Regaining Perspective.

Friday evening was one of those occasions when I felt like Manhattan was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that there was. no. room. for. me.

I was expecting the commute home to be tricky. The school I work at most often, the Pratt Institute, is deep in Brooklyn. I live at the north end of Manhattan, in Harlem. What this means is a) the commute can take anywhere from 40 to 90 minutes on average, one way and b) I will be going with rush hour traffic for most of the ride. These are the constant irritations to the trip, and I think I handle them pretty well.

But then Friday, you see, there was some moisture in the air. I don't mean there was actual RAIN, mind you, though it had been predicted. Okay, to be fair I think there had been some in the early afternoon. At 5pm, when I was getting on the train in Brooklyn, however, it had been dry for a while. As I think I've written before, any kind of precipitation, indeed even the suggestion of precipitation makes the trains and a substantial portion of the population go spare. Fridays often have their own special craziness, for reasons I've not quite figured out. There just always seem to be more people on the trains on Fridays. This one was no exception.

So we all see where I'm going with this, right? I managed to make it to 59th ST (just past the mid-point of my journey) in reasonably good time, and what's more, I had been able to sit most of the way. Score! For those of you who don't know, 59th St Station is a major transfer point. When I went to the platform for my train home, it was packed to the rafters with people, to a degree that told me a train had not been along in some time. This actually happens a lot during rush hours, particularly the evening rush, in my experience. Something goes wrong with the train, that delays it even a few minutes, which means that the crowds on the the subsequent stations have time to get bigger than normal. When the train shows up, the vast majority of people will force their ways onto the already packed train, and in doing so delay it even more. Often the conductor will tell us that another train is RIGHT BEHIND THIS ONE, but for some reason only a few people believe this, or think it's worth waiting for. As you may have guessed from my snide tone and sarcastic caps, I am one of those few people. If I'm not in any hurry to get where I am going (and usually at the end of the day, I'm not), I routinely let as many as three trains pass me by before getting on. Usually the first one will be, as I said, jam-packed and lethargic, crawling from station to station, collecting more and more surly people, so even once you've made it on, you know that the trip is only going to get slower and more uncomfortable. The next train (and often it is right behind the first one, though sometimes the conductors lie, which is probably why most riders don't believe them) will still be pretty packed, the riders still pretty surly, and the ride still slow because it, of course, has to wait for the first one to clear the station. Usually by the third train, there will be seats. It will still be a slow ride, since now you're behind two slow trains, but sitting down changes everything. You can get off your feet, read, write, basically treat the time as your own in at least a few small ways.

I was fully prepared to adopt the 'minimum three train' policy on Friday. I left for work Friday morning knowing that I would probably have to adopt this policy. When I got to 59th St that night, however, I knew immediately that this was not going to be a three-train wait. Nope, I was prepared to wait for at least five, and the gaps between them would be extra long because there were that many more people getting on.

40 minutes later, after train number seven came and left bursting at the seams, Mr. Crankypants was firmly in charge, and now I would not be riding the train UNTIL I could sit down. By train number nine, I was able to, in part because I didn't mind sitting near the only slightly whiffy homeless guy who had built himself an enormous nest at one end of the train with trash bags.

Door to door, my commute took two hours, twenty minutes.

Any thought I had of going out again that evening was snorted at derisively. I also realized there was an insistent little voice in my head saying I now deserved a treat, perhaps several treats, as consolation for my miserable ride home. Said little voice seemed of the opinion that such treats should include a large order of General Tso's chicken from the local Chinese take-out (if you're not familiar with this dish, it is basically a whole lot of deep-fat fried chicken nuggets swimming in a rich, sweet, oily sauce; I'll usually get it with brown rice. You know, to make it healthy), a truck load of cookies, and I'm talking 18 wheeler, AND a vat of a nice Shiraz. Not a truck of wine, that would be tacky.

When did I become the person who cheers himself up by hardening his arteries and destroying his liver? I swear to god I never thought that way before living in NYC. I've always loved food, mind you, in all its varied and glorious forms, but I don't think I went about medicating myself with it. Maybe my memory is faulty, but I really don't think I did.

Having identified this course of action as perhaps not in my best interests, I decided I would buy a box of Entemann's chocolate-chip cookies and some chicken quarters which I would cook (gasp!) WITH THE SKINS ON. I decided against the wine; I really don't think using alcohol as a means of breaking me out of a cranky mood is a habit I want to get into. I want to enjoy my booze when I have it. Besides the liquor store was too far away.

This compromise with my little voice then led me to think "when did I become the guy who obsesses about chicken skin?" Sure, one reaches a certain age and has to recognize that cholesterol is a concern, that excess pounds gained are harder to lose, that heart attacks do run in the family, that being a grown-up means recognizing consequences... but I mean come on.

Well, navel-gazing aside, I followed through on this plan, and had a great time. I had hoped to have my roommate's assistance with at least the cookies, but he was out, thus leaving me to do some serious damage to them on my own.

And it did help. I was much more cheerful an hour later, as I shoveled cookies into my mouth and contemplated having the whole apartment to myself for another week. What also cheered me up was looking at photos I took last Sunday, during a walk with my sweet Melissa. Her new place is right across the street from Inwood Park, which is all that remains of the old growth forest that once covered this whole island. Just the idea of that thrills me. Then when one walks in it, it's very easy to forget the city is all around.

This is my sweet girl just after we've entered the forest. Already all buildings are out of sight, and most street noise is gone.

(Don't you just want to squeeze her? She gets that a lot.)

This was a carving in the rock we both liked. Despite the sharpness of the edges and the uniformity of the shape, we're both certain this was formed naturally. There is no sign of tools, and besides, why would anyone bother?

Here's a closer look. In Ireland this would be some sort of sacred well, with an ancient name and a thousand year history of magical healing.

I don't know what these flowers in the foreground are, but I can't wait to find out. That's the Hudson in the background. I'm also rather fond of that larger tree. I seem to be turning into my mother. Like her, I now feel compelled to hug trees on a fairly regular basis. One of the odd benefits of living in a big city is, when I was doing this in Central Park a few weeks ago, I knew I didn't have to worry about ever seeing again any of the people who looked at me oddly as they went by. Lately I'm particularly fond of oak trees for some reason. Mom's morning walk includes visiting, and hugging, a catalpa and an ancient pin oak.

At one point, Melissa and I found a clearing in the trees where we got incredible views of the river. The picture on the left is looking north, the one on the right looks south.















These two shots are taken in almost the same location; I've just stepped forward about two paces. Suddenly you can see the city. Again, the left one is north, the right one is south. In the latter, you're looking at George Washington Bridge. My place is just about twenty blocks further south.
This is a picture Melissa took of me, while I was taking one of the pictures above. She took this with her camera phone. That's a damn good phone. Or Melissa really knows how to work it. I'm getting a better average number of focused images with my digital baby, I just don't know how I'm doing it. Generally taking two or three shots seems to be useful; the latter ones are almost always better. My camera's ways remain a mystery to me, and contrary to his original assertion, Tommy is no help. Still, I'm having fun. You just may not want to enlarge any of my photos, if blurry images make your eyes go all wonky, like they do mine.


So once again, it's trees to the rescue in my world. I could ask myself if this is something that needs closer examination, but for now I'm just grateful to have so many places nearby that help me regain my sanity, and such good company to do it with.

Rush Hour Thoughts.

Okay, a little early, always nice, no need to rush... that train seems awfully full, it's a gamble, but why don't I wait for the next one? I've got the time, and maybe I can get a seat, read my book, jot some notes... he's cute. Hmm. Is he mirroring me? That's what they call it right? I'm leaning up against the wall with one leg up (Peter says it's my hustler pose; I just think of it as my 'resting my knee' pose), now this guy is doing the same. Nah, it's just a coincidence... okay he's wandering out to see if the train is coming, no luck, now he moves closer to me, takes the pose again, not meeting my eyes though.... checks for the train again, now moves even closer, mirrors me again, but I'm still not sure, not so good with the innuendo... hell, a guy pretty much has to club me over the head and drag me back to his cave by my hair before I'm really sure he wants me. Don't think this guy is going to be doing that. Just as well, I really should go to work. Daddy gots some bills.

Shit, this train is even more full than the last one, and now I have to take it to be on time. Oh well, lost that gamble. Man, it looks like we're all going to a funeral. Why is everyone wearing black? Why am I wearing black? Well, Winter coats, whaddya gonna do, they don't show the grime that much, just looking at the windows at home tells you how grimy the air is... I wonder if the landlord would clean the windows for us... I can only reach the one on the fire escape... I sure as hell ain't hanging out of a fifth floor window, not without serious mountaineering equipment... I wish I could read my book, why did I bring a hardback, they're impossible to hold... 96th street, a whole lot of people get off, maybe I'll get a seat, but it's hardly worth it, I have to transfer at Columbus Circle in five stops anyway... yeah, just keep holding the door open there, Sparky, hold up everyone else on this train, back up all the other trains, it's all about you, isn't it. Sometimes I wish they'd electrify the doors, just a little bit, give the assholes just a bit of a shock... yeah, except for the next time when I'm holding the doors open...

Wow! That is yellow! Man I feel better already. "Miss, that coat is fabulous, it just perked me up the minute you got on!" Oops. Broke the cardinal rule of Rush Hour, don't talk to strangers. Anything other than " excuse me" is a bad idea. She at least acknowledges me, if we count the nod and grunt. Come on Honey, you can't honestly be worried I was hitting on you, are you? I complimented you on your coat! I used the word 'fabulous' for god's sake! And I did it advisedly, by the way...Ah well, at least she hasn't pepper sprayed me. That would be hard to explain at work... "sorry I couldn't make it to class, I was in the hospital rinsing out my eyes after I told a woman I liked her coat"...

dear GOD, man, did you brush your teeth this morning? Look, I'm sorry, I know it's cold and sinus season, but when you're that tall, you really have to take extra care, 'cause damn... hmm... I wonder if anyone would tell me if my breath was that rank? Who in my life would be in a position to do that? It's even harder than finding someone to scrub paint off my back, I bet. How do I go about that question? Would Tommy be amenable? Kinda weird, but at least I'm not asking him to get in the shower with me, and it's not like we'd have to kiss or anything. Wow, being single has some odd pitfalls to it... Oh THANK GOD, I don't know who you are, but I'm so glad you had curry last night, that's a relief...

Oh man, are you really going to panhandle during this trip? There's no room, man, don't you see how packed we are?... I guess it's playing the odds, though I wonder how those folks make out at this hour? Do more folks get annoyed than feel sympathy, or does it all even out? When did I become such a heartless asshole? Anytime Dad is in town, he gives at least a little something to almost everyone who asks. Sure, he doesn't live here, and he makes a hell of a lot more money than me... but he also grew up much closer to that life than I ever did...Okay, sure panhandling, not the most attractive quality, the stories some of them tell are obviously lies, or at least very very old stories (seriously man, you've been 'just out of the hospital' for the eight years I've been taking this train), but come ON, are you really going to tell me begging for money is easy? Fun? The humiliation, the annoyance, the judgements, the arrests, it can't be that good a deal... still, I'm not reaching for my wallet, am I? I wouldn't even if doing so didn't risk making this guy think I was trying to feel him up. Wow, in Indiana I would never stand this close to a person unless I was ready to kiss or punch him. That old theatre chestnut, kiss or kill sure takes on a different feel in NYC. I still can't believe I can sit with my leg touching a strange man's leg and no one gets irate. Of course there are those guys who like to sit with their legs spread, taking up three potential seats, like their balls are too damn big to be squashed or something. I delight in taking the seat next to them. It's the best when there are TWO guys sitting with their legs spread, taking up five seats between them, so I can slide in between them, and scuffle around in my bag until they get uncomfortable enough to close their stupid legs and sit like normal people. What a weird form of machismo that is. It's sort of like the whole crossing the street thing. New Yorkers pride themselves on not trusting anyone, and on moving quickly, yet they will routinely throw themselves in front of moving traffic and walk slooowly, assuming that the person behind the wheel is sane, in control, a decent driver and paying attention... seems pretty damn trusting to me. "No one tells me how fast to move, bitch!" Yeah stud, you showed that car, didn't you... I guess I'm not much better though... when did I become the guy who gets pissed off at tourists in Times Square? Seriously though, do they not realize there are other people on the street? Do they HAVE to stand around in enormous bovine clumps, gawking at the scenery, making plans, consulting maps, I mean WOW, they might as well be parking an SUV in the middle of the sidewalk... but I really don't like it if anyone is walking in front of me, do I. It's like Dad when he's driving, he hates being passed, and hates being behind another driver. Even by New York standards people tell me I walk fast. In Times Square I'm just trying to get the hell out of there before I PUNCH SOME PINHEAD IN A BASEBALL CAP WHO IS STANDING IN MY WAY IN A BIG BOVINE CLUMP WITH HIS BUDDIES... Okay Patrick needs to get a grip. Patrick needs to get out of town for a bit. Patrick needs to stop referring to himself in the third person, it's creepy. Breathe, breathe... I'm really not entirely with it at 8 in the morning am I? Well, not when I'm standing smooshed up against a bunch of strangers, with all of us pretending we don't see anyone else. This is how we deal, isn't it; we create our own walls.

The coffee was a mistake, wasn't it. Every time I do it I think this ninety minute commute is too damn long! I didn't move here to be an art model, if that was my goal, I never would have left Seattle, I probably could have bought a house by now... well, close... Okay I wouldn't have bought a house, but I wouldn't be standing at 8am in the middle of a packed, stinky subway car with a whole lot of surly commuters, pretending we don't see one another... funny how I rarely see faces I find attractive at this hour. I normally love all kinds of faces, I want to sketch them, make masks of them, play characters inspired by them onstage... at this hour no one is at home in her face though. We're all somewhere else. Even me, my reflection in the window looks like nobody is home. Two holes where my eyes should be...

WOW. Are those eye brows or caterpillars? That's my future, isn't it, if I don't keep taking a weed whacker to 'em on a regular basis. Is this an Irish thing? I definitely got it from Dad. So did poor Mary, but she's staying on top of it too. Judging from some of the farmers we saw in County Sligo, I might need to shave the tip of my nose regularly one day. Some of those guys looked like they had turkey feathers growing there. And of course there's the ear-hair. Uuugh. I've not yet developed that little problem, and fortunately there are tools for dealing with it now...

Oh come ON, are you really going to preach now, buddy? I appreciate the sentiment, I suppose, I'm trying to assume you truly have my best interests at heart, but... wait for it... and there we go, the old "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" line, do they all think they're the first ones to say that? Is it just the rhyme? Why does it hold such appeal? Funny how they all talk about the importance of love until they get to this topic and they always get to this topic. Why not war, abortion, some other hot button issue, why is this the only one they ever mention? Well, along with the "one must be born again" part... I wonder if he's read the rest of Leviticus... had a cheeseburger recently there, Sparky? Shellfish? Bacon? Ya wearing an elastic waistband say? Then you can stand next to me at the stoning. I'll hold your hand if you like. If I'm going to die, I'd rather it were for some hot man-loving than for wearing a cotton/poly blend or working on the Sabbath (and which day is that anyway?)...

No, of course I'm not going to say any of this... this is not a battle I am ready to fight right now, and it wouldn't go anywhere useful before one of us had to get off the train, or somebody told us to shut the fuck up. At least that's what I'm telling myself now, because damn, I really have to piss... That's it, no more coffee until I get to the school from now on... who am I kidding, I've been saying that for two years now... Ah, sitting down, sure it's only three stops at this point, but it's still a load off...

Thank the DEAR LORD... finally... ah, air air... hadn't realized how stuffy it was down there... got twenty minutes before class, I'll be a human being by then... Good thing I love this job.

Another Proud Moment

As I continue learning how to use this camera, I have perhaps on occasion gotten a bit sloppy about paying attention to my surroundings. I was down near the boat basin, in Riverside park, walking along the pedestrian and bike path. Yes, pedestrian and bike. I saw an evergreen that had some fun shadows defining it, so I snapped that, then began to cross the narrow path to take a close-up, perhaps not noticing my surroundings sufficiently. It was the park for god's sake.

"Watch IT!" barked a man as he raced by on his bike, no attempt made to swerve or slow down.
Startled and angry, I yelled back "slow DOWN!"

"Fuck you," he threw over his shoulder, not slowing down.

"You give way to PEDESTRIANS, ASSHOLE!" I bellowed. Since he hadn't slowed down, he was by this point quite far away, so I needed to project a bit to assure he heard my nuanced, reasoned argument. Ah, voice lessons. All activity along the path for quite some distance came to a halt for a minute, while people figured out if I was crazy, dangerous or just very loud.

I'm forty-one years old. The biker was older than me, probably by at least a decade. I'm so glad we were able to handle this like adults.

Sunny Saturday in Central Park

Melissa and I met up at the huge fountain on Columbus Circle, the one that marks the entrance to Central Park.  A holiday market surrounded it, and we wandered briefly through the stalls before heading into the park.  It was not too cold, and the light had the watery, wintery quality I think of as quintessentially December.  

After two years of working as a dog-walker, I know the west side of the park like the back of my hand, but the east side is largely terra incognita for me, so Melissa indulged me and we wandered that way.  The first notable thing we saw was the ice rink.  It was so packed with people it looked like they were in line for something.  They still seemed to be having a good time, though.  The rail above the rink had become a huge viewing gallery, holding even more people than the rink itself.  They seemed to be having fun too.  

All in all the park was pretty damn crowded, and we heard all sorts of languages being spoken, from a gazillion tourists.  The pedi-cabs and horse-drawn carriages were doing a booming business.  At one point there were so many carriages in a row, it looked like a train.  I refrained from petting any horsies.  They were working.  I was pleased to realize that even though there were a gazillion people around us, walking in the way in their usual large, bovine lumps, I didn't feel the desire to get out my electric cattle-prod.  Seriously, this is progress for me.  It helped not to have an agenda or a destination, of course.  Friend Jeff has a recent entry on his blog about the idiotic ways people behave with their umbrellas in this city whenever there is rain.  In keeping with his character, Jeff proposed a new discipline for teaching people how not 
to be retards with their umbrellas.  That might, in fact, be the name of the discipline.  
It's a testimony to Jeff that he sees a problem and believes that with just a little self-awareness, practice and discipline, people might learn how better to navigate the pitfalls of urban rain-protection.  My reaction is much more fatalistic and punitive. Okay, maybe I no longer feel that whacking strangers with your umbrella should win you a prison term, but I do think there needs to be a change: licensing.  Particularly in major urban areas, there needs to be strict rules and regulations for umbrella use, with clear penalties for misuse.  One can get a license for an umbrella only after taking a written and practical exam.  Among the things studied would be the selection of the correct size canopy and handle length for your height, knowing when and where to open the umbrella (NOT half-way up the stairs in the subway  for example), and how to walk with it in rush hour crowds. I am no longer advocating a strict height requirement for umbrella use; I think the problem goes deeper than that, but I stand firm on an age requirement.  At least in major urban areas, no one under the age of sixteen is to have an umbrella.  Ever.  I don't care HOW cute little Mitsy is with her duckie umbrella, nor do I care that she screams bloody murder when she's forced to leave it at home.  If you're walking in Times Square, she's under your umbrella (assuming you've earned the appropriate license) she's wrapped in a tarp or she's getting wet.  Just as we all agree to look the other way when thirteen year olds run tractors on farms, I'm fine with the youngsters having their brollies  when they're far from all other human beings.  I still think the laws need to be on the books, however, so if one SINGLE scratch is caused by a wayward bumbershoot, we have the means to press charges.  Community service -and revoking of the license for a period no less than six months, or the rainy season, whichever lasts longer-  would be an acceptable penalty, at least for the first offense.  Recidivism would not be treated kindly, though.  

... What was I talking about before?  Oh yes, how I'm not as hostile right now as usual.  Really, I'm not.  We were surrounded by crowds and not once did I imagine myself wielding a cattle-prod.  Nope, we sauntered, we ambled, we gallivanted.  We saw the performer Thoth (there's an Oscar winning documentary about him, but neither of us has seen it) dancing, stomping rhythmically, playing his violin and singing in his ethereal head-voice which took full advantage of the resonant acoustics in the colonnade.  We listened to a guitarist with a gorgeous voice (also taking advantage of the acoustics under a tile bridge), sing a Grateful Dead song I didn't know (which is true for most of them), but liked a lot.  Something about roses in her long brown hair?  We also heard several saxophone players (whom we began calling cahooters; don't ask), but by far the best musical experience was had at the statue of Alice at the Tea-Party.  I'd never even heard of this statue's existence before, so I was pleased to be seeing it.  When we arrived, two kids were climbing it.  At one point a boy of no more than four, with dark hair and sparkling eyes, having achieved the apex of Alice's head, was suddenly moved to song, and gave us a rousing rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.  We suspect he too may have been reveling in the acoustics he had discovered bouncing off of Alice's head.  At any rate he sang with gusto, full emotional commitment, and no small amount of volume, ending with a really big finish.  At the conclusion, Melissa and I clapped.  His mother thanked us for helping his self-confidence.  He then gave us an encore, just as good as the first one, and followed this with what I can only assume was the dance-remix.  Much faster, peepier, with some wicked syncopations, you know what I mean.  We decided to move on at that point; we didn't want him to peak too early.  

Once we left the area around Bethesda Fountain and the Great Pond, the crowds thinned considerably.  Now we weren't even having to work to be calm, it just happened.  The sun was starting to set as we rounded the Great Lawn and looped back down to Columbus Circle. Coming out of the park back into the holiday market started to make both of us a little wiggy, and it was a bit of a relief to have Melissa be the one to break first, as she knocked over three elderly shoppers, two jewelry stands and a cocker spaniel in her bid for freedom*.  It meant I didn't have to get out my cattle prod.  For those of you who don't know Melissa, she is sunlight and joy personified, and was even more so today in her orange plaid winter coat and turquoise hat (she said herself "I'm a glow stick"), so having her snap before grumpy Uncle Cranky did was gratifying.  

We wandered over to rest our sore backs and eat Mexican food at El Centro on 9th ave and 54th street, continuing the good talk that had been going on for the last two hours.  Then I came home to find this amazing video Somewhere Joe shot back on this day in 1980, in some of the places Melissa and I had just visited.  It felt like a message, even if I'm still figuring out what that message is.  

I love this time of year.  I love Central Park.  I love Melissa.  It was a good day.    


*No, she didn't.  I'd rather die than exaggerate!

Living Right

So, I have a confession to make. This may be hard for some of you to hear; but try to remain open to my message. With the help of Jesus Christ, and the support of good, loving people...

I am no longer living the life of a left-handed person.

Let me share a bit of my painful history with you. As a child I started showing signs of my left-handedness almost immediately. My parents tried to ignore it, hoping I'd grow out of it, and maybe I would have. But then my kindergarden teacher turned out to be part of the Gauche Conspiracy. She made the life sound so glamorous, so exciting. She singled me out for attention, giving me my own special pair of scissors. She told me there was nothing wrong with this life, that it was just as beautiful and fulfilling as the life of a right-hander. She failed to mention the increased risk of allergies, insomnia or migraines. She didn't mention that I was three times more likely to become an alcoholic. She left out the fact that the Bible mentions the word 'right' in favorable terms over one hundred times, and the word 'left' unfavorably twenty-five times. She never mentioned that thousands of lefties were burned as witches in the 1600s. She neglected to tell me that the Catholic Church identified lefties as servants of the Devil well into the 1930's. They stopped forcing lefties to switch hands in Catholic schools at that point, and the Church has been in trouble ever since. No, she told me being lefty was natural, and okay with God and society. I wasn't hurting anyone, so what was the problem?

So I wallowed in my deviant lifestyle, spiraling out of control. I celebrated my sinister ways. I became an activist. I was loud, I marched, I lobbied, I made a stink, I challenged the stereotypes. No one told me all the facts. When they'd mention famous lefties, they'd always bring up Albert Einstein, but no one ever mentioned Jack the Ripper. They'd crow about Michelangelo and Da Vinci, but stayed mum about George H.W. Bush and Ross Perot. They'd point out that a higher percentage of geniuses were lefties, but they'd neglect to mention the same was true of the mentally retarded.

Gradually though, I began to see that my life wasn't working. I grew tired of smearing ink on my paper, hand and wrist every time I wrote. I got fed up with scrambling for just the right (pun intended) seat at dinner, so I wouldn't spend the meal bumping elbows with my neighbor. I wearied of putting my arm at risk every time I used a table saw. Hell, I just wanted to be able to use a three ring binder or can opener like everybody else!

It all came to a head one day at a dinner party when I was pouring myself some gravy. Since the ladle had only one spout, I was using a back-hand method I'd developed for this occasion. Suddenly I saw, I mean really saw myself. The snickering and awkward glances from the other guests, it all made sense. They were right, I looked ridiculous. What kind of nightmare was I living in? How could I maintain this was a normal lifestyle?

So I sought help. My lefty and lefty apologist friends all tried to talk me out of it, but I stayed strong. Eventually I found help at The Goats-to-Sheep Ministry. They told me they loved me, that I could change, and live as a sinister-free, dexterous child of God.

I won't pretend it was easy. I spent weeks with my left arm tied to my side. I still have all the left pockets in my pants sewn shut, so I don't accidentally slip up and put my keys in there. I check carefully anytime I come up to a strange door. If the door knob is on the left side, I don't even go in. It's just too risky. I've had to empty one entire medicine cabinet in the bathroom because the door opens on the left, and I'm afraid some morning, still groggy from sleep, I'll reach for my toothbrush with the wrong hand, and the downward spiral will start again. Eventually, as I get stronger, I hope to put up a reminder note ('Think RIGHT'), and start storing just a few things in there. It's a process and we can't be ashamed to take baby steps.

I know some of you may be threatened by my new found righteousness. You may be filled with self-doubt when you hear about my new, healthier ways. I want you to know I don't hate you. I love you. I'm here for you. I can show you the way to leave that life behind. Imagine being able to drive a car, knowing you've cut your risk of a fatal accident by four. Think about the nine extra years of life you are likely to have as a right handed person. Don't listen to the nay-sayers who claim these scientific studies have been discredited. Don't let them tell you that children forced to change hands are more likely to stutter or have dyslexia. No, Satan (who is also a lefty) has many ways of drawing us back in the southpaw life. I'm not going to lie to you; it won't be easy. But all you need to is the love of Jesus and a good stout rope.

I'm here to help.

Bang Rocks, Patrick Angry

This has not been a good week for me and technology. We have a wary relationship at best, I have to say. Even as I inch slowly into the twenty-first, okay, maybe the late twentieth century, embracing email (1998), getting a cell phone (2005) and cable internet (September 21st), I feel like I have still been watching it warily from outside the spaceship, hoping it hasn’t read my lips, and is about to shoot me into the ether.

I’ve had reason to be more wary than usual this summer, because of a number of struggles, though I guess some of them had more to do with bureaucracies than technology. First my wireless company informed me I was eligible for a free new phone, but when I got it, it turned out they had decided that what my high-powered, mover-and-shaker big pants lifestyle really required was a second LINE. I thought I had things quickly corrected with the helpful customer service person I spoke to ("this happens all the time," she said; yeah, I’ll bet, and what does that tell you?), but when I received my bill, there were the new line charges, complete with start-up fees. The second customer service agent was also helpful and accommodating, but next month the fees were still there, plus (naturally) a late fee. Third agent, third assurance that all was now resolved, and this time the bulk of the bill was corrected, and I decided I wasn’t going to contest the remaining annoying but reasonably small amount. To be fair, my bill this month showed that all the charges had been forgiven, meaning I was now ahead in payments, so it may have taken a while and a lot of aggravation, but we got where I wanted to go. More than one agent explained that the problem was due to the fact that charges were simply generated automatically by the computer, and it took a while for corrections to go through. In other words, the computer generally complicated and SLOWED THINGS DOWN.

There was a similar problem with some hospital bills I got this winter. I attended physical therapy twice a week for six weeks, in an (unsuccessful) attempt to alleviate chronic pain I’ve had for fifteen years. I was going to Bellevue because of their sliding scale fees, and was required to pay the bill before each treatment. More than once the cashier warned me to save my all my receipts because the system was archaic, I would probably receive bills for these sessions again, and it would take at least two weeks for the system to catch up with itself. Sure enough, I got several bills, including not one but two warnings that the account was about to be sent to a collection agency. I called the first time to find that they were about to bring out the big guns because they thought I owed $20. When I asked if that was the only outstanding fee, the cashier said yes, but it wasn’t. The second time the threat came while I was out of town for the month, so I had missed the "do it or you’re in big trouble, mister" date. That was this August, nearly five months after my final appointment. Okay, this problem has to do with archaic equipment, and chances are budgetary and scheduling concerns make it virtually impossible for Bellevue to upgrade, but still, I felt like I was caught up in a Terry Gilliam movie, where my credit rating might actually get damaged from a twenty dollar charge I had, in fact, paid.

Then this last month was the cable debacle (say that out loud, s’fun). I signed myself up for cable internet at my roommate’s request, so we could get a router and a home-networking system giving him wireless access on his laptop. So, I go on live chat (oh how I loathe that phrase now), order the whole package, and am told I should hear from my cable provider in three to five business days, but if I don’t, I should call them. Seven business days later I call Time Warner, and we schedule the next available appointment, which is ten days following. I chose not to do the self-installation since I believed I would be getting the whole shebang, router, and all. Nope, that doesn’t happen, so I wait a few more days at the ISP’s recommendation to get my ‘welcome kit’ in the mail with the router, cds, instructions, etc. The date passes, I go on live chat again, to find there is a mysterious hold on my order, which the nice agent claims he releases. Wait five to seven days, no router, no welcome kit, I contact them again, reluctantly going on live chat after learning that they make it virtually impossible to call on the phone, once again I’m told there is a hold, but now there isn’t, I should receive everything in twelve to twenty-four hours. He promises this is the last time I will have to contact them on this matter. Really. I’m chatting (live) the Friday before Columbus Day weekend, so I’m not expecting this timetable to be kept, but still, I feel a promise has been made. The following Tuesday I get a call from Earthlink wondering if I still wanted my cable hooked up because he saw I had placed an order, but it hadn’t yet happened. Back to live chat, since the number left on my answering machine doesn’t actually get me anywhere useful (they really really want you to use the live chat), saying I’ve had the hook-up for two weeks by this point, but I still haven’t received any of the other stuff I’d been promised, not even now, three days past the 24 hour deadline. This agent tells me that, here again, THEIR COMPUTER hasn’t registered the new information yet, as far as it’s concerned I have dial-up still, and more importantly, this information will not change until the 24th when my bill comes due. After that the computer will ‘know’ I am using cable internet, so then, and only then will it allow the router to go out. So, this guy tells me by the end of the month I will have all the equipment. I say I have trouble believing that, since I’ve contacted them four times now, gotten four different answers (though secretly I’m thinking this last one might be true, since it sounds the most plausible, and the least like something a customer would want to hear), and if the problem wasn’t resolved by the end of the month, I would change ISPs.

I get a phone call the next day from a customer service agent. She tells me she’s been reading all my correspondence with the company and ‘gotten frustrated’ on my behalf. She is pretty sure she knows the problem. When the cable signed me up, they signed me up for Road Runner, rather than Earthlink, both of which they handle. That does indeed prove to be the problem, so now, as of last Friday, I am waiting seven to ten business days to see if this equipment I didn’t even want and am unlikely ever to use finally shows up. I ain’t holdin’ my breath.

Then this last Monday I learned my cash card number had been stolen. To my good fortune the monitoring system caught it almost immediately and called me for verification. The thief managed to buy a $25 credit report, which scares me, but when he or she tried to buy a $400 airline ticket, no dice. This poor bastard thought this was a credit card, or he or she thought I had $400 to my name. Man, that kills me. How droll.

I’m relieved it all got resolved so quickly, and yes, that was thanks to technology, I admit, but I’m still freaked out by the theft. I’ve let the card out of my hand exactly once, to pay for a restaurant meal, almost every other time I’ve been swiping it through a machine at a store or paying bills online. Sure, it’s possible the waitress at the sushi place is the culpritt, but the odds really are it happened online. Some sort of worm, or trojan horse, or virus or phisher, or sculquer or cole-myner or theeph or sneeque got past my Norton protection that yes, I’m paying to protect me from such things even though we all acknowledge that it’s an uphill battle staying ahead the hackers, one of these little miters got through and read my number and the safety code. Chances are slim to none that this person will ever be caught, nor will I ever know exactly how it happened, so I don’t know how to avoid the problem in the future, short of not using the card. I feel this kind of defeats the purpose of the card. Granted I think the hologram is cool and all, but I’m not holding onto it for the artwork. I’m wanting to buy things with it, once in a while. At any rate, the replacement is scheduled to show up in a week to ten days. I bet it gets here before the router.

Then, for the grand finale (oh please tell me it was the finale), yesterday I elected to wash and dry my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans, thus necessitating the purchase of a new phone, even though I’m realizing today that I was actually eligible for a free replacement and will have to tackle all that if I want justice in the wireless world. I can’t blame that on technology though, much as I might like to. They pretty much warn you that washing and drying (on high, for thirty minutes) is not a great idea. This new one comes with all sorts of bells and whistles and I bet I never learn to use half of them. If I wasn’t feeling enough like a caveman through all this, the phone comes with an analog clock on the front, nice Roman numerals, and the twelve-year old selling me the thing pointed it out as a problem, but assured me I could switch it over to digital. Now slow down there, Youngin’, I’m not sure I cotton to your newfangled time piece there. Yes, I can speak digital, but my first language is still analog. When I look at a clock, I want to know what size pie-wedge I have to go. 11:47 doesn’t really register with me, but show me one quarter of a pizza (with just a bit trimmed off), and I know what I’ve got to work with before noon. But soon this tongue I speak will go the way of the passenger pigeon.

So. I’m considering joining the Amish, provided they let me bring deodorant, and some shorts.

All right, I use and appreciate plenty of modern conveniences; I’m a huge fan of indoor plumbing, electricity rocks, and I’m delighted to have been able to go as far afield as Seattle or Ireland without having to spend five days swallowing my weight in coal dust. Nonetheless I feel like modern life is kicking my ass, and isn’t going to stop anytime soon. Yes, I realize what the common denominator is in all this, so I’m working my Norman Vincent Peale as hard as I can, but damn.

Please don’t let me get shot into the ether.

Let the Healing Begin

I'm only now able to talk about it. Therapists recommend that we share our feelings and experiences to speed the recovery process, but I needed to wait until the flashbacks had settled down a bit.

It was afternoon, the Columbus Circle subway station. He was playing one of those instruments I associate with Chinese Opera, you know, one of those stringed instruments that always sounds like a singing adenoidal cat. Actually it often sounds like someone is just SQUEEZING an adenoidal cat. There are lots of instruments than can have this sort of nasally sound, saxophones, bagpipes, oboes, clarinets, Middle Eastern music often uses some kind of nasal woodwind, hell there even some singing styles that have this quality, and you know what, often I even LIKE this sound. The uilean pipes (the bagpipe's little brother) in Irish music is often a lovely form of cat squeezing (strumming, whatever); I love the Bulgarian Women's Ensembles, and those ladies do a lot of their singing through their noses, sounding sometimes like really resonant kazoos, seriously, I even enjoy this particular Chinese Opera instrument from time to time, especially since it is the only stringed instrument (as opposed to woodwind) that is nasal on purpose, honestly, I can enjoy this sound... but it is a tricky and delicate balance. Oh so very delicate.

This guy, the one playing in Columbus circle, have to tell ya, not hitting that balance so well. But it gets worse. Like many subway buskers, he was playing along to a prerecorded song. Most of the time the recording is just the backing music, or the orchestration, and the live instrument then plays the melody over top. Not this guy. He's playing the melody, so is the recording. The prerecorded instrument is probably a synthesizer, so all the rough edges, all the corners and pointy bits of the notes have been filed away, which is a sound that sometimes works for me (hello Eurythmics) and sometimes not (god, stop with the Bossa Nova). To be fair, this time it wasn't so bad, except it was emphasizing the serious sinus trouble this particular cat had as he was squeezed, but more importantly it also highlighted in GLARING detail all the times the performer was flat. And he was flat a lot. Quite a lot. Oh so many, many times. Not all the time, mind you, which I think would have almost been easier to handle. No, he'd go along just fine for a few phrases, lulling us all into a false sense of hope, then on a particularly soaring, fortissimo note he'd squeeze that poor suffering cat extra hard, shooting for that note... and just not quite make it.

But the horror doesn't stop there. You see, I haven't told you what SONG he was playing. And you know it. We ALL know it. This guy, this no doubt pleasant, fine human being, with all sorts of responsibilites, relationships, dreams and desires, this guy squeezing his adenoidal cat with passion and vigor if not with so much talent, this guy was playing, wait for it...

The Love Theme from the Titanic.

Yup, Celine Dion, I will Go On, and does she ever. Are you getting the full picture here? While I'm listening to the flat nasal cat squeezing and the prerecorded synthesizer, this weird obsessive part of my brain, one of the parts that seems not to like me very much, is playing the tape of ole Leather Lungs Dion wailing away, pounding her chest, pouring her very being into this horrible horrible song.

I debate finding some sharp implement with which to puncture my eardrums. I even consider asking this guy if I can borrow his bow to do it with, but I realize that while this might stop the sound of him and his synthesizer and his cat, it won't do a thing about Celine. Nope, she's in my head, singing away, and what's more, she's going to be in there FOR THE REST OF THE DAY.

So I pull out the songs I use when faced with this dilemma. I sing quietly to myself. I sing Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Kate Bush, Prince, Sting, Peter Gabriel, random TV theme songs I'd forgotten I knew ('Davey, DAvey Crockett/king of the wild frontier'), I am so distraught I even sing another song I LOATHE and routinely get stuck in my head, in the hopes that its staying power will prove stronger:

Her name was Lola
She was a showgirl
with yellow feathers in hair
and a dress cut down to there
................................
.....across a crowded floor
..............................
his name was Guido (is it Guido? I think that's right, boy, Barry was really playing some stereotypes here, huh.)
........................
........... he called her Rover
.........................
.......................
at the COPA
Copa CaBANa
............................

Nope, not even this is working, and I really really hate this song. So I pull out the big guns, my last ditch effort, the one I try not to use too often for fear of diluting its awesome power:

Meow meow meow meow
Meow meow meow meow
Meow meow meow meow
MEOW meow meow meow
MEOW meow meou meow
meow meow meow meow
MEOW meow meow meow
.......................

Still nothin', ole Leather Lungs is still wailing away, I'm mercifully spared the lyrics, but that is small consolation, the cat is still screaming through its congested nose, hitting flat on at least 40 percent of the notes...

Then my train came. Sweet merciful heaven. But as I feared, Celine was with me for the rest of the day, and at least half of the next one.

So. I'm still recovering. Even just writing this entry has set Celine off again, though fortunately today the Purina Cat Chow song is proving stronger. Oh, beloved Cat Chow song, thank you for your mind-erasing power. I'm still a pretty shaky though. I may be asking for your help over the next few months. I'm not sure what I'll be needing. Backrubs are always welcome. Chocolate is never a bad idea. Taking me for little walks to rebuild my stamina well help too. Anyone thinking aversion therapy is the way to go should think twice about coming over. Just to warn ya.

It wasn't easy, but I'm glad I was able to tell this story. If I can spare another person this trauma, then it was all worth it.

Subway Thoughts

Dear ipod Users,

I'd like to make an observation. I don't have hard data to back up my claim, but I'm gonna come right out and say it anyway. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that if you're wearing earphones, your hearing is just a bit compromised. That's not the outrageous part though; I firmly believe that it also compromises your eyesight.

Stick with me here. I think specifically it affects your peripheral vision, not the full range per se. I don't know how to explain it; maybe those cords running beside your head apply mini-blinders to your vision? Maybe our peripheral eyesight is 50% auditory, and no one has done any research on it? Well, maybe someone has researched it, and posted their findings for public viewing, but I really can't be bothered. I know what I believe. So, my assertion: headphones compromise your hearing and your peripheral vision.

See, the thing is, you need both those senses when you're on the subway. Especially during rush hour. Add in all the people who deem it necessary to keep their sunglasses on whilst underground (you can't ALL be hiding from the paparazzi) then you have to realize a) your vision is definitely compromised and b) we don't know where the hell you're looking, or indeed, if you're even awake. Or maybe some of you startle real easy.

I know the unspoken rule among New Yorkers is never to touch a stranger unless you're ready for a beat-down, but if you're standing there in the middle of the car, with a gazillion people all around you, tapped into your mini-sensory deprivation tank, you can't get grumpy if someone taps you politely on the shoulder when he or she would like to get off. Honestly, lately I feel like I've been shoved into tight quarters with 8 million sweaty, surly Helen Kellers. Either chill the fuck out, or take off the damn earplugs and shades. Your choice.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Kisses.

Time for a Change?

I've been thinking I need to change the name of this 'blog. Some possible candidates are:

This Is Not a Metaphor

Where's My Medication?

Get Off the Damn Computer Already!

In Lieu of a Life

NUDE! NUDE! NUDE!

Any suggestions?

Other thoughts on another day:

I wish I Had a Brick

Fetch Me My Dart Gun, Boy.

These last two are probably better suited for Mr. Cranky-Pants' blog, but for now I'll just let him guest-blog from here. It probably wouldn't do to let him have too much free rein, assuming I don't actually WANT to go to jail.

I bet that last sentence sent web surveillance into a tizzy.

The last title is actually a quotation from a Doonesbury cartoon, so there might be copyright issues involved. It sums up my reaction to SO many situations here though. If I could shoot tranquilizer darts, then I might not need the tazer or the brick. I rarely need to injure the assholes in question, silencing them would often be enough for me. Also getting them out of my way.

Some Pet Peeves

So I've come to realize in the past few years that May is my favorite month of the year, followed closely be December. I love each season (as long as Summer doesn't get above 75 degrees), but if I had to choose one month it would be May. Violets, and lilacs, my first and second most favorite flowers, are in season, and I think this has a lot to do with it. I find it strangely comforting that they aren't available year-round, as so many other flowers are these days. I guess greenhouses haven't figured out a way (or bothered to try) to get them to bloom year-round, and given how fragile they both are, trying to ship them from Australia in the dead of Winter- assuming they even grow there- just wouldn't be worth it. Nope, to enjoy these blooms, one has to wait for them to bloom. I like that. I buy lilacs far more often than my budget allows, and in lieu of the woods near my parents' house, I've found some locations in Central Park where I go visit the violets when they show up. I've been to visit three times already. I've really been enjoying the season; it's nice enough to be outside during the day, then it cools down at night, so even though I have the window open (as I do year 'round), I still sleep like a log, and need a blanket. It's been great.

Then we have two days of 80 degree weather, and I'm back to being Mr. Cranky-Pants.

I've been actively working to see to that I'm not in the hell-hole that is NYC this Summer, but so far there are no concrete plans. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, auditioning when I can, sending headshots to all and sundry, trying to figure out how I can afford to go to my friend Mark's wedding in Seattle in August, while I try not to flay the hordes of stupid STUPID people who seem determined to walk in my way, ride the subway with me, and play their loud, stupid music.

So, while I look around for some serious therapy or maybe just some decent medication to help me with my misanthropy, I thought maybe I'd just let Mr. Cranky-Pants have free rein for a bit. So here are some of my pet peeves, in no particular order.

Cynics. By this I mean the smug, self-proclaimed cynics, the ones who act like it's some sort of goddam higher calling. I always want to hit them with a brick. It's such a cowardly, lazy attitude to adopt, and yet they get off on thinking they're smarter than everyone else. Hey, it's easy. You don't have to do any work to improve things in the world, hell, you don't even have to have any real opinions, you just sit back and tell other people who are actually DOING something with their lives that they're wasting their time, they're foolish, they're hopelessly naive, they're so cute and sweet, but they're never going to accomplish anything, because, hey, they're just up against too much. That's true, they are, and one of the worst things they're up against are self-satisfied, arrogant, lazy shits who have fooled themselves into thinking cynic equals genius. If all you can do is sit back and laugh at other people doing things, I really think you need to shut the hell up. Shut. The. Hell. Up.

Devil's Advocates. Here again I'm talking about the morons who adopt this as a stance, thinking it somehow accords them extra IQ points by default. If you disagree with me, let me know. If you think I'm full of shit, that's great, let me have it, punch holes in my logic, as long as you can back up your arguments with some actual substantiated facts. But if you just like playing around saying zig every time I say zag, red when I say green, then you need to be hit with a brick. You're clearly a close relative of the Cynic, because here again, you're not actually offering thoughts or opinions of your own. It's the easiest thing in the world to so no to someone else's yes, but it doesn't amount to ANYthing if you're not actually engaging in the discussion, letting your own emotions, opinions, and experiences be a part of thing and (yikes) possibly even get challenged and shot down. If you're a teacher mediating a discussion in class, then by all means, play the Devil's Advocate. If you're just some shmoe at a party thinking you're helping to liven things up a bit, then being a devil's advocate is obnoxious at best, at worst it's condescending bullshit. Worst of all, you people have convinced yourselves you're behaving in this ass-wipe way FOR OUR BENEFITS. Yes sir, you're challenging our perceptions, strengthening our arguments or showing us our folly, and it's all to HELP us. Or you think you're making the party more interesting. Funnily enough, the guys who like to do this (and for some reason it's almost always guys) are often prime examples of the 'can dish it out but can't take it' variety. You love being provocative; you hate being challenged. Bite me. Right before you take the next trolley car straight to hell, 'kay?

Wanna-Be Therapists. In my limited experience, this prick can often be found working as a director or acting teacher. If I'm not giving you what you want from the character, by all means, let me know. If you have an exercise you think might help get us where we need to be in rehearsal, please, let's give it a try. But do not, do NOT think you are qualified or remotely welcome to psycho-analyze me, or speculate about what deep-seated issues are preventing me from giving you what you're looking for. No actual therapist would DREAM of making a snap judgement about my past, my family or my emotional struggle based on one acting choice or a sludgy rehearsal. That's because actual training as a therapist tells you that doing so would be stupid. STUPID. I can safely say too that everytime a director or acting teacher has speculated about what was going on with me internally, he or she was always wrong. Always. Even if he or she had been correct however, that kind of approach has no business in a rehearsal setting. We're working to create art here, people. Yes of course when we're dealing with character-driven work, my psychological make-up becomes involved in the character's, and we're working to uncover his motives and drives. Often this takes us into very raw, vulnerable terrain for the character, and that can, in may cases, mean that I as an actor am also exploring raw, vulnerable terrain... but what I'm bringing back is choices for the art, not opportunities for you to feel like Mommy. For the record, I have two of the finest parents in the world. I do not need anymore mommies or daddies. If I need a hug, I'll let you know. If I want a therapist, I'm going to find one who is qualified, and you ain't it. So back the fuck off, and let me do my work. Which, let's be clear, is not making you feel better about your empty empty lives. Oops, have I said too much? Have I misread your responses? Have I brought up inaccurate and irrelevant speculations about your motives? Have I tried to be Freud with you? AM I MAKING MY POINT?

Don't make me get my brick.

That is all.

Mr. Cranky-Pants.

Golly, Thanks for the Swell Party

Hi, I was the guy you met Saturday; you know, the "really polite" Midwestern boy with corn growing out of his ears? When you learned I was from Indiana, you reacted the way a lot of East Coasters did; you basically expressed condolences. You assumed I had fled the arid wastelands and small-mindedness of my home as soon as I was of age, barely escaping with my life, emotional well-being and creativity intact. Finding out that I first went to Seattle, you assumed this was some sort of half-way house process; I needed to spend time in a sleepy place that was at least a liberal haven with SOME nascent culture while I nursed my emotional wounds and prepared for the big time, here at the center of the universe. New York City, the place that you were lucky enough to be born into, and have never left, except for an occasional excursion to LA ("SO plastic, SO fake!") or a brief jaunt to Europe ("god, I couldn't find decent pizza ANYWHERE.") The idea of visiting the 'flyover zone' of my hometown strikes real fear in your hearts. "All those rednecks, Klansmen, Republicans, and inbred Deliverance rejects! Not a decent theatre, restaurant, newspaper or bagel for miles! However did you survive? And you do theatre? You read books? You know a little bit about classical music and art? You actually played in an orchestra? In High School? You must have felt like you were lost in the wilderness! You poor poor thing."

By now the intended sympathy has become a condescension I find almost delicious, it amuses me so much, but I'm sure you haven't a clue. I could explain that I was the son of academics and writers involved in a well-regarded small college that has been showing up on 'Best Kept Secrets' lists since the early 80s. I could explain it is populated by world class intellectuals who teach there because they valued the ethos and rigor of the place, including the fact that it values teaching more than 'publish or perish'. I could point out that many members of the faculty do publish anyway, and could eat your pseudo-intellectualism without breaking a sweat. I could explain that said college, while suffering from the dogmatism that affects anyplace populated largely by teenagers (and this place skews far left, by the way), nonetheless works with some success to increase discourse, critical thinking, and a sense of political responsibility in the world. I could explain that working there allowed my father sabbaticals every seven years, during which time we usually lived in London, enjoying theatre, opera, art galleries, museums, fine restaurants and excursions to some of the most beautiful place in the world. I could tell you about all the world class poets, novelists, political activists, musicians and artists I got to hear speak, often while serving them tea in my parents' living room. I could, in fact, condescend to you until (forgive me) the cows come home.

But I don't. Somehow that isn't the point I want to make. I don't want to play your game. I don't feel like convincing you that other parts of the world have things to offer, are in fact quite fine places to live. I don't feel like reminding you of the gay-bashings (including one murder) we've had here in the last year. I don't feel like telling you about the Guthrie, Goodman or Steppenwolf theatres, Midwestern all of them. I don't even feel like pointing out that your penchant for saying every single thought that comes into your head, the ruder the better, isn't being "refreshingly honest." It's called Tourette's and they have medication for it.

No, I don't feel the need to beat you at your own game. Frankly I doubt you'd really get it if I tried. Your world view is cast in iron. I just want to point out this; your belief that you live in the center of the world, and it's your privilege, duty even to ignore or sneer at the rest of the planet? There's a word for that too. It's called provincialism, and I've met more people who suffer from it (or do I mean revel in it?) here than any other place I've lived. Nowhere, not small town Indiana, Ireland, Vermont, nor big town Seattle or Dublin has come close. Well, okay, many Londoners came close, but still, they didn't surpass you. Yet another way New Yorkers excel. Ounce for ounce you are the most unapologetically provincial people I have ever met. You should be very proud.

I Feel a Blog Coming On...

So this is the kind of random venting I had planned not to indulge in here too much, fearing that once I started I might not be able to stop, but for reasons that will become clear later, I decided to take the risk this time.
Pratt has been on Spring Break all this week, and since it has become my main source of income of late, the result was I too was on "break" like it or not. Oh let’s be honest, I liked it just fine. I can entertain myself for months at a time, boredom is rarely a problem, lack of income is the problem. The odd thing about my life in NYC at this point though is how easy it is for me to go days without having real contact with another person. My roommate has been gone a lot, and when he’s here, he’s usually with his girlfriend or on the phone with her, so my one expected bit of human interaction isn’t very interactive.
I had made sure to go out each day this week to do something in the larger world, just so I didn’t spend the entire week in my jammies, but even so, I’d say I was pretty isolated. Sitting next to a stranger on the subway, or at an adjoining table in a café isn’t really contact.
So I decided tonight that I would go out to eat at a nice restaurant, one of my favorites, Café Loup, in Chelsea. I never mind eating alone, and thought it would get me at least around other people in a slightly more relaxed, social environment. I went early enough in the evening (it being a Saturday) that a one count table wouldn’t be hard to squeeze in, or annoy anyone. The staff was as kind as always, though I have to admit my waiter was more than a little flaky, but he got the job done. My complaint doesn’t lie there. Soon after I sat down, the hostess seated two men at the table directly to my right. This is New York, so all the tables are just a bit closer together than my small town sensibilities would prefer, but I’ve come to accept this without too much trouble in my twenty odd years of living in cities. This did mean however that I was more privy to this couple's behavior than I would have liked. One of them immediately asked the hostess if they could have a different table, and she said that she needed the three count for three people. I thought she answered briskly, but politely, but the man questioning her (after she left) let it be known to his companion that he didn’t care for... the situation, her attitude, not getting his way, I’m not sure. I was trying not to listen, because I could tell I had already taken a dislike to him, but something had his knickers in a twist, he had suffered quite the outrage apparently. Then when the waiter came, they asked if they could have the table on my left, which was in the corner (less exposed, I guess), the waiter checked and found it out was already reserved, so no. He then took the initiative to see if he could put them in a different corner table, but when he went to check, the man doing all the asking (whinging, sniveling, getting on my wick) let his companion know this was not acceptable either, and they might as well just stay where the hell they were. Goody for me. The waiter came back, told them he could seat them there if they liked, and they declined, reasonably politely to be fair, thanking him for taking the trouble, but it was clear that at least one of them felt the evening was now shot. After that they didn’t really do much else to piss me off, though snitty guy did ask for a glass of Chardonnay with ‘rocks on the side’, which wouldn’t have bothered me if he hadn’t already pissed me off, but seriously, what the hell is that? Get the damn wine with ice or not, you pretentious twit. I should admit that these guys came across as very effete, stuffy, snotty individuals, the kind I used to think gave homosexuals (me) a bad name until I realized what a stupid thing that was to say or think about a person. Assholes cut across all demographics.
But yes, some internalized homophobia of mine was momentarily triggered by them, then I just accepted that they were condescending complainers who I could be annoyed by without it being an affront to homos everywhere. I’ve been particularly impatient of late with this kind of patronizing arrogance, people behaving like their every want or (stupid, affected, supercilious) need was not being sufficiently catered to, but I was pretty sure I now had it under control.
Then the couple arrived who had reserved the table to my left (the corner one coveted by snitty guy and friend). They were an older couple, a man and a woman, I’m pretty sure from out of town, and I think this was their first French restaurant. The woman went to the ladies first, and when the waiter came to see if the gentleman wanted a drink, he went into something of a panic, thinking he should order for his lady friend, but not sure what she wanted, he was pretty sure she would want a soda, but he wasn’t sure which kind... but yes, he’d like a glass of wine, oh, this one looks good, how about that? When his friend returned, he anxiously called the waiter back over, but at least was polite and kind when he arrived. She ordered ‘a diet soda’ which after quite a bit of discussion turned out to mean diet Coke.
Once it became time for them to order food, however, there was again a certain amount of anxiety and uncertainty. The lady didn’t know what Mesclun salad was, and the waiter’s explanation left her even more mystified, another salad on the menu had cold beets which she loathed (she said this several times after the waiter left with their order), so she and her companion each ordered a simple house salad, and fairly risk-free entrees. When the salads arrived, the waiter left the pepper grinder for them, a habit which Café Loup seems to have introduced recently, and which I heartily applaud; I’ve always found the whole ritual of someone applying pepper for me just a little weird; "would Monsieur care for some sugar in his coffee? Shall I butter Monsieur’s bread?" This momentarily stymied and disgruntled Ms. Out-of-Towner however, and she was even more stymied by using the damn thing. Christ on a crutch lady, it’s a wooden pepper grinder, how exotic is that? Then she buttered her bread to discover to her displeasure that the butter was unsalted. THEN SALT THE DAMN BUTTER FOR GOD’S SAKE.
This was when I started to face facts. Affected, complaining Chardonnay guzzlers on one side of me, awkward yet harmless rubes on the other side of me... they weren’t really the problem here, were they. My first thought was, Daddy needs to get out of TOWN, but the real answer is probably, Daddy needs to work. If we don’t count the art modeling (and believe me, I don’t) and some odd readings (and I do mean odd) it’s been eight months since I’ve really done any acting. This is part of the boom and bust cycle of the business, I’m not expecting sympathy (I swear), but wow, I hadn’t fully acknowledged what a misanthropic jerk it seemed to be making me. The thing that kept me from behaving completely inappropriately, telling Chardonnay snorter to put his ‘rocks’ where the monkey hid the nuts, say, or offering to find a CHIMP who could show Madam how to use the DAMN PEPPER GRINDER, the one thought that kept me from misbehaving was "I can write about this on my blog, I can write about this on my blog..."

I'm Just Saying

Okay, so here's the deal. Coretta Scott King was a great hero of mine. I think her contributions to peace and justice in this country are only just beginning to be seen in full, separate and distinct from her husband's work. He of course is well on the way to being considered a national saint. Everyone admires them now. But this only works as long as people don't pay attention to what both these giants were actually saying. The rigors demanded by their challenge are not slight. War is not an answer. Ever. Discrimination of any kind is not acceptable. Ever. "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." So you challenge injustice. All the time, everywhere.
So it pretty much frosts my cookies when people get huffy because speakers at Mrs. King's memorial directly addressed the fact that, hey, you know what, a lot of the problems she spent a lifetime challenging are still huge. And hey, what do you know, some of the people responsible for perpetuating and worsening those attacks on human rights and civil liberties are right here in this room, wearing their best sad faces. Pointing out that, hey, maybe it's a little weird to come to a memorial for someone whose legacy you've devoted your career to destroying, well, apparently that's just bad manners. Wire-tapping, starting a war on false pretenses, authorizing torture, seeking to enshrine discrimination in the constitution, allowing criminal neglect to finish what a hurricane started, apparently that's all fine, sound policy even, but, heavens, bringing up that stuff at a memorial of a life-long pacifist and civil rights leader, well that's just rude.
Spare me this weird WASPy sense of decorum. Celebrate the woman definitely, but recognize her work is far from over, and there are people in power working hard to dismantle her achievements. If they want to celebrate her too, well okay. They just can't be too surprised when people snort derisively.

Rest in Peace Mrs. King. You continue to be an inspiration and beacon of hope.