Rest in peace, Jerry Orbach.
As usual, I was going to write a long goodbye to beloved Jerry, man of a thousand talents, including a Broadway star, though best-known as the tough NY cop who made you laugh with his clever and cynical one-liners on Law & Order (which as you all know has been my favorite show since I was about 12). But I'm not going to. It's too sad.
I just feel so horrible. As with most deaths, it seems so sudden and so totally wrong to the fabric of one's life. I will really really miss him. I will miss the new Law & Order; Trial by Jury epsiodes I would have seen him in (he did film some). I will miss him each time I see his delightful "Lumiere" dancing around the tabletop in Disney's Beauty and the Beast. I will miss the Broadway shows I would finally have been able to see him in since I live here. Of course, I will continue to do what I've been doing all along -- watching those reruns with him on TNT.
I know he was a good person "irl" as well. If I can be so bold as to quote a friend who actually knew him personally, she described him as "wonderful, smart, generous, ...funny (in a hammy kind of way), -- just a decent person." Oh, and staunch Democrat as well! I am so envious that he was a part of her life. And due to that, I'm sure she's hurting much more than I am at this moment.
We lost a great one yesterday. Goodnight, sweet prince. Your absence will be felt.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Monday, December 13, 2004
Hipster Party and How I Loved a Guy Who Loved Hammocks
It’s no secret that I’m broke. I was broke the day I was born and will probably exit it broke as well (if student loan debt is any indication). As I’ve mentioned, I work for a Jewish non-profit humanitarian organization here in NYC. So, my point is that I don’t get out much. Non-profits don’t make you a millionaire and the only people I really know in this city I either work with, live next to, or the few strays here and there I knew in another lifetime (and they decided to move here as well).
Near the end of work, one of my co-workers, “Celia,” who has also written/produced an off-Broadway show, invited me to go to this party. Well, let’s not lie, I was invited to represent the organization, not as a real guest or anything, which is just fine with me since mingling and socializing are NOT my forte. Having some sort of “job” at a party would enable me to enjoy it without feeling obligated to mingle. Seems Celia knows a guy from college who is now some big fancy stockbroker making tons of money and apparently has given quite a bit to our organization here and there. He was throwing the party for his co-workers and such. Paying for this posh meat-district private party in a swanky club, and including a totally free bar all night.
What’s that? Totally free bar? I had my first shot within 15 minutes of being there. A few hours later I was floating on air and loving everyone, as were my three co-workers. Trying to push a charity during a snazzy party in a very dark room lit by the occasional candle was not that easy. Besides, like I said, I suck at schmoozing. One of my co-workers, in a previous post mentioned as “A-Mot,” managed to score $1200. I felt stupid.
Let’s talk about A-Mot again. As always happens, A-Mot was my big “work crush.” Just my type, brainy, mild-mannered, HOT, and … stuff. He even occasionally wears those Clark Kent glasses which drive me crazy. My interest began to wane simply because I got bored with no action. And then around election-time, I was walking with him and another friend and out of A-Mot’s mouth comes, “Oh yeah, MY GIRLFRIEND BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH...” Don’t ask me what the fuck he said after that.
*SIGH*
Of course.
Anyway, I’ve been REALLY off him since that, though I can wait. I’m pessimistic about relationships, especially of anyone in their early thirties or lower. I feel like if you really like someone who’s got a gf/bf, then just wait. I mean, still date, search, flirt, whatever you do with the other fine species out there, but keep an eye on the prize as well.
ANYWAY, back to the party. I really don’t drink that often, though I’d say about ½ the time that I actually do, I kind of go nuts. I’m not apologizing or making excuses – it feels great and it always comes at the right time. Plus it gives me just enough social lubrication to do what I want but not might when I’m sober.
Plus, it sure helped a lot that A-Mot was drunk as well. Of course, he seemed fantastically charming to me that night.
I wish I remembered more from that night, but there are three distinct things that jump out at me – one was cute and funny, one was warm and fuzzy, and one was just damn embarrassing.
Let’s start with cute and funny since it’s harmless. Basically, after spending the whole night with A-Mot and the other co-workers: The Tower (male, 6’6 tall), and “Heather” (fun, desperately-seeking-nice-guy-with-benefits), we were all drunk and all friendly, floating from here to there, smiling, and occasionally dancing like idiots. At one point, when we were leaving, we were going down in this gigantic freight elevator (it’s just so COOOL to be going down in a freight elevator), and A-Mot started wildly dancing in front of me (not to me), doing some things that convinced me that the man is very flexible. I wonder if he stretched out before the party. I was sitting in this chair in the elevator, near passing out, and then nearly puking with laughter after he started his personal jig. I wish I could show a small movie of it, since it was like watching Plastic Man boogey, but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Warm and fuzzy happened twice, I think. Well, I know it happened once for SURE. The second one may just be fantasy. It was pretty late in the party. I was pretty smashed. The kind of smashed where you know you should just be still and quiet for a little while, utilizing Jedi mind tricks to calm your tumultuous stomach. I was alone, leaning up against the bar, lazily watching the party slowly wind down. A-Mot comes up to me, and from what my hazy recollection can tell me, he asked me a series of questions, basically making sure I was alright, I think.
“Are you okay?”
- I’m fine, thanks.
“Do you want another drink?”
- Absolutely not.
“Do you want to go home?”
- Not yet.
“Do you want a hug?”
- YES!
Next, he held open his arms real wide and I held out my arms like a three year old wanting to be picked up by daddy. The hug was very tight, and very long. Even in my drunken state I remember thinking, “This is awesome! It’s going on and on!” Though of course I have been lusting for this guy for months, the truth is that I saw the embrace as a very warm and sweet thing, and not really sexual. Doesn’t mean I don’t attach sexual fantasies to it *cough* but it wasn’t like that. In fact, every time I think about it since then, I just grin. I want another hug.
I left the embarrassing to last. You might not consider it as humiliating as I do, but then, I obsess. Background: many months ago when I first started lusting after A-Mot, I did what I always do – relentlessly research him (mostly through Google-related sites) to find out as much information as possible. I remember one of my main goals was simply to find out his age. But I found out a lot – like that he had gone to some damn fine schools and was a super-genius scholar for a bit. (*pant pant*). He also writes poetry, is a political activist of sorts (women’s empowerment and justice in Latin America), and one of my favorites – he loves hammocks!
Laugh if you will, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE hammocks. Like riding horseback, it’s one of those things I never get enough opportunities to do. I could buy a hammock, sure, but where the hell would I put it? In my tiny NY apartment? Slung from what? The cracking window frame to the chipping-away door? So, his comment stuck with me. I love a guy who loves hammocks!
So, at some point late into the evening when I was drunk enough to be chatty and close to him and yet TOO drunk to be using any kind of real discretion, I leaned over and whispered into his ear something to the effect of how I loved the fact so much that he loved hammocks. His face got all confused. You can imagine his surprise. Almost immediately after it emerged from my mouth I knew I had faux pas’ed badly! I tried to back peddle, but how the fuck do you back peddle from that? He was like, “Um, how do you know that? Did you read my bio or something?” I don’t know what I spluttered out to try to appear flip and regain some semblance of dignity. The world should just have swallowed me up at that point and gotten it over with. Now, I can’t remember exactly at what point chronologically happened during the night. I just HOPE it was before the hug and not after.
To try and placate myself, I do remember that at some point AFTER that he made a comment about going over to the plush and comfy couches set up around the large room to sit down and we did, well, we sort of landed on them after losing our sense of gravity. I have a pleasant memory of being sprawled out on this couch next to him and oh-so-nonchalantly having my right arm resting on his left thigh. Well, it was nonchalant initially, but at some point I did realize where my hand was and did not remove it. Sadly, the others came over and we all left after that.
At work the next day, I was…..late. As I reached my desk, my co-workers kept commenting on how A-Mot, Tower, and Heather had all been at my desk several times already to see me. What a bonding experience alcohol is! These are three people at work that I would normally never be going out with. No we’re all chums. As I sat down I saw three post-its stuck to my screen that looked somewhat..phallic. “Who put these penis post-its on my screen?” I asked. Then right after that it clicked. It was a salt shaker! The next one a bottle of tequila, the next post-it, a lime. I guess my drink of choice that night was well-known.
And sadly, everything did go back to normal. A-Mot and I did not suddenly become deeply in love. But thankfully, the hammock comment hasn't been mentioned, so I am praying that he was too drunk to remember it (yeah, right). Life goes on, I guess. At least now I am comfortable with him (hopefully I will no longer trip in the hall again when he appears), and will look forward to future opportunities. And … wait.
P.S. Oh, and I forgot to tell about Heather and “Mandy.” Mandy was A-Mot’s childhood friend who was brought along to the party. I call him Mandy since he had a striking resemblance to Mandy Patinkin, though admittedly, he was much younger, and hotter than the real Mandy. He hit on me, and others, before settling on Heather. I liked him, but I kind of got the feeling he was looking for a vagina, and not a woman. Not that I’m against meaningless sex, but I was too distracted by the unavailable, hug-worthy A-Mot. Heather did take him home that night, and just like the scumbag guys you hear about….he never called again.
Near the end of work, one of my co-workers, “Celia,” who has also written/produced an off-Broadway show, invited me to go to this party. Well, let’s not lie, I was invited to represent the organization, not as a real guest or anything, which is just fine with me since mingling and socializing are NOT my forte. Having some sort of “job” at a party would enable me to enjoy it without feeling obligated to mingle. Seems Celia knows a guy from college who is now some big fancy stockbroker making tons of money and apparently has given quite a bit to our organization here and there. He was throwing the party for his co-workers and such. Paying for this posh meat-district private party in a swanky club, and including a totally free bar all night.
What’s that? Totally free bar? I had my first shot within 15 minutes of being there. A few hours later I was floating on air and loving everyone, as were my three co-workers. Trying to push a charity during a snazzy party in a very dark room lit by the occasional candle was not that easy. Besides, like I said, I suck at schmoozing. One of my co-workers, in a previous post mentioned as “A-Mot,” managed to score $1200. I felt stupid.
Let’s talk about A-Mot again. As always happens, A-Mot was my big “work crush.” Just my type, brainy, mild-mannered, HOT, and … stuff. He even occasionally wears those Clark Kent glasses which drive me crazy. My interest began to wane simply because I got bored with no action. And then around election-time, I was walking with him and another friend and out of A-Mot’s mouth comes, “Oh yeah, MY GIRLFRIEND BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH...” Don’t ask me what the fuck he said after that.
*SIGH*
Of course.
Anyway, I’ve been REALLY off him since that, though I can wait. I’m pessimistic about relationships, especially of anyone in their early thirties or lower. I feel like if you really like someone who’s got a gf/bf, then just wait. I mean, still date, search, flirt, whatever you do with the other fine species out there, but keep an eye on the prize as well.
ANYWAY, back to the party. I really don’t drink that often, though I’d say about ½ the time that I actually do, I kind of go nuts. I’m not apologizing or making excuses – it feels great and it always comes at the right time. Plus it gives me just enough social lubrication to do what I want but not might when I’m sober.
Plus, it sure helped a lot that A-Mot was drunk as well. Of course, he seemed fantastically charming to me that night.
I wish I remembered more from that night, but there are three distinct things that jump out at me – one was cute and funny, one was warm and fuzzy, and one was just damn embarrassing.
Let’s start with cute and funny since it’s harmless. Basically, after spending the whole night with A-Mot and the other co-workers: The Tower (male, 6’6 tall), and “Heather” (fun, desperately-seeking-nice-guy-with-benefits), we were all drunk and all friendly, floating from here to there, smiling, and occasionally dancing like idiots. At one point, when we were leaving, we were going down in this gigantic freight elevator (it’s just so COOOL to be going down in a freight elevator), and A-Mot started wildly dancing in front of me (not to me), doing some things that convinced me that the man is very flexible. I wonder if he stretched out before the party. I was sitting in this chair in the elevator, near passing out, and then nearly puking with laughter after he started his personal jig. I wish I could show a small movie of it, since it was like watching Plastic Man boogey, but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Warm and fuzzy happened twice, I think. Well, I know it happened once for SURE. The second one may just be fantasy. It was pretty late in the party. I was pretty smashed. The kind of smashed where you know you should just be still and quiet for a little while, utilizing Jedi mind tricks to calm your tumultuous stomach. I was alone, leaning up against the bar, lazily watching the party slowly wind down. A-Mot comes up to me, and from what my hazy recollection can tell me, he asked me a series of questions, basically making sure I was alright, I think.
“Are you okay?”
- I’m fine, thanks.
“Do you want another drink?”
- Absolutely not.
“Do you want to go home?”
- Not yet.
“Do you want a hug?”
- YES!
Next, he held open his arms real wide and I held out my arms like a three year old wanting to be picked up by daddy. The hug was very tight, and very long. Even in my drunken state I remember thinking, “This is awesome! It’s going on and on!” Though of course I have been lusting for this guy for months, the truth is that I saw the embrace as a very warm and sweet thing, and not really sexual. Doesn’t mean I don’t attach sexual fantasies to it *cough* but it wasn’t like that. In fact, every time I think about it since then, I just grin. I want another hug.
I left the embarrassing to last. You might not consider it as humiliating as I do, but then, I obsess. Background: many months ago when I first started lusting after A-Mot, I did what I always do – relentlessly research him (mostly through Google-related sites) to find out as much information as possible. I remember one of my main goals was simply to find out his age. But I found out a lot – like that he had gone to some damn fine schools and was a super-genius scholar for a bit. (*pant pant*). He also writes poetry, is a political activist of sorts (women’s empowerment and justice in Latin America), and one of my favorites – he loves hammocks!
Laugh if you will, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE hammocks. Like riding horseback, it’s one of those things I never get enough opportunities to do. I could buy a hammock, sure, but where the hell would I put it? In my tiny NY apartment? Slung from what? The cracking window frame to the chipping-away door? So, his comment stuck with me. I love a guy who loves hammocks!
So, at some point late into the evening when I was drunk enough to be chatty and close to him and yet TOO drunk to be using any kind of real discretion, I leaned over and whispered into his ear something to the effect of how I loved the fact so much that he loved hammocks. His face got all confused. You can imagine his surprise. Almost immediately after it emerged from my mouth I knew I had faux pas’ed badly! I tried to back peddle, but how the fuck do you back peddle from that? He was like, “Um, how do you know that? Did you read my bio or something?” I don’t know what I spluttered out to try to appear flip and regain some semblance of dignity. The world should just have swallowed me up at that point and gotten it over with. Now, I can’t remember exactly at what point chronologically happened during the night. I just HOPE it was before the hug and not after.
To try and placate myself, I do remember that at some point AFTER that he made a comment about going over to the plush and comfy couches set up around the large room to sit down and we did, well, we sort of landed on them after losing our sense of gravity. I have a pleasant memory of being sprawled out on this couch next to him and oh-so-nonchalantly having my right arm resting on his left thigh. Well, it was nonchalant initially, but at some point I did realize where my hand was and did not remove it. Sadly, the others came over and we all left after that.
At work the next day, I was…..late. As I reached my desk, my co-workers kept commenting on how A-Mot, Tower, and Heather had all been at my desk several times already to see me. What a bonding experience alcohol is! These are three people at work that I would normally never be going out with. No we’re all chums. As I sat down I saw three post-its stuck to my screen that looked somewhat..phallic. “Who put these penis post-its on my screen?” I asked. Then right after that it clicked. It was a salt shaker! The next one a bottle of tequila, the next post-it, a lime. I guess my drink of choice that night was well-known.
And sadly, everything did go back to normal. A-Mot and I did not suddenly become deeply in love. But thankfully, the hammock comment hasn't been mentioned, so I am praying that he was too drunk to remember it (yeah, right). Life goes on, I guess. At least now I am comfortable with him (hopefully I will no longer trip in the hall again when he appears), and will look forward to future opportunities. And … wait.
P.S. Oh, and I forgot to tell about Heather and “Mandy.” Mandy was A-Mot’s childhood friend who was brought along to the party. I call him Mandy since he had a striking resemblance to Mandy Patinkin, though admittedly, he was much younger, and hotter than the real Mandy. He hit on me, and others, before settling on Heather. I liked him, but I kind of got the feeling he was looking for a vagina, and not a woman. Not that I’m against meaningless sex, but I was too distracted by the unavailable, hug-worthy A-Mot. Heather did take him home that night, and just like the scumbag guys you hear about….he never called again.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Dogs, Darkness, and Dickheads
So, I’ve been doing some dog/housesitting on the side to make any kind of (tax-free) money I can, and really, to pay back my step-father the money I borrowed from him to move. He keeps reminding me that I have to pay it back by Christmas. I know! It’s just not easy sending big paychecks away like that. Sucks, really. But as I know, it was my choice to move. Nobody better expect anything for Christmas/Hanukah from me except my warmest wishes for a holiday season.
ANYWAY, (ADD distractions!), it was pretty late at night and I had to take the two dogs I was taking care of to “the park.” A massive, beautiful “ecologically-friendly” place called, Prospect Park in the embarrassingly affluent Park Slope community of Brooklyn. Due to the fact that it was wicked cold and I don’t fancy walking deep into a dark park at night, I decided to take the dogs to the closest grassy knoll possible. As I approaching it, I heard shouting. Chock-full of profanity and anger, there was no doubt it was some sort of fight involving more than two people. I held tightly to the dogs' leashes in case I need them to save me (which I was seriously doubting since they slobber joyfully all over anyone who looks their way). I was on the park side of the fence on this “grassy knoll” which was elevated about two feet from street level. The park is surrounded by this stone fence, about 2-3 feet high, with the sidewalk and street on the other side.
As things got closer, and the shouts and profanity louder, I could make out three teenagers up on the knoll with me, and below on the sidewalk, a homeless man with his shopping carts and personal possessions. They were screaming at each other and the teenagers were throwing anything they could get their hands on at the homeless man. As I got closer, one teenager picked up this metal pole as long as a javelin (and much heavier) and threw it right at the homeless man, hitting his arm. These weren’t boys out on a stupid prank, they were seriously attacking this man. I was so appalled by what I saw I could hardly contain myself. I began shouting, “Hey, stop!” but they didn’t seem to hear me. Choking on anger and adrenaline, I took off sprinting toward the boys screaming, dogs keeping pace along side me, oblivious to the drama unfolding. As I was nearing the boys, one who had now picked up a large metal trashcan, holding it above his head, ready to throw at the homeless man, I started screaming every single profanity I’d ever heard in my life at them. I didn’t know what else to do.
“You dumbshit motherfuckers, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?! ..." I won’t get into all of it, but let's just say I would have made Collin Farrell blush. Yet it wasn’t ‘til I screamed out, “I’m calling the cops right now you pricks!” that they took my meager assault a bit more seriously. They dispersed immediately, running in three different directions, shouting over their shoulders all the way. And during all this time, the homeless man and the teenagers had still been exchanging curses at the top of their lungs. As the boys disappeared down side streets, I approached the homeless man and asked him if he was okay. He was still pumped up from the experience and it took him a minute to calm down. The whole time he was gripping his arm that had been hit by the pole. He thanked me for my help and said that they had got his arm. He talked about how they were part of a gang and this thing happened all the time. I was stunned. It had been such a vicious attack – I guess I had always figured homeless people were harassed, but I thought such situations as terrible like this were rare.
Luckily, someone had called the cops, as a patrol car glided up to the man. By this time I had let the dogs free so they could frolic among the forest area. As soon as I saw the cops, I trotted up to them. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe the homeless man and think he was crazy. I told them everything I saw and asked if they knew who these boys could possibly be. They said things like this happen every night, but they didn't know who the boys were. The male policeman was surprised when I pointed to the big metal pole, now leaning against the park wall, and told him that had been hurled at the man. The cop hefted up the pole and grunted. He was stunned at how heavy it was. “They threw this?’ he asked in disbelief. “Yes!” I said, “I saw the whole thing.” I then pointed to the large metal trash can, now lying on its side a few feet from me and told how that had been their next cannon fodder. The police then told the homeless man to go over to 16th street where it would be “safer” and they drove around the area, though we all knew it would be in vain. We couldn’t identify them in the darkness.
I whistled to the dogs who ran up to me and jumped off the wall. I grabbed their leashes and started walking back to the house, down the same streets the boys had taken off on, and it was only then that I had a twinge of fear. I didn’t know who they were, but they would know me. I had two dogs, a bright yellow breaker on, and a ridiculous hat (it looked exactly like the one Han Solo and Luke Skywalker were wearing in the opening scene of the frozen planet in The Empire Strikes Back. All fur, all around my head). I was pretty identifiable. Would they try to retaliate? Truthfully, I wasn’t really that afraid, but it did occur to me to keep my eyes open. So everytime I passed a group of teenagers hanging around (and they were all over) I stared at them closely. Nothing happened. We got back to the house and I spent the rest of the night watching Forensic Files and eating cereal.
ANYWAY, (ADD distractions!), it was pretty late at night and I had to take the two dogs I was taking care of to “the park.” A massive, beautiful “ecologically-friendly” place called, Prospect Park in the embarrassingly affluent Park Slope community of Brooklyn. Due to the fact that it was wicked cold and I don’t fancy walking deep into a dark park at night, I decided to take the dogs to the closest grassy knoll possible. As I approaching it, I heard shouting. Chock-full of profanity and anger, there was no doubt it was some sort of fight involving more than two people. I held tightly to the dogs' leashes in case I need them to save me (which I was seriously doubting since they slobber joyfully all over anyone who looks their way). I was on the park side of the fence on this “grassy knoll” which was elevated about two feet from street level. The park is surrounded by this stone fence, about 2-3 feet high, with the sidewalk and street on the other side.
As things got closer, and the shouts and profanity louder, I could make out three teenagers up on the knoll with me, and below on the sidewalk, a homeless man with his shopping carts and personal possessions. They were screaming at each other and the teenagers were throwing anything they could get their hands on at the homeless man. As I got closer, one teenager picked up this metal pole as long as a javelin (and much heavier) and threw it right at the homeless man, hitting his arm. These weren’t boys out on a stupid prank, they were seriously attacking this man. I was so appalled by what I saw I could hardly contain myself. I began shouting, “Hey, stop!” but they didn’t seem to hear me. Choking on anger and adrenaline, I took off sprinting toward the boys screaming, dogs keeping pace along side me, oblivious to the drama unfolding. As I was nearing the boys, one who had now picked up a large metal trashcan, holding it above his head, ready to throw at the homeless man, I started screaming every single profanity I’d ever heard in my life at them. I didn’t know what else to do.
“You dumbshit motherfuckers, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?! ..." I won’t get into all of it, but let's just say I would have made Collin Farrell blush. Yet it wasn’t ‘til I screamed out, “I’m calling the cops right now you pricks!” that they took my meager assault a bit more seriously. They dispersed immediately, running in three different directions, shouting over their shoulders all the way. And during all this time, the homeless man and the teenagers had still been exchanging curses at the top of their lungs. As the boys disappeared down side streets, I approached the homeless man and asked him if he was okay. He was still pumped up from the experience and it took him a minute to calm down. The whole time he was gripping his arm that had been hit by the pole. He thanked me for my help and said that they had got his arm. He talked about how they were part of a gang and this thing happened all the time. I was stunned. It had been such a vicious attack – I guess I had always figured homeless people were harassed, but I thought such situations as terrible like this were rare.
Luckily, someone had called the cops, as a patrol car glided up to the man. By this time I had let the dogs free so they could frolic among the forest area. As soon as I saw the cops, I trotted up to them. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe the homeless man and think he was crazy. I told them everything I saw and asked if they knew who these boys could possibly be. They said things like this happen every night, but they didn't know who the boys were. The male policeman was surprised when I pointed to the big metal pole, now leaning against the park wall, and told him that had been hurled at the man. The cop hefted up the pole and grunted. He was stunned at how heavy it was. “They threw this?’ he asked in disbelief. “Yes!” I said, “I saw the whole thing.” I then pointed to the large metal trash can, now lying on its side a few feet from me and told how that had been their next cannon fodder. The police then told the homeless man to go over to 16th street where it would be “safer” and they drove around the area, though we all knew it would be in vain. We couldn’t identify them in the darkness.
I whistled to the dogs who ran up to me and jumped off the wall. I grabbed their leashes and started walking back to the house, down the same streets the boys had taken off on, and it was only then that I had a twinge of fear. I didn’t know who they were, but they would know me. I had two dogs, a bright yellow breaker on, and a ridiculous hat (it looked exactly like the one Han Solo and Luke Skywalker were wearing in the opening scene of the frozen planet in The Empire Strikes Back. All fur, all around my head). I was pretty identifiable. Would they try to retaliate? Truthfully, I wasn’t really that afraid, but it did occur to me to keep my eyes open. So everytime I passed a group of teenagers hanging around (and they were all over) I stared at them closely. Nothing happened. We got back to the house and I spent the rest of the night watching Forensic Files and eating cereal.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Effects Sideways
Hi, I’m back.
I just re-read my last post and wanted to jump out this 10th story window. Don’t worry, I won’t. They haven’t quite put me on suicide watch yet.
In fact, today, I am feeling great! For the most part, except for my laundry list of side effects. Let’s get into that, shall we? As previously reported, I am in a medical study to see if ingesting very high doses of anti-depression pills can “cure” someone of depression quickly and without the help of any therapy. Purely physiologically.
For the past week or two, I have been on the top doses of both the pills. It’s rather staggering. In the morning when I take my pile of pills, I think, “This can’t be right.”
The side effects have been the worse I’ve experience in my life, and yet, they’re all “liveable.” Well, kind of. I’m still trying to decide whether to junk this or not. I’m really the “grit your teeth and take it” kind of person if there’s a goal within sight (well, except for maybe exercising).
At first I started shaking. Nothing dramatic, just in such a way that I would be hard-pressed to thread a needle or to operate on a patient. Good thing I’m not a surgeon then! I felt unsteady all the time, like I was going to lose my balance at any point. I was a little bit nauseated all the time. My head would swim, especially if I turned it quickly. I would have to often stop for a second to gather my thoughts before performing an action, just a pause, but noticeable to me. And my usual foot jiggling that I do throughout the day accelerated into rapid fire jiggling and sudden, unpredictable jerks as if the country doctor hit your knee with one of those reaction hammers.
Fun, eh?
Then the worst part. My sleep was roughly disrupted. I would fall asleep fine enough since I am often exhausted by the time I climb into my lovely nest. And then…
I would wake up at 2am. I would go back to sleep.
I would wake up at 3:30am. I would go back to sleep again.
I would wake up at 5:15am. It was much harder to get back to sleep, and the alarm would be going off anyway at 6:30am.
Let me tell you, sleep deprivation is a powerful thing. It just turns you into a zombie-like, disoriented, grumpy, depressed, unfocused person (like I need more of that). I was beginning to panic. The solution? Cutting back on the pills, taking sleeping pills, or living with it.
The sleeping pill seemed like the best choice, but ANOTHER pill? How much can my body take? But how many more choppy nights of loss sleep can I take? In the end I went with the pill, and I take it, sometimes. I only take it if I can go to bed at a reasonable hour and it’s a weekday. I can’t believe I take sleeping pills now. I’ve turned into Elvis.
So here I am a few weeks later. Last week I felt like shit. Today, I feel better. Much better. I don’t if this is just a temporary thing or the beginning of the end. I’m hoping for the latter. I still have side effects to deal with, and though they are lessening, they are ever-present and aggravating.
This isn’t happening as fast as I had hoped. I mean, I was willing to steer through all the side effects if the barrage of pills did the trick – to cure me quick. Raise my serotonin levels, damn it! I know I’ll be fine. The waiting just sucks.
I just re-read my last post and wanted to jump out this 10th story window. Don’t worry, I won’t. They haven’t quite put me on suicide watch yet.
In fact, today, I am feeling great! For the most part, except for my laundry list of side effects. Let’s get into that, shall we? As previously reported, I am in a medical study to see if ingesting very high doses of anti-depression pills can “cure” someone of depression quickly and without the help of any therapy. Purely physiologically.
For the past week or two, I have been on the top doses of both the pills. It’s rather staggering. In the morning when I take my pile of pills, I think, “This can’t be right.”
The side effects have been the worse I’ve experience in my life, and yet, they’re all “liveable.” Well, kind of. I’m still trying to decide whether to junk this or not. I’m really the “grit your teeth and take it” kind of person if there’s a goal within sight (well, except for maybe exercising).
At first I started shaking. Nothing dramatic, just in such a way that I would be hard-pressed to thread a needle or to operate on a patient. Good thing I’m not a surgeon then! I felt unsteady all the time, like I was going to lose my balance at any point. I was a little bit nauseated all the time. My head would swim, especially if I turned it quickly. I would have to often stop for a second to gather my thoughts before performing an action, just a pause, but noticeable to me. And my usual foot jiggling that I do throughout the day accelerated into rapid fire jiggling and sudden, unpredictable jerks as if the country doctor hit your knee with one of those reaction hammers.
Fun, eh?
Then the worst part. My sleep was roughly disrupted. I would fall asleep fine enough since I am often exhausted by the time I climb into my lovely nest. And then…
I would wake up at 2am. I would go back to sleep.
I would wake up at 3:30am. I would go back to sleep again.
I would wake up at 5:15am. It was much harder to get back to sleep, and the alarm would be going off anyway at 6:30am.
Let me tell you, sleep deprivation is a powerful thing. It just turns you into a zombie-like, disoriented, grumpy, depressed, unfocused person (like I need more of that). I was beginning to panic. The solution? Cutting back on the pills, taking sleeping pills, or living with it.
The sleeping pill seemed like the best choice, but ANOTHER pill? How much can my body take? But how many more choppy nights of loss sleep can I take? In the end I went with the pill, and I take it, sometimes. I only take it if I can go to bed at a reasonable hour and it’s a weekday. I can’t believe I take sleeping pills now. I’ve turned into Elvis.
So here I am a few weeks later. Last week I felt like shit. Today, I feel better. Much better. I don’t if this is just a temporary thing or the beginning of the end. I’m hoping for the latter. I still have side effects to deal with, and though they are lessening, they are ever-present and aggravating.
This isn’t happening as fast as I had hoped. I mean, I was willing to steer through all the side effects if the barrage of pills did the trick – to cure me quick. Raise my serotonin levels, damn it! I know I’ll be fine. The waiting just sucks.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Fear of a President
I could go on and on and on about this election. About how I was so devastated by Bush's win, that I felt desperate and panicked. As a friend of mine said in so eloquently in an email:
Oh god.
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
I was so energized about voting and the election and the chance to remove fucking Bush from his despot-ways of ruling the world. The next day, it was like my mom died.
www.sorryeverybody.com Check it out for a laugh and a sigh. I'll be there too.
*sigh*
Oh god.
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
I was so energized about voting and the election and the chance to remove fucking Bush from his despot-ways of ruling the world. The next day, it was like my mom died.
www.sorryeverybody.com Check it out for a laugh and a sigh. I'll be there too.
*sigh*
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Back in Black
I haven’t written in a long time and a million times I’ve wanted to. Every time I’ve started to though, I’ve been overcome by this overwhelming sense of ennui. This is really unfortunate since so many things, most of them dramatic, have happened to me in the past few months. Most of them have been shitty, but some of them have been okay to good:
-- I protested at the Republican National Convention, which was kind of cool and interesting until the end of the night.
-- I moved out of my posh East Village apartment with two lovebird roommates into a shithole up up Uptown apartment in Manhattan and so, went from having just barely enough money to being fucking frighteningly broke all the time and becoming very familiar with cereal as a meal.
-- I got digital cable and a cable modem internet hook-up (*CHEER!*) and then my laptop broke down, once and for all. (*SOB*). It looks like I won't be able to think about buying a new computer 'til January which means now I'm fucked since my phone service is connected to my cable modem hook-up. So, if I get rid of my cable modem (which I should), I'll have no phone service which I've already paid all the expensive start-up fees for.
-- I was a part of a crazy medical experiment which tests brainwaves and was filmed by ABC for a piece on it. The cap I had to wear with electrodes all over my head and face was something I’m sure any of my friends would have paid to see.
-- I’ve became overly-medicated like my grandfather once was.
-- I have developed an unusually close relationship to a urologist due to a medical problem that seems to completely flabbergast him and completely piss (ha ha) me off.
-- My genial ex-husband suddenly turned into a typical asshole one.
-- Just when I thought maybe I was going to get myself fired at work I got one of the most glowing reviews of my life.
-- I briefly dated some guy from the internet who started off great and ended up being a damn disappointment.
-- I was bumped from the Jon Stewart show (*angry scream*) and was shepherded off to the Collin Quinn show which was a fun experience, though missing J.S. after not only waiting several months, but also taking off early from work and standing in line for an hour and a half and HAVING TICKETS as well. Jon Stewart, you’re show is great, but that really sucks.
It is my goal to write about all these things, but I don’t know if it will happen. I’ve been feeling pretty depressed. Let me rephrase that, I’ve been Depressed. Notice the capital “D.” I know the signs. It happened once before when I was in grad school – my “forever” marriage had ended by my own doing, the reigning love of my life (different person) had moved in with me, treated me like dogshit, and them moved out all within the space of a year, I wasn’t doing as well in grad school as I thought I would (I started off behind), and I was broke (familiar theme). I spent about a full year praying to the non-existent god to catapult me in front of a fast-moving SUV and end my fucking miserable life since I lacked the courage to do it myself. After an initial visit to the counseling service with the intention of getting help with my already documented memory problems (in grad school you have to memorize GOBS of material), I ended up seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist respectively twice a week, medicated, and six months later, I was noticing the blooming flowers and the blue of the sky.
This is one reason that every time I’ve started writing in this blog again I’ve stopped. 1) I hate spilling my private personal stuff all over the page like some kind of morbid road kill. 2) I hate writing stuff that makes me seem whiny, complaining, DEPRESSED! Nobody likes that. I’ve had enough friends who needed professional and pharmaceutical help to know that they’re not fun to be around after awhile. It’s like someone slowly drowning you in black water.
Anyway, not wanting to get to the point I was nine years ago where death seemed sweet and seductive, I wanted to get help. I have health insurance this time, but apparently its mental health component is pretty lacking. Not to mention that everything needs a referral and it takes six weeks to get in to see my regular physician. In one of the local papers I noticed an advertisement from Columbia University for people who thought they may be depressed and wanted to be a part of free services. To make a long story short, I was all over that. Here’s the catch: no talk therapy. Just medication. It’s free. They do all the medical tests, you talk to psychiatrist, etc. But it is what it is – a medical study. Medical studies have their own agendas as well do I. I’m there to get free medication, they’re there to use me as guinea pig to (dis)prove their theory. I have no qualms with that, though I do admit I was rather disappointed not to have shrink sessions. I enjoy therapy. I feel it was valuable for me last time (as was the medication). But this is how it is. They want to try and experiment to see the effectiveness of aggressive medication (I won’t get into it now) and no therapy. Hell, I’m curious myself.
This is why I tell very few friends about this blog. I like to write about my experiences in Bangkok and NYC which they usually enjoy reading, sure, but I also need this blog to barf out all this secret stuff I’m ashamed of, just like I did on this page today. Sure, to the couple of people who actually KNOW me and might read this, I’m pretty humiliated right now, but that can’t really be helped. I have some damn good friends in my life right now, not a lot, but I’d say the quality of my friends is fantastic. My mother’s been pretty great too for the past year or so (so strange that I’ve often wondered if she’s secretly dying). And yet, I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about this, and let’s face it, Depression still has its stigma. In fact, I know one person I know who may read this and puke on his own. He’s never really believed much in mental illness.
And naturally, I’m ashamed of my own weakness. Sometimes I even surprise myself at how independent and strong I am. Sometimes I feel I can do just about anything (not in that euphoric bipolar sort of way, mind you! *cough*). Sometimes I think there’s not anything I can’t adjust to. And yet, here I am, nine years later, back on the weak track. Yes, yes, I know all the arguments against that. I know all about how it’s more about a drop in your serotonin levels than it is about being “blue.” Nevertheless, I am disappointed in myself. And I think it makes me less attractive as a person to know, as a friend or lover. I know that personally, when I have met men with an enormous amount of baggage, I have just flat out not been interested (unlike my early twenties when I would have relished the challenge to “save him!”). And here I am now, a baggage carrier myself. Blah.
Well, the pills begin tonight. In eight weeks I should be flying higher than a kite. Will it be me or the wellbutrin???
-- I protested at the Republican National Convention, which was kind of cool and interesting until the end of the night.
-- I moved out of my posh East Village apartment with two lovebird roommates into a shithole up up Uptown apartment in Manhattan and so, went from having just barely enough money to being fucking frighteningly broke all the time and becoming very familiar with cereal as a meal.
-- I got digital cable and a cable modem internet hook-up (*CHEER!*) and then my laptop broke down, once and for all. (*SOB*). It looks like I won't be able to think about buying a new computer 'til January which means now I'm fucked since my phone service is connected to my cable modem hook-up. So, if I get rid of my cable modem (which I should), I'll have no phone service which I've already paid all the expensive start-up fees for.
-- I was a part of a crazy medical experiment which tests brainwaves and was filmed by ABC for a piece on it. The cap I had to wear with electrodes all over my head and face was something I’m sure any of my friends would have paid to see.
-- I’ve became overly-medicated like my grandfather once was.
-- I have developed an unusually close relationship to a urologist due to a medical problem that seems to completely flabbergast him and completely piss (ha ha) me off.
-- My genial ex-husband suddenly turned into a typical asshole one.
-- Just when I thought maybe I was going to get myself fired at work I got one of the most glowing reviews of my life.
-- I briefly dated some guy from the internet who started off great and ended up being a damn disappointment.
-- I was bumped from the Jon Stewart show (*angry scream*) and was shepherded off to the Collin Quinn show which was a fun experience, though missing J.S. after not only waiting several months, but also taking off early from work and standing in line for an hour and a half and HAVING TICKETS as well. Jon Stewart, you’re show is great, but that really sucks.
It is my goal to write about all these things, but I don’t know if it will happen. I’ve been feeling pretty depressed. Let me rephrase that, I’ve been Depressed. Notice the capital “D.” I know the signs. It happened once before when I was in grad school – my “forever” marriage had ended by my own doing, the reigning love of my life (different person) had moved in with me, treated me like dogshit, and them moved out all within the space of a year, I wasn’t doing as well in grad school as I thought I would (I started off behind), and I was broke (familiar theme). I spent about a full year praying to the non-existent god to catapult me in front of a fast-moving SUV and end my fucking miserable life since I lacked the courage to do it myself. After an initial visit to the counseling service with the intention of getting help with my already documented memory problems (in grad school you have to memorize GOBS of material), I ended up seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist respectively twice a week, medicated, and six months later, I was noticing the blooming flowers and the blue of the sky.
This is one reason that every time I’ve started writing in this blog again I’ve stopped. 1) I hate spilling my private personal stuff all over the page like some kind of morbid road kill. 2) I hate writing stuff that makes me seem whiny, complaining, DEPRESSED! Nobody likes that. I’ve had enough friends who needed professional and pharmaceutical help to know that they’re not fun to be around after awhile. It’s like someone slowly drowning you in black water.
Anyway, not wanting to get to the point I was nine years ago where death seemed sweet and seductive, I wanted to get help. I have health insurance this time, but apparently its mental health component is pretty lacking. Not to mention that everything needs a referral and it takes six weeks to get in to see my regular physician. In one of the local papers I noticed an advertisement from Columbia University for people who thought they may be depressed and wanted to be a part of free services. To make a long story short, I was all over that. Here’s the catch: no talk therapy. Just medication. It’s free. They do all the medical tests, you talk to psychiatrist, etc. But it is what it is – a medical study. Medical studies have their own agendas as well do I. I’m there to get free medication, they’re there to use me as guinea pig to (dis)prove their theory. I have no qualms with that, though I do admit I was rather disappointed not to have shrink sessions. I enjoy therapy. I feel it was valuable for me last time (as was the medication). But this is how it is. They want to try and experiment to see the effectiveness of aggressive medication (I won’t get into it now) and no therapy. Hell, I’m curious myself.
This is why I tell very few friends about this blog. I like to write about my experiences in Bangkok and NYC which they usually enjoy reading, sure, but I also need this blog to barf out all this secret stuff I’m ashamed of, just like I did on this page today. Sure, to the couple of people who actually KNOW me and might read this, I’m pretty humiliated right now, but that can’t really be helped. I have some damn good friends in my life right now, not a lot, but I’d say the quality of my friends is fantastic. My mother’s been pretty great too for the past year or so (so strange that I’ve often wondered if she’s secretly dying). And yet, I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about this, and let’s face it, Depression still has its stigma. In fact, I know one person I know who may read this and puke on his own. He’s never really believed much in mental illness.
And naturally, I’m ashamed of my own weakness. Sometimes I even surprise myself at how independent and strong I am. Sometimes I feel I can do just about anything (not in that euphoric bipolar sort of way, mind you! *cough*). Sometimes I think there’s not anything I can’t adjust to. And yet, here I am, nine years later, back on the weak track. Yes, yes, I know all the arguments against that. I know all about how it’s more about a drop in your serotonin levels than it is about being “blue.” Nevertheless, I am disappointed in myself. And I think it makes me less attractive as a person to know, as a friend or lover. I know that personally, when I have met men with an enormous amount of baggage, I have just flat out not been interested (unlike my early twenties when I would have relished the challenge to “save him!”). And here I am now, a baggage carrier myself. Blah.
Well, the pills begin tonight. In eight weeks I should be flying higher than a kite. Will it be me or the wellbutrin???
Back in Black, Part I: Protesting at the RNC
Forgive me for writing about something that is so far in the past that no one gives a shit anymore. But since this blog has always been a selfish endeavor – to 1) practice writing on a consistent basis and 2) record my experiences in Bangkok and NYC – I hope you’ll overlook its staleness. I just don’t have the greatest memory and I enjoy reading about past events which are hazy, at best, in my mind.
During the last night of the RNC, when “W” was going to speak, I had worked late, ran some errands, and got home somewhere in the 9pm hour. Seconds after I was in the door, I got a call from “Adam” who was there at the protest, marching down the street with a giant crowd somewhere near Union Square. I was shocked and impressed. Though Adam is always willing to argue his political view, I never took him for someone actually getting out there and doing something like this. That was more of my territory, though I hadn’t done shit so far except for hang out with some academics studying the protestors in a hotel overlooking the protestors’ path.
Standing there, still with keys and bag in hand, I suddenly thought to myself, “WHY am I not there? I really do care about this election. I’m terrified that “W” will be re-elected. Why am I at home?” It wasn’t too late. My phone was beeping warnings at me that it didn’t have much juice left before it died, but I knew it would be crucial in order to meet up with Adam since he was obviously on the move somewhere between downtown and midtown. I plugged the phone into its charger while screaming into the phone, “I’m coming, I’m coming! I’m coming down now!” He kept telling me not to bother, but by then, the conversation was over to me and I hung up. As I quickly shed my work clothes and put on something more appropriate for running around the streets, I hoped that my phone would charge just enough to be able to call and find Adam once I got there.
In a few minutes I was out the door, and I turned off my phone to save energy. As the subway was chugging along, I felt a thrill. It felt right to be there, and although the majority of people at my work (a non-profit with politically-minded individuals with very strong feelings) had participated in various protests already, I had shied away from it. I’m not sure why. Though I wanted to be there, I didn’t know what to do, which one to join. I’ve always had my issues with activists, something I deal with a lot now, especially working for a non-profit that has its own advocacy concerns.
It wasn’t long before I reached 34th street and Broadway. When I emerged above ground, I was shocked to see more cops and barricades than I have ever seen in my life. I kept trying to edge my way over to Madison Square Garden, but it was blocked at every single possible street and side road. The cops weren’t stupid. I was sending text messages to Adam that I was there, as I circled the area looking for a good place to put myself.
I was in awe by the mass of people, mostly protestors, of every type and kind. Every group you could think of was there, all angry, all against Bush. There were the Jews in their side curls and black suits and hats. There were black Muslims. There were pro-choice protestors, labor unions, and groups that I couldn’t even figure out. What fascinated me even further was just the dialogue that was going on. I saw these wildly different groups talking to each other. They were having amiable political discussions, they were sharing their views. There wasn’t any shouting or arguing, there was a real unity out there. People were united to get rid of Bush, despite the fact they all came from such diverse backgrounds.
Finally, I called Adam as my phone beeped annoyingly in my ear. He was many blocks away. He couldn’t hear me, and I felt like each word was precious. After I hung up I sent text messages about the state of my dying phone. I would find out much later that his phone doesn’t receive text messages correctly.
More time passed and everytime he called I cringed that this might be the time the phone died. I was rushing around, phone to ear, still trying to find an “in.” Finally, on the third call he said he was just a few blocks away and coming toward me fast. The group that had been at Union Square had decided to come back to the heart of the protest. I started running.
The advance of the cellphone at such a moment is so funny to me. The frantic text messages, the shouting your position to your friend on the other end. It’s a tactical weapon of sorts. People were organizing, and organizing well, by use of their cellphones. And now, in a time when it would have been IMPOSSIBLE to find Adam in this cornucopia of human life, we were zeroing in on each other.
Somewhere about 35th and 8th avenue (really guessing at this point), I saw his waving hand. Boy, was I relieved. Walking up to him, I saw he had a long sticker stretched across his chest declaring, “Fuck the Republican Party!” I thought he looked pretty handsome at that moment.
We spent the next hour or so walking closer and closer to the convention, shouting out slogans like “Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!” That was my favorite one. I felt pumped. I felt happy. I was glad I was there. I was hoping that somewhere inside his comfortable world, that Bush knew we were here and what we had to say.
After some time, things started to get tense as we strained up against the barricades. There was a band marching with us that banged drums and blew horns in such a way that you felt you were rising right up off the ground. You wanted to show louder louder louder as they pounded away.
Then there were murmurs throughout the crowd as it seemed the “protesters negotiator” was discussing things with the police. At a certain time (I believe it was 11:30pm), the presence of the protesters would be a violation of war, since they were blocking the street, playing music, and making noise. “Anyone inside the barricades when it hits 11:30pm are going to get arrested” it was warned. Adam and I were deep within the barricades but could also easily escape at that moment if we needed to. We pondered our options. It was true that the police seemed to be gathering around the barricades, but arrest us, now? It didn’t seem possible. I certainly didn’t want to get arrested, that was for sure. I couldn’t post bail and I had to go to work too. People began to sit down in the street and were encouraging others to do the same. Oh well. We sat.
As 11:30 came, I looked around anxiously, but it had become clear that there wasn’t going to be any of the mass arrests as there had been before where police had just started grabbing people at random and throwing them into police trucks. Sitting there, finally having a rest, we continued to chant and shout out.
But the numbers had thinned. Many people, frightened by the threat of arrest, had high-tailed it out of there. I had mixed feelings. I could understand wanting to get the hell outta Dodge when the possibility of jail looms, but I also thought that if you had come down to protest, well, this was it. This was what it was about. I guess, how much does it matter to you? As I was to find out soon, I had my own threshold.
Time passed. Even the cops looked bored. It was half past midnight and all that was left were some die-hard hippies. I realized that the protest was over and it was time to go home. Of course, the die-hards weren’t having any part of that. And that’s when I lost my faith (in those who remained) and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge myself. You could tell, the die-hards wanted to get arrested. And the impression that I got was that it wasn’t an arrest for the cause, it was an arrest for themselves. A line had been crossed in my opinion. A line from being true to what you believe to the cause being about you and your image of yourself. The “street cred” you’d gain from being arrested. Your fight “against the man.” I wanted no part of these people who remained. If I had gotten arrested in the throes of the full-out protest, that would be one thing, but hanging out ‘til the wee hours of the morning practically begging a cop to haul me in seemed cheap and undignified.
Adam and I finally got up and walked away. It was late and I was tired, but I was happy that I had showed, if only briefly. And since it was Adam, and our relationship thrives on conflict instead of harmony, we made sure to have a huge, knockdown argument on the street before I descended underground to my subway. *sigh*
During the last night of the RNC, when “W” was going to speak, I had worked late, ran some errands, and got home somewhere in the 9pm hour. Seconds after I was in the door, I got a call from “Adam” who was there at the protest, marching down the street with a giant crowd somewhere near Union Square. I was shocked and impressed. Though Adam is always willing to argue his political view, I never took him for someone actually getting out there and doing something like this. That was more of my territory, though I hadn’t done shit so far except for hang out with some academics studying the protestors in a hotel overlooking the protestors’ path.
Standing there, still with keys and bag in hand, I suddenly thought to myself, “WHY am I not there? I really do care about this election. I’m terrified that “W” will be re-elected. Why am I at home?” It wasn’t too late. My phone was beeping warnings at me that it didn’t have much juice left before it died, but I knew it would be crucial in order to meet up with Adam since he was obviously on the move somewhere between downtown and midtown. I plugged the phone into its charger while screaming into the phone, “I’m coming, I’m coming! I’m coming down now!” He kept telling me not to bother, but by then, the conversation was over to me and I hung up. As I quickly shed my work clothes and put on something more appropriate for running around the streets, I hoped that my phone would charge just enough to be able to call and find Adam once I got there.
In a few minutes I was out the door, and I turned off my phone to save energy. As the subway was chugging along, I felt a thrill. It felt right to be there, and although the majority of people at my work (a non-profit with politically-minded individuals with very strong feelings) had participated in various protests already, I had shied away from it. I’m not sure why. Though I wanted to be there, I didn’t know what to do, which one to join. I’ve always had my issues with activists, something I deal with a lot now, especially working for a non-profit that has its own advocacy concerns.
It wasn’t long before I reached 34th street and Broadway. When I emerged above ground, I was shocked to see more cops and barricades than I have ever seen in my life. I kept trying to edge my way over to Madison Square Garden, but it was blocked at every single possible street and side road. The cops weren’t stupid. I was sending text messages to Adam that I was there, as I circled the area looking for a good place to put myself.
I was in awe by the mass of people, mostly protestors, of every type and kind. Every group you could think of was there, all angry, all against Bush. There were the Jews in their side curls and black suits and hats. There were black Muslims. There were pro-choice protestors, labor unions, and groups that I couldn’t even figure out. What fascinated me even further was just the dialogue that was going on. I saw these wildly different groups talking to each other. They were having amiable political discussions, they were sharing their views. There wasn’t any shouting or arguing, there was a real unity out there. People were united to get rid of Bush, despite the fact they all came from such diverse backgrounds.
Finally, I called Adam as my phone beeped annoyingly in my ear. He was many blocks away. He couldn’t hear me, and I felt like each word was precious. After I hung up I sent text messages about the state of my dying phone. I would find out much later that his phone doesn’t receive text messages correctly.
More time passed and everytime he called I cringed that this might be the time the phone died. I was rushing around, phone to ear, still trying to find an “in.” Finally, on the third call he said he was just a few blocks away and coming toward me fast. The group that had been at Union Square had decided to come back to the heart of the protest. I started running.
The advance of the cellphone at such a moment is so funny to me. The frantic text messages, the shouting your position to your friend on the other end. It’s a tactical weapon of sorts. People were organizing, and organizing well, by use of their cellphones. And now, in a time when it would have been IMPOSSIBLE to find Adam in this cornucopia of human life, we were zeroing in on each other.
Somewhere about 35th and 8th avenue (really guessing at this point), I saw his waving hand. Boy, was I relieved. Walking up to him, I saw he had a long sticker stretched across his chest declaring, “Fuck the Republican Party!” I thought he looked pretty handsome at that moment.
We spent the next hour or so walking closer and closer to the convention, shouting out slogans like “Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!” That was my favorite one. I felt pumped. I felt happy. I was glad I was there. I was hoping that somewhere inside his comfortable world, that Bush knew we were here and what we had to say.
After some time, things started to get tense as we strained up against the barricades. There was a band marching with us that banged drums and blew horns in such a way that you felt you were rising right up off the ground. You wanted to show louder louder louder as they pounded away.
Then there were murmurs throughout the crowd as it seemed the “protesters negotiator” was discussing things with the police. At a certain time (I believe it was 11:30pm), the presence of the protesters would be a violation of war, since they were blocking the street, playing music, and making noise. “Anyone inside the barricades when it hits 11:30pm are going to get arrested” it was warned. Adam and I were deep within the barricades but could also easily escape at that moment if we needed to. We pondered our options. It was true that the police seemed to be gathering around the barricades, but arrest us, now? It didn’t seem possible. I certainly didn’t want to get arrested, that was for sure. I couldn’t post bail and I had to go to work too. People began to sit down in the street and were encouraging others to do the same. Oh well. We sat.
As 11:30 came, I looked around anxiously, but it had become clear that there wasn’t going to be any of the mass arrests as there had been before where police had just started grabbing people at random and throwing them into police trucks. Sitting there, finally having a rest, we continued to chant and shout out.
But the numbers had thinned. Many people, frightened by the threat of arrest, had high-tailed it out of there. I had mixed feelings. I could understand wanting to get the hell outta Dodge when the possibility of jail looms, but I also thought that if you had come down to protest, well, this was it. This was what it was about. I guess, how much does it matter to you? As I was to find out soon, I had my own threshold.
Time passed. Even the cops looked bored. It was half past midnight and all that was left were some die-hard hippies. I realized that the protest was over and it was time to go home. Of course, the die-hards weren’t having any part of that. And that’s when I lost my faith (in those who remained) and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge myself. You could tell, the die-hards wanted to get arrested. And the impression that I got was that it wasn’t an arrest for the cause, it was an arrest for themselves. A line had been crossed in my opinion. A line from being true to what you believe to the cause being about you and your image of yourself. The “street cred” you’d gain from being arrested. Your fight “against the man.” I wanted no part of these people who remained. If I had gotten arrested in the throes of the full-out protest, that would be one thing, but hanging out ‘til the wee hours of the morning practically begging a cop to haul me in seemed cheap and undignified.
Adam and I finally got up and walked away. It was late and I was tired, but I was happy that I had showed, if only briefly. And since it was Adam, and our relationship thrives on conflict instead of harmony, we made sure to have a huge, knockdown argument on the street before I descended underground to my subway. *sigh*
Thursday, September 02, 2004
It's a Police State!
I hate having the Republican National Convention here. Almost everybody does. It's pretty creepy to be walking to work, to the store, etc. and see cops on every fucking corner, in every subway, on every train. They're directing traffic, they're blocking off streets, they even told me to cross the street to the other side yesterday. I guess I'm threatening. Roar!
Last night on the roof of my building (well, I'm actually moving out TODAY!), which is one of my favorite places to be, I gazed lovingly at the Empire State Building, like I always do. It was lit up in festive red, white, and blue, no coincedence. Disturbing this lovely site were a posse of helicopters, noisily encircling the ESB, and shining lights like a small sun around the city as they turned. I must be a few miles away from the building, and everytime that helicopter turned in my direction, it was like someone had just trained an interrogation light onto my face.
I watched some of the RNC, including a chunk of Arnold's groan-til=you-want-to-puke speech. How many people in this world saw Nixon on TV and were so inspired they had to be a Republican?!?!?! Clinton, JFK, even Reagan, okay! I can see them being sufficiently impressive to make you want to be like them and be in their party, but Nixon??
Then onto the joking and smirking bad-girls, the Bush twins. The "we're so cute and precious, *nudge* *wink*" speech really inspired feelings of hostility in me. Why is that everytime I see some of these Republicans speak, I get an overwhelming desire to first destroy my TV, and second open-fire on Madison Square Garden? I'm a pretty docile lass, and I can't even imagine owning a gun (what the fuck for?), but listening to some of these people and the unbelievable things they say is like some sort of psychological, hypnosis-induced homicidal tendencies switch. When Rudy Guiliani said we owed it to the victims of 9-11 to vote for Bush, I had the intense simultaneous feeling of screaming, crying, and projectile vomiting.
Then there's Laura Bush who my roommate believes is the smartest politician at the whole RNC, since she has everyone snowed over with her "I'm just a simple librarian with pure thoughts and deeds" persona. You picture her knitting in the white house while discussing how we really really really need to help "the children."
I can't stand all of this. I sometimes feel so overwhelmed (again) with that fact that there are still so many people who don't see "W" as this frightening force of destruction. Is a nice fat tax break REALLY worth fucking up the whole country over? And come on, how many people REALLY care if gays marry? How does that threaten or change YOUR life (scary, prejudiced, straight Christians) in ANY way? If Bob and Steve marry, does your own life just fall to pieces? Give me a break.
Maybe it's because I'm older, maybe because I'm more aware of politics, maybe because I really do believe in the Democratic party, but I am really afraid of Bush winning again. And at the risk of sounding like a wacko patriot, I am really afraid for my country.
Last night on the roof of my building (well, I'm actually moving out TODAY!), which is one of my favorite places to be, I gazed lovingly at the Empire State Building, like I always do. It was lit up in festive red, white, and blue, no coincedence. Disturbing this lovely site were a posse of helicopters, noisily encircling the ESB, and shining lights like a small sun around the city as they turned. I must be a few miles away from the building, and everytime that helicopter turned in my direction, it was like someone had just trained an interrogation light onto my face.
I watched some of the RNC, including a chunk of Arnold's groan-til=you-want-to-puke speech. How many people in this world saw Nixon on TV and were so inspired they had to be a Republican?!?!?! Clinton, JFK, even Reagan, okay! I can see them being sufficiently impressive to make you want to be like them and be in their party, but Nixon??
Then onto the joking and smirking bad-girls, the Bush twins. The "we're so cute and precious, *nudge* *wink*" speech really inspired feelings of hostility in me. Why is that everytime I see some of these Republicans speak, I get an overwhelming desire to first destroy my TV, and second open-fire on Madison Square Garden? I'm a pretty docile lass, and I can't even imagine owning a gun (what the fuck for?), but listening to some of these people and the unbelievable things they say is like some sort of psychological, hypnosis-induced homicidal tendencies switch. When Rudy Guiliani said we owed it to the victims of 9-11 to vote for Bush, I had the intense simultaneous feeling of screaming, crying, and projectile vomiting.
Then there's Laura Bush who my roommate believes is the smartest politician at the whole RNC, since she has everyone snowed over with her "I'm just a simple librarian with pure thoughts and deeds" persona. You picture her knitting in the white house while discussing how we really really really need to help "the children."
I can't stand all of this. I sometimes feel so overwhelmed (again) with that fact that there are still so many people who don't see "W" as this frightening force of destruction. Is a nice fat tax break REALLY worth fucking up the whole country over? And come on, how many people REALLY care if gays marry? How does that threaten or change YOUR life (scary, prejudiced, straight Christians) in ANY way? If Bob and Steve marry, does your own life just fall to pieces? Give me a break.
Maybe it's because I'm older, maybe because I'm more aware of politics, maybe because I really do believe in the Democratic party, but I am really afraid of Bush winning again. And at the risk of sounding like a wacko patriot, I am really afraid for my country.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Another Magical Moment in NYC
Very frequently I have magical moments in NYC. Often when these happen, I think about my blog (I'm not sure if that's good or sad) and how I should really write this is all down as soon as I can when it's fresh to just tell the world all about it. You know those moments that are so full of happiness, wonder, or just a warm feeling of contentment that you yearn to have everyone you know experience it as well.
I have a small one for tonight, which I will savor from a night that overall was pretty damn shitty. I was out with a "friend," or "lover" or whatever you want to call him 'cause he certainly would run like the wind if I dared mentioned, "boyfriend." That's okay, I'm not ready for that word either, but I still resent the fear in its use.
ANYWAY! Me and this handsome, but "in one of his moods" (as my grandma used to say about my grandfather's many infamous episodes) guy and I are walking home. To cut him some slack, he did have a some justification for his mood, which will I will relay another time, hopefully soon. It involves a wave of water and a plate of veal parmesan.
One thing I like about him is that when we're together, we walk. A LOT! I have walked more with him around NYC than with everyone else combined (except when just with myself whom walks quite a bit!). Usually the conversation flows without much effort and contains a lot of laughter, but tonight it was strained and his moodiness was unnerving. I've never been good at carrying on the conversation by myself. I'm the kind of person who can bounce well off of people. I'm a "responder." If you're in a good mood, hey, so am I! If you're bummed out, I feel it. It makes me sound like I have no mind of my own, perhaps I don't. Maybe the fact that I am cut from the same cloth as the Corsican Brothers makes me feel everything from those close to me too much. I'm getting pretty tired of it, really. I used to kind of see these "empath" qualities as a gift, now I just want to be left alone to feel my own feelings without being preoccupied with whether the person with me is hot, happy, worried, having fun, etc. This happened recently when a friend was here and his surly and sulky ways made me just totally resent him. Have a bit self-respect, and respect for those around you!
ANYWAY! Walking down one of these dark side streets, perhaps on about 4th street heading toward Avenue C, we hear jazz music playing, surrounding us, but yet unclear from where it was coming from. Then we come upon a gate that enters into a kind of community garden. These tiny community gardens dot NYC and seem to be lovingly and fervently cared for. A sign posted said there was a small concert, free to the public. We walked inside and sat on a large wooden box. The place was surrounding by trees, particularly weeping willows that made a dreamy canopy around the intimate crowd. People were sitting on tree stumps, logs, and some random folding chairs and makeshift benches.
Unfortunately, the tiny band of men, complete with one playing the double bass, were just ending. They pointed out a woman named Evelyn-something in the crowd -- a portly black woman who must have been pushing 70. She stood up and took the microphone and began singing the sweetest version of "What a difference a day makes" that I ever heard. The people swayed to the music, the willow branches swayed to the wind, and I was enchanted. These are the moments that I just live for in NYC. The moments that you probably wouldn't be able to experience in other places. I felt like I could have sat there all night, with my eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Yet, it was then over, and my companion was eager to get going, and we were off. Then the spell was broken and I was brought back to the reality of the date I was on.
Well, sadly I can't do much for him, but I can tuck away this tiny gem of the night as another wonderful NYC memory, the kind I constantly seek out and yearn for and that just seem to happen, especially now in the summer when it's warm and so many fantastic experiences are free. I love New York.
I have a small one for tonight, which I will savor from a night that overall was pretty damn shitty. I was out with a "friend," or "lover" or whatever you want to call him 'cause he certainly would run like the wind if I dared mentioned, "boyfriend." That's okay, I'm not ready for that word either, but I still resent the fear in its use.
ANYWAY! Me and this handsome, but "in one of his moods" (as my grandma used to say about my grandfather's many infamous episodes) guy and I are walking home. To cut him some slack, he did have a some justification for his mood, which will I will relay another time, hopefully soon. It involves a wave of water and a plate of veal parmesan.
One thing I like about him is that when we're together, we walk. A LOT! I have walked more with him around NYC than with everyone else combined (except when just with myself whom walks quite a bit!). Usually the conversation flows without much effort and contains a lot of laughter, but tonight it was strained and his moodiness was unnerving. I've never been good at carrying on the conversation by myself. I'm the kind of person who can bounce well off of people. I'm a "responder." If you're in a good mood, hey, so am I! If you're bummed out, I feel it. It makes me sound like I have no mind of my own, perhaps I don't. Maybe the fact that I am cut from the same cloth as the Corsican Brothers makes me feel everything from those close to me too much. I'm getting pretty tired of it, really. I used to kind of see these "empath" qualities as a gift, now I just want to be left alone to feel my own feelings without being preoccupied with whether the person with me is hot, happy, worried, having fun, etc. This happened recently when a friend was here and his surly and sulky ways made me just totally resent him. Have a bit self-respect, and respect for those around you!
ANYWAY! Walking down one of these dark side streets, perhaps on about 4th street heading toward Avenue C, we hear jazz music playing, surrounding us, but yet unclear from where it was coming from. Then we come upon a gate that enters into a kind of community garden. These tiny community gardens dot NYC and seem to be lovingly and fervently cared for. A sign posted said there was a small concert, free to the public. We walked inside and sat on a large wooden box. The place was surrounding by trees, particularly weeping willows that made a dreamy canopy around the intimate crowd. People were sitting on tree stumps, logs, and some random folding chairs and makeshift benches.
Unfortunately, the tiny band of men, complete with one playing the double bass, were just ending. They pointed out a woman named Evelyn-something in the crowd -- a portly black woman who must have been pushing 70. She stood up and took the microphone and began singing the sweetest version of "What a difference a day makes" that I ever heard. The people swayed to the music, the willow branches swayed to the wind, and I was enchanted. These are the moments that I just live for in NYC. The moments that you probably wouldn't be able to experience in other places. I felt like I could have sat there all night, with my eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Yet, it was then over, and my companion was eager to get going, and we were off. Then the spell was broken and I was brought back to the reality of the date I was on.
Well, sadly I can't do much for him, but I can tuck away this tiny gem of the night as another wonderful NYC memory, the kind I constantly seek out and yearn for and that just seem to happen, especially now in the summer when it's warm and so many fantastic experiences are free. I love New York.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
READ IT! The Final Confession of Mabel Stark by Robert Hough -- A+
I don't think I've given a book an A+ since Matthew Kneale's English Passengers. I had just finished Wicked and loved it, but then I read this one and it was one of those rare books where you miss it when it's away from you. I carried this book with me everywhere I went, cracking it over while riding elevators, waiting in line (for anything), and even while walking down the street. Though a fiction book, it's written about the real life of Mabel Stark, a tiger tamer during the heydey of the circus (first half of the 20th century). Despite this woman's unbelievable life and circumstances, you buy it, every word. She has an insight into people (especially men) which is refreshing, insightful, and always amusing. You cheer her on through her several marriages and tut tut through her even more numerous tiger-inducing injuries. Despite the multiple scary attacks from her striped beasts, you are swept up in her deep passion and understanding for these creatures (even if once in awhile you think she needs a reality check). This book was good from beginning to end and only had one part which was a bit too predictable (though still one of the most poignant moments in the book). I loved it. You'll enjoy it. Buy it, read it now!
Finding an (INEXPENSIVE) Apartment in Manhattan -- Someone Get Me Out of this Nightmare!!
So, my roommate surprised me and was very friendly and laid-back about my wanting to move out. Course, there are some benefits in it for him too (he and his girlfriend can finally be alone), but it also puts a burden on him for paying more rent. I was relieved that it didn't turn ugly, like I feared it might.
ANYWAY, now the apartment search begins. It's no secret that Manhattan is a very expensive place. Always being resourceful and independent, I figured I could find a nice place for somewhere around $800.
Well, the good news is that I have, though none of them will impress anyone with their style or luxury. I've looked around and around, and been to several apartments in my price range, but I found that the neighborhoods scared me, and that's probably a sign not to move there. Not to mention that if I want to live in Manhattan, I have to live so far up north that it doesn't even feel that much like Manhattan (140th - 200th street!!). I can live with that, especially with the help of the express subway train. But here's where it gets tough, the fees! It's ironic that you can be so poor and have to pay such awful fees. Obviously if you're looking for an $850 apartment (the bottom of the barrel), then maybe you don't have a lot of money to be throwing around at greedy brokers? No one gives a shit. People are dying to live in NYC and always will. It's not hard for them to get people to pay $2000+ per month for a one-bedroom. My $800 hopes are a joke. Here's how it works itself out:
$800 = first month's rent
$800-$1250 = security deposit
$1000-$1500 = fee.
In the end you are spending $2000-$3000 just to move in to a place. It's depressing the fuck out of me. I'm sleeping a lot, and when I'm awake, I'm on Craigslist reloading the page every 10 minutes to find that steal of apartment. Rest assured there are others doing the same as I.
I even tried calling up my credit card to get an increase. Now, I have only one credit card, a Capital One, which absorbed the balance of my evil American Express card. I have only had it a few months, but I've been paying them a good amount every two weeks, always above the minimum, so I was hoping to call up and talk to someone about an increase. Well, how sickening is it that you can ask AND be rejected by a MACHINE on the phone!?! I called up and pressed '1' for a credit increase. I waited to talk to someone, ready to plead my case (I need the money to move in! My payments will continue just as they have!). There was a pause, where I was soon to discover was the moment when the machine was "thinking about it" before it came back and basically said, "Fuck off, J!" No human being, just a machine. Boy, I really am a poor, pathetic bastard.
Seeing as I come from a genetic chain of people who are forever teetering on bankruptcy, there's not a single blood relative who can help me out. I can probably come up with $1700 myself including what's left on my credit card (which would also mean I will be eating dust for two weeks until the next paycheck comes), but that still leaves me short about $1300. FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
There is one option. Crawl on my hands and knees to my roommate and ask to borrow from him. He might do it. He's always been generous to me in the past, which is part of the problem; I still owe him money. My god, this SUCKS! Where is my long-lost wealthy (dead) aunt? Where is that secret trust fund? Where is that valuable jewel I can sell? I HATE BEING POOR! And yes, I live in New York.
ANYWAY, now the apartment search begins. It's no secret that Manhattan is a very expensive place. Always being resourceful and independent, I figured I could find a nice place for somewhere around $800.
Well, the good news is that I have, though none of them will impress anyone with their style or luxury. I've looked around and around, and been to several apartments in my price range, but I found that the neighborhoods scared me, and that's probably a sign not to move there. Not to mention that if I want to live in Manhattan, I have to live so far up north that it doesn't even feel that much like Manhattan (140th - 200th street!!). I can live with that, especially with the help of the express subway train. But here's where it gets tough, the fees! It's ironic that you can be so poor and have to pay such awful fees. Obviously if you're looking for an $850 apartment (the bottom of the barrel), then maybe you don't have a lot of money to be throwing around at greedy brokers? No one gives a shit. People are dying to live in NYC and always will. It's not hard for them to get people to pay $2000+ per month for a one-bedroom. My $800 hopes are a joke. Here's how it works itself out:
$800 = first month's rent
$800-$1250 = security deposit
$1000-$1500 = fee.
In the end you are spending $2000-$3000 just to move in to a place. It's depressing the fuck out of me. I'm sleeping a lot, and when I'm awake, I'm on Craigslist reloading the page every 10 minutes to find that steal of apartment. Rest assured there are others doing the same as I.
I even tried calling up my credit card to get an increase. Now, I have only one credit card, a Capital One, which absorbed the balance of my evil American Express card. I have only had it a few months, but I've been paying them a good amount every two weeks, always above the minimum, so I was hoping to call up and talk to someone about an increase. Well, how sickening is it that you can ask AND be rejected by a MACHINE on the phone!?! I called up and pressed '1' for a credit increase. I waited to talk to someone, ready to plead my case (I need the money to move in! My payments will continue just as they have!). There was a pause, where I was soon to discover was the moment when the machine was "thinking about it" before it came back and basically said, "Fuck off, J!" No human being, just a machine. Boy, I really am a poor, pathetic bastard.
Seeing as I come from a genetic chain of people who are forever teetering on bankruptcy, there's not a single blood relative who can help me out. I can probably come up with $1700 myself including what's left on my credit card (which would also mean I will be eating dust for two weeks until the next paycheck comes), but that still leaves me short about $1300. FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
There is one option. Crawl on my hands and knees to my roommate and ask to borrow from him. He might do it. He's always been generous to me in the past, which is part of the problem; I still owe him money. My god, this SUCKS! Where is my long-lost wealthy (dead) aunt? Where is that secret trust fund? Where is that valuable jewel I can sell? I HATE BEING POOR! And yes, I live in New York.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Seamus Egan and Waking Ned Devine -- Wrong!
So my roommate and I watched Waking Ned Devine tonight. It was a lot of fun seeing this movie again. I can't believe it only made 24 million here in the U.S., though I suppose that's rather impressive seeing as it only cost 3 million to make (and that it also made over 6.6 million pounds in the UK).
I'm also delighted to learn that David Kelly, who played the plucked-chicken-looking, unbearably sweet Michael Sullivan, is going to play Grandpa Joe in the upcoming version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I am so excited to
see that movie; the original is one of my favorite movies of all time. Too bad the new one's not a musical though! Those are some of the best movie sing-alongs in the universe, along with films like The Sound of Music and Grease.
And whoever said, on the webpage about the soundtrack, that Seamus Egan made a cameo in this movie (playing the flute at the funeral and the bodhran in the pub) was wrong!! My roommate and I took a good, long look, and I'm certain it wasn't him. I actually would have preferred it be him, but oh well. I'll just have to wait until that movie American Wake finally becomes available. He's got a real part in that one.
I'm also delighted to learn that David Kelly, who played the plucked-chicken-looking, unbearably sweet Michael Sullivan, is going to play Grandpa Joe in the upcoming version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I am so excited to
see that movie; the original is one of my favorite movies of all time. Too bad the new one's not a musical though! Those are some of the best movie sing-alongs in the universe, along with films like The Sound of Music and Grease.And whoever said, on the webpage about the soundtrack, that Seamus Egan made a cameo in this movie (playing the flute at the funeral and the bodhran in the pub) was wrong!! My roommate and I took a good, long look, and I'm certain it wasn't him. I actually would have preferred it be him, but oh well. I'll just have to wait until that movie American Wake finally becomes available. He's got a real part in that one.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Vindicated ... Sadly.
A little while ago, a friend and I had a long discussion about giving "charity" to total strangers, which, if you live in NYC, you are solicited for every single day. It could be someone asking for pennies or dollars. It could be someone with a disability, homeless, or even the best -- just playing music.
What had happened was this: my friend, let's call him, "Adam," had returned home very early one morning from a weekend trip to Manhattan. As he got out of the car, a woman, one of his neighbors, approached him and began to tell her woeful tale: her father-in-law, living on Staten Island, had had a massive heart attack and was in the hospital. She and her husband didn't have enough money for gas to drive out there, which they wanted to do immediately. Could Adam possibly give her $40 for gas, and she would pay him back shortly?
Now, Adam isn't what you would call naive. In fact, he can be rather suspicious of people to the point of impolite. Immediately skeptical of the women's story, he followed her to her house, went inside, looked at her driver's license and waited as she showed him her utility bill as proof of her residence and identity. Finally, he somewhat reluctantly handed over the $40 and she left.
Now, despite the fact that Adam has intense methods, he also has a giant heart, and deep down he yearned to believe the woman and do good. It was a few hours later he relayed the story to me, full of doubt, but hoping, really hoping that the woman was for real and that he had truly helped someone out and not been scammed. He was seeking some sort of vindication from me, hoping I'd dispel his worries. After hearing his story, I felt the same mix of emotions, suspicion churning with hope. I tend to be more open to woeful stories than he, but am also probably much more fervently willing to seek "vengeance" against those who cheat others.
He then began talking to neighbors who were communicating similar stories of the same woman. She had borrowed from several others and not paid them back (though it was later discovered she had actually had paid one back). A few suspected her of being a con artist of sorts. Hearing this, I was incensed since I always take such things personally (as I always did in Bangkok and Europe too). Now even more uneasy himself, Adam waited for the woman to return and immediately began calling her, confronting her with this information. Flustered, the woman promised to pay him back and in various increments over the next several days, did pay him back, more due I believe, to Adam's relentlessness than to her own fastidiousness. He never felt completely right about the situation and we talked for awhile about giving money to people here in NYC and the eternal desire to help people out while simultaneously worrying about being played for a fool.
Now, I do give money. I'm not going to lie; I don't give that much. "Charity starts at home" and I'm always fighting to break even. I like to give to the homeless "representatives" with their empty water jugs who ask only for "pennies" which is a good way to give them loose change without feeling like a cheapskate. Besides, they're always polite and friendly, which is something everyone is receptive to. I also like to give money, usually just a buck, to musicians. Today I spent a wonderful time in Union Square (talk about it later) listening to a wonderful musician named "Dorian" playing guitar and singing. I feel if I really enjoy the music, then I should be willing to show my appreciation with a dollar.
Anyway, as we were talking about this, I told Adam of the one time I had ever not given money and had felt bad about it long afterwards (to the present, actually). This was back when I had that second job at Barnes & Noble, and I was leaving work late one night after we closed up. A shaky white man approached me, and at my startled look, he reassured me that he was a gay man and so wasn't interested in doing any harm to me. He then went on to nervously tell a long story about how he was a documentary filmmaker who had all his film canisters/equipment nearby in an apartment that he couldn't get into, etc. etc. I can't even tell you the rest of it, though I have to tell you, even though I always try to be polite, I had to finally say, "What's the point of all this? Do you want money?" The man chattered on for a time before asking if he could have some money, that he swore up and down he'd pay me back, that I'd go to heaven for the good karma, that he wasn't homeless or a freak, etc. He seemed pretty believable, though looking back, I should have been suspicious of his rattling and vibrating. At the time, I literally only had $5 to my name, along with some scattered change in my pocket. I was eating dinner through the vending machines in the employee break room, so I was reluctant to part with the only money I had in the world. Reaching into my pocket, I shuffled around with some "effort," and brought out all the change I had, which couldn't have been more than about 25 cents, and handed it to him. He was obviously disappointed to receive so little for his elaborate story, and mumbled a "thank you" as I rushed off.
As I was walking away, I was feeling bad, not good. Payday was only a day away, so I could live without that five bucks. Thinking the guy was actually for real, and actually THINKING about that stupid karma comment, I walked away with guilt for not being willing to give. Though I have given up religion long ago, I still carry many of its lessons and superstitions with me. Not to mention reading old Irish and Scandinavian folktales, I had ridiculous images of 'faerie folk' or 'angels' who test the heart of humans by disguising themselves as a person in need. Yeah, yeah, I know, but crazy things dart through your mind when you're feeling guilt, it doesn't mean you're berzerk-o.
The combination of my story that had happened a couple months ago, and Adam's story, led to my reaction later that day. I was crossing 6th Avenue at 14th street when someone was holding out a small red card to me. Normally, I never take what's handed to me, since as a stand-up comic once said, "It's like the person is saying, 'Here, you throw this out.'" Anyway, for whatever reason, in part because the man handing it out looked to be in pretty bad shape, I reached out and took it, not even breaking my stride. But I felt my arm being pulled back --- the man was not letting go! I wheeled around, still holding onto the red card. The man was making a pained face and pointing down to the card that we were both still holding. I read it. It announced that he was deaf and was trying to feed his family. It said it was offering the alphabet in sign language as a small little teaching tool and if I could give anything for it, it would be appreciated. I flipped it over and sure enough, there was 26 hands displaying each letter. Just before I left Thailand, I had taught my 6th graders how to spell their names in sign language for fun during "summer school."
I had met many deaf "beggers" while in Thailand and this man didn't seem to be faking it. At that moment, I felt my heart just clench. I had Adam's story still in my mind and the anger that it had caused in me. I looked at the man who seemed to truly need money. I reached into my bag and handed him a dollar and he thanked me by nodding his head and doing "thank you" in sign language. As I walked away, I started breathing heavily. I had an overwhelming feeling to weep. I couldn't even articulate in my head exactly why. I knew it was connected to the whole Adam story, but I just felt so awful. I entered my gym then and went up to the locker room, spending a bit of time composing myself in the bathroom stall.
------------------------------
So, today, I'm walking toward Union Square after having worked out and spent a fairly pleasant time in my new Chinatown place-to-eat-super-cheap. I got a Tasti-Delite ice cream (I swear I will never eat that stupid ice cream again!), and am crossing the street. Suddenly a man appears in front of my face, startling me, and causing me to halt just as I reach the curb. Shaky, the man starts, "Hi, don't worry, I'm gay so I'm not here to harass you, I just want you to know..."
Oh. My. God.
I couldn't believe it. My one hunk of burning guilt for my own personal greed. Here he was, months later, spilling the same schpiel. I wanted to throw up.
"Look," I said, pursing my lips, "You told me this same story two months ago..."
A cloud crossed over the man's face. He looked down in disgust, turned away, and walked off. He didn't even try to deny it.
As I walked on, I felt a heaviness descend upon me. Perhaps the guilt was better -- it let me believe that at least there were good people out there and that I had screwed up. Now, my sole source of legitimate charity was nothing but a hoax. He was still out there; still doing it. I know the guy is obviously down on his luck and trying to get along, and yet, I feel so angry about it. Anyway, my guilt was misguided, and yet I don't feel better. I've been vindicated...sadly.
What had happened was this: my friend, let's call him, "Adam," had returned home very early one morning from a weekend trip to Manhattan. As he got out of the car, a woman, one of his neighbors, approached him and began to tell her woeful tale: her father-in-law, living on Staten Island, had had a massive heart attack and was in the hospital. She and her husband didn't have enough money for gas to drive out there, which they wanted to do immediately. Could Adam possibly give her $40 for gas, and she would pay him back shortly?
Now, Adam isn't what you would call naive. In fact, he can be rather suspicious of people to the point of impolite. Immediately skeptical of the women's story, he followed her to her house, went inside, looked at her driver's license and waited as she showed him her utility bill as proof of her residence and identity. Finally, he somewhat reluctantly handed over the $40 and she left.
Now, despite the fact that Adam has intense methods, he also has a giant heart, and deep down he yearned to believe the woman and do good. It was a few hours later he relayed the story to me, full of doubt, but hoping, really hoping that the woman was for real and that he had truly helped someone out and not been scammed. He was seeking some sort of vindication from me, hoping I'd dispel his worries. After hearing his story, I felt the same mix of emotions, suspicion churning with hope. I tend to be more open to woeful stories than he, but am also probably much more fervently willing to seek "vengeance" against those who cheat others.
He then began talking to neighbors who were communicating similar stories of the same woman. She had borrowed from several others and not paid them back (though it was later discovered she had actually had paid one back). A few suspected her of being a con artist of sorts. Hearing this, I was incensed since I always take such things personally (as I always did in Bangkok and Europe too). Now even more uneasy himself, Adam waited for the woman to return and immediately began calling her, confronting her with this information. Flustered, the woman promised to pay him back and in various increments over the next several days, did pay him back, more due I believe, to Adam's relentlessness than to her own fastidiousness. He never felt completely right about the situation and we talked for awhile about giving money to people here in NYC and the eternal desire to help people out while simultaneously worrying about being played for a fool.
Now, I do give money. I'm not going to lie; I don't give that much. "Charity starts at home" and I'm always fighting to break even. I like to give to the homeless "representatives" with their empty water jugs who ask only for "pennies" which is a good way to give them loose change without feeling like a cheapskate. Besides, they're always polite and friendly, which is something everyone is receptive to. I also like to give money, usually just a buck, to musicians. Today I spent a wonderful time in Union Square (talk about it later) listening to a wonderful musician named "Dorian" playing guitar and singing. I feel if I really enjoy the music, then I should be willing to show my appreciation with a dollar.
Anyway, as we were talking about this, I told Adam of the one time I had ever not given money and had felt bad about it long afterwards (to the present, actually). This was back when I had that second job at Barnes & Noble, and I was leaving work late one night after we closed up. A shaky white man approached me, and at my startled look, he reassured me that he was a gay man and so wasn't interested in doing any harm to me. He then went on to nervously tell a long story about how he was a documentary filmmaker who had all his film canisters/equipment nearby in an apartment that he couldn't get into, etc. etc. I can't even tell you the rest of it, though I have to tell you, even though I always try to be polite, I had to finally say, "What's the point of all this? Do you want money?" The man chattered on for a time before asking if he could have some money, that he swore up and down he'd pay me back, that I'd go to heaven for the good karma, that he wasn't homeless or a freak, etc. He seemed pretty believable, though looking back, I should have been suspicious of his rattling and vibrating. At the time, I literally only had $5 to my name, along with some scattered change in my pocket. I was eating dinner through the vending machines in the employee break room, so I was reluctant to part with the only money I had in the world. Reaching into my pocket, I shuffled around with some "effort," and brought out all the change I had, which couldn't have been more than about 25 cents, and handed it to him. He was obviously disappointed to receive so little for his elaborate story, and mumbled a "thank you" as I rushed off.
As I was walking away, I was feeling bad, not good. Payday was only a day away, so I could live without that five bucks. Thinking the guy was actually for real, and actually THINKING about that stupid karma comment, I walked away with guilt for not being willing to give. Though I have given up religion long ago, I still carry many of its lessons and superstitions with me. Not to mention reading old Irish and Scandinavian folktales, I had ridiculous images of 'faerie folk' or 'angels' who test the heart of humans by disguising themselves as a person in need. Yeah, yeah, I know, but crazy things dart through your mind when you're feeling guilt, it doesn't mean you're berzerk-o.
The combination of my story that had happened a couple months ago, and Adam's story, led to my reaction later that day. I was crossing 6th Avenue at 14th street when someone was holding out a small red card to me. Normally, I never take what's handed to me, since as a stand-up comic once said, "It's like the person is saying, 'Here, you throw this out.'" Anyway, for whatever reason, in part because the man handing it out looked to be in pretty bad shape, I reached out and took it, not even breaking my stride. But I felt my arm being pulled back --- the man was not letting go! I wheeled around, still holding onto the red card. The man was making a pained face and pointing down to the card that we were both still holding. I read it. It announced that he was deaf and was trying to feed his family. It said it was offering the alphabet in sign language as a small little teaching tool and if I could give anything for it, it would be appreciated. I flipped it over and sure enough, there was 26 hands displaying each letter. Just before I left Thailand, I had taught my 6th graders how to spell their names in sign language for fun during "summer school."
I had met many deaf "beggers" while in Thailand and this man didn't seem to be faking it. At that moment, I felt my heart just clench. I had Adam's story still in my mind and the anger that it had caused in me. I looked at the man who seemed to truly need money. I reached into my bag and handed him a dollar and he thanked me by nodding his head and doing "thank you" in sign language. As I walked away, I started breathing heavily. I had an overwhelming feeling to weep. I couldn't even articulate in my head exactly why. I knew it was connected to the whole Adam story, but I just felt so awful. I entered my gym then and went up to the locker room, spending a bit of time composing myself in the bathroom stall.
------------------------------
So, today, I'm walking toward Union Square after having worked out and spent a fairly pleasant time in my new Chinatown place-to-eat-super-cheap. I got a Tasti-Delite ice cream (I swear I will never eat that stupid ice cream again!), and am crossing the street. Suddenly a man appears in front of my face, startling me, and causing me to halt just as I reach the curb. Shaky, the man starts, "Hi, don't worry, I'm gay so I'm not here to harass you, I just want you to know..."
Oh. My. God.
I couldn't believe it. My one hunk of burning guilt for my own personal greed. Here he was, months later, spilling the same schpiel. I wanted to throw up.
"Look," I said, pursing my lips, "You told me this same story two months ago..."
A cloud crossed over the man's face. He looked down in disgust, turned away, and walked off. He didn't even try to deny it.
As I walked on, I felt a heaviness descend upon me. Perhaps the guilt was better -- it let me believe that at least there were good people out there and that I had screwed up. Now, my sole source of legitimate charity was nothing but a hoax. He was still out there; still doing it. I know the guy is obviously down on his luck and trying to get along, and yet, I feel so angry about it. Anyway, my guilt was misguided, and yet I don't feel better. I've been vindicated...sadly.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Thank you, Seamus Egan
Right now I am coming down from various highs: Tequila shots and mojitoes has left me giggly and silly, but the thrust behind my bouncing and general giddiness is that tonight I not only saw one of my favorite bands, Solas, (the best Celtic band in current existence), perform for the first time in a few years, but thanks to my roommate's assertive ways, I also got a photo taken with Seamus Egan, the band member I have ummm admired, for some time now. It was a real thrill for me.
Who the fuck is Seamus Egan?
Watch your language! We're talking about Seamus Egan, American-Irish-American man who plays more instruments than fingers on your right hand (and often all during the same song!). A man who not only plays, but writes, produces, and my GOD I hope receives royalties, particularly for recording the entire soundtrack to the fine movie, "The Brother's McMullen" and Sarah McLachlan's "I will remember you" which was a modified version of his own "Weep not for the Memories" (much better title, though I did think she did a good job with lyrics) as well as "Dancing on Dangerous Ground" which I unfortunately can't comment on. I just read somewhere that he's playing the flute in a cameo in the hysterical movie, "Waking Ned Devine." Well, that's a good reason to rent it and watch it again.
I first saw Seamus in a "Winter Solstice" concert I was dragged to when I lived in Madison, Wisconsin. Then, it was just him and another man, who at this inebriated moment, I believe was John Doyle? (so sorry!). Perched on bar stools, Seamus charmed the crowd with jokes and stories as the two of them played several songs that had the audience bouncing and clapping with gusto. The music, relatively new to me (except all the stuff we've all heard, like The Chieftains), was a delightfully impressionable experience. Maybe more importantly, he made me laugh, a lot. Those are the moments that foolish crushes are made of.
In the few years to come, I would see electrifying performances that blew my mind, with him in the original incarnation of Solas with Karan Casey who has sadly since moved on to do her own stuff. Some of her songs are still my favorite Solas ballads, for instance, my favorite, "I Am a Maid that Sleeps in Love," the bouncy "NÃl 'Na Lá," and of course, the cheekily cautionary tale of, "Roger the Miller," which was first introduced to me by my beloved Dr. Mike (an Irish-American man who loves the group as much as I), who after giving me a brief and colorful synopsis, cranked up the volume and acted out the song with his large, expressive hands. A couple of years later I would turn my friend, who is now my roommate, onto Solas using the same song. He still loves to bring it up and is always harshly disappointed when Solas fails to play it at their performances.
I still remember blasting out "The Maid on the Shore" on my car radio as my friend and I made a day trip to the Mississippi river, especially the two parts in the song where Seamus just takes off! How geeky does it sound to be rocking on a road trip to Celtic music? But when you're rocketing down empty rural roads and the music is shooting up Up UP into the sky with the passionate ferocity like in this song, you feel like you are too.
I don't mean to pretend as if Solas hasn't been making albums, post-Karan Casey. They of course have and have been kicking just as much butt as ever before. I have their latest cd, Another Day next to me at this moment! Buy it! (and I don't usually say this about other music, but don't you dare download it!). This isn't taking $15 from disgustingly-rich Britney Spears. These are people who go out and play much more modest venues and give a lot more heart and soul to each performance than Britney gives in her left breast.
Their "new" singer is Deirdre Scanlan who has a strong and beautiful voice that I have come to admire more and more. And kudos to her for being friendly enough to actually encourage email to the group and then actually answer it too!
I have heard rumors since the beginning that Seamus and fellow talented bandmate Winifred Horan have been an item for years, *sigh* and can easily believe it by the moon eyes they seem to make at each other during a performance. It's not hard to imagine how playing live music with someone you fancy could be incredibly arousing. It's just another way to be intimate and connected, I suppose. I think I would jump the guy backstage as soon as the curtain fell.
There's just something about someone who is not just enormously talented, but after all these years (now 35, he recorded his first album at 16), seems to still play with such passion, such bliss. It makes me feel drawn to him the way you are to an actor who connects with you on screen. His head bobbing and dipping with the beats of his banjo, or the way his body sways along with the blur of his flying fingers on the flute. It's like the music is flowing through his fingers, through his body, and just bursting out of his skin. Besides the fact that each band member is enviably talented, I believe one of the reasons that the audience has been so completely alive and involved at every Solas concert I've been to has been to is that the band members play with this explosive joy that's unbelievably contagious. They lock eyes with each other to give encouragement, they grin and nod at each other as if they're just so glad to be doing this very thing at this very moment. The crowd stamps, it claps, it gives off numerous "YIPs" along the way. Everyone's having a great time. In the past I've found it difficult to stay in my chair and not jump up and dance around like a loon, as I did at a Paul Simon concert years ago, but sadly I suppose dignity takes precedence over spontaneity.
My boss at work said, "Well, did you talk to him?" and I had to stand there feeling like an idiot. Of course I had wanted to have a conversation with him, but I was just so surprised to get a picture that, as usual, I didn't really say anything, but babble on a few remarks about hoping they'd come back to NYC. Besides, I'm sure anything I might have said about his performance would have sounded ridiculous. "You were great, you were wonderful, I liked X song, I like when you play the flute (I do)," etc. You know, when you replay those moments later, you think of all the meaningful or interesting things you could have said. But the reality is that we do not think that fast, and besides, I have this weird thing about "bothering people." I wasn't always like this. I used to prod people, ask questions, delve into their lives (and often, people enjoy this!). But as I have grown older, and become even more private myself (if one who knows me can imagine that!), I have found a real reluctance to push myself into someone's life or to try and goad something out of them that they are not willing to offer up themselves. Asking someone to take a picture with you (me being a total stranger) is enough of an intrusion. To then stand there and force him, after an exuberant performance, to chat with said total stranger seems rather arrogant.
When I was in Thailand (blue-eyed, and at the time, blonde), I was constantly a curiosity, and people were always inserting themselves into my life. Normally, I tried to be polite and kind, but the truth was that most of the time I just wanted to escape. Strangers were always waving and saying 'hello' (which is nice). Sometimes they would just walk up to me and start talking in Thai or broken English. People poked their heads into the doorway of my home to get a good look around, then reported to all those around their impressions (usually about how messy I was for a single woman). Sometimes they just wanted to chat, which is okay, though often the topic of conversation was something along the lines of, "How much money do you make? You must be so rich!" Or of course, there's always the, "You are fat, you are beautiful!" said in the same breath. Other times they'd do things like ask me to start tutoring them in English (for free of course, since they could tutor me in Thai, ha ha). I think I was asked to tutor about 40 times during my stay there.
And aw hell, give me a break, I'm shy too! I'm sure the NEXT time I see Solas, whenever they decide to show their faces again, I will try to say more than, "Thanks for the picture."
Anyway, enough about me! Keep it up Solas, and don't stay away so long from NYC!
Who the fuck is Seamus Egan?
Watch your language! We're talking about Seamus Egan, American-Irish-American man who plays more instruments than fingers on your right hand (and often all during the same song!). A man who not only plays, but writes, produces, and my GOD I hope receives royalties, particularly for recording the entire soundtrack to the fine movie, "The Brother's McMullen" and Sarah McLachlan's "I will remember you" which was a modified version of his own "Weep not for the Memories" (much better title, though I did think she did a good job with lyrics) as well as "Dancing on Dangerous Ground" which I unfortunately can't comment on. I just read somewhere that he's playing the flute in a cameo in the hysterical movie, "Waking Ned Devine." Well, that's a good reason to rent it and watch it again.
I first saw Seamus in a "Winter Solstice" concert I was dragged to when I lived in Madison, Wisconsin. Then, it was just him and another man, who at this inebriated moment, I believe was John Doyle? (so sorry!). Perched on bar stools, Seamus charmed the crowd with jokes and stories as the two of them played several songs that had the audience bouncing and clapping with gusto. The music, relatively new to me (except all the stuff we've all heard, like The Chieftains), was a delightfully impressionable experience. Maybe more importantly, he made me laugh, a lot. Those are the moments that foolish crushes are made of.
In the few years to come, I would see electrifying performances that blew my mind, with him in the original incarnation of Solas with Karan Casey who has sadly since moved on to do her own stuff. Some of her songs are still my favorite Solas ballads, for instance, my favorite, "I Am a Maid that Sleeps in Love," the bouncy "NÃl 'Na Lá," and of course, the cheekily cautionary tale of, "Roger the Miller," which was first introduced to me by my beloved Dr. Mike (an Irish-American man who loves the group as much as I), who after giving me a brief and colorful synopsis, cranked up the volume and acted out the song with his large, expressive hands. A couple of years later I would turn my friend, who is now my roommate, onto Solas using the same song. He still loves to bring it up and is always harshly disappointed when Solas fails to play it at their performances.
I still remember blasting out "The Maid on the Shore" on my car radio as my friend and I made a day trip to the Mississippi river, especially the two parts in the song where Seamus just takes off! How geeky does it sound to be rocking on a road trip to Celtic music? But when you're rocketing down empty rural roads and the music is shooting up Up UP into the sky with the passionate ferocity like in this song, you feel like you are too.
I don't mean to pretend as if Solas hasn't been making albums, post-Karan Casey. They of course have and have been kicking just as much butt as ever before. I have their latest cd, Another Day next to me at this moment! Buy it! (and I don't usually say this about other music, but don't you dare download it!). This isn't taking $15 from disgustingly-rich Britney Spears. These are people who go out and play much more modest venues and give a lot more heart and soul to each performance than Britney gives in her left breast.
Their "new" singer is Deirdre Scanlan who has a strong and beautiful voice that I have come to admire more and more. And kudos to her for being friendly enough to actually encourage email to the group and then actually answer it too!
I have heard rumors since the beginning that Seamus and fellow talented bandmate Winifred Horan have been an item for years, *sigh* and can easily believe it by the moon eyes they seem to make at each other during a performance. It's not hard to imagine how playing live music with someone you fancy could be incredibly arousing. It's just another way to be intimate and connected, I suppose. I think I would jump the guy backstage as soon as the curtain fell.
There's just something about someone who is not just enormously talented, but after all these years (now 35, he recorded his first album at 16), seems to still play with such passion, such bliss. It makes me feel drawn to him the way you are to an actor who connects with you on screen. His head bobbing and dipping with the beats of his banjo, or the way his body sways along with the blur of his flying fingers on the flute. It's like the music is flowing through his fingers, through his body, and just bursting out of his skin. Besides the fact that each band member is enviably talented, I believe one of the reasons that the audience has been so completely alive and involved at every Solas concert I've been to has been to is that the band members play with this explosive joy that's unbelievably contagious. They lock eyes with each other to give encouragement, they grin and nod at each other as if they're just so glad to be doing this very thing at this very moment. The crowd stamps, it claps, it gives off numerous "YIPs" along the way. Everyone's having a great time. In the past I've found it difficult to stay in my chair and not jump up and dance around like a loon, as I did at a Paul Simon concert years ago, but sadly I suppose dignity takes precedence over spontaneity.
My boss at work said, "Well, did you talk to him?" and I had to stand there feeling like an idiot. Of course I had wanted to have a conversation with him, but I was just so surprised to get a picture that, as usual, I didn't really say anything, but babble on a few remarks about hoping they'd come back to NYC. Besides, I'm sure anything I might have said about his performance would have sounded ridiculous. "You were great, you were wonderful, I liked X song, I like when you play the flute (I do)," etc. You know, when you replay those moments later, you think of all the meaningful or interesting things you could have said. But the reality is that we do not think that fast, and besides, I have this weird thing about "bothering people." I wasn't always like this. I used to prod people, ask questions, delve into their lives (and often, people enjoy this!). But as I have grown older, and become even more private myself (if one who knows me can imagine that!), I have found a real reluctance to push myself into someone's life or to try and goad something out of them that they are not willing to offer up themselves. Asking someone to take a picture with you (me being a total stranger) is enough of an intrusion. To then stand there and force him, after an exuberant performance, to chat with said total stranger seems rather arrogant.
When I was in Thailand (blue-eyed, and at the time, blonde), I was constantly a curiosity, and people were always inserting themselves into my life. Normally, I tried to be polite and kind, but the truth was that most of the time I just wanted to escape. Strangers were always waving and saying 'hello' (which is nice). Sometimes they would just walk up to me and start talking in Thai or broken English. People poked their heads into the doorway of my home to get a good look around, then reported to all those around their impressions (usually about how messy I was for a single woman). Sometimes they just wanted to chat, which is okay, though often the topic of conversation was something along the lines of, "How much money do you make? You must be so rich!" Or of course, there's always the, "You are fat, you are beautiful!" said in the same breath. Other times they'd do things like ask me to start tutoring them in English (for free of course, since they could tutor me in Thai, ha ha). I think I was asked to tutor about 40 times during my stay there.
And aw hell, give me a break, I'm shy too! I'm sure the NEXT time I see Solas, whenever they decide to show their faces again, I will try to say more than, "Thanks for the picture."
Anyway, enough about me! Keep it up Solas, and don't stay away so long from NYC!
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Cyberlove Sucks
It was 11pm last Sunday; a beautiful night with a pleasant breeze. Rather drunk, I was crossing the lovely Park Avenue and feeling awful. The kind of awful, when combined with alcohol, induces you to call up an old boyfriend on your cellphone and leave philosophical/poetic messages on his voicemail.
Yes, I really did that. Luckily for me, the ex still welcomes such things and doesn't play them aloud to amused friends.
Why did I do this? Well....
Recently, I've been dealing with the various aspects of growing oldER (not old), which I've mentioned here and there in my posts. Strange things like having cuts & bruises healing slower, having a more difficult time maintaining and losing weight, finding it harder to find men, etc. The men thing has put me into a mopey funk.
I decided to go ahead and do the online dating thing. I signed up for two major ones. One because it was convenient, and one because it has tons of those lengthy "psychologist-approved" tests about how you see the world (or really, men). Flashing photos of men up on a screen and having you click on the hotties, and later click on the notties is quite an experience. Apparently I go for the hot guys, though I suppose that shouldn't be a surprise, though it is. I've always had those boyfriends that I thought were hot and my friends thought were "okay." I also go for the "puppy dog" guys who are slightly flawed but awfully cute (awww shucks) and the test also claimed at length how I find a certain chisled chin to my liking. Well!
Anyway, after much weeding out/rejection/hitting the delete button and then finally narrowing down to a precious few, I started emailing. Immediately they all want to meet (a further weeding out process), but I try to put them off so I can at least get to know them a LITTLE bit by email. (Not to mention, if you've been reading, my recent flourish of acne and slight weight gain). After awhile, I decide to just go for it.
I set up "dates" with two guys on Sunday. Both date ideas in and of themselves were very interesting. The first was an "all you can eat crab for $25" in Brooklyn. Armed with a small mallet, the brutal feast continues not so much until you're full, but until you get tired of the endless labor of smashing, picking, and pulling just to extract a tidbit of crabmeat.
The second date was at "The Boathouse" which is a beautiful place set on a lake deep within Central Park. It's very dreamy and romantic and was filled with beautiful people.
Notice how I concentrate on the SETTING and not the men themselves. The men, let's call them Mark and Edward, were both fine people. Both educated, nice men with interesting successful careers. You ask me, yeah, what's the problem?
Well, first of all, the two men who I saw that day were not QUITE what their pictures suggested. From their photos, I thought they were both thin, gorgeous guys with full heads of hair. One was thin, one was not, one was taller than me, one was not, one was balding quite a bit, one was on his way, etc. It's weird when you picture someone in your head and then when you see them...they are just not...quite...the...same. It makes me wonder what I must have looked like to them, though all my photos are pretty recent.
The first guy rides motorcycles, which does interest me a lot since I had one in Bangkok myself, but he seems to straddle the "biker" world which does make me a bit uneasy (due to past experiences with such a world). The black jeans, kick-your-ass black boots, and leather jacket despite the 88 degree weather were clues. He had a brilliant smile, and was okay to talk to, though not necessarily stimulating. Packed in tightly at the restaurant, I found that I started conversing at length with the older couple next to us (whom I had a freakingly large amount of things in common with!). I tried to include him or turn back to him, but it was harder to get the conversation flowing. After the couple left, we mostly got into depth about a personal problem of Mark's which was truly tragic. My heart really does go out to him though it did feel weird for 'first date conversation.'
After lunch we decided to walk off the minute meal through the lovely nearby park. We talked again which was pleasant enough though I don't really remember what we talked about...until...he said, "Remember when you asked me before why my username was absinthe?"
Then began a long conversation about the "misunderstood" liquid that is absinthe. Very well-educated and informed on the subject, Mark talked at length about its unfortunate history, its undeserving reputation (lots of the bad stuff being made by idiots with poor ingredients), and how to make it with an eye to top quality, since he made it himself, with great care. I guess it didn't really scare me. though it did make me emit a loud and long internal groan. Unfortunately I've already had a boyfriend who was way too much in love with his drug of choice, which is something I don't want to go through again, even if Mark is a nice guy. He's not THAT nice.
Soon after we walked back and I headed back home to shower and change for date #2.
I showed up at my second date a bit sweaty and out of breath (always attractive!) since the closest subway to the place was several blocks and avenues away. As the guy waved and came over, I remember my first thought being, again, "He looks different." Then, as he approached, I also noticed, "Oh, he's shorter than me!" Despite these not being dealbreakers, they still do start things off with a skewed first impression.
The guy was nice, intelligent, and seemed to be rather well-off (despite this, he did mooch a half-finished wine bottle left by the couple before us and claimed it was his when the waiter inquired). He was smooth...really really smooth, like slick, slippery smooth. He was only a few years older, but he just FELT older than that. Kind of grimy. I knew he wasn't really into me either, so we chatted amicably for a couple hours and then it was over. I felt relief as I walked away on that cool night, and then I was sad.
I guess what has put me in such a state of melancholy (great word) is that I am just finding it so hard to "make a connection" with a man now. I don't know if it's my age, if it's the fact that I'm not in school where men are as abundant as bean sprouts, or if I have somehow become much more selective. Perhaps it's a combination of the three (though I really don't think I'm any more selective than I was at 22). Maybe I'm less attractive than I used to be and so am not attracting the kind of guys I still like?
I don't know. I just know that as my inebriated self stumbled across the expansive Park Avenue toward the subway station (which I never got on, another long story), I was feeling lost and defeated. I didn't know if I had the stamina to keep doing this. I've never really been the kind of person who goes out on dates, and have never really enjoyed it. I've always found someone in a convenient way and then sprinted on to couplehood and comfort. I was thinking about how I have lived alone and enjoyed it so much for so long that I don't know if I am even that open to "making a connection" anymore. It's depressed me.
Then of course, I thought about whom I have had that connection with, and the old ex-boyfriend popped into my mind. Now unavailable and far far away, I thought about how easy it was with him and how hard it was now and naturally, I felt very sorry for myself. And unfortunately, that's when I got out my cellphone.
Yes, I really did that. Luckily for me, the ex still welcomes such things and doesn't play them aloud to amused friends.
Why did I do this? Well....
Recently, I've been dealing with the various aspects of growing oldER (not old), which I've mentioned here and there in my posts. Strange things like having cuts & bruises healing slower, having a more difficult time maintaining and losing weight, finding it harder to find men, etc. The men thing has put me into a mopey funk.
I decided to go ahead and do the online dating thing. I signed up for two major ones. One because it was convenient, and one because it has tons of those lengthy "psychologist-approved" tests about how you see the world (or really, men). Flashing photos of men up on a screen and having you click on the hotties, and later click on the notties is quite an experience. Apparently I go for the hot guys, though I suppose that shouldn't be a surprise, though it is. I've always had those boyfriends that I thought were hot and my friends thought were "okay." I also go for the "puppy dog" guys who are slightly flawed but awfully cute (awww shucks) and the test also claimed at length how I find a certain chisled chin to my liking. Well!
Anyway, after much weeding out/rejection/hitting the delete button and then finally narrowing down to a precious few, I started emailing. Immediately they all want to meet (a further weeding out process), but I try to put them off so I can at least get to know them a LITTLE bit by email. (Not to mention, if you've been reading, my recent flourish of acne and slight weight gain). After awhile, I decide to just go for it.
I set up "dates" with two guys on Sunday. Both date ideas in and of themselves were very interesting. The first was an "all you can eat crab for $25" in Brooklyn. Armed with a small mallet, the brutal feast continues not so much until you're full, but until you get tired of the endless labor of smashing, picking, and pulling just to extract a tidbit of crabmeat.
The second date was at "The Boathouse" which is a beautiful place set on a lake deep within Central Park. It's very dreamy and romantic and was filled with beautiful people.
Notice how I concentrate on the SETTING and not the men themselves. The men, let's call them Mark and Edward, were both fine people. Both educated, nice men with interesting successful careers. You ask me, yeah, what's the problem?
Well, first of all, the two men who I saw that day were not QUITE what their pictures suggested. From their photos, I thought they were both thin, gorgeous guys with full heads of hair. One was thin, one was not, one was taller than me, one was not, one was balding quite a bit, one was on his way, etc. It's weird when you picture someone in your head and then when you see them...they are just not...quite...the...same. It makes me wonder what I must have looked like to them, though all my photos are pretty recent.
The first guy rides motorcycles, which does interest me a lot since I had one in Bangkok myself, but he seems to straddle the "biker" world which does make me a bit uneasy (due to past experiences with such a world). The black jeans, kick-your-ass black boots, and leather jacket despite the 88 degree weather were clues. He had a brilliant smile, and was okay to talk to, though not necessarily stimulating. Packed in tightly at the restaurant, I found that I started conversing at length with the older couple next to us (whom I had a freakingly large amount of things in common with!). I tried to include him or turn back to him, but it was harder to get the conversation flowing. After the couple left, we mostly got into depth about a personal problem of Mark's which was truly tragic. My heart really does go out to him though it did feel weird for 'first date conversation.'
After lunch we decided to walk off the minute meal through the lovely nearby park. We talked again which was pleasant enough though I don't really remember what we talked about...until...he said, "Remember when you asked me before why my username was absinthe?"
Then began a long conversation about the "misunderstood" liquid that is absinthe. Very well-educated and informed on the subject, Mark talked at length about its unfortunate history, its undeserving reputation (lots of the bad stuff being made by idiots with poor ingredients), and how to make it with an eye to top quality, since he made it himself, with great care. I guess it didn't really scare me. though it did make me emit a loud and long internal groan. Unfortunately I've already had a boyfriend who was way too much in love with his drug of choice, which is something I don't want to go through again, even if Mark is a nice guy. He's not THAT nice.
Soon after we walked back and I headed back home to shower and change for date #2.
I showed up at my second date a bit sweaty and out of breath (always attractive!) since the closest subway to the place was several blocks and avenues away. As the guy waved and came over, I remember my first thought being, again, "He looks different." Then, as he approached, I also noticed, "Oh, he's shorter than me!" Despite these not being dealbreakers, they still do start things off with a skewed first impression.
The guy was nice, intelligent, and seemed to be rather well-off (despite this, he did mooch a half-finished wine bottle left by the couple before us and claimed it was his when the waiter inquired). He was smooth...really really smooth, like slick, slippery smooth. He was only a few years older, but he just FELT older than that. Kind of grimy. I knew he wasn't really into me either, so we chatted amicably for a couple hours and then it was over. I felt relief as I walked away on that cool night, and then I was sad.
I guess what has put me in such a state of melancholy (great word) is that I am just finding it so hard to "make a connection" with a man now. I don't know if it's my age, if it's the fact that I'm not in school where men are as abundant as bean sprouts, or if I have somehow become much more selective. Perhaps it's a combination of the three (though I really don't think I'm any more selective than I was at 22). Maybe I'm less attractive than I used to be and so am not attracting the kind of guys I still like?
I don't know. I just know that as my inebriated self stumbled across the expansive Park Avenue toward the subway station (which I never got on, another long story), I was feeling lost and defeated. I didn't know if I had the stamina to keep doing this. I've never really been the kind of person who goes out on dates, and have never really enjoyed it. I've always found someone in a convenient way and then sprinted on to couplehood and comfort. I was thinking about how I have lived alone and enjoyed it so much for so long that I don't know if I am even that open to "making a connection" anymore. It's depressed me.
Then of course, I thought about whom I have had that connection with, and the old ex-boyfriend popped into my mind. Now unavailable and far far away, I thought about how easy it was with him and how hard it was now and naturally, I felt very sorry for myself. And unfortunately, that's when I got out my cellphone.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
New Kid in Town
A childhood friend of mine is in town and staying with me. We've known each other since we were five years old and have grown up together on the same street most of our childhood 'til graduation day (when I happily took off days later). I don't get to see her that much anymore, and am very excited she's here.
And she brought her kid.
Her daughter is nine years old and an only child. As far as "spoiled" I would say 'yes' and 'no.' She is not horribly spoiled in the sense where all you fantasize about is dropping her out a 12-story window, but since she is an only child, she has that sort of whiny, need-to-be-the-center-of-attention, used-to-getting-her-way kind of thing that can grind on your nerves and test your patience. Most of the time she's a pretty happy and animated kid, but she does need to be the star of the show all the time which is very annoying when you want to catch up with a friend you haven't seen in two years.
I wouldn't call the child klutzy or destructive, but since they've arrived, the following have happened, in no particular order:
- a large picture frame fell off the wall and the glass smashed
- the 20-inch TV and cable box catapulted off the TV stand and onto the floor (THANKFULLY not broken!)
- the kitchen sink clogged (with Lucky Charms)
- the shower drain clogged (with god only knows)
- my keys were dropped down the elevator shaft
- the blinds in the living room window were pulled all the way down and will no longer roll up.
- my large basket of make-up/hair stuff "fell all by itself" and dumped itself all over the floor
- mysteriously, my expensive, last-for-six-months eye makeup remover now only has a dribble left in the bottle
- my cats aren't speaking to me
That's all I can think of right now. That's enough. I know there's a couple more. To be fair, I cannot directly contribute each thing to the daughter (let's call her Britney), but when stuff that doesn't normally happen starts happening, you get suspicious. Truthfully, I'm a little bit terrified of what might happen in the next few days (they're here 'til Thursday). I feel powerless to stop this tide of fate.
And to try and be even fairer, we have done some great things while they've been here. I think my friend is afraid she will never go on a real vacation again (besides the surrounding areas in Arizona where she lives), and is doing one of these "pack 500 activities into each day" kind of things. As someone who lives and works here, that is just too exhausting.
But I did discover that you CAN go onto the roof of my building and seeing as how I'm on Avenue C, I had an incredible view of the fireworks! (though I missed the majority of it waiting for the elevator technician to show up with my keys). I got to go to the Met which I should have done by now, but never got around to (though Britney basically sprinted through the whole museum and whined when her mother lagged behind). I also saw Spiderman 2 (in my beloved Astor Plaza theater) which I thought kicked ass! Britney was quite good then.
I always go through this strange thing with people, particularly guests. It's like, I let them kind of take advantage of me, and I get super pissed off inside, but then I'm like, "They're the guest, you have to show them the time of their life. It's just a small bit of inconvenience for you! It's worth it if they have a wonderful time!" But somehow, the resentment inside me, though I try to hide it, kind of shines through and then the person ends up resenting me. I'm shit socially. This is why I should live alone...forever!
Like, last night, after an exhausting trip through the Met and a substantial amount of time spent in the NBC "Experience" store, I told my friend and her daughter that I was going to head home because a) i was exhausted, b) i had lots of laundry to do and c) i had to work tomorrow so couldn't run myself ragged today. All of these were true, but also, there was d) I need to be ALONE and away from you, no matter how cool you are! It's not just them, though I needed to get away from Britney for awhile, it's just that I can be like this with anyone if I'm spending 24/7 with. It's just too taxing on me. After living alone for the past 8 years (it's only the past 7 months I've had roommates again), it's very difficult for me to be in close contact with an individual non-stop like that. I start to feel suffocated and cranky. I thought I was going to KILL my mother during her two weeks in Thailand with me. With a whiny child, it's unbearable. Back in my apartment, I felt so free. I cooled down, played computer games, ate a gallon or two of chips and salsa, soothed my cats, watched copious amounts of Law & Order, took a shower, and did the laundry. It was great. I thought, maybe about 2 hours of freedom. That was about 6pm.
Then it was 9pm. Then 10pm. Then 11pm. No call. Oh god! My friend in NYC with a kid and she's like dead or something! I tried her cellphone -- no luck. Well, I told myself, maybe she did get those half-priced Broadway tickets after all and is enjoying a lively showing of The Lion King. Or, maybe she's in the morgue!
She finally called about 15 minutes later -- they had been spending most of the time at the Empire State Building -- and they were coming back. They wouldn't return til past midnight. I was kind of pissed off because I had to work the next day and would be getting up at 6:30p.m. My friend had already hinted earlier that she was a little disappointed that we hadn't gotten a chance to really talk since when we get home so late at night, I make sure they're settled in and then go to bed. Well, damn, I've been fucking exhausted each night! And it's not like I've been going to bed at 9pm either; it's been late! I do want to talk to her, but it's hard to have a heart to heart when there's Britney around. She stays up just as late as the mother.
I have grown nervous that my long-time friendship with my friend will now suffer due to my annoyance. It's hard to love a friend who is growing increasingly annoyed by your kid, I know that. I was hoping that maybe tonight we can have one of those long, lazy dinners... though I'm also concerned that it's still another week til payday and her visit has slowly drained my finances (she's been very generous with me as well).
It's funny, before I was a teacher, I wasn't a great lover of kids. I didn't dislike them, it's just that I was never that person who says, "Oh I love children!" I always thought that was just a crock of shit -- something someone says to try and sound like a good person. When I became a teacher, and eventually had my own class (6th graders), finally, after awhile... I fell in love with them. I mean, I just loved them so much, I lived and breathed for them. Even today, I find myself coming up with great ideas for them, and then I realize that I'm not their teacher anymore (I'm not anyone's teacher anymore). When that happened, when I started to just love them, I found that I started to love all children. When I saw them on the street I often smiled or talked to them, and I found that I had a minor gift in communicating with them. Children (as well as cats) have always been drawn to me whether or not I wanted them to be, but now I welcomed it.
But, now, after about 7-8 months in NYC, that feeling is beginning to fade away. Now, I often find children to be annoying -- an obstacle in my way. This feeling really has more to do with the parents whom I find absolutely fucking intolerable (see some of my old posts regarding parents and children), and of course, those feelings spread to their kids. I still resent the parent marching down the street with their SUV-sized stroller acting like they're driving a fucking tank through Tiananmen Square. I'm not going to be run into the street by a baby stroller because you think you have some sort of moral imperative! *pant pant*
I'm calm now.
And now, after spending time with Britney, I'm starting to wonder about having kids. I've talked about it before, how so many of my friends are consciously choosing to never have children. I've been fascinated by this, and admiring it, though never really wanting it for myself. Still, at this moment, I want children, or at least one, though I wonder if I am unselfish enough for one. I feel like it's taken me my whole life to be happy, feel good, be relatively well-adjusted, to enjoy being alone, to be content with the way things are (except money), etc. Now that I'm enjoying myself, it's hard to imagine having to take care of a kid. I just am so totally selfish a person. And what if my kid sucks? It's not like you can take it back to the pound.
Well, I've written plenty and my lunch break is over. Time to go....blah.
A childhood friend of mine is in town and staying with me. We've known each other since we were five years old and have grown up together on the same street most of our childhood 'til graduation day (when I happily took off days later). I don't get to see her that much anymore, and am very excited she's here.
And she brought her kid.
Her daughter is nine years old and an only child. As far as "spoiled" I would say 'yes' and 'no.' She is not horribly spoiled in the sense where all you fantasize about is dropping her out a 12-story window, but since she is an only child, she has that sort of whiny, need-to-be-the-center-of-attention, used-to-getting-her-way kind of thing that can grind on your nerves and test your patience. Most of the time she's a pretty happy and animated kid, but she does need to be the star of the show all the time which is very annoying when you want to catch up with a friend you haven't seen in two years.
I wouldn't call the child klutzy or destructive, but since they've arrived, the following have happened, in no particular order:
- a large picture frame fell off the wall and the glass smashed
- the 20-inch TV and cable box catapulted off the TV stand and onto the floor (THANKFULLY not broken!)
- the kitchen sink clogged (with Lucky Charms)
- the shower drain clogged (with god only knows)
- my keys were dropped down the elevator shaft
- the blinds in the living room window were pulled all the way down and will no longer roll up.
- my large basket of make-up/hair stuff "fell all by itself" and dumped itself all over the floor
- mysteriously, my expensive, last-for-six-months eye makeup remover now only has a dribble left in the bottle
- my cats aren't speaking to me
That's all I can think of right now. That's enough. I know there's a couple more. To be fair, I cannot directly contribute each thing to the daughter (let's call her Britney), but when stuff that doesn't normally happen starts happening, you get suspicious. Truthfully, I'm a little bit terrified of what might happen in the next few days (they're here 'til Thursday). I feel powerless to stop this tide of fate.
And to try and be even fairer, we have done some great things while they've been here. I think my friend is afraid she will never go on a real vacation again (besides the surrounding areas in Arizona where she lives), and is doing one of these "pack 500 activities into each day" kind of things. As someone who lives and works here, that is just too exhausting.
But I did discover that you CAN go onto the roof of my building and seeing as how I'm on Avenue C, I had an incredible view of the fireworks! (though I missed the majority of it waiting for the elevator technician to show up with my keys). I got to go to the Met which I should have done by now, but never got around to (though Britney basically sprinted through the whole museum and whined when her mother lagged behind). I also saw Spiderman 2 (in my beloved Astor Plaza theater) which I thought kicked ass! Britney was quite good then.
I always go through this strange thing with people, particularly guests. It's like, I let them kind of take advantage of me, and I get super pissed off inside, but then I'm like, "They're the guest, you have to show them the time of their life. It's just a small bit of inconvenience for you! It's worth it if they have a wonderful time!" But somehow, the resentment inside me, though I try to hide it, kind of shines through and then the person ends up resenting me. I'm shit socially. This is why I should live alone...forever!
Like, last night, after an exhausting trip through the Met and a substantial amount of time spent in the NBC "Experience" store, I told my friend and her daughter that I was going to head home because a) i was exhausted, b) i had lots of laundry to do and c) i had to work tomorrow so couldn't run myself ragged today. All of these were true, but also, there was d) I need to be ALONE and away from you, no matter how cool you are! It's not just them, though I needed to get away from Britney for awhile, it's just that I can be like this with anyone if I'm spending 24/7 with. It's just too taxing on me. After living alone for the past 8 years (it's only the past 7 months I've had roommates again), it's very difficult for me to be in close contact with an individual non-stop like that. I start to feel suffocated and cranky. I thought I was going to KILL my mother during her two weeks in Thailand with me. With a whiny child, it's unbearable. Back in my apartment, I felt so free. I cooled down, played computer games, ate a gallon or two of chips and salsa, soothed my cats, watched copious amounts of Law & Order, took a shower, and did the laundry. It was great. I thought, maybe about 2 hours of freedom. That was about 6pm.
Then it was 9pm. Then 10pm. Then 11pm. No call. Oh god! My friend in NYC with a kid and she's like dead or something! I tried her cellphone -- no luck. Well, I told myself, maybe she did get those half-priced Broadway tickets after all and is enjoying a lively showing of The Lion King. Or, maybe she's in the morgue!
She finally called about 15 minutes later -- they had been spending most of the time at the Empire State Building -- and they were coming back. They wouldn't return til past midnight. I was kind of pissed off because I had to work the next day and would be getting up at 6:30p.m. My friend had already hinted earlier that she was a little disappointed that we hadn't gotten a chance to really talk since when we get home so late at night, I make sure they're settled in and then go to bed. Well, damn, I've been fucking exhausted each night! And it's not like I've been going to bed at 9pm either; it's been late! I do want to talk to her, but it's hard to have a heart to heart when there's Britney around. She stays up just as late as the mother.
I have grown nervous that my long-time friendship with my friend will now suffer due to my annoyance. It's hard to love a friend who is growing increasingly annoyed by your kid, I know that. I was hoping that maybe tonight we can have one of those long, lazy dinners... though I'm also concerned that it's still another week til payday and her visit has slowly drained my finances (she's been very generous with me as well).
It's funny, before I was a teacher, I wasn't a great lover of kids. I didn't dislike them, it's just that I was never that person who says, "Oh I love children!" I always thought that was just a crock of shit -- something someone says to try and sound like a good person. When I became a teacher, and eventually had my own class (6th graders), finally, after awhile... I fell in love with them. I mean, I just loved them so much, I lived and breathed for them. Even today, I find myself coming up with great ideas for them, and then I realize that I'm not their teacher anymore (I'm not anyone's teacher anymore). When that happened, when I started to just love them, I found that I started to love all children. When I saw them on the street I often smiled or talked to them, and I found that I had a minor gift in communicating with them. Children (as well as cats) have always been drawn to me whether or not I wanted them to be, but now I welcomed it.
But, now, after about 7-8 months in NYC, that feeling is beginning to fade away. Now, I often find children to be annoying -- an obstacle in my way. This feeling really has more to do with the parents whom I find absolutely fucking intolerable (see some of my old posts regarding parents and children), and of course, those feelings spread to their kids. I still resent the parent marching down the street with their SUV-sized stroller acting like they're driving a fucking tank through Tiananmen Square. I'm not going to be run into the street by a baby stroller because you think you have some sort of moral imperative! *pant pant*
I'm calm now.
And now, after spending time with Britney, I'm starting to wonder about having kids. I've talked about it before, how so many of my friends are consciously choosing to never have children. I've been fascinated by this, and admiring it, though never really wanting it for myself. Still, at this moment, I want children, or at least one, though I wonder if I am unselfish enough for one. I feel like it's taken me my whole life to be happy, feel good, be relatively well-adjusted, to enjoy being alone, to be content with the way things are (except money), etc. Now that I'm enjoying myself, it's hard to imagine having to take care of a kid. I just am so totally selfish a person. And what if my kid sucks? It's not like you can take it back to the pound.
Well, I've written plenty and my lunch break is over. Time to go....blah.
Friday, July 02, 2004
Zit Face - Me
So, I had to do that thing that all women dread more than a sharp stick in the eye – the gynecologist. It doesn’t matter how understanding, fantastic, slow, warm (hands) the doctor is, this exam is one of the most uncomfortable experiences in my life. Every woman I know dreads this much more than anything the dentist can dream up.
It didn’t stop there though. I had to get a new prescription of birth control pills. Sadly, not because I’m a raging slut *sigh* but because I just need them. With all the other benefits besides preventing pregnancy, (more controlled PMS and shorter/lighter periods), bcp’s are a godsend. (ha ha).
So, I started to take these new pills and within a few days, something started to happen. My face…totally…broke out! We’re talking pizza face extreme. Zits everywhere, EVERYwhere. I was immediately reverted to my teenage years but without all the youthful glow to my skin (acne and wrinkles, hooray!). As a teenager, I had it rough because I had MASSIVE acne. And being who I am, I was also unable to keep myself from prodding, poking, scratching, and jabbing each nasty little bugger that surfaced on my face. I still can’t. At least in my later 20’s, and with the occasional help from prescribed medicine or bcp’s with that added benefit, they have begun to disappear from my face. There have even been many times where I haven’t had a single zit in sight.
Not anymore. I look ridiculous. Of course, I’ve also mysteriously gained 5lbs in like a week despite my continued gym visits/incessant Jesus-like walking around NYC. I don’t get it.
I blame the pills.
Luckily, after contacting my health care provider (She’s actually a licensed midwife, not a doctor, kind of cool), she gladly changed my prescription, though I have to “finish off” my current one. Looks like I’ll be pizza face for a few weeks yet. Hooray! And this with two separate visits from two friends who haven’t seen me in a long time (argh!) and two upcoming “blind dates” with men I’d like to impress with more than my wit and intelligence (gah!).
Now all I need to do is wake up with braces in my mouth again.
It didn’t stop there though. I had to get a new prescription of birth control pills. Sadly, not because I’m a raging slut *sigh* but because I just need them. With all the other benefits besides preventing pregnancy, (more controlled PMS and shorter/lighter periods), bcp’s are a godsend. (ha ha).
So, I started to take these new pills and within a few days, something started to happen. My face…totally…broke out! We’re talking pizza face extreme. Zits everywhere, EVERYwhere. I was immediately reverted to my teenage years but without all the youthful glow to my skin (acne and wrinkles, hooray!). As a teenager, I had it rough because I had MASSIVE acne. And being who I am, I was also unable to keep myself from prodding, poking, scratching, and jabbing each nasty little bugger that surfaced on my face. I still can’t. At least in my later 20’s, and with the occasional help from prescribed medicine or bcp’s with that added benefit, they have begun to disappear from my face. There have even been many times where I haven’t had a single zit in sight.
Not anymore. I look ridiculous. Of course, I’ve also mysteriously gained 5lbs in like a week despite my continued gym visits/incessant Jesus-like walking around NYC. I don’t get it.
I blame the pills.
Luckily, after contacting my health care provider (She’s actually a licensed midwife, not a doctor, kind of cool), she gladly changed my prescription, though I have to “finish off” my current one. Looks like I’ll be pizza face for a few weeks yet. Hooray! And this with two separate visits from two friends who haven’t seen me in a long time (argh!) and two upcoming “blind dates” with men I’d like to impress with more than my wit and intelligence (gah!).
Now all I need to do is wake up with braces in my mouth again.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Shakespeare in the Park's Much Ado about Nothing -- my little nobody review.
So, last night, after having an icky day of disappointments: doctor's visit, and three friends letting me down, I decided I needed some ME time and after taking a 1/2 day off from work (most of which was spent in the doctor's WAITING room, I went and stood for two hours in the Standby Line for tickets to the above show. Besides the interesting time I had in line (I'll write about that later), I thought just for now, I'd talk about the play itself. The play was fantastic, but I really want to focus on a few of the performances....
I won't go into the story or the whole concept of Shakespeare in the Park since most people know about both already. My main goal is to talk about the actors, especially one who surprised me! I was initially most interested in seeing Sam Waterston since as I have said before, I am a huge fan of Law & Order and find him to be a great actor. Though I won't deny he did a fine job in his part of Leonato, I was also kind of disappointed. Maybe the correct word is "amused." During a scene where Leonato is proclaiming his anger and disgust due to finding out (falsely) that his daughter is raging slut, Waterston was so animated and loud, that he began bouncing up and down and spitting like a fierce little cat (this was emphasized by the fact that he was a bit shorter than I thought he'd be, particularly in his legs). His balled fists, his rapid seizure-like movements induced more than a few twitters from the crowd. I know Shakespeare is supposed to be passionate while using that lofty, snob-like voice, but it was a bit over the top for proletariat me.
Waterston's daugther Elisabeth was also in the play as the lovely and "modest" Hero. Hopefully, she is just starting out in acting, 'cause she sucks. I'm sure she's a very nice young woman, but she was crap on the stage. Maybe it's because she doesn't possess that holier-than-thou voice. Dunno.
Kristen Johnson (best known as the big scary chick on "Third Rock from the Sun") was surprisingly great as the cheeky older maid Beatrice. She was funny, witty, and likeable even in her bitchiness. I didn't expect to like her in this play, but I really thought she was well-cast in this part. It fit her in every respect.
The one I REALLY want to praise to the skies though, with great surprise to myself, is JIMMY SMITS as BENEDICK! When I first heard he was in the play, I kind of grimaced. Sure, I swooned over him in L.A. Law and enjoyed him occasionally on NYPD Blue, but I was never really impressed with him one way or the other. He completely stole the show. He was not just funny, he was hysterical, one of the only characters to consistently get long, loud, and well-deserved laughter from the audience, and the first real ovation during the performance. His antics though silly, were all fitting and never seemed to be overacting. The scene where he "discovers" that Beatrice loves him by eavesdropping on friends in an orchard (and later falling into a well), was probably the best in the play, far better than the wedding scene (with feral Waterston) which I think was supposed to be the most impressive. I soon found that when Smits was not in a scene I was truly disappointed and distracted wondering if he would be in the next (no, I have not actually read/seen this play before). I eagerly looked forward to his appearance from the wings and just loved his every scene.
And my last bit of praise goes out to Brian Murray and Dane Knell who play Detective Dogberry and Verges. Hooray to these two other scene stealers! These older gentlemen were a delight and repeatedly had the audience smiling and laughing with a simple phrase or turn of the head or hand. They remind me of Ian McKellen who you know is amazing because he can say one line, so softly, and yet with so much power and depth that you want to be him. These two characters spoke volumes in their subtle and goofy comedy which I think shows the mark of a great actor. Yes, i did use the word, "goofy."
And as a sidenote, I've never said this in my LIFE about a movie or play, but the LIGHTING in Much Ado about Nothing was fantastic! Just the fact that I really noticed this may not go along with it, but I really was impressed. Great job! The guy doing the microphones really was crap though since it seemed the first three-four words that everyone spoke was 'off-mic' and then suddenly the sound would kick into gear and you could hear the actor. That happened too many times and was way distracting.
Okay, that was like a TON longer than I had meant it to be. The experience was fantastic and I really enjoyed myself very much. I think I will even go again in a few weeks if time permits. I recommend that everyone enjoy the experience of Shakespeare in the Park. The weather is perfect right now and the play is just so much fun to see. You won't regret it.
I won't go into the story or the whole concept of Shakespeare in the Park since most people know about both already. My main goal is to talk about the actors, especially one who surprised me! I was initially most interested in seeing Sam Waterston since as I have said before, I am a huge fan of Law & Order and find him to be a great actor. Though I won't deny he did a fine job in his part of Leonato, I was also kind of disappointed. Maybe the correct word is "amused." During a scene where Leonato is proclaiming his anger and disgust due to finding out (falsely) that his daughter is raging slut, Waterston was so animated and loud, that he began bouncing up and down and spitting like a fierce little cat (this was emphasized by the fact that he was a bit shorter than I thought he'd be, particularly in his legs). His balled fists, his rapid seizure-like movements induced more than a few twitters from the crowd. I know Shakespeare is supposed to be passionate while using that lofty, snob-like voice, but it was a bit over the top for proletariat me.
Waterston's daugther Elisabeth was also in the play as the lovely and "modest" Hero. Hopefully, she is just starting out in acting, 'cause she sucks. I'm sure she's a very nice young woman, but she was crap on the stage. Maybe it's because she doesn't possess that holier-than-thou voice. Dunno.
Kristen Johnson (best known as the big scary chick on "Third Rock from the Sun") was surprisingly great as the cheeky older maid Beatrice. She was funny, witty, and likeable even in her bitchiness. I didn't expect to like her in this play, but I really thought she was well-cast in this part. It fit her in every respect.
The one I REALLY want to praise to the skies though, with great surprise to myself, is JIMMY SMITS as BENEDICK! When I first heard he was in the play, I kind of grimaced. Sure, I swooned over him in L.A. Law and enjoyed him occasionally on NYPD Blue, but I was never really impressed with him one way or the other. He completely stole the show. He was not just funny, he was hysterical, one of the only characters to consistently get long, loud, and well-deserved laughter from the audience, and the first real ovation during the performance. His antics though silly, were all fitting and never seemed to be overacting. The scene where he "discovers" that Beatrice loves him by eavesdropping on friends in an orchard (and later falling into a well), was probably the best in the play, far better than the wedding scene (with feral Waterston) which I think was supposed to be the most impressive. I soon found that when Smits was not in a scene I was truly disappointed and distracted wondering if he would be in the next (no, I have not actually read/seen this play before). I eagerly looked forward to his appearance from the wings and just loved his every scene.
And my last bit of praise goes out to Brian Murray and Dane Knell who play Detective Dogberry and Verges. Hooray to these two other scene stealers! These older gentlemen were a delight and repeatedly had the audience smiling and laughing with a simple phrase or turn of the head or hand. They remind me of Ian McKellen who you know is amazing because he can say one line, so softly, and yet with so much power and depth that you want to be him. These two characters spoke volumes in their subtle and goofy comedy which I think shows the mark of a great actor. Yes, i did use the word, "goofy."
And as a sidenote, I've never said this in my LIFE about a movie or play, but the LIGHTING in Much Ado about Nothing was fantastic! Just the fact that I really noticed this may not go along with it, but I really was impressed. Great job! The guy doing the microphones really was crap though since it seemed the first three-four words that everyone spoke was 'off-mic' and then suddenly the sound would kick into gear and you could hear the actor. That happened too many times and was way distracting.
Okay, that was like a TON longer than I had meant it to be. The experience was fantastic and I really enjoyed myself very much. I think I will even go again in a few weeks if time permits. I recommend that everyone enjoy the experience of Shakespeare in the Park. The weather is perfect right now and the play is just so much fun to see. You won't regret it.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Feel that? That's a trickle!
Reagan: Sacred in Death
I wasn't going to put down anything about Reagan -- I just wasn't interested. But then I was thinking that maybe I should, simply for the fact that when I have looked back on my journals from my days of yore, I have regretted not noting down important times, either in my life or in "history."
Unfortunately, I don't really have any good things to say about Reagan. Yes, I remember him and his charisma (he was an actor, for Christ's sake), but I also remember him for all the damage he did to me and my family. Picture this: A young girl living in poverty, being raised by her grandparents (earning Social Security and a paltry pension), with AFDC checks coming in and college looming in the future. Now think about Reagan and his mighty slashing sword of budget cuts. If I was a big shiny missile or a big fat millionaire, I would probably kneel down and worship the man. But for someone like me, who was terrified about not being able to go to college and for her grandparents whose combined salary was about 40% of what I'm earning now (and I don't make shit!), Reagan was evil.
I think there's something in our society of canonizing people after they die. No matter how awful they were, there's something so taboo about talking about anything negative. I guess I understand it, and yet....I don't. It seems so hypocritical. And let's face it, the dead person doesn't give a fuck. Funerals are for the living.
My own grandfather was an intriguing and charming man, but also in many ways, a horrible man. I won't get into all the details, you don't need to pity me any more, but there was a part of me that was relieved when he passed away. Do i think he loved me? Yes, I think so. But I don't think he liked me, and there really is a difference.
The interesting thing was his daughter, whom had really suffered from his actions during her life, has completely turned him into a saint since his death. She sometimes think he communicates with her, she's the only one who goes out to his grave (deep in the far desert, in a military grave), and once when someone showed me that site Find A Grave, I found she had already left her nauseatingly loving message for him.
Rude? Yes. I loved my grandfather, but I am adult now and I see things with different eyes.
I think when I die, I would rather have people talk about my good AND bad habits. I wasn't a saint in life, I don't need to be one in death.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Happy 4th of July!
"You gotta talk to the one who..."
So, I got this email from a friend -- there were free tickets to see Sheryl Crow live -- kind of. Down in Brooklyn, by the Fulton Ferry, with the skyline of Manhattan behind her, Ms. Crow was going to film her piece for Macy's 4th of July Special. I didn't think we could still get tickets, but we did! So me, and my two roommates, trudged off to Brooklyn. We were supposed to wear "festive wear" but what does that really mean? A red, white and blue tutu? I looked okay.
Once there we stood around FOREVER, and then were let in where a small stage was set up in front of the water. Nice. There were probably only about a 100 of us, and we had to crowd in close to the stage, standing the whole time. I wasn't as close as I'd have liked to be, but when she finally came out, another hour later, she was still fairly close (closer than almost every concert/play I've ever been to), and the group was small enough where you didn't feel like one in a jillion.
It was kind of surreal, to be at a "concert" while cameras were running past you, whizzing inches over your head, and hanging from cranes in a corner or two. A guy would basically instruct us to start clapping, and then she'd start in on her song "Light in Your Eyes." When the song was over, she'd shout out, "Happy Birthday, America!" or something of that sort. Admittedly, I'd never heard the song before, but I did really enjoy it. So, she'd begin, and then seconds after beginning....she'd stop. She had to fix her hair (blowing in her face), they wanted to fix her lipgloss, they had to change the guitar strap, etc. It was both interesting and frustrating at the same time to watch this all unfold, and then to hear the same song...over...and over.
She did have a nice break by singing a nice and slow version of "If it makes you happy." I don't think it'll make it to the show though. Then she started up with the "Light in Your Eyes" again. By this time, I had heard it enough times that I was mouthing the words along with her. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot one of those on-foot camera men, and he is RIGHT there, just off to my right, but pointing the camera my way. I knew that I shouldn't look directly into the camera, so I just continued to sing along and smile. Maybe I'll be on TV! Or, more realistically, maybe the really pretty girl in front of me will be on TV. That could very well be where he was aiming his camera. Oh well, I guess my hair will make it to the tiny screen.
Yes, it was fake, frustrating, and took a long time, but it was also interesting, fun, and kind of weird. Sheryl Crow sounded great too, something you always worry about when seeing an artist live. But her voice was clear and controlled (god, I sound like Simon Cowell). I enjoyed the experience, if anything. It's opportunities like this that just come up in NYC and is one of my favorite things about living here.
As my roommate says, "Stuff like this doesn't fall into your lap when you're in Peoria!" So true.
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