Signal Malfunctions

“You come here in 1995 and you could shack up, and live life, and that was that. But now? New York—it's f*cking Disney World.”

I was sitting on a Queens-bound N train, trying desperately to read my magazine. But a man, who looked like Jared Leto from Fight Club, and a woman who sounded like a mobster’s wife from the 1930’s, were far too entertaining… and loud.

“The whole city can go f*ck itself!” she chimed in with her squeaky, character voice. They both sounded like disgruntled actors, ready for a change.

“I just hate America's mentality. And New York's mentality? No, it's all goal-orientated. Everyone’s hung up on something. But then where is the community?” said Fight Club Wannabe.

Doll Face bobbed her blonde head up and down in agreement. “Yeah, yeah,” she said. I couldn’t help but think her accent was a fake, unless maybe she’d grown up in New Jersey. No one moves to New York City and suddenly sounds like a character from 42nd Street.

“When is it enough?” Doll Face continued. “I keep thinking I'm going to make it—what's making it? What is that?”

Then more quietly, she asks, “After years of the same shit, I think, ‘Is this it?’” Her question sounded like a sad, defeated statement, weighing down the air around us.

I’ve always told myself the moment I start to hate New York more than I love it, the time to leave this both exasperating and enchanting city will have presented itself. You see, NYC will save you from the horrors of boredom and normalcy. You’ll achieve more, do much, and see it all—but such frantic liberation from the dreaded “ordinary” comes at a price.

New York City will break you; she’ll beat you to the ground, eat you alive, and then spit up some redesigned version of your former being.This will happen. It is inevitable. You will lose yourself, for better or worse, for a moment or a lifetime. And yet, how you survive is sometimes based on what you were fighting for in the beginning, when you first stepped foot in Manhattan. Do we remember what that was?

I’m not sure these subway riders did.

“I could leave this damn city and have a half-decent life somewhere else,” the brilliantly blonde man continued. It was obvious something had pushed him over the edge today. His eyes were angry and a sneer lined his lips, making him appear cruel.

“You can't just keep raising prices on everything and not raise salaries. We can't live,” Fight Club said in exasperation. By now, I was no longer attempting to read my magazine and, instead, waiting for them to confirm my assumptions.

“There’s no money is Broadway!” they both said in unison, as though it was their morning mantra.

Assumptions confirmed.

“I feel guilty for eating. I SHOULDN'T feel guilty for eating... But I do because I'm over budget,” he continued. “I'm always over budget and I don't know how to save. How did we make it when we first got here!?”

I could ask myself that same question. But the days of plastic bag suitcases, and surviving off eggs in the sticky, summertime heat are maybe still memories in the making.

“I’ve just had enough.” Ironically, our train arrived at the Broadway stop in Astoria, Queens. I wondered if this sign mocked them.

“Aaaaattention, attention! Everyone, listen up!” the conductor’s voice spurred an audible groan from the entire subway car. Conductors rarely offer tired commuters any good news.

“Because of a signal malfunction at the Astoria-Ditmars stop, this train has been instructed to wait here. More details to come momentarily.”

“Damnit! Are you kidding me, New York?!” Fight Club Wannabe shouted in vain. The city probably didn’t hear him, but he shouted anyway. “This is what I’m talking about. I can’t take this! I can’t TAKE THIS,” he said.

What he really meant (and what we were all thinking) was, “There is nothing worse than knowing your complete lack of power.”

“Let’s catch a cab,” he said to ever-agreeable Doll Face. They stormed off the train with a wave of angry riders, and I followed half-intrigued, half-restless.

We were down the first set of stairs when the conductor’s voice reappeared, louder than before. “Wait a minute! Get back on this train!” he said in a (genuine) New York accent. “It’s a miracle! They fixed the problem!” he continued, with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever heard from a subway conductor.

Now, quite suddenly, something about life had become amusing to Fight Club and Doll Face. They started laughing as they ran back up the stairs, racing each other and sliding into the first subway car.

They laughed, and laughed, until there was no sound, and they were doubled over in joyful pain. I ran past their tear-streaked faces and sprinted to the next car down, wondering if, maybe, they still had some small shred of love left for this city.

Because New York can be quite a redemptive little witch, when she wants to be. But most importantly: She’ll always make you laugh.
Or cry.
Or just feel something.

Let Your Feet Do The Talking

I’m not a dancer.

I can hop around and rave at concerts, or mingle at some seedy club—but let’s be clear: I don’t know actual steps, and while occasionally I have rhythm, the lack of knowledge about professional dancing leaves me rigid and confused when I’m reluctantly pulled onto any dance floor.

(You’d think after 22 weddings and middle school cotillion, I could handle myself more gracefully. Alas…)

So please imagine my insecurity as I walked toward a swing dancing club in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. The weather was moderate, but an angry wind made the air feel more like impending winter than spring. Still, I sat outside wrapped in my red coat for a lingering moment, looking the swanky joint up and down.

“Urgh.” A small twinge of discomfort floated around my stomach.

But as soon as those butterflies appeared, I knew not dancing was no longer an option. I’ve learned over the years how to read that unsettling feeling; certain anxieties must simply become the next challenge or adventure. 

Besides, who doesn’t grow tired of the same bars and repetitive evenings? With this thought, I walked inside.

Ten or 12 friends were already circled up, learning how to “rock step” in time to a big band beat. The room was full of nervous faces, excited feet, and tiny tables illuminated with tea candles. Wine colored walls and a wooden dance floor gave the club an antique touch. The band was tuning on stage as our teacher counted out movements…

Whoops. What did he say? I should've been paying better attention, but my mind was taking in details. Thank goodness Kristin, an avid swing dancer and friend, could give me a private lesson.

“Always rock step with your right foot. It’s like the period of a sentence; it’s always the same,” she said, moving back on her heel with ease. I appreciated the grammar metaphor.

After mastering this very simple step, I rewarded myself with a glass of wine. But standing on the sidelines is dangerous at a swing club: Well-practiced dancers are always looking for partners.

“May I dance with you?” a man asked, offering his hand.

“Oh. Um, yes…” I heard myself mutter.
Simultaneously, my mind was whispering something along the lines of, “Bad [bleeping] move Brit.”

“But I actually can’t dance!” I exclaimed with true fear. He turned me in a perfectly executed twirl, and then another. “Sure you can,” he replied.

“No, really,” I said, suddenly unable to remember anything about the dumb “rock step.” But my partner just smiled. He twirled me again, and I wondered if my dress might be revealing a bit too much?

“Okay, well… uh, I’m just following you then,” I said with a little shrug.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” he smiled, effectively ending my anxious inner dialogue.

And may I just say… I think it was the best dance of my life. Spin, spin, rock, dip; this guy could truly dance! I became something like to a pile of spaghetti wearing a dress, and stuck closely to his every move. When we ended in a dip so low my hair touched the floor, I laughed in relief.

After both feet were back on the ground, I promptly hugged Best Dancer Ever (which may or may not be kosher) and made him promise to dance with all my friends. He gladly accepted the challenge, whisking away one girl after another.

As I sat there in the dim lighting, watching the room twist to and fro, I remembered something important: How wonderful it does, in fact, feel to let New York City take lead, and occasionally choreograph life.
Just for us.
The lucky 8.5 million.

Fake It Till Ya Make It

There are some harebrained schemes you come up with in life because you desperately want something. There are also schemes you formulate, just to see how far you can go—you want to test the boundaries.

While the former is often more romanticized, I’d argue that the spontaneity of a “let’s just see where this takes us” kind of endeavor can be exceptionally freeing.

With that in mind, let’s flashback a few months:

A friend and I met for drinks, and somewhere in our discussion the band Imagine Dragons was mentioned. “I like them,” I say, “but not enough to spend serious money on one of their upcoming concerts.” My new job was just beginning, cash was low, and while I’d enjoyed the band’s EP in 2012, I hadn’t even heard the new album.

“Agreed,” the friend replied (who shall remain a mystery to the internet, per her request.) “But…”

She had a thought. An intriguing thought.

For the next 15 minutes, we discussed how we could use her connections at a national magazine to get free tickets to this concert. What if she pitched the story to her old boss, as a freelance assignment? Don’t teeny-bobbers love this band? With approval, she could reach out to the PR people. Maybe they’d give us tickets—but why would she need two tickets? Ah, yes! Because I’m her photographer, of course.

I’ve got a camera.
I can take pictures.
Kind of…

Yes, it was a vague plan with many variables. But Friend made the pitch anyway.

Now flash forward to last Wednesday. I’ve all but forgotten about this concert, much less assumed I’d still be playing the role of professional photog. Yet, an adventure was in the making: Friend emailed me that night with conformation we had successfully secured tickets for [insert infamous teenage zine here].

First reaction: Yes! Free concert.
Second reaction: No! Don’t know how to take pictures.
Final thought? Meh… It’ll be fine.

So we traipsed to the Roseland Ballroom on a rainy Saturday in February. Friend marched up to the box office and coyly used the phrase I’ve always hoped to utter since watching “Almost Famous.”

“We’re with the band.”

Scratch.
Scratch.

The hipster crossed both our names off a list with a yellow highlighter, mine of which was under “Professional Photographers,” much to my chagrin.

We smushed into the large venue, weaving in and out of excitable fans until we had a decent vantage point. Of course, the fight to view the stage was persistent during the opening acts. But after blockading one dude with my book bag, refusing to let some brat take our spots, and making friends with our neighbors—the show began.

And it was actually quite awesome.

The band was especially excited to be playing in New York City, and their energy bled into the audience. Hit song "Radioactive" was explosive, and coupled with a 5-minute jam sesh of straight percussion.

Needless to say, my pictures aren’t brilliant works of art. These guys were happily flailing around, and we weren’t exactly front row. Plus, (believe it or not) this "professional photographer" doesn't even own Photoshop. 

But, as Friend reminded me, we only need one picture.
And that picture will be pretty small.

So here are a few shots from our journalistic evening (of sorts):

Hum A Little Tune

There are certain songs that remind you of a specific time in life.

For example, whenever I hear Penguin Café Orchestra’s “Perpetuum,” I’m thrown back to senior year of college.

It’s well past 2am.
Three of us are slouched over laptops in Katelyn’s room.
We smell like stale coffee.
And as I glance at my lit review, I realize it’ll be another all-nighter. I won’t sleep until after my first class. So I play this upbeat, wordless song on repeat, knowing the tune will get me through the next hour of research.

Another example: During my first year in the city, “Like a G6” blared from every grimy Lower East Side bar. The beat was guaranteed to make people dance, and the lyrics were easy enough to remember. (I also recall one friend drunkenly screaming “Like a CHEESE STICK!” to a crowd of uninterested onlookers while dancing her way to another drink. Said friend shall remain anonymous…)

I remember Death Cab for Cutie’s “Expo 86” while riding a stuffy N train to Coney Island in the summer. My hair was piled on top of my head, and I happily tapped my foot to the beat, relishing in an endless Saturday.

I remember playing “Good Ol’ Fashion Nightmare” over and over again on my way to work after ending things with a boy.

I remember moving to New York and blasting The Avett Brother’s “I and Love and You,” while driving up I-95N. (But then that became too depressing, so I switched to “Empire State of Mind.”)

There was this one song by Ra Ra Riot that played in Bloomingdales – and I loved it so much, I’d avoid customers for a precious 2 minutes and 43 seconds. You could find me in the dressing room, humming along with my eyes closed.

I first listened to Mumford and Son’s new album while walking in the Flatiron District with a leather jacket and a cheeseburger.

The Great Lake Swimmers sung their soft lyrics to a frustrated writer in her kitchen throughout a gusty fall day, while The Naked and the Famous announced the arrival of spring.

M83 “owned the sky” in 2011 (and probably in 2012 too). This band produces epic I-have-to-walk-miles-to-work music.

I danced my way through the Parents magazine internship with Passion Pit, and dubstepped my way through the eight-month Huffington Post gig.

Ray Lamontagne walked with me around Washington Square Park, while Bison’s “Switzerland” played on road trips to Newark. Edward Sharpe took on the East Village and the Shins maintained their persistent role in my life via an outdated iPhone playlist.

But that’s not even half the songs, or half the stories.
In fact, I’m already forgetting some of the details.

There were plenty of lyrics; plenty of remarkable rhythms that matched my mood as I was freaking out and making out and falling down and looking up and trying to remember to laugh, laugh, laugh.

So I thought I’d write a few down… for memory’s sake.

Because each street has a cadenced beat.
Each avenue possesses a subtle symphony.
And, what music we make.

You Know You’re STILL Poor In New York When…

You send text messages like this:

And you light candles with your stove burner – like this:

(Cuz ain’t nobody got money for matches!)

"Could I Trouble You For A Photo?"

My friend Laurie and I typically wind up in the most amusing situations.

We’ve crashed a few parties, gone to numerous book signings, and weaseled our way into some fascinating scenarios. 

But for this particularly cold Saturday in January, we had simple plans: Attempt to purchase student rush tickets to a Broadway matinee, and then enjoy a reasonably-priced brunch.

So we waited in line at the box office of The Heiress, completely frozen, though high in spirits. There were only two people in front of us, meaning our chances of grabbing discounted seats were greater than usual.

Forty-five freezing minutes later, we had two tickets to the show (but, admittedly, we had lost all feeling in our fingers and toes).

The rest of the morning was spent at a diner in Hell’s Kitchen, where we warmed up over coffee and eggs. Next we found ourselves traipsing through Soho, amongst the discounted stacks of books at Housing Works. Finally, by 1:45 Laurie and I were ushered into the Walter Kerr Theatre on West 48th Street.

A man checked our tickets.
“Oh, first row,” he said, pointing down, down, down, toward the stage.

Laurie and I exchanged excited glances. We had noticed our tickets were listed as "orchestra," but we hadn’t realized our good luck until seated approximately a foot away from the stage. If I had reached my hand out far enough, I could have grabbed the velvety red curtain – and all for a lovely $30.

The play starred Jessica Chastain (The Help, Zero Dark Thirty), Dan Stevens (Downton Abbey), and David Strathairn (Lincoln, The Bourne Ultimatum).

It was a well-done show with ornate costumes and a lavish set that was even more fascinating from the front row. I’m certainly no theater critic, but I was most impressed by Chastain’s flood of real tears in Act II and Stevens’ ability to completely snuff out his British accent, transforming himself into an earnest Yankee.

After the curtain fell, Laurie suggested we find the stage door to see if any of the actors appeared. As you might guess from previous Facebook posts and squeals of delight via Instagram, the performers did indeed grace us with their presence.

Somehow I found myself relatively close to Dan Stevens, or Matthew Crawley as you might know him from the British miniseries, Downton Abbey.

(And let’s be honest… he’s the main reason I wanted to see The Heiress.)

I passed our Playbills over a girl’s head so that he might quickly sign them. Suddenly, space opened up, and I was standing right in front of the actor, congratulating him as he initialed our programs.

Picture. I… I need a picture, I thought to myself while fumbling to pull out my cell phone. He just stood there and looked dashing.

Don’t act crazy.
You are starting to look a little crazy.
Just focus on opening the camera app.

Laurie asked if I wanted a picture with Stevens. No, no… I didn’t want to bother him, I replied in haste. Meanwhile I attempted to snap a photo of the actor while he signed another fan’s playbill.

But panic ensued.
My phone…my brand NEW iPhone… was completely frozen. Apparently, he too was star struck by the great and admirable Downton Abbey character. I silently cursed all the technology ever created in the world.

Click, click… CLICK! Nothing.
Now you really look crazy, my mind politely told me. But augh! I needed a picture of Dan Stevens, aka Cousin Matthew, aka the sudden love of my life. I’m not crazy!

Click, click… nope. It wasn’t happening.
Right then, I almost chucked my iPhone at Dan Stevens’ head.
WHY NOW!? Whhhhhhy!?

Luckily, Laurie remained calm. “Just ask him for a picture Brit,” she said with her camera ready.

“Uh… could I trouble you for a photo?” I hesitantly questioned, with as much poise as possible.
“No trouble at all,” he smiled.

You should know that Stevens has a perfect British accent.
You should also know that while I have a picture with him, my heart is not beating in said photo.

What a good ol' New York kind of day. 

[Editor’s Note: I promise I am not as bananas as this blog post may suggest, though I do have a certain weakness for all things British. Also, my bashful iPhone and I are on speaking terms again.]

Laurie and I pre-show. 

The cast was uber sweet and signed a ton of Playbills, despite the temperature outside. 

Dan Stevens, Matthew Crawley, Morris Townsend; whatever you best know him as. 
(I really did try to be cool. *Try*) 

Well, Hello 2013

We all drift.

Slightly touching, slightly bruising – we move through periods of life at an undetermined speed, where the future becomes hindsight and the present slips quickly into the past.

I was at a New Year’s Eve party near Washington D.C. only hours ago, and noticed this so-called “drift.”

It was approximately 11:52 when I carefully climbed the back of a couch in heels, and perched on a ledge above the chaos. My friends and I held our champagne in noisy expectation, surveying the packed room.

The large crowd below us was also prepared. Everyone held some sort of beverage while haphazardly watching the television pan Times Square’s cold faces. (I silently thanked God I was not anywhere near Midtown, Manhattan.)

New Year’s celebrations are always slightly bittersweet. Yes, it’s the beginning of the next chapter, and a good ol’ party is certainly appreciated.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

But it’s also the birthday of time. And time seems so vastly limiting.

“Seven, six…”

Take for instance, this party: Old friends, long ago acquaintances, new faces, names I’ve forgotten… they’re all blending together for this one moment in time. But it’s not enough! Within hours of midnight, I’ll be back on a bus traveling to New York.

“Five, four…”

And then what? On January 2, time is more or less forgotten. We retreat to our routines pre-holiday season in anti-climactic huffs. Another year has passed and we’ve drifted in and out of jobs, relationships, and homes.

Sometimes it seems as though we’re counting down toward the end, and not the beginning.

“Three…”

(Am I bringing you down? Well, I warned you about my bittersweet thoughts on the New Year.)

“Two…”

The less sour side of my opinion reveals a more optimistic outlook:

How extraordinary the connections we form; how fascinating our webs of finely-weaved hellos and goodbyes. Are there not so many people still left to meet and so many intriguing opportunities left to conquer? The thought of harping extensively on what’s already happened suddenly seems cruelly stifling.

The clock may be ticking loudly in our ears on January 1, but it certainly never stops. So embrace this fluid motion.  

Slightly touching, slightly bruising, or full-on crashing into one another…
We drift on.

“One!”

Happy New Year.
May 2013 lead to some of your greatest adventures yet.

Something Closer To What We Call "Stability"

I suppose it’s time to tell you about my new "big girl" job.

I’ve owed you this blog post for quite a few weeks but, as you might understand, the dust from my last shaky jump into the unknown needed to settle before I blasted any inner thoughts over the internet.

So let’s flashback to New York’s mild days of mid-October:

That’s me. I’m sitting at my desk in the vast Huffington Post newsroom. Most likely on deadline, and probably a little bit hungry, I’m frantically typing something tech-related. There’s two disposable cups perched on the edge of my shared desk – one full of water; the other drained of coffee.

Someone nearby is smashing a sandwich into their face, and the noise becomes distracting. While I struggle to find the correct turn of phrase about Apple’s latest whatever, all I can hear is the smack, smack of lips.
Then a phone rings.
Then two reporters start talking.
Someone’s laughing.
The TV blares above my head.
My Gchat pings…. and pings, and pings, and pings.

I quickly grab my headphones and stuff them into my ears, praying I can block out the nasty sound of what is probably a mild form of OCD. Now we can see me glance at the clock. Did you catch that twitch? Yes, I’ve got 30 minutes to make this article into something publishable.

Oh... that face. 

But before continuing, I stare at the empty, coffee-stained paper cup still sitting on my desk. Can you see those wheels turning? That’s right… I’m thinking about the promise I made to myself in 2010.

Many temporary jobs ago, I decided I wouldn’t bring a coffee cup to work until I had a salaried, fixed position within a company. This future mug was my secret reward, while this cynical thought was my slight motivation and persistent reminder that every publishing job I’d obtained thus far had been as stable as that damn paper cup.

It’s not that I wasn’t happy. In fact, the longer I worked for good ol’ Huffy, the more I appreciated my experience. I was getting paid to write! I had national bylines, and relevance, and editors tearing apart my work, and deadlines to make, and valuable lessons to learn – that’s the dream, right? “THAT’S why you’re HERE,” I would think to myself.

But the truth is, loan payments loomed. PB&J sandwiches began to make my stomach revolt. I craved a certain responsibility, and maybe even the next experience. I also knew there wasn’t a permanent position for me at HuffPost.

So I left.

Last day on the job. 

I won’t lie; the process wasn’t quite that easy. There was a series of interviews and edit tests that dominated my evenings, while a growing pit in my stomach reminded me that I’d become quite fond of my home at AOL headquarters.

Still, there’s never been a job I haven’t enjoyed, and already I’ve happily immersed myself back into the world of print publication. I’m now the official web editor of Kiwi Magazine. (An editor? An editor! Insert silly squeal of delight here.) Social media growth, blogger platforms, daily site updates, quick copy – these are my pet projects I’m more than thrilled to develop.

But let’s flashback to New York’s not-so-mild days of late November:  

That’s me. I’m standing in the lobby of 770 Broadway, receiving my first job offer. It’s raining, so my hair is probably a mess, but then again so is everyone else’s. Boots are squeaking across the marble floor. Umbrellas are opening and closing on cue, like life has been previously choreographed.

I’m all genuine smiles as my next boss tells me the good news, though I know my departure from Huffington Post will inevitably be bittersweet.

But do you know the first thing I thought? Over salary negotiations, and vacation days, and contracts -- the very first thing to cross my mind as a full time employee was this:

"I can finally bring a coffee mug to work."
And so I did. 

The new office, located  in mid-town.