I Heart NY, Part 2 (With Pictures!)

Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? If you’ll remember, I was just being taxied into the city, and was starting to regain my lost optimism about my trip.

Once we got to our hotel, we hunkered down for a few hours of much needed sleep. We wanted to get an early start on our sightseeing, so we woke up at six the next morning (which is unthinkably early for me on any day, much less a vacation day. I don’t think I ever see the world properly till around…noon.). From what little pre-trip research we were able to do, we knew that we could pick up almost any subway line we needed from Grand Central Station, which just so happened to be about four blocks from our hotel. Grand Central Station is beautiful – when you walk in, you’re taken aback by the enormity of the marble concourse. It’s a seamless mix of bigness and delicacy, the latter coming in the form of several exquisite chandeliers and, of course, the famous painted ceiling, a loose depiction of an astrological map. What really struck me was the windows, these great arched portals with the most gorgeous light just streaming through them, and the huge American flag, which was hung just after September 11th. I think it’s easy to feel strangely reverent about New York, especially when you’re in a place like Grand Central Station. There’s something about it that feels important and necessary, and even in our rush to get out into the city, we spent a good fifteen minutes just absorbing our surroundings in the terminal.


From there, we really hit the ground running. We snagged a subway map (which quickly became our best friend) and headed down to Times Square, where we were all set to pick up one of those double decker bus tours. Now, I realize that this goes directly against our goal of living like true Manhattanites (Manhattonians?), but we had to find a way to get our bearings in the city, and for us, the best way to do that was to take a guided bus tour. We must have been on that bus for four solid hours, but we saw everything: the Fashion District, the Financial District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Central Park – everything. You name it, we saw it, all from the open-air upper level of a ridiculous-looking, gigantic double decker bus. It really helped us figure out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do for the rest of our time in NYC, though. So thank you much, New York Sight Seeing Gray Line.

Once we completed our bus tour, we grabbed a quick bite and made our way down to Battery Park, where we were going to hop on a ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a ferry ride and an outdoor audio tour of Lady Liberty. I initially wasn't too excited for Ellis Island, but I'm so glad we did it, simply because there’s no way I could have fully appreciated what the Statue of Liberty meant for so many people had we not. Visiting Ellis Island was extremely moving because their audio tour had interviews with people who actually came into the U.S. through Ellis Island. So many of them described difficult journeys filled with illness, crowded quarters and unsanitary conditions (not to mention all the reasons they had to leave their native countries in the first place), but what was so moving to me was their reaction upon seeing Lady Liberty’s shining golden torch ablaze across the sharp blue sky – it’s like they knew they were finally safe, that their grueling voyage was over, that they were home at last. They were so grateful, so full of hope, and hearing their stories made me feel the same way. Love that.


Our day of exploring was tiring, but knowing that we had very limited time in Manhattan (we’d have to spend at least a few days in New Jersey and its surrounding areas for my brother’s tournament), we wanted to make the most of every moment, so we decided to push through the exhaustion and hop on the subway to Little Italy for dinner. I remember this part very vividly: Getting off the subway and not knowing which way to go, I smelled and heard and saw the twinkling lights of Little Italy all at once, and it was like an instant shot of warm, tingly happiness. I think we spent maybe half an hour walking up and down the blocks that comprise Little Italy, checking out all the restaurants. We finally sat down to eat at a little café with outdoor seating so we could take in the whole scene. There was a lot to see: the streets were crowded with tons of people, some visitors like us, some vendors, others residents of apartments located over the restaurants and shops, and, to my great surprise and delight, many, many genuine Italians. The vibe was so homey and welcoming, and colorful in the best possible way. I think it’s one of those places where anyone could feel like they really belonged, which is definitely a beautiful thing. After dinner, we strolled some more and picked up the most delicious cannoli in the world (Four words: Chocolate covered cannoli shell. Fifth word: Wow.), and headed back to the hotel, full and happy and nothing short of enamored with the city. It was the perfect way to end our perfect first day in New York.



I Heart NY, Part 3 (the finale) - coming soon to a blog near you!

Why Andrea and I Are Friends

I know. I know, I know, I know. There's no "I Heart NY, Part 2" post today. It's not quite ready yet. In the meantime, I give you this little snippet from a recent iChat session. It's just one one of the many reasons why Andrea and I are best buds.

Preface: Andrea's parents are pressuring her to talk to some dude they want her to date. To say that she has lukewarm feelings for him would be...generous.
Andrea: My dad told me to say hi to him when he was sitting right there. It was like I was 8 years old.
Nicole: I still don't understand why you have to say anything to him at all.
Andrea: It's because of my parents. My dad wants me to "make myself available" to him.
Nicole: Ah, like a hooker.
Andrea: Yes. The red light is on.
Nicole: Poor Roxanne. :(
Andrea: I would woop Roxanne. I mean, she's like 50 years old now.
Nicole: I don't know. Hookers are notoriously brutal.
Andrea: But I have a shiv.
Andrea: It's home-made.
Nicole: ...from a spoon...
Nicole: ...from the prison mess hall.
Andrea: Yes. I swiped it during that stint I served for killing my pimp.
Nicole: Yeah, well, that bastard had it coming.
Andrea: Damn straight.

You see? That's just a beautiful thing.

Also, thank God Andrea and I found each other. Because really, who else would be friends with us? Yeah.

The Police - "Roxanne"

It's Funny...Because It's True

This makes me laugh:


I think I'd be in the "I would be writing right now, but...wait, do you hear that buzzing? No? Because I really hear like a loud, loud buzz happening. Ugh, I'm so tired. [At which point, I'd go watch some previously Tivo'd episodes of Tori and Dean: Inn Love and fall asleep on the couch.]" building. Because that's how I roll.

I Heart NY, Part 2 will be up tomorrow! Fo' realz.

I Heart NY, Part 1

I have a brother, AJ, who plays high school baseball and is an outstanding third baseman. As anyone who knows baseball will tell you, once you hit a certain age and show a fair amount of talent, you'll want to transition into playing on a travel team (we call it “travel ball”), which caters to a more upper echelon type of player. Travel ball is pretty intense and can get a little cutthroat at times, but the level of competition affords the players valuable game time experience and prepares them for the challenge of playing at the high school (and, hopefully, college) level, which is definitely a good thing. And, as the name suggests, you get to travel, and travel you do, mostly in the summer time, which means that the destination of many a family vacation is determined by the baseball gods. Nine times out of ten, you end up in some bizarre, BFE-type locale (Joplin, MO, anyone? My brother’s Joplin assessment: “Fireworks, sex shops, and boredom.” So sorry, Joplin.). But then there are those glorious moments when travel ball takes you somewhere fantastic, and a few weeks ago, we were finally dealt a winning hand when AJ’s team qualified to play in the Don Mattingly World Series, a prestigious tournament set to take place over seven days in…Flemington, New Jersey!

I know what you’re thinking: Flemington, New Jersey? Really? Sounds…awesome. To that end, I would say that your sarcasm was not only well placed but also very warranted. It’s completely correct to assume that no one would find the prospect of spending a week in Flemington thrilling. The thought that I would be forced to spend my vacation there was horrifying, especially since there are only two things worth noting about Flemington: 1) The Lindbergh trial was held there, oh, I don’t know, a million and a half years ago, which also happens to be about the time it stopped being interesting, and 2) There’s a bunch of pharmaceutical research facilities in the general vicinity (which is not at all riveting, but would explain the multitude of two-headed dear prancing along in that neck o’ the woods). I was all set to bring the serious hate to the Flem, until a little pre-trip research revealed that, miracle of miracles, Flemington was only an hour outside of Manhattan! What once sounded like yet another shaft out of a summer vacation at the hands of Mother Baseball instantly became our ticket to finally (FINALLY!) getting to explore NYC. Needless to say, I was very excited. It was like Harry Potter levels of excitement - times a thousand. Plus five. Squared.

Once New York came into the picture, the prospect of having to tough out a few days in Flemington seemed far less odious. My brother and his teammates were told they’d be flying separately from their families and that once they got there, they’d be staying with host families, which was the second piece of good news: Without having to cart him around to the gym and the batting cages and meetings all day long, our time was more our own than it had been on any baseball-related trip ever. With that in mind, we started planning our great New York adventure. The trouble with that, however, was that none of us really knew anything about New York City. Where do we want to stay? What do we want to do? How do we exist in Manhattan without looking like total rubes? Those are all legitimate questions. Because you don't mess around in New York. Or so we'd heard.

I wasn't overly stressed about the lack of info, though. Rolling out with a few maps and a suitcase full of light layers rarely freaks me out. That kind of vagabond vacationing just so happens to be my family's signature travel style, and I've been flying by the seat of my pants in new places for years as a result. Plus, I like to think that I'm a fairly openminded, adaptable gal, both of which are favorable attributes when exploring an unknown city. I was still slightly troubled by the last minute nature of the trip, though. Since we were all hesitant to sign on the dotted line when we thought the tournament would tie us down in Flemington, it was pretty late in the game when we started getting the essentials in place. I think we ended up booking our flight two days before we had to leave, and our hotel wasn't locked down till around eleven o’clock the night before we left. I don't like to be rushed, and you really can't be more rushed than that. I was still excited though. I mean, it’s New York City. It's the capital of the world. Fuhgeddaboutit.

We flew out of LAX on a Saturday morning. The first leg of the trip, from LAX to Las Vegas (where we’d pick up our connecting flight to JFK), was lovely. I had my traditional airplane beverage, ginger ale, and a purse full of tabloids – all was right in my world. Our connection was smooth, not too much of a layover. Well, enough of a layover for my mom to convince me to play $5 in an airport slot machine, which I promptly lost (Can someone tell me what’s fun about slot machines? I don't get it. Forgive me for being so limited.). Anyway, I would say the first half of the flight to New York was fine. They played “Shrek the Third.” There was minimal turbulence. I had another ginger ale and ate some pretzels. Life was good.

That's when things started to get hairy. Inexplicably, I began to feel…woozy, I guess is the right word. I got that cold, tight, fizzy feeling between my stomach and my throat. I started taking short, shallow breaths. I got sweaty and became unnaturally pale. I’d never felt like that, to that extreme, on a flight before, and that’s why it never occurred to me to take a Dramamine. Which obviously I should have. Because obviously, in my old age, I’ve become pretty weak in the motion sickness department. What made it even worse was the thought that my trip to New York was starting out so unfavorably. I get a little dramatic sometimes, especially when I’m feeling gross and panicked, and in my motion sickness-addled brain, it felt like horrid overshadowing of things to come. It didn’t help that once we landed, we taxied around the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity when what I wanted most in the world was to get as far away from the plane as possible. I was so out of it by the time we deboarded, got our luggage, and made our way to the taxi line that I couldn’t have cared less that we were in New York. I was miserable, and all I wanted to do was get to the hotel, take a shower and go to sleep.

But then, in the cab on the I-495, I saw it: The Manhattan skyline. It was peaceful and beautiful, and, in direct opposition to everything I'd ever heard about NYC, quiet. Not to cheese you out too much, but it really felt like the city was taking a breath with me, helping me calm down so I could drink it all in, and I instantly felt better about things. I always thought people were romanticizing when they waxed poetic on how "magical" New York is. But even then, even from the inside of a cab on the outskirts of the city, I started to understand what they were talking about. And I was ready to let myself be bewitched.

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Tuesday, September 4th - I Heart NY, Part Two . Have a good weekend.

Where I've Been; Where I'm Going

So.

It’s been a while there, eh blog buddies? More than a month, in fact. That’s a really long time. Well, maybe not in the span of a lifetime. In the span of a lifetime, you’ll have many, many months. Depending on how long you live, you could have upwards of one thousand months under your belt by the time you die, and if you look at it that way, what’s one month or two or twelve to someone who has lived a thousand? It’s like a blip on the radar screen, not even a worthy side note. Conversely, if you look at months in relation to, say, the school year, one month is one long ass time. So depending on your perspective, we’ve either been apart for a moment or for a lifetime. Whatever your own personal verdict is, you should know that mine is this: It has been far too long since I’ve sent any transmissions out into the blogosphere, and I plan to never be so lax in my duties as your resident snarkster/sentimentalist/loon ever again.

You’re probably wondering what I’ve been doing during my little blog hiatus, and that is most definitely a good question. Not unlike Lucy Ricardo, I know I've got some 'splaining to do. But where to start? Well, for one thing, I’ve been enjoying what is left of my final summer before graduating from college. That’s summer in the most familiar sense of the word, by the way: Those glorious three months between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next. I’ve been relishing every moment spent engaging in my favorite summertime activity: Lounging in my grandparents’ pool for hours and getting out only to eat lunch (or, now that I’m of legal drinking age, to slurp down a fantastic, icy cold margarita made for me by my lovely grandfather, Tom, whom we call Papa). My parents have always worked full time, and as a result my brother and I have, for as long as I can remember, regarded my grandparents’ house as our second home, and we’ve spent many a happy school break there, floating around in the pool and relaxing. Admit it: If you had that, you’d be tempted to neglect your blog duties too, so don’t judge me too harshly for being absent for so long. Those were some really excellent margaritas.

Another thing grabbing my attention away from this here blog: Harry Potter. Not those bizarre leather fetish pictures of the kid who plays Harry Potter (those pretty much scarred me for life – I’d link to them, but that would mean me having to find them online, and that would mean me having to see them again, and even though I’d love to give you all the resources you need to really understand what I’m talking about, I just can’t do it. I don’t think my health care insurance covers temporary blindness caused by Daniel Radcliffe photos. But if you’re really into seeing them, just Google “Daniel+Radcliffe+leather+daddy” and I’m sure you’ll get more than a few hits. Good luck to you. Yikes.). Anyway, I plan to do a rather large post on this topic in the very near future (Andrea and I are going to double team it, and it promises to be a potpourri of mixed media deliciousness), so I’m understandably hesitant to give away too many details right now. I’ll just say that both the fifth movie and the seventh (and final) book came out within a week of each other, and in my world, that’s a tantalizing, all-consuming smorgasbord of overwhelmingly fantastic proportions. In this case, I think you were actually lucky I didn’t blog about it right as it happened. I can say with 100% certainty that it would have contained a load of fan girl giddiness, and now that I’ve had time to gain a little perspective on the situation, I know I can give a much better (read: less obnoxiously excited) account of the good times that were had during Harry Potter mania week and the couple of weeks after that, when the Harry aftermath was still strong-arming itself into every thought and every conversation. I guarantee it would have found its way onto the blog as well. Restraint, friends. It’s what differentiates us here at Destroy All Evidence from the animals. And also from lesser, crappy bloggers. It’s a good thing.

I’ve done a few other things in my time off as well, one in particular so wonderful that I won’t even begin to talk about it presently for fear that my effusive sentimentality might just melt you like hot molten lava. That one will be coming at you (or “atcha,” depending on just how “street” you’re feeling today) in two or three parts, the first installment of which will be published before the end of this week. So come back around on Thursday or Friday for that, and look for a return to your regularly scheduled programming (pessimism, dubiousness, stupidity, etc.) to follow shortly thereafter.

In the meantime, I hope you’re digging (and have been digging) Andrea's blog, which is fun and nearly always full of sonic goodness. And I hope you’ve enjoyed your summer as much as I have mine. If you haven’t, come back later this week and live vicariously through me. I encourage it. And thanks for continuing to read Destroy All Evidence.

From the Beautiful Mind of Nicole

It’s late. It’s really, really late. I know I should be asleep. I know that. But I’m not. I am what you would call a “night owl” (well, that’s what my grandma calls it anyway. Do people still say “night owl” these days or is it sort of an old-timey kind of phrase? Has it gone the way of “gee golly” and “good heavens”? I don’t know.). If it were up to me, I would get all my crap done at night then sleep during the day. This is especially true in the summer. It’s way too hot here to do anything productive during the day. I mean, your makeup is bound to sweat off, and that’s shortly followed by the frizzing of the perfectly flat-ironed hair, and let’s face it, once the look is gone, there’s really no point in trying to get anything else done. Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true.

The weird thing is, I’m not really all that productive at night either. I get a little ADD during the insomniac hours. I read a lot of books, and that’s usually because at this time of the night, one can’t hold my interest for more than a couple chapters, so I have to switch to another one. If books don’t keep me occupied, I usually surf the Internets, but there’s not a whole lot of rhyme or reason there (a look at last night’s web activity shows this bizarro trail: Perez Hilton to Amazon to Wikipedia to WebMD to BabelFish Translator to MapQuest. If you can find a straight line from beginning to end in that mess, I’ll give you all the money in my wallet. Which may or may not be $3.17. Minus $.41 for shipping.).

Some nights neither the books nor the web are enough to keep me busy until sheer exhaustion takes over and I finally fall asleep. These are the nights when a lot of thoughts (some deep, most nonsensical) are floating around inside my head. I read once that you’re supposed to write down the thoughts to get them out of your mind, and by doing so you’re ridding yourself of the turmoil they’re causing you, which of course leads to deep inner relaxation and, ultimately, sleep. Honestly, I always thought that doing that exercise was a little fruity and would never work, but I have to be up early tomorrow, and I need to snooze. So here’s my attempt to relax my mind and throw out all the weirdness that’s mucking it up so that I can get to sleep:


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You know those soft-baked sugar cookies with that really intensely sweet frosting and those waxy/fantastic sprinkles? I want one of those right now. One, psssh. Better make it ten eleven a baker's dozen.


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I think I had my first alcohol buzz the other day. I think. Is it hard to tell if you have a buzz on? I don’t know. My cousin Denise always says that a good way to know for sure whether or not you’re on the road to Drunktown is to lift your arms and try to sense if they feel any heavier than they did before you started drinking. The only problem with that is that the weird, tentatively suspended arms have a tendency to give the appearance of drunkenness. Or the appearance of signaling to the waiter for another round. I’m pretty sure you’ll end up getting another Cosmopolitan either way.


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I hate the word "facetious." I feel like people who say "facetious" are trying way too hard to sound smart. Show me someone who genuinely loves the word "facetious" and I will show you an intellectual poseur. An unlikely upside to hating "facetious": If and when I get to be a guest on James Lipton's "Inside the Actor's Studio" and he gives me that quiz at the end and asks what my least favorite word is, I'll have the answer all locked and loaded and ready to go.


***


If I see one more commercial for eharmony.com – just one more! – I think I might lose my mind. It’s not that I have anything against eharmony. It’s online dating. Whatever. Some people choose to go that route, and who am I to judge them? They know what they want, and they’re going for it. I respect that, even if it’s not a road I ever see myself taking. You’d think that kindly, tolerant attitude would earn me some kind of karmic relief from the bombardment of ads from Dr. Neil Warren and Co. Yeah, not so much.


***


Where are Flemish people from?


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Sometimes I feel like there are needles poking into my eyeballs. It happens for maybe two seconds, during which I blink like a crazy person, and then it’s over. Similarly, I often feel like my two front teeth are being plied out of my mouth. The sensation is, again, momentary, but it’s uncomfortable nonetheless. Does anyone else ever feel that?


***


I would give anything in the world to not have to put the sheets on my bed right now. They’ve just been lying there for hours, and I’ve been finding creative ways to lie around them while reading The Scapegoat by Daphne DuMaurier. It's times like this that make me wish I had a maid. Or a butler who would agree to put sheets on my bed even though butlers typically don’t do that kind of thing. Or do women not have butlers? Are they like ladies-in-waiting or something? I can't say that I know for sure.


***


Wondering if it should be “laying”/“lay” instead of “lying”/“lie.” Wondering if I’m coherent enough at this hour to figure that out. Wondering if I care about the difference between the two even when I'm completely lucid.


***


Who was that chick that got eliminated on Top Chef this week? I swear I’ve never seen her on the show before, and we’re like four weeks in. She must have been pretty flavorless to garner zero screen time until she got ousted. Flavorless, teehee…


***


If I had to say definitively right now which prince I liked best, Prince William or Prince Harry, I would without a doubt go with Harry. Because he seems nasty.


***


My cousin Stacie told me today that she and her friends Joe and Bart once wrote a pilot script for a TV comedy about eight people working in a mall. I really don’t know what to do with that information. My only real thought is that I need to work on finding a copy of that sucker ASAP. Perhaps get it performed by a local theater troupe. Or tweak it so that it could be done as a one-woman show with me as the star. I better get on that.


***


Pete Yorn has a new song, "Shampoo” (go on, click the link and snag it. You know you want to.). He posted it on his message board as his “new favorite song to break up to” or something like that. That’s all fine and good, but I want to know who the backup vocalist is, because it’s a lady, and I’m inclined to think that Pete is probably dating whomever that lady is. And this makes me upset because shouldn’t Pete be saving himself for me? I’m saving myself for him. Or, you know, Dave Lieberman. Whoever I meet first.


***


I got gas today. When you pay at the little island kiosk, it tells you that if you use your ATM card, a transaction fee of $.45 is added onto your total. By an amazing stroke of luck, I bought exactly $39.55 worth of gas, which means my overall total was $40 on the nose. How often does that happen? Almost never! Ah, little victories.


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Huh. I don’t feel any more tired now than I was before. I don’t feel any more relaxed either, especially since now I’m really worried that I chose the wrong prince and that somehow that decision will come back to haunt me one day. Blurgh. I feel a massive Excedrin PM shot coming in five...four...three...two...

From Me to You: An Independence Day Gift

Today is Wednesday, July 4th. It’s widely accepted that the headlining event of the Fourth of July should be the celebration of Independence Day. For the most part, I agree with that assessment. After all, for a while there, Independence Day was my number one most favorite holiday (even beating out Christmas, and that is hard to do). I still look forward to it because on our street, it means a gigantic block party and tons of fireworks. Everyone’s house is open, everyone serves food and drinks (alcoholic ones too! Huzzah.), everyone’s family and friends come and hang out all day, flags are hung up everywhere, there’s music, one of those bouncy houses invariably shows up on someone’s lawn, and there’s almost always some kind of game going on (for the past two years, it’s been volleyball. Not as fun as the football/baseball/foosball hybrid we had a while back, but fun nonetheless. Plus, there's less crying, less rib bruising, and the rules are way clearer, so I guess it's superior in almost every way...). It’s a total idyllic scene, like something straight out of Mayberry, except, you know, without the eccentric sheriff’s deputy. Also, I have an Aunt Dee, not an Aunt Bea. And our theme song is way more rockin' - none of that whistling business for us. Whatever, all that stuff is besides the point, which is this: With all that goodness going on, how could Independence Day not be the highlight of the Fourth of July? 1) Thanks for asking, and 2) I’ll tell you how: Independence Day happens to fall on a Wednesday this year. And what else falls on Wednesdays? That’s right, a new episode of Clark and Michael. This, of course, trumps all else, even free-flowing margaritas and borderline illegal fireworks.

If you don’t know anything about Clark and Michael, well, hold on to your hat, because it is…what is the word…oh yes: legendary. To quickly summarize, Clark and Michael is a series of online shorts written by and starring Clark Duke and Michael Cera (of Arrested Development fame - that’s one of my absolute most favorite shows of all time, by the way) as two friends who live together and have written a script for a TV show which they are tying to sell to a network. The concept is that they’ve hired a film crew (at their own expense) to document what they believe will be their road to stardom, and the result is the most hilarious display of idiocy and camaraderie amongst goons that I’ve seen in a really long time. I love that, ostensibly, the show is about how much hard work it takes to achieve even a modicum of success in Hollywood, yet you rarely see the guys actually working to improve or promote their script. Instead, they’re going to the gym (because their bodies are their “tombs” – I think they may have going for “temples” there…), picking up movies at Vidiot (where they’re pissed because no one carries Touched By An Angel), dancing while drunk (self-explanatory), awkwardly hitting on women (Michael, to a woman who just told him she had a child when she was 16: “Did you breastfeed her?”), and fighting and making up (wrestling, hugging, and ablutionary trips to the local mini-golf course ensue). A new episode is posted on their website every Wednesday, and for the last six weeks, each one has left me cracking up and zealously awaiting the next installment. See for yourself, peep the trailer:



How could you not love a show like that? Seriously, go on over there, take an hour, and watch the show in its entirety. It might not be the most productive thing you do on Independence Day, but it will definitely brighten your day. Though I guess fireworks do that too… Eh, the margaritas are clouding my ability (and desire) to ponder such things. Just go watch the show. Do it because it's the patriotic thing to do. Not reason enough? Then do it because it's what our forefathers would have wanted you to do. Still no? Wow, you people are a hard sell. How about you do it because it's free? Aha, there it is.


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Happy Fourth of July!