By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

I’ve had a taste of fascism. It’s called the M15 express bus, whose route goes north on First and south on Second.

Let’s begin at the beginning. I got on at 14th Street. Having just missed the local, I wandered up the block where a crowd was gathering. I figured it was a bus stop for the new limited line when I saw those machines on the sidewalk. I stood in front of one as it mocked me: “Go ahead. Try to figure out how to get a ticket.” (FYI: Customer ambassadors are no longer on hand to help.)

I’m pretty quick on the pick-up, so I pushed the silver button on the center panel, stuck my Metrocard in the slot to the right, and grabbed my receipt, which spit out on the left. (The MTA website offers an instructional video at www.mta.info/news/stories/?story=124).

While I was training myself on how this thing works, the bus had arrived and people were getting on through the front, middle and back doors. A creature of habit, I chose the front, where a clueless woman boarded and tried to use her Metrocard. I had one of those glad-it’s-you-not-me moments.

The bus driver, who had probably had this same, “But why can’t I use my card?” conversation more times that day (week, month) than one human being is meant to endure, directed the passenger, rather loudly, to, “Go get a ticket from the machine. What do you think they’re there for?” By the time the woman figured out the press button/pop in Metrocard/receipt pops out rhythm, the doors were closed and the bus was on its way.

Next stop: 25th Street.

“Get out your receipts,” we were instructed over the loudspeaker.

Sighs and eye rolls abounded. Everyone held theirs up in that, “I dare you to give me grief over this” New York way. Checking everyone’s ticket wasted a good 10 minutes. (Weren’t these buses supposed to save time?) While we were waiting, the woman seated next to me shared that this is how the bus system works in Europe. If I wanted to do things the way they do them in Europe, I would probably move there.

The inspectors left the bus and with them took one prisoner, I mean passenger. Yes, they had caught themselves a real, live non-receipt holder. The rest of us watched as Mr. Free Ride stood in the bus shelter attempting to talk himself out of the ticket that the fare inspector, unmoved, continued writing. I found out a summons is $100. Hardly seems worth it to try and beat the fare.

Along the way, we had a couple more, “But why can’t I use my Metrocard?” episodes. Those aside, we made it to 86th Street without incident.

Even though I traveled a straight run up the avenue, I got the 411 on how to get on a connecting bus: board through the front door, show your receipt and ask the driver for a transfer. Also, if you buy your machine-generated ticket for the express, but the local comes first, you can use it to get on that bus instead.

All and all, it doesn’t seem that complicated once you get the hang of the curbside machines. After all, we managed to get used to Metrocards despite years of carrying tokens around. And really, what choice do we have? Taxi fares are going up yet again.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Matchmaker, matchmaker, go back to L.A.

Bravo’s reality series Millionaire Matchmaker is filming this season in Manhattan instead of Los Angeles. The show’s star, Patti Stanger, will fit in quite nicely with those competitive New Yorkers who often don’t live up to their own hype.

We all know them: the colleague who sharpens a pencil and acts as though they’ve cured cancer; the friend who must one-up you even if it’s over one more slice of bacon on his BLT; and the mom who declares her child “gifted” even though his class rank or position on the team is no more impressive than anyone else.

Watching the program’s wacky west coasters embarrass themselves on dates has given me hours of amusement. Now that it’s in my own backyard, though, I’m not laughing.

First, let’s define “millionaire.” On both coasts, Stranger’s are not the high-society, captains-of-industry types, but more of the millionaire-next-store ilk. They aren’t exactly inaccessible; but, as are those who work paycheck-to-paycheck, often just too busy for “the hunt.”

Enter the abrasive, Jersey-born Stanger (note: the doctor cannot heal herself, and remains unmarried), who bills herself as a third-generation matchmaker with a phenomenal record of helping wealthy people find their soul mates.

Except that she doesn’t. What puzzled me from watching the L.A. franchise is her abysmal rate of failure. Why would anyone put their business on national television and week after week disprove their bragging rights that they are the best at what they do?

In the show’s first NYC episode, her challenge was to set up two owners of a very lucrative Internet businesses. The million-dollar man was 40-years-old and looking for a wife. Patti honed in on the problem: His usual choice of young, hot party-girl does not a Mrs. make.

She set up a mixer for him to meet more serious, accomplished, age-appropriate women, of which New York has a plethora. But also invited twenty-somethings. (Why? Didn’t she say they were his downfall?) Guess whom Mr. Creature-of-habit chose and whose date didn’t work out?

Stanger, like all those who screw up their assignments, looked for someone else to blame—in this case, her intern.

Her other client, the million-dollar woman, didn’t fare any better. This time though, Stanger laid the fault at the feet of the single-mother, who was deemed too picky. Then, like those GOING OUT OF BUSINESS store salespeople who can’t convince you their cheap wares are “better than Sony,” Stanger yelled at her paying customer, “There’s the door. Go.” She declared the rejected men “great,” even though they didn’t meet the client’s requirements.

Yet none of this stops Stanger from proclaiming, “New York needs me.”

Like we need another bagel store.

This is yet another NYC reality show that does us no justice. For her get-togethers, Stanger manages to find the handful of women here who don’t own a little black dress, as well as guys who don’t own suits. Giving her license, by the second episode, to snap with superiority, “This is the fashion capital of the world, yet no one knows how to dress.” Where is she looking? Not at the elegant denizens on Madison, or Boho chic-sters downtown or the tailored execs in Midtown. She also claimed that, “No one here gets mani/pedis or waxes.” How does she explain the nail salons on practically every corner?

If you really want someone to help you snag a rich New York spouse, forget Millionaire Matchmaker and seek counsel from someone who’s already done it for herself. Anyone got an email address for Melania Trump?
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

“Step right up, folks! We’ve got arcade games and prizes, stilt-walkers and circus performers, magicians, jugglers and a 50-foot Ferris Wheel!”

On Columbus Day, I took my daughter and her friend to the Park Avenue Armory, whose 55,000-square-foot hall was transformed into a fantastical carnival.

Traditionally, these traveling circuses were meant to bring relief from the tedium of daily life with attractions like the half man/half woman, contortionists and sword swallowers.

Although we enjoyed our time there immensely, these past couple of months has proved to me that Manhattan doesn’t need an actual midway to distract us, since a carny-like atmosphere is often created by our day-to-day, nonstop sideshows.

We now live in a post-Waiting for Superman world where people are appalled to “learn” what everyone has known all along: there are subpar educators out there who can’t be fired no matter how bad they are at their jobs.

Melissa Petro, the former sex worker turned New York public school art teacher, wasn’t one of them. She did her job well, was liked by her co-workers and students and was only punished by the school district when her past came to light.

I think what bothered many people more than her stripping and hooking was the fact that she openly talked about it, choosing not to let it be a dirty little secret of which she would have to live in fear of exposure.

Petro did the work needed to go from the world’s oldest profession to the noblest one, making her the perfect example of how people who have made a poor choice can actually turn their lives around.

What is the impetus for people to improve themselves or their situations if what they did before is always going to be held against them? I argued to my friends.

Mayor Bloomberg obviously didn’t agree with me and ordered the tenured-teacher out of the classroom.

Weeks later, I watched his press conference regarding an unrelated matter, where he declared that in this city, “tolerance defines us.” It was like looking in a funhouse mirror that distorts everything.

Next, you could have knocked me over like the milk bottle pyramid at which you throw softballs to win the giant panda. Two homophobes decided to gay bash a man in the Stonewall Inn—the birthplace of the gay rights movement, as well as the establishment where I believe the phrase “bash back” originated. Apparently, the assailants had not known the place’s history. They live on Staten Island—under a rock.

Then it was time for something as light and fluffy as cotton candy. The Kardashians moved in (temporarily, I hope) to open a clothing store downtown. Because this family will not blow its collective nose without cinematic documentation, their exploits will be a new reality show titled, Kourtney & Kim Take New York!

Lastly, there was the day I awoke to Carl Paladino on TV claiming to embrace the gay community, on the heels of saying that homosexuality was not “an equally valid and successful option.” He argued that someone else had written his remark and he hadn’t wanted to say it. But he did say it, as well as some cracks about the Gay Pride Parade. He apologized to the gay community, but lost the support of those who agreed with the original statement that he didn’t want to make in the first place. My head started spinning as though I’d just gotten off the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Well, no one ever said living here was dull. That’s part of the beauty of NYC; you can’t guess what’s going to happen next. Or in carnival parlance: Round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Behavior that gets kids detention now, could get them elected governor later.

“Pig.”

“Cheater.”

If these were the taunts of siblings at the dinner table, the parent would intervene and chastise, “That’s not a nice way for people to talk to each other.” A time-out would ensue.

If the exchange happened in school, the teacher would hand out detentions, where the students would write “I will speak respectfully to others” 100 times.

We tell children their unkind behavior is wrong, but our public officials name-call all the time while they’re campaigning, and it doesn’t stop after they’re in office.

On November 2, New York State will vote for its governor. Our choices? Carl Paladino, who photo-shopped opponent Andrew Cuomo in a shower to imply he’s a dirty politician, and Cuomo, whose party is equally adept at digital image manipulation, showing Paladino configured as a hog at a trough. Acceptable actions for grown men, but a faux pas if you’re 10? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

This below-the-belt behavior is hardly the handiwork of politicians alone; and don’t make the mistake that I believe it to be a “guy thing.”

In the new book The Twisted Sisterhood, by Kelly Valen, she dissects how nasty women are to each other, starting in girlhood. Its intent is to help put an end to the bullying issue, but like all other books, talk shows and special reports that have tackled the subject, this latest tome has its work cut out for it since there are so many television shows targeted to girls that glamorize adversarial, razor-tongued gymnasts, cheerleaders and fashionistas.

We tell kids to have manners, and to act like ladies and gentlemen. Yet if they behave to the contrary, there’s an opportunity to make 30K an episode on a reality show? I refer not just to the young and misguided who reside by the shore, but to so-called socialites who live in affluent places like NYC.

We may be doing our young a disservice by offering platitudes like, “Do unto others…” How will this train them for the future, when they’ll need to undercut others to move up in their companies? Sabotage their friends when a BFF has something they want such as a job or spouse, or humiliate a roommate by blasting personal business over the net? And how will they ever feel equipped to run for public office, like “the pig” and his opponent with “no cojones”?

Unfortunately, not all poor illustrations of “Do as I say, not as I do” that our children witness are “ripped from the headlines.”

A few years ago, I was on a school committee that collected funds from the parent body and divided it up among the staff for holiday gifts. Head teachers got more than assistants; support staff got an even smaller sum. After the first distribution, the director informed us that some of the staff was miffed at the inequity. I was quite tempted to reply, “You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” which was the constant refrain heard by my child whenever educators handed out everything from homework sheets to cupcakes.

Even though I felt justified, the only thing that stopped me was that I did not want to model how to be antagonistic and smart alecky. I wish I could say that I always thought through my actions and words to what kind of example I’m setting, but I can’t. If I could, it would be so much easier to blame the results on only outside influences.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

The New York Jets and Giants are back, and if, like me, you’re not a gridiron fan (or sports reporter like the beleaguered Ines Sainz), then when the men in your life start to talk about “the game,” it’s as though they’re speaking another language.

I’ve done some research into the verbiage used in this macho, rather violent contest, and found that Manhattan women may have more in common with football than we think. Here are some terms that can relate to our everyday, non-pigskin, Big Apple lives:

TWO MINUTE WARNING: What mothers and caregivers give their children when it’s time to leave any of our city’s playgrounds; what some employers believe is fair notice when announcing layoffs; and what our husbands and boyfriends need when we’re going to be late for the ballet at Lincoln Center, which they really don’t want to go to.

FUMBLE: Who drops the ball in your life? The co-worker who refuses to comprehend the meaning of teamwork? The guy who forgets to call when he’s going to be late? Sometimes—embarrassingly enough—it’s us, when there’s just too much to do and only so much time in which to do it. (See following example.)

SNAP: What we feel like we’re about to do when we’re scheduled to chaperone a school field trip, get to a doctor’s appointment on the other side of the park and host a dinner party for colleagues—all in the same day.

SAFETY: The reason we take cabs home late at night, jog around Central Park’s Reservoir in pairs, own dogs and carry Mace.

SACK: That baggy (often black) dress we’re forced to wear after we’ve overindulged on chicken wings and peanuts at happy hour, binged on Häagen-Dazs due to a breakup or downed too much take-out during those late nights at the office.

KICKOFF: What we do with our shoes (even if they’re Christian Louboutins) after a long day of doing everything the men in the office do, except in heels.

BUMP AND RUN: The move that sometimes is the only way to get through the crowds in Midtown, Bloomingdale’s or the cross-town bus, since “Excuuuuuse meeeee” doesn’t always do the trick.

ELIGIBLE RECEIVER: The rare NYC bachelor worthy of getting our phone number.

DEFENSE: What we play most of the time against cutthroat colleagues who keep trying to horn in on our assignments, other parents who think their child is an angel, therefore ours must be to blame, and, it goes without saying, the riders blocking the subway doors.

OFFENSE: What we have to be on when we want something (a job, an apartment, a parking space) and we have to go out and stake our own claim because no one’s going to just give it to us in this very competitive city.

SCRAMBLING: What we do many a morning in order to make that train, bus or deadline. Sometimes it’s the fault of the long line at Starbucks, but other times it’s because we’ve gone out the night before and overslept. Ooops.

TIGHT END: What we strive for with our workouts at NYSC.

FACE MASK: Often gooey and avocado-scented, they protect our skin against this borough’s air pollution.

PASS: What’s made at us, usually by omnipresent construction workers.

Xs & Os: Coaches use these to diagram players’ positions, but we know them as the hugs and kisses which we better get for letting our men watch those seemingly never-ending games on Sunday afternoons and Monday nights.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

I spent a week on the East End doing my own version of Eat Pray Love. I called it Eat. Play. Sun.

Feeling quite brand new, I understand how the change did Elizabeth Gilbert good, but for the life of me, I still don’t quite understand why she had to go to three different countries for a year to “wake up and marvel at something.”

I did that each morning when I opened my eyes to the Atlantic Ocean. Adding to the “marvelousness” was the salt air, the wind in my face while bike riding and long walks on the beach. Also, I didn’t touch a computer for a week—I know, I still can’t believe it either. I didn’t even do any writing.

Upon arriving home, I decided that I wanted to hold on to my good feelings. Who says you can’t be where you are normally and transform?

This is the greatest city in the world—and yes, it is expensive, busy and often stressful. But it’s also the place where people come from all over the country and world, embrace everything we are and begin anew.

The things that make this “the” place to live (the history, the architecture, the hustle and bustle, the diversity of people and neighborhoods) are the things books, movies and songs are made of.

I see no reason why Gilbert’s EPL-lessons can’t play out right in Manhattan.

EAT: OK. This one is a no-brainer. Seriously, pick an avenue. Choose a street. Decide on an ethnic cuisine, as well as a price point and her “no carb left behind” diet is right there waiting.

Even if we’re starving, we’re still willing to wait for a good meal, evidenced by the line to get into the new Shake Shack on East 86th Street. I think it’s safe to say that we New Yorkers already have the “eat” part down.

PRAY: Without getting into the Ground Zero mosque issue, houses of worship are everywhere. If organized religion isn’t your thing, there are plenty of opportunities to find inner peace through helping others (try www.ivolunteer.org), as Elizabeth did when she arranged for a single mother in Bali to build a house.

I see plenty of people running around with yoga mats, so you can jump on the “ohm” bandwagon as Gilbert did pretty easily as well.

The real beauty of Manhattan, however, is that you can find spirituality by genuflecting at the alter of culture and creativity in any of our many museums; get in touch with nature on any park bench; you can even rent a bike and ride around à la Elizabeth.

LOVE: There’s a reason why “I love New York” was our slogan for so long. There’s so much to do and see here.

You can also find love here. I know a lot of people will roll their eyes at that, especially if you watched Sex and the City, where single people were portrayed as crazy, false or non-committal.

New York is a small place with so many opportunities. You just need to be open, and I don’t just mean your heart. If you want to meet new people, go to new places. Again, Elizabeth went to Bali to find whom she was meant to meet. I truly believe you need not go farther than Brooklyn. My brother-in-law and his wife met on the 6 train. I know two people who met doing volunteer work.

Some have to travel halfway around the world to find what New Yorkers have around every corner: a chance for change.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

One reason I’ve loved living in Manhattan for the past 27 years is that I don’t need a car. Whenever I do, I rent.

I’ve always believed that I had the whole “car thing” down, so I’d shake my head in disbelief as my car-owning friends engaged in the insanity of alternate-side- of-the-street parking, monthly garage fees the price of studio apartments and having conversations with a guy whose name is embroidered on his shirt along the lines of, “It’s making a noise like, CACHUNGA. Think you can fix it?”

I swore I’d never become one of them, until this summer’s family circumstances dictated a set of wheels. I struck a deal with Hertz for 42 days that would test whether I could cope with a car.

On July 1, I picked up a white, 2010 two-door midsize Chevrolet Cobalt complete with GPS and EZ-Pass. With the cost of the auto, plus tolls, as well as the price of gas looming over us, I decided that even though I could park at Hertz’s garage for a “mere” $14 a day, I wasn’t going to add parking to our new list of expenses. Surely, it couldn’t be that hard to find a space on the street?

Within 10 minutes and only half a block from my house, I struck urban gold. Convinced now that I had car karma, I was positive there’d always be a stretch of curb with my name on it. And there was, even if it took hours to find.

“You’re becoming obsessed,” said my husband, Neil, six days into “ownership,” as I grabbed the keys at 10:30 p.m. just as our doorman was going off duty, hence freeing up his coveted spot in front of our building.

By day 10, parking fever had spread to Neil, who suggested he take our son to his Randall’s Island doubleheader via taxi, as not to give up the car’s amazing placement across the street from our house. A position I procured by stalking a woman leaving the corner Chase bank.

Although I appreciated Neil’s gesture, I had to laugh at the absurdity: One reason we got the car was to travel to the games, and here we were considering alternatives to relinquishing our auto’s valuable “real estate.”

“Lorraine doesn’t like driving, she likes parking,” was Neil’s response when someone asked me how week three was going. True. Parking gave me a sense of accomplishment. I was engaging in urban warfare and winning—most of the time.

“My sister’s going to park here,” said a college-age girl, who blocked what could’ve been my space, at one point during the experiment.

When Project Car began, Neil made me promise not to throw down with anyone over parking. So, I waved her off. Enjoy the spot. I’d find another.

By my fourth and fifth weeks, parking had become second nature.

As my sixth and final week came to an end, someone asked if forgoing the garage had been worth it. The $588 I saved didn’t seem as big a gain as my realization that there’s always an opportunity around the corner, even if you have to go around the block a few times before it appears.

On August 11, I pulled out of my spot to return the Cobalt, and as usual, there was another car sidling up to take my space. I was tempted to finally ask, “Would you jump in my grave that quick?” but already knew the answer: “Yes,” if it were big enough in which to park a car.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Oops, I did it again—I stood in line for Shakespeare in the Park, this time to see a fabulous performance of The Winter’s Tale.

I’ve attended this free outdoor event since 1980, using the same M.O. every time: get there at dawn to camp out. And every year I end up about 200 people back by the big rock. Hence, I always end up in virtually the same seats, which are in the section that could be deemed “the nose bleeds.” There were years I felt like they saw me coming and whipped out the same old seats just to mess with me. This year, due to an alternate side of the street parking matter that I had to deal with, I broke tradition and arrived “late” at 9 a.m.

My position was parallel to the north of the Great Lawn, just before the line turns off the path and veers uphill towards the west side. Farther back than usual, but for the first time ever I got to sit on a park bench. (I’ve always had bench envy of those who did not have to bring or rent a beach chair similar to the one I usually squirm in.)

As I sat for four hours, instead of my usual six or seven, I found that life at the back of the line is pretty much the same as it is closer up, except with a smidge more anxiety regarding whether I’d make the cut for tickets. That lack of smug assurance that seats would be scored actually added to the cachet and excitement of waiting.

Not only that, but the tickets I did get were two of the best my husband and I have ever had: middle section right on the aisle. My over-diligence in years past, that without fail reaped tickets but nothing more in way of perks for my early morning arrival, has made me question if being hyper conscientious—which goes way beyond the ticket line—is really worth the effort?

I’m always the first mom to hand in the permission slip and money for the class trip, even though the child of the last mom to pony up still gets to go on the outing. I pay my bills when I get them, even though ConEd doesn’t turn the lights off if you’re only a little overdue; also American Express gives you 10 days grace after the “pay by this date” stamp. Oh, and my last doctor’s visit ended with a need for a blood test. I arranged it for the same day it was requested, figuring the sooner I did it the sooner the MD would get the results. They reached him within a couple of days, except it really didn’t matter since he had left for vacation.

Of course, I’ve passed the need to get things done now on to my children. During the school year I start asking if homework is done before they’ve finished their after-school snack and, most recently, by insisting that they crack open their summer reading books before summer had even begun.

Clearly, there is a fine line between being a good Do-Bee and manic candidate of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Doer)—and I’ve crossed it.

Perhaps procuring Shakespeare in the Park tickets even though I showed up at least three hours after the “first responders” is the universe’s wake-up call for me to calm down. Not easy to do in NYC. Good thing I’m heading off to Montauk.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Last week I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s again for the first time.

Even though I can practically recite every line by heart, I viewed the classic with fresh eyes when it played at the Sunset Film Festival in Carl Schurz Park because I had just finished Sam Wasson’s behind-the-scenes book about the movie, Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.: Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and The Dawn of the Modern Woman.

The film is a light-hearted version of Truman Capote’s dark, rather bitter novella, and I love it. I always put aside the fact that Holly and Paul sleep with people for money, and chose only to see the depiction of everything that is fun, carefree and glamorous about striving to make it in New York. The Wasson tell-all has changed that for me.

Now I see a big ol’ mess that somehow turned into a masterpiece.

Let’s begin with the novel. I know it’s hard to make it in the city, but even Truman Capote, the cause célèbre of the literary world, found his manuscript turned down by Harper’s Bazaar, despite the fact that they had a publishing deal with him. I guess that was all for the best, since it ended up as a book rather than as a few pages in a magazine.

Next, the film almost wasn’t made because the producers didn’t know what to do with a novel that had no second act, a nameless gay protagonist, as well as an unhappy ending. This was not the stuff of which Hollywood hits were made.

This time, as I watched the willowy, elegant Audrey Hepburn exit the taxi in front of Tiffany’s in her sunglasses and black gown, Danish in hand, I kept envisioning a crass and curvaceous Marilyn Monroe, who Capote originally wanted for the part.

I listened to “Moon River” trying to figure out how the producers could have possibly thought that Oscar-winner Henry Mancini was not up to the task of scoring the film.

And for the first time, I did not swoon over the charming, boyishly handsome voice of reason, pre-A-Team George Peppard (who I attest looks like my husband) because I was haunted by Wasson’s description of him as a surly, humorless whiner, who director Blake Edwards—on bended knee—begged the studio to replace.

Oh yes, and I really didn’t need to know that this quintessential New York film was shot in California, with only a week’s production here for exteriors.

When all was said and done, though, and Holly and Paul kiss in the rain with Cat safely between them, my movie, about a New York woman who finally chooses a man based on love and not finances, comes shining through.

Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M. showed me that a project’s end result can still satisfy even though the process is disorganized, fraught with bad judgments and is just plain maddening—similar to some of our city’s current undertakings.

I’ve decided to transfer my new knowledge regarding the mess-to-masterpiece to such ideas as the Second Avenue Subway and have started believing that in 2018, Second Avenue, which currently looks as though the Upper East Side has been bombed, will reap a worth-the-wait subway. Also, that one day an admirable tribute will rise at Ground Zero. Last, I’ve begun to think about our local elected officials. I’ve decided not to see them as “quel superrats” but to instead have faith that they can turn our city around.

In the meantime, we need to remember that we New Yorkers still have a lot of good going here. As Holly Golightly would say, “I’m just crazy about Tiffany’s.”
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

“Is this the one with Al Pacino?”

That was the question du jour directed to those of us waiting on line to see Merchant of Venice at Shakespeare in the Park. Confirmation was needed because the play alternates nights with the Pacino-free A Winter’s Tale.

The snake of free-theater lovers stretched way past the commonly referenced “big rock.” For those of you new to NYC, that means the line was really, really long.

A yearly ritual for my husband and myself for the past 25 years, Operation Delacorte was usually something I did alone—procuring only two tickets for our date night. Last year though, I brought my teenage son (who swore he’d never again participate) so that the whole family could attend. This year, my 12-year-old daughter, Meg, joined me, enthusiastically I might add—waiting six hours to get four tickets.

I must admit, I really didn’t think Meg knew what she was getting herself into when she proclaimed, “I want to sit for Shakespeare,” and feared that after an hour we’d be packing up the towel, sand chair and oversized bag full of books, writing assignments, a PSP as well as DS and newspapers to trek home across The Great Lawn.

But no, the girl who has ants in her pants stuck it out. Since she wants to be an actress, I suspect she felt it was all part of the dues-paying process.

Right now, thespian is one of those “when I grow up…” pipe dreams, like being a princess, cowboy or astronaut. But if she keeps taking her drama classes after school, and attending theatre camp, it may turn into a serious career goal, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

The life of an actor is hard; a New York actor even harder, since so much production is done in Los Angeles. And with the demise of Law & Order—the show that kept many New York actors working—there will be even fewer opportunities.

She has had school teachers, gymnastic coaches, camp counselors and even acting teachers who are still anxiously awaiting their big break. I’ve also met many mothers through my children’s schools and sports teams who moved here long ago from various parts of the country “to be an actress.” Even though they have found success at their Plan B jobs, and speak of the unfulfilled dream with acceptance, their voices reveal a twinge of lingering disappointment. (Like actors, writers live with rejection as part of the game. I, too, can speak with pain about many an editor’s “I’ll pass.”)

I, like any mother, don’t want to hear that dejection in my child’s voice.

Until, if and when Meg changes her mind and chooses a new career path, I’m trying to find a way to think positively about a business where I have no connections in which to help her.

Watching Pacino as Shylock gave me some hope. Like me, he grew up in the Bronx. I once heard him speak about how his neighborhood, as well as his lack of interest in schoolwork, was the steppingstone to joining a gang.

A teacher suggested he try acting, and the student listened. Despite his humble beginnings, Pacino’s determination, hard work and talent have made him a star.

With someone like that as inspiration, maybe someday all of New York will be out en masse—way past the big rock—to see Meg star in Shakespeare in the Park. I just hope she doesn’t make me wait on line. n

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.