The Live Earth Global Warming Survival Handbook

"Depth Perception" from New York Moves April 2006

Depth Perception

We are all the sum total of our past experiences. Every relationship leaves its mark on our physical emotional and intellectual lives. Though the love may end, the layers added enhance who we are.

By Michele Zipp

I was changing the sheets and there it was, stained into the pillow where my ex once laid his head — the exact shape of the star tattoo inked just below his neck. I remember the day he got it and spent the night. Soon, we moved in together and his imprint on my life became much more than a mark on my pillow. I had noticed the spot before — so regularly in fact that it didn’t register. After our separation, it just wasn’t something I wanted to look at anymore. So the pillow went into the trash along with many other relics of our relationship. But I know that no matter how many reminders I toss, he will always be a part of my life. “Man has not one and the same life. He has many lives, placed end to end, and that is the cause of his misery,” French writer Chateaubriand once wrote. That quote resonates deeply with me. Relationships are like lives; you begin when you are with someone, and when the courtship ends so does that life. If you’ve heard the words, “You are the love of my life,” it is true, if only perhaps for the life of the time you spend with that person. After beginning my first semester at college, I met a Mid-Western charmer who moved to New York to attend art school. We found we shared a love for the same kind of music and he turned me on to Tori Amos’ first album “Little Earthquakes” at a time in my life when I didn’t even know there were men who listened to such music. In my eyes, he quickly became the most open-minded man I’d ever been with. He read The New York Times and The Village Voice, and knew about everything from the failed Kremlin coup by Russian Communists to who was playing the first Lollapalooza. He made sure I purchased 300 or above thread-count sheets for my bed and taught me about the Egon Schiele scandals as we looked at the artist’s work in the library. I read his worn copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road while tangled in my amazingly soft bed sheets as he lay beside me. He was the first romance to expand my intellect in ways beyond my university education. When he moved back home, he suggested I attend the university where he’d enrolled. It was tempting, but I decided that I wanted to stay in New York. Every time I hear the name of the state where he is from, I think of how my life would be totally different had I decided to move there. But my life still bears Mr. Mid-West’s imprint. Thanks to him, an artist, I realized the connection I had with creative minds. And I still check out The Voice to see what bands are playing.

Growing up, my father — a Vietnam veteran and president of his motorcycle group — was a master at maintaining a stone-face look of anger. So, to me, sensitivity was a revolting characteristic in men, until I was seduced by some poetry. The “Ponytail Poet” unabashedly expressed his feelings for me in saccharinely sweet rhymes like “I can’t express the intense feel I possess when I see you in that dress.” He wasn’t Keats, but I loved that there was no guesswork — it was all there, in print and in the puppy-dog look on his face when he spread the petals of roses all over my front porch. Excessive? Yes. But it made me realize that not all men grunt when you kiss them in public, and the good ones aren’t afraid to express their feelings. He cried when I broke up with him, and when he ran into my mother soon after, he dramatically kissed her on the cheek and said, “I thought your daughter was the love of my life.” That life, maybe. With every relationship, we give and take. Even after being burned by the worst excuse of a man out there, we can take something positive away from it. Like from a cheating and controlling boyfriend I once had, I learned to never date a guy who was a wrestler in high school, loves Metallica’s "Black" album, and only let his mother cut his hair. You learn what not to put up with, and gain strength. And in turn, everything bears an imprint, a scar you carry with pride, a layer you add. Only over time have I developed the maturity to see the amazing things I was uncovering about myself. Instead of thinking “if only” I think “because of” — because of the people in my past, I am living a life designed from bittersweet losses and victories, bearing influences and tattoos from another time.

This morning my boyfriend kissed my cheek to wake me up. I felt the slight wetness from his mouth after his lips left my skin. I smiled, my eyes open just enough to see him get out of bed, his curly hair messy and sexy as ever. I rolled over to the spot where his body had been. Laying my head on his pillow in the indent he’d left, I could smell the intoxicating scent of the man I am so in love with. Chateaubriand may have been onto something — too many lives could leave enough imprints to make a person miserable. But this is the best life I’ve known.

"Day Tripping The Apple" from The Miami Sun Post 2004

The Pulse
Day Tripping The Apple
By Michele Zipp

While the county of Manhattan is the smallest county in the United States, it hosts the most amounts of people, which of course means that there is a million things to do and see in the isle’s boroughs. However, a New Yorker can sometimes want out of New York—New York proper, that is. Theirs is more to New York than its smallest county.
Westchester County is home to David Letterman, the Clintons, and Donald Trump has the largest of his many homes there. It is known as the most prestigious of the counties by some, which really means that the real estate prices are extremely high and if you don’t have a salary similar to one of the aforementioned high rollers, it may be difficult to afford a home here. There are great horseback riding spots and golf courses, and is the home of the real Sleepy Hollow. The State University of New York at Purchase boasts that it has one of the largest regional arts centers between New York City and Toronto. On the Campus, the Neuburger Museum of Art features both temporary and permanent Collection from mostly modern artists. The Westchester County airport hosts national flights and is just a 45-minute drive from the big city.
The Hudson River runs through many of NY’s counties, but Rockland lives riverside. I have friends who live Nyack and have a short commute into Grand Central Station—shorter even than some who trek in from southern Brooklyn—and they have a porch! I don’t know what it is, but I think once you turn thirty, having a porch is something as coveted as being the most popular kid at high school once was. Not far from the George Washington Bridge, this county is one where you can make a day shopping for antiques, browsing through galleries, and buying one-of-a-kinds at funky boutiques. There are historic places like the 1832 Jacob Blauvelt House and the Stony Point Battlefield that features a Revolutionary War museum and the oldest lighthouse on the Hudson. Camp Shanks, now a museum, was where over one million WWII GIs were processed before being shipped off to the beaches of Omaha on boats leaving from the Piermont Pier.
About an hour North of Manhattan, Orange County is where I spent many of my formative years. And although at thirteen I cried when we arrived from Queens to the “country” where there were cows and people who used words like manure (I had never heard of this word before), I ended up loving it upstate. The Storm King Art Center features amazing pieces, and the Sugar Loaf Craft Village and Woodbury Common Outlets are where you can find original crafts and the highest fashion respectively. Orange County has delicious farm markets roadside and some great vineyards. The Brotherhood Winery is America’s oldest winery, founded in 1839 and offers not only terrific wine, but also events such as grape stomping, tours of the haunted cellars, car shows, and more.
I went to college in Ulster County, and no I don’t just associate this area with the place that I learned to drink beer all night and pass an exam the next morning. (I actually don’t even like beer…anymore.) The Catskill Mountain range is the elixir. Biking, hiking, rock climbing, and sky diving are very popular in this area and for good reason. The scenery is beyond beautiful and the mountains give way to breathtaking views. The oldest street in America is in New Paltz and Kingston was the first capital of New York. This artistic county has great antique shops and store that feature young artists. In the heart of the mountain is the Mohonk Mountain House where you can spend the day or the week enjoying everything from boating to tennis, a day at the spa or out hiking, and three meals of exquisite food.
Yes, there are many other counties of New York, and all offer something unique and extraordinary—but all of them share some priceless qualities. And those qualities excite the senses of sight and sound. The skyscrapers in the Big Apple are awe-inspiring, but they obscure the natural beauty of the stars in the sky. Upstate those stars shine bright, and nature delights in that. The sight of deer crossing a run off of the Hudson River is as beautiful as the finest piece of art. The sound of New York City is not much to be desired—sirens and horns are commonplace. Listening to the sound of the silence of upstate New York is like music to my ears…so is the sound of crickets. Day tripping is worth the Sunday night traffic over the George Washington Bridge.

"Sex Bites" from Playgirl 2004

The Hook Up

Looking for love in all the wrong places, looking for love in too many faces. The song tells it all. Just how do you meet the right person? And who has directions to his house? Here's help!

FIVE Best/FIVE Worst Places To Meet Someone
BEST
• Bookstores
• A Little League game (divorced dads need love too)
• Airports
• CPR class (usually taught by fireman)
• Car shows
WORST
• Bus terminals
• Outside any adult peepshow
• Health clubs
• Bars (especially at last call)
• Doctor's offices (unless it's the doctor, but only if it's NOT your Gyno)

Did You Know?
The percentage of single men and women between the ages of 30 and 35 has more than tripled since the mid-seventies (30% of all men, 20%of all women). The reason? The fear of divorce.

The average age of marriage:
Women: 25
Men: 26.7

51% of American adults are single
(includes never been married, divorced, or widowed)

The 10 BEST Cities For Singles
1. Raleigh/Durham
2. Denver/Bolder
3. Washington D.C./Baltimore
4. Austin
5. San Diego
6. Dallas/Fort Worth
7. Chicago
8. Boston
9. New York
10. Los Angeles

10 Men to Stay Away From
(No Matter How Sexy/Conniving/Convincing They Are Or How Drunk/Out Of Your Mind/Lonely You Are)

1. A man who wears tight, high-waisted pants
2. Your friend's ex
3. An Internet match who when you meet in person looks nothing like his photos
4. Bartender/musician/sales clerk (or any man who needs more than one slash (/) to define himself)
5. Any guy who critiques your outfit or makeup
6. Men who hate animals
7. Men who hate their mothers (even if she is an animal)
8. A man who has his ex's name tattooed on his body
9. Addicts (this includes addictions to alcohol, gambling, porn to name a few)
10. A guy who will ask to see your compact mirror so he can make sure his freshly waxed eyebrows are in place

Writer's Note: Guilty of all of the above.

"I Dated 50 Men In One Night!" from Playgirl 2004

I Dated 50 Men In One Night!

It is hard to find a man who you actually want to spend time with. There are the sweet guys who buy you dinner at the best restaurants, but a make-out session reveals there's no chemistry. Then there are the guys who want to get a couple of 40-ounce beers, head to the park, and get you wasted while he fondles your breasts. Yes, these types are fun for the now, but anything long-term is certainly not in the cards.

I decided to try Hurry Date, commonly known as speed dating, which is a gathering of equal amounts of singles put together by a organizer (who rakes in the dough) for thirty bucks a pop. There is no pre-screening or pre-matching, just a sign-up page on the internet, so you just have to hope for the best. It sort of felt desperate, and I thought that mostly lonely, needy, desperate singles were going to be there. But hey, you never know!

I did know I couldn't dive into the singles' pool alone. So with my best newly-single friend, Kiera, in tow, we arrived at Hurry Date's singles' soiree at seven o'clock on a Wednesday. When we arrived, there was a line of women waiting to get in with nary a man in sight.

Some of the women looked like they wouldn't need a matchmaking service, so the desperado thing was no longer an issue. Looking over woman after woman, I started thinking I signed us up for the wrong night, but then the guys started arriving, most in suits. Professionals. But not that desirable. This might be a long night, I thought, but I had to learn not to take this at face value.

Upon entry, we were given a nametag and a number so we could log in scores on our ballot card. There were tables with letters on them. Two people per table—one guy, one girl. When the whistle blew (which had an obnoxious circus-like feel), the guys, not the girls, would move on to the next letter table. We were given a scorecard to circle yes or no for each person.

Kiera and I had just enough time to primp a bit and get a cocktail before we started Hurry Dating. Then the whistle blew. Loudly. The pressure was on—my twenty-five three-minute dates were beginning.

Date number one was actually #67. His name was Ricardo, but he said that I could call him Rick. I told him that I like Ricardo better. My table was wobbly, so when Ricardo moved expressively, my drink spilled. Then the host tripped over my leg. After all the commotion, there was maybe a minute left of dating.

"So, Ricardo," I cooed. "What do you like to do for fun?"
The whistle blew.

This went on twenty-four more times. Answers ranged from skiing to spending time with family (bonus points, he must like Mom). Once, I actually got a "Well, I work all the time so I don't have a lot of free time to do fun stuff"—not impressive! Most of the guys were bankers or real estate agents, and a lot of them were twenty-four-years-old. Most of the dates blurred into one, but I did manage to take some notes: Michael was standoffish, Alex was from Hong Kong, Pablo was a lawyer, Steve was a DJ who plays 80s music, Chris was a plastic surgeon.

Then there was Alex (not the Alex from Hong Kong). Alex looked like the artistic type. He had long black hair, was kind of skinny, and seemed genuinely nice. Not the kind of guy I would expect at a Hurry Date; he seemed sort of "anti-system." As it turns out, Alex and I liked some of the same music. I admired that he didn't want to talk about work. "Suede or Blur?" I quizzed him on opposing Brit bands. "Suede," he answered. I like Blur. "What's your favorite Depeche Mode album?" I asked. He liked them all. Hmmm.

Meanwhile at another table, Kiera wrote notes like: Peter from Germany, Mike works for Red Bull, Armando's dad owns a big name denim company, George from Brooklyn. She also jotted down the name of a restaurant one of the guys said was good. Just as Kiera finished her twenty-fifth date, the host asked us to stay for round two because there was a shortage of women. That meant twenty-five more men for us.

Both Kiera and I headed to the bathroom to freshen up. We weren't drunk, but we were dizzy from our twenty-five "dates" and our voices were hoarse. When we came out of the ladies' room, one guy approached me and said, "You aren't leaving are you?" I told him I was in round two. "You the one I want to date," he said so close to my face that I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath. Kiera and I just made a face at each other. That's going to be three minutes in hell...perfectly enhanced by the inked devil.

Then the whistle blew!

Round Two: Steve wore plaid and was in round one as well. Jason had his own laundry company. Safir shook my hand so hard it hurt. Shane had a big forehead and looked familiar. Richard was a banker. Jason was a writer. Ash worked for a local radio station. Brian looked like a gay friend of mine. Jeff played guitar in a coverband. Barry was a thirty-five-year-old teacher (twenty-nine was supposed to be the max age) who asked me my birthdate and sign and wrote it all down. Matt grew up one town over from me and kept revisiting me between Hurry Dates. David was painfully shy and sweet and almost looked young enough to have a babysitter. Cris was the cigarette breath guy from earlier. He showed me his Tasmanian Devil tattoo, then asked me what I was drinking, and before I could answer, he was taking a sip from my glass. I didn't drink for the rest of my Hurry Dates. Cris went on and on about how he was so excited to meet me and that I was the one he was waiting for. (He told this to Kiera too, I later found out.)

Kiera's notes were almost illegible. She had more restaurant addresses, two stars next to Shane, one next to David along with the word "stripe". There was a check-plus next to Brooks, and Jason was bolded because he was number 81—the year she was born. There was also a drawing of a hypodermic needle. "What is this all about?" I asked later. One guy was apparently a salesman of medical supplies.

When the final whistle was blown, Kiera was at my table immediately and we were out of there. Fifty men in one night is tiring.

During the cab ride home, we were laughing hysterically recounting the night. "One guy actually asked me if my name was French! The last time I checked Michele was one of the most popular girl's names in America. Another guy asked why the men have to go from chair to chair? 'That's sexist, it should be the women,' he said."

"He said that to me too!" Kiera laughed.
"Then one guy said, 'Hurry Date is so worth it. It's like $1.25 a woman!'" (Now I felt cheap.)
"He said that to me too!" Kiera shouted.
Plus, two guys called me "dude".

The next day, we logged online and put in all our yeses and nos and downloaded pictures of ourselves. Twenty-four hours later, the site tabulates your entries and pairs you up with shared yeses. You get to see the nos who said yes to you and you have a chance to change your mind. Pictures are extremely important. Some of our dates never put up photos of themselves and it is just too difficult to remember everyone from three minutes. The site also tabulated your "Desirability Rating" (what percentage said yes to you) and your "Pickiness Factor" (percentage you said yes to).

I started with a 77% Desirability Rating and a 58% Pickiness Factor. Kiera had an impressive 91% Desirability and 80% Pickiness. (I later dropped one point in Desirability and Kiera gained one!) But scores are not what this is all about. It's about trying to make a connection with someone in three minutes, and enough of a connection to want to see them again. I waited for guys I yessed to contact me through the Hurry Date website (your personal email stays anonymous). I got eleven emails, twelve actually if you count the two from Pablo. After he invited me to dinner and a rental movie, he emailed again to apologize for being too forward and changed the date to a visit to the top of the Empire State Building. I got phone numbers and personal email addresses. My two favorites, Alex, the interesting artist looking guy, and David, the sweet, young looking one, were both interested in a second date. Armando emailed Kiera and I, even though he told Kiera that she was the only one he emailed. Brian told me that out of all the girls he met, he was most interested in meeting me again and that he felt natural talking to me. George was a sleeper surprise. In three minutes he didn't make a huge impression other than his strong Brooklyn accent, but his email was charming. "Thanks for circling yes. I really had a good time and I would love to spend more time with you and get to know more about you," he wrote. Plus, his picture on the website was adorable.

I think I could have made three friends from Hurry Date—Alex, David, and George. They seemed the most down to earth and on the same vibe as me.

Kiera and I have yet to make the next move and accept any of these dates. It's been a week, and a quick email from a potential date just isn't enough. It feels too forced or like a competition between us and the other women at Hurry Date, and we just don't want to be a part of that. It certainly was entertaining and is a great place to meet single men looking for single women. It's better than the bar scene because everyone's intentions are on the table. But maybe it's just that none of the guys really knocked our heels off. Then again, it was only three minutes and we all know that true pleasure takes a lot longer to find.

-Michele Zipp

Renaissance - from New York Moves March 2006

Renaissance

The crux of our vitality is in springtime; it is by far the most sensual of all the seasons. Like the Scorpio coming out of winter’s chill, spring is sex.
By Michele Zipp

The rainfall in April saturates the earth, in a sense impregnating it, giving it virility for the offspring of the season, the flowers. It is the time of year when most living organisms are in for the mood for procreation. The birds and the bees — and humans — all take their cue from nature. The sun rises sooner, the temperature rises higher, and hemlines just rise. Women, the earth’s most fascinating living creatures, are in a sense shedding their inhibitions, welcoming the warmth of the sun’s effect on their bare skin. Springtime in New York City is when the fashionistas near Bryant Park stop ordering dim sum at their desks, but instead venture out to the park to enjoy a salad in the warm air. Young professional men in suits descend from their 24th floor corner office and shed their jackets, giving a view of their physique, while women watch with skirts blowing suggestively in the breeze. Toe cleavage is finally visible again, hinting only to the more risqué of what’s to come — the sandal. Spring is the foreplay to summer’s total exhibitionism, and while she doesn’t own up to the dirty dalliances in sexy swimsuits, she does give a taste of what’s underneath. Just a brief sweet taster of the even sweeter nectar available. What happens specifically in spring, and in no other season, is a rebirth, an awakening of the senses, a surge of excitement.

Spring is like the elixir of the soul — taking the body out of hibernation and filling it with new confidence. All thanks go to the sun, nature’s best aphrodisiac. Add to that the warm fresh air and the flowers won’t be the only ones secreting their sweetness. In fact, a study conducted by The Journal of Sex shows that the way a woman feels directly affects her sexual behavior. “The study points out that women’s body image was a significant predictor of their specific sexual functioning,” says researcher Patricia Bartholow Koch, Ph.D., of Pennsylvania State University’s bio-behavioral health and women’s studies sect, in an article on WebMD.

So the sun’s rays shining down will not only make you feel good, you’ll look good, and have a carnal desire and prowess that would make men melt. Of course (and somewhat ironically) this phenomenon carries on so well after darkness falls. Happy hour is finally happy again, and outdoor arenas filled with passion fruit-infused cocktails further provoke the exhibitionist inside. Add vodka to the succulent crops of spring and your libation will make you even more libidinous. The phallic shape of the banana promotes sensuality, while the innuendo of the peach makes it even juicier in your mouth. Cherries are a given. Pears, papayas, and strawberries are all sensual fruits, ripe and arousing.

“See where she comes, appareled like the spring,” Shakespeare wrote in The Prince of Tyre. In his time, women’s legs were kept under petticoats and rarely seen even in the warmer months. The sultan of sonnets also recognized the beauty in perversity, unless of course you believe double-entendres are reserved only for the contemporary. Spring fashion echoes these sentiments — we show a little more of the shoulder, the nape is exposed, the ankles bare, our calves see the light of day as the skirts and pants seem to creep slowly up towards our thighs as the mercury rises. The clothes we wear (or barely wear) reflect the attitude of the season. Just like we packed away our neck warmers along with all our knitted gloves in a plastic bin from The Container Store, we are starting to shelve our reservations about putting ourselves out there, to see and be seen. We are more willing to take risks and perhaps that is why Chlamydia is dubbed “Spring Break disease.” While some risks aren’t worth taking, others certainly are.

The metamorphosis that begins in this season breaks us out of a shell. We can finally spread our wings again, which lay dormant through the sub-freezing wind chill coming off the Hudson River. Valentine’s Day is in February, but the true heat starts with the romance of spring. The season seduces winter out of its doldrums, spreading lusty thoughts, taking us into the abandon of summer. Spring is as precocious as the magnolia, one of the most sexually progressive flowers. She comes on beautiful and strong and often before most other flowers, but leaves just as quickly like a fleeting romance, a spring fling. Just like the butterfly, who flutters south for the winter, only to return to New York in time for the season of fruition ready to mate? The winged insect, one of the only bugs we don’t fear, cannot fly if their body is less than 86 degrees, so they often bask in the sun to retain heat. Much like we do when we head outside for a walk in the sun and feel reenergized. Much like we do when we head outside with our revitalized confidence. Much like men do to feel a natural invigoration. We are thawed. Spring has sprung — and so has he.