This blog is, hereby, out of commission. I will no longer be writing here. That's right, never again. I am currently developing a new sight, which will feature interactive articles, a host of contributing writers, and a smoother, slicker design template.
If you're interested in following along at my new site, please email me directly at: madekelin@gmail.com
Thanks!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Life! Big Apple.
Subway tunes.
Union Square and Balloon Man.
Swedegal.
Rocking out.
Time in the Square.
Which would you choose?
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N-Ron + K-Mart.
Highline Park.
Friday the 13th: Preparing for Spook.
Corporate Katelyn: The Office Persona
Times Square send off.
Farmers market edibles.
Poser.
An angry blur.
Legs and the Flying Bull!
'Caught Unawares' -Saturday brunch-
Parkside Watermelon.
Scratching and spinning.
Skyline profiles.
Stalks and things.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
World Cup 2010: An Amateur Analysis.
About me.
I am a self-proclaimed footy-lite enthusiast. By this I mean…I like/love ‘soccer.’
Here’s the deal: soccer has always been my favorite sport. As a kid, I spent more time playing soccer than I did doing any other recreational activity. Also, it’s the only sport (aside from tae kwon do) that I collected a handful of trophies/medals/really cool plaques, all of which commended my skills. *Disclaimer: Perhaps my most notable soccer award came in 8th grade. I was given a plaque which showcased (in gold) the words: MOST IMPROVED.
Undermined, etymologically.
Before I proceed with my analysis, I’d like to get something straight. I’m tired of using the word soccer. In fact, I think it’s about time Americans give it up already and call the sport by its INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED and AGREED UPON name. I will discuss the World Cup in this post, so I request your permission to forego my American roots and refer to the sport as football. Done and done.
Variety is the spice of life.
I love World Cup Culture. From the hardcore (rioters, screamers and criers) to the mediocre (“who does the guy in red play for?”), each kind of fan is welcomed at my spectator lounge. (However, if you’re only there to ogle Ronaldo, maybe you should sit the next few out…at home.)
I’ve been trying trying to catch as many of the World Cup games as possible. FIFA fever is rampant throughout the city, and I’m getting a kick (pun intended) out of frequenting local hotspots for game-glimpses. During the games, I am adamant in my support for non-violent smack-talking. I think said means of expression is not only important, but necessary to prevent an emotional breakdown.
With teams coming from all over the world, diverse viewing experiences abound for all kinds football enthusiasts. A trip to the local Argentine café for the Argentina vs. Mexico game, for example, is quite the spectacle. Watching the USA vs. Ghana match in an all-American barbeque joint, however, is an entirely different affair (more on this later). NYC has proven itself to be a hotspot for every match imaginable, thanks to the innumerable tourists, locals, and international crowds..
Let the Good Times Roll.
Germany is a great team to watch. Not only are they impressive on the field but, from a spectators’ point of view, the entertainment value is doubled when the game is watched in a 100% certified Deutschland arena. Such an arena includes the following: an owned and operated German beer garden, complete with a $5 bratwurst lunch special and your choice of two dozen aromatic, German beers…on tap. Of course, handling this situation appropriately requires sound judgment on the part of spectator. My personal code of conduct is as follows: so long as I can pronounce Schweinsteiger’s name correctly, I’m allowed another Pilsner.
I wouldn’t be American if I merely paid tribute to the Germans, though. Before we were ousted after our loss on Saturday, I was (is/am) a proud supporter of the good ol’ Team USA. I’ll be the first to admit: watching the USA play football (eeeek, soccer) isn’t the most exciting thing in the world. BUT, while our record may impress, we still are (and always will be) a hundred times better than New Zealand. So take that, Kiwis!
Anyhow, back to the game. I watched every USA match, but not a single one was as exciting as the game on Saturday against Ghana. The game itself wasn’t amazing, but the scene certainly was. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you about it.
God bless the USA!
I reached Manhattan about an hour before the game was scheduled to begin. I poked around a couple places but nothing was catching my eye. I didn’t want to watch the USA take on the last remaining African team in just any bar. No, I wanted to find a bar seething in red, white and blue, with people running around nearly naked-clad only in the American flag-pouring pitchers of Budweiser from foot-long beer funnels. Ah, yes. This was precisely the scene I was going for, and precisely the scene I found.
Enter: Brother Jimmy’s.
I can smell destiny from a mile away, and that Saturday it came to me in the form of sweaty American boys and barbecued pork sandwiches. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” blared from the speakers and, inside, the bar was packed full with American goodies. The bar itself was lined with freshly squeezed Budweiser, and young blondes in cleavage-friendly tank tops elbowed up the staircase with trays full of freedom fries.
The match would begin shortly, and I felt happy as a clam to have discovered the fine folks at Brother Jimmy’s in just enough time for some solid pre-gaming.
(Beer drinking and socializing commences----)
The USA played 90 minutes of outstanding football (sort of). We ended up losing the match by one goal, and although the loss was upsetting, somehow the pain became easier to bear after a few more Buds and some bro hugs.
Long story short (or the lesser of two longs).
If you haven’t been watching the World Cup, shame on you. But, really, it’s not too late to start. Things are just starting to heat up, and there’s plenty of time to pick a favorite player/team (and you can’t always pick the winning team- that’s cheating). You should watch football, not only because everyone else is doing it, but because…well, everyone else is doing it.
The energy, enthusiasm and emotions behind the World Cup are contagious. The USA may be out, but that only means there’s better football to come.
So…get into it.
I am a self-proclaimed footy-lite enthusiast. By this I mean…I like/love ‘soccer.’
Here’s the deal: soccer has always been my favorite sport. As a kid, I spent more time playing soccer than I did doing any other recreational activity. Also, it’s the only sport (aside from tae kwon do) that I collected a handful of trophies/medals/really cool plaques, all of which commended my skills. *Disclaimer: Perhaps my most notable soccer award came in 8th grade. I was given a plaque which showcased (in gold) the words: MOST IMPROVED.
Undermined, etymologically.
Before I proceed with my analysis, I’d like to get something straight. I’m tired of using the word soccer. In fact, I think it’s about time Americans give it up already and call the sport by its INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED and AGREED UPON name. I will discuss the World Cup in this post, so I request your permission to forego my American roots and refer to the sport as football. Done and done.
Variety is the spice of life.
I love World Cup Culture. From the hardcore (rioters, screamers and criers) to the mediocre (“who does the guy in red play for?”), each kind of fan is welcomed at my spectator lounge. (However, if you’re only there to ogle Ronaldo, maybe you should sit the next few out…at home.)
I’ve been trying trying to catch as many of the World Cup games as possible. FIFA fever is rampant throughout the city, and I’m getting a kick (pun intended) out of frequenting local hotspots for game-glimpses. During the games, I am adamant in my support for non-violent smack-talking. I think said means of expression is not only important, but necessary to prevent an emotional breakdown.
With teams coming from all over the world, diverse viewing experiences abound for all kinds football enthusiasts. A trip to the local Argentine café for the Argentina vs. Mexico game, for example, is quite the spectacle. Watching the USA vs. Ghana match in an all-American barbeque joint, however, is an entirely different affair (more on this later). NYC has proven itself to be a hotspot for every match imaginable, thanks to the innumerable tourists, locals, and international crowds..
Let the Good Times Roll.
Germany is a great team to watch. Not only are they impressive on the field but, from a spectators’ point of view, the entertainment value is doubled when the game is watched in a 100% certified Deutschland arena. Such an arena includes the following: an owned and operated German beer garden, complete with a $5 bratwurst lunch special and your choice of two dozen aromatic, German beers…on tap. Of course, handling this situation appropriately requires sound judgment on the part of spectator. My personal code of conduct is as follows: so long as I can pronounce Schweinsteiger’s name correctly, I’m allowed another Pilsner.
I wouldn’t be American if I merely paid tribute to the Germans, though. Before we were ousted after our loss on Saturday, I was (is/am) a proud supporter of the good ol’ Team USA. I’ll be the first to admit: watching the USA play football (eeeek, soccer) isn’t the most exciting thing in the world. BUT, while our record may impress, we still are (and always will be) a hundred times better than New Zealand. So take that, Kiwis!
Anyhow, back to the game. I watched every USA match, but not a single one was as exciting as the game on Saturday against Ghana. The game itself wasn’t amazing, but the scene certainly was. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you about it.
God bless the USA!
I reached Manhattan about an hour before the game was scheduled to begin. I poked around a couple places but nothing was catching my eye. I didn’t want to watch the USA take on the last remaining African team in just any bar. No, I wanted to find a bar seething in red, white and blue, with people running around nearly naked-clad only in the American flag-pouring pitchers of Budweiser from foot-long beer funnels. Ah, yes. This was precisely the scene I was going for, and precisely the scene I found.
Enter: Brother Jimmy’s.
I can smell destiny from a mile away, and that Saturday it came to me in the form of sweaty American boys and barbecued pork sandwiches. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” blared from the speakers and, inside, the bar was packed full with American goodies. The bar itself was lined with freshly squeezed Budweiser, and young blondes in cleavage-friendly tank tops elbowed up the staircase with trays full of freedom fries.
The match would begin shortly, and I felt happy as a clam to have discovered the fine folks at Brother Jimmy’s in just enough time for some solid pre-gaming.
(Beer drinking and socializing commences----)
The USA played 90 minutes of outstanding football (sort of). We ended up losing the match by one goal, and although the loss was upsetting, somehow the pain became easier to bear after a few more Buds and some bro hugs.
Long story short (or the lesser of two longs).
If you haven’t been watching the World Cup, shame on you. But, really, it’s not too late to start. Things are just starting to heat up, and there’s plenty of time to pick a favorite player/team (and you can’t always pick the winning team- that’s cheating). You should watch football, not only because everyone else is doing it, but because…well, everyone else is doing it.
The energy, enthusiasm and emotions behind the World Cup are contagious. The USA may be out, but that only means there’s better football to come.
So…get into it.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Urban Living: People, Places and Things
MY NEIGHBORHOOD. (Bushwick/Brooklyn)
View from the rooftop of my apartment.
Neighborhood art.
Neighborhood art and me.
Brit and I hanging out at the Morgan Ave subway stop (aka- my home base).
The artsy corner of the Morgan Ave. spot.
THE MANHATTAN SCENE.
Solid paper...read it.
One day, I will take a ride with this horse.
Lunch break-break dancers.
You can catch these guys around noon o'clock everyday near Central Park-South. They entice prospective audience members by yelling, "Hey, you! There's nothing to be afraid of...We're just black guys, dancing!" Hey...it worked for me.
Times Square.
Filled with skyscrapers, neon lights, billboards, overpriced pizza, and Nikon-strapped tourists.
A week after the attempted bombing in Times Square, the area was swarming with police.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
Brit and I before our Saturday night adventure through mid-town.
Brit and I at the International Food Festival.
Each year, more than one million hungry souls head to 9th Avenue for the International Food festival. With everything from chorizo sausages, to suckling pig, to Thai iced tea- it’s important to go with a big appetite to make the most of the experience. Brit and I had no trouble partaking in the feasts, and indulged in some of the more ‘exotic’ varieties.
Friday night rooftop dance-off.
My housemmate, Mia, nibbling away at the local bodega.
Smaps and Chiekh experimenting with black and white on black and white in my apartment.
Good people/good tunes/good comedy shows to be found at this bar on the Lower East Side.
Me, Jim, and an unknown man hanging out at Jim's 'tree fort.'
(and the night Jim and I wore near-matching tops)
Liz, me, Maricio at an Irish pub on Cinco de Mayo.
Grumpy Liz on the subway.
View from the rooftop of my apartment.
Neighborhood art.
Neighborhood art and me.
Brit and I hanging out at the Morgan Ave subway stop (aka- my home base).
The artsy corner of the Morgan Ave. spot.
THE MANHATTAN SCENE.
Solid paper...read it.
One day, I will take a ride with this horse.
Lunch break-break dancers.
You can catch these guys around noon o'clock everyday near Central Park-South. They entice prospective audience members by yelling, "Hey, you! There's nothing to be afraid of...We're just black guys, dancing!" Hey...it worked for me.
Times Square.
Filled with skyscrapers, neon lights, billboards, overpriced pizza, and Nikon-strapped tourists.
A week after the attempted bombing in Times Square, the area was swarming with police.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
Brit and I before our Saturday night adventure through mid-town.
Brit and I at the International Food Festival.
Each year, more than one million hungry souls head to 9th Avenue for the International Food festival. With everything from chorizo sausages, to suckling pig, to Thai iced tea- it’s important to go with a big appetite to make the most of the experience. Brit and I had no trouble partaking in the feasts, and indulged in some of the more ‘exotic’ varieties.
Friday night rooftop dance-off.
My housemmate, Mia, nibbling away at the local bodega.
Smaps and Chiekh experimenting with black and white on black and white in my apartment.
Good people/good tunes/good comedy shows to be found at this bar on the Lower East Side.
Me, Jim, and an unknown man hanging out at Jim's 'tree fort.'
(and the night Jim and I wore near-matching tops)
Liz, me, Maricio at an Irish pub on Cinco de Mayo.
Grumpy Liz on the subway.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
NYC
I disrupt the subway’s empty stares with a smile, and interrupt its crowded silence with a hello.
Occasionally, people respond to my forwardness with confused glances. More often, though, I’m met with a warm face in return-a mild expression of gratitude-as most New Yorkers are eager to indulge in some complimentary courtesy.
It’s been about five weeks now that I’ve been in NYC, and I can’t ever recall a time when I felt so alive. Some days, I feel like I can’t afford to sleep, like the hours under the influence of REM are wasted moments, and that really, I should sacrifice rest altogether so as not to miss a beat.
Some days, I have to remind myself to breathe…to not just see the city’s energy pulsating around me, but feel it too.
Not an ordinary day passes. The conversations with strangers on subways never repeat themselves, and with each seemingly random discussion, I find myself to be that much closer to understanding the preciousness of life. With a concerted effort, I do what I can to not take these moments for granted, as everyday distractions are all too vast, and the opportunity to genuinely reach out to other people is constantly missed.
I am interested in hearing stories. Stories that to some may appear trivial or irrelevant are, to my ears, fascinating.
Before moving to the city, I was told that it would be hard to meet people. I was told that although I would be living in ‘the city that never sleeps,’ and quite literally be surrounded by new faces every day, that the likelihood of forming a relationship, friendship or otherwise, would be slim to none.
Thankfully, I never bought into this.
Since moving here, I’ve met some of the most interesting people. All walks of life roam the streets, and the trick to engaging with any of them is to, quite simply, speak up.
From the Dominican guy two blocks over whom I purchase fresh produce, to the homeless man who sits on a bench just south of Central Park- and the dozens of people I meet in between- I am fortunate to be surrounded by creative, intelligent, and unique types.
I am now an official participant of the force and power that is New York, and I'm loving every minute of it.
Occasionally, people respond to my forwardness with confused glances. More often, though, I’m met with a warm face in return-a mild expression of gratitude-as most New Yorkers are eager to indulge in some complimentary courtesy.
It’s been about five weeks now that I’ve been in NYC, and I can’t ever recall a time when I felt so alive. Some days, I feel like I can’t afford to sleep, like the hours under the influence of REM are wasted moments, and that really, I should sacrifice rest altogether so as not to miss a beat.
Some days, I have to remind myself to breathe…to not just see the city’s energy pulsating around me, but feel it too.
Not an ordinary day passes. The conversations with strangers on subways never repeat themselves, and with each seemingly random discussion, I find myself to be that much closer to understanding the preciousness of life. With a concerted effort, I do what I can to not take these moments for granted, as everyday distractions are all too vast, and the opportunity to genuinely reach out to other people is constantly missed.
I am interested in hearing stories. Stories that to some may appear trivial or irrelevant are, to my ears, fascinating.
Before moving to the city, I was told that it would be hard to meet people. I was told that although I would be living in ‘the city that never sleeps,’ and quite literally be surrounded by new faces every day, that the likelihood of forming a relationship, friendship or otherwise, would be slim to none.
Thankfully, I never bought into this.
Since moving here, I’ve met some of the most interesting people. All walks of life roam the streets, and the trick to engaging with any of them is to, quite simply, speak up.
From the Dominican guy two blocks over whom I purchase fresh produce, to the homeless man who sits on a bench just south of Central Park- and the dozens of people I meet in between- I am fortunate to be surrounded by creative, intelligent, and unique types.
I am now an official participant of the force and power that is New York, and I'm loving every minute of it.
Friday, April 23, 2010
HIGH HEELS ARE FOR WANKERS
LE BEGINNING:
I walked out of the apartment this morning with a confident swagger. While a bit on the groggy side (not since the days of high school have I managed a 6 a.m., caffeine-free wakeup call), I was feeling pretty good.
I wore a slim-fit, black pencil skirt on bottom and a light pink silk blouse on top. Coupled with a pair of sleek new high heels, I was the symbolic representation of ‘corporate and sexy.’
After I basked in self-glow for an entire two minutes, I took to the streets. I hit the pavement and suddenly felt a bad mood come over me. I was immobilized and trapped. My morning ‘hustle and shuffle’ subway routine was immediately impaired, and with every step, I felt as though I wasn’t moving at all.
What was happening to me? I was going nowhere fast…
OFF WITH THEIR HEELS!
As it turns out, you can’t run in heels. Not only can you not run in heels, you can’t skip, dance, jump or walk to the subway stop either.
Within 24 hours of my high heel purchase, I experienced a brutal reality. The majority of relationships in life tend to represent every emotion and its opposite, and my relationship with these high heels was going to be no different.
Heels may present a seemingly flash and hot exterior, but don’t be fooled. At their core they are corrupt, malicious, and possibly diseased.
FROM HOT TO NOT:
My New York swagger was no longer, and the swiftness of my step was now stifled, leaving me with a terribly unsexy and impish limp. I could tell already- this was not going to be a good day.
(Thirty seconds later)
After I kicked myself (literally, with my steel heel until my ankles bled), I shook my hair loose, regained my composure and set afoot once more.
GIRRRRL, YOU OWN THIS!
“I’ll be damned if anyone recognizes that I’m a rookie in these shoes!” I said to myself.
And just like that, the sun poked its gaze through the clouds, and I felt that my bad mood had disappeared.
I picked up my pace, and suddenly heard someone scream.
“I WAS BORN IN HIGH HEELS!” proclaimed the voice, over and over again.
“I WAS BORN IN HIGH HEELS!!!”
And that’s when I realized, the sound was coming from…me. I was the lunatic screaming at the very top of my lungs.
As I stormed through the streets, neighbors, both young and old, started to cheer. The cheering was quiet at first, but grew increasingly loud with each step. The cheering turned into clapping-it began one clap at a time the way it does in the movies- and the enthusiastic praise echoed throughout the streets.
By the time I reached the subway station, the neighborhood was in an uproar. As I entered the subway terminal, I caught one final glimpse of my neighbors.
“You can do this, Katelyn!” the crowd yelled in unison, “It’s all you!”
I turned to them before entering the tunnel and nodded: Yes, New York, I can.
I walked out of the apartment this morning with a confident swagger. While a bit on the groggy side (not since the days of high school have I managed a 6 a.m., caffeine-free wakeup call), I was feeling pretty good.
I wore a slim-fit, black pencil skirt on bottom and a light pink silk blouse on top. Coupled with a pair of sleek new high heels, I was the symbolic representation of ‘corporate and sexy.’
After I basked in self-glow for an entire two minutes, I took to the streets. I hit the pavement and suddenly felt a bad mood come over me. I was immobilized and trapped. My morning ‘hustle and shuffle’ subway routine was immediately impaired, and with every step, I felt as though I wasn’t moving at all.
What was happening to me? I was going nowhere fast…
OFF WITH THEIR HEELS!
As it turns out, you can’t run in heels. Not only can you not run in heels, you can’t skip, dance, jump or walk to the subway stop either.
Within 24 hours of my high heel purchase, I experienced a brutal reality. The majority of relationships in life tend to represent every emotion and its opposite, and my relationship with these high heels was going to be no different.
Heels may present a seemingly flash and hot exterior, but don’t be fooled. At their core they are corrupt, malicious, and possibly diseased.
FROM HOT TO NOT:
My New York swagger was no longer, and the swiftness of my step was now stifled, leaving me with a terribly unsexy and impish limp. I could tell already- this was not going to be a good day.
(Thirty seconds later)
After I kicked myself (literally, with my steel heel until my ankles bled), I shook my hair loose, regained my composure and set afoot once more.
GIRRRRL, YOU OWN THIS!
“I’ll be damned if anyone recognizes that I’m a rookie in these shoes!” I said to myself.
And just like that, the sun poked its gaze through the clouds, and I felt that my bad mood had disappeared.
I picked up my pace, and suddenly heard someone scream.
“I WAS BORN IN HIGH HEELS!” proclaimed the voice, over and over again.
“I WAS BORN IN HIGH HEELS!!!”
And that’s when I realized, the sound was coming from…me. I was the lunatic screaming at the very top of my lungs.
As I stormed through the streets, neighbors, both young and old, started to cheer. The cheering was quiet at first, but grew increasingly loud with each step. The cheering turned into clapping-it began one clap at a time the way it does in the movies- and the enthusiastic praise echoed throughout the streets.
By the time I reached the subway station, the neighborhood was in an uproar. As I entered the subway terminal, I caught one final glimpse of my neighbors.
“You can do this, Katelyn!” the crowd yelled in unison, “It’s all you!”
I turned to them before entering the tunnel and nodded: Yes, New York, I can.
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