Wednesday, March 30, 2011

The Republica Update/Rolling Solo

Several years ago I set the goal of visiting 20 countries in my 20s. With the youthful decade coming to a close, the pressure is on and I have some serious work to do. In a few days I will be leaving for my 19th destination and, for this voyage, I will be flying solo. I have been the lone backpacker on several of these adventures and every time, as the departure date nears, I have a moment’s pause at the prospect of going to this foreign, often third world country, sans companion. (Read More)

march 2011

Uptown Collective/The Search For The Perfect Maduro: La Villita One

I may live alone, but this does not mean that I eat alone. When dining I am often flanked by attentive men and cheerful ladies catering to my every whim. This throng of helpful hands is not a gathering of family members who live close by and come by for Sunday dinners or friends for whom I throw elaborate dinner parties. They are waiters and waitresses and busboys in any of the number of establishments I frequent. Living alone and being culinary challenged lends itself to a lot of eating out, or ordering in, as the case may be. Because of my extensive knowledge of eating in stark contrast to the lack of cooking know how I thought I would share some of my dining experiences with the public and tell the tales of a woman’s quest for the perfect maduro. (read more)

march 2011

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

snowing in spring

march 2011

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The Republica Update/Why Do Women Wear High Heels

I am a girl who has spent the majority of her existence fighting against all that is conventional and expected from said gender, but I’ll admit: I like shoes. I own 2 or 3 pairs that have been worn enough to justify the expense of their purchase. In more recent years I have become a big fan of the ankle boot. Slightly more secure on my foot than a stiletto coupled with the comfort of knowing I need not worry as to whether my ample calf can fit, as is the case with the knee high boot.
With the weather now changing, spring wardrobes are coming out from the back of their closets. The neglected garments emerge with deeply settled creases and the faint sent of moth balls and stale air, ready to once again hit the streets and show themselves in all of their brightly colored glory. (Read More)

march 2011

Friday, March 18, 2011

thank god i am no longer 22

i took it upon myself to it upon myself to check out the annual st. patrick's day parade on 5th avenue yesterday afternoon. i have been living in new york for over 5 years and visiting for well over a decade and have never taken the time out of my oh so busy schedule to celebrate my people (at least half celebrate). i was escorted by a lovely friend of mine with whom i have had many conversations about aging and approaching 30, as she is 6 months my junior. we went to central america together last year and had ample opportunity to talk about love, life, and the eternal questions about growing older. she is much more of a party girl than me and, as we were traversing rockefeller center, packed with frat boys sporting "I'm Irish, Blow Me" paraphernalia and inebriated girls using any holiday as an excuse to wear lingerie as outerwear,  i could actually see the wistfulness in her eyes; the hidden longing for youth passed by.

that is when i looked her in the face and exclaimed, "aren't you glad you're not 22 anymore?" thinking she would jump on immediately jump on board. instead she said just the opposite,  that she could wear green and party in the streets everyday of her life and be just fine. then i instructed her to take a good, hard look at the boisterous crowd surrounding us. these girls, young college age i imagine were not to be envied. they were like little lost puppies roaming the streets of new york city high on kibble and looking for a warm place to rest their head. they were awkward and uncertain of themselves with bad skin and even worse makeup and, if i do say so myself, very poorly styled.

now, i am not claiming to be so put together. my hemlines are consistently inappropriate and my recent adventure in bang-dom was a bad call, but, at 29 i am no longer the girl piecemealing her life together, but a woman who kind of has one worked out, not matter how much i am pained by it. as i looked at my striking blonde companion i could see the lights go on, if only dimly. she too, on some level or another, was glad that she was no longer 22. true, they have their whole lives ahead of them, but sooner or later you've got to start living yours and not planning for the one to come.

i am the absolute worst at doing this, as i like to save my cake, feeling no desire to actually eat it. i have more recently come to the realization that if i leave that cake waiting for me in my fridge it will either a) get stale and go bad or b) be eaten by my fictional roommate. sure, yesterday i was half proud to be half irish and glad that i not only got to enjoy beautiful weather and interesting people watching, but got to do so with an extraordinary woman but upon taking in the debauchery seen midday in midtown yesterday i will say this: thank god i am no longer 22.

march 2011

Thursday, March 17, 2011

happy st. patricks day

march 2011

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Republica Update/My First Love

Mid March in New York is like a 19-year-old girl, temperamental and powerful: the ultimate tease. The frigid winds give way to buds in bloom and the promise of warm and sunny skies are just around the corner. I made it a mission to take full advantage of this seasonal version of blue balls last weekend and went for a midday run. While pounding the sidewalk in slow, steady beats, ‘Landslide’ popped up on my ipod and as my all time favorite song permeated my eardrums the timbre of Stevie Nicks’ voice sparked tenderness in my heart and suddenly the familiar tune prompted visions of a familiar face: my first love. (Read More)

March 2011


march 2011

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Saturday, March 12, 2011

friday night

march 2011

Thursday, March 10, 2011

The Republica Update/Happy 30th Birthday

Thirty is this mythical number upon which I have rested all of my hopes and dreams. My friends and family have been listening to me belabor this point for years. By the big 3-0 I had intended on accomplishing a litany of goals arbitrarily set for myself with the notion that this off ramp onto adulthood was so far in the future that it would be seemingly impossible NOT to achieve said benchmarks.
Run a marathon; move back home; enroll in grad school; travel the globe. I had my sights set on a number of things I felt necessary to do when I was still young, energetic and stupid enough to want to. My question now is, how did 22 with a laundry list of things to do become 29 and a half in the blink of an eye? (Read More)

march 2011

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

The New Yorker Chronicles: Transportation - Part 1

Depending on who you ask, there is a wide array of answers in regards to when one becomes a real “New Yorker.” I have heard 10 years; I’ve heard 5. I’ve been told that the first time I pick a fight on the 1 train, I’ll know I have arrived. Now, I cannot purport to know the answer, as I am not sure there is just one.  In my humble opinion, a native New Yorker is a rare breed that no transplant can ever fully understand. Growing up in New York City, especially in decades past when the danger and dirt that made New York sexy still existed in droves, is unique.

I have been in New York for over 5 years now, and still very much consider myself a Californian, however, there comes a point when you are in an environment long enough that it starts to permeate your surface. Think 'Lord of the Flies' but with overpriced handbags and $200 haircuts. Many of my friends in the city are native to it and I often get a sideways glance or a grin when recounting an experience I have recently encountered in which I seem to have acted as a native. Many of these events take place on the subway or in a cab or, just crossing the street.

The greatest social experiment ever created: public transportation. Inhabitants of the five boroughs that make up New York learn the rhythms of the trains quickly; which cars that will drop you off exactly where you need to be, and the minimum width of seat you need in which to semi-comfortably squeeze your ass. You also learn the unspoken code of conduct when an elderly or pregnant person gets on or a drunk has pissed himself saturating the plastic bench seat on which he or she is slumped. My former Spanish paramour was recently telling me a about how a man had gotten on the train and at least partially sat directly on his lap. Spanish paramour did not like this one bit and proceeded to colorfully explain to the man that cuddle time on the train was not acceptable. When hearing this tale I, of course rolled my eyes. Seated on the 1 this morning, Jabba The Hut’s long lost twin luckily choose the seat next to me; a space much better for a runway model than a Star Wars reject. Without a moment’s hesitation he and wedged his way in, leaving me little room breath and making me instantly intimate with the woman seated to my right. Needless to say it was an enjoyable ride. Jabba was only gelatinous but odiphorous and seemed to be coming down with a cold, or so the runny nose would indicate. The Petri dish of city living is sometimes beyond articulation. If homeboy hadn’t outweighed me by a full Justin Bieber, I swear, I would have taken that fool out, or at least shard my concern about the circulation in the left side of my body on which he was perched for 100 blocks.

Now, my morning was already off to a stellar beginning and after deboarding the train I had a short walk over to 7th Avenue. While waiting at 50th and 7th, a short distance from my final destination, a mini bus chose the middle of the crosswalk to idle. Being the calm and rational person I am, this irritated me to no end. This was clearly a personal affront and a total lack of respect; not understanding I had places to go and people to see. My irritation was approaching fever pitch when I chose to walk behind the bus. Although the bus had not moved in minutes, it felt inspired to do so just as I was reaching the rear of the vehicle, making a turn onto fiftieth, slamming me into the newspaper receptacles and knocking me off of my feet.

That’s right. The bus hit me.

Ok, so it sounds far more dramatic that it actually was and although I was forcibly moved by the vehicle, it’s not exactly like an S series was racing down the Autobahn and hit me broadside, but still...It hit me!

As much as I enjoy being roughed up, this was not the time or place and as I was knocked off kilter by the ton of steal I reacted accordingly. I did not yell or panic or freak out. I laughed. I shook my head and smiled. A car hit me in broad daylight and didn’t stop, my fellow pedestrians barely glanced in my direction, and that made me laugh. However, the majority my amusement was found in my jackassary. I was so impatient to cross the street, that I was willing to put myself between a moving vehicle and the pavement. And why?  Because I live in New York.

march 2011

miguel angel

march 2011

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Monday, March 7, 2011

rainy days

march 2011

Sunday, March 6, 2011

sunday morning

march 2011

friday night

march 2011

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The Republica Update/Sleeping With The Enemy

It was just that one time. I was drunk. We just happened to run into each other and...well, at least we used a condom. Excuses, excuses.

 It is a common misstep that most 20 somethings have stumbled upon in their decade of decadence. The story usually goes like this:  You’re with someone for a while; real feelings develop, but for whatever reason, it just didn’t work out. You two decide to be “friends” and then there is a lonely night, with a bottle of Merlot and a blackberry - or that one Cinco de Mayo where you got uncharacteristically hammered and insist that he meet up with you, only to find you wearing a stranger’s do-rag and a Gerber daisy in your hair. He proceeds to escort you uptown and is mauled by you in the back of a yellow cab as the tequila courses through your veins and you become painfully aware that a strawberry garnish does not serve as a proper meal with which to server a dozen margaritas. But I digress. (read more)

march 2011

apt 78

i recently produced a valentine's day shoot for vibe online and a cute new spot that opened up in washington heights. any place that serves well for a lingerie shoot is fine by me, so i decided i needed to shoot the space myself. apt 78 is warm, friendly, comfortable and a short walk from my house, so its kind of the ideal hangout! i suggest you check out apt78 as well as their recently launched site, on which my work can be seen.

march 2011

coffee break

march 2011