Tag: Manhattan

Chewing the…Hash

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One of the reasons I feel so lucky to be a writer is that I get to share my “world” with so many other folks, readers. These days the blogosphere affords the opportunity to chat up some of the really cool people and stuff I encounter in my “real” world, too.

If you’ve read this far, apparently you’re listening to me, which is a very good thing. 😉

Because I am bursting at the seams (no, not that kind of bursting though admittedly I’ve been hitting the Tasti Delite kinda hard) to talk about a great running club I just joined, the New York City Hashers.

Apparently hashing is tres international. It started in Malaysia in the late 1930’s, and there are groups throughout the US as well as the globe. In NY, the Harry’s Hashers chapter draws members mainly from Manhattan. Basically the group leader, called a Hare, chalk marks a trail for the rest of the runners, The Pack, to follow–or not follow. The run begins at a bar (excellent, yes) and the endpoint is yep, you guessed it, another bar. Most of the runners wait until the finish to imbibe. Participants toss about $15, Hash Cash, into the communal till, which covers beer and noshes for the night.

Last night was my first hash, and frankly I can’t wait to go back next week. About 50-60 runners met up outside of Suspenders Bar in Manhattan’s Financial District. Once the run got underway, folks got serious. While the web site gives the impression that the running part of the event provides an excuse to drink and socialize, don’t believe it. Harry’s hashers are seriously fit, with the majority of last night’s group running sub-nine minute miles. There’s also a nice mix of ages (anything from twenty-somethings to sixty-somethings), singles and married couples, backgrounds etc.

The approximately six-mile “trail” wound through the Battery, China Town, the Lower East Side, Alphabet City, and Gramercy. Sweaty but smiling, we ended at Plug Uglies, a gem of a dive bar in the East Village named for the New York street gang immortalized in Martin Scorsese’s GANGS OF NEW YORK. Ironically the present day pub is a popular watering hole for New York’s finest–note the police shields festooning the dark paneled walls–as well as running club friendly.

We hashers basically took over the place. Pitchers of icewater awaited and after downing the requisite rehydrating plastic cupful, most club members were ready for stronger stuff. Later (as in several Stellas later), there was toasting or rather roasting of the hash leaders, the trail, and specific members, including a dalmatian with a purported flatulence problem–or was that her owner? Last but not least for a turn in the spotlight were the hash “virgins” including…yep, you guessed it, Yours Truly, who had to down beer shots while the group cheered and chugged. Afterward, the leaders broke out the food, played shuffle board (a popular bar fixture), told runners’ “war stories” and just generally had a good time.

Whatever your outdoor passion–running, cycling, golfing, walking or even gardening–it’s spring for gosh’s sake, so make like the Nike ad and “Just Do It.”

Happy trails,

Hope

Happy Memorial Day

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Memorial Day weekend in Manhattan overlaps with Fleet Week, made famous (or is that infamous) by that great “Sex and the City” TV episode. Literally thousands of U.S. sailors, marines, and Coast Guardsmen (and women!) make port in Manhattan for a week-long celebration that includes public visitation of the ships.

I can’t say I’ve celebrated Fleet Week Carrie Bradshaw style–ever notice how *she* never seems to have revisions, certainly none that interfere with her social life? Still, when I have gotten out to soak up the spring sunshine, it’s been fun seeing tribes of crisply outfitted Navy men and women roaming the city in packs, savoring their shore leave in America’s most exciting city.

On occasion it’s also been heartwarming. Take yesterday, for example. I was headed east through Greenwich Village when I fell in behind a foursome of white-suited sailors. A bright-eyed elderly woman stepped in front of me, not as it turned out to knock me to the curb.

She reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and shoved a twenty dollar bill in one young sailor’s hand. “This is for your service, to show my appreciation for all you do to keep this country safe. I want you all to have a beer on me. It’s the least I can do.”

Random acts of kindness and senseless beauty isn’t just a catchy slogan that looks good on car bumpers. Some people out there, quite a few, actually, are living the dream.

Happy Memorial Day,

Hope

Girl in the City Part II: The Art of Living

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It’s Friday–again–and as I’m mapping out my weekend, my thoughts keep circling back to last weekend.

Since moving to Manhattan in February, I made a pact with myself to experience at least one new “thing” each week. In that spirit, last Friday and Saturday nights, I braved the elements (think wind, rain, more wind, more rain) and trekked out to the Chelsea Art Gallery District. Having been to many art gallery receptions, but none before in Manhattan, I have several observations to report.

First off, there’s no food, not a morsel, not a scrap, not a nosh, not a nibble. But then food is messy and distracts from the main purpose of attending a gallery reception, which is of course…

Being Seen. (And you thought I was going to say viewing the art, silly you).

Thankfully, there is wine, though usually stain-proof white. That said, one gallery had run out of even that by the time I arrived–for shame!

The reception experience varies greatly by the personality of a) the gallery and b) the artist or group of artists being shown. The first reception on Friday night, a series of black-and-white photographs with a sobering theme and a heavy political message, definitely attracted the older, intellectual set–think jeans and Ducoti leather wear and unapologetically gray hair.

Saturday night mere blocks away I attended two more openings, the first a family affair complete with strollers and young children racing around. Stain-proof white wine and designer water was surely the way to go. Yours Truly couldn’t fathom how the heap of soil–oops, I mean “art”–set in the center of the gallery floor managed to survive those eager-to-explore little fingers, but it was still intact by the time I left.

Gallery reception #2 featured “an exploration of the totality of color” and lots of “installations.” (Memo to Self: Manhattanites “in the know” get mightily miffed if you mispeak and say “sculpture.”) Yours Truly thought the um…”installations” amounted to old boards with nails hammered in–artfully hammered, not haphazardly hammered, but still–though naturally I kept such Simian thoughts to myself.

The attendees at this final reception were more gliterrati than intelligentsia, which is to say there wasn’t a scrap of denim in sight. Think “haute couture” as in off the runway, not the rack. I chatted briefly with one dashing fortysomething man, a student of the German artist whose work was being shown, who explained to me that he now has assistants who do his hammering for him. I also made the acquaintance of an exquisite older woman accompanied by her Peekaneese. After some mild coaxing, she (that would be the dog) performed several rolls for me in the center of the wide, glossy wood floor.

The dog really took to me, the people not so much. For one thing, I seemed to be the only one actually looking at the art–oops, I mean installations. Secondly, it was probably pretty apparent to the sponsors I wouldn’t be asking for a price list anytime soon.

As to what’s on tap for this weekend, that largely depends on the weather. I think I’ll likely skip the galleries this week, though when I do go back, I’m hoping to see at least one friendly familiar face.

I bet that dog has more than one trick up her sleeve.

TGIF,

Hope

Random Reports from City Girl on the Street

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Okay, it’s officially spring in New York, which is to say gray, windy, and cold
–still. Despite the scrumptious array of spring clothes on tantalizing display in the storefronts of West Village boutiques and the designer chains on Fifth–think crayon colors, bold geometric patterns, and belted waists–like most of my fellow Manhattanites, I’m still tooling around in turtlenecks and wool.

Still, it’s spring, the pollen is in full bloom, and all in all people including Yours Truly are walking the streets with a uh…spring in their step. (Sorry, couldn’t resist).

Tomorrow, Saturday, I’m the guest speaker at the Romance Writers of America/NYC chapter brunch at PJ Clarke’s. I’m still working out my presentation, but it’s basically a not so shameless take-off on Donald Trump’s THE ART OF THE DEAL. In my case, I’ll be speaking on the ART OF THE RE-DO, both in writing and yes, in so-called “real” life.

PJ Clarke’s is on the waterfront, so here’s hoping its warm-er. Afterward I’m on tap to meet a friend and hit a couple of the Chelsea art galleries having receptions. I doubt I’ll buy any art but hey, someone has to help out with all that free wine. 😉

Like my Strokes of Midnight heroine, Becky Stone, I check my online horoscope and yes, tarot readings just about every day. It’s a big world out there, make that a big Universe, so I like to cover all my bases. I’m happy to report the Hanged Man, Hermit, and Death card (yikes) are no longer showing up in my Love & Relationship sector!

See, it really must be spring…

Happy Weekend,

Hope

Contests Galore!

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Hi All,

It’s cold and windy here in NYC but spring is on its way (it is!), and it seems contests are cropping up like those yet-to-be-seen springtime flowers. Best-selling romance novelist, Samantha James is running a super contest from her web site starting March 25th. Twenty contest winners will be chosen beginning the day after the contest, and continue into April. There will be more than 150 winners, and best of all, most winners won’t need to wait a whole month before they get their prizes!

Included among the giveaways are coverflat keepsakes for Untamed and yes, an autographed copy of Vanquished.

Also, Diesel E-books is carrying copies of my Harlequin Blaze books and offering a 20 percent off coupon, so if you prefer your palm pilot to print, please take two ticks to check it out.

Hope

(Almost) springtime in the city…

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Well, I finally up and did “it,” made the move from Small Town, Virginia to Big City Manhattan–as in The Big Apple. On 2/14, yes, Valentine’s Day, my best friend, nickname of “Suz,” helped me drive my (sedated) cats the five hours or so north to our new home. The cats did great. I on the other hand, was a wreck.

But now we’re all here, unpacked (well, mostly), and settling in (well, more than mostly). I’ve traded in my SUV for a new set of wheels, a shopping cart courtesy of The Container Store. My routines, like regular sleep, have fallen by the wayside, but now that things are settling down, I’m determined to get back on track. So far I’ve only gone running once in two weeks, but in my defense, I’ve been getting organized, which burns a bunch of calories, I’m sure. And it’s been cold here, really cold and windy, too.

Still, things are settling down, settling in, slowly but surely shifting into place, not the old place or an entirely new place but, I hope, some happy melding of the two. Yesterday I attended my first RWA-NYC chapter meeting. What a nice group of not only women but men, too. Once chapter business was cleared away, Regency author Megan Frampton gave a talk on Plotting by the Seat of Your Pants. (Really, is there any other way?) Along with having a music industry background, funky cool glasses, and a wardrobe of all-black sweaters I would kill for, Megan had a lot of very helpful things to say about plotting a book. She will be one tough act to follow.

But follow I will. RWA-NYC has invited me to be their May brunch speaker, which is really super nice considering the treasurer took me aside during the break and tactfully reminded me I apparently am late with my renewal dues. I can’t say what my topic is (no, I really can’t, I haven’t a clue), but there will be food and drink and friendly faces. And May means spring in the city, so I’m sure I’ll come up with something.

In the meantime, I’m on deadline. Yeppers, Every Breath You Take, my super sexy Harlequin Blaze due out this October 1st was actually due in to my editor yesterday–as in Saturday. While I don’t flatter myself that she made a special trip into the office just to read my book, still, I really need to wrap things up so I can leave the apartment and go play. (Oh yeah, and getting paid would really help with those chapter dues). 😉

Spring really is close. The little quadrant of park space I can glimpse from my window is dappled with sunshine and though the people walking through that park and around it are bundled to the gills, still, there’s this feeling of anticipation, new beginnings on the horizon, of well, spring.

Springtime isn’t just a season. It’s a state of being, a way of looking at life–and not just looking on from the sidelines but stepping into the thick of things to savor, embrace. Yes, it’s still cold here and windy, and I’m guessing most of March will be spent wearing winter coats.

But in my soul, it’s 75 degrees and yes, spring.

Hope

The holidays: all pumped up

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Foremost, to all of you who’ve called “time out” from the holiday bustle to email me nice notes on my December holiday book, Strokes of Midnight, thank you! Your kind words mean more to me than any critical praise. For those of you who missed my previous Christmas book for Harlequin Blaze, It’s A Wonderfully Sexy Life. “Don’t worry, be happy.” 😉 It may be long gone from brick-and-mortar bookstores, but you can still order the book online, including trusty ole amazon.com.

Fortunately Strokes of Midnight is a two-day read, leaving oodles of time for tackling all those other great books waiting to be read. (Christmas started out as Twelve Days, remember). My personal pick is Claire Cook’s Life’s A Beach. Claire is the talented author of Must Love Dogs as well as several other books celebrating not only romance but the quirky beauty of all our relationships. Life’s A Beach is chockful of romance, to be sure, but there’s also plenty of sister love-hate to go ’round as well as pets–you gotta love a heroine who names her cat “Boyfriend.”

You can read my “review” of Life’s A Beach at a wonderful new site/ezine: Writersarereaders.com.

P.S. Don’t forget…My special holiday co-contest with fabulous fellow Harlequin Blaze author, Cathy Yardley draws to a close this Monday, December 17th, so please check back for the announcement of winners. In the spirit of celebrating the charms of giving *and* receiving, each winner will receive two extra sets of books to give as gifts.

PPS. I can’t believe I left this out of my NYC posts. Check out the above photo of Strokes of Midnight (center), my New York-over-the-holidays book taken, yes, in New York over the holidays!

You get what you need…

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Last Friday my local Athenaeum threw a book launch party to celebrate the release of my Harlequin Extreme Blaze contemporary romance novel, The Haunting. The book is set in downtown Fredericksburg, VA, the 40-block historic district, to be exact. So was the party. Not in the heart of Manhattan where I’d always imagined my book release party would be, if indeed I was fortunate enough to have one but in Fredericksburg, the small town where I’ve made my home for the past six years–and counting.

Fredericksburg is very much a character in The Haunting much like Manhattan in the Candace Bushnell bestseller, “Sex and the City.” I jokingly refer to The Haunting as “Sex in the Itty Bitty City” to some people’s amusement and others’ chagrin.

If you haven’t already guessed, I’m a huge “Sex and the City” fan–the television series, that is. I faithfully watched the episodes when they were first broadcast on HBO, and I watch them in re-run most weeknights.

During the program’s last season on the air, I gathered with girlfriends every Sunday night to drink Cosmos (what else) and nosh on themed snacks as we counted down to the final episode. Like the ubiquitous spin doctors who rear their “talking heads” post-televised Presidential speech, we’d hang around afterward to dissect the underlying truth of that night’s episode, which invariably held far reaching implications for our own less-than-perfect romantic lives.

Most devotees of any TV program have their personal favorite episodes, and I’m no exception. I have a few. I actually thought the producers did a great job with the final episode and though it’s probably not politically correct to admit it, I really liked that Carrie ended up with Big. Heart of gold aside, Aiden was always a little too earthy for me and as for Carrie’s other main love interest, fellow author John Burger–“Burger”–well, he always struck me as a whiny wimp. I mean, dude, your book tanked. Get over it and write another one. (All joking aside, Burger would never make it in romance fiction. We romance writers are made of sturdier stuff.)

The mention of Burger brings me to one of my top favorite episodes, the one where Carrie’s publisher throws her a posh Manhattan style book release party. There is a Cosmo bar, an enormous blow-up poster of the book cover featuring Carrie looking fabulous in short black coat dress and f-me-pump designer high heels, and the two Tweedle Dee Tweedle Dum publisher reps cooing over our girl as though her book’s the greatest thing to roll off the press since Gutenberg invented it. For her part, Carrie sports a chic shorter ‘do, a killer party dress and even more killer designer shoes–either Jimmy’s or Manola’s, we’re not sure.

But all is not exactly paradise. Friend Samantha’s face is an angry orange from a chemical peel gone bad. Other friend Charlotte is down-in-the-mouth about…something and Miranda is characteristically sarcastic albeit supportive. The guest of honor is dateless. Love interest John Burger shows up to wish Carrie well but despite the quantity of lingering looks exchanged, he leaves to go home to his girlfriend. Standing on the balcony staring onto the crowd, Carrie admits to herself she isn’t just alone. She is lonely.

She ends the night solo in a cab headed for home. The female driver learns she’s published a book and insists on stopping for a celebratory hot dog. The hot dog vendor, equally impressed with her accomplishment, refuses to let anyone pay. Sitting in the backseat of the cab with a sloppy hot dog in hand, Carrie suddenly realizes the night isn’t just kind of perfect–it really is perfect.

My book release party was held in a converted third floor artist’s studio with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto Caroline Street, downtown Fredericksburg’s main drag. Despite the conspicuous lack of traffic noise–okay, lack of traffic in general–I could almost imagine I was in a trendy converted warehouse in the Manhattan meat packing district. There wasn’t a Cosmo bar but there was some really nice wine and nice noshes to go with it and best of all, a bevy of good friends who turned out to celebrate with me along with a sprinkling of new faces who, like the cab driver in the “Sex and the City” episode, stopped in not to curb my enthusiasm but to share in it.

At the book signing earlier that day, I’d sold out of books, the book store’s copies and finally my own personal inventory. The party was the proverbial icing on the cake. Like Carrie, I didn’t have a date. Afterward, though, instead of going home alone in a cab, I went out with a group of friends to Bristro Bethem, our favorite downtime restaurant, where the owners Blake and Aby treated us all to a champagne toast.

It wasn’t exactly as I’d imagined my book release party to be–it was a hundred times better. Like the song says, “You can’t always get what you want but you get what you need.”

What times in your life turned out differently than you’d envisioned–only as good or better? Are there events you look back on with the 20/20 wisdom of hindsight and thank the Universe, God or so-called “dumb luck” for *not* letting you have what at the time you really, really wanted? Is there “someone” or maybe a collective of someones working 24/7 to save us from the hubris driving our all too frequently blind human desires?

Wishing you a springtime blossoming with needs fulfilled and dreams exceeded…

Hope