Hipsters at NYU?

Yesterday, @NYULocal (if you're not following them on twitter, do so promptly) tweeted: "Gallatin panel discussion tonight on, 'Hipster Culture and its Legacies.' I bet there'll be vegan cookies." (Props to witty references). A talk about hipsterdom: the "definition" of the NYU community. The NYU non-community. I had to go.

Hipster: The rebel. The creative. The fraud. The artsy. The different one. Beards. Moleskin journals. Skinny. Fake glasses. Hand me-downs. All of the above apply. But none give a proper definition.

Let me explain...

The discussion panel was led by three NYU professors-- sociologist Stephen Duncombe, Nina Cornyetz, Hallie Franks a

nd Becky Amato, who was also the mediator. Two of them are self-proclaimed hipsters.

Duncombe first introduced the concept of the bohemian as a way to contextualize hispterdom. The bohemian movement aroused in the Parisian art world in the mid 19th century as a form of rebellion to the bourgeoisie. Bohemians were everything the bourgeoisie were not--while the bourgeois was soft spoken and proper, the bohemian was loud and improper.

During the 1940's, as Duncombe explained, while segregation and racism were at it's height, the white took on the role of bourgeoise, and the black that of the bohemian-- the other. In 1944 the word hipster made its way to the dictionary and since then it has remained linked to the black culture.

The underlying idea is that the bohemian, the black, the HIPSTER is a definition of the self that arises as an opposition to another entity. Duncombe said it best, "It's a dance between two antagonists."

The hipster is born as a reaction against a counterpart--usually against the bigger fraction of society. Against the mainstream.

Franks contextualization went even father back in history. She referenced the Greek Empire and argued that Socrates himself was a hipster. The founder of western philosophy saw his fellow Athenians as selfish--readily concerned with wealth and pride-- and so he removed himself from his society. He distance himself from the theater culture which stood at the center of the male Athenian community.

An interesting theory. But nothing tops what came up next.

The entire room--

unsurprisingly "hipsters" in it's majority-- went silence as images of Asian girls, their faces covered with a metallic brown powder and their eye lids with a thick white paste, walked around the streets of Tokyo. (watch the youtube video here) Professor Cornyetz presented this video on the "Ganguro women"-- a 90's trend in Japan where women wore "westernized" sexy clothes, bleached and straightened their hair and wore massive amounts of dark make up in their face to resemble black faces in America.

Black skin in Japan obviously does not foster the same connotation as it does in the states. With the idea of Japanese having "yellow" skin, they are excluded from the white vs. black struggle.

The Ganguro come into effect as hipsters within their own culture. In Japanese culture the ideal beauty has always alluded to the whitening of the skin-- the Geishas. The black skin is a counteract to the idea of the beautiful woman. It's also a breaking point from Japanese traditional culture.

But we were there to talk about Brooklyn and having no money for rent. So why do we care about Bohemians, Socrates and wannabe black Asians? Because they were all rebelling against the norm and in doing so they trace back to the core of hipsterdom.

Transfer to 2010. Contemporary New York. What are Jack Kerouac's wonder children, who live on the other side of the river, rebelling against?

One student in the discussion said the rebellion is against the lack of interpersonal relations (facebook, twitter and the like have done a successful job at minimizing this type of rapport). This brings forth the idea of a "nostalgic pursuit", the quest for "what it was" which leads you to defy "what is." This might explain why vintage (i.e. previously worn items) might sell for more than brand new clothing.

The question of authenticity was also brought up. In the globalized world we live in-- where each time we resemble more to one another and cultures merge and disappear--wanting to be unique is not all that rare. And if in fact, we agree with the nostalgic argument, then hipsterdom, in the NY-NYU sense could almost be interpret as the one "culture" that is trying to preserve it's genuineness in the city's melting pot. Hipster's legitimacy lies at their never-ending quest to be different.

That. Or it could also be just a trend.

But the fact is the defining of one self is a lifelong pursuit. What's the point of rejecting society and the mainstream? Eventually the hip and the different become popular and conventional and we're back to where we started.

So, where does this leave us? If the hipster is the underdog, but I see them as the mainstream (especially in NY) who's the hipster? Them, me or you, who sees beyond the both of us?

So the question remains as Duncombe said -- "who is it that actually lives in Williamsburg?"

In the sprit of Valentines Day...

My family believes so firmly in the institution of marriage, most members have walked down the aisle multiple times. Divorce is just another way of making sure they can sign the wedding contract again.

There's a total of 13 divorces in a family where there's only 9 people eligible for marriage at the moment. Only two couples have managed to stick together in their first try. Relationships of the not-so-serious type are a commonality. Christmas is rarely spent with the same people. There's always a new face, a new name to learn. Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go. New wedding means new divorce. New divorce means new relationship. New relationship means new wedding. And so it goes.

I doubt it comes as a surprise for anyone what I'm going to say next. But from the bottom of my most cynical self... I do not, by any means, believe in eternal love. More importantly, I do not believe in the signing of a contract that forces love to be permanent.

As my genetics have taught me, I love love, love being loved, love loving, love the idea of love. But the idea of "forever" holds as much truth in my eyes, as the world being at the center of the universe did for Copernicus.

And if we can't decipher the meaning of eternity, what the hell are we doing giving love--the most asbtract feeling of all-- such a quality?

The idea of forever cuts away from the romanticism in a relationship. If it's a given that we're spending the rest of our lives with this same person, then why even try to make things more passionate? It's pointless, not to mention unnecessary, to want to make you're partner fall deeper in love. It's a contract and it's been signed. Sorry buddy. You're in this for the long run. Whether you're still loving me or not.

Let's be realistic. When the concept of marriage was invented, people lived shorter lives than we do today so they could actually bare with their companions. But now, an extra 25 years have been added to life and try being with the same person for 50 years. Every day, for ever. F-o-r e-e-v-e-r. Jeez.

If we get over heartbreaks, over people we were so in love with, then why would we believe that love is forever? By ourselves we have empirically proven otherwise. Love is fluid, it goes from one person to the next. Love is also circumstancial-- today you love someone because he listens to the same music you do, or because he sings well and you're into singers, or because you're into the way he dresses. But what if all of a sudden you decide you like a different type of music and singers aren't as cool as actors. Then what? Different circumstances, different feeling, different person to love. Or not to love. Bye bye plaid shirts, hello white v-necks.

After 13 divorces, it's been settled in my mind that love is as eternal, as the feeling is there and as long as you can't picture your life without your love. But, again, if the circumstances change, so might your feelings.

I don't oppose celebrating Valentine's Day. In fact, let's celebrate the fact that love exists. But don't get tide down to the idea that it must be for ever. Plus if the feeling is so great, why settle for one when we can have many loves?

Yes. It's freezing.

*Pictures were taken from my fire escape... below 14th street, of course.

MJ came back from the dead

Last Friday Chlo and I got crafty again. This time, it was for a better reason than Halloween, though. It was MJ's birthday and we decided to throw her a surprise party (which, if I might add, was extremely successful. I saw a few tears).

First of all, as proof that yours truly did in fact help with the decorations please check out the picture below. That's right, I cut those babies up my self. And no, that's not a silhouette of Jesus

(rule #1 no religiously themed parties are allowed in The Hallway). It's a carving of Michael Jackson's "This is It" pose. Michael Jackson--MJ--Maria Jose-- get it? The party was themed "MJ's not Dead" since MJ is in fact. Not dead. She's 21. And alive.

Barely, though.

As I said, it was a good party.

So MJ, the living one, had to leave an hour into the celebration in a quasi cadaveric state. Happy Birthday M! And, ironically enough, Chlo and I had an entire wall of our apartment that read--MJ's not dead. And random guys, who supposedly were friends of a friend of a friend but who no one really knew* were questioning our thematic.

Apparently the "Michael Jackson Greatest Hits" DVD that was playing in the TV the entire night was creepy and confusing. Not cool. Damn. So close.

It's all part of the syndrome that Chlo and I have coined as our "Misunderstood Brilliance"--parties and costumes that no one understands and that we believe should be reason enough for a Nobel Prize for Brilliancy.

Now that we've established that MJ's not dead and that brilliancy isn't always so obvious, let me tell you about the fire. I made the mistake of telling our Colombian guests that I had arepas. "We have to have one" they said in unison. Midway through the cooking my friend comes up to me and with a very non-chalant tone says "Lau, I think we have a problem in the kitchen." You think? Because there are flames coming out of the stove. And if my nose serves me right, that metal decaying smell is not exactly normal.

Tiff Almighty manages to put the fire off and, since neither the fire alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector work in The Hallway, the majority of the party remains unaware of the burning episode. Rule #2 If you're going to cook arepas, make sure to leave the door open. Just in case, you know, you have to sprint out.

So no more fire and no more toilet paper. Halfway through the party the toilet paper supply is gone. People going into the bathroom were using paper towels from the kitchen. Not a problem though, since our bathroom is so conveniently located inside the kitchen.

Our freezing kitchen. Which reminds me of our new roommate. Since Remy (the mouse) left, we needed a new friend, so we purchased R2D2-- our loyal and trustworthy heater. All night people congregated around him (her?) and by 4am what was left of the party was basically R2D2 and the random guys who, again, no one knew. Apparently we underestimated the success of "Misunderstood Brilliance."

But the party was not over. The next day the Herrera Clan (my super and his look-alike cousins) decide to stop by at 10am to put up our coat hanger. Oh yeah, we had 30 people over in the middle of winter and we had no coat hangers.

So the Herreras walk into a trashed apartment where everywhere you look there's pictures of MJ with falic drawings on its body. (This would be images of the late MJ. I would never put up falic pictures of the living MJ. I doubt she would approve of this.). Since I'm obviously still asleep and not even a bomb explosion would wake me up, it's Chlo's turn to let them in. Chlo who likes to sleep, well, with few clothes on. Welcome the Herreras. Make yourselves at home!

Rule #3 (Chlo) Make sure to put on clothes before opening the door to The Hallway.

* We accept and embrace, especially embrace, everyone at our parties. So if you're not invited to the next one, just show up. Just make sure that no one knows who you are.

La Guajira

Just when I thought I couldn't be more blown away by my own country, it surprised me again. If there's such a thing as the perfect place, I believe that paradise exists in the northern coast of Colombia.

La Guajira is absolutely magical. I felt it the minute I got to el Cabo de la Vela, a small town in the region where the sun doesn't stop shining until the stars make their way to cover the entirety of the sky at night. One after the other, shooting stars take over the coal-colored sphere. At nights, when you look towards the horizon, the curvature of the Earth is so visible, it feels like you're literally at the end of the world. Not quite falling off, but far enough from the rest of humanity to feel completely at peace.

Instead of sand, the beach is a gold color desert where the arid and dry lands seem so inhospitable that it's truly mind blowing how people live there. But, the natives-- most of them part of the wayuu tribe-- have created a life that fits into the hostile environment, rather than molding the land to fit their needs. The wayuu culture is very different from anything else in the country and they have fought to preserve their unique traditions. This respect and love for the land is proof that they have been successful in their attempt to conserve their lifestyle.

In the Cabo de La Vela, the wind hugs you the entire day, preventing the sun from becoming unbearably hot. At night, when you're resting in hammocks 20 meters away from the sea, it's the sound of the wind that puts you to sleep.

The days I spent in La Guajira, I forgot about time. In this place, where not much happens during the day, time works vertically. There's no after or before, no late nor early. Today is the same thing as tomorrow, as yesterday is the same thing as next week. No one rushes to do anything because the concept of lateness does not really exist. You are forced to live in the very present. Undoubtedly a change from my every day life.

A great change, that is.

Heartbreak

So you’ve heard I was infatuated and in love. Well, not so much anymore. There I was thinking love could last forever, when really only a month later I was back to feeling loveless. Eternal love was a mere holiday affair that quickly turned into a cold break up. So now I’m heartbroken. In a typical post-breakup state, I have been listening to music that reminds me of the times spent with my ex love. And, if it weren’t for the fact I am still suffering from severe repercussions of an intoxication produced by a garlic seasoned lobster two weeks ago, I would too, be eating my feelings away.

Translation: I’m homesick. I’m homesick like a six-year-old child who gets sent off to a camp in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin where she is the only person who does not speak English.

After spending two weeks in La Guajira, in the northern coast of Colombia-- the most beautiful place I have ever been to (if you don’t believe me wait for pictures that will come in the following blog post)--I arrived to NY last Tuesday night. From 15 days in a bikini and a pair of shorts (quiet literally. The same pair of shorts was worn every day) I had to step back into the freezing cold to wear my one winter jacket that makes me look like I am part of a baseball team. No, it’s not my senior jacket. But close enough and I hate it equally the same. On the bright side, it was the first time I walked into JFK and I was not stared at for the being the whitest (palest) person to step of a plane coming from Colombia.

But now the tan is gone. And how does NY receive me? The driver from the Super Shuttle van yells at me for eating a granola bar in the car. It wasn’t even the crunchy kind. It was a cereal bar, which leaves no crumbs so I don’t understand what the whole fuss was about.

To top off my homesickness, in comes my jealousy. Right about now my entire family is happily reunited in the beautiful sunny weather of my cousin’s summerhouse to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday. So my family excludes me. Great. Being Robi a smart man, he neglected to tell me this event was going to happen until my last day in Bogota. Nice move Robs. I would have, no questions asked, changed my ticket for this coming week.

Knowing about this party that I was excluded from I decided to get a little wild last night. However, I stepped out into the big apple nightlife just to be more disappointed than I was before. Explain to me, if you can, why is it that some clubs believe that it’s a good idea to cut songs half way through the lyrics? Just when I’m starting to feel the song, feeling the groove and getting my dance moves on, bam! The song switches to something else. Last night, 2 a.m. Sexy Bitch comes on. Trashy choice? Perhaps. But it was one of my road trip songs, so let me be sensitive for a minute. I step into the dance floor and by the look in my face everyone knew that clearly this song has touched a soft note. (God sometimes I’m even surprised by my music choices).

But then the DJ decides it’s appropriate to mix up the song, which ends up sounding like: “Se se seeee sexy bbb bb bitch sexy you sexy sexy bi bi bitch”. And when you thought it couldn’t get worse, the DJ throws you a surprise--an extra mix with One More Time which ends up with me trying to sing something that sounds somewhat like: “Se se sexy time. Uhuu One more Bitch. Sexy Bi Bi Bitch. One More Sexy Bitch Time.” Horrendous.

But then at 4 a.m. I am hungry and only in Manhattan can I find food (real food: vegetable soup and a chicken sandwich) at this hour. Then I walk into my building, which is slightly slanted to the right side and may or may not fall soon. Then into my apartment which is freezing cold because the heat doesn’t really work and weirdly enough I somehow remember why NY is in fact so charming.

Note to self: raise standards of a charming life.

Infatuation

Clearly the updating from home has been harder than I thought. Sorry… It´s been hectic, to say the least. But you know how I feel about the holidays and the Christmas nostalgia is starting to kick in so I guess it´s time to write.

Since Christmas is all about getting together with family and friends I deem it appropriate that we talk about love. So I´m completely infatuated--the type of love that´s kind of sickening. The one people ask you “what´s gotten into you?!” and you just kind of smile with a glee in your eyes and respond, “well, I´m in love.” That sounds so gay. But it´s true. So, who is this mystery person? No man. No woman either. I´m completely straight if you must know (and so is Lady Gaga in case you were wondering).

My love is no other than this god forsaken place I call home.

Were you expecting something more exciting? Well keep reading and you´ll understand why this place makes lovin so easy. (Yes, lovin).

You all know that I think “Colombia is the BEST place in the world.” (Quote me on that one). This is when people start rolling their eyes… yeah yeah Colombia is cool, whatever. No. It´s awesome. And why you haven´t been here is beyond me.

But more so than the country, which is already pretty fabulous, it´s its people. I don´t want to write a tear jerker here or anything like that, but it´s impossible to explain why this place is so amazing without talking about the people. Colombians are great.

First of all, we don´t need sleep (this has been proven these past six days with a total of around 20 hours of sleep). Not sleeping is pretty fabulous because there´s no chance of boredom when one´s up and about every minute of the day. Also, when you don´t sleep you start getting a little crazy. (I know this to be true since MJ decided to take it upon herself to experiment with this theory and pulled two all-nighters in a row. She was somewhat delusional, constantly saying some Asian guy named Yuki was following her). So everyone here is somewhat off. In a good way though. Trust me, it´s good for you to go crazy once in a while. New friendships tend to develop when one´s not completely sane. Or lucid.

So, Colombians. We like to party. That sounds terribly superficial. But, truth be told I´ve created the biggest connections with people at parties. There´s no inhibitions at parties and you discover another side to people during these situations. Well, that, plus the good music, the dressing up and the going crazy (in a different sense) is always fun. And when it comes to partying, Colombians are pretty good at it. But that and sanity, or lack off, is just one part of this love.

My infatuation with this place has to do primarily with the closeness between the people--between my friends and me. There´s just too much trust between all of us. Take my best guy friends for example whom I have known since 5th grade. They saw us go through the duck tits era. (Duck tits: direct Spanish translation. Picture boobs in the shape of ducks). Yes. We all went through that stage and they saw it. Any closer and you guys would be growing duck tits yourself.

Ladies, we suffered together through the duck tits era, so connection is stronger than anything. Isn´t it?

They know too much about me… could potentially be used against me. I can think of that one time when you all saw me pee my pants out of laughter (perhaps I´ll tell this story on a later post).

Oh, beautiful confidence.

For those who are not in Bogota right now… I miss you. For those who are in Bogota… let me sleep.

Merry Christmas fools!

Quick Departure

Friends, avid readers, avid friends, readers who think they´re friends, friends who think they know how to read and you….

I just wanted to let you know that the next post you read will probably be written from Bogota City! That´s right, tomorrow I´m going home. Semester is technically over (minus one terribly procrastinated paper that´s still pending) and it´s time I go back. Back to the Spanish-speaking, real-meat eaters, overall disasters who I call friends. And family of drinkers, as I mentioned in an earlier post. Back to the good, the bad and the drunkenness. Too much? Sorry, Colombia gets me excited.

I suggest that you keep reading the blog because Bogota+theabovementioneddisasters will absolutely deliver good material for posts. I promise.

Good night (and good luck).

Actually,

Disregard the last post. I may have won a battle against technology at last. Believe it or not, yours truly is the proud winner of an 8GB iPod courtesy of a raffle from the NYU Computer Center. After an entire year of iPod-less living I now have two. That´s right, TWO. I gave me an iPod nano as a gift for Thanksgiving. All the work this semester, you know taking three classes, and having class three days a week, and the fact that I had to see my last iPod fall flat face in a pool and drown, earned me my gift… right?

So apparently I entered this raffle (don´t remember when or how) and yesterday I got an email saying I was the winner. I reclaimed my price this morning. A post-it on top of the iPod read: “The winner of this iPod is Laura Steiner.” WINNER. Not the owner or even the champion, but the WINNER. Oh, how I love that word. Actually, why don´t you go ahead and call me winner next time you see me.

So I now have two iPods, but really I only need one. So, if you´re looking for an 8GB iPod touch call me up. I´ll give you a good deal.

Bye Loosers!

I never win

Technology and I have a love-hate relationship. We always battle. I always lose.

For the past two and a half years I have had the worst laptop ever known to mankind. It´s huge, slow (that´s an understatement) and the keyboard is in Spanish. How many times have I used the letter Ñ in the past year? Once. This once.

Thankfully Robi decided to really embrace the Christmas spirit this year and bought me a new Mac. Thanks Robs!

For two whole days your daughter oozed coolness.

But then my blackberry died—(R.I.P. my loyal addiction)—so I´ve been waking up alone (my blackberry slept in my hand) and my right thumb has been gaining weight.

If you think I´m sad for my loss, you should have seen my friends´ faces when I told them I wouldn´t have a blackberry until February. It was as if I had told them I was going to live without a limb for the next three months.

“What Lau?!” they said. Their faces were stun with confusion. “But how will we communicate with you?” You know where I live and face-to-face interaction never hurt anyone. Of course that was my “I´m strong, I don´t need a blackberry” attitude. Really, on the inside I was crying like a child. One who´s favorite doll fell on the street on a rainy day and got squashed by a cab. (True story. It took me 16 years to be able to share it with anyone.)

So I decide I needed a phone, any phone. The cheapest one at AT&T was an old-school black Nokia. You know, one of those that were popular back in the day. Say, circa late 1990´s when the first cell phones came out, Y2K became a household name and the world was possibly coming to an end. Why do you think I was praying so much in 99?

Anyway, back to my new Nokia.

Circa 1990´s Nokia, my ass. This phone has color screen and you can access the internet. Most importantly, you can play Snake on it. Beat that.

So I´m happy, but God forbid Chloe let´s this one slide. She had to post this New York Times article in my facebook wall.

Not cool Tins. There I was thinking I was so cool and unique, when really, once again technology slapped me in my face.

Bingo

This was my last story for my journalism class. I think the subject really defines one of the many aspects of the downtown scene. Thought I share it with you...

Every Monday night, The Bowery Poetry Club is packed with hipsters, foreigners with heavy accents and students. They come together on this trendy block to indulge in an exciting game of… Bingo.

The crowd is lured into Bingo Night by hosts Murray Hill, one of the top names in the downtown comedy showbiz, and famous Big Apple drag queen Linda Simpson. They keep the audience entertained by telling jokes that get raunchier by the minute.

To start off the night, Hill compares his oval shape pen holder to a pickle. Then to a butt plug. And finally to a pickle look-alike penis.

Bingo players laugh hysterically.

Forget about the stereotypes. This game of chance isn’t just popular among senior citizens at Florida retirement homes or charity fund-raisers. Bingo is the cool thing to do these days in the Manhattan neighborhood of Noho.

“I’m proud of the mixed audiences we get and that people mingle over bingo boards,” said Hill. “The energy is always great, and no matter who you are, everyone needs a good laugh.”

The event at 308 Bowery is creating a network of regulars like Dana Sacco.

“I like the energy,” said Sacco a medical resident who graduated from NYU. “I like that everyone gets excited and no one really cares too much about the prize. They care about hanging out together.”

Sacco won her first prize last Monday night—a round mirror with a picture of the Last Supper that radiates multi-coloured lights when plugged in. Other kitschy prizes included a battery-operated wooden parrot that repeats everything you say, a Hannah Montana puzzle, a light saber and four free drinks.

Those drinks, however, came with a challenge. The winner had to stand naked on stage with only one prop to cover any part of his body—a tiny plate. Once the challenge was completed, the brave player got the free drinks.

The crowd went wild.

An unexpected twist to a regular Bingo game. The only thing that remains the same at Bingo Night is the way it is played. Your fate is based on a card that displays a total of 25 numbers, arranged horizontally and vertically over five columns. The word BINGO is on the top corresponding to each row. The host calls out numbers at random and if the player finds that number on the card, it must be crossed out. Once an entire row, in either direction, has been covered the player must yell “BINGO!” The card is checked by the host to prove accuracy. If it turns out not to be accurate the round continues.

Bingo in the U.S. has become increasingly popular especially in the online gaming community. Websites such as www.bingozone.com, and www.playlivebingo.com host Bingo competitions as well. However, none are as lively or as unexpected as Bingo at The Bowery Poetry Club.

“I came in not knowing anything,” said Daniel Lloyd, 23, who was there to celebrate a friend’s birthday and was happy to win the light saber. “Expectations were exceeded. I loved it!”

New prizes are showcased every week. But there is one prize that never changes. The final prize given out each Monday night is the money that has been collected from selling the $2 Bingo cards. It usually adds up to more than $100. To win, you must cover every single number on your Bingo card.

Monday Bingo Night runs from 7:30 to 10 p.m. Alcohol runs steady all night. By the third round of the game voices yelling out “Bingo!” slowly become more confident. The crowd gets increasingly excited as the jokes become more vulgar. Apparently a male dolphin ejaculates at 75 mph, according to Murray Hill.

Next prize? A small toy dolphin.

“I loved it and I’m definitely going to bring people over,” said Katie Parrish, 20, originally from Melbourne Australia. Parrish, who moved to Brooklyn two months ago, was one of the few players who came to Bingo night by herself. By the end of the night, Parrish had made friends with a French guy sitting beside her. Bingo!

Setting the Record Straight

I have been clearly lying to you. This blog is not about things going on below 14th street, this blog is about me. About things that happen to me, about things I think and things I care about.

This blog started out as an assignment for my journalism class. It was a requirement to have some sort of theme tying the posts together. I thought reporting about downtown Manhattan would be a good idea. After all, if there´s anywhere in the world that you can find a good story it´s below 14th street. And considering my readers are mostly my friends (you better be reading this) I figured downtown provides stories that suffice all of YOUR interests. How thoughtful of me.

But class is over and the truth is that I do not want to stop blogging. But also I find that focusing only on one area limits my options. So I have decided that, although I´m keeping the same name, the stories are going to by about anything.

Most of the posts will still focus in this area of Manhattan because…well, because I live here. And because downtown Manhattan is inspiring. But if you see other themes don´t be surprised.

To start this new blogging phase I thought I would link you to another blog I have written for this semester--- http://www.idontlikemondays.us/blog.html. The blog is part of an online fashion boutique that carries new designers and has AWESOME clothes. Most of the posts are about alternative cultural events. It´s different and I think it´s cool. You should seriously check it out.

........

Hm, weird post.

Let´s go back in time

As a 21-year-old student originally from Colombia, I thought for sure it was too late to ever experience the political energy that took place in the U.S. during the ‘60s. But then I discovered Yippie Café, a coffee shop that makes me feel like I didn’t completely miss that determinative decade after all.

Stepping through the dented metal front door of this hangout at 9 Bleecker St. is like going into a time machine. I can sit on vintage leather couches with a couple of gray-haired coffee drinkers, reading magazines that date back to 1977, humming along to the Beatles and Paul Simon songs that fill the air.

The prices on the menu feel like a throwback to an earlier time too. A cup of free-trade, organic Guatemalan coffee costs 75 cents. It’s also possible to get just about any tea combination you can think of for $1.75. The chai and cinnamon tea blend won me over. And the bagel -- with the exact amount of cream cheese I had asked for and no more -- was delicious. Also, a pretty good deal considering I only paid $2.50 for the bagel.

You can also find butter croissants for $1.50 and mouth-watering blueberry muffins for $2. However, for those looking to stay off carbs and caffeine, the options are varied too. Natural juices, promoted as “high health” drinks, are very popular. You can create your own blend of apple, lemon, ginger, beet, carrot or spinach juice. Sizes vary between 8ounces for $3 and 16ounces for $5.

Not surprisingly, these bargains are attracting a new clientele -- college students who come to Yippie Café looking for low prices, free Wifi good music – and a great alternative to the usual Starbucks and Think Coffee.

This 36-year-old hangout only became a café in 2007, according to café management. Before that, it was a meeting place for yippies, members of the politically-driven Youth International Movement which was established in 1967. Yippies were active in the anti-war movement and supported the legalization of marijuana. There is still an 8-foot cannabis leaf painting that decorates one of the coffee shop’s walls.

Today, activism has given way to reminiscing. Yippies come not just for the food but for conversation with old friends. Eavesdrop on the older customers, and you’ll hear phrases like “the great ´60s,” “a time when New York was affordable” and “the great minds who stepped into this place.”

“It´s hard to get a bunch of yippies out of this place,” said self-proclaimed New York yippie, Paul DeRienzo.

Tucked in this quiet residential block, Yippie Cafe has remained unscathed by the area's transformation into a trendy, new neighborhood of 2009 prices and scrawny hipsters plugged into their iPods. But when I step through those dented metal front doors, I am confident when I say this: I would have enjoyed living in the 1960´s. Perhaps, even being a Yippie.

My Thanksgiving

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, a holiday I do not celebrate, I´ve decided to honor you with a feast. A feast of my ranting thoughts that is (as horrendously corny as that sounds) because the same way I do not celebrate this holiday (call me a Grinch, today I´m being one) I am in no mood to cook.

According to Wikipedia, “The first Thanksgiving feast lasted three days providing enough food for 53 pilgrims and 90 Indians."

Three days of feasting and enough food for 143 people--that´s a party in my book. Plus 90 of the attending guests were semi-naked, so things may or may not have gotten wild. So how did we go from party to family reunion? Way to kill what could have been an awesome holiday.

It would still be fun however, if you have a family of drinkers. Thanksgiving with my family, would consist of an alcohol-loaded night, cracking jokes (most content is not adequate to be published in this blog) and dancing to our old school anthem-- Daddy Cool. Aguardiente, a liquorish-based Colombian drink, would have been rolling around the table if it were up to my uncle to decide. I personally would have preferred some gin and tonic. Point is turkey and gravy would not have been the main part of night.

But since my family does not celebrate Thanksgiving and I´m feeling bitter today I´m going to ignore what could be a great night chez Vo. However, since I am taking the time to write this and tomorrow is not only about the food but also about giving thanks, I guess I should name a lucky few-- my mom, my dad, my roommie, blah blah. My landlord who fixed the leak after maybe the 100th time we threaten to break our lease; Remy, our mouse, for finally moving into our neighbors´ apartment and leaving us alone. I guess I should double thank the restaurant downstairs of my apartment building for 1. Always making sure my room smells like garlic and 2. Keeping their doors open late enough that I can go to bed at 1 a.m. on a Monday and still listen to people´s conversations downstairs. Thank you all!

Yes you guessed it, at the moment I´m sitting alone in my apartment. I´m bored out of my mind. Chlo left me (LEFT ME!) to go see her bf in Montreal and it´s raining outside and Caro, my friend who´s coming to visit, is stuck in traffic and I´m starving. No I do not want turkey or gravy or mash potatoes. Sleeping pills, however, are more than welcome.

On that note, Happy Holidays!

Art tells a story...?

I just got back from Terence Koh´s art show in Tompkins Square Park. I´m still deciding what my reaction is towards the exhibit. I guess I just find it hard to give a significant value to art when the idea behind it is so conceptual. Koh dressed people in white fabrics and completely covered their faces with white paint and their hair with white baby powder. It was a procession that began in Tompkins Square and made its way through Avenue B until 13th street where they walked west until a bar called Phoenix.

The show was basically a line of walking ghosts who didn´t speak or make eye contact with other people. A lot of spectators began in the park and a few others joined the procession as we walked by. After the show when my friend interviewed the artist I realized that the whole procession was in memory of the riots that occurred in Tompkins Square in 1991. City officials forced 200 homeless people out of the park. Knowing this definitely legitimized the entire art show. Being in a park at 7 p.m. with random people, following a crowd of people dressed in white suddenly made more sense. Kind off.

Below are a few pictures of the show…

If you want to know more about the artist and his future shows visit his website: http://www.asianpunkboy.com

Not South of the Border

When a Mexican tells me she has found the best taco eatery in Manhattan, I believe her. MJ, my Mexican friend was the one who told me about Pinche Taqueria, “a genuine Mexican eatery in the Big Apple,” she said. Enough said. Mexican cuisine is at the top of my book. Guacamole is my ultimate weakness, I like all things spicy and beans (pronounced beanzz) is my favorite word.

On Tuesday afternoon, after a morning of mouth-watering thoughts about Mexican food, I made my way down to 277 Mott St. Besides the construction site, Pinche Taqueria is hard to miss. It´s the only locale in the block that has Christmas lights hanging on its façade all year long.

In it´s rustic exterior there is a sign advertising Pinche Taqueria as the winner of the 2008 Citysearch Editors Pick of Cheap Eats. By this point I was sold.

As soon as I walked inside I liked it. Decoration is minimal in comparison to other Mexican restaurants in the city. It makes it unique. The squalid corridor with red walls and wooden tables and chairs give it a cozy feel. Mexican rancheras are playing in the background and occasional champeta beats—a variation of the popular reggaeton— seem to excite the customers. The staff is made up of one waiter, one cook, a delivery boy and the cashier who takes your order too.

After a hard process of elimination I ordered the Rolled Tacos, one steak and one chicken. I was surprised at how fast the food was prepared considering all orders are made on the spot. Nothing is pre-made. Ten minutes after my order I was savoring the corn tortilla, topped with lettuces, sour cream, cheese, and, oh, my one and only guacamole. Both tacos were delicious, but I would recommend ordering the steak one. My Rolled Tacos and coke were a total of $9. A pretty good deal. The best part was definitely the spicy tomato sauce (made from real tomatoes. I don´t mean ketchup). My tongue still burns from how much sauce I put in the tacos. Heart burn here we go.

My only disappointment was how much lettuce was in the plate. Less salad, more tacos and cheese and we´ll all be happy.

When I first go to the eatery at 2 p.m. there was only one customer in the restaurant. When I left 35 minutes later there were a total of 17 people. A couple of students and an older crowd filled the locale. Surprisingly, none of the customers were speaking Spanish. Pinche Taqueria seems to satisfy the pallet of locale New Yorkers, a tough crowd I would say.

For the non meat eaters and weight watchers Pinche Taqueria offers fish and vegetarian tacos as well as salads. For the drinkers, there´s an entire fridge full of Mexican beers. It also offers a breakfast menu every day of the week from noon to 4 p.m. Huevos rancheros with a side order of Chilaquiles for me, please.

I don´t think you´ll find better MEXICAN food (not the Americanized version of it) in the city with these prices. Seriously, don´t miss out on going to Pinche Taqueria, wey.

A Famous Midriff

I write posts about things below 14th street in Manhattan because:

#1 I love downtown Manhattan and the stories you find are never ending and almost always entertaining.

#2 I´m too lazy to go uptown (i.e. why hop on a subway or, worse, pay a cab ride when Magnolia´s Cupcakes and 16 Handles are downtown?)

#3 If I´m lazy about going uptown, what makes you think I would go to a different borough?

#4 I HATE MIDTOWN.

There is something about midtown Manhattan that makes me cringe. In terms of structure, midtown follows the grid system. However, it is perhaps the most disorganized area in the island. It´s always packed with people that I don´t understand if they live there, if they work there or if they´re visiting.

Midtown is like the midriff that no one wants to show. Uptown would be the pretty face that people want to see and downtown, well downtown, is where all the action would be happening. Midtown lacks the glamour of uptown Manhattan and the coolness of the downtown area. It doesn´t really have a set personality. And in Manhattan, I´m sorry, personality is a must.

Times Square, a signature area of midtown Manhattan, has personality. But Times Square has the propensity of giving someone a heart attack if not visited with caution.

I understand Times Square is pretty much the New York you see in movies and lights flashing 24/7 and Hershey´s Kisses the size of my apartment buildings can be mesmerizing. But when you are living in New York, a picturesque, quiet block in the West Village with one light post at the end of the street and normal size houses sounds so much more attracting.

With Vovo, my grandmother, visiting this past week, we couldn´t skip a Broadway trip. We went to see In the Heights (obviously--latins and latins and latins and Inwood Heights) in the rainiest day of the week. Picture me walking through Times Square with an umbrella that kept flipping over, carrying my huge purse, my heavy camera which I couldn´t even use because of the rain and my grandmothers´ shopping bags. Plenty of them.

Vovo couldn´t have been happier-- “So much life! So many lights! This right here is why I like coming to NY!” Jeez, thanks Vo. Meanwhile, I was hyperventilating. Between the men selling bells that say I (heart) NY (the bell doesn´t work), the one selling little representations of the Statue of Liberty (most of them are missing the torch) and hundreds of people walking with colorful plastic ponchos (never wear a poncho it makes you look ridiculous) I was close to losing it.

Then something happened.

As Vo and I waited for the light stop to change a black limousine stopped right in front of us. Dressed in a blue dress, with beautiful diamond earrings, out comes Judith Dench from the limousine. The light changed and people crossed the street. I remained stupefied. What the hell was Judith Dench doing in the middle of Times Square at 10 p.m on a rainy Friday? She stood in a corner with her friends smoking and pointing towards the blinding lights and I could read her lips saying “yes, this is just marvelous.” Let it be known that she could have either be referring to the light of the sign promoting Chicago or the yellow and red neon lights of McDonalds. Finally, some people recognized her and without shame were blatantly starring at her.

Drenched from head to toe I was just laughing on the inside about the entire scene. Judith Dench or not, I still hate midtown.

Mary Kate Olsen's twin: Funnyman Jon Lang

Jon Lang, 31, is everything you would expect from a stand-up comedian: cynical, nonchalant and naturally hilarious.

He recently scored his first steady gig as the host of “Recess” a free comedy show that takes place every Monday night at the B Bar on Bowery. Despite having a tremendous intrigue in politics, Lang doesn´t concern himself too much with political themes when his up on stage. This is certainly a breath of fresh air from the politically charged stand-ups that are so popular these days. Lang stirs away from controversial subjects and rather uses his own life experience as inspiration for his skits.

Lang was born and raised in Syracuse, NY. He failed first grade, had his first drink at the age of 12 and hosted wild parties in his parents´ basement. Lang still managed to get the jeep--the best car out of his eight siblings. He wasn´t spoiled, he was just the funny one in the family and his parents were his biggest fans. Since a young age Lang knew he wanted to pursue comedy and thought a degree in film would help him fulfill his dream. However, after getting his film degree at Florida State University, he quickly realized that he wasn´t meant to be behind the scenes. He wanted to be up on stage making people laugh.

He packed his bags and moved to New York to become a stand-up comedian. He settled in Park Slope in Brooklyn where he lives with his girlfriend of five years. But pursuing comedy turned out to be harder than Lang thought. He had to find a job that would help pay the bills. He found one working as a secretary for a pharmaceutical company. He claims to be the only male under 50 years old working this job. Seemingly a sad story, but Lang is an optimistic. His job story is just another source for comedy.

Lang´s passion for comedy is eminent. Despite the few set back Lang hopes to maybe one day be a guest in “The Late Show with David Letterman” and make some money doing stand-up. But for now he´ll settle with making six people laugh on Monday night. Six being the number of people he needs to put up a show.

Why did you start doing stand-up?
That day I graduated from film school I got dumped by my girlfriend, figured out that she was like cheating on me with this loser dude and all this came to me and I was just like “you know what, I want to talk about it.” The place we were hanging out had an open mic and shit so I did a stand-up. But I didn´t call it stand-up. I was just like, “You know what? My girlfriend stopped wearing a bra.” And I had all these other things going through my head and it ended up being pretty funny.

How did you ex-girlfriend take this?
She sued me. What I said was pretty much, you know, as bad as anything that TMZ or Perez Hilton would come up with, kind of raunchy, kind of rude. It felt good at the time. But it turns out that her parents donated a lot of money to Florida State. So the head of the program calls me in, and I thought he was calling me in to tell me “Hey man, I thought you were hilarious.” And he brings me into his office and tells me, “You´re going to need to apologize.” I made good, I apologized.

Describe your worst stand-up moment.
I did an open mic which was pretty much rappers and I was a white comedian in the middle of this. It was totally out of my element. I felt like I was Eminem in like, “8 Mile”. Some people were laughing, some people were smoking pot, and some people were heckling me in, like, the weirdest way. Every time I told a joke, instead of laughing they would literally go “laugh, laugh, laugh” and it was throwing me off so much. And so I just totally got off the script and won them over -- which was like the best thing that could have ever happened.

What´s your audience usually like?
You know, you should talk to me in four years when I have an audience. I wish I could say it was like hot Asian girls, but it´s not.

Speaking of hot Asian girls, tell me about your name. Jon Lang. That sounds kind of Asian.
It´s Polish. It Langowski. I had to cut my name at the border, but my real name is Jonathan Langowski. My middle name is Ling, so it´s Ling Lang. No, that´s a joke. I´m making a joke.

Does humor run in your family? Funny parents?
My mom was convinced that I was supposed to be a twin because when I was born I had enough umbilical cord to sustain another life. She honestly thinks I ate my twin. I am the youngest of seven kids. There´s two on my mom´s side, five on my dad´s side. They came together like in “Full House”. I was like the Olsen twins, I was the cute one and I ate Mary Kate. I was Ashley.

So is this duo your comedic inspiration, or do you turn to comedians for material?
I rely mostly on experiences and things in my life like my family, my job and my friends. Think of “Superbad.” I appreciate the bonding because I feel like that when you´re awkward and strange your guy friends are the closest thing you got for a relationship-- without it being sexual. You open up the world to these guys. You love each other. You´re accepting. That´s where I get my inspiration.

If you weren´t doing comedy, you´d be…?
I think I would be a monk. The fact is, I have a sense of humor so I´d probably stick with that. If I didn´t have my tongue, then I´d probably be a monk. Stand-up comedy, director/writer, movie star--and if none of those work then I´ll sit Indian style, find enlightenment and I´ll be empty in the inside and I´ll join the cosmos.