In order to keep this blog alive I need to post, in spite of the fact I don't live in NYC anymore, which sometimes makes me sad, but not that often.

FIN

Having completed a full year on this blog I’m switching gears for something a little different at my location International Beauty Supply. Here I’ll be posting more photos, musings and essays on a semi-regular basis for anyone who wishes to partake.

THE 2ND ANNUAL BROOKLYN BRIDGE SWIM

Whether or not this commemorated my first year in NYC, I slept terribly the night before, and for some reason not quite reaching the same level of insouciance I had the last time I raced in June. Too much time between events I suppose. Stellar day though, close to 90. I opted out of wearing a wetsuit just to keep in the spirit of things.

I was nervous and for good reason. It didn’t take long to realize I was up against the elite here today, and though I was ranked as one of the faster swimmers I couldn’t help but feel my dreams of breaking the top ten were probably going to be dashed rather quickly.

The time between check in and the event progressed rather rapidly, and all participants were in our suits for at least twenty minutes while we lined up in order of the five waves (mine was last). While we stood around contemplating our situation, introductions were made and Cara and I were invited to swim out at Coney Island with what were probably going to be the fastest swimmers there, people who’d spent all summer swimming in the ocean and competing in just about every open water event around. Andy, Cara’s co-worker was also there, swimming his first race as was his girlfriend Rondi, probably one of the fastest swimmers in the area (she’d done the swim around Manhattan earlier in the summer). If it wasn’t enough what we were about to do, the two of them had run 18 miles that morning, four of that a race.

Swimming is hardly a spectator sport, more like a spectacle sport at times like these, and though mentioned in The New York Times in the calendar section, it was for the most part sparsely attended primarily by friends, save for a smattering of amused bystanders wondering what the hell we were doing and asking questions like how far it was and how long it would take, one curious guy smoked a cigarette as he chatted me up and wished me luck.

There was a brief summary of the event by the race official who explained that though this was only a 1km event, there were situational circumstances that were going to make it feel more like mile, mainly that there would be two currents, one stronger than the other and that by the middle of the river, and if you didn’t remain under the bridge as you progressed, you’d most likely be swept downstream and mostly likely wouldn’t make it back, requiring the embarrassing boat lift in. There was also a buoy at the far end that required a hard left turn where you’d follow the seawall up to the finish, about 350 meters or so from there.

We were then given timing chips with Velcro straps to wear on our ankles, and after a few more anxious moments waiting we were off. The waves moved within two minutes of one another, entering the water from the small beach near the first stanchion. When my wave was up I headed out towards the left end to get advantage to keep closer to the bridge from the get go. The water was mercifully, which was a relief, as I tend to succumb to terrible cramps in my calves if the water temperature drops too low. I’ve had to kick through during at least one race leaving my barely able to walk the next few days after.

The horn sounded and I was neck and neck with for almost 300 meters, passing the first stanchion and getting a real nice taste of East River water, incredibly salty and hard on the throat. I felt stiff and tight, and hyperventilated for a moment or two before deciding to get the fuck out of there and break off veering left, trying to get directly under the bridge and away from the pack. I never did make it, staying just on the south side, watching the underside of the bridge on each stroke just to remind myself I was actually in this place in time, and having some room to work freely for awhile. I didn’t feel much of a current; it just seemed like a lot of work to get across what seemed like a rather short distance. By now I was passing people from the previous waves and the water was getting denser with bodies. I was lucky I didn’t get kicked a few times as I came up fast behind people, trying to sight over the chop and waves. Once I reached the last third of the bridge the current eased up and I made my way towards the orange buoy to turn, easing into nice long strokes after finally warming up just before the race was even finished. I could see more people lining the waterfront on this side and had to hand to Brooklyn for showing up. I had one person try to race me toward the end up passed his ass and moved in front of him so he could have some of my feet before I entered the last ring of buoys with the beach in sight. Our exit was an extended platform with steps into the water, like the back of a boat, and once up and out caught my breath. Ending a race is like a slap in the face, you can’t really believe it happened, and that it happened that fast.

I avoided the camera crew and got some water and fruit and hosed off with fresh water. Some people who swam to close to the seawall on the last push had the disgusting benefit of brown residue on their faces that prompted some questions from a reporter who wondered why I didn’t. I found Cara, who’d had so much trouble getting a cab to take her to the finish; she finally hitched a ride with the crew. I felt refreshed, but the heat was killing her and I got my gear (taken over in a support van) and changed on a bench in the park where the race had ended. We spent a few moments checking in with our compatriots and saying hi to Andy and Rondi (who came in second).

I myself came in 16th with a time of 00:16:26:00. 248 people had gone in the water, 52 didn’t finish.

Afterwards a deep, soulful craving ice cream set in; we headed to the water taxi dock for our free ride back and got some treats nearby at the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory.

Hats off to Cara, who took the photos (except the last one of me finishing) and gave heaps of support to all.

NEW YORK MARBLE CEMETERY

One of the things I find most compelling about this city and it’s depth and density of history is that quite often, even in a neighborhood I think I know fairly well, I will have my attention diverted to something I had passed countless times and find something entirely compelling that had been right there all along.

REMOVABLE PARTS

It’s hard to really say how one should feel about a cabaret-like performance between two performers, where the bulk of the show is a series of tunes about Voluntary Amputation done in a fairly Magnetic Fields-esq style. At times I found it oddly exhilarating, and at times I must confess I found myself lulled into sleep. This sort of subject matter might appear shocking to some, but I’m not particularly put off by that so much as what it must take in the mind of an artist to commit so much time to producing a show like this. Hats off to HERE for consistently challenging the senses, even if they sometimes reach a bit too far out there.

TRASHED

Probably the hardest thing to get accustomed to—and remain in a pretty consistent state of denial just to keep sane—is the sheer amount of trash that remains in a semi-permanent state in and around the neighborhood. My neighborhood to be precise. Judging from the layers of this stuff, it’s fair to say that hardly any of it is ever removed, by anyone whatsoever. No doubt it would take a rather large budget to dedicated to this task to outfit the legion of help it would take to clean all this shit up, which is obviously something New York City isn’t particularly inclined to do. This is the environment and people just don’t care. So go ahead, dump your shit, it’s your planet, your trashcan. Enjoy.

PIGEONS OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD

In flight, in flock, they are something of a miracle. At rest, they are nothing short of majestic shit machines.