baffling

Could this be the most counter-intuitive advertisement ever?



I mean...they've actually used Comic Sans MS. To tell you the truth, I'm a little surprised they haven't whacked the ubiquitous clip art sillhoette on for good measure. I hesitate to imagine the folk exploring their creativity with this number, but I suspect it will include a lot of scrapbookers looking to make the transition to the www.

Live from Hoboken, NJ!

After tramping around the city for a week, I hopped on the PATH train yesterday to visit my darling friend the Baby Mama in Hoboken, New Jersey. It is therefore from here (there?) that I currently write. Specifically, from the insides of the Frozen Monkey Cafe, a particularly Melbournish cafe resplendent with formica tables, coloured lamps and a much desirable free wifi connection.



The sky is having a mothu uckin stroke outside. Much as it has been doing off and on all week, the intense humidity and grey skies have combined to produce one almighty thunderstorm. You can't really tell from this picture, but the rain is coming down in sheets while a low rumbling alternately pulsates through the heavens.



It seems to have settled in for the duration. Previous thunderstorms this week have wandered in and out of the city like an itinerant alcoholic at a small and intimate dinner party. The sky will open to send raindrops the size of buckets from within its belly. New Yorkers rush around with utilitarian rainshields draped across their bodies - plastic slickers, the kind designed specifically to make the wearer look both hideous and sweaty. They are invariably doomed once the rain stops and the sun appears in all its blazing glory.

One woman hid beneath the shadecloth at Fairways (a local supermarket on the UWS) the other day with a rainhat fashioned out of a plastic bag. It looked most uncomfortable and even more unflattering. I've seen tourists don slickers at the merest whiff of rainy provocation, so intent are they on protecting their precious Abercrombie and Fitch duds that they'll risk turning their bodies into a sauna just to avoid a few drops. Me, I like the rain in summer and enjoy the sensation of standing beneath it while everyone else rushes for cover. But then, I come from a country where rain has been a fantastical myth for the better part of half a century and so probably treat the experience of it much as one might a mermaid suddenly emerging from the sea and asking for directions to the nearest Starbucks.

As far as living goes, it doesn't seem to get much better than in Hoboken NJ. A mere 20 minutes (if that) by train from Penn Station on 34th and 6th in Manhattan, residents can enjoy a much more relaxed pace of life this side of the Hudson. Known as the Mile Square City, brownstones line the residential lanes either side of Washington St and rent can be managed at a fraction of the price one will have to pay to live in Manhattan. Dot and Blaine are currently househounting on the Lower East Side and are looking at around $1800 a month for a studio, POST economic downturn. But in Hoboken, it seems you could rent a sunny one bedroom for around $1300 and have the luxury of your own balcony with waterfront views. Baby Mama owns a condo between 2nd and 3rd Sts and has her own private deck on the rooftop that lends itself perfectly to summer night barbecues (or 'cook outs') and romantic second date kissing.

Although there are lots of negative views of Noo Joisey (Blaine did a particularly splendid impression of the average NJ guy the other day. It involved talking a lot about footbawl and beeya, and how to achieve the poifect tayen), Hoboken seems to exist as something separate. Home to the first officially recorded game of baseball in 1846, it boasts a population of slightly less than 40,000, most of whom are aged between 25 and 44. Of course, the population is also almost entirely white which is either a result of or a reason for the system of gentrification that began to occur in the latter part of last century. 23.8% of people living in Hoboken are married couples, but they need not fear their partners looking across the river for something better - Hoboken loves romance you see!

Say it with butt plugs

The most recent Mayor of Hoboken is the city's youngest ever - at 33, Peter Cammarrano III began his term on July 1, 2009 and is the city's 37th Mayor.

Peter Cammarano cares about YOU!

But before you get too excited about potential victories for youth in politics, things aren't as rosy as they might seem. On July 23, after just 23 days in office, Mayor Cammarrona was arrested as part of a major corruption and international money laundering conspiracy probe known as Operation Bid Rig.

Whoops!

He was charged with accepting $25,000 in cash bribes from an undercover operative. Amongst those arrested in the op were several rabbis in New Jersey and NY, another local Mayor and an Assemblyman. Way to go team!

As well as being the home and birthplace of Frank Sinatra (who wasted no time in declaring his love for New York - loyal much?), Hoboken is also home to Maria Pepe, one of the first girls in the US to play Little League baseball. When Pepe joined the same neighbourhood team as her friends, the coach kicked her off which caught the attention of the National Organisation for Women. A court case followed, which resulted in a ruling declaring that Little League must allow girls to try out. Little League then began a program specifically designed for girls. Pepe may not be as internationally famous as Ole Blue Eyes, but in a world where women tend to be ignored in history, I'd like to introduce all of you to her now:

dirt in the skirt, maria!

Being as I have a nose for vintage stores and the like, I discovered a little dressmaker/vintage clothes seller a few doors down from Baby Mama's house. We got to talking and she revealed she doesn't really know what it is 'the young girls' want these days. I assured her that she could make a killing if she made wearable vintage style dresses for girls of all sizes, and told her about a particular dress of mine (the green one with white spots for those in the know) which is a guaranteed winner on all lady bodies. Because I am a wheeler and dealer, I told her I'd bring it in for her to make a pattern out of. In exchange for some website help and a bit of advertising know how, she's going to fashion me up a few. Am I resourceful, or what? Perhaps I'm just awesome. WHO CAN SAY?

I'm heading to Brooklyn tonight to stay with the delectable Gin and Tonic. I realised that I can catch exactly one train between there house and Dot and Blaine's, which is almost amazing considering they live in different boroughs. I hope BlaDot don't move too far away from the AC line and spoil this massive convenience. *crosses fingers, looks winsome*

In preparation, I have brought along A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. It is my hope that in addition to reading an American classic, I shall be able to recognise the various historical elements of Williamsburg featured in the book and thus come to feel I am some kind of academic expert by way of appropriating a false level of knowledge with strangers. See also: the TenMus, the UWS, Central Park and the Australian System of Government.

Oh yeah, I also got a new tattoo the other day. I returned to Addiction NYC on St Mark's Place in the East Village, the same place I had my russian dolls done. Fortunately for me, the surly bastard who inked me last time was gone. I am told he quit in an alcoholic depression, his girlfriend having left him because he is, among other things, a monumental cockhead. This doesn't surprise me in the slightest. I instead had the great pleasure of working with Beanz (Beans?), a chap of great good humour and talent. Although he confessed to being not much of a reader, he allowed me to recite to him from David Sedaris' Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim, and while he didn't share my belief that "Us and Them" might be the funniest thing ever committed to print, EVER, he did seem to enjoy "Six to Eight Black Men", even contributing his own little tidbits of information regarding European Christmas traditions.

As for the tattoo, it is a picture of two autumn leaves swirling around on my upper thigh. I'm unsure if I exactly love it just now - it needs to heal and come down in colour a little bit. Plus, I have monumentally fucked up body issues which I am possibly going to explore shortly here because they are really mentally screwing with me at the moment BUT THAT IS A STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME. Anyhoo, here is the pickchar.



Also, I am experiencing some form of tingling in my right fingertips. This concerns me, and gnaws at the propensity towards hypochondria that I've held in check for the past 6 or so years. Multiple sclerosis? Parkinson's? Oncoming stroke? Too much caffeine? It is likely one of them, but who's to say which. I hope it's the last one. I did have three big mugs today and a diet coke. In light of that, it's probably NOT Parkinson's.

Rain has stopped. Alcoholic sky passed out in the heavens somewhere. Off to Brooklyn.

melon head

After the TenMus, Dot, Gershwin and I walked around the corner to eat lunch at Katz's. Locals know this as New York's oldest and best delicatessen. On the other hand, you'll probably know Katz's from this classic movie scene:



According to Katz's website, to be considered a true delicatessen you have to "continue a tradition of meat preparation and preservation predating refrigeration". Located on the corner of Houston (pron. House-ton) and Ludlow, the deli was established in 1888 by a Russian immigrant family. For a local community forged on immigration, Katz's food was a link to the Old World. In a New World so heavily populated by transient eateries, fast food outlets and corporate domination, it's reassuring to know that one of New York's most lasting and popular restaurants remains family owned (although ownership transferred to Fred Austin and his wife Juli in 1988).

I ordered what turned out to be a $15 sandwich. This sounds ridiculous until you realise that a sandwich at Katz's basically translates to stuffing half a (cured) cow between two slices of bread. Observe:



Needless to say, I had to give half of mine away but I derived great pleasure out of sampling some of the finest pastrami the world has to offer. As the old dad joke goes, "Two Chinamen walked out of Katz's. One says to the other, 'The bad thing about eating here is that two weeks later you're hungry again!'

I'm uncertain as to why the joke references Chinamen in particular as I've certainly never come across a Chinese restaurant where an abundance of food hasn't been consumed. Perhaps the joke would be more accurate were it to feature WASPs, or perhaps the lady who serves a lettuce leaf and half a tomato salads in the David Jones food court. But then the joke would have to include something uncomfortably close to home about value for money, and she might have to start confronting herself with some home truths.

Then again, she IS Chinese, so perhaps there's something in that after all.

Hey, here's another funny joke!

Q. What's the difference between Bono and Jesus?

A. Jesus doesn't think he's Bono.

Classic.

After Katz's, we wandered into the sixth circle of hell, better known as Century 21. A discount designer department store, the average person can handle about four seconds inside before experiencing the very real urge to kill themselves. Describing it here is giving me terrifying flashbacks, the memory of crazed women grabbing for shoes and DKNY mini skirts having me reach slowly towards a knife, or perhaps a heavy blunt object of some description. Even their website is offensive, the mind numbing musical beats a portent for the throb your head will experience once two feet inside the store's perimeter. It's like what would happen if Supre married David Jones and insisted they hold the reception in a basement with extremely surly caterers.

Later, we picked up Blaine and headed to JG Melon, a burger and beer staple on the Upper East Side. It opened back in 1972 and has been serving some of the best burgers not-that-much-money can buy ever since. In amongst everything that New York has to recommend, its command over the humble burger has to be near the top. In Australia we get bogged down by the idea that a hamburger has to be overflowing with gourmet ingredients who all then end up competing for to be the most dominant flavour. Do we really need to adorn a beef patty with a fried egg, relish, beetroot, sweet onions, cheese AND a fucking salad? No. We do not. We definitely don't need to then stuff said burger contents into an impossibly unwieldy bread roll.

But New York, it knows what it's doing. Patty and a soft bread roll, cheese if you're after a bit of a kick and onions if you don't mind something messy. Personally, I prefer to chow down on a patty and bun while railing at the years I spent eating inferior imitations.

Of course, every time I want a cigarette I have to go and stand on the street and endure the moral judgement from other patrons, their pursed lips and shocked faces saying it all. She's doing what now? Smoking? Right here, on the sidewalk, by the gutter when I am clearly sitting four metres away from her and TRYING to enjoy my low carb beer and conversation with similarly nasal New York Dames Who Dine? That is just the MOST.

All of this is a mystery to me. I mean, how else do they stay so rigorously thin? No one likes running that much and even if coke weren't so hopelessly passe the economic downturn would have seen fit to destroy the industry. The well-to-do ladies of the Upper East Side might smoke most of their calories, but they sure as shit don't let anyone see them do it.

Tired of the humiliating excursions outside and done with our (admittedly delicious) burgers, we headed back to the UWS for some Responsible Early Bedtimes. This put me in good stead for the next day, when I headed out in the blazing hot sun to wander around Greenwich Village. I had hoped to see some kind of hopelessly cool celebrity lurking around a coffee shop so that I might duly ignore them and pretend to be a real New Yorker, but alas such a treat did not greet me. Instead I had the great fortune of meeting a crazy dude in Washington Square Park who spent approximately 45 minutes explaining to me the hidden secrets of the cosmos.

According to Kevin, it's due to a government conspiracy that the 13th zodiac sign of Ophiuchus has been covered up and abandoned. A brief search on Google reveals that Ophiuchus is known of (and probably exists, I guess - I mean, you're getting an excellent insight into my research skills here. Someone on Yahoo! answers says it does, so I'm prepared to believe that's true) and lies somewhere between Scorpio and Sagittarius. Nostradamus predicted that 2012 will see us living under the sign of Ophiuchus, and that great famine, war, terror and all sorts of crazy shit will become de rigeur. This pretty much ties in with the Mayan predictions of the end of the world, and also mental Christian stuff about Jesus returning and smiting us.

Kevin didn't tell me any of this though - that came from "Claire" on Yahoo! answers (thanks Claire!) and I'm just going to go with it. Kevin didn't really seem to know what he was talking about, except he knew that it was bad and it had something to do with Men In Power Being Cunts. Or whatever. (He also went into great detail about the mosquito bites he'd gotten on his upper thighs, going so far as to peel his trousers back and show me. Apparently they all live in a puddle outside his apartment that he can't get rid of. So....that was nice.)

Kevin told me that time isn't real, and that we're all actually living an hour and 58 minutes in the past. Which either makes me REALLY late for everything I turn up to, as opposed to just moderately late, or incredibly on time. I'm not sure how that works, because unlike Kevin I am not a cosmologist.

As far as Ophiuchus goes, I suppose it could be possible that the Son of God will return to Earth in a blaze of righteous glory on Dec 21, 2012, to send most of us to hell and take the believers back up to Heaven Land for corn dogs and twister. But I kind of prefer "sos89"s version of how the sign was lost:

"Probably because most people wouldn't be able to pronounce it. As bad as sagittarius seems, I think that Ophiuchus is the hardest of the zodiac signs to say/prounounce/spell. I mean it isnt anything like saying cancer or leo."

Well, quite.

Next time, in the amazing adventures of audrey in the big apple!

• Audrey gets another tattoo, charms tattoo artist.
• A brief and possibly only semi-accurate guide to the names of neighbourhoods in Manhattan.
• How to speak like you're from New Jersey.
• Random meetings with interesting men in parks and shoestores. But not in a whorish way.
  

97 Orchard St

One of the best things about staying with Dot is that she's a wealth of local information. Because she has a degree in Art History, she's naturally interested in discovering a lot of local shit. And because I'm a lazy scholar, I'm naturally interested in draining her brain of facts and pretending the subsequent knowledge is the result of hours of personal study. It helps to make me appear both smarter and more interesting while having to expend the minimum amount of time required. Some people live by inspirational mottos - be kind to others and it will come back to you; every cloud has a silver lining; life is like a box of chocolates. I prefer to live by the creed that if you can't make it, fake it.

On Friday, Dot and I went with her visiting sister Gershwin to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum to learn a little about immigrant history in late 19th century New York. The Museum offers the kinds of tours my best friend mtk would go gaga for. I imagine that when she eventually visits the Tenement Museum, she will fall to her knees and beg it to marry her and spend the rest of her life trying to defy nature so that she may bear its children. The basic story of the TenMus (this is not an official abbreviation by the way - I just made it up, so best not to use it in conversation in an attempt to appear local and In The Know) is thus - between 1863 and 1935, the tenement building at 97 Orchard St was home to an estimated 7000 people from over 20 different nations. Orchard St was known as a Jewish enclave, and the eight city blocks it covered was lined end to end with similar tenements - the iconic buildings you think of that are multi storey featuring fire escapes on the visages.

The actual definition of tenement is 'dwelling', but its use refers here to a dwelling that is occupied transiently from one person to another. Multiple families lived within the tenement's walls in sectioned off apartments of two or three rooms. Essentially, tenements in the mid to late 19th century were what we would refer to as slums. With no official city housing code, fire escapes didn't become de rigeur until the turn of the 20th century. The first patent for a fire escape was registered in the US by Anna Connelly in 1887. As our excellent tour guide explained to us, the lack of interest in the health and safety of tenement residents (read: the poor) went a long way towards establishing a city code in New York.

As the years progressed, codes were established around housing, sanitation and safety. The creation of New York City became a model for the rest of the country, meaning that the establishment of city codes for all citizens can largely be attributed to the history of the tenements on the Lower East Side. The particular tour we took recreated the life of the Moore family, who lived at 97 Orchard St for about a year at the end of 1869. Although we were initially shocked by the conditions preserved at the house - all the residents shared outhouses in the backyard, with only a small spigot of water to flush, wash with and use for cooking and drinking - our tour guide surprised us with the information that, as far as tenements went, 97 Orchard St lay more on the middle class scale of tenement living.

Basically, the fact that they had a spigot at all made it a more well to do residential property. An Irish family living in New York during this period would have considered it a step up in the world to live in Kleindeutschland (the name given to the Orchard St neighbourhood). Prior to moving there, the Moore's lived at 65 Mott St which was located in the notorious Five Points area, a much poorer Irish neighbourhood and historical basis for the movie Gangs of New York.

When the Moores moved in to Kleindeutschland, they brought with them their three daughters Mary, Jane and Agnes. Bridget Moore (nee Meehan) was, we are told, likely a former domestic like many of the other single immigrant women at the time. After marrying Joseph Moore, it's probable that she ceased going out to work but possibly began taking in other people's laundry. Unfortunately for the Moores, even living in a relatively 'middle class' slum still made them poor - and that meant they were subject to the prejudices and disregard of a city that at the time also boasted extravagant wealth and opulence.

While living at 97 Orchard St, baby Agnes succumbed to marasmus, a disease common amongst babies at the time. Because immigrant women were likely to be undernourished and overworked, it wasn't always possible for them to breastfeed their children. In fact, it was staggeringly implausible that most would have been able to manage it. As such, their children were fed with the milk that was brought in from farms outside of the city and taken to the slums. Because people will always try and pull a fast one over on the poor, being as they are clearly not as important as the rest of us and certainly don't deserve the kind of basic level of human respect that those in power do, you'll be unsurprised to discover that, among many other crimes against humanity, the milk they were forced to drink (by sheer virtue of the fact it was the only source) was essentially poisonous.

Called 'swill milk', its story goes a little something like this: the sick and malnourished cows living on farms outside of the city would be drained of whatever milk they had to ferry over to the slum dwellers. However, in order to make it spread a little further the milk sellers would dilute it with water. This made the milk an off grey colour, so they would then mix chalk into it to bring it back to a milky white. But as if this weren't bad enough, once they got to the city (especially through the summer heat) the milk would be obviously bad and smelly. So to counter this, they would then mix in ammonia to remove the stink. Basically, they were serving up poisonous skank water dressed up as nutrition to the folk on the Lower East Side because hey, who gives a fuck about the poor people anyway? As a result, many children failed not only to receive vital nutrients they were actively be poisoned by the 'swill' that was being fed to them.

But what was anyone to do? They had no other alternative at the time. I mean, this was a city that waited until 1879 to enforce a housing code prohibiting windowless rooms (a code Dot thinks has been overwhelmingly ignored if the amount of apartments she's viewed recently are anything to go by. Though perhaps the buildings are 'pre-code', which is an abbreviation you may feel free to use being in actualy circulation and not just the result of my lazy typing). In a country that is still afraid to talk about socialised medicine for fear of being branded communist, I find the story of swill milk to be a stark reminder of our responsibility to those who cannot afford the luxuries many of us take for granted.

After Agnes' death, the Moores moved out of 97 Orchard St and to a considerably slummier dwelling at 224 Elizabeth St. At the time, burials were reasonably expensive. The $25 it might set a family back to properly bury their child could ruin everything they'd been working for up until that point. It's likely that the reason the Moores moved yet again (as they were a transient family to begin with - many tenement owners lured residents in with the promise of a month's free rent, so families would find themselves moving once or twice a year just to cut down on costs) was because of the financial strain of Agnes' burial. Bridget would go on to have five more children, of whom only two would survive. Bridget herself died at the age of 36 from a weak heart (probably brought about by the intensive labour of 8 children in less than desirable conditions).

Sidebar: It's stories like these that make me rail so much against idiotic sites like Joyous Birth. I am very much in favour of home births and midwifery, but the idea that it is a woman's natural instinct to give birth and she should just be allowed to toddle off into the bushes to do it and anyone who tries to stop her is OPPRESSING her and making her a victim of BIRTH RAPE is fucking bullshit. You know what the difference is between being allowed to do that willy nilly and having actual professionals involved? Not dying.

The Moores' story is just one of thousands at 97 Orchard St alone. It's amazing to think of so many people entering and leaving a residential dwelling such as that. It's more amazing to think of the countless others who do it across the Lower East Side in significantly less well-to-do environments, with no sanitation, fire escapes or basic plumbing. 97 Orchard boasted a saloon in its basement - I found myself wondering the other day just how much trouble that caused for the young girls and women living in the tenement.

On the other hand, I was struck by the sense of community that such living conditions would engender. While life would have been undoubtedly hard and unenviable, there would (I imagine) have been a certain level of camaraderie amongst its residents, particularly the women and children all working and playing together in the tenements' hubs. While it's not a life I would want to live, I do think we miss out by not taking the best parts of it such as the concept of family as a community rather than a bloodline.

The most incredible thing about 97 Orchard St however is its preservation. By sheer luck, it has been preserved as it stood in 1935 when, rather than continuing to modify it in accordance with radically changing housing codes, the residents were evicted and the building boarded up. Only the store fronts were left open for business. It was left unoccupied and untouched for a further 50 years until it was rediscovered again in 1988. Layers upon layers of peeling plaster work adorn the tenement's inside walls, while cracked linoleum and exposed boards form the floor. It is truly an incredible example of living history.

(After the tour, we took part in Kitchen Conversations, a session which allowed the tour participants to discuss their thoughts with a TenMus facilitator. Alex told us that the TenMus had purchased another tenement further down the block and would be recreating the life of, among others, a Dominican family living on the LES in the 1980s. Dot suggests that in 20 years time they can purchase another former tenement and recreate the fascinating home life of 21st century hipster.)

Much as I experienced while standing outside the Tower of London of the Colloseum, I felt the ghosts of 97 Orchard St moving around me. Not in a literal sense, but figuratively - I like to imagine it as layers up on layers of history, all operating within the same space of time but with different spatial awareness - the wallpaper we erect over the existing patterns in no way negates that they exist, and in certain spots you can see where they stand together, crackling and peeling away as one.

The glimpse into history that 97 Orchard St provides the modern viewer is so precious, and the work the TenMus does in preserving it as laudable. I can't help but think of the many thousands of other families fucked over by the system and struggling to live within what were essentially slums. The Moores would be blessedly ignorant that their lives have become one of the historical fixtures for modern visitors to New York City, and yet they have touched the lives of millions of visitors to the TenMus over the years.

And then there is this little story. Long after the Moores had quit 97 Orchard St, a Russian family moved in. The Katz family suffered no infant mortality rates as the city had by this stage vastly improved their health and sanitation codes, as well as enforcing a system of checks in city schools. One of their daughters would grow up to be married and have children of her own, no trace of the marasmus that took Agnes' life so many years before.

But here is her name, scrawled in tentatively new cursive of a child and peeking out behind the peeling wallpaper of one of the upper rooms at 97 Orchard. A little girl leaving her mark on the world as so many children have done in so many living rooms across so many years. Ruth Katz.

We all of us contribute to the world, no matter how big or small we are, and we can never be sure if actions that seem to us mundane and everyday will fade away to dust or be gifted to future generations as a testament to how people like us lived in a time people like them have difficulty imaging. At the first entrance to 97 Orchard St, a sign stands bearing the words:

"You are walking in somebody else's footsteps. Who will walk in yours?"

Adventures on the UWS

O, how gratifying it is to lead (probably briefly) the kind of life in which one can boast early morning intense productivity and be ready for playtime by 11am! I have spent an entirely pleasurable New York morning that has seen me:

1. take a little stroll in the UWS;

2. drink coffee in the kind of improbably tiny cafe that somehow manages to be indelicately snooty while enjoying the contradiction of selling boiled eggs on the counter;

3. read the New York Times at said cafe in what was no doubt the manner of a hopelessly self-conscious lady tourist trying to appear as if executing a natural daily activity; and

4. applied for this job.

Please to all be crossing your fingers and toes so that I might muscle my way into the hearts and minds of the nation's youth through the power of enforced library time educational TV!

Dot's UWS walking tour was everything it promised and more. Through Dot's exceptional tour guide capabilities, I learned the following:

1. The San Remo building (located at the end of Dot's street on Central Park West) has at various stages been home to Glen Close, Donna Karan, Mrs Kutcher (nee Demi Moore), Bruce Willis, Steve Martin, Aaron Spelling (RIP you dead, mad genius), Oh No Who Invited Him? Bono, Steven Spielberg and Dustin Hoffman (who still resides there). I like to think of them all in committee meetings, arguing over mundane residential trivialities such as could Demi and Bruce please stop having such loud, animalistic fornication and could Bono please stop ministering in the building foyer, because while they get that the situation in Africa is shit and would love to help, they might remind him that he's not exactly giving up all his worldly possessions to do anything other than annoy the entire world with his preaching pomposity and highly overrated music and perhaps it's come time for him to move on because, really, he can be such a drag.

Then we came to the Dakota, which many of you will know as the site of John Lennon's assassination. It was built in 1880 and is a monument to Germanic, gothic design. Yesterday, some workmen were painting the iron Santa gargoyles out the front an imposing black. It therefore does not surprise me that entry to the Dakota is extremely strict and overseen by a residential committee. Famous residents include Lauren Bacall, Roberta Flack, John Lennon (obvs) and Sean Lennon. Rejected by the board? Gene Simmons, Billy Joel, Melanie Griffith and Antonio Banderas. I think they're all living somewhere on Sunset Boulevard now.

The Majestic is an art deco building that was the former home of the Luciano crime family. As such, many shady dealings have occurred there including the shooting of one Frank Costello in the Majestic's lobby. Dot instructs me to say 'maffia' instead of 'marfia' if I want to fit in. I quietly advise myself not to wander around NY saying anything about the maff/marfia at all if I don't want to get shot.

The Ansonia (see below) was built in 1904 and is famous for many reasons. Dot confirms my suspicions: that it's Beaux-Art (an architectural style she taught me about moments before), a flamboyantly designed and slightly ostentatious towering building that seeks to appear much swisher than it is. It's probably one of my favourite buildings in the world. Its original Turkish baths were converted to an infamous gay bathhouse and in 1977, a heterosexual swingers club opened called Plato's Retreat. Plato's Retreat was the launching pad for none other than Bette Midler's singing career. The Divine Ms M was accompanied by that timeless and most excellent musical genius Barry Manilow, of whom I won't hear a word spoken against. Because he is MUSIC! and he writes the SONGS!

Sidebar: These are just some of the reasons why it fucks me off to no end when people try and whitewash Bette Midler as some sort of pathetic, suet pudding 90s musical muck whose sole purpose was to appeal to an easy listening crowd of dull, middle aged shiksas. The Wind Beneath My Wings is not her entire ouvre, you ignorant numbskulls! She was a gay icon before Kylie Minogue even had a forehead in which to pump full of botox! She is a musical maverick! Educate yourselves!

Ditto to anyone who likes all kinds of music "except country". You don't even deserve to live.

Anyhoo, the Ansonia was also the filming location for Single White Female, which means it was the site for one of the greatest schlock films of all time and has had Jennifer Jason Leigh in its folds which makes it officially awesome.

It was beautiful..but I can't go around looking like you anymore.

And to conclude the highlights of yesterday's tour, here is Jerry Seinfeld's carpark:



Following Dot's tour, we ate lunch at a local Jewish diner where I ate a cobb salad that was roughly the same size as Bono's ego. Unlike Bono though, it was supremely satisfying and delicious. I was also pleasantly surprised to discover that the diner's 'large' diet coke came in a glass almost as long as my forearm. Along with being situated in the arse end of the world and boasting Shane Warne as a citizen, under distribution of post mix soda is one of Australia's many cultural downfalls I feel.

After lunch, Dot and I headed to SoHo. (Well, she headed there. I sort of rolled, the enormous lunch providing a circular tyre in which I could comfortably propel myself down the city streets. Because of the inordinate amounts of fizzy drink consumed, I had no fear of losing pace with Dot, being able as it were to achieve short burst of acceleration through the release of bottom gas.)

We quickly bypassed the tourists vying to take photos of the half naked models parading in front of Abercrombie & Fitch (possibly the whitest store known to man - you can famliarise yourself with it here) and joined the other tourists convulsing in Forever 21. Truly, you don't appreciate how gross mass consumption is until you've been in a store stuffed to the brim with poorly made monstrosities shipped straight in from China. I really want to buy an F21 patchwork dress but all I can think of is the 3 year old girl who's stitched it in exchange for a low grade chipped lollipop and the promise of a night's sleep in a cardboard box. Ethical quandary...

The dirtiness of F21 was quickly eradicated when Dot and I visited my favourite bookstore in the entire world: The Strand. 18 miles of books and all of them joyously priced. Keen not to be outdone by my former NY jaunt (which saw me parcel home an entire box of Strand treasures for the low, low price of $100 - so, not so low after all), I loaded up with David Sedaris' "Holidays On Ice" and "Dress Your Family in Courderoy and Denim", Jean Rhys' "Wide Sargasso Sea", Alice Sebold's "Lucky" (a memoir about rape! fun!) and Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" of which I have heard much about and have always wanted to read. I plan to return to purchase some extra pretty postcard collections of turn of the century men being 'affectionate' with each other.

The day was marred somewhat by a run in with one of the kinds of douchebags one has the unfortunate luck of running into occasionally. In New York, women will often find themselves stopped on the street by spruikers paid to try and lure them to beauty salons with promises of cheap 'dos and pamper sessions. This particular spruiker thought he would charm us into reversing our initial 'not interested's by telling us about his recent trip to Australia (and who, incidentally, upon learning that I came from South Australia asked if that was where Canberra was..). Things went from bad to worse when he began to tell us about all the many Australians he'd met.

"Australia? I've been there. I've met Abbos and Lebbos and...."

....at which point I interrupted him to say, "Right, we're going then."

Having second thoughts though, I persuaded Dot to wait for me while I went back to explain the offence in his statement. After all, I reasoned, he may not know that it's incredibly uncool to refer to Aboriginals and Lebanese people as such. I reproduce our conversation for you here in full:

Me: Look, I just thought I should let you know that it's really inappropriate to use the terms 'abbos' and 'lebbos'.

Douche: You know what, I'm actually part American Indian so it's okay.

Me: It's not okay. That's like saying it's okay for black people to talk about 'niggers'.

Douche: Yeah well, what about yobbos?

Me: That's a totally different thing! It's not racist for a start. You just can't talk like that!

Douche: Yeah well, I'm American Indian so I'm an abbo.

Me: Fuck dude! Shut up with the 'abbo' comments!

Douche: Look, I'm American Indian so I can say what I want.

Me: I don't give a fuck what you are, you cannot talk about Aboriginal people and call them 'abbos'!

Douche: You know what? I lived there for four years, so bobs your uncle. I hope you have a nice life.

Me: If you'd lived in Australia for four years you fucking moron then you'd know that Canberra wasn't in South Australia.

At this, I executed a perfect storm off, leaving him to scramble in embarrassment by trying to cover it up with cocky bravado. Cunt.

The worst part is that he'd vaguely mentioned something about comedy earlier on. As in, I think he considers himself a working comedian. Dude, a) racism is only funny if you're exposing the ignorance of people like you, not revelling in it; and b) if you were actually a working comedian you probably wouldn't have to stand on the street trying to sell haircuts to women who don't need them.

Later, Dot and her husband Blaine and I went to the Hi Life to drink pitchers of beer and inadvertantly disrupt the service by giving our orders to people not assigned to our table. We are so provincial like that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must away to the outside of Dot's house - or, in the American shorthand Dot and Blaine have been teaching me, "I need to motivate". I have a date with a certain Israeli fellow tonight and it is absolutely vital that I find something to combat the humidity frizz that has assailed my hair. Preferably sans the help of a racist, low rent 'comedian' with delusions of hilarity.

audrey in the big apple

Those of whom aren't following me on twitter (and thus being exposed to my questionable awesome twaikus) will be unaware that I'm currently indulging my pleasure zone in New York and generally being a gadabout in slip on shoes and jaunty summer outfits.

I know, I know. I'm effectively unemployed, I have basically no savings and should probably have considered turning 28 to be some kind of sign that I try to get my life in order. But what they hey, right? When Qantas posts ridiculously cheap sale prices on their website, it's practically compulsory to take advantage of them. I take no responsibility for responding as intended to their seductive attempts to woo passengers.*

Actually getting to New York turned out to be a breeze. I didn't even need to take the valium pills I'd stowed away in my wallet for just-in-cases. (Sidebar: Amusing Dad Moment - when I told him I had some backup valium, he became very stern, took a deep breath and then said, "My fear is that you'll become addicted." Meanwhile, all the middle aged women having dinner with us began raving about how amazing the big V was. It's almost as if men are from Mars and women are from, I don't know, Venus or something!)

But I digress.

Because I'm a mind magician, I seem to be quite adept at getting myself upgrades here and there. In the past, it's only ever been to premium economy which is, as the name suggests, just like economy but ever-so-slightly less shit. I really lucked out this time though - Brisbane to LA was spent luxuriating in the space age pods they've reserved for the folk rich enough to pretend that 20 hour flights are at all conducive to business dealings. For your benefit, I've included a picture below of the mini houses they provide for this class of traveller:



A complicated array of buttons on the pod's armrest will, when massaged correctly, collapse the entire inside tray into a bed. This comes in especially handy after consuming the copious amounts of highbrow liquor they provide, the ceremonial presentation of which is kicked off before the plane has even started cruising the runway. There are little shelves to put your books in and cubby holes for the various accoutrements of travel - pawpaw lip cream, evian face spray, nuclear strength anti-aging hand cream.

Unfortunately, I forgot that last one. As a result, my hands currently resemble what I imagine the withered claws of Miss Havisham would look like were she to strap herself into a long haul flight and drink far more red than was necessary before passing out in a dehydrated stupor to dream of new and more inventive ways to crush the souls of young lovers.

Of course, now I'm ruined for future travel expeditions. How can I wallow with the peasants back in strap now that I've seen how the other half live?

After 27 hours in transit, I landed at JFK last night in the midst of a summer rainstorm. The air was muggy, the sky was grey but driving through the city as the sun was setting was one of the prettiest times I've ever seen it. Although it's been seven months since I tramped through these streets, it felt like I'd never left. There was Grand Central, towering over 42nd street like it always has. Here's where you cut through Central Park to get to Columbus. There's Dot's house, tucked away on W74th street amidst tree shrouded brownstones with stoops and iron railings. The air always seems alive with possibility in this city, and the great gulps of it I drew in last night replenished a spirit in me that, I'm sad to say, has been drowning a little bit in recent months.

Two glasses of wine later and I promptly passed out on Dot and Blaine's couch with my earphones plugged into the musical stylings of Michael Giacchino. (Yes, I love the music in Lost enough to buy it from iTunes, WHAT OF IT? I like to listen to There's No Place Like Home and get a bit swept up in the delicate crescendos while daydreaming about Desmond's half naked torso. LET ME CHOOSE MY CHOICE. *distracted*)

Now it's mid morning. I've been up for almost five hours after jetlag pulled me out of a comfortable sleep at 5:30am. Because the light was streaming through the windows and I have some summer clothes that have been begging for action these past four months, I sprang out of bed and Went Exploring. Dot and Blaine live one street away from the Strawberry Fields entrance to Central Park, so I spent an exceptionally pleasing hour wandering up and down the little hills in the park, watching morning runners and dog walkers and generally feeling like if I don't move here for keeps within the next three seconds then my life will be meaningless and sallow and devoid of all notions of pleasure.

The weather boasted that perfect combination of humidity being held at bay by the crisp remnants of morning dew on grass. As I walked, it began heating up in the way that summer mornings do - slowly but surely, the air turning thick with summer swell, sweat droplets almost but not quite forming on one's decollatage, the exposed limbs of runners glistening in the morning light. As always, I was amazed that this oasis of nature lies smack in the middle of a city as intense and urban as New York. Adelaide can waffle on all it likes about its parklands, but until they build a baseball field and a zoo in the middle of Victoria Park, I will determine to remain unimpressed.

Must dash. Dot's taking me on a self devised walking tour of the Upper West Side, resplendant in important facts about local celebrities and the history of nearby buildings. I keep telling her she should charge for these wacky tours she creates - without her by my side in the Met last winter, I would have remained the ignorant, unartistic dullard I am inside and written off everything remotely abstract as 'shit, more shit, utter shit, shit that's taking the piss, shit'. Of course, I remain an ignorant dullard in many other areas, but I can at least now appreciate the notion that negative space in art is not always a case of the artist having a laugh - although, I maintain to this day that The Art Gallery of SA's 'Red On Black' is the artistic equivalent of brewing instant coffee in a plunger and calling it espresso. While wearing a beret.

In two weeks, I'm flying to Spain for a month to play with the Chilean, swim in Barcelonan beaches and become well versed in the art of Gaudi, Picasso and Dali. I anticipate lots of bicycle riding, broken Spanish and afternoon siestas. Then it's back to New York for two weeks before flying home to begin preparing for Adelaide Fringe 2010 - this year, Emily and I are writing a show about the landscape of love. (With Ms Davis' supreme talent, it will naturally be excellent so please do come along for some storytelling and more odes to old male rockers like the J.Cash and the Stones.)

Even though promises to blog more are really indicative of nothing more than the author's own (perhaps misguided) assumption that anyone actually cares if they blog less, I know I've neglected the apple barrel of late. What can I say - it's been a tough few months. But for those readers who have remained loyal, and for those who just pop in on occasion, I will be blogging this overseas jaunt relatively intensively to make up for the fact I wrote barely a skerrick about the last one.

So, you know. Come on by if you're interested.

Now, off for walkies and talkies. Later, I may call on the Israeli and kiss him on the lips while the summer heat settles outside. I may definitely do that.


* (Besides, when I think about it my employment situation isn't all that dire. I'm writing for a TV show now, don't you know.. *brushes fingernails against lapel foppishly*. And I'm heading to Queensland in November to work on a digital storytelling project for the State Library up there. On paper, things are looking pretty good.)