Basil Twist’s Ballerina from Petrushka
I am a “festival person.”
Already I have to add an asterisk to that and exclude some festivals. Read the rest of this entry »
All I knew was the Brooklyn subway stop where I needed to be at 2pm today. The sky was overcast, and it was raining just enough to need an umbrella as I made my way to the F train. I was ready for anything, I hoped. Almost anything, maybe. Was I? High-fiving strangers and staging an art installation in a subway station I would absolutely be up for, but could I really take off an article of clothing or two to pose as a model in an Abercrombie store or forego pants on the subway, in a winter snowstorm?
Let’s be honest: pretty much everything seems like a good idea to me at the time, as is blatantly obvious in this blog, so yeah, I was probably ready for anything.
To my surprise and delight, shortly after 2pm, a huge –huge– crowd of us were ushered into a fashionably decorated warehouse and given its brief history; originally a belt factory, built in the 1800s, the building was being converted into a gallery space. And, interestingly enough, that building was where the Invisible Dog toy was invented and manufactured for years. As many as 2,000 Invisible Dogs would be distributed to us to walk around Park Slope and Red Hook as we pleased for two hours. The trick was, of course, to stay in character, never to let on to people that we knew our dogs were imaginary.
I found inspiration for Norman the Norwich in, um, Norman, my parents’ Norwich terrier, and I had the best time with a writer friend walking him, and his spaniel Spike, around town. My Norman marked almost every fire hydrant and parking meter on Court Street, and if I’d had plastic baggies, I would have cleaned up after him, too. I was even surprised to find myself doing those annoying puppy-talk voices. Some things just didn’t work; narrating that your dog is checking out someone else’s dog’s tush and apologizing for it is pretty awkward.
I was tickled to read accounts of how some other participants acted. One reported the police threatened to ticket her for not cleaning up after her Pomeranian, but let her off with a warning.
Participants collectively found that strangers were excited, frustrated, curious, appalled, and everything in between, and our favorite run-ins were with people who were eager to play along.
The toughest in a group of three kitchen workers taking a smoke break looked leery as I approached, then all of a sudden acted as though Norman had jumped up to say hello to him, and he picked him up! I could barely keep up with the leash and assured him Norman was very friendly and loved the attention he was getting. Similarly, a gruff cafe owner stood with his arms folded at his door and told passerbys, “No dogs allowed!” –then broke into a toothy grin every time.
Children were fantastic, and so were their parents. One mom approached me with her 4 or 5 year-old son and told him it was okay to pet my dog, he wouldn’t bite. “See? He’s friendly!” she said, taking the words right out of my mouth. A mom pulled up to a stop light in her minivan with kids in the back and rolled her window down to ask where we got our dogs. My friend answered of Spike, “I rescued him from a shelter!” Hilarious.
I was actually kind of disappointed to return Norman to nonexistence at the end of the afternoon. Friends have heard me say repeatedly that as soon as my lifestyle allows for it, and reality TV production does not allow for it, I’m rescuing a dog. My lifestyle did allow for a couple of hours with an invisible dog, though, and today, it was just the trick.
View Agent Nicholson’s amazing photos from the day
Watch Improv Everywhere’s videos and read about their missions
Follow ImprovEvery on Twitter
I don’t normally keep track of this sort of thing, but New York City and I celebrated our six month anniversary on Friday.
Read the rest of this entry »
Apparently, a 3rd Avenue restaurant is serving up a taste of Malay goodness. I think it’s fair to say we’re an acquired taste. Brace yourself…
Dynamite some rats? Not exactly. Take in some contemporary art? Exactly. And yes, I believe that would be the work of Banksy.
Photo credit: Chaidizai
On a rainy day in June –pick one, it rained every day– there came a point when I asked myself how hard it would be to make a spicy margarita at home. I believe that point came when I was going through receipts, balancing my budget, and realizing stock in General Motors was a better investment than where my money had been going.
This time last year, I began to write up my notes from my May-June trip to the Dalmatian Coast with my mom — I posted what I had so far, but it was an incomplete account of the adventures we had, which included but weren’t limited to a giant squid, a rescue plan for a capsized boat, inappropriate flirting, supermodels, secret cliff-top bars, wild animals hunting at night, and bottomless pits of despair.* Today, I still have my notebook, the photos, and Lonely Planet as my guide, and my memories are mostly intact, if not more humorous and condensed (which is how these “blog” things are supposed to be, right?). This may come as a shock to you, but this actually started out as a travel blog. So enjoy.
Click-through for Opatija, Plitvice Lakes, Trogir, Split, Korcula, and Dubrovnik, Croatia, and Kotor, Montenegro. Plitvice and Korcula are funnier than the other ones.
Truffle egg toast at ‘Inoteca.
It’s not that I don’t like to cook, it’s just that I have a two inch strip of counter space for food prep. And I know I’ll have a good time when I go out with me.
These are two new-ish Manhattan restaurants, opposite each other on the island, that have been consistently amazing about accommodating this party of one.
(A quick reminder about my dining-out-solo habits: I almost always take bar seating or else I make a reservation, I tend to eat outside of the lunch and dinner rushes, I bring a good book, and I tip well.)
How I learned to love avocado. Read on for my favorite summer soup in New York.
Growing up in my family, respect could be earned by making straight-As and liking weird food. My parents weren’t strict, as parents in the south go (because they weren’t from the south, probably), but we had to do our homework before watching television, and we had to try a taste of everything we were served. My parents lived in Hawaii early in their marriage, so my mom cooked a lot of Asian cuisine growing up. While I celebrated Shake ‘n Bake, I rejoiced over Thai curry.
I was actually the pickiest eater for most of our childhood years and arguably still am. (Today, it has to do with maximizing the chances that I’ll love my meal when I’m paying a lot for it, or when anyone else is paying a lot for it, and also with being sensitive to food politics.)
Being picky as a kid is to be expected, but as a teen, I was determined to develop a sophisticated palate. I weaned myself onto greens, bell peppers, eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, tuna and chicken salad, hummus, tea, Mexican food, and finally beer, and now I love them all. Maybe a little too much. I refuse to get my Cholesterol checked on account of what I affectionately refer to as the Incredible Edible.
Avocado didn’t happen until I was 22, and I have gazpacho to thank for that. I can’t remember the first time I ate gazpacho –my mom probably made it, she made everything at some point– but I can tell you the two best gazpachos I’ve ever had.
