By Becky, (who is) still waiting for the Baywatch end credit
The best job a girl could have is a beach lifeguard. I’d liken my experience to that of a cloistered nun – though instead of a habit and floor-length black garb, I’d don a red swimsuit and tan like Pam Anderson in Baywatch.
I’d ride five blocks on my baby blue beach cruiser bike to work, skid in at ten-fifteen on the dot, toy with my frayed Pura Vida bracelet as the lieutenant assigned lifeguards to our posts for the day. I’d immediately pipe up when they asked who wanted the bays – first and last word I’d say in the morning. Five past ten is too early of a wakeup time to spare any energy for chitchat, despite what Big Employment tells us. The bays were the easiest to guard: no waves and no one on the beach until lunchtime, except for a lone retiree and maybe a stray Brooklynite that thought they could sneak into Breezy Point. Those fools! I can spot them by their scowl and hideous man-buns! That’s not a friendly Breezy Pointer!
Couple minutes later, I’d scoop up a walkie-talkie from the basket and cruise three blocks to the lifeguard chair, throwing down my bike on the sand, rusted kickstand be damned. I’d clumsily set up the patriotic Cooperative-provided umbrella (an Irish girl’s got to have a barrier between her pale skin and enemy number one, sunlight) and tuck my legs to my chest, watching the little sailboats with white masts drift past the buoys, Brooklyn a mile-and-a-half in front of me, the Manhattan skyline just beyond, just a haze in midmorning. From my vantage point six feet from the ground, if I wished, I could survey the shores of New Jersey to my far left, Staten Island (didn’t particularly care to look much at those two entities, to be perfectly honest), Coney Island, Manhattan Beach (the kind with the nouveau-riche Russians, not the Californians) to my twelve-o-clock, the control tower at JFK, and the postcard-ready white-and-blue Breezy Point lighthouse to my right. What a joy to have all of New York City under my supervision! No crime, no death, no taxes under my watchful gaze!
I’d then turn my attention to the most important matter, the life-or-death duty of every tried-and-true lifeguard: considering the topic of philosophical thought for the day, my music choice for the hour. Now, don’t pretend like I wasn’t completely alert and ready to save lives at a moment’s notice – the horseshoe crab had moved six inches towards the shoreline since I’d set up my umbrella, actually, I’ll have you know. As for the music choice, sometimes Bob Marley would win out, and I’d pretend to be somewhere in the Caribbean sipping from a coconut. Maybe I’d put on the Doors and “Riders from the Storm” would become background noise for lofty sorts of ideas that ranged from religion to politics to whether I really agreed with Ayn Rand about the merits of form-follows-function architecture and professional success as (wo)man’s defining source of happiness. A girl’s got nothing else to do when staring at the sea. Also, I was unreasonably obsessed with Ayn Rand this summer, later vindicated by those 24-year-old AI startup Silicon Valley geniuses who probably cracked ten million in seed funding before I got up for my lunch break.
At first thought, I sound irritatingly pretentious, but I’ve got a long history of hours spent staring at a pool, lifeguarding in Brooklyn that forced a level of boredom upon me that punished any want for instant gratification. If you were caught with your phone on the chair, you were sacked, and I didn’t dare risk a reprimand from my supervisor, a no-nonsense mother of three who ran the place like a warship.
Back on the sand. Can you imagine a New York City beach with absolutely nobody, yes, devoid of people, not a single soul as far as the eye can see? Can you imagine Billionaire’s Row and One World Trade within sight distance, sun beating down on your skin, and yet a silence so still you considered for a moment that you might be deaf? Can’t you see why I’d spend every single waking second for the rest of my life if I could, sitting here, day in, day out, 80 degrees, three little white sailboats within swimming distance, good music, and any little worries swallowed whole by the current in Jamaica Bay?
Unfortunately and rather cynically, the lightning strike at the beginning of last August kind of took me out of my reverie. Apparently you’ve got a one in ten thousand chance of getting struck by a bolt. I don’t count myself as one of the (un)lucky, though, because I think only my umbrella was hit (who woulda thought, the tallest metal point around really does attract lightning, I just wanted to put good old Ben Franklin to the test!). I bought a lotto ticket the next day and didn’t win the Powerball. So there was really no point, I guess, except it’s a really killer icebreaker fact in an otherwise routine round-the-class introduction, and I got recognized once at the local pub. Maybe it was a much-needed jolt back to reality, a sign telling me that Ayn Rand was right: I need to take pride in my work and not just listen to reggae all day on the lifeguard chair. Or maybe it was just a great excuse to get a paid day off, which, complete no-brainer, I spent at the beach. Even got to wear a real bikini this time!
To answer New York City’s most recently asked question, “where has Sunbleacht gone,” we’ve gone to London and Florence. Forever.
Just kidding. It was bittersweet to leave NYC and hop over the pond, and we’ve been talking about the things that we will miss the most. Those conversations spiraled into the stories you’re about to read, discussing our favorite memories from the past 365 days.
Becky
A night out always starts off well when Alisia or Graciela’s got a new item of clothing to show off to me. That alone takes up at least 10 minutes of conversation. In this case, it was Alisia’s vintage Ralph Lauren Rudyard-Kipling Jungle-book inspired sweater.
We kicked off the festivities (every weekend was a special feast day, much like medieval peasants had, except we were teen girls with havoc to wreak and an itch in our hearts to dance) at Cafe Select, where Nice Jewish Boys and Italian Stallions alike chowed down on the smelliest cheese fondue that had ever had the displeasure of gracing my nostrils. Seriously, it was like foot-and-mouth disease had been made into a culinary specialty. We discussed Alisia’s camp stories, delved a bit into psychology (the topic du jour was schizophrenia, if I remembered correctly — coincidentally, a disorder that shared its name with a current popular baby name amongst the carnivore-only dieting types), and shots were purchased for each of us by a self-reported owner of a local well-heeled hotel (I chose to suspend my disbelief about whether he was telling the truth or not).
I achieved my favorite photo of Alisia and Graciela to date: the two of them sipping on overfilled cosmos like cats lapping up milk from saucers. We returned to our Broome Street den of sins and hedonism, where we celebrated the name-day, Central European style, of Rebucci, Grucci, and Alucci — our evil alter egos — and commemorated this world-changing anniversary by scrawling our names on little puzzle-piece Post-It notes. Just like how the Vikings baptized their young, I’ve read.
After a merry skip, hop, and jump to Paul’s, we secured our spot on the dance floor, twirling around to anachronistically combined Morrissey and Kesha like little gremlins possessed by the ghosts of Studio 54. A friendly offer for a cigarette led the three of us to a Gramercy afterparty, where I was thrilled to discover a curved spiral staircase, ostensibly leading to a damsel in distress locked away in a tower. I pushed my phone toward Alisia for a quick photoshoot before I drunkenly attempted to save this supposed damsel in distress, posing in a fascinatingly weather-inappropriate outfit of a coat and open-toed espadrilles, and then, forgetting about my quest, passionately flipped through a coffee table book—much to the displeasure of the other partygoers, upon whom I had imposed a politically inappropriate Overton-window-smashing conversation.
As a favorite-night runner-up — a little sweet treat after the starring dish — here was a favorite moment of mine: the time that Alisia picked up a fair-sized tire rim off the ground on Greene Street and brought it to Paul’s Baby Grand with her as a present for the bouncers.
Graciela
It was a Saturday near the end of April in NYC when the sun was finally coming out and everyone was coming out of hibernation. I knew I wanted to avoid the SoHo crowds and with nothing else to do, I decided it was the perfect day to take a solo adventure up to Central Park. I put on my favorite red floral midi skirt and packed my bag with my journal, book, headphones, and my disposable camera that I never finished from a year ago and took the 6 train uptown.
As I entered the park, the trees were blooming and the weather was perfect. I took photos and called my mom while I walked around until I found the perfect little spot by a tree to sit down at. We chatted and my mom sent me photos of all these cute puppies she was looking to maybe get (but never did – so if you’re reading this you should still get another puppy, mom).
After hanging up I was able to put on some music and journal a bit which I so rarely end up ever actually doing. I laid down and people watched for a while and eventually decided to try out this cute cafe I found somewhat nearby. I journeyed over and prayed for seating. I was blessed with a seat inside with air conditioning to escape the heat after the walk over and was able to order a latte and a macaroon.
Right as I finished off my coffee and was heading back out, I received a text from Alisia asking what I was up to and if I wanted to enjoy this beautiful day with a nice glass of champagne. And of course, what other answer is there other than yes? We had just launched the zine for Sunbleacht and we needed a proper celebration. We ended up realizing we were at completely different sides of the park, but as I walked south and she walked east we were able to perfectly meet up near one of the entrances. When Alisia walked through the park she saw there was a big crowd hanging out in Sheep Meadow. We decided to go to the nearest liquor store and each buy a bottle of champagne and go sit and drink over there. We realized we didn’t have any cups as we sat down so we just popped open our bottles, cheered to Sunbleacht and drank straight from them. We sat in the park drinking our champagne in the middle of about three different games going on (may have almost got hit by a few balls). One group even seemed to be drunkenly inventing their own game and invited us to join, but we had more fun just watching. We laughed and took silly photos till the sun started to set. Both of us had one of those moments where we were looking out at the city and almost didn’t even believe the two of us were really here, just two best friends living in New York City drinking a bottle of champagne watching a beautiful sunset in the park.
We started to head back as it was getting dark. We hid our champagne in our bags and decided to walk home. The 65 or so blocks flew by quicker than usual. By the time we were home I had my bottle, and the rest of Alisia’s, and a 7th Street burger. But although the sun had set, the night was just beginning…
Afterwards, I got mostly ready… and then maybe fell asleep for a little bit. However, revived by Alisia I was up and ready to hit the town. We spent the night at the one and only Paul’s Casablanca. We said hello to all our favorite people and danced the night away.
We ended up back home before we realized we needed to finish the night the correct way with Champion Pizza. Alisia grabbed her film camera and we went just down the block to get the best pizza in the city. Champion has a button with a timer that if you hit at the exact 10 second mark you get a free cheese slice. I always try with no luck. I ordered my usual cheese slice and I started hitting the button just for fun. It was a delighted surprise when I got it right on the 10 second mark after only a couple tries. The 3 am crowd cheered loud for me and Alisia captured the epic moment on film. I savored my delicious winning slice to end my perfect NYC day.
Alisia
Like all perfect days, mine started at 1 am in Paul’s Casablanca.
While the dance floor was empty until around 2 am, Graciela and I saw no shame in being the only ones twirling for the time being. We met some other southern girls, which was a fun conversation about the NY-LA (Louisiana, not Los Angeles) pipeline. The rest of the night consisted of bouncing back and forth between chatting with our friends who work there and making up dances on the dance floor. When in doubt, I tend to hit my “toddler dance,” which I will not further elaborate on.
As tradition goes, afterwards we took a cab to Prince Street Pizza. Another friend hopped in and joined us, and while chatting in line we realized we only lived a block apart. We walked our slices towards Alphabet City and helped him carry some hefty Amazon boxes up to his apartment, where we played chess until the sun came up.
The next morning, Graciela and I decided to indulge in our favorite activity: a multihour, aimless walk. We stopped somewhere to get a smoothie and watched the high school girls remake it four separate times, which amused us for the rest of the day. The next time I went into that cafe, the girl apologized for recognizing me but not knowing my name, and then excitedly told me that it was her last day.
We started the trek up the West Side Highway. When I walk around, I usually tend to look straight ahead or down, as I’m often just autopiloting my body around the city. But I made it a goal to notice things I’d never noticed before as it was one of my last weekends in the city for nine months. My first victim was a building I’d passed by almost everyday, wondering whether or not it was a hotel. In a way that almost felt illegal, we stared into the windows from 2 blocks and a highway away, trying to make out people and furniture. From the identical positioning of furniture, we decided it was a hotel. One man opened his curtains, jumped up and down waving, and as soon as we waved back a woman came and shut the curtains. In my imagination they’d just had a conversation that went something like:
“No one can see us. Just watch,” and he started jumping and waving, but then we proved him wrong. We went on with our walk.
I told Graciela about how when I was younger and spent a lot of time in Florida, I’d try and “talk to the water.” I’d try to get the waves to be really big when it was my turn to boogie board. As a kid, this made total sense to me because I believed inanimate objects and nature could hear me and had feelings, and because I was a nice kid they would maybe help me out in my boogie boarding. I noticed many things I hadn’t before on our walk, which I really appreciated. I started to make fun of myself and annoy Graciela by telling her “I’ve been looking – but have I been SEEING?” every 15 or so minutes.
Becky was making her way into the city, and we all met up in Madison Square Park to chat about the previous night. We then walked our way back down to our apartment to change and go to St. Mark’s Place for dinner. On the way there, MyLifeAsEva walked by us. I usually try to not acknowledge famous people because that’s the way I’d like to be treated, but considering she fueled my childhood obsession with little crafts I quickly told her “I loved your videos growing up” in passing. While eating dinner, I watched Machine Gun Kelly walk by us with his guitar, but our interaction consisted of “don’t talk to me” eye contact, and I obliged. The most memorable part of the random restaurant we sat down at was its wallpaper which depicted little monochrome drawings in sexual acts.
My perfect day consisted of my regularly programmed schedule, which I spend a lot of time thinking about while I’m away.
I was sixteen when I stepped into a nightclub for the first time.
Rumor had it that there was a multi-story bar on Hubbard Street in my hometown of Chicago where you didn’t need an ID to get in — just slip the bouncer some cash. Word got around, leapfrogging from friend group to friend group, as juicy information tends to do among high schoolers in the city.
One Saturday night, instead of doing my pre-calculus worksheets or finishing an essay on The Great Gatsby, I lined up with some friends on the sidewalk, still damp and darkened from that afternoon’s rainfall. One by one, we faced the imposing bouncer dressed in all black, who asked for our IDs. Just like we’d practiced, each of us silently shoved our cash into his hand. After a few nervous moments that felt like an eternity, he moved to the side and waved us in.
Just like that, my cohort graduated from house parties in Lincoln Park to the nightclubs of River North.
Now, let’s be clear: if I were a parent and found out my sixteen-year-old was out clubbing, I would short-circuit, to say the least. Luckily, sixteen-year-old me told my parents I was at my friend Sasha’s, who conveniently lived a block from the club. When I quietly snuck back home two hours later, slightly tipsy, they were none the wiser.
I spent countless weekends immersed in this nocturnal world with my friends. We weren’t particularly adventurous, as the nightlife offerings were understandably limited at our age. Relegated to college dive bars and the scummiest of nightclubs who didn’t care who they let in, we traipsed through every dance floor and made it our own. I felt like I had stumbled into a secret world.
The vampiric, nocturnal landscape of nightlife took on a far different form when I arrived in New York City. In high school, I had come to understand bars and clubs as a seedy leisure activity. A guilty pleasure. It certainly wasn’t admirable — it was a frivolous time-waster that promised trouble equal to its weight in entertainment value.
New York taught me that that was all wrong.
Nightlife rewards good people skills and good judgment. The ability to let loose and dance like you don’t take yourself too seriously, but also stay firmly and respectably in control. Know how to talk to people, and know not to take the drugs they give you. Learn not to kiss every boy who wants you.
Clubland was a career starter for some. RuPaul and Amanda Lepore. Patricia Field and Susanne Bartsch. Some of the Club Kids of the 80s stayed in the nightlife scene, while others branched into television or fashion using the social networks they formed at boîtes and soirees across downtown watering holes. A guy I went out with for a few months (and whom I semi-sneeringly nicknamed “Mr. Blonde” in early installments of my nightlife column) told me he met the modeling agent who would eventually “discover” him, as well as the executive who promptly hired him as an Assistant Editor at a New York culture magazine, at a weekly party he religiously attended on the West side.
In my vampiric world, I encounter people who lead polar opposite lives from mine. Creatures whom I would have never met under the light of the sun — only when the moon is out do our lives have a chance to intertwine. They work in Midtown or SoHo; I go to school in the Village. They live in Williamsburg; I have a dorm in Gramercy. After five p.m. they make music in their friend’s brownstone or do photoshoots and fashion styling for magazines. After five, I sit in the park or take the 6 Train home to write or nap. They’ve lived here for years upon years. I’m on my second — in a city big enough that our paths might never have crossed otherwise. But each night, we all implicitly know where the party is.
A little old lady with purple tortoiseshell glasses, green acrylic nails and mild halitosis; an apartment covered floor-to-ceiling with jungle print and crocheted stuffed animals and hideously clashing shades of orange, purple and green; the lone woman in black paint and white straightjacket with long, stringy black hair that performs a nauseating sort of interpretive dance in front of Washington Square Arch. That right there is the spectrum of people and places I’ve always thought of when I hear the word “eccentric.”
So when Alisia christened our magazine’s tagline as, “eccentric, for the eccentric, by the eccentric,” I had reservations. I obsessed over finding an alternative with an amount of neurotic determination that’s wildly inappropriate for three syllables. “Unconventional?” Too overused to be catchy. A word that’s been chewed up, spat out, and stepped on by lifestyle brands. “Bizarre?” Now that evokes impressions of a Moroccan bazaar, a two-headed goat, a bright green Ripley’s Believe It or Not! encyclopedia. It would be blasphemous to refer to ourselves as bizarre. We’re hard-working taxpayers (on paper), not circus animals. “Freaky?” Not quite the kind of thing I’d want my future employers to see in the search results. “FREAKY by FREAKS for FREAKS.” Yeah, this girl would be a great fit for our, uh, asset management division.
But the die was cast. Eccentric’s hold on our brand had gone past the point of last return, sailed far past the strait of Gibraltar, had shot light-years beyond the Van Allen belt. I surrendered to Alisia’s vision – creative director knows best, creative director knows best. Eccentric, I decided, would be gifted a rebrand, free of charge. Merriam-Webster would be sent a rather demanding letter to see to the change. It was no longer the kind of word you’d get called by a fair-weather friend that attempts to explain the off-kilter sort of way about you to another friend while you’re getting yourself another drink at a house party. The eccentric subject would no longer cower under the weight of the connotation of “strange” or “uncool” in purple tortoiseshell glasses and a feather boa.
We had a radical new eccentric to define – had to be sharp, irreverent, witty, flirtatious, probably. A heavy burden for three girls who can count daytime naps under their top five favorite hobbies.
How to start? I sought advice from Descartes’ basics – I think, therefore I am. Writers are eccentric, naturally. The good ones, certainly. Occasionally, even the bad ones (lucky me!). The sort of oddity that describes eccentricity really boils down to juxtaposition. Eccentricity is passion, obviously manifested; eccentricity is nonconformity, visually and cognitively. Eccentricity is a vision seen through a tunnel wide enough for only one head.
I’d like to think our magazine will define our own brand of eccentricity. I love to criticize a mission statement that misses the mark, so to allow myself to be a little lazy, and to retain a little wily feminine mystery, I’ll keep my examples close. I’ll let Sunbleacht speak for itself.
Sunbleacht 