In the Kingdom

The triumphs and travils of the little kingdom of Camelot

Posts tagged NYC

82,405 notes


This fall, New York City becomes the first city in the nation to tackle the issue of girls’ self-esteem and body image. Recognizing that girls as young as 6 and 7 are struggling with body image and self-esteem, (over 80% of 10-year-old girls are afraid of being fat and by middle school, 40-70% of girls are dissatisfied with two or more parts of their body), New York City is launching a self-esteem initiative to help girls believe their value comes from their character, skills, and attributes – not appearance. 

[From loveandzombies]

(Source: capricornwholovesdanger, via thenthwave)


5 notes

Ok, guys, I’m assembling an NYC food giveaway.

Products I have in line to give away so far:

  1. Peanut butter from Peanut Butter Co.
  2. Chocolate-covered bacon from Baconery
  3. Brooklyn Brewery beer (winner’s choice!)
  4. ????? That’s where you come in ?????

Help me out with suggestions! 

Filed under NYC giveaway New York food foodie

7 notes

I just interviewed this woman about how she started an amazing Mexican artisan shop in the East Village. She has an incredible story.

I talked to her like we were old pals for two hours. Now I’m sitting on the patio of a coffee shop writing my whole story in a moleskin while sipping an Americano. In New York City. Is this real life? If it’s not, I hope I never find out.

Filed under New York NYC dreams do come true everything must belong somewhere i know that now that's why I'm staying here

3 notes

"That Sinking Feeling," part 1 in a series of vignettes/flash fiction about New York City.

Nothing ever happens quite the way it is expected to out here. Take subway watching: the metallic, caterwauling arm of the working world and those finding the overwhelming affluence of the Upper West barely—or entirely—unavailable, it rattles into the station opposite the idle car downtown commuters find themselves in. With a jolt, this resting train to Midtown and beyond runs the opposite direction, and it’s like falling out of a dream, waking up twitching and confused in the same place they were before distracted by their own slumber.

This feeling happens all the time, every day, to everyone far more than once. This city is flooded with that frenetic continuity, like water rushing to the necks of everyone brave enough to go outside until they are wading into a riptide, forgetting to breathe as they try to salvage cases full of bad memories, old habits and the vaguest glimmer of survival like a couple of dimes in a Financial District gutter.

This pristine, gray monolith has been ransacking youth and anyone with a penchant deep enough for desperation or a bump of coke since it clamored up from the shambles. It’s been housing petty miscreants and the “undesirables” ever since people of the world heard that Lady Liberty said something about huddled masses.

Huddled, though, implies a flock-like travel between its denizens, but if it’s one thing that it teaches them, it’s how to be lonely and how to live off it—similar to how it forces people to think smart about where they’re getting their next beer. There’s something about that deadening skyline—a bombardment of light and faint sounds someone could recognize even while trapped in the wilds of Jersey—that inspires the most primal bouts of lust and happiness as it’s slowly shrouded by an impending winter, and the streets and residents grow colder than a dead man dropped into the gaping mouth of the Hudson with a poisonous melancholy.

People here, though, have that one saving grace: They dream. Sometimes they get stuck—and some never get out. Sometimes they don’t sleep long enough, sometimes they don’t remember when they wake up, and ultimately, it’s part of that lonesome walk into the riptide holding ratty suitcases over their heads, but they still dream. Dreams in New York usually start when the sun sets and doesn’t get into REM until about 11. These are the kinds of dreams that quicken and become more tangible like the daylight itself. It all ends so abruptly, like the kind of nightmare that stirs the sleeper awake in a cold sweat, but something about it leaves them in a pleasant euphoria bereft of context. It’s fragmented, and the only reference point is falling out of a taxi, the neck-high floodwaters pushing someone out into the street, clutching a fistful of crumpled $1s and slurring about “having everything.” Of course they always have everything, even things as unattainable as the Upper West. If it is to be had, it’s here—if only just in a falling dream.

By Megan T.,

Filed under New York prose writing writer NYC