Off-peak subway riders are quite different from those during rush hour. The lack of urgency for most of the passengers can be felt; even if they are not engaged in conversation that makes this obvious. There are virtually no expressions of desperation or dread; more likely you will see expressions of amusement.
Tourists
It is rare to see tourists in single file in New York. Thanks to our (in)famous TV crime shows – NYPD Blue, Law & Order, CSI New York – the world is convinced that New York City is a hotbed of crime, so groups of fewer than four are rare. Most do not contain very young children, perhaps for the same reason. This is mostly regarded as a good thing.
Tourist groups are typically made up of adults of similar age, but sometimes consist of parents and their adult or teen children. About half of them do not carry street or subway maps within the city limits; this alone is insufficient to identify an out-of-towner. The other evening on a downtown #1 train a group of English females was reading the illuminated subway map aloud to each other and speculating on how long it would take to get to Canal Street. It was obvious to at least one native, a titian-haired woman in midtown black, that this was their first visit. As she got up to disembark at 18th Street she said to them “Enjoy your visit… and shop ‘till you drop!” “Thank you!” they all replied with a laugh.
Tourists, for understandable reasons, do not generally like to deal with reading material on the subway. For them, the ride is part of the real New York Experience.
Parentzillas
Perhaps the most obnoxious human subgroup, these are the entitlement-monsters whose offspring will someday be worse than they are. If pushing a pram they will heedlessly crash into other passengers with no apologies tendered. If the infant in the pram suddenly begins screaming, they will not have the grace to be embarrassed. Half of them will allow the child to continue screaming, ignoring the pained looks on the faces of their fellow passengers. The other half will attempt to placate the infant with food in one form or another, but the Urban Anthropologist suspects this is more about their own annoyance than about consideration for others.
In a few short years these same Parentzillas will be entering the subway car with Bratzilla who will typically spend his or her time swinging on the pole, running up and down the car, or fighting with a sibling. In the same percentage of time the Parentzilla attempts to rein in Bratzilla s/he will usually bang feet against the area below the seat. Many passengers have been seen to breathe sighs of relief upon the departure of such a family.
Teens
Most teens are riding the subway during off-peak hours in single-gender packs, usually identifiable by ethnicity or interest. Most seem oblivious to the world around them, but do not behave this way with the intent to offend others. Usually seen on weekends and – in most areas of the city – completely harmless except for their decibel level. The Urban Anthropologist can only blame volume levels on the iPod for that. If not in single-gender packs they are often in couples, still oblivious to the world because they are in Romeo and Juliet mode. The rest of the world often wishes life would still be like that.
The Unemployed
About half the members of this group look like George Costanza, as though they are on their way to job interviews in their neatly-pressed clothes and usually holding a copy of The Wall Street Journal or their industry’s trade publication. It is sometimes possible to decipher whether or not their meeting has already taken place and even how it went; most look very apprehensive before and relieved after. Those who feel it went well are usually reading a fresh copy of The New York Times, most of the time with the patented “commuter fold.”
Seniors
Most avoid the subway during rush and understandably so; even if the fare discount were in effect then most of this group would prefer to avoid the crush of humanity. Whether singly or in a small group, most are usually shopping. Most often seen during the hours between late breakfast and late lunch, the single ones are busy reading while the others engage in conversation. Some make a point of observing the more outrageously dressed teens, with facial expressions that telegraph “I’m glad I’m not young anymore.”
Shift Workers
They resemble the blue-collar workers seen during rush hour, but usually can manage to find a seat. They often look weary even before they start their days, as though all the scientists are right in saying that something gets upset when people reverse the workday. Their facial expressions seem to say “I’m glad my kids are on their way home instead.”
If Studs Turkel were still alive he would love to interview today’s subway passengers and perhaps someday the Urban Anthropologist will interview rather than merely observe. And wonder whether the contact will make a difference to anyone.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Subway I: Rush Hour
No major city should be without this utterly essential form of transportation. In most cities the fare is determined by distance while in New York it is possible to go from the northernmost part of the Bronx to the southernmost point in Brooklyn for the same $2 it takes to get from Lincoln Center to 14th Street. Another feature of the New York one is its 24-hour nature. While not all lines operate 25/7 there are some that do so one is rarely stranded after extra hours in the office or late socializing. The fact that there are people standing on any subway train at midnight speaks volumes about the near 24-hour schedule. However, I wouldn’t want to be on it much later than that.
Danger Is Largely An Urban Legend
Reports of the dangers of the New York subway are greatly exaggerated. Anyone who believes they need to make out their wills before getting on the F train has seen too many screenings of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, which is a complete work of fiction. The worst danger in the New York subway is catching a cold during a crowded rush hour trip to or from work. Tales of people being pushed off the platform by escaped mental patients make headlines because they are rare.
Comedienne Liz Torres used to say she got her best material from the subways. Based on the characters in them I believe this completely.
Passengers
Unlike those stereotypically New York characters in Pelham’s ill-fated subway car, the passengers one sees are a more diverse lot. In the course of one commute it is possible to observe every rush hour type:
The Executive
Twenty, even fifteen years ago, they always had briefcases. Those are now a thing that will help future generations date a film and any executive – of either gender – carrying a similarly-sized bag will have a laptop computer. These are never opened during a morning commute, as those are rarely long enough to accomplish anything meaningful and under crowded conditions the unit is at risk of damage from dropping. Some have eschewed the laptop for the crackberry which, as soon as the tunnels support the signals of the various carriers, will claim their last vestige of freedom from the corporate leash.
Probably half the males and a third of the females of this species are sporting Bluetooth devices. These have become so commonplace the Urban Anthropologist wonders why some clever designer hasn’t come out with a line of decorative wear for them. This could potentially include leather coverings to match shoes, silk ones to match ties, and metal decorations not unlike those on a traje de charro or US cowboy wear. A Jolly Roger, perhaps, for a corporate upstart? Elephants and donkeys to show political affiliation? Ladies’ Bluetooth devices can be covered to match clothes or jewelry. Those peacock-fanned earrings worn by movie ladies in cheongsam dresses come to mind…
The Blue Collar
They don’t wear suits, but they have the same Bluetooth and cell phones. They are usually more talkative among themselves than Executives, though, probably because they don’t have much opportunity to do this at their workplace. They are also visible at other hours of the day.
The Student
Most of these are more casually dressed than any student of previous generations. Many actually carry books and paper notebooks despite the battle cry of the technocrats who announce that laptops are mandatory even for high school students. Perhaps these are carried in their characteristic accessory – the dreaded backpack, which typically hits a shorter commuter in the face with any sudden move or turn.
The Parent / Nanny
Prams, even the folding kind, are the bane of many commuters’ existence. The embarrassed expressions on half the women who maneuver them reveal their ambivalence about bringing them on board at rush hour, attempting to beat the stopwatch that determines how long the doors remain open. Most try to remain near the doors for an easier exit. Most of the children in the prams, if they are not asleep, are miraculously quiet. Perhaps because they have become accustomed to the early morning commute. Perhaps the next generation’s Urban Anthropologist is among them, already learning to observe his fellow passengers.
Former mental patients who often plant themselves firmly in front of a seated passenger until they give them something or exit the train
Clean, modestly-dressed women who recite hard-luck stories about widowhood and children. Some are very believable the first two times, but when one sees them six months later, one wonders whether this is, in fact, their choice to do. Alternatively, they could be conducting a social experiment
Musicians, usually singers traveling in trios or quartets. Unlike the buskers of Music Under New York they usually sing a capella. Many of them are actually good; the most common sound is R&B or doo-wop. Occasionally one sees a Mexican Regional group in this venue but, alas, the Urban Anthropologist has yet to spot the next Pablo Montero among them. Despite that, most are good enough to merit donations for which they graciously thank the passenger
Kids, usually selling candy for some school trip or team. Which speaks volumes about how public education is sorely in need of better management. Many have forced smiles and look as though they’d rather do anything else
It sets a bad precedent
Any busker at the next stop could be worse.
On the main floor in the Times Square stop is an elderly gentleman who plays en electronic keyboard, accompanied by some rather creepy dancing dolls. It is possible to co close one’s eyes to his music and picture an afternoon at the skating rink except… it is immensely foolish to close one’s eyes in any public place. It's better to head over to the Virgin Megastore to look for music to your taste.
Danger Is Largely An Urban Legend
Reports of the dangers of the New York subway are greatly exaggerated. Anyone who believes they need to make out their wills before getting on the F train has seen too many screenings of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, which is a complete work of fiction. The worst danger in the New York subway is catching a cold during a crowded rush hour trip to or from work. Tales of people being pushed off the platform by escaped mental patients make headlines because they are rare.
Comedienne Liz Torres used to say she got her best material from the subways. Based on the characters in them I believe this completely.
Passengers
Unlike those stereotypically New York characters in Pelham’s ill-fated subway car, the passengers one sees are a more diverse lot. In the course of one commute it is possible to observe every rush hour type:
The Executive
Twenty, even fifteen years ago, they always had briefcases. Those are now a thing that will help future generations date a film and any executive – of either gender – carrying a similarly-sized bag will have a laptop computer. These are never opened during a morning commute, as those are rarely long enough to accomplish anything meaningful and under crowded conditions the unit is at risk of damage from dropping. Some have eschewed the laptop for the crackberry which, as soon as the tunnels support the signals of the various carriers, will claim their last vestige of freedom from the corporate leash.
Probably half the males and a third of the females of this species are sporting Bluetooth devices. These have become so commonplace the Urban Anthropologist wonders why some clever designer hasn’t come out with a line of decorative wear for them. This could potentially include leather coverings to match shoes, silk ones to match ties, and metal decorations not unlike those on a traje de charro or US cowboy wear. A Jolly Roger, perhaps, for a corporate upstart? Elephants and donkeys to show political affiliation? Ladies’ Bluetooth devices can be covered to match clothes or jewelry. Those peacock-fanned earrings worn by movie ladies in cheongsam dresses come to mind…
The Blue Collar
They don’t wear suits, but they have the same Bluetooth and cell phones. They are usually more talkative among themselves than Executives, though, probably because they don’t have much opportunity to do this at their workplace. They are also visible at other hours of the day.
The Student
Most of these are more casually dressed than any student of previous generations. Many actually carry books and paper notebooks despite the battle cry of the technocrats who announce that laptops are mandatory even for high school students. Perhaps these are carried in their characteristic accessory – the dreaded backpack, which typically hits a shorter commuter in the face with any sudden move or turn.
The Parent / Nanny
Prams, even the folding kind, are the bane of many commuters’ existence. The embarrassed expressions on half the women who maneuver them reveal their ambivalence about bringing them on board at rush hour, attempting to beat the stopwatch that determines how long the doors remain open. Most try to remain near the doors for an easier exit. Most of the children in the prams, if they are not asleep, are miraculously quiet. Perhaps because they have become accustomed to the early morning commute. Perhaps the next generation’s Urban Anthropologist is among them, already learning to observe his fellow passengers.
The Island
Regardless of social status, the Island is the individual who locks out the rest of humanity by use of an iPod or other similar device. Some, alas, will become truly isolated through deafness within a few years, based on the volume at which they listen to their favourite music. If a passenger five feet away can hear song lyrics, there is damage being done to someone’s eardrums.
The Beggar
When it comes to beggars in the subway, the Urban Anthropologist is a hardened urban cynic. Their numbers during rush hours are sufficient that at a dollar a head per day encountered, my takehome pay would be thoroughly depleted before the next paycheck. The most notable of these beggars are usually
The Homeless
It is a guarantee that you normally do not see a half-empty subway car during rush hour. If you do, it’s empty because a long-term homeless person is in it, requiring any passengers inside to keep a distance from the stench. Most will not venture near such a person out of fear that s/he is a mental patient not taking psychotropic medication. Surely anyone who hasn’t bathed since the Clinton administration could not be mentally healthy. Once in a while you will hear an announcement on a platform “Due to a sick passenger at 14th Street, all Number 5 train service will be delayed” the transit police are likely to be removing a passenger like this. Leave them to their job.
The Busker
The Good:
Music Under New York includes among its members professionals and semi-pros who perform for donations and sell their self-produced CDs. Those lucky or good enough to merit the prime locations often draw crowds who listen through entire songs and purchase the CDs. Mecca Bodega, an unusual duo, are one of the leading attractions, playing their folk-indie music on hand drums and the hammered dulcimer in Grand Central Station or other key connecting points. Many fans stay for more than one song; one almost expects the next listener to pass over a joint.
William Ruiz, another percussionist, can sometimes be found on the 7 train platform in Grand Central, playing his Afro-Indian influenced music that somehow keeps rhythm with the train itself. One almost wants to miss the train to listen to him, but he does have CDs available for purchase.
The Bad:
Down in the East Village a few years ago was a would-be Bob Dylan impersonator who haunted the 8th Street station. The Urban Anthropologist is no major fan of Dylan, but is quick to say that nothing sounds worse than a bad imitator of him. Perhaps it was the guitar being out of tune but the domino effect of this man’s performance capability made one long for the arrival of any train.
A soprano saxophonist who hangs out at the 59th Street station puts one in mind of the sadder notes Tony Curtis drew from the sax in Some Like It Hot. Except that from a soprano sax the sound is sufficiently painful at the end of a stressful day to make the Urban Anthropologist contemplate offering him $5 to refrain from playing until the arrival of the next train – either next train. Only two things prevent this:
On the main floor in the Times Square stop is an elderly gentleman who plays en electronic keyboard, accompanied by some rather creepy dancing dolls. It is possible to co close one’s eyes to his music and picture an afternoon at the skating rink except… it is immensely foolish to close one’s eyes in any public place. It's better to head over to the Virgin Megastore to look for music to your taste.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Gender Wars I: Entertainment and The Laws of Attraction
It is in cities and metropolises that entertainment is born. It is there and only there that people have the leisure and wherewithal to indulge their fantasies and to observe the polarization of the sexes over them.
Music Hath Charms… and the Elvis Effect
One does not need to be an ornithologist to know that male birds essentially have one of three paths to the females: Songs, plumage, and construction or provider skills. Perhaps the reason that human males feel intimidated is because human females can theoretically demand all three while the avian inhabitants of this planet are limited to one per species.
Male musicians have understood this ever since the beginning of city life in ancient times. Pindar and Ovid don’t tell us how Orpheus dressed, but the Urban Anthropologist is certain that his chitons were of the finest available fabrics, with gold trim and purple embroidery. The bards of the ancient world and well into the 18th century sought patronage from the wealthy in order to fit in with them and acquire their kind of plumage. If we buy into the theory that male creative geniuses do their best work when they are single in order to impress females we therefore can understand why talent agents want their male clients to be single. The illusion of their availability then becomes a bonus that works in their favor.
Movies and television have served to push the standard higher and higher. We can call this the Elvis Effect. It is no longer sufficient for an opera singer to merely have a beautiful voice; he must now also be matinee-idol handsome. The best current example is Juan Diego Florez, the Peruvian tenor who drew standing ovations last season at the Met in Il Barbieri di Siviglia. Vocally and physically he resembles the young Placido Domingo who at 66 is still handsome and in excellent voice. Both are appearing at the Met this season and the performances are mostly sold out. Ladies dressed to the nines will stand up and applaud discreetly in front of male escorts and friends, most of them of the mind that they are there solely for the music.
That has never been true, and we can prove it historically. The 19th-century composer and piano virtuoso Franz Liszt was the originator of turning the piano sideways so that the open lid faced the audience, enabling them to better hear the music. Cynics of the day wondered whether this wasn’t motivated by the other benefit Liszt gained: Enabling the females to see his incredibly handsome profile. Other musicians criticized the groupie behavior of these women who would steal his gloves and handkerchiefs, describing it as inappropriate and vulgar. More likely, they were envious. Liszt never married, by the way; he womanized well into old age through prolific years of musical innovation. As a post-script to his story, his daughter Cosima eventually married Richard Wagner, whose music is perhaps the most erotic in the entire classical repertoire.
The parents of the generation that crowned Elvis Presley King of Rock ‘n’ Roll were in abject shock at the frenzied behavior of females in his audience. The screaming, fainting, and approaches to the apron of the stage were incomprehensible to them. Of course, most would not have read biographies of the great composers and therefore would not have known about Franz Liszt’s groupies.
The Urban Anthropologist is too young to have been present at an Elvis concert, but sees parallels in the Latin music world. In Mexico the Elvis Effect probably began with Vicente Fernandez, who is El Rey in the world of ranchera music. He first recorded in the 1960s and, like Elvis, had a long string of successful films. At 67 years of age he’s still going strong, like Señor Domingo, and still photogenic. The next generation after him carries on this tradition and leading that group is his own superbly gifted middle son.
The charro singers of past generations were men of superior vocal ability and often affable personality. However, most of them pale in comparison to current ones of the Elvis Effect. Submitted for your consideration is the description of the latter-day Orpheus: Tallish, fair-complexioned, mostly European in appearance, with thick dark hair and strong masculine features. While the backup band’s uniforms are often cream-colored or light brown, Orpheus wears black. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that he is the supreme alpha male in that room. To be an ordinary male in the audience of Alejandro Fernandez or Pablo Montero is to be almost invisible.
As an advertising professional, the Urban Anthropologist loves to quantify things. While no math genius, it was not difficult to estimate that audiences of either of these modern Orpheuses are usually at least 75% female. Mexican ancestry is not required to appreciate their voices, best described as a blend of heroic, romantic, and sexy. They are best displayed in small to medium venues that make it possible to have the up-close-and-personal experience. One of the legends about Fernandez the Younger is about women throwing their bras onstage at his feet. This is a fact. Here the Urban Anthropologist must express pride at being a New Yorker, as New York women are more nervy than that. At the former Felt Forum they were handing them to him over the security rail, with notes attached to them. He read them all and one of those notes made him blush. One wonders what any woman could write that would bring a blush to the face of an international playboy whose sex appeal is so dangerous one wants to compose an opera about Dracula in order to cast him in it.
At a smaller venue more recently 93.1 Amor held an event starring Pablo Montero. In his black traje de charro, Señor Montero is a fairy-tale prince, graciously accepting felicitations and kisses from ladies who approach the stage. Some had flowers; an elegantly-dressed blonde of indeterminate age bestowed a huge bouquet of red roses for which she received a kiss from this handsome prince … and a hostile reaction from another female, one not bearing a floral tribute. Señor Montero’s voice is that ageless range that identifies him as the romantic hero from movies and the pages of novels. He may have become famous singing sad love songs but a man so gifted by the Muses will never need to be lonely.
The Body Politic
It is an entertainment truism that every murder investigation must involve at least one visit to a strip club. While this is clearly pandering to the prurient interests of the audience, the Urban Anthropologist sees a connexion. It is the same mindset that allowed prostitution to flourish in the shadow of the Roman Coliseum, where some men became sexually aroused by the sight of violence.
In the modern world strippers and “exotic dancers”, by the nature of their work, appear to be the ultimate available females. Many of them are surgically enhanced, courtesy of earlier patrons who pay for lap dances. Between them and the airbrushed images in the pornography some are addicted to, their images and expectations of women cannot be commensurate with reality. Mostly naked and blatantly coming on to their patrons, they make no pretense at interest in their hearts. The mostly insecure males who enter these establishments pay expensively for the illusion of sexual congress with these distant heiresses of Gypsy Rose Lee. Unlike Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts, however, most of these men have no real access to the full sexual favors of these women. Yet, to observe their behaviors one would think that all they need do is crook a finger and flash their cash.
Ah, there’s the rub. For while a picture of General Grant or Benjamin Franklin can buy them temporary company, it takes a great deal more of a different asset for long-term devotion which, most of the time, these men are not aware is what they truly want. The mental compartmentalization many of these men do degrades these women rather than admiring their sense of rhythm or athleticism; pole dancing isn’t easy, nor does it even look it. But how many men who patronize these establishments are bachelor partiers and how many do so for dissatisfaction with the women in their personal lives? We will never know, because we can never expect any of them to admit such a thing.
Thus, while women wonder and complain about and attempt to understand why the men in their lives turn to strippers or internet porn for sexual satisfaction, they are missing a very important point: Men pay these women to take away the power of other women to judge them. They fear the rejection of the women whose favors are bought with music or charisma. The Urban Anthropologist therefore advises all women not to fear the strippers and porn images, for they serve as the winnowing process in the mating game.
Music Hath Charms… and the Elvis Effect
One does not need to be an ornithologist to know that male birds essentially have one of three paths to the females: Songs, plumage, and construction or provider skills. Perhaps the reason that human males feel intimidated is because human females can theoretically demand all three while the avian inhabitants of this planet are limited to one per species.
Male musicians have understood this ever since the beginning of city life in ancient times. Pindar and Ovid don’t tell us how Orpheus dressed, but the Urban Anthropologist is certain that his chitons were of the finest available fabrics, with gold trim and purple embroidery. The bards of the ancient world and well into the 18th century sought patronage from the wealthy in order to fit in with them and acquire their kind of plumage. If we buy into the theory that male creative geniuses do their best work when they are single in order to impress females we therefore can understand why talent agents want their male clients to be single. The illusion of their availability then becomes a bonus that works in their favor.
Movies and television have served to push the standard higher and higher. We can call this the Elvis Effect. It is no longer sufficient for an opera singer to merely have a beautiful voice; he must now also be matinee-idol handsome. The best current example is Juan Diego Florez, the Peruvian tenor who drew standing ovations last season at the Met in Il Barbieri di Siviglia. Vocally and physically he resembles the young Placido Domingo who at 66 is still handsome and in excellent voice. Both are appearing at the Met this season and the performances are mostly sold out. Ladies dressed to the nines will stand up and applaud discreetly in front of male escorts and friends, most of them of the mind that they are there solely for the music.
That has never been true, and we can prove it historically. The 19th-century composer and piano virtuoso Franz Liszt was the originator of turning the piano sideways so that the open lid faced the audience, enabling them to better hear the music. Cynics of the day wondered whether this wasn’t motivated by the other benefit Liszt gained: Enabling the females to see his incredibly handsome profile. Other musicians criticized the groupie behavior of these women who would steal his gloves and handkerchiefs, describing it as inappropriate and vulgar. More likely, they were envious. Liszt never married, by the way; he womanized well into old age through prolific years of musical innovation. As a post-script to his story, his daughter Cosima eventually married Richard Wagner, whose music is perhaps the most erotic in the entire classical repertoire.
The parents of the generation that crowned Elvis Presley King of Rock ‘n’ Roll were in abject shock at the frenzied behavior of females in his audience. The screaming, fainting, and approaches to the apron of the stage were incomprehensible to them. Of course, most would not have read biographies of the great composers and therefore would not have known about Franz Liszt’s groupies.
The Urban Anthropologist is too young to have been present at an Elvis concert, but sees parallels in the Latin music world. In Mexico the Elvis Effect probably began with Vicente Fernandez, who is El Rey in the world of ranchera music. He first recorded in the 1960s and, like Elvis, had a long string of successful films. At 67 years of age he’s still going strong, like Señor Domingo, and still photogenic. The next generation after him carries on this tradition and leading that group is his own superbly gifted middle son.
The charro singers of past generations were men of superior vocal ability and often affable personality. However, most of them pale in comparison to current ones of the Elvis Effect. Submitted for your consideration is the description of the latter-day Orpheus: Tallish, fair-complexioned, mostly European in appearance, with thick dark hair and strong masculine features. While the backup band’s uniforms are often cream-colored or light brown, Orpheus wears black. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that he is the supreme alpha male in that room. To be an ordinary male in the audience of Alejandro Fernandez or Pablo Montero is to be almost invisible.
As an advertising professional, the Urban Anthropologist loves to quantify things. While no math genius, it was not difficult to estimate that audiences of either of these modern Orpheuses are usually at least 75% female. Mexican ancestry is not required to appreciate their voices, best described as a blend of heroic, romantic, and sexy. They are best displayed in small to medium venues that make it possible to have the up-close-and-personal experience. One of the legends about Fernandez the Younger is about women throwing their bras onstage at his feet. This is a fact. Here the Urban Anthropologist must express pride at being a New Yorker, as New York women are more nervy than that. At the former Felt Forum they were handing them to him over the security rail, with notes attached to them. He read them all and one of those notes made him blush. One wonders what any woman could write that would bring a blush to the face of an international playboy whose sex appeal is so dangerous one wants to compose an opera about Dracula in order to cast him in it.
At a smaller venue more recently 93.1 Amor held an event starring Pablo Montero. In his black traje de charro, Señor Montero is a fairy-tale prince, graciously accepting felicitations and kisses from ladies who approach the stage. Some had flowers; an elegantly-dressed blonde of indeterminate age bestowed a huge bouquet of red roses for which she received a kiss from this handsome prince … and a hostile reaction from another female, one not bearing a floral tribute. Señor Montero’s voice is that ageless range that identifies him as the romantic hero from movies and the pages of novels. He may have become famous singing sad love songs but a man so gifted by the Muses will never need to be lonely.
The Body Politic
It is an entertainment truism that every murder investigation must involve at least one visit to a strip club. While this is clearly pandering to the prurient interests of the audience, the Urban Anthropologist sees a connexion. It is the same mindset that allowed prostitution to flourish in the shadow of the Roman Coliseum, where some men became sexually aroused by the sight of violence.
In the modern world strippers and “exotic dancers”, by the nature of their work, appear to be the ultimate available females. Many of them are surgically enhanced, courtesy of earlier patrons who pay for lap dances. Between them and the airbrushed images in the pornography some are addicted to, their images and expectations of women cannot be commensurate with reality. Mostly naked and blatantly coming on to their patrons, they make no pretense at interest in their hearts. The mostly insecure males who enter these establishments pay expensively for the illusion of sexual congress with these distant heiresses of Gypsy Rose Lee. Unlike Tony Soprano and Paulie Walnuts, however, most of these men have no real access to the full sexual favors of these women. Yet, to observe their behaviors one would think that all they need do is crook a finger and flash their cash.
Ah, there’s the rub. For while a picture of General Grant or Benjamin Franklin can buy them temporary company, it takes a great deal more of a different asset for long-term devotion which, most of the time, these men are not aware is what they truly want. The mental compartmentalization many of these men do degrades these women rather than admiring their sense of rhythm or athleticism; pole dancing isn’t easy, nor does it even look it. But how many men who patronize these establishments are bachelor partiers and how many do so for dissatisfaction with the women in their personal lives? We will never know, because we can never expect any of them to admit such a thing.
Thus, while women wonder and complain about and attempt to understand why the men in their lives turn to strippers or internet porn for sexual satisfaction, they are missing a very important point: Men pay these women to take away the power of other women to judge them. They fear the rejection of the women whose favors are bought with music or charisma. The Urban Anthropologist therefore advises all women not to fear the strippers and porn images, for they serve as the winnowing process in the mating game.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Alienation
WE’RE ALL CONNECTED… or are we?
We have all manner of technology that keeps us “connected” today but the ultimate irony is how distanced we are from each other. Probably 75% of the people you see on the street these days have cell phones and more than 50% are using them. Why aren’t they hanging out with the people they’re talking to instead of walking alone on the street? Have all our lives become the same multi-tasking events we do at our desks that we have halved our relationships with others? I remember once sitting in a restaurant and seeing three young women being led to a table. Each was talking on her own cell phone. To whom? And what was this doing to their shared dining experience?
Crackberries are all over the place. Yes, I said “crackberries.” Two people I work with are completely lost without theirs. A third is refusing to get one because “I get one of those and my life is over.” It’s become the ultimate electronic leash to one’s boss and office. Text-messaging is now a standard cell phone plan feature, and the Urban Anthropologist hereby predicts that all cell phones will shortly have Qwerty keypads to facilitate more text messaging. However, it’s very unlikely that whole words will make a comeback in the resulting messages.
IN STARBUCKS HALF THE CHAIRS ARE ALWAYS EMPTY
Except for the ones located in shopping malls, Starbucks is the antithesis of the coffeehouse of the beatnik past. In those days people would gather and read each other their poetry, debut their songs, even display their art. You never knew whether the table next to you would contain the next great artistic genius, the future pundit who would be a great talk show guest or columnist, the Urban Anthropologist whose essays on modern man would illuminate the current generation.
Nowadays the tables are typically occupied by solitary souls. The place at the other chair holds the book, notebook (paper or electronic) and the cell phone that optimally connects its owner to other (probably solitary) beings. Some of them are students preparing term papers or studying for finals. Others work, building websites. Others visit MySpace.com or feed their information addiction through surfing. One woman spotted recently was crocheting while watching a DVD, listening through headphones. All are solitary, with looks or body language that doesn’t invite intrusion.
Are these people seeking refuge from crowded households, escape from empty ones, or are they merely enjoying the air conditioning? It is rare to see pairs or groups hang out there, talking leisurely over the soy decaf latte.
VOICEMAIL AND OTHER FORMS OF PASSIVE AGGRESSION
Anyone who works in an office knows that voicemail and e-mail are grossly abused. How many times does a day the average white-collar worker play voicemail tag with clients or colleagues? How many of those times is it deliberate? Every website about office life inevitably has an article that says that the average office worker receives 300 e-mails a day and spends 4 hours dealing with it. Is this faster than talking to someone? How often have you read stories about people e-mailing the person at the next desk about whether they are phoning out or going out for lunch instead of just peeking over the cubicle wall to ask? There is also the joke about a family of three having 10 e-mail addresses. An old friend sometimes laments the lost art of letter-writing; the Urban Anthropologist is mourning conversation.
What would Oscar Wilde or George Bernard Shaw think of Instant Messaging? “The end of civilized discourse” would probably be the first comment. The abbreviated nature of this communication form is poisonous to the bon mots that make conversation memorable and quotable. It’s the next generation of newspeak, the short-attention-span quickbyte that puts a stake in the heart of good grammar, usage, and spelling. We’ve all also had voicemails longer than these.
The Urban Anthropologist refuses to be an apologist for it; educated people need to step back from techno-communications, pick up their pens, and write out invitations. Whether said invitations are for tea or cocktails is irrelevant; the meeting place almost equally so provided that conversation is the key element of the encounter. It would be very fitting for everyone with a local Starbucks and a few friends to commandeer the largest table in it for a regular gathering. With all personal technology turned off to avoid interruptions.
We have all manner of technology that keeps us “connected” today but the ultimate irony is how distanced we are from each other. Probably 75% of the people you see on the street these days have cell phones and more than 50% are using them. Why aren’t they hanging out with the people they’re talking to instead of walking alone on the street? Have all our lives become the same multi-tasking events we do at our desks that we have halved our relationships with others? I remember once sitting in a restaurant and seeing three young women being led to a table. Each was talking on her own cell phone. To whom? And what was this doing to their shared dining experience?
Crackberries are all over the place. Yes, I said “crackberries.” Two people I work with are completely lost without theirs. A third is refusing to get one because “I get one of those and my life is over.” It’s become the ultimate electronic leash to one’s boss and office. Text-messaging is now a standard cell phone plan feature, and the Urban Anthropologist hereby predicts that all cell phones will shortly have Qwerty keypads to facilitate more text messaging. However, it’s very unlikely that whole words will make a comeback in the resulting messages.
IN STARBUCKS HALF THE CHAIRS ARE ALWAYS EMPTY
Except for the ones located in shopping malls, Starbucks is the antithesis of the coffeehouse of the beatnik past. In those days people would gather and read each other their poetry, debut their songs, even display their art. You never knew whether the table next to you would contain the next great artistic genius, the future pundit who would be a great talk show guest or columnist, the Urban Anthropologist whose essays on modern man would illuminate the current generation.
Nowadays the tables are typically occupied by solitary souls. The place at the other chair holds the book, notebook (paper or electronic) and the cell phone that optimally connects its owner to other (probably solitary) beings. Some of them are students preparing term papers or studying for finals. Others work, building websites. Others visit MySpace.com or feed their information addiction through surfing. One woman spotted recently was crocheting while watching a DVD, listening through headphones. All are solitary, with looks or body language that doesn’t invite intrusion.
Are these people seeking refuge from crowded households, escape from empty ones, or are they merely enjoying the air conditioning? It is rare to see pairs or groups hang out there, talking leisurely over the soy decaf latte.
VOICEMAIL AND OTHER FORMS OF PASSIVE AGGRESSION
Anyone who works in an office knows that voicemail and e-mail are grossly abused. How many times does a day the average white-collar worker play voicemail tag with clients or colleagues? How many of those times is it deliberate? Every website about office life inevitably has an article that says that the average office worker receives 300 e-mails a day and spends 4 hours dealing with it. Is this faster than talking to someone? How often have you read stories about people e-mailing the person at the next desk about whether they are phoning out or going out for lunch instead of just peeking over the cubicle wall to ask? There is also the joke about a family of three having 10 e-mail addresses. An old friend sometimes laments the lost art of letter-writing; the Urban Anthropologist is mourning conversation.
What would Oscar Wilde or George Bernard Shaw think of Instant Messaging? “The end of civilized discourse” would probably be the first comment. The abbreviated nature of this communication form is poisonous to the bon mots that make conversation memorable and quotable. It’s the next generation of newspeak, the short-attention-span quickbyte that puts a stake in the heart of good grammar, usage, and spelling. We’ve all also had voicemails longer than these.
The Urban Anthropologist refuses to be an apologist for it; educated people need to step back from techno-communications, pick up their pens, and write out invitations. Whether said invitations are for tea or cocktails is irrelevant; the meeting place almost equally so provided that conversation is the key element of the encounter. It would be very fitting for everyone with a local Starbucks and a few friends to commandeer the largest table in it for a regular gathering. With all personal technology turned off to avoid interruptions.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Quick Bytes: Food In the City I
Whole books have been written on this subject. It’s a known fact that New York City is the restaurant capital of the world. Why, therefore, does the Urban Anthropologist feel the need to comment?
Because variety is the spice of life, the endless diversity of New York breeds more and more varieties of cuisine and venues types to buy or consume it in. If by magic all the chain establishments would vanish there would not only be higher quality places to eat in, there would be enough different ones to satisfy anyone. This entry does not purport to provide reviews so much as a bird’s eye view of the food scene and the purpose of each element. There is likely to be a later installment.
The Street I
Few people outside of New York are aware of this but we have The Vendy Awards. These are issued annually to street food vendors for the quality and uniqueness of their hot food products. Finalists in the most recent competition include masters of schwarma, jerk chicken, tacos, and falafel. Halal vendors have become very popular in recent times, providing schwarma, spicy chicken, or beef with rice and salad for as little as $4. The Food Network covers this scene and food critics have written up the fare from these interesting mobile establishments. Past winners and finalists have included vendors of Italian sausages, souvlaki, gyros, and baked potatoes with fillings. There are sellers of soup, Indian food, arepas, and German wursts. In Chinatown vendors sell egg rolls, pork dumplings, and scallion pancakes. Virtually all hotdog vendors stock kosher ones with all the trimmings.
Of course, the greatest variety of these vendors is to be found in midtown near the office towers such as Time-Life and the Empire State Building. Most of their foods can be consumed on the hoof, the preferred mode of travel in New York. Most vendors will wrap their foods more securely if you’re brave enough to take it back to your office and endure the disapproval at the aromatic atmosphere that happens as soon as you uncover your beef kofta. Lucky patrons in the Radio City area can find street benches and steps on which to sit and dine al fresco. This food scene has come a long way from mere hotdogs, knishes, and pretzels.
It’s also, curiously, still almost unique to New York. The Urban Anthropologist remembers an incident from years past in midtown. While queued up for a street vendor for an Italian sausage-and-peppers hero sandwich it was impossible not to overhear the following conversation between the two well-dressed gentlemen who were vendor’s next patrons:
“You’re really lucky to be able to get such food so cheap; we don’t have this in Chicago.”
“Really? I thought all cities had them.”
“Nope. I wish we did; lunch is awfully expensive.”
New York has the greatest variety of street food, including coffee and croissants in the morning and fresh fruit all day. Finally, what’s more New York than a knish?
The (Mostly Kosher) Deli Scene
These are not completely unique to New York, but are certainly not as numerous elsewhere. The Urban Anthropologist and colleagues once dined at the old location of the Second Avenue Deli with an advertising vendor who arrived with his counterpart from the Boston office. The New Englander had never had chopped liver or corned beef on rye as it was meant to be experienced. Our host ordered the Chicken in the Pot, which was a chicken soup with half a chicken on the bone, easily enough for three or four people. Using the extra rye bread from the appetizer, I made a second sandwich with the profligate excess pastrami in the one I ordered and took that back to the office later, along with the sour pickles left in the bowl. Two months later we got a call from this same vendor with a repeat invitation: His colleague was in town again and plotzing about how eager he was for another kosher nosh. It did not surprise the Urban Anthropologist that our host was hungry for this hearty food of his New York childhood. In his words, “That’s soul food, Mamma!”
Law & Order fans will recall Lennie Briscoe’s favorite “Pastrami on rye and don’t trim the fat” from the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue. In the summer or during the holiday shopping season there is typically a forty-minute wait for a table at lunchtime. This can also be observed across the street at Benash’s and at the Stage Deli a block south. Most of these places have similar crowded interiors with autographed celebrity photos on the walls above eye level (as in about half of midtown eateries), but the attraction is the food. Pricey by daily standards, whether your pleasure is matzoh ball soup, chopped liver, potato latkes, or anything else, the food is delicious. The motto must be “Nothing succeeds like excess” because the amount of meat in a sandwich is astounding to all but a native New Yorker. At Benash’s a corned beef sandwich costs $13 and weighs more than a pound. As it is unwise to clean one’s plate, all waitstaff are prepared to box leftovers. Don’t forget the pickles; you don’t get ones like this anywhere else.
The Street II
“New York is a summer festival” in the words of a tourist campaign of years past. There are so many street fairs in New York during the summer and most are well-attended and noisy. There are ones that are specifically food-oriented and staffed by restauranteurs in the area, but in those that are mostly outdoor malls, virtually every fourth or fifth vendor will be selling street food.
The greatest variety of street food is likely to be found in Queens, the most diverse county in the state, where everything from halal to South American can be found. Italian vendors, probably the same ones to be found at Little Italy’s San Gennaro Feast in September, share the scene with Hispanic vendors, competing for share of stomach through a typical 7- or 8-hour event. In between shopping for cut-rate store items, silver jewelry, sunglasses, cosmetics, and even ethnic art, one can indulge the taste buds with hearty ethnic foods every few steps.
Sausage and pepper hero sandwiches ($8 average price) and fried calamari battle with empanadas, pernil, ropa vieja, arepas, and roasted corn with a variety of condiments not found in Anglo kitchens. Where else will you be able to sample corn with chipotle sauce, lime mayonnaise, or jalapeño-flavored butter? Other vendors provide Argentinean and Brazilian-style barbecue whose main item is skirt steak prepared over an open flame. Don’t forget the rice and veggies with that. This latter item doesn’t come cheaply; at $10 one could almost make the argument that another dollar can get you air conditioning and a waitress in the nearby Irish pub. Smart vendors of this fare provide folding chairs for their patrons, as this food requires a plate and a fork and a pause in the midst of shopping.
In Astoria, street fairs always include items from local Greek establishments including – but not limited to – gyros, souvlaki, spanakopita, and baklava. All served with pride and a smile to customers of all ethnicities. It is virtually impossible to not go off one’s diet at these events; you want to sample everything, so it’s best to do this with a friend. Many of these fairs also have vendors of pantry items like restaurant-size containers of dry spices, nuts and candy, and kosher pickles by the quart or half gallon like the ones in the deli restaurant bowls. If you're in New York from out of state, you need to try these.
It is always heartening to see how gastronomically adventurous New Yorkers are and while the Urban Anthropologist usually welcomes the end of the brutal summer heat, the end of street fair season sadly accompanies that.
Pizza
The Urban Anthropologist is not prepared to hunt down the ultimate New York pizzeria. Expert opinions on the subject differ on whether it’s Two Boots in the East Village, Patsy’s at the south end of Harlem, Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, or any of the “Famous Ray’s” in Manhattan that were once the subject of a PBS filler documentary. All that anyone is prepared to agree on is that no New Yorker worthy of the name eats chain pizza.
A curious thing is happening in New York, however, with regard to pizzerias. While most of them still seem to have Italian names and use traditional Italian ingredients (pepperoni is still the most popular), the majority of their workers are now Hispanic. While this has not substantially affected the quality of pizza it has led to the phenomenon of hybrid establishments that offer Hispanic foods in addition to pizza and calzones. One such place on Astoria’s Steinway Street provides traditional Peruvian foods as a lunch special in addition to the now-common $4 two-slices-and-a-soda deal. With 93.1 Amor playing in the background. This would not have happened thirty years ago.
Bagels
No kosher or general deli in the city is complete without these incredible bread donuts, but you are still better off getting them in a specialty place, of which there are many. The flavors of bagels are as numerous as the fillings that can be put into them. The Urban Anthropologist favors salt bagels, well done. These are better than the pretzels sold on the street and in the ballpark.
These are breakfast staples with butter or cream cheese, but can also be found at lunch with cream cheese and lox. Most delis will have this on their menus, but will not offer the broadest variety of bagel flavors. If you want something other than plain, sesame, or poppy-seeded bagels, you need to find a bagel specialist. This can be more of a weekend treat, as most of these establishments are to be found in residential neighborhoods rather than near the office.
Fusion and Confusion I
Another modern venue type is the Asian-Hispanic combination. At the low end one finds takeout establishments heavy on the deep fry where one can order chips and burritos and chow mein that will be delivered by the same guy. So why do these places still have separate menus and separate names on them? The notion of two separate establishments is destroyed at the first transaction. Purists tend to avoid these places in the belief that the integrity of both cuisines is compromised.
New York also provides adaptations unlikely to be found elsewhere. Kosher and halal Chinese are available in various neighborhoods in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. Just pick up some Soy Vey soy sauce in the supermarket to match.
Fusion and Confusion II
Fusion cuisines may happen all over but the best ones in New York are in midtown. The China Grill on 6th Avenue is pan-Asian with influences from China, Thailand, and other countries. One of its signature items, however, is the Crispy Spinach: deep-fried spinach leaves that come out tasting similar to potato chips, therefore quintessentially American. The Peking Duck Salad is a must-have; the fried pieces of duck in a romaine-lettuce based salad with orange-ginger dressing is plentiful, delicious, and not as calorie-laden as so many other NY foods. The atmosphere is large, loud, and filled with the energy of midtown. Patrons are usually people who work in the area’s offices or ticket holders to the matinee at Radio City Music Hall.
Asia de Cuba, popular with the Urban Anthropologist’s colleagues, is another great destination for fusion cuisine… and atmosphere. The geometric Asian décor is offset by the musica tropicale played on the speakers. The calamari salad is similar in concept to the one on the menu at the China Grill except that it contains bananas and is served warm. Like most restaurants with fine food, it is difficult to eat quickly and leave, especially when the atmosphere is conducive to conversation and the desserts are delicious works of modern art.
There is something to suit every New York gastronome and time forbids mention of every possibility in one entry. Keep one thing in mind, however: If it’s not from New York it’s not a pizza, a knish, or a bagel. And probably not even a pickle.
Because variety is the spice of life, the endless diversity of New York breeds more and more varieties of cuisine and venues types to buy or consume it in. If by magic all the chain establishments would vanish there would not only be higher quality places to eat in, there would be enough different ones to satisfy anyone. This entry does not purport to provide reviews so much as a bird’s eye view of the food scene and the purpose of each element. There is likely to be a later installment.
The Street I
Few people outside of New York are aware of this but we have The Vendy Awards. These are issued annually to street food vendors for the quality and uniqueness of their hot food products. Finalists in the most recent competition include masters of schwarma, jerk chicken, tacos, and falafel. Halal vendors have become very popular in recent times, providing schwarma, spicy chicken, or beef with rice and salad for as little as $4. The Food Network covers this scene and food critics have written up the fare from these interesting mobile establishments. Past winners and finalists have included vendors of Italian sausages, souvlaki, gyros, and baked potatoes with fillings. There are sellers of soup, Indian food, arepas, and German wursts. In Chinatown vendors sell egg rolls, pork dumplings, and scallion pancakes. Virtually all hotdog vendors stock kosher ones with all the trimmings.
Of course, the greatest variety of these vendors is to be found in midtown near the office towers such as Time-Life and the Empire State Building. Most of their foods can be consumed on the hoof, the preferred mode of travel in New York. Most vendors will wrap their foods more securely if you’re brave enough to take it back to your office and endure the disapproval at the aromatic atmosphere that happens as soon as you uncover your beef kofta. Lucky patrons in the Radio City area can find street benches and steps on which to sit and dine al fresco. This food scene has come a long way from mere hotdogs, knishes, and pretzels.
It’s also, curiously, still almost unique to New York. The Urban Anthropologist remembers an incident from years past in midtown. While queued up for a street vendor for an Italian sausage-and-peppers hero sandwich it was impossible not to overhear the following conversation between the two well-dressed gentlemen who were vendor’s next patrons:
“You’re really lucky to be able to get such food so cheap; we don’t have this in Chicago.”
“Really? I thought all cities had them.”
“Nope. I wish we did; lunch is awfully expensive.”
New York has the greatest variety of street food, including coffee and croissants in the morning and fresh fruit all day. Finally, what’s more New York than a knish?
The (Mostly Kosher) Deli Scene
These are not completely unique to New York, but are certainly not as numerous elsewhere. The Urban Anthropologist and colleagues once dined at the old location of the Second Avenue Deli with an advertising vendor who arrived with his counterpart from the Boston office. The New Englander had never had chopped liver or corned beef on rye as it was meant to be experienced. Our host ordered the Chicken in the Pot, which was a chicken soup with half a chicken on the bone, easily enough for three or four people. Using the extra rye bread from the appetizer, I made a second sandwich with the profligate excess pastrami in the one I ordered and took that back to the office later, along with the sour pickles left in the bowl. Two months later we got a call from this same vendor with a repeat invitation: His colleague was in town again and plotzing about how eager he was for another kosher nosh. It did not surprise the Urban Anthropologist that our host was hungry for this hearty food of his New York childhood. In his words, “That’s soul food, Mamma!”
Law & Order fans will recall Lennie Briscoe’s favorite “Pastrami on rye and don’t trim the fat” from the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue. In the summer or during the holiday shopping season there is typically a forty-minute wait for a table at lunchtime. This can also be observed across the street at Benash’s and at the Stage Deli a block south. Most of these places have similar crowded interiors with autographed celebrity photos on the walls above eye level (as in about half of midtown eateries), but the attraction is the food. Pricey by daily standards, whether your pleasure is matzoh ball soup, chopped liver, potato latkes, or anything else, the food is delicious. The motto must be “Nothing succeeds like excess” because the amount of meat in a sandwich is astounding to all but a native New Yorker. At Benash’s a corned beef sandwich costs $13 and weighs more than a pound. As it is unwise to clean one’s plate, all waitstaff are prepared to box leftovers. Don’t forget the pickles; you don’t get ones like this anywhere else.
The Street II
“New York is a summer festival” in the words of a tourist campaign of years past. There are so many street fairs in New York during the summer and most are well-attended and noisy. There are ones that are specifically food-oriented and staffed by restauranteurs in the area, but in those that are mostly outdoor malls, virtually every fourth or fifth vendor will be selling street food.
The greatest variety of street food is likely to be found in Queens, the most diverse county in the state, where everything from halal to South American can be found. Italian vendors, probably the same ones to be found at Little Italy’s San Gennaro Feast in September, share the scene with Hispanic vendors, competing for share of stomach through a typical 7- or 8-hour event. In between shopping for cut-rate store items, silver jewelry, sunglasses, cosmetics, and even ethnic art, one can indulge the taste buds with hearty ethnic foods every few steps.
Sausage and pepper hero sandwiches ($8 average price) and fried calamari battle with empanadas, pernil, ropa vieja, arepas, and roasted corn with a variety of condiments not found in Anglo kitchens. Where else will you be able to sample corn with chipotle sauce, lime mayonnaise, or jalapeño-flavored butter? Other vendors provide Argentinean and Brazilian-style barbecue whose main item is skirt steak prepared over an open flame. Don’t forget the rice and veggies with that. This latter item doesn’t come cheaply; at $10 one could almost make the argument that another dollar can get you air conditioning and a waitress in the nearby Irish pub. Smart vendors of this fare provide folding chairs for their patrons, as this food requires a plate and a fork and a pause in the midst of shopping.
In Astoria, street fairs always include items from local Greek establishments including – but not limited to – gyros, souvlaki, spanakopita, and baklava. All served with pride and a smile to customers of all ethnicities. It is virtually impossible to not go off one’s diet at these events; you want to sample everything, so it’s best to do this with a friend. Many of these fairs also have vendors of pantry items like restaurant-size containers of dry spices, nuts and candy, and kosher pickles by the quart or half gallon like the ones in the deli restaurant bowls. If you're in New York from out of state, you need to try these.
It is always heartening to see how gastronomically adventurous New Yorkers are and while the Urban Anthropologist usually welcomes the end of the brutal summer heat, the end of street fair season sadly accompanies that.
Pizza
The Urban Anthropologist is not prepared to hunt down the ultimate New York pizzeria. Expert opinions on the subject differ on whether it’s Two Boots in the East Village, Patsy’s at the south end of Harlem, Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, or any of the “Famous Ray’s” in Manhattan that were once the subject of a PBS filler documentary. All that anyone is prepared to agree on is that no New Yorker worthy of the name eats chain pizza.
A curious thing is happening in New York, however, with regard to pizzerias. While most of them still seem to have Italian names and use traditional Italian ingredients (pepperoni is still the most popular), the majority of their workers are now Hispanic. While this has not substantially affected the quality of pizza it has led to the phenomenon of hybrid establishments that offer Hispanic foods in addition to pizza and calzones. One such place on Astoria’s Steinway Street provides traditional Peruvian foods as a lunch special in addition to the now-common $4 two-slices-and-a-soda deal. With 93.1 Amor playing in the background. This would not have happened thirty years ago.
Bagels
No kosher or general deli in the city is complete without these incredible bread donuts, but you are still better off getting them in a specialty place, of which there are many. The flavors of bagels are as numerous as the fillings that can be put into them. The Urban Anthropologist favors salt bagels, well done. These are better than the pretzels sold on the street and in the ballpark.
These are breakfast staples with butter or cream cheese, but can also be found at lunch with cream cheese and lox. Most delis will have this on their menus, but will not offer the broadest variety of bagel flavors. If you want something other than plain, sesame, or poppy-seeded bagels, you need to find a bagel specialist. This can be more of a weekend treat, as most of these establishments are to be found in residential neighborhoods rather than near the office.
Fusion and Confusion I
Another modern venue type is the Asian-Hispanic combination. At the low end one finds takeout establishments heavy on the deep fry where one can order chips and burritos and chow mein that will be delivered by the same guy. So why do these places still have separate menus and separate names on them? The notion of two separate establishments is destroyed at the first transaction. Purists tend to avoid these places in the belief that the integrity of both cuisines is compromised.
New York also provides adaptations unlikely to be found elsewhere. Kosher and halal Chinese are available in various neighborhoods in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. Just pick up some Soy Vey soy sauce in the supermarket to match.
Fusion and Confusion II
Fusion cuisines may happen all over but the best ones in New York are in midtown. The China Grill on 6th Avenue is pan-Asian with influences from China, Thailand, and other countries. One of its signature items, however, is the Crispy Spinach: deep-fried spinach leaves that come out tasting similar to potato chips, therefore quintessentially American. The Peking Duck Salad is a must-have; the fried pieces of duck in a romaine-lettuce based salad with orange-ginger dressing is plentiful, delicious, and not as calorie-laden as so many other NY foods. The atmosphere is large, loud, and filled with the energy of midtown. Patrons are usually people who work in the area’s offices or ticket holders to the matinee at Radio City Music Hall.
Asia de Cuba, popular with the Urban Anthropologist’s colleagues, is another great destination for fusion cuisine… and atmosphere. The geometric Asian décor is offset by the musica tropicale played on the speakers. The calamari salad is similar in concept to the one on the menu at the China Grill except that it contains bananas and is served warm. Like most restaurants with fine food, it is difficult to eat quickly and leave, especially when the atmosphere is conducive to conversation and the desserts are delicious works of modern art.
There is something to suit every New York gastronome and time forbids mention of every possibility in one entry. Keep one thing in mind, however: If it’s not from New York it’s not a pizza, a knish, or a bagel. And probably not even a pickle.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Solitario Soy
89.9 million American adults are unmarried. This is now 41% of US adults. 26% of US households consist of single people living alone, with urban centers like New York City boasting even higher percentages of single-person households (48% for Manhattan). Someone may have predicted this a few decades ago, but I don’t know that they understand the phenomenon and where it’s going. The Urban Anthropologist will now take a stab at it.
Singlehood wasn’t particularly easy until around World War II. Anyone who saw the PBS reality series 1900 House knows that. It took far too long to prepare food, clean house, and do laundry for anyone to have been able to do it for themselves during non-working hours. Only the very wealthy could have afforded to have enough servants to do these things for them. Technology came along and then it became possible to shop fewer times per week, prepare food in half an hour or less, and vacuum the carpets in less than an hour. Anyone who wanted to try their wings could do it if they could afford the rent, but it was still regarded as a temporary state until the right marriage prospect appeared on the horizon. Reliable contraception came along in the 60s. Humans have been having premarital sex and attempting to control their fertility since before civilization, but now it was possible to do so with peace of mind.
Of course, all that makes it much easier to be single in the modern world. We face such paradoxes because of it. Supermarket packaging is for families, not even couples. We pay school taxes for children we don’t have. Yet we tend to advance more easily at work because we take up the slack when our married and childed colleagues leave early (early is any time up to 6PM). At times this seems like the corporate world is conspiring to create two classes of people: Breeders and drones, the latter because after a sixty hour work week who has the energy to look for a relationship?
WHO ARE THE SINGLES WE OBSERVE?
Single and Productive
Your office has at least a few of these: Corporate drones whose free time becomes non-existent because their bosses know they can be persuaded to work later than marrieds or parents. They log sixty hours or more per week to earn bonuses, promotions, or praise from clients only to realize one day that it’s been five years since their last date, six since their last relationship, and ten since their last real vacation. They often have friends who are in the same position and they sometimes talk about this when they’re willing to let their guard down. The Urban Anthropologist once had a department head who eventually hired a department full of unmarrieds without children and is still wondering whether this was deliberate in the modern culture of overwork.
Another extreme is the single entrepreneur, who is often married to the company he or she creates. That person's workday usually never ends.
Single and Creative
It has been said that most male creative geniuses do their best work when they are single, in the name of impressing the female of the species. Is this why actors and famous musicians are more popular and successful while they are still single? There are a number of them who, despite the influences of their own cultures, remain single well into their thirties and forties. Of course, we can make certain assumptions: They can be extremely choosy because of their endless opportunities, they may enjoy the constant feast of fleshly temptation, the women they encounter may not want to compete with all the women of the world or… do they have as little time for real relationships as the rest of us? Are they married to their art as others are to corporate directives?
And to what degree are these corporate and artistic martyrs role models for the future?
Single Forever
Is lifetime singlehood a good or bad thing? The Urban Anthropologist feels that the jury is out on this issue. Singlehood happens for a variety of reasons from the socially awkward to the socially adept there is no single reason that it happens. Society may have looked down on the never-married and the divorced for as long as any generation can remember but it has always benefited from the existence of single people.
Modern singles fill deficits in tax rolls that support schools and other public works. Some individual singles within extended families help to pay for younger relatives’ educations. Special mention needs to be made of those to embrace careers like teaching, especially since in many important urban centers like my beloved New York these important professionals are grossly underpaid (which will be another article for another day). Many find satisfaction in their creativity, which has free rein out of the confines of relationships and their rules.
Many authorities still debate the psychological futures of children raised by single parents. Is singlehood in their future? Single mothers are no longer branded by society in the manner of Hester Prynne, but are their children any better off for that? Are there more single people today because there have been more single mothers?
Until someone figures it out, most single urban souls will continue in whatever balance of solitude and social interaction works for them, secure in the knowledge that they live in a time and a place where it’s possible without servants to interfere with our privacy.
Singlehood wasn’t particularly easy until around World War II. Anyone who saw the PBS reality series 1900 House knows that. It took far too long to prepare food, clean house, and do laundry for anyone to have been able to do it for themselves during non-working hours. Only the very wealthy could have afforded to have enough servants to do these things for them. Technology came along and then it became possible to shop fewer times per week, prepare food in half an hour or less, and vacuum the carpets in less than an hour. Anyone who wanted to try their wings could do it if they could afford the rent, but it was still regarded as a temporary state until the right marriage prospect appeared on the horizon. Reliable contraception came along in the 60s. Humans have been having premarital sex and attempting to control their fertility since before civilization, but now it was possible to do so with peace of mind.
Of course, all that makes it much easier to be single in the modern world. We face such paradoxes because of it. Supermarket packaging is for families, not even couples. We pay school taxes for children we don’t have. Yet we tend to advance more easily at work because we take up the slack when our married and childed colleagues leave early (early is any time up to 6PM). At times this seems like the corporate world is conspiring to create two classes of people: Breeders and drones, the latter because after a sixty hour work week who has the energy to look for a relationship?
WHO ARE THE SINGLES WE OBSERVE?
Single and Productive
Your office has at least a few of these: Corporate drones whose free time becomes non-existent because their bosses know they can be persuaded to work later than marrieds or parents. They log sixty hours or more per week to earn bonuses, promotions, or praise from clients only to realize one day that it’s been five years since their last date, six since their last relationship, and ten since their last real vacation. They often have friends who are in the same position and they sometimes talk about this when they’re willing to let their guard down. The Urban Anthropologist once had a department head who eventually hired a department full of unmarrieds without children and is still wondering whether this was deliberate in the modern culture of overwork.
Another extreme is the single entrepreneur, who is often married to the company he or she creates. That person's workday usually never ends.
Single and Creative
It has been said that most male creative geniuses do their best work when they are single, in the name of impressing the female of the species. Is this why actors and famous musicians are more popular and successful while they are still single? There are a number of them who, despite the influences of their own cultures, remain single well into their thirties and forties. Of course, we can make certain assumptions: They can be extremely choosy because of their endless opportunities, they may enjoy the constant feast of fleshly temptation, the women they encounter may not want to compete with all the women of the world or… do they have as little time for real relationships as the rest of us? Are they married to their art as others are to corporate directives?
And to what degree are these corporate and artistic martyrs role models for the future?
Single Forever
Is lifetime singlehood a good or bad thing? The Urban Anthropologist feels that the jury is out on this issue. Singlehood happens for a variety of reasons from the socially awkward to the socially adept there is no single reason that it happens. Society may have looked down on the never-married and the divorced for as long as any generation can remember but it has always benefited from the existence of single people.
Modern singles fill deficits in tax rolls that support schools and other public works. Some individual singles within extended families help to pay for younger relatives’ educations. Special mention needs to be made of those to embrace careers like teaching, especially since in many important urban centers like my beloved New York these important professionals are grossly underpaid (which will be another article for another day). Many find satisfaction in their creativity, which has free rein out of the confines of relationships and their rules.
Many authorities still debate the psychological futures of children raised by single parents. Is singlehood in their future? Single mothers are no longer branded by society in the manner of Hester Prynne, but are their children any better off for that? Are there more single people today because there have been more single mothers?
Until someone figures it out, most single urban souls will continue in whatever balance of solitude and social interaction works for them, secure in the knowledge that they live in a time and a place where it’s possible without servants to interfere with our privacy.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tribal Rites, Part I
Urbanites all belong to multiple tribes. We define ourselves by a variety of them, but perhaps the most interesting ones are professional and there is nothing more urban than the advertising business. It’s not quite like Mad Men anymore. We don’t generally keep bottles of booze and the matching stemware in our offices or desks, but we do party hearty. TV networks, radio stations, and magazines are usually the hosts and some of them do it big enough to justify the extra expense of doing it on Friday nights. Not only that, but with three venues.
The opening venue on this occasion might normally be used for very different tribal rites, although is mystifying sometimes, even to the Urban Anthropologist, how such things can proceed. In this location on the upper west side the small lower-level rooms had a cavernous feel to them with their exposed stone walls and low ceilings, and things eventually got claustrophobic. First word to the wise: Get there early unless you like Standing Room Only.
A DJ in dreadlocks played a custom mix ranging from Latin rock to world, particularly Middle Eastern alternating with Shakira. A petite belly dancer moved among the guests, collecting tips from the more sophisticated ones. Some of the mostly Mad Women were inspired to get up and shimmy along with her, under the influence or no. Female waitstaff in black moved among the guests with hors d’oeuvres, some of which were difficult to positively identify. The Urban Anthropologist, however, is a fan of Staples and by happenstance was equipped with a pen that lights up on the second click. Which made it much easier to identify the shrimp in the sushi and take notes in the dark. Trigorin would have appreciated it.
White cocktail napkins of the kind too small to record much more than a phone number on serve a useful purpose in such places: to mark the location of one’s drink, especially if it’s something like red wine or cognac. Initiates to the NY club scene might want to order something pale, like a piña colada or a frozen margarita, just to be able to see it in the dark. Not to mention learning how to use chopsticks when there is any risk of sushi being served. Failure to do so does make one appear gauche.
Not having been to this particular location before, it was difficult to determine whether it was a pickup or hideaway spot (its website provided no clue). If the latter, the atmosphere was understandable. If the former one wonders how the urban mating ritual plays out in a venue with minimal lighting and dark furniture where most of the patrons and even the staff are wearing black. This must be what keeps the fragrance industry in business.
Sexual shenanigans are not completely dead in the ad business, but this was more of an occasion to meet, greet, and converse – within the limits of the decibel level. Most of the attendees knew each other from having worked together before; some introduced their significant others. The host company’s attendees were in from their regional offices, and within an hour it was so crowded that I missed my favorite vendor from that company, a smart, young caballero handsome enough to star in one of his network’s programs, until we encountered each other outside to catch the bus to the concert.
In between cell phone conversations and greeting latecomer clients there was time for the Urban Anthropologist to observe the parade of prancing dogs walking north on Columbus. Even after the beautifully groomed Samoyed, the stars of that parade were a pug and an English bulldog, both of whom belonged to a woman whose face was curiously like theirs. Both dogs looked out at the humans as if from a stage. How Shakespeare would love the stage that is New York City!
Venue two was the theatre, merely blocks away. Music is basic to the human condition, so it would be impossible for the Urban Anthropologist to live anywhere that doesn’t have a lively and diverse concert scene. Religions that attempt to ban music are denying the ultimate humanity of their followers, but that’s another subject for another essay. When one attends a salsa concert, the connection is more obvious than ever. There was no one in the audience, regardless of ethnicity, who didn’t want to obey Gloria Estefan’s exhortation:
Come on, shake your body baby,
do the conga
I know you can't control yourself any longer
Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger
Don't you fight it till you've tried it
Do the conga beat….
Had the concert been in Madison Square Garden’s main arena instead, people might have been doing just that. There couples dance on the promenades in front of the tiered seating to the live sounds of Oscar de Leon and Victor Manuelle. For the moment, though, the attendees merely got up on their feet to shake in place and wave the flashing lights provided by the sponsor. One of my clients, seated on my left, played imaginary conga drums on his lap. It is always marvelous to see that busy urbanites still have the energy to do these things at the end of a long workday. Some male fans approached the stage and kissed Gloria’s hand, answering a question that’s been in the Urban Anthropologist’s mind ever since the love of Latin music appeared some years ago (All previous experience involves male singers, this will be further referenced at another time).
The afterparty could hardly be called such, as it was too much like the subway at rush hour. A colleague needed 30 minutes to fight his way to the bar and back for a second drink. Our host company is notorious for choosing venues too small for the guest list, but due to the endless free drinks, will never face a protest boycott. It isn’t a place for the touchphobic or the conversation fan, especially when not conversing in one’s first language. There wasn’t even a dance floor but had there been, it would have been too full of people for movement to have been possible. Not an optimal setting for the tribal rites of Madison Avenue.
My colleague, his wife, and I departed at 1AM and were accosted just outside the venue by a young man who asked for our wristbands, which had been required for entrance. In an accent that sounded French to our weary ears he claimed to be in banking and told us that his girlfriend had lost her wristband at the theatre, so I slipped mine off neatly (when putting these on it is wise to not make them too tight) and gave it to him. However, when he asked for the others’, we didn’t buy it.
En route to the subway we speculated on the guy’s motive and concluded that he had been collecting them to sell at $10 or $20 apiece, as they each represented free drinks for the rest of the night. In New York that could amount to $50 or more per head. While that wasn’t particularly honest, it was a unique form of urban creativity, analgous to youths who purchase full day unlimited Metrocards and sell individual swipes on them all day long. The Urban Anthropologist wonders if this young “banker” will ever realize he is being compared to members of an urban underclass.
The opening venue on this occasion might normally be used for very different tribal rites, although is mystifying sometimes, even to the Urban Anthropologist, how such things can proceed. In this location on the upper west side the small lower-level rooms had a cavernous feel to them with their exposed stone walls and low ceilings, and things eventually got claustrophobic. First word to the wise: Get there early unless you like Standing Room Only.
A DJ in dreadlocks played a custom mix ranging from Latin rock to world, particularly Middle Eastern alternating with Shakira. A petite belly dancer moved among the guests, collecting tips from the more sophisticated ones. Some of the mostly Mad Women were inspired to get up and shimmy along with her, under the influence or no. Female waitstaff in black moved among the guests with hors d’oeuvres, some of which were difficult to positively identify. The Urban Anthropologist, however, is a fan of Staples and by happenstance was equipped with a pen that lights up on the second click. Which made it much easier to identify the shrimp in the sushi and take notes in the dark. Trigorin would have appreciated it.
White cocktail napkins of the kind too small to record much more than a phone number on serve a useful purpose in such places: to mark the location of one’s drink, especially if it’s something like red wine or cognac. Initiates to the NY club scene might want to order something pale, like a piña colada or a frozen margarita, just to be able to see it in the dark. Not to mention learning how to use chopsticks when there is any risk of sushi being served. Failure to do so does make one appear gauche.
Not having been to this particular location before, it was difficult to determine whether it was a pickup or hideaway spot (its website provided no clue). If the latter, the atmosphere was understandable. If the former one wonders how the urban mating ritual plays out in a venue with minimal lighting and dark furniture where most of the patrons and even the staff are wearing black. This must be what keeps the fragrance industry in business.
Sexual shenanigans are not completely dead in the ad business, but this was more of an occasion to meet, greet, and converse – within the limits of the decibel level. Most of the attendees knew each other from having worked together before; some introduced their significant others. The host company’s attendees were in from their regional offices, and within an hour it was so crowded that I missed my favorite vendor from that company, a smart, young caballero handsome enough to star in one of his network’s programs, until we encountered each other outside to catch the bus to the concert.
In between cell phone conversations and greeting latecomer clients there was time for the Urban Anthropologist to observe the parade of prancing dogs walking north on Columbus. Even after the beautifully groomed Samoyed, the stars of that parade were a pug and an English bulldog, both of whom belonged to a woman whose face was curiously like theirs. Both dogs looked out at the humans as if from a stage. How Shakespeare would love the stage that is New York City!
Venue two was the theatre, merely blocks away. Music is basic to the human condition, so it would be impossible for the Urban Anthropologist to live anywhere that doesn’t have a lively and diverse concert scene. Religions that attempt to ban music are denying the ultimate humanity of their followers, but that’s another subject for another essay. When one attends a salsa concert, the connection is more obvious than ever. There was no one in the audience, regardless of ethnicity, who didn’t want to obey Gloria Estefan’s exhortation:
Come on, shake your body baby,
do the conga
I know you can't control yourself any longer
Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger
Don't you fight it till you've tried it
Do the conga beat….
Had the concert been in Madison Square Garden’s main arena instead, people might have been doing just that. There couples dance on the promenades in front of the tiered seating to the live sounds of Oscar de Leon and Victor Manuelle. For the moment, though, the attendees merely got up on their feet to shake in place and wave the flashing lights provided by the sponsor. One of my clients, seated on my left, played imaginary conga drums on his lap. It is always marvelous to see that busy urbanites still have the energy to do these things at the end of a long workday. Some male fans approached the stage and kissed Gloria’s hand, answering a question that’s been in the Urban Anthropologist’s mind ever since the love of Latin music appeared some years ago (All previous experience involves male singers, this will be further referenced at another time).
The afterparty could hardly be called such, as it was too much like the subway at rush hour. A colleague needed 30 minutes to fight his way to the bar and back for a second drink. Our host company is notorious for choosing venues too small for the guest list, but due to the endless free drinks, will never face a protest boycott. It isn’t a place for the touchphobic or the conversation fan, especially when not conversing in one’s first language. There wasn’t even a dance floor but had there been, it would have been too full of people for movement to have been possible. Not an optimal setting for the tribal rites of Madison Avenue.
My colleague, his wife, and I departed at 1AM and were accosted just outside the venue by a young man who asked for our wristbands, which had been required for entrance. In an accent that sounded French to our weary ears he claimed to be in banking and told us that his girlfriend had lost her wristband at the theatre, so I slipped mine off neatly (when putting these on it is wise to not make them too tight) and gave it to him. However, when he asked for the others’, we didn’t buy it.
En route to the subway we speculated on the guy’s motive and concluded that he had been collecting them to sell at $10 or $20 apiece, as they each represented free drinks for the rest of the night. In New York that could amount to $50 or more per head. While that wasn’t particularly honest, it was a unique form of urban creativity, analgous to youths who purchase full day unlimited Metrocards and sell individual swipes on them all day long. The Urban Anthropologist wonders if this young “banker” will ever realize he is being compared to members of an urban underclass.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Urban Wildlife
Canine
As my multi-ethnic, once working-class neighborhood becomes more and more gentrified, the dog population increases. This is particularly true of those toy- and purse-sized breeds so popular in the residential areas of Manhattan. Whether I am in my home or office neighborhood, these small canines never fail to draw the attention of even the worst urban cynic.
It’s easy to forget that all dogs are descended from the grey wolf when watching these tiny creatures, half of them smaller than cats. There may be a demographic code by breed, but I haven’t identified it yet. There are, however, a few things that all those small genetic wonders have in common:
- They are very people-smart. Perhaps because so many humans pause to stare at them or approach them with an “Awww,” they make eye contact with every human in their path.
- Whether or not they are show dogs, they all smile and prance. The Pomeranian gives his cute little foxy grin while the Maltese kicks her long hair out, like Scarlett O’Hara walking pigeon-toed to make her skirt move as she enters a room. A little jet-black pocket poodle walked very daintily on his leash before taking his owner’s lap and scoping out the nearest humans. Of course he had a typical French name: Marcel.
- They all have Napoleon complexes. One evening in the East Village I spotted a tiny pocket poodle on a leash trying to incite something with a German Shepherd mix who could easily have passed for a wolf. The poodle’s owner said she weighed less than two pounds. The large dog stared down the poodle from the security of his own leash and went on his way.
It’s no secret that owners are huge influences over their furbabies, but whenever I see a woman carrying her tiny dog in a purse as though serving as his taxi service, I have to wonder if the dog remembers that he’s a dog. In the East Village Starbucks I encountered a Yorkie in a purse and went “Aw, hi, cutie!” to have the owner respond “She hears that so often she thinks it’s her name.” I petted the dog and asked her name; curiously, I don’t remember it.
After the few days of the fall that’s coming up in New York, these small canines will be decked out in the best fashions ever seen in Dogue or Canine Quarterly. One wonders what the dogs think of this.
Avian
Although some consider them to be a major urban nuisance, I actually like pigeons. They have attitude. My late mother used to feed the birds in her garden and where sparrows and blue jays go, pigeons usually follow. One day they were sitting in formation on the roof, all staring at the feeders, their heads bobbing to get a better view. As soon as my mother was six feet away from the feeders came the whop-whop sound of the beating of their wings as they swooped down to gavonne the birdseed, like The Goodfeathers’ Godpigeon.
While waiting to cross a street under an elevated train one morning the man standing in front of me was observing the pigeons perching overhead. One was just above him, turning so that his tail feathers were over the edge. “That bird looks like he’s going to take a shit”. I couldn’t resist saying “It looks like he’s taking aim.” Realizing his vulnerability, the man backed up to a position to my right. The light changed and as we began to cross the bird flew back… and got him. As he cursed and I withheld my laughter I lamented that Seinfeld was no longer in production.
When you see courting pigeons you have to laugh. The male struts about in front of the female, puffing out his chest and fluffing out his feathers as if to see “Look at me, baby; I’m the big tough City Bird.” The female always plays hard to get, walking away while appearing to ignore him. I’ve never had the time to observe them long enough to see one succeed with a female and fly off together to a tree or a ledge, so I wonder what their success rate is. Considering the pigeon population, I suspect it’s rather high.
Rodentia
One of the founders of The National Lampoon once said that the toughest animal in the world is a New York subway rat. After what I saw one evening in the 59th street station, I believe this completely.
Two rats were running near the rail, toward me, when the light from the oncoming train appeared around the corner. The lead rat paused at the rail, the other mounted from behind. 1.5 seconds and a loud squeak later, they disengaged and ran off as the train pulled into the station. Did they do this for the bragging rights? I exchanged a look and a shrug with a woman standing about eight feet away from me, and about a half dozen others burst into laughter as the train pulled into the station. Only in New York.
Feline
On Columbus Avenue at an outdoor café the other night was the ultimate urban wildlife sighting: A blue-point Himalayan being carried by his proud human mother sans leash or carrier. Such a beautiful feline draws fans and questions easily and the couple happily described how they could carry this lovely creature around everywhere, including into the plane cabin to take him on their visits to his human grandmère in Japan. This necessitates purchasing a seat for him at human prices. The Urban Anthropologist was too polite to ask whether that required a child or adult ticket, concluding that a non-show cat who could sit on his humans’ laps in a public place with noisy people and a parade of dogs on leashes deserves the privilege.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Reggaeton and other Contradictions
One of the most amazing things about my city is the astounding contrasts to be found within it. One of my favorite stores is Caswell Massey on the corner of 48th and Lexington. There since 1752, it exudes quiet elegance and tradition. The music played inside varies by employee shift, but is either ornate baroque or nostalgic 1920s. Either is completely appropriate as you browse the traditionally-packaged fragrances with names like Greenbriar, Tricorn, and Jockey Club. They call up images of elegant gentlemen in French cuffed-shirts and the bejeweled ladies they would wear these for while sipping champagne or martinis or dancing the rhumba.
Across Lexington and a few feet south is a bastion of post-modernism, the club LQ. Like many others it promotes its Friday happy hour with 2 for 1 drinks, free food, and free admissions for ladies. My office held a sendoff for a departing employee there, and it is such a far cry from what is to be found across the street and with the Latin clubs of my previous experience.
Has Latin music – and the dancing that is done to it -- lost all its sense of foreplay and seduction? Is reggaeton the zipless fuck of Latin music? Or is it the refuge of people who aren’t up to the tango? While the dancing followed its own rules it so lacks the playfulness, the subtler seduction, the romance of the dances done to other Latin music forms. There was no leading or following, and a few cases of no touching or real communication between the parties, like in so many other situations in our lives.
And have dance floors become larger since the 70s to make it all the more anonymous? Couples moved to the thumping beat as though they were joining the Mile High Club in an airplane’s facility. There were a few threesomes on the floor as well, and a variety of singletons, something I had hoped died out with the 60s. Like that strange era, this youth-oriented music seemed to have a universal appeal to this after-work crowd of every race and ethnicity, with the difference that youth is now extended to about the age of 35. Was this a music video set in Plato’s Retreat? Finally, is all this yet another symbol of our rushed lives in this postmodern age?
Freud would have needed a stiff drink or three at the sight of these couples humping on the dance floor, most of them not making eye contact. It all so misses the tease that Gypsy Rose Lee would have been shocked. I realized then that since the music started I hadn’t noticed how many of those couples or threesomes had arrived together. If our great x 3 grandparents had railed against the waltz, what would they have made of this?
The Urban Anthropologist isn’t particularly shocked; it doesn’t go with the territory. However, opinions and tastes are permissible; after all, James Bond’s boss misses the Cold War. If anyone develops a time machine, just give me a lifetime supply of condoms, ten pairs of Capezios, and drop me off at the Copacabana in the world of Oscar Hijuelos’ The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love. That would contain gentlemen who would deliver smooth lines before asking a lady to dance. They probably drink Scotch or margaritas, but they would definitely patronize Caswell-Massey.
Across Lexington and a few feet south is a bastion of post-modernism, the club LQ. Like many others it promotes its Friday happy hour with 2 for 1 drinks, free food, and free admissions for ladies. My office held a sendoff for a departing employee there, and it is such a far cry from what is to be found across the street and with the Latin clubs of my previous experience.
Has Latin music – and the dancing that is done to it -- lost all its sense of foreplay and seduction? Is reggaeton the zipless fuck of Latin music? Or is it the refuge of people who aren’t up to the tango? While the dancing followed its own rules it so lacks the playfulness, the subtler seduction, the romance of the dances done to other Latin music forms. There was no leading or following, and a few cases of no touching or real communication between the parties, like in so many other situations in our lives.
And have dance floors become larger since the 70s to make it all the more anonymous? Couples moved to the thumping beat as though they were joining the Mile High Club in an airplane’s facility. There were a few threesomes on the floor as well, and a variety of singletons, something I had hoped died out with the 60s. Like that strange era, this youth-oriented music seemed to have a universal appeal to this after-work crowd of every race and ethnicity, with the difference that youth is now extended to about the age of 35. Was this a music video set in Plato’s Retreat? Finally, is all this yet another symbol of our rushed lives in this postmodern age?
Freud would have needed a stiff drink or three at the sight of these couples humping on the dance floor, most of them not making eye contact. It all so misses the tease that Gypsy Rose Lee would have been shocked. I realized then that since the music started I hadn’t noticed how many of those couples or threesomes had arrived together. If our great x 3 grandparents had railed against the waltz, what would they have made of this?
The Urban Anthropologist isn’t particularly shocked; it doesn’t go with the territory. However, opinions and tastes are permissible; after all, James Bond’s boss misses the Cold War. If anyone develops a time machine, just give me a lifetime supply of condoms, ten pairs of Capezios, and drop me off at the Copacabana in the world of Oscar Hijuelos’ The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love. That would contain gentlemen who would deliver smooth lines before asking a lady to dance. They probably drink Scotch or margaritas, but they would definitely patronize Caswell-Massey.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Intro
Assuming that the earth survives the present global warming and escapes nuclear attacks, will there be a need for archaeologists a few hundred years down the line? How well are our post-modern lives documented? I wish I could discuss this with Carrie Bradshaw over Cosmopolitans or mocha cappuccinos, but since that isn't possible and my day job doesn't include a newspaper column, I will introduce myself now.
The Urban Anthropologist has a Madison Avenue day job, often with long hours. When going through another episode of Clients Behaving Badly, there isn't a lot of reward. Consumer behavior is reported to us and studied by us in ways never dreamed of by the Mad Men of AMC's brilliant series, but we haven't stopped taking notes on cocktail napkins. The only difference now is that the napkins are usually those light brown ones from Starbucks which allow us more space and we're drinking iced Americanos instead of martinis. Well, most of the time anyway. Sorry to disappoint anyone wanting to enter the business, but the 3-martini lunch is dead in the age of accellerating technology and client expectations.
These observations and ruminations are posted from New York City, a microcosm of the human universe, the tossed salad, the advertising capital of the world. All cultures meet, greet, date, mate, relate, contemplate, and otherwise interact here, sometimes with amusing results. City life is deliciously complex, filled with choices upon choices upon alternatives that draw people into its noisy embrace. But for all that we complain about the noise, we get very nervious when it's too quiet.
The Urban Anthropologist has a Madison Avenue day job, often with long hours. When going through another episode of Clients Behaving Badly, there isn't a lot of reward. Consumer behavior is reported to us and studied by us in ways never dreamed of by the Mad Men of AMC's brilliant series, but we haven't stopped taking notes on cocktail napkins. The only difference now is that the napkins are usually those light brown ones from Starbucks which allow us more space and we're drinking iced Americanos instead of martinis. Well, most of the time anyway. Sorry to disappoint anyone wanting to enter the business, but the 3-martini lunch is dead in the age of accellerating technology and client expectations.
These observations and ruminations are posted from New York City, a microcosm of the human universe, the tossed salad, the advertising capital of the world. All cultures meet, greet, date, mate, relate, contemplate, and otherwise interact here, sometimes with amusing results. City life is deliciously complex, filled with choices upon choices upon alternatives that draw people into its noisy embrace. But for all that we complain about the noise, we get very nervious when it's too quiet.
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