It's Official

I’m officially in New York. Not that I haven’t been here for a while already, but rather, I’m officially here now because I officially have an apartment.

Regardless. Friday night after dinner in my new ues hood, we ventured to the les to The Living Room to see what the scene was. The back room was full of people and, vodka soda in hand, I settled myself in for the act to come. Four guys head to the stage, the cutest one of the bunch sits at the piano and before long I’m tapping my foot, being pushed into by the crowd and wondering why he looks so familiar.

The Boys, my long time friends and Brooklyn hosts, don’t seem quite as taken with this quartet as I am. Their sound is an acquired taste of Billy Joel meets Dave Brubeck meets Tony Bennett, so we leave, much to my chagrin.

“He’s just trying to be Peter Cincotti” I say, rolling my eyes and shrugging on my coat. I myself am a long-time lover of Peter, whose black and white picture from Downbeat Magazine has been above my desk for the past four years. He is a twenty-three year old, newer generation version of Sinatra with great hair, and who am I to resist that? Once outside while we’re figuring out where to go next, my eyes venture to the small black and white chalkboard with the listing of the evenings performers. There scribbled in small yet legible print, is Peter’s name.

Apparently appearances can change after four years, so I go back in to the still crooning Cincotti and listen to the rest of the set and await the chance to meet my future husband.

Afterwards we head to Thor for over-priced drinks and witness how unfabulous the women of Sex and the City would be in reality.

More vodka sodas than I can count later, I head uptown alone to my new home and fall asleep to the sound of the city that never sleeps outside my window and feel like I’m home...officially.

“Love on the Free Love Freeway…”

So the girl at the desk next to me in this newsroom of an office, is on the phone. She's always on the phone. She's rarely at her desk but when she is she's on the phone. She checks her messages with the self-important speakerphone, and messages from friends that start off with "Hey you slut," she quickly picks up the handset realizing that perhaps she's not as cool as she thinks is. She wears huge hats and short skirts with hair that never looks entirely clean and her voice is a low and droning monotone smokers voice.

She's talking to her boyfriend, whom I have never met but know everything about because she talks to him all the time and makes it a point to tell everyone who comes to her desk about her personal life without any care to who is around her.

Like right now, how she's yelling to him because he thinks that the guy who was taking "racy" pictures of her last night is a guy she's cheating with. She says the guy is gay, "GAY!" she stresses loudly. She insists that the pictures are hot and are for him, Greg, her loving boyfriend. "I made a great face, a really great face, you're going to love it, you really are."

I hear the sound of his voice, booming on the other end but it has about as much clarity to it as the teacher on Charlie Brown. "It's not, it's not, it's not," she says, I guess trying to defend herself. Not such a great defense if you ask me, especially if this guy was taking half naked pictures of her while she was drunk and her only defense is, "They are for you." Right.

One of the managers walks by and shoots me a wide-eyed look because this girl is loud, as though she's in her own room with the door closed but she's not. I feel like I'm trapped in an episode of The Office, the awkwardness is so intense I'm fighting the urge to run away. However, there aren't any cameras here to capture my look of total confusion, embarrassment and horror at her outburst, and what's happening is actually real, no matter how much I keep asking myself if it really is.

I feel like I go through this every day and when she tries to make small-talk with me about how fabulous she is (cough) I try to avoid her, showing that I actually have work to do. When she's not on the phone or looking up people on Friendster she's talking exasperatedly about how overwhelming her work is and is asking everyone in the office to help her. Let me remind you that her job title is higher up than mine and presumably so is her pay.

The conversation calms down, which I assume means he (Greg) believes her (fool) or has given up or senses (smartly) in her voice (as do I) that she's about to cry (please). But not really cry, cry in that fake way annoying girls do when they want a guy to feel bad for them or believe them or concede. It works, because she's suddenly smiling slyly and saying, "Do you want me to wear those shorts tonight?" Right.

When she hangs up the phone she lets out a deep sigh and says, perhaps to me or perhaps just to the void of the office that has most likely heard her entire conversation, "Shit."

I don't know about you, but this looks like to me the beginning of a long-lasting and beautiful relationship.

Brewed Coffee Seeks Caramel Macchiato

We all know I couldn't love a man who didn't love Starbucks. The drink says it all, and apparently I'm traditional, genuine and am someone who appreciates quality, (however sometimes a vanilla latte on those days when I've saved up enough money). Regardless, that's the persona I'm projecting with every sip I take of that steaming grande bold.

Perhaps this is where I'm meant to meet men. How has something as obvious as this has alluded me for so long? I'm there so much already I might as well try to meet a fellow addict with whom I can form a real substantial relationship with over overpriced coffee and fatty pastries.

So perfect, yet seemingly unattainable...until now. If nothing else, at least you'll know where to find me- hopped up on caffiene at every Starbucks in Manhattan trying to find love.

I hope he pays.

To the guy across the way:

Sitting here in the living room which has become my home for the past two weeks, it’s still the same. The guy across the way with the light on in his living room where he dances, arms moving wildly, body spinning, and I can’t tell if it’s dancing, aerobics or an epileptic fit.

I wonder what the music is (if it’s not the latter of course), so I crack the window but still can’t hear. I try to look away but all the same I can’t, like the scene of a car accident or a celebrity on the sidewalk (I’ve been looking). The light goes off and I think it’s over and then I think that perhaps he’s sitting there looking at me, laptop on my lap, typing away, being boring, being unexciting. Then the light goes back on and he’s on the phone and ironing something or folding something and then the light goes off again.

It’s like the guy on the subway on Friday who looked normal enough but then, after staring at me from 14th street to 1st Ave (while I tried to avoid his gaze by looking at the ad that telling me I can learn French in three months if I just go to this website...) asked me to marry him. I smiled and said, no, thanks and got off the train.

Tomorrow is Monday and its tainted my Sunday. I didn’t make it down to the Living Room in the East Village tonight to see the boys play but will make it again next week. I’ll be out of Brooklyn in a few days, though I have come to appreciate it, and will have to say goodbye to what has become my own personal living room and the couch and the guy across the way.

The light is back on.

Who Stole the Weekend?

Friday night I took the 6 to the Upper East Side where I saw my soon to be new home. It’s weird looking at a place and picturing your life unfolding in it. I will finally be able to carry out half of my adult apartment dream: a grown up person bed and the money to afford the room to put it in. Now all I need to work on is getting the baby grand piano that will fit nicely (albeit snugly) in the corner. Perhaps I’ll get to that later.

The funny thing about New York is that the buildings are so high that you rarely take the time to crane your neck back to look at the sky. That’s why when you walk underground to get onto the subway and emerge minutes later to the sound of rain falling from up above you have you idea it was coming. I had to purchase an umbrella after I made it back home through the rain (unexpected) and arrived completely soaked.

In other news: the long weekend is almost over and it feels as though I’ve been here for a lot longer than I have. However my nights on the couch are numbered and 72nd street awaits me.

Whatever Gets You Through the Day...

coffees (1)
diet coke-12oz can(3)
grande skim latte (1)
food ( )

There's something to be said about the subway commute in new york. A far cry from the T, this beast of public transport (when not on strike) brings all sorts of people to all sorts of destinations.

Tired after a restless night on an air mattress, pre-caffeine and post the fifteen minute walk to the train, i stood (barely) crammed into the only car that would let me in. and near me? A man reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Marquez before 9AM? I dont think so. A woman standing facing me isn't holding onto anything but is maintating her balance while knitting? Right.

I have some places to look at this week (seeing one tonight) with the hope that one of them will work out (read: must learn to lower my standard of living).

Tomorrow is Thursday. It's one of the first Thursdays in a while that i won't be at the Pig. Leaving Boston is hard, at least for right now, as i'm in transition and missing my friends and old life. For such a large city, New York, at times, can be lonely.

My job is intense (just like the city) and talking to all these authors and being around all these books makes me eager to have something happen with mine. There are, currently, people I know all over the country who were mailed (before I left Boston) the first bound manuscript of my three-year-labor of, well, love i guess. One has to start somewhere and getting it off the key drive (yes, not floppy disk) and into the hands of readers, is the best way.

I'm still waiting to hear if perhaps I should indeed spend my time simply promoting writers instead of trying to be one.

Back in the New York Groove

I’m here because this is where my life has led me. And anyone who knows me knows that this is where I’ve always wanted to end up. In a city this large everyone who comes here creates their own. I’ve already started building my own private New York from the moment I laid eyes on it in a car speeding the GW Bridge with the skyline hazy and towering in the distance.

Since then the skyline has changed but the feeling remains the same.

To the last 48 hours of my life: you’ve been hell. However thank you, as now all those 2880 minutes later, I’m far away from the dim lights of Boston and am sitting on a couch (or large chair, but couch by nyc apartment standards) in the city that never sleeps, (regardless of how much I need it).

Everything is faster here. The cars, the people (though the tourists are always the same), the sounds and air even seem to fly past your face as though it has somewhere to be. I’ve been looking tonight for a new place to call home, at least for a little while anyway. Goodbye to the 7 story walk up with closet sized room. Thanks but no thanks to the curtain blocked studio share with a strange man. How much? Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

I’ve never liked Kiss because of a bad face-painting experience as a child and because I was born with good ears, however they do know what they’re talking about when they say

Many years since I was here, on the street I was passin’ my time away
To the left and to the right, buildings towering to the sky
It’s outta sight in the dead of night
Here I am, and in this city, with a fistful of dollars
Stop at third and forty-three, exit to the night
It’s gonna be ecstacy, this place was meant for me

Feels so good tonight, who cares about tomorrow