HAPPY LABOR DAY WEEKEND!: Dedicated to the hard work that made and still makes this country great.
Every once in a while you will find this incredible sculpture towering on top of a pick-up truck in Times Square. It replicates the famous photograph of the iron workers taking a lunch break atop the Chrysler Building in 1930. The sculpture is made by a Broadway theatre set designer who will also sell miniature versions of this to the tourists. Thanks to fellow blogger Candy Lopez Galas, I have found the artist’s web site. He is Sergio Furnari. The photo here seemed appropriate for this Labor Day weekend.
SOMETIMES YOU JUST FEEL LIKE SLEEPING IN: “God the moon is so bright! Oh, uh, huh? Noon?!?!”
I am used to seeing the homeless sleep on the street at night or in doorways, but you don’t see it so often in the bright sun of high noon. Must’ve been one helluva night.
THE LONG GOODBYE: It’s 1:12 am, he doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t want to go. The afterglow of the day is too great. His train leaves at 1:16 am. They have four more minutes to nuzzle and hold onto each other, not realizing they are experiencing the rare moment of being completely alone in Grand Central Station.
LYPSINKA TAKES MANHATTAN: In preparation for 2011’s Fashion’s Night Out Event, lip synch artist extrodinaire Lypsinka poses in Bergdorf Goodman’s windows on Fifth Avenue for her fashion shoot to accentuate the glamour of the event. Appropriately Tiffany, where Lypsinka has just spent the afternoon shopping, is reflected in the glass.
This year’s event is on Thursday, September 6.
REWARD: Lost dog – pure breed Boston Terrier named Lucy. Approx. 25 lbs. Has blue painted nails. Last seen Woodside 63rd Street. Reward $500.
Lost human – female named Phenelie Jean-Francois. Approx. 140 lbs. Is wearing red t-shirt. Last seen Sunnyside 39th Street & 43rd Avenue. Reward $ none.
I *AM* BIG. IT’S THE *PICTURES* THAT GOT SMALL! “
There’s nothing tragic about being fifty. Not unless you’re trying to be twenty-five.”
(Joe Gillis/Sunset Boulevard)
My eyes are always open as I walk around New York, but I also have my ears open at all times – no iPod! As I turn the corner of 49th Street and Seventh Avenue I overhear bits of a conversation that fascinate me instantly. “I used to strip right ovah there, I made big money. They treated us girls good in those days.”
On the ground, cozied up to a handbag street vendor is a faded aged stripper with jet black hair and jet black outfit to match. Her low halter top is barely staying up from the weight of all the diamond broaches she has pinned to it. Her hand rattles from the diamond studded bracelets she is wearing, her fingers snarled with age. The toes are painted silver to match the stiletto shoes. Her face has seen one too many facelifts and the makeup is heavy. Her voice low and gravely: “Not all the girls kept their figure like me, I still got it . . . you think so honey? I was the lead stripper, right ovah there!” The south African faux handbag salesman is beat by the heat and just listens in amazement of her retelling of the Times Square that once was. She is pointing to the current Seventh Avenue strip club called ‘Lace’, a meager shadow of what it once was in the 1960’s and 70’s.
As she talks to him, I remember – purple hued light coming from out the door, big neon lit marquis overhead. Painted white windows on each side of the entranceway with just a small round clear hole that had a glimpse of the bar. When the doors opened and closed as the gentlemen came and went, you could get a titillating glimpse of the girls in their pasties dancing to the sexy music in a trance on the bar. I thought it was wonderful.
“How much is the Gucci bag?” a tourist asks, he has to get back to work.
GUMBY!: Black leather vest in a heat wave, black work-out gloves, greased down black hair, pierced ears, gun tattoo, torpedoes tattoo, voodoo tattoo, skull tattoo, chains, black harem-like pants over black leggings and . . .
a Gumby bag – of course!
(Grand Central 7 train subway station, 11:30pm.)
WHERE IS MY MAN?: It’s thirty-seven minutes after twelve noon, lunch was to be at twelve. ‘Where is my man? Should I have told him it’s his? Is it his? Who was that guy?? What was his name? Should I have worn this top? Do I want a burger or a pizza? How much longer should I wait? Why doesn’t he answer his phone? Fries or a salad? Where is my man?’