June 17, 2010
Anthony Mann's New York
On my way down to the Bloomsday celebration I was attending with Therese (and it was one for the books, more later) I found myself wandering the streets of the Financial District, an area of town I rarely go to, and the streets down there truly are canyons. They are thin, curving, and the buildings tower up on either side, piling on top of one another, filling up the horizon. I love being a movie fan because my immediate thought, looking at the landscape, was of Anthony Mann's terrific film noir Side Street (I reviewed it for Noir of the Week here.) New York is one of those cities where it is difficult to remove it from all of the stories told about it, and it depends on your filter, and although New York has changed so much and it is difficult to find the New York of Midnight Cowboy anymore, it's still there, at some points on 8th Avenue, if you're looking for it. The canyons yawn down in Wall Street, with only geometrical glimpses of the sky above, and my vision went flying up into the sky, looking down on what those streets must look like from far above, as Mann showed during the amazing car chase that closes the film. I even walked by the Sub Treasury building where the final standoff takes place. Anthony Mann's New York is alive and well and living on Wall Street.
May 2, 2010
"What's this gal's name again? Oh yeah, Emily Dickinson."
Bill Murray reads to the construction workers working on the Poet's House here in Manhattan. Not to be missed. Fantastic. I am proud of my city. I didn't think it was possible for me to love Bill Murray more than I already do, but turns out I was wrong.
April 21, 2010
My favorite roof in Manhattan
Seen from the bar at the Hilton, on 42nd Street, in the first picture below. The Hilton bar is a couple stories up. Normally, my view of this spectacular roof is ground-level, peering up at it from 8th avenue - which is beautiful in its own way (the second picture below) - but to see it head-on really gives an idea of the scope of the thing.
I "visit" this roof as often as I can. It obsesses me.
March 29, 2010
The photo is from my trip to ....
..... Narnia?
Is that Mr. Tumnus I see in the distance?
Nope. It's Central Park. I have lived here for years, and I still can't get over the miracle that we actually have a place that looks like this - and not just a small green corner - but acres and acres - smack-dab in the middle of our concrete jungle.
I am forever grateful to Central Park.
February 16, 2010
At the tattoo parlor yesterday
Here are some things I learned:
-- The ribs are the most painful place to get a tattoo
-- It's important for a tattoo artist/body modification specialist to have at least some knowledge of what to do when someone passes out - it is irresponsible to not recognize the signs, because it does happen. There are no laws saying they MUST have this knowledge or pass a CPR course, but the body modification guy thought that was a travesty.
-- Solomon, the tattoo artist, will not tattoo things on people's hands and feet - because, at least in a cold city like New York, where people have to wear shoes and gloves in the winter, the tattoo doesn't heal properly and doesn't last. "Maybe if I was in Florida I would do it, but up here? No way."
-- If you are tattooing someone who is facing away from you, one of the things to look out for is if the Vaseline placed on the skin being tattooed starts to drip down ... that is a sign that the skin is getting clammy, which is a harbinger of someone fainting. The person may not be able to tell you, "I'm feeling woozy" but their body knows, and a good tattoo artist keeps an eye out for that sign.
-- One of the tattoo artists did not get a valid ID until he was 41 years old.
-- The body modification guy doesn't do "webbing", where you pierce the web of skin underneath the tongue. He himself has webbing, but he won't do it on others, due to the risk factor. A girl came in asking for it and he turned her down. "Believe me, I want to take your money, but if you do some research about some of the possible side effects, you will not want this done. It can affect your taste buds forever. You could lose part of your tongue. It's not worth it for me to do it, and it's not worth it for you either." Then she revealed that she was 17 years old (she was very cute, she just couldn't lie, you could see), and he said, "In that case, I definitely won't consider it. You're a minor."
-- John, the tattoo artist who only recently got an ID, was kind of a scary-looking guy at first, covered in tattooes. Then he put on these little bifocals to look at the computer screen, and we were just in love with him. We talked with him a lot. He rhapsodized to us about his dog, a teacup chihuahua, and told us hilarious stories about the kind of dog people EXPECT him to have, a Doberman, a rottweiler, just because of what he looks like, and then when they see this teeny thing trotting along beside him, they burst out laughing. John is married. He loves his wife. He also rehabilitates dogs who have been abused. Totally traumatized dogs who have been shot, beaten, kicked - he takes them in, and rehabilitates them to the point that they are loving and trustful pets. I love John. Hands as rough as sandpaper.
-- I asked Solomon if they get a lot of wasted drunk people coming in, wanting a tattoo on impulse. He said on the weekends that is a big problem, and they turn a lot of people away.
-- The body modification guy is also a DJ, a very successful one, and he has a baby son.
-- The body modification guy was mopping the floor repeatedly. The sidewalks were wet that day, snow melting, so people tramped across the tile leaving marks. It was a losing battle for him, but he couldn't help himself. He said to us, "I am definitely OCD. Snowy days drive me batshit because the floor gets so messy." He then regaled us with a story about his messy roommate and how it drives him insane.
-- I told the body modification guy (I wish I could remember his name) that when I was a teenager, I saw someone walk by me on the streets of Dublin, and the dude had a zipper implanted in his cheek. It blew my MIND. He nodded, understandingly. "I can do that," he said.
-- Unlike a lot of places, this place is rigorous in checking IDs. John said, and he kind of lowered his voice at one particular word, a gentlemanly way of respecting us as strangers, and as to the topic itself, "You really have to be careful. You can pierce someone's ears, nose, or lip - anything above the neck - and if they're underage, it's okay. But anything below the waist, like nipples or genitalia - if they're underage, that would be considered statutory rape. We take that very seriously."
-- I asked the body modification guy about his tattooes, if he designed any himself. He said No, he has a special artist he works with, who creates whatever he wants. They really were beautiful. He showed us the first tattoo he ever got, which embarrasses him now. Three stars on his calf - one yellow, one blue, one red - very rudimentary, almost like a mobile over a baby's crib. This guy is tough-looking, his body modified as you would expect, and when we saw that crayola-colored burst of stars on his calf that would appeal to any tween, we all started to laugh, him included. I don't even know the guy but in the time I conversed with him (over about a 3 hour period) I definitely got to know him enough that a primarily-colored STARBURST is not really fitting with his personality. He showed it to us, laughing, rolling his eyes at how lame the tattoo was. Ah, youth!!
February 3, 2010
Winter in New York, 1900
Still pouring my way through Winter's Tale
Helprin writes:
Even in September, cold winds arrived from Canada and shut people in by their fires, making them think of the city of old. Winter, it was said, was the season in which time was superconductive - the season when a brittle world might shatter in the face of astonishing events, later to reform in a new body as solid and smooth as young transparent ice.
January 30, 2010
On the intense periphery
I started to read Mark Helprin's masterpiece Winter's Tale, and had to put it down, since my ability to take in fiction had already started to wane. However, there has been a bit of a seachange lately, and I happened to bring it out onto the island with me, perhaps thinking that I might pick it up, as outlandish as that would be, judging from where I have been, reading-wise. This book comes highly recommended by two of the best readers I know - Ted and Mitchell - both of whom are readers I will take any recommendation from. I don't take recommendations from just anyone. Although it had been about two years since I read the first two (and a half) chapters of Winters Tale, the images stuck with me. It is the sort of book where you are presented with things you have never seen before. Never even thought of before. It skirts the edge of reality, and then goes right to the hot core of it. I remembered the opening, with the sentient white horse escaping from his stable in Brooklyn. I remembered that there was a whirling impenetrable white cloud-wall circling New York City, and no one quite understood what it was, but they knew it was mysterous and important. I remembered the baby being put in the miniature boat and being set adrift. I remembered the wild "Baymen from Bayonne", who lived across the Hudson, right up at the edge of the cloud wall, separate from civilization, feared, and yet tribal towards their own. I remembered the big meeting of the thieves in an underground water tunnel. The book is dense and magnificent. It has an inevitable rhythm. It was all too much for me to take in back in 2008.
And now I am reading it, and - along with its deep and powerful writing, and the scope of its imagination - it is, to my mind, one of the best books of New York ever written. It IS New York. It was written before 9/11, but it has in it some of the feelings of vulnerability that EB White's essay on New York has, a sense that what has been created is open to attack, and yet magnificent at its cruel hot center. I am ready to leave my island haunt now, and I think it is quite perfect that I am now deep in the throes of a book which is an extended poem to New York City, a place which had become a bit unbearable to me over the last year, and now unfurls again before me, filled with possibility. Possibility of joy, sure, but possibility of heartbreak too. As always.
The writing is almost too much to grasp, and sometimes I have to sit back after a paragraph or two, to process. To digest.
It has also been a perfect thing to go to after completing the giant book Titan, about the life of John Rockefeller, Sr. Winter's Tale takes place in his era, the deep anxiety and rapaciousness of the gilded age, the subtextual fears that come about as a century changes from one to the next, technology versus man .... technology is awe-inspiring and helped make New York ... but there are questions and worries inherent in the grasping nature of it.
I am deep into it now. No fear of putting it down now. My reading muscle is back in order.
It's a poem to Manhattan, to history, but it is also a story of an orphan named Peter Lake, and Pearly Soames, the terrifying leader of a gang called the Short Tails, and a rich young girl dying of consumption named Beverly, and a magnificent white horse who stays by Peter Lake's side.
Some of the electrifying passages about the city, my dear home:
_______________________
A great city is nothing more than a portrait of itself, and yet when all is said and done, its arsenals of scenes and images are part of a deeply moving plan. As a book in which to read this plan, New York is unsurpassed. For the whole world has poured its heart into the city by the Palisades, and made it far better than it ever had any right to be.
__________
And he was seldom out of sight of the new bridges, which had married beautiful womanly Brooklyn to her rich uncle, Manhattan; had put the city's hand out to the country; and were the end of the past because they spanned not only distance and deep water but dreams and time.
___________________________
It was necessary for him to be in Manhattan because he was a burglar, and for a burglar to work anyplace else was a shattering admission of mediocrity.
__________________
Of course, it's bad to be a criminal. Everyone knows that, and can swear that it's true. Criminals mess up the world. But they are, as well, retainers of fluidity. In fact, one might make the case that New York would not have shone without its legions of contrary devils polishing the lights of goodness with their inexplicable opposition and resistance. It might even be said that criminals are a necessary component of the balanced equation which steadily and beautifully east up all the time that is thrown upon its steely back. They are the sugar and alcohol of a city, a red flash in the mosaic, lighning on a hot night.
____________
Though he cared not at all for the mechanisms of equilibrium, if he had stopped, the life of the city wuold have fallen apart.
_______________
But when the water was flowing, and could be released at any time whatsoever from the Jerome Park Storage Reservoir to charge through the tunnels faster than a horse could run, then it was considerably worse, and a great honor for the deceased to have two Short Tails pull his corpse through the tunnel, hurriedly slam it into a crypt while they listened breathlessly for the rush of approaching water, and then lope prone through the tubs of green moss, mad for breaking into the air, speeding along like wild jittery whipcords.
_________
Much has been written and said about Castle Garden, entryway for immigrants, inlet to a new life, bursting star. But seldom have those beyond its solemn silent spaces been ready to confess that once, in a different time, it loomed for them or for their parents like the gates of St. Peter. Its servants in deep ornante dress turned away those who were unsound and unfit, in a process of judgment that was both the work of bureaucrats and a dream. Many had crossed the ocean seeking light, and were suddenly hurled backward, tumbling through white waves and green oceans, until the light receded into the point of a star in total darkness.
_______________________
They knew that to survive in Manhattan he would have to know something of bitterness before he arrived.
______________________
Manhattan, a high narrow kingdom as hopeful as any that ever was, burst upon him full force, a great and imperfect steel-tressed palace of a hundred million chambers, many-tiered gardens, pools, passages, and ramparts above its rivers. Built upon an island from which bridges stretched to other islands and to the mainland, the palace of a thousand tall towers was undefended. It took in nearly all who wished to enter, being so much larger than anything else that it could not ever be conquered but only visited by force. Newcomers, invaders, and the inhabitants themselves were so confused by its multiplicity, variety, vanity, size, brutality and grace, that they lost sight of what it was. It was, for sure, one simple structure, busily divided, lovely and pleasing, an extraordinary hive of the imagination, the greatest house ever built.
_________
sails that filled the ends of streets with billows of white or sharp angular planes, and then collapsed into the bordering buildings or made of themselves a guillotine
_______________
The city was like war - battles raged all around, and desperate men were on the street in crawling legions. He had heard the Baymen tell of war, but they had never said it could be harnessed, its head held down, and made to run in place. On several score thousand miles of streets were many cataclysmic armies interacting without formation - 10,000 prostitutes on Broadway alone; half a million abandoned children; half a million of the lame and blind; scores of thousands of active criminals locked in perpetual combat with as many police; and the vast number of good citizens, who in their normal lives were as fierce and rapacious as other cities' wild dogs.
______________________
The entire city was a far more complicated wheel of fortune than had ever been devised. It was a close model of the absolute processes of fate, as the innocent and the gulity alike were tumbled in its vast overstuffed drum, pushed along through trap-laden mazes, caught dying in airless cellars, or elevated to platforms of royal view.
________________________
When Peter Lake danced by the night fountain in the dark green square and was given coins for his dancing, he became a thief. Though it would take a long time for him to understand the principle, it was that to be paid for one's joy is to steal.
________________________________
But here, in the dawn, was mortality itself. In the city were places to fall from which one could never emerge - dark dreams and slow death, the death of children, suffering without grace or redemption, ultimate and eternal loss. The memory of the child stayed with him. But that was not to be the end of it, for reality went around in a twisting ring. The irredeemable would be redeemed, and there was a balance for everything. There had to be. In the movement of the machines, he saw beyond everything he had yet known. Like waves, wind, and water, they moved. They were, in themselves, power and elation.
___________________
"A bridge," he proclaimed, "is a very special thing. Haven't you seen how delicate they are in relation to their size? They soar like birds; they extend and embody our finest efforts; and they utilize the curve of heaven. When a catenary of steel a mile long is hung in the clear over a river, believe me, God knows. Being a churchman, I would go as far as to say that the catenary, this marvelous graceful thing, this joy of physics, this perfect balance, between rebellion and obedience, is God's own signature one earth. I think it pleases Him to see them raised. I think that is why the city is so rich in assets. The whole island, you see, is becoming a cathedral."
_________
It was a vast underground cave between the Bowery and Rochambeau. The walls of stone were gray and white throughout half a dozen grand galleries. Arches like those of a Roman aqueduct touched to floor and then bounced away. At seven-thirty on a Friday night, no less than five thousand people dined within this subterranean oyster bin. Four hundred oyster boys labored and cried as if they were edging a great ship into port, or rolling Napoleon's cannon through Russia. Candles, gas lanterns, and, here and there, clear electric lights illuminated paths between rumbling little fires. The background noise was not unlike the famous record that Thomas Alva Edison had made of Niagara Falls, and the trajectories of the flying oyster shells reminded some old veterans of the night air above Vicksburg.
_________________________________
For twenty years, he had been on the streets of that city, and he loved it. He was a guide, an intimate. And yet, from a distance, catching the sun in the clear, it looked like nothing he had ever known. Following its brown spine as far as his eye could see, he lifted his head to pass over the spires of tall buildings. A hundred plumes of smoke and steam curled about this sleeping thing, which would not have surprised him had it immediately come alive. Its growing animation was catapulted across the ice and though it was sleeping in dark chains, he had no doubt that someday it would rise and brighten, like a whale bursting from the sea into light and air.
___________
silvered canyons and warm red brick, the lisp of a huge broken clock, trees like bells shuddering sound in green, silent streets as dark and elegant as mirrors in dim light
___________________
Peter Lake knew from this that the city would take care, for it was a magical gate through which those who entered passed in innocent longing, taking every hope, showing touching courage -- and for good reason. The city wuld take care. There was no choice but to trust the architect's dream that was spread before him as compact as an engine, solid and sure, shimmering over the glinting ice.
_______________________________
"Drive hard, Peter Lake, drive hard," said Beverly, holding the child.
He had never had a family. But there he was, suddenly, almost a husband and father. Small scenes can be so beautiful that they change a man forever. He would never forget that noontime on a lake of ice, nor would he ever forget her words.
"Drive hard," she had said. He would. Things were different. All he wanted now was love.
_________________________________
This was because Isaac Penn was the man behind the city's mirror. He had almost supreme power over the city's conception of itself, and, by small adjustments, could hypnotize and entrance it. If he wished, he wuold have it flail its limbs in an alarming fit. He could scare it to death, empty its streets, or make it want to hide in a hole. Because Isaac Penn could move New York in such a way that its strength would shame the giants of the earth, or lift the city's hand to have it flick the dust from a baby's eye, Peter Lake expected one of those meetings where he was made to feel like an aspiring young gnat.
___________
"Orphans don't have vanity. I'm not sure why, but one needs parents to be vain."
___________
"There is justice in the world, Peter Lake, but it cannot be had without mystery. We try to bring it about without knowing exactly what it is, and only touch upon it. No matter, for all the flames and sparks of justice throughout all time reach to invigorate unseen epochs - like engines whose power glides on hidden lines to upwell against the dark in distant cities unaware."
___________________________
Distance and darkness converted an ebullient scene full of motion and glare into something sad and whole, of another time. He saw that Beverly had taken it and clasped it to her, as if it were a jewel in its intricate foil. She had by distance converted it into a painting, or an accidental photograph, that touched her to the quick. She had remained outside because she had never had the opportunity for society, and she was afraid. Innocent things, such as a dance in a tavern, terrified her ...
There was, truly, nothing to fear. But she did fear, and it had brought her outside, to a position in which she could embrace the scene and know its spirit. This was not unlike Peter Lake's far views of the city, from which he always learned a great deal more than he would have from within. No, he wouldn't try to coax her in -- even though she might be ordered there. He would not bring her in, he would join her on the intense periphery.
October 2, 2009
Craigslist Missed Connections
Like my friend Patrick says:
Reading Craiglist's Missed Connections is probably one of the most voyeuristic things you can do on the web without buying a subscription. If you say you've never looked at them and hoped there was one for you I think you're probably lying.
There have been times when I have considered placing my own Missed Connection notice, just to see what would happen, if the random object of my affection (a stranger on the subway, some nice dude who helped me pick up my dropped papers, whatever) would read it and contact me. Never done it though.
Patrick points to a really cool project that I am basically in love with: Brooklyn-based artist Sophie Blackall has taken some of the Craigslist Missed Connections and turned them into art. Go check it out - they're amazing! Here's just one example of what she is creating:
The cumulative effect of looking at all of these (and yes, like Patrick said, some are really creepy) is kind of amazing. It makes the human race seem, well, friendly, and like one of our universal needs is to connect, and sometimes you randomly meet a stranger, or you even SEE them across a crowded room, and you want to know more. You can't forget that person. So you reach out, on Craigs List:
"Blue dress on the M train ..."
"If not for your noisy tambourine ..."
"I bought you that milkshake ..."
People looking for each other, wandering the urban canyons, looking to connect.
Please go check Blackall's art out - it's really great stuff.
June 17, 2009
June 15, 2009
Frozen
One of those rare moments. Captured. Some of those birds look like my tattoo, phoenix rising, inked upon the cloudy sky.
Bye bye.
May 18, 2009
Manmade
... yet it looks almost prehistoric and organic. Like the Giants Causeway in Ireland.
Giants Causeway:
April 21, 2009
"I've had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that's the record . . ." -- Dylan Thomas' last words
A famous place.
April 12, 2009
Skyline at sunset
Empire State Building catching the last dying gleam.
April 9, 2009
April 1, 2009
March 30, 2009
At the junk shop on Houston Street
Sunset time, golden light, long shadows. Everything becomes magical at that hour.
March 26, 2009
"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." -- John Milton, Paradise Lost
I've posted pictures of her before. But in this week full of angels, I thought of her and want to post it again. I was barreling through the 42nd Street Subway Station at one o'clock in the morning, always a bleak prospect, when all you want to do is teleport yourself up and out into your bed, and skip the whole commute process.
And suddenly, standing in one of the corridors, I saw an angel.
Not only was she dressed like an angel, her general energy WAS angelic. It was not campy, or over-the-top, or ... it didn't appear to be "acted" or performed at all. She was inhabiting it, whatever was going on with her was coming from within, rather than put on. She did not speak. She did nothing but stand there, and if people came close, she would smile at them, really connecting ... really making eye contact ... and a small crowd had gathered around her. I was one of them. I asked her if I could take some pictures, and she smiled at me her assent. It wasn't a polite smile, a public smile ... it was warm, and connected. The whole thing was rather extraordinary, and I've never forgotten her.
Never seen her since, but I'm really glad I have the pics. I thought of her today.
March 25, 2009
Early morning
Times Square at 7:30 a.m.
It's my favorite time to be there. Still going, still flashing and undulating and blinking ... but it starts to feel like a post-Rapture kind of environment. Yes, there are people, but not to the degree that you see at mid-day or around 6:30 at night, which is really when you want to stay far away from Times Square.
I like it best at dawn.
I'll be wearing ribbons down my back ... this summer ...
I'm not a craftsy person at all. It holds no interest for me, and never has - which is the main reason why I quit Girl Scouts (well, that and the whole "where are my freakin' wings?" debacle).
But I caught a glimpse of a wall of ribbons through a shop window, and I was completely captivated by the sight. In the same way that I literally get NERVOUS sometimes when I walk into an overflowing second-hand book store, I can imagine that a person really into arts and crafts could conceivably have a nervous breakdown looking at something like this.
So beautiful.
March 22, 2009
March 19, 2009
My favorite kind of weather
Boulevard East in the rain, wind whipping American flag up and over the lamppost, Manhattan on the other side.
March 13, 2009
Freezing cold ...
... in Riverside Park.
This picture makes me wish I lived on the Upper West Side again.
March 12, 2009
Walking in the city
Even at the grossest dingiest most bustling jackhammery intersection ... look up.
You never know what you will find up there, but sometimes you see something that makes you go all quiet and still inside, peaceful, like all the sound dissolves away. Sometimes, walking in the city, it's like the noise and the grime are actually coming from inside of you, so omnipresent is it. But then ...
a glimpse, proving otherwise.
This ballet studio is on the second floor of a grimy building on grimy 40th and 8th Avenue, one of the grossest corners in the city. It's just relentless, that corner. Once I discovered the studio though, I ALWAYS look up when I walk by there, to see the pretty and calm ballerinas at the barre.
March 8, 2009
Meeting up at the Strand
I got there about 20 minutes before my mother. I haven't been to the Strand in a while, and I always have to deal with about 5 or 10 minutes of jittery anxiety upon arrival, kind of like Hope being faced with a bowl of Fancy Feast and a bowl of dry food. What do I do first?? My brain will explode! It is the most satisfying of bookstores - a combination of good prices, helpful staff, amazing selection, and general atmosphere (no music blaring like at Barnes & Noble, a pet peeve of mine.) It's always an absolute madhouse so that's the only thing that might be negative about it, but that's part of the experience, too. My mother and I were walking around at one point and she said, "Isn't it so nice ... to see hundreds of people browsing through books?" It certainly is. And it just feels different than a big chain. It feels more serious. As well as MANIC. The prices can be so low that it catapults people, myself included, into a kind of mania. There is danger of going into a fugue state. Or something akin to Steve Martin in "The Jerk", grabbing every single thing that comes in his path. "I need THIS ... oh, and I need THIS ..." Need?? Hundreds of dollars later you stagger out with 30 books in 5 bags, and you have no idea what you have bought. I speak from personal experience!
Mum and Siobhan were coming in from Brooklyn, where they were visiting Cormac, Liam and Lydia's new glorious baby ... and Mum called me at about 5 pm, just as I was approaching The Strand, to say they would be there in about 20 minutes.
"Okay. I'll be back in the Entertainment Biography section."
"Of course you will."
I began to get heart palpitations as I made my way through the THRONGS around all the sales tables. And I kept getting diverted. "Oh, I need THIS ..." "Oh, look, I need THIS."
Mum and Siobhan arrived 20 minutes later, and I had my arms full of books, many of them over-sized. My arms were falling off. What was I thinking? Did I imagine that I would be air-lifted out of there? But I was in a fugue state, and the most expensive of the books in my arms was 12.95 - and it was an enormous book called "Forties Gals" - with profiles and pictures of all the big actresses of the 1940s, you know - all the dames I love. In a regular bookstore, that book might be 40 bucks. So, you know, I went a little crazy.
Siobhan had to work that night, so she left us - and Mum and I had a wonderful time, browsing and talking and sharing. I was pretty much done by the time they arrived. I had chosen:
1. Together Again - by the wonderful gossipy Garson Kanin - a book where he analyzes great movie couples - Tracy and Hepburn, Bogart and Bacall, et al
2. The aforementioned Forties Gals books which probably weighed 10 pounds by itself
3. Movie Poster - a huge coffee table book analyzing the development of the art of the movie poster. I am drooling.
4. My Mother's Keeper - the bitchy tell-all book about Bette Davis by her grumpy daughter. And yeah, this is the book that has the immortal words "My SNEAKERS were sticking to the TAR, shit!"
5. Harlow - by Irving Shulman. Salacious and terribly written, it is a great book. I read it in high school, and was so afraid of the story of Paul Bern and what happened to him that this book emitted a dark glow from the shelves, drawing me back to it again and again. Now I own it.
6. Baby, I Don't Care. Take a wild guess who this book is about.
7. A marvelous book called Antique Packaging. It has no text. It is an art book. Image after image of old sardine cans and match books and things like that - from days gone by. Gorgeous.
8. This last one I am particularly excited about. It is enormous (again) - I have hard little biceps just from carrying my books around yesterday - and it is called The Poster in History. Another huge art book, detailing the history of the poster - not just for movies but for propaganda purposes - various war efforts, or the ideological battle for Communism - I love that crap, as I have written before ... and some of these posters, even some with causes I not only don't agree with but vehemently oppose - are works of art. I can't wait to look through it. Maybe I'll do some scanning. What a shock.
Other books I had that I put back - not because I judged them as unworthy - but because basically I feared my arms would fall off:
-- a giant book of Richard Avedon photos
-- a giant book of photos of Steve McQueen
-- a massive compilation of all of the writings of Kenneth Tynan
I just couldn't carry them all.
Then Mum and I went upstairs to the art books section and had a great time browsing. They have whole sections called "Art Papers" - which are almost like huge bins of sheet music that you just have to flip through, hoping to find the nugget of gold in the bottom of the sieve. Mum spent a lot of time there, as I looked at the photography books, getting sucked in to all the great Life books of photos. Mum found some good things there ... one was a small monograph of the work of Gabriele Münter - someone I had never heard of, but we both oohed and ahed over her work. The monograph was falling apart, it had obviously been donated to the Strand (much of what you find in the Art Papers bins are things of that nature - programs to art shows at a gallery in Prague, stuff like that - very cool, but you need to have the patience to weed through). When we got back to my apartment, we looked Münter up on the Internet, and found out some fascinating details about her life. My God. She obviously is mainly known for saving the works of Kandinsky, hiding them in her basement from the Nazis (and a couple of the works only exist through photographs she took of them - astonishing) ... but she was quite an artist in her own right. Mum really enjoyed looking through them all. So that was one thing she bought.
She also bought another art book - with impressionists from England - only, of course, the main ones were from Ireland. England can claim them all they want, these folks are Irish. Irish art is a passion of the O'Malley clan - mainly because you just have to go along with my father's obsessions or you will be left out of the conversation at the dinner table ... but Mum, of course, as a painter, has a lot of interest in these people as well. She could glance at a page and say, "Oh, that's by ..." and list the name.
So we both were very happy with our purchases. Then we walked down the block (and yesterday was the first real spring day, so New Yorkers were basically going MAD wearing shorts and mini skirts and looping about the sidewalks in glee) to go have dinner at Siobhan's restaurant. We didn't really (of course) get to talk to Siobhan ... only briefly ... but it was an environment of care and nurturing, because the entire staff knows us, the owner knows us ... and it was like going to have dinner at the house of a family friend. Only we were at a bar/restaurant in the East Village. It was the right choice. Mum and I had a great meal, and lots of good talk ... and I am, of course, always excited to be able to host her, when she comes down.
It was a relief to get to the car (we took a cab) because, man, our books were dragging us down.
When we got back to my place, we promptly got into our pajamas, and sat around, looking through our books, sharing this or that image, talking about things like Kandinsky and Nureyev and Saul Bass ... until finally we started fading, and fell asleep.
A good spring day in New York.
March 4, 2009
Movie cliches
This is a re-post.
Movie cliche #1:
A hot crowded New York sidewalk. There were jackhammers in the vicinity, as well as a shrieking ambulance, caught in traffic. I pushed my way through the crowd - and on the opposite sidewalk - suddenly saw him. Haven't seen him in years. I stopped still, in the middle of the sidewalk, as though struck by lightning. My immediate instinct was to quickly cross the street and avoid him. What?? I spent less than 24 hours, total, with that person. Why such a dramatic response? Can't explain it - but that's the way it's always been when I run into him. I stood stock-still - in the middle of the chaos - trying to decide what to do. And in that split second came
Movie Cliche #2
He saw me. He stopped stock-still as well. As though struck by lightning. He looked visibly excited and visibly uncomfortable. I could tell that he wanted to run away as well. But ... ack ... so awkward ... we've seen each other ... so now there is nothing to do but accept
Movie Cliche #3
my slow approach to him, across the chaotic street, surrounded by busy harassed commuters, raging homeless people, fashionistas on their cellphones who seem unperturbed by the heatwave ... Sirens blared. Jackhammers shattered the air. But if this were a movie - all the sound would have melted away. We met up on the corner. And then enacted
Movie Cliche #4
The awkward hug. The hug that other people cringe when they watch. There was no hostility, oh no, why would there be ... just ... thwarted feeling, embarrassment, and a sense that time was already slipping away so quickly that the encounter was almost over. He is so big. I had forgotten his bigness. Our hug was brief, and jittery with awkwardness. We barely know each other, truth be told. But on another level, we know all we need to know. Seriously. That's what's so weird about it. Then I opened my mouth and said
Movie Cliche #5
"I thought you were in Paris!"
We both had sunglasses on. He seemed incapable of putting together a sentence - which I suppose I could call
Movie Cliche #6
He's not just articulate - he's scarily articulate, and brilliant in a kind of daunting way. But in my presence - he has always become a bumbling idiot. He would blurt out inappropriate things, suddenly declare himself and then back off ... I haven't seen him since 2002. This dynamic is still going on. He said something like, "Yeah ... I'm back now ... just in New York for a couple of days ..." Then came
Movie Cliche #7
Awkward meaningless chit-chat, shimmering with sexual tension. It was ridiculous. I knew I was behaving like a cliche but I couldn't seem to stop it. We said stuff to each other like,
"So ... how are you?" I said "How are you?" probably 3 times. He was vague in his responses. I tried to get us to be specific. I asked about his book. He gave me a weird look, like: "How do you know about my book?" Then I said
Movie Cliche #8
"I remember everything."
Which suddenly catapulted us into a new landscape. We're always on the edge of that landscape. Honesty? Perhaps. We've never said what needed to be said - mainly because - the timing was flat out not right. So you have to watch what you say. But it's true. I remember everything. I didn't say it in a threatening stalker way. It's just the truth, and he knows it. I remember everything. He had told me all about his book a couple years ago and he let me read a couple chapters. How could he not remember? When I said "I remember everything" then came
Movie Cliche #9
The long potent pause. It was somehow delicious. I suddenly became calm and unruffled, and I watched him deteriorate into deeper awkwardness. This happened the last time I saw him, when it was even more inappropriate, when I frankly couldn't believe what I was seeing. Like: dude, are you just going to disintegrate, right now, in front of all these people, who are all here for you? Get yourself together! I waited it out. I didn't say anything. I guess I could have put him out of his misery - but it just didn't seem right. We're separate. He's got his journey I've got mine. Then I decided after what felt like 20 minutes of silence (I was unaware of the jackhammers or the sirens during this whole thing) to help him out, so I said
Movie Cliche #10
"I wish you nothing but success with it. Keep working. I loved what I read. You're wonderful." I then watched
Movie Cliches #11, 12 and 13
wash over his face. He wanted to kiss me. But he didn't. He said, slowly, "Sheila. Sheila." That was all he said. I said, "I know. I know. It's okay." He shook his head, wordlessly. I shook my head, wordlessly. We stood there. Wordless. He shook his head again. I nodded in response. This was all a conversation. Everything was completely clear to me. I knew what we were saying.
I felt like we could have just kept going in that manner, shaking head, nodding head, not saying anything ... so I initiated
Movie Cliche #14
I reached out and put my arms around him and hugged him. I tried to make it be normal and friendly. "It was so nice to see you," I said. And I meant it.
Meanwhile
Movie Cliche #15
was going on. He hugged me as though I were a liferaft. I was so sweaty and sticky that I was almost embarrassed that he would be like: Ew. You're a sweaty mess. But he was suddenly clutching on me. This has happened before with him. Any time I run into him, we jitter with awkward stilted conversation, and then, upon parting, he's suddenly clutching me and sniffing my hair like a gorilla. So then came
Movie Cliche #16
I extricated myself and said to him, kindly, and with warmth - I could feel myself emanating warmth: "You take care of yourself. SO good to see you." He nodded, inarticulate again. I backed away - wishing that I was a fashionista, wishing that I could float through a heatwave looking cool and glowing - instead of being a sweaty sticky-haired beast of the pasture. But he was looking at me as THOUGH I was a fashionista- which was distinctly strange.
Then came our final
Movie Cliche
He lifted his hand at me, with a grin. Sort of a sad weird grin. I lifted my hand back, and mouthed, "Bye" - then - had to do it, had to do it ...
I turned my back on him and I walked away.
And suddenly I could hear the sirens again. And the jackhammers. And the traffic. And the ragings of the homeless people. Back to life. Back to reality.
5 minutes later I wondered if I had dreamt the whole thing.
March 1, 2009
February 28, 2009
Three dawns
There was the one yesterday and the day before.
Then there was today.
Like I've said, it's the greatest show on earth.
Two dawns
Yesterday and the day before. It's like a whole new and different world in each photo. 24 hours apart.
February 11, 2009
I like to take pictures of:
The (now hard to find) purveyors of smut in New York. But I know where they all are!
I like to take pictures of:
Objects that I see in the windows in the garment district in New York.
Specific, I know, but any time I am in that neighborhood I make sure I have a camera.
February 8, 2009
Manhattan nocturne, 1 a.m.
A huge parrot, just living its life. It was stretching its wings in a creaky pterodactyl-esque fashion when I passed by.
February 4, 2009
Subway
Taking pictures in subway stations is a big challenge for me. I have a hard time getting the light right, first of all - they either come out grainy or I am forced to use a flash, which ruins the whole thing.
Here are a couple I took that I like. They actually seemed to come out like my idea in my head. That so rarely happens.
February 3, 2009
Sunrise
I love how no two sunrises are ever exactly the same.
Each one has a mood, a color scheme, and a look ... distinct from the rest. I am usually up for sunrise, so it's my morning ritual to go out to the end of my street, with my cup of coffee, sometimes in my bathrobe (but with my winter coat on over it), and watch the drama unfold. It's pretty amazing. But I love best how I never know what I'm going to see when I walk out my front door. I never know what that sunrise will be up to until I'm out there.
February 1, 2009
Two shadows, and my crazy brother
No matter how many times I look at this photo, it still makes me howl.
It's a visual joke, but it's also a mistake ... a blessed mistake. My parents, my brother and my uncle Tom and I went out to the Statue of Liberty. It was a great day. Really cold and glittery. I hadn't been out there since a field trip when I was 9 years old. The sun was getting lower in the sky so the shadow of the Statue stretched across the little island, long and thin. My parents were standing directly in the shadow of the statue, and asked me to take a picture. My brother stood off to the side - trying to duplicate in his own shadow the look of the Statue's shadow, arm in the air, etc.
The idea was that across the ground there would be two identical shadows - only one would be the huge statue's, and one would be his. Funny, right? But I didn't really get the joke of what my brother was going for - so I included him in the picture. Which completely killed HIS joke but made another joke on another level.
The idea was to cut him out off to the side, but include his shadow.
So it looks like my parents are nice and smiling and oblivious as this insane man crouches in a frozen isolated pose off to the right.
If I ever need a good laugh - and I often do these days - I pull out this picture.
January 31, 2009
Clouds and gleam
Buildings in gleam and shadow on the east side of Manhattan, near the UN.
My favorite kind of day in New York.
January 30, 2009
New York scenes
Some things I saw in New York City today.
An unlocked bike, waiting for its rider.
I like to think of this as a spitoon, even though I know it's not.
Pretty and stark contrast.
Old school steak house
Lumber yard
Antique shop
A brave tree
Birds in flight
Behind the scenes at a bakery
Piles of oranges and grapefruit on a frigid day
Myself
January 28, 2009
Photo Wednesday
I took this last week, the day before the plane went down into the Hudson. The Hudson was frozen, and I felt like I was in St. Petersburg, staring at the Neva, and getting ready to throw Rasputin into the chunks of ice. This was after I had already poisoned him and then shot him and then set fire to his stinky beard and then stabbed him and then gouged out his gleaming fanatical eyeball ... and yet the bastard still wouldn't die. He had to go into that ice. It was the only way.
These are the things I think about when I look at frozen rivers.
January 27, 2009
Photo Tuesday
I took this in November, on a rainy day, and I was hanging out at the insane Apple store across from the Plaza Hotel. I think it came out pretty cool.
January 21, 2009
Scanning Wednesday
When I was 11 years old, my parents put me on the Amtrak train by myself (at least this is how I remember it?) and sent me off for a weekend in New York, to stay with my aunt Regina (my dad's sister). Regina was an actress and I admired her tremendously. Idolized her, more like it. It is so so strange for me to think now that Regina was only 22 years old during that weekend. She seemed SO grown-up to me! I think of myself at 22 and am just amazed ... I stayed with Regina in her small dark cute Greenwich Village apartment, and she took me on a whirlwind tour. We went to the Metropolitan Museum, we went to the oldest house in New York (one of the photos of me is taken in front of that house) - and, big finish, Regina took me to see Annie on Broadway, a musical which had filled me with a burning passion that took YEARS to go out ... Sarah Jessica Parker was playing "Annie", so weird to imagine, and she was absolutely wonderful. The whole thing was wonderful. It actually was kind of painful because up there - on that Broadway stage - were GIRLS MY AGE. Why were they THERE and I was up in a box seat?? I loved Annie but it really awakened something in me - something that I would now call ambition.
But I have very fond memories of Regina taking me around New York. It was a hot weekend, and Regina still laughs about how all the crazy people seemed drawn specifically to me (David would not be surprised ... that is STILL going on) ... Every single drunk lunatic in a 12-mile radius honed in on me, talked to me, and one filthy rambling lunatic even showed me his penis. Just walked right up to me and whipped it out. I was 11 years old, douchebag. Regina was constantly dragging me away from whatever crazy homeless person was trying to have a deep conversation with her 11 year old niece. "Okay, let's go THIS way now ..."
My initial impression of New York was one of glamour and excitement ... and also that there were crazy people EVERYWHERE.
My outfit here makes me laugh. I remember we were all, in my 6th grade class, very into those sweat-band things you wear around your wrist. I HOPE I had the presence of mind to take it off for the Broadway show, at least!!
Regina was 22 years old, and I look back on it and think she did a really great job showing me around, and taking care of me. It's a great memory for me.
January 18, 2009
Photo Sunday
40th Street in between 10th and 7th is pretty grimy. It's unrelenting, really. You have Port Authority on one side, you have giant almost block-long construction sites on the other side, with blocked-off sidewalks, and dirt-encrusted coffee shops, and hole-in-the-wall delis that only have room for one person, and the cashier is enclosed behind a glass wall like a teller. Recently, I saw a man defecate on 40th Street in the middle of the day. Cranes tower overhead and everything seems to be in a state of flux. It is the cacophony of the city condensed into one three-block radius.
But if you remind yourself to look UP every once in a while as you walk on 40th Street, you'll start to catch glimpses of beauty. Quiet soft beauty.
January 15, 2009
January 14, 2009
Scanning Wednesday
Speaking of a New York that is dying ...
Here are some photos of a New York that is now completely dead, and Disney is dancing on its grave. Once upon a time, not too many years ago, if you walked through Times Square, you would see smut and girlie shows and strange old-school burlesque palaces - right on 42nd Street (so hard to believe now - if you've been to Times Square recently you will know what I mean). There was a dingy carnival atmosphere, like Coney Island in March ... working girls (or: girls working their way through college) and peep shows and pimps - a block away from Broadway. Unreal.
When I moved to New York in 1995, that New York was still alive - although quickly dying. I did not take these pictures realizing what would happen to 42nd Street, I didn't see the future - I just know I like dingy urban scenes, I love smut, I love all that Diane Arbus stuff - the underbelly. I love it. It's part of the reason why I moved here.
At the time I took the following photos, the writing was already on the wall. Many of the burlesque houses were boarded up - but nothing had opened in their places - so Times Square looked like a ghost town. Truly eerie. This is the hubbub, the tourist mecca of America - and it's boarded up end to end, with vestiges of that old world (strange murals, peeling signs) still visible.
So strange.
And now I am so so glad I wandered around that freezing day taking pictures, because those days are GONE now. You can't find much of this anymore in New York anywhere. The smut industry has moved on to greener friendlier pastures.
I love these photos. So so strange ... things look jerry-rigged, pasted together - things don't make sense - the huge DKNY sign next to the model of some ancient Greek building stuck into an alcove ... signifying what? It's fabulous whatever it is.
These photos, I must reiterate, are all on 42nd Street proper - they are not creepy little side streets. This is what you saw on the main drag. What a welcome mat.
Scanning Wednesday
A glimpse of a New York City that is rapidly dying. I like to capture it whenever I see it ... just so I can remember. It's from a New York that pre-dates me, obviously, an old old New York ... but it's something I grew up loving, and I love glimpses of the past, of how "they" used to do things. Ghosts, fragments. A message in code.
December 11, 2008
From the cell phone camera: Pin the tail
I was basically struck dumb by what I saw on the back of this truck. It was just so omnipresent!!
August 14, 2008
Spectacular spectacular
So the Pioneer Woman has been posting some stunning photography of the dawn hours on her ranch. Here are some more. These are photos you can just fall into. Melt into. I've always preferred the dawn to, say, the dusk (and I prefer anything to midday) ... so it's a shame I'm not up often enough to revel in it. But when I do catch the dawn? I mean, come on. It's enough to make you fall to your knees in gratitude.
It has a bit of a different feeling than a quiet pond and field on a ranch ... but the dawn is the same. Love it.
August 11, 2008
A day in Montauk
... or should I say, a day spent getting to Montauk ... Allison has the whole tale.
Within 10 minutes of picking her up, we were laughing all over again about the two of us driving through Ireland together, and how we would "support" one another, no matter the circumstance. The job of the "navigator" (ie: passenger) was to emotionally support the driver. I would state, "I need to drive this slow right now. I'm sorry." She would say, "Do whatever you need to do." She would drive up to one of the endless roundabouts, and sit there for 20 minutes, looking back and forth, reminding herself which way it was necessary to look. She would murmur, "I'm so sorry. I just am afraid to turn right right now." I would say, "Do what you need to do." We very quickly discovered that the job of the Navigator was just as important as the job of the Driver. It is essential to have a non-judgmental atmosphere on road trips where neither of you know where you are going.
But what a beautiful day it was!
I provide visual aids to her tale below.
Once again: here is Allison's amusing version of the tale.
July 26, 2008
And then sometimes
... after a long day, and an even longer night, in the middle of a heat wave, with feet that hurt because you've been on them all day, you slog your way through the 42nd Street subway station, dripping in sweat, wishing you could teleport yourself back into your cool bed, after a long cold shower ... and suddenly:
you see an angel.
And your mood changes. It really does.
June 11, 2008
A NY montage
Just because.
Tiffany's
8th Avenue
St. Paul's
Hershey Store
Apple Store, 5th and 59th
Window display, Garment district
8th Avenue
42nd Street
Junk shop, Houston Street
30 Rock Plaza
Ballet studio, 40th and 8th
Central Park, Great Lawn
Madison Square Garden
Tribeca storefront
Columbus Circle
Walker Street, Soho
Former CBGBs
Union Square, "Lifeguards Wanted"
Lincoln Center, NYC Ballet
Times Square, dawn
The Playpen (Smut City, now torn down, which is a bummer - I adore that building)
Sidewalk sale, Soho
The theatre district
Tiles For America, West Village
West Village
June 5, 2008
The changeability of Manhattan: Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin
I'm reading Winter's Tale
I am so busy now with my own projects that I don't have much time for reading - I've got enough on my plate with family stuff, bridesmaid dresses, crying jags, writing marathons, Trinidadian caretaking involving frankincense, and emails/texts from my ex-boyfriends jostling for position in the Sheila Ex-Boyfriend Lexicon: "Is it ME that's the most important?" "Is it ME?" I am not even kidding. Important to remember that I love men with healthy egos. I have gotten these emails and texts independently of one another. These are not men in touch with one another. They don't even know each other. But I got two in the last week alone. I love those men. But honest to God. My plate is full, boys, without RANKING you in importance for my eventual autobiography, but I'll get to it. I promise.
But I started Winter's Tale and I'm not even going to begin to talk about it yet. I'm scared. Hold me. I'm only 3 chapters in. It is weaving a spell - there is some cloud wall around Manhattan - the marshes of Bayonne are populated with a strange kind of primitive man ... and there's a thief named Peter Lake - and a scene that blew my freakin' socks off that takes place in a huge reservoir tank - a den of thieves - I held my breath the entire time - BUT - I am not ready to talk about it yet - except to just mention that I'm reading it and ... and I'm really really excited. What is it ABOUT? No, wait, don't tell me. WHAT IS THAT WHIRLING CLOUD WALL? No, don't tell me!!!
I know a lot of what is reaching out to me in this book is the New York it depicts, and what it has to say about New York. This is my home. I am tied to my home. I love my home. Mark Helprin, in his majestic narrative, seems to capture some of the ... je ne sais quois ... of New York. Along with the fin de siecle. And the trompe l'oeil. And the aricoverts. As well as Leslie Caron.
Here is a brief paragraph. But it immediately made me think of something - my daily looking-right ritual - and if I have my camera on me, I capture it ... whatever it is that I see:
The next morning, Peter Lake saw the city through different eyes, as he would from then on whenever he awoke. It was never the same from one day to the next. Dark, close, smoky afternoons; oceans of rain; autumn days clearer than crystal paperweights; sunshine and shadow - no one city existed.
You got that right.
May 16, 2008
Last night. 2 a.m.
There was a moment careening down 9th Avenue, music blaring (Bleu, if you must know), when all of the lights turned green. Green lights stretched to the horizon. And they're long green lights in New York, uncannily long, it keeps everything moving. But there's that moment, almost like reaching the top of the peak, that small hesitation before you launch yourself down the mountain, when you see, unfurling, all the red lights switch to green ... and then ... you are OFF. If you're accustomed to small town driving (as I am, I haven't driven much in Manhattan) you keep waiting for the yellow light - but then you realize it won't come ... not for a while yet ... so just go go go go go go go. Yellow cabs zip around you, everyone is going 50, 60 miles an hour, and there's no stopping, no hesitation, if you brake cautiously all will be lost ... You submit to the beast, and you drive like a bat out of hell. It was EXHILARATING. Nervewracking too but I wanted to just keep driving up and down the avenues of the city all night, taking advantage of the endless green. It felt like flying.
May 11, 2008
Just when I thought that my skies were a June July blue ...
1,000 umbrellas opened
2,000 umbrellas opened
10,000 umbrellas opened to spoil the view ...
-- XTC, "1,000 Umbrellas"
April 15, 2008
The famous St. Paul's - downtown
(A brief history of this extraordinary church here). Some photos from this past Sunday.
April 1, 2008
The Grey Dog (restaurant)
I've only been to the one on University Place - but today the one on Carmine Street is the focus of NY Daily Photo (still one of my favorite sites ever). The Grey Dog has quickly become one of my favorite places to eat, hang out, sit and read, whatever ... It is bustling, and crazy ... but here's what Brian has to say about the place, and I think it's right on:
And once you've settled in, the mayhem recedes as you focus on your meal. You start thinking - this place is not that bad once you staked out your territory. What was annoying starts feeling like exuberant festiveness. Everyone seems happy and life is good.
How rare it is to find a restaurant like that, especially here in New York. This place feels very New England-ish to me, with the exposed brick and the pictures of dogs, etc. And it is true: the mayhem recedes once you settle in. I love it there. You can sit and nurse a cup of cappucino and sit typing on your laptop, or you can have a couple beers with your friend before running to a movie, or you can have a full meal. The staff is laidback yet attentive (and no waiter service! You order at a counter - but there's alcohol and wine, too - a very odd and nice combination). The food is dee-lish. It's an awesome place to convene, and I remember sitting there before going to see Rambo, and the snow was falling pretty heavily, and it was night, but where I was was warm and safe. The pipes are exposed above, there were some people who were quiet and alone (like me), others who were on dates (it's a great date place), and others who came in big groups. But not one group dominates ... somehow the atmosphere is flexible enough for all.
New Yorkers should definitely check it out.
Oh, and in keeping with National Poetry Month, poet Frank O'Hara lived in the apartment next door to the Grey Dog on University Place, once upon a time. The apartment building has a bright red old-fashioned door, and there is a plaque on the door, telling us a bit about O'Hara and what he was working on during his time living there.
March 31, 2008
March 19, 2008
Some photos
Twilight in Times Square. I just love this one. That lady's eyes are staring right at me. Kinda creepy and Blade Runner-ish.
March 6, 2008
The explosion
God, I hate it when crap happens while I'm away. Hearing "there was an explosion" makes my heart skip a beat. Not that me being in Manhattan would have stopped the event. But it's my home. If something fucking big goes down, I want to be there. It's my home. I feel protective of it, fiercely protective.
Photos I took of the recruiting station:
I'm glad no one was hurt.
February 14, 2008
Transylvania on 24th Street
I was at The Cutting Room, a dark and semi-swank music club and lounge on 24th Street. There is a cavernous front room, with low leather couches, enormous gilt-framed portraits on the wall (giving the place a creepy Dracula-esque air), chandeliers, and lights so low you almost cannot see where you are going. In the back, behind closed doors, is the stage. Everyone at the Cutting Room is gorgeous, and there is, indeed, a velvet-roped apparatus thing in the front that you need to get through in order to enter. It's so big that you really can settle in with your companion in relative privacy, even though the joint is always packed. And the jukebox plays classic 70s rock. Or, not even "rock". For example "California Dreamin'" played 3 times in the hour and a half that I was there. And this is a jukebox, remember. People are choosing this music. And it's loud, but not loud enough that you have to shout. It's a great joint. There are huge windows looking out on 24th street, with massive heavy red velvet curtains hanging. You feel like you're stepping into some crazy person's house when you enter. Or like you are going to visit the Dunwich family. Sitting over at her own table is a palm reader. She sits there all night, just waiting for people to come over, should they choose. She has long thick black hair. One of the tables is a Pac-Man game. You can sit, and rest your martini on the screen (as I saw a couple do), and play Pac-Man to your hearts content.
It's so dark that these are crap pictures. But the darkness somehow (to me) does capture the creepy Transylvania feel of The Cutting Room. Or, actually - judging from the hotties everywhere in sight - (for example: the chick in the 1940s throwback dress, sleeveless, with a tattoo swirling down her arm, big combat boots - playing Pac-Man and sipping on her martini) - more like Interview with a Vampire ...
One of the chandeliers.
The vast darkness of the space. You can see the giant creepy portraits on the opposite wall.
I had a moment where I was talking on my cell phone at the same time I was blackberrying someone. Yup. I'm the asshole. Oh well. I'm certainly not alone. So I decided to capture my meta moment. Realizing that I am totally behaving like Julia Allison right now.
The jukebox.
February 11, 2008
2 a.m. on a rainy Manhattan night
Cell phone photo from with a dank drippy subway station. It was beautiful and bleak: an underground tiled walkway, wet cement... drunk people, homeless people, regular people, whatever... just moving thru... and a closed Barber Shop stood in the walkway, neon sign gleaming.
February 10, 2008
Schizo day
Left my apartment at about 11 to go to church. The day looked like this.
Two hours later, walking home, the day looked like this.
It was so windy I was nearly blown off the causeway.
Half an hour later, this was going on on my street.
And here is where the skyline used to be.
And now it's a cold clear blue twilight with one hell of a ferocious wind.
I fully expect a heat wave in the next 24 minutes.
February 3, 2008
January 17, 2008
Farewell, Playpen
I'm kind of sad. One of my favorite old buildings devoted to smut on 8th Avenue has been torn down. It seems like it happened overnight. The building was there one day, and on the next day - the whole end of the block became a huge vacant lot. I'm strangely sad. (I actually have an extremely amusing memory attached to the Playpen, which perhaps I will someday share. It is sort of a part 2 to this story ... I know ... How could there be a Part 2 to THAT? Well, there was. And it involves Hunter, the Playpen, and revenge. But I'll tell that story another day)
It was such an awesome-looking building - totally old-school New York - with neat details, a cool arched front, and of course, the sign. There's a reason why much of the film industry is moving to Toronto for their New York street scenes (besides the cheapness factor, I mean). Because New York streets are starting to not look like New York anymore. It's turning into a line of generic mini-malls, everywhere you look.
Thankfully, one day at around 7:00 in the morning I took a picture of the Playpen - so glad I thought to do it because now it's gonna be a Gap or a Starbucks or something totally boring.
Anyway. Rest in peace Playpen. Buildings like you - and the strangely subversive energy it adds to the entire city - is one of the reasons I wanted to move to New York, ever since the Dark Ages. I'll miss you.
January 14, 2008
Oh, I forgot to mention
I saw a huge fight take place in the middle of Times Square last week. It was totally awesome. I wish it would have gone on for 10 minutes, as opposed to 10 seconds. It was especially awesome because I was not involved, and could just sit back and gawk at the whole thing, gleefully. It was around rush-hour, and cars, naturally, try to get away with as much as possible (not an easy task with the throngs of tourists and just plain old people like myself filling the streets and crosswalks). So a car came thru a yellow light - and naturally pedestrians are already moving across the crosswalk - and the car, which then got stopped by the line of traffic, was in the middle of the crosswalk. No biggie - although it can be enraging, because then it screws up the flow of pedestrians and sometimes you are forced to walk out into the traffic-ridden avenue in order to get around the stopped car. Like if you had slowed and stopped at yellow, maybe this wouldn't have happened to you! One guy, wearing an iPod (this all became clear later) - was annoyed however and hit the back of the car as he passed by - an action which is somewhat questionable, and yet one with which I sympathize (I have almost been killed by cars trying to get away with something ... running yellow lights at top speed, then having to slam on the brakes because, duh, you're in the city, and there's another light 10 feet away ... I have shouted at cars/cabs who have pulled such shit. "WAIT YOUR TURN, ASSWIPE!" is an example of my eloquent comments of protest in such a situation. Or, you could just go with Dustin Hoffman's famous line: "I'M WALKING HERE. I'M WALKING HERE." He hit the cab as well in that scene - so it's a common phenomenon. I have hit cabs on the trunk who nearly run me down - and are then caught in a crosswalk. Damn straight I have. You don't almost kill me and not hear my feelings about it).
So. Onward. iPod guy hits car. Moves on to the sidewalk. And then suddenly: oh boy, was it ON. I was walking right there - and suddenly I heard something clatter to the ground - one of the guys in the car had leapt out, after realizing some guy had hit the back of their car - and chased after him, knocking his iPod out of his ears, onto the sidewalk. Big loud New York accent, "HIT MY CAR AGAIN, ASSHOLE. HIT MY CAR AGAIN." Another guy got out of the car (because they were, of course, stopped in traffic. Duh. You're trapped in the middle of the crosswalk and that's your own damn fault, bro. Not saying the guy should have hit your car, he obviously shouldn't have - but to be a whiny little bitch when it was YOU who were driving like an asshole is a bit rich.) So the other guy got out and swaggered over - the guy with the iPod, who probably (like the rest of us) had been in his own zone, was totally stunned by the attack - He didn't come up with a comeback - but he wasn't given any time, because yelling dude gave him a huge push in the chest, and iPod guy stumbled backward. Now a small crowd had gathered, of which I was one. Some passerby picked up the fallen iPod - so it wouldn't be trampled - Guy kept yelling, "NO, SERIOUSLY. I WANT YOU TO HIT MY CAR AGAIN." iPod guy said, "Fuck you." and walked away. Which I thought was totally awesome. Guy yelled after him, "NO! NO! FUCK YOU!"
The whole thing was over in 10 seconds.
It was absolutely awesome. Kind of cathartic, actually. I felt like they had been worthy foes. Guy with car was enraged that someone would touch his car, and rightly so. His attack was spectacular. I loved his directness. iPod Guy was awesome, too - because many of us have been in his position - feeling dominated and run down by cars - and I myself have no mercy for such drivers, especially if they are fucking up MY life ... but also his "Fuck you" at the end was marvelous. Just marvelous. And Guy with car shouting, feverishly: "NO! NO! FUCK YOU!" was the best. Like: no no no you are not gonna get the last word - fuck YOU!
The whole thing was very very run-of-the-mill. I wonder what stuff like that looks like to outsiders. Bit the locals are all like, "Oh, look. A fight. Let me stop and watch, but also keep my distance. Oh, look. The fight's over. Okay, on my way." And it's totally forgotten in a block and a half. But we all, in some subtle way, feel better. Because we police ourselves. As I have mentioned before in numerous posts. It is not that New Yorkers are ruder than other people - I actually think the opposite is true. New Yorkers are actually some of the nicest most welcoming friendly people you ever meet. If you're a tourist, ask a New Yorker for directions. Watch what happens. You will be unable to extricate yourself from the conversation because the New Yorker will be so helpful. They will OVER-explain the subway system ... they will walk you to the correct entrance, etc. I have done it myself. So no. New Yorkers aren't rude. It's the opposite. We are obsessed with proper etiquette and group-dynamics and cooperation. We are obsessed. It's like we're one big kindergarten class. Learning how to wait your turn, and stand in line, and do the give and take ... New Yorkers are so on top of each other, that rudeness (and selfishness - like cutting in line, or racing thru yellow lights despite the fact that pedestrians will be crossing) is not tolerated at all. We correct one another (and not always in a nice way - no, because there are just too damn many of us - so if you stand stock-still in the middle of a crowded sidewalk without getting out of the way of foot traffic, expect one of us to stay, "Yo. Don't be a douche. Move to the side." And yet, mark my words, the 19th century translation of that comment is: "A true gentlemen would never impede the perambulations of his fellow gentlemen.") There are too many people here to stand on ceremony ... the social order is so fragile with such a population, that anything threatens to ruin it, and crash us all into chaos. The cops can't do ALL the work. We have to pick up the slack. What if EVERYONE stood stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, regardless of the fact that people needed to get by, and everyone was moving as one? What would happen then? It'd be anarchy! It's fine if you need to stop and check your subway map or take a phone call - just move out of the way. Cooperate with the rest of the group, or you will HEAR about it). We scold one another, as though we are all one big extended family. Aunt Margaret saying to her sister's kids, "No, no, you don't get to just grab like that. Say 'please' and then maybe you'll get what you need." And it's accepted that Aunt Margaret is allowed to discipline her sister's kids. New Yorkers discipline each other. We HAVE to. And then balance is restored. Like it was restored last week in Times Square - with the chorus of "Fuck yous" between those two gentlemen. Nobody got hurt. But feelings were aired - rudeness (on both sides) was punished ... and all will recover emotionally, and move on accordingly.
Awesome.
December 31, 2007
2007 Year in Pictures
I bought a camera (with Allison's help) in March. So here are (and yes I will finish Master & Commander - I'm almost done - and fell asleep holding the book in my hand. Yeah.) ... some of the photos (many of the photos) I have taken this year. Some I've posted on the blog before, some I haven't ... but it's been kind of cool to scroll through and take a look at all the photos, memories coming up, etc. I'll post with little to no commentary ... just a montage of images from 2007, a year which has pretty much sucked. It's been a big year, though. Tons of upheaval. My life at this moment looks very little like it looked at this time last year. That is good. And I hope it's even MORE so true next year. Let there be little to no resemblance next year at this time to my life right now! God willing!
Hope you like the pictures. I have enjoyed going thru them all.
2007 Year in Pictures
Futuristic security desk, midtown Manhattan.
2007 Year in Pictures
Boys playing basketball in my neighborhood at night, Manhattan gleaming in the background
2007 Year in Pictures
Boys playing basketball in my neighborhood at night, Manhattan gleaming in the background
2007 Year in Pictures
The White Horse Tavern, Greenwich Village, NY. Where Dylan Thomas apparently spoke his last words: "I've just had 18 whiskeys. I think that's the record."
2007 Year in Pictures
Gee, that's a tough choice you're presenting me with there, bub. Kinda like "cake or death".
December 26, 2007
The sweater
It was 7:30 a.m. and I got off my bus at Port Authority into the crisp wet New York morning. I was walking south on 8th Avenue, and while it didn't have as much foot traffic as it would mid-day, it was still rather busy.
There are always so many people on the streets in New York that it makes you believe in emanating energy forces, which could be seen via infrared light if you wanted to. People moving to, fro ... crazy people leaving a wide berth around them - the give and take of sidewalk traffic ... angry energy bumping into gentle energy bumping into efficient energy bumping into dead-end energy. As long as everyone keeps moving, keeps on their own path ... the system works. And sometimes, smack-dab in the middle of the converging energy forces, something will occur - something big and bright and sharp and unambiguous ... that will attract everyone, no matter what kind of aura they are projecting. A car crash will do it. A lost crying child will do it (I've seen huge crowds suddenly become one at the sight of a terrified child who lost grip of his mother's hand ... "What's your mom look like, son?" "Where were they going? It's okay ... we'll find her ... don't you worry ...").
And that crisp wet morning, a man's epileptic fit did it.
I approached the corner of 40th and 8th, and my infrared sensors picked up on something ahead. The individualistic energy of the streets had somehow coalesced. I could see sharp movement, people moving with purpose towards a focal point - and then I saw him: a pudgy black man, in a grey suit, lying on the sidewalk, a huge gash on his forehead from the fall ... and he was thrashing about in a seizure. Bloody foam was coming out of his mouth. He must have just gone down when I got there, because the convergence of the crowd-energy was in progress - rather than already completed.
Standing over him was a gentleman in a full sheikh's robe, complete with flowing keffiyeh. He was on his cellphone. The sheikh was obviously in the middle of calling 911. His voice was brisk, businesslike, no-nonsense. "We're in front of the Payless on 8th Avenue and 40th. I believe the man is epileptic."
At that moment, a woman ran up - she had been approaching from the south side of the street - and perhaps her energy that morning had been daydreamlike, or agitated, or calm - but at the sight of the crisis, she was all business - she came running over, shouted out to no one in particular, just announcing her arrival and her profession, "I'M A NURSE." She knelt on the sidewalk, and began ministering to the man. The sheikh informed her, "The ambulance is on the way ... " The nurse put her hand on the prone man's face, feeling for a pulse - trying to stabilize his movements.
A small crowd had gathered. People were giving advice, murmuring to one another in concern, everyone knows someone who has epilepsy. The sheikh went out into the bus-lane, peering down 8th Avenue for sight of an ambulance. It was obvious he felt responsible. Not for the man having a seizure, but for making sure he would be all right, and on his way to a hospital - since he was obviously the first one who found him.
And at that moment, a young guy walked up to the crowd. He was probably 23, 24 years old. He didn't stand there and gawk for long - he was on his way by, glanced down - he must have noticed that the nurse was trying to hold the man's head up - and, without thinking or hesitating, the young guy pulled off his sweater and knelt down, placing it in a rolled-up ball beneath the man's head ... onto the filthy rain-wet sidewalk, stained with the man's blood from where he fell. The man's mouth gushed blood and foam out onto the young guy's sweater - and young guy stood back, to give the nurse room to do what she had to do. His sweater was donated, to provide comfort to a fallen stranger.
I only stopped to watch the scene for about 15 seconds before moving on - there was nothing I could do to help - but in that time, I saw three people - who were on their way to a busy day, different backgrounds, different gifts - converge on one point of emergency, and do what needed to be done to help. As I walked off, I could hear the sirens of the ambulance approaching.
The 911 call and the nurse's attention were important. You just hope if you go down in the middle of a crowded street that two people like them will be around.
But for me, it was the gift of the sweater that was the true heroism I saw that morning. I'll never forget that young guy. And how he didn't hesitate.
December 17, 2007
December 15, 2007
December 14, 2007
Skyline Montage
I've had my camera since March, I think. My street is a dead-end with a fantastic view of Manhattan. Every day it looks different. I never walk out my front door without glancing to my right, and seeing what mood the city is in. Light, clouds, fog, mist ... never ever the same.
Here's a montage of shots since I got my camera. Different times of day, different seasons. To me, it's obvious the ones that are wintry - as opposed to summery ... something about the light or something. I'm just obsessed with my view. When I move, I will MISS that view.
December 11, 2007
December 5, 2007
The skyline again
This time ... the skyline on the morning of the first snow, all shrouded in fog and snowy air and etc. The snow didn't last long - it's all gone now - but for a while that day it was, you know, winter!!
November 29, 2007
Controlled chaos
New York's finest gathering in the subway, getting ready to watch over and control the mayhem that was the Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony at Rockefeller Plaza.
November 17, 2007
November 16, 2007
Madness at 30 Rock
Tree going up. Ice rink open. Mania approaching.
God help us all.
Massive pile of Christmas lights.
That's the trunk of this massive tree.
Person guarding the tree.
Full set of photos here
October 25, 2007
Ceci, you'll love this
I was walking through the belly of the Port Authority bus terminal last week, I happened to have my camera on me ... and when I have my camera on me, it's like my actual VISION changes, and instead of not seeing things, because I see them every day ... I see EVERYthing, as a possibility, as something to be saved.
When you enter the subway terminal 1 floor down in Port Authority, you come thru the turnstiles - and over to the left, randomly, is a tiny store. A small glass box - surrounded by tile and concrete. You need to be buzzed in to even enter. It's a "portrait" store ... elaborate frames, cheeseball paintings - and the other day, as I walked by, it's like i saw, for the first time really, the absurdity of such a store. The lighting in there, as opposed to out in Port Authority where it is fluorescent and practical, is dramatic and elegiac. Almost religious in nature.
Check it out. I just love the two "portraits" they have chosen to represent their store.
October 24, 2007
A couple cool photos
... from the night Patrick Hughes came to town. The first one is from when we were all standing outside on the sidewalk after the reading. The second one is the interior of the performance space upstairs. Mo Pitkins (the venue, bar and performance space) closed its doors this week, for good, which really makes me sad. It was a great great joint. Glad I got some pics of it.
October 22, 2007
October 9, 2007
September 30, 2007
The Northern Dispensary
After my haircut ... I went downtown to meet up with Allison.
And we walked by the Northern Dispensary in the Village - You can read more about this mysterious abandoned empty building here - and another link - with a great photo here - it just sits there, prime real estate - and you can still see the old dentist equipment, rotting away through the windows - it's on a corner - so you can peek into the windows on one side and see straight through to the windows on the other side. There are some great stories behind the building - Allison told me some of them - but follow the links in that post above to read more. I used to have my appointments with my analyst in the building right behind the Dispensary in that photo - and i walked by it all the time, not really thinking about it - or wondering why this Willy Wonka's factory nobody-comes-in-or-goes-out building was just sitting there ... empty ... at the intersection of Waverley and Waverley.
It was a nice little pilgrimage, and dammitall I didn't have my camera with me (which ended up being an even bigger bummer because on my way home I inadvertently got trapped in a raucous parade of angry lesbians - marching and drumming and dancing - I could not get out of the throng, they were jammed into the narrow streets of the Village - and they had taken over the entire block - and I had no idea what they were protesting - but there was nothing to do but join them, so I marched along blissfully oblivious, my new haircut bouncing buoyantly in the night breeze, clapping my hands, dancing to their drumbeats - hoping the lesbians got whatever they wanted - but in the meantime, ahhh, that's a nice drumbeat, let me dance along to my train station since I cannot seem to escape ... laughing at the weirdness of my life) - so back to the Northern Dispensary: I settled on 2 shots with my crappy cell phone.
It's a haunting building. Allison kept saying, "What I wouldn't give to go in there and have a look around!"
September 19, 2007
I Heart ...
New York Daily Photo for interesting posts like this one: a photo and a small post about Myers of Keswick. New York really is just a conglomeration of small neighborhoods. Follow his links - they're all really fascinating.
I am not a Brit, but I've shopped in that store. I love the details he puts in his small posts to go along with each photo. He gets all this great information I didn't know - and it's presented in a lovely open manner, I think. That site is now a daily stop for me.
Along these same lines, here is the daily poem on Garrison Keillor's site (another daily pitstop for me). It's connected to what that New York Daily Photo site makes me feel like, and also my general feeling these days - with autumn approaching, and the city sidewalks seeming renewed and crisp, the air moving, the Hudson blue and sharp. Autumn in New York, now, is understandably connected with melancholy and grief. But it's all part of it. I feel like a stranger here in the humid stinky sticky filthy summer. Fall is my season.
Elizabeth Bishop is one of my favorite poets (I posted about her here) Here's her poem below. Love it.
"Letter to N.Y." by Elizabeth Bishop
For Louise Crane
In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,
and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,
and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,
and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
—Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
September 18, 2007
Cab on fire
Ah, I love the smell of a FIERY INFERNO right around lunch time!
I'm like Zelig now. I was a block away from the steam pipe explosion and I just experienced this up close. Nothing like looking out your window 17 floors up and seeing thick black smoke billowing UP from below. Yikes. I made Patrick take the stairs with me. Sorry, Patrick! I'm not gettin' in no elevator with no black billowing smoke!
It wasn't until we reached the street that we realized that it was probably a car on fire - and not the building. As Patrick and I tramped down 17 flights, we started to smell the fire at around floor 4. My flip-flops made a DEAFENING sound on the concrete stairwell (highly annoying for any evacuation procedure)
Black smoke poured out of the cab - which I saw up close - it was burnt to a crisp. Still no word on what the hell happened. Tons of firemen but no ambulances while we were there - so hopefully nobody got hurt - but I still can't find any updates on it.
Sucky cell phone pictures below.
September 17, 2007
New York City: early morning montage
Pre 8 a.m. on a rainy fall-ish morning.
I love being in Times Square that early ... it's so creepy, melancholy. Beautiful. Photos below I took: starting out on MY side of the river ... and continuing over on THAT side.
From the end of my street. It's about 7 am here - a light mist of rain. And check out the huge ocean liner coming up the Hudson.
My 'hood.
42nd and 8th
Peeking in at a big construction site. Corner of 42nd and 8th.
Through a scrap of fabric: the lights of 42nd Street.
BB King's joint - on 42nd. I just love it - because it was literally about 7:30 in the morning ... but damn, those lights were on!!
Weird. The hot gold of the lights above - but then you can see the cooler blue and muted rainy neon of the rest of the street underneath.
Reflection in a rain-puddle.
Times Square. 7:45 a.m. I like it best at this weird hour of the day. Lights still ablaze ... but almost empty of people.
Check this out. An entrance to, oh, some corporate office or something. I have not doctored this at all - or messed with the colors. I was walking across town - in the grey rainy morning - grey streets, watery neon, muted yellow cabs - everything soft and grey - and saw this bright blue entranceway. Like a spaceship or something. And check out what the security guard's station looks like in the photo below this one. It's so Quantum Leap Imaging Chamber, isn't it??
New York City: early morning montage
Pre 8 a.m. on a rainy fall-ish morning.
I love being in Times Square that early ... it's so creepy, melancholy. Beautiful. Photos below I took: starting out on MY side of the river ... and continuing over on THAT side.
From the end of my street. It's about 7 am here - a light mist of rain. And check out the huge ocean liner coming up the Hudson.
My 'hood.
42nd and 8th
Peeking in at a big construction site. Corner of 42nd and 8th.
Through a scrap of fabric: the lights of 42nd Street.
BB King's joint - on 42nd. I just love it - because it was literally about 7:30 in the morning ... but damn, those lights were on!!
Weird. The hot gold of the lights above - but then you can see the cooler blue and muted rainy neon of the rest of the street underneath.
Reflection in a rain-puddle.
Times Square. 7:45 a.m. I like it best at this weird hour of the day. Lights still ablaze ... but almost empty of people.
Check this out. An entrance to, oh, some corporate office or something. I have not doctored this at all - or messed with the colors. I was walking across town - in the grey rainy morning - grey streets, watery neon, muted yellow cabs - everything soft and grey - and saw this bright blue entranceway. Like a spaceship or something. And check out what the security guard's station looks like in the photo below this one. It's so Quantum Leap Imaging Chamber, isn't it??
September 4, 2007
Bowery and Bleecker
Monday afternoon ... taken with my cell phone camera:
July 19, 2007
Steam pipe
Horrible. God. In one moment, it's like 6 years have not passed. You never forget. It's muscle memory. I was 2 blocks away, walking west on 41st - towards my bus home - when I felt the ground rumble - this horrible sensation - truly sickening, a lurch - and suddenly there was an explosion. I didn't see it - but I felt it in my eardrums - and I looked east and saw towers of black smoke pouring up from the street. And then I was running, as fast as I could- west - away from the smoke. Everyone was running. I've seen the pictures now - of the flipped cars and shit - and am just grateful I was 2 blocks away, and not 1 block. It was horrible. by the time I got home, rattled and shaken up - I hung out at the deli across the street watching the news with a crowd of neighbors, a couple of whom had stories like mine- and at that point nobody had died. It said only 12 people injured - and having seen that blast - I was amazed that nobody died. It looked so apocalyptic. Now I read that one person has died. Bah. It's awful.
July 6, 2007
School is out for summer
Central Park HEART-CRACK.
You can't really see it but the mother is about 13 months pregnant.
School is out for summer
Central Park HEART-CRACK.
You can't really see it but the mother is about 13 months pregnant.
The sky in Central Park today
You're not gonna believe this. I have not doctored this at all. This is what I saw over the Great Lawn.
July 1, 2007
New York montage
New photos here - I've selected just a few for le montage below.
My favorite kind of roof. This spectacular building reminds me of the Titanic as well as the iceberg. Gorgeous.
Old-school sign.
Night on the 29th floor. All skyline and reflections.
No comment.
Dance studio. I took this photo at around 8:15 in the morning, and it seemed quietly desolate to me, but also - quintessential New York. Everywhere you look ... signs of humanity and interests and activities and life - even when people are still sleeping.
Taken on the same morning walk. I love to see the signs before the neon goes on.
The side of Carnegie Hall. That building gives me goosebumps.
Ivory
The door at Tiffany's when the store is closed.
Truck!
The back of Roseland Ballroom
Gutter
New York montage
New photos here - I've selected just a few for le montage below.
My favorite kind of roof. This spectacular building reminds me of the Titanic as well as the iceberg. Gorgeous.
Old-school sign.
Night on the 29th floor. All skyline and reflections.
No comment.
Dance studio. I took this photo at around 8:15 in the morning, and it seemed quietly desolate to me, but also - quintessential New York. Everywhere you look ... signs of humanity and interests and activities and life - even when people are still sleeping.
Taken on the same morning walk. I love to see the signs before the neon goes on.
The side of Carnegie Hall. That building gives me goosebumps.
Ivory
The door at Tiffany's when the store is closed.
Truck!
The back of Roseland Ballroom
Gutter
June 24, 2007
Of surfeit one can never have too much
I believe I have mentioned my undying love for the sight of water towers perched on top of buildings throughout Manhattan. Little (and big) rickety wooden rain barrels ... floating through the sky. Once you start to look for them, you see them everywhere. I adore them.
This weekend I found myself in an apartment floating above the city. The view was stunning. But more than that ... WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE WHAT I SAW.
My experience of the water towers transformed. As you can see below.
THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!!!
I think that one's coming to get me.
But look down ...
HOLY GOD, IT'S AN INVASION.
Hmmm, I feel something looking at me. I turn my head.
AHHHHHH. ANOTHER ONE. NO, TWO!
They've got frigging sentinels everywhere.
There is no escape. Don't even try. They have every avenue covered.
As far as the damn eye can see. BASTARDS.
Figure I better keep my eye on the Big Mama closest to me.
You know, it's kind of unnerving.
AHHHH!
That's better, sister. Back off.
Solstice thunder and gleam
So I posted about the summer solstice sky -
Here are two of the photos I took that night. (Rest here)
The sky over my apartment.
And then ... looking to the end of my street ... the sky over Manhattan in the same moment.
June 21, 2007
To quote Team America
"We need a montage!"
Random NYC shots.
I took this one out a cab window as we ricocheted down 7th Avenue. I was surprised how clear it came out.
A winged Wilbur.
Garment district. Dancer in the window.
Fountain. I liked how this shot came out.
I kept seeing a pack of ghosts running through Times Square. Everywhere I looked, I'd see them. They weren't doing anything, really - just standing around, or walking. This is my favorite shot of one of them.
Another one of the fountain. Divide of sun and shadow, thought it looked cool.
Blood-orange margarita
Midtown Comics.
The Paramount Sign. I swear, my heart speeds up when I see that sign.
Cool T-shirt.
Like James Lileks, and also Bill McCabe - I love the ghosts of old signs painted on sides of buildings. You gotta capture these things while they still last. Their days are numbered.
And then - a couple of the many shots I've taken of the Tiles for America memorial. (I posted about this place before)
Oh - and here are more (more photos than you probably ever would want to see) here on Flickr!
June 13, 2007
Snapshots
Random photos and stuff. Things I think look kinda cool.
Tense stressful day ahead.
I think The Quiet Man arrives today. I'm alternating between Woody Allen and John Wayne, and it suits me perfectly.
Reading The Arabian Nights. The Richard Burton translation - which has a flowery Arabic FEEL to it and I love it. I read a couple pages a day. It's all I'm fit for right now. Now I know why generations of schoolchildren are literally swept away by the magic carpet ride herein. You just are transported to another world. And you NEED to know: "But what happens next??"
Breathe. Don't forget to breathe.
Dinner with Ted tonight.
Window at Tiffany's.
Weather-beaten chairs on my roof.
59th and 5th - it was a black stormy sky with a burst of sun hitting the white marble buildings. Breathtaking.
Apple Store, stormy day
St. Patrick's Cathedral
Buildings on edge of Columbus Circle.
They call me "No Shame Sheila."
More photos here!!
June 9, 2007
Objects
I was walking down 6th Avenue at about 5:30 pm last night - and I saw many things along the way. Many magical wonderful things!!
There was a haze in the air - an odd hot haze - that made the lengthening of the light even more stark. A strange day - sort of muggy, yet when you got a breeze, it was as cool as an ocean breeze.
6th Avenue, at around 44th, 43rd ... gets very CRAFT oriented (in an industrial way - it's kind of like the garment district - with entire stores of bangles, or scarves, or silk, or whatever) - as you will see. Some incredible-looking stores. But you also pass "jewelry way" ... so it's an interesting mix.
I kept trying to capture what the light and shadow looked like on this one particular building. I haven't quite captured it - but you can KIND of tell how cool it looked.
Obviously, it was box day in the city. You saw such things everywhere.
I passed a couple of stores entirely devoted to buttons. In the long sunset-light rays, the objects shimmered - almost like talismans, or something out of a fairy tale. Magical.
Then I passed all the jewelry stores. To explain why the light was so amazing - these stores were all on the east side of the street - so they were getting the sunset light on them directly.
A couple stores devoted entirely to trim.
A wall of ribbon. Incredible sight.
I thought this one came out cool. The reflection is of the sun-struck buildings in the first part of this post. Amazing, right?
Pitstop. Manicure.
And also with you.
Hot.
R2? What are you doing here?
Table of ties, sidewalk, corner of 43rd and 6th.
Flowers on the edge of Bryant Park.
End of the line.
May 22, 2007
Thinking:
I'm not clear on a couple of things.
I need to get clear.
Hmmmmm.....
What do I need ...
what am I looking for ....
to get CLEAR ...
May 20, 2007
Scanner sunday
I haven't touched up this photo at all. This is actually what I saw. This is the view from the end of my street. It is dawn. I mean, can you believe it??
Scanner sunday
I haven't touched up this photo at all. This is actually what I saw. This is the view from the end of my street. It is dawn. I mean, can you believe it??
May 19, 2007
May 15, 2007
New York montage
Around 34th and 8th:
Vertigo.
Post office under wraps.
Est. 1901
The Garden.
Chapped lips, dead eyes, fabulous wig.
Reflection
May 14, 2007
April 29, 2007
Tribute to Ryszard Kapuscinski
My heart is so full. The place was standing room only. The line was (literally) around the block. It went from the door on 42nd Street all the way to 6th Avenue. I heard Polish being spoken in line, we all had dog-eared copies of Kapuscinski's books - I heard one young woman, she was probably 23 years old if she was a day, say to her friend, "I think The Emperor might be favorite of his. What's yours?" It is always a great comfort to me to find "my own kind". To show up for a matinee on a Sunday, a tribute to this great writer - and to find hundreds and hundreds of people who had the same idea. It was a bright sunny day, and we queued up - making quite a spectacle, the line snaking around Bryant Park. "What is this for?" people asked, drawn to us. Someone would answer, "Tribute to Ryszard Kapuscinski." "Who?" someone asked. But then someone else thought a bit, nodded seriously and said, "Oh!"
I think one of my favorite parts of the entire day was when the Polish writer and newspaper editor Adam Michnik got up to speak, a longtime friend of Mr. Kapuscinski. His English was halting, so he spoke with a translator - a tall laconic gentlemen over to the side, holding a microphone - who was the striking resemblance of George Plimpton (his name was Jan Gross). Anyway, the Mr. Michnik was red-faced, jovial - (oh, and the entire panel was drinking vodka the entire time ... in tribute to Kapuscinski and his love of life, good alcohol, companionship, and recklessness. It was great - there was Salman Rushdie, raising his glass of vodka to the memory of his dead friend ...) But anyway, the Michnik spoke, and it was obvious the vodka was having some effect - he was humorous, and anecdotal - he didn't stand on ceremony, he told very funny stories about Kapuscinski- and I loved him. But it was great because there were, of course, huge numbers of Polish speaking people in the audience (most of them sitting in the first 10 or so rows) - so he would come to the punchline of some joke, in Polish - and there would be a huge spontaneous thunderclap of laughter from the front, from the Poles ... then our Plimpton-esque translator would tell us the punchline in English 2 seconds later - and all of the English speakers in the audience would burst into a huge thunderclap of laughter. It came in waves. Like a time-released punchline, reverberating backwards in concentric circles. Laugh from front ... pause ... laugh from back ... and so it went, on and on, throughout the Michnik's entire speech. It was gorgeous. The interconnectedness of it, but also the separation - by language ... and yet humor is universal. We just might not "get it" at the same moment. It (to me) was the biggest tribute to Kapuscinski's overwhelming humanistic appeal: those time-lapsed waves of laughter. The jokes making it through the translation. The message received.
I took some grainy pictures below. Salman Rushdie was marvelous. The dry wit ... obviously very comfortable with public speaking - he appeared to speak off the cuff. Maybe he had some notes - but he didn't refer to them often. He just sipped his vodka and told funny stories. He related a tale about a time he and Kapuscinski had in London - a stage production of Kapuscinski's book The Emperor was going on - and protests were being staged outside the theatre.
Rushdie said to us (and his timing was impeccable - it was all in the pauses):
"Speaking as someone whose writing has ...... occasionally ... generated .... protests ......"
HUGE laugh.
It was the "occasionally" that made the joke.
And what an unbelievable pleasure it was to see my husband, Philip Gourevitch, in the flesh, for the first time. To hear him speak. My God. I admire him so much. I love his writing so much. Man, what a day.
Crowded. Photos of and by Kapuscinski were projected up onto huge screens around the room.
The ceiling in that room never ceases to amaze me.
The man of the day.
Another funny anecdote from Rushdie. Back in the early 80s - when Kapuscinski's books were starting to come out - he and Rushdie were part of the same publishing house in London. Rushdie, young, ambitious ... had never heard of Kapuscinski. He walks into the editor's office and the editor says to him in a portentous dramatic tone, "I have just read what I believe might be the best book ever written." (A lot of Rushdie's charm and humor was in how he told the story ... just the WAY he related the editor's words told us the whole thing - Rushdie felt jealous. He wanted the editor to be saying that about HIS book.) Rushdie, feeling jealous, said, "What's the book?" Editor said, "It's a book about Haile Selassie by a Polish writer." Long pause. Rushdie then said, "Well, that certainly sounds like the best book ever written."
So dry, so funny!!!
(Excerpt from "the best book ever written" here)
Another quote from Rushdie, on Kapuscinski's time in Africa: "He was sentenced to death every Tuesday."
Here's a grainy shot of the panel. Rushdie clearly seen over on the right ... and Gourevitch clearly seen over on the left.
The organizer of the event asked Kapuscinski once about the many times he had been thrown in prison in Africa during the 60s and 70s. I think it was over 40 times, and he had gotten a "death sentence" 4 times. Crazy decades in Africa, anarchy, etc. Kapuscinski, with his gentle self-effacing way, told a story about how he was in a dark cell, and the guards kept throwing in poisonous snakes with him. Kapuscinski's verdict on the whole thing, as he re-told the story? "It was ..... not so good." Never one for dramatizing the alreaady dramatic. Although he put himself in all of his books, it was never in a self-aggrandizing way. But it is true that after his time in the prison cell with the poisonous snakes - this particular imprisonment went on for 2 weeks, I think, and by the time they let him out - freed him from the pitch-black room with the poisonous snakes - his hair had gone completely white.
God, I love his face:
Rushdie asked him once about all of the times he had faced death while trying to get the story out to the wire service. Rushdie asked him, "How do you do it?" Kapuscinski had to answer that question a lot - he was asked often, "Are you attracted to danger?" He was always so incredulous at the stupidity of that question. He saw nothing attractive about danger - that's the whole point of his books. But in order to write them, he needed to be there, not behind some desk. - His whole essay about what happens to a man when he sits behind a desk is vintage Kapuscinski. So anyway, Rushdie was hearing the 100th story about Kapuscinski somehow conniving his way through some flaming checkpoint in Uganda, with rifles pointed at his head, and drunken soldiers rifling through his papers ... and Rushdie asked, "How do you do it? How do you escape death so many times?" Kapuscinski thought a bit and then said, "I make myself unimportant. I make myself seem unworthy of the assassins bullet."
Here's Rushdie at the podium - you can't see it, but he has a huge glass of vodka next to him.
Gourevitch spoke eloquently about Kapuscinski's thing as a writer. I loved one thing he said - he said that Kapuscinski is a 'great artist of the pixel'. And you know - thinking of his various books - it is the minutia that sticks with you: the cushion-bearer in Selassie's court, the long treatise on making cognac in the Imperium, the image of the pool hall built by the Soviets in what was once a mosque in Samarqand ... the old Muslims sitting outside under a tree, with the sound of pool balls clacking around the green baize table in what was once their holy place ... Oh, and so much more. The little puddle-jumping girl in Irkutsk. The wooden city in Angola floating away into the ocean (excerpt here). The gin-soaked nights in Ghana. The entire essay on the soccer war (excerpt here). His long essay on the Armenians. Their books. (excerpt here) Gourevitch told a very funny story too about how Kapuscinski was once asked to be on a panel discussing foreign policy issues - I can't remember which country, maybe it was the EU, I don't know. But it was to be a highly detailed conversation regarding this or that policy, this or that bill. He sat there, and was asked what he thought of such and such policy. He had never heard of any of them. He was not a wonk. He did not go in for the tiny details of government. He abhorred them - they were dehumanizing.
But his books! Look to his books.
Here's Gourevitch speaking.
April 27, 2007
Tribeca Film Festival
I'm going to be part of a team of critics covering the Tribeca Film Festival for House Next Door - one of the best culture blogs out there. Be sure to check in over there over the next week to see all the reviews as they come pouring in as quickly as we can write the damn things. I saw two movies today, and will see 7 movies in the next 3 days. Because I'm going to the press screenings, and not the regular public screenings - the movies are not shown at prime time. I'm seeing a movie tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., for example. And then racing downtown to see another one. Sunday will be truly insane. Movie in morning. Race to New York Public Library for the tribute to Ryzsard Kapuscinski. Hopefully meet Salman Rushdie and Philip Gourevitch. Race back downtown for second movie. And I will write my reviews ... when?
Here are some photos I took today as I tramped through the fog from movie to movie.
Ye Olde Media Kit and press pass.
I felt like Rosalind Russell in this moment.
Mural I fell in love with, as will soon become obvious.
Mural love.
Staff setting up the memorabilia and information table.
Poster on the wall in the lobby. I couldn't resist.
In between movies. A breather.
Madison Square Garden.
Back to work.
Mural love, yet again.
A black flat behind an information booth.
Hypnotized by the mural. Who wouldn't be?
Preparing ...
What can I say. The mural called .... and I answered.
Descending down to the lobby after the second movie - where audience members were gathering for the public screenings. You could feel the buzz in the air.
People holding tickets, yearning for tickets ... corralled up into queues outside.
The marquee.
April 24, 2007
Unconnected images. Spring. New York. Skylines and flowers and my bulletin board - which apparently I find endlessly fascinating. Too much happening. Can't really read right now. A weird feeling. I finished Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep finally - I'm only able to read about 3 pages a day - but I finished it this morning. Loved it. And for the most part, I've been reading poetry. That suits my attention span and my non-literal emotional mood these days. Oh, and I've been reading compilations of movie reviews. Tired. Tired. Happy though.
Harses, harses, harses.
Overblown pink tree near my house. Just intoxicatingly beautiful.
Oh. Happy belated earth day! Or - to quote Cashel when he was three years old: "Eeth." (Eg: "8 billion years ago an asteeyoid ceeyashed into the eeth ..." etc.)
The most fascinating billboard in the world apparently. Up to the right is a postcard of a Joseph Cornell box. And then the plane postcard in the middle was given to me by CW when I first met him. The blurry black and white image over to the left is one of the "photo-paintings" by Gerhard Richter.
This is my favorite building in my neighborhood. It seems to be from out of the Mediterranean or Latin America ... it looks best at dusk - the colors most striking. This, sadly, was taken at mid-day - but you can still see the coolness of the colors, lime and melon ...
Dusk, West Houston Street. I love the floating neon yellow hand in the bottom left corner.
Love you, too.
April 20, 2007
Welcome to the Tribeca dungeon
I come down the stairs into the basement area - and at first glimpse think: Okay. I am about to be killed by an angry penis-hating butterfly-loving lunatic who orders me to put the lotion in the basket.
One look at this view and I am sure I have only moments to live.
I move further into the basement. Here's the corner. God, doesn't it look cozy and inviting??
I turn ... and find what I am looking for. Although it sort of has a "GATEWAY TO HELL" feel to it. Dare I continue on?
Closer ... through the mirror, the "ladies room" glows with the fires of hell.
The ceiling of the dark blue hallway. I'm being buried under bricks ... or I'm waiting for a small lonely FBI agent wearing night-goggles to come and save me.
I look down the blue hall to where I want to go ... and see a floating roll of toilet paper ... beckoning to me through the gloom.
This is what I see, looking up, as I am perched on the ol' can (actually, I should say as I am hovering over the toilet bowl ...). It's so cramped that my knees touch the door. This is far cry from the Charmin Brou-Haha. It almost looks like a torture device. Bricked in, so no one will hear you scream.
I am now fully ensconced in the red glow of the fires of hell ... yet I glance back out ... and can still see the blue cool hallway to freedom ...
It puts the lotion in the basket.
On my way out, I decide to check out the men's room. To see what kind of ambience they've got going on in there. This is my first glimpse.
I hightail it out of there.
Dusk in lower Manhattan
The streets seemed semi-deserted, and there were times when I could almost believe I was strolling around in 1910. It was a cloudy dusk, turning cloudy night, with smattering of rain ...I later found myself in what amounts to a dungeon -and I took pictures there too - but that'll be in the next post.
For now ... the beauty of a cloudy night in lower Manhattan. I was alone (during my walk anyway) but not lonely.
This is the AT & T building and I just thought it looked spectacular. Like something out of Brazil or Metropolis.
Street scene. Maybe it's just my sensibility but I look at that and feel a deep ache of aesthetic satisfaction. It just has so much in it ... it's night, you can feel the history of that street - and then just as an image ... the huge windows, the dusk, the fire escapes crawling diagonally, the beam of the street lamp ... Get ready, there are gonna be a million more like this one. It's a photo where you could conceivably be in another century.
It was getting a bit too dark to be shooting without a flash - hence the blurriness of this photo. A lot of these came out too blurry and I deleted most of them but this one for some reason appealed to me. Again, with the feeling of an early industrial city ... it seems to be from another time.
And then. A near-death experience caught on camera.
Ahhhh. I love to see mountain ranges, and forests, and crashing waves. But this is just as beautiful to me.
This struck me as kind of eerie and poetic. It's light - which means life - which means: "there are people behind this door" - but somehow this seems uninhabited ... like maybe it's an ALIEN behind the door, or something like that. Somethng alive but not quite human.
More urban poetry. The glowing of lamps through windows. This is not a residential area - it's a mix of industrial (old dusty fabric shops, garment stores) and cavernous art galleries, with 2 or 3 paintings hanging on otherwise empty walls. One side of the street is grimy, gritty (the ones I took above) and the other side gleams with stark whitness. Here's a glimpse from the gritty side.
The glare of this pirate totally stopped me in my tracks.
This image was glued onto a battered service entrance-door. I have no idea what it is but I love it.
Basquiat? Is that you?
The "clean" side of the street. Spectacular in its own way ... staring calmly across the narrow road at the early 20th century garment district shops.
As night fell, random lit windows gleamed. Like I said, this is not a residential area - so most of the windows were dark. The contrast struck me as so beautiful.
This might be my favorite photo of the batch. It's a lamp store - but with no signage, no Home Depot stamp, no corporate environment. This is a rough area. Completely functional. But poetic because of that.
Yet another "ahhhh" view of the street.
And let's end it with this guy. He called to me from his remote corner of the wall, in a gruff burbly voice, saying, "Hey. You wid da camera. Yo. Check me out, bitch!"
Next up? MY time in the dungeon ... a space right out of "Silence of the Lambs".
April 15, 2007
New York montage
It's a pouring rainy morning and I've been up since 5:45. I was BLASTED into consciousness by Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" ... and I feel that that is a good omen for the day. I am doing laundry, and Swiffering everything in the apartment, including my soul. I also read a chapter in my book about the Maronite Christians. And I also wrote a girlie-gushy entry in my diary about Keith, and what it was like to be with him last week. Hi, Keith! Yes, it is a modern-day version of Diary Friday. My own life - with its interwoven continuity, its re-visitations, its feel of a literary conceit - kinda blows me away, if I really think about it. Talked on the phone with David yesterday and he said, "Sheila, it's like in a matter of a month you have been plucked out of your old life completely ... and plopped down into the middle of somebody else's life. Like what the fuck???" Oh, and I also made some Nutrisystem pancakes (which rock the house, by the way). I'm meeting with my tax lady later this afternoon, no time like the present, I love her, with her vaguely Serbo-Croatian accent and her acute intelligence with a semi-Balkan edge. And hopefully later I can see my massage guru, because it's been one helluva week - all good stuff - but I am wiped out and I need a bit of attention, frankly. I've also been messing around in my little photo studio, trying to figure this whole thing out.
Here's another New York montage. Things seen while out and about and up and down and around and thru.
9th Avenue
Anthropologie window display. Little hanging baggies of dirt, with sprouts coming out of it ... such a whimsical beautiful window ... I loved it.
The United States Marine Band - going back onto their bus. I got to watch them perform, too. It was gorgeous. On multiple levels. Ahem.
Kurt Vonnegut. Rest in peace.
The Hershey Factory - one view - Beth, member our insane time there when you were a chaperone (who had no voice, I might add??) And Bets - remember crowding in there the day you came down with the kids to see Wicked? That place is nuts!!
The Hershey Store - another view. It was great - because it was a grey dreary day and the colors bombarded you thru the bleak.
Stage Door
NBC Studio 1 - mural on lobby wall
NBC Studio 1 - another view of the mural
This one's my favorite shot I got of the mural.
Doesn't this dude look like such a wiseass? That's probably because he's 8 stories tall.
April 14, 2007
Before 7 a.m. ...
... an entire life can be lived. Yesterday I was up at 4 a.m. ... and all of the photos taken below come from before 7 a.m.
Dawn in Manhattan. It's otherworldly, man.
5:30 a.m. This is the view from the end of my street.
Another view of Manhattan - a bit north of midtown.
Even farther north. God ... spectacular.
Walking to catch the bus. Glancing to my right, repeatedly ... for the views. The city can be seen at the end of every street or alley.
In the city now. It's 6 a.m. Port Authority ... already awake and handling its everyday duties.
6 a.m. Some human needs never slumber. A little peeping, a little palm reading, a little pawn-shopping ...
Walking cross-town. Saw a dusty truck. Everywhere you look (seriously, everywhere) you can see remnants, memories, memorials ... you just need to know HOW to look. You can't walk 3 steps without seeing something like this.
I turn north. I head towards Times Square. Amazons towering above me in the dawn light.
Times Square at dawn. Seriously - it is surreal. It's surreal in mid-day as well ... but at dawn? FanTAStic.
Dawn patrol.
The Nasdaq never sleeps. We do ... but it does not.
This way, please.
Now here - you can see the glow of sunrise on that one patch of building. Shivers! I saw that and felt what Emily Byrd Starr would call "the flash".
Somehow incongrous ... this little old-fashioned looking building surrounded by corporate gleam.
That last photo was taken at 6:49 a.m.
A whole life lived before 7 a.m.
April 13, 2007
April 11, 2007
Dazzling
Yo.
Camera fun.
I have a Flickr account now. Let the games begin.
April 9, 2007
Camera glory
I am having so much fun with my camera. It's a little bit scary how much fun I am having. And the whole hooking-camera-up-to-computer thing is so easy that it frightens me. Although I do get a weird message about the "device not being unhooked properly" when I take the USB cable out. I can't figure that part out. But the photos have been imported. And here we go. This is the first round. The first batch of photos I took.
HOBOKEN DUSK
BLOCKBUSTER: ALL OUT
FRAGMENT
MY FRONT DOOR
AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS
ELEVATOR FLOOR, 30 ROCK
GRACE ON 46TH STREET
HOBOKEN DUSK II
TIMES SQUARE PIRATE 20 STORIES HIGH
April 4, 2007
The loneliness of ice skaters ...
... on a rainy windy New York day.
That's with my cell phone. Hence the darkness surrounding the ice skating rink.
March 26, 2007
A New York shocker
I know it will be hard to believe, but a certain venue in Times Square has closed its doors. I had gone out searching for it again only to find ... it was gone.
I took 2 pretty damn funny pictures of what is there now. I've listed them below.
So here is the monolith that now confronts you ... if you go seeking out that old venue.
Wow. Okay. I GOT it. You guys CLOSED and there is now a RETAIL OPPORTUNITY.
Blue curtains line the glass front doors, obscuring what is within ... I wondered what remained of the mania I had once experienced. I went to peek between a gap in the blue curtains to see if there were any remnants of the former tenant .... And I took a photo thru the glass door of what I saw on the wall behind that curtain. This may be the funniest photo I have ever taken.
March 25, 2007
New York Signage
Old and new ....
I'm going to be getting a nice camera in the next month or so ... no more of this cell-phone-photo crap although sometimes the snaps come out looking okay. Like the neon one below. I kinda like it - the blurriness gives the correct feel to it, because it was raining last night when I took that pic at about 11:45 pm.
And the second photo below ... it's just an old water-stained utilitarian sign, but I find such beauty in it.
Every time I see an example of old-timey signage in New York, I feel compelled to capture it. It's a ghost of days gone by. You can still see it everywhere, though ... you just need to train your eyes to look for it.
March 19, 2007
March 17, 2007
8 a.m. 39th Street
Oh - and I slipped and fell in the middle of the street - I was holding a Dunkin Donuts coffee and a big bulky overnight bag - and down I went - I totally wiped out, but the funny thing is: I doggedly held my coffee up in the air, so it wouldn't spill. I was lying in the street - face down - with my arm up, triumphantly. The rest of me was covered in slush, but dammit, not one drop of coffee spilled. I must have looked ludicrous. A little old man helped me up. Thank you, sir.
March 15, 2007
Dear Staring Lady on the Bus:
Got a couple questions. I'm not mad that you were staring. I just have some questions.
I cannot figure out why you were staring at me the entire ride. And so I began to obsess about possible boogers, bird shit in my hair, or ... what the fuck? What is wrong? I wasn't wearing a cleavage-busting lace corset, striped tights, and hi-tops at 8 in the morning, I wasn't wearing a crimson cloak and waxen fangs. I realize I wouldn't fit in with the zombie-clone-girls on The Bachelor - but I'm not THAT off the mark. You didn't seem like a crazy staring homeless lady. You were well-dressed, normal-looking ... and yet you found me unbelievably fascinating, and could not keep your eyes off me - until I got so paranoid that I had to say to you directly, "What?" I didn't really want an answer, by the way, I just wanted to remind you that I am actually alive and right here and not a movie - and that I can see that you are staring at me. It worked. It was only then that you looked away.
Now, to the questions:
Were you staring because:
-- I was wearing a puffy down coat even though it's about 90 degrees today? That's a possibility. Yes. I'm way over-dressed today. It FELT like it was chilly ... but I was basically totally wrong. But still: is that any call to stare at me for 20 minutes straight? Get over it. I'm wearing a down coat and it's warm out. Get over it.
-- I am wearing "crocs" today. Hideous, yes, I know, well-dressed lady, but so comfortable. They're like my Birkenstocks. Hideous, true. Most comfortable shoes ever. To quote my first boyfriend's fashion credo: "Comfort is key." Comfort is key. I know I wouldn't make the cut on The Bachelor wearing these ugly things, but I don't want to fit in with zombie clone girls in their pastel blue, and their black pants, and their long straight hair, and their pointy-toed heels. I don't LIKE that look and I resist it openly. But here's the real deal: I'll wear freakin' flip flops with a goddamn ballgown if I want to, and you're just gonna have to cope.
-- I have my hair in a ponytail. I'm obviously grasping at straws here. What is so weird about a ponytail? Are you that rigid? I hope not. It makes me sad for you.
-- My empty gym bag sitting on the seat next to me I don't know why this would cause someone to stare so doggedly - but just in case you were so baffled by the fact that I don't carry a purse like you, but carry a gym bag - here's the deal: I go to the gym on occasion. So there's THAT. I carry my sneakers around with me, as well as a sports bra, T-shirt, deodorant and also a towel - because the towels at the gym are the size of a Kleenex and won't fit around my hips, and I don't go to the gym to be reminded of my fat thankyouverymuch. So all of this requires a gym bag. Just in case you're wicked confused by that. Also, it's empty because I have to cart a bunch of crap around today - from one location to another - including a huge bamboo plant - and I honestly don't know how I am going to manage it, but hopefully the gym bag will come in handy. Second of all, if you were staring because it took up a whole seat: the bus was nearly empty. Nobody needed the seat.
-- When I laughed out loud while reading 1776 Now this, I grant you, might warrant staring. If that's the reason, I completely understand. Because I'm used to people thinking I'm crazy. Like the time when I wept on the PATH train because I was reading a speech Vaclav Havel made in 1990. Weeping. Openly. If anyone had asked me, "Are you okay?" and I had said, "No, it's fine, just crying about a speech Vaclav Havel made almost 20 years ago ..." I mean, come on, that's nuts. I don't expect people to cut me slack in that regard. So yes. I am reading 1776, and I guffawed briefly - when reading about Joseph Reed rebuffing the British from seeing "Mr. Washington" - Reed said, "Sir, there is nobody here by that name". An aggressive-aggressive way of saying "Give Washington the respect he deserves. He's not Mr." Anyway, I was delighted by the scene - although I know it well - and so I laughed out loud. Perhaps this caught your attention - and then you saw me laughing, and looked at the book cover to see what was so funny ... perhaps a joke book? Or Devil wears Prada? Or something, you know, funny?? Nope. 1776 brought on the guffaws. I can see how that might make you stare.
For 20 minutes straight, though?
This reminds me - that Patrick dared me once to walk around an entire day dressed like Louisa May Alcott - huge dress, big bonnet - and not act like it was a costume, or weird at all. To just go about my day ... yet dressed like that. I seriously might have to do that. It could be hysterical. I'd have to have someone come along with me though to surreptitiously take pictures of me as I - dressed like a woman in 1865 - walk through Times Square.
It could be a great lazzi.
So thanks for the idea, Staring Lady on the Bus!! Look for me in the next couple of months! I'll be the chick in the hoop skirt and the bonnet. Howling with laughter on the bus as I read Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
March 5, 2007
Humorous moment in which I was, simultaneously, completely surprised and also totally busted
Sitting in the hothouse-flower atmosphere that is Cafe Noir (one of my favorite places in the city) on Saturday night. We've been there for hours. Since 8 pm, and it's now 1 in the morning. Cafe Noir is the gathering-place for a certain group of friends of mine - we've been congregating there since I first moved to this city years ago. It's a French-style place, serving Moroccan food, tapas, great wine -- and in the summer they open all the windows, and your tables sit on little platforms above the sidewalk, so you're outside. I love it there. Rebecca was in town - sadly Allison is now out of town - but we got together anyway, me, Rebecca, Fee, and then Rebecca's brother joined us.
We drank wine. In gesturing wildly across the table about something, I knocked over my glass of water. We ate spicy olives. And bread. Oh, and we also got our favorite little side dish of calamari - grilled, not fried ... and they basically look like small octopi lying in the little bowl. Spicy, pungent, drenched in oil. The waitstaff is friendly and all uniformly gorgeous - not in a threatening robotic way - but a kind of multicultural melange of beauty. It's always been that way. It was hot, man. The crush of bodies was intense, and we luckily got a table up front, squeezing in around it. I had met Rebecca's brother at her wedding years ago - but I think this was the first time I talked to him one on one. I had brought copies of my piece in The Sewanee Review to give to Fee and Rebecca - and he read it, sitting there in the hot loud Moroccan frenzy, asking me questions about why I chose this word, making an observation (very good one, too) about how I use commas ... I loved it. And then came the moment where we were talking about our respective love lives - it was too funny - he had said to me earlier, "Do you see any resemblance between me and Rebecca?" and I didn't, not really, at least not physically. But once we started really talking ... He has that same intensely focused way of asking questions. He asked me a question about my romantic life, something that could be seen as very "personal" - but he asked it in a way which made me feel like telling him everything - and I burst out laughing and said, "Now I can see the resemblance between you guys." He started laughing, too, and said, "Rebecca and I did not get the small-talk gene." That's why Rebecca and I are friends, I would say. So there we sat - Fee and Rebecca across our tiny table - talking, looking at pictures of Fee's recent trip to Brazil - and he and I talked on our side of the table - and I said something like, "You know, I often feel completely invisible to men in New York." He said, "Really?" I said, "Yeah. I just get the feeling that I am not what they're looking for. I don't feel that way in other cities. By that I mean - I don't feel completely off the radar the way I do here. Like I go to Ireland for vacation, and within 2 days I have a boyfriend - with whom I have a tearful goodbye when I go back to the States 10 days later." We started laughing. I wasn't saying any of this in a whingy way - I was just describing my reality. It's okay if I'm invisible here - as long as I am not invisible in OTHER cities. Which I am not. We talked about the romantic demographic of New York City, as opposed to other places ... and I said, in my melodramatic way, "NOBODY ever approaches me." Rebecca's brother said, "Really? Never?" I reiterated, "NEVER."
Literally, right at that moment, an older gentlemen with dark hair, silvered at his temples, came right up to our table and said to me, jovially, friendly, "You have the most beautiful smile. I love to see that." My jaw dropped. I swear - he approached us as though on cue. I said, "Thank you!" and he re-joined his own group.
hahahahaha
My entire theory was completely busted - at least in the eyes of Rebecca's brother. The second the gentleman walked away, we both started laughing.
"Wow. So now I look like a big fat liar to you, don't I?" I said.
Rebecca's brother said, "Yeah, I think we can both agree that you are full of shit."
I'm still laughing about it.
"Nobody EVER approaches me. EVER. I am INVISIBLE here. INVISIBLE."
"Really? I find that hard to beli---"
"TRUST ME. I AM INVISIBLE."
Man approaches, out of the blue. "You have a beautiful smile." Retreats. Leaving me with egg on my face.
March 2, 2007
It never ceases to amaze me ...
... that in a city of millions of people - you can randomly run into people you know in the weirdest places. It makes this metropolis feel like a small town.
Today was a particularly awesome one - because I had not seen this person in - uhm - 10 years? Maybe longer. His was the theatre company in Chicago who produced the production of Virginia - where I understudied the lead. This was a bazillion years ago - but we became friends, and we have a lot of friends in common. He was always just really cool to work with, so supportive - you always just felt psyched to work with him. Then he moved to New York - it must have been over a decade ago - and I lost track of him - although I would hear OF him, because he wrote a show which is now going into its 500th year or something like that, hahaha - like a GINORMOUS hit - so I'd see his name around.
Anyway, this is so random - but I was at 30 Rockefeller Center today ("30 Rock" - as it is coolly referred to - "Yeah, I have an appointment at 30 Rock, year whatever, 30 Rock, uh huh, SNL, Radio City, whatever ... 30 Rock ...") - and it's a madhouse there. If you've come here as a tourist I am sure you have gone there - with the ice skating and the Christmas tree - and the throngs outside to meet Al Roker and etc. etc. It's a hub. Foot-traffic is INTENSE. There are also many layers of security you have to go through in order to just get onto a damn elevator. Which is not surprising. Member the anthrax craziness? But anyway - I jump through hoops to get onto the elevator - get my picture taken, flash my identification, give them my Pap smear results, my grade school report card, and the speeding ticket I got in 1994 ... and finally, I'm given a guest badge and off I go.
Elevator banks. Choose one. There are 300 elevators. I get on one, after flashing my badge at the security guard.
It's a huge plushy elevator - and a girl is already in it when I step on, and a man steps on with me - and the doors close.
The man steps forward, and says, "Sheila?"
I look. And holy shit, it is Patrick. That poor woman who was trapped in the elevator with us, as we hugged like manic koala bears, clutching each other, and saying, over and over, "Oh my God!" "Patrick!" "What the ..." "Holy crap!" etc. It was SO good to see him. I still can't get over it. Huge smile on my face. I describe my journey to the elevators only to describe the unbelievable coincidence ... of him getting on the same one with me ... Just so weird. And so perfect.
He got off on "my" floor with me - even though it wasn't "his" floor - and we stood there for a while, catching up, just laughing and reveling in each other - it was so awesome. I am going to organize a "reunion" with him and our other mutual friends over the next couple of weeks - because it was just too awesome to see him, and too perfect. An old friend and supporter from Chicago (he always was just eager to give me a chance - casting me in stuff, pushing me forward - he was one of THOSE people in my life - a real "fan" - which God, you just need) ... and there he was in my elevator.
It was a rainy manic day but God, it was just so cool to run into him. In that elevator out of many elevators. Catching up with each other, surrounded by photographs of Chevy Chase and Johnny Carson and crap like that. Reveling in the unbelievable oddness and perfection ... of how this reunion came about.
Couldn't keep the smile off my face for the whole morning.
February 26, 2007
The ballots
Allison was smart. We filled out our ballots - checking off everything we thought would win - and then, of course, you have to pass them in. There are prizes and everything - and, not to jinx myself, but I think I might win something. I was guessing pretty much everything correctly. I got the Dutch poet one wrong ... but other than that, I was pretty much scoring. But anyway - before Allison handed in her ballot, she scribbled down on a napkin all of her choices - because sometimes it's hard to remember what you actually chose for Sound Editing, Sound Mixing, Makeup, etc. For some reason - I loved the look of her napkin on the bar, and her fevered scribbling - so this comes to me, via Allison's cell phone. It kind of gives the spirit of the night. Oh, and it snowed! Beautiful fluttery snowfall, my favorite kind.
February 25, 2007
Homage to New York
From Blue Blood - by Edward Conlon, a marvelous book I am tearing through at the moment (it's so good, I can't recommend it highly enough):
There is so much to the City, so many little worlds on the wax and wane, pulling you in and pushing you out. You might be met by a wary eyeball through the peephole, or with wide-armed welcome, if you have a pretty face, a pocketful of cash, the name of a friend. The dress code could be black tie, or you might have to leave all your clothes at the door, or a simple weapons check would do. There are cafes and clubs where you can speak Amharic, Bulgarian, or Catalan, and next door to each there are others where you can leave the mother tongue and mother country behind. People come here to be dancers, bankers, witches, chefs; to take jobs that have been just invented or long forgotten, union jobs and city jobs. New York maintains civil-service positions for ostlers - they take care of the municipal horses - and may be the only city to do so since the Kaiser left Berlin. If you require other Bulgarian ostlers so as not to feel lonely, you might have a problem, but we have both Bulgarians and ostlers. And there may well be an enclave of Bulgarian ostlers - in Queens, most likely - that I just haven't come across, because I haven't looked. You can never get lost in New York, as long as you keep on moving, but you can get stuck sometimes. It depends more on your stamina more than sense of direction.
If you yearn to be with your own kind, then you can find it here. One Sunday a month, a small bar in the east Village has a ukelele festival in their backroom, and you have never seen such a packed bar in your whole life. Every guy was dressed like Robert Crumb, and the girls wore seamed stockings, and everyone had a ukelele and it was bedlam. Ukelele-driven friendly bedlam. Lonely ukelele players, through the five boroughs, waiting eagerly for the next gathering ... and then descending on the joint like gangbusters, having held in their fervor until they could be amongst their own kind.
Tonight I will be with my own kind. What a relief. To not have to explain, to defend WHY I am love this night of nights, to build a case in order to make someone else who is inherently hostile towards the whole thing understand. Boring. Let me hang out with other enthusiasts who are into it, who bet on it, who have scoring cards, who cheer when their favorite has won, who discuss, who have "predictions" laid out in front of them, who whoop it up, who do not condescend, who do not snark and bitch, who are blatantly INTO it, because it's fun, it's interesting, and it's what we're about.
It's going to be riotous. Allison and I, belly-up to the bar, filling out our score cards, chatting with strangers (most of whom have Irish accents), ordering food, talking like maniacs, watching, discussing, picking apart, analyzing ... and, in the end? Appreciating. Appreciating the event, in and of itself. We do this every year, and it is always hysterical.
Snowy grey skies. But the bar will have a fire blazing in the fireplace. A bar where everybody knows your name. And where there are people who have FIERCE opinions about who should win Best Makeup. People who will ask you to "step outside" if you think Babel should win Best Picture. People who not only have seen every entry, but can list who was the gaffer on each picture. People who will literally raise their voices over the Best Animated Short. My kind, indeed.
Happy Oscar night!!
February 18, 2007
A Tale of Two Coats
She said later, "Champagne and vodka do not mix." She was at the club to see her friend perform and was there with a group of friends. She was kind of drunk and having a great time. She "dropped her wallet 17 times". After her friend performed, she went to the coat rack, grabbed her coat - a big puffy long black down coat - and left with her group of friends. They went to a nearby restaurant, sat around, and ate and drank and talked.
Meanwhile, down the block, at the club she had just left - I was also kind of drunk and dancing around like a maniac with my friends, draped in Mardi Gras beads, singing at the top of my lungs.
At the restaurant down the street, the vodka flowed. Life was beautiful! Eventually, she got up with her friends to leave, to head home. She put her hands in the pockets of the coat and suddenly ... felt confused. Wait ... there's an iPod in here? Whose iPod is this? Wait ... is this MY coat?
She and I had identical coats. Literally. We checked later, when we finally met. Same Land's End brand. Same hood. Etc. The coat rack was over to the side of the club - and she went, saw what looked like her coat, put it on, and walked out. I danced around, oblivious. I wasn't there to see her friend, who went up at around 9:30. I was there to see the headliner, who was going up at 10:30, 11.
She came back down into the club, replaced the coat onto the rack, found HER coat and left with her friends. Thinking all was well.
10 a.m. the following morning, I am deep in a black pit of slumber, seriously it is as though an anvil was tied to my ankle at 4 a.m. and took me down down down into the dark ocean deeps. But somehow ... I was called up out of that blackness ... by a loud sound. It was surreally loud and had nothing to do with anything that was familiar or known to me ... It was the Ghostbusters theme. Blaring through the ocean depths. My eyes were stuck together with sleepiness - It took me forever to figure out what was happening. Did my phone's ring somehow magically change to the Ghostbusters them? I groped about for my phone but no ... twas not ringing. I thought ... could somehow my iPod be ... playing? But ... the sound isn't muffled, it's not coming through iPod headphones, it's LOUD ...
Eventually all became clear. I had somebody else's phone stuck in the inside pocket of my coat. I never use that pocket - so that's why I hadn't noticed it the night before. I had gotten almost zero sleep so I was disoriented - I tried to figure out if it was one of my friends phones ... did they stash it in my pocket, or ... I flipped through the "photo gallery' on the phone and recognized nobody. Then I checked the number of the phone itself - knew that I did not recognize that number. So however it all came about, I had no idea ... but I called that phone, and said, knowing that she could call into her own phone and get the messages, "Hi ... you don't know me ... but I have your phone ... it was in my coat ... I was at the Ace of Clubs last night ... and somehow ... I have your phone ..." I still had that anvil around my ankle, so I probably sounded insane. But I left my number.
Within moments, my phone rang. "Hello??" "Hi ... uhm ... you have my phone??" Then began an amusing conversation where we re-traced our steps - and she told me that she had basically gone out to eat wearing my coat (which ... would have been a disaster if she had gone home wearing it, unaware that it was not hers. It was freezing on Friday night. And, like a total asswipe - I had my iPod, my own phone, and my freakin' house keys in the pockets of my coat. If she had walked off with my coat, I would have been so fucked, in so many myriad ways.) So she told me about leaving wearing my coat, and I gasped, "Oh no!!" - then she told me about the discovery of the iPod - and the dawning realization ("through the champagne and vodka haze") that ... Hmmm. This ain't my coat.
So. BLESS HER. She came back to the club, returned my coat to the rack, found hers, and left. Yes, she had left her phone in the pocket by accident ... but BLESS HER. And of course she was thinking on her end the whole morning: "Oh God. I just hope that I can believe in the goodness of people ... I hope whoever has my phone is a good person ... and tries to get it back to me ... you know, you just want to believe that most people are good."
And then I call. So she was like: BLESS YOU for tracking me down!
We were laughing about it. I said, "If someone found MY phone, I would hope that they would do their best to get it back to me."
I told her where I would be on Sunday ... and it would be early ... but if she wanted to meet me at Grand Central ... would that be totally a hassle?? She said, "Oh God, seriously, whenever is good for you. You're saving my ass here. If you need to meet me at 8 a.m. at Grand Central, I'll be there."
So that's what we did. We knew that each of us would be looking for a woman wearing an identical coat.
I stood by the clock in Grand Central, our meeting place. And I saw her approaching - and the second we saw each other's coats - and she also was a redhead - we both just started laughing. I held out her phone - and that sweet woman gave me a Starbucks gift card!! For keeping her phone safe. She didn't have to do that! I thought that was the nicest thing. Seriously.
We stood there and laughed about our various drunken bacchanals that Friday night - and her drunken shenanigans, strolling about in the East Village wearing my coat, and my drunken shenanigans, staggering across the icy sidewalks with somebody else's phone in my coat pocket.
"It's just nice to know there are good people in this world, you know?" she said to me.
Yes. I know.
10:15 a.m. crisp morning
breathe ... breathe ... Long meandering weekend days and nights. So I have time to bounce back. Laundry. Cooking. Murphy's Oil soap that you squirt directly onto the floor. Heaven. Gave myself a facial yesterday. Easy. Be gentle. Mani-pedi today. Gym. Steam room.
But for now: Morning. The vaulted halls of Grand Central ... everything blurred out because of the general suckiness of my phone, but also because of the morning light streaming in the windows. That place is psychedelic. Classical. Built for contemplation. Transition. An emptying out of anxiety. Forward motion. Upward looking.
February 9, 2007
The following image ...
The love I have for this city ...
It ambushes me sometimes. Still.
What an image. The Dakota ... with nothing else around it ... the winter wonderland of Central Park ... the black-silhouette ice skaters ...
Ohh God.
January 19, 2007
Karaoke snapshots from last night
-- Lisa, I have just found the spot where I will take you to do karaoke when you finally get your ass here. This place is beyond description.
And I will now describe it.
-- It is 5 floors up in a ratty-looking grey building in Korea Town. You would not know it is there. There's a sign out front saying "Music Studio - 5th floor" - but it's like a sandwich board, not a neon sign. The building looks like an office building.
That's because it IS an office building.
-- You go in - normal office hallway, and get into the elevator with other people going to regular offices - and you go to the 5th floor. You get out. You are in a dingy hallway. It is industrial-grey, a long line of closed grey metal doors. This is not a plush-carpeted office. You follow the pointed arrow signs saying "KARAOKE" down this dingy grey hall - and some of the doors are open on either side. I peek in as I walk by and see flashes of things ... an office filled with bolts of fabric ... and a small man sitting at a sewing machine. There are other karaoke joints in New York that are, you know, storefronts - with regular bars - and you can rent little rooms in the back, and it all feels KIND of like going to a bar. Except you also do karaoke. THIS was totally different.
-- This place is BYOB. Mkay? Weird. So we had gone into the Korean grocery across the street beforehand and bought a couple six packs, as well as 2 huge cans of Korean beer apiece. We were all set.
-- At the end of dingy grey metal hallway - you come into what looks like ... Oh, let me try to put it into words. There was so much that was incongruous so let me just tell you the different elements in the room:
1. Tile floor, like an elementary school, or any bureaucratic City of New York office - bleak, grey, nondescript.
2. There was a huge old-fashioned fire-engine-red phone booth standing in the corner. The phone itself was canary yellow.
3. There was a desk - behind which stood our Karaoke Enployee.
4. There was a refrigerator where you could buy Sprite, or orange juice.
5. There was a large TV suspended from the ceiling and an Usher video was playing over and over and over ... with no sound.
6. Beyond this main area - was a long Alice in Wonderland corridor - with numbered doors on either side. Behind each door was a karaoke room.
We were the only customers in the joint. We were the only customers in the joint for the entire night and we were there for hours. It was hysterical. I'd leave "our room" to go find the bathroom or whatever, and then as I returned I could HEAR our vocal shenanigans from down that damn hallway - I could HEAR my friends shrieking "OH- OH LIVIN' ON A PRAYYER ... " It was one of the funniest things I've ever heard. We were in that room and we were all TOTALLY unselfconscious - just singing and drinking and howling with laughter and dancing around ... and it was only when I walked outside that I realized ... Wow. We're actually out in the world right now ...
-- In the room there was a ring of padded couches, a table in the middle. We strewed our beer cans across the table. Above us was a multi-colored disco light - that was somehow attached (rhythmically) to whatever song we were singing. It was a robot light - turning, dipping - coloring the air. Oh - and there were also black lights. So we turned off all the lights. Our teeth gleamed. The karaoke books gleamed.
-- We drank. We sang. We laughed so hard we cried. We got SO INTO what we were doing. Nobody was a killjoy.
-- Oh! And I forgot to mention this: each room comes with two tambourines.
These karaoke owners know how to party.
We had so much fun with those tambourines. You have not experienced a Metallica song until you've heard it with a bit of tambourine shimmering in the background.
-- We could not stop. We could have gone on for hours ... but finally ... we had to say, "Okay. It's 11 pm. Time to go home." Oh, and you pay by the hour. That's where they get ya.
-- I had no idea how hard "La La" was (by Ashlee Simpson, shame on me that I know that, but I love that song) until I tried to sing it. Holy crap. If you think I'm lying, try to sing it. Try to sing it. I dare ya.
-- The duet version of Judas Priest's "Painkiller" that we were treated to will live on in my memory.
FOREVER.
-- As a group - we all did a pretty kick-ass "Creep". I have to say. We rocked that song to its heart.
-- I loved it when one of us would make a mistake with entering the number of the song we wanted - and then some random song would come on instead - a song which none of us had chosen ... and yet somebody always stepped up to sing it. Hilarious. Like: "Okay, I hadn't PLANNED on singing 'Just the Way You Are' tonight - but here I am doing so!"
I never realized how many songs I know.
-- I also never realized how many songs I THINK I know but really only know the chorus to.
-- Nirvana never gets old. At one point during "Lithium" I glanced around and all of us - literally all of us - were thrashing about. Thrashing! Singing at the tops of our lungs, yes, but also - just THRASHING. In the black light.
-- "Hopelessly Devoted to You" is an unbelievably awesome song.
-- Oh - and we were all women. It was so hilarious - there were times when it felt like the best slumber party EVER. With grown women. And Korean beer. And tambourines.
-- HOURS later, with aching throats, we walked down the dingy grey hallway - all the doors closed now ... sewing man gone home ... went down the elevator ... and out into the rainy night. Out onto the dingy busy streets of Korea Town.
You'd never know what psychedelic awesome SHRIEKING fun is to be had on the 5th floor of that dank stained building on 32nd Street in between 5th and Broadway.
January 14, 2007
10:45 p.m. last night
13th Street between 6th and 7th (one of my favorite blocks in the city).
Got a picture of one of my favorite churches in New York. Cell phone camera quality.
January 7, 2007
Fido? Snoopy? Boring!
Sitting outside at a cafe having a glass of wine. Because, you know, it's January, and we can still sit outside here in New York. Uh-huh. It feels so WRONG.
But anyway, I was writing.
At the table behind me were two gay men, who seemed so lovely and so funny that I kept wanting to join them. Sitting around the foot of the table were their 3 small dogs. Adorable. At one point, I heard the names of the dogs - and I thought: That is genius. GENIUS. I wrote them down immediately.
The names of the 3 dogs were:
Gypsy Rose Lee
Latex
and Couture
I love those men.
December 19, 2006
It's a privilege to pee
There is a new monstrosity in the middle of Times Square right next to the Virgin Megastore. I had strolled by there on my way to the Actors Equity office a couple of times and wondered what the hell it was ... but frankly, it terrified me too much to investigate. The entrance is enormous. Blinding white tiles confront you from within, and 2 escalators going up. Into nothingness. That is all one sees. However, happy-crappy sing-song Barney-shit music emanates onto the sidewalk, and compels one to see what the hell is going on in there. Standing on the sidewalk, are 3 or 4 guys - all dressed alike - in blazing blue tops, baggy white pants, and a hip-hop je ne sais quoi about their demeanor. The pants are slung low, and they are dancing to the happy-crappy Barney shit music, and somehow they manage to do it with a bit of street-cred. Even though (forgot to mention this) they are also all wearing big huge furry brown bear claws on their hands. Hiphop boys dancing around, cooler than thou, somehow acting like Lorelei to the scary white tile innards of this new structure. What is it?
Maybe on my 2nd trip past ... I realized that it was a BATHROOM version of the Virgin Megastore. Now tourists do not have to struggle to find a place to pee and poop in their meanderings through Times Square. They do not have to queue up in line in the two Starbucks in that area. Now there is an entire STOREFRONT devoted to bathrooms. This is a good idea. I get that. But what's with the happy-crappy music (literally) and the baggy pants brigade with the bear claws? And ... where do the escalators go? What is up there??
I decided to investigate. This was on impulse. I was on my way to Equity a couple days ago, and I felt the tell-tale urge. (The title of this post, by the way, is a direct quote from Urinetown) My urge was semi-urgent and although I could have waited until I got to Equity - the bathroom in the Membership Department is, uhm, just not condusive to serious business. It's one room - right off the main office floor - which is always packed with people ... and it's just an uncomfortable situation all around. Not when you have to pee, clearly, but if something ELSE needs to happen, it can be a nightmare. I have experienced performance anxiety in that bathroom before, so I decided - okay. Whatever. I will enter the tiled monstrosity and see where my urge takes me.
Guys, seriously. This is an experience like no other.
I have many thoughts about this new bathroom structure - some of it barely rational - but much of it has to do with my dismay at the G-rated suffocation of ... well, New York certainly - but the entire adult world as well. I, as a strictly R-rated type girl, will fight this suffocation at every turn! Leave SOME spots strictly rated R, thank you very much.
But when you gotta go, you gotta go.
Up the escalator I went. This is a massive gleaming escalator - it takes you up two stories, just to give you an idea. You are encased in a long gleaming white-tile tube - and plastered on the walls are pictures of furry brown bears - and also repetitive (like cult-brainwashing repetitive) advertisements for Charmin, the company that obviously foot the bill for this G-rated poop magnet in Times Square. (Maybe parents with little kids think pooping is cute, and maybe they feel the need to make going to the bathroom akin to a trip to Disneyworld ... but I'm an adult and I was strictly creeped out by the potty-training YAY FOR YOUR BODILY FUNCTIONS ambience of this entire place.) However, there was something highly amusing about it as well The escalator was packed with people. We all were being carried, passively, to the 2nd floor - where the toilets were, I guess. And I regressed. I became an 8 year old emotionally, giggling at everybody around me, because I was thinking, "hee hee, you have to poop! hee hee you have to pee!" It was my own version of Everybody Poops. I found it hilarious. I resented the brainwashing influence but I still found it hilarious.
I got to the top of the escalator. The second floor is all blue carpeting. Blinding blue. Right there at the top, is a small desk - manned by a couple people, all smiles, wearing blue and white, and little baseball caps. They looked like they were working a movie concession stand. And, indeed, there is a bowl of complementary candy canes and mints on the desk. You know, because it's important to have a breath mint after you take a massive dump. People had stopped at the desk to chat, to ask questions? What? It was truly bizarre. I don't want to DWELL on the fact that I've got bodily urges, I just want to get them taken care of, and move on with my day. But oh, this is not possible in Charmin Central. You must submit to the infantilizing displays. You MUST.
There's a small blue-carpeted corridor (and everything is very controlled - there are barriers to keep the crowds in line) and then you emerge into a space that defies description. It is part playroom, part disco club, part bed and breakfast, part TV studio at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory and part FREAKFEST. There is an enormous open space over to the left that you cannot get to unless you want to leave the line. (And why would you want to leave the line? Don't you just want to poop, pee, and get the hell out?) But no, many people had left the line. Perhaps they were waiting for their slower-defecating friends. Who knows. Everywhere you look is blue carpet. And also Charmin signs. Big plushy white couches line the walls. There is a fake fireplace (I am not kidding). There are also TV screens everywhere, and huge video monitors and ... I honestly wondered if I dreamed this part of it ... but I did not. Playing over and over and over again is a video - with happy smiling dancers, a multicultural mecca of talent, against a blinding white screen - and music blares from speakers - as the "dancers" do their thing, lip synching to a song about toilet paper. I'm not kidding. At one point, all of the dancers line up like the family Von Trapp in "So Long Farewell" ... and they sing, full on, face front, "We're singing in two-ply harmony!"
Watching that (or, rather, being unwillingly subjected to that) I suddenly despised the entire human race.
I also suddenly felt like: Uhm ... maybe I can do my business in the Equity bathroom. Didn't seem so bad after all. And the URGE I had felt 5 minutes ago suddenly had subsided. Because of the terror and rage.
The video is playing over and over and over, it never stops. And people WORK in that environment all day long. I think we can expect some of them to go postal one of these days. It was like a terrible karaoke video ... with this piped-in jolly song about wiping your ass.
There is a small stage over to one side (it keeps getting worse) - and standing on the stage is a guy in blue and white (what a surprise), wearing huge furry brown bear claws ... and he is dancing. Not even with all that much heart or conviction. He's just up there. Dancing. Trying to maintain SOME of his dignity. He has props up there, in case anyone wants to join him. And yes, people wanted to join him.
I hated the human race even more.
He had blue and white pom poms, and there were people dancing around as they waited in line to drop trou.
Over to my right was the REAL terror. A huge tiled open space - with 3 walls - lined with bright white doors. These were the bathrooms. No lines of stalls like in Port Authority - no. We each will get our own room. Now - this is actually smart - because a public bathroom in that locale would get trashed within 5 minutes of regular use. Just because 500 people peeing and pooping in the same area is gonna get nuts without some serious monitoring. So here is how the Charmin Wackos handle it. They have a staff - who all stand in the middle of this tiled space. They are all wearing latex gloves, and they are all incredibly cheery. Like Mickey Mouse Club cheery. And the line slowly moves forward - and people come out of the bathrooms - and people go in ... but here's the worst part. Whenever anyone emerges from the bathroom - all of the staff goes nuts. Cheering, shouting, a cacophony of voices, "WHOOOOO!" So you, who have just pooped, have to stroll through that congratulatory mayhem, just trying to move on to make your matinee. I gotta give it to that staff. They were completely enthusiastic. But there was something so unbelievably fucked up about the entire thing. Oh - and each bathroom is "cleaned" after each patron. One person comes out of the bathroom and is greeted with cheers of congratulations from the Charmins staff. (And some of the people in line got into it and cheered as well. There was a group dynamic going on that was SO not what my bathroom-self needed. I go to the bathroom and it's a private affair. I don't need you to CHEER when I am successful in this particular venture. I'm fine, I know what I'm doing, I've got it down, thanks. Thanks. No, really, thanks. But there was no way out of the line. You could not escape.) So - then after one of the rooms is vacated, one of the staff goes in, shuts the door - does their little clean-up job (cleaning up the sprinkling, I would imagine - and flushing if the first flush was not complete) and then comes out, cheering and whooping that yet another bathroom is ready. I gotta hand it to those people. I would so have a hard time staring at shit streaks all day, and then be CHEERFUL about it.) So people would walk towards the vacant bathroom, surrounded by the staff whooping like wild Indians, embarrassed smiles on their faces. And when you emerge from the bathroom - it's like you have walked out onto a stage. There is no privacy. You walk out of one of those doors - and the entire line is right there facing you - and 5 people are all jumping up and down, cheering your amazing accomplishment.
It is the most fucked up place on the planet.
But I will say this, having suffered through the nightmare that is the public bathroom in Port Authority: the joint is immaculate. It smells overwhelmingly like Lemon Pledge - it must be piped through the speakers with the happy-crappy Barney two-ply harmony. The tile gleams. You feel almost EMBARRASSED at what you are about to do in that clean little bathroom.
Once I was in the bathroom, my amazement continued. The cult-brainwashing was on overload there. Charmin Charmin Charmin everywhere. The walls are bright blue, with painted rolls of toilet paper, and huge bears (some of them are holding their paws between their legs - to show how badly they have to go. Ew.) Another good thing, though: there are EIGHT ROLLS OF TOILET PAPER (uhm, Charmin) in every bathroom. And it's Charmin. So it's soft and fluffy and nice. Not the freakin' sandpaper that Port Authority uses. Also, you ladies will know what I'm talking about when I say that the toilet seat was dry and immaculate. I still hovered above it - because I was freakin' freaked out by the whole thing ... but it wasn't a disaster area. It was SCARILY clean.
Then I emerged and stalked grumpily through the gauntlet of war-whooping Charmin employees, jumping up and down in utter glee because I had just pulled down my big-girl pants and done a big-girl bowel movement. I'm glad they didn't make me acknowledge what it was I had just done. I half expected one of them to rush up to me with a mike and say, "So ... tell us ... number one or number two?"
I took pictures the entire time I was there.
It is an experience not to be missed. If just for the sheer freak value of the entire enterprise.
Coming in ... to my left is the fake fireplace. You can see all of the video monitors and televisions blazing with the Charmin two-ply video.
Standing in line. I took a picture of my foot. See the blue? Doesn't it just make you want to poop your pants immediately?
And this one I took accidentally when I was trying to get a shot of the revolving disco ball (which wouldn't come out.) As I fiddled with my camera, I took the following photo and decided to keep it because I thought it looked cool.
And over to your right is the bathroom area itself. Which looks like a television set from a PBS kids show. Big tile middle - lined with white doors. You can see the staff there ... all in the middle of whooping and hollering for an ADULT who just performed a TOTALLY NATURAL bodily function. Isn't it freaky?
And here are the photos I took from within my own personal bathroom. Yes, while sitting on the can. Here is what is on the wall BEHIND the toilet.
I find that so scary.
And here is what you see on the back of the door, when you are sitting on the can.
Just in case you were in ANY danger of forgetting. CHARMIN SPONSORED THIS.
Welcome, readers from Feministe! Hope you vicariously enjoy my experience.
December 12, 2006
There is a bit of shame involved ...
... when you and your group of friends close Planet Hollywood. Planet freakin' Hollywood.
... when the waitress has to come up to your table, (a table which is, by the way, surrounded by M*A*S*H memorabilia, with Herbie the Love Bug screaming down at you from the ceiling on his suspension wire) ... and say gently, "Uhm ... last call, guys ..." Last call at Planet Hollywood.
... when you look around and realize that you are the last people in Planet Hollywood ...
We didn't move to a better venue, a quieter venue (sheesh - the noise in that joint) a cheaper venue (two cocktails cost $17.34. Strangest price ever for two drinks. $17.34???) ... we stayed in Planet Hollywood because that's where the screening was (of this movie - directed by someone I knew peripherally - a really good friend of Bill, David, etc.). We saw the movie, then we just ... flat out did not leave. For hours. We hung out in the bar area, crowded in on all sides by headless mannequins wearing nurse outfits from some famous movie, a dress worn by Vivien Leigh in blah blah blah ... Weird. The whole place is just TOO MUCH. Televisions going everywhere, strange music playing, football games on in the bar, swirling lights, cars driving down the walls, etc. etc. And two gin and tonics cost $17.34.
So much fun though. It was SUCH a fun night. Met some nice new people, reconnected with some people I knew once upon a time - all of them just sweet, nice, funny, friendly, good conversationalists ...
My friend Bill was wearing a soft brown vest. Comment made by someone at the table: "Love the whole Ewok look you got goin' on."
Had a good conversation with Bill about Paul Ekman. Faces, facial expressions, the clues of lying, the facial give-aways of dishonesty ... cultural? Learned? Great stuff.
Also a good conversation about Ted Williams, and other atheletic geniuses and how they do what they do ... and what their perception is of their own gifts ... (you know, like Ted Williams saying that it seemed like the ball slowed down as it came towards the plate, etc.)
Talked about the Queensboro Bridge.
We talked about Grey Gardens.
We talked about the movie we had seen (in the private screening room at Planet Hollywood - which is actually a really nice venue - purple velvet walls, nice and big, it was cool) - how it was shot - how they did a lot of it - I had a couple friends in it (David, Bob) - and of course they both were there - so it was really fun to hear from Scott and all of them some of the independent-guerrilla-filmmaker stories. How'd they get the cop cars? How did they do the shot out the back of the moving UHaul? How'd he cast the thing (shot entirely in Omaha)? Etc.
Larry wouldn't let me pay for my share of the HUGE amount of alcohol I had partaken in. I was horrified. I kept shoving money at him, and he was getting pissed off (I mean, not really - just very firm, like: "Put that away") - but trying to be polite - and then I said, "Is this making you feel bad right now?" (Meaning: me trying to pay.) Larry said, honestly, 'Yeah, I feel a little bit dirty at the moment." I'm still cackling about that. It was a perfect moment. It's like we created it together. I mean, he meant it - but he just went there in the humor of the moment. I love that quickness, that ... I guess I would call it sensitivity to what is going on in the moment. It was a ba-dum-CHING moment. I supplied the "ba-dum" and he was right there with the "CHING" and I love it when that happens. We both just started guffawing - and no, I didn't pay. Not after he made himself so clear!!
It was an awesome night. So much fun!!
"Oh my God, you guys, do you realize that we are closing Planet Hollywood right now?"
"I have lived in New York for 10 years, I've never been here."
"I will never come here again."
"Me neither."
We walked down the three flights of stairs to get to the street - with Jimmy Stewart's hand-prints hanging on the wall - and displays of rifles with the movie-name on a gold plaque below each one "From Russia with Love" "Octopussy", etc. - and collages of various awards shows, with glittery stars from past and present ... but we were now the only people in the entire joint. It was surreal.
It was ALMOST like the night the two kids spend in the Metropolitan Museum in Mixed-Up Files ... it had a bit of that feel to it ... When we all had converged on the place (smack in the middle of Times Square) - it was 7 pm - so ... the streets outside were literally a melee of chaos, a mania of crowds, a throng of humanity, a potpourri of overcrowding ... Times Square is a nightmare for a person like myself who gets a bit anxious in crowds. I avoid that place as much as I can, except when I'm going to a show. And when we emerged - it was 12:45 am and a whole different place. The streets were nearly empty now. The grills were already pulled down over the Planet Hollywood windows, and we all had to duck under the grill to exit onto the street. Taxis careen by up and down - but the melee is done. Now we're moving into nighttime. The city doesn't sleep, it is true, but it does indeed settle down. One of my favorite things about being in Times Square when it is empty of people - is that all of the billboards and lights are still going. It's just fantastical - almost futuristic - you look around and think: Good lord, this place is just ... overwhelming. And beautiful in a kind of aloof and magnificent way. When the streets are crowded - I get overwhelmed by all the stimuli - because even just getting from 44th to 45th is sometimes a 20 minute extravaganza due to the crowds ... and so the flashing glittering moving undulating WALLS of light over my head become too much for me to handle. I block them out. But last night, it was just beautiful.
The great thing was that we all felt that way. We all just had a moment of reveling in the weirdness of Times Square at that hour ... and as we crossed the main street - Scott held up his camera phone and got a very funny and blurry picture of all of us in an Abbey Road type formation on the crosswalk. The empty avenues whizzing off into the distance behind us.
November 21, 2006
Festive!
A wave of impressions:
Morning was sort of stressful, but then the stress was released - which left me open and clear to just soak up the environment (you know how that happens sometimes?? Stress can give you tunnel vision - where you are aware of nothing except your own STRESS - but then when it releases- it's like the sun seems brighter, the wind crisper, your coffee tastes better, etc. etc.)
I walked cross town. It's our first really unambiguously cold day. Which thrills me to no end. I ENDURE summer. I come alive in the cold. So I'm wearing my cozy sweater with the hood, and my velvety skirt, and my big down coat, and everything is chilly and cozy and that makes me so happy. Only I'm writing this in retrospect. This morning, during my walk cross town, I was just stressed, so although I noticed the coldness of the air, I did not get any pleasure from it. I didn't have time to get a coffee. This also added to the stress.
But - on the flipside - once you cross over the east-west boundary in Manhattan - you can just feel how the landscape changes. Or maybe it's just the feeling in the air, I don't know. I'm a west side girl. Not really for any particular REASON - it's just that my friends are all on the west side, most of the crap I do in the city is on the west side, and I have no reason to go over there. When I go to the east side, I go to the East Village. Which is not only different from the east side proper ... but an alternate universe altogether. The east side I went to today is the east side of midtown. Where the buildings get enormous - blocks of granite - towering arched windows - the shopping gets high-priced and intimidating - but the buildings! I just love the buildings on that side of town. Midtown WEST side is gritty, industrial, and relatively ... ugly ... except for the massive gorgeousness that is the post office (however, the entire building is now hidden beneath a burqa for the foreseeable future - due to construction ... so I am deprived the sheer breathtaking display whenever I walk by there. I never EVER get sick of looking at that building.)
So hurrying across 34th - with the wind whipping around me - I liked the differences of the buildings - the massive stones, the more somber quality of some of it, there's less foot traffic, and everything is much more grandiose.
I went to my appt. at the radiologist and was so stressed by the time I got there that I stutteringly said the words "vaginal" and "pelvic" in a flustered question to the SECURITY GUARD who had only asked me, "Which doctor are you looking for?" Not "Tell me, in detail, which procedure you are having ..." Sigh. I took the elevator up, feeling vaguely out of control, and embarrassed that I had said those words to a man who did not need to hear them at 9 am. Or at any time of the day for that matter. But I got confused and flustered.
I'm a healthy girl. I always have been. I am not like some of my friends - who have either been in and out of the hospital - for this or that reason ... and being sick is ALWAYS stressful. Nobody likes being sick. But I felt just ... Oh whatever. I was stressed out, intimidated, and scared.
But Rose Marie - who was the doc there - whom I had never met - is now my new best friend. I love her. She was just so great with me.
And I left there with all of the flustered stress GONE (thanks, Rose Marie!) - and walked back over to the west side. And this time I was fully conscious - even more conscious - because of the adrenaline rush the stress had given me ... when it dissipates, all senses open up ... I was alive to the beauty of New York City and the beauty of this particular season in New York like I haven't been in a while.
First of all: the wind. The flags whipping overhead. The glimmering shop windows. The gorgeous shoes on display. The massive Banana Republic I passed. I drooled over the sweaters on the headless models in the window. They all looked beautiful to me - cozy, and lovely, and feminine, and that I would love to wear. I felt like all of the outfits would look good on me. (This NEVER happens ... so I am mentioning it because it is indicative of the free-floating joy that coursed through my veins once I left that dern medical center.) I saw a pair of galoshes that I want to get (I know I'm a year behind the trend - but they still seem to be on display, and there was a store with some adorable ones that I passed this morning). I strolled into the wind - and everyone around me had on winter coats, and hats, and I looked up at one point, as I approached 6th Avenue - and there - gleaming - gleaming in white and gold - was the Empire State Building. I love being in that area - a block or 2 away - and looking UP. Especially if you are near the base of it. You get a vertigo. The whole sky seems to tilt, the building appears ready to tip over onto you. It's such a classic building. Not as sleek and modern as other buildings - but that's part of why I love it so. It is part of my everyday life. I see it in all its moods at the end of my street at home. I see it take on different colors at night ... every color with a meaning ... and on late late nights, I see it hovering there, dark, lights out ... signifying that it is time for bed!!
As I got nearer to that intersection - I could feel the tourist activity starting to burgeon. Even a block over to the east, you're not gonna get the tourists - because you're out of the hub. On the next corner west - you have Macy's - then there's Victoria's Secret there - and Daffy's - and the Manhattan Mall - it is shopping madness. At all times ... but it definitely ratchets up a level at this time of year. For the most part, I find the throngs not just annoying - but vaguely ... stressful. I know it's crazy to live where I live and have a problem with crowds, but I do. There are plenty of places in New York where you can go, and find a quiet spot, and not have a gazillion people all around you ... but that particular intersection is NOT one of them. Never is. But on this morning - feeling as I did - reveling in the cold air - the snap of the flags (oh, and I stopped at Dunkin Donuts, and had my hot coffee cup in my hands ... eager to take a sip) ... I loved the bustle of the crowd. I loved seeing the tourists - stopping to crane their necks up at the Empire State Building (I was doing the same thing!) - or taking out their cameras to snap a shot of Macy's ... everyone wearing earmuffs, or Uggs, or mittens ... Winter is in the air. Winter is nearly here. I could not be happier.
And normally I am annoyed by the early-ness of Christmas decorations ... but this morning, I reveled in it. EsPECIally at Macy's. I'm also not very big on window-dressing appreciation - although we are now coming into the season where it becomes almost a spectator sport in New York!! 5th Avenue? Seriously - it transforms itself into a veritable fairyland - every shop window more fantastical and gorgeous than the next. But again - I stroll by such things with blind eyes more often than not.
But this morning I found myself totally drawn to the shimmering beauty in the Macy's windows. Just for fun, I walked all the way around the building - so I wouldn't miss a window. The displays of party dresses took up about 6 windows - and these dresses were so beautiful, so exquisite, that I nearly wept. There was one in particular - a black dress, spaghetti straps ... and the skirt, though, had an underskirt of a deep midnightblue - and over it was a sheer black skirt ... I can't describe it very well, but it was a stunning dress. I stopped to stare at it. Longingly. Then there was the lit-up gold-dress window ... The black dresses were all together, the red dresses were all together ... and the gold dresses, on these mannequins who were truly high-fashion mannequins - they were running, bending, leaning over, reaching up ... Stunning. Shimmering gold dresses, blinding me. The mannequins wearing the black dresses were all brunettes, or black-haired ... and the mannequins wearing the gold dresses were blonde. Something about the entire set up of the party dress windows just pleased me ... pleased my eye so much. They were symmetrical, graceful, and also had a theatrical quality to them. They shimmered with life somehow. There were crowds of people wearing mufflers and winter hats taking photos.
I also adored the windows (and they are the smaller windows around Macy's - almost like little cubbyholes in the wall of the building where you can peek into the little niche within, and see the display) - and in each cubbyhole were displays of shoes (yum) and bags (like tiny little works of art) - and they were displayed as though they were ornaments on a Christmas tree. So there were also these huge glimmering Christmas-tree balls, WAY out-sized - way bigger than basketballs - but gleaming red and blue and green - mirrors - distorting the reflecting faces peeking in - but nestled in among the fir branches, and the gleaming mirrored balls - were these gorgeous brocade looking shoes, or velvet shoes - also little teeny evening bags, silken, or velvet - with delicate little clasps ... I'm probably making it sound really prosaic, but something about the cold air, and the wind, and the happy crowds, and the jostle ... and looking forward to getting someplace warm, and having my coffee ... all of that blended together to make the Macy's windows almost come to life before my eyes. Beautiful!! Just so beautiful!
There were the Salvation Army people - ringing their bells - wearing their uniforms that do not change from year to year ... setting up shop by each door going into Macy's.
It's not Christmas without the Salvation Army brigade.
And so.
Suddenly I felt very festive. There was a release. I felt happy and I felt like my city was beautiful and in a good mood. It was revealing its secrets to me (it doesn't always, you know) ... and I felt happy to be let in on it.
I'm going to go visit those Macy's windows more often. They made me really happy to look at.
November 13, 2006
1:30 a.m. The 1 line
People's defenses are down at this time of night. It shows on their faces, the slackened jaws, the soft droopy eyes, the lost-in-thought faces or the deadened blank expressions. Everyone's slightly unbuttoned, in their own private space. On the subway hurtling downtown, the tiles a blur outside, the lights harsh and unforgiving. Woman with huge headphones on, her eyes are open, she is kind of fat, her hands folded over her belly, and her face shows that she is a million miles away. She's in the music. Her body is there ... but her mind is not. I love the look in her eyes. A man across from me - so big he takes up two seats - he is wearing a billowing black trench coat, a little black porkpie hat, and his skin is a dark black. He has fallen asleep, his mouth hangs open just a bit, and he is tipping over slightly to one side. As though he may just curl up on the subway seat and fall asleep in earnest. Nobody sits on either side of him. Everyone's lost in their own space. A homeless man sits over in the corner - a hood completely covering his head, his body in the relaxed still pose of the deeply passed out. His long lanky legs with his battered sneakers stick out into the subway train. It's a long ride. It's a local train. A guy gets on and sits next to me. He hunches over, reading a huge paperback. I'm guessing it was a textbook. It was enormous. If it weren't 1:30 in the morning, and if I weren't 3/4 asleep ... I might have squinted to get a load of the title. But it's too late for that. Too early. The tiles are a dizzying blur outside the window. We briefly emerge from the tunnel, and we go elevated for a bit. I can see the dim constellation of the Jersey side of the Hudson through the black, at the ends of the streets we hurtle over. I feel everything draining out of me. Thoughts, wants, judgments, energy. My eyes are soft and heavy. I am awake but I am on the edge of consciousness. There is life all around me ... well, maybe the homeless guy was dead, I have no way of knowing ... but our daytime jostling energy has softened. It's night, and the train is really loud and squeaky and rattly ... but somehow it feels quiet. Even the train noise has blurred. Blurred into the constellation across the black river. Washing away. The confrontational nature of the sound draining out, blurred edges. I know I made it home last night ... I know I took the subway to the bus and then walked down the dark street to my apartment ... but I don't remember it. I remember getting off at Times Square, my eyelids puffy, and after that ... only fragments. Orange lamplight on the brick sidewalk. A stark shadow. The rustling of the leaves. Damp street. And now it's morning and the barriers are up again. I woke up in my own bed so I obviously made it home in my somnambulistic state. I still feel a bit puffy-eyed and soft. Raw. Like I need to work a bit to get my game face on. The soft black blurred landscape of the wee hours is back in the daylight to its sharp insistent verticals. The city dismantles itself and then re-erects itself on a daily basis. I just try to ride the wave.
October 6, 2006
3:15 tomorrow
On the big screen.
Cannot wait. Seriously, I might not sleep tonight.
September 16, 2006
September 12, 2006
Sept. 10 - under the Ghostbusters sky
Michael and I sat up on my roof for a couple of hours on the late afternoon-early evening of Sept. 10. The sky was what I call a "Ghostbusters sky" - smudgy, charcoal grey, heavy and low - dramatic. Smudgy almost-black clouds overlapping each other, pressing up against each other. The buildings of our fragile beautiful skyline came out in stark relief against that black sky. Occasionally, a stray red gleam of sunset would break out from behind the clouds to the west (behind us) - and then, suddenly, the buildings of Manhattan would GLOW. But only for a moment. The spire of the Empire State Building would blaze into a golden-white paper cut-out, the Chrysler Building beaming - and then, as the clouds closed up again - the gleam would subside, back to the shadowy building shapes of late afternoon.
We were surrounded by butterflies. Big orange butterflies, soaring in the wind, not even having to flap their wings, just taking off, hanggliding, but then flap flap flap flap pumping it up a notch, chasing each other - At one point Michael and I literally had two orange butterflies hovering over our heads. Were they like the little angel and devil who sit on your shoulder at the same time, whispering contradictory demands? At first we thought there was only ONE butterfly - we kept seeing him - and he certainly seemed to get around - first he was here, now there ... but then we realized there was a whole PHALANX of them. Not really watching over us, no, they were too self-absorbed for that (and who can blame them? Have you ever heard of an altruistic butterfly?) ... but it did seem like they hovered around our heads protectively. Taking shifts. "Okay ... you go off and hangglide for a while ... I got these two ... no, no, you go ... have fun! I got it, I got it."
We had been walking around all day - breakfast at a diner in Hoboken (we HAD to go to a diner, for old time's sake) - we talked our heads off (a bit jazzed on caffeine) - then we walked around Hoboken for a couple hours. We went into the second-hand bookstore. We talked. Michael so enjoyed the overcast sky and the cool wind - coming, as he does, from living in LA. He had been so excited that the forecast was "overcast". We went to Barnes and Noble. There were a couple of hysterical moments - involving a certain Pulitzer Prize winning author with whom I have a checkered past - ahem, no further comment - HA!- Michael, looking at the book, because he had asked to see it, and saying, bluntly, "I will NEVER buy this book." hahahaha So protective. heh heh
After that we walked to Frank Sinatra Park and sat on the low wall for an hour or so, the Hudson slate-grey and choppy - the buildings of Manhattan in shadow - the clouds marching down from the north, heavy and low and portentous. We talked about cults. They had come up a couple times - so Michael finally asked, "So why are you fascinated by Co$?" I said, "Oh God. How much time do you have?" Turns out, he had a LOT of time, as a matter of fact, he egged me on. "So tell me more. What else do you know?" This is like blood to a vampire. - He talked about how he had been trapped next to Scientomogy member on the plane - and how the dude had a stack of Hubman books in his lap AND Hubman's lecture tapes playing on his iPod. Seriously. And he had started up talking to Michael, and he had seemed so nice, and so interested in Michael - and then, of course, out came the recruitment moment - and Michael was like: Fuck YOU. It's the emotional blackmail - the "bait and switch" - that is so offensive. "I am so interested in you, you seem so fascinating, I really like you, wanna come check out my cult?" We talked and talked about brainwashing and cult recruitment and Patty Hearst and the strain of power-worship that goes through all cults -
Meanwhile, there's a cool breeze, so sailboats go careening by, there are teeny little whitecaps slapping up against the dock ... the sky is low and black - but still: no rain. I had forgotten (sort of) how easy it is to talk with and be with Michael. I mean, I wrote about it ... but here it was again.
Then we walked the length of Hoboken again, talking about libertarians, and Christopher Hitchens, and the 9/11 myth retards, and Katrina and politics and elections. It was fun. I don't think we ever talked about politics when we were dating - it was all books and movies and actors and our own emotions - so it was great fun. He's such a smart dude. I enjoy him.
I couldn't face walking back up the damn cliff to my town so I called a cab. Somehow, as we were waiting for the cab, we started talking about our relationship. That took place, uhm, 5 billion years ago. Oh, I know - it had to do with crossing the street. He and I always used to have these mini showdowns when we would go to cross the street - because Michael would always charge across the street just as the light turned yellow, regardless of whether or not cars were coming. I would always just wait for the light to turn red and this drove him batshit. Hilariously: as we walked around in Hoboken, I silently noticed that this dynamic was still going on. Yellow light. Michael would start across. I would silently hesitate, looking down the street, and then follow. hahahaha I had to smile to myself. I LOVE continuity of any kind. We were young when we dated - or much younger than we are now - but there is something eternal in both of us. I do not know why I doubt that. Perhaps because I am alone, and with my thoughts too much. People who live with the same person, day in, day out, probably have a much better grasp on how some people never change, how the same things keep coming up (actually, no - I don't mean "better grasp" at all - I need to re-think how I'm wording this because I actually think that MY way is better - but let me re-think this - I will come back to it)... Maybe people who deal with someone else's same-ness on an everyday basis get frustrated by it, or annoyed. Because they're over it, they're used to it, it's not evidence of something eternal and beautifully unchanging - it's ANNOYING ... But to me? The fact that this whole silent "how to cross the street" battle is STILL going on - even with the intervening years - even with not seeing each other in so long made me smile. Made me feel like there was a silver thread of connection between us now and us then. I love that stuff. Also - there's a sense of being confronted with something that is eternal. And this is a huge comfort to me. Things change, people grow, move on, move apart ... every day is a little loss, things must be grieved - small and large - you must always be letting go, every day a process of letting go. Naturally I have a terrible time with this. I have lost a lot. It's hard for me to let go. But our silent traffic-light moments - our silent different ways of handling crossing the street - is eternal. If we see each other when we're in our 70s, it would probably be the same damn thing ... except maybe we both would be walking with canes or something. I love eternal stuff like that. Again: I think my consciousness comes from the fact that I do NOT have that sort of continuity in my life on an everyday basis. I relish those moments. It's intense. I am intense. Michael was never put off by my intensity, though, and he still isn't. He goes right into it. He asks about it. He asks for more information. Maybe because he's the same way? I don't know.
Anyway, I somehow said, "Remember our whole crossing the street thing we used to have?" He thought a second and then just BURST into laughter.
So what used to happen - when we were dating - was that Michael would call me on it. He was a hot-blooded young rebellious guy and he hated that I would hesitate. So he would yell at me. Literally: YELL. And I would yell back, pointing at the approaching car that was 1.2 miles away, as evidence of why I wasn't crossing. We were both howling at the memory of this. The two of us, standing on random empty corners in Ithaca New York, yelling at each other. To him it was a symbol. If I crossed the street the way HE did then I would have a breakthrough as an actress, a writer, a woman ... Michael was just guffawing as I reminded him of this. "So I was basically bullying you to be a better person?" "Yes." "At age 20?" "Yes. You were a 20 year old bully." "Jesus." hahahahahahaha We were laughing, I said, "Yeah but have you noticed how that shit is still going on? I mean, you're not YELLING AT ME anymore ... but it's still the same thing when we cross the street."
We eventually got home - the light was low and heavy - my apartment cozy and late-afternoon-ish - He hadn't been up to the roof, so he took his New York Times and I took my Cymbeline script and we went up to hang out on the roof. Of course we didn't end up reading, just talking, and laughing, and sometimes just silently staring across at the glowing/shadowing skyline. The slow march of clouds. The butterfly army watching over us.
He said, "So what else. Besides crossing the street. What else do you remember?"
So we talked about what we remembered.
Later:
I lay in bed memorizing my lines. He sat in the chair reading the New York Times "cover to cover".
Sometimes we talked. Mostly we didn't. We were wrapped up in our own private concerns. But we shared space. It was so nice to have him there. His presence. Night fell outside. We ordered dinner. We ate at my kitchen table. Then we talked for hours and hours. There is years of information to catch up on.
So the black Ghostbuster sky was still there, I imagine - I imagine the black clouds continued to march by overhead, in their smudgy procession - but they blended into the general blackness of night. My lamps glowed out, soft, golden, homey. Talking. Late into the night.
I felt safe.
July 6, 2006
The narcoleptic dominatrix
Here's how it went.
The day was hot and long. We were sweaty and tired. We looked forward to a couple of cold beers, and a little one on one. I knew of a pub nearby so I led the way. We made our way through the sweaty smudgy horse-shit odor along the edge of Central Park. As gross as that sounds, it's actually quite wonderful. The summery-est of summery smells. Mixed in with the smell of hot pretzels, car exhaust, and random whiffs of cotton candy. All of New York was out and about, walking, biking, little kids splashing in the fountains, people reading ... Earlier in the day, I had seen a black guy dressed as a Roman gladiator pedaling two people around in a carriage attached to his bicycle. He literally looked like this. It was 900 degrees out and that was how he was dressed. He glimmered in the sunlight. As he pedaled by, I could hear him saying, "And over there is the Plaza Hotel ..." hahahaha
After a false start (uhm ... thought the pub was on 59th? Where is it??) I found the one I was thinking of. We walked in. It's the kind of pub where there are sepia-toned watercolors of John F. Kennedy everywhere you look, and pictures of rugby teams from small towns in county Kerry, and Irish flags hung up next to American flags, and a gleaming wooden bar with high stools, and tables with red and white checked tablecloths. It was a good choice.
We sat at the bar, which was already quite crowded. I was practically on top of the woman to my left, so I apologized. "Sorry ... I'm on top of you right now." Opening up the channel of communication may have been a mistake - but you just never know who is going to be slightly insane in this massive metropolis. She had long blonde hair, she was drinking white wine, she was in her 40s, I would guess - maybe early 40s. She was by herself. She spoke, and her voice was very distinctive. Kind of loud. I'm guessing that that had not been her first glass of wine. "Oh - don't worry about it. I'll be leaving soon."
Now I cannot remember how we struck up a conversation with this woman. It was just 2 days ago, and it is already lost in the fog of time. But somehow, we started talking with her. Or - let's be accurate. She started talking to us. No, no. Let's be more accurate. She started talking AT us.
It did not start out well.
She asked me where I was from. I told her. I asked her where she was from. She told me San Francisco. I asked her what brought her to New York. (Or at least I think I did. One of us did.)
She said, and I am putting in the pauses, just so you can get what we were dealing with here. She began to pontificate as though it were a monologue FULL of portent, and I knew from the pauses that we were meant to hang on every word. I also could tell from how she was speaking that this was going to be a long LONG story. "Well ............ I moved to New York ............ because ............. the dot-commers ........."
Bill said helpfully, "Hired you?"
She shook her head, in the middle of her own cliff-hanger, and began again, "I moved .......... to New York ........... because the dot-commers .............."
Bill tried again, "Fired you?"
Then came the slightly insane moment. She stopped and said, getting a wee bit frightening, "Are you going to let me finish? Or ... are you done now? Are you done? Because I can wait. Or are you going to let me finish?"
This was within 30 seconds of speaking with her. Listen, hon, if you're going to doze off into narcolepsy MID-SENTENCE while speaking with strangers, then please do not be surprised if we try to pick up the pace for you. We are worried for you. We are not waiting on tenterhooks to find out what the dot-commers did or did not do to you. Pick up the pace. We don't give a shit. We're just making conversation. Your pauses are so long that Bill and I both begin to plummet through empty space, flailing our arms, looking for footholds.
Okay. So the second she lashed out like that, I clocked her in my head. "Slightly insane. But harmless. A bit tipsy. Handle with care."
Bill said, probably clocking her as nuts too, "I apologize."
She still didn't speak, looking back and forth between us, to make sure she had our undivided attention. Oh, so she's one of THOSE.
She began again and told us a very very long story about her entire career, which involved the dot-commers and the crazy cash they had to burn in the late 90s. Now this is something that I actually know a little bit about, from my personal experience, but I just knew that any outside comments would not be welcome. She was the ONLY person to have experienced the dot-com boom and its repercussions. Her experience was SINGULAR. I held my tongue. I listened dutifully. Meanwhile, we got our beers, which were cold, delicious, and so welcome after our hot sweaty day. I kinda wanted to just talk to Bill. But ... we were trapped. By the narcoleptic wine-guzzler.
She actually was harmless. I'm just making fun of her. Because it's fun.
It was odd. To know that she needed us to just LISTEN. I wonder if she grew up with no one ever listening to her. She was obviously overly sensitive on this point. She couldn't have our focuses be scattered. She spoke with a self-importance and a This Is My Big Monologue emotional undercurrent - so that it would be nearly impossible to interrupt it, without seeming rude. Also, for some bizarre reason, she talked to us as though she assumed that we had ZERO experience in the world. We were just two pairs of EARS, that's all. We had no history to share. Everything she told us was going to be new and unheard of to us ... because we were basically ameobic homunculits before she came along. So she regaled us with stories of how cutthroat New York is (as though no way would we ever guess that) and how beautiful San Francisco is (she assumed we had never been there - I actually lived there - but again, I just got the sense that this was supposed to be the Narcopleptic Show and any of my reminiscences would be greeted with resistance), and how she was starting a new job next week with Calvin Klein and she hoped it wouldn't be too cutthroat. Uhm, it's Calvin Klein. Of COURSE it's gonna be cutthroat. A corporation that successful is gonna be cutthroat. But I said, submitting to her worldview because that was just easier, "I hope it's not too cutthroat."
Then somehow - the monologue segued into her telling us the entire story of the making of Gone with the Wind. She had seen a documentary on it.
Now this was actually a fun conversation - even though Bill and I were both struggling against her domination. It was a battle. You know how you can just feel when someone needs to dominate? And it's such a strong force in them that it would literally have taken me saying, point-blank, "Listen, bitch. There are 3 people in this conversation. STOP DOMINATING. It's RUDE" for her to realize what she was doing. And then, of course, the conversation would be over. Besides - the whole thing was kind of entertaining and interesting, psychologically.
Now Bill and I actually are very familiar with the entire story of Gone with the wind. It could have been a much better conversation if she would have given us the props for that. If we had been allowed to contribute, that might have been really fun!! We know something about that story! The search for Scarlett, the "discovery" of Vivien Leigh, and - uhm - yes, we know that Vivien Leigh was British - but thanks for the information anyway! The relentlessness of Selznick, the firing of George Cukor, how Clark Gable refused to do a Southern accent, etc. etc. etc.
But it was okay. She was a lonely Calvin Klein employee, drinking white wine by herself, and telling us the entire story. It's an enjoyable story. My beer was cold. I was happy to be where I was. Even though I was being dominated by a transplant from San Francisco.
She told us that her favorite actress ever was Grace Kelly. We supported her in this opinion. She swooned over Rear Window. We validated this. She went ga-ga over Grace Kelly's gowns in that movie. We agreed with her wholeheartedly. Bill managed to get one full comment in: "That entire movie is based on a false premise. There isn't a man in the world who wouldn't want to marry Grace Kelly." I was shocked that she allowed him to get that much out!! Good job, Bill! But it was greeted by a baffled stare of uncomprehension from our Fearless Leader. All she heard was "false premise". All she heard was that Bill was criticizing Rear Window. Which ... DUH ... he was not. So she kind of skipped over the comment, not even referencing it, and moved on in her bulldozer way.
Bill and I had no choice but to follow along in her wake. She would not let us go.
She informed us, "Hettie McDaniel was the first black actress to win an Emmy." Yes! Totally true! Only her name was Hattie, and it was an Oscar. But it's the thought that counts!!
Moving on!
There was a moment when she rhapsodized about how "Selznick kept with the project" and that was one of those sharp moments when I just fell in love with my own life. Here I am, sitting in an Irish pub with my new friend, and some blonde woman is babbling about Selznick "keeping with the project". Hilarious.
Our whole entrapment ended very quickly. I found it interesting. I have a theory about the moment when it occurred. It's one of those little snapshots, or series of snapshots - where you can see someone's behavior so clearly - and you can see what they are trying to hide. You can see the subtext, basically.
I cannot remember how this came up, but somehow - whatever our Blonde Dominatrix was saying - made Bill think of Night of the Hunter - and he said, directly to me, "Oh! I meant to tell you - I finally saw Night of the Hunter!" This excited me so much I nearly stood up. "You'd never seen it???" "No!" "Oh. My. God. Isn't it just amazing?" Then he and I went off (very briefly) into a conversation about that movie. It was fun. It was our first moment alone since we walked into the bar. So we lived it up!! Whoo-hoo! Freedom from domination! Look at us!! Choosing our own topics! How do we DARE??
That went on for probably 20 seconds - we managed to cram a lot in, though - knowing that our time "alone" was probably limited - and suddenly, our new friend stood up and said, "I have to go now." It was that abrupt. She wasn't mad or anything, but just like that, she was DONE with us. 20 seconds of us looking at each other, as opposed to her, and she felt like she went up in a puff of smoke. "It was nice to talk to you both," she said ... but still with this strange glazed-over look on her face, like she could not WAIT to get out of there, and away from those two lunatics who REFUSED to give her their undivided attention for hours on end.
I said, "Good luck at your job next week!"
More glazed-over smiles, as she reached for her purse. She barely knew what I said to her. "Thanks."
And then POOF! She was gone!
We analyzed her behavior for about 30 seconds, exchanging notes on what we had noticed ... "The moment we started to talk about Night of the Hunter, she was done with us. DONE." She felt rejected. That's what it was. There was a fragility there, underneath the loud voice, and all of the opinions. If we weren't sitting there just listening to her, she felt out of control, lost, and invisible. So even though we hadn't rejected her, that was what she felt. Which made me a little sad for her.
When she talked about San Francisco and its beauty, she got this really passionate happy look on her face. There was actually something very delicate about her. I kind of hope her job at Calvin Klein does prove to be too cutthroat for her, so she can move back to that foggy hilly city on the West Coast, the city of her narcoleptic dreams.
June 21, 2006
Dear Falun Gong protesters who block the sidewalk up and down 7th Avenue on a daily basis:
I do not care about your plight.
I repeat:
I do not care about your plight. There's only so much on this planet that I can conceivably care about and I do not care about your plight.
Besides, uhm, you are a cult.
Please get out of my way so I can get to Whole Foods.
Thanks so much!
June 9, 2006
Under the revolving Bubba Gump sign
Beth came to town this week as one of the chaperones on a 4-busloads-of-teenagers excursion to New York City. They careened into town, they went to see Mamma Mia, they had an hour to kill (all 4 busloads) before heading back home. It was a pouring rainy day. One of the many we have had this week. Beth was in charge of 6 teenage girls - one of whom was her daughter. We had made plans to maybe meet up - in that hour she had free after the show. She would be in Times Square, I could meet them, whatever. We left it open ... I just told her to call me when she was out of the show, and tell me where they were and I'd come find them. This is how it ended up working ... and it's just one of those glowing little moments of beauty, in the middle of what has been a chaotic and very weird week for me ... a random moment of connection and funniness - which I was cherishing as it happened (and we all know how rare that is).
So. 4:30. My phone rings. It's Beth. They're out of the show. Heading down to Times Square. The girls want to shop. They need to be back at the bus by 6. I said I'd call them at about 5:15 - see where they were, and come to meet them. I was in the garment district at that point (37th, 38th). 5:15 comes. Let me reiterate: it is POURING. So here's Beth - in charge of 6 girls - in the middle of Times Square - oh, and did I mention that Beth has completely lost her voice? She's working to get it back again, but her voice is totally blown out - so she couldn't shout, "COME THIS WAY, GIRLS" or "KEEP IT MOVING" or "WHERE'S SO AND SO???" It was quite a big job for one woman - I wished I had been around the whole day so that I could help her out.
I started to walk north towards Times Square, while on the phone with Beth. She, with her blown-out voice, was trying to get some kind of consensus from the girls of what they wanted to do. (Impossible.) The rain poured down. The streets were INSANE with people who were carrying deadly umbrellas. New York City should produce a pamphlet entitled "Proper Umbrella Behavior". I'm telling you, it was nuts out. It had literally been raining all day, so there were massive lakes gathered at every street corner - so you couldn't just step off the sidewalk, you had to go around the lake ... which of course created a huge logjam. Times Square is always insane, but on a rainy day at around rush hour? You just want to escape!!
I was also aware of the time constraint ... Beth would have to get her girls back to the bus on 55th and 8th by 6 pm. Hmmmm ... how would THIS work? It was 5:15 ... This was gonna cut it pretty close. Especially because on such a day, on such a rainy crowded day - it was impossible to just go from Point A to Point B. There were just too many people in the way.
So. I'm walking up 7th Avenue. I'm on the phone with Beth. I'm saying, "So ... where are you now?" "We just passed the Olive Garden ..." My mind blanked, trying to remember where there is an Olive Garden ... Then Beth said, "We're passing the ticket place ..." Aha. TKTS. Yes, there is an Olive Garden just north of that ... right smack-dab in the middle of Times Square. I am now crossing 42nd Street - so basically Beth and I are about 4 blocks apart right now.
It's POURING. But thank goodness both of our phones kept working.
I said, "Okay ... now ... where are you in relation to ..."
Beth said, "I see the Virgin Records store ..."
"You do? Okay ... I can too - I'm walking towards it from the southside ..."
Beth said, "I'm on the opposite side of the street from it ..."
"Me too!"
"So we're on the same side of the street?"
"We basically are walking towards each other RIGHT NOW. Okay - so keep going the way you're going ... and eventually we'll meet up. ... So ... what do you see now?"
"There's the Toys R Us...."
"Yup. I see that too. Can you see the sign for the Hard Rock Cafe? It's on our side of the street?"
"Uhhhhhmmmmm ...."
"Okay. Never mind that ... How about the big revolving Bubba Gump sign?"
"Uhhhh ... hmmmm...."
"Look up - it's up in the air."
Pause. Beth says, "Yes! I see it - I'm almost right beneath it."
"I am approaching it now!"
Suddenly I was overwhelmed with happiness and humor - after the stress of the day - here we are, coming towards each other, unseen to one another, talking on our cell phones, heading towards the beaming beacon of the Bubba Gump sign. I could FEEL Beth coming towards me. It was hilarious!!!!
"I'm right under the sign now." I said.
"I'm at the crosswalk."
"Me too."
"I'm waiting to cross the street."
"Me too."
I am peering at the crowd across the street ... knowing Beth is in there SOMEWHERE!
"What are you wearing?"
"Pink raincoat. What are you wearing?"
"White raincoat."
Okay - now we got the Walk sign.
I stepped into the crosswalk. "I am crossing right now."
"So am I."
"I am crossing ... I am crossing ..." (there are 100 people crossing around me. I could not see Beth ... She is THERE SOMEWHERE.) Finally, I just put the phone down and screamed her name at the top of my lungs. It was just so funny to be in the middle of that moving swirling wet crowd - knowing my dear friend was 2 feet away but i couldn't see her! And then - her face beaming under her white hood - there was my dear friend Beth. With 6 girls in tow.
What came next was a frenzied 40 minutes of shopping in Times Square (words cannot describe how crowded and insane it was!) Beth and I stood off to the side in various stores, and I heard about Beth's crazy day - and then we would herd up the girls and go to the next store. We actually managed to do quite a bit before it was time for them to leave.
We went to:
1. The MTV store
2. The Virgin Records store
3. The Hershey store
That's a LOT. With 6 girls! Who all want to buy things, and there are lines to the cash register everywhere! Beth and I would be having our hurried adult conversation, and then quickly - in the middle of it - doing a rushed headcount - before getting back to our adult talk.
It was literally 5 of 6 when we left the Hershey Store on, 47th I think it was ... That gave them 5 minutes to run to 55th Street. It's hard enough to do that when you're by yourself, let alone having to harness together 6 girls who want to window-shop! Beth was right on top of it. "Girls. No browsing. No stopping. We must be back up there by 6 pm. We have to MOVE."
Flurried hug with Beth. And I stood there watching as the 7 of them hurried up 8th Avenue, in the rain.
It was NUTS. But beautiful. A beautiful glowing little moment.
May 1, 2006
Happy birthday, Empire State Building!
On May 1, 1931 the Empire State Building officially opened. Herbert Hoover, President at the time, pressed a button from DC and all the lights came on.
I can see that building from the end of my street. It is RIGHT THERE. It's a part of my everyday life. It looms now ... in the unbalanced skyline. It is a precious building to me - to all of us who live here. And probably to many people who DON'T live here. It is alone now. In the months after September 11, there were times when I would stare up at that spire, literally praying for it to never go away. "Please ... don't let anything happen to that building ... oh God ... please ..."
In honor of the birthday of this extraordinary landmark, I'm going to re-post something I wrote awhile back. It's about my trip to Baltimore to hang out with two guys I had never met before. Such nerve I had!!
Here's the post:
I had a terrible dream last night that something happened to the Empire State Building. Overnight, it was as though an earthquake had happened - only a very neat earthquake - which opened up an abyss down the side of the building, separating the parts from one another. It was mysterious why this had happened. But New Yorkers woke up, and everybody noticed it.
And panic ensued immediately. New York woke up in panic mode.
I was clinging to something, very high up - staring at the opened crack down the side of the building - knowing it meant something very very bad. But it was mysterious. It was like the monoliths in 2001, or the lights suddenly appearing over Mexico City in Signs. Something's happening. Something already has happened.
As I said, I was very high up, above the streets - and I could hear everyone screaming below. The air filled with screams.
Just like on September 11. That's one of the things I remember about that day. The air filled with screams.
The first time I left New York City after September 11 was for a weekend in Baltimore at the end of September - I was going to visit 2 guys I had never met before in my life. But we had become friends in an online kind of way, in the summer before September 11. I felt no fear, NONE, as I went to meet these strangers. There was no danger. I was aware of no danger. My friends thought I was insane. "What do you know about these guys? Who are they? What are their phone numbers? Call me every day while you're down there..." Etc.
Well, suffice it to say - that they were 2 of the loveliest men I have ever met, and they treated me like a refugee from a war-torn country. Which, indeed, I was. At that time.
One of them is still a good friend of mine, and comments on this blog often. I will ALWAYS have a soft spot in my heart for these guys. I went down there on the train, and I was - to put it mildly - a mess. I didn't want to leave New York. I was still not sleeping. The city had not recovered. By the end of September, we were into the time of funerals. Every day there were funerals. The drones of bagpipes filled the air at all times - replacing the screams of September 11. I can't explain it. I had not recovered - nothing was normal.
I almost didn't go down to Baltimore, because I felt too much anxiety leaving my city. What if something else happened? I couldn't not be there! If an explosion was going to happen, then dammit - I wanted to be exploded too. It's MY city, Goddammit.
My 2 new online friends were voices of calm and reason. All of America was affected by what happened that day. But I was their friend from New York City, and they assured me that everything was going to be all right, and when I got down to Baltimore, they would show me around, they would take me out to dinner, they would take care of everything. No worries, no worries, no worries ...
I am still amazed that these guys came into my life. I called them "my Baltimore Boys".
On the day I was to leave, I had an extended anxiety attack. I was taking the Path to 33d Street and then walking over to Penn Station to take the train out of town. At every second, I thought I'd turn back. I could not leave the city yet. The whole damn island of Manhattan felt like an illusion. While I was in Baltimore, the entire thing could be liquidated. My home ... my home ... my family ... my sister ... my brother ... Cashel ... all of them there ... I could not be separated from them ...
I got off at 33rd Street and made my way to the stairs up to the street.
The station was packed with people. It was a Friday afternoon, your regular rush hour.
And suddenly - with no warning - NONE - everyone started to run. People were screaming. There was a mad RUSH for the stairs. I had no idea what had happened. What was happening? But I was part of that crowd - and the second the movement began, the crowd movement, I started to run too. Something was going to explode, something was in the subway station ... There must be a REASON why everyone is running, right??
People were pushing and shoving, frantically, to get out of the station up to the street. I had my bags for the weekend. I couldn't catch my breath.
It was completely catching. The panic.
And I emerged onto the nightmare of the street - it's a block away from the Empire State Building - you have to crane your neck way way back to see the spindle - and there had been some sort of bomb scare. Which is probably highly normal for the Empire State Building - but in those late September days of 2001 - nothing seemed more fragile, more courageous, more precious and easily destroyed - than the Empire State Building. I would stare at it from my kitchen window in Hoboken, the only building in Manhattan visible to me. At least now. I used to be able to see the twin towers, but now ... there was just one building left. The Empire State Building looked ENORMOUS. A huge target.
The streets were blocked off around the Empire State Building. Cops and National Guardsmen were literally everywhere. I am not exaggerating. It felt like we were under siege. The crowd (of which I was a part) was running this way - that way - panicked - trying to get away from the building, running towards the building - shouting at the cops, "WHAT'S GOING ON?" The cops were hollering at the crowd - "GET BACK. GET BACK."
You have to remember the context of those days.
I started running down 34th Street, holding my suitcase. People were running, all around me. Some were running, as they were talking on their cells. The sound of sirens filled the air. As I ran, I kept looking back over my shoulder at the Empire State Building's spindle ... it looked so fragile you could snap it. I was WILLING it to still exist.
This all probably sounds really crazy. But there was such a crowd dynamic in New York in those days. At any moment, the crowds on the sidewalk were liable to start running. For no reason.
Oh, and randomly - in the middle of this crowd panic - something very very strange happened.
A woman grabbed onto my hand. I was literally running towards Penn Station. I was completely convinced that the Empire State Building was going to explode behind me ... like in a movie. So a woman grabbed onto me. Stopped me. I looked at her with my crazy eyes.
And she said something so unbelievably incomprehensible to me - that I had to ask her to repeat it. She was speaking in English, do not get me wrong, but in that moment, what she said was so absurd, so out of place, that I could not, for the life of me, understand what she was saying.
Here is what she said:
"Do you have any idea where I could buy a Boggle game?"
I'm not kidding.
We're in the middle of a Midtown-wide Bomb Scare, and she's looking for Boggle.
It was only later that I was able to laugh about this. I did an imitation of the moment later for my friend Jen and we were crying with laughter. My insane running, looking over my shoulder, etc., and then this calm oblivious woman basically asking me to point her in the direction of Toys R Us.
I said, "Huh?"
She said, smiling, unaware somehow of the crowd running at her from the direction of Broadway, "Can you tell me where I might find a game of Boggle?"
I should have said, "Up your ass, lady. Why don't you try there?"
But I pointed wildly uptown, and screamed, as I ran away from her, "THERE'S A TOYS R US ON THE CORNER OF 45TH AND BROADWAY - TRY THERE..."
Absurd.
Those days were so absurd.
Penn Station in those days was one of the most moving and mournful places on earth. You walked down the huge corridor to get to the terminal, and the walls were, first of all, lined with National Guardsmen and women who all looked about 12 years old. Second of all, the walls were plastered with notes from all over the world. And commuters and passersby would stop to read the notes. People were always weeping in that corridor. I would weep in that corridor. I think I read every note, over those weeks. There were notes from entire classrooms of 2nd graders in Tulsa, there were notes from fire departments the world over ... clumsy English spelling from the fire department in Germany ... there were notes from individual people, "Hang in there..." "We love you" "We will not forget" - there were letters in every language imaginable. Some were written by little kids who obviously had just learned how to write. So their sentiments were blunt. "I am very sad about the dead people. My dad says it's okay to cry though." Stuff like that. It was a corridor of mourning. Lined with people in military dress, and filled with crying people.
My God.
So the panic was still going on, as I entered Penn Station. I felt like I was making a getaway from a war zone, being air-lifted out of Nigeria or something. Everything dissolving into chaos behind me.
Now mind you: This was just an anxiety attack I was having. New York was still there when I got back. The Empire State Building was still there when I got back. But everything was messed up in my head, I couldn't sleep - no one could - It felt like we were on the brink of utter destruction. It was only September 28.
I got on the train, my breathing high in my chest, and everything in me was saying: Don't go. Don't go. If the Empire State Building explodes, you will want to be here. You will want to be here for your city.
But ... the train pulled away from the station ... and I was off. I felt insane. Wild-eyed.
Boggle? What?
When we emerged into New Jersey, I could see the whole of the city spread out to my left, glimmering, and tragic. The gaping hole of lower Manhattan hurt me, like an actual wound. It doesn't really anymore, but it did then. And I stared at that spindle of the Empire State Building, the tallest building, in the center of the island ... teetering ... It looked so ... small. It looked like - wow, it would take absolutely nothing to get rid of that building! And I stared at it, craning my neck backwards, tears running down my face, until I couldn't see it anymore.
I arrived in Baltimore to meet these 2 strange men, in this state of mind.
We had never met. We knew what we all looked like, pictures had been exchanged ... but nothing else.
And these men were my heroes. They took care of me. They showed me the sights. They listened to me talk. They were sensitive. I couldn't talk about anything else. And I needed to have the TV on at all times, in case something happened. They were fine with that. They introduced me to their friends as "our refugee". They gave me (why?? I have no idea!! I was a stranger to them!!) 2 days away from the stench of death and the bomb scares. They were kind enough to take me in. I was, to put it mildly, NO FUN to be around. This was not a whoo-hoo kind of weekend. I was jumpy, and tearful, and needy, and a little bit insane. They expected nothing from me. They just wanted to take care of me, and give me some time away. They were thrilled to be able to do that for me.
Writing this down, I realize it doesn't make all that much sense.
But I'll alway be grateful to my Baltimore Boys for their kindness to me during that weekend. I will never ever forget it.
And one of them has remained a true friend. For which I am also very grateful.
They weren't really meeting "the real Sheila" that weekend. Who I was that weekend is not who I am normally, obviously. I couldn't stop shaking, all through our first dinner out - I sat at the Mexican restaurant, shivering, as though they had the AC on full blast. Then I said I wanted to go to a bar where they had a TV, because I had to make sure nothing had happened to the Empire State Building. They did whatever I wanted. "You need a TV, darlin'? Okay, then, we'll take you to a TV."
These men were miracles to me.
Nothing was normal. We all clung to one another, and for a couple of days at least, I was away from it. I needed to get away.
When I returned to New York a day and a half later, I came back into Penn Station at about 9 o'clock at night. It was rainy and dark.
And the sadness hit me like a wall. It wasn't MY sadness, per se. I didn't own any more sadness than anyone else. It was like there was a wall of grief around the city. And I was stepping back into that atmosphere. I am telling you: I could feel it the second I got off the train. It was in the air, between the molecules ... it WAS the air.
February 12, 2006
This just in from my reporter in the field: Allison
People are cross-country skiing down the middle of 7th Avenue in New York City.
Just so you know.
December 20, 2005
Post Office stories
Just came back from the post office. Things are a bit, shall we say, nutty in New York right now - due to the transit strike, for one thing. The streets are way more crowded than normal, and there is a traffic jam on every corner. Also, with Christmas - New York has that frenetic barely pleasurable last-minute shopping frenzy feel to it. I dreaded the post office. But I went and got there just in time. There were only a couple of people ahead of me.
Now - one thing happened which made me think of something else (ain't that always the way).
A guy stood in front of me. He had a long ponytail which was knotted a couple of times on the way down - so that it had sort of the look of Dumbledore's beard in the latest Harry Potter. The man's hair was greying - so we're talking MAJOR aging hippie energy.
I had a big package, he had a small certified letter.
There were only a couple of windows open, and so there was that kind of tense animal-alert feel through the line. You had to be on your toes. You had to be READY TO GO when it was your turn. If you paused for a MILLISECOND of a MILLISECOND, someone farther back in the line would jump down your throat. You could not pause. It was a group event. We all had to work together. If I paused, or if I got distracted when another window opened up - then I would be affecting the 20 people behind me. BAD collective behavior. New Yorkers are very good at collective behavior.
I've said it before and I will say it again: People think New Yorkers are rude. We might SEEM rude but what is REALLY going on is that we are OBSESSED with manners, WAY more than people who live in regions where the residents actually can have personal space and get the hell away from each other. We cannot get away from each other - therefore, we are OBSESSED with manners. And everyone must play along. In New York good manners mean: wait your turn, don't cut, don't shove, respect other people's boundaries, don't just stop on a crowded sidewalk and stare around - you're messing up the traffic, and DON'T waste other people's time. There are too many of us on this tiny island - we all must work together.
I have seen this dynamic again and again, and I just love it. It cracks me up. We are all in each other's business. If it's a crowded Times Square sidewalk, and you who are in front of me - suddenly STOP and take out your cell phone - so that I crash into you - you will HEAR from me what I think of your behavior. It's selfish. You are not alone. Get out of the line of traffic. Realize that you are not the only person on the planet.
New Yorkers may correct people in a rude way - but it's not random rudeness. It has to do with the fact that people who do not "play along", who think they can play it their OWN way, need to be scolded and corrected. We all take it on ourselves.
Hippie Guy and I stood, silently, waiting. Separate. Alert as animals, staring up and down the line of windows, ready to move IMMEDIATELY at the blessed call, "Step down, please!"
Then - both of us saw the same thing:
A girl tried to bypass the line and walk right up to one of the windows. Because she had just a little something she needed - a book of stamps, a question answered, whatever. I saw this happen - and he saw it happen - we both just stared at her back with rageful eagle-eyes - I was getting ready to do my part in this collective group experience of being in line at the Post Office - and shout, "Hey - there's a huge line! Wait your turn!" - but I didn't have to. Post Office Lady behind counter gestured in a blase manner at the long line, and went back to helping her current customer.
Hippie Man turned and gave me a look. I shook my head in disbelief. He did too. He said, "There's always one person, you know? There's always one person." "Unbelievable." He said, "I have one stupid letter to mail ..." "Right - but you're in line. Because that's what you do." "Exactly." "Unbelievable."
A moment of New York bonding. A moment of Being-in-line bonding. I love it. New Yorkers hate lines, but we respect them. I don't know - the whole thing cracks me up. We police ourselves, basically, because there are just too damn many of us to let everyone go HOG WILD and start CUTTING IN LINE left and right. IT WOULD BE ANARCHY!!!
I have posted a number of funny post office stories here.
So here they are.
Gladys, you're all right - Gladys made such an impression on me that if I saw her on the street today I would recognize her. Loved her.
Post office love and perfume - yet another example of rigid line-behavior (only this time I was the bad person in line - it happens to all of us!)
And of course, the ever-popular and highly controversial Kwanzaa Subterfuge
Always an adventure at the post office. But I loved my outraged bonding moment with Hippie Guy. I felt like he and I were about to charge over there like panthers and drag that girl off to the bushes. No WAY do you cut in line! We have invested TIME out of our LIVES in this line! And you think you can just skip it? The nerve.
But here, though, is what standing in line at the post office REALLY made me think of:
The mother of all standing-in-line stories (at least on this blog, I don't know about elsewhere): The Line. I waited in line for 18 hours to get tickets to a play. I slept in the dirt. Secrets of humanity were revealed. You know. The usual.
June 22, 2005
The ferry
For 2 years, I took a class every Monday night at the World Trade Center, in the North Tower. The ritual was: I would take the A train downtown, get off at Chambers Street, walk a couple blocks, and cross the massive courtyard to enter the building. I loved it down there, mostly because it was foreign to me - I never spent a lot of time down on Wall Street and it is a whole different world down there. The streets feel like canyons. People struggle to open doors against the wind tunnel effect. But then you emerge onto that courtyard - open, expansive, abstract - with the towers screaming up into the empty sky above you, and you just know that there's no other place in the city like it. Something about the landscape around the World Trade Center, wide-open, concrete, extremely PLANNED, reminded me of DeChirico's eerie paintings, paintings that had haunted me since I first encountered them in Mrs. Franco's humanities class in high school. Of course, the urban landscape down at the World Trade Center was always packed with people, and DeChirico's paintings are always frighteningly empty - except for a long human shadow coming from around the corner, or teeny people in the far distance, dwarfed by the urban structures around them.
The World Trade Center was a part of my everyday life. I knew the security guards, especially one in particular who I really liked. I knew the guy in the coffee shop downstairs, who had my coffee ready for me by the time I got to the counter, having memorized what I liked within 2 days. I could make my way through that Concourse to the underground PATH station in my sleep. My class ended at 10, I think, or 9:45 ... If we got out on time, then I would race down through the echoey Atrium (again, like a DeChirico painting - especially late at night - with the amphitheatre style marble steps, and the massive indoor palms - and everything glass - but since it was nighttime, all you saw was darkness all around you, strange reflections ... an odd space, pregnant with meaning) - burst out through the doors, and tear down to the Hudson, where I would pick up the last ferry to Hoboken. If my class went a little late, then I would miss the ferry, and have to walk through the echoing empty Concourse - with the mannequins in the windows at the Gap standing still, all the lights off in the stores, nobody around, empty escalators running, me the only figure on them, smiling at the 8th security guard I saw at the bottom ... and, of course, racing to catch the train when I heard it coming in, so that I wouldn't have to sit in the bowels of the World Trade Center, in that echoing station by myself. Other random late-night folks were usually milling about, too. This was, after all, the financial district. People worked crazy hours.
But my main goal was to get out of class promptly so I could have the pleasure of taking the ferry.
The station for the ferry was outside the spectacular Atrium, and it was a floating tented dock in the Hudson. You got to it by walking on this metal ramp. As you stood in line to buy a ticket for the ferry, the entire dock bobbed up and down on the small waves of the Hudson. You could see the lights of Jersey across the way. Especially you could see this enormous lit-up clock - south of Jersey City, not sure what town it was in - Bayonne, maybe? When I say "enormous", I mean that it is probably 10 stories tall. Maybe Mr. Bingley knows how big it is. You can easily see the time from all the way across the river. A couple of different ferries used the floating dock - one from Hoboken and the other from further south down the Jersey shore. You could see them leave their docks from across the river, and start to cross the water to get us. I always found that strangely exciting. Seeing my ferry set out from Hoboken, small, making its way south, getting larger, larger ... until there it was ... smacking up against the side of the floating dock. Normally, because I love the night, and I love wind, and I love water ... I wouldn't wait in the enclosed part of the floating dock. I would buy my ticket, walk back up the ramp onto the walkway that runs all around the periphery of the bottom of Manhattan ... and stare out into the Hudson. I loved that part of my night. Even if it was freezing, I would choose to brave the elements. The splashing water against the side of the island of Manhattan, the strange achey creaking sounds that the dock made as it floated up and down ... those were pretty much the only sounds. Way over there, on the river-side of the trade center, you didn't really hear much traffic. It was just the sound of the water, maybe the wind, or raindrops ...
I have such peaceful memories of those few minutes, squeezed into a busy day ... my quiet time, my thoughts roaming free, but there was a mellowness to it, too. There was something soft about how my thoughts felt in my own head, after a long day, ready to go home and go to bed.
Odd. And again, made even more odd by the imposing buildings towering over us. It's a landscape built for people. It is meant to be crowded. It only makes sense if it's crowded. I suppose if I worked there, I would have a whole different experience of the place - I would experience it as a packed madhouse, filled with busy people going through turnstiles, and constant rivers of human beings, moving this way and that. I've temped in massive office buildings before, and I know what rush hours are like. But I was always at the World Trade Center on off-hours, so my memories of it are quieter, echoey ... They have to do with silence ... and ... I'm trying to express this right. You know how some landscapes, whether man-made or natural, seem to just have so much meaning, in their very structure? Like: if you look at the Grand Canyon and you are indifferent, or unchanged ... then frankly something is wrong with you. Not that you should have a particular experience ... not that it should "fill you with awe" ... No. There is no required response. But SOME thing should happen to you. The landscape is trying to tell you SOMEthing. When I first saw the Grand Canyon, I actually felt something akin to deep and powerful despair. I couldn't take it in. Just trying to SEE IT made me feel that I never could really see it. There was no way I could comprehend the entirety of the thing, its massiveness, just the FACT that it is THERE is hard to deal with. The experience of looking filled me with hopelessness. I eventually got used to the size, the scope ... or, no, that's not the right way to say it. I managed to deal with it in small doses. I gave myself a lot of time to just stand there and stare. My point is is that there are certain places on this planet that seem to have some kind of message, or some kind of import ... if you can only listen closely enough. I have felt the same thing on the Mall in Washington DC. Like: something is going on here. A cigar is not just a cigar. There is MEANING in the architecture, everything i see has a message for me ... The World Trade Center, the Atrium, the Concourse, the floating dock ... all of that stuff, on my Monday nights, felt like that for me. I never got used to it. I never was "over" it. I never strolled through there, not noticing where I was. This may sound like retrospective romanticizing, but I assure you it is not. I have the diary entries for my Monday evenings for over 2 years to prove it. It was almost as though the class I was taking was incidental, and not really important. The REAL thing to learn was from the concrete, and the space, and the quiet down there at that time of night.
The ferry would pull up, always with the same cute guys running it ... I got to know their faces too, over those 2 years. They would open the gate, take our tickets, say "Hey, what's up ..." to the 10 of us who were waiting to get home across the river.
For the most part (especially if it was drizzly, or snowing, or cold) everyone would sit in the downstairs area, the enclosed area of the boat.
I don't think I sat down there once. I always trudged up to the roof. I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH of it up there. I soaked it up. The wind in my face, all that stuff ... I just loved it up there, and wished the boat ride were longer. I love being out on the water anyway, it reminds me of being a kid, and going out in the motorboat at Lake Sunapee, and how exhilarating it is to travel on water ...
If nobody else was up there (and usually it was empty), I would lie down on my back across two of the benches, and stare up at the empty black sky - waiting for us to pull away. Because when we pulled away, and did a kind of ferry 3-point-turn, suddenly the glittering towers would swoop into my view blotting out the rest of the sky - and they were right overhead, they were so close. I would get vertigo. The boat would sweep around, the towers would sweep around, and everything seemed enormous and fluid - hard to tell if it was the boat that was moving away from the island, or if it was the island that was moving away from the boat. Then, I would watch the towers recede out of my view.
3 minutes later, we would pull up to the docks in Hoboken, with the same cute guys opening up the gate to let us off ... and I would trudge through the station up to the street, to grab a cab home. My warm bed.
Somehow, if I took the train home, I didn't get the same sense of release, freedom, openness, joy ... as when I took the ferry. The ferry ride had the feeling of a "crossing", in the mythicological sense. I know there are people who take the ferry every day, and they may be used to it, and may have no idea why I got such a kick out of it - but I never got used to it. I think part of it had to do with the fact that it was night-time, too. A quieter more reflective time, contemplative, people giving up the rush of the day.
I still have my World Trade Center identity card, which I needed in order to get into the building. My name's printed on it, and the expiration date is 8/19/01.
June 17, 2005
Waiting in line
My post about acting in Chekhov made me think of a piece I wrote called "The Line".
In it, I describe the time I waited in line for 18 hours to get free tickets to Mike Nichols' production of The Seagull in Central Park. It was in August, 2001. You might not think that waiting in line for that long would be dramatic or tension-filled or fascinating ... but it WAS. I discovered a lot. First of all: the mere act of waiting in line itself and what that does to the human personality. It's stressful. People get obsessed with "cutting", etc. Second of all: we're all used to waiting in line for, 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes ... but 18 hours? That's a whole different kind of waiting and has even MORE of an impact on the human personality. Many revelations there. Third of all: just the plain old human element. It was amazing.
Anyway. I thought I'd post the essay I wrote about it, entitled "The Line". It's not been published elsewhere. YET.
It's long ... so read it when you have the leisure and only if you feel like it.
Oh, and a weird time-travel moment: Chandra Levy was still missing at this point in time. I mention her often.
It's funny: I read this, and it's almost like my own love letter to New York City. To New Yorkers themselves. Camping out for 18 hours - and in some cases - 36 hours - to score tickets to the event of the summer. A love letter to New York a month before September.
And now I present to you: THE LINE.
August, 2001
Although I knew I would be sleeping and sitting on the ground for eighteen hours, I neglected to bring a blanket or a pillow. I did, however, bring a bag of books. To keep me company through the night. Hours later, lying curled up on the hard dirt, rocks jutting into my back, using my lumpy book-filled knapsack as a pillow, staring at everyone else's elaborate sleeping contraptions set up around me, I contemplated my choices in life.
I remembered The Scarlet Letter and forgot the blanket. That is all that needs to be said about my entire personality.
Meryl Streep. Kevin Kline. Christopher Walken. Chekhov’s The Seagull directed by Mike Nichols. A much-anticipated event. Come August I started hearing the stories: people camping out, sleeping in Central Park, waiting in line for the coveted free tickets handed out at 1 p.m. by The Delacorte Theatre the day of each performance.
I was, to some degree, waiting for the random phone call from the random friend: "Hey, I have an extra ticket!" Three weeks into the run, I realized that the show was closing soon, and I had to take control of my destiny. I decided to go join the line.
Thursday
6:45 p.m. I approached the already-existing line on the green slope of grass outside The Delacorte, in Central Park. My behavior was tentative, shy. I was afraid that there were invisible rules and that I would be accosted immediately for some infraction.
Because I so believe that people are out to get me, I find that people are often actually out to get me. Which is what happened the second I joined the line.
7:00 p.m. "Excuse me – you just CUT."
My attacker had three Saran-Wrapped cushions tied to a little cart, a cooler slung over one shoulder, and some bedrolls strapped to her back. She looked like a Sherpa.
"That was MY SPOT. You can't just come along and TAKE SOMEONE'S SPOT."
Would a Sherpa yell at someone like this?
I have no way of knowing if this woman is normal and polite in her real life. To my eyes, she was a lunatic. Not to mention the fact that she was wearing a miner's helmet and I had no idea why. Hours later, in the dead of night, when I saw her reading by the beam of light shooting out of her forehead, I understood (and envied) her madness.
But at the time of the attack she was just a fiery-eyed Sherpa in a miner's helmet yelling at me.
I still don't understand how I cut in line since no one was behind me. But apparently there were invisible rules (there always are), and I broke all of them at once.
I felt like screaming, "I DIDN'T MEAN TO CUT!"
One sweet gentle guy with little round glasses came up and said, "We really would appreciate it if you would move back and give her back her spot."
His gentleness was more terrifying than the Sherpa's rage. I got very scared at his use of "we". It was an intimidation tactic, which worked like a charm. I stepped back, baffled, embarrassed, and for the next ten minutes entertained extremely satisfying revenge fantasies. Saying with haughty scorn, "Listen, Sherpa-Bitch, cut me some slack…"
I could not discern at the time that three hours later I too would become a fire-breathing maniac if someone tried to cut in front of me. And I would not have cared one bit if they "didn't mean to", either. A lot of people don't MEAN to do evil in this world and they go ahead and do it anyway. Does that mean they should go unpunished?
I learned an important lesson in that first moment. The worst crime in the universe, unforgivable, is cutting in line. The revolutionary battles in France and America can be explained thus: people simply had had it with other people who felt that it was their right to cut and get in the front of the line. The British empire lasted so long because the English accept their place in the line, and rarely try to barge ahead.
7:30 p.m. I sat in the dirt.
There was a dude to my right who had come all the way up from Baltimore just to get himself in the line. He was a playwright, choked up with possibility. He hadn't brought a blanket or sleeping bag either, so he and I eventually were complete dirtballs.
To my left were Max and Elena. He was from Long Island and she was from Russia. It was perfect that I waited in line for The Seagull with an actual Russian. I became very involved with Max and Elena's relationship through proximity and osmosis.
They got into an argument at one point during the evening. She said to him, "Max, I thought that we were in this together. I thought that we were a team. Why do you abuse me because you lost your glasses? Why is that?"
His comment was, "This is the Cold War all over again."
He had a long conversation on his cell phone with his mother who was going in for some sort of scary surgery the following morning. I did not know Max, but I could hear the anxiety hovering in his voice.
Right before he hung up he said, trying to get her attention, "Ma?…Ma?…Ma—"
I thought to myself, "He wants to tell her that he loves her."
There was a pause, when clearly his mother settled down enough to listen, and he said, "I love you, Ma. Okay? I love you." He hung up and lay back down on his mat, not saying a word, clearly "replete with very thee". Actually, just "replete with very 'Ma'". Elena rolled over and took him into her arms. They lay there silently, in the line, holding each other. I heard Max murmur into Elena's neck. "She's really nervous."
I thought of my own mother with longing and fear.
7.40 p.m. I called my parents from my cell phone, and left a message telling them I loved them.
8:00 p.m. We could sense when the show inside began because of the way the molecules shifted in the atmosphere, creating more space. You could smell the excitement, like ozone in the air.
8:30 p.m. His name was Gabriel, which was quite a propos, since he saw himself as a messenger. However, he didn't quite bring us tidings of great joy.
He moved down the line, in a vaguely militaristic way, shouting at different sections of the ever-lengthening line.
"Hi, everybody! My name is Gabriel and I've waited in line now 13 times—" (a little rustle of alarm went up and down the line. We said to one another, "13 times? What?") "So let me tell you how this works! We all wait in line here until 1:30 a.m., which is when they close the park. At that time, the cops come along and kick us out. There's one cop named Officer Foccaccia…" (something like that) "He gets what we're trying to do here and tries to help us maintain the integrity of the line as we march out to Central Park West—"
I got a chill at the words "maintain the integrity of the line". Suddenly Gabriel was no longer the Angel of the Lord to me. He was more like Robespierre.
"But it's up to us to keep the order of the line. So we're gonna send a list down. Just sign it and pass it on. The Delacorte will not honor this list – it's mainly for us to police ourselves. We stay out on Central Park West until 5:30 a.m. when they open up the park again. And then we come back here. There's a girl who works for the Delacorte whose job it is to watch over the line. Her name is Kathleen. If anyone tries to jump the line – and they will – tell Kathleen. They start to give out tickets at 1 p.m. No more than two tickets per person. Do you guys have any questions?"
Up went Elena's hand.
Gabriel turned to her. "Yes?"
Elena asked, her voice filled with incomprehension and scorn, "Why would you wait in line 13 times?"
I do not believe that this was the sort of question Gabriel had in mind.
He said briefly, "My uncle's a congressman" and then moved down the line to repeat his speech to the next group of people, leaving us with more questions than answers. We discussed the meaning of "My uncle's a congressman" endlessly. Was the congressman so selfish that he kept saying to Gabriel, "I've got two tycoons who invested in my campaign, they want to see The Seagull, please wait in line", knowing that this meant 18 hours out of Gabriel's life? Was that any way for an uncle to treat his nephew? And what was the matter with Gabriel that he kept saying yes?
8:40 p.m. A lifelong bond formed between two guys and two girls over to my left, strangers before getting in line. One of the girls looked so much like Chandra Levy that I considered calling the FBI. Or at least approaching her and saying, "A lot of people are very worried about you right now."
The four of them huddled around a lantern while the guys taught the girls a card game. The girls were very slow at picking up the rules. An hour into the game I could still hear what sounded like extremely elementary questions coming from Chandra and her friend.
"So … do two 5's beat three 3's?"
I hate card games and can never retain the rules because I nearly collapse from the psychological boredom but even I could tell that that was a pretty simplistic question coming so late in the game. But the guys just kept teaching the girls the same rules, over and over, by the glow of the lantern, their low laughter floating through the night air.
8:45 p.m. One guy (who had forgotten, as I did, to bring along a miner's helmet) moved his lawn chair out of the line to sit under a streetlight with John Irving's latest. Max and Elena and I murmured to one another, anxiously admiring his boldness. "Is that allowed?" I huddled over The Scarlet Letter, squinting at the pages, tilting the book towards the light, ruining my eyes in the space of one evening.
8:55 p.m. Max started to get restless and irritable. The reality of his situation was hitting him hard.
"What are we DOING?" he demanded of Elena.
Elena said calmly, "We are waiting in line for a great theatrical event, Max."
"Yeah, but … Chekhov? Maybe for Ibsen I'd wait in line all night, but Chekhov? All these people are just here to see the celebrities. And that's it."
"Max, you have absolutely no feeling for the theatre. We are not here to see the celebrities. We are waiting in line to see actors interpret a classic."
I thought, "Yes. Russians understand art."
9:10 p.m. I polished off The Scarlet Letter, closed the book, the wind moving the trees above, and put my head down on my knees. I had tears in my eyes. I wondered what became of Pearl, what her life was like.
9:30 p.m. Parts of the show reached our ears, carried on the wind. Echoes, reverberations of the play occurring 200 feet away. At one point, we could clearly hear Meryl Streep's agonized shriek. An electric current passed down the line, and we all fell silent, listening intently. I heard Chandra murmur seriously, "That was her."
"Her".
I lay down in the dirt, my head on my bumpy knapsack. The dark trees covered the night sky above me. So often in life I anticipate or worry about what is coming next. But right then, in Central Park, the moment was enough. More than enough.
9:35 p.m. People crawled into sleeping bags, settling in for the night, as though this were a normal time for night-owl New Yorkers to go to bed. It was dark and we could not leave the line. What else was there to do? Elena and Max curled up underneath a blanket. I heard her whisper at one point, "Bite my elbow." I did not peek to see if Max complied with her request.
9:50 p.m. My teeth felt fuzzy. I was hungry.
I wanted to leave the line and find a deli over on Lexington. Gabriel had told us that if we left the line for over half an hour our spot might not be there when we return. "The Line does not look kindly upon you if you leave for three hours and return looking rested and freshly showered and still expect to have your place…" Gotcha, Robespierre.
It took me 15 minutes to get up the nerve to leave.
I told Baltimore Dude my plans, just in case. I trusted he would stick up for me and my spot in line (#56) should questions or accusations arise.
10:05 p.m. I hurried through empty shadowy Central Park as though I had nothing to be apprehensive about, and gangs of wilding boys were not waiting to attack me. I was not just a foolish girl walking through Central Park at night; I knew I was part of something much much bigger.
10:08 p.m. I raced to a deli, feverishly grabbing snacks, my eyes on the clock, ants in my pants. "It's been almost ten minutes! Hurry!!" Nature abhors a vacuum and I coveted my place. Others, further back in the Line, were not guaranteed a ticket. It was a crapshoot for them. But I loved my #56 placement. For me, seeing the show the following evening was a done deal.
As I returned, coming over the grassy knoll, I could feel the Line check their watches, monitoring the length of my absence.
11:00 p.m. The audience emerged from the show, strolling by our refugee camp. They were all dressed up, suits, high heels, clean hair, but the night before they were lying in the dirt, too. There was a sort of force field between the two groups. They smiled over encouragingly. But warily, too. They did not approach us. It was like we were under quarantine.
One of the card-playing guys called out to them, "How was the show?"
Answers came back.
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Terrific!"
"Wait until you see her!"
But one guy said flatly, "If you're not too busy to take the day off and wait in line, then the show's okay."
This last comment angered the Line. We only wanted raves. Be positive and enthusiastic or keep your mouth shut, please.
I heard people on our side repeating it to each other, contemptuously. "'If you're not too busy'?? What the hell kind of answer is that??"
Envy radiated from both sides of the force field. The envy from our side came from the obvious fact that we still had 14 hours of waiting ahead of us. It was an eternity. The envy from their side was subtler. We in the Line still had so much ahead of us, so much to look forward to. Their experience was over, on its way to being just a memory.
11:20 p.m. A good friend called my cell phone before going to sleep in her warm bed, to see how I was holding up. Baltimore Dude was snoring lustily beside me, and I held the phone out towards him so that she could hear. I described to her the scene before my eyes. The dark serpent of people weaving through the trees, little rounded tents, bobbing lights, low distant conversation. "I feel like I'm in The Hobbit, you know?"
11:30 p.m. I curled up in the dirt, the wind on my face, and fell asleep.
Friday
1:30 a.m. Movement. Confusion. I opened my eyes and saw people on their feet all around me. Squinting into the flashing lights of Officer Foccaccia's vehicles, completely disoriented but following orders, I got to my feet, lugging my bag of books up onto my shoulder.
The great Migration from Central Park out to the street was soon underway.
Maintaining the Line during our march was paramount. The pace was ruthless. If your shoe became untied, if you dropped something, if you tripped and broke your leg, the Line would flow mercilessly on, never looking back. The Sherpa dropped her shrink-wrapped cushion contraption and we all marched past her unfeelingly.
Well.
This is not strictly true.
I had some feelings.
I had feelings of triumph and glee. I felt like calling out, "Better you than me, sister!"
Within six hours of being in line I did not recognize myself. All compassion for my fellow human creatures dissolved in favor of keeping the Line in order.
Emerging onto Central Park West had its own particular brand of chaos. People were hanging around out there, waiting to join the Line and we in the already-established Line were blatantly not happy to see them. They could easily take advantage of our sleepy pandemonium and start cutting left and right.
We barked at these newcomers. "Stay back! Stay back!" "The end of the line is THAT way." "I SAID STAY BACK." We were bleary-eyed and punchy, racing to re-establish the Line, tearing about, staking territorial claims. I saw people toss sleeping bags down ahead of them and take flying leaps into place. I scored two feet on a park bench. Chandra and her friend feverishly erected a tent on the sidewalk. The two guys they had befriended joined them inside. As though they had known each other all their lives. I wondered about the sexual politics of the situation. Baltimore Dude, a successful man with a good job, curled up on the cobblestones surrounded by cigarette butts. Elena put her yoga mat down on the sidewalk and lay on her back. Max took up the rest of the bench with me.
During the flurry of activity, Max glanced up and down the line, taking it all in, transfixed, and then shook himself, saying, "I forgot for a second what we all were doing here."
1:55 a.m. Unbelievably, I was still #56 after all that mayhem. Someone actually went up to the front once everyone had settled down, and counted back, obsessively.
2 a.m. Max glanced down at Elena, stretched out in solitary state on the sidewalk, her hair fanning out, arms folded over her chest like a mummy. He contemplated her for a while and then said, "Right now you look just like you looked the day I fell in love with you."
After 2 Busses lumbered by with eerie lit-up interiors, like an Edward Hopper on wheels, all the people inside staring out at the scene in disbelief.
A cab drove by and I heard a guy scream from the back seat, triumphantly, "I SAW IT!!" I don't think he meant the production, I think he meant the phenomenon of the Line. The Line had been written up in the New York Times, and he had "seen it". Like aurora borealis. Or Snuffleupagus. But of course I cannot be sure of what he actually meant because I never got to ask him about it.
After 2 It did not take the Line long to discern that this was the evening for Upper West Siders to toss their furniture out onto the sidewalk. A frantic scavenger hunt began, people dashing up and down 81st and 82nd, lugging the discarded mattresses back to the Line. Mattresses, which had just that day been up in some penthouse, were now comforting the Seagull squatters a block away.
Max dragged back a single mattress for him and Elena to share, which was a relief for me. It had seemed odd to me to see Max way up on the bench with Elena way down on the pavement. There was something very wrong about all that empty space between them.
2:30 a.m. or so The newcomers looked crestfallen when they emerged from the subway station outside the Museum of Natural History and saw the sprawling tent-city which stretched into the distance. They thought they were so on top of things, so radical, setting out to get in line at 2 a.m., but they were unaware that there were throngs of people in NYC crazy enough to grab a spot in line at 7 p.m. One cute little couple slowly walked by us, holding bedrolls, making their way around Chandra's tent, glancing down at Elena and Max on their mattress. They did not say a word as they passed us, but as they moved on I heard the guy murmur to the girl, "We're never gonna get tickets. These people are hardcore."
3 a.m. or so The mugginess of the day disappeared, and a chilly wind blew over us. My goal was to find a position on the bench where none of my skin touched the air. This became an interesting project for me and took up quite a bit of time. I must have looked like a Kama Sutra for When You're By Yourself video. Eventually I slept. Sort of.
Sometime after that I opened my eyes for no apparent reason. The Line slept. Everything was quiet and dark and chilly. The windows of the penthouse apartments lining CPW stared down on us darkly. I wondered what we looked like from up there. Occasional empty cabs floated up the avenue aimlessly.
I looked down at Max and Elena, curled up on their bare mattress, spooning, their legs intertwined, arms wrapped around each other. In full view. Beautiful. Simple. They were a haiku made manifest, on the pavement.
Sleepily, I thought of Michael, one of my ex-boyfriends. My favorite ex-boyfriend. He would have been a perfect partner for an adventure such as this. I lay there, shivering, twisted up like a pretzel, images of him drifting by. Suddenly, even though our relationship was long buried, I missed him intensely. It seemed wrong that I had lost track of him so completely. I have no idea where he is right now, if he is alive or dead, happy or not. I hate that: how some people are lost, and disappear forever.
5:30 a.m. The Return of Officer Foccaccia.
The world was grey. The grey dawn light seeped into the buildings, the trees, the grass, and our sleepy skin. We got ourselves together and began the surreal procession back through the misty deserted park. We walked calmly and silently in single file, sleeping bags draped over shoulders, mattresses hoisted over heads like canoes. This march had none of the cutthroat anxiety of the first one. How easily one grows accustomed to insanity. How quickly the absurd becomes mundane.
Camps were re-erected in all of two seconds. People fell back asleep instantly.
7:15 a.m. Morning in Central Park. Normal New Yorkers slowed down as they passed by us, dogs on the leash, staring at us blatantly, wondering what the hell we were doing. The Line was still asleep, for the most part, so we must have looked a bit like Jonestown.
We, by that point, had been in line for so long that our normal everyday lives had completely disappeared. We had taken time off work, gotten babysitters, cancelled plans. It was incredible to us that there were people on the planet who were NOT in line and who had no desire to get in line.
Who are these freaks? we thought, as we lay on our stolen mattresses and curled up in the dirt, brushing our teeth in public. What is the MATTER with them?
8:30 a.m. One of the members of the line began to stretch. Endlessly. This was not your basic morning knee-bend. She stretched as though she were about to randomly run a marathon and be back in time so she wouldn't lose her place. She flipped herself over a park bench and did crunches. She used trees in innovative ways. She did dance-y runs up and down the path in front of us, her long grey hair billowing. Perhaps she had taken a break from her Navy SEAL training to join the line. I tried to read Catch 22 but she kept pulling focus. I heard Chandra say to her friend, "I wish she'd stop. She's stressing me out."
9:10 a.m. Kathleen from the Delacorte stalked up and down the line, screaming at us, letting us know what was going to happen and when. Gabriel had done the same thing the night before and the Line, as a whole, had bristled with resentment. Who does he think he is? Who elected him Lord of the Line? Who gives a damn that his uncle is a congressman? But our night out in the open had beaten us down a bit. We accepted autocracy meekly and gladly now. People waiting in line, confused, bored, ambitious, cling to the one who promises to organize them. The Line yearned for a strong hand after a time of chaos and hardship. Many incomprehensible regimes from history began to make sense to me.
10:30 a.m. "Would you like to sign our petition?" "Want to join this mailing list?" "Here's a petition – you want to sign?" Representatives of every boneheaded cause in New York moved up and down the line. Or at least the causes seemed boneheaded to me on three hours sleep. By the time the 5th or 6th person came down the line asking us to support turning all of the East Village into some matriarchal society of grass huts, we categorically refused to sign. Please stop taking advantage of us because you know we cannot get away from you.
10:40 a.m. A festival of bonding around me. The card players finalized plans to get together again in their normal lives, outside the Line. Strangers found obscure things in common. Two men, one from Norway and one from Mexico, who had met only because they sat next to each other, struck up a chess game. A deep emotional bond clearly had formed between them. I gave my email address to at least five people. I overheard one man say to a woman he had just met in the Line, "Well, send me your resume. I can pass it on to HR."
11:10 a.m. My cell phone rang. Tearing myself away from Catch 22, I answered.
"Hello?"
I heard my friend Rich say, "How do you like your coffee?"
11:45 a.m. Rich appeared, carrying a picnic basket which contained two steaming thermoses of hot coffee, and two bagels with cream cheese. He sauntered up, grinning, and tossed a New York Times into my lap. We chowed on bagels and I talked his head off. I beamed upon him, thinking, like the song says, that I "must have done something good" to have such a one as he in my life.
12:10 p.m. As Rich was about to leave, a petitioner approached, her smile tentative from rejection. "Hi … excuse me … we're trying to get cars banned from Central Park. Would you like to sign our petition?"
Elena said, kindly but firmly, "I don't think that will ever happen."
The woman's smile looked now like a shriek of rage. "I was there when they took down the Berlin Wall and people thought that would never happen either."
Rich said, "But Central Park was built for cars to be able to go through it."
A guy sitting to our right chimed in, "I think we have more to fear from the roller bladers in Central Park. One of them plowed into me once."
A tense silence fell, and No-Car woman snapped, "Okay, fine. So I guess you guys don't want to sign" and stalked off.
Rich and I marveled at the ludicrous equation of no cars in Central Park to the Berlin damn Wall coming down. What are you SAYING, woman?
"Only a truly privileged person would make a comparison like that," I said with gusto, gulping down the last of my coffee, filthy, happy, righteous. (And privileged myself.)
12:30 p.m. Kathleen ordered us around like Lucy Van Pelt. "Okay, everybody! Stand up! Make a single line! Tickets are handed out starting at 1 p.m." We obeyed, packing up our sprawling selves, sucking our meanderings into a single-line formation. We felt threatened by the people wandering around on our outskirts like hyenas, eyeing us greedily, waiting for us to look the other way so that they could leap into the line. We huddled together, closing up the vulnerable spaces between us.
12:40 p.m. Baltimore Dude and I had a conversation with only three elements to it:
1. One of us would state the title of one of Meryl Streep's films.
2. Both of us would make some sort of brief subjective exclamation.
3. The other would vehemently list another one of her films.
And so on. It went on forever.
"Silkwood! Amazing!"
"Oh! Totally! And Sophie's Choice! Come ON!"
"Yes! And how about French Lieutenant's Woman? Gorgeous!"
"Oh my God. And Postcards From the Fucking Edge. Hilarious!"
"Brilliant! And don't forget Kramer vs. Kramer—"
"My GOD…"
What can I say. We had had three hours of sleep in the dirt. We did the best we could.
12:50 p.m. Baltimore Dude told me that he had just had spinal surgery and was missing his morphine. He blatantly confessed, "Morphine is great for the pain, but it makes it really hard to go to the bathroom." There was a pause. He went on, clarifying the finer points for me: "Number One and Number Two."
I did not find it at all odd that a stranger would confess this to me, or that an adult would say the words "Number Two" right to my face. I was completely sympathetic and horrified for him. "Wow. No Number Two, either? That sounds terrible!"
"Oh, it is! It is!"
12:52 p.m. The inevitable occurred. Someone "cut". It was far back in the line and word of it flashed up to us in front at the speed of light.
"Someone cut—"
"What? What?"
"Where?"
"Wait – what? Someone cut?"
"Who cut? Who cut?"
We craned our necks to see "the cutter", all of us straining out of the line diagonally, surging with blood lust. Someone, a grown man, called out at the top of his lungs, "KATHLEEN! SOMEONE CUT!" His face was in a frenzy of rage. We applauded him. Tattle-tales get what they want out of life.
Kathleen catapulted into action, and charged down the path toward the "cutter". We cheered ferociously, as though we were at the Coliseum.
"You GO, Kathleen!"
"You get him, Kathleen!"
She was a tiny girl for a gladiator, wearing plastic barrettes and high-top sneakers, but she was our defender because we could not defend ourselves. We loved her.
The entire line had turned away from the Delacorte to watch Kathleen's blazing trail. Suddenly Max exclaimed, in a tone of horrified realization, "It's a diversionary tactic! Now the front of the line is undefended!" Alarmed, we whirled around to face the Delacorte again. Max kept talking, pumping up our paranoia: "It's a classic flank maneuver! This is how Napoleon won the battle at Lodi!"
1:15 p.m. The next thing I knew my dirty little fingers clutched two free purple tickets.
1:20 p.m. Baltimore Dude and I had a happy beaming moment of parting, saying, "I'll look for you tonight." I floated down the path, triumphant, in my filthy baggy overalls, my hair sleep-spiked around my face. All around me I saw people saying goodbye to the new friends they had made in line.
"I'll see you tonight."
"I'll see you tonight."
We looked forward to seeing one another again.
7:00 p.m. I ran into Elena outside the Delacorte in the midst of the teeming hoard, while waiting for my sister Siobhan. Elena and I greeted one another with the affection of old friends. Her green eye shadow swooped upwards, like Cleopatra. Over to our right I could see the line burgeoning on, folks getting ready to spend their second night out in Central Park.
7:50 p.m. Once we were inside the theatre, Siobhan eventually stopped asking, "How do you know that person?" I recognized almost everyone there from the Line. I heard a woman say a few rows back, "It's so funny seeing everyone look so nice now. The last time I saw these people, they were all so grubby."
I saw the Sherpa. I almost didn't recognize her without all the gear strapped to her back. Now that she was out of the line she seemed like a perfectly nice normal woman. Her mission was accomplished and she was in HER seat. At long last. Having a seat of one’s own was what each of us wanted, after all.
The Seagull A couple of times during the show, when we all would laugh or clap, my consciousness would slip itself up over the wall and peer down on the Tolkien landscape below. I could see the twisting line, the gnomes crumpled in the dirt, pricking up their ears, keeping hope alive in their Hobbit hearts. I remembered when we heard Meryl Streep's voice flying out over us, and how exciting it was. Hearing her voice helped us to endure, to hang on, because at the end of the 18 hours, at the end of the line, there would be her.
We had waited long hours, we had peed in the bushes, we had no sleep. All for them. In return, they bombarded us with their gifts. We were a raucous vocal entranced audience, letting them know at every second how we felt about them. It was a two-way current of love and appreciation, the likes of which I have rarely experienced in the theatre.
At some point during the ovations, I burst spontaneously into sobs. I cannot explain why I was crying except to say that suddenly I was overwhelmed with the "too much-ness" of everything.
11:00 p.m. Siobhan and I staggered down the path, not speaking. I glanced over and saw the lanterns, the tents, the dark forms on the ground. The Line went on, but it was a different Line now. Not my Line. I felt a little bit lonely for my Line. I wondered how Max liked the show. If he became reconciled to Chekhov, and forgave the seagull for not being a wild duck.
11:03 p.m. A couple charged up to us, holding hands, smiling excitedly. I noticed the sleeping bags under their arms. The guy demanded, "Is it worth it?"
For a brief moment I hesitated, for the production was not without its flaws.
But as I took in the happy open-faced couple, I remembered how angered we all were the night before at the "If you're not too busy to wait in line, it's okay" comment. So I said, smiling, "Oh, yeah. It is totally worth it." I spoke the truth. It was worth every second.
In my own dear bed that night, my final thought was not of Meryl Streep or Kevin Kline or Anton Chekhov. My final thought before drifting off was of Max's mother. I wondered how her surgery went and I hoped that she was all right. I thought of Max and Elena, too. I hoped that all was well with them, and that all would continue to be well.
June 10, 2005
Last night ...
... I had a moment where I absolutely despised this city. I despised it with every fiber of my being. I became Travis Bickle momentarily ... you know how he says he wants to just flush the whole place down the toilet and start again? I felt that way. I despised it so much that I found myself stalking up the street, in the hot muggy air, with the car horns blowing around me, TALKING TO MYSELF, speaking out loud, saying: "This city sucks. I hate it here." So basically what I'm saying is, I became a crazy person.
It was hot and sticky. Hell's Kitchen, where I was walking, lived up to its name. Everyone annoyed me. There was a cornucopia of disaster vehicles, sirens blaring, going this way, that way, stuck in traffic. Trash bags piled up on the sidewalks.
I was going to meet him at a martini bar - and I THOUGHT I knew where it was ... I was CONVINCED of it ... I had said to him, "It's on 46th and 9th." I get to 46th and 9th: no martini bar. Now, I just recently went to this martini bar ... so ... er ... WHERE THE HELL IS IT?? I was going to be late. And he doesn't have a cell phone (uhm - what??) which meant I couldn't call him. Which also meant that I had emailed him saying: "It's on 46th and 9th" ... when obviously ... it wasn't at all. I thought he and I would wander the streets, lonely and lost, missing each other ... dodging the disaster vehicles careening by.
By this point, I was DRENCHED in sweat. I sweated off my lovely sheen of face powder, and my mascara was now inking up in the corner of my eyes. My shirt stuck to my back. I was furious. Every time I felt a bead of sweat drip off my forehead, I got more and more irritated. hahaha I must have looked like a scowling red-faced Irish bitch stalking up 9th Avenue with my hi-top sneakers.
I started to look around me, at the filthy sidewalks, the crammed crowds, the lack of a breeze, the piled up trash and I thought: What. the. F***. Am. I. Doing.
Also: where the hell is the martini bar?
Finally, I took out the cell phone and called information for the number. I stood over on a corner, out of the way of the sticky jostling crowds.
Now, here's where I lost it:
The SECOND I stood still ... the SECOND I paused ... homeless people and crazy people began to approach me. One after the other. Three in a row. They came out of nowhere. Each had a request: Money? Cigarettes? Money for food?
I couldn't make my phone call in peace. I also - and this was what pushed me over the edge - I couldn't even STOP for one SECOND without having crazy people sniff me out, and leap on the opportunity. "Ooh! Look at her! We can pounce on her now!" That's why New Yorkers always walk so fast, and plunge along the sidewalks like robotic lunatics. Because if you stop - some crazy person will see his chance and come over and make some demand.
Living here as long as I have, I have to say: and sorry, this is blunt and mean: I never give homeless people money UNLESS they have an animal with them. haha I mean, I'm sure it's a scam like anything else - they have a dog, just so people like me will give them money. But whatever, I have my standards. If there's a little kitten sitting next to the stinky drunk homeless guy, then I'll drop a quarter in his cup. But other than that? Sorry. I HAVE HAD IT. Get your ass in AA, and stop bothering me.
Cold and cruel. Yup. That's what New York can do.
You don't see a lot of homeless people in the winter, because of the cold, but they come out in swarms in the summer. Summertime homeless people are, I have found, more aggressive, and more nuts. They let it all hang out. They feel so happy and free because they made it through the horrible winter, and now they can just be FREE to be INSANE up and down the avenues. They get very aggressive, and they will not take No for an answer.
All I wanted to do was call information. But the second I stopped moving ... I was approached. Homeless guy on crutches: "Spare some change?"
I was busy, so I shook my head - focusing on my phone call. He disappeared.
Homeless guy # 2 approached. "Can you spare some change?"
Now I started getting angry. I shook my head curtly, not worrying about his feelings ... because at that point the Operator came on, and I needed to talk with her. Our conversation began - I was telling her the name of the place I was looking for, if she could give me the address ...
And as she gave me the address, Homeless guy #3 approached ... This guy had a whiny voice: "Ma'am ... please ... can you help me?"
Because he spoke to me, I missed the Operator telling me the address - and I said to the guy, shortly, "No." Back to the phone call: "Sorry, can you repeat that?"
She gave me the address again, but homeless guy did not move ... and said again ... (making me miss the address again): "Pleaaase? Please help?"
I lost it. I groaned out loud, and stalked away from him - and as I walked off, homeless guy's whiny little voice turned aggressive and hostile in an instant, and he SHOUTED at me as I walked away. Called me an awful name I will not repeat.
Anyway. FINALLY, I was able to hear the Operator tell me the address - but damn, what a journey to get there. God forbid you STOP WALKING for one second. If you do ... crazy people will begin to merge on you ... sniffing your indecision ... looking for an opening ...
But. On the bright side.
I was only a couple blocks off, in terms of the address of the martini bar ... and when I finally arrived, I was only 5 minutes late. He was sitting at the bar, and I arrived ... drenched in sweat, no more translucent powder on the face, I looked awful. Harassed and awful. A sweaty red-faced mess. But the martini bar was cool, deliciously cool ... my martini was cold, and fabulous. The lights were low, the conversations low ... and within 5 minutes, I had shuffled off the hot loud chaos of 9th Avenue ... and relaxed, settled into a great evening of conversation, laughter, food.
It's a kind of amnesia. By the end of the night ... in the cool candlelit martini bar ... where we talked about neuroscience, and theatre, and consciousness ... we toasted Anne Bancroft ... and by the end, I was thinking: God, I love New York!!!
Ridiculous. From one extreme to the other.
June 9, 2005
The smudginess of everything
The heat is on. Yesterday was unbearable. Muggy, sticky, yukky ... I came out of my class, and I was way up in the Upper East Side. I never go up there. It was the kind of evening where the air does not move. I don't even care if it's hot ... as long as the air MOVES.
I walked for a while after my class, talking to my parents on the phone, drinking water.
It was 8:45 pm. A smudgy hot sunset sky. You know how the sky looks like a blurred chalk-drawing on a hot hot night? The clouds were smudged-out and grey, and beyond it was a hot hazy pink. Trees lined the Upper East Side streets, leading off to the right to Central Park ... already swathed in shadow, and leading off to the left to the East River, a smudge of silver.
I hate the heat, but the colors and sensations sure were purty. Everything seemed soft, and slightly blending into everything else. Trees blending into the air, the sky blending into the tops of the skyscrapers ... Everyone walking on the sidewalk seemed hot, the girls lifting the hair up off their necks, languid gestures, the guys wearing backwards baseball caps. Flip flops.
I then went to the birthday party in a delicious air-conditioned bar. There were flowers, there were Angel Cards (one for each guest. Mine was "willingness". I'm a raw nerve these days. Just plain old raw. Felt like crying when I read that word), and the birthday girl (my dear friend Jen) was blowing bubbles in the bar. Wearing stilettos, with a rose in her hair. That was my first image of her when I walked in, and I laughed out loud.
I ended up in a conversation with a couple of people I didn't really know ... and we had a blast.
The conversation had a couple recurring themes. At one point, each one of us said something along the lines of:
"Even though I don't believe in astrology, he was a Pisces, and I was a Gemini ... and that just doesn't mix."
"I'm a Capricorn and she was an Aries ... I mean, I don't give any credence to all that stuff ... but still ..."
"I'm a Sagittarian, so factor that one in! Not that I believe in that stuff ..."
Each one of us had separate scoffing-at-astrology-yet-accepting-the-horoscope moments. Hahaha
I drank a vodka gimlet. Then I meandered through the smudgy night to the Christophere Street station to go home. I had just missed the train and I had a 40 MINUTE WAIT FOR THE NEXT ONE. Life is so bleak in those moments of revelation. It was one o'clock in the morning. I was exhausted. It had been a long day, I had been up since 5.
Everyone was lying around on the Path station floor, waiting, talking quietly. Cute little couples curled up on the tile, girls flopped down using backpacks as pillows ... I myself lay down on the tile (no benches, in case you're wondering what the hell our collective problem was), and read my book until the train came to whisk me under the river and take me home.
Today is not quite as hot, but there remains that still pregnant feeling in the molecules ... a tension or pressure that needs to be broken. We're moving into the season of daily afternoon thunderstorms, and we really need one badly today. I don't like the blinding glare of mid-day, but I do like the soft sunset of a hot hot night. I'm picky about weather.
April 22, 2005
Magnificence
The night is cold and wet here, after a week of warmth. I love the cold and wet, so I'm happy. The sky began to darken at around 4, you could sense things hunkering down, you could sense the weather approaching.
I had some errands to do. It was around 6 pm. I walked along the Hudson River, Jersey-side. The Empire State Building was bright blue and bright green. There are dogwood trees in a little park, the blossoms glowing white in the dark grey air. It wasn't raining yet, but the air felt wet, if that makes sense. I did my first errand, came out of the shop, and walked towards my video store. I glanced to my right, through the dogwoods, and saw a magnificent sight.
The Queen Mary 2 slowly floating by, right there, a massive beautiful boat, a skyscraper on its side, majestic, quiet, slow - like a glacier. Moving south, so tall, it blocked out the skyline beyond. Only the blue and green spire of the Empire State Building showed above it. It was such a sight. Especially because the Hudson is so narrow, and the buildings of New York City are so toweringly tall ... and yet, in that context, the Queen Mary dwarfed everything. She was the only game in town.
People just stopped in their tracks and watched her go by.
It was absolutely magnificent.
April 21, 2005
I miss the dirt and grafitti
I thought I was the only one who missed the old seedy abandoned-building Midnight Cowboy charm of Times Square. I thought I was the only one who thought the cleaning up of Times Square was kind of a shame.
I mean, I think it's great the city is not so randomly violent anymore. I do. But I don't like the homogenization of so much of it now. And where have all the hookers gone ... long time passing ...
I didn't move to New York City to be in a safe stable environment. I didn't move to New York City to walk the straight and narrow. Sure, it's good for business, Times Square as it is now. I know all the reasons. I feel grateful that I can ride the subway up to my friend's in Morningside Heights and not feel like I am going to be raped at any second for having the AUDACITY to take the subway through Harlem. I don't miss THAT part of New York. But I do miss the old landscape of Times Square, I miss the old specific signage (Lileks takes great photos of that stuff (like this series- you still can see the old signs from the 40s and 30s here and there, but you have to have a reaaally good eye now), I miss the vague sense of naughty things going on behind closed doors.
I took a series of pretty amazing black and white photos (if I do say so myself) of the grime and porn and old strip joints on Times Square before they gutted the whole thing and made it tourist friendly. I'm so glad I did. The end of an era.
(I do realize that my emotions in this regard probably has to do with this. Nostalgia is a big deal to me. Honoring the past is a big deal to me. And also - I have a hard time letting go of things. It's all of a piece. I hate change. I don't hate progress - not necessarily, but I don't always LIKE it, and what progress DOES. If there's a grove of trees I adore, that has always been there since I was a child, you can bet that I will have to mourn the loss of it for a good week or so when they cut the grove down to make room for condos. And I will feel a pang for YEARS to come when I drive by the new neighborhood of condos - remembering: "God, member the grove of trees that used to be there??" I don't take things lightly I guess is my point.)
April 11, 2005
Saturday night snapshots ... with some helpful information
-- I met up with Liam and Paul at a bar called The Magician on Rivington Street. I had never been there before, but within 5 minutes it became one of my favorite joints in town. (New York is packed full of bars and clubs, but most of them suck. Or are so pretentious you can barely breathe.) The Magician is an enormous bar, but not alienatingly so. It's candlelit, with a back room... the whole place has a white tile floor, a big neon clock, a polished dark wood bar, a gleaming mirror behind the bar, and film-noir-esque blinds on the windows. You walk in and step into another time (but it's not pretentious, or like a movie set). It really looks like it's from another time, when life was a bit slower, and you had a bit more room in life. Lydia joined us later, after she got off work. It's always good to be with family, to see my family, to connect with them. The night was a real blessing, in that way. Especially because we had been planning this night for 2 months. How rare does that happen, in New York!!! You say, "Oh yeah, we really should do that, that sounds cool" and then you so rarely actually DO that. One of my New Year's resolutions has been to actually DO the things that I say "Ooh, that would be cool" about. (Hence: the Hamilton exhibit, the Diane Arbus exhibit, making sure I saw The Gates, seeing Kathleen Turner in Virginia Woolf, etc. You see there's a theme here, a method to my madness). So. The O'Malley cousins SAID we wanted to do this back at Liam's birthday party ... and whaddya know ... there we were, following through. Sadly, my cousin Kerry could not join us - she was much missed.
-- Doors at Bowery Ballroom opened at 8:30, so we hung out at The Magician for a couple of hours, drinking beer, catching up. Marveling at how much the city can change in a matter of days - suddenly it's springtime weather, the days are a bit longer, and now the streets are clogged with people. You can feel it in the air, the change-over of seasons. We were on the Lower East Side, and there was a parade of Saturday-night traffic strolling by, people with jackets over their shoulders, wearing short skirts, flip-flops ... a visible and tangible sense of freedom, release from the winter.
-- Many funny stories told. Much laughter round the table.
-- After the Queen show, we reconvened on the sidewalk outside the Ballroom, all blissed OUT. Just raving at each other, "Wasn't it inCREDIBLE?" "God, that was SO. MUCH. FUN." It was about midnight, so we wandered off in an easterly direction, deciding to have another drink somewhere. We didn't know where. We didn't care. There are so many bars down there, all you have to do is walk half a block and you have 6 choices. We ended up finding the funniest randomest place, and hanging out there for about an hour. It had no name - at least no signage, nothing that I could see. It was a hole in the wall. It was PACKED. I said to Lydia, "I have no idea where I am right now but this is great." I can't tell you what street it was on, nothing. We strolled by it, said, "This looks okay" and walked in. Music was blaring, there were ratty old 1950s style tables (not retro-chic either. These tables looked like they actually came out of somebody's grandmother's garage). Chrome and leather ... big long red-leather seats, stuff pasted all over the walls (furry dice, old postcards ... but everything very haphazard and ratty). We drank PBR out of the can (ha!) and played pinball. FUN. Just FUN. I need to figure out just where exactly that place was, because it would definitely be a fun place to re-visit. It was jam-packed, and loud - but not TOO packed, and not TOO loud.
And finally:
-- At around 9:15 or so (earlier in the evening) we left to head to Bowery Ballroom to see the show. And on the way there, some information was passed onto us, which I would like to impart to you. Because: IT'S NOT TOO LATE. IT'S NEVER TOO LATE. We walked across Rivington (I love it down there, it's so grimy, grafitti, huge padlocks on the grilles in front of shops, pitch-black brick walls, random pristine galleries, and teetery tenements ... an odd mix). At one point, we passed a sex shop. None of us noticed it (because you just don't notice those things in New York), but as we strolled by it, Liam noticed a large sign in the window which declared: IT'S ANAL APRIL. Liam stopped us when he saw the sign: "You guys! It's Anal April!" Laughter ... hahaha We all had to see the sign, because it was just so ridiculous. We kept walking, laughing about having a MONTH devoted to "Anal" - and having this be proclaimed with no shame in the window of some dingy sex shop on Rivington Street. I said, "It's Anal April, huh? I better get on the stick!" which, naturally, ushered in a ton of other terrible puns. "I gotta get my ass in gear for Anal April!" "Bottoms up, everyone! It's Anal April!" So, dear readers. Just in case you missed the announcement, just in case you didn't see the full-page ad in the New York Times: Consider yourself enlightened now. You still have a good three weeks to fully celebrate Anal April.
"I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me ..."
Saturday night I met up with my cousin Liam, his wife Lydia, and Paul - one of Liam's friends - and went to go see the Losers Lounge tribute to Queen at the Bowery Ballroom. I didn't know what to expect, what exactly I was going to see ... Neither did Lydia. We kept joking about it. "Uhm ... what are we doing tonight? What IS this thing??" But once we were there, crammed up in the balcony of the Bowery Ballroom (the thing was sold out - it was AWESOME), we succumbed to the energy. It was one of the funnest most joyous nights in recent memory. That was the word that kept coming up - joy. What it is is: there is a core group of people, a core band. And they do various tribute nights to different artists, and they invite a cornucopia of talent from around New York (singers, performance artists, etc.) to come in and perform the different songs. It's hard to explain ... but we saw, over the night, probably 30 Queen songs performed, with almost as many performers. And let me tell you: this was not amateur night. They were amazing. And everyone was there for the sole reason of celebrating Queen.
It was one of those nights when you are proud and happy to be what I call "an obsessive". There are people out there who don't get obsessed with things, who just don't have that kind of drive, or who think that you should put away "obsessions" in order to be classed an adult. Etc. I actually don't KNOW any of these people, because my friends are all obsessives, too. If something comes along in our lives that shouts at us: "I'M INTERESTING. LEARN MORE ABOUT ME" we say "Yes" with no question.
It's part of the energy of being a "fan". Many people go through their lives without ever being a true and devoted FAN of any one thing (a band, an actor, an author, whatever). I can't imagine NOT having a "fan" personality, since I've always been this way.
What was SO wonderful and SO joyous about Saturday night was that the Bowery Ballroom was sold out with fellow Queen fanatics - an entire ballroom chock-full of obsessives. Happy joyous obsessives. The band themselves were happy joyous obsessives. It was so COOL to be in such a crowd. So much fun. We would hear the opening strains of this or that song, and - as a massive group - burst into cheers. Since we were up in the balcony, we got a good view of what was going on down on the floor, and it was BEAUTIFUL. Throngs of people, swaying, dancing, freaking out, singing at the tops of their lungs ...
It was beautiful. What I liked, too, was that the band didn't "interpret" Queen, or try to put their own stamp on Queen's songs. No. When they played "Crazy Little Thing Called Love", you recognized it. Even down to the guitar solos, etc. It was humble, in a funny way. And respectful. But NOT precious. A fine line. After all, this tribute was to a band named QUEEN, mkay? Subtlety was not their thing. heh So the guest-performers would come out, all dolled up for their songs ... in that high-camp hilarious way that Queen used to do ... and it was a celebration of the kind of music Queen made, and also a celebration of who that band was to all of us. It was awesome.
You could feel the Love in the air. You know? The open-hearted cheering innocent love. A beautiful energy.
We had so. much. fun.
They even did "Flash Gordon" - complete with interjected apocalyptic-sounding lines from the script ("Flash - Flash ... I love you! But we only have 14 hours to save the earth!") And the entire audience screamed those lines along with the performer up on stage. We all know every single song by heart. There was the lead singer in a long red cape, dressed up AS Flash Gordon ... You know that the evening is not overly reverent when they decide to put "Flash feckin' Gordon" on the play list. HA!! This was a night for the FANS.
Another highlight for me was they chose to do "Barcelona", a song Freddie Mercury wrote for the Olympics when they were held in Barcelona. He was (as is probably obvious) greatly influenced by opera, so he wrote a duet for himself and some Italian opera chick - the song was called "Barcelona", and I have it on one of my Greatest Hits albums. There's a full orchestra, the music is bombastic, open ... Mercury is singing HIS way, and opera-chick is singing her way - and the result is pretty much goosebump material. I've always loved it. Mercury was BORN to create shit like that.
So out onto the Bowery Ballroom stage come two people: a curvaceous brunette woman in a red-satin dress, holding a red rose, and a skinny raggedy rocker-boy in blue jeans and a torn-up T-shirt ... to sing the duet. Her soprano busting out the windows, his Robert Plant screeching in counterpoint - the two of them holding hands, and supporting each other, and singing the SHITE out of that song. The place went absolutely MAD. Mad, I tell ya.
So yeah, the night was full of the "hit songs". (I realized, on an even deeper level, just how unbelievable a song is "Somebody to Love". Oh. My. God.) But they also did stuff like "Barcelona", and more obscure stuff - but stuff that those guys up there loved.
And they ended the night with "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions". The entire cavernous space of the Bowery Ballroom was filled with that thumping beat - the audience clapping along thunderously - screaming at the tops of our lungs: "WEEE WILL WEE WILL ROCK YOU ..."
The guest-singer for this one was this guy. (Liam sent me the link today, because we all had been talking about him - "who WAS that guy?" He was just a feckin' rock star is what he was. He wore a silver sleeveless tanktop, tight PINK pants, and big sunglasses. His hair was long. And he sang the CRAP out of those two songs.) I can't even tell you how much we dug him.
We referred to him as "tight pants" afterwards.
"Who the hell was Tight Pants? Wasn't he GREAT?"
His "bio" on that site I linked to says this:
Rene Risque's yearning for experience is fueled by his vast wealth, allowing his whims total license...To watch him perform is to see a man who is hypnotically sure of his message, however misguided and self-centered it might be.
hahaha
The guy's entire life is a piece of performance art. I love him.
One of the other performers (who sang "Fat-Bottomed Girls") I actually had met and hung out with before. It took me a while to pinpoint it but once I remembered, it all came back. He was what I referred to as "scruffy Elvis Costello dude" at the Bloomsday celebration I attended last year. A huge group of us sat around outside after the Bloomsday stuff was over, drinking pitchers of beer (we were at the bar called, appropriately, Ulysses), and it was 3 or 4 in the afternoon, we had been doing Bloomsday stuff ALL DAY, as well as drinking ALL DAY, and somehow, someone started singing a song from "Oliver!", which then caught on - until an entire group of us, Irish and Irish-Americans all of us, sang through the entire score of "Oliver!" . Shouting "OOM PAH PAH OOM PAH PAH THAT'S HOW IT GOES ..." etc. etc. etc. We were OUTSIDE. In Wall Street. It was so much fun. So anyway, the guy I mention ("scruffy Elvis Costello dude") acted as our conductor. And there he was on the stage of the Bowery Ballroom, still scruffy, still all in black, with the pale Irish skin, the Elvis Costello glasses, the wacko black hair, singing "Fat Bottomed Girls" - out of his MIND. He's got a Tom Waits kind of voice, and a pleasantly lecherous and humorous personality - so that song was perfect for him!! It was awesome. Ha!! I met that guy!! (He's played in a ton of bands - that link is to his website. Joe Hurley is his name.)
It was a great great night. Liam, Lydia, Paul and I had a blast. So glad we went.
On nights like that, I think to myself: "I would never live anywhere else but New York City". The fact that it was sold out, jam-packed, out-of-control, filled with others who felt like we did about Queen ... that it was a night of innocence and singing-along at the tops of one's lungs (even to Flash Gordon) ... just made me LOVE this city.
Saturday night was a display of all the GOOD things that can be found on this sometimes-hard-and-bitter concrete island.
April 2, 2005
Today?
A monsoon.
And the Diane Arbus show at the Met. She wrote:
Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It's what I've never seen before that I recognise.
This statement is key. Whatever she came from did not fit. She was a square peg. But when she tripped over that which she had never seen before (the fire eaters, and midget performers, and burlesque dancers, and retarded adults) ... her work took off. She recognized these misfits, freaks and "geeks" - in a deeper and more compassionate way than she could recognize her own kind. That was her thing. It makes her work hard to take, at times, hard to look at.
It's an enormous show, it took us hours to get through the whole thing properly. It was dense, and emotional. Also PACKED. That's one of the many reasons why I love New York. If something is going on? Anywhere? The damn thing is PACKED. It's also a curse, because I hate crowds, but still. I love art, I love culture, I love to know that people give a shit about things ... and so in that sense, I love to see a crowd. You could barely move in the Diane Arbus exhibit. You had to inch this way, sidle that way ... the place was jam-PACKED.
I'm still thinking about her work. No conclusions. I think that may be one of Arbus' points, although I am not sure.
Her work doesn't "mean" anything. You can't look at it and say: "Aha, so THIS is what she is saying about modern life." Or - hell, you COULD look at it and say that, but I believe you would be over-simplifiying things to a massive degree.
It's important to take bad pictures. It's the bad ones that have to do with what you've never done before. They can make you recognize something you hadn't seen in a way that will make you recognize it when you see it again. -- Diane Arbus
I find her work disturbing, exhilarating, embarrassing, and on many levels totally disgusting. There were certain photographs (especially of the burlesque performers in their dressing rooms, circa 1950s) where I wanted to crawl into that world. The detail! But here, I think, is what Arbus' work is about:
We left the museum. We entered the MONSOON. We struggled with our umbrellas, we bent our heads against the wind, we started over towards Lexington.
My friend said, "It's weird. I feel like I'm looking at everyone now like they could be a Diane Arbus portrait. Don't you see everybody differently right now?"
Her work demands a response, sure. But not a specific response. She doesn't demand that you think: "oh, so the plight of the so-and-so class is awful ... we must all feel bad for those people ..." No. It's bleaker than that. It's simpler. No response is demanded of you. Nothing is supposed to happen. You can interpret all you want, fine, intellectualize it if that comforts you. But just know, that you are only guessing. Interpretation is not required.
What IS required of you, though, is that you LOOK. That's all. Just LOOK at these people. Make up your own mind, whatever. Make judgments, pass judgment, be judgmental, fine - it's a natural condescending response to those who are different from us. But you must LOOK. Just LOOK at these people.
We spent hours in that world today. Looking at all those people. And then staggering out into the Manhattan monsoon.
42nd Street movie theater audience, N.Y.C. 1958
God, to go to the movies in those days!!
A young Brooklyn Family going for a Sunday Outing, NYC. (1966) I do love this one. LOOK at that little boy. hahaha We saw that today at the exhibit, and just howled with laughter. LOOK AT HIM!! hahahaha
And then there's stuff like this photo below. Stuff you really don't want to look at. But Arbus says: LOOK. SEE THEM. THEY ARE NOT INVISIBLE. LOOK. (Not sayin' I want this shit on my walls! But I do think her message is of the utmost importance.)
March 27, 2005
The private mood of New York City
It's a chilly grey day here, with flags whipping in the wind, and the sidewalks quiet and sparsely populated. I love Manhattan on a Sunday morning. It's like a different city altogether. Wrapped in on itself, in a private mood, people going about their lives, quietly, sensibly, doing nice Sunday things.
Sometimes on Sunday mornings, I wake up early, take the bus into town, just so I can meander through the empty streets, the vendors setting out the flowers, or the fruit, random people jogging by, most storefronts locked up behind the grilles. I love the quiet. Meandering empty yellow cabs driving up 8th Avenue. In a weird way, it's peaceful.
Went to Easter Mass at my church on 36th Street. I love it there. It's one of those old cavernous urban Catholic churches squeezed in between storefronts. You walk through the wooden front doors and suddenly find yourself in a vast echoing space, you can't believe how large it is, judging from how cramped it appears from outside. I've been going to St. Mary's for about a year now, and I really like it.
March 1, 2005
New York snapshots
-- Snow driving down the avenues, already accumulating, a wild night, a stormy night. This stuff wasn't dissolving when it hit the sidewalk. The wind was high. Beautiful. In an annoying kind of way. Everything looks different in the city during a big snowstorm.
-- Last night, I met up with two dear friends - Kate and Guy - who were in from Chicago for an audition. We convened at a random bar on 6th Avenue. We drank vodka gimlets, laughed until we cried, and watched the snow stream by outside. Haven't seen either of them since Kate got married ... and yet it was like no time at all had gone by. No catch-up stuff needed, we just launch right into the jokes, and the real stuff.
-- They had already had 2 vodka gimlets by the time I was able to arrive. I decided to try to "catch up", which is pretty much always an unwise policy.
-- We sat on high stools, and we soaked up each other's company. It's RARE that people will really understand the humor in the sombrero chronicles ... really rare ... but these two, who were not there when the sombrero moments occurred, get it completely, and make me tell the story pretty much every time I see them. They will prompt me: "Do 'Mexico - the flower of Europe.'" "Mexico ... the flower of Europe." That's really all one needs to say.
-- Gimlets. Gimlets sucked down as the blizzard raged.
-- We reminisced about our AWESOME day together, the three of us, a couple years ago - when we went to see Private Lives on Broadway with Alan Rickman and Lindsay Duncan (which, honestly, I have got to say - is some of the best stage acting I've ever seen in my life). It was beyond exhilarating - the production was a revelation. I had to go back and re-read the play, because it seemed to me I had never really HEARD the damn thing before. GREAT production. Alan Rickman is awesome on screen, but you have not lived until you've seen him live. Anyway, we reminisced about that day. How amazing it was, and then how - as the three of us left the matinee to go get a cocktail, we took about 2 steps, and then the heel on one of my platform sandals snapped, or crushed, or SOMEthing - Whatever it was, my heel spontaneously destroyed itself and I WIPED OUT on the sidewalk. Literally. This was a massive fall, my arms flying about, my legs splayed crookedly ... I had on a cute little skirt, and a cute little top ... I was all giddy from the production, and then BOOM. I went down in SUCH a big way. My knees were bloody, and I completely scraped all of the skin off of my hands trying to break my fall. This is what I remember. Then we went to the Film Center Cafe (I walked barefoot, through the theatre district), and drank many martinis, and talked about the show, and laughed our asses off.
-- About 2 gimlets into my evening last night, I regaled Kate with an embarrassingly passionate defense of the movie Annie (no, not the FIRST one, but the one done for TV - with Audra McDonnell and Victor Garber and Alan Cumming, etc.) I LOVE it. And Kate had never seen it, and I talked about it so passionately that at one point actual tears came to my eyes. Guy pretty much laughed in my face, HOWEVER he backed me up. "It is really good, Kate - you need to see it." At one point, I suddenly could hear the tone of my voice, and said, flatly, "Listen to me. I am talking about this so seriously."
-- When I showed up, they were pretty looped. Guy did a little scat-singing thing right on my face within 5 minutes of my arrival, so that should give you some idea.
-- Guy left, to go back to the hotel. Kate and I stayed. And then, in a flash, I realized that I had, indeed, "caught up". I had sucked down my gimlets, and all of a sudden - it felt like a switch being flipped - I realized I was LOOPED. I lost all my powers of articulation. There were to be no more passionate Annie monologues. All I could do was murmur stuff inarticulately to Kate, and then say, "Y'know what I'm sayin'??" Uhm ... no, Sheila. No one knows what you're saying. I managed to say, "I am so trashed! This is awful!" Kate said, "I know! We were too. We had two gimlets, and suddenly it hit us - woaahhhhhh...."
-- We then ordered burgers and quickly drank 5 glasses of water a piece. We ate the burgers. They were the most delicious things we had ever tasted in our lives. We became completely normal and 100% sober following. The gimlet crisis had been handled.
-- We talked. She's one of my dearest friends.
-- Meanwhile, by the time we left the bar, the snow had pretty much coated the sidewalks. Nobody was out. The cabs careened by, the snow kept coming down.
-- We headed to Times Square, and met up with a couple other friends, in a cozy little French place, where we had olives, bread, and this pot de creme stuff that was beyond good. It felt like human beings could NOT have made that pot de creme. It came directly from the gods.
-- When we left the French bistro place, it was 11:30 at night, and the storm was raging. The streets were a mess, slushy, slippery, empty, and drifts were already forming. The snow drove across the city, it was beautiful.
The whole night was beautiful.
February 23, 2005
My (our) review of The Gates
As you all will recall, we had a group project here on my blog ... to come up with the most pretentious art-critic terms you could think of ... so I could write the most pretentious critique ever of Christo's The Gates, now up in Manhattan (which I actually did see, and thought was a lot of fun.)
The art-critic terminology suggestions were so awesome that tears literally streamed down my face as I read them all. You guys blow me away.
So now. At long last. I have put them all together ... some of your suggestions I have plopped into the review word for word. They're just too brilliant. Many of you just gave me WORDS to put into the review ... and so honestly, I did my best. Really I did. Even though I've never heard of many of these words. I may have left a couple out, but whatever. C'est la vie.
Thank you for all your help ... and now I present to you -
Our group project!!
REVIEW OF "THE GATES", WRITTEN BY A BUNCH OF PRETENTIOUS ASSWIPES
Christo, long-crowned the enfant terrible of the art world, has, through his latest ontological oeuvre, transformed our so-called familiar urban landscape of Central Park into something self-referential, stochastic, and yet at the same time mundane. One recalls the Dadaists and the soup cans of Andy Warhol, and one reflects on the normative paradigmatic shift of our hermeneutical age. There are those who will view The Gates as a didactic polemic, little more than a bete noire, still others who will see it as replete with a fertile esthetic, and others will want to burn themselves into a fiery crisp on national television, imitating (perhaps) the Buddhist monks of yesteryear, whose saffron-colored robes The Gates echo, in all their evanescent autarky.
The question remains:
The Gates: a simple recherche into the lost carts de jeunesse, a Dumbo's feather that lets the viewer soar back to the lost folly of youth? Or a sine qua non of postmodern folly?
The meaning of these 'Gates' might have been comprehensible had we discovered them rising against the warm backdrop of "avant-garde" Seattle, underwritten by Microsoft--but arising as they have, here, in the gritty cold heart of NYC, and funded by so-called 'artists' whose "creative" progeny are all indubitably strange, we find nonsense in the idea that meaning means anything 'sensible' and one rather suspects a joke being played and we, the viewers, don't yet quite "get" it.
I would equate the experience of walking through the exhibit with passing through the birth canal and suggest that those who hate The Gates do so because they despise their own existence. Christo's Gates are a physical representation of the artist's inner dialectic, juxtaposing saffron spirituality and utilitarian steel in a compromised landscape, and bring up the penultimate question: Ou les neiges de temps jadis sont?
If we know anything, we know this: Art is neither object nor subject, but the phenomenological intertwining of both so that 'appreciation' (in all its varied and multi- meanings) is born from the simple realization of perception. This recognition allows for art that is neither here nor there, but everywhere. And nowhere.
Christo's animism is at the heart of his challenge to the verity of truth, insofar as it rectifies the humanism of our spatial modality. 'Gates' purports to effect a nouveau realisme in which the actual is unrealized into a cathartic emanence of the whole.
The dialectic of Christo's "Gates" is a reflection of the post-9/11 zeitgeist, absent the schadenfreude qua nervousness that has gripped the American populace in this world of "now-more-than-ever." The semiotics of the saffron (en)robes serves an ontological function in re-animating and re-introducing the humanity of New New York to their perceptions of the orange joy of being - the being you felt as a child, vis a vis a pinata. The Gestalt bespeaks a Foucauldian Weltschmerz, a sumptuous feast of post-Derridian brio-cum-angst. It's in this context that "The Gates" covers, even metastasizes, over Central Park like a vast dollop of neo-maternalistic, neo-Marxian mayonnaise.
The panels, a touchstone of familiarity to the bourgeoisie (nursing at the paps of American Idol), emanate as immense labia beckoning, even taunting the onlooker to become, to be the phallus penetrating into Mother Nature - the maternal yin imprisoned in the mechanistic yang of the city and yet floating above the concept of restraint - the "Gates" welcome yet repel; they silently ululate like a shtetl of schmatte-clad yentas and yet remain silent with the deafening-yet-voiceless torment of the ur-mensch; metaphysical yet material (or rather neo-material), smug in its tangibility yet internally, silently, futilely screaming in horror at its immateriality. The "Gates" are, in short, of a piece with and yet utterly discontiguous from the fundamental leitmotifs of our age.
As for the sexualized nature-of-being within the context of the exposure: the gates cannot be phallic; by their very nature they must be Sapphic and labile, thus rendering the observer as a sort of unintended symbol of penetration qua probing. It mitigates the very phallocentric nature of our neo-culture where every wardrobe malfunction becomes a gesture of the feminine violent against a landscape of testicular domination. The flowing robes of the gates are by necessity, feminine; they recall the flowing garments of kindergarten teachers, of wash on the line, and the color - an ochre, rather than a true red - dimly recalls menstruation. What Christo has done here is nothing short of genius; the observer-as-penis concept writ large.
As rendered in 'Gates', the effect is homiletic rather than narrative--especially the goose shit on the sidewalks, which provides a whimsical counterpoint as well as a sobering reminder of our paternalistic dichotomy, where all true art is of necessity samizdat, and thus destined to languish in obscurity, ignored by the nekulturny hordes of bourgeois apparatchiks.
I gladly entered the Gates, feeling in them a life-affirming force, but couldn't help leaving with existential angst on my face, remembering Auschwitz.
In John Ashcroft's America, we are all diaspora.
February 19, 2005
I spent the afternoon with my boyfriend
Yeah, you know ... my boyfriend.
The guy I referred to, on this blog, as "my historical freebie". I should be put into Geek Jail for that comment.
But anyway!
He was hanging out ALL OVER the New York Historical Society.
I don't know what it is about Hamilton. He scares me at times - I can see why people hated and feared some of his ideas, at other times I am blown away by how far ahead he could see, at other times I honestly don't know what drove this man. Ambition? Hunger for power? What? If I might get a bit new-agey froo-froo here, it seems as though he knew he would die young. He crammed in enough living (and enough WRITING, Jesus) for three lifetimes. The speed and facility of his pen never ceases to amaze me.
Bill and I met on the front steps of the New York Historical Society (I was half an hour late due to NO UPTOWN TRAINS ... grrrrr). Across the street, we could see Christo's orange-flagged creation. Now I will not put the cart before the horse. My pretentious review will come later ... but still, let me just say this: It is really something to see them in person. To everyone all pissed off and grumpy about it, I have no idea what bug is up your ass. I laughed out loud when I saw the Gates. They seem so whimsical, and also - well, it's just that THERE ARE SO MANY of them. I guess I didn't really realize how enormous the project is until I SAW it. I took a cab from 59th Street to 77th Street - and the Gates covered the park for that entire time. Over hills and dales, up and down .. it's kind of extraordinary.
But I will get to them later.
NOW. I need to talk about my bad-boy Revolutionary boyfriend.
It was so terrific to go see the exhibit with Bill, another history buff (we laughed at one point about something, there was a pause, and then Bill murmured, "We are such geeks.") Heh. Exactly. I could not go to see that exhibit with someone who didn't "get it". It just wouldn't be satisfying. Bill and I walked around, in our geeky splendour, talking about Hamilton, discussing everything (the Navy, the various feuds, the battle of Yorktown, the Passaic Falls) ... We even answered a question a random elderly woman had, as she hovered over one of the exhibit pieces. I don't know why she asked us if he had ever gone to prison for financial crimes (basically insider trading) ... but there she was, asking us. We gave a detailed geeky answer.
The exhibit itself is beautifully done, I thought. The walls are painted a deep dark blue, and all of the lights are very low. Many of the glass cases contain scraps of writing - stuff which is already faded - so there is a very hushed feeling to the whole thing. Which I appreciate.
There are rounded-out niches in the walls - with gleaming marble busts - of Hamilton, one of Jefferson, a couple other founding gents. There are quotations (from Hamilton, from others about Hamilton) painted on the walls - they're everywhere. Some were long, verbose - some were short, like Hamilton writing, "I wish there was a war." There's one long corridor with the "Timeline". You wander along it, following his life - there are little artifacts and woodcuts and stuff on the wall - old maps of New York (Bill and I were amazed by that ... only Battery Park populated, the rest just farmland), Hamilton's Order of the Cincinnati medal, a small miniature of Hamilton when he must have been 12 or 13 ... the letter he wrote to his father describing the Hurricane that hit the islands - this letter pretty much launched him. Or at least got him to America. He wrote a descriptive letter describing the devastation of the hurricane, he was a teenager when he wrote it - 15 years old or something like that - (it is an incredible piece of writing - you feel like you experience the hurricane yourself when you read it) - and somehow someone else read it, and said, "This boy needs to go to college. You need to send him to the colonies to get an education." And that, of course, is what ended up happening.
There is a room filled with portraits. I was in HEAVEN. DO YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING AT YOU?? HEAVEN!
Trumbull, Peale, all the great portrait guys ... we've got Washington, and Martha, and John Jay, and that Duane guy, and Madison, and an incredible one of Thomas Jefferson that I don't think I had seen before. It's of Jefferson as an older man - and it has the breath of life in it. I don't know how else to describe it. It is obviously a painting, but it has the feel of flesh and blood. You can feel him thinking. There were also portraits that I recognized - the one on the cover of David McCullough's John Adams biography, for example. These portraits, lit very subtly, cover the dark blue walls, all the old faces, the familiar faces clamoring for our attention.
But my favorite room was a long quiet blue room (well, it was quiet for a while, then the MOBS showed up). One whole wall was glassed-in, and there were set-up exhibits in each one, from different sections of Hamilton's life. His time as the "bastard brat of a Scotch pedlar" - There were examples of his notekeeping when he worked as a clerk, there were models of ships ... Then on to America. We saw a REALLY COOL musket. I wanted to touch it. Bill, of course, explained to me the different parts of the gun, and how the bayonet-part had been put on the wrong way (only because the glassed-in area was not tall enough to fit the entire gun if the bayonet was attached). Cannon balls. Also, examples of the paper money. There was the printed version of the Declaration of Independence. And also a printed version of George Washington's Farewell Address (ghost-written by Hamilton, of course). There was a ton of other stuff. Bill and I moved along, reading all the little descriptions, stopping to discuss, peering in at things ...
They had the pages of the newspaper with Federalist # 1 printed. So - it's like your regular old op-ed column, surrounded by Want Ads, For Sale notices (some notices for slaves for sale, as well as horses and property) ... and there in the middle of all of that, a 2 column piece written by some mysterious personage named Publius.
I am so feckin' into the Federalist Papers that I felt like I might have a nervous breakdown seeing the actual newspaper where it first appeared. I have a problem at museums too. I want to TOUCH things. I wanted to feel that newspaper in my hands. Obviously they knew I was coming, because they hid it behind glass.
There were other things in free-standing glass cases throughout that long dark blue room ... Bill and I moved from one to the other to the other. There was a bound copy of the Federalist Papers. There were his hand-written notes to his blistering piece "on the character of John Adams", or whatever it was called. There were also his hand-written notes for his confession of adultery, right after the financial scandal (he was basically blackmailed by Maria Reynolds). There were his notes for the immediate confession when he came clean. There was a printed version of the Constitution. A lot of other things, too - literally SCRAPS of paper, with his familiar slanted flourish-y handwriting.
His handwriting was as bold and ostentatious as his personality.
I have left the best thing in that room for last.
It was the first thing you saw when you walked in.
His writing desk.
It was behind a rope, but there was no glass surrounding it, and my fingers literally itched. Bill and I both laughed at how much we wanted to reach out and touch that desk. The second I saw it, I was covered in goosebumps. I know that sounds goofy, but whatever, I'm a goof. It was a gleaming wooden desk, with all those little pigeon holes, and drawers, and it could be folded back up into itself. And there he sat, firing out pamphlet after pamphlet, article after article ... he wrote the Federalist Papers at that desk. It was Publius' desk. Oh God. It was a beautiful piece of furniture. I love to see the real thing. The actual thing. I read so much about these guys that they feel familiar to me, but to see their actual writing - in their actual books - and stuff like that - it's so satisfying, and exciting.
But the desire to reach out and touch the desk was too strong. Bill and I basically had to walk away. We didn't trust ourselves.
Oh, and there's a show done, at intervals, too, at the theatre in the Historical Society. The place was standing room only. I felt my heart puff up with pride, looking around at the crowds, everyone there, piling in ... Like: people still give a shit. Our history has not been forgotten.
After the show (a 2-person thing, using only the words of all the main characters involved), I admitted to Bill that I "feared that it would be cheesy" - but heaven and saints be praised the show wasn't cheesy at ALL. If I have any New Yorkers reading this, and are thinking of going in the next week, I highly recommend you attend the "show". It is well well worth it. Not a BIT of cheese to be found.
The play is performed by a man and a woman. There are screens behind them, where other images are projected, and other people ... but there are only two live performers. He plays Alexander Hamilton, and she plays three different roles (Hamilton's mother, Hamilton's wife, and the extortionist floozy Maria Reynolds). The actress playing the part wore the same gown and wig throughout - but when she played Hamilton's wife, she rolled the sleeves down - and when she played Reynolds, she had a fan. (The subtlety of these transformations was lost on a sweet little old man who sat in front of us. After the show, as Bill and I made our way out, we heard the woman he was with, a tiny old woman, say, "No, she changed roles." ha ha He didn't get the fan/sleeve thing ... So he must have been BAFFLED when the person who WAS Alexander Hamilton's mother suddenly was in a wild passionate embrace with her own son!!! But still, even with "she changed roles", he didn't get it. Bill and I were making our way out, and we KEPT hearing this little old-lady voice saying, repeating, "No ... no ... she changed roles!")
But Bill and I really liked the show - it's about 40 minutes long, and it's all taken from writing that is "out there", it exists, it's from the archive, a matter of public record, it's not some playwright's "interpretation" or anything like that. It's from Hamilton's letters, his writings, and also the writings of Jefferson, Madison, John Adams, George Washington ... I liked that.
The "bastard brat of a Scotch pedlar" quote made an appearance. Good old John Adams. Too bad he never said what he thought, huh? He was so shy with his opinions, so reticent.
I LOVED it. I loved the way they did it - it was subtle, it was humble, it wasn't bull-shit bad British accent posturing cheese-ball flunkie-actor acting that is 2 steps away from a Renaissance Fair. It was good substantial stuff. I was really into it.
And then it ended. On the Weehawken plain. Shooting up into the air, while Burr shot straight ahead.
I feel like I've just been feasting on a huge meal or something like that. It was most definitely a feast. Well worth it, well worth it indeed.
February 16, 2005
Vis a vis The Gates
So Curly and I were discussing, via email, my post about The Gates and how some people seem truly ANGRY about these things. I am baffled by their response, and baffled by their rage. It seems to me these people need to LOOK WITHIN and stop PROJECTING!!
I said to Curly:
I may have to write some grandiose post about how I discovered the Meaning of Life through the Gates (even if I hate them) – just to chap people’s asses.
I said I would make it very pretentious, and use a lot of big words.
So now has begun a game. Please join in. And I promise - after I see The Gates, I will write a HIGHLY pretentious review of them, somehow incorporating ALL of your words.
Curly responded:
You should include some foreign-sounding words too and set them apart with italics. Ex: "Pedro whacked the pinata until the candy fell out." You don't need to use the word pinata necessarily but you know what I mean. Oh and use the word zeitgeist!!
I said:
I need to also use some Latin phrases: 'What I enjoyed most about The Gates, was the lack of quid pro quo.'
Curly said:
Other suggestions:
Schadenfreude
Vis a vis
Carte blanche
I wrote:
Dichotomy needs to be in there too.
Curly added:
And urban landscape. And some crap about "altering one's perception of reality." Be sure to cite Dadaism and Warhol's soup cans when suggesting that Christo's goal was to bring enlightenment to the unwashed masses by elevating their understanding of the seemingly mundane and banal.
I can't wait to be as pretentious as I can be. It'll get out some of my hostility towards all the cranks and cynics and whiners out there.
Please add bull-crap art criticism words and phrases for me to use. I will take note of them all.
My art-review post will then be along the lines of this former post - which was a response to a bunch of whiners writing to me saying: "Why don't you write about this??" "Why don't you write about that??" I decided to ask EVERYONE to tell me what THEY wanted me to write about, and I would put it all in one post. The result is ... if I might say so ... pretty damn funny. A lovely group effort.
February 9, 2005
The funnies
Last night, Siobhan and I went to go see our friend Nate perform with his improv group at Upright Citizens Brigade.
Now. In contrast to the un-funnies, described here, last night was one of those nights of improv (and believe me, I have had 1001 nights of improv) when you laugh from beginning to end. Sometimes improv comedy can be iffy, for obvious reasons. Er ... it's improv. And if the "team" is bad, then you're out of luck as an audience member. But that's kind of the fun, for me, in going to see improv on occasion. You just never know what's going to happen. You walk in having NO IDEA.
Siobhan and I sat there, and laughed like maniacs, from beginning to end. If anyone out there is a fan of improv comedy, then you will know how difficult it is to DESCRIBE it to someone who isn't there. Like ... how things happen, spontaneously, how the group suddenly all appears to have the same idea at the same time, how something randomly HILARIOUS will happen ... but it's impossible to describe. It is the definition of "you had to be there".
To give you just an example:
The evening ended with a guy playing a sinister Michael Eisner, tied up in a chair, laughing evilly, and saying to another guy, "EAT IT."
Now ... it all made COMPLETE sense in the moment ... but ... to explain how this particular improv group arrived at this? Much more difficult. I can assure you that the entire joint ERUPTED into laughter. heh heh heh
(Ann Marie: I am sure you STILL remember some of the funny lines from those improv shows we always used to go to YEARS ago. "What in carnation is he talking about?" "I'm saying this very badly ..." And ... something about hiding a moose?)
But it was a raucous and fun night. Something I truly needed. To sit back and laugh so hard I cried. It was awesome.
I made my way home afterwards, to my apartment, it was 11:15 pm or so ... so the Empire State Building still had its lights on. (The lights on top, I mean, the ones that change colors to reflect different holidays and stuff.) Those lights go off after midnight, so you can figure out what time it is (generally - and I mean REALLY generally - like: "Huh. So it's after midnight then!") by the top of the Empire State Building.
When I got home, I stood at the end of my street for a bit, staring across the river at the city - one of my favorite things to do. You just don't get perspective - like THAT - when you're actually in the city. You can look up, of course, but stuff gets foreshortened - you can't ever see the whole thing. You can't look up and down the length of the island, when you're actually on the island. My view is one of the best things about where I live. The quiet ain't too bad either.
The night was mild, dark, the Hudson moved by darkly below, and the Empire State Building was lit up - bright yellow and red. I have no idea what for. Sometimes the color choices are obvious (red white and blue on July 4, red and green on Christmas ... but there are many many more. They change almost every day!) - but I didn't know what the yellow and the red was for. It was beautiful - especially because the yellow and red were reflected, blackly, in the Hudson below.
Yeah. My view don't suck. I'm proud of it.
It was a beautiful night. Beautiful to just laugh and laugh and laugh ...
And I liked the yellow-and-red reflection in the Hudson, too. Simple pleasures, you know.
February 4, 2005
Surly etiquette
Read this exchange on Overheard in New York. I have to hold myself back from linking to every single one of these "snippets" - they all strike me as so amusing.
But this one in particular is hilarious. "Who interprets the floor as a garbage can?" hahahaha
Anyway, this snippet made me think:
It is proof of a little theory that I have - one that I can't really prove, but that I see ALL AROUND ME here in New York City.
New Yorkers obviously have a reputation for being rude and surly. (I've met more rude and surly people out in "the provinces" but that's neither here nor there. The reputation of Manhattan-ites stands.) We have a reputation for being loud, obnoxious, surly, and downright frightening at times.
I think there's something deeper going on, though, beneath the surliness. And what that is is: an obsession with ORDER. An obsession with good manners. An obsession with COOPERATION. People are OBSESSED by these things here, and small breaches of etiquette can make people go off the deep end.
A tourist coming here will probably not perceive the subtext of the rudeness - they'll only think: "Holy God, why is that crazy person SCREAMING at me?"
People CONSTANTLY upbraid one another for breaches of etiquette here. It's like we're one enormous family in that: mom and dad are not the ONLY people who discipline you. If you misbehave at a family gathering, an aunt, or an uncle, or a grandparent also has FULL punishment rights. You are up for grabs. New Yorkers are like that. We are all aunts and uncles, punishing the nieces and nephews. We work together in this regard. Like: God help you if you cut in line at the bank. You will be openly reprimanded by 5 people at the same time. NO ONE puts up with that stuff.
So ... in a weird way ... we are more obsessed with politeness and etiquette here than in other places (places that don't have surly reputations), and we have no problem, as a population, correcting those who don't play by the rules.
I think it's because there are so many of us, we are constantly on top of each other, we are ALWAYS in a crowd ... and so "etiquette" becomes reeeeeeallly important.
You should NEVER "cut" in line.
Like that "overheard moment" - if you openly litter, chances are SOMEONE will say something to you.
If you grab a cab, cutting off a group of people who OBVIOUSLY were there first, you should expect to be abused.
Because it's New York, this abuse will probably be filled with profanity and rage. And yet the POINT of the abuse is actually on a Miss Manners level of society: Mind your manners. Respect the space of others. Be aware of the rights of others. Don't push yourself in where you are not wanted.
It may not seem like etiquette, because of the overlay of surliness, but I assure you: the underlying concern in all of the surly insulting is good manners, the golden rule, and basic etiquette. Which actually, when you think about it, is really quite amusing.
February 3, 2005
Hope for humanity
I keep forgetting to tell this story, and last Saturday, at my cousin Liam's karaoke EXTRAVAGANZA, he and I got into this enormous Queen discussion: how much we love Queen, why we love Queen, what is special about Queen, how we like "classic" Queen, as opposed to their newer stuff ... we are both passionate about Queen. I've been passionate about Queen since I was a kid. They are probably one of my all-time favorite bands ever.
Anyway, I have a story to tell about Queen which should provide a glimmer of hope for humanity. So shines a good Queen in a naughty world, and all of that.
Music lovers? Listen up. This is really cool.
Last year, I went into the big Barnes & Noble on 22nd and 6th. Why? To buy me some Queen. I am so behind in technology that a lot of my Queen is still on CASSETTES, and they are now garbled and messed-up, due to almost constant listening. Needed to go get me some brand new classic Queen!
So I go into the Barnes and Noble music section, and go to the "Rock" area, and ... ehm ... no Queen. Nothing. Not even an empty slot for them. Nothing. This is an enormous music store by the way. They have an extensive collection of Peruvian drum circle CDs. They have Charlotte Church up the wazoo. They also have every Christina Aguilera recording known to man. They have CDs of Polish music, Inuit music, Irish music, Russian music, Serbo-Croatian music, world music ... you name it - it has a section. "Inuit Top 40 - right this way!"
But no Queen.
This knowledge took a while to sink in. And it actually kind of hurt my heart. No Queen? So soon we forget the giants of "the past"? So soon we throw out the old to replace it with the new? Can't we at least ACKNOWLEDGE how important Queen was? Can't we still buy their CDs? Must we trash our own history?
I sat there, over the Q section, being all existential and meaningful. To myself. Being all sad that Queen is already forgotten.
I sadly go up to the cashier. I try not to be angry beforehand. It's not the cashier's fault that we tear down our music history!
I say to him, "Hi there ... am I insane ... or do you not have any Queen? It has to be in the Rock section ... but ... I just can't find it!"
Cashier boy says, "Oh, we keep all the Queen stuff behind the counter. You have to request it."
Uhm ... huh?
He says it so casually, so openly, that I say, "Why?"
Cashier boy says, "There are a couple of bands which we discovered were really high risks for shop-lifting, and we were constantly apprehending people trying to sneak out with them. So you have to request certain bands from us. We won't keep Queen on the shelves."
My existential sadness had turned to manic frenzied joy. Queen is a high risk for shoplifting? You have to request it????
I say, laughing, "What other bands?"
And heaven and saints be praised, cashier boy says, "U2 and the Beatles."
I don't know. I just found that so cool. U2, the Beatles, and Queen. Hidden behind the shelves at Barnes and Noble. Precious booty, always and forever!
January 8, 2005
This is for all the tourists ...
... who come to New York City and feel overwhelmed about finding public bathrooms. I relate. I understand.
And as I said, in the comments to this post below: If you put me down on any random street corner in New York City, I will be able to locate the nearest public bathroom in, oh, less than 5 minutes. It is not that I have been on every street corner in the 5 boroughs - it is just that I know what to look for.
I have one rule about this:
-- I avoid having to go to a place where I need to buy anything in order to use the facilities
No. I am looking for PUBLIC BATHROOMS. Preferably public bathrooms that look NOTHING like the public toilet Ewan McGregor was forced to use in Trainspotting. So my standards are, admittedly high, however I have narrowed it all down to a fine art, and so ... I am going to pass on my words of wisdom to those of you who ever visit here, and want to window-shop for 5 hours at a time, and have no idea what the hell to do if you have to pee.
I am here to teach. Print this out, next time you come my way. You won't be sorry.
Two words:
Starbucks.
Barnes & Noble.
(Oops, that's 4 words)
These two mega-chains have completely taken over our fair city (Starbucks, especially) - and Starbucks always has public bathrooms, that are usually clean. I am not exaggerating when I say that there is practically a Starbucks on every block here in NYC. I don't like Starbucks coffee myself, but I ADORE their ubiquitousness, because I have had MANY a pitstop there in my walkabout days in NYC.
So there's that.
2nd of all. Barnes & Noble. These are also everywhere and there are usually MULTIPLE stalls, so that you can do your thing and not feel the impatient line gathering outside the door (which is one bad thing about Starbucks.)
My philosophy (and I try to live up to it) is this:- if I have to pee, I look for a Starbucks. (Due to it being quick, easy, and there usually is a line waiting to get into the bathroom after me - so I don't feel weird or ikky about the whole thing.) If I have to shit, I'm all about lookin' for the Barnes & Noble.
Take this wisdom from me, and go forth and flourish.
Other public bathrooms:
-- If you're in the Times Square area: make your way to Port Authority (corner of 42nd and 8th). Go to the SECOND floor. There is an enormous bathroom facility with about 40 stalls up there. If you're anywhere near Times Square, Port Authority is a short walk away.
-- Another good place (despite the massive crowds shopping there) for a pitstop in Times Square is the Virgin Megastore. Now it's always a MADHOUSE there - but there are bathroom facilities (down on the lower level, in back of the DVD area). Hanging out in Times Square? Head to the Virgin Megastore to do your thing in utter chaos.
-- Across town, there is Grand Central Station. This also has HUGE bathroom facilities (down on the lower level). If I'm shopping over there, which I am wont to do because it's a shopping haven, I can RELAX because I know Grand Central is only moments away.
-- I must reiterate: Barnes & Nobles (and they are usually located RIGHT in the hub of things, in Chelsea, near Lincoln Center - big tourist traps - so unless you're hanging out in the wilds of Spanish Harlem, you WILL be near a Barnes & Noble in your visits to NYC): Here, off the top of my head, are the B&N scattered up and down Manhattan:
- 22nd and 6th
- Union Square (mega-store, 4 stories) Bathroom on the 2nd floor, in the back of the Kids Books section
- 66th and Broadway (another mega-store - bathrooms all the way at the top)
- 86th and Lexington (good for pit-stops if you're hanging out in Central Park, right nearby)
- 82nd and Broadway
- The Astor Place Barnes & Noble. (If you're hanging out down in the East Village, getting tattooes or whatever, and feel the need to "go" - know that this Barnes & Noble is there for you. It's a bit hidden, so ask where it is. Everyone knows it. Additionally, there is a Starbucks a block away. So you have two options.)
-- There is, as well, the McDonalds factor. Although I really try to avoid McDonalds (to eat, or to do anything else there), they are EVERYWHERE. In an emergency?? Know that all you need to do is scan up and down the block, and you will PROBABLY see a McDonalds within your view ... and you do not have to be a customer there to use the bathroom. Because no one who works at McDonalds gives a damn about anything. In general. So you can stroll right in, and head to the toilets and no one will stop you. Warning though: McDonalds are NASTY in this city. They're like 3rd world bathrooms. Only use this option if you literally cannot wait a moment longer.
-- This is a little-known secret, to all book lovers: The Strand has public facilities. I hang out at the Strand ALL. THE. TIME. For HOURS. ON. END. And before I discovered the bathrooms, I always felt a bit stressed out there, because I thought I would have to LEAVE if I had to "go", and then come back. But no. There are 2 rickety bathrooms on the premises. Just know that the toilets look like they are from the late 19th century, AND that the bathrooms are so small that you must urinate with your knees up around your ears. But that being said. THEY DO EXIST. Just ask, if you happen to be there.
I certainly hope that this helps and that this frees you up from any "what the hell do I do if I have to go??" anxiety, as you pound the pavement of this gorgeous dirty town.
December 30, 2004
New Year's Eve approaches
I work a block from Times Square, and you can already see the stacks of sawhorses, piled up on the cross-town avenues, waiting for tomorrow night.
I've only done the let's-watch-the-ball-drop thing once (once was enough!!) - and it was pre-September 11, and even back then, the crowd control was beyond belief. They have it down to a science. We were thousands and thousands of people, jam-packed together, drunk, unruly, thousands and thousands of us ... but they herded us about, keeping us to certain paths, keeping us in control ... Sure, it took us over an hour to walk 10 blocks, but damn, they kept us in order.
I have no desire to be anywhere near the island of Manhattan tomorrow. None. New Year's Eve just isn't my thing, anyway, but New Year's Eve here? Uhm. No. No thank you.
Since September 11, and probably because I work pretty much right beneath where the ball drops, you can feel the energy change on the streets, and palpably, a day or so before the celebration. It's like there's a hunkering-down that happens. You can see it on people's faces, but it's more than that - it's like the air itself hunkers down. There's a certain tension between the molecules. You can't point to where exactly, you don't know what it is ... maybe it's just the piles of sawhorses. Maybe it's the greater number of uniformed cops on the streets ... But you think it might be something more than that.
After all, this is an island of millions of people. Energy is a real thing. It can be measured. So of course, the energy, if you will, of millions of people will have SOME effect on the environment. You can't help but pick up on it, how on earth do you tune out the energy of millions of people? This is why the city can be so draining. It is very very hard to tune out everyone's clanging energy ... and ALSO keep your heart alive, and open. I've seen people get chewed up by this city. In tuning out the masses, they tune out themselves. Millions of people, pushing together on the sidewalks, all feeling, thinking, living, everyone's LIVES coming right at ya ... usually, all of this comes across as just random energy - because it's diffused, everyone seems so diverse, nobody is doing the same thing, thinking the same thing, but with something like New Year's Eve approaching, all of that random-ness gets focused onto one object. You can feel it happen. It's like a scent, or an afterimage. Or maybe like a sonic boom, an echo ... something vibrating on a frequency not heard but felt.
A friend of mine who doesn't live here came down to New York maybe a month or a month and a half after September 11, and she said the feeling of loss and grief was practically like a forcefield around the city. The rest of the country felt the loss, yes, but to be here, day in day out ... she said she didn't really get it until that day. What also made her "get it" was the endless amount of funerals she got stuck behind. At first she thought: "Huh, there are so many funerals today!" And then it hit her ... Holy shit. Yes. There are so many funerals here.
That kind of collective energy - of a city, of millions of people, is real. As tangible as one of the 5 senses. We all saw those towers fall. We all have that collective memory. And at times like this - New Year's Eve, especially - you can FEEL that September day in the air. At least I can. For the most part, you can forget. You don't walk around with September 11th on your shoulders all the time anymore. There are actually days that go by when it doesn't cross your mind. Not TOO many days, mind you! But certainly ... you are able to move on, you are able to do things without having it flicker across your mind's eye like a newsreel. But this is only after YEARS passing.
Maybe that's what I sense in the streets. The hunkered-down faces of passersby, the cops everywhere - on foot, on horseback, in cars, the piles of sawhorses ... you can feel the waiting in the air, you can feel the joyless sense of: "All righty then, let's just get thru this thing", but more than that, you can feel September 11. The afterimage of that day, the way it was in the days immediately following ... the looks of shock, the man in the blue suit you saw staggering to sit down on the curb 2 days after, putting his head in his hands, the lost-looking people holding onto each other ... and then, of course, all that immediacy fades. Life goes on. You see people laughing on the streets again, you hear conversations that don't include the words "towers", and ... at first it seems jarring, or wrong ... like life SHOULDN'T go on. But eventually, you realize: it is RIGHT that it should go on, and that people should sit at outside cafes and have a bottle of wine, smoke cigarettes, and talk and laugh ... It's beautiful, actually. But all it takes is some giant event, some huge gathering of a crowd - like the Republican Convention, for example, or like New Year's Eve ... and it is like no time has passed. We are back there. In September. Back then.
Last year, I worked up until 3 or 4 pm on New Year's Eve itself and the feeling on the streets was almost sickeningly tense. Perhaps those huddled in Times Square, already jazzed up on liquor, in full party mode, whooping it up, wouldn't have felt it. They would have had NO idea what I was sensing, as I skulked to Port Authority the back way, avoiding Times Square like the plague, using the now saw-horsed paths, following the waving hands of the cops ... the cops who were EVERYWHERE ... I came up 8th Avenue, which is bleak and gross even on the BEST of days. But that early afternoon, it was deserted. Maybe a couple of cabs meandering up and down, but the sawhorses lined the avenue, as far as the eye could see ... waiting for the crowds, the crowds who were, at that moment, descending upon the city. I had to get the hell out of town before they arrived. I mean, 8th Avenue was so deserted that I would not have been surprised to see tumbleweed drifting by. It had a creepy air. Like - none of this is real. All of it could be swept away in an instant.
It was an empty city. A waiting city.
That's what I feel in the streets today. Waiting. Waiting for tomorrow night to pass ... hunkering down.
All of this, I would say, is made even more intense and unreal by the disaster in Southeast Asia and India. It's unreal, making preparations for a massive celebration, ringing in the New Year, in the wake of such destruction ... That's also what I thought, when I saw the stacked-up sawhorses.
So.
Let's just do this thing. Let's get this thing over with.
December 23, 2004
The streets of New York
It's pouring rain here. I mean - POURING. I was caught out in it, and now the smell of my own scarf (er - the "anaconda") is a bit nauseating. We're talking "wet wool". The new scent brought out by Yankee Candle.
Anyway, it's madness on the streets here right now. Last-minute shopping - last-minute racing about - I'm a part of it. I had two more things I needed to buy at the open-air market. (See what I mean? "OPEN-AIR." Open air + monsoon = soaked anaconda.)
There are so many people out, so many crowds EVERYWHERE - you cannot walk down the sidewalk without starting, stopping, weaving, halting, adjusting your speed, or downright stopping. I went to Penn Station to get my tickets for tomorrow morning and said a little prayer: "Thank GOD I am not traveling tonight." There were so many people in that train station that I almost had an anxiety attack trying to take them all in. Also, add to it the general STRESS of the holidays ... and you get utter shrieking mania.
Randomly, here are some of the people I saw and interacted with over the last couple of manic hours:
-- some guy who sold me a silk and velvet scarf, who was very charming, very gregarious, blah blah ... told me I looked just like his acting teacher who was named "Sheila" - and then said to me, "Do you know who I am?" Like ... I should know who he is. Yawn. I hate that kind of shit, even though I'm an actor, too. I said, "Dude, I've never seen you before in my life." But still. I bartered with him for the gorgeous scarf, he gave me a good price, and for that I am grateful.
-- a group of screaming angry Nation of Islam guys, standing where they always stand, at the corner of 34th and 7th - right opposite Macy's, right by the subway stop. They're totally annoying and offensive, really homophobic, really racist - and they attract huge curious crowds. There's always one pissed-off white person who decides to challenge them (I swear to God - ALWAYS) ... I'm just guessing but I would bet that the white-challenger of the Nation of Islam guys is probably a tourist, because New Yorkers are so used to these bozos we barely see them anymore. I stroll by them on a daily basis. Thinking my own thoughts, on my way somewhere, yadda yadda, while apocalyptic screams of "AND GOD WILL KILL ALL THE HO-MO-SEXUALS ..." ring in my ears. But someone from out of town might be SHOCKED at what these guys are screaming. Even though they're inflammatory and annoying, I find them entertaining in a weird way. There's always one guy screaming, you know - gay people are going to hell, and black people are better than white people, and God will punish the white man, and whatever ... and then there is his "assistant" who stands there with the Bible. The yelling guy will go on and on and on - and then command the assistant: "READ." The assistant reads a Bible verse. When he is done, the yelling guy launches into his next diatribe. You know ... the Bible is only there to back up their own very narrow beliefs. The Nation of Islam guys are everywhere - it's not just one group of people - but it's always the same scenario. My favorite part? The loud command: "READ". I don't know why I find that so entertaining, but I do.
-- a grizzled old black man in a wheelchair, calling out, "UMBRELLAS, UMBRELLAS, 2 dollahs, 3 dollahs ... UMBRELLAS, UMBRELLAS..." It was a manual wheelchair, very rickety, precarious. The rain poured down around him.
-- a laughing couple, both Chinese, RACING across 14th Street, being pounded by the rain, trying to outrun it. I was across the street, but I could hear their guffaws of laughter, their shrieks. But then a cab careened by, sending up a cascade of water which COMPLETELY drenched them ... much worse than the rain ever could ... and then, the two of them started laughing even harder, they were HOWLING. I kind of loved them both a little bit.
-- I saw a very very serious-faced unattractive woman, browsing at one of the stores in the market. She had an enormous mole sticking out of her forehead, and a choppy haircut. The store had a display of hilarious finger puppets/refrigerator magnets. You could buy a finger puppet of VERDI. You could buy a finger puppet of JOHN LOCKE. heh heh heh Anyway, this woman who looked like she had never smiled in her life, frumpy hair, sad serious eyes, downward-turned mouth, had about 6 of these finger puppets in her hand, waiting in line for the register. I glanced at them, dying to see which ones she had chosen. She had finger puppets of:
Zora Neale Hurston
Beethoven
Benjamin Franklin
Virginia Woolf
Dorothy Parker
Albert Einstein
I love that. I just LOVE THAT. A finger puppet of Zora Neale Hurston? You should have seen it too. It was classic.
-- a little boy hiding under the awning from the rain at the open-air market. He was in a massive parka, so that his arms stuck out to his sides, and he couldn't move. (I LOVE THAT.) He was about 3. He had little red circles on both cheeks - a blush from the cold. He looked so delicious. So innocent. I was hiding under the awning across the way. He kept trying to stick his wee hand out from beneath, so he could feel the rain. Only he had a hard time moving his arms in any way, shape, or form, because of the parka. His mother was behind him, doing frenzied last-minute shopping, getting out the credit card, juggling 5 bags, and umbrellas, and a stroller ... but there he was, a gaping cute little face, the rosy dots on the cheeks ... trying to feel the rain with his pudgy little hand
The hodge-podge of New York. The brief glimpses into other worlds. The side by side jostle of humanity. At times it's relentless. Other times it's kind of achingly beautiful, even the ugly parts of it.
I wish all my readers the happiest and warmest of holidays. Best to you all.
December 16, 2004
Lady Eleanor needs to calm the hell down
Here's the set-up of the scene. It is 8 a.m. It is freezing here. Bitter, windy, the Empire State Building looking stark and bleak against the white winter sky. I wait for the bus, huddled up in my huge coat, and my massive scarf (called by a guy in Ireland "Sheila's anaconda". As we went to change venues, he said, "You're bringin' your anaconda, aren't ya?") ... and I am cold.
The bus arrives. It is already SRO on the bus, which is a bummer, but it's not a long ride into Manhattan, so I get on the bus, and stand in the back. Sadly, there is a ton of traffic going into the Lincoln Tunnel, and we are in stop-and-go traffic for about 20 minutes. I don't have a book with me (Sheila ... WHAT? YOU don't have a book with you???) - and I get instantly bored.
My mind needs constant action. I can't just stand in line. I have to stand in line while reading. Etc.
Standing beside me in the crowded back of the bus is ... well ... Yoko Ono. Or her spitting image anyway, down to the fabulous spiky haircut, and the massive black sunglasses. She looks like a raging lunatic. But damn, she's put together well.
Yoko Ono DOES have a book. She takes it out of her duffel bag, and I glance at the title. (I'm an enormous snoop about what people read. I am always scanning the subway, looking at people's books, and judging them for what they read. "Wow, what a stupid book. I bet that woman is a nightmare." "Wow - someone else is reading Crime and Punishment right now - cool!" "Oh my God, I completely forgot about how much I loved that book ... Need to pull it out again.")
So Yoko Ono pulls out what is obviously, from the cover, your typical bodice-ripping medieval-based soft-core-porn book. A woman with streaming red hair and breasts spilling out of her ripped medieval bodice - being clutched to the manly chest of a man who looks like a rugby player gone to seed ... No, just kidding. The man was your basic Renaissance Fair geek, with the fucking pirate shirt, the long locks, the intense face ... Guys in those books are such jag-offs.
I stand beside Yoko, just laughing to myself. You never ever can tell about people. NEVER. Reminds me of my favorite line in Philadelphia Story: "The time to make up your mind about people, Mike, is never." Indeed. I never would have had Yoko Ono pegged for bodice-ripping erotica, and I say: go her.
We were right next to each other. It is now 8:15 am. We approach the Lincoln Tunnel. I've had a cup of coffee, yes, but ... you know, it's early. Okay? I'm waking up.
I cannot help myself. I glance at the page Yoko is reading.
I see two things:
I see the words "Lady Eleanor".
I see the words "her two orifices".
I turn away from the happily engrossed Yoko, I think unwillingly about Lady Eleanor and her "two orifices" and I think: Jesus, it's way too early for this shit.
December 14, 2004
The Kwanzaa Subterfuge
I stood in line at the post office to buy a book of stamps for my Christmas card blitz. I arrive at window 13. An African-American woman sits behind the desk. She has a lovely friendly smile. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I need to buy a book of stamps."
"Holiday stamps?"
"Yes, please."
She smiles again and says, "Would you let me pick the stamps for you? It's the only time I get to be creative."
I smile. I feel like we are in sync. I feel the friendliness of the universe. I say, "Absolutely!"
She hands over a book of stamps. I do not look at the stamps closely, because basically I am a trustful idiot, and also I am not fussy about stamps. Whatever. I don't care. I saw a flash of red, yellow, and green ... assumed they were Christmas trees, and thought no more about it. Like I said: I am not fussy about stamps.
Or so I thought.
When I sat down to write out my Christmas cards, I got out the sheet of stamps. It was only when I went to stick the first stamp on a card to my grandmother, that I saw what Post Office Bitch had given me.
On the stamp were 5 African women, in billowing red and yellow and green mumus, with huge scarves wrapped around their heads, and written across them was the word: KWANZAA.
Now fine, celebrate Kwanzaa, do your damn Kwanzaa thing, but why on earth wouldn't you ask someone "Do you want Christmas stamps? Hannukah stamps? Kwanzaa stamps? I-Love-the-Goddess-Maia stamps?" Whatever. In a multicultural hodge-podge like NYC, you can assume NOTHING about other people's beliefs.
Also, maybe I'm wrong, but Kwanzaa is a black thing. At least I thought it was. Who knows, I have no idea, I am not up-to-date on Kwanzaa, but I always thought it was an African holiday and that the only white person who celebrates Kwanzaa is someone like ... oh ... Ani deFranco or something.
I'm not saying this to be hostile towards Kwanzaa, I really don't care, but the more I thought about it, the more hostile her action seemed to me. It felt evangelical, and a bit defensive. Hostility WAFTED off the Kwanzaa stamps. The stamps seemed to be shouting at me, pissed-off, "Kwanzaa IS a holiday, you know!"
Fine! Have Kwanzaa 365 days a year if that's what floats your boat. But I'm a white freckled chick, why would you give me Kwanzaa stamps unless you're trying to make some kind of bitchy POINT? The more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. I'm writing out a Christmas card to my religious Irish Catholic grandmother, and I'm gonna put a KWANZAA STAMP on it?? If I were an Orthodox Jew (and the neighborhood where I work is mostly Orthodox) standing there asking for stamps, would she have given HIM a Kwanzaa stamp?
So here was my running internal and external dialogue of writing out my Christmas cards:
What I was writing:
Dear Mama, A very merry Christmas to you and a happy New Year! I love you and miss you, and hope to see you on the 26th! Love, Sheila Kathleen.
What I was saying outloud:
"Fuckin' KWANZAA!"
What I was writing:
To the Wagner family, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Much much love, Sheila.
What I was saying outloud:
"Gimme a BREAK with the Kwanzaa!"
And on and on and on.
As a coda to all of this, I did return the stamps, and I made a mild complaint: "You really should figure out which religious holiday someone celebrates before passing on the Kwanzaa stamps. I take responsibility for the fact that I let her choose for me - and believe me I have learned my lesson on that score. I should have clarified which holiday."
I do believe that it was subterfuge on the part of the post office chick. It was mildly hostile. What she SHOULD have said to me was: "Would you let me pick the stamps for you? It's the only time I get to be mildly hostile." I could imagine her laughing at happy hour with her buddies later that day. "I gave this white girl Kwanzaa stamps when she asked for holiday stamps!" ROARS of laughter. "And - she didn't even check what they were - so she's STUCK with them!!" Howls of delight.
heh heh heh
Well, I got my nice Virgin Mary stamps and Baby Jesus stamps now, so I'm happy. Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, and Happy Kwanzaa to you all.
December 8, 2004
Expert Essay: by Anne C.
Yet another wonderful essay has arrived for my Expert Series. This one is a sheer delight, and makes me want to join in the next time it occurs.
EXPERT ESSAY: Hey-the-Irish-Relatives-Are-In-Town tour of New York City, by Anne C.
My Irish relatives come to visit me from time to time, and I have, through trial and error, established a plan of attack for the city. This tour is really geared toward Irish people, who have certain things they need to do and see in New York, many of them involving the Kennedys, but it may work for others as well.
These are the highlights:
1) The "You're in New York now, baby" opening move. I always get tickets for some shocking play or other, often involving nakedness. This makes the Irish relatives feel like they've really left their small town behind. I took one batch or other to the Vagina Monologues (back when they were new), and I remember going to some show or other about a very large woman who posed as an artist's model, who was naked onstage for most of the performance.
2) The Jackie O mini-tour, in which I point out her apartment building at 1040 Fifth Avenue; pass by Loyola and/or St Thomas More, the Kennedy family churches; duck into the park to give them a brief glance at the Reservoir, where she used to run every morning (adding that hey, I used to run there too, in high school); and show them the apartment building where I once ran into her in 1982.
3) The John Jr mini-tour, usually involving brunch at Bubby's and tales of my many sightings of him. I also breathlessly recount the one time I spoke to him on the phone.
4) The obligatory St Patrick's Cathedral visit.
5) The Tenement Museum and/or Ellis Island, so we get to see how much it sucked to be an immigrant.
6) The Woodside/Sunnyside pub crawl, always featuring a stop at The Kilmegan on Roosevelt Avenue, where they invariably run into people who know my uncle Owen.
7) A visit to my favorite non-Irish bar, where they will buy everyone drinks, making themselves and me very popular for years to come.
8) At least one restaurant with really spicy food, so they can say, "I didn't know food could be this hot."
And, tacked on at the end, everything else you're supposed to do as a tourist in NYC.
--- by Anne C
August 30, 2004
Dream work
I had such a vivid dream last night that I woke up completely disoriented and still am not quite sure where I am. I felt groggy, like someone had drugged me. Bits and pieces of the dream came back to me - as I made my incredibly annoying commute through the clogged-up Lincoln Tunnel. I thought the stopped-up traffic had to do with the convention, but apparently there was an accident in one of the tubes. Traffic re-routed, and so we were all stopped up. There were cops all over the place, and cars had been pulled over all along the route into the tunnel ... but I was unaware of the real reason for all the traffic.
My mood of doom (as we were trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the tunnel, the Hudson River above us) was not helped by the woman sitting in front of me, who sat there doing her rosary beads, and murmuring the Hail Mary in Spanish. Lady ... come on now. Please. You're freaking me out. Especially because - on the morning of September 11 - after I saw the 2nd tower explode from the causeway - that was my response (only sans rosary beads).
Once I actually got into the city, everything was fine. Cops were everywhere. Guys with machine guns. The streets blocked off, cops directing traffic, orange cones telling us all where to go. It wasn't that big a deal.
I ran into the Protest Warriors, on 38th Street. I've heard of them, of course - but never met them. I was so excited, and ran over to them - "You guys are here?? I've read about you guys!" They were all hilarious, they hugged me, we talked for a bit. Laughing, sharing blog URLs, etc. Nice guys, all of them.
But I'm still shaking off that dream.
John Wayne was in it. (Uh-oh) I was in a sort of Private Benjamin situation, and John Wayne was playing the Eileen Brennan character. The intimidating drill sergeant. Or, he was like the part Viggo Mortensen played (so well!!) in GI Jane. John Wayne, with that voice, swaggering around in front of us recruits ... and he had this odd sexiness, but he was also terrifying. A true Alpha Male. Then ... somehow ... the whole shivering group of us had to go plunging into the ocean waves, fully clothed. It was some kind of drill.
I have no idea why this dream has held onto me so strongly. I'm not a big dream-rememberer. I used to be, but I haven't been for years. This one I could barely wake up from.
The humidity remains. Yuk. Sticky, sweaty, hazy.
Just looking forward to this week being over. But it sure was fun to laugh and chat up the Protest Warrior boys. Funny men. It's that kind of insta-connection thing, you know? It made the streets of New York seem less empty, and it made the whole thing seem rather comical. The Hail-Mary lady's anxious-ness receded in my time laughing with them.
August 29, 2004
I heart new york
Sun. Heat.
Long empty New York avenues.
Crosstown on the shuttle. Uptown on the 6.
Met my friend outside the Guggenheim. We went to brunch. Non-stop talk. Haven't seen her since Christmas. We were a couple of magpies. Tears were shed. We have been friends for so long.
Then. A long cool walk up the spirals of the Guggenheim.
The smooth white sculptures of Constantin Brancusi. Like a dream. Like polished moonstones. Abstract. And yet emotional.
Man Ray photographs.
Up and up and up the cool stone spirals.
Then a fast jaunt across town to catch the 3:30 show of We don't live here anymore.
Had a moment of surging happiness as she and I settled down in the darkness for the movie. I have missed her. She lives far away now. She is my comrade. We speak in shorthand. There's a lot of ESP going on.
Bleak movie. But enjoyable in its way. Naomi Watts is amazing. So alive that you can almost see her pulse throbbing in her throat.
Outside. Hot hazy dusk. New York City in all its soft and smudged beauty.
We parted. I walked down 5th Avenue, skirting Central Park. Its cool greenness, the deep dark ponds, people strolling on the paths, people sitting on the benches, cooling off.
Walked by the Plaza Hotel. Jesus feckin' Christ. That building!
Stopped and talked with an absolutely smokin' hot carriage-driver. He was hanging out, waiting for customers. I stopped and talked with him for a while. I met his horse. Pegasus. I felt that Pegasus and I had a very deep bond. We connected. I fed Pegasus carrots. That corner of Central Park is crowded with carriages, and reeks of horse-shit and pretzels. It was dusk by now. A hot smudgy dusk, where the greens turn black, and everything seems magic somehow. Shimmering, yet filled with darkness, if that makes sense. Central Park stretching north, covering itself in shadows. Like I said. Magic.
Also, carriage-man was an absolute BABE.
Pegasus wasn't so bad either.
A beautiful day. One for the books.
August 25, 2004
Apparently -
this has been the coolest summer since 1860-something. I'm in heaven. I wake up to a cool grey breeze blowing through my window, and I look out and see dew drops on the long green grass. Last summer was a nightmare of humidity. I considered going on a date with a guy I wasn't at all interested in because he had an air conditioner. None of that moral confusion this summer. All is cool and misty and grey. And every day, I step out my front door and look to the right at the Manhattan skyline. It's changeable, it never looks the same. I should take a series of photographs, to document its chameleon nature. The Hudson River changes color - sometimes it glimmers white, or silver - and the foam being churned up gleams so brightly you squint. Sometimes, like today, it's a dark slate grey, and the foam is starkly white in contrast. The city sometimes looks like a mirage - through the haze - you can dimly see the outline of the Empire State Building - but all is softened, the edges indistinct. And then on days like today, all is clearly outlined, everything is a dark steel grey, standing out against the cool grey sky.
It's spectacular, really. I'm lucky to live where I do.
However - even though it is the coolest summer since (cough - no idea what the date is, but it's eighteen-sixty-something) - the city streets still STINK of garbage. It's freakin' nasty.
August 18, 2004
Lock-down approaching
-- for the RNC.
Barricades are already piled up outside Madison Square Garden.
Secret Service guys on the loose. You can recognize them by the blinding whiteness of their shirts. I stare at them, looking for the little microphones stuck in their ears.
There are these mobile police commando centers - on wheels - stationed about in Penn Station and in Madison Square Garden. Enormous. Like roving space ships. I have no idea where these things have come from, but they're everywhere.
33rd Street itself is like one big long police station/FBI office/Secret Service hangout ... It feels like there are literally no civilians on that street.
All trains going into Penn Station will be re-routed through Hoboken, for the days of the RNC. What this is going to mean is ... well, some pretty damn packed trains, that's all.
I know bus service will continue as usual ... nothing will change there ... but my office is in the middle of the lock-down area. So it will all be very interesting.
As well as highly annoying.
August 2, 2004
Code Orange Days
Well, the atmosphere in New York today is rather strained, in a very controlled way, if that makes any sense. It feels like the city is holding its breath. I don't know what the vibe is in DC - but I imagine it is much the same.
It's not a new sensation, living here, of course. But it's not any less strained, just because it's become familiar.
New York, ever since Guiliani anyway, has always had a visible police force. (Nothing as visible as CHiPs, perhaps, but visible.)
I know now, though, that the pre-September 11 visibility of the police force was NOTHING compared to what we live in now. Cops are everywhere. And I feel relieved by their presence, of course I do, but I also feel conscious of the closeness of disaster. They are a reminder of the threat.
Oh God. Just breathe, Sheila. Code Orange days suck.
July 26, 2004
Black smoke
I saw black smoke rising from 34th Street this morning (I'm a couple blocks away) - a mass of fire trucks and black smoke billowing out of Penn Station and Madison Square Garden.
As I have described before - we here in New York go on as usual. We go to work, we take the subway, we yell at cabbies who almost run us over ... but then when you see black smoke rising and fire trucks massing - it is like no time has passed at all.
At least that's my experience.
I've been feeling very jumpy anyway. I just want these damn conventions to be OVER with. It's making me extremely nervous. Of course, the Republican National Convention is going to held AT Madison Square Garden - and the Democratic National Convention began today - so to have one of the first things I saw this morning on my arrival into the city be enormous black clouds billowing out of one of our main transit systems was quite alarming.
I finally found a report of it. Apparently it was due to "an underground transformer fire" - which - I have no idea what that means.
Unconfirmed reports said the transformer fire started with an explosion in an underground vault about 9:15 a.m., sending heavy black smoke up through subway gratings.
I'm holding my breath until these damn conventions are over. I feel like a sitting duck here in Manhattan, with a big damn target on my back.
July 20, 2004
I don't understand
This morning, I was woken up by my radio alarm clock - The story blasting through my room was that a knapsack had exploded in the Times Square subway station, shooting off firecrackers, or fireworks or something - The knapsack was unattended. Nobody was killed but an off-duty policeman was injured.
I felt this cold lump of dread in my stomach. Not just because I am in that subway station on a daily basis ... but ... just because. Just because. It sounded to me like a rehearsal of some kind.
But now - I cannot find reports of it ANYWHERE. Not in the New York Times, New York Post ... nowhere.
Has anyone else heard anything?
June 13, 2004
This weekend.
Had house guests - my friend Beth and her daughter Ceileidh.
We felt like we walked 60 miles yesterday. Last night, we all fell into bed, groaning in pain.
What did we do?
-- Pedicures. (Paraffin wax pedicures. HIGHLY recommend it)
-- Metropolitan Museum. Caravaggio and Leonardo da Vinci exhibit ... with other realist painters influenced by those 2 giants. Incredible. Caravaggio is one of my favorites. I want to crawl into those shadows. We also walked through Greek and Roman sculptures. We saw some Monets, some Renoirs, some Degas. Van Gogh.
The Museum was PACKED.
-- Window-shopping in the Village. I bought a bag of white sage. Little dried leaves. You burn them, and walk around the house, holding it up. The scent is so calming, so healing. It's hard to find, too. White sage is better than your basic incense sticks (in my opinion). My room actually FEELS different after I burn some.
-- Flea market in the Village. Talked to a lovely Turkish vendor for a while.
-- We had burgers, sitting outside at picnic tables, at the famed White Horse Tavern
-- Watched "Fellowship of the Ring" with Ceileidh. Ceileidh does a mean imitation of Gollum, whom she refers to as "a naked freaky dude". Indeed.
-- MUCH laughter.
-- We sat on my roof on Friday night and had pizza. The glittering skyline of Manhattan unfurling before our eyes. My roof kicks some serious ass. The Empire State Building was dark, for once. Reagan.
-- Walking. Walking. Walking. Aching legs. But damn - our toes looked good. Perfectly pedicured. And that is all that really matters.
May 27, 2004
The heaven, the sheer heaven ...
... of Fleet Week is upon us.
Lord help us and save us.
Times Square is crawling with hot groups of sailors - all looking immaculate and hot ... Groups of them on every street corner, hashing out where they want to go, what they want to do ... Beautiful.
Last night: A cool blue spring evening, the lights of Times Square, the white-uniformed sailors everywhere...
I found myself smiling at groups of them randomly. I couldn't help myself. I'm sure they're used to that.
May 5, 2004
Moonstruck Part II
So tonight is the actual full moon. New Yorkers will be reduced to howling up at the sky on their rooftops - I mean, we all lost it last night and it wasn't full yet! People were talking about the moon on the bus this morning.
"Did you see that moon?"
"Yeah, man, I woke my girls up to have them come take a look..."
My friend Jen and I are gonna walk down to the water in Hoboken tonight to check out the glory.
Glad to know I'm not the only one
I was completely "moonstruck" last night. It was one of those nights. The moon was high and full, it looked huge against the New York skyline, huge, floating between the buildings, and it was a pale pale yellow.
I felt a little bit like a lunatic.
Glad to see I wasn't the only one.
April 19, 2004
My Roof
From my roof, I can see all the way from the George Washington Bridge down to Battery Park. It is a view to take your breath away. You step out onto the roof, and can feel the vistas billowing off to your left. It's amazing.
If you actually live on the island of Manhattan, the only way to get any perspective on it is to get up really high - skyscrapers, Empire State Building ... from there you can see the shape of the island, you can get an idea of where you are in space. (It's very hard in Manhattan to know where you are. I don't mean within the city. The city itself is very easy to navigate - if you know how to count, that is - but in terms of Manhattan fitting into the surrounding landscape ... I find it very difficult to picture. Even when I look at it on a map, it doesn't seem right.)
So to live in a spot where I can gain this island-length perspective ... I feel truly grateful.
When I was basically BEGGING the woman who lived there that I WAS THE ONE to take over the apartment - she took me up onto the roof, and that was that. I knew I had to live there.
I'll take some pictures so you all can see. I still never get over it. I never get accustomed to the view.
My street, on the cliffs in Jersey, is directly across from the Empire State Building. It looks so close you feel like you can touch it.
I haven't been able to go up there all this long and brutal winter. Too windy. Snow drifts, etc.
I'm excited to spend some of my early mornings up there. And sunsets as well.
February 9, 2004
Farewell, Bottom Line
I am the last one to know anything.
The Bottom Line has closed. The Bottom Line, one of the best music clubs in the city - a truly beloved place - by musicians and audiences alike - has closed its doors.
This is terrible. It was a home, to many musicians - a place where they could come, where "everybody knows your name".
I've seen a ton of shows there. Tuck & Patti, Cliff Eberhardt (multiple times), Christine Lavin ... and many many more. It is a special place, a community - in a business where community means NOTHING - The Bottom Line really MEANT something to people! It's more than just a club. It's a symbol, a metaphor - something to believe in. Musicians have gotten their start there. Through the ups and downs of a normal music career, certain favorites could always come and play there, regardless of what the music critics were carping about on that day.
I'm SAD, dammit!!
Bruce Springsteen apparently offered a ton of money to bail the club out (bless him) - The survival of such clubs is essential. But apparently the situation was too far gone.
Thanks for the memories, Bottom Line.
New York City is a little less brighter now.
February 8, 2004
Quote of the evening
Last night - a wine and cheese fondue fest at Artisanal with 4 good friends. Decadence unleashed.
A day at the Turkish baths. Filled with macho half-naked Russians.
One of the men was built like a real-life Ken Doll, the epitome of perfection - sculpted breast plate, sculpted thighs, bright blonde hair, very handsome face. There is a machismo in spa-going for these people - how hot can you take the steam room? How long can you take it? It's none of this pansy-assed day-spa nonsense, where you are pampered and coddled. The Turkish baths are hard-core.
Later, discussing the Ken Doll, my friend Felicia said (and this is a word-for-word quote):
"He looked like an Aryan youth." Pause. "Only he was Russian and he was an adult."
February 5, 2004
Post Office Love and Perfume
Today, on my lunch break, I stood in a labyrinthine line at the post office. It is highly frightening in that line. People break into riots IMMEDIATELY if the person next in line does not IMMEDIATELY respond when the "next available teller" calls out, "Window 5."
Literally if the person next in line pauses .54 seconds in order to figure out which window is calling, someone in the line will shriek, "NEXT WINDOW! Jeez!!" It's awful. I want to punch people in the head. I feel like I am supposed to have eyeballs all up and down the side of my body, in order to monitor the situation at each and every window. (It's a huge post office)
Anyway, I'm standing in line, in my huge sheepskin coat, my shapeless fleece hat, my enormous white wool scarf, my thick tights and my big chunky shoes. (I am only listing my outfit to let you know how lumpy and unfeminine I appeared.) I was already nervous, because my turn to be "next in line" was getting close, and the natives were restless.
Suddenly, this very pretty girl next to me said, "Excuse me ... what perfume are you wearing? It is incredible... Is it an aromatherapy blend or something?"
I only wear one perfume, and you can only buy it at one place - a day-spa called Carapan on 16th street. It is "their" perfume, and it is called "Plateau". Hard to describe the scent, but ... let's just say that this is not the first time a total stranger has asked me about it. It's not an overwhelming flowery girlie scent at all - it's very subtle. Like a pine woods, maybe. A man on the bus once turned around and asked me what it was, and then took down the address of Carapan, so that he could go buy some for his girlfriend.
Lately, I have feared that Carapan may be going out of business. I do not know WHAT the hell I will do then.
I have stocked up and bought a couple of bottles, in preparation.
Anyway, I felt like such a huge lump-ette, with my thick tights and fleece hat, and so I was pleased that I actually was recognized as a woman, first of all, and also that I had INFORMATION that somebody might want. This pleases me. Especially if it's another woman, for some reason. Women are always giving each other helpful tips, like, "Cheap and good manicures at this place on this afternoon..." or "Sample sale up the street from 4 to 6 today..." I never have information like that to give. It's not my scene.
But damn, I know about this perfume.
I said to her, "You can only get it at Carapan on 16th street..."
She took out her pen.
"It's in between 5th and 6th ... and ... I think they may be going out of business ... so definitely go soon."
She was so happy. "Thank you so much!!!"
While this nice little girlie exchange occurred, another window opened, and an absolutely ENRAGED person five slots back in line, roared up at me, "Next window open!" like she wanted to rip my head off and drink my blood, out of sheer rage.
A calm "plateau" of connection shattered. But that's okay. That's what it means when you stand in line. You must submit to the energy of the line.
February 4, 2004
Life in the West Village
There were 3 separate movies being filmed in the West Village last night, all within a 4-block radius. Every time you go to the Village, you run into movie crews. It's fun to watch them set up and everything, and it's fun to look for stars - but if I actually lived in the Village, that kind of thing would get old REALLY fast.
"Hi. You can't come out your front steps for 3 days this week."
"Uh - what? Why?"
"We're filming Kirsten Dunst's new movie here."
"But ... my steps ... my life!!"
"But - Kirsten Dunst!!!"
"Oh, who gives a crap about Kirsten Dunst! The new Robin Williams movie was filmed on my street LAST week ... I am OVER the movie-star thing, okay? I need to be able to come out of my house when I feel like it!"
The West Village is a prime movie-making neighborhood. There are certain streets (Barrow Street, Bedford) where ... if there were not cars parked along the curb ... you could believe that you were in the late 1800s. Nothing would give our present-time away.
Warren Beatty shot the whole beginning section of Reds right in Greenwich Village - only he put horses and buggies on the streets. Nothing else had to be changed, because the landscape there, the architecture is from another time. It is untouched.
It's beautiful: the cobblestones, the trees, the wrought-iron lampposts, the brownstones ...
...and ...
around every corner ... a massive bustling movie crew.
February 3, 2004
Actual conversation
HE: So - want to meet up at Jekyll and Hyde before the show and grab a bite to eat?
(Jekyll and Hyde is a theme restaurant here in NYC ... monsters, cobwebs, coffins, etc.)
ME: Sure.
Pause.
HE: Is that too immature?
Pause.
ME: A couple months back, I rang the doorbell of Liv Tyler's new house in the Village - and then ran away like a maniac.
December 22, 2003
A Saturday in NYC with Allison and the Manson Family
Saturday was a cold day, wind biting up and down the canyons. Sheila kind of weather. My friend Kate and I have discussed at length our preference for autumn as opposed to summer. While everybody else blisses out with the onset of warm sunny weather, she and I bliss out when the we bust out the sweaters.
Kate puts it this way, "There's no irony in the summer."
I arrived Saturday morning at my friend Allison's apartment in the West Village, to find her deeply engrossed in Helter Skelter, a book I have read multiple times, and with which I have a strange and sick fascination.
Allison and I were trying to pinpoint why exactly it is that we are so engrossed by such a grisly terrible story. We discussed it at length, lolling about in her cozy pillow-y bed, flipping through the book for reference.
I am fascinated by the Manson Family for the same reasons that I am fascinated by totalitarian, autocratic, fascist, communist regimes. What is it in human beings, some human beings, that makes them susceptible to such madmen? What is it like to be in someone's thrall like that? What is it in human psychology that can crack under such magnetic pressure?
I found Allison in a state of recent and fevered conversion to the Helter Skelter madness.
We signed on, and began to search the Internet for more information.
For example: where is Clem right now? Has Clem been paroled? (Yup. He's out.)
And Bobby Beausoleil...what has he been up to? His face always terrified me. There was something so obviously missing there.
We learned that Patricia Krenwinkle has recently received a puppy, through a special prison program which allows inmates to adopt animals. How sweet...to allow a ferocious murderess a little puppy.
Squeaky Fromme still corresponds with Charlie. FREAKS.
Allison and I got sucked into the strange world of Manson Web sites...going deeper and deeper and deeper. We veered a couple of times into the world of the Zodiac Killer and Jonestown.
Allison said, "If my job ever saw the search terms on my computer, they would think I had gone crazy. 'Dead bodies'...'Sharon Tate' ... 'serial killers'..."
The last time Allison and I hung out together in her apartment, we started looking things up in the dictionary. It began simply, but the game evolved. Eventually, it became a relatively complex guessing game: one of us would call out a name from history, say...Madame Curie, or Theodore Roosevelt ... and we would guess whether or not said person had a PICTURE beside their definition in the dictionary. This may sound like a dry and academic pursuit, but we ended up in complete hysterics and it occupied our time for 2 hours.
It's actually a fun game. Try it yourself on a rainy day.
Finally, we had to shake off the pall of the Mansons and Spahn Ranch and Shorty Shea's decapitation and Susan Atkins' crazy loony smile...and how haunted we are by the children fathered by Manson....WHERE ARE THEY??
We signed off reluctantly, and rejoined the life of the West Village. We went to Chumley's and had delicious Bloody Marys, and some lunch.
Then, we accidentally set a newspaper on fire. This is in a bar run by firemen; the bartenders are firemen, the clientele are firemen. Firemen were everywhere in sight. Meanwhile, Allison and I were battling to put out the flaming New York Post in front of us, and none of the firemen around us even looked up, or glanced over, or even batted an eye. I don't think they even noticed the inferno. We were on our own. And we did okay. We dumped a glass of water on the blaze, and then ordered 2 more Bloody Marys.
We returned home and watched Moulin Rouge. Actually, I should say we LIVED it. During the "Spectacular Spectacular" extravaganza at the end of the film, when everything gets very tense, Allison screamed at the top of her lungs, "THE GUN!! THE GUN!!"
After the film, still in a Moulin Rouge kind of mood, we looked through her book of Toulouse Lautrec prints. Marvelling at them. Beautiful. We talked about what it must it have been like...
Then we crawled out onto Allison's fire escape, trying to keep our candles lit through the wind. The sugary air from the Magnolia Bakery floated up to us.
And after that? We basically killed time until "Trading Spaces" came on at 8 p.m. We are jointly addicted to that show. Especially when the participants hate the newly designed rooms.
December 5, 2003
Whiteout
Now I can't see across the alley at all.
Hmmm. I have a friend who is coming to stay with me for the next week - and she is scheduled to land here in New York at 4:30.
Last year, when she and her husband came to stay with me, we had the massive blizzard which shut down New York. People literally climbing over mountains at every corner.
She brings the weather.
But I am wondering about flights in and out. I can't see a damn thing out my window.
THIS JUST IN: All flights into Newark have been canceled.
Snow
And so here is the snow. Looking out the window at the grey building across the alley - the air in between swirling with snow.
Love it.
September 12, 2003
Good-bye New York
My brother Brendan is an actor and a musician. As well as being a father! He has just made the move to LA, as of yesterday. I miss him already.
He, in commemoration of his time here in New York, wrote a song called "Good-bye New York". It was also significant because he was flying out on September 11. I asked him to send me the lyrics, and I asked him permission to post them, because they are very moving. I think my favorite line, the one that kills me, is "I could hate all of their brethren, But that's not how we do it In this town."
I haven't heard the tune yet, so if I can get some mp3s from him, I will link to them here too.
Good-bye New York
by Brendan O'Malley
Soon I will be
Taking my last train
It's mainly in the evening
That it can all seem in vain
When the pain
Is raining canes on you
But you don't have
Your legs no more
You've got to make your exit
Before slipping out the
Backstage door
So floor it, honey
Unpop that fucking cork
Let's celebrate
Good bye, New York
They may've made
Mountains of your buildings
They made you walk the bridges home
They made you grieve
In tiny boxes
Filled with bugs and
Shit and foam
They blackmailed you
With severed heads
They made unreasonable demands
Without humor, without mercy
Too much tension, too
Much torque
Good bye, New York
I could close my heart
Off to them
Write them off or back them down
I could hate all of their brethren
But that's not how we do it
In this town
They have to wait til Paradise
We exalt our virgins now
Or were they really after raisins?
Either way, I'd have shown them how
From Grand Army Plaza up to Harlem
Flies a scarred and angry stork
Cries, "It is today. They are forgiven-
Here's a new America baby
Say hello - Good bye, New York."
September 9, 2003
I Heart New York
Here is an ode to New York. And to New York's mostly-invisible greatness.
What I really want to write about right now is my moment on the corner of 10th Street and 2nd Avenue.
The evening was beautiful. Cool air, blue sky deepening into sunset, the air fresh and spring-like. The sun going down. People on their bikes. Restaurants with tables outside. Beautiful. An evening where New York looks fresh, and lovely. Like anything can happen.
I stood on the corner of 10th Street and 2nd, waiting for the light to change. I was in my own little private Idaho, but suddenly ... noticed my surroundings.
Behind me, on the Southwest corner of the intersection, was a restaurant called "Rectangles". More specifically: "Rectangles: Yemenite and Israeli cuisine".
Yemenite and Israeli cuisine. In the same restaurant.
So that was thing # 1.
Across the street, diagonally on the Northwest corner of 2nd and 10th, is the famous St. Mark's Church in the Bowery. A 17th century Episcopalian church. I've been to weddings there. But it's also a vibrant performance space, with dance companies, etc., finding a place to work there. A beautiful stone church, set diagonally, with benches around it, people hanging out. People going to an evening mass.
Right across from a Yemenite and Israeli restaurant.
Then, directly across the street from me, on the Southeast corner of this intersection, the famous Second Avenue Deli. The signage looks like Hebrew letters. There is a clock, with Hebrew numbers.
All of these different cultures and faiths converging on one street corner.
As New Yorkers pedal their bikes slowly by, or drink Guinness at the Irish pub 2 doors down ... This kind of diversity is rarely even noticed. Or commented upon.
But in that one moment, I thought: Okay. Hold on. This is extraordinary.
And what is MOST extraordinary about all of these faiths and cultures co-existing on the same corner ... is that it is kind of NOT extraordinary. Nobody even notices.
This is why they hate us so much.
It is the very thing about us that needs to be cherished. If not by them, then certainly by us. Certainly by us. The overall un-extraordinariness of it all.
August 16, 2003
Jeez, I leave the city for one week...
and look what happens.
I watched the footage from Cape Cod and felt an odd pull towards Manhattan ... like I wished I was there. Not because I adore gridlocked streets, heat waves and rabid inconvenience - but because New York is my city, my home. What was happening there while I was away??
I return to the city tomorrow. To move to a new apartment.
I am counting the days.
My vacation was awesome. the keyboard i type on at the moment sucks so blogging will convene at some other time
July 21, 2003
The creation of New York
In line with Central Park's 150th anniversary this year, I pulled out the following excerpt from Paul Johnson's superb book: A History of the American People
He has a section in the book called "Monster Cities: Chicago and New York". Central Park, and its inception, is mentioned, but it really focuses on the organic (and also highly conceptualized) development of the city.
It's long. Read it if you feel like it.
"Monster Cities: Chicago and New York":
New York, by contrast, was circumferenced by water and chose to have its park, on a giant scale, in the middle. New York was still second in size to Philadelphia at the time of the 1810 census, with 91,874 to 96,373 people, and the plan for its development laid down the following year provided only minimum public spaces (its original Parade Ground between 23rd and 34th Streets had been long since greedily built over). But when the fashions for laying out big public parks within cities was brought from London and Paris soon after, New York still had plenty of undeveloped land in central Manhattan, and the city fathers were able to set aside an enormous area. The landscape architect F.L. Olmsted (1822-1903), from Hartford, Connecticut, that nursery of genius, together with the Londoner Calvert Vaux (1824-95), designed Central Park as an extraordinary multi-class complex of carriage drives, walks, lakes for fishing, boating, and skating, and boulder-strewn wilderness woods.By the time the Park was in working order the City was fast growing up around it. Population was then 813,000. Forty years later, thanks largely to immigration, it was nearly 3,500,000 and still growing at breakneck speed. The rise of high buildings meant that the immense flat space of Central Park was increasingly surrounded by a periphery of stone and masonry achieving spectacular effects of precisely the rus in urbe appeal which had been the aim of the earliest town planners, like John Nash of London. No other city in the world can produce these skylines. First came four or five-story structures, developed out of British precedent for shops, factories, and warehouses, the leading spirits being two brilliant iron-founders of the 1850s, Daniel Badger and James Bogardus. From this emerged cage-constructions, whose interiors were self-supporting metal frameworks reinforced by independent masonry walls. Next was skeleton-type construction, in which even the external walls hung off the metal frame. The Equitable Building of 1868-70 is often regarded as the first New York skyscraper: it had a frontage only five bays wide but it rose to 142 feet in eight stories and was serviced by two elevators. (Its replacement, the Equitable Building of 1913-15, was an entire block, reached forty stories and 542 feet, and had forty-eight elevators making 50,000 trips a day, giving some idea of the leap from large to gigantic in New York City in these four decades.
Evidently the New York skyline was beginning to assume its characteristic form, and to promote deep thoughts in visitors, as early as 1876, when T.H. Huxley, the leading promoter of scientific ideas in Europe, made his first visit. His verdict was: "Ah, that is interesting. In the Old World, the first things you see as you approach a great city are steeples; here you see, first, centers of intelligence." Huxley was in a sense right: the skyscraper represented the application of science at its frontiers and imaginative intelligence in the art of building in precisely the way a great Renaissance architect like Michelangelo would have instantly appreciated. But the men who devoted huge creative intelligence and engineering and mathematical skills to making New York a "scientific city" did not share Huxley's atheism. Rather the contrary. A characteristic American religiosity tended to enter even the field of the high-rise and the structurally gigantic. John Roebling (1806-99), the German-trained immigrant who designed the Brooklyn Bridge (it was completed by his son Washington in 1883), then the longest suspension bridge in the world, said it was "proof positive that our mind is one with the Great Universal Mind."
New York differed from Chicago in key respects. Though less innovative, it was richer in the sense that it was the source of the capital for Chicago as well as itself, and most major firms with immortal longings, who wished to commemorate themselves with the tallest, largest, most expensive skyscraper, had their headquarters in New York. So ultimately New York skyscrapers were not only taller but more decorative. The ten-story Western Union headquarters was put up in 1873-5, followed quickly by the eleven-story Tribune building, then the sixteen-story World Building in 1889-90 and the twenty-story Manhattan Life Insurance giant of 1893. New York soon surpassed Chicago in height, with ten stories or more added every decade, and it indulged in fantastic and often beautiful accretions of domes, columns, and spires. Most New York skyscrapers were permanent advertisements for their companies. Thus the Singer Building of 1902 paid for its construction by one year's extra sales in Asia alone. Equally, New York's vast insurance industry dictated the construction, regardless of cost, of headquarters buildings which vaunted strength, size, and durability (rather like banks). In the first decade of the 20th century, the Metropolitan Life had insurance in force totaling over $2.2 billion, so it built and occupied, 1909-10, an immense temple in the sky which was 700 feet high, the world's tallest for a time. Another example was the spectacular Woolworth Building of 1911, which for long represented the skyscraper. Frank Winfield Woolworth (1852-1919), who established his first five-and-ten-cent store in 1879 and by 1911 had over 1,000 worldwide, told the contractor who put up his building that though it could never make a proper return on capital it had an enormous hidden profit as a gigantic signboard.
By 1903 office rents were four times higher in Manhattan than in central Chicago and that was one reason buildings were taller. High rents also determined the cluster of skyscrapers within easy reach of the Stock Exchange: by 1910 they could be as high as $24,750 a square foot in Wall Street but only $800 in South Street a few blocks away. Then in 1916 came the New York Set-Back ordinance: so long as your architect worked out the set-backs correctly, you could go to any height you liked. Grandeur and display raised the height well above the economic optimum and by 1930 it was averaging sixty-three stories in the best area around Grand Central, with the Chrysler Building (1929-30) pushing up to seventy-seven stories, the extra being the advertising element. The sensation of the 1920s, indeed, was the development of the Grand Central area as an alternative to Wall Street, and New York skyscrapers are still to this day grouped around these two foci.
But we are getting ahead of our story, and above it too, for beneath the towering New York high-rises were the clustering tenements, themselves also multistory, of the burgeoning metropolis of the 1870s, 1880s, and 1890s. New York had begun as a Dutch city, then had expanded as a mainly English city, then in the 19th century had broadened into a multiethnic city, much favored by Germans and, above all, by the Irish. Then came the turn of the Italians, the Greeks, and the Jews from Eastern Europe. The outbreak of savage state pogroms in Russia from 1881 had dramatic consequences for New York. In the following ten years Jews were arriving in the city at the rate of 9,000 a year. In the 1890s it jumped to an average of 37,000 a year and in the twelve years 1903-14 it averaged 76,000 a year. In 1886 the Grench people commemorated the centenary of American Independence by having their sculptor Frederic Auguste Bartholdi fashion a gigantic copper statue of Liberty, which was placed on a 154-foot pedestal on Bedloe's Island in New York Harbor, the whole rising to 305 feet, making it the highest statue in the world. A local Jewish relief worker, Emma Lazarus (1849-87), whose talent had been spotted by Emerson, grasped, perhaps better than anyone else in America at that time, the true significance of the open-door policy to the persecuted poor of Europe. So she wrote a noble sonnet, "The New Colossus," celebrating the erection of the statue, in which the Goddess of Liberty herself speaks to the Old World:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, the tempest-toss'd to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.The refugees and the huddled masses crowded not just into Manhattan as a whole but in particular into the Lower East Side, one and a half square miles bounded by the Bowery, Third Avenue, Catherine Street, 14th Street, and the East River. In 1894 the density of Manhattan reached 142.2 people an acre, as opposed to 126.9 in Paris and 100.8 in Berlin. They were much higher than the Chicago tenements, perhaps safer -- fire escapes had been made obligatory in 1867 -- and far more crowded. The most infested were the Dumbell Tenements, which get their name from a shape determined by the 1879 regulartion which imposed airshafts. They were five to eight stories high, 25 feet wide, 100 feet deep, and with fourteen rooms, only one of which got natural light, on each floor. Over half a million Jews were crowded into the Lower Easy Side, and the heart of New York Jewry was the Tenth Ward, where, in 1893, 74,401 people lived in 1,196 tenements spread over six blocks. Five years later the population density in Tenth Ward was 747 persons per acre or 478,080 per square mile. By comparison, the modern density of Calcutta is only 101,010 per square mile (1961-3). The New York buildings had more stories of course; even so, the Tenth Ward was probably the most crowded habitation, in the 1890s, in the whole of human history. By 1900 there were 42,700 tenements in Manhattan, housing 1,585,000 people.
So here were luxury skyscrapers surrounded by slums, an image of rich-and-poor America. And the poor were, in a sense, sweated labor, most of them in the 'needle trades'. By 1888 no less than 234 out of 241 New York clothing firms were Jewish. By 1913 clothing was New York's biggest industry, with 16,552 factories, nearly all Jewish, employing 312,245 people. But the apparent rich-poor dichotomy concealed a huge engine of upward mobility. The whole engine of America was upwardly mobile, but New York, for the penniless immigrant, was the very cathedral of ascent.
Posted by sheila Permalink
This year...
Central Park turns 150 years old. Amazing!
Happy birthday, Central Park. This city would not be the same without the acres and acres and acres (843 to be exact) of lush green (with lakes, and lawns, and woodsy paths, and even a castle!) without you!
Some facts:
25 million people visit Central Park every year.
There are 6,000 benches in Central Park. If you put them all in a row, it would be 7 miles long.
Of the 843 total acres, 150 of that is water.
It took almost 20 years to "build" the park.
In 1811, when "New York" basically consisted of lower Manhattan, the leaders of the city began to plan out the rest of the island, constructing the famous grid layout, which now makes New York one of the easiest cities to find your way around in (if you can do simple arithmetic, that is.)
In 1850, talks began about creating a "central park". An oasis of green.
The location (way off in the wilds of the north) was blocked out. Residents of that area (Irish farmers and black tenants) were moved.
A competition was held amongst designers and Vaux and Olmstead won. Their idea was to create the space like a formal garden, putting in artificial lakes and artificial hills covered with trees, so that when people entered the park, they truly felt as though they were entering nature. A refuge from the noise and grit.
So the work began.
Construction was done in 1870.
The original idea of the park was that it would be a pastoral playground and get-away for the rich. All the poor folks lived downtown, so Central Park was too long a hike. The apartments built on the outskirts of Central Park were (and still are) for the rich.
But by the time the park was completed, the population of New York had already changed dramatically, with enormous waves of immigrants pouring into Manhattan, more and more every year. As the city's population exploded, city planners continued to work on the development of Manhattan to accommodate all these new people. Subway fares were extremely cheap from the beginning, on purpose, and by the turn of the century, the millions of new immigrants in Manhattan were using the cheap-ness of the subway fares to travel uptown and escape the drudgery for a while, hanging out in the park.
As the 20th century moved along, different Parks Commissioners continued to develop the park, and these developments point to the overwhelmingly democratic and non-elitist feel of the park.
Baseball fields built, playgrounds, the reservoir, the Great Lawn, the zoo... all free. Everything free.
Joe Papp, the theatre visionary, created the Public Theatre, which performs Shakespeare in the Park for free, at the Delacourt. Anyone can go. You just have to wait in line for the free tickets. And this is not community theatre in the Waiting for Guffman sense (although community theatre is essential!) Kevin Kline, Morgan Freeman, Meryl Streep, Patrick Stewart-you can stand in line, and see luminaries of the stage and screen, live, romping about in various Shakespearean plays. And the Delacorte Theatre is an outdoor amphitheatre. You are outside, at night, trees overhead, sounds of the city, planes going by- If it rains, the show is cancelled. Going to see shows at the Delacorte is one of my favorite things to do.
I saw Garth Brooks' concert in Central Park. For free! There are free concerts, all the time.
It is a privilege to live near such a special piece of ground as Central Park. I take it for granted.
Happy 150th Central Park!