photo series, through the west village and into chinatown

west village, fluff and arms.

west village, tucked.

Bayard Market. Why the frogs weren't trying to escape, I couldn't tell you. Mild in comparison to the Komodo Dragon Arms for sale.

"That's not legal," Vadim chirped.

"Come on."

"It can't be."

A slight pang of hunger snuck up on us.

As featured in New York magazine, we partook in the dumplings on Mosco street. On the edge of Chinatown, the tiny, disheveled shop opened to the street with a handful of people pushed onto the street, waiting for the single woman to plate them up pork dumplings. Mounds of flour crowded the counter with finely chopped pork and scallions. Three nearly empty bottles of Sriracha littered the shelf peaking over a the two stool 'seating area.' Five dumplings will set you back $1. And they're good. Really good.

Dumplings on plates.

Although other items are offered, when we requested pork buns, we were simply given a second plate of dumplings. Three young boys barked at the woman behind the grill, "I need one more!" Without looking up from her rows of plump hissing dumplings- she corrected, "Then you give me another dollar!"

Fortune telling.

Cards and communication.

Love and things.

moments before it came

Post office, Grand Central. Three packages to the Island. I considered sushi for lunch, the Eastern European postal worker's curt words and aggressively applied blue eye shadow. She seemed unimpressed with my parcel post and media mail requests.

Relieved to have off-loaded the extra weight, I picked up a roll and skim cappuccino. I took in the New York magazine building ahead, slightly disappointed that the 'W' needed a few bulbs. The clouds were rapidly moving. I heard there might be rain, quite a bit actually. Having taken the gamble, I was wearing my velvet Coach flats. I turned to see low sinking clouds wrapping around the buildings on 40th, 41st...

"It's coming," Vadim claimed.

"Sooner than not," I confirmed.

I skipped to the next block. Drop, Drop, pour, pour, slam.

I knew I shouldn't have been lazy this morning. I should have changed out of my dark bra- when I decided to go with the light pink and white blouse on second thought. Nice little ice breaker at the hedge fund.

something happened here.

Times Square. 6:30pm. 7th Ave at 43rd. Lip gloss, new. Wine, destroyed. Ritz crackers, unopened.

Schillers, South Dakota Folk

Yesterday evening, I faced the endurance test of the Holland Tunnel: another reason that Jersey doesn't get my vote.

A name, from the not too distant past, popped into my phone: So Dak Joe. In town for a handful of days, (in the spirit of the Yankees) we toyed with the idea of meeting up, for a night cap.

The Holland Tunnel debacle teamed up with the rental car to and fro/return mission and the scariest/fastest cab ride home nixed my inspiration to meet up for a night cap, or four. The spirit was rekindled this morning after I rose early to walk young Pilgrim.

We met in the Lower East Side for a bloody mary and some Jack Daniels with Gingerale. Soon after our first cocktail emptied at Schillers, a cab dropped off his father and sister. My first time meeting them- they were in a sort of: first-time-in-NYC- I'm-from-South-Dakota-culture-shock. We partook in a meal of grilled turkey sandwiches w/ frites & mayo for dipping, seared Ahi w/ greens and salmon. A diner feel- with fresher, slightly more complex ingredients. Presentation was on par with a Belgian Cafe.

Just inside the doors, magazines climb to the ceiling in racks. They offer patrons to stay awhile, as does the curly-haired, olive-skinned bartender, "I'm from Manhattan. I was raised here. That's unusual. I've heard of South Dakota, but I've never met anyone from there."

After our meal, we hopped on a F-Train to 42nd- as there was interest in seeing Times Square and the Bryant Park hot spots where the Sex in the City movie was filmed.

A lovely day in the heat. Summer. Good Things.

shattering a young buck

Emerging ourselves in the chilly Mornings of Bryant park- career women in Uggs, business men in dark hues- a few pop-fashion forwards in their twenties dashing across 42nd, to Conde Naste- the deli burgeoning with construction workers- strategically holding lists scratched onto cardboard: baskets full of muffins and bagels-

And I focus on the lone soldier:

He stood in the distance. He was tall, thin- remnants of adolescent acne upon his sunken face. Hair, a mousy brown. He stared forward. No one in particular was in his focus. He kept his back a few inches from the painted yellow plywood wall of a construction site.

Cigarette in one hand, dangling, occasionally jolting up for a desperate drag. In the other hand, a Monster energy drink. (He's "unleashing the beast" ?) He succumbed to frequent pulls from the drink, a ritual to break up the inhales from his cigarette. Beyond him, uniformed City Sights tours salesmen: speaking to enthusiastic blond couples, their children in strollers.

The next day, I spotted him again. Amongst the usual pressing chaos, everyone in their distinct and expected roles. He continued his ritual. Cigarette in one hand. Monster in the other. His corporate America.

Day three. I cannot help myself. I simply cannot resist. I bound toward him and exclaim, "Let's do this!" And offer him a high five. Cigarette in his mouth, he tentatively raises his free hand. We share this moment, then I depart from him. I walk around the corner, politely declining an AM New York free newspaper, and into my building.

The next day: he is MIA. He is missing for over a month. I find myself disappointed. What have I done? Have I shattered this young buck's reality? Is he now self-conscious of his breakfast ritual?

And then this morning: I spotted him. Departing from the Deli, with an orange Gatorade- No cigarette.

frozen: grand central

Vadim shared this video with me over green tea ice cream...I should admit- the trash cart driver is the ingenue<3>