East Village, October 2006

These streetlights were in a parking lot off Third Street. I loved the big spacious wall, and the contrasts between the light poles: One angular and vertical, one curved and horizontal. The shadows differ too, with some softer than others.

I feel like I've been very blabby this week. Blah blah blah. I think this morning I will let you all enjoy some silence.

Chinatown, Sept. 2006

The produce and seafood markets in Chinatown are wild. These crabs, with their bright blue and red shells, were so fresh they were feebly crawling over each other in the bin. I had a desperate impulse to buy them and take them over to the East River, but I doubted they would survive being returned to the wild. (And who knows where they're actually from - I'd probably be introducing an exotic species that would mess with the local ecosystem!)

When I began practicing Buddhism several years ago, I wrestled with whether or not to become a vegetarian. I've never been much of a meat eater, and for years in my early and mid-twenties I ate no meat, so it wouldn't have been difficult. But I also run and lift weights, and I feel like my body needs ample protein.

At our Zen services we repeat a verse called the Four Vows, one of which is, "Sentient beings are numberless; I vow to save them." Eating sentient beings seems in stark conflict with this verse! So I talked about this with my Zen teacher, who pointed out that traditional Buddhist cultures in Asia are not strictly vegetarian, and in fact in places like Tibet there's not a whole lot to eat besides meat. There's always a tension between our desire to be compassionate and what our bodies require to live.

For now, my rule is that I don't eat anything with legs, except chicken and, rarely, turkey. (I tried impala when I went to Botswana this summer - I didn't think I could pass up THAT chance!) And as with most rules, it's best not to be too emphatic - on the rare occasion that I go to someone's house and they've made a beef stew, I don't turn up my nose. I eat it.

But it's still an uneasy balancing act. I try to eat meat minimally, and when I see critters like these crabs in Chinatown, I still have the impulse to buy them and set them free.

Montauk, November 2006

Montauk is a small town at the eastern end of Long Island. Unlike the glitzy Hamptons, which are closer to the city, Montauk is still a pretty down-to-earth place. For example, when you walk around downtown you see t-shirt shops instead of designer boutiques, and bait shops instead of high-end home decor stores. There's a '50s glass-walled diner in the center of town called the Plaza Restaurant, where you can get a respectable but unassuming omelet breakfast for under $10. I took a day trip to Montauk last month, just for a change of scenery - it's three hours each way on the Long Island Railroad.

Not that it hasn't been "discovered" - parts of the movie "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" were filmed here, in the Plaza Restaurant and on the beach. And Andy Warhol is just one of the celebrities who had a house (actually a collection of houses) in Montauk, which recently sold for some obscene amount of money.

There's a really beautiful beach near Montauk town, and then as you walk eastward you begin to see cliffs like the ones above. East of town is Montauk Point, where there's a nice lighthouse. Beyond that, there's nothing but the windy Atlantic.


The beach is littered with smooth granite rocks. I am a sucker for smooth rocks. I always have an impulse to take them home. But I resist, because when you get back to civilization there's little more useless than a smooth rock, and they deserve to stay where they belong.


When I went, I set up a beach towel just below this dune, and lay in the sun for a rest. (I was fully clothed because it was, after all, November, so it's not like I was sunbathing. I dislike sunbathing, but that's another story.) Anyway, it was nice to lie there, with no sounds but the wind in the sea grass and the pounding of the surf. A worthwhile escape from New York City, and not bad for a $30 train ticket!

SoHo, September 2006

Cafe Noir is a restaurant on Grand Street in SoHo. I liked the idyllic palm tree paired with the industrial, brutal shadows of the chains for the security gate. Kind of an interesting juxtaposition.

I have palm trees on the brain today because a) it's 37 degrees outside and b) I went to see an exhibit of Brazilian art at the Bronx Museum of the Arts yesterday. The exhibit is called "Tropicalia," after a cultural movement in Brazil in the late '60s and early '70s. It includes elements of music, graphic design, fashion, interactive sculpture and many other artworks. Most surreal is a big Brazil-themed installation featuring tropical plants, beach sand, raffia huts and live parrots! You can take your shoes off and walk through, so picture this: I'm carrying my winter coat, but I'm barefoot, slogging through sand like a castaway on Gilligan's Island. Very strange, but cool.

Anyway, my favorite work was a contemporary psychedelic wall mural done by an artists' collective called "assume vivid astro focus" (a piece of the mural here). The fashions were pretty groovy too, lots of swirling color and interesting cuts. Very sixties.

Last night, my friend Bill took me to see "Spring Awakening" on Broadway. It's an EXCELLENT show, with lyrics by Steven Sater and music by Duncan Sheik of "Barely Breathing" fame. (Remember that song?) These two have collaborated before - Sater also co-wrote Sheik's 2001 album "Phantom Moon," which I really like. Anyway, "Spring Awakening" is about adolescent struggles among German youths in the 1890s, but the themes are very contemporary and the cast is terrific. Go see it if you can. Really.

Astor Place, October 2006

It always fascinates me how shadows wrap themselves around corners. Did you see the recent video of the octopus escaping from a glass box through a tiny hole? It basically compressed itself and slithered right out, which was kind of amazing to watch. (Here it is on YouTube.) Anyway, that's what comes to mind when I think of these shadows, sinuous and flexible, slipping into every niche. Obviously not the same scientific principles at work, but oddly similar somehow - or maybe it's just me.

The other night I wrote a post about my favorite record albums (if they can even be called that anymore). I thought I'd list my top 10 and tell a little about why I like them. I sifted through all my CDs and eventually wound up with a top 20, which was as far as I could distill my favorites. Then I wrote for an hour or two, explaining why each one was special.

The next morning I read it and HATED it. First of all, the idea of a favorites list is pretty short-sighted, since favorites change with mood and circumstance. Second, I can't pretend to be an expert on what makes songs musically distinctive. It's all so subjective, and many of my judgments are deeply influenced by nostalgia. I think the whole premise is flawed. So I scrapped it.

Suffice to say that singer-songwriters figure prominently in my musical tastes: Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Nick Drake, Carole King, Janis Ian, Carly Simon, Cat Stevens, Simon & Garfunkel. Stuff like that.

I know. What an old fogey.

E. 29th Street, November 2006

This peculiar graffiti tag showed up on the wall of a laundromat down the street a few weeks ago. I can't figure out what those little symbols are, but I've seen them elsewhere around town, and they always travel in packs, like UFOs. I like their random, scattered look.

It occurred to me after I wrote yesterday's post that I might have left the impression that I enjoyed being a Boy Scout. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I liked being a very young Cub Scout and, later, a Webelo. But as I reached adolescence, the Boy Scouts became torture. Being a Boy Scout in rural Florida when you're growing up gay is sheer hell. You're like raw meat to a pack of hyenas - I got taunted and roughed up all the time by older scouts, and our redneck scoutmasters weren't inclined to stop it. ("Boys will be boys," they thought.) So I made a respectable exit from the organization as soon as my parents allowed it.

We had some good moments, like a couple of fun campouts on the Withlacoochee River. I earned some awards for camping and swimming, and there were some boys my age who weren't complete animals. (They got roughed up, too.) But I was not a fighter, and was never going to be a fighter. In my book, the Boy Scouts encourage a kind of paramilitaristic conformity, and I was not going to fit that mold.

Yorkville, October 2006

The orderly rhythm of these fire escapes, near E. 89th Street and Second Avenue, first caught my eye. But as I took some photos, I paid more and more attention to the faded, tattered flag hanging from the railing at upper left. I'm sure this flag is a remnant from Sept. 11, 2001.


Immediately after the terrorist attacks, lots of people put out flags. (Even I put a flag in my window, and I am one of the least likely flag-wavers you'll ever meet.) It was almost an instinctive reaction. For me, it was a way to express a sense of unity and support with all my neighbors. I didn't think of it as nationalistic or jingoistic, though it seems more that way now.

Every now and then I still see one of those flags, tattered and dirty but nonetheless on display. Long ago, when I was an impressionable Boy Scout, I remember learning all about the proper disposal of old flags - they're supposed to be ceremonially burned when they deteriorate. (Ironic, given our government's attempts to ban flag-burning!) I guess these folks were never Boy Scouts - and where in New York City could you burn an old flag, anyway?