(see Part 1 here)

She had always tried to convince me that, owing to her ethnicity, her fate was to become a middle-aged cat lady. Absurd, I had always told her. This was not the suburbs, where she had grown up. It was New York City, where certainly someone, if not many, would succumb to her charms and be attracted to, not repelled by, her Indian ancestry. She doubted me. But Monday, April 16, would be the night that, much to her delight, she would be proven wrong. Twice.

Chapter 1. Three of us sat in Washington Square Park, enjoying the warm weather, as we are often inclined to do. A black man with dreadlocks nearby began leering at my Indian friend. In spite of the large and obvious age gap between my friend and myself, he began to ask questions that implied that we were an item. Clever guy, attempting to ingratiate himself and look respectable with a thinly veiled line of questions directed mostly to me, the “boyfriend.” As I assured him that we were not an item, he spoke to her directly with a comment about how she had really nice skin tone. She was shocked and awed. I still had to convince her that in spite of his obvious come-on, it did not seem to be strictly sexual but appeared to be a genuine compliment to her skin color.

Chapter 2. Three of us agreed to go to the Olive Tree Cafe for dinner. My Indian friend and I needed no menu – we knew exactly what we would be getting, and it included their Passion Punch. As we neared the end of our meals, a waiter arrived with a free punch. It sounded like he said it was from the bartender, but his exact words were unclear. We shared and enjoyed the free drink, all the while speculating as to who the buyer of the drink actually was. We noticed a lone man at the bar, constantly staring in my friend’s direction. Could this person have spotted my Indian friend sitting alone on one side of our table and bought her a drink? This was the stuff of movies and romantic fantasy to me – I had never actually done such a thing or been with someone who received a drink from a secret admirer.

Finally, to end the mystery and achieve closure, I called the waiter over and asked him to repeat what he had told us regarding the complementary drink. It was in fact the customer at the bar who had gifted my friend. She was stunned and intrigued, trying to assess if this man was attractive enough to be a candidate. I encouraged her to go over to the bar and at least thank him. Under the circumstances, it was not forward at all, just a polite gesture as well as an opportunity to meet him.
But she was shy, and my suggestion was meeting resistance. No matter, however, as said man began to approach our table, a decidedly oh-my-god event for my friend, who began to panic. He appeared to be of Indian descent, as I had suspected, which was likely why my friend caught his eye and fancy so quickly. He introduced himself as Sam and directed much of his initial conversation towards me – we discerned a cultural etiquette that perhaps saw me as chaperone or gate keeper. I learned that Sam was Punjabi and from Long Island. Now, with formalities out of the way, offers for free drinks and food were made and escalated. He insisted on buying us more drinks and even taking us to another restaurant for dinner. He appeared somewhat inebriated and, as often the case, where there is alcohol, obstinacy is company. His efforts turned from flattery to a mild annoyance. It took a very strong hand on my part to persuade him that we were indeed FULL and were leaving. I left first while they wrapped things up and exchanged email addresses.

Many lessons had been learned. She would in fact not become a cat lady. And being Indian was no hindrance at all in New York City. In fact, brown was apparently the Couleur du Jour, a blessing, not a curse, even for Skin Tone 🙂

Life is brutal for women – nature, nurture, and advertising have conspired to make competition fierce, a never ending battle to measure, compare, and compete and a constant challenge to self-image. And any woman who succumbs to such pressures will find New York City one of the most difficult places to live.

Men, of course, benefit from what essentially is a constant parade of women, many of whom are tricked out for the mating dance. Women who feel good about themselves and/or are blessed with nature’s bounty will find an endless supply of admirers, gawkers, or lechers to feed their need for attention. Those without such assets or self-confidence will need to armor themselves or live in a constant state of self deprecation.

I once knew a Chinese woman obsessed with her unhappiness in being Asian and wanted nothing other than to be a white supermodel. She articulated this frustration often. She was loved by all who met her, well-educated, and not unattractive, yet no matter how much positive feedback I gave her, it fell on deaf ears. Growing up outside the city, she had suffered racist derision as a child, surprising to me for someone growing up in the 1980s. Unfortunately, racism of this type is not uncommon.

Recently, I met a young woman of Indian ancestry who also suffered being berated growing up in the suburbs owing to her ethnicity. This was even more surprising to me since she grew up more recently in the suburbs of New York City. She has been saddled with a very negative self-image about everything – her features, body, ethnicity, and skin color.

However, one of the great things about New York City is the salad bowl environment. Broadly different ethnic groups and individuals translate to different tastes, so, no matter how outside the norm someone is, given a reasonable degree of attractiveness, a woman (or man) will certainly find admirers and potential suitors. Here, even those sporting the most extreme looks and style can find a mate. The city is not only a mecca for the ethnically diverse, eccentrics, or misfits, but also a place where such persons can find love, appreciation, and respect.

I recently spent the evening with a friend and this Indian woman. It was a fortuitous night for cupid’s arrow, and she was to learn that, in spite of her hostile upbringing, she had not one, but two admirers, that, much to her surprise, brown is not a bad color at all, and that, for some, as we will learn in Part 2, it’s All About Skin Tone 🙂

Happy Birthday, Rigel!  (see Part 1 here)

Meet Rigel Sarjoo, a biology major at NYU.

When I first met Rigel, she told me that she had always felt that she was born in the wrong time and wished she had lived through the sixties. When I asked if she had seen the film Woodstock, she answered, “Many times.” I quickly learned that her knowledge of music from that period was virtually encyclopedic.

So, she was drawn, like I was, to Washington Square Park, with its roots in Bohemia and street music. She spent countless hours there, because she felt as I do – that although NYU has much to teach, there is another institution of higher learning: the sidewalk university of New York City.

But there are many accomplished, talented, and inquisitive young people, and to hear what I have so far written does not explain why she has captured the hearts of so many. Many who have not met Rigel wonder, why all the fanfare over a student?

I once attended a workshop with a very experienced performer from San Francisco. A lifetime on the streets taught him the keys to success, and to him, the number one most important thing that a performer must have is what he called the L-factor, i.e. the likability factor. He went on to explain – if an audience likes you, they are always on your side and want you to succeed, regardless of how you actually do. This is the secret to Rigel’s popularity. She is, of course, genuine, intelligent, thoughtful, reliable, interesting, and passionate – none of these things are to be dismissed. But above all, she is fundamentally LIKABLE. She is a girl impossible to dislike.

Rigel is very humble – I learned she had graduated as valedictorian of her high school class. This took an online search to uncover, where I also learned of her many academic and musical achievements. When I told her of my findings, she dismissed graduating first in her class as just lots of work and luck. Is it more luck that within two months as an NYU freshman, she was promoted to sophomore?

Most find Rigel’s attraction to older people puzzling and even disturbing. I never did. What’s to understand? Rigel values the depth and breadth of knowledge and life experience of older people. She told me she is often asked why she had almost no friends her age. She explains that she has no interest in the types of things most of her roommates or peers occupy their free time with – clubs, bars, parties, and drugs. I agreed that ultimately these are vacuous pursuits. Typically, a criticism of these types of activities falls on deaf ears with young people, but not to a girl with perfect pitch (something else I learned about her musical talents).

Rigel always listened attentively to me to learn what my life experience had taught me after living in New York City for over four decades. I was encouraged to have deeper conversations with her on many topics. We played guitar together. She sometimes accompanied me on photo excursions for my website. I interviewed her for the upcoming film documentary on the musicians of Washington Square Park.

She shared my enthusiasm for life itself and my desire, much like Thoreau, to live life to its fullest and experience it with no holds barred. Our friendship deepened as she became privy to virtually everything I knew and everything I liked. She became a loyal reader of New York Daily Photo (as did her 11-year-old brother, Aaron), which flattered me greatly, since my writing is not only my biggest passion but also a distillation of virtually every thought, preference, feeling, idea, anecdote, and experience I have ever had. It is a place where I bare my soul for all to see – a window into my heart and mind.

In the summer of 2011, Rigel needed a summer job. I was concerned employing a friend but decided to hire her, initially to work on New York Daily Photo. She had never worked a real job before and was terrified to disappoint me, convinced that she would fail and be fired. On her first day, as I went over the work details, her mind froze. She told me that she understood nothing I had said – explanations of HTML coding, managing images, use of Photoshop, posting of stories, FTP for uploading files, etc. Admittedly I threw an absurd amount of information her way, but I had the suspicion that she would rise to the occasion.

She did. Within a few days, she was doing everything I had asked, and I began to add duties. In time, she was editing videos in Final Cut Pro and filming them as well. I now just throw her tasks, often researching website design, marketing ideas, and software. She continues to work for me part-time and edits my blog daily between classes.

Rigel has fully embraced the culture of New York City like no student I have ever met. She has befriended a number of musicians in Washington Square Park and now performs regularly with a local band as guitarist and vocalist. She also is involved in the NYU Women’s Choir.

Today is a special day for Rigel, a rite of passage. It is her birthday. Technically, she is no longer a teenager, as she turns from 19 to 20. In the last 1 1/2 years, she has grown demonstrably, as we who know her best have seen this girl pass into adulthood before our eyes. But to those of us who stood by her side, as parent with child, she will always be Our Little Girl. Happy 20th Birthday, Rigel!

Related Posts: Myra’s Isle, When Brian Met Sally, Just Like Old Times, Park Night

Our Little Girl

I once asked a number of friends who is more irritating – a person who thinks he/she is always right and usually is, or a person who thinks he/she is always right and frequently is not? Answer: Find a new friend. Someone who is talented, smart, and NICE. Someone who puts on no airs whatsoever, like Dave, whom I wrote about on July 28, 2010. Or the subject of today’s story.

On September 25, 2010, I met a girl in Washington Square Park. She, like many of us, was captivated by the music jams that dot the park on a Saturday night. She brandished a harmonica – a welcome but not-so-common instrument. I learned that she was an NYU student. This was unusual – although students utilize the park as their de facto campus and a few do occasionally observe the music and cultural happenings there, they rarely participate and interact with park habitues.
This is very understandable, as the mix of regulars is as broad a group as imaginable, with many dicey characters – excons and drug addicts are well-blended in any grouping.

Her unbridled enthusiasm knew no bounds, and in spite of the large age gap between us, we had many common interests. We became friends quickly and socialized regularly, typically meeting in the park. Our conversations never got old. We listened to and played music together. I introduced her to all the park regulars and friends whom I had made over the years. Soon, a number of us took her under our wing, warning her of the dangers and creeps, keeping a watchful eye out for what was essentially an innocent teenager who quickly and willingly became our little girl.

She took an immediate interest in this blog, which became an important connection between us. We discussed stories, both past and future, and she accompanied me on photo excursions. She became my biggest supporter, eventually to work on the website with me. Her memory of my stories is frightening – virtually photographic.

However, for most outsiders, her large fan base is very puzzling: Why would 65 adults turn up for a party for a college student? Why would an 18-19-year-old girl be a household name around Washington Square Park? What the hell is so special about a 19-year-old NYU student? And the biggest question EVERYONE asks: why would she practically shun her peers and befriend so many people more than three times her age? The answers are quite simple. In Part 2, you will learn the answers and meet this Remarkable Woman 🙂

Related Posts: Myra’s Isle, When Brian Met Sally, Just Like Old Times, Park Night

To say that Hellen and Harvey Osgood are an unconventional couple is an understatement. Here, we have an officer of the New York City Atheists (Harvey) married to a devout Christian (Hellen). Both are native New Yorkers – Harvey is Jewish, born in Brooklyn, and Hellen is Danish and Jamaican, born in Manhattan. Harvey has a master’s degree in engineering and worked for decades for the MTA. Both gifted from childhood, Harvey attended the highly regarded Stuyvesant High School while Hellen was accepted to Bronx Science (she chose not to attend). Hellen’s educational background is multifaceted, at one time training as a nurse. She is currently a project manager at the MTA, where she met Harvey.

Although their achievements are many, I am not writing this to feature bullet points on a curriculum vitae. Hellen and Harvey are remarkable as human beings. There are many things that come to mind regarding the couple, but for anyone who has been married or in a committed relationship, one of the most incredible thing that stands out in the marriage between Hellen and Harvey is that they don’t fight. Harvey told me that one of the first things Hellen asked him when they met was about his approach to conflict resolution. Anyone who has had relationship and/or marriage experience can easily understand why Harvey was so impressed with this first question.

Harvey has the mind of an engineer and is very analytical. Although trained in the hard sciences,  he is also a master of understanding the dynamics of interpersonal relationships. He has formulated many unique philosophies and views, such as his concept of the necessary trinity of elements which good relationships are built on: love, trust, and mutual respect. His personal philosophies are typically deep and nuanced.

Hellen is one of the most generous people I have ever known. She is non-confrontational, yet intolerant of nonsense. They share a love of being together and meet each other’s needs extremely well. Personal time and space apart is not something which they desire. At any given moment, Harvey can tell you precisely how many weeks and days they have been together, which he is frequently apt to do.

They recently celebrated their 4-year wedding anniversary. I pondered what I might give the well-heeled couple. I decided to write a toast, which I read aloud at their anniversary party. On Monday, I will publish the text of the offering here, along with a video of my reading (see Part 2 here). Then you will meet Hellen and Harvey and learn why I entitled my toast not Sweet Dreams, but Bitter Greens…

Related Posts: Ice Cream Sandwiches, Myra’s Isle, War Against Disservice (Part 1 and Part 2), When Brian Met Sally

I have met a very small number of people in my life who are so relaxing to be around that their character is a soothing balm and to be with them is like basking in the warm sun. There is typically a tone of voice that is part of the overall soothing quality. Their character is so striking and disarmingly easy that one just wants to be in their presence. I can easily bring up the names and faces of the few in my lifetime who I have found to be this way, such as Su Jung, whom I wrote about in Friends (see Part 1 and Part 2). Do you know such people?

One of them is Evan, the last of the beat generation. Evan is a native New Yorker, born and bred in the streets of Manhattan and the beaches of Brooklyn. The real thing. He loves the ocean year round and still lives in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. I spent a lot of time with Evan in the late 1970s. My home in the city was an open forum, like many of the New York City sitcoms such as Friends or Seinfeld, where there is an endless stream of friends who travel in and out of apartments without a need for invitation. Homes where loneliness appears to be unknown.

On one occasion, I was with Evan and a number of others in my apartment in the Village that I shared with my girlfriend. At one point in the evening, a group decision was made to go out. Evan and I declined the invitation, preferring to sit in my home and chat, as we were inclined to do.

As the evening went on, I became more and more relaxed, as was usually the case with Evan. Our friends returned and, unbeknownst to us, we had both fallen sound asleep, sitting opposite one another in our chairs. It should have been embarrassing, indicative of boredom with one another. But in reality, it was just the application of the soothing balm that Evan wields, much like the hypnotist who easily casts a spell, one so strong as to be able to put someone to sleep.

But Evan is more than a sleeping companion. He is a colorful character and has been involved in a pursuit that, for some, has a similar effect as his signature balm. In Part 2, you will meet Evan and see what he and his peers are so passionate about, but what, for others, is just another way to induce Extreme Snoozing 🙂