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Michael Jackson made the best cinema of 1991 with the music video “Black or White,” which was easily superior to any short or feature-length film released to the public that year. To find a comparable example of visual montage, you have to go back to one of Alain Resnais’ time-shifting études, the marriage scherzo in Citizen Kane or the chase-trial fugue in D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance. I combine musical and filmic values because “Black or White” ’s visionary approach to egalitarianism—ending with a still-miraculous sequence of genetic morphing and counter-balanced by a solo dance of frustration and rage—was a singular feat: Its constant rhythm was accompanied by a stacking-up of thrilling, provocative ideas.

For me, the economic crisis began last April 2nd. “We’re letting you go,” the office manager announced while standing in my doorway, on his way to another, more important meeting. Had it been a day earlier, I would’ve thought he was kidding. Actually, I wasn’t all that surprised. I’d been expecting it. Please don’t confuse that with dreading it: I hated my job. In this particular job’s defense, I’ve hated all my jobs. As an advertising copywriter—“With 14 vitamins and minerals, you can trust Cheerios for a lifetime of wholesome goodness for your whole family!”—that comes with the territory.

A multiracial group mills about, sipping Haitian rum from plastic cups inside a four-story building on Lenox Avenue. The humid spring night marks the first evening of the second run of the “Haiti in Harlem” film series at the Maysles Cinema and Film Institute, and the eclectic gathering includes Harlemites, Haitians, cinephiles young and old and Aboudja, a voodoo priest and drummer who’s been tapped to lead a concert after the film in the downstairs lounge of the pint-sized theater.

Wake up, New York! You’re supposed to be the city that doesn’t take any bullshit, the city that chews up the phonies and spits ‘em out! Are you really going to be bamboozled by a bunch of pseudo-hipsters from Portland, Oregon? Are you really going to fall for Stumptown Coffee? I’m an East Coast refugee myself, having just finished up four years of college here in Portland. I’ve been indoctrinated into its style and, more importantly, its most popular coffee roaster and chain of cafés, Stumptown. Since owner and self-styled coffee guru Duane Sorenson opened his first Portland roastery in 1999, he has overseen a massive expansion throughout the hipper zips of the Pacific Northwest.

While evangelical Christians might claim there’s only one path to getting on God’s guest list—repent your sins and accept Jesus as your savior—I found an easier way, without the repenting and the accepting and the fear of relapse: I’m a New York Yankee season-ticket holder. That’s how I discovered Joel Osteen’s “A Night of Hope” would be barnstorming at the Stadium last month, anchored at second base, flanked by a full-throated choir and televised worldwide. As a secular New Yorker whose phone number was long ago discarded by the faithful fold, I have no interest in disparaging those who seek the comforts of Christian Fellowship, but a worm of wonder did crawl into my consciousness when I received an email from the Yankees announcing the event.

Just west of Fourth Avenues longshuttered Brooklyn Tile Supply Corp., along the shores of the Gowanus Canal sits a neighborhood that seems to be waking from its grimy, industrial slumber. Flanked from the east by an expanding Park Slope and from the west by the Smith Street renaissance, signs of change have lately arrived to Gowanus in the form of summertime kayakers who are committed to the revitalization of its murky inland waterway.

The economic crisis hit the city like a fat kid belly flopping in the kiddie pool, and I, like many, have been surviving under a cheery banner of strife. In November, I was briefly hired (then fired) as a staff writer for a publishing house in Manhattan. Ever since then, unemployment checks have been my sole source of income.

The clienta young woman in her twentieshad opted for a Brazilian rather than laser removal, which is offered for the entire spectrum of skin pigments. Its biracial, Friedman added.

1. TEPLITZKY’S, THE CHELSEA HOTEL Feel like you’ve stepped into a Brady Bunch episode. The diner is located in The Chelsea, and the authenticity is frightening—with waitresses looking like something out of Twin Peaks.While the menu offers healthier stuff for breakfast (a protein shake), you can also gobble down chocolate French toast, Belgian waffles or pickled herring on a bagel with a strong black coffee in retro-cool pitchers. It’s probably the most comfortable place to nurse your hangover—far from the ching-ching of the slot machines.

A steakhouse, a Chinese restaurant, several bars and a Hilton are clustered near the corner of West 36th Street and Eighth Avenue. It’s a stark contrast to the shuttered storefronts, “For Rent” signs and grungy parking lots further west at Ninth Avenue. David Pincus believes it’s no coincidence that the Theater Building—which houses The Barrow Group, The Abingdon Theatre Company and The Workshop Theater—is situated at the heart of this revived micro-community.

THE CAST OF Hair was late. Instead of palpable political unrest, the tardy Broadway belters caused more anxiety in the crowd than anything else.When the young, attractive cast of men and women did arrive, they sang “Let the Sunshine In.” It’s got to be the first time in history that a free-love anthem was used to endorse the institution of marriage. That’s right: Instead of angry, fist-pumping protest, the love that dare not speak its name now holds concert rallies in the middle of Midtown.

BEFORE YOU REACH for the power bar or sports drink powder, maybe you should take a moment and see whats really in there. One of the main ingredients in your energy boost might actually be harming you. The culprit has always seemed so innocuous: soy.

We’ve noticed people saying things all the time about unemployment. I hear I’ll be making just as much as I made before. It’s great! I want to get laid off; I think they’ll pay me to be out of a job for years! I can work off-the-books and collect unemployment. I feel rich! But the facts don’t always match up.

Wherever you are these days, everyone’s chatting about cash. For those not familiar with the lexicon of finance, many concepts can seem baffling. While the era of The Big Swinging Dick is long gone, it’s still useful to know how to talk to Wall Street Man, if for nothing else than to know who to blame. To stay fully engaged and avoid a faux pas, here are a few terms that are often bandied about.

The smell of bacon and bleach fill most bodegas around the city. Scuffed wooden floors are proof of years of traffic. Cold cuts, 99-cent bags of plantain chips and greasy grilled cheeses are available at any hour, along with cold bottles of water and beer. But now the organic greens and perfect, shiny apples are replacing the crusty shops as they creep farther, expanding where there used to just be musty, dusty reliability.

My path to real estate riches began on the subway, when I grabbed a copy of a free daily rag one morning to read on the way to work. On the same day that Bernie Madoff pled guilty to the biggest investment fraud in Wall Street history, I was intrigued to find a full-page ad with the blaring headline: "HOW TO GET YOUR SHARE OF TODAY'S TRILLION DOLLAR RECOVERY."

It's friday night, and I’m headed to the East Side Club, one of the last two remaining gay bathhouses in New York City. Ostensibly a relaxation and social club for gay and bisexual men, it’s located on two floors of a non-descript office building on East 58th Street. I take an elevator to the sixth floor and wait behind a thick, Plexiglas window in a dark cell of a foyer, reminiscent of a vintage, blue movie theater box office. Posters for events such as the International Mr. Leather Contest, prominently featuring half-naked men, line the walls.

HOW MUCH DO YOU MAKE? It may be the most taboo question left in our society. And in New York City, where we discuss rents and religion with aplomb, the subject of money still freaks people out. While I’ve often been at a dinner party amongst friends and strangers and unraveled intricate sex stories, the thought of revealing my salary seems too illicit for public discourse.

About a month ago, Shay West sent out a message to one of her followers on Twitter: “Hope Tuesday is a beautiful green day for you! Trying to go greener for my son w/ autism.” These days, some people go green or organic to save the planet. But there are others like West implementing “green parenting” strategies in hope of preventing or combating developmental disorders like autism. While there is no consensus on the causes of autism or how to treat it, a growing number of doctors, parents, and experts in the field say that environmental toxins trigger and exacerbate autistic symptoms.

Thousands of New Yorkers will arrive at the South Street Seaport June 14 for New York City’s “Walk Now for Autism” which is a part the country’s largest grassroots walk for autism. The event is organized by Autism Speaks and run by families and volunteers all around the country, Canada and the U.K. The walk is family friendly, so expect the Seaport to have plenty of temporary tattoos and face painting for young children. The walk is between 1.5 and 3 miles and aims to increase awareness about the disorder and raise funds for autism research.