What's In a Zip Code?

Until a couple of days ago I was completely unaware of the importance of my zip code. Sure, I cared about it enough to make certain I got all five numbers right on my credit card applications and on those cute puppy dog return address labels that I have, but never thought twice about what those little numbers said about who I am as a person. I had always thought that’s what Prada labels were for. Of course, all of that has changed now.

Apparently, on the island of Manhattan, your zip code is a powerful asset that says as much about who you are as the family you came from, the job you hold, and your wardrobe. It tells others whether you are new money, old money, young and hip with money, middle class, gay, straight, Jewish, or Italian. For example, if you live in my zip code (10036) it means that you are likely young and gay and can’t afford to live in the more affluent gayborhood of Chelsea (10011). In my case, it’s more accurate than a recent astrology report.

I found out the importance of zip codes while on an awful date with a man I now refer to as “West Village Guy”. We met for a drink in the Village at a hip underground jazz club. Things were off to a great start when I began talking about how much I love the Village – my first mistake. Within moments I was hearing all about how tourists, uptowners, and bridge and tunnel folks (people who live in Jersey or one of the other New York boroughs and thus access Manhattan through a bridge or tunnel) are ruining the Village vibe. He complained of long waits at restaurants, overcrowded bars, and too many investment bankers. His solution: every establishment in the Village should require patrons to provide proof of zip code when entering; if it’s not 10014, you’re out.

I was incredulous. True, the Village attracts a number of people from around the city to its quaint restaurants and tree-lined streets, but it’s not a gated suburban community. It’s a vibrant and culturally important part of the city that should be available for all to enjoy. West Village Guy disagreed vehemently: "I never come to Hell’s Kitchen and eat in your restaurants", he said, "why should you come to the Village and over-crowd mine?". Needless to say, the date ended quickly and there will not be another. It wasn’t meant to be – 10036’s just aren’t compatible with 10014’s (or so says the latest numerology report in the Enquirer).

As I talked to friends about this experience I found that apparently I was the freak in this situation. How could I not know the importance of a zip code? One friend is in the process of buying an apartment and said he only looked at places in 10014 - he just couldn’t handle the shame of living in 10013 or 10012. And apparently there were nearly riots on the Upper East Side last year when they split 10021, possibly the most prestigious zip code in the country, into three different codes. Residents feared that the value of their land would drop and that they would be cut from certain elite social circles. You can imagine the pearls and chardonnay flying in that fight.

So, what’s a boy to do? I obviously can’t afford 10014 or 10021, so I did what any self-respecting Prada-wearing gay man would: I lied on my driver’s license application. It’s not like they check those things, right?

Close Quarters

The couple next door seems adorable. He’s an out of work actor, she’s a working soprano. They’re thinking about having a baby and moving to Yonkers. Of course, I’ve never met them. If I bumped into them on the street I would have no idea who they are. But, I can tell you when they normally go to bed, what their favorite album is (Avenue Q!), and that she has a fantastic voice.

Manhattan apartments are notorious for their thin walls, and my fabulous little apartment is no exception. While it doesn’t really bother me (who doesn’t want to hear “do-re-mi” at 10:30 every night?!) it has been a bit of an adjustment. I find myself trying to be quiet so as not to disturb my neighbors, which means I’ve had to re-think my in-home daycare business. Maybe I can teach silent yoga instead? We’ll see.

What I’m finding is that privacy is a luxury in Manhattan, similar to shopping at grocery stores or driving a car. It’s just something most “normal people” can’t afford. On an island that has over 65,000 people per square mile it’s difficult to find a space where you are truly alone. Even the subway tunnels, which were my last hope for complete solace, don’t provide a ton of privacy (though those graffiti artists are actually quite nice).

In the end, though, didn’t I move here to be a part of a thriving city? I could have privacy in Seattle or Midland or Bakersfield. Who cares if people know my business? Everyone in Manhattan is an exhibitionist and I’m going to have to learn to become one too. The truth of the matter is, no one cares who you are or what you’re doing in this city – they’re just focused on making it through their own day. So, my neighbors might find out that I love Reba McEntire and that I watch too many episodes of Friends and that my date last night was awful. Who cares, right?

Note: I do not like Reba McEntire, nor do I waste my time watching Friends, nor have I ever had a bad date.

One step at a time, I guess…

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Have you heard the buzz? Needles are sewing, homos are hopping, and models stopped eating three weeks ago: all signs that New York’s Spring Fashion Week is in full swing. It seems to be a Manhattan-specific holiday, with people on the street kissing cheeks and bidding each other “Happy Fashion Week”. You think I’m kidding - I’m not.

A friend of mine has a friend who has a friend (this is how all transactions in Manhattan take place) who was working the event, so we ventured to Bryant Park at 8:30 this morning for the very first show of the day. I had my doubts that we’d get in, but it wasn’t long until we were runway-adjacent listening to a dance remix of Amy Winehouse’s latest hit. Not a bad start to the morning.

The tent was full of New York’s most fashionable, including a couple of stars. The first one I spotted was Martha Plimpton, made famous as the blonde girl in the Goonies and also as the girl who threw the party in 200 Cigarettes. Sitting next to her was some older woman who was wearing the most atrocious black boa. She must have been famous too, because everyone kept taking her picture (poor Martha – she didn’t get much attention). I have no clue who she was, though – at first I thought it was Liza, but closer inspection proved that initial conclusion incorrect (sad times). If I figure it out I’ll let you know.

The show was for Malan Breton’s spring line. (It’s okay, I didn’t know who he was either). His bio says he was on Project Runway Season 3 - he must have gotten kicked off early, because I don’t remember him - and apparently he’s made dresses for all sorts of famous women.

The show, which was the culmination of months of hard work, was over faster than a Cambodian kid can make a Nike. But what a fabulous 13 minutes it was! His designs were not incredibly inspiring, and I did take issue with his patent leather shawl, but I found the whole process fascinating and entertaining. It made me want to be the next Nina Garcia (but, you know, likeable). I figure if I can’t find a job in advertising, interning in fashion is the next stop.