dum dum + fight night + locksmith project #2 launch

old man goanna

On Thursday night Lani and I trotted off to the US Open. We had tickets to the Men's Quarterfinals, Nadal v Gonzalez. Walking along the forecourt, outside the stadium there was a small platform complete with official US Open backdrop - perfect for photo ops. So up we popped, not before we turned to an older gentleman - would you mind taking a photo of us please?

Sure ladies. 

And up he popped onto the platform, arm around Lani and smile at the ready. 

Oh, isn't he an old card!

Oh, but no. Not an old card. Would you like a photo too little girl?

A few people crowded around us. Can we have a photo too?

A Japanese couple walked away happy with their evidence. Lani ran after them - Hey, who is that?

Oh, that's Nick Bolletieri.

Sure, of course.

And then a black man who had overheard us came over, incredulous. You girls, you come all the way to the US Open and you don't know who Nick Bolletieri is? Wow. He's only the most famous tennis coach in the world.

Well, who did he coach then?

All of them. Martina Hingis. All of them. He has camps in Florida and everything.

And at the end of the day, really, we should have known. Old man goanna. Only the face of a farmer, or a tennis coach.

evelyn waugh take two

"I looked at my watch; it was four o'clock, but neither of us were ready to sleep, for in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy."

seeyaladar

I woke up today and there was a change in the air. I walked to the subway and it was crisp. Overnight fall had fallen at our doorstep. It was a morning when I always think of boarding school 8ams. The first day you decide to wear stockings instead of socks. It is a late April day at home. And somehow here even the M train knew that something had changed this morning. No more pumped-up air-conditioning subway carriages. I stepped on to find a seat set at room temperature. New York City woke up this morning, sighed and breathed a cool breath of goodbye. I leave in two days. 

A lot of things have changed in three months. Probably not least of all me. I arrived thinking I could never get used to this noise. I could never walk down a street, staring straight ahead, with no care for anyone else. I could never be ok with the amount of people in my space. My only space being the millimetres surrounding my body, if that. But I did. I became a person who was capable of blocking out all sound, all annoyances, all accidents that had nothing to do with me. I could stride those avenues, dodging, running across streets without a look for cars, bikes, buses, taxis. I became the ever-hurried New Yorker, blank stare, get-outta-my-way-I-gotta-get-there-and-then-there.

It is not such a good thing at all. It is an absorption like only the very best wettex. I am not sure if it possibly only appears to be absorption but in reality is more like a facade. For me (I am new to this) it is absorption. I think for the seasoned professional though it is facade. New Yorkers quite easily drop their subway faces. They are used to the rat-race-rush, the anything goes this way or that. I am impressed with the way that New Yorkers will relax and have a chat. Just because. Just because you are a lonesome dove. Always. Under an awning waiting for the rain to soften. Small talk. At an opening against a wall. How are you? This never happens in Australia. We possess a laid-backness that comes with a side of reservedness. The Americans will always talk. And usually not with an accent of I-am-so-much-better-than-you. Not in my experience with strangers anyway.

racial profiling

Race is a huge issue here. 

I have spent the first two months here living in an area called Ridgewood. And as I have said before it is a largely Puerto Rican area. I am forced to think about my whiteness. My difference. My stand-outness. There are a few whities around, more and more...my flatmates were quite the trailblazers moving there 3 years ago.

The subway stop we get off at is Myrtle-Wykoff...it is on the L train which is nicknamed 'The Hipster Express'. This because the first stop when you cross over the river into Brooklyn is Bedford Ave. Think scene, think bad 80s gear, boys who perfectly waiver between gay and straight - so mysterious in their blurred lines! So the hipsters mostly haul out at Bedford, a few stick around to get off on the following stops but they don't like to stray too far, better to huddle around your hipster roots. This white settlement is so literal that my friend and I often play 'The L Train Game'.

How to play:

1. Get on the L Train, preferably in Manhattan so you can take some time to settle in. Remember if there are no seats (high probability) that most of the people will get off at Bedford Ave. Also remember to stand near a seated white person because they are getting off quickly, all other nationalities are in for the long haul.

2. Once everyone gets off at Bedford Ave. the game begins. Look around, what whities are left?

The majority of them are going to get off at the next stop Lorimer St. After that it is going to get a little more interesting.

3. You have 8 options:

Graham Ave.

Grand St.

Montrose Ave.

Morgan Ave.

Jefferson St.

DeKalb Ave.

Myrtle - Wykoff Aves.

After us (hardly ever comes into the game)

So look hard. Body language is important, you can sense the movement of someone ready to get off at the next stop. Dress, sexuality (there are gay stops), friends/no friends, children/no children. It is very complicated. Ooooo, but so much fun!

4. Name a person. Green hat = Morgan Ave. Lock in your bet and wait for the stop. The person with the most whitie wins, wins!

5. So try it for yourself. But remember practice makes perfect. My friend has been travelling to Myrtle-Wykoff for 3 years - she is well practised in the art of picking courageous whities and needless to say - she always wins.

you wanta cwofeee, tony?

I think you know you are finally fitting in somewhere when you are able to walk into a convenience store and just nod. Or like Carrie Bradshaw, 'Just the usual, thanks.'

A place where everybody knows your name.

The last time I knew this sort of community feeling was all those years ago when we all shacked up in Darlo - commonly referred to as The Glory Years or The Good Old Days. The days when we all smoked so we had a reason to go to the convenience store everyday. We also had 7 in the house so a daily run to the store for bread and milk was needed. None of us seemed to work either so to keep our brain cells a ticking we would also include the Sydney Morning Herald in our daily pilgrimage. So we knew Simon at the Victoria Superette very well. So well in fact we would often have beers with him at The Green Park. Where we also knew all the staff. A result which also stemmed from a daily pilgrimage of sorts. 

And now I have my little New York Simon. One day a week I work in a part of Brooklyn called Gowanus. It is currently straddling the industrial/gentrification divide. All the same in its purgatory it is a cool part of town. I get off the subway at Smith and 9th Sts and descend from the clouds - the train tracks are about 100 metres above the ground which makes for some lovely coal black Christo-wrapped industrial architecture - to find the usual bunch of junkies huddled, gossiping, screaming (no wonder it reminds me of Darlinghurst) outside my convenience store. Here called 'bodegas' - in essence the same as our convenience stores but usually with added deli, coffee and beer. So this morning I enter and nothing said but a coffee presented. 

Three sugars, right?

Huh?

Got ya, I know you are the no-sugar girl.