Noise in the Office

Nick decided to capture on video, unbeknownst to me, the noise we have been contending with recently. In it, I ask one of the more thoughtful questions I’ve asked in my life. (Adjust your volume. Seriously.)

Back to the Theatre

I headed into Times Square today on this seemingly first day of winter for a play. But before I get to that, I must write a bit about this over-constructed theme park of a collection of streets united by one thing only. Commerce. The lights, the tourists, the fast food, the souvenir shops, the theme restaurants — all vying for the dollars of tourists whose cameras are poised upward at this sign or that.

I bought into it once. I’ll admit it. And it is a little overwhelming, but it is overwhelming not for its present but for its past. The numbers of names who have walked the streets is what fascinates me. The directors, writers and actors who have made Broadway and its various “off” shoots possible are, for me, what fuel this area’s glow.

Today I saw a friend in an “off-off” show called “The Servant of Two Masters.” It’s a commedia dell’arte story of arranged marriages, gender bending, class distinctions and, well, as this genre of theatre goes, farce.  Gray, one of my three first-year NYC roommates who went to the Actors Studio, played one of the servants. And she can act her ass off. I’ll never get to see her performance in her thesis piece, which blew me away. And I can’t wait to see her in more.

Just like I can’t wait to see Erin in more. Both of them, having landed in New York four and a half years ago, are members of the Actor’s Equity something or other and they are both currently involved in plays with theatre companies. Sweet.

But back to Times Square. One thing I will give it is that there are few strollers that jet and amble throughout the middle of the sidewalk. Perhaps this is because tourists understand that, have baby, will not travel to New York. This differs madly from the near-subdivision mentality of the sidewalks of Park Slope. Where parents, privileged in their minds, take up space with double-wide strollers and the belief that theirs is the best as the eye can see. Ah, Park Slope. It needs a kick. But so does Times Square.

Music Blues

I’ve owned two iPods. I purchased my latest about three years ago if I remember correctly. And I’ve had a few fights with it.

The first came when I had begun my initial installation. It just didn’t work. Had to send it back. Not my fault.

But the second…I dropped it in a void-of-waste bar toilet. Ok, yes, I was a little drunk and it was in a pocket, I guess, and it just fell. As it fell, I considered the ports that were exposed and which would, momentarily, be filled with bar toilet water. So fairly quickly after it hit, my hand was in there to rescue it. And it was all right. For a time. I eventually sent it back to Apple, claiming that, for some reason unbeknownst to me, it stopped working.

More recently, my little handy dandy firewire cable thing that makes the syncing process happen, just stopped working. It was a minor annoyance, because Jill’s worked. Well, Jill moved out. And I’ve recently done some music purchasing and moving around of the playlists. So my desperation to address the situation has reached intense levels.

Hence my visit to Radio Shack over the weekend. It was a convenient trip, as there is one about fifteen minutes from my house. The walk back to my house was exciting, because it meant I’d have my new music and updated playlists rendered on my iPod and I could leave my charger at work every Friday and just use this at home.

But wouldn’t you know it? It didn’t work. So I took it back. I’ll just have to go to the Apple Store. They’ll have it. They’re the APPLE STORE.

So with the utmost confidence after work tonight, I headed down to the SoHo store, avoiding all the ridiculous SoHo foot traffic. My time was limited, so I did not allow myself to stop and look at the MacBook I will be purchasing in a few months. Nor did I stop at the digital cameras. I shook, but I did it. I made it to the stairs in the middle of the store and went right to the cables.

I didn’t see what I was looking for, but that was all right. I must have just been a silly consumer who didn’t know to look in the right place. I asked a nice lady who just so happened to be there (carrying a credit-card contraption, which it seems means that people don’t have to wait in line…genius). I told her what I was looking for. I WANT MY MUSIC ON MY IPOD!!!

Yeah, we don’t have that, she said. Ok, then how about the USB cord? I can do without Firewire. What kind of iPod do you have, she inquired. I whipped my second-generation, why-don’t-you-just-buy-a-video-iPod iPod and showed it to her.

Yeah, we don’t sell it for those models.

But she told me she had seen them at Best Buy. And I could try TekServe. She said something about noticing my desperation. All right, I’m not that desperate. But for fuck’s sake, APPLE STORE. Have my cord!

I ordered it online tonight. Jesus.

The Thing With People

People are everywhere. This is nothing new. Everyone meanders in and out of everyone else, and it seems that there are unwritten rules to make this flow rather smoothly most days. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I go with it, as I am one out of everyone else. But there are some days when nothing goes right. When it seems the stars are out of whack and everyone gets hit with the dumb stick upon waking. This was one of those days. The R train to Brooklyn comes at 9 a.m. I try to catch it on mornings I’m at my house. Whether I get up at 7 (rare) or 8:30 (more often than not), I usually have luck. I caught it this morning in one of those perfect fashions when the door opens just as I swipe my metro card. But before the perfection, I had to contend with an idiot who just had to pick up the nickel or dime or penny or whatever it is he dropped just before the turnstile. The Union Street station gets crowded at this time and because of this, neither he nor I were the only ones around. Which meant that there was little space for me to pass him as he was bent over, ass in the air to retrieve a pointless to me coin. “What an idiot,” I thought as I decided to go to his right, which would leave me with just enough time to catch the train that had just arrived and that would definitely not wait for me unless I got my ass through. But then he moved. To his right. And at times like these, when it seems that common sense flies away, I take matters into my own hands. I teach little lessons in common sense by letting the stupid people know that their actions have interrupted the flow of someone else. I bump into them. And this is what I did with the coin dude. Just a quick nudge to let him know that he was an idiot and in my way. We both made the train. But I got on first. I take the R train one stop to Pacific with what seems like the rest of the world. And, like clockwork, the D train arrives. I look for a spot that might allow me to get on first, so I can try to sit in one of the few remaining seats. It worked that way for me this morning. And I spotted a seat just as I stepped on the train. With my head down, I went right for it. But I soon noticed that there was someone else, coming in the opposite direction with her head down bolting to my seat. And just as I pulled up next to it, she sat down. “All right then,” I said out loud over my music. With a sideways grin on my face, I stood in front of the doors and pulled out my book. But before I started reading, I made sure she saw me. We looked right at each other, her dumb brown eyes peering out from behind the glare of her stupid round lenses. She wasn’t much darker than I and she had a few years on me. I didn’t care though. I wanted to pull her up by her neck, give her one good knee to her potato, and step on her back as I took the seat that she stole. I shook my head with that grin still on my face. Had she not been so greedy, I would have let her take the damn seat. But it became a competition for a morning respite before work, and I lost. And all I could do was grin. And the madness didn’t stop there. People gather in groups in the worst places in this city. At the top or bottom of the only set of stairs; in front of a turnstile; on a corner; in front of subway doors. When I left the D train, there were two people standing in front of the open doors not caring about the people getting on or off. Common sense. I had to teach them a lesson. With a quick nudge to a back, I stepped off and shook my head. Sometimes this city annoys me. Or is it the people? Maybe the two don’t mix. And this was all before work. It warranted a break-time conversation over chai with Chris. He had a similar day yesterday. But we differ in one respect. He won’t nudge people. I don’t care who the hell it is; they need to know they’re stupid. It’s so annoying that it’s worth a blog post.

Live-Blogging Their Blind Date

I’m hanging at a cool place (defined as such because of the beer selection) called Ini Ani in the lower east side. I hear there are many “cool” places in the lower east side, but the neighborhood bores me if I can be honest. It tries too hard. I wrote about it a while ago, but am too lazy to look for the post. And since I’m not writing about the lower east side, why waste the time? The tables in the place are small and a tolerable distance away from one another. But the space doesn’t leave much room to spread the tables out, so I can hear all the conversations going on around me. If that’s what I really wanted. Now, as I don’t really want to, I managed to tune most of the other two out. But not the third one. The guy showed up first and pulled out a hardcover book. I forgot to note the title. He looks like he’s a buff kind of guy, because he has a shaved head. Now, men with shaved heads don’t, as a rule, always seem buff, but for some reason, this one does. Maybe it’s the way his polo shirt clings to his biceps, which, now that I strain to glance at him sideways, don’t seem to be all that large. The dude behind the counter asks him if he’d like anything and he half stood up awkwardly to say that he was meeting someone. “But do you have green tea?” Yeah, the bartender says. Good to know, I guess, for when his situation shows up. Before he can really crack open the book and dive in, this woman shows up. “Men who enjoy sweets are more open-minded, easier to get along with. Nicer.” What? (This is actually the point at which I whipped out my laptop.) She continued. “And men who don’t like sweets are sticks in the muds.” This nicotine-stenched woman knows a lot of sweet men apparently. And based on this, she has developed this theory. I’m unable to get a really good look at her, though, because that would be rude. She’s sitting about three feet away from me. And I’m just not good at subtlety sometimes. I’m wondering if the guy thinks she’s some kind of a nut job. But just because I think she is, doesn’t mean he has to. I open my left ear a little more because now I’m hooked. “That’s an interesting theory. I know a lot of sweet guys who don’t like sweets, though. That’s just my experience.” Yes. They’re really having this conversation. I haven’t gotten his scoop yet. He seems to be the more intuitive of the two. But then again she did tell him she knew he liked sweets. “Well, enough about me,” she says just as I think she’s not only crazy but selfish, too. “What about you?” “What do you do?” Wait. That’s not the answer. But before she can tell him: “How old are you?” Slow down, I can’t type that fast. Forget it. I can’t get it all down. Had I the energy for a writing exercise, I’d have made all kinds of shit up. But then would that be too James Frey? (More on that later.) She’s thirty-eight. And a leo (wasn’t happy to hear that). And to my shock, she’s a development specialist who works with developmentally disabled children. She’s assisting in the development of children. And she’s been doing so for fifteen years. I never did find out who they were to each other or how they came to meet for the first time at Ini Ani. My guess is that she sent him a picture, taken when she was twenty-five, in response to his Match.com profile. But who knows?

Who’s Confused?

I got my computer back on Friday, and had to begin the grueling task of putting all of my stuff back on it. Too bad I can’t quite locate my disks. This includes my iPod software, which wouldn’t have been a big deal, but the Apple folks had to test my little white friend and so were forced to erase its contents. This means I have no music. And my inability to find the disk means I can’t put it on my computer. And, well, it sucks.

And then the weekend started. Gay pride. The two days when gays everywhere don their rainbow flags and best walking shoes to express their pride and joy at being gay. Where they celebrate with one another as one big happy family. And then it’s over. And gays everywhere go back to hating on one another, refusing to maintain any sort of contact with friends they met unless there’s a function, looking down on those “unfashionably dressed, macho women (thanks “L Word” exec. producer for that comment),” and just about every other form of inner disdain. Yeah, it’s great to be gay. But I participated anyway.

My gay weekend began innocently enough Saturday evening. I was slow to leave my house, being engrossed in “Queer As Folk” as I was. But I left and was a little late in meeting the people I was supposed to meet. So instead, I joined the Dyke March a little late after an interesting jaunt down East 34th St.

I first stopped into Dr. Jays, a huge clothing store with clothes I love for not much money. I bought a new shirt, because I wasn’t happy with the one I had on. All the while, I felt some rage developing within me. I’m not sure what it was based on. It could have been the schizophrenic homeless looking man who sat next to me on the train. It could have been the cute dyke couple sitting across from me on the same train with their little wedding rings on. Ahhh. Love.

Village Idiots

I left my house at 3 p.m. today after taking care of my business on the phone. I am working at school on Monday for a few hours to help with orientation. I will be handing out packets to incoming students.

I get to be one of the first faces they see as they enter the building for the first time. Could be good. Could be bad. It will be interesting nonetheless. I remember my first time at the GF. I was so nervous. But I remember the introductory speeches filing me with so much excitement.

And here I am, a week and a half away from the start of my second and final year in grad school. I can’t believe how quickly it has gone. A year ago today I was still on the road. We were probably in Ohio. I had no idea what was to come, but I have met so many wonderful people and have grown so much. But I still have more to grow.

This summer has been a testament to the things that I seem to be flushing out of my system. Knowing what I want in life and from people are two things that have been forefront in my mind for the past couple of months and I can only see myself now going after what I want.

The passion I have inside for so many things reminds me every day that there is meaning to be had in life. There are relationships to enter and people to love. And the bottom line is you gotta love what you’re livin’ (these six words came out of my mouth on my birthday as a matter of fact during a conversation I was having with someone pondering an MFA in art. It’s become my motto. If anyone knows if someone else said it before me — someone famous — go ahead and let me know. Otherwise, I’ll take the credit for coining it). Wow, that was a tangent. So I left my house at three.

Hair Woes

I just called to get a hair appointment in my old neighborhood (because I haven’t been there enough yet). I haven’t seen Franco in seven weeks and figured it was time. But when I called, I found out the devastating news. He moved back to Spain. Dammit. I have never been in such a hair crisis. I’m supposed to go to this thing tonight at this place called Luxx. It’s got drag kings and girls and blah, blah, blah. I’m actually not in the mood to go. Places like this are always better for me when I have someone “By My Side.” So, um, yeah. I wasn’t too happy with my post yesterday and this one is about to verge on much worse. So I’m gonna get out of it. Will I finish Freud today? Well, I hope so for fuck’s sake. I’ve only got one more essay to read. I’ll find a spot in Manhattan today after I take care of my hair and just read, read, read, and listen to music and write to my heart’s content. By the way, Elzbieta suggested I look at New School’s Ph.D. programs in Philosophy and Political Science….yeah, right.

A New Sound

I’ve recently been exposed to a larger list of Joan Armatrading music. Up to this point, “Willow” was what I knew. Oh, and “The Weakness in Me.” But it’s not because of something I did. The former is on the Boys on the Side soundtrack and the latter was covered by out lesbian rocker Melissa Etheridge (every once in a while, I feel as though I need to remind those of you who peruse my page that I tend to throw randomly sarcastic adjectives around…mostly because I think I’m really funny).

So, Joan Armatrading. She is performing on Thursday night down the street at Prospect Park. I think I may go. It’s only $3. I think I can manage that. The last few days have been, how should I say this, rather invigorating. A Saturday evening in the rain-laden Brooklyn night filled my body with the anxious excitement and nervous anticipation that configures one’s insides into Boy Scout-like knots. Eating becomes a chore and the state of sleep is difficult to achieve. And you know what? The rain didn’t even bother me…. And then there are the Spurs. Jesus Christ.

Now, these are the kinds of knots I’m not cool with. Down by five. Up by eight. And then down again by three. Can’t make a free throw. Can’t complete a pass through a Nets’-infested key (go figure). Can’t run a successful offensive sequence. Or can they? I couldn’t even watch after the first quarter. I found myself on the phone during most of the second and third. What kind of a fan am I? The kind who will buy the Spurs hat she found on Fog Dog Sports even though she really shouldn’t have. But I was able to come around just as they began their comeback. I stood up for the final five minutes, relaxing only when Manu scored his geometrically challenged shot from the corner. I dread Wednesday.

Brooklyn Bound Again

Spring break is over, I’ve left Helen’s and I’ve moved to another location in Brooklyn. This one is at Cornelia’s place. She is going to Chicago this week for a Fulbright thing. Her roommate left yesterday for two weeks for a yoga thing. The reason I’m staying there is because they have a little kitten who is now on his fourth name: Scooter. They didn’t go for my suggestion: Antoinette. So it will be me and a three-week old little thing who hopefully won’t make me sneeze. I spent most of last week stressing over this conference paper I’m going to deliver next week. I’ve written eight pages of stuff that came directly from my head in some form or another. My plan is to fix what I’ve got, put some theory in to back up my points and then stand up in front of an audience that hopefully won’t toss vegetables. Have I mentioned that I got John Cameron Mitchell’s autograph? If I did, oh well. I don’t remember. So here it is again. I was in a cafe with Jen and I was in the middle of a sentence when I looked to my right. Standing just outside leaning up against the wall was Hedwig, himself, talking on a cell phone. “Oh my god, that’s John Cameron Mitchell,” I said. He eventually came in and sat two tables to my left, still talking on the phone. Jen told me I better get an autograph, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to (of course I did). I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of those people — one of those autograph seekers. He finally got off the phone and went to the register. As he did this, Jen got a pen and a piece of paper from her bag for me. Still not wanting to be one of those people, I got up, walked toward him, then stopped dead in my tracks. Turning around, I looked at Jen and told her I couldn’t do it. She pointed out the fact that he was about to leave and that’s when I stopped him.  Me: Mr. Mitchell? Hedwig: Yes? Me: Can I get your autograph? Hedwig: (Smiling pleasantly, hopefully not too annoyed): Sure. Me: I just had a Hedwig screening at my house a few weeks ago.