By Rosemary Kalikow

“Don’t you want to be alive to dance at my wedding someday?” asked my 18-year-old son, Brett.

My husband and I were up in Cambridge for the first parents’ college weekend. Brett was apparently majoring in Jewish guilt at Harvard. “How can a mother possibly reply to that question?” I thought as I reluctantly snuffed out the cigarette I was smoking. It’s not that I hadn’t tried quitting before. I had, in fact, stopped smoking when I was pregnant with Brett, but ran to buy a pack of cigarettes the day I returned from the hospital. Twice I’d attended a “smoke enders” course at the 92nd Street Y. I’d get down to smoking two to three cigarettes a day (from a full pack), but then I’d have a bad day at work and start puffing away. I’d gone to see a hypnotist. I can’t say whether I was put into a trance or not, but when I left his office I couldn’t wait to light up. I tried Nicorette gum, then started smoking cigarettes along with the gum. The nicotine patch was also a bust.

Quite truthfully, I never stopped because I really didn’t want to give up smoking. For 30 years, cigarettes were my best friends. They calmed me when I was anxious. They enabled me to overcome my desire to snack, thus helping me stay thin. They were my comrades when I chatted on the phone. They were my companions when I went for a walk. They remained my best date in a social cocktail setting.

Then my favorite newscaster, Peter Jennings, announced to the world that he was diagnosed with lung cancer from smoking, and died soon thereafter. How could that be? He was so vibrant and strong. Then my son challenged me to stay alive for his wedding. This was throwing down the gauntlet, especially since Brett hadn’t even started dating a girl yet. I might have to wait years for that wedding to materialize.

As a final effort, I got acupuncture. Not a traditional Chinese technician, but rather a Jewish doctor named Naomi Rabinowitz. It seemed like an interesting combination of Eastern meets Western philosophy. Each session, I lay down on a table while she stuck needles into various parts of my body, including my head. “This really isn’t painful,” I would think to myself, as she turned out the lights and I slumbered for the next half hour. I was glad, however, when the needles were removed and I got Chinese herbs to take away my withdrawal symptoms.

During those six weeks, I did not have my usual withdrawal jitters, nicotine cravings or weight gain. I did quit smoking all cigarettes.

It’s been four years now without even a puff, yet I still walk by a newsstand and get such a yearning. I know that if I have even one cigarette I’ll be hooked again, so I completely stay away from this evil addictive weed.

My son is now 22 and a college grad. To my great joy, he has not only started dating but has fallen in love with a fabulous young lady. They’ve been a couple for two years now. I wonder if this might be the one. I can’t help but ruminate, how many more years will it be before they want to get married? There isn’t even a remote chance that I’ll pick up another cigarette until I reach that milestone. Then I’ll have to ask myself, “Don’t you want to stick around for grandchildren?” 

–
Rosemary Kalikow was a talk show producer at ABC and Court TV Network for 25 years. She is currently working as a freelance writer in New York.

A native Californian, I now live and work on the Upper West Side as a full-time nanny. My workday is spent pushing a bright pink stroller, passing strangers I will probably never meet.

Still, I didn’t give a second thought to helping a high school kid who dropped a $10 bill on the ground while strutting to his headphones. I picked it up and ran down the block after him, the baby shouting, “Faster, faster!” as I tried to catch up.

That same week, I was shopping with my friend Gina when a girl in a studded black hoodie rushed past me, a $20 bill falling to the linoleum floor behind her. I darted after her.

“You could’ve kept it. This is a recession,” Gina said.

“No way, it’s not my money,” I responded.

Being in a recession shouldn’t mean humanity regresses as well. In a city that can seem rather overwhelming, I still believe in trying to do what is courteous and considerate, even in the smallest of ways. Like pulling someone aside to tell them if there is food stuck in their teeth, or running after a person who drops lunch money.

Two weeks later, my gal pal Scarlett and I were braving the cold, trying to hail a cab on Fifth Avenue. My teeth chattering and paralyzed by a swirling breeze, I watched as Scarlett sprinted down the block in 4-inch heels after an available taxi van. She hopped in and we leaned back in our seats feeling warm, thankful, relieved. I saw a piece of paper on the floor and scooped it up without looking, suspecting Scarlett dropped it while stepping into the cab. It wasn’t until we passed under a traffic light that I glimpsed  a balding man staring back at me, a stoic expression on his face. It was Benjamin Franklin on a $100 bill!

Was it coincidence? Luck? Karma? I can’t say. All I knew was that I wanted to spend it in a generous manner. I mentally went through my options: hand it over to the driver, donate it to Haiti relief, take Scarlett out to dinner. As I envisioned my friend running in platform shoes against a 25 mph wind chill for me, the decision was made.

“Are you sure you want to share it with me?” Scarlett asked.

Her question made my decision all the more satisfying. That is the neat thing about New Yorkers: They are often surprised when you do something kind for them.

Instead of going out for cocktails, Scarlett and I dined at a French restaurant. We took a picture of good ol’ Ben and sent him back on his way through the Manhattan currency exchange.

Buying lunch one Friday soon after, I placed my $15 change in a shallow coat pocket. Standing in the drugstore only a minute later, I felt the money was gone. I backtracked, but it was rush hour—probably 50 people had strolled in my steps within that time. Maybe a morally crooked person saw me drop it and, saying nothing, claimed ownership of my Manhattan moolah. Or perhaps someone found the abandoned cash and it really helped him or her out that day. I’m inclined to believe in the latter. Many of us may be strangers in this city, but practicing compassion adds up to a lot more than dollars.

–
Sarah Elder is a writer living in Manhattan and working on her first book. The other day she found another $6.

As would be expected, such an offer attracts hordes of New Yorkers, with the most resolute opera fans arriving as early as 10 a.m. to assure their place in line. The line itself is quite a scene, a miniature New York, complete with eccentrics, local politics and plenty of kibitzing. There are young professionals in suits, little old ladies in fur coats, couples sitting next to each other silently passing back and forth sections of the Times, students from Julliard analyzing scores, packed lunches from Fairway and Zabars and foreigners reading books in their native language. Every kind of chair-like apparatus imaginable is used to avoid sitting on the floor. On opera Tuesdays, I have my own routine to deal with the rigors of the rush line. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Check. Bottle of seltzer? Check. Plenty of reading material? Double check. Over the course of numerous rush lines, I have developed

The author and his father, rush ticket regulars at the Met. Photo by Daniel S. Burnstein

demure line habits. I treat it as if it were study hall, a chance to catch up on reading and get some work done. My father, on the other hand, believes in a more convivial approach, often striking up conversations with our line-mates, using slight variations of the nightclub classic, “Do you come here often?” as a conversation starter. I’ll leave the line to get a cup of coffee and when I get back, my father fills me in on the details of
our neighbors.

“She’s from Japan, told me about a great noodle spot in Midtown, likes to snowboard.” Or, “See that girl in the front of the line? She’s from Austria, got here at 9 a.m.!” The limited number of rush tickets makes your position in line crucial, and people often perform head counts upon arrival. It also makes operagoers extremely vigilant of any surreptitious activity in the line.

“People sneak their friends in all the time,” one rush line veteran told me. “They say they’re just talking, they’re not going to buy tickets, but they do get tickets, and then the people behind them are out of luck. Like these guys,” he says, pointing to a group of people in front of us. “They weren’t here an hour ago!”

The opera line is like a sociological experiment in self-governance. With no central authority to regulate it, the people themselves are the police. My father and I don’t possess such a misanthropic view and tend to believe in the best of people. Patrons who are talking to their friends are just talking to their friends. At the same time, we secretly hope that others will bring swift justice to brazen line intruders. At around 5:30 p.m., the line begins to tighten as people prepare for the tickets to finally go on sale. When the box office does open, the whole process is over in a flash. People new to the opera scamper over to seating diagrams to find out where they will be sitting, while the serious opera buffs know simply by looking at their seat number: “Row M, seat 26, hmm, not bad, although I would have preferred row L, seat 24.”

After the line, there is about a two-hour break before the opera begins, just enough time to grab dinner and return the beach chairs to the closet. The rush tickets are given out in consecutive order; often you’ll find yourself in close proximity to your newly minted friends from the line.

“There’s the woman from Japan,” my father points out at intermission. “I’m going to ask her what she thinks about this production.”

I just stay seated and read the synopsis for the second act.

As Tuesdays at the Met continues, we learn more opera etiquette each week. We know when to clap (and more importantly, when not to), have acquired more discerning ears—“The soprano was a little shrill, no?”—and recently, I was even brave enough to shout my first “bravo.” My father and I are now regulars on the opera line, and with that we often run into other rush habitués.

“Remember the line for Carmen? That was crazy!” my father says to Christian, from Paris.

“It was,” he answers, “but not as bad as La Boheme.”

We both nod in agreement.

–
Lucas Corcoran is a jazz performance major at the City College of New York. He also writes and edits for the college’s newspaper, The Campus.

This luxurious outfit, however, is not for jogging on the treadmill; in fact, the soft, thick fabric and sagging lines suggest the very opposite of physical activity. Bryan was instead recognizing my favorite weekend ritual: puttering around the house.

To be clear, puttering is not about being lazy, nor is it “dawdling,” which is about delaying something you should do. To putter is to move aimlessly, usually indoors. We zone out much like we’re stoned, but are in motion and vaguely productive. I know quite a bit about this. For as long as I can remember, I have puttered once a week, usually on Saturday. My mind, jelly by week’s end, regains its shape, and I feel rejuvenated—ready to get back to work, ready to be social or ready to dawdle about something really important, like eating a whole grain or calling my mom back.

Here’s a quick seven-step guide to a rewarding putter:

1. Carve out enough time. I block out at least four hours, so I can be loose with the time. I avoid goals or plans unless it’s to create a new iTunes playlist (“Moody” or “’80s TV Theme Songs”) or to craft a limerick for a relative’s birthday card so mine stands out from my brother’s and sister’s. I dress comfortably for the indoors—thick socks. No pajamas. I am not sick, nor a child.

Mat Zucker mid-putter in his gray velour tracksuit. Photo by Andrew Schwartz

2. No need for a plan. Puttering means wandering rooms of my apartment, sitting down and standing up at will, petting my dog and watching him eat, rubbing my ankles, re-tagging my LinkedIn contacts, looking at friends of friends’ Facebook photos or calling my friend Adam from college at work. When he asks what I am up to, I don’t have to say, “Nothing.” I now can say, “I’m puttering.” Same goes for updates on Twitter.

3. Change your mind mid-stream. One minute I am re-folding my jeans in light-to-dark order when, for no apparent reason, I feel compelled to compare the filmography of Joan Allen and Annette Bening on IMDb.com. Staring out the window is a good bridge from one activity to another for me. It’s like dreaming wide awake. Plus, there are pretty things to see. Like trees and birds. Or if you live near the High Line, a peep show in the Standard Hotel.

4. Accomplish minor tasks that make you feel good. For example, I might clean out one single desk drawer, untangle my headphones’ earpiece, group my books by spine color and label plastic bins with “White T-Shirts” and “Travel-Size Bottles.” If it turns into spring-cleaning, however, I stop immediately. Puttering is not chores. That’s why I hire a housekeeper for alternate Fridays.

5. Nosh versus lunch. When puttering, I don’t eat full meals, but I also don’t eat right out of the pretzel bag or frozen yogurt container. I prepare a nice plate like cheese and crackers, and I slice an orange and use a napkin instead of a paper towel. Coffee’s good at first. Wine is better later. I think about all my food allergies, compare my restrictions to my sister’s celiac disease and imagine how different my life would be if I could eat tomatoes. And then I think of Dan Quayle.

6. Enjoy light entertainment. Real Simple magazine and reruns on cable of The Devil Wears Prada keep me focused enough, but I save full novels and new movies for “Mush Day,” which my mother-in-law’s friend coined as a full day to curl up on the sofa with a big book. Internet quizzes of which celebrity I am most like are good since they have a quick payoff (Michael J. Fox before the Parkinson’s). Or if I am feeling intellectual, I play a game comparing lead stories in USA Today (“Boy Reunited with Dad”) to the New York Times (“Democrats…”).

7. Unexpected upsides. Relaxed, my mind now goes places it hasn’t visited in a long time. I discover a new, useful app for my smart phone (NYC 311), a new neighbor’s window to peer into (he’s cute!), a new favorite color (mauve) or simply notice my toenails are uneven and do something about it. Clip.

Everyone should putter now and then. We would be more pleasant to be around because we are relaxed, but we’ll also have something, albeit modest, to show for it. I was thinking of starting a puttering website, but that’s just too much effort. Instead, I’m hoping Bryan will next get me slippers. n

–
Mat Zucker is a creative director in advertising who putters around in Chelsea with his partner Bryan and dog, Ezra Pound.

In 1994, I was one of five female producers at Live with Regis & Kathie Lee. Regis would often come into our meeting and request a specific guest, always a sports star. I consistently volunteered to take the assignment because the other female producers had no idea who he was talking about. Fortunately, I had a secret source at my disposal: my precocious 7-year-old son, Brett, who knew everything about sports. I immediately dialed my son’s grade school and got him out of class and on the line.

“Brett, Regis wants me to book Jerry Rice. Who do I call to get him and why is he important?” I asked.

My son irreverently referred to me as “Rosie” rather than “mom” when he asked if I was living under a rock. “You didn’t watch the Super Bowl this weekend? Jerry Rice helped win the game for the San Francisco 49ers with 10 catches and three touchdowns. He’s a great wide receiver,” Brett said.

Rice was booked for the following Monday, and Regis told me his vision for the segment: sit-down interview followed by a football pass between Reege and Rice on Columbus Avenue. No problem.

On the day of Rice’s arrival, I went to the ABC guard and said, “I’m going to need you and a couple of other large guards to hold back the crowds when Regis and Rice come out for a football pass.” He looked at me with attitude as he proclaimed, “We are not authorized to go outside of this building.”

There wasn’t another staff person who was free to assist, so I sought out the largest cue cards I could find to use for barriers.

Rice was handsome, upbeat, well-
spoken and engaging—a producer’s dream. As the tête-à-tête was ending, I ran outside with my giant cue cards and started shouting at the crowds to move back. Regis threw the football. Rice ran to the opposite side of the street. All of a sudden, a giant construction dude jumped in front of my cue cards and knocked the football out of Rice’s hands. All I could think about was how upset my beloved Regis was going to be. I dropped the cue cards and started pummeling the guy as I screamed obscenities at him.

When I re-entered the studio, the audience started to applaud and cheer: My maniacal behavior had been caught on camera. My incredulous son, who had never heard me raise my voice in anger or even use a curse word, meekly asked, “Was that really you out there?”

Someone at the news desk apparently thought the incident was humorous and WABC aired the clip during the evening news sports report. Then Regis, who never missed an opportunity to milk a segment gone awry, decided to re-air that same clip—in slow motion—the next morning.

I’m sure there isn’t a soul today who remembers this incident, except for my now-grown son. Every year when the Super Bowl comes around, Brett loves to come back home to watch the game. He never fails to toss a football my way while quipping, “Here’s to a Jerry Rice catch.”

–
Rosemary Kalikow was a talk show producer at ABC and Court TV Network for 25 years. She is currently working as a freelance writer in New York.

The last thing we want when we surface is to feel like we’re still down below. But, thanks to the ever-present scaffolding blighting our sidewalks, the city often feels like one long tunnel. The line between below ground and above ground—which used to be the sidewalk—is blurred.

Despite all that, I’m not here to write about the misery of seeing yet another scaffold going up. I’m here to write about the joy of scaffolding coming down. And what an unexpectedly glorious, uniquely New York moment it is when you happen upon it.

Before we get to that, a little clarity. When I say scaffolding, I’m referring to the steel pole structures, about one-story high, that butt out from building facades, covering the entire sidewalk. Atop, they’ve got wood planks and lots of men speaking a frenzied combination of Spanish, Polish, Slavic and sometimes even English. Walking through these structures is not dissimilar to walking through a mineshaft, right down to the dim light bulbs spaced every eight feet. (Occasionally, after midnight, you’ll encounter a solitary red bulb. Not sure what the point is, aside from terrifying you and your dog by making you feel like you’re on the set of Saw VI.)

Confession: I’ve been mislabeling these structures. Technically speaking, they’re called sidewalk sheds, but only by Department of Building employees, sidewalk shed manufacturers and building supers. I learned this from my own building’s super, Angel, when I walked outside one morning and saw half-a-dozen guys unloading a truck full of poles and planks in front of our Upper West Side building. “Oh no,” I uttered. “Scaffolding.” “You mean the sidewalk shed?” Angel said.

Why I thought my building would be spared, I don’t know. There was a silver lining, though, however slight. Maybe Angel could answer a question that had been tugging at me for quite some time: Why were these scaffolds—I mean, sidewalk sheds—in front of every other building in the city? When one comes down, another goes up. I assumed it was due to the renovation craze.

“All buildings over six stories have to repoint their facade every five years,” Angel said. “It’s a city code.”

Well, he got it mostly right. According to Department of Buildings website, Local Law 11/98 mandates that “the periodic inspection of the exterior walls and appurtenances of buildings greater than six stories in height… shall be conducted at least once every five years.” Inspecting, not repointing, is the mandate. (Yes, I had to look up appurtenances—“any built-in, nonstructural portion of a building, such as doors, windows, vents, etc.”) But, as most of these buildings are pre-war, that almost always leads to repointing, or replacing the mortar joints between bricks. So if it seems like this cycle of scaffolding is never-ending, that’s because—with more than 12,000 six or more story buildings in the city—it is.

New Yorkers need light, crave it like seedlings. We judge our apartments by how much light we get (one of the first questions we ask a realtor). We choose to walk on the sunny side of the street, crossing if need be. A sidewalk covered with scaffolding robs us of our prized light. Especially if it’s part of our normal going-to-work, going-to-the-gym, walking-the-dog route. Bright, open and scaffold-free one day, dank, claustrophobic and scaffolded the next. We mutter to ourselves and trudge through it, wondering how long it will be up. Repeating the ritual day in, day out, month after month, sometimes for a couple of years. We get used to it, eventually accepting it as part of our everyday surroundings.

Then one day, we’re walking down the same stretch and something feels different. It hits us. The light, that is. We feel the sun’s rays and look around and notice the scaffolding is gone. With only a few rust stains here and there on the sidewalk as proof it was ever there in the first place. And, as crazy as it sounds, we’re elated, basking in the glory of this previously nondescript, now beautiful stretch of sidewalk, ignoring the rat poison traps and smeared dog poop. It is a sublime New York moment, one out-of-towners would never understand. And one, per Local Law 11/98, we get to experience all over again in 2014.

–
Chuck Pagano is currently working on a collection of short stories. He can often be found playing fetch in the West 87th Street dog run with his indefatigable chocolate lab, Bailey.

Bang on a Can Marathon
Tired of the same old same old? Check out 12 hours of non-stop mind-bending music from some of the weirdest international musicians including Ryuichi Sakamoto, Bill Frisell, Paul Hillier, Andrew Cyrille and Henry Grimes, all behind the Bang on a Can All Stars. (May 31, World Financial Center Winter Garden, 200 Vesey St., 718-852-7755; noon to midnight, FREE)

Benihana, a young, male Japanese Chin, does his best Kiss imitation. He was rescued from a Missouri puppy mill. For more rock star looks, visit www.caninestyles.com. Photo by Christopher Appoldt

SummerStage
Take a break from staring at sunbathers and softball players on the Great Lawn and get over to SummerStage for see a free show with M. Ward, Mike Watt & Nels Cline, Bela Fleck or Ginuwine. You’ll have to pay to see TV on the Radio, the Indigo Girls or Explosions in the Sky, but they’re worth it, right? (June 5 to Aug. 15, Central Park Summer Stage, enter park at 63rd St., 212-360-2756; times vary, FREE)

Celebrate Brooklyn!
Get a blanket and a Frisbee and head over to Prospect Park for some of the best free shows of the summer. David Byrne opens the season on June 8 to play some stuff he’s done with Brian Eno. Don’t miss Dr. Dog & These United States on June 27, They Might Be Giants on July 11, Buckwheat Zydeco on July 24 and a screening and sing-along of Purple Rain on Aug. 6. (June 8 to Aug. 8, Prospect Park Bandshell, 9th St. & Prospect Park West, Brooklyn, 718-855-7882; times vary, FREE)

Vision Festival
The 14th Annual multi-dimensional downtown arts festival includes more than 50 music and dance performances in one week. Quit pouting about the defunct JVC Jazz Festival and get over to Vision for some free jazz and a glass of bourbon on the side. Don’t miss the tribute to Philadelphia jazz legend Marshall Allen on June 10. (June 9 to 15, Abrons Arts Center 466 Grand St., 212-254-5420; times vary, $20 to $30 per show)

Madison Square Music
Starting in June, the crowds in Madison Square Park might not be there for Shake Shack. Well, not just for Shake Shack. The Madison Square Music series opens with a performance from Loudon Wainwright, his sister Sloan Wainwright and daughter Lucy Wainwright Roche, and throughout the summer other events include a concert from Missy Raines and The New Hip paired with a barbecue pit, as well as Grammy-winner Raul Malo. (June 17 to Aug. 5, Madison Square Park, www.madisonsquarepark.org; times vary, FREE)

Make Music New York
Celebrate the first day of summer when hundreds of musicians in New York (and more worldwide) all take part in the Make Music Festival. There’s plenty going on, but we’ll be front and center at Governor’s Island when more than 70 local punk bands beat each other up in the sun. Take the ferry over and help all the bored girlfriends cheer some bands. (June 21, various locations, www.makemusicny.org; 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., FREE)

CityParks Concerts
CityParks presents free concerts in every borough throughout the summer. Some highlights include Sugarhill Gang at Queensbridge Park in Queens on July 14, Man Man at East River Park in Manhattan on July 16, KRS-One at Crotona Park in the Bronx on July 22, Frankie Negron at Red Hook Park in Brooklyn on Aug. 4 and Raekwon at Mahoney Playground in Staten Island on Aug. 12. (July 2 to Aug. 26, various locations, www.cityparksfoundation.org; times vary, FREE)

South Street Seaport Music Festival
Nothing beats getting a 32-ounce beer at Jeremy’s Ale House and walking over to Pier 17 on a warm Friday night for a free show—DJs go on first, bands follow an hour later—with the city at your back. This year’s Seaport schedule features Black Moth Super Rainbow, Blank Dogs, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Obits, Superchunk, Versus, Casiokids and more. (July 3 to Aug. 14, Pier 17, Fulton & South Sts., 212-732-7678 www.seaportmusicfestival.com; 7, FREE)

Afro-Punk Festival
Launched in 2005, this festival features music, film, skateboarding and more. Previously concerts have included Janelle Monae and Little Jackie, and this year’s lineup will feature Earl Grey Hound, a repeat performance from Monae and eight days of inspired film programming. (July 3 to 7, Brooklyn Academy of Music, 30 Lafayette Ave., at Ashland Pl, Brooklyn, www.afropunk.com; times vary, FREE)

RiverRocks
Watch the sun go down behind some indie-rock favorites at the annual music series at Hudson River Park’s Pier 54. This year’s headliners include Matt & Kim on July 9, Ted Leo & The Pharmacists on July 23 and Yeasayer on Aug. 13. (July 9 through Aug. 13, Hudson River Park, Pier 54, Perry & West Sts., 212-627-2020; times vary, FREE)

Rock the Bells
Get over to Jones Beach to see a reunited House of Pain play with Nas, Damian Marley, the Roots, Common, Big Boi (OutKast), KRS-One, Reflection Eternal (Talib Kweli & DJ Hi-Tek) and the RZA. (July 19, Nikon Theatre at Jones Beach, Long Island, 516-221-1000, www.jonesbeach.com; time TBA, $40.50 to $197)

All Points West
If you can afford putting up with Coldplay fans and drinking corrals, get out of the city and take the ferry out to Liberty State Park for a three-day lineup featuring great bands of the past, present and future. Headliners include the Beastie Boys, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Vampire Weekend, Tool, My Bloody Valentine, Gogol Bordello, Coldplay, Echo & the Bunnymen and MGMT. (July 31 to Aug. 2, Liberty State Park, Jersey City, 201-915-3440, www.apwfestival.com; noon to 11:30 p.m., $89 a day, three-day pass for $199)

New York Philharmonic in the Parks
For a week in July, the New York Philharmonic plays outdoor shows at Central Park’s Great Lawn (July 14 and 17), Prospect Park in Brooklyn (July 15) and Van Cortland Park in the Bronx (July 16). You’ll hear selections from Mozart, Beethoven and Mahler. (July 14 to 17, various locations, 212-875-5656, www.nyphil.org; times vary, FREE)

Lincoln Center Out of Doors (see interview below!)
The annual festival returns with live music, dance, puppet shows, readings and parties. Highlights include the Aug. 6 “Hip-Hop Generation Next” event with a performance from Sierra Leone’s Bajah and the Dry Eye Crew, as well as the Aug. 8 performance from post-punk pioneers Liquid Liquid. (Aug. 5 to 23, Damrosch Park, Amsterdam Avenue at W. 62nd St., www.lincolncenter.org; times vary, FREE)

Charlie Parker Jazz Festival
Frank Wess Quintet, Gary Bartz, Papo Vazquez Pirates Troubadors and the Dred Scott Trio will all perform during this two-day festival dedicated to bringing big-name jazz performers into the parks—Harlem’s Marcus Garvey and the East Village’s Tompkins Square—that Parker lived and worked near. (Aug. 29 & 30, Marcus Garvey Park, enter park at 120th St. & Madison Ave., and Tompkins Square Park, enter park at 10th St. & Avenue A; 3, FREE)
————

Free, Global and Out of Doors

By Nick Broad

With the 26th Annual Roots of American Music mini-festival, Dave Brubeck, an orchestra of 200 electric guitars and many more performers, Lincoln Center Out of Doors is expecting at least 200,000 visitors this year. We chatted with Bill Bragin, director of public programming for Lincoln Center, who puts together the festival. The following transcript has been edited.

This is the second season that you’ve coordinated the festival. How are you taking to it? I’m loving it. It’s really great to have this broad a palette to work with. This year there are several new spaces, including the Broadway Plaza in front of Tully Hall, and a new grove of trees in front of Lincoln Center Theater. To celebrate these new features we’re commissioning a brand new marching band, called the Asphalt Orchestra, performing in different locations each night. They use classic marching band instrumentations, but play both entirely new music and new arrangements of works by Frank Zappa, Charles Mingus and Björk, among others.

Twenty-eight events in 19 days. What’s the hardest part of setting that up? Endurance. It’s a densely packed season. You might see it as a festival, but for us each act is its own event. We have artists from India, Brazil, Russia, Mali, Korea and all over the United States, and we want to treat each of them with same care.

What acts are you personally most excited to see? I don’t book anyone I don’t like. We tried the 200-guitar orchestra last summer, but the weather didn’t hold up, so I’m really looking forward to seeing it work this year (Aug. 8). I’m also very close to Stew and Heidi Rodewald, who are doing new interpretations of Broadway shows (Aug. 19). Closing out the event is Mazel Tov, Mis Amigos: The Lost World of Latin-Jewish Sound (Aug. 23), which is about the secret Latin-Jewish connection, and a lot of fun. But I’m honestly excited for all of the shows.

How do you choose the artists? I cast a wide net. We’ve been having many talks with non-profit organizations. There are a lot of ideas thrown around. When I used to run Joe’s Pub, I must have programmed around 3,500 shows. It’s about keeping your eyes on what’s happening, 365 days a year.

What is special about the event? Our cultural hybrids are quite unique. Some people are doing very traditional music, but we’re also making a statement that our roots are very entwined and entangled; it’s very dirty down there. The Dave Brubeck Quartet is playing with Simon Shaheen, a Palestinian oud player, which is a sort of Arabic lute (Aug. 5). Mazal Tov, Mi Amigos has a mambo Yiddish feel. The Texas Tornadoes (Aug. 23) are Tex-Mex pioneers, and the Louisiana Renegades mix Cajun and Creole music (Aug. 23). This is something that is quintessentially New York. All of thee artists could only come together here.

Lincoln Center Out of Doors takes place Aug. 5 to 23 at the Broadway Plaza, Damrosch Park, Hearst Plaza, Josie Robertson Plaza and South Plaza at the Lincoln Center. Visit www.lincolncenter.org for more information.

I was a college sophomore and was home for winter break. My city friends were away for the holidays, so I was stuck celebrating New Year’s with my 13-year-old brother, Spencer. Before leaving for a party, my parents placed a champagne bottle in the refrigerator. “Only a sip for Spencer,” my mother instructed.

College had made me a champion beer drinker (back then the drinking age was 18), so I was disappointed to be spending the biggest party night of the year shackled to a minor. While jealously imagining that my friends were standing three-deep at a bar getting drunk on watered-down drinks (yes, this was my idea of a good time), I became resigned to watching Dick Clark on the television in my parents’ Upper East Side apartment.

My brother and I ate dinner at a local diner. I had a tasteless veal parmesan, while my brother ate an especially greasy chicken souvlaki, washed down by a strawberry milkshake, that he insisted was really Bisquick and milk. Afterward, we retreated to my parents’ apartment to plan the evening.

My brother wanted to watch the ball drop live, but I saw a trip to Times Square ending with my having to fill out a missing person’s report (13-year-old Caucasian male, last seen disappearing into a frenzied crowd of pickpockets and drunken tourists).

“Does the operator say happy New Year, when you call time at midnight?”
Spencer asked. He was referring to the telephone time service, with the monotone female voice that would say, “at the tone eastern daylight time will be…”

“What a great question!” I said. “Let’s find out.”

We decided to make the crucial call from a telephone booth outside the Plaza Hotel. The Plaza was a favorite spot for us, because our parents would take us to the hotel’s Trader Vic’s restaurant for special occasions. The location would also allow us a glimpse of the Central Park fireworks display that would begin at midnight.
At 11:30 we set out on foot for the Plaza, which was 20 blocks away. As midnight approached we began running. With a few blocks to go Spencer had fallen far behind. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him standing over a garbage can regurgitating his dinner.

Panicked, I sprinted over to him. “Are you all right?” I asked.

He looked up from the garbage can, laughing hysterically.

“C’mon!” I urged. We ran to the telephone booth, both of us laughing all the way.
As I reached into my pocket for change, the fireworks went off. We were too late.
In the 30 years since then, my New Year’s Eves have mostly been unremarkable: a black-tie party, or a casual affair; a kiss at midnight, or a lonely sip of champagne; a drunken walk home, or a search for a taxi, with a freezing wind slapping me into sobriety. I have sometimes thought about calling the time lady at midnight but never got around to doing so.

Spencer moved to Los Angeles after he graduated college. Every Dec. 31 we talk over the phone, with one of us always noting that for a three-hour window we will be living in different years; this observation—much like our quest to hear the New Year’s Eve telephone recording—being a joke about the significance we place on marking time.

Unfortunately, Spencer and I will never find out if the time lady acknowledged the New Year. Telephone companies discontinued the time service years ago.
Trade Vic’s and the Plaza Hotel (converted into condos) are also gone. But the lousy diner where Spencer and I ate our greasy New Year’s meal is still around.
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Ben Krull is an Upper East Sider and essayist.