Snow day in Central Park.

I keep falling off the blog wagon, but I think that has more to do with a lack of adventures than a lack of enthusiasm. It's tough to run around town (and country) when the weather is so gloomy. One major exception: last Friday's walk through Central Park.

We trekked from 30th Street on the East Side across the Great Lawn and around the Reservoir before finally heading home. Our hike took nearly four hours.

Standing at the end of the Mall, with no one in sight, under this canopy of oaks, made me feel so tiny.

Sadly these Hunter wellies were my most suitable shoes for the adventure. Despite keeping me dry, the toes were not toasty. 

Next time I'll follow my hiking partner's lead and don Bean Boots. But of course a Rhode Islander would be better equipped for twenty inches of powder.

But even he wasn't prepared to take on these tots and their sleds. (We should have taken a sled!)

The weatherman promised 50 degrees this weekend so hopefully this (above) is the last snow we'll see till next winter. Hopefully.

"That Brooklyn bullshit, we on it."

On Sunday Samantha and I went to the Brooklyn Flea to kill a couple hours and inspire ourselves. 

Emilio Grossi's New England

He just might be the greatest American photographic artist whom no one has ever heard of. For five decades Emilio Grossi's minimalist portraits of life along the Seaboard have captured history and emotion without wide angle lenses, without color, simply by highlighting the texture of window panes and gray shingles or a wrecked barn in Rhode Island. 

Doorway, Milford

How can a solitary sand dollar move me to tears? Zooming in on the headlights of an old Chevy truck, paint chipped, tree branches reflected in the paint on the hood, Grossi makes America mythic - from the beaches of Key West to the strands of Cape Cod.

Check out more of this master (and my Grossi-inspired get-up) after the jump.

Newport, Rhode Island

It's the coldest day of the winter thus far, and I'm barricaded in my apartment with a stack of magazines and Netflix. Christmas is two weeks away, but as usual I find myself craving the sea and the sand and the smell of steak over Kingsford coals.


It's days like this that I most miss Newport, R.I., this past summer's home away from home.

Broad stripes & bright stars.

Wandering around New York City I always encounter a lot of the following: cops, tourists, halal carts, and star-spangled banners.

The first three I could live without, but the flags I simply adore. (Okay, maybe I'll keep the falafel, too.)

I'm busy this weekend casing the Pop Up Flea for All Plaid Out (and crafting the world's longest Dear Santa), so here are some Old Glories to tide you over until my post-PUF wrap-up.

I found this one keeping watch over a sick collection of antique locks at the Brooklyn Flea this past October.

This beaut was my most recent find on a film crew's trailer at Chelsea Piers.

My favorite flag adorns a Chelsea hardware store's wall, somewhere in the twenties.

(If you find it, take a snap and let me know!)

A holiday on the Cape.

For two straight weeks I have seen nothing but rain and gloom from sea to fruited plain. Rather than crawl under the covers and hibernate, I prefer to recharge with photo reminders of this past summer.

On Labor Day weekend Kate, Liz, and I made our maiden voyage to Cape Cod. We spent a night on the Dennis shore and one by a pond in Chatham. While not the most action-packed vacation we had ever taken, we certainly snapped enough pictures to prove otherwise.

Back seat warriors like myself must head into battle fully prepared. I suited up for the drive in my favorite Nantucket Reds. The ancient, faded L.L. Bean Boat 'n Tote carried necessities (water, makeup, sand, and Gatsby) and, later, the crown.

My souvenirs must tell stories, and this crown is no exception. It began its journey in the back of an Altima and now hangs in my closet, patiently awaiting its next adventure.

This sticker was affixed to the Altima's rear right passenger window. I spent a lot of time staring at that flag between New York and Providence, R.I., where I took this photo, and, finally, the Cape.

On Saturday afternoon we walked along Route 6, the Cape's main drag, to Captain Frosty's for their famous lobster rolls and ice cream.

As we unpacked our duffels in Dennis, Liz said, "Cary, how many pairs of khakis do you have?"

"Did I pack or do I own?"

"Do you own."

I thought about it for a minute and then replied, "I really can't say."

You can never own too many khakis. I swear by J. Crew's Boyfriend and Original fits.

On Saturday evening we took the boat for some water-skiing and a tour of the Bay. I was allowed to drive until I plowed into a lobster buoy.

We spent nearly an hour strolling the beach, hoping to catch the sun as it sunk below the horizon. Our iPhones were poised and ready to capture it.

On Sunday morning we drove to a nature preserve on Nauset Bay to hike and hunt for shells. This nautilus now sits on my windowsill.

The nail polish is, as usual, "Kennebunk-Port" by OPI.

Our cottage in Chatham boasted enough bunk beds to fill a college dorm room and a hammock and this pretty view.

Our last Cape adventure before heading home was a long boozy brunch at Spanky's Clam Shack on the Hyannis harbor. The waitress praised this cerulean sip as Spanky's special recipe, but I'm pretty sure it was just a Bay Breeze. Paired with slaw, fried clams, and quahogs, it tasted like a dream.

In just 48 hours we snacked on some of the best eats of the New England shore while admiring its prettiest sunsets. Scargo Cafe and Wildgoose Tavern also hosted our hungry little crew.

My stash of khaki pants thanks our hosts for the wonderful vacation.

Pastoral and pigskin.

On Friday I ran along my old route in Columbia, Missouri, my college town. I ran west toward Scotts Boulevard, past the church and the golf course, past the playgrounds and the subdivisions, and stopped along a dirt road to take some photos.

Gray, gloomy skies don't make Missouri any less beautiful. This farmhouse, guarded by barbed wire and a thick wall of holly, looked especially proud against the clouds and strong cold breeze.

Ripe holly stood out against the greens and browns and grays. It also reminded me that Christmas is now just two months away.

If not for the rain I might have snuck past that fence for some close-up shots and fun-seeking, but menacing sprinkles demanded I make tracks.

My adventure outside the farm served as inspiration for Saturday's outfit at the Homecoming game. I channeled the sky and earth in white jeans, a white pointelle cotton tuxedo shirt, gold belt, brown leather handbag, and (of course!) the beloved olive drab fatigue jacket. All pieces are by J. Crew. On my feet are the peep-toe, heeled brogues by Nine West. The lipstick is Lancome L'Absolu Rouge in (just like the holly) Berry Noir.

Standing next to me (and equally well-dressed) is one of my oldest and dearest friends Kristen B., author of White Gloves and Party Manners. She wore a black Merino wool cape by Ann Taylor Loft and a beaded black and gold headband by Belle.

Mid-Best.

Autumn in New York is hailed as the City's prettiest season, and I do agree that cool breezes, choppy rivers, and long afternoons spent tossing the pigskin in Central Park give new meaning to the phrase "urban oasis". But to really discover what makes this season so special, to understand why the long winters and the hot summers are worth all our trouble and discomfort, you must leave Manhattan.

This week I am in my home state of Missouri, rediscovering an oft-overlooked part of America and reconnecting with college friends. My journey began in Saint Louis, where backyards like this are a dime a dozen and where long boulevards seem to burst into flame with Technicolor maple and sycamore leaves.

I could spend all afternoon tromping through these woods - found outside city limits in the village of Chesterfield - but not, perhaps, in these shoes. They are my current daytime favorites - vintage pony hair by the granddaddy of department stores Saks Fifth Avenue, scooped up at Williamsburg's Beacon's Closet.

A camera and a Canal.

Today I took a trip to New York's most dazzling strand, the Gowanus Canal. While currently an eyesore that drives a wedge between the more family- and yuppie-friendly Carroll Gardens and Park Slope, Gowanus is beginning to show hints of gentrification. Mark my words: In five years this "waterfront" neighborhood will be filled with hipsters-come-lately, thousand-dollar McLaren strollers, and that wild scene that currently keeps Bedford Avenue buzzing. (I'm already mourning the loss of the soon-to-be-defunct Yacht Club on President and Smith Streets.)

But what Gowanus lacks in polish it makes up for in character and a great view of the sky. While crossing the canal into Carroll Gardens I took the opportunity to play with my new iPhone photography filter Camerabag, which I discovered through Foster Huntington's project A Restless Transplant.

Camerabag lets you alter iPhone photos with a slew of different retro filters. At first I couldn't really tell them apart, but after a snap-happy weekend I feel like an old pro. My favorites are Helga and Instant. To experience the phenomenon that is Camerabag, see below.

This is the Gowanus Canal as seen through the Helga filter.

And this is the same shot, but with the Instant filter.

I always love to play Capture the Flag with my camera. Here's Old Glory through the Helga.

And the same Stars and Stripes behind the Instant filter.

To throw the two in starker light, here they are side-by-side.

Same Canal, two camera techniques.

Which filter do you prefer?

Eschewing a fancy DSLR for my iPhone may never win me a Pulitzer Prize, but with apps and iPhoto, patience and spontaneity, I have managed to patch together what I think is a pretty rich photo essay of my life on the East Coast. (And of course, a DSLR will never fit inside my evening bag nor survive a debaucherous night on the Lower East Side).

Another beautiful day in Brooklyn.

For this Missourian "brewery" is usually synonymous with Anheuser-Busch, and when it's beer-thirty, I'll make mine a Bud Light, thankyouverymuch. Yesterday afternoon, however, I felt adventurous. We braved the downtown downpour and sloshed all the way to the Brooklyn Brewery deep in the heart o' Williamsburg, where a rowdy crowd converged over Scrabble boards, pepperoni pies, and all the Weisse our little hearts could ask for.

To round out this makeshift Oktoberfest I donned a Laura Ashley dress, cranberry tights, and Frye boots. Back home these shoes are called "shit kickers". I bought mine (somewhat paradoxically) at Bloomingdale's on December 23, 2001. They got me through high school, college, and many, many county fairs.

Back to the beer. I started with East India Pale Ale, which boasts (according to their website) hints of lemongrass and ginger and a "robust bitterness". In other words EIPA tastes like Midtown street food.

A verdict is still out on the seasonal Pumpkin brew. Some considered it a little too faithful to the spicy gourd. I liked it for the same reason.

You can buy six beer tokens for twenty dollars, but I advise going halvesies with a buddy. Otherwise this will happen. We gave a couple Brown Ales to lucky strangers. Then we took the three o'clock brewery tour.

I don't remember much said by our tour guide. (Bear in mind that I'd just polished off three Pilsners in an hour.) I do remember learning that the reason nothing else tastes like beer is because no other food or beverage uses hops. Hops give beer its flavor. And if you don't know, now you know!

I might have retained more brewery knowledge if I hadn't been poking around what looked like Frankenstein's lab. Beakers and hoses and strangely colored fluids gave the room a very timely Halloween vibe.

Pumpkins, hay bales, and a surprise visit by a gloomy kitty only confirmed what I had previously feared: Indian summer is over. Not even I can raise a glass to that sad state of affairs. But that doesn't mean I'll never try. Prost!