How to Dress for Gov Ball (IMHO)

A photo posted by chantal strasburger (@chantagold) on Jun 5, 2015 at 2:51pm PDT

My third Governor's Ball Music Festival has come and gone, leaving me with some all too familiar souvenirs: muddy feet, a tender sunburn, and an increasing frustration with humanity. Yes, music festivals are about music, duh, but ask 80% of the crowd what they spent the past week preparing for and I'll bet you two overpriced beers their answer is not which bands to see, but rather what outfits to wear. I watched photographers stalk the fields looking for the next big festival trends and interesting silouhettes, and my heat ached with them because THERE WERE NONE. Now I'm no festival junkie, but I've religiously attended Austin City Limits for the past 11 years of my life and the only sartorial change I've seen is an increase in flower crowns and skin exposure. Sure, flash tats were an exciting addition in 2014, but when you're blinded by metallic designs everywhere you turn, they begin to lose their sparkle.

When I first moved to NYC, my city-savvy friends convinced me to invest in a ticket, and I naively showed up to the scene in what I deemed appropriate festival wear: rain boots for the rain — what else would you need? So I was surprised when I was asked to be photographed for Urban Outfitter's blog, and that's when I realized the Randall's Island hoopla was about more than just music. This concept was new to me because ACL hasn't quite caught up with the fashion-meets-music scene yet. So when I was at Nylon magazine I offered to snap some street style pics while I was home for ACL, but spent the three days in complete frustration and disbelief: not a single interesting or unique outfit. There just isn't a culture of pushing fashion boundaries at ACL, which is why I hadn't expected there to be such an emphasis on it at Gov Ball, but boy was I wrong.

This year I spotted more than a handful of style bloggers I recognized posing for pics in front of the graffiti art in their wide-brimmed hats and heart-shaped sunglasses, the bands playing behind them merely a pleasant soundtrack to their main event. But I'm not going to lie, I would be just as happy sitting in the grass licking an ice pop and people watching as I would standing in a sweaty crowd listening to Tame Impala. It's absolutely fascinating to see what the majority of the population chose to wear to New York City's big weekend out. But if this is the place to see and be seen, why does everyone wear the exact same thing? It's like the Gov Ball committee sent out a flier with an attached Urban Outfitters/American Apparel catalog and circled the three halter tops that would be allowed in and mine just got lost in the mail. Sure, it's a safe bet to roll up in what your friends are sporting, but where's the fun in that? The sky is the limit when it comes to risk-taking at a music festival, so why not take advantage of the three days of trend freedom? I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the fourteen-year-olds stumbling around in exposed bra straps and short shorts displaying what I can only describe as "under-butt cleavage."

But as I waded through the underage drinkers and first-time smokers, I began to wonder if I was wrong to be so condescending of this unspoken uniform. Is it really so bad to have a pack mentality when it comes to dressing for events? Is herd behavior really so shameful when it means sporting a tried-and-trusted outfit? No, of course not. But my disappointment lies in the lack of interest in trying something new. Every year I look forward to the new accessory that will define that year in festival wear, and every year I'm faced with the same make-your-own-flower-crown stand with an impossibly long line of tween girls.

So you're probably thinking, "Alright Chantal, if you're so high and mighty about music festival outfits what did you wear?" Well, nothing that will break the internet, but I spent the an afternoon combing through the racks at various thrift stores around my BK neighborhood to find one-off pieces that no one else would be wearing — something interesting that most people would pass up, but if paired with the right accessories could actually be pretty badass (a much harder task than you might think, mind you). But I scored a rather fabulous retro jumpsuit from People of 2omorrow which I paired with a leather and snakeskin bag (below left). For the first day I threw on a silk robe my aunt and uncle picked up from Uzbekistan, a country I also recently travelled to and couldn't get enough of the incredible textiles (see above). And for the third day I went with a '70s wide-legged jumpsuit that zipped up the back (below right).

I got many nods of approval and compliments on my non-crop tops and was thrilled to be stopped by a few photographers and publications. But the main takeaway I got from my weekend in jumpsuits?

Peeing in porta-potties naked is the WORST.

Other than that, it was a pretty successful weekend of gawking and observing. But there are a few tips I would give a Gov Ball first-timer (take these with a grain of salt and a pinch of snobbery):

1. Go to a thrift store to buy your outfit for guaranteed originality.
2. Step away from the flower crowns.
3. When it comes to footwear, practicality is key to endurance.
4. LAYER! It might feel like a pain to truck that light sweater around all day, but when the sun sets not even Lana del Rey's crooning can keep you warm.
5. There's no such thing as too much sunscreen. 
6. I'm all for self-love when it comes to showing off your body (really, I am) but there is a certain fabric minimum required for shorts to be called shorts, and I would recommend sticking to that. I believe there has to be an inseam of sorts.
7. If you have a chest that requires a bra, don't buy a backless halter top that barely covers your nipples. You will not be comfortable. Cheating the system and wearing a bra with it anyway is just as ill-advised. You have to know what works for you body, and stick with it. 
8. There's no detail too small. Want to load up on your pin collection or heirloom rings? The strangers packed in next to you for that hour and a half set will appreciate every single one. 
9. Remember that your purse it not just a cute accessory, but should also be able to hold your water bottle, wallet, snacks, camera, phone, keys etc. etc. So that tiny little fanny pack you were planning on buying? You might want to grab two. 
10. On that note, backpacks/fanny packs are the way to go when it comes to carrying supplies. Hands-free dancing is the best kind of dancing.

There are a million other thoughts I have on the subject, but we'll keep it at that. So please, next time you're planning on hitting up Lollapalooza or Bonnaroo, accept the challenge to rise above the crowd and find yourself a getup that will shine. Might I suggest sequins?

P.S. IMHO = In my humble opinion.

The Slow, Steady, and Tragic Decline of the Man Bun

The movement started with a faint whisper—tales of glorious strands being pulled back into a tight little knot and sman-manes billowing in the wind, only to be tamed by the strength of an elastic band. Originating with dirty Australian backpackers and steadily finding its way onto the heads of Brooklyn's elite, the bohemian hairstyle, centuries old, began to find a new life. But from these arcane subcultures it streamed forth, ensnaring men who had previously sworn by a clean cut and a fresh shave. These former prepsters found themselves starring into bathroom mirrors and asking friends, "Yo, what do you think about me growing out my hair?" with mock nonchalance and heightened self-awareness. However, when the top knot started appearing in the most mundane of settings—a fast food commercial here, a Forever 21 ad there—there was no denying it: The man bun had gone mainstream. They could be spotted on subway cars, at the Met, in Trader Joe's—there were even sightings in Murray Hill, much to the outward disgust and secret pleasure of the local fro-yo imbibing females.

Then slowly but surely, articles started popping up defaming the holy aesthetic, vindictively announcing the "shocking" amounts of bacteria found on beards and smashing every germaphobe's dreams (not mine, of course, I embrace all forms of microorganisms). Moreover, a recent study confirmed that 63% of women now despise the man bun trend. So when did the tide begin to turn? Why did popular opinion rise against, and what was the catalyst that started denying the man bun the admiration it deserves? 

Perhaps it was the same fate that happened upon flower crowns: While beautiful and pure in appearance, well-meaning and ethereal, they belong to a different time, a different place. Floral headdresses were created to grace the heads of nymphs in Botticelli paintings, so at music festivals they come across as trite and overeager. One could argue that by exuding masculinity and strength, the man bun belongs in a world of battlefields and armor, bloodshed and glory (think Jon Snow meets Thor). Even I, self-proclaimed lover of all things facial hair, sensed my own recent recoiling when I unfollowed Man Bun Monday, an Instagram account whose images I used to tag friends on religiously, but has gradually begun to feel tired and erroneous. 

With that said, it is still with great sadness that I bid the fad farewell, and usher in an era of close crops and undercuts. Au revoir man buns—society may be moving on, but I will never deny you a subtle nod of appreciation when die-hards pass me by on the street, throwing all cares of trend and popularity to the wind, along with their beautiful heads of hair. 

The L Train; or, Why Some People Choose Not to Live in NYC

A photo posted by chantal strasburger (@chantagold) on Jul 18, 2014 at 8:47am PDT

Today I'm going to write about what's currently on my mind: public transportation. Sexy, eh?

Here's what's up: I live two blocks from the L train. The line runs straight from Brooklyn to Manhattan, and I'm off the first stop out. So it would make sense for me to take the L into Manhattan, transfer at Union Square to the 4/5 and make my way down to the brand-spankin-new-but-also-sort-of-falling-apart One World Trade Center. SUUUPER convenient morning commute right? Right. Except also very wrong. Let me explain how this route goes down IRL (and why I no longer take it).

6:30am: Alarm goes off. I lace up my sneaks and head to the gym for an early morning sweat sesh.

7:30: Realize that was only wishful dreaming and I have just been repeatedly hitting snooze every five minutes for the past hour.

8:40: After bathing, clothing, and feeding myself, I head out the door.

8:45: Descend into the pits of hell that is the Bedford L stop on a Monday morning. Platform is packed with rows upon rows of impatient New Yorkers (redundant?).

8:55: MTA voice from above kindly informs us that there is a delay, and that the next train arriving will not stop. We all miserably watch as a packed L passes us by along with our hopes, dreams, and aspirations.

9:05: The first train comes to a stop. It is so full that an exact average of 1.5 people make it onto each car.

9:10-9:25: This continues as the population of the platform grows and people save twitter drafts of crowd-selfies (why)(because there is no cell service).

9:30: I use my creative problem-solving skills and deductive reasoning to realize that if I take the L train going further into Brooklyn a few stops, my chances of actually making it onto a train increase. I take it three stops towards Rockaway Pkwy, cross over ABOVE ground and re-enter on the other side to squeeze onto a Manhattan-bound train. ha HA! My plan works and I am feeling smug even though I am making direct skin contact with no less than four strangers.

9:40: Half-sympathetically/half-maniacally watch as no one at the Bedford stop can get on. Sayonara, suckers (also sorry!)

10:20: Arrive to work late, commiserate with co-workers about living in bRoOkLyn ugh, and vow never to take the L again.

SO. That is the story of how I left my abusive relationship of one and a half years with the goddamn L train and started taking the J.

The J is a dream. The cars are wider, rarely packed, and—best of all—it crosses the Williamsburg bridge so you start your day off with a stunning view of Manhattan looking out over the water and you remember why you love this city ha ha ha. Above ground time is time well spent. The only catch is it's about a 30 minute walk from my apartment. So it now takes me an hour to commute. Which is fine because I view my morning walks as "me" time where I listen to podcasts, observe the slow but steady gentrification of South Williamsburg, and think about how I didn't go to the gym that morning. It's also the perfect distance to hit just the right amount of cardio so that when I leave my apartment I'm freezing but by the time I get to the platform I'm sweating!

Next time on Daily Commuting with Chantal: "The Ferry: New York's Best Kept Secret, Sort Of".

Teen Vogue Handbook: The Second Edition

 

Exciting news! Last Friday the second edition of The Teen Vogue Handbook: An Insider's Guide to Careers in Fashion launched! Our team worked tirelessly on it for months, and I was thrilled to have had the opportunity to interview the likes of Chanel Iman, stylist Micaela Erlanger, our very own Andrew Bevan, the Man Repeller's Amelia Diamond, and Nasty Gal's creative director Lina Kutsovskaya for the guidebook. There are some truly insightful profiles on some very talented men and women, and you can even get a glimpse of me on the page featuring Teen Vogue's most liked Instagrams! Who knew? (I sure didn't until I opened the book.) Buy yourself one here for good karma and even better advice.

Talk about coming full circle. When I first decided I wanted to be in the magazine industry and move to New York, I was told that the Teen Vogue Handbook was the first thing I needed to buy. I remember picking up a used copy at Strand Bookstore on a rainy day and pouring over it at a nearby coffee shop (I was unemployed and had plenty of time for these kinds of things). I remember a few tips that stuck with me: Karl Lagerfeld pointing out the significance of knowing more than one language (I immediately signed up for Chinese classes again), the importance of having a strong personal brand (I went home and wrote 5 blog posts), and the overall message that you just need to get out there and experience as much as you can as soon as you can. Now I work with many of the people featured in the book, and it's mind-blowing how far I've come since then. Not a day goes by that I don't walk past the Teen Vogue sign on my way into work and think, "Woah, wait, HOW did I get here again??".

Life's just crazy that way, I guess.

Selfie Journalism

Guess what! I wrote an article for Teen Vogue about living my life as a YoPro in the big apple. Pretty cool, huh? Check it out here for some tips and advice on everything from where to eat on the cheap to how to decorate your apt. 

The Tiny Transforming Apartment

Ariella and I renewed the lease on our amazing apartment last night(!), and signing on to the same space for a whole other year made me think a little decoration-tinkering might be in order—you know, to keep things fresh. So as I was Google-ing "how to transform your average NYC apartment" (because, as always, Pinterest has me wanting more), I stumbled across an interesting solution to the severe lack of space in NYC. "The Tiny Transforming Apartment That Packs Eight Rooms into 420 Square Feet" was designed by LifeEdited and is the brainchild of Graham Hill. Creative? Yes. Liveable? Perhaps, depending on your character and if you are the kind of person willing to pull out your bed every night and unpack your oven tops. I personally am not, but I love the concept of endless storage units. It is a firm belief of mine that one can never have too many places to put things. But the every-surface-is-a-closet situation doesn't leave much opportunity for wall hangings...I guess you can't win 'em all.

Would you live here?

Starlight Express

My friend Grant was in town the other week, and the first thing he requested to do? "Roller disco". More specifically, the "Crazy Legs Skate Club" roller disco.  Located inside a Salvation Army in Brooklyn, this spectacle happens every Wednesday night with a live DJ.

The three block radius of this building is completely dead, so we heard the music blaring from the gymnasium before we even turned the corner. If we hadn't been about to enter a rollerblading disco party, I might have feared for my life. The street was dark and there was no one in sight, but slowly, one by one, people started to roll up. Literally. Out of the shadows, people came skating up to the door in their roller blades. They meant business. My care-free attitude about the night's events quickly turned into an, "Oh My God I am so in over my head." As we walked in, people were standing around in their skates, socializing with drinks and snacks in the entry room. It was a mixture of young hipsters in high-waisted mom jeans and older, die-hard locals in un-irconically high-waisted mom jeans. We paid our $15 (steep!) and sat down to put on our skates.

On our way over, Ariella had been confessing her anxiety about getting back on skates for the first time since the '90s. While I was in the same boat, I had this idea in my head that rollerblading is one of those things that, even if you were terrible the last time you attempted, the power of time and maturity would magically have enhanced your skills. I would pop into those bad boys and skate away like Nancy Kerrigan pre-Tanya Harding. Fun fact: Nope. I refused to stand for the first 10 minutes, terrified out of my mind. These weren't inline skates, mind you. These were those terrible, old-school kind with the "brake" in the front. But the "brake" is actually impossible to use so you have to adopt a kind of pizza-wedge technique I typically reserve for skiing. And while Grant and Michael swore they hadn't skated in years, they zipped away like the graceful water nymph and child of an ex-Rollerblade employee (true story) that they are.

My second mistake of the night: "Oh, a disco-themed roller rink? What fun! Let me just throw on my most obnoxious '70s gear and tease me hair! I'll blend in with everyone else and look fabulous at the same time!" Apparently, "disco" refers solely to the type of music played and not the dress code. All of a sudden my furry coat, patterned pants and gold sequin top became my worst enemy. I turned into a shining beacon of light, slowly orbiting the gym in such a pronounced way that when people started lapping me (which they did. over and over again) they knew. They were well aware. No blending in for this gal! Every time Michael or Grant whizzed past me, I'd get a tender, encouraging touch on my upper back and a supportive wink. Sometimes these intimate gestures came from other people. I think that's part of the skating culture(???).

By some great act of God, I never fell. I must say, however, that when you're going at a snail's pace, it enables you to really take in the endearing details of Crazy Legs Roller Club. For example, the way star crossed-lovers skate arm-in-arm, backwards, with their eyes closed while you claw along the wall like a leper from Jesus Christ Super Star (honestly, that's the only comparison I could think of at the time). And while people skate laps around the dimly lit gymnasium, center court is reserved for the break-dancers. Yes, break-dancing in roller blades is a thing, and these guys are good. The majority of them are middle-aged men and I found it fascinating that this is obviously their Wednesday night, every Wednesday night. One man took pity on us as we encircled the seasoned pros and gawked at their talents. He tried to teach us some moves, and Michael was dedicated enough to actually get on the ground and bust a few. Grant, being a naturally elegant swan, didn't need any lessons and floated away.

Michael attempted to convince the DJ to play Beyoncé's Blow, because, duh, but the DJ stuck with B-list disco songs (except for when he played Lorde's Royals...?). But once our back sweat had thoroughly soaked through our paisley button downs and fur, we decided it was time to turn in. And like the true Brooklyn-dwelling, disco-skating bohemians that we are, we Uber-ed back to our warm beds and called it a night. While I can assure you that Michael and Grant will be back for more, I will probably opt out for a new, slightly less death-defying adventure. Canoeing down the toxic Gowanus canal, anyone?

getting our blades on.

Photo cred: Michael Offerman. See, I wasn't kidding about the shining beacon of light. Or the being in pain thing.

xx

A Weekend Outing

This past weekend I received the most welcome text from my friend Michael saying, "Hey! Let's go on an adventure!" When I moved to NYC, the first advice someone told me was: "In order to live in New York City, you have to leave New York City." For this specific person I think that entailed more of a weekend-trip to-a-house-in-the-hamptons kind of deal, but until I sign the lease on my beach house, I'm content with a slightly less glamorous approach. After living here for 8 months now (!!!) I completely understand the sentiment; as wonderful as this concrete jungle is, human beings need nature. 

So Ariella, Michael and I voluntarily woke up at 7 a.m. on a rainy Saturday morning, hopped on over to Grand Central Station and, with coffee cups and pretzel packs in hand, boarded the Metro North. What an incredibly pleasant experience! We spent the train ride catching up, listening to Michael's dramatic reading of the mind-blowing NYTimes article on Mole People, and re-introducing ourselves to the concept of scenic views. 

We got off at the beautiful little town of Cold Spring and made our way up Main Street, which was, in fact, their main street. Not a ton going on at Cold Spring, which made a day trip more manageable. Every storefront on Main St. was jam-packed with antique stores ("depression-era glass and Bakelite nicknacks" according to our Hudson River Valley pamphlet) and everyone was SO NICE. I forgot that there are people in this world who will give you the time of day without expecting something in return.

 We had the most scrumptious brunch of bacon-basted poached eggs, raspberry cornmeal pancakes and babka french toast at Hudson Hil's Cafe & Market (HIGHLY recommended if you're ever in the 'hood) and perused Old Souls, the local hiking shop (a super hip transplant from Brooklyn). We then set upon our trail, getting directions and advice from locals and finding ourselves down a wooded path that led to a beautiful waterfall, all set in the historic site of the West Point Foundry Preserve. Along our hike we:

gawked at the beautiful babbling brook,

 risked our lives while channeling our inner Troop Beverly Hills,

drank from the fountain of youth (not me, though. I played enough Oregon Trail to know this is exactly how you get dysentery),

and contemplated the meaning of life.

Once we were thoroughly soaked to the bone, we wanted one thing: soup. Thankfully, we found just the spot and downed bowls of butternut squash and chili. As soon as we were nice and cozy on the inside (though still very damp on the outside),  we grabbed a few muffins from a local bakery for the road and jumped back on the ole steel horse.

All in all, I would do it again in a heartbeat (but maybe wear a real raincoat and two more layers.) The round trip cost $25, and for a ticket out of town, it's not a bad deal. Heck, if I had a lot of work to do or a good book to read, I would head out and spend the day in a cute coffee shop along the way, just for the change of scenery. But of course as the weather gets nicer, there will be a million and one things to do in the city every weekend and it will get harder and harder to get out. I guess I just found the upside to bad weather.

Let me know if you ever want to adventure!

 xx C

Gold Heads

As many of you know, I went to Wash U to pursue a sculpture major. I ended up switching to fashion because sculpture is something that, no matter what, I'll always be doing regardless of my job. Fashion, however, was something new to learn and would open many more doors than sculpture would. Since moving to New York, I've been searching for the right career path in fashion, but sculpture is something I've consistently kept up with. I rented some studio space in Brooklyn in a beautiful facility with a wonderful community, and I've been spending a lot of my free-time there. I've working on sculptures that are a smaller version of what I did in high school/college  because I just don't have the storage for any more 5 foot sculptures! The process of making these guys is a rather long-winded one, as I have to sculpt them, wait for them to dry, bisque fire them, apply the white glaze, fire them again, then wait until I have enough of them to fill the small kiln (which I have to rent out) to high-fire for the gold lacquer. So all in all it's taken several months to complete all of these.  

Being in studio is my happy place as I just sculpt while going back and forth between listening to NPR to catch up on world news and serious deep-thinking time. The only problem now is forcing myself out into the polar vortex to get there. I'm also trying to decide/figure out the whole "making money" thing as a sculptor- so let me know if you have any ideas! (There are a few more pictures over at my website)

 

Sit Back, Relax and Listen Up

I don't know if it's the cold (first day of snow in NYC!! 11/12/13 must be a sign for something right??) or the alarming amount of tea I'm consuming or the layers of sweaters I'm wearing, but something has me in the mood for Cabin Music. That's a term I just coined to reference music that is super cozy and makes you want to sit on a fur rug in front of a fire in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere and drink a glass of red wine. Preferably next to a loved one, otherwise this is a depressing scenario. If you've ever watched Alias (me) it would be that music they played every time Jennifer Garner got really sad and essentially re-enacted the scene I just described above minus the loved one plus annoyingly pathetic tears (love ya Syd!). So yes, it'ts a bitter sweet sadness/happiness (I tried to combine those two words but they just end up still being the same word) but there's something about it that makes me feel like I'm doing winter right.

Side note: I was in a boutique in Brooklyn last weekend that sold "Cabin Spray".  I want to buy a cabin so that I can buy this product. Then Ron Swanson and I will have a good laugh and dig into our freshly hunted venison.

Want a taste of what I'm talking about? Go to Pandora and play any of the following channels: Angus and Julia Stone, Great Lake Swimmers, Ray LaMontagne, Avett Brothers etc. etc. Nine times out of ten Mumford counts. OR *shameless plug* my boy Matt G. has a good amount of CM on his KWUR show every Tuesday at 7:00pm EST (kwur.com- check it out)

It usually involves some ethereal harmonization, several acoustic string instruments and a deep, baritone manly-man voice paired with a delicate, sickly-sweet female one. Yes, it's sappy, but it's the perfect soundtrack to listen to as frost consumes us. I really wanted to do a GoT reference but I think I've over used the phrase :( 

My Top Five Cabin Songs of the Moment (best when taken with a mug of Sleepy Time Tea):

BONUS TRACK;
Got it from this Sony commercial ha


Into the woods? Yay or nay? 

Until The Ribbon Breaks

Monday night I saw Lorde perform at Webster Hall (woo!) and it was as fabulous and amazing and bizarre as you'd expect. She just has the most sophisticated demeanor for a 16 year old. She also kind of  dresses and dances like a witch, but I guess that's part of her allure? 

However, what I also thoroughly enjoyed was her opening act, Pete Lawrie Winfield, a.k.a. Until The Ribbon Breaks. Out of UK, Winfield's music has the sensual overtones of The XX and the jarring synth beats of Massive Attack (not to mention he and his bandmates are incredibly attractive). The weird and somewhat haunting sampling and cutting also reminds me of Bastille's Mixtapes. It was a wise choice for Lorde because it had a chill head-nodding vibe that slowly evolved into more of a full-body sway when Ella took the stage. Although I wish someone had informed the jerks in front of us that Lorde's music at a sold-out concert venue is NOT the time NOR the place for THIS (as adorable as the Mitt Romney/Jim Carrey love child is).

Check out 2025 and Pressue, below. Thoughts?

How to Lose Money and Make Friends

I would just like to point out that some of Nathan Pyle's "NYC Basic Tips and Etiquette" can also be extremely useful in other places. Such as, say, wandering South Congress in Austin. Take this one, for example:

 

While in town for SXSW last spring, I had the unfortunate luck of being vampired by a Green Peace representative. "Vampired" is a term I just came up, but I think it's fairly accurate to describe the way they sink their teeth into your skin and suck your blood.

I was flanked by two of my North Easterner friends who walked right past him. But my Southern blood is weak and susceptible to solicitation, and I had no choice but to stop and listen to him describe the sad fate of Bengal tigers.

Now don't get me wrong, Bengal tigers are beautiful creatures that deserve to thrive on this planet and Green Peace is a highly respectable organization. But COME ON. Don't you think if I wanted to spend $25 a month saving the planet I would already be doing it?? Of course, now I'm a terrible person for saying that because $25 is, like, three coffees at Starbucks. Well, guess what? I don't go to Starbucks.

 Needless to say, I didn't know how to say "no", so I signed up, thinking, "Ha! I'll just unsign-up when I get home, sucker." But I can't figure out how. I've searched their website so often, it was on my Top Sites homepage for weeks. Consequently, I've been leaking $25 a month to these guys.  Your grandchildren can thank me. And their pets, too. (By 2040, I'm hoping that we will have domesticated tigers.)

Anyway, then I moved to NYC and was approached by more of their drones. No wait, "approached" is the wrong word. I was yelled at from across the street in Soho, "Hey, you look like a hippie! Sign up for Green Peace!" That was the second time that day I had been called a hippie (I wasn't even wearing anything weird!) and I was in no mood to save the polar bears because I was hungry and it was hot. I politely told him I was already signed up, and he grilled me on the details of whereabouts I sold my soul to the devil. Apparently, he has friends in Austin. Cool, bro. Now let me sweat through all of my clothing in peace.

After living here for three months, I thought I had finally perfected my New York City Indifference, but last week I had a thirty minute conversation in Union Square with a man trying to sign me up for a hair salon -__-  Apparently, his girlfriend recently visited Austin and is now convinced it's the new Mecca. Good story, bro. Now let me eat my Chloe's soft serve fruit in peace.

So hey, maybe I'm a sucker and maybe my friends will continue to make fun of me for contributing $300 a year to Green Peace (ahem Richard), but at least I'm making personal connections on a-day-to-day basis, and how many New Yorkers can say that, huh?

(BONUS: If my parents ever sell our house in Austin, I'll have a plethora of semi-mutual friends I can stay with when I go home!)

***

Also, this illustrated tip by Pyle. EVERYDAY without fail I witness this on the subway. And EVERYDAY I want to yell at these people, "YOU CAN HAVE THEIR SPOT IF YOU LET THEM OUT." Morons.

NYC Basic Tips and Etiquette via Selina