Coming To Grips

The music of from here to there

I have a rather large playlist on my iPhone that I listen to on my way to and from work. Some of the songs are more evocative of my commute than others. Here are:

Top 5 songs for my daily commute

1. "But Anyway," Blue Traveler

John Popper's gritty-yet-melodic harmonica goes nicely with the squeal of breaks and other industrial sounds of the train.

2. "All Lifestyles," Beastie Boys

You're bound to see a sampling of the world's population on the train. Our freak-freak making B-Boys illustrate this well with these two tracks off "To The Five Boroughs."

3. "People Get Ready," Curtis Mayfield & The Impressi

A great chill-out song, and beautiful, too. Hey, when the hell did I stop listening to Curtis Mayfield strictly for camp value?

4. "First Train Home," Imogen Heap

Duh.

5. "Gates of Justice," Chana Rothman

Nice little slice-of-life story telling on the train. Besides, what's not to love about a break-down in Hebrew?

Dear New York,
I noticed that you do not have a law requiring every resident to live within distant earshot of a trumpet player like I do. My question to you is: Why not?
Cuddles,
XOXO,
Sincerely,
Me

Dear person on the subway holding onto the overhead railing with both hands,
How come?
Love,
Respectfully,
Your Pal,
Me

Anyone can comment!

I didn't notice this before, but only registered users had been allowed to leave comments, which is silly. So I've disabled that function. Now only people who write fast enough before before Capt-cha resets itself can comment. Oh, what a glorious age!

Subway splatter

Written May 6

I went into work this morning, my face smelling of Purell. I generally keep a bottle of it handy because, in my opinion, if you're not a germaphob, living in New York will give you plenty of reasons to become one. Things were going their normal course. I got on the W, my preferred line because I can get off at the Flatiron Building, which I think is a wonderful piece of archetecture, and then I can walk through Madison Square Park on my way to the office. I've found that a minute surrounded by trees and squirrels does wonders for me before I spend the next eight hours at a computer.

So, I was on the train this morning, semi-concious, when a woman boarded holding a cane. It's the law in this city that you offer your seat to anyone elderly, disabled, pregnant, or any combination thereof (were I in charge of the MTA, I'd add "hot chick" to that list). I'd like to think that I'd offer my seat anyway, even without the law. Because when you do, people look at you with relief as if to say, "Society has not crumbled!"

I offered my seat to the woman with the cane who declined, politely. I offered it a second time just to make sure, but she patted my shoulder and said she was getting off in a couple of stops. She then stood over me and began talking. About what, I don't know. The monologue seemed like a train of thought (get it!? "Train-of-thought"!! And we're on a subway train! Har!), plus it was a very difficult to understand her. I did manage to gleam the following:

• Her birthday was in a few months
• Something something "Mike Bloomberg"
• Something something "the people in New York"
• Something something "people in uniform"
• Something something about another state
• Something something "that's OK, ha ha ha"

None of this would have been a problem, except that she had an unfortunate tendency to spit when she talked. When the first drop landed on my hand, I thought, "it's OK, this isn't anything I haven't dealt with before. Remember that teacher in 7th grade with the unpronounceable name who did this too?" But things got worse as she kept talking, and drops began to hit me in the face. I reached for the purrell, but you can't just start lathering yourself up in mid conversation, otherwise people will get angry and they'll beat you with their cane. So I smiled thinly, and counted the stops until she got off. It was then that I noticed that time seemed to warp, everything became very drawn out, the murmur of conversation slowed to a slightly satanic mumble, and movement almost ground to a halt like a very mundane version of The Matrix.


Finally, she got off, after shaking my hand (who does that?!). I wished her well. I still do. I should say something nice here, about her, so here it goes:


1. Her lipstick was applied almost without flaw
2. Nice hair
3. Thanks for the bath

Hi, I'm German Boy from Queens

While visiting my sister in Rhode Island a few weeks ago, I stopped by an Army Navy surplus store. There, I found a surplus German Army shirt/jacket thingy that I really liked.

For a guy who can't shoot straight and who has not done a recorded chin-up, I have to say I look good in surplus military gear. The problem is that there is a small German flag on the upper portion of each sleeve, which leads to a lot of misidentification. 

"Where are you from?"

"Queens"

"I mean, before that."

"You mean, where I was born? Where I was living before? Are we talking Maine, here?"

"No, are you German?"

"Huh?"

"Belgian?"

"Oh, you mean the jacket? It's surplus."

"So, you're not from Germany, then?"

"No, like I said, I'm from Queens."

"Oh, you're boring then."

I was lucky in that last week, my friends Carla and Andrew came down from the aforementioned state of Maine to visit, share some fun time with the cast of Cinematic Titanic, and eat cupcakes. We took a ride on the Staten Island Ferry to confirm that the Statue of Liberty was returned to its rightful place after Bill Murray took it for a ride in Ghostbusters II (and it looks like it did--so much, in fact, that I'm starting to wonder if the events in Ghostbusters II ever really happened).

The fun thing about the ferry is that they serve beer on board, which means you get to meet plenty of friendlies, such as these women, who seemed concerned that I get a good photo of the aforementioned statue. "We'll find you on Facebook," one of them told me later. "German-Boy from Queens."

"That's me."

Also on board was Kevin from New Jersey. I know this, because as the ferry was returning, he said, to no one in particular, "I'm Kevin from Jersey!" And so he was. We talked about a great many things, such as TV's Alf. I wish we had time to make more memories. Now, all I have is these photographs. Good-night, you weary wayward wanderer, you Garden State Prince.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to come up with a German Boy from Queens Facebook profile.

These are the places in the neighborhood

Instead of going to the gym tonight, I decided to take a walk around my neighborhood for an hour. I discovered that I'm in easy walking distance to:

• a movie theater
• an appliance store
• the most garish bar with a Capt. Morgan statue and half a car sticking out of the wall
• several gyms
• several more gyms with boxing rings and mixed-martial arts
• at least two Baskin Robbins
• a Popeye's Chicken
• several night clubs
• car wash
• various convenience stores and delis
• two liquor stores
• a Soup Guy
• several bakeries, one which specializes in cakes
• several pizzerias
• 12 million Greek cafés
• couple slow dancing outside a store to music

At some point I wandered into a neighborhood that I can only describe as "Little Morocco," with several hookah bars, an array of middle eastern restaurants and men with beards.

How the hell did I end up here?

The Hipster Question

I spent a long time on a post dealing with how I view hipsters. Specifically, I've been trying to figure out why I find the presence of men with patchy beards, moppy hair, glasses with thick black plastic frames unsettling. Yeah, there's a guy on the subway wearing frames with fake lenses, and yeah, it looks kinds dumb, and yeah, he was probably going for "kinda dumb." So what? Why this urge to take his fake glasses and grind them beneath my heel?

I'm realizing that making a broad generalization about a population or subculture is difficult to do, especially when it's based primarily on dress. I work with a lot of people who, judging on style alone, could be considered of the Hipster Class. 

Hipsterdom is a little disconcerting, because where I just came from, clothing wasn't judged just on style, but on practicality. Here, you would rarely be asked, "That's a great looking sweater, but would it hold up when you had to use your sleeve to wipe the snow off your windshield, because the car door's frozen shut?"

As much as I dislike the idea of men walking around in skinny jeans that, let's face it, were probably bought in the women's section of JC Penny, a lot of my hipster coworkers seem like decent folks with great senses of humor. (Of course, if you are a man purposely wearing women's jeans, you probably have a sense of humor about yourself by default.)

There's no doubt that the hipster culture makes me feel every one of my 33 years. It's a sub-culture I don't understand. Why the obsession with Pabst Blue Ribbon? Moustaches? Sweaters that should only be wore by your grandmother or the late Kurt Cobain? I feel like I'm on the outside, a square, an old man banging on the pipes yelling at them to "turn down that god damn rock and roll!"

On the plus side, I do like their old-timey hats.

All hail Falafel!

April 7

Dear Diary,

Yesterday I went to the King of Falafel truck in my neighborhood for the first time. While waiting for my kebab, I was given a free falafel ball. I just wanted to say: That's some good shit right there.

C is for …

A coworker introduced me to an espresso bar where they have cookies that remind me of the ones my paternal grandmother would make me. That was a good thing.

These guys …

I wrote this a while ago, but since this … art … is still around, then I guess I can still post this. …

In other news, the suicide rates seem to be increasing: One of these freaky-ass things is on a ledge on a building across from where I work, and I also passed one in the park this morning. I have to say: I don't get it. I'm just not a fan of seeing schlongs in public, even if they are made of iron and fiberglass. I also find it narcissistic that these are casts of the artist's own body. Really, he's made statues of himself overlooking the city. You just don't get to do that unless you're a war hero with at least 50 kills under your belt.

Celebrit-A-Go-Go

I saw some very amazing people recently. I'm of course, talking about my Maine friends Carla and Andrew (and also Tara, who gets another, upcoming post). Carla and Andrew visited in February during Carla's birthday. In celebration of which, we attended a taping of The Colbert Report.

I had never been part of a live studio audience before, but I have to say this was a good introduction, albeit a little surreal. There we were, after hours of waiting, sitting in our seats, and on the set below us was Stephen Colbert, telling jokes, interviewing people, and saying the most horrible things in character in order to make us laugh. Colbert, the guy whose audio book I owned, and who I watched every night when I had cable.

Colbert was the second famous person I've seen since moving to New York. The first was David Blane, making an appearance in Times Square to raise money for Haiti. I hadn't planned on seeing Blane--I was wandering Manhattan on my day off, when I saw a crowd of people and television cameras. Wow! THE David Blane! Amazing!

Who the hell is David Blane?

I made it my business to Google him a few days later, when I remembered there was a guy people thought was famous doing coin tricks in Times Square. Turns out, Blane enjoys suspending himself in water and locking himself up in a cube for days at a time in order to, well, I don't know why. Here's a(nother) photo I took:

Notice, he's not contained in a block of ice, and he hasn't set himself on fire. He's just standing there, being famous, but at least he's raising money for earthquake victims this time. It's not about being weird.

I got a lot closer to Blane than I did Colbert, but I found Colbert a lot more entertaining, and judging by the cheers, Carla and Andrew had a fine time as well. The next day, after the taping, we went out for brunch near Central Park. The pancakes were fine and the sausage was sausagey, but the most important part of brunch came while I was in the bathroom line, where I over heard:

"Tony Bennett is here, eating. He doesn't like to be bothered, though."

I walked back through the restaurant.

And there he was. Tony Bennett. Eating, and not being bothered. He wasn't at a table secluded from everyone. He was just ... being a normal guy. So I didn't bother him, just glanced briefly, before telling Andrew who, likewise, looked but didn't bother.

I don't consider myself big on Hollywood. I don't read People, I stay away from E! (barring "The Soup," I can't be bothered with extraneous punctuation), Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, or whatever.

I am, however, as susceptible to curiosity as the next guy, and within many people, there is an unconscious, lingering question that is rarely answered: Are the people we see on TV, whether we care about them or not, really real?

where'd I go?

… I muttered somethin’ underneath my breath
She studied the lines on my face.
I must admit I felt a little uneasy
When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe …

Lately, I can't help but notice the lines in my face. Where did these bags under my eyes come from? I'm getting older, a little bit each day. Pretty soon I'll be feeling around the back of my head for a bald spot.

Indecisivenessitudeish

People, and by people I mean "women," find confidence and decisiveness to be a turn on, which means that I may very well lead a celibate life. I'm thinking of even trademarking "I'm not marred to the idea," although I could go either way--what do you think?
I have decided that if I do attend the screening of The Room, it may be easier because:

1. I have a place to crash that's closer to the theater
2. I will be taking a friend, good ol' Oleoresin Capsicum
3. I may just splurge and take a cab anyway

But, as Blume once said, "Then again, maybe I won't." (That's right, I quoted Judy Blume. Fuck yeah!) Maybe I'll be too tired to see a movie that starts at midnight. Maybe I'll be awake, but too groggy to appreciate just why people around me are tossing plastic spoons at the screen. Besides, director Tommy Wiseau is difficult enough to understand when one is completely awake and, let's face it, sober.

Maybe I don't want to be intimidated by reports of violent crime on the subway, and go see something I enjoy. Maybe I'm being bull-headed by taking a needless risk just to go out on a Friday night.

Maybe I can just do whatever the hell I feel like when the moment comes, and just be OK with that.

Maybe I'm making a lot of fuss over nothing.

(Thank you all to those who gave advice. Your input, as always, is genuinely appreciated.)

Going slightly mad

The other day on the subway, I sat across from ruthless North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il. Either that, it was somebody's Korean grandmother. Tough call.

Speaking of crazy people …

I have tickets to see a special screening of "The Room," widely credited with being the "Citizen Kane" of bad movies (having seen the Riff Trax version, I'm inclined to agree with that assessment). The screening will feature a special appearance by the film's writer/director/star Tommy "You're Tearing Me Apart!" Wiseau.

The problem is, like many cult film outings, this is a midnight showing, meaning I wouldn't get back to Astoria until well after 2 a.m. I don't mind staying up late. What worries me is having to take the subway back.

I had a scary experience a couple of Saturdays ago where I was riding the train back from a party.* Riding in my car at about 2 a.m. was a very loud, angry and potentially violent man whose incoherent shouts included insights about Obama, 9/11, Caucasians and Chinese people (why the Chinese were singled out over Asians such as the Japanese and Laotians, I don't know).

I understand running into the occasional hoodlum whacked out on crunk juice and crack is par for the course of living here, but I'd rather avoid these situations if I can. It shook me up, some, and I'm thinking of ditching the movie. I'd take a cab at least part of the way back, but I'm very short on funds, now. I'm open to advice.

* For some reason at this party, sticking a copy of the Wall Street Journal into a light fixture seemed like a really important idea to me.

Rain

I bought a cupcake.

This in of itself isn't unusual. The cupcake came from a bakery in Astoria that looks like it could have once been a hair salon, but I've never gotten so much as a follicle in my brioche. Plus, the sweets there are pretty amazing.

I felt I needed a cupcake because it's rainy, its Friday and my weekend plans have been cancelled. So, obviously, red velvet cupcake.

Rain, I think does strange things to New Yorkers, who can usually navigate the city streets on foot with the greatest of ease. Maybe moisture gets in their brain stems or something, but the weather seems to turn people clumsy and awkward, and before long they're banging into each other on the streets like human pinballs.

A lot of people around here use umbrellas, which I hate. They make people take up a lot of room on the sidewalk, plus they have these pointy spokes that are on about eye-level and can easily result in a Kill Bill-scenario. Add to the fact many can't be bothered to raise their umbrellas above eye-level, which means they easily run into people, which means it's all the more tempting to create a Kill Bill scenario of your own.

Warning: Gross. Do not watch if you're Barbara or possibly Carla



During the rain, trains run late, they're crowded and generally miserable. Getting off at my subway stop, however, and into pelting rain, I still felt kind of lucky. Right behind me is the Flatiron building, ahead is Madison Park, and not too far in the distance is the Empire State Building.

But my destination is my office -- a row of desks and eight hours in front of a monitor. At least my desk is next to the windows. Which allows me to see the rain, which, when you're inside, is kind of nice.

Tiredness

As much as this whole new/brave new world is wonderful, it doesn't leave a lot of time for writing. It seems like after a day of work, a day of shooting, a day of exploring, eating … there's hardly any energy left to connect with friends, let alone enough to blog. Which might explain why there aren't nearly as many entries on this as I'd planned. I'm hoping that will change, that once I get more settled, there'll be something left in me by the end of the day to harness a creative spark.

But for tonight – movies on Netflix, left over desert, and sleep.

On the subway

I used to own a car, but now I don't. And I'm cool with that. I was prone to frequent fits of road rage that had me flipping off fellow motorists, as well as police officers and any roadkill I saw, so I don't miss driving. I do miss the car itself, as it was a shiny blue Mustang. God, I miss that car. …

Since I sold that beautiful, beautiful car, it's been up to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority to get me where I'm going, and my choice of ride is the subway.

I like the subway. I honestly do. For $2.25, I can ride as many trains as I want and can easily get to four out of five boroughs.

Right now, the MTA is under a lot of criticism for their proposed budget cuts. Some subway lines (including the W, which I use) are on the chopping block. Alternatives include laying off workers, raising fares and sacrificing small children to their bloodthirsty god. I personally prefer the latter two choices: I would rather pay a bit more to keep the current level of service, and less children mean more seats for me.

So, while I do enjoy these subterranean trains, there are a few things that confound me:

1: Weekend schedules. On a trip to Brooklyn last month, I had boarded a train, (I forget which one, the M, Z or π ) only to have it hit a couple or stops and then start going backwards. If I had been more observant, I would have noticed the train had been designated as "shuttle" for the weekend, but this was in February, and most of my concentration was spent on not having my limbs fall off due to frostbite.

2: Garbled communication. On trains that do not have an automated voice or display that tells you which stop is which, you're pretty much at the mercy of the conductor who announces stops over a loudspeaker that was built circa 1925. For whatever reason, the mouths of conductors are injected with large amounts of Novocaine. These combined factors ensures that no rider will ever know where he or she is on any given train. Many riders will depart the train, thinking that they're on 42nd Street, only to find they have, in fact, arrived in Miami.

3: Other riders. I don't like to be touched, usually. I'm a big fan of my space, my bubble, whatever. If you're a close talker, I'll be in contact with you just long enough to shove you violently backwards. That being said, it's common to be crammed in with a lot of people and you find your backside is constantly brushing up against some guy's briefcase ... oh, God, please tell me that's just a brief case.

4. Late trains. When a train is late, especially at rush hour, it usually means that when it does finally arrive it will be packed with people. The crush only gets worse as the 5,000 riders waiting for the train on a platform all try to cram in at once. Why the trains are late is never made explicitly clear. We don't know what kept them, but late trains will often arrive at the station bedecked in Mardi Gras beads, filled with confetti and smelling of cheap whiskey.

5. Blocked doors. A lot of trauma could be avoided if people didn't crowd around the entrances to the cars. I'm not sure why they do this, other than to get a great view out of the windows of the subway doors. As for me, you see one darkened tunnel, you've seen them all. Younger riders can be forgiven for blocking the subway doors, despite the pleas from the automated voice asking them not to. Young people are stupid and thoughtless, and I've come to terms with their nature. But I can't abide some dude in a suit blocking the doors when people are trying to exit the car. In these situations, I find the best recourse is to politely but firmly deliver a sharp elbow to the solar plexus. As you step over where they lay on the ground, writhing in agony, make sure you them, "That's what you get, you filthy bastard," so they know it's all in good fun.

But is it art?

My friend Sam and me went to the Guggenheim a couple of weekends ago, as part of my ongoing "Explore The Hell Out of New York" series. We had been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art before. That facility of public knowledge was fine if you're into the whole "artifacts whose beauty transcends cultures and the centuries, nay, millennia, since they were created" sort of thing. But if you wanted to art, real art, the kind that looks like the time you left your Lunchables in the microwave for too long, then you've got to check out the Guggenheim, or as is known locally, The Gugg, Gugger, or El-Guggarino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

The most fascinating part of the Gugg is how its mere mention will get Simon & Garfunkel's "So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright" stuck in your head, as signs in and out of the museum will ceaselessly remind you how the building was built by … Simon Cowell. No, seriously, it's designed by Mr. Lloyd Wright, and although I know little about architecture, I will say this about FLW, as his blog calls him: the man got a lot of mileage out of a design inspired by a Dunkin' Donuts Styrofoam cup.

Upon entering Le Gúg, artistically minimalist signs inform you how you are free to appreciate the expressions of the artists whose work are displayed, but to take my camera and shove it – no artistic photos for you. Get all the images you want … at the gift shops, bitch.

Finally, once you give up your $16 admission fee, you enter Lady Gugu's massive rotunda, wherein the first thing you see is two people making out on the floor. At first, I thought, maybe some people had fallen into distress, and were now writhing upon the floor in what a bit of performance art representing either erotica or what you look like when you're dreaming that snakes are crawling over you in slow-motion.

Once you avert your eyes like a decent person, you'll notice that someone stole all the paintings. No art on the walls of the rotunda. Sorry, but I'm guessing the viewing public can enjoy strange, mind-bending bits of art from 6 a.m. to 6:15 a.m. on March 21, 22 and 23, and at no other time.

Thinking maybe they stashed the art somewhere in one of the closets further up the rotunda, Sam and I began walking upwards, only to find a precocious little girl, who introduced herself, shook hands with us, and then asked, politely, "What is progress?"

"You're f***ing with me, right?" I asked. Or I wanted to. I don't remember what I said, exactly. Whatever I said, it led this little girl to hold a conversation with us about progress, whether it's good or bad, and try to seek a definition. Exasperated, I finally told her, "Progress is the illusion of evolution within our lifetimes." It was that kind of pure, BS answer that helped me earn my BA, despite only attending classes when it suited me, and never, ever reading text books. Meanwhile, Sam looked like she desperately wanted to ditch this kid, and who could blame her? But you can't just ditch a 9-year-old like that. How would she ever find out what "progress" was?

Eventually, she handed us off to a teen, with whom I debated the merits of developing nuclear energy vs. vaporizing hundreds of thousands of civilians in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The teen, in turn, handed us off to a woman, who wanted our opinion on why some dude kissed her and then told her it meant "nothing."

"I don't know, how does that make you feel?" I said, using my only psychological means of escape. "

I want justice," she replied.

Oh, Jesus.

Finally, we handed over to an old man who talked with us about sports, leading us to the top of the rotunda where our experience in "Progress" was completed, conveniently, next to the museum's gift shop.

Turns out we had been sucked into an interactive exhibit, the kind of thing that made Hank Hill vomit a little on the show "King of the Hill." You can read a more accurate assessment of "Progress" here. As for us, we just wanted to see some art that wouldn't entail us having to debate the merits of … whatever … with real live people.

We did see some Picassos in the galleries. And I can say without exaggeration that, while the majority of work elicited a definite "meh" response from me, there were a couple of pieces, notably "Memory," that sufficiently blew my freakin' mind.

So, if you're feeling adventurous and want to get out of your comfort zone, do check out Das Guggenheimmner. It's a very, uh, clean building. Just make sure you don't trip over the couple making out on the floor on your way out.

My New Haircut

Well, in the words of Jim Anchower: Hola, amigos. Sorry it's been a long time since I've rapped at ya. But I finally, finally. finally … got my internet connection. Damn you, Verizon.

I've moved into a teeny weeny studio in Queens, learned how to work the oven, found out how to get to and from work, and am learning how to do my job with the minimum of crying and/or swearing. I am also learning all about the proper use of elbows in a subway scenario.

In partial celebration of my first month here, and in anticipation of an upcoming visit from my friends Carla and Andrew, I have gotten my first haircut in New York.

I went to the barber shop around the corner, where I sat in the chair of a large greek barber who no doubt enjoys large quantities of garlic. We didn't speak much. I was told, in mid-cut, "You have lot of hair. Good for you."

I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

The hair cut is decent, the shaving cream was warm, and there was no bleeding. All in all, not a bad experience. It's not like skydiving or falling in love, but I could do worse.

Well, here I am.

There's something so strange when you've nearly emptied your apartment. Most of my possessions are in the U-Haul parked across the street, and I'm sitting alone in this comparatively huge apartment in a little Maine town.

Exhausted. Thank God for friends. I hate moving myself more than I hate helping others move. I'll be moving into the apartment in Queens tomorrow, a neat little studio that I'm sure is overpriced and undersized, but at least it's mine.

What a way to ring in a new year.