Ikadora

Andy Warhol's Not Dead

2008-08-10T16:59:00.001-04:00

Louie, Louie, oh babe

2008-05-19T17:51:00.001-04:00

Evil.Lage

2008-05-13T14:01:00.001-04:00

Little Bitty Pretty Claire

2008-04-07T15:48:00.000-04:00

When The Saints come Marching In

2008-03-11T21:32:00.000-04:00

Super Bowl Ticker-Tape Parade

2008-02-05T15:22:00.000-05:00

Rest In Peace

2008-01-17T17:52:00.000-05:00

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
(Elizabeth Bishop)

Sometimes...

2008-01-14T11:46:00.000-05:00

...I am sick of being a grown-up. I want to go back in time and be a little girl under my parents' wings, whose only worries were that she could not have a toy everybody else had. Now I can have all the toys in the world, but it's not what I need or want. I'm praying for a miracle.

Downtown state of mind

2007-12-10T01:03:00.000-05:00

Our outlook on things is similar. Want the proof?

Hand in Glove

2007-11-16T22:07:00.000-05:00

Sometimes everything falls into place.
My hand fits in his hand like a glove.
His heart finds a perfect spot in mine.
Pieces of our separate puzzles line up
in a map of OUR life.
Sometimes I just want to scream out of happiness
in the wind's face.

But I don't scream at the wind.
It's just Me and Him.
When all is quiet under the moon
I whisper in his ear:
Thank you,
Sun of my life.

Room with a view

2007-10-17T17:03:00.000-04:00

No Hugging!

2007-10-01T16:56:00.000-04:00

Boy, am I glad I don't live in Illinois. Turns out, it isn't as friendly a state as I always thought. Especially not Oak Park and not if you're a student there. If that's the case - you better watch out before you show any affection to your friends - reports CBS.
Why is it that embracing is such a sin?
"Last year we would see maybe as many as 10 students on one side (of the hallway), 10 on the other and then, going in opposite directions, would sort of have a hug line going on and you could see where that would be a problem," said Victoria Sharts, principal of Oak Park's Percy Julian Middle School.
Wow! That sounds dangerous indeed.
Hugging situation in Oak Park became so grave that the principal decided to draw the line by banning all hugging among students within the building.
Good work, Mrs principal. But if I were you, I would go further and add to that:
- no smiling in the building (forget laughing or giggling, you could get expelled for that)
- no talking when not asked (especially no word exchange between a boy and a girl)
- no fast walking on/off the premises (forget running - it can put you in juvenile correction center)
- no looking at each other (but especially no looking teachers in the eyes)
- no thinking (we all know how dangerous thinking is)

Thank goodness for Mrs Victoria Sharts. We need more dysfunctional, socially awkward and isolated kids. World is going to be such a better place now.

Coen brothers' pig

2007-09-26T21:09:00.000-04:00

Everybody - this is Larry, Larry - this is everybody.

This cute little piggy is a movie star! You will be able to see him in a new Coen brothers' movie, "Burn after reading", which features George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Tilda Swinton among others. Larry is probably not going to make it to final credits, so I decided to give him some credit, post-mortem.
Be on the lookout for a biiig banquet table, with a pig that's got apple-stuffed mouth. It's going to be my man, Larry.

September again

2007-09-10T18:42:00.000-04:00

And Manhattan skyline is still missing two important buildings. New Yorkers miss them too.

Melting pot

2007-09-08T04:25:00.000-04:00

Since I came to New York, I love to think about nationality and what it means. About what is it exactly that extinguishes people of different nationalities, cultural differences and those little things that make us, humans, so interesting. And New York such a vibrant, colorful place. Yes, I still think New York is an interesting place, in spite of a lot of people calling it "Disneyland". I recognize that the city might not be as hard core and culturally electrifying as it used to be, but it still kicks the heck out of a lot other cities that I know. Maybe it's because I never want to get tired of it or maybe I didn't live here long enough, but I still embrace all the craziness and sparkling energy of the city. I heart New York.
And I really, really heart its ethnic and cultural mix. There's so much to learn here, so many people to meet, so many things to find out about other cultures. Take for example my friend from the bar, J. guy from the neighborhood, who'd spent a lot of time living in Asia - he can tell by the way people look (duh! who doesn't? :); which reminds me of this website) but also by their gestures, mannerisms, where exactly in Asia they are from.
I think it's fascinating - I feel like I could see that, too, were I to spend more time with Asian people. But since I work in an Irish bar (I mean, technically, it's American, but two thirds of my bosses are Irish) I get to see a lot of Anglo-Saxons and Europeans in general. Eastern Europeans among them. And since I myself am Eastern European (although would rather think of myself as European, as nobody in USA calls themselves "Southern American" or "Northern American", not since the Civil War, at least not out loud) I can see our European differences black on white. And even though I know it's often stereotypes that make us think something of somebody, there is always a little grain of truth in every stereotype.
So, even though I generally don't like to generalize, I like to have fun with stereotypes sometimes. And I tease my international friends, as they tease me back, for example, calling me Russian ("Russian, Polish, same difference" they would say, and I, playing the game, would say, depending on their nationality - yeah, "Finnish, Swedish, same difference", or "Irish, English - all the same"). So I would try to imitate the "real" New York accent, or try (without success, I'm thinking about taking accent classes) Australian, Scottish and Irish. I love them all. But, as often happens in cases like this, I can't figure out what my own accent is like - obviously, I speak with it, but I can't hear it.
Also, even though tried for the last 5 years that I live here, I could never figure out what it is that makes me recognize people from my own country right off the bat. Is it skin color, bone structure, non-verbal language, way of dressing or maybe some sub-conscious, genetic code and recognize them instantly, even though we didn't even exchange words? Or maybe it's the smell, and we always sense that somebody is "ours" or not. After all we are still Monkeys, only bigger, maybe smarter (although that's questionable). Aren't we?

South Street Medusa

2007-09-06T01:21:00.000-04:00

Fitty cent

2007-08-22T13:24:00.000-04:00

I am often amazed with panhandlers in New York. It seems like the saying "beggars can't be choosers" doesn't apply here sometimes. Recently, I was walking on Houston Street, right next to Whole Foods near the Bowery, and a homeless guy was asking people for "81 cents for a cup of soup" (where do you get a soup for 81 cents in New York City? Wish I would have asked him). Very exact, wouldn't you say? On the one hand I have to hand it to him (pun intended) - he did sound like he needed a cup of soup and didn't ask for a dollar, which was nice. But as a potential money-giver I wanted to ask him: isn't it too much? I mean, i understand that guy was hungry, and needed EXACTLY 81 cents, but... I don't know, if I were to give him money, I would not want him to tell me how much exactly to give. What if I gave him 25 cents instead? Would he tell me: "Sorry, miss, but that's not enough"?
Which reminds me of a story A., my ex-roommate had told me. She was on a subway, going to work, drinking her first cup of coffee when a homeless woman walked in.
"Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the interruption. I'm homeless with two kids, and am basically just trying to get by. If you find it in your heart, please give me some money, cup of coffee, or a bagel, anything would be highly appreciated." And she did her round extending the hand. A. didn't have any change, but "in her heart" found that she could share her coffee, so gave it to the woman. What was her reaction? Cursing and throwing the coffee away at the next stop. She didn't want coffee, nor bagel - she wanted money. That's why I think in New York, the ole saying should go: "Beggars can be choosers, and watch out if you give them something they don't ask for".

Lovebirds

2007-08-17T00:25:00.000-04:00

Sunday in Williamsburg

2007-08-06T01:25:00.000-04:00

Tips of the day

2007-08-01T05:54:00.000-04:00

Tips are important in my line of work. I work FOR tips, cause my daily wage would not buy me the proverbial slice of bread (at least in Polish proverb, although bread would have to be American). So as a bartender I am basically a salesperson working on commission. The better I perform, the more I can potentially gain. And, as I'm sure is on every salesperson's path there are certain obstacles. Sometimes I have to make very immoral choices.
Like for example when a customer is fresh with me. If he's not too drunk, then I can maybe tell him off, which would mean zero or minimal tip. But I am relieved he'd left, and beside I think it's a small price to pay - a dollar to get rid of a jerk. Now when he's loaded - situation changes dramatically. First - if he's that bombed it means he must have spent some time with you, and you're partially responsible for his stage. Which also means he's probably bored you to death with his stories, or you had a really great connection but there was some miscommunication in his brain cells and he's turned into an a-hole, or at least a whiner. Remember, I am a salesperson - I depend on my commission, so I would like to be gratified for my effort and time I could have spent on somebody else. That's why I take full advantage of our die-hard regular Dave Johnson, who asks me every time I pour him a beer: "Miss, did I tip you already?" (We've known each other for over 3 years, but still, as a joke he pretends he doesn't remember my name - or maybe he really doesn't, who knows.) "No, Dave, you didn't." - is the answer of course, as it just so happens that, depending on stage of his intoxication, Dave forgets to tip quite frequently.
So I always appreciate when people ask me if they tipped me or, in case of tourists, how does the "tipping system" in New York work. Of course I also appreciate good tippers (who leave me two dollars after buying one drink, those who leave me a tenner when I buy them a round, and also those who not only tip well but are also a good company. Who knows, maybe I could own something someday thanks to them.
But I also appreciate this guy J., who hates me for no reason. He comes in and says hello to everybody in the bar except me. And I'm behind the bar, so I HAVE to talk to him, even for a brief moment. "Stella," he barks in my direction, trying to avoid eye contact. I pour him one (I pretend I never remember what he drinks, just this little game I play with him to amuse myself) and he pays. Clean, easy, fast. And you know what? Even though I don't really like him myself, I kind of respect him. Cause he always leaves me a dollar. Thanks.

Back in the saddle

2007-07-29T15:29:00.000-04:00

All right. So we're back and it is not easy: after experiencing all the Wichita goodness we'd been hit hard this week: first there was a fire in our building, and now it's raining cats and dogs. Only in new York, as they say...
It wasn't that big of a deal, fire in Lower East Side - at least not for us, that is. It ate up half of the apartment on third floor of our building, where a young guy had lived, and it just so happened his mom was visiting from Michigan, staying with him. Talk about the ultimate New York experience, huh? But without being over-dramatic, I feel unsettled by this, and the three hours of waiting for firemen to first locate the fire, and then put it away kinda made me realize how fragile our lives are. Here's what I mean: we can write great symphonies, make beautiful movies, create perfect images, and here it is, one spark, that can take it all away.
Reminds me actually of the visit to UN headquarters in NY last June. There was an exhibition of artifacts that survived the Hiroshima attacks. There were coins, a few sturdy, hand-made glass bottles, piece of church sculpture and... that's about it. Here they were, silent witnesses of what had happened. No human remains, not even a piece of cloth - just things we made with our hands, little irrelevant when you think about it. So is that all there is, essentially? And then I thought again, looked at the other side of the coin: if that's all there is, then we should stop being so lazy. Correction: I should stop being so lazy, there's not so much time. (sorry for being a little catastrophic, it must be the rain's impact) I need to DO, instead of thinking constantly. That's my New Year's resolution. Also, it made me think: how is it that New Yorkers love firemen and despise cops? Is it that the first save our lives and the latter make it more difficult? I remember walking in Chicago a few weeks ago - police were all over the Greek neighborhood there - and they were nice! They said "Hi, how are you doing today?" With a smile! Shocking.

On a different, although kind of similar note: first I read about it on drudgereport.com, but thought it was a spoof, cause nobody had picked it up. Only yesterday Cary had pointed out this NYTimes article. Please, read it if you have a minute, had read this post and found it even slightly scary. It's an issue that should I think concern not only photographers, not only filmmakers or even reporters. It's important for the First Amendment, which I was learning about studying journalism in Warsaw, admiring accomplishments of American democracy. I don't like big words, but situation calls for them. Anyhoo, I'll leave the big words for Picture NY. Even if you're not reading this, you're doing a great job. Thanks!

Wichita, KS

2007-07-19T11:01:00.000-04:00

And here's more...

We're not in New York anymore, Toto

2007-07-09T01:41:00.000-04:00

Subway Diva and Deli Hero

2007-06-18T16:18:00.000-04:00

Here it is, as promised. Almost want to show her this photo and ask: "Was it worth it to ruin my day?"
Enough about that. This morning I re-gained my faith in people. Guy working in a deli on Delancey told off the aggressive cell-phone talkers in his store. He told both of the jerks (woman and a man) to take their conversations outside.
"But we're waiting for our food" - said one of'em.
"Then wait outside or turn the cell phone off. Why do I have to suffer through your private business?"
And I thought it was just me. I even thought I was getting old or something. Thank you, Mr. Deli Hero. And you are one, at least to me.
For your active resistance to the notorious radio-cell-phone-on-the-loudspeaker-bullies. Keep the good work in your deli, I pledge to continue mine behind the bar. Vive la Cellphone Resistance!

Hurricane season

2007-06-13T20:00:00.000-04:00

Mr. Subway Stool Pigeon

2007-06-04T14:51:00.000-04:00

Still shook up by this. I went on a subway this afternoon. Had my camera on me. Descended the stairs to Essex/Delancey Station. An MTA worker, Spanish woman in her 40-ies was standing in the subway gate, head down, thinking, in a very picturesque pose. I released the shutter button. Woman did not know I took her photo, so I slid my metro card and went downstairs to the platform. Before I did that, however, I noticed a short Spanish guy talking to the Subway attendant I just photographed and pointing at me. They talked in Spanish, but I wasn’t worried – so he told her I took her photo, big deal.
It turned out to be a really big deal to her though. So big in fact that a few minutes later, while still waiting for the train to arrive, I saw her approaching me.
“Excuse me,” she said, “Somebody told me you just took a photo of me upstairs.”
I was considering denying the whole thing, since my camera rested steadily in my bag at this point. But decided I did not do anything wrong and would tell the truth.
“You can’t take photos of people on MTA property”
“With all due respect, Ma’am, I don’t think it’s illegal to take photos in public places.”
“It certainly is,” she insisted.
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. As far as I know it’s not illegal.”
“But I don’t want any pictures of me taken.”
“Well, you are right, I should have asked. I apologize.”
I could see the woman was tense. I was, too, scared of how this whole thing might end, especially after my photographer friend Julia had been arrested for taking photos, handcuffed and abused by some John Evans prick of a cop. Even though she had press credentials and every right to be where she was.
At my apology, she seemed relieved. Yet, still not sure what stance to take on me, she added:
“Cause you know, I don’t want to see a photo of me published somewhere on the internet or newspaper.”
I could not help but think: “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that good-looking.” Didn’t say it of course. Instead I assured her she’s got nothing to worry about, that I’m not a professional, I take photos for myself. She seemed comforted, even gave me a smile after I apologized profusely again.
But it got me thinking.
What if I got arrested as Julia did, and sent home on the next plane. For taking a photo!
And then I thought of the whole “If you see something, say something” policy started in New York right after 9/11.
The policy that encourages us to be rats for no particular award. Just out of willingness to tell on other people who aren’t doing anything wrong, but we might be thinking they are. Cause we’re paranoid thanks to right-wing media and government that both scare us with their cold war-like agenda. Policy that makes everybody a suspect of being a member of global, unspecified, broad and very convenient “terrorism” movement. We’re all possible terrorists. Without the right to defend ourselves.
This very policy once made a fat guy at my friend’s restaurant search another customer’s bag while he was smoking outside. Just because he thought it was a “suspicious package”, surely containing explosives.
I wonder what makes a man on a subway so worried about the wellbeing of Subway attendants that he has to let them know any time someone takes photos of them. Must be a very well paid job, since he’s so willing to take it. Or maybe it just makes him feel much better about himself. Congrats and God Bless you Mr. Subway Stool Pigeon. Somebody needs to protect privacy of a public transportation worker on duty. You’re doing a heck of a job, Rat.
Everybody is a potential enemy, even your brother and sister.
Oh, and by the way: as soon as I process it, I'll post the MTA attendant's photo on this blog. Just because I can.

These streets are made for walking

2007-05-30T22:44:00.001-04:00

Respect to Dewars

2007-05-22T17:42:00.000-04:00

Allen Street (not powered by Google)

2007-05-01T00:02:00.000-04:00

Dog's life

2007-04-18T12:05:00.000-04:00

Time for Times Square

2007-04-09T11:57:00.000-04:00

Spare some change...

2007-03-29T23:23:00.000-04:00

Balloon Man

2007-03-19T16:06:00.000-04:00

Times Square

2007-02-28T18:14:00.000-05:00

Staten Island silhouette

2007-02-18T14:09:00.000-05:00

Hitchcock's maneuver

2007-02-13T13:30:00.000-05:00

Stuyvesant town in December

2007-01-29T01:07:00.000-05:00

Central Park by night

2007-01-23T17:44:00.000-05:00

New Year's girl

2007-01-08T19:54:00.000-05:00

33

2007-01-02T13:25:00.000-05:00

Thirty and three - Double true.
Happy Birthday, my everything.

Houston Street

2006-12-06T14:47:00.000-05:00

Little Match Seller

2006-12-04T15:26:00.001-05:00

I took this photo of Cary a week ago, when we were walking in Prospect Park after dark. He just lit a match to help me focus my lens, it was really dark and I hardly saw anything, my camera saw even less (hence the lack of focus, sorry). But when I looked at it later, it reminded me of a long-forgotten fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. It's a sad story, but with Christmas and all, without being too sentimental, I like to remember about those who have less than I do. I used to think I was like the Little Match Seller myself, always dreaming about a perfect family and a perfect home, with the abundance of food and money. We were never very rich, growing up I had to sacrifice my silly little dreams a lot. Later in life realising the things I wanted were exactly that: things that somebody else convinced me I had to have, or things other people had without ever needing them. Now I can afford a lot more, but... I sacrificed again. I have the things, but my family is far away. Do I look in people's windows, dreaming about Christmas crowded with family? I try not to, only sometimes I can't help a sigh. I miss them all the time, but especially on Christmas. And I'm ever so grateful to my boyfriend for spending this most important holiday with me, although he could've had a family Christmas. It means so much more than any gift anybody could give me. Thank you, Cary.

Blurry thanksgiving

2006-11-24T00:53:00.000-05:00

Wanna see this year's balloons?

Taste of Lower East Side

2006-11-15T22:52:00.000-05:00

Katz's Deli on Houston and Ludlow streets is a landmark. It opened in 1888 and still looks the same (even some of the waiters look like they might remember XIX century, always elegant, with bow-ties, cracking jokes at customers), and, hopefully, tastes the same. The cashier's system is old, too, and I'm not quite sure I understand it, seems to me like people behind the counter just write whatever comes to their minds. You'll know what I'm talking about if you go there. It's complicated, and if you lose your coupon, beware... Actually, I'm not quite sure what happens then, except the fact that you won't be able to pay for your meal, but I would rather not think about it. Images of tortures and various techniques of interrogation come to mind, so I have to chase them away.
One thing is for sure: they do have really good brisket, pastrami and potato pancakes my own mom could be jealous of. Another thing, also true, is that Sally faked her orgasm at the table in Katz's where she dined with Harry there in famous movie. Sign above the table says: "Hope you get what she had". What on earth DID Sally have that day? They should tell you, right? Could be a best-seller.
I recently photographed Lower East Side's still Jewish side, and all the places I know of. You can see it on expatpol.com (I'll link to it as soon as it's published)
But I wanted to say one thing: if you've never been to Russ and Daughters on Houston, you absolutely MUST go! I love looking at black and white photos from 1920-ies, of Russ and his lovely daughters who took over the place after his death. And I think of their glamorous life back then, my favorite period of history with jazz, shimmies, gloves and sequined dresses. Oh, and those cute hats with feathers in them. I have a photo of my grandma from the same period of time. How envious had I always been of that. Of course then came war, and the good times vanished, but thinking about it makes me want to pay somebody to build a time machine (if I only had enough money). That's why I love this store, full of smoked salmon, iranian caviar, roasted almonds and strudels.
And I really love Lower East Side, for its history and heritage. And my street holds a name "Avenue of Immigrants". How appropriate, huh?

Scanner darkly

2006-11-13T17:44:00.000-05:00

I know, I know, it doesn't even look like a photo. But that's precisely why I like it. Photo of Cary waiting for a train was totally overblown, so I started to play with PS and... tadam! I got the "Scanner darkly" effect. I like it. Do you?

Shoes of New York

2006-11-05T19:44:00.000-05:00

OK, so I am really confused. Because I don't know exactly what it means when I see a shoe hanging on the wire. And I see it pretty often, as all of you living in New York, too I'm sure. So I did a research. Little one. And it turns out it could mean a few things.

In urban areas like NY, it usually means that a drug dealer is nearby. Which makes sense, as just after I took that photo, I saw a young, pretty hip-looking couple trying to buy something from a shady-looking guy on the street. It was Chinatown, and it could have been a Rolex knock-off. But. I doubt it. They walked few blocks together, and I heard the shady guy saying something like "Yeah, I have it on me, right here". Couple looked a little distressed, Mr. Shady was also not very comfortable. It made me think drugs right away. Then I remembered that in the old days Chinatown had real opium-dens, with couches and people smoking like in the movies. They say you could still find one of those places if you knew where to look and knew the right people. I don't. Not that I would like to smoke opium, mind you. Would be just cool to see the seedy side of town.

But a pair of shoes on the wire could also mean that a teenager had just lost his or hers virginity. Apparently, in college towns and campuses all over the States, it is a pretty common demonstration, the equivalent of hanging a white sheet with marks of blood on it in the royal families, after just married couple's first night. It was a sign that she lost her virginity, which also indicated she was pure as gold before getting married.

Or it could also mean, like in one of Tim Burton's movies, that people who live in the area love it so much that they never want to leave, that's why they leave their shoes hanging, as they would not need it any time soon.

Whom to believe?

Halloween

2006-11-01T17:20:00.000-05:00

Not fair

2006-10-22T19:10:00.000-04:00

This adorable little fella was very unhappy Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago. I took a walk with Cary and we ended up in Washington Square Park, watching a magician doing his tricks. He kinda looks like Sammy Davis Jr. and I'm sure is there every Sunday. He was pretty good I must say (but no David Copperfield, oh no), and we had a blast watching him do the usual tricks. But at the end he'd blown some balloons for ladies and kids that were watching the show. Except not all of the kids got them. Above is the shot of little guy who didn't. And here's the winner of the balloon jackpot:

R.I.P.

2006-10-18T17:04:00.000-04:00

More "before and after" photos here

Happy Birthday, John

2006-10-09T21:46:00.000-04:00

John Lennon would have celebrated his birthday October 9th. His son Sean celebrates it the same day. The photo above is of a building where John lived with Yoko in NYC. This is also where he was killed. The widow's still living there, not far from Strawberry Fields, a little square of the ground among trees. Every year hundreds of people gather around the "Imagine" sign there to pay a tribute to their idol. They always bring guitars, drums and balloons with "happy birthday" signs on them. Just so happens that every year, magically, I find myself in or around Central Park on that date. Last year I was walking with my boyfriend in Central Park, when we heard a choir of voicer]s singing "Give peace a chance". I didn't put two and two together (I never do, the only birthdays I remember are my boyfriend's and mine), but we walked up to Strawberry Fields and sang a song with the crowd. This year I was observing the annual Columbus Day Parade on the East side of the Park, when I walked into "Happy birthday" song again.

"Miss, you don't want to do that" - said the guard to me when I kneeled on a sidewalk to get a better view of Dakota. "Why? Is it forbidden?" I asked, ready to fight for my right to take photos where Lennon was shot. "No, it's just that there are a lot of dogs around here". I smiled and thought: so THAT's what I've been smelling the whole time...
If it wasn't for John, tourists and neighborhood people would probably not visit this place so often. Big names lived there: Lauren Baccal, Leonard Bernstein and Judy Garland amongst others. But for some reason when you say "Dakota", you envision the most famous glasses in the world. That's where he lived, and that's where he was shot. no wonder everybody wants to see it and experience it. I'm sure even dogs leave him little messages saying "Happy birthday John". Or maybe they want to erase the blood from a sidewalk forever?
I just saw a documentary on John Lennon and his "realtionship" with US. government in the early 70-ies. Apparently, Nixon's administration thought Lennon dangerous for the whole existence of their big empire, because of his preachings about peace and love and no war philosophy. He was followed by FBI agents wherever he went, they tapped a phone line in his apartment ("I'm not a moron, you know. I've noticed there is a lot of maintenance reparation going on in the cellar of my house, and when I pick up the phone I hear strange noises coming out which where never there before. I think they want me to know they are watching me" - said the artist in a movie). He was even issued a deportation order from INS, which he of course fought, but it took him good few years to get his green card.
There is a sentence that concludes the film, very true in my humble opinion: "John Lennon represented life. Mister Nixon and Mister Bush, they both represent death". That's why I think it's no coincidence that films like "US vs John Lennon", and "Good night and good luck" were made right now. When we have another stupid, cruel and unnecessary "war on terror" where innocent people die again. Happy Birthday, John. "All we are saying is Give peace a chance", and we're not being heard. Yet again.

Regarding the pain of others

2006-10-04T13:28:00.000-04:00

Sometimes we need time to figure things out. It's never easy to start again. With every fall we get stronger, we pick ourselves up and fight again. What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger. It takes more than a job that failed to kill us, doesn't it? :)))
Hold on tight, D., A. and J. Things are going to get better, sooner than you think. Just believe in it.

Animal Planet

2006-10-02T12:26:00.000-04:00

Newport, RI

2006-09-25T14:16:00.000-04:00

Little peek into this beautiful place:

Some people were working out

Some were taking photos on the water

Others were sunbathing through milky fog

Yet others were enjoying the cliff walk

Vacation, vacation, lalala

2006-09-17T22:47:00.000-04:00

2006-09-11T17:42:00.000-04:00

Red Hook

2006-09-06T01:21:00.000-04:00

Cat in a hat

2006-08-29T13:05:00.000-04:00

Umbrellas of New York

2006-08-27T13:20:00.000-04:00

This happy family was trying to escape the sun under umbrellas. Today, as during the whole weekend, they would need protection against rain. Ernesto's in da house.

Mob scene

2006-08-23T12:06:00.000-04:00

American playground

2006-08-16T20:03:00.000-04:00

National geographic

2006-08-14T14:08:00.000-04:00

Dimanche a Central Park

2006-08-08T16:53:00.000-04:00

Asbury Park, NJ

2006-08-03T23:37:00.001-04:00

It's been a year

2006-08-01T11:19:00.000-04:00

Happy next year, babe. It's been all happiness so far...

Only in Woodstock

2006-07-25T18:05:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. Woodstock'69 happened in Bethel, NY; not in Woodstock. So what? That little town upstate New York still lives for old hippies and old hippies live in it. Although, they say that if you remember anything from Woodstock'69 you've probably never been there.

Cary Road

2006-07-21T11:05:00.000-04:00

Well, obviously somebody misspelled it. But I am waiting at the Cary crossroads. I miss him.

Viva Italia

2006-07-11T18:00:00.000-04:00

It was a great experience, this year's World Cup in Germany. The whole New York lived for it, for the whole month. I felt like being back in Poland. Kids were kicking ball with their dads, who for that whole month changed into little boys again. It was like "The twilight Zone". Thanks, New Yorkers, for making it such an exciting experience. See you in four years.

Love is in the air

2006-06-06T18:00:00.000-04:00

Sometimes we think the same thoughts at the same moment.

brooklyn bridge

2006-05-24T15:36:00.000-04:00

Praying to your cellphone

2006-05-18T22:33:00.000-04:00

Jose, can you see?

2006-05-10T15:37:00.000-04:00

peek-a-boo

2006-04-30T12:25:00.000-04:00

Spring Fling

2006-04-12T21:42:00.000-04:00

Tricycle

2006-04-08T18:09:00.000-04:00

Miss of the dog

2006-04-05T13:11:00.000-04:00

That happened a while ago (January, I think), but not everyone knows that we started Year of the Dog. That's according to Chinese calendar. When I look out the window now, I can see that - it's cats and dogs outside, pouring rain mixed with slushy snow. And it's supposed to be spring already. Well, we have to be patient I guess.

No compromise

2006-02-26T15:13:00.000-05:00

There are people who don’t care. People who sold themselves to a golden bull. People who struggle to get by and would do anything to change it. There are those who don’t care what they do, as long as it brings them money. Then there are people who just barely get by, who can’t afford vacation, luxuries, and their only self indulgment is dinner at Applebee’s once a week.
But there are also people who care. Call themselves artists, sometimes starving artists. Those are my every day heroes. In their forties, don’t have any regular jobs, working sometimes as carpenters or room painters, eating leftovers from somebody else’s meals, not having a bed to rest their bones on, sucking up all the unemployment they can from the government. Those people say: “That’s it. No more compromise. No more whoring. We’re artists. And won’t pretend we’re something else any more. If we can make it – great. If not – at least we’re doing the right thing. In the summer we can sleep in the park, or a homeless shelter in the winter. As long as we have a place to work on what we’re working on.” Chapeau bas, oh thou artists.

Coney Island

2006-02-05T18:19:00.000-05:00

Teletubbies

2006-01-23T14:59:00.000-05:00

Central Park

2006-01-15T23:48:00.000-05:00

In the winter strangely desolate, very private to walk and talk around. Or not.

Cheers

2005-12-28T16:35:00.000-05:00

Let the New Year bring more of the tastes, smells and feelings that I already know and love.

'Tis the season

2005-12-14T23:01:00.000-05:00

for love

Jingle bells

2005-12-06T23:54:00.000-05:00

Are going to sound in town really, really soon. But part of winter no less important than Christmas is... ice skating. In Bryant Park for example.

All the bears are hybernating

2005-11-17T15:02:00.000-05:00

The winter is on its way, so it's about time for all the bears, teddy bears and other wild animals to go to sleep. Long, wintery hybernation. Good nite, don't let the bed bugs bite, little bears.

Elizabeth Street

2005-11-09T23:46:00.000-05:00

Halloween

2005-11-03T00:24:00.000-05:00

Better than ever, thanks to Cary's green eyes and smile

To feel...

2005-10-27T00:34:00.000-04:00

Like a newborn. To miss the panoramic view of Montauk, to hear the sound of the ocean as we wake up, to remeber it in a small shell which doesn't have the right to generate any sound. To remeber all the hot sounds we generated from each other. To still taste him and the salty air by the ocean. To memorize the rain on our faces and the wind in our hair. Never to forget his warm hands and him breathing straight to my ear. To sleep beside him. To look for little lightnings in his green eyes, to hear him laugh, listen to him talk with his soothing voice.

That's what I want

Can I really miss a person so much, though we've only been apart for 12 hours? It's a whole day. Long, lonely day. Needed it. Now I regret I had it. Miss him, can't help it.

Let it be tomorrow already

Recipe of the month

2005-10-18T15:23:00.000-04:00

Send three short text messages before/at midnight. Just a little sample, in case you're lacking creativity:

Message one, sent Oct13@11:40PM: "Happy birthday 20 mins early (...) Goodnight (...) miss you this rainy night".

Message two, sent Oct13@11:45PM: "I just love we're together, babe. You mean so much, you always have(...) You rock my world".

Message three, sent oct14@12:00AM: "Happy birthday. See you soon".

After this is done, wait good few hours, without calling her or texting her cell phone, only to surprise her with a bouquet of beautiful, vivid flowers, which will be sent to her work place. Let her almost cry (cause she's so touched, and she's never had flowers sent to her before, and because it's just so oh so romantic), and then call you thanking profusely.

When that's done, take her to a Thai restaurant, order bottle of wine just for the two of you, and let her order crispy duck (mhmmm - delicious). After a meal and toasts, take her home and shower her with gifts (the more personal the gifts, the better - wouldn't be a bad idea to get her a photo album, preferably with all the photos you've taken of her over the months that you know each other - write something sweet inside, so she would always remember this moment). And then... well, don't let me be too explicit, but make sure she's moaning with pleasure. You can do it.

Next weekend take her on a road trip somewhere nice - preferably seaside, as it's known for its relaxing qualities (Montauk in Long Island comes to mind), and walk the shit out of her, and make her tired in all other ways, that only you and her will know.

The rest is silence.

Thank You, Cary

War of the Worlds (why can’t we just all get along?)

2005-09-27T15:10:00.000-04:00

Little girls in Morocco, Saudi Arabia, Syria or Egypt don’t play with Barbie dolls anymore – writes “New York Times”. They used to, but somebody, somewhere decided that Barbie dolls are too “western” with their clothes a la Hilton sisters, covering less than 5 percent of their rubber bodies and Christian values written all over their tiny plastic faces. Little Muslim girls wanted to play with Barbie dolls – but their religious parents wouldn’t let them. So one day somebody thought of a Muslim-Barbie doll. Of course, she’s got dark brown eyes and black hair. She looks just like her Western sister, only shares “Muslim values” with little girls’ parents. All Barbie dolls disappeared from the shelves of toy stores in the Middle East – instead, they are filled with brown-eyed Fullas. Fulla’s got the same size, shape and proportions, but wears a modest outdoor black abaya with matching hijab, or a white scarf and long coat. Of course she’s got beautiful, shiny wardrobe (sold separately), but for the public’s curious eyes, she’s coated and scarfed. The company that sells her also sells accessories – Fulla’s got her own praying rug, and a special cotton scarf, all in a trademark “fulla pink”.

So – dare I say it – could it be that after all, all little girls, Muslim, Christian, Hindu or Tutu, are the same all over the world? That we live in a global village, which is homogenized, pop-cultured and all the same in the core, but nobody seems to admit it? What’s the difference between me, wanting to play with a Barbie doll in the eighties, wanting to go to America and fulfilling my big American dream, and those little girls, who pray at the sunrise along with their Fulla dolls wearing the same exact pink as her older sister, Barbie, and dreaming of going to America someday, and being a teacher or a doctor?
Could it be a metaphor of the whole holy war that is going on between West and East? Is it possible that we are so similar we can’s stand it anymore, so we need to tell ourselves we are different? Who, when, and why told us that? Why Barbie doll and Fulla can’t just get along, have tea together and do some old-fashioned gossiping? They wear the same pink – they could exchange wardrobe and flirt with the same Ken (or Ahmed, for that matter). They could say their separate prayers and then meet somewhere and talk about whatever little and big girls usually talk about.
Or maybe I’m just being naïve.

One bridge too far

2005-09-19T18:06:00.000-04:00

(Photo of a Swietokrzyski Bridge in warsaw, by Arkadiusz Ziółek)
There’s a new Warsaw tour guide in stores. Written by three journalists set in Warsaw, it’s supposed to be an alternative to the boring Pascal-style “Warsaw at night” kind of a book. I didn’t get it in my hands, but read a review in Wyborcza, written by a guy whose opinions I respect, though not agree with most of the time. The guide is called “Warsaw – looking for downtown”. And from what I read, it’s got something to it – yet again, “something” very similar to New York – because obviously there’s no “downtown” in Warsaw. Most of the European cities have a distinctive “center” – call it downtown if you will – that is “it” – everything interesting, culturally, socially, and what have you, is going on in this part of town. In Warsaw, there’s downtown but, just like in New York, it’s a financial center, or a shopping mecca, not “the scene”. Where is the scene then? Nowhere, and everywhere, spread around in spots. Just like there are cool neighborhoods in New York, and not-so-cool tourist areas. What is downtown though? For some – East village, for others – Greenwich Village, yet some other others would choose Chelsea, with its Meatpacking district. Spread around, huh? Nobody in a healthy state of mind would say that Times Square is “the” place to be – most of people living in NY, hate it – just like nobody would risk calling the square of Jerozolimskie Ave and Marszalkowska St in Warsaw “downtown”, nor would they call it the Old Town.

New York is a city of neighborhoods (some say, disappearing neighborhoods – but isn’t it significant for NY to be changing all the time? I remember a couple looking for a church on Elizabeth Street, where their parents got married good 40 years ago. They were walking back and forth, checking the numbers on the buildings million times, and there it was – a huge apartment building, that replaced the Italian church) – when you cross the Vistula River (smaller, but dare I say it, prettier and dirtier than East River) you enter another world, old school, typical Warsaw, known for its character, and its pickpockets. Parts of Brooklyn seem like the old New York – parts of Praga seem like the old Warsaw. In some places in Praga, when you don’t know your way around, you can expect to get killed, or at least robbed, just like in parts of Brooklyn. There is a huge difference in the amount of bridges of Warsaw vs NYC - 8 against 28 – pretty big, I must say. But on the other hand, New York’s got two rivers, my lost city – only one, narrow in comparison.

I would love to get the tour guide in my hands – thanks to the authors for making an effort – and pay no attention to the critic – you write as you see it. Somebody will always bitch about it, especially when it’s not written by his friends ;-).
(to compare: Williamsburg Bridge, one of the 28 bridges in NYC)

Summer's almost gone

2005-09-14T21:48:00.000-04:00

And I want a bicycle. I want to feel the wind in my ears, I want to sweat and know it's for a reason. I want to go on a long trip with Him, explore the unknown. Well - we, as humans, want a lot of things, but a lot of things keep us from doing it. I want to have a bicycle, but: a) I'm afraid to ride it on the streets of NY b) don't want to buy it c) am afraid to ride it on the streets of NY.
Next to the bar, there's a memorial of a guy who got killed on the corner - he was delivering Peking Duck, when a truck cornered him, pressed against its huge body, and crushed unforgivably. When I was walking to work, I saw "Police line do not cross" all over the place. The body was long gone, truck driver went to cure his trauma to the hospital, and only witnesses were the broken poll with a parking hours sign on it, and a big brown stain. It was raining the next day - gently and mercifuly, nature cleaned the sidewalk as if nothing happened. The very same day somebody has put a white-painted bicycle on a corner, as a memento. Flowers were changed daily.
I'm afraid to ride a bicycle in NY.

Where ‘you from?

2005-08-29T14:50:00.000-04:00

Whenever I’m asked such a question, I have to think for a moment. What would be appropriate? Outside New York I’m from New York. In New York – from Poland. In Poland – from Warsaw. All of the answers make people look down their nose. Back in Poland, people don’t like us, “Warsovians” (Warsowers?) ‘cause apparently we’re snutty, patronizing, arrogant and not very honest. There was this famous tale about a guy form the ‘hood who apparently sold the Poniatowski Bridge to a poor provincial guy. Put it this way: I was born in Warsaw, my dad was born there, my grandma grew up there, and they weren’t like that. I had lots of friends, native Warsovians – none of the above applied to them. I’m not like that (or am I? One can’t be too sure these days); in college I had friends that were born in Warsaw – they were the nicest people you could meet. So – where is the stereotype coming from? Especially that there aren’t so many “true” Warsovians living there anymore. It’s the outsiders that ruin our reputation (I write “our”, but am not so sure if I can be still called Warsovian – although, as C. told me yesterday – “You can move a boy from Kansas, but you can’t move Kansas from a boy”), it’s suburbia moving to Warsaw, trying to act up and be successful no matter what. And, last but not least, our soccer fans. If you go to Lodz (there's a long history of competing between Widzew Lodz and Legia Warszawa) or Cracow, you better shut up when they ask you where you're from – or else you could be beaten up. I lived in Warsaw for 28 years, went to school there, had my first job there, first kiss (the Old Town – surroundings were nice, kiss – not so much), and then everything started to be the same. I started to choke. So I left. Came to New York. And what do I find here? Same shit. Whenever I meet a Pole living in Greenpoint, Ridgewood or Maspeth, they look down on me ‘cause I’m from Warsaw. Could not believe it! Even here, I’m called “Warszawka” (sarcastic way of describing Warsaw’s beau monde, the so-called “elite”).

Native New Yorkers are being patronized, too. Outside NY and in their own city. They’re being pushed over by the newcomers (and the GOP conventions). They have bad reputation (snobbish, arrogant, tough guys, smart asses, thinking how to rip you off) they – supposedly – aren’t very friendly. Two cities, two parts of the world. So different yet so similar.
I want to write about those two cities. Now I know why I chose New York to live. Cause it’s like Warsaw, in many ways; only bigger and better.

To be continued

Got my hands...

2005-08-25T10:28:00.000-04:00

...on a miracle.

Ratz and catz

2005-08-24T21:35:00.000-04:00

I can't even explain how lazy is the cat in that bar. Or probably she just doesn't care - rats, shmatz - she doesn't give a damn. And I like that about Rizo - she's not going to chase the rats just because some people have that image in their head. Who said that cats didn't like rats anyway? Maybe they're buddies, and that's why Rizo refuses to take care of the problem? Anyway - I love this cat, I even like her for not liking me. She's got right not to like anybody she wants.

Day of the Living Dead

2005-08-19T15:26:00.000-04:00

Black woman with a big black-and blue under her eye, wearing a rag-of-a-dress, was sitting on the bench in front of the bar, staring at people walking by. She sat there, waiting for god knows what. When the bartender was opening the gate, she thought: “Well, I’ll let her sit here for another hour, who cares – she’s probably homeless, let her rest old bones".
Half an hour later a guy in a camouflage jacket, military boots and an army-like hat came running, passed the bartender without saying a word, and went straight to the bathroom. She didn’t react, knowing the type: he’s gonna take a piss, then won’t order a drink, and won’t even say “thank you”. Whatever. To her surprise, he approached her after using the bathroom. She was ready to scream, seeing his bloody eyes, chunks of blood clots hanging from his cheeks. Yikes! – she thought, instinctively offering a guy some ice to put under his swollen eyes ; trying to be polite, although couldn’t bare looking at the guy’s face. “Thanks, sweetie, I’ll be fine. Can I just trouble you for a glass of iced water?”. She gave him the water and went back to her chores, not asking questions (pardon me – to be just, she did ask the guy: “Long night last night, huh?”, for what he just smiled the kind of smile that meant: “I know it, you know it – what’s the point of rubbing it in?”). Meanwhile, the homeless woman wouldn’t move from the bench, like she was hypnotized or something. “OK, last chance, lady – I’m giving you another half an hour to move; if you won’t, I’ll have to intervene”. I mean, give the bartender a break – she wasn’t mean or anything, she just knew that a homeless person sitting in front of the bar isn’t good for business.
Half an hour passed, and two 40-year old guys came in for a drink. They ordered sodas (“it’s a fucking bar, for god’s sake – if you want to hang out, go to the senior citizen’s center” - she thought, as she always did in cases like that, but, as always, she kept her mouth shut - “at least they don’t look like Vietnam veterans who didn’t notice that the war was over”). Guys started to talk, and whether she liked it or not, barmaid overheard a big piece of their conversation:
- “So you’re gonna attack me from behind, right? This way you can bite me in the neck, and everybody would see it. Besides, when you will do that from behind, I have a slighter chance to defend myself, you know what I mean?”
- “OK – so I’ll jump on you, and first try to strangle you, my other hand holding your arm behind your back so you wouldn’t do anything. Are you right- or lefthanded?”
“Jesus! What a crazy day! Those are freaks, too”- thought the bartender in despair. “Is it a full mooon or something?”. Not even 15 minutes passed, when another guy came in to use the bathroom – this one looked like a burn victim, his face inhumane, with random hair sticking out of his ears, blood-filled eyes. Two guys knew this one: “Hey, Timmy – yo’re gonna eat Frankie alive, right? But as for Charlie, he’s gonna have to die in the explosion – it’s gonna be more spectacular, besides you can’t eat everybody – after a while it gets boring”.
Mulberry Street Production is shooting a rat-zombie-horror movie, using the bar as their office.

On men and pigs

2005-08-16T20:30:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday of July was hot and frying. Three customers were sitting at the bar for about two hours now, filling the space with the stink of their sweat and noise. They ordered Margaritas, rocks, salt, a double Jameson’s and a tiny beer in a rocks glass (the little beer for the little leprechaun in my stomach – explained Anton). “They must be rock stars – decided the bartender in her own mind – who else would be so full of himself not to respect other people’s nostrils to that extent?” The big girl who came along with Anton and Frankie suggested at the same moment:
- “Guys - maybe after this round we’ll go to a hotel and take a quick shower?”
– “Shower shmower” – laughed Frankie - “I’ve been wearing these pants for, like, 6 days straight – what good a shower would do?”
They were smoking, screaming at each other throughout the whole room. They were loud, sweaty and obnoxious – like the teenagers left home alone with the booze. But still, there was something fragile and sad about them – the unexpected, delicate words that they would say to each other, fascinating love and hate relationship between Anton and Frankie. As the afternoon went on, barmaid started to get attached to her troubled customers. Almost like a mother-figure, she was eager to please them, wipe the sadness off their faces, and brush off these stupid rock-stars masks. Then the comments on life became more and more devilish (Anton: “If I had a gun, I swear to god I would kill that bitch right now; I never believed that there are bad people in this world, I thought deep down we’re all good. Bullshit! She’s evil, evil I’m telling you”), and probably booze and speed snorted in the bathroom had something to do with the intensity of it all. They went from “Man, I love you, you’re my brother – get rid of that bitch”(Anton) to “I hate you, motherfucker, leave me alone, and go fuck yourself” (Frankie). Bartender had no idea what they were talking about, and, knowing better, she wouldn’t ask (if they wanted to tell her, they would). Somewhere around 6pm, a guy came into the bar, looked at the rock’n’roll crowd, and asked Anton: “Aren’t you such and such, by any chance?” (the bartender couldn’t make out the name, it was way too long and complicated). “Yeah, man – we’re having a tour in New York, playing at the Bowery ballroom – you should stop by”. The guy shook Anton’s hand and went back to his beer and a book. “Excuse my ignorance” – started the bartender, busing the table of a stranger – you know those guys? Cause I serve them since noon and have no courage to ask what band they are from. And now it would be even more awkward…”
The next morning they came again. This time without a girl. Same clothes, same oily hair, same order: Margarita on the rocks, salt, Jameson’s neat, and a mini-beer. “How did it go last night?” – asked the bartender, knowing well enough that last night’s gig was a disaster. Some guy from the audience started to insult the singer, and he couldn’t get over it. So instead of playing, the band was just badmouthing the audience and vice versa. They played maybe half an hour altogether. “It didn’t go so well – said Anton – cause people are fucking pigs, and dogs and even worse than all the animals together”. “Well, they are – but do we care about animals’ opinions as much as we do about people’s? Since they’re pigs, you shouldn’t let them bother you, cause you’re not a pig. Are you?” Anton didn’t answer. The next concert of Brian Jonestown Massacre in New York went much, much better from what I heard.

Instead of a fortune cookie

2005-08-16T17:51:00.000-04:00

A friend at the bar gave me a note. there was no cookie attached to it, but it still looked like a wishing-well from a fortune cookie. And I have a feeling that he was right. This time and always.

I don't want to be Paul Newman

2005-08-11T20:17:00.000-04:00

We were watching "Cat on a hot tin roof" at the bar, starring Liz Taylor and divine Paul Newman. Dave Johnson asked me all of a sudden: "If you had a choice to be someone else, who would you want to be?" "How much time do I have?" - I asked, knowing that this one is not going to be an easy one. "As much as you want" - said Dave, then returned to the movie and another of his "final cocktails". As I was washing the glasses and putting them away, I started to think. Mother Theresa? Great human being, selfless, helpful - a saint. But she only lived for others - I couldn't, or else I would become bitter. Leszek Kolakowski? Great philosopher, huge mind, exceptional personality, yet humble, very warm and simple at the same time. Nah - even though the million dollars he recently received from the Library of Congress made me think twice - not him, either; He's a bit too old, I like being 30. I also considered John Paul II, then checked negative remebering the obligatory celibate. Albert Einstein? Let's see - a genius, very good sense of humor I heard, little bit odd, but still very down-to earth for a genius. Yes, that's a close call. I was just about to open my mouth with the answer, when I changed my mind and, trying to buy some more time, asked Dave: "You? Who would you want to be?". "Him - he said, pointing at the screen as Paul was getting drunk even though Liz begged him not to - I want to be Paul Newman, always wanted. Look at him: he was gorgeous, talented, had beautiful blue eyes, everybody loved him then. When he got older, people still loved him, and his eyes didn't bleach. He's 80, has more hair on his head now than I had two years ago, and is married to the same woman for 47 years. Now he's making pasta sauces, good ones at that, sells them all over, and gives all the profits to charity. He's the perfect man: has got looks, sense of humor, brains, and heart. I have only brains and slight sense of humor. That's it - I want to be Paul Newman."

Listening to him, I agreed. Paul is the perfect man. And then it dawned on me: why would I want to be a perfect man? Why would I want to be a man in the first place? And who wants to be perfect? Perfect is boring. I like my own laziness, my "don't wannas", my moodiness, my lack of perseverance and my stupid rebellions, I even like my own problems. I cry a lot, laugh a lot more, can't sleep at night, have been down and broke, have been successful. It's a shitty life I have at times, and a beautiful one at the same time (just have to flip the coin). Yes, I had my heart broken, not once, not twice, but it's still beating, and is beating super fast lately, thanks to a certain Him (thank you, my heart, for your inexhaustible healings). So If I had a different life, I would not meet my friends, I would have different parents (for what? Mine are a pain in the ass, but I love them anyway), wouldn't be in New York, wouldn't have known and loved Warsaw. No. I don't want to be Paul Newman. My humble me is enough for me.

Counting my blessings

2005-08-02T23:02:00.000-04:00

It's the little things that matter in life.
Like a little dance to Tom Waits' song.
Like Him getting milk for the morning coffee.
Like Him buying her a toothbrush cause she forgot about it.
Like drinking coffee and watching beautiful photos He took.
Like text messaging, hotter than the sun...
Those little things that make you want to get up in the morning. Thanks, Life - keep'em coming ;-)