’s a sign of the times that in Gary Shteyngart’s new comic novel, Lake Success (Random House, 2018), the troubled hedge funder Barry Cohen leaves New York via Greyhound bus to find anonymity. Trashing his phone and credit card to avoid his persistent high-octane assistant, he goes on the lam in search of the self he has lost. It seems it’s now easier to get lost on the highways of America than in the streets of New York.

Anonymity is a bubble that could instantly pop. Maybe, like Tom Hanks and Madonna, we all need to wear sunglasses and baseball caps outside. It’s nice to be unseen in broad daylight.

Dog Days, New York-California

It took me decades to figure out that the New York City summer ends emotionally, but not literally, at Labor Day. Back to school supplies, best-of-fall media previews, and chilly boutiques stocked with winter coats all conspire to convince me that fall has started. In reality, it's still wretchedly hot. The summer sun continues to laser the concrete, my iPhone says it "feels like" 100 degrees, and a short walk outside is an act of faith and resilience. Inside, high humidity swells all my apartment doors so that they jam their jambs. They grunt with complaint.

The dog days of September?

I dial back to the August morning I awoke at a friend's beachside cliff house in Encinitas, California. From my perch on high, I watched a dog race joyfully through the surf while his owner trailed languidly behind with leash and morning coffee. A great splash of ocean lies between them. It's that cool, empty space I jump into now.