New York City Farm Scene

Wedged between New York Film Academy and the subway, the farmer’s market draws a crowd even on rainy days.

Formerly based in Vermont, Wes now sells all sort of pickles to people and places in New York City.

Heirloom tomatoes, never failing to impress.

Ostrich eggs, ostrich soap, ostrich dog jerky, ostrich books…

What do graffiti, chickens and bromeliads have in common? They are all part of a Brooklyn community farm!

Bushwick City Farm. ‘Nuff said.

Listen (Pause) New York (Sigh)

Dear New York,

It’s not me, it’s you and it’s over between us.

I’m tired of waking up early just to be greeted with you in a mad rush, always trying to get somewhere. Just think about all those disposable cups of coffee you’ve used over the years! I can’t stand you yelling at me at breakfast anymore. Why can’t you just nicely ask what I would like and with what kind of spread and whether I’d like milk in my coffee? Why must you shout over and over again if you can help, that’s not very helpful at all. Not only that, but I’m crammed in this tiny space while you’re shouting and spilling things and then ask me to pay some astronomical amount for a salad. But that’s getting too far ahead of ourselves. That’s lunchtime.

I’m sick of showing up to work and you barely showing your teeth in what is a growl rather than a smile. I’m wearing these shoes with heels and my feet are cold, it’s been raining all morning and I’ve got to carry all my work papers, my laptop, cell phone, I Pod, coffee mug, lunch, sneakers and clothes for an afterwork workout. My shoulder hurts from carrying it all on one side and I’m sick of you making me feel like a college student or an undeserving Brooklyn hipster if I want to wear my backpack.

I turn on my computer and after it takes too long to load I have a billion e-mails in my Outlook account. I read and sort and prioritize and try to get some work done. Then I’m suddenly hungry and realize it’s about two in the afternoon so I eat whatever’s quick so I can get back to sorting and prioritizing. Suddenly I feel exhausted and it’s already dark outside and I throw my heavy bag over my shoulder and get on the train. I’m pushed and shoved and offended with various smells. I don’t want to hear your starving musician friend practice his guitar or even worse, flute. I’m sick of you pushing yourself in front of me when I am clearly first in line to get into the train car. I can’t stand looking at you while I try to move in and you just look back at me and don’t move.

It’s nearly seven or eight by the time I’m home and I could care less about that after work workout. I try to make dinner or read my own e-mails and sort and prioritize those. Before I know it it’s nearly midnight and I’m passing out only to wake up in six hours and hope to get a pre-work workout in and tend to my new load of a billion e-mails.

When I first met you, I was up to the challenge. I would leave extra time just to meet you down around Bleecker Street or Cornelia Street in case I got lost and would prefer to just wander around rather than ask for directions. I looked forward to meeting you for dinner every other night, each one a new restaurant, a new cuisine and a new experience. Now I see that most of the time you don’t really know what you’re doing. To be honest, your cooking isn’t always great and it’s usually late and then you want me to leave a tip based on the inflated price of the mediocre meal. Not fair, I know, sometime it’s been great. Sometimes it’s mouth watering and fresh off the stove but really, how many times has that happened?

At first I enjoyed spending time apart from you. Nothing like a day at the Museum of Modern Art or the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the American Museum of Natural History, by myself. Nothing like a subtitled flick at the IFC, nestled in the back, all alone, to absorb and keep up with the words on screen. Even having a glass of wine while seated outdoors or on the grass in Central Park. And then there’s Brooklyn with all its glory of the young and the restless and Queens with its Thai and Indian food and the random friends that live in Jackson Heights, wherever that is.

But when I had my fill of time by myself, you weren’t there for me. We could never make plans in advance and in all fairness, we were both responsible for canceling. We could never have a conversation going because our phones would ring or vibrate constantly. I could hardly keep track of all your friends and you of all of mine. We started the evening at eight and finished at eight in the morning. We wore each other out.

Suddenly I saw your charm disappear in front of my eyes like a fog. You were always doing things to piss me off, get on my nerves and were expecting me to just take it. You weren’t going to change. You’ll never change for anyone.

New York, it’s not me, it’s you and it’s over. I hope you understand.

Halloween in New York City

First Weekend of Summer in New York City

It started with rain, which is unusual and ended with rain, which is even more unusual but all prevailed. Down the street from me Greenhorns were preparing for a farming to the people celebration. The roasting of a goat from Connecticut brought staff, volunteers and neighbors to the corner of Sackett and Henry Streets in Brooklyn despite the steady downpour. Amy and Jen from the local foods veteran,  Just Food, hit home with the message of sustainable, fair and local food for all.

With no promise of the rain letting up, I made my way down to Coney Island. Did you know I grew up on this southernmost tip of Brooklyn? Well, probably not and for me, going to Coney Island is just like driving past the neighborhood where you used to play on your next door neighbor’s lawn.

The mermaids, funksters and musicians were out in full swing. Thanks to waterproof makeup and the modern invention of plastic, all stayed dry, beautiful and open!

Sunday started off with a drizzle that couldn’t decide if it wanted to stop. In the meantime, musicians gathered to showcase their work at Dubspot, part of Make Music New York, a city wide music showcase on this first day of summer. Talented music maker and long time friend, Tom Phonic needed a little help keeping his drum machines dry but kept the crowd’s feet moving. Ignoring the thunder, Echa, a Seattle/New York hybrid native took control of the sound. The rain eventually forced all to happily relocate to Dan’s Dubspot cafe. Dan pioneered audio production education in New York City and is the founder of Funk Aid, a fundraiser to support AIDS prevention in children in Africa.  You can support Funk Aid by picking up the CD and meeting Dan and his dog, TJ at the Dubspot cafe at 348 W 14th St between 8/9 Avenues.

David Byrne at Prospect Park

David Byrne, the ring leader of the Talking Heads, performed a free show for those who didn’t mind the line to get in (below). David wore a tutu over his white suit while performing multiple encores including, “Once in a Lifetime.”

Getting in...

Celebrating Brooklyn!