This is the story of Ed. A not-so-simple man who enjoyed simple pleasures, Ed was fond of rising Sunday mornings before the sun. He’d sit on the park bench and watch the young men and women stumble home from bars, sometimes alone and talking to themselves, sometimes paired off and propping one another up so as not to come crashing down on the asphalt. His favorite moments came when it was light enough to read from an actual newspaper, before the city streets would be filled with people again. 

This is also the story of Katrina. One morning Ed witnessed her march through the park with her head buried in her mobile device. He was so preoccupied with the speed at which her thumbs popped around those tiny keys, so preoccupied he was at the sight of those bright stripes on her tights as her legs moved blindingly fast, he nearly missed the fact that she was crying. She didn’t make any noise, and the muscles on her face didn’t contort like on some girls when they cry. But you can tell can’t you? When lashes are wet, Ed thought to himself, or the red blood vessels in the eyeballs make themselves known. He would have asked her what was wrong, or offered a trinket of kindness if he could have, but she was on the move and busy reaching out to someone else.
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Gerda Taro escaped Nazi Germany, joined some leftist groups in the 1930′s, covered the Spanish Civil War as a photojournalist, was kickin’ it with Robert Capa, and died during the Battle of Brunette later in Spain.

She turned down Robert Capa’s marriage proposal (Quelle Intrigue!), even though they were more than just professional companions, and they were together amidst the turbulent 1930′s in Europe.

Did I mention she is a chick?

It’s fashion week here in New York City. (Keep reading, there’s more to this than clothing).

The fall collections are still during winter, so there are a lot of chilly people in Bryant Park. I went to a show the other day when there was no slush on the ground, but I still worried about falling. Like many a lady, I enjoy watching an array of pretty clothes paraded just out of a sensible price range. I enjoy an excuse to get gussied up. I do not enjoy, despite my chosen profession, the slight tinge of dread that goes with being photographed. It feels like a lot of worry over something inane; it feels like a waste of energy; it feels self-absorbed, and just not, well, cool.

I’ve had a few female friends ask about fashion week, with looks of girlish excitement in their eyes. I catch myself dismissing it self-righteously, and think what a fool I am to deny this fun perk of my job. Many a chick can’t imagine owning a pair of designer shoes, let alone a rotation of borrowed and returnable items so one never gets bored. And it’s easy to feel guilty for this kind of experience. How many water purification tablets could fit into one Christian Louboutin shoe? (That’s figurative, but the answer is a lot if you count the four-inch heels).

My real reason for minimizing the hoopla around Fashion Week is maybe less noble;  its just plain old defensiveness. If I value this amorphous entity known as The Fashion World, then I value its valuation of me. And thus the needless, silly anxiety.

Cue the silliness…

A journalist at the show had time for one question. He looked at me with a straight face and asked, “Spanx or Thongs?” No joke.



Here’s what went through my mind in the following 10 seconds:  “Is he being serious?…How can I answer this without sounding like a fool?…  “Thong” sounds slutty and desperate; “Spanx“  is likely to end my career… Tell the truth… WHAT?! I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this… Do I respond in earnest? I don’t want to be mean… Am I devoid of a sense of humor or was he raised in a barn?” Remember, we are strangers at a fashion show, not besties at a slumber party. Another journalist asked me what products I use to defrizz my hair, because “the world is dying to know,” she said. And we wonder why there are so many out of touch actresses/pop stars/ famous-for-no-reason personalities out there who are off their rockers? “I’m pretty sure the world is not dying to know,” I told her. And then I felt like a bitch.

At the Chinese New Year parade in Chinatown on Sunday, these guys in dragon costumes dance through the very narrow streets to ward off evil spirits. (I think I might have made up that symbolism). Then someone holding a stick dangles a cabbage in front of the dragon, taunting it. Finally, the dragon gets the cabbage in his mouth, only to spit it back at the crowd.  Next up he is offered some oranges, which everyone knows are way more tasty than cabbage. But the dragon spits those out too. Spitting the oranges out could simply be more festive, because all the kids gasp in wide-eyed surprise. If I had to make up a deeper significance, though, it would be that this dragon is hard to please.

I read a column by an author named Darren Littlejohn. He advises us to “anticipate kindness.” Sure, it’s cute and wide open to interpretation, but I think I’m going to try that in this Year of the Tiger. Instead of anticipating judgment, instead of assuming I know the outcome, I’m going to take Littlejohn’s advice and anticipate something a bit more positive. I want to be less savvy and more naive. I want to be less cynical and more googley-eyed.

So I’ve changed my mind about the dragon. My guess is he decided to share the oranges with those kiddies, even if it was just to hear them giggle.

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