One of the reasons I feel so lucky to be a writer is that I get to share my "world" with so many other folks, readers. These days the blogosphere affords the opportunity to chat up some of the really cool people and stuff I encounter in my "real" world, too.
If you've read this far, apparently you're listening to me, which is a very good thing. ;)
Because I am bursting at the seams (no, not that kind of bursting though admittedly I've been hitting the Tasti Delite kinda hard) to talk about a great running club I just joined, the New York City Hashers.
Apparently hashing is tres international. It started in Malaysia in the late 1930's, and there are groups throughout the US as well as the globe. In NY, the Harry's Hashers chapter draws members mainly from Manhattan. Basically the group leader, called a Hare, chalk marks a trail for the rest of the runners, The Pack, to follow--or not follow. The run begins at a bar (excellent, yes) and the endpoint is yep, you guessed it, another bar. Most of the runners wait until the finish to imbibe. Participants toss about $15, Hash Cash, into the communal till, which covers beer and noshes for the night.
Last night was my first hash, and frankly I can't wait to go back next week. About 50-60 runners met up outside of Suspenders Bar in Manhattan's Financial District. Once the run got underway, folks got serious. While the web site gives the impression that the running part of the event provides an excuse to drink and socialize, don't believe it. Harry's hashers are seriously fit, with the majority of last night's group running sub-nine minute miles. There's also a nice mix of ages (anything from twenty-somethings to sixty-somethings), singles and married couples, backgrounds etc.
The approximately six-mile "trail" wound through the Battery, China Town, the Lower East Side, Alphabet City, and Gramercy. Sweaty but smiling, we ended at Plug Uglies, a gem of a dive bar in the East Village named for the New York street gang immortalized in Martin Scorses's GANGS OF NEW YORK. Ironically the present day pub is a popular watering hole for New York's finest--note the police shields festooning the dark paneled walls--as well as running club friendly.
We hashers basically took over the place. Pitchers of icewater awaited and after downing the requisite rehydrating plastic cupful, most club members were ready for stronger stuff. Later (as in several Stellas later), there was toasting or rather roasting of the hash leaders, the trail, and specific members, including a dalmatian with a purported flatulence problem--or was that her owner? Last but not least for a turn in the spotlight were the hash "virgins" including...yep, you guessed it, Yours Truly, who had to down beer shots while the group cheered and chugged. Afterward, the leaders broke out the food, played shuffle board (a popular bar fixture), told runners' "war stories" and just generally had a good time.
Whatever your outdoor passion--running, cycling, golfing, walking or even gardening--it's spring for gosh's sake, so make like the Nike ad and "Just Do It."
Happy trails,
Hope
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Happy Memorial Day
Memorial Day weekend in Manhattan overlaps with Fleet Week, made famous (or is that infamous) by that great "Sex and the City" TV episode. Literally thousands of U.S. sailors, marines, and Coast Guardsmen (and women!) make port in Manhattan for a week-long celebration that includes public visitation of the ships.
I can't say I've celebrated Fleet Week Carrie Bradshaw style--ever notice how *she* never seems to have revisions, certainly none that interfere with her social life? Still, when I have gotten out to soak up the spring sunshine, it's been fun seeing tribes of crisply outfitted Navy men and women roaming the city in packs, savoring their shore leave in America's most exciting city.
On occasion it's also been heartwarming. Take yesterday, for example. I was headed east through Greenwich Village when I fell in behind a foursome of white-suited sailors. A bright-eyed elderly woman stepped in front of me, not as it turned out to knock me to the curb.
She reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and shoved a twenty dollar bill in one young sailor's hand. "This is for your service, to show my appreciation for all you do to keep this country safe. I want you all to have a beer on me. It's the least I can do."
Random acts of kindness and senseless beauty isn't just a catchy slogan that looks good on car bumpers. Some people out there, quite a few, actually, are living the dream.
Happy Memorial Day,
Hope
I can't say I've celebrated Fleet Week Carrie Bradshaw style--ever notice how *she* never seems to have revisions, certainly none that interfere with her social life? Still, when I have gotten out to soak up the spring sunshine, it's been fun seeing tribes of crisply outfitted Navy men and women roaming the city in packs, savoring their shore leave in America's most exciting city.
On occasion it's also been heartwarming. Take yesterday, for example. I was headed east through Greenwich Village when I fell in behind a foursome of white-suited sailors. A bright-eyed elderly woman stepped in front of me, not as it turned out to knock me to the curb.
She reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and shoved a twenty dollar bill in one young sailor's hand. "This is for your service, to show my appreciation for all you do to keep this country safe. I want you all to have a beer on me. It's the least I can do."
Random acts of kindness and senseless beauty isn't just a catchy slogan that looks good on car bumpers. Some people out there, quite a few, actually, are living the dream.
Happy Memorial Day,
Hope
Friday, May 9, 2008
Girl in the City Part II: The Art of Living
It's Friday--again--and as I'm mapping out my weekend, my thoughts keep circling back to last weekend.
Since moving to Manhattan in February, I made a pact with myself to experience at least one new "thing" each week. In that spirit, last Friday and Saturday nights, I braved the elements (think wind, rain, more wind, more rain) and trekked out to the Chelsea Art Gallery District. Having been to many art gallery receptions, but none before in Manhattan, I have several observations to report.
First off, there's no food, not a morsel, not a scrap, not a nosh, not a nibble. But then food is messy and distracts from the main purpose of attending a gallery reception, which is of course...
Being Seen. (And you thought I was going to say viewing the art, silly you).
Thankfully, there is wine, though usually stain-proof white. That said, one gallery had run out of even that by the time I arrived--for shame!
The reception experience varies greatly by the personality of a) the gallery and b) the artist or group of artists being shown. The first reception on Friday night, a series of black-and-white photographs with a sobering theme and a heavy political message, definitely attracted the older, intellectual set--think jeans and Ducoti leather wear and unapologetically gray hair.
Saturday night mere blocks away I attended two more openings, the first a family affair complete with strollers and young children racing around. Stain-proof white wine and designer water was surely the way to go. Yours Truly couldn't fathom how the heap of soil--oops, I mean "art"--set in the center of the gallery floor managed to survive those eager-to-explore little fingers, but it was still intact by the time I left.
Gallery reception #2 featured "an exploration of the totality of color" and lots of "installations." (Memo to Self: Manhattanites "in the know" get mightily miffed if you mispeak and say "sculpture.") Yours Truly thought the um..."installations" amounted to old boards with nails hammered in--artfully hammered, not haphazardly hammered, but still--though naturally I kept such Simian thoughts to myself.
The attendees at this final reception were more gliterrati than intelligentsia, which is to say there wasn't a scrap of denim in sight. Think "haute couture" as in off the runway, not the rack. I chatted briefly with one dashing fortysomething man, a student of the German artist whose work was being shown, who explained to me that he now has assistants who do his hammering for him. I also made the acquaintance of an exquisite older woman accompanied by her Peekaneese. After some mild coaxing, she (that would be the dog) performed several rolls for me in the center of the wide, glossy wood floor.
The dog really took to me, the people not so much. For one thing, I seemed to be the only one actually looking at the art--oops, I mean installations. Secondly, it was probably pretty apparent to the sponsors I wouldn't be asking for a price list anytime soon.
As to what's on tap for this weekend, that largely depends on the weather. I think I'll likely skip the galleries this week, though when I do go back, I'm hoping to see at least one friendly familiar face.
I bet that dog has more than one trick up her sleeve.
TGIF,
Hope
Since moving to Manhattan in February, I made a pact with myself to experience at least one new "thing" each week. In that spirit, last Friday and Saturday nights, I braved the elements (think wind, rain, more wind, more rain) and trekked out to the Chelsea Art Gallery District. Having been to many art gallery receptions, but none before in Manhattan, I have several observations to report.
First off, there's no food, not a morsel, not a scrap, not a nosh, not a nibble. But then food is messy and distracts from the main purpose of attending a gallery reception, which is of course...
Being Seen. (And you thought I was going to say viewing the art, silly you).
Thankfully, there is wine, though usually stain-proof white. That said, one gallery had run out of even that by the time I arrived--for shame!
The reception experience varies greatly by the personality of a) the gallery and b) the artist or group of artists being shown. The first reception on Friday night, a series of black-and-white photographs with a sobering theme and a heavy political message, definitely attracted the older, intellectual set--think jeans and Ducoti leather wear and unapologetically gray hair.
Saturday night mere blocks away I attended two more openings, the first a family affair complete with strollers and young children racing around. Stain-proof white wine and designer water was surely the way to go. Yours Truly couldn't fathom how the heap of soil--oops, I mean "art"--set in the center of the gallery floor managed to survive those eager-to-explore little fingers, but it was still intact by the time I left.
Gallery reception #2 featured "an exploration of the totality of color" and lots of "installations." (Memo to Self: Manhattanites "in the know" get mightily miffed if you mispeak and say "sculpture.") Yours Truly thought the um..."installations" amounted to old boards with nails hammered in--artfully hammered, not haphazardly hammered, but still--though naturally I kept such Simian thoughts to myself.
The attendees at this final reception were more gliterrati than intelligentsia, which is to say there wasn't a scrap of denim in sight. Think "haute couture" as in off the runway, not the rack. I chatted briefly with one dashing fortysomething man, a student of the German artist whose work was being shown, who explained to me that he now has assistants who do his hammering for him. I also made the acquaintance of an exquisite older woman accompanied by her Peekaneese. After some mild coaxing, she (that would be the dog) performed several rolls for me in the center of the wide, glossy wood floor.
The dog really took to me, the people not so much. For one thing, I seemed to be the only one actually looking at the art--oops, I mean installations. Secondly, it was probably pretty apparent to the sponsors I wouldn't be asking for a price list anytime soon.
As to what's on tap for this weekend, that largely depends on the weather. I think I'll likely skip the galleries this week, though when I do go back, I'm hoping to see at least one friendly familiar face.
I bet that dog has more than one trick up her sleeve.
TGIF,
Hope
Friday, May 2, 2008
Random Reports from City Girl on the Street
Okay, it's officially spring in New York, which is to say gray, windy, and cold
--still. Despite the scrumptious array of spring clothes on tantalizing display in the storefronts of West Village boutiques and the designer chains on Fifth--think crayon colors, bold geometric patterns, and belted waists--like most of my fellow Manhattanites, I'm still tooling around in turtlenecks and wool.
Still, it's spring, the pollen is in full bloom, and all in all people including Yours Truly are walking the streets with a uh...spring in their step. (Sorry, couldn't resist).
Tomorrow, Saturday, I'm the guest speaker at the Romance Writers of America/NYC chapter brunch at PJ Clarke's. I'm still working out my presentation, but it's basically a not so shameless take-off on Donald Trump's THE ART OF THE DEAL. In my case, I'll be speaking on the ART OF THE RE-DO, both in writing and yes, in so-called "real" life.
PJ Clarke's is on the waterfront, so here's hoping its warm-er. Afterward I'm on tap to meet a friend and hit a couple of the Chelsea art galleries having receptions. I doubt I'll buy any art but hey, someone has to help out with all that free wine. ;)
Like my STROKES OF MIDNIGHT heroine, Becky Stone, I check my online horoscope and yes, tarot readings just about every day. It's a big world out there, make that a big Universe, so I like to cover all my bases. I'm happy to report the Hanged Man, Hermit, and Death card (yikes) are no longer showing up in my Love & Relationship sector!
See, it really must be spring...
Happy Weekend,
Hope
--still. Despite the scrumptious array of spring clothes on tantalizing display in the storefronts of West Village boutiques and the designer chains on Fifth--think crayon colors, bold geometric patterns, and belted waists--like most of my fellow Manhattanites, I'm still tooling around in turtlenecks and wool.
Still, it's spring, the pollen is in full bloom, and all in all people including Yours Truly are walking the streets with a uh...spring in their step. (Sorry, couldn't resist).
Tomorrow, Saturday, I'm the guest speaker at the Romance Writers of America/NYC chapter brunch at PJ Clarke's. I'm still working out my presentation, but it's basically a not so shameless take-off on Donald Trump's THE ART OF THE DEAL. In my case, I'll be speaking on the ART OF THE RE-DO, both in writing and yes, in so-called "real" life.
PJ Clarke's is on the waterfront, so here's hoping its warm-er. Afterward I'm on tap to meet a friend and hit a couple of the Chelsea art galleries having receptions. I doubt I'll buy any art but hey, someone has to help out with all that free wine. ;)
Like my STROKES OF MIDNIGHT heroine, Becky Stone, I check my online horoscope and yes, tarot readings just about every day. It's a big world out there, make that a big Universe, so I like to cover all my bases. I'm happy to report the Hanged Man, Hermit, and Death card (yikes) are no longer showing up in my Love & Relationship sector!
See, it really must be spring...
Happy Weekend,
Hope
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
