Escaping Artist

Watching the new documentary made by and about The Yes Men forced me to remember that it is easy to confuse something’s popularity in nyc with its popularity throughout the country. For most people, The Yes Men Fix the World probably needs a lot more background explanation than most other documentaries. While nyc, especially after the New York Times prank of last winter, is full of enthusiastic supporters of their political pranks—film audiences here were lead off after certain screenings to perform late night, humor based vandalism—I usually find myself explaining the group to others elsewhere.

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Around Penn Station I hesitated at a stoplight, despite the walk signal, because of a man handing out newspapers. This itself did not strike me as strange, as “free” papers are shoved daily into the outstretched hands of a mass of workers heading toward various offices. The man handing out this particular paper, however, was different: why had I never seen him before? a free New York Times? a young, Columbia-like student handing out papers? breaking news that did not make the press? I almost continued on my way, hesitated, stepped back, and reached out to take a paper. The way he handed it to me, carefully folding it in half, suggested it was an item of significance, and this too struck me as strange. Who still carefully fondles a newspaper most of us read online? It is safe to assume I read too much into the way people handle and view objects, the chances of this being like any other “promotional paper” were much higher than it being different, but in this case I was lucky in being correct.

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(after the election)

At the conclusion of a long campaign that gracefully skirted around the issue of race, it was amusing to see what a central tropic it became on election night. News coverage on the 5^th took calls from african americans living all over new york city, most of whom talked about previous resentments such as the gentrification of their neighborhoods, and concluded by saying that the election had changed most of their anger into something more hopeful. While it was a “historic” night for our country, it is clear that the president-elect was not made such by minorities alone, and Obama’s election, perhaps because of the pressing issues of the American pocketbook, did appear to transcend race—his “landslide” victory (364 votes) proves that. Getting lunch at the local deli yesterday, pictures of Barack had been cut from various newspapers and taped to the fronts of cash registers, and the conversation of various couples over lunch revolved around the previous night. A group of african american girls were teasing a young man who said he cried, “well it might be the only time I get to see that happen…” The general mood of new york, and elsewhere I am sure, is one of excitement. There is so much energy in the air of this city already that the election outcome seems to have added a new frequency, a higher pitch, to the crowded streets.

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(at the farmers market)

Inwood has its own neighborhood farmers market, not very large compared with others in the city, but large enough and close enough to render us regular Saturday goers. Considering that we live in a predominantly Dominican neighborhood where English is the second language, the farmers market is strangely white. The sellers are what the Fossil calls yuppies who moved outside the city to become farmers (occasionally organic) that are now “one” with nature. The markets customers are of a slightly different sort, most are considerably older than we are, families with children, who shop with a pushy determination to get “the best” first. I miss the Arab market in Monty, somehow it was busier, dirtier, much cheaper, and far less claustrophobic—here elderly ladies follow you from booth to booth stepping on heals. Americans don’t really seem to be comfortable in an environment that is not regulated and familiarly corporate, the smallness of the booths and the “unorthodox” setting makes us contagiously self-conscience.

Despite this, however, it unanimously beats the markets (especially those in Inwood). The produce is good, it tastes shockingly like food ought to taste. We have been enjoying corn, zucchini, and numerous leafy plants the Fossil loves to munch. The fruit reminds me of the trees we grew in California, apples that taste like sun, peaches that are always bruised but drippy with flavor anyhow. There is the milk lady who sells whole milk, and yogurt at the organic bakery. The bread, though good for American bread, cannot compare to the worst French bakers. I still miss the simple pleasure of spending less than a euro, and walking home with a warm loaf of bread.

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(on the subway)

Riding down to the east village, meeting friends for drinks before the onslaught of rain, required connecting with one of the numerous trains cutting across town. Three years on subways in Chicago teaches you that some seats are more preferable to others, for various reasons: leg room, distance from others, direction of the seats to the trains direction. Of the usual three seated bench facing into the train car I always pick the seat by the door, preferring one person to my right than being sandwiched between two.

The elderly lady who entered the train a few stops after us, did not seem to prefer this seat, however, instead taking the far end of the bench, closest to us, and giving me the advantage of staring at her profile without detection. She was perhaps in her mid-sixties; she was dressed in the usual fashion of those living on the Upper East Side, conservative in essence but outlandish enough to show the “designer” quality of her clothes. In a pantsuit of assorted floral patterns, she was brightly colored in greens and yellows, having even yellow flowered earrings to match. She sat in a prim manner radiating dislike of subways, and these people they cart about the city. We smirked slightly upon her arrival, and she looked as uncomfortable on the subway as we generally do walking in the Upper East Side.

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