Carnivorous Pigeons!

Today I saw something truly horrifying: a gathering of pigeons fighting over a fallen piece of gyro meat.

Granted, I’ve had street cart meat before and it’s admittedly pretty tasty (especially around 2 a.m. after enjoying entirely too many PBRs…) So it wasn’t shocking to me that the pigeons found the fallen meat delicious, because it is. However, it was completely petrifying to discover that pigeons eat meat.

A little background information: I already have what my friends call an “irrational” fear of pigeons. Well, I pretty much fear all birds after in a temporary lapse of good parental judgment my father let me watch Hitchcock’s The Birds as an eleven-year-old child.

But, I hate pigeons the most and I think it’s entirely rational. Pigeons are dirty and carry diseases and, in New York anyway, have no fear of the human race. Which is why I think they should relax their gun laws here and allow hunting in Central Park. I know, New Yorkers, I know. Guns are the root of all evil. I’m just saying, I never had a pigeon fly into my arm while running the Katy Trail in Dallas.

That’s happened to me a total of two times since I’ve been here. After both incidents I was sure I would die immediately or have to amputate a limb or both. Thankfully, the only real consequence was a bad case of nerves and a temporary bout of Tourettes (at least that’s how I explained my colorful post-pigeon-impact outburst to the eight-year-old’s mom).

But today’s carnivorous pigeon sighting proves that in my past two encounters I narrowly escaped certain death. No one is safe. If pigeons have started experimenting with street meat, where does it stop? How long before they make the jump to human flesh? There’s more of it available and we’re completely outnumbered. We wouldn’t stand a chance.

These last paragraphs go out to the eighty-year-old pigeon lady who comes by Blockheads every morning around 10 a.m. Yes, I’m talking to you with the dyed-pink/red hair, and the fur coat, and the bag of bird seed you fling over World Wide Plaza with a scowl on your face like you hate that it’s your job to feed those goddamned ungrateful birds. You, Pigeon Lady, are our only hope.

Speak to your friends. Tell them they can always count on your bird seed. They don’t have to turn to flesh for sustenance. You may be eighty but from the bitterness in your eyes anyone can see you have another 20 years in you. That’s two more decades of free, vegetarian meals for our feathered friends.

Please, be our ally. Or we’re all doomed.

Times Square New Years Eve

So apparently New Years in New York is kind of a big deal.

I knew there would be some excitement over the dropping of a disco globe 12 a.m.ish, but was nowhere near prepared for what really happens New Years Eve in NYC. Last Thursday I exited my apartment and was transported into what looked like some sort of police state. There were guns, dogs, and concrete barricades. And that was on my 8 a.m. walk to work.

My original evening plans were low-key. My best friend was visiting from Houston and we decided to opt out of the high-cover-charging night club parties and have our own private soiree complete with classy lady champagne, hors d'oeuvres, an ample supply of vino and, if at all possible, pink feather boa crowns with the glittered numbers “2010”. Basically, all the essential ingredients for the best New Years Eve ever.

After I got off work, we braved the predictable crowds at the Amish Market, a specialty grocery store I sometimes go to when I have enough money to splurge on rich people food. An hour later we were back on the street wielding bags full of goodies: three kinds of smelly cheeses, a large baguette, salmon pinwheel sandwiches, an assortment of different types of olives, fig-orange preserves, rainbow sushi rolls, and blood-orange sorbet for vodka-freeze desserts. So, all was going according to plan and "New Years Eve of Awesome Delicious Things" party was soon to be well underway.

By this time it was 4 p.m. and we sauntered towards my apartment without a care in the world, both making the gross miscalculation that the crowds at this point, 8 hours until midnight, still wouldn’t be very bad.

We were all kinds of wrong.

All of a sudden the streets were teeming with people moving in the same direction, flowing in a steady but SLOW stream of tired, confused tourists. Beyond those people and between us, my apartment and our awesome New Years Eve, was a guarded barricade.

At first I wasn’t too concerned. My landlady had emailed the day before warning me that getting to my apartment near Times Square could be an issue New Years Eve, and advised me to carry a copy of my lease with me in case I had any trouble. That was last thing I’d grabbed before we left my place earlier, as an afterthought. Now I fished it from my purse and clutched it like a golden ticket.

Somehow we muscled our way to the front of the mob. I tried to get the attention of any of the three policemen talking to one another beyond the fence. I could literally see my apartment awning across the street, but it might as well have been in Russia.

“Sir! Excuse me! Officer! Can you help me, sir?”One turned. He was a youngish man. Probably 28. He had good skin.

“Excuse me sir, I live across the street. I have a copy of my lease. That’s my apartment right there and we’re just trying to get home. Can you let us cross?”
“You’re gonna have to walk up to 56th.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This is closed. Walk up to 56th.”
“I have my lease with me. I live right there—“
“I’m not calling you a liar. But you still can’t cross.”

He was grinning like an idiot.

“You’re laughing but this isn’t funny to me. I really want to get home.”
“Up to 56th,” he said and turned his back on me.

I decided his skin was the ugliest I’d ever seen. And that he probably had herpes. And that most likely, his mother had never loved him.

E. and I started to head up to 56th, a handful of blocks and an avenue out of our way, but it became clear pretty quickly that a detour that would normally have taken ten minutes was going to take over two hours. The crowd literally inched forward. Our grocery sacks packed full of goodies became heavy and we were miserable. That’s when inspiration hit.

I’d been apartment sitting all week at a place very close to mine on 49th Street. The place belonged to a close friend and under the circumstances, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be a big deal if we crashed there for the night. The crowd covered the entire street from sidewalk to sidewalk. We took a look around and decided it was official, we’d seek refuge at T.’s and "New Years Eve of Awesome Delicious Things" night would be back on track!

But when we finally got to 49th street, I noticed a partial blue barricade. Not good. We quickened our pace.

E. and I had very nearly reached our goal—again, we could see the apartment awning— when another man in blue with terrible skin and a loveless childhood yelled, “49th Street’s closed! 49th Street’s closed!”

Only it wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. Not really. The barricade still wasn’t complete, but men in blue wore busily lifting the other side into place.

E. looked at me and yelled, “run!”

And we did. Actually, we flew. Or at least that’s what I’ve decided must have happened. We flew over oncoming traffic and the immovable mob because there’s no other way we made it through alive without somehow temporarily acquiring the power of flight.

I glanced back only when we reached the front door of the apartment, half convinced an army of men in blue would be following close behind, handcuffs out but, thankfully, the street was empty.

The picture above shows the view from the window of T.’s apartment where could see the masses inching forward in the sleety snow for the chance to watch the disco ball drop ten minutes til midnight.

We watched it in HD and toasted from the couch.

Back Home

I spent Thanksgiving week between Dallas, Texas and Shreveport, Louisiana, my two hometowns. My mom and her parents live in Shreveport, which is where I spent most of my childhood. My dad is in Dallas, where my younger brother and I visited every other weekend, Thanksgiving, Christmas and half of summer vacation growing up and where I eventually went to college at SMU. So I have pretty strong ties to both cities and, even though both of my parents were awesome enough to come visit me up here, by the time Thanksgiving rolled around I hadn’t been to either home in six months. It was beginning to get rough.

I’d started craning my neck to follow lone sets of cowboy boots spotted in the Times Square tourist crowd, hanging around bad New York barbeque restaurants just to taste the smell, and gulping down New York’s rare and awful version of “Sweet Tea” which, for the sweet tea connoisseurs in the room, is made all wrong. I’m pretty sure they don’t even boil the sugar in with the tea bag. I know. I was in a bad place. Call it Southern withdrawal, or whatever you want. It wasn’t pretty.

I had a much-needed great time in Texas with my Dad and my college friends. I loved having the chance to see their new off-campus apartments and new off-campus lives as well. It’s nuts how fast the time has flown, as cliché as that is to say. Sometimes the truth’s a little cliché.

I also finally had the chance to get my haircut in Dallas, which I hadn’t done the whole six months I’d been in New York. I know what you’re thinking—don’t they have hairdressers in New York? Well, I wouldn’t know, I haven’t looked for any, because they for sure don't have Sharin. People in Dallas following my blog should seriously give her a call (972-898-3656). In addition to being an amazingly talented hairdresser who sometimes styles for photo shoots (nbd…), she’s super fun and very cool. She’s been cutting my hair for four years now and I won’t go anywhere else, which may seem silly now that I live on the East coast but, I’ll make it work. Even if I get a once a year haircut at Thanksgiving. Worth it.

But, I digress.

To get to my mom's for Thanksgiving, I drove the 3 hour trip from Dallas to Shreveport with my 20 (nearly 21!) year old brother that we’ve driven more times than I can remember.We got to do the whole big Thanksgiving family thing with my mom, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. It was great to see everyone, and just to be in the city I grew up in and drive on the streets I learned to drive on, past my old elementary, middle, and high schools and to pick up a Humphrey Yogurt from Counter Culture, something I can’t get anywhere else in the country… mmm.

Major nostalgia ensued and I was worried that it would stay with me on my trip back to New York and beyond into my life up here, but thankfully, it hasn’t. Nostalgia is best in small doses. Too much is a dangerous cocktail that can only end in ill-advised phone calls or a treacherous trip down “What if” Lane.

As great as it was to have time at home, I’m glad to be back in the city. Just signed another six-month lease with my landlady so, officially here to stay.

And today I took a walk to Strawberry Fields in Central Park in hopes of hanging with the hippies, but I think it was too cold for them because all I saw were a bunch of open mouthed tourists and an unofficial-looking group collecting money with a sign that said “end poverty.” I suspect that the only poverty they were ending was their own.

Still, it was a gorgeous day and the lack of hippies and presence of vague and questionable charities couldn’t stop me from enjoying the new book I’m reading, Wake Up, Sir! by Jonathan Ames. Hilarious. Pick up a copy if you get the chance.

Hope everyone else’s Thanksgiving was fantastic!