I’ll Make Up a Biker Boyfriend If It Makes Life Easier

I spent my weekend working at the International Motorcycle Show. The convention center was filled to capacity with leather garments, reprehensible hair cuts, flinch-inducing tattoos, and TESTOSTERONE. With the male to female ratio an astounding 10:1, this may be the #1 place to meet a man in NYC. If you’re into muscled biker types, buy your ticket for next year’s show NOW. My job, as it so often is, was to stand, smile, and look pretty (and interest people in a brand/sell a product- it is actually work). I spent the entire weekend fighting off men. Not surprisingly, they are a more aggressive bunch than the ComicCon ~~nerds~~ lot.

Oh woe is me! It’s so hard being a pretty girl! The constant flattery, frequent free drinks, rarely having to open a door for myself, it’s exhausting!

I can feel the collective eye roll from my dude-readers.

It’s such a pretty girl cliché to complain about the men who hit on us.

Yes, most of them are harmless and -I’ll be the first to admit it- ego boosts. That said, the slimy feeling when a man’s eyes scan your body, slowly from toe to tip, is a real one. The look in his eyes says he’s a ravenous beast and you’re a fresh cut of meat. He’s an Italian grandmother at the butcher and you’re the perfect roast behind the counter. He can imagine sticking you with his meat thermometer as you cook in the oven. If any one shows interest in you before the butcher calls his number, he will smack that bitch with his handbag. Imagine feeling like a bloody, raw, 125 pound chunk of meat sliced from the flank of genetically modified livestock.

It sucks. Am I right, ladies?

That said, the men who look at me like I’m sirloin are few and far between. Even at a biker bonanza with the accompanying “bad boy” and “rebel without a cause” clichés. I’m a grown women, someone who’s been “pretty” for the majority of her adult life (post-college at least). I’ve refuted the advances of plenty of men in my time. Bikers may be more intimidating than the average man on my subway commute, but they don’t punch you in the nose if you decline to give them your number.

Still, as all women -from “homely” to drop dead gorgeous- know, nothing gets a man to accept rejection better than ye old “I have a boyfriend” line.

Thus, I spent the entire weekend pretending to have a boyfriend.

His name is Joe. He rides a Yamaha. He is also in a band called The SpitTakes where he plays a Yamaha. Did you know Yamaha is a brand of motorcycle AND a brand of pianos? I never knew that prior to attending the motorcycle show but I think it’s AWESOME. Joe is 31 and works in construction. He’s on the team building the Freedom Tower, how cool is that? He’s Irish, 6’2″ tall, full head of jet black hair, and sparkling blue eyes. He has the ever-so-slight beginnings of a beer belly. A tattoo of a mermaid/lady pirate is inked upon his forearm. My father hates him. Joe would kick your ass if he knew you were flirting with me.

motorcycleyama — This is his motorcycle. Sexy right?
[image: totalmotorcyle.com]

But not as sexy as his other Yamaha!
[image: musiciansbuy.com]

So that’s “Joe”.

I haven’t had a real boyfriend in almost four years. It’s at the point where the TV series/movie/book based on my life would start referring to their heroine as “chronically single”. To the point where blogs about my life, autobiographical no less, start identifying me as such.

This was a recent realization. One likely made in the shower, on a solitary stroll, or whilst lying awake in bed. (Ok, I don’t remember where I realized it, so I fall back on cliché). The point is, I realized that however much I think I want a boyfriend, the actual prospect terrifies me. An actual flesh and body, independent minded man whom I have no control over. One I choose and connect myself to so that he is directly associated with me by a label: BOYFRIEND. A man who won’t see me as a piece of meat or just a pretty face. He’ll see all my flaws. This man will undeniably threaten my current way of life…

Yes, you guessed it: this realization was in part spurred by a man in my life who seems interested in the label. My hands are sweating just thinking about it (which isn’t really saying much, my hands are always clammy -fun fact, right? But the affliction sometimes comes in handy -pun intended- to emphasize a point). ~~But maybe he’s not! He hasn’t exactly said as much…I’m probably making it up!~~ Ok, admitting you have a problem is the first step. Acceptance is a vital step toward change.

Here goes:
Hi. My name is New York Cliché. I am chronically single. I make up boyfriends to make my life easier. And..and…commitment scares me.

Other NYCs: The Charlotte to My Carrie

It’s not easy to make a move. It requires bravery and vulnerability. In the year 1997 I made a move I will never forget. If you’re puzzled by the math, I can tell you I was 10 years old. This was a move of friendship, not romance. Still, I put myself out there in a big way. It changed my life.

Her name was Charlotte. We were in choir together, I was an alto and she was a second soprano. We sat right near each other, on the border of our perspective sections. She was spunky, silly, and hilarious. Cute and bold, she was out-spoken in a 10-year-old way. She wasn’t afraid to talk about riské subjects- like training bras. Her gorgeous green eyes sparkled with charm. I wanted to be her friend so bad.

Collecting stickers was all the rage in San Francisco in the late ’90s. Every little girl knew the sticker hierarchy. At the bottom were plain old stickers, like the kind you’d get from the dentist. Shinies and scratch-n-sniff were next; maybe someone would trade you for those, but it was unlikely. Fuzzy stickers were where you started having some currency. Then, in a class above the rest, there were oilies. These stickers had oil beneath their surface that you could smoosh around with your finger and it would change colors. They were the coolest.

I had three oily stickers in my collection. They were expensive, about $3 a pack- 3 weeks of my 5th grade allowance. So it was no small thing l when I stuck one of my oilies, a blue guinea pig, into Charlottes binder. I didn’t say anything, but when she found it later, she knew it was from me and read the lesson loud and clear. We would become best friends, sometimes tricking people into believing we were half sisters. Sixteen years later, she is still like a sister to me. I love this girl, and I bet you will too! She’s this weeks featured Other New York cliché!

Name/prefered pseudonym: I think that New York Cliché has dubbed me ‘Charlotte.’ While I suppose Charlotte and I share certain characteristics, I hope I don’t come off as crazy, border-line insane like she sometimes does! New York Cliché, help me out here. Why am I Charlotte?

[Here’s the deal. I wanted to lump my best friends into Sex and the City archetypes because it’s a total cliché. I gave Charlotte here her pseudonym mostly because she’s been in a serious relationship for the past 4 years. She also has beautiful straight brown hair and perfect teeth. Also, like Charlotte York, she’s as obsessed with her babies, two cats named Rosie and Puccina.]

It's Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda at age 20! My two best friends, and just like Charlotte York says in that episode of Sex and the City, these girls are my soul mates.I gave Charlotte her pseudonym mostly because she's been in a serious relationship for the past 4 years. She also has beautiful straight brown hair and perfect teeth. Also, like Charlotte York, she's as obsessed with her babies, two cats named Rosie and Puccina. — It’s Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda at age 20! My two best friends, and just like Charlotte York says in that episode of Sex and the City, these girls are my soul mates.

Borough and neighborhood: Manhattan, Harlem!

How are you a New York cliché?
I went to Barnard College in New York City and then stayed after graduation. I met my boyfriend, I guess we’ll call him Harry, in university acapella. Now we live together, have two cats, and are totally 20-something couple cliché. We go on bike rides around the city together and hate when you asked when we’re getting engaged. My girl friends usually have to drag me out of my cozy apartment for a ladies’ night but I’m always glad when they do.

They say no one who lives in New York is actually from New York. Where are you from? San Francisco!

sanfranCM — San Francisco’s painted ladies! Yes, one is the “Full House” house. Photo of Miranda and Charlotte taken by New York Cliche during the SF’s legendary Bay to Breakers race.

Bloomberg is banishing you from NYC. You have 24 hours before you have to pack up and leave for ever. How do you spend them?
Realistically, I would spend hours on the phone screaming at and pleading with Bloomberg’s office staff, and then would spend the rest of the day crying as I pack up my apartment. But ideally, I would get up early on a beautiful day, get out my bike and hit the west side greenway, bike up to the top of Manhattan and have a picnic there. Then bottomless mimosa brunch with my girlfriends, frolicking in Central Park, followed by dinner in the village, then a broadway show (probably Book of Mormon or something by Sondheim) and then to Marie’s Crisis for some singing around a piano, and drinks with friends at a cute bar or cafe afterwards.

Charlotte and I went on this glorious spring walk last year. We took a couple photos that are total cliche engagement photos. Click the image for a full post.

What restaurant/bar you keep going back to, even though you’ve been meaning to try a dozen others?
Calle Ocho, of course, for the unlimited mimosa brunch; it’s hard to find a better deal anywhere else in the city, especially since the quality of the food and the drinks there is so high. Also, Community Food and Juice, because they have the best Huevos Rancheros (which I order for brunch whenever I see them on the menu).

Favorite pizza place:
Fornino, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It’s a sit-down place, you have to order a whole pizza, but don’t worry; you will have no trouble finishing the ‘Spinach’ pizza with four cheeses, pine nuts and TRUFFLE OIL (my favorite), or the ‘Margherita DOC’ with the Buffalo mozzarella and the freshest and most delicious tomato sauce I have ever tasted!

So you live in NYC, but what’s one super-touristy thing you secretly love?
The High Line and the holiday markets at Bryant Park and Columbus Circle.

Ever had a run-in with a celebrity (A-D List)?
I was bartending at a random gallery opening for an unheard-of artist when Bill Murray walked in, by himself, and then insisted that I put out a tip jar and tipped me $40 for a crappy glass of white wine.

Charlotte once lived abroad in Spain. This is a photo from that time. Gibraltar has monkeys, NYC has rats. It is not fair.

You totally saw something weird on the subway or street today (you may not have registered it was weird because you are jaded), what did you see?
I recently saw a rat dragging an enormous bagel through the subway tracks. The best part was that of all the people on the platform, only myself and an old man standing next to me seemed to notice, and we exchanged a look that said, “New Yorkers are so jaded they don’t even react to something like this…”

What is your favorite fictionalized New York? How does it compare with reality?
Sex and the City! As for reality, I have some issues with the fact that a writer who writes one column per week makes enough money to live in an UES apartment with a shoe collection that is worth about 4 million dollars.

Plug something! Be it something you are involved in, your significant other/roommate/cat is involved in, or just something you think is extra-special going on in NYC:
I sing with GHOSTLIGHT CHORUS, Check us out at www.ghostlightchorus.com

Thanks, Charlotte, for being part of my Other New York clichés feature! I can’t wait until the next time we drag you out of your couples nest for a night on the town. I love you!

What do you think of this series? Love it so much you want featured? Fabulous! Email NewYorkCliche@yahoo.com.

January 17, 2013December 16, 2014

Boys vs. Girls: A Christmas Showdown Across 140-something Street

This is a Christmas story of friendship, love, spontaneity, orgies, interventions, tacky brilliance, and practical jokes. ‘Tis as close to a Hallmark Moment as my group of friends, all 20-somethings living in NYC, is likely to get. There are two sides to the story, one from each side of the New York City street I live on. One from the Boys, who live on the south side, vs. us Girls, who live on the north.

THE BOYS’ SIDE

As pieced together from eyewitness accounts and knowing my friends rather well (or so I’d like to think)

The iPhone is his pocket and the Covenant Carbine weapon in his virtual hand buzzed simultaneously. Accustomed to such distraction, Walter’s actual hand did not falter. He mashed the buttons of the controller, successfully annihilating the onscreen attacker in a matter of minutes. With the pixellated landscape momentarily clear, Walter glanced at his phone annoyed, “Who dares interrupt this epic game of Halo?“
Cliché, his phone told him, that’s who. Cliché and Walter, long-time friends, had recently become neighbors; they now lived on the same block.
“What does she want,” he wondered, “It better not be to borrow a can of green beans.”
He pressed the pause button and picked up his phone. The text message read two words: “Come over.”

man playing halo wars — I actually researched Halo to write this story! image credit: megagames.com

A former frat boy and now a single man in New York City, Walter was familiar with such text messages. They really only ever meant one thing. Right? Who was he to question the needs of his attractive, single, female friends? He was their knight, a Trojan warrior, ready to slay a horned dragon or save a horny damsel in distress. His first instinct was to give no reply and simply show up at her door, ready to unsheathe his sword. And yet…the text was so out of the blue and out of character for the sender.
He texted back, “Now? To your apartment? Why?”
“Yes. Now. Just COME,” was her swift response.

Amazed at his good fortune, Walter saved the game of Halo, put on a pair of socks, and grabbed his jacket. He opened his bedroom door and saw his roommate Ben sitting on the futon, lacing up his sneakers.
“I’m going across the street to the girls’ place,” said Ben, “I just got a text from NYC. You coming?”
ORGY! flashed through Walter’s mind, quickly followed by, Yeah right.
“Did she say why?” He asked Ben.
“No,” Ben replied, “But she was pretty insistent.”

What was Cliché up to? Why had she invited Ben too? Who else was coming? Why wasn’t she giving any details? INTERVENTION! flashed through Walter’s mind. Putting on his shoes, he considered this possibility. An intervention for what? He supposed cases could be made for sex, veganism, or even alcohol, but none that would ever hold up in court. “This is weird,” he said to Ben as they walked towards the door.

“Maybe they got a pet or something,” Ben said shrugging.
Walter wondered if his nonchalance was deliberate, He’s calm. Too calm?
“Got your keys?” Ben asked, before closing the door.

THE GIRLS’ SIDE

As remembered from approximately a month ago.

Cliché bounded up the five flights of stairs to her apartment. Her day of handing out holiday gift guides to shoppers in Columbus Circle (while dressed in an unflattering Mrs. Claus outfit) was at last over. She was finally home, ready to join her roommates and see what they’d accomplished without her. Excitement made her fumbled with the key in the lock. At last she flung open the door, “I’m home!” she cried, racing down the hallway. Entering the living room, her eyes feasted on the scene. Her roommates, Rose and April, sat on the floor, sheets and sheets of white paper scattered around them.
Happiness flooded Cliché’s face. “You guys! It’s so big! It’s great!” she squealed, “It’s the best Christmas tree ever!”

Standing at over 6 feet tall, it was the best Christmas tree $30 could buy during the second week of December.
“We lugged it all the way here from 125th on the subway!” said Rose, “When we passed the boys’ place we were like, ‘Pleeeease let one of them come out and be all strong and manly and carry it for us!’ But that didn’t happen. We got it up the stairs all on our own.”

“I’m impressed,” said Cliché, “And sorry I didn’t help at all! This is so awesome to come home to!”

“It’s quirky as hell,” April said, pointing out the odd spacing of branches that flung themselves in odd directions. Quirky and cute. It was perfect for the three girls and their first Christmas together in the apartment.

For the next hour, while Pandora radio blared Christmas carols, the trio trimmed the tree. They began with white lights: “classy” they all agreed. Next they hung plastic blue, green, and red balls from the 99¢ store- “festive”, “practical”, “cheap”. Cliché looked at the finished tree. These generic decorations made her miss home and the collection of ornaments her parents had amassed over the years. She tried to shake off a dull melancholy that began to encircle her like the white lights encircled the tree.

Fortunately her crafty roommates had further plans; decorating was far from finished. From the sheets of white paper they cut intricate snowflakes, fitted these with wire hooks, and hung them amid the plastic balls. It was the perfect touch, hand-made and personal, each snowflake ornament had a story.
“This was such a good idea,” Cliché said happily, snipping away at the folded paper in her hand.

Rose and April had one final surprise. “Just wait ’til you see what we got for a tree-topper. It’s fantastic. In the worst kind of way.” Together they pulled a large star from the 99¢ store bag. It was outlined in tinsel, with rainbow colored lights punctuating its points. They put it on top of their quirky tree and plugged it all in. The star flashed on and off, calling full attention to its gaudy splendor.
“Oh my god, IT BLINKS,” exclaimed the girls, and dissolved into peals of laughter.
“It’s the tackiest thing I have ever seen!” giggled April.
“My mother would hate it!” chuckled Cliché.
“It’s so bad I love it,” smirked Rose, “It’s like a Korean music video.”

They stood back and admired the finished product. Classy, sentimental, and tacky all rolled into one little quirky tree.
“I love it. It’s perfectly ‘us’.”
“I’m so happy right now.”
“I have a bottle of Jameson, let’s make a toast!”

Throwing back shots of whisky, their bellies became as warm and cozy as the apartment. Now it was really Christmas. The tree sparkled and All I Want for Christmas is You came on the radio. Why did it feel like something was missing?
“I wish we could share this with other people,” April realized.
“Yes!” the others emphatically agreed.
Cliché grabbed her phone, “I’m texting the boys.” Then she grinned impishly, “Is it too mean if I present it like a booty call?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I say ‘Come over.’ and nothing else?”
“Ha! Nope, not too mean, that’s hilarious!”

BOYS AND GIRLS TOGETHER

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang, “They’re here!” the girls cried and ran to the door, all wearing Santa hats. “Merry Christmas!” they cheered, opening the door.

“You’re all wearing clothes!” said Walter, “Where’s the orgy?”
“Ha ha ha. Come in! It’s better than an orgy!”
The girls lead Ben and Walter into the living room. “We got a Christmas tree! We just decorated and really wanted to share it.”
“Awww,” said Walter.
“It’s so cheerful,” said Ben, “It really feels like Christmas in here.”

Xmastree12 — With the lights off, it really did look beautiful. With them on…. the classy/sentimental/tacky mishmash was much more apparent. image credit: April

For the rest of the night the five friends sat around the tree, laughing, drinking whiskey, and sharing stories. The tale of how the tree was acquired and decorated. The account of all reactions to Cliché’s cryptic text messages. Memories from Christmases past, hopes for Christmases present. It became a perfect night of the things Christmas is all about: friendship and love. A Christmas memory we will always remember.

Hours later when the boys left, Walter’s parting words were, “You guys were right, that was better than an orgy. Thanks.”

THE END

January 14, 2013December 29, 2015

Slappy New Year: A Hilarious New Years Eve Story

My year failed to begin with the cliché New Year’s kiss. That said, it still began with a rather intimate gesture to a stranger’s face. I wonder how that bodes for my year…

◊

It was the second hour of 2013. Tired from working a crazy NYE party (and having next to no friends still in my hometown), I decided to call it a night. My parents’ apartment, where I was spending the holidays, was close enough to the party so I could walk home. This is one of my favorite walks, following the cable car line up a steep San Francisco hill. The sky was so clear, the moon shining, Christmas lights on the trees twinkled when I approached the park of the top of the hill. Lovely.

That’s when I met RJ, a young man my age, visiting SF from a small town north of the Bay Area. He sat on a stoop holding a can in each hand- Rockstar in one and a brown bag swaddled can in the other.
“Hey,” he called out to me.
He was lost, his friends had ended up in an entirely different neighborhood. He was just a little too drunk to successfully read the GPS on his iPhone. He looked at me with forlorn eyes. “Which way is North Beach?” Before I could answer he interrupted, “This is so embarrassing, you must think I’m a huge dork.” Poor men, the pain of asking for directions is pure agony.

He was lucky he was a huge dork. This status was the reason I stopped and talked to him. It is certainly why I told him to walk with me, as my destination was (sort of) on the way to his. RJ’s subtext was different from most of the fellas I’d talked to that night. Working a NYE party taught me to spot a “First-Lay-of-the-Year Mission” from across the room. This friendly dork just wanted a friend, an entirely different intent.

We were in the neighborhood I grew up in, right by Grace Cathedral Park. I love walking through this park, have since I was a little tyke. Now it makes me warmly nostalgic. Recalling memories of throwing pennies in the fountain, walking my neighbor’s dog in the grass, and going as high as I could on the swing set.

Often called Grace Cathedral Park because of it's close proximity, the official name is Huntington Park. In my family, we call it "The Bell Park" because of the church bells that sound ever half hour. [photo curtesy flickr, click for link] — Often called Grace Cathedral Park because of it’s close proximity, the official name is Huntington Park. In my family, we call it “The Bell Park” because of the church bells that sound ever half hour. [photo curtesy flickr, click for link]

The park of my youth! The kid swinging could be me! [photo curtesy sfxplorer.com, click for link and a comprehensive view of this park] — The park of my youth! The kid swinging could be me!
[photo curtesy sfxplorer.com, click for link and a comprehensive view of this park]

I started up the stairs of the park and RJ stopped. “Where are you taking me?” He asked, looking trepidatious.
I laughed, “It’s a park. Just trust me.”
He reluctantly followed, giggling when we reached the top of the stairs, “Oh, this isn’t a scary park at all. I was expecting junkies, or a band of angry bums.”
“You have absolutely no idea what neighborhood you’re in, do you?”
“Nope. I’m lucky I found you.”

It’s funny that he was the one worried about where I was leading him. You might be concerned for me, allowing a strange man to walk me (most of the way) home. To that I say this: I am good at reading people. This guy was a legit (and self-proclaimed) dork, not a predator masquerading as one. He was outfitted in one of the least threatening ensembles a man can wear: a navy sports jacket, a white button-up, and khaki corduroys. It may be dangerous to believe this, but I gotta say no man with dark intentions ever wears khaki corduroy.

He stopped to take a picture of the view. I pretended to do the same, really taking the opportunity to snap a picture of him.

The six blocks I walked with RJ, he forgot my name once for each block. “Sorry, I forgot your name again!” he confessed sheepishly.
“It’s really okay, dude.” I patted his shoulder, “Come morning you’ll think I was but a dream, if you remember me at all.”
“No, no. I am really going to remember you, I know I will. Shit, what’s your name again?”

There was something he was hiding. I could feel it. There was an anxiousness in the way he spoke. Something was brewing just below the surface, something he wanted to say, but didn’t quite dare. I didn’t get the feeling it was sexual or sinister. Maybe he was just drunk. Our walk half over, 5 minutes out of ten, he spewed.

No, not vomit, thank God.

“Ok this is really weird,” he stammered, “And I probably should just not say anything. God, you must think I’m so weird. Ok, sorry. Can I tell you something? I probably shouldn’t, like, most of my friends don’t know this. But, I dunno. I want to get it off my chest or something. I want to tell you.”

I smiled, this made me think of the guy I had met in Central Park with the sign that said “FREE LISTENING“.
“Sure,” I said, “You can tell me. It’s a safe space, really. We’re never going to see each other again in three blocks.”

This is the picture I pretended to take when instead capturing RJ's non-threatening outfit and actual self. — This is the picture I pretended to take when instead capturing the one above. Downtown San Francisco in the wee hours of the morning.

He took a breath. “Ok. It’s the story of the only time I’ve ever been held up at gun point.”

His senior year of high school, him and his best friend had tried to score some “major pot”. They had ambitions of running the drug circle of their fancy private prep school in Sonoma County. Arrangements were made to meet with guys who would supply them. The boys showed up at the appointed place and time with $5,000 cash in their pockets. When they arrived, guns were drawn, money was taken. When it was all over, the two boys sat in the parking lot, their pockets empty. Dreams dashed, adrenaline surging, and an all encompassing feeling of oh-my-god-we’re-SO-stupid.

“That was years ago, dunno why I needed to tell you, but I did,” he said, finishing his story. I had listened enthralled, never expecting a story with so much violence, poor choices, and disastrous results. The kind of story that leaves you thinking, My life is great compared to that! I’ve never lost $5000! Go me!

“Think of it as a purge,” I said, “Now you have a fresh start for the new year.”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Oh, thanks for telling. It’s great, next time I have to act like I’m at gun point, ya know, in a play or movie- I’m using your story.” We laughed. I stopped walking, “This is where our walk ends. You’re going down the hill to North Beach and I’m going up the hill to bed. Thanks for walking me home. It was nice meeting you.” I grinned. He had been a funny, perfect way to end the night.

“Before you go, can you do one last thing for me?” He asked.

Oh no, I thought to myself, please don’t ask for a kiss, please! “What?” I voiced aloud.

“Can you slap me, hard, in the face?”

Relief must have flooded my face because he said, “You thought I was gonna ask for a phone number or something, didn’t you.”

“I’ll happily help you with that request.” I said, chuckling. Life is so funny. Truth truly stranger than fiction. I pulled my hand back and let it fly. The sound it made on contact was satisfying.

“Thanks,” he winced, “Now I’m awake. And maybe less drunk.”

“My pleasure. Happy New Year. Good night,” and with that I crossed the street, never looking back.

I’ll never see him again, but I’ll never forget my first slap of 2013.

January 7, 2013October 23, 2014

Fool on a California Beach

I tell people I am from San Francisco and they gasp. “It’s so beautiful there!” They shriek in abject horror, “Why would you ever leave!?” Ask me in May and I have good answers: I love New York! Theatre! Contacts! Networking! Change of scene! Ask me in January why I left San Francisco for New York? I’ll clutch my cold red cheeks with my frozen fingers and cry, “For I am a fool! A FOOL!”

San Francisco as seen from the Golden Gate Bridge

Oh, I exaggerate. As I type, I am on a plane, returning to NYC after 2 glorious weeks in San Francisco. It was a lovely holiday full of sunny days and family time but I’m glad to go back. (Even if it’s freezing, I was going to say, but then weather.com informed me the current temperature in NYC is 43°, barely colder than San Francisco, currently at 48°!) My life is in New York.

Still- the beaches, the sun, flowers constantly in bloom, trees that never loose their leaves- it does make you feel something of a fool to leave behind. Okay, so I am something of a fool. I wouldn’t argue with that. California, I kiss you a fond good bye. Knowing you are forever my roots and I’ll return to again and again.

I had a perfect California Saturday. Pictures and memories will get me through the abysmal gray, the slush, the biting wind, and dirty snow that get closer every minute on this flight back east.

It was a mother-daughter day. Together we hopped on a bus, MUNI public transportation, and went to the beach. California cliché much? The ride alone was worth the $2 fare. Through the Presidio and across the Golden Gate to the grassy hills of the Marin Headlands. Out the window California sun shone on brilliant blues and greens. In the seats behind us French tourists marveled, “Ooohlala!”

GoldenGate — This and the picture above are views from the bus ride! Doesn’t get much better.

We exited the bus at the last stop- Rodeo Beach. Mountains on our right, beach on our left- that combo is Northern California in a nutshell. Quickly leaving the bus stop, we began what a San Franciscan would call a walk and what a New Yorker would call a hike. Up into the hills on a muddy path, the Pacific Ocean sparkling all around. Hello, sea of my home land, I missed you.

An overpass looked back out on the beach. An unexpected view that provided an hour of entertainment. Surfers down below, braving the ocean in full body wet suits, tackled the surf. Leaning against the railing at the edge of the cliff, my mother and I sipped tea from a thermos (mothers always remember snacks) and cheered them on. Here comes a good wave! Get it, get it! Oh he’s good. Ouch, that looked painful. Our words floated away on the wind, never getting within any distance of the waves.

On the hike/walk down, we passed an old bunker. A relic from this coast’s past, fear of World War II realities that never came close to our shores.

This of course made me think of my neighborhood Bunker. Shout out to my boys!

Back down on the beach, we got a real sense of what the surfers were up against- crashing waves and water temperature that made me squeal when my toes got wet. Still, I was running around a beach, barefoot, in the middle of winter. Win.

Sea foam! And yes, my jeans got wet. Yes, my mommy told me to roll them up and I shoulda listened... — Sea foam! And yes, my jeans got wet. Yes, my mommy told me to roll them up and I shoulda listened…

While taking off our shoes on a log that served as a bench, a woman sat down beside us. She held out her hand. In her palm she held a dozen white small objects that looked like fragments of shells. “Did you know that there are shark teeth all over the beach?” She asked. “Centuries ago there were so many sharks in this area. Now you can find their teeth all over the beach. See, they’re very worn down by the surf.” My mother and I listened to her claim, thanking her for sharing her knowledge. We walked away wondering at its validity. As we waled the beach we found many shells that sure, resembled shark teeth. But they also resembled broken shells. The Shark Tooth Lady resembled a sane individual. But she also might have also been batty. Jury is still out on both.

If you’re under a blanket in your cold apartment hating me right now, I don’t blame you. But let me attempt alleviate some jealousy. San Francisco beaches are not warm. Remember, it’s 48º today! It may look sunny, but the air was colder than the water. The wind was brisk and every surfer had high-tech gear. It ain’t SoCal. Up north beach attire is jeans, long sleeved shirt, sweater, windbreaker, and shoes you can walk it. Not much compared to what I’ll be wearing outside in NYC tomorrow, but still not what you might think of when you think beach.

Excuse me while I model typical San Francisco beach attire.

We left Rodeo Beach at 5PM, just as the sun was setting. In NYC, it is pitch dark at 5PM. That extra hour is something I will really miss.

PacSunset — A sunset over the ocean: something you’ll never find in NYC

If you ever visit San Francisco, I HIGHLY recommend you take the 76x bus on a sunny weekend and visit Rodeo Beach. But if this post hasn’t convinced you, nothing will! Check out the route:

Contrast these pictures to the view from the window as my plane descends to my connecting flight in Milwaukee. The landscape below looks like a comforter- square, white plots of land divided by roads and fences. The uniformly bare trees, the landscape void of any color save the bright blue sky all become clearer as the plane nears the runway and I think to myself, “Fool! FOOL! WHY did you leave?”

Because I love New York. Thank god I don’t live in Milwaukee.

January 4, 2013May 26, 2016

Other NYCs: The Sunny Side of Hamilton Heights

New York City has a reputation for hardening people. The wide-eyed, naive dreamer descends the stairs from a bus that’s just pulled into Times Square from small town Montana. Stars in his eyes, a smile on his face, country clothes on his back, big plans in his head. A year later you find this same guy dressed all in black, chain smoking, cussing cars as he jay walks across an avenue. The harsh reality of the city has sunk into his bones. We all know that cliché.

My friend Gary is from small town Montana. The man I know always has a grin on his face, he’s always up to something new. He’s like a ray of sunshine peaking through the concrete mountains of the New York landscape. I’m sure I’ve seen him angry or sad but it’s honestly hard to remember. He has a way about him, still after years of living here, that I want to describe as innocence. Really, I think he looks at the world and first and foremost sees its sunny side. That’s rare in 2013, and rarer still in the city we call home. So he brilliantly defies that one New York cliché, but don’t worry, he’s still got plenty in him! He can always make me smile, a big goofball with a sense of humor like no one else I know. He’s this week’s feature! Gary, shine your light on my blog:

Name/prefered pseudonym: Gary Warchola

Borough and neighborhood: Currently, I live in Hamilton Heights, Manhattan (just like New York Cliché!). That is in northern Harlem below Washington Heights.

During my two years of living in New York, I have moved 4 times. Hamilton Heights, Crown Heights in Brooklyn, Jackson Heights in Queens (I am not afraid of Heights! Sorry, bad pun), and New Jersey (which isn’t really New York, but I started working in the city at this time).

How are you a New York cliché? I am a New York cliché because I am the struggling actor who works multiple jobs. Much like many other cliché actors in the city, I am also a writer. Every now and then I am in a quiet spell in my life, then suddenly I am writing lists, trying to figure out how I can cram in all my obligations, stay above water, and not lose all my money. As a I cliché, I write best in coffee shops. Sometimes, I wonder why I need a coffee shop. I think it is because my apartment is small and I just need to get out.

They say no one who lives in New York is actually from New York. Where are you from?

I hail from the prairies and mountains of Montana. I was born in Billings, the state’s largest city. In high school, my family moved to Butte, Montana. A mining town with a crazy history. During college, I lived in Missoula, Montana, the setting of the movie A River Runs Through It.

Gary Warchola montana — Being a total Montana cliché

Bloomberg is banishing you from NYC. You have 24 hours before you have to pack up and leave for ever. How do you spend them?

Well, I have yet to visit the Guggenheim, so I will do that first. I would ride my bike there through Central Park. While on the Upper East Side, I would ride the Roosevelt Island Tram. This tram provides a great view of the city. Even after two years of living here, I did not even know it existed until this summer. I would stroll through Times Square. Even though Times Square often frustrates me, I do enjoy it occasionally. I would make my way to the Lower East Side-Union Square-Tompkins Square Park- Washington Square Park. I would pedal my bicycle across the Manhattan Bridge and back. It takes a lot of energy to make it to the top of the bridge, but it is such a fun ride down. When I descend into China Town, I feel like an airplane. I wrote a poem about this once. Later that night, I would have to take in a play that I have had my eye on, maybe something on Broadway, at the Brooklyn Academy or Music, or somewhere else. After that, I would like to get a last beer, more specifically a Baltika, at the KGB bar in the Lower East Side. Then I would have to find some karaoke.

What restaurant/bar you keep going back to, even though you’ve been meaning to try a dozen others?

Whenever I am in the Lower East Side and I start to get a little hungry, I like to go to Yonah Schimmel’s Knish Bakery. If you have never had a knish, you should try one.

Hot dogs or pizza? Well I would have to say pizza. I am up for trying new kinds or whatever. If you go to the Alligator Lounge in Williamsburg [there’s one 14th Street in Manhattan too!], you get a fresh made personal pizza free with every drink. It is amazing!

So you live in NYC, but what’s one super-touristy thing you secretly love?

I once rode the ferry to Liberty Island and Ellis Island. Whenever I have out-of-towners to show around we go and ride the Staten Island Ferry just to get a glimpse of Lady Liberty. Also, whenever I get a view of her from random places around town, it makes me happy.

Lots of tourists go to Ellis Island, but I think everyone in New York City should go there. It is not that expensive. Technically it is free, you just have to pay for the ferry ride, which is the only way to go there. The line can also be horrendous. Check it out during slow seasons and week days.

Ever had a run-in with a celebrity (A-D List)?

One time, I had a brief exchange of words with this one woman. She was very friendly. Later, someone came up to me and said, “Hey, did you see Maggie Gylleenhaal?” I realized that I had just talked to her.

I also walked past Tracy Morgan and his 30 Rock entourage on the street. I did not even notice until I was right next to them. I looked at him for a second, but I just kept walking.

Gary Warchola actor — This is a great actor photo- Gary as a zombie!

You totally saw something weird on the subway or street today (you may not have registered it was weird because you are jaded), what did you see?

An Octogenarian with purple hair.

Some of the sermons on public transportation are also quite interesting.

What is your favorite fictionalized New York? How does it compare with reality?

Hmmm. For fictionalized, I would go with Ragtime, both the book and the musical. I love imagining all the history occurring at the beginning of the century. The streets were filled with so many languages and cultures. That was such an important time for the formation of the American identity.

This may be cheating…. but I also want to reference a non-fiction book that struck me. I recently read Just Kids by Patti Smith. So many exciting things were happening in the 60’s and 70’s in New York City. She met so many amazing people here. This book inspired me because Patti Smith struggled to have enough money to make it day to day, but despite her challenges, she kept focused on her art and just kept working. Eventually, she found success. I want to emulate this. She was also an artist who was involved in many different mediums. Whether her art was visual, theatre, or music, she kept busy.

Hmmm…. For the question “How does it compare with reality?”

In the current reality and the New York City I know, the world has become much bigger. There are more people than in the turn of the century or in the 60’s and 70’s. Things are moving so much faster. Also, there is not quite so much music as there is in the musical Ragtime.

Gary Warchola on set — On set for Investigation Discovery’s Fatal Encounters playing young Scott Roeder in a reenactment and interviews.

Plug something! Be it something you are involved in, your significant other/roommate/cat is involved in, or just something you think is extra-special going on in NYC.

I will be in Much Ado about Nothing with Snapped Productions February 14- March 2, 2013 at 133 Street Arts Center, 308 W 133rd Street in Harlem. Also, people can look for me on Investigation Discovery’s Fatal Encounters this Winter/Spring. I will appear in the show involving George Tiller, the abortion doctor. I play the crazy guy who shoots him. It will be a great story to tell in my old age.

Thank you, Gary, for sharing your New York perspective. And for being the most patient person ever (and putting up with severe delays in the posting of this!) I can not wait to see you play a creepy killer guy! Major acting props cause you’re nothing like that in real life (unless you just hide it really well….like Dexter….you’re not like that right??) See you soon, neighbor!

What do you think of this series? Love it so much you want featured? Fabulous! Email NewYorkCliche@yahoo.com.

January 3, 2013October 23, 2014

A Moon Lit Walk on a New Year’s Night

I left my first job of the new year at 1AM on 1/1/13. I walked out of the hotel and onto Powell Street in downtown San Francisco. Cable car tracks lay before me, separating me from the bright, festive lights and palm trees of Union Square.

The streets were buzzing with activity. My first thought was, “Holy sh*t am I sober.” I smiled at this wondering how many of my friends, three thousand miles away in New York City, were having the exact opposite thought at the exact same moment- “Hooolly shuitr Iam d9runk@”. Looking at my phone for the first time all night, I was greeted with a series of “Happy New Year!” texts. Those sent around midnight EST were jovial, betraying no level of inebriation. The most recent one sent at 3:30AM EST/12:30 PST was a greeting of “Happy New Year on the west coast!” which took me a good 3 minutes to translate from drunk-text language. Yep, three thousand miles away my friends were wasted.

I’m not exactly big drinker, especially by NYC standards. It’s just that drinking has become so instilled into our celebration of a new year, especially for 20-somethings. Even my mother, who herself didn’t stay up until midnight, later exclaimed, “You didn’t have champagne at midnight!?” I stood outside the hotel watching couples arm in arm and giggling groups of girls staggering down the hill (it’s hard enough to walk in heels when sound of mind). I didn’t feel lonely, I just didn’t feel ready to go home. I called my one friend still in the city only to her on her way home. I vaguely considered going to a bar alone for a celebratory drink but decided against it, knowing I’d be annoyed by and thus ~~cruel~~ snarky to anyone who talked to me.

It was with that realization that I turned my back on the crowds or revelers and began the walk home, toward the hella steep hill of Powell Street. Though I was headed home, my night wasn’t over. I was going to enjoy that walk to the fullest, taking time to admire all the sights, stopping to appreciate the beauty of San Francisco on a clear night. How many people forget how they get how on New Year’s Eve? I was going to savor it, for myself and for the thousands who’d have no such memories come morning.

As I walked, I was greeted in one way or another by every one I passed. A shared smile, a spoken “Happy New Year!” While it is more common to acknowledge passers-by in SF than it is in NY, people were especially friendly on this new year’s night. Or maybe it was just me. Before starting the climb, I was stopped by a tiny fella with a french accent who couldn’t have be more than 20 years-old. “Where are you going? Know the good after parties?” he demanded, “You smoke? I have some good stuff. Let’s go somewhere and smoke it!” As temping as that offer was (not), I was resolved to my walk.

I felt a kindred to the other lone souls I passed on the streets. Were they like me, sorta wishing they weren’t alone but choosing to embrace the peacefulness of a solitary walk? Or were their steps full of disappointment, of failed “First Lay of 2013” missions? I reached the top of Powell and veered West, passing the Top of the Mark Hotel and appreciating the view in the middle of California Street.

There was the moon, high in the sky just above the hotel. A giant night-light illuminating the way to bed for all guests of (arguably) San Francisco’s finest hotel. Nothing gets me like spotting the moon between buildings in a city night sky. It was perfect.

I continued down the block towards Grace Cathedral. A voice called out to me from the stoop “I could hear you coming from down the block. Clop, clop, clop, of your shoes. It’s a power thing, that sound.” His name was RJ. He was my age and held Rockstar Energy drink in his hand. He was drunk, but in a funny way. He was also lost. I helped him find the way to his friends and he walked me home. For 15 minutes, we were friends; my first friend of 2013.

…to be continued