The Perfect Space

 *

 My favorite part of where I live - of my apartment, neighborhood, of NYC in all its entirety - is my lovely, rickety, perfectly charming fire escape. 

Nothing beats drinking coffee and soaking up morning rays while looking out over the world below from my 3rd story perch (though, I pretend it's really one of these). I've passed many a mornings breathing in the view, observing all the nearby properties divided by shared fencing. 

The guys in the yard diagonally across from me have chickens and a dog; they get along surprisingly well. 
Two yards down, the garden is coming along very nicely. 
My neighbors have wonderful potted herbs and potted "herbs" [wink].
I love the chatter and drifting scent of pit fires, riding the twilight breeze up through my windows.
Someone is playing guitar. A few houses down, it's piano. Below me, the neighbors still got those "drum lessons" goin' on.  Yet, somehow, together it is a symphony.

our plants could be doing better...

Today, I signed the lease for a new apartment in what may as well be a Caribbean-populated Siberia - sort of near nothing, no man's land, not belonging to any of the surrounding neighborhoods - at the southeast corner of  Prospect Park. Not as much beauty surrounding me, but it is a splendid space in a pre-war building. On the first floor. Hence, [sigh] no fire escape. Still near the park and has its pockets o' pretty, but lacks the charm of my current quarters.
My heart aches a little, but it has been the last straw after my landlord has sprinkled some mysterious white stuff at the base of my front door (some voodoo curse of his, no doubt) after yet another um...disagreemment. Those stories are for another time. We just can't see eye to eye, so I have decided to leave. In haste. Because he is crazy.


*'Scuse the tiny pics. They were taken with my iPod and always convert into these thumbnail-sized images. They do my perch no justice.

My Older Brother

Yesterday, an article was written about one of my older brothers, Joey Falcone - a gentle giant...very much like a great dane.
He's been through hell and is now following his passion. When describing how much I love him and how proud I am, a grapefruit develops in my throat, and I fall completely inept in forming whole sentences.
Read it here.
Get 'emmmm!! 

The Velveteen Beard

So last week, there was a soiree held at wTF to "tap into a new market" for the new women's collection; a "relaunch" of sorts for the "Capsule Collection" in collab with American Express for their elite clients, as well as loyal wTF clients. 
And yours truly would be there, thanking those attending and to twirl about his grey rooms for all to admire and applaud his awesome great job. 
A mob of fashion hounds and obscenely rich bros n' biddies strut and clomp about, taking themselves too seriously (really now - you're wearing a men's dress shirt backwards, belted, in purple highheels with a lucite platform. I want to accidentally bump the bored waiter's trey of Champagne onto you and your shivering hot pink ratdog).
"Did you read the article in Vanity Fair on the new wave of designing for interior spaces in the style of 18th century French country? Simply duh-viiiine..." one poodle pours effusively to her, also oddly canine-esque, acquaintance in a dress of what must have been made from muppet pelt. Purse to match.
"No canapes, thank you. I eat nothing but seaweed and arugula." [guzzles down 4th champagne]


Clearly, this is how they feel:

But, to me, this seems more befitting...

And double-kisses. Oooh, the abounding double kisses. When it comes to The Kiss Hello, it just ain't mah bag. I fervently share Seinfeld's sentiments on the issue.

But when TF greeted me this time with the blasted DK, I was surprised to find his new scruff splendidly soft and, well, velvety. It was like double kissing with a horses' muzzle. 

I have always been a fan of scruff, but just not his in all its overly manscaped and painted-in quality. 

Oh, but to nuzzle it...it's more "fluff" than "scruff". I thought about it, but resisted the urge to pet and caress and puuur.

Mrow

Anyway, I understand how the fashion crowd lives for dressing up and "being seen". I get it. I've seen it now and have been in this industry way too long to break out of my apathy beyond anything more than to laugh at it all. It is an amusing show. A zoo of sorts. 

I need out.

On my Stroll...

I tried to get as lost as I could in Prospect Park and came across this mirky little pond. The sun rays were hitting the quaint and charming scene just so in the late afternoon to give it all a hazy, dreamy, entranced feel. If only you could smell it.

Can't you just see the wood nymphs? 

In the choice words of Liz Lemon, "I want to go to there."