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Produced by a bunch of smart, opinionated, dishy, nosy, funny New Yorkers
who love to run around Lower Manhattan eating, going to movies and plays, listening to music, taking pictures, and sharing all the dish




Naked Trees

by Yori Yanover

This was the last week of disrobing for local trees. The sidewalks are covered in a carpet of yellow and red leaves, no longer majestic and colorful, more like your rug at four in the morning, after the big party.


Traditionally, Thanksgiving is the first truly frozen day of the season. It’s on Thanksgiving that New Yorkers are usually hit by a striking notion of how miserable the deep of winter can be. That’s the time things move on from refreshingly cool to frostbitten knuckles.


OK, it doesn’t happen every year precisely on Thanksgiving, but that’s the way I remember it: Get out with your kid to make it to the tail end of the Macy’s Parade, and suddenly perceive the full onslaught of a mercilessly cold morning. Ouch.

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