cr0wl_at_the_ace_nyc crOwl driving our final trip in the nearly lease-expired mini cooper, we flew right past the carlisle exit, absorbed in some reverie of childhood recollection and had to get directions from a one-eyed barista at a roadside starbucks outside of philadelphia. we dropped our luggage off at the hotel and parked the car like a sardine then walked to the little owl, a corner restaurant on bedford avenue in greenwich village. sitting under a pressed tin ceiling in the afternoon sunlight pouring through from a wall of pane glass windows, i sucked down a gruner vertliner and feasted on the creamiest risotto i have ever experienced. we walked back to the hotel to see if our room was ready. this is the true charm of nyc for me. i love to be a voyeur, completely immersed in the pleasures of simple observation. this city is a writhing collage. bombarded by color, fashion, smell, size, age, and ethnicity, my head is like a character in a stop animation film twisted into shape. "them bitches aren't on french vogue!" i heard someone say, as a woman in full west african regala strolled past me with her partner dressed similarly. on the plywood wall behind them huge shepherd fairy posters were plastered. the room wasn't ready so they gave us free drinks. "happy days" they were called. tequila infused with lime and pomegranite juice. then time enough to take a much needed catnap before the first night of the dustys, which are the school of visual arts' week-long event of senior thesis films. greta's seven minute film, called "little things" was absolutely stunning. seeing our horses, cats and chickens caught in lush hd on the big screen to a para one soundtrack brought a rush of proud parental tears to my eyes, which i sense is only the beginning. we're staying at the ace on 29th, the revamped excelsior hotel, a perfect nest for the cuckoobirds we are, complete with the breslin bar, stumptown coffee, and a massive lobby. i'm sitting back cozy in a retro leather chair as a variety of frumpy dressed hipsters mill about lazily contemplating the morning. some step along the mosaic tile with guitar cases, others pace with cellphones to their scaggly-haired heads. and me, as one of them? i'm planning on going to the MOMA.````````` 100505 ... crOwl it's almost time to go and i'm wishing i could live here, yet i realize with tear-sucking fatherly pride i am because my little baby girl has a huge chunk of my soul around her neck like the scarf she so elegantly wears. the past few days have been a kaleidoscopic blur of thesis films, dramatic, career-enhancing conversations, gastronomical delight, and the overwhelming sense of a delicate involvement. it could be like the dots that join to form an impressionistic painting or something greater like the complexity that unites to form who we each are as human beings. squeeze a lemon and what do you get? so much more than juice. you get everything that combined to create it. but the key is: do you taste it when you take the sip? greta was nominated for best in cinematography, but over the past few nights we came to the conclusion that her entire experience at sva had little to do with winning an award. her time there is defined through the process of each and every step that she fearlessly and courageously encountered. from the films she made with her sisters and friends at nine years-old, high school film classes at the melwood school in pittsburgh, film camp at princeton, all the contacts she made in nyc, her willingness to never say no to any job she was offered, the bravery to travel all over the world, to accept sleep had to take on a whole new mindset, to value selflessness, and the undying belief in her own imagination. at the awards ceremony, we were treated to a few commencement talks from a select group of media talents. a funny, yet eloquent speech from talk show maverick phil donahue. a gutsy-go-for-it- rouse from indie film darling, patricia clarkson, and a don't take any bullshit exhortation from the sopranos' james gandolfini. afterwards, we joined a procession for a couple block stroll through the bustling streets of manhattan to a chelsea art gallery for the gala after-party. kathy and i stayed for just a short while since the space was soon packed with drunken college kids throwing back prosecco and brooklyn lager in the atmospheric swirl of pounding dj beats. we stepped out on a balcony that swooned over a majestic view of the greatest city in the world and just sighed, accepting that warm embrace from a god who never abandons, only tends to our lives like a meticulous, calloused-handed gardener. we slipped out, looking back at greta who was completely immersed in a conversation from yet another admirer. a jamaican taxi driver whisked us away to racette, a corner cafe on 12th and greenwich. the kitchen was closing but they took us in and we melted into our seats like the bites our tongues embraced. waiting for a taxi later, a woman approached us, asking if we had been to the sva gala. turns out she was a former professor at greta's college and so for the next half hour, we stood on the sidewalk and recounted the story of our lives. she listened. of course i said a few things which a good glass of pinot will always help me do, but it was kathy who blew me the fuck away. i stood there and watched her in her stunning beauty, folding her slim arms, her dark brown eyes shimmering in the streetlights, and felt perhaps the deepest love for her that i have ever known. i could see it all from the very beginning. with simple elocution but powerful eloquence she summed up our entire philosophy of raising children; the entire ying-yang of country/city, homeschool/alternative education/hand-on/freedom inspiration and the whatever-it-takes attitude stemming from understanding what being a parent actually means. later we thought...what were the chances of meeting this lady at that place, at that time? it doesn't make sense. it does. it is another element necessary to form the whole. greta stumbled in very late and when we woke she was sprawled out on the white bed, her blond hair splayed across the pillow in the early morning light pouring through the high rises and into our room on the third floor. kathy had to take a photo of her which of course woke her. but, the first thing out of her mouth, croaky words from speaking over the loud music of the gala, was of a chat she had with the producer of anthony bourdain's show "no reservations." he was impressed with her camera work and the reputation for tenacity that accompanies her. he wants to see her reel. is she willing to travel? is she willing to work crazy hours with little help? "you are joking right?" 100507 what's it to you? who go blather from