Nobody else has Bill Cunningham. Sometimes, he gets loaned out to Paris, but Mr. Cunningham always returns on a hot foot. He has another one of my dream jobs. He trots around Manhattan photographing women with a sartorial knack or the ability to devour the latest trend.
I have loved New York my entire life. Although I grew up in the hills of Penn's Wood, I was able to visit the city on a regular basis. My earliest lesson that The City was one of the world's wonders occurred on a busy corner midtown. We were waiting for the "Walk" signal on a corner. All of a sudden a scruffy bum (the term "homeless" hadn't been coined yet) stepped out of the river of stream of humanity and puked in broad daylight against the wall. No one panicked (except my mother). Not one of the hundreds of New Yorkers hustling on the pavement missed a beat. No one rushed up and offered him help. The bum efficiently spit up his business, wiped his chin, jumped back in the hustle and went his ragged way.
I was simultaneously grossed out and awestruck. That was probably one of the coolest things I'd ever seen in my prepubescent life. An amused New Yorker noticed my gaping mouth and widened eyes. He winked, and passed on these talismanic words, "Only in New York." I had been blessed. Many times I have returned to New York over the passing decades. The Fifth Lady has gotten softer, cleaner and glossier (like Giuliani performed some miraculous wash, rinse, condition and repeat on Manhattan), but I never fail to utter that phrase.
The last time was at the New York Historical Society. I turned up its steps one morning on a summer whim. As I came down from its staggering attic (Henry Luce III, you are the king of compulsive hoarders, and I love you.) and traipsed through the ground floor, a confident gay man shoved a gift bag in my hand without any ado. Okey-dokey. There was some sweet swag in there, including a DVD of The Tenth Kingdom. Not only that, I got to scarf some remnants of a nifty brunch. Mimosa in one hand and a mini breakfast pizza in the other, I sidled to the edge of the chattering throng. I asked a woman consuming some home fries on a bench what the party was celebrating. She shrugged and emphatically stated over her banana nut muffin, "I have no idea." Uh-huh. Someone threw a party, no one invited showed up, but a fabulous time was had by all. Only in New York.
Which is the long, winding path to my original point. You can only find Bill Cunningham in New York. Every Sunday, the Style section of The New York Times posts a slide show of Cunningham's photos with accompanying audio commentary. It's a succinct and charming way to peep into the daily lives of New Yorkers, as he usually informs the viewer about their survival skills, city traditions, and luscious dollops of fashion history.
If you click on this link, it takes you to today's meditation about "a premature visit of August weather." Normally, I take notes while the photos click by and ladies serve it up. But, today was a big pile of "Eesh!" I hate the maxi dress. Save that billowing mess for the beach or behind your closed front door! My Midwestern prudery (thank you, Mater) and appreciation of formality (thank you, Pater) causes me to inwardly rear up like an unbroken pony at the sight of these sloppy abominations.
These ladies look like they're in housecoats or nighties for criminy's sake. Of course, this is more of that boho-beach "fashion" that has rolled East from Crazifornia. Ugh. I shall not bow down to the influence of that hideous Chupacabra and her followers. I'd rather be a Real Housewife of Jersey, no, I take that back--nothing could make me degrade myself like that. I'd rather be a scruffy bum-ette on a puke stroll! There.
This week's peephole to Manhattan sidewalks only inspired horror and laughter (there's an Oompa-Loompa calendar girl FAILing). However, if you dig through Cunningham's archives, you'll see more dignified dames demonstrating one-upmanship with their spring coats; combinations of black and white; and other fashion essentials. Besides, it's worth it just to hear those pounding piano notes at each introduction. They suggest that students in leotards and baggy cords are about to spill out, stop traffic, and bust a move on a yellow taxi. Only in New York, y'all.
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