Hurrication! And Art Prevails

Hurricane/Tropical Storm Irene passed through NYC last weekend.  The TV news broadcast doom and gloom.  Downtown Manhattan will be under six to twelve feet of water! New York hasn't been threatened with a hurricane like this in 100 years!  The subways will be flooded!  Will the Statue of Liberty even survive?  Bloomberg Etc. pulled out all stops.  The subways ceased running at noon on Saturday.  The bridges were supposed to be closed in due order.  There were forced emergency evacuations.  Central Park and The Metropolitan Museum were closed.  It was the first weekend of the Met Opera Live in HD Festival at Lincoln Center, and that was canceled. Even my dance classes were canceled.  Which is sayin' somethin' 'cause Ballet Arts at City Center is like the postal service: they don't close for nuthin'.

Late Friday night I started to prepare. As I lugged a gallon of water up five flights of stairs, I decided to take a Hurrication.  In my neighborhood the only time it's quiet is when it rains (car windows are closed, minimizing bass-osity; and street socializing becomes non-existent.)  So I slept.  And slept.  And slept.  I slept so long that I missed Hurricane/Tropical Storm Irene.  When I woke late on Sunday morning, there was a light drizzle and a moderate breeze.  The power was on.  And the only evidence of una tormenta was a small leak in my closet, and scattered vegetable debris on the sidewalk.  Bloomberg, I said, you over-reacting numbskull.

But there were downed trees in Fort Tryon Park, and flooding in coastal areas was worse.  Some parts of the city were without power for days.  But for the rest of us, it was business as usual on Monday.  Everyone (those poopers!) showed up to work.  The blue sky thumbed its chin at Bloomberg, as if to say, it's still summer and you can't spoil my fun. 

After work, I went house hunting (more, much more, on this later-- it could fill an entire book).  The Poocherooni came along.  He has a more highly developed sixth sense than I, and at this point I need his help.  After beating the pavement, we drove slowly passed Lincoln Center.  I had checked earlier about the opera broadcast, but the website was mute.  But Monday evening to our joy, there it was:  art broadcast on the big screen.  Poochini lay exhausted on the passenger seat.  I opened the car window.  He sprang to his feet, poked his nose out the window, sniffed, and stared excitedly at the projection of Iphigenie en Tauride over Lincoln Center Plaza. 

I certainly chose the right name for you, I said, as I drove toward a parking spot.  The temperature was just right for sitting outside, the sky overhead was clear.  I bought a gelato and found a seat.  Poochini slurped up my leftover icecream and stared at the giant screen, true to his nature.  It was as if nothing terrible had ever happened.  It was the gift of art to us all.      

Rare Birds of NYC

In early summer NYC parks come into full leaf.  They dot the city and glisten like emeralds dropped into a wastebasket of concrete and exhaust.  These parks hold rare flea market finds to patient observers. 

Last week, bleary eyed and weary from a recent move into a fifth floor walkup, I took my morning walk in the Heather Garden.  On a bench someone had scattered birdfeed.  Amidst the drab sparrows flitted a fluorescent green and yellow parakeet.  He pecked at the bird seed, oblivious to his beauty, all the more stunning against the brown camouflage of the sparrows.  I approached cautiously so as not to scare him away.  As I neared, the wild sparrows flew away with instinctive distrust.  But the tame parakeet, accustomed to human presence, remained pecking at the bird seed.  I neared to within a foot, yet he did not budge.  Poor creature, I thought, he must have been someone's pet.  And he is doomed.  Such a rare beauty will not last through the harsh winter.

Today as I exited Central Park on W72nd St., I stopped short.  Sitting on a window ledge of one of those magnificent doorman buildings (what do they look like inside?) blazed a powerful red parrot.  He had muscular talons that gripped the ledge securely.  Emerald, blue, and white feathers streaked across his wings.  His eyes had been made up with brilliant blue and white shadow that circled them like a target.  A passerby stood giddily near the great bird while his wife tried to take a photo.  The owner, a man mildly past middle age, said anxiously, don't get too close.  The passerby paid no attention.  The parrot ruffled his wings, and swiped at the passerby with his great hooked beak.  I told you, don't get too close.  He can do real damage, the owner intoned angrily.  The passerby looked sheepish.  His wife hurriedly snapped the photo, and the two rushed off.  I asked, how old is he?  The owner replied, forty-five.  I thought, if I'd been with anyone (bird, beast or human) for that long, I might also become angry when a stranger fails to heed requests for respectful treatment.

That got me thinking about Poochini.  Once, when we were first getting to know each other, we had walked to the Bethesda Fountain.  The pair of swans that used to come through Central Park in early spring were paddling on the pond.  All of the sudden there rose a tremendous squawking and hissing.  A woman's toy poodle had fallen into the water close to one of the swans.  The bird had risen clear out of the water, extending her powerful wings, beating them with fury, and pecking at the poor dog.  The woman frantically kneeled by the side of the pond.  After several unsuccessful attempts she was able to scoop out the dog.  I hugged Poochini closely.  That was when I learned to beware of angry swans.    

Mother's Day in Central Park

New York 1 forecast rainstorms  for this year's Mother's Day, but the mothers would have none of it.  They must have talked to the Big Guy and told him what's what.  Weather-wise, this was the best day yet.  In Central Park, Pooch and I tried to dodge the obstacle course of families picnicking, roller blading, waiting for the carousel, and eating icecream bars.  A line fifty people long waited to rent row boats near the Boat House.  In between having meltdowns, kids frolicked on the green grass of Sheep's Meadow.  And if you hadn't thought ahead and packed your own food (like Mom does), you had a long wait on your hands at the Rickshaw Dumpling truck. 

People came at us from all directions.  After an hour of frantically trying not to become road kill, Pooch and I decided to be antisocial and ducked into The Ramble.  There the crowd thinned, but barely.  We duly became lost (no matter how long I live in this city, I never learn my way around The Ramble).  Pooch rubbed noses with a St. Bernard, then got confused when,  trying to greet him in the usual dog manner, stood in shadow beneath the huge dog's belly.  Finally we found our way to the West Side, where we emerged to find a new barrage of families.  But the funny thing was, despite the discomfort of the crowds, most people were smiling and polite.  These people must be from out of town, I thought.  Or maybe, on this Mother's Day, people had remembered a mother's frequent refrain:  mind your manners.  Which is a gift to all of us. 

Oh, New York. I Heart You.

 Today I tied a pink bow around Pooch's neck.  Suddenly people in the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue were calling him a her.  Boys can wear pink too, I said, just look at the man in drag over there.  I pointed.  That's way more than pink. The man stood six feet plus in platforms, and wore fishnet stockings, a bustier, thick fake eyelashes, and a fluorescent pink wig.  Others had also gone overboard. In front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, a woman posed while balancing on her head an elaborate seven foot headress made of sprays of violets, lilacs, and blue flowers whose species has not yet evolved.  There were little girls with angelic golden curls beneath bonnets decorated with green grass, pink and yellow baskets, and chocolate Easter eggs.  A man wearing a top hat and tails accompanied a woman in an elegant green satin 1940s dress.  She struck a pose in a broad brimmed hat covered with a froth of toile and multicolored flowers. 

And of course there were the dogs.  There was a pooch in a top hat with coat and tails (note: the average, every day pooch is lower case in this blog).  There was a golden retriever in a pink skirt and pink bunny ears.  There was one of those yippy little runts of dogs (I can't keep their names in mind, there's probably a psychological term for it), dressed in a tutu with a pink ribbon.  Three little girls in Easter frocks stood round, oohing and aahing.  Everyone loves a well dressed pooch.

The Upper Case Pooch and I paraded from St. Pat's to The Plaza.  The day had turned warm and humid.  The sky was clear blue for once, and Central Park was irresistible.  Days of rain had turned the grass electric green.  The trees had burst into pink blossom, and the tulips stood with perfect posture, awaiting admiration.  The Easter Parade had spilled along the path leading to the zoo, where people rested on park benches and forgot to remove their bunny ears.

It seemed like all of the greater metropolitan New York area had converged on Manhattan.  There were crowds at the carousel, where I stopped to buy refreshments.  Most people were happy today, but there's always a few curmudgeons in a crowd. The hot dog man said, what can I get you.  I tried to say, "Diii-et CCo" but was interrupted by a man with a European accent, barging in front of me and ordering water.  The hot dog man, unfazed, pulled out the Diet Coke, slammed it down hard to make his point and said, Diet Coke for you, and then pulled out the water for the SOB.  It was a small triumph for me, and even though the hot dog man inflated the cost ($3!), I take small triumphs when I can get them.  I sauntered away, flamboyantly opening my Diet Coke while the European man argued with the hot dog man over the price of water.

Pooch and I found a bench near the road that on weekdays rings the park in a necklace of exhaust (it's closed to car traffic on Sundays; that's when it becomes a necklace of weekend warriors).  As I fed him popcorn, a pedicab rolled by blasting "Empire State of Mind" by Alicia Keys:  Noise is always loud, there are sirens all around, and the streets are mean... Concrete jungle where dreams are made of... There's nothing you can't do...Now you're in New York... These streets will make you feel brand new...Big lights will inspire you...Let's hear it for New York, New York, New Yooooork!

It's days like these that erase the occasional discouragement a New Yorker feels.  The hot dog seller who doesn't need to, but is kind in his own manner.  The drag queens in the Easter Parade, and other New Yorkers (though not all-- there is an entrenched stodgy component to this city) who have the guts to be noncomformist.  And the blue sky that defines the color and occasionally makes an appearance.           

Dog Park

Today at the dog park there were at least twenty dogs: big, bold, heavyset mutts; small nervous, yippy Yorkshire mixes; a skeletal, inbred miniature greyhound; and my own Poochini, who defies classification. The dogs chased each other in packs, joyous in their simple existence. It occurred to me that dogs are like men. Or men are like dogs. In any case, they are very similar. The lives of both revolve around running in packs, eating, and (especially) humping. Even if occasionally they hump in the wrong direction-- like one of the dogs today who tried to hump another's head.