there is more to sex appeal than just measurements.

i don't need a bedroom to prove my womanliness.

i can convey just as much sex appeal, picking apples off

a tree or standing in the rain.

audrey hepburn

my manhattan: the one with my mother in it.

the best thing about having my mother in town are those moments when sailing in a cab up the westside highway she points out the pier where she and my father had their first date. and then launches into the story about how they thought it'd be a small private party but it ended up being six thousand people (six thousand very lush people). or when walking down madison avenue she notices the william greenberg bakery and suddenly she's a kid in a candy shop (or quite literally, bake shop) remembering how when she first married she took a baking class where they worked through mr. greenberg's recipes and the cinnamon buns! she surely remembered the candy that is those cinnamon buns! 

there are other good things too. little things. shared subway rides. lovely meals. a respite on a park bench. 

the problem is....well, when she leaves...or after my father has visited, or when i've spent some time at home in texas, or in coming back from a visit with my brother in boston...

the subway rides feels longer. the bags that i tote around all day feel heavier. work is a bit less important. everything feels just ever so much harder.

but that doesn't mean i'd trade the visits and respites and vacations for anything in the world. 

a little beirut love.

i don't believe i properly expressed just how good the beirut concert was a few weeks back.

or just how much i'm looking forward to the new album.

there seem to be three new songs floating around out there: santa fe, port of call, and east of harlem (the last of which is now available on itunes).

and all three, in my humble and unskilled opinion, are among his best.




this morning, with coffee in hand, and a whole slew of new york photos to look through, i can't stop listening to this.

the fat radish. (and on my manhattan).

in figuring out what to do this go round (with my mom in town) my mind immediately went to the new leaf cafe. 

(let it be known, my love for the new leaf knows no bounds).

but it was my mother who pointed out that we first fell in love with new leaf two years ago when we went in the spirit of trying something new--expanding our own idea of new york.

so with this in mind, we tabled new leaf (after all, i can pop up to fort tryon whenever my heart desires {and my wallet allows}) and went in search of new restaurants. (recommended restaurants).

both peels and the fat radish were suggested by a co-worker and i must say: she done good. they both pleased and tickled my aesthetic sensibilities and rustic palate.

but more than the wooden tables, and farm-to-table food--more than the downtown-chic-beard-wearing-men or the beet chips and butter biscuits--more than any of that, what i really loved was that both restaurants got me to take in parts of manhattan that are foreign--foreign, to me, i should say. parts that i rarely see, rarely explore. but parts that when i do take the time to wander about fill me with a deep, rumbling satisfaction.

the reason i entitled the series in which i show photos of manhattan, my manhattan, is because manhattan is so many different things--so many different things to so many different people. it wears many masks, changes by street and neighborhood. one could live here their whole life and still not know all of it. 

manhattan is experiential. and it is because of this that so many come in search: in search of the city, in search of themselves. it is this that entices and excites--allows new yorkers to overlook the day-to-day grind that makes city living quite difficult. 

so for all my hawing about how much i dislike the city at times (and i do. dislike it. often.) that's on me. because that dislike can be changed, transformed--by simply changing my attitude, my perspective, or walking a city block. by taking a train to a new and foreign neighborhood and finding a new part of myself in what the city offers up in that small nook.

so here's to the rest of the week. and as many new moments i can unearth in this (mostly) concrete jungle. 

without tenderness,
a man is uninteresting.

marlene dietrich