For my friends in the not-for-profit sector, here’s something I just came across that might interest you (unless you know about it already, of course): Google awards in-kind advertising services to non-profits through their Google AdWords product in quarterly grant-making rounds.

From the company’s spiel: “The Google Grants program supports organizations that share the company’s philosophy of community service worldwide in areas such as science and technology, education, global public health, the environment, youth advocacy, and the arts.” Each organization awarded a Google Grant receives at least three months of in-kind advertising. Australia is one of the non-US countries eligible to apply for a Google Grant. Request for proposal link:
http://fconline.foundationcenter.org/pnd/10003588/google 

 

My friend Peter Rechniewski came with me today to explore my chosen new neighbourhood, Park Slope in Brooklyn.  He’s visiting New York en route to the south of France where his wife has an academic posting for several months (as you do).

I haven’t got a place to go to yet, but there’s a steady supply of large studios and one-bedroom apartments to inspect. There is some beautiful architecture here and a large number of tree-lined streets. The absence of honking car horns was noted. However, the apartment I looked at today was truly disgusting – dingy, grubby, with the hot water system standing upright in full view beside the sofa. It also turned out to be on “the first floor”, which is American for “ground level”.

The best part was meeting the real estate broker, who wanted a fee of $800 on signing of the lease for the effort involved in showing the apartment to people like me. The apartment was listed in the “no fee” section of craiglist, the best source for apartment hunters in New York. Needless to say I will be reporting her.

Inspection over, Peter and I walked and talked – and talked and walked – until we could withstand the call of a beer no longer. We found the place pictured, as well as something called the “pre-fixe” lunch. Phonetics gone mad? Or a specialty of the land of endless eating: the “fixe” you have before you have your lunch?

It’s official. I am leaving the Upper West Side as of the end of August. My part-time job with Simi Linton, who lives on 86th St and Riverside Drive, means I will remain a frequent visitor to my soon-to-be-old neighbourhood. I just get to leave it on an express train at the end of the day, that’s all.

I am determined to find a place that feels like a home to me in Park Slope, Brooklyn, which is the only neighbourhood which can provide me with a park such as the one I’ve been enjoying so much for the past four months. Other than Riverside Park I won’t miss the neighbourhood – there is very little sense of community, very little diversity (unless you count the African-American and Hispanic women who push white people’s children in prams around the park, and wash their clothes in the laundry of my building; or the Hispanic men who wait tables or take out my garbage). I’m not comfortable with it and am looking for a neighbourhood that is truly diverse. Skeptics would say that Park Slope is an affluent version of diversity, but I have to start somewhere.

I was quite bemused to find a comment on this website from the author of the play The Butcherhouse Chronicles, which I wrote about recently. He had found my brief review of his play through an internet search – he freely confessed to a bit of self-Googling – and wrote to let me know what a thrill it was to find a positive review from a total stranger.

Wow! A bistro in midtown Manhattan that’s almost worth the soul-bruising traverse across 42nd Street. Chez Josephine is named for Josephine Baker, that most deliciously outrageous performer who delighted in shocking audiences in America and Europe for decades. The restaurant is owned by one of the many children she adopted during her life.

French food, French wine, French waiters, and posters and memorabilia of Josephine everywhere, including the toilet cubicles. Pictures of Josephine, naked but for artfully applied henna tattoos; caricatures of Josephine, clad only in feather boas or a skirt of bananas, in positions that defy logic; photographs of Josephine gazing seductively at us through the lens.

I thank my friend Madeleine for introducing me to this place, which is literally two doors down from the site of those ten-dollar plays I mentioned a few posts ago. We had just seen a play called “Sonia Flew” by a Cuban-American playwright. We first meet Sonia as a married woman with two children, one of whom announces his decision to join the military and “give something back” during Sabbath dinner (Sonia’s husband is Jewish). Sonia proceeds apace into a tailspin, which we learn relates to her unresolved feelings about being forced against her will to leave Cuba by her family as a teenager. Unfortunately the second half was much less entertaining than the first, as it’s full of speechifying which left me feeling distant. But it’s just so wonderful to have the opportunity to see so many plays for so little money. And to lift a glass to Ms Baker, of course!

Poor Kuching. She has been wiped out in recent weeks by the incredible humidity of a Manhattan summer. Too overcome with the heat to even hop onto my keyboard and launch Internet Explorer, which she somehow managed a while back.

I don’t know why I am not coping with the humidity here. Growing up in Sydney I should be used to it. The key difference I think is the absence of the reliable Southerly at the tail end of a sticky day. The humidity here floats around like soup. Watching the Discovery’s re-entry into Earth’s orbit the other day on the news, I wondered if NASA shouldn’t be making protective heat shields for humans.

Sounds like a heading from the latest edition of satirical rag The Onion, but in fact this insight was taken verbatim from an NBC television news segment during the week.

The primary focus of the major broadcast networks’ coverage of Lebanon has been on the evacuation of US nationals, of course, although one fear-laden voice-over posed the question, “Could Hezbollah ever strike the United States?”

Condi Rice’s imminent visit was reported with the headline “To the Rescue”. With rescuers like them …

Dear readers of Apple Girl, may I prostrate myself with gratitude at such a regular readership. My website statistics (yes, please laugh) tell me that on average I have about 12 different people visiting the site each day. This does not include the author of the blog – which would have skewed the stats somewhat - although it does include those poor individuals who arrived here inadvertently, for example when they searched for “Sebastian Junger” or “Kerri Russell” and found my self-indulgent observations instead of the object of their respective desires.

I love receiving comments on the observations I post. Through comments and the statistics, I know I’m not talking into the void. It also keeps my New York-addled mind on much more solid Australian ground.

Today I decided to leave the Upper West Side, despite the view, despite the express subway stop up the street, despite the 15 minute walk to my part-time job. The reasons? I’ll be more specific when I’m living elsewhere. Suffice to say I am not comfortable in the apartment in which I live. And in which I’m trying to write plays, my own book – and someone else’s book to boot.

The dilemma of where to go next, of course, is expressed mathematically by the nexus of price and location. The further away, the lower the price. New York is no different to any other city in that respect. I cannot tell you how tedious it is to be looking for a new place to live. Especially when I have such a lovely home in Sydney, which is no use to me here whatsoever … except of course for the fact the rental income’s keeping me afloat here. Wading through the literally thousands of listings, working out what hidden fees are going to be charged (brokers’ fees can amount to ten per cent of your total annual rental!), analysing the length of time it will take me to commute to work against the unmatched value of “a room of one’s own” … I have a headache just thinking about it.

But I keep hearing wonderful things about Brooklyn. This weekend – if the torrential rain stops – I’m going to investigate some of its neighborhoods, and report back. I know  you’re breathless with anticipation. If you know anyone, who knows anyone, who has a cousin, whose wife’s brother’s former girlfriend is sub-letting a wonderful apartment close to the subway that will get me to Manhattan in 15 minutes, don’t hesitate to let me know.

 

I have formally undertaken my first ghostwriting project – to work with an amazing Ukrainian woman, Raya, to tell the story of the “City of Ghosts” from which she and her family migrated first to Israel, then the USA.

The circumstances in which I met Raya were unusual but fortuitous – we got to talking as she was waxing my legs (among other things). It’s a particularly intimate dynamic in the waxing room, especially when one of your legs is extended almost behind your ear. Fortunately my initial interest in her story – I’m staying mum on this until I have a book proposal accepted by a publisher – has strengthened on subsequent meetings … at which I’ve been fully dressed.

One word that’s bandied about in Manhattan with an air of casual elegance is “upstate”. As in, “we’re going upstate this weekend”. Or, “I do most of my writing upstate.” To the untrained ear, “upstate” evokes a Borges-like world of magical escape from the relentless demands of New York City; an alternate universe of leisure and luxury. The reality is often closer to the obligatory entertainment of distant relatives and long-neglected friends. Either way, the ownership of real estate outside Manhattan means the purchased ability to leave the overcrowded, overheated metropolis behind, however temporarily. 

Here I am with Cutie Pie, aka James of Hay Street, on a brief visit with his parents last month. After a tour of the various parks of Manhattan, James went on to Washington, where he procured an astronaut’s outfit with his parents’ hard-earned cash. Just in time for the Discovery‘s safe launch and return.

Is it just me, or are others similarly overwhelmed at the sheer number of user names, passwords, pin numbers, email addresses and combinations thereof without which modern life seems all but impossible? I now have a Word document containing all this detail, which itself is protected by a password. If I forget that, I might as well cease to exist.

This afternoon, reeling from the monumental humidity and my lack of air-conditioning, I Googled the phrase “weekends away NYC”. I was hoping for an economical package of train excursion, seaside or mountains, and a modest cabin. I was a few minutes’ browsing into several websites when – every time - I was accosted by the anonymous request to “create an account” and enter a variety of personal information. I don’t think so.

Is pay-per-view the future of the internet? Sigh.

Summer is in full swing. The humidity, unlike Sydney’s, has little respite. The locals, if they possibly can, “go upstate” (explanatory blog entry to come). Happily there is a lot of theatre on in NYC during the summer. You can line up for hours for a ticket to a free performance in Central Park – at the moment Liev Schrieber and Jennifer Ehle are performing Macbeth there; or you can seek out wonderful surprises such as “The Butcherhouse Chronicles”, which I saw last night with my friend Debra from Playschool.

“Butcherhouse” is one of several plays being produced as part of the Summer Play Festival, at which every seat costs just $10. Even in Australian pesos, that’s not much. It’s a darkly comic fable about four disenchanted teenagers whose history teacher goes missing. They all know he’s in the Butcherhouse, an infamous building from which no one seems to return. So of course they set off there to find out what happened to him.

Once again the lesson is that you don’t need much in the way of props, set or even space to convey a lot of emotion. I loved the fact that I saw this and Grendel in the same week – at either end of New York’s theatrical spectrum, but both terrific in their own, very different ways.

Despite having her own “blog”, Apple Girl tends towards modesty in most things. So, when one regular reader requested a recent photo, she had to ask her friend John Moore, who is the technical brains behind the website projects I’m embarked upon, to provide one. This was taken at a surprise party for Wendy, the woman who owned the wonderful, now-defunct Bradley’s jazz club on University Place (and widow of Bradley). Bradley’s is where I met John … about ten years ago. Ouch.

I can’t remember why I’m cackling, but I do remember that the guest of honour never showed up.

To my Apple Girl Update email group – a thousand apologies for the amateurish error in not putting you all in the “blind copy” address field. Most unprofessional of me.

For those of you who noticed, anyway.

Last night I attended the New York premiere of Grendel, the new opera by Julie Taymor (genius director of opera and musical theatre, most famously The Lion King) and her husband, composer Elliot Goldenthal.

The first person I see when I walk into the NY State Theater at Lincoln Center, brushing off people asking me desperately to sell them my ticket? Isabella Rossellini, of course.

Grendel is the story of Beowulf, the Anglo-Saxon hero who slays the monster Grendel, told from the point of view of the outcast monster. The opera is astonishing from so many perspectives – the sheer spectacle of its production and staging (a massive wall, 46 feet long and 28 feet at its highest, powered and manouvered by 30 machines, is its centrepiece); the sheer stamina of bass-bariton Eric Owens, who sings as Grendel himself for most of the opera’s two and a half hours; and the sheer audacity and imagination of director Julie Taymor. She used every inch of space available in three dimensions, and drew audible gasps of surprised delight from the audience on several occasions.

I paid about $100 for this ticket two months ago but it was worth every cent.

I haven’t earned much yet, but I’m loving the freelance lifestyle. The jobs I’ve worked on so far have been Lily Brett’s website and an ongoing part-time role planning strategic communications for Simi Linton – memoirist, disability rights activist and expert on disability/arts issues. These interesting assignments have been most valuable for the networking and learning opportunities they afford. Already through Lily I’ve met a number of people in publishing and literary spheres; and Simi is deeply involved in an exciting collaborative project with the Dramatists’ Guild, Playwrights Horizons, the Screen Actors Guild and the Non-Traditional Casting Project to improve the ways in which the lives of disabled people are represented on stage, television and in film.

In Australia, “people-first” language about disability is the norm – ie you would use the phrase “a person with a disability” rather than “a disabled person”. For Simi it’s a non-issue. She strongly identifies as a disabled person, and compares her self-identification to someone identifying as an African-American man or woman.

At the moment she’s trying to garner interest in turning her memoir My Body Politic into a documentary. But she needs a website urgently – which is where I come in.

I’m starting to doubt my suitability for a long residence on the Upper West Side. The doubts have crept upon me gradually, and have mostly to do with the demographics of my neighborhood. If you have a very large or a very small dog (possibly one of each size) and love to stride the riverside walking track proudly holding on to said hound(s); if you have one or two small well-accessorised children and a shiny pram; if you have the income to pay for an African-American or Mexican woman to look after said children from dawn to dusk; and if you believe Starbucks is the only place to go for coffee, then the Upper West Side is an ideal place to live. As someone without partner, child or walkable pet, I am a fish out of water up here.

On the other hand, my rent is very reasonable for the apartment’s proximity to the express 72nd Street subway station, Riverside Park, the tennis hitting wall I recently discovered, and an uninterrupted view up the Hudson River (above, again, for those who missed it the first time around).

My apartment building is a microcosm of my neighborhood. The building is full of older women whose nest is either empty or was never feathered in the first place. They are all scrimping by on next to no money, and can only live in their apartments due to the miracle of rent stabilisation. One of these neighbors likes me so much she wanted to share her latest bargain purchase with me: a $5 bra from Filene’s Basement, a discount store a few blocks north. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she hoiked up her top to reveal the world’s blandest black bra. I felt embarrassed; not for the uncalled-for view of her 50-something midriff and womanly curves, but for the fact that my plainest undergarments were so much more impressive than the eyeful that confronted me.

Okay people, my three months’ probation here is up. Already. The best thing by far about New York is its cultural life and the sheer variety of artistic opportunities to enjoy. If you have enough money, that is. The worst thing, apart from not having endless cash to spend on theatre and music events, is the food. It is just awful. I have found it impossible to find a local place with real coffee and remotely healthy food that is friendly on the wallet (sorry, “pocketbook” – no, I don’t get it either). A few weeks ago I ended up paying $21 for a sandwich and a coffee. At least that included the &(*&%ing tip. And shopping for food is oddly adversarial, at least in my allegedly genteel neighbourhood. At Fairway (pictured), people buying groceries jostle and shout at each other.

It seems that the ubiquity of apartments in the city means that “kitchen” is a euphemism for an oversized room that should only house a microwave and a fridge. People don’t seem to cook here. They order in, or heat and serve. I really miss my kitchen.

Outside my building, at the entrance to Riverside Park South, is a beautiful statue of Eleanor Roosevelt. I’ve felt a strong affinity with the former First Lady since I learned in an obscure personality test that she and I shared a particularly unusual personality. (Make of that what you will.)

Here she is, with a famous quote chiselled into the pavement in front of her, which I pass by almost daily.

On Friday night I travelled to Williamsburg in Brooklyn (Gasp! Out of Manhattan!) to see a theatre production written and directed by my playwriting teacher Richard Caliban. Two other Playschool colleagues came with me, and we laughed ourselves silly. Teatro Slovak (one performer/acrobat is pictured above) is a hugely entertaining hodgepodge of monologue, skit, song, acrobatics and comedy based on the central conceit of the show: that all the performers are recently migrated from Slovakia and are embracing the best and worst of American culture.

It cost $12 and as I told Richard later, he presented the entire playwriting course in the 90 minutes of the show. The free vodka shots for the audience were very popular as well.

Apple Girl followed her friend Lara reluctantly across the rain-soaked street to a nondescript Mexican diner called “la Esquina” (the Corner). She had been promised a surprise and in her usual skeptical manner was not expecting a good one. However, the diner proved mere camouflage for what lay beneath: literally a subterranean playground – bar, brasserie, meet-market – all rolled into one. There is no sign of its existence at street level – it’s one of those places one must “know” beforehand, and to which one must ask the security guard’s permission to access. He assesses one’s suitability, and opens the door marked “Employees Only” to reveal a winding staircase descending to a kitchen. One then walks through the kitchen and around a corner into a dimly illuminated cavern that screams “Sex in the City”. Apparently last year it was the haunt of “the beautiful people” so these days it’s slightly easier for mortals to gain access.

It turns out that Lara had just sold her apartment for a tidy profit and had decided to shout me a few blood-orange Margharitas. I grabbed a card on my way out so I could find it again, like Gretel with a breadcrumb. If you come to visit me, I’ll take you there.