American Classic

After a wonderful weekend out in the Hamptons, complete with bbqs, Wolffer Vineyard visits, a park softball game, afternoons on the beach, a Southampton Social club appearance and a bonfire to end the summer, I made my way back to the city for a baseball game. Leaving our house for a final Twice Upon an Overpriced Bagel stop and a final vegetable hoarding at the Farm Stand, we missed the parking lot traffic on 27 and cruised right into the Bronx. Thanks should be given here to the 3G iPad for navigating our way. Now, being a Massachusetts girl, I have found myself between a rock and a hard place when it comes to being a sports fan: Boston vs. NY. This infamous, ongoing, and brutal battle between the two cities has become quite a point of conflict for me. Growing up with a sports fanatic brother and dad, I had no choice but to root for the Red Sox, cheer for the Bruins, holler for the Patriots - and I loved being a Boston/NE fan. However, I was no sports fanatic and couldn't list a roster. So when I moved to NYC and was inundated with Rangers, Knicks, and of course, Yankees fans, my Boston cheers were silenced. And I must be honest, when I am asked to a Knicks/Rangers/Yankees game, I won't turn down an invite because I love, love going to sports games. Everything from hockey to football to baseball, I want to go and I want to be part of the crowd and cheer for a team and bask in the American glory of it all.

Needless to say, my loyalties are slowly switching. My brother, father, best friend since I was 10, and basically all my high school friends will not greet this transition well. I am prepared for that. Yesterday, while sitting a few rows back from third base, sipping on a cold beer, basking in the sunlight, and cheering for Montero's first home run, I couldn't help but grow an attachment to the Yankees. Plus, B has season tickets and he won't let me within two feet of them if I pledge allegiance to the Sox (same goes for Rangers, and I am sucker for hockey players). Sorry I'm not sorry - New York is becoming my home now and the cheerleader in me wants to root for the home team. As I sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" this Labor Day, sitting next to the NY Fire Dept crew wearing memorial 9/11 Tshirts, among fans boasting their navy and white, I felt overwhelmed with a sense of patriotism and pride I hadn't felt in a long time. Baseball truly is an American Classic, no matter who you're rooting for.

On our way back to the car, I made a street purchase, bought myself a navy hat, and wore it proudly into the bustling streets of Manhattan.

Pumped Up Kicks

Last Thursday, I awoke to one of life's simple joys: Calendar Reminders! Only this time, instead of reminding me to send an email, cancel an appointment, or call the damn landlord again, I had a reminder about a concert that I had bought tickets to back in May. After a long, cubed up work week, I was ready to play with my inner hippie and sway to the good beats of Cut Copy & Foster the People. Then I noticed something - this concert was in Brooklyn. Prospect Park to be exact. I must admit now, I have not yet made it to Brooklyn (unless one very stressful Ikea trip counts) but the idea of an outdoor concert in hipster Brooklyn sounded like an ideal Thursday night. As twilight fell across Manhattan, I made my way with three girlfriends across the river and into the hip, up and coming, wildly talked about borough.

The park had been roped off into a smaller area and the lines for beer were of course, ridiculously long, but it was a sight. Faint sunlight filtered in through the shady trees casting a glow across all the happy hipster faces. And then I heard the sweet tunes of Foster the People (the real reason I came to this concert) and I was enchanted. If you have not pleasured your ears with their new album, Torches, get on that. Better yet, if you have not joined the Spotify user database, do that first. My obsession with this new application has made cubelife painless (well, almost). Ever since the Corporate Crackdown, the likes of Pandora and Grooveshark were rudely taken from me. So, Spotify.

Anyways, Foster the People, their cool, subdued sound brings you back to another era. The beats create a spark of energy through your body so that first you're tapping your foot, rolling the shoulders...and then BAM! You are full body concert dancing. The pleasure is all in the music. They are fabulous. Cut Copy, as always, are a solid act bordering on the techno genre. They are more of a mood band where as Foster the People, you can stick them in your pocket (i.e. ipod) and wander the city feeling enlightened by their sweet voices and cool notes. Into the night we danced, mouthed words we didn't know, and watched the sun glide into twilight and slip quietly into darkness....

My advice: for a summer twilight experience, go see a concert outdoors and let the music and the fresh air revive you from all those office AC freezers.

Grab Your Wii, Save the World

While lounging around on a lazy Sunday, flipping through my July issue of Elle Magazine, I came across an article that grabbed my attention. I am talking "I see new fall boots and chunky sweaters in my path" kind of attention, "Hunger Game trailer & Cast" kind of attention, and in this day in age, that's pretty legit attention. So when Jane McGonigal's profile was suddenly in my reading path (yes, I like to read magazines from front to back, no detail is spared on me) I sat up and really started reading. Note: Usually Fashion magazines are meant for perusing the latest looks, ripping out items to covet, and overall aesthetically please me - EXCEPT for Vanity Fair which I will argue always has great news stories that are truly informative (Plus, Little Gold Men Blog, what's not to love?). Anyways, I digress, let's talk about Jane's ridiculously amusing slash rather persuasive theory - "Gaming Can Make a Better World"

I kid you not - this woman is arguing that video games will ultimately teach gamers and therefore society how to overcome disastrous scenarios such as Hunger, Poverty, & Lack of Resources (check out her latest gaming feat 'World Without Oil'). Yes, the video games you watch your little brother playing endlessly engaged in some kind of epic war battle or all important football game, those are the games she is referring to. Video Games. Xbox, Wii, Playstation. These machines that have sucked the life out of boyfriends for hours and pimply teenagers in basements, they are going to save us all from our self destructive path in REAL life.

So what did I do mid article? Well I of course ran to my iPad, lightly touched my TED app, and immersed myself in her 15 minute speech about why this theory works. Why playing video games turns gamers into highly motivated, self confident, trusting individuals who make strategic decisions in confined environments. The more I listened, well, the more I believed.

But check it out yourself. Meanwhile, it's time for me to buy that Wii since it will eventually teach me the skills to survival in a world with dying resources. Jane McGonigal - I am a believer.

Book Club in the City

Book Club: Tuesday evening at Enoteca I Trulli in Gramercy. The wine begins to flow as our few members take their seat at the big wooden table, decorated with fresh focaccia bread and a bottle of Rose. After graduating from college, my friends and I found ourselves yearning for a bit of an academic experience. We all enjoy a great novel so why not read the same one and be able to discuss and debate literature over appetizers? Sounds like a great post grad plan to me. And so began our book club...

Our fourth book was Freedom by Jonathan Franzen and if you've read this book, I highly recommend the above link to an NPR interview with Franzen. The book, as well as the novel, as been hailed by many critics as "a masterpiece of modern post 9/11 literature". Written after the terrible attacks, it took Franzen 9 years to finish this novel and it is laced with the anger and grief of the after math. However, the anger is only one side and the character's personality pools are deep and dark, filled with their complete self. As my friends and I chatted about each of the main personalities, Walter, Patty, Richard, Joey, we found ourselves so invested in each on, almost as if we could argue their point of view in any situation. Franzen's character building is his literary gift.

When I began this book, my first read on my ipad (I just couldn't pay $30 for a hard cover edition when my ibooks offered a luring $12 price tag. I STILL prefer a real book to a screen.). Anyways, I was a little hesitant. I wasn't sure what to expect and the first fifty pages or so, I just allowed myself to be carried along, not thinking too much into the story. However, as it dove into the details of their everyday life and the emotion of love swooped in and tormented, captured, strangled, freed, and fulfilled the characters, you are left with a pessimistic view of love. Sadly, my friends all agreed that true love is never found among the pages. More of a compatible love, a picture of marriage as a working relationship, a "companionship" as one of my more skeptical friends described it. As we self-reflected on one of the most powerful human emotions, I was sad to hear that I out of every one at the table was the only one who strongly believes in true, everlasting love. Call me a hopeless romantic, I want my fairytale. And I've seen it happen before.

Franzen eloquently commented in his interview that this novel is a "microscopic narration of petty seeming emotional difficulties" yet it strikes a line between the reader and the weighty portraiture of fictional humans as we tend to recognize these traits in ourselves. Whether or not we will come to terms and admit this is another story. Another interesting facet of the novel are the strong political views of mostly Walter. With "FreeSpace" and the Warblers and the Mountain Top Trust Fund, Walter seems to be a man of passion and fierce devotion to nature and especially birds (the portrayal of domestic cats near the end is sadly true - and makes me despise the creatures, except of course for my clawless Bode - RIP). Even Joey gets caught in the tangles of political and economical forces, although money is his golden goose. The men in this book couldn't be more different, with Richards constantly tormented by his fame and recognition, and Walter struggling to love a depressive and unfaithful wife, and Joey chasing after money signs and carrying Connie along in the background. However they all carry a bit of anger and a sense of want, whether or not they can identify this want, is debatable. And then there is Patty. She narrates most of the book and her story is rather blackened by her upbringing and sadly, she is lost among the woods of middle class America. Patty, Patty, Patty, I have to shake my head in frustration. The woman just couldn't get a hold of things. Until.....

Just read the book.


In the end, I finished and was left feeling empty. A few of my friends were left with the same traces of emptiness. After diving so deep into the characters, their personalities and intricacies, and then to be left, thrown back into reality without these thick and evolving characters. We finished off the Rose, flushed and satisfied with ourselves for a true literary talk, and quickly moved on to our present social culture - Twitter, True Blood, Fire Island, & Fracking. Ah, 2011.

Sway Your Hair & Twirl

Since I am on the topic of art, I need to digress into one of my absolute favorite art forms: Music. Every since I was little and Reading Rainbow guitar sessions entered my world, I was hooked. I have to give a lot of credit to my Dad who loved his records more than anything - some dads have their lawn, some have their golf, mine had records and "Parkersonic" mixtapes. Saturday afternoons, especially during the frigid Massachusetts winters, he would put on his old records and my brother and I would dance around - but absolutely NO jumping (causing the record to skip). Even then I was a little trouble maker and would attempt a quiet jump without getting caught, stealing a glance at the record player, tempting it to try and skip.

As I got older and really began to have my own taste in music that, let's be honest, Top 40 hits became my world (I love you Brit Brit!!) but I also kept my ears in my dad's music world that contained gems such as Morcheeba and the Fun Loving Criminals (if you have never heard of them, GROOVESHARK and enjoy). There is nothing like a great song, the kind that sings to your soul and lifts your spirits - a kind of high that only a song can produce. Recently I have been hooked to "Skeleton Key" by Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So's (what a name) and really anything by Portugal.The Man. I finally saw Portugal in concert a few weeks ago at Webster hall and let me just say, it was soulful and euphoric; I fell in love. Again.

And then there was Governor's Ball. An island right off the tip of Manhattan, a 7 minute ferry ride away, Governor's Island is a bit of a ghost town. Still not sure what actually goes on out there....but on June 18, all the Brooklyn Hipsters and City Yuppies made their way in troves, drunk, stumbling, high, and rolling to engage in most of the most basic human activities: listening to music. It was beautiful. Honestly, out of all the negativity, depression, failings, and slumps going on in the world right now, it was absolutely heavenly to be there, sharing the experience. I won't get all hippy-dippy on you, but next time you're feeling blue, go see a concert. Let the music move you. And be free.

The Economy is Failing, The Art Market is Rising

Despite the floundering economy, the unemployment rate's continuous rise, and lack of leadership from DC on how to get out of this deep, dark 2012-is-almost-upon-us hole, it's refreshing to know that money is still being spent on important things: Art. Both Sotheby's and Christie's recent auctions raked in millions for the usual bread-and-butter artists including Picasso, Cezanne, and of course, Warhol. While the two auctions houses report record sales during their Post-Impressionist and Modernism auctions recently, it's sad to watch Museums and galleries floundering for funds. As member of the MoMA, I know it isn't cheap, but it's the least I can do to keep New York's art scene thriving. I think there is a direct correlation between the price of art rising (and being bought by eager bidders) and the diversity of creativity in the art world. Like many, I long for the golden ages of art movements such as Impressionism and Cubism and the Renaissance. Many art critics, such as those who attended the latest Art Basil show in Miami, felt the art work was lacking a sense of originality. As if each work was built out of a kernel of nostalgia for an artist's work. Sounds a bit Inception-y to me, but I believe it's true. Although I am not a huge fan of modern art, I think it's refreshing to be confronted with something unique and different. Which is why I must recommend "Francis Alÿs: A Story of Deception" at the MoMA. His unique sense of perception is quite uncanny - watching him kick around a large block of ice on the streets of Mexico until it melts into a puddle...well, it's almost frustrating. As in, what's the point? As you move through the exhibit, viewing similar projects, you suddenly hear this massive WHOOSH. And that's when you find Francis video taping himself running into mini tornadoes in the desert. And that's about the time I started to enjoy his odd sense of art. Then again, if you prefer the old art, scoot right out and fall into the vibrant and depressing German Expressionism show.

A Muted Social Scene

Last Sunday, slightly hungover, but eager to feel the sunshine after weeks of cold, bitter, almost but not quite over winter weather, I grabbed my friend on 57th and we made our way uptown to the monumental and imposing Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met was showcasing a series of Cézanne masterpieces from the 1890s - the Card Players. These oil paintings were created on his family state in Aiz-en-Provence in the South of France. Now, I must admit I never made it to 'Aix' as us American abroaders like to say, but I did get down to Nice. And the thought of being able to languidly paint while overlooking the sun burnt fields, wind blowing softly through the trees, and the sounds of the city nonexistent, well, I curse my non-artistic genes. Cézanne's works were displayed in a room to the right, nothing fancy, and plainly lit. Yet, when you walk into the space, his works are like muted gems, glowing and alluring like gems among the sand. The half finished look along with the muted colors, slight imbalances, and his real life labor workers' as models, made the whole thing seem like a rather casual undertaking. Yet, upon closer look, you are hit with a gust of that warm southern breeze, speaking in French tones of tavern occupancies, such as card playing and smoking. As my friend and I chatted admiringly about the works, but a little unsure of why we were so enamored with the colors and subjects, we found ourselves conducting a mini seminar, for the personal luxury of art talk among a master.

Leaving the exhibition and hitting the gusty spring New York city winds, I felt as if I had just visited the countryside. And I yearned to be back in his comforting scenes.

The next night, at an intimate viewing at the MoMA, I visited another master of the arts - Pablo Picasso. This time, instead of oil paints and sketches, I wandered among a different medium - that of collage, and more specifically, Picasso's paper and sheet metal guitars. Now with this crowd, conducting nerdy art convos in front of the canvas would have been out of line. So instead I mingled and sipped sparkling water with the other members, entertained by a business man (of sorts) who traveled to Europe a lot, and wore a bright pink shirt and his nose high in the air. His interest in art I am still figuring out. Another group of well dressed young women welcomed me into their chatty circle, where talks of Chanel brocades and Burberry scarves ensued. Typical. Then again, I had purposely changed out of my work clothes (I despise them, I'm sorry Jcrew/Banana Republic/Ann Taylor, and I don't have the funds for you Theory/Vince, but still, no thanks) so I was more of a casual viewer. I will thank my Burberry linen scarf for the invitation to that circle.
After a brief curatorial explanation by a slight, blond woman - whom apparently caught the eye of a few men in the crowd - we were left to wander among Picasso's silent and fragile guitars made between 1912-1914. These delicate creations, made of paper, string, sheet metal and wire, reassembled thoughts of sculpture. They were supplemented with other paper collages that used sand or Le Journal clippings or free hand drawing along with some photographs. Picasso was surely a man of many talents and this small, but important, exhibition speaks to his mixed medium messages. I wandered alone after the curatorial talk, soaking up the rough and bland colored framed pieces. However, being an admirer of Picasso, these certainly weren't my favorite works, but his guitars brought out a subtle silence that stirs conversation. And only a genius of his stature could conjure up a muted oxymoron.