New York Conquers All

A birthday post

As a precocious New York child growing up, I would hurry to my window at exactly 11:59 PM to watch the Empire State building in all it’s grandeur shut down at midnight. I was mesmerized. The west side seemed to completely disappear as the lights went off (which is how I always like to think about the west side anyway—the empire state building and a vast quantity of fabric is the only thing the west side has going for it). I always imagined a man (of the Hunchback Notre Dame sort—donning a dark brown potato sack garb, deformities and all) living in the decrepit attic of the empire state building holding onto the handle of an over-sized Frankenstein-awakening knife switch while eagerly watching a life-sized electronic atomic clock turn 12:00 AM in bright red digital numbers. My vision of him hasn’t changed too much except an updated wardrobe from a recession sample sale around the corner—hemp Nike dunks, D & G linen pants and a shirt to match.  

This year, Rhys and I drove around under the Brooklyn Bridge scouting the perfect, unobstructed view of the empire state building so that it could escort my 22nd birthday in by shutting down. And midnight came. And then midnight:01, midnight:06 and then it never shut off. Was the Empire State building honoring my birthday by staying on all night? It certainly does so for special occasions. Rhysy must have arranged it! That’s so sweet, but watching the empire state building remain on is not as exciting as all the bright lights suddenly extinguishing. Three days later, we waited for the lights to shut off for Rhys’ birthday! Oh no! Rhys didn’t surprise me! Because again, the lights did not go off at their scheduled pre-twilight hour. A couple of months later, I read that the lights stay on until 2 AM. So now, to encourage Rhys to love New York, I will post a video of the empire state building, in all its splendor, yell out visually “Good night New York! I love you too!” In not so many words.

Guest Post: City of Lights, City of Love by Cyrena Lee

New York felt strange the first time I walked in the streets after spending a semester abroad in Paris. It wasn’t the same as I had left it; the buildings and sidewalks seemed to be at least three times bigger than what they were in my memory. I thought about New York often, and talked about it. I certainly missed the city that never sleeps.

Through the cold first winter months I missed the twenty-four hour, non-stop service subway. By the end of March I missed my best friends; Nicole and Natalie, who had visited mid-month and jetted back to America. In April I was already sick of the novelty of boulangeries and patisseries, and even though by the next month I had snagged a French teenage quasi-film star (of Zac Efron proportions post the first musical, without the fame that came along with number 2 and 3, but in my opinion his cheekbones are sharper) I was ready to leave Paris. I’d tell my French friends how fun New York summers were, how I never slept, stayed up until 6am drinking champagne [in Murray Hill] (with the mastermind of this blog), and how everyone, everywhere was outside and awake all the time. Hours before my flight back to New York, I stayed up until 5am drinking champagne and crying over the eminent loss of my Paris summer nights. When I boarded the 10am train from Gare du Nord to London, I clung onto my French ELLE magazine and kept slipping out “pardons” over “excuse me-s”.

I won’t lie, I really missed Paris. I missed the small winding streets, I missed the lazy Sundays where nothing is open except the bakeries, I missed toggle jackets and knowing when the metro was arriving. I missed my friends, I missed the way French people sing in English, I missed the gardens and parks. I was Paris-sick, and I didn’t think anything could have cured me. For the first time, I thought I could have lived in a city other than New York.

But then I slowly re-adjusted to the ‘subway’ and not the metro, I re-discovered Columbia’s campus, fresh coconut water, and Angelica Kitchen. Then I discovered Westville East. The French may be stuck-up assholes, but the one thing it seems to be agreed upon is that their food reigns supreme. Every French person I’ve talked to tells me about how the food in New York is terrible. I think their tongues are too coated in butter and oil and bread to know any better.

No matter how much I love Paris; the lights are prettier at night from the view at The Corinthian, and the love is stronger than a teen heart throb crush. Who could ever leave New York, or the Galperns?! I couldn’t. Unless one is leaving for Paris. No other exceptions.

Cyrena Lee is currently a Senior at Barnard College at Columbia University majoring in Anthropology. She is also a well respected intern at Daily Candy. Expect more posts from Cyrena as she aspires to become a regular NewYorkConquersAll.com blogist.

Excuses are for Excuse Makers

First, I lost my bright green notebook containing countless numbers of brilliant ideas for this ‘blog’ (lack of a better term). Then, I couldn’t get my computer to stay on long enough to even click on the Google Chrome icon in my quickstart menu. This blog seemed doomed. And so, as Lykke Li encourages in her song “Let it fall,” I let it fall.

Last weekend, cleaning my dad’s car, I discovered my notebook wedged tightly between the passenger seat and the console. I also acquired a new charger for my computer.

Bobes is away at the Sundance labs in Utah having the time of his life. He’s the most popular kid in camp! His co-workers (although, I wouldn’t put too much of an emphasis on the ‘co’), adore and admire him for his film-filled past. Not to mention his audience award winning film The Adventures of Arthur Conan Doyle at The DC Independent Film Festival. And word just in: Man vs. Bed was a hit at the Sundance lab staff shorts. If you aren’t already, you need to be following ideaprovince on Twitter and read about his adventures with reticent child stars, stealing berries in front of Ed Harris and wittingly and calculatingly playing a “She & Him” (Zooey Deschanel’s band) song while driving her father, Caleb Deschanel, on the dark side of the mountain.

Enough about Rhys and more about New York, which this blog will truly aspire to do. And as all the other unreliable bloggers promise, more to come and very soon. So flock early and flock often.

There goes the Rhyster Bunny

My friends (my sister, Natalie, and my part-time lover to whom this blog is partially dedicated to) have brought to my attention my obscure use of nicknames for Rhys.

So, here’s an explanatory glossary of nicknames for Bobesy:

Rhys: Despite all appearances, this is in fact, his real name! When I first tried finding him on the popular social networks of the time, I immediately assumed Reese. He was nowhere to be found! “He must not have a computer,” I assumed. Oh, how terribly wrong I was! A Google search for Rhys’ name now identifies 2,270 site matches! He’s addicted! I was overwhelmed and slightly distraught to read his au courant blogs of the time: beatjeremycoon.com and ideaprovince.com. Especially this article on the dangers of white potatoes. Here’s an excerpt which chased me away into the jungles of the Dominican Republic (really!):

“Hold up, hold up. Did she say what I thought she said? Mashed… potatoes? Mashed WHITE potatoes? Mashed DEADLY NIGHTSHADE potatoes? Did I mention DEADLY - meaning “OF DEATH”… potatoes!? This is what you want to cure you? You’ll set your health back 100 years to caveman times! I must be daydreaming! Cause if I’m not…. WHAT. THE. FUCK?!?!?!?”

Can you believe it? Rhys using the EF word? Besides his ‘roid rage, I’ve never heard the likes of that word come out of Rhys’ mouth! Not even when he accidentally consumes a grain does he resort to such profanity.

Anyway, his deep-seated hatred of potatoes wasn’t enough to drive me away. (Read the post. It’s become one of my favorites.)

I discovered Rhys’s spelling of his name the same day we finally spoke (after months of deadly sexual tension over the Angelica kitchen takeout counter.) He received his Christmas bonus that fateful day and a co-worker pointed out to me how strangely he spelled his name. Rhys proudly held up his envelope with the anomalous spelling of his name. “Aw, shit! I’ve been Googling your name all wrong all this time. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” I almost blurted. But as Rhys handed me an old receipt with the correct spelling of his name accompanied by the addresses of his two blogs, I kept my cool. I waited until I rounded the corner, clear of the big paned Angelica windows to jump up and down uncontrollably. “Nice and nicely done,” I asserted to my sister who was patiently waiting in the car while I made my smooth moves. When I got home, I immediately cyber-spaced into Rhys’ blog, only to find an entry about an inner debate deciding whether or not he should move back to Austin for his girlfriend at the time. Uhhhh, enigmatic for sure. Well, I’m sure y’all know how that worked out. On to the next name.

Rhysy: OBVIOUS! Everyone calls him that. Especially my mom.

Bobes(y): Rhys-Rhys-Bo-Bhys-Banana-fanna….So, it originally started out as Bobesity from “Bobhys.” It seemed appropriate to fondly call my slender, gaunt boyfriend by a name that rhymed with obesity. That term of endearment became too burdensome to roll off the tongue. Decided to stick close to the amount of syllables in his original name. So, Bobes is short for Bobesity. And if I’m feeling especially cutesy, I’ll go for Bobesy.

Rhyster Bunny: This one just came to me. Rhys’s nicknames for me helped inspire my WBAR DJ name: DJ Slaw. That’s a derivation of Nicoleslaw. His other favorite is Nicolemine.

Hope you all had a good Rhyster Sunday. Bobesy and I certainly enjoyed ours (although nursing me back to health probably isn’t one of the finer pleasures in Rhys’ life). Here’s a picture of Rhys mistakingly putting ash on his forehead for Easter Sunday:

He’ll get it right next year…in New York.