Walking the Highline

Last month on a typical work trip to NYC I took the time to walk the Highline - for the first time I'm embarrassed to say! I've said it before but, as often as I'm in New York I don't take the time to enjoy the city and take advantage of everything it has to offer.  However, this particular trip C was with me so I made a better effort to combine some pleasure with business.  

For any of you who may not be familiar with the Highline it is the latest park to open in New York and one of the large green space expansion in a major city in decades.  The park use to be a raised rail line which ran the long the Hudson River on Manhattan's west side.  Abandon for years, a group of visionary aesthetic citizens managed to save the rail line from demolition and now it has been converted to a wonderful and unique raised park and green space.  

There are several entrances.  We entered near 30th street.

 The design does not shy away from the rail line aesthetic - fortunately.

I love how the new concrete slabs merge into the old existing railroad.

Interesting art along the walk - not to mention being able to stroll amongst high rise apartment buildings.

I found it beautiful in the dead of winter.  I will walk the Highline again in the Spring.

This was one of my favorite installations - an enormous mural on the side of a non-descript building.  The mural was made of recycled tin and mirror.

At times, even in person it was hard to tell when the mirror stopped and the sky started.

And the Highline is not void of wild life either.

 A view of the Hudson.

And every park should have a cellist in a tuxedo.

I was most excited about the Standard hotel at the south end of the park near the Meat Packing District.  The park passes under the hotel.

And park strollers have been known to catch intimate views of hotel guests - some actually performing against the glass windows in their rooms!  All I saw was a maid changing a bed.  But, the mere idea of misbehaving will encourage me to return to the Highline soon.

Rustic In The City

Last week I was in NYC and had the good fortune of actually having a great view from my hotel room as opposed to the neighboring building’s brick wall or alleyway.  What captivated me more than the impressive views of the Empire State Building or the midtown skyline was the number of water towers I could see.  I’ve always been fascinated with NYC water towers.  Probably because I appreicate the worn weathered rustic look of them sitting atop a modern city.  And, I think of them as completely iconic to New York City.  I went to a party once in SoHo.  The apartment had a private roof top pool and situated next to the pool was an old water tower.  Not only was it a functioning water tower, but it also served as a strange primitive shade structure to a very modern lap pool. 

I believe most people think NYC’s water towers are a thing of the past, but having lived there I know most buildings over a certain height have functioning water towers.    My apartment was on the east side at Sutton Place.  It was in a 1920's Tudor building with it's own water tower.  Now that I think about it, that could explain the crappy water pressure in my shower!   

Seeing water towers from a NYC hotel room is nothing unusal.  However, what really caught my imagination was the brand new one directly centered out of my hotel room window!  I’ve never seen a brand new tower – until last week. 

It made me wonder who builds and maintains them and how does one go about acquiring a water tower if one so desires?  A quick google search reveled there are two companies who build and maintain New York’s water towers.  Both companies have been around for over 100 years and one of them claims they maintain over 10,000 towers in the city.

I think they’re cool and I’d like to have one!  It would be super great here on the farm.  In writing this I realized that my fascination with these water towers may not have started from my exposure to them in New York, but during my childhood instead. 

Remember this! 

Now that would be me on the farm! 

See there is a bit of the country in the city!  And, I always loved Billie Jo, Bobbie Jo and of course Steve Elliot.  I didn’t care for Betty Jo.  She got on my nerves.

Out Of Focus

Last week I was in NYC on business.  Utilizing little to no imagination, I'd planned to take advantage of New York decorated for the holidays and snap photos for a my first holiday post providing you with crisp clear holiday beauty and inspiration. 

Instead this happened...

 

It poured rain for days ... I mean Louisiana swamp hurricane rain.  I loved living in NYC but don't miss the city when its soaked and packed with tourist and their umbrellas.   So let's just say that my photography skills were not at their best.

I went out of my way to stop by Saks to see this year's light projection installation and get photos for the blog, but after being beat senseless by the rain and the crowds this was the best I could do. Besides it looked better in the video.

C went with me.  While I was in meetings he saw the Elizabeth Taylor Collection at Christie's. He offered to wait and go when I was free.

I decided not to go because I thought it would be like this...

but he said it was this...

beautiful...

and this amazing...

I wish I'd gone!

One night we went to an event gala for a charity I'm involved with at Cipriani Wall Street...

which is one of the most amazing spaces ever...

The DJ was Lady Bunny...for those of you not in the know she's drag queen royalty....

(drag queen royalty...hmmm...rather redundant...)

 After some champagne and a taste of wine I snapped about 40 pics of Lady Bunny....

...and finally got one in focus...
(she had to pose for me about 30 times....)

Then after more champagne and chocolate Martinis, Missy Bunny and I ran into to each on the way out.  At this point I considered her a best friend and asked for a photo with her.  Being the lovely Diva she is, she consented.  Unfortunely, C was not sure how to use my IPhone so what we got was 2 1/2 minutes on three separate videos that I can't fiqure out how to get from my phone to the blog...besides..although funny as hell - we were both out of focus wet hot messes at that point...

We left the next day and I had forgotten to arrange for a car to the airport. As we left the hotel the world's biggest stretch limo stopped at the curb and the driver jumped out and asked if we were going to Laguardia.  I don't generally accept off duty limo rides but this guy seemed OK and his price was about the same as a taxi so off we went...

I don't like drivers who want to talk to me and this guy wanted to chat.  Thank God C was there so the two of them carried on a conversation while I watched my Lady Bunny videos and peed in my pants laughing. The driver was telling C about the many celebrities he had driven, which I ignored until I heard him mention the 'Beverly Hillbillies Housewives'.  Honestly he referred to them this way and didn't even realize what he had actually said.

Then I became interested.  Not because I like the BHW's - I honestly hate those bitches and every thing to do with them and all the other houswives sluts. The Houseswhore series is a big deal in our house.  Sometimes I think it could be the thing that breaks up a really successful LTR because we disagree on it's social value.  C thinks it's mindless silly entertainment not to be taken seriously and to be enjoyed for what it is - trashy TV.  AND I think its the biggest piece of SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT ever created by mankind and is most probably the ruin of modern civilization.

So anyway...back to the limo...this is a photo of how I imagine the housewhores looked after our driver hauled their asses around NYC for a week...

I think that's Lisa Vanderheel on the right, but I can't be sure...

Our driver said we could see him and his car in the episodes when the whores were scanking around NYC, especially when he carried the Grammars to a gala event. 

In fact C was seated where Kelsey was and my ass was parked were Camille and her big red dress perched. Most people would have thought about looking around to see if there had been a fake nail or blond hair extensation discarded on the floor...but instead I just wanted to go wash my butt. 

I find Lady Bunny or the late great Liz Taylor far more interesting...

Next time I'll try to stay in focus...

Old Hippies

I was 10 years old the last time I was in Asheville and my grandparents took me there to see the Biltmore House.  I was heavily influenced by its architecture and thought all houses should be required to have indoor atriums; winding staircases even in one story structures and hallways large enough to house a marble statue collection. 

On this trip I decided I loved Asheville, not because of Biltmore, but because it’s full of hippies. 

My best friend and a life long North Carolinian told me it was the most progressive and art filled city in the state and she was right!  I have heard it referred to it as ‘the San Francisco of the South’, ‘Paris of the United States’, and ‘the bohemian capital of the East Coast’.  Although ‘Paris of the United States’ is a bit of a stretch, I must say I was pleasantly surprised.  It’s much smaller than I expected but, it has a vibrant and active downtown full of shops, cafes, restaurants and wine bars – lots of wine bars. 

But, leave it to us to turn a normal little trip into a bizarre experience.

We got into town late one afternoon and after getting settled at our hotel we forced ourselves to try out one of the local wine bars.  This particular place was a combo wine bar and library.  It was a multi level large space with miles of book shelves.  There was an older conservatively dressed gentleman seated at the bar and he suggested we try a nice North Carolina Chardonnay.  Instead I scooped up a glass of prosecco and rambled off to browse the great selection of books.  Old guy, who seemed eager to talk, told C his name was Frank; he had recently sold his Midwestern business and moved to Asheville.  A few minutes later, C politely excused himself to join me.  Later while sipping wine and flipping through coffee table books, we noticed Frank heading for the exit.  C acknowledged him by smiling and saying hi but Frank ignored him, grunted and shuffled off.

View of a downtown street...
That's a hippie in the distance...

Later that night, after dinner we retired to the bar in our hotel for one (ok…maybe two) after dinner drinks.  Moving from left to right, here’s who was at the bar, a very beautiful Middle Eastern Women in her late 20’s and her Asian husband.  Next to them was an attractive Caucasian man in his early 30’s.  He was intensively engaged in the World Series game on the television behind the bar.  Seated next to him was his wife.  She was black and had dreads down her back.  She was intensely engaged in a conversation with the guy next to her.  He was mid forties, gaaaaaay, pumped up, expensive jeans, tight sweater and well on his way to being over-served.  Since it was quite easy to hear their conversation from about a mile away I learned he was with the guy on his right – his partner.  The partner was about 10 years older, smaller, feminine and in similar expensive jeans and tight sweater which on him were not age appropriate.  He was having a conversation with his mid seventy year old mother.  She was drunk and busily doing damage to a cocktail while bouncing back and forth in conversation between her son and the women on her right – her female friend, who was about 80 and almost asleep or dead.  I’m not sure which. 

Then there was C and I.  Oh, and the white, straight, 30 year bartender who was statistically in the minority.

The next morning we got up early and went to Biltmore House.  Not much to report there – really big house where some really rich people lived and had really big parties. 

 

That afternoon we wondered around downtown Asheville.  Parts of it had a Haight-Ashbury 60’s vibe and there were lots of hippies. I generally like hippies and by 4:00 that afternoon decided I was going to move there.  I especially liked sitting at an outdoor café, having an afternoon cocktail and listening to a street band.  There were six of them and most of their instruments were made of laundry utensils and wire.  And, they were damn good!

One thing puzzled me.  There were a lot of grunge, young hippies and a lot of old hippies, but I did not really see any middle age hippies.  Although I may have mistaken the middle age hippies to be older than they really are.  In general hippies just look older. 

Clearly at some point the young hippies leave Asheville for hippier pastures or either assimilates into mainstream Asheville society.  And clearly the old hippies come from miles around, because Asheville is a cool place to get your hippie on.  But either way, I didn’t see a lot of hippies my age.  I haven’t had time to research it, but I’m guessing there are a lot of communes in and around Asheville.  And, you know there’s a lot of hooch growing in those hills.  On the east side of downtown, near the government complex there are several blocks of head shops, hippie art stores, tee shirt stores, wine bars, vegan restaurants and tattoo parlors. 

You gotta love a city with a store totally
dedicated to gourmet chips!

That night we had dinner at a restaurant focused on locally grown organic food.  Moments after we walked in, I noticed Frank walked in behind us.  Having just made a previous stop at a wine bar and feeling very social, I suggested we invite Frank to join us. 

I introduced myself and told him we remembered him from the night before and asked if he was alone and would he like to join us for dinner.  “Asheville seems like such an interesting place and we’d enjoy hearing more,” I told him.

“That’ll work,” he responded.

The waiter seated us and I quickly learned that Frank had few social skills and was not much for conversation.  It was like I tried to help a stray dog, which seems like a good idea and nice thing to do, but instead realized I’d made a bad mistake. 

For one brief moment I thought of saying, “Sorry.  I miscalculated and now realize you’re a douchbag.  Do you mind moving to another table?”  But, I’d brought this dog home and now I was going to have to feed it. 

Frank was eager to order and get on with it.  He ordered without looking at the menu.  He seemed a little off put when I asked the waiter several questions about the organic pasta and the hand made goat cheese and particularly perturbed when it appeared I intended this to be a leisurely dinner.  Clearly Frank was not into the Slow Food Movement.

We manage to have a decent conversation over dinner, only because I asked a lot of questions and Frank answered with short sentenced responses while generally staring off in the other direction avoiding eye contact. 

My favorite store was called Olive & Kicking
and sold only olive oils and balsamic vinegars...

I managed to learn a few things about Frank.  He had been married 3 times and he considered one of the wives to be dead ringer for Bridget Bardo.  He also wished she was dead.  He was a master of the accordion and often strolled around the streets serenading passersby.  He was approaching seventy and even though he appeared to be a conservative retired businessman he really was an old hippie at heart. 

The reference to his age puzzled me when he referred to Asheville as having a lot of people “our age living here” and I realized he meant all three of us.  Strangely Frank didn’t seem to grasp the fact he had decades on us.  But, we were enthusiastically chatting up Asheville as what seemed to be a great place to retire so perhaps he thought we were older (much fucking older) than we are.  However I later learned Frank considered himself much younger then he really was!

Once dinner was over, out on the side walk and exchanging goodbyes, Frank suddenly became pleasant for the first time.  He seemed to pep up and suggested we take a look at his new apartment since we seemed so interested in Asheville.  “It’s just a just a few blocks and on the way to your hotel,” he said.

A downtown park near Frank's place...probably
where he can be found playing the accordion...

My first thought was he was either going to put the moves on us or try to kill us with a hatchet.  Considering the age difference and there were two of us, I thought we could handle the situation.  Also, having a fondness for real estate, I wanted to see a condo in downtown Asheville. Much to C’s horror I consented and off to Frank’s lair we went.  You must remember at this point the wine had flowed and I was under the hippy spell of Asheville and convinced I would be relocating there very soon.

Frank’s condo was tucked away in an older renovated building.  It had lots of charm and character and a really nice private outdoor space.  There was some interesting artwork, over stuffed simple but comfortable furniture, two cats and a shit load of accordions. 

Frank told us to feel free to look around and he disappeared into the kitchen.  I assumed he was making drinks, but instead he emerged with a small pipe and lit up. 

“Here,” he said as he passed the pipe to me.  “This is really good stuff.  Locally grown.”

I took the pipe.  C politely said no and stood there continuing to look stunned. 

Almost immediately Frank’s personality changed.  He became upbeat, funny, and much energized.  Within moments he said, “Ok, it’s time to go,” and he moved us to the door.  “I’m going dancing,” he announced.  “There’s a great place down the street.  Some really great music.  Lot’s of people our age.  Want to go?”

“Sure,” I answered before C had a chance to say anything.  As soon as I said it I realized I had probably made yet another mistake.  The first being asking Frank to join us for dinner and the second one following him home, although that hadn’t turned out to be so bad in my opinion.  But, agreeing to join him for ‘dancing’ when we could have escaped spelled danger.  C and I didn’t have to speak.  At this point we were communicating telepathically and we both were thinking the same thing.  This has ‘old queens’ and Judy Garland written all over it!  I wasn’t even sure Frank was gay, but gay or not with each block we walked I guessed this could only get stranger.  But it was too late now.  If we’d reneged we would be the ones who were looking like douchbags, especially since Frank had gotten me stoned, so we trooped on!

A stoned hippie or a statue at Biltmore...
I don't remember which...

A few minutes later we were being greeted by a doorman at a large brick building.  Once inside I realized it was once some type large meeting hall or public space.  There was a bar in the back right corner, a band playing in the opposite corner.  A large dance floor with a few tables filled the remainder of the space.  The bar served only beer and after ordering one for each of us Frank rushed over to the band to say hello.  A few minutes later he came back to where we were standing and told us he’d been following the band around town and he thought they were quiet good.  He admired the young female singer because she chooses to sing ‘decent shit as opposed to the crap most people her age know.’ 

In fact he was right.  Her voice was husky and reminded me of a softer Janice Joplin.  Her song choices were all from the forties or reminiscent of swing style and the band play them with an interesting bohemian twist.  They were very good. 

Other than the band, a bartender and the three of us the place was empty except for the two couples on the dance floor.  One was a mid-fifty year old couple.  The women reminded me of my fifth grade math teacher and the man of a used car salesman.  The other couple was mid-thirties.  He was most probably gay.  She had on a tremendous amount of makeup.  They were clearly semi professional ballroom dancers and my stare was fixed on their feet.  They were amazing.  Actually, the other couple was quiet good too.  Frank informed me that it was jitterbug night.  After about three songs the band and the dancers stopped. 

Rich fish at Biltmore...

Frank then began to apologize for the place being empty and closing up so soon after our arrival.  He attributed it to our overly long dinner and that it was a Tuesday night.  I told Frank not to worry and ‘it was better to have experienced something I would not have otherwise experienced, so even a small taste was better than no taste at all.”  He found this to be very profound.  After that brilliant statement, we excused ourselves, bid Frank farewell and agreed to look him up the next time we were in Asheville.  Then we left.  Being that he was a groupie, he was staying behind to chat up the band while they packed up.  I guess since he was ‘our age” he was not ready to call it quits.

I liked Asheville, but I’m not going to move there.  I would have to send C to hippie school otherwise he’d never fit in.  In fact, I doubt I’ll go back anytime soon.  Been there, done that.  Besides, I don’t want to feel obligated to look up Frank, not that he’d give a shit or even remember!

No High Point Pictures

Last week I went to the furniture show in High Point.  I took a total of three photos.  Don't ask me why so few.  Perhaps I didn't see anything of interest.  Maybe there was not much new.  It could have been that I was focused on researching and studying the market because of a project I'm working on, but whatever the reason I rarely pulled my camera out of my pocket.  Several days later and now looking back I'm trying to remember what/if anything stuck with me.  There seemed to be a extreme amount of pillows and lots of framed things.  Also, going main stream seemed to be the Mary Macdonald/Kelly Wearstler L.A. English vibe - although the furniture component of that trend looked very cheap. The whole thing seemed to be very decorator instead of designer. 

I liked the dark gray walls and the arrangement of photos.

I was surprised to see this image in my camera when I got home. 
I don't know why I would have take a picture of this.
That's the ugliest lamp I've ever seen.

The photo sucks, but I love these KFC hanging fried chicken buckets.
If they weren't sold I'd consider replacing my expensive Matthew's fans
in my kitchen.

So instead of High Point you can look at what I did take pics of...

I made C go to Highpoint with me.  He thought it was one of the strangest places on earth.
I bribed him with a few days vacation.  However, there is nothing near Highpoint so we
drove to western North Carolina and took a leisurely drive down the Blueridge
Parkway.

Leave it to me to find an old white house.

It was some kind of visitor and folk art center.
There were lots of old people there.  The mountains seem to be
a gathering place for old people.

I wanted to drive.  C would not let me drive. 
(He has not recovered from our trip to Italy when I was in control of
the 5 speed Fiat through the Tuscan hillside. 
There were few guardrails and he closed his eyes most of the time.)

So no High Point pictures, but I got lots of pictures on mountains.

And more mountains.

Until finally I got bored and started taking pictures of my car in the mountains.

A lesbian ranger (redunant) told us about a beautiful waterfall.
She said it was only a short 100 yard hike.  She lied.
It was a short 100 yard hike to the beginning of the trail.
From there is was about 900 miles straight up to the
fucking waterfall.

But we did see beautiful scenery.

Which I guess was refreshing since my idea of a vacation usually involves
a tequila bar and a roulette wheel.

Waterfall.

We got back in the car and drove to Asheville. 
I'll tell more about that in the next posting.