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.