This morning when I opened the door to my apartment, I momentarily froze as I noticed a man in the hallway. He was standing at the apartment next to mine with nothing on but his boxer shorts, knocking. Once I got past the initial shock of this half-naked man standing in my hallway, I noticed that his boxer shorts had little golf clubs on them.
You can tell a lot about a man by his boxer shorts.
One color, typically some shade of blue, means they haven’t got the time to really bother with something as foolish and arbitrary as picking out boxer shorts. He is a minimalist and is typically easy-going. A man who goes for something a little more creative, let’s say gingham check or a stripe, has a little more vanity, is worried about who is going to be in the position of seeing his boxers and wonders what they’ll think when they do. This guy also uses some form product in his hair, and spends more time than he should getting ready.
And golf-club-boxer-guy, well, he likes to be defined. He probably has his initials monogrammed on some of his shirts and maybe towels. He has a tennis racquet key chain, a Notre Dame sweatshirt and a Dave Matthews Band bumper sticker. He likes everyone he meets to know what he likes, where he came from, and who he is.
So golf club boxer guy smiles at me, embarrassed (aren't we both) as he continues knocking on the door that he appears to be locked out of. I smile politely, go about the business of locking my own door and walking to the elevator try to hold back the laughter bubbling up in my chest.
I know he’s not locked outside of his own apartment because there are only three other apartments on my floor, all of whom I know, and all of which he doesn’t live in.
There is the old woman across the hall with the mounting pile of delivered issues of the Times outside her door, making me wonder whether or not she’s actually still alive. There’s the other woman at the other end of the hallway who is probably in her mid-to-late-forties with jet black hair and pale skin, and whose wardrobe was bought in the early 80’s and hasn’t been updated since.
And the other apartment, the one next to mine is the one that is occupied by two young girls. They are college-aged and blast their Kelly Clarkson so loud that I can hear through the walls as I’m trying to fall asleep, and they pre-game with friends in the hallway on Saturday nights with cheap bottles of pinot noir.
This is the door Boxer Man is standing outside of. I wonder how he got into this predicament, how long he’s been standing out here knocking, and what he’s going to do if no one lets him in. I also wonder what happened last night.
All I know is that it somehow included bars, booze and women, and that he probably had better times in mind at the time he started out last night, than the time he’s having right now.
Oh, and I also know that he likes golf.
October 29, 2006
October 24, 2006
Everyone's An Expert
I like Starbucks for a number of reasons. One being that ultimately, I have a problem. I'm addicted to coffee and no one, in my opinion, serves up a stronger cup than what you find in that of a grande bold. And yes, people around me hate it because of its commercialized catering-to-the-masses-of-over-consumers, thinking that I should be over myself enough to frequent the mom and pop coffee shop on almost every corner of this great city, and stop handing over my hard-earned money to this over-priced chain. (and each time these people tell me how wrong I am the price gets higher: “how can you spend $3 on a cup of coffee?” “I don’t get how you spend $5 on just one cup of coffee.” “$6?! on coffee?!”).
But the reason I'm now almost entirely over Starbucks is because of this. Is it possible? Has this "herd mover" finally gotten a little too out of control, even for my addiction?
I've put up with a lot so far. I mean, are they “the experts” on coffee? No. They buy it and sell it just like everyone else, just in fancier cups. Are they “the experts” on movies? No. They have opinions and backers and can promote what they want, when they want. Are they “the experts” on music? No. They buy and sell Miles Davis whose music has been around, (in case you're not aware), for quite awhile and for a lot less.
And I'm the first to admit that “The Way I See It” isn't really the way anyone sees anything at all (#175 “The world would be a boring place if everyone wore a size 2. I love being a size 22, just like I love a giant cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. F.A.T. ‘Fabulous and Thick’ folks know that it's the extras in life - like pounds, cash and love - that give us character. Embrace the extras, baby.” - Mo'Nique). Right.
Are they now going to be “the experts” on literature too? Most definitely not (Mitch Albom?), but keeping in the Starbucks tradition, they're going to think they are.
Because we all think we know better, and we never really do.
Because we tell ourselves we’re experts, and feel it’s our duty to enlighten the un-knowing others.
Because getting coffee is just that, and we don't need anyone trying to make us better readers in the process.
Because I’ll still go to Starbucks (for a while anyway, old habits die hard), and I’ll be the first to admit it.
Because no matter what people say, change isn’t always a good thing, and in this world of endless options, wouldn’t it be nice if we were allowed some time to not have to think about what movie, music, mantra and book we should be watchinglisteningtolivingbyreading - especially that early in the morning, when all we’re looking for is a less than profound way (at a $1.89) to just make it through the day.
But the reason I'm now almost entirely over Starbucks is because of this. Is it possible? Has this "herd mover" finally gotten a little too out of control, even for my addiction?
I've put up with a lot so far. I mean, are they “the experts” on coffee? No. They buy it and sell it just like everyone else, just in fancier cups. Are they “the experts” on movies? No. They have opinions and backers and can promote what they want, when they want. Are they “the experts” on music? No. They buy and sell Miles Davis whose music has been around, (in case you're not aware), for quite awhile and for a lot less.
And I'm the first to admit that “The Way I See It” isn't really the way anyone sees anything at all (#175 “The world would be a boring place if everyone wore a size 2. I love being a size 22, just like I love a giant cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. F.A.T. ‘Fabulous and Thick’ folks know that it's the extras in life - like pounds, cash and love - that give us character. Embrace the extras, baby.” - Mo'Nique). Right.
Are they now going to be “the experts” on literature too? Most definitely not (Mitch Albom?), but keeping in the Starbucks tradition, they're going to think they are.
Because we all think we know better, and we never really do.
Because we tell ourselves we’re experts, and feel it’s our duty to enlighten the un-knowing others.
Because getting coffee is just that, and we don't need anyone trying to make us better readers in the process.
Because I’ll still go to Starbucks (for a while anyway, old habits die hard), and I’ll be the first to admit it.
Because no matter what people say, change isn’t always a good thing, and in this world of endless options, wouldn’t it be nice if we were allowed some time to not have to think about what movie, music, mantra and book we should be watchinglisteningtolivingbyreading - especially that early in the morning, when all we’re looking for is a less than profound way (at a $1.89) to just make it through the day.
October 19, 2006
Life by the Cube
Living in New York is like one big constant reminder that you’re human.
Maybe it’s because in no other place can you be constantly (and I mean constantly) surrounded by people and not even know who they are. And people here like to talk to you as you’re waiting in line at the corner bodega, waiting for the bus, waiting in an elevator, waiting for the subway doors to open at the appropriate subway stop. Because that’s what we’re all doing here in this fast-paced-metropolis – we’re waiting.
We’re waiting to get a table at the hot new restaurant, waiting in line at a bar, waiting for a cab, waiting for a chance, a big break, waiting for love to walk through the door so that we can stop telling everyone the obvious but sad truth that though we are constantly surrounded by people (and I mean constantly), it’s easier to master a Rubik’s cube than it is to meet someone in Manhattan.
And that’s what life is - one long never-ending quest for all the sides of our lives to match up.
blue
white
red
green
and it’s difficult, almost impossible, and at times you have one color of each in single scattered boxes on each side and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to make anything work. So you tackle the rows one by one and keep trying to remind yourself that making things work takes time and patience and the aching ability to not give up after you’ve turned and twisted and thought and over-thought how best to make it all come together.
I was never any good at the Rubik’s cube. I always spent too much time trying to make it work, trying, trying, to make it work, and never feeling like I was getting anywhere.
Like the cube New York isn’t an easy thing to master, and all the people buzzing around its sidewalks know it. That’s why they’re all waiting. Because they know that one day, (and no one knows when) everything will come together, because the subway keeps bringing you to your future no matter long you wait for it, and one day the elevator doors will open and the person who walks in will change your life and you won’t even know it.
Living in New York, is like one big constant reminder, that you’re human.
Maybe it’s because in no other place can you be constantly (and I mean constantly) surrounded by people and not even know who they are. And people here like to talk to you as you’re waiting in line at the corner bodega, waiting for the bus, waiting in an elevator, waiting for the subway doors to open at the appropriate subway stop. Because that’s what we’re all doing here in this fast-paced-metropolis – we’re waiting.
We’re waiting to get a table at the hot new restaurant, waiting in line at a bar, waiting for a cab, waiting for a chance, a big break, waiting for love to walk through the door so that we can stop telling everyone the obvious but sad truth that though we are constantly surrounded by people (and I mean constantly), it’s easier to master a Rubik’s cube than it is to meet someone in Manhattan.
And that’s what life is - one long never-ending quest for all the sides of our lives to match up.
blue
white
red
green
and it’s difficult, almost impossible, and at times you have one color of each in single scattered boxes on each side and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to make anything work. So you tackle the rows one by one and keep trying to remind yourself that making things work takes time and patience and the aching ability to not give up after you’ve turned and twisted and thought and over-thought how best to make it all come together.
I was never any good at the Rubik’s cube. I always spent too much time trying to make it work, trying, trying, to make it work, and never feeling like I was getting anywhere.
Like the cube New York isn’t an easy thing to master, and all the people buzzing around its sidewalks know it. That’s why they’re all waiting. Because they know that one day, (and no one knows when) everything will come together, because the subway keeps bringing you to your future no matter long you wait for it, and one day the elevator doors will open and the person who walks in will change your life and you won’t even know it.
Living in New York, is like one big constant reminder, that you’re human.
October 16, 2006
People keep telling me things.
He started off, (as I was waiting to catch the bartender’s attention to order a vodka soda and proceed to drown my week in grain alcohol with a side of lime) with, “why do you look so tough?”
That’s what it sounded like anyway, because he was one too many pints in the bag to be taking the time to properly annunciate things, but when I looked at him quizzically (read: squinted my eyes) he repeated himself and this time it was clear – I look tough, and he wanted to know why.
I didn’t have an answer for him, and truth is I didn’t have an answer for myself. After slurring more to me about why I shouldn’t look so tough (“do you always?”), I started to think about why we all have our own walls that we put up around ourselves, walls that we’ve had for so long that we don’t even see them anymore, leaving it so someone else, a stranger with drunken blurry vision to see it clearer than you do.
It’s like when you lapse into a panic attack (see “matter of the heart”) and you suddenly begin to feel everything you couldn’t before. And you weigh your options. You can go to the emergency room, but given Murphy’s Law you’ll get over it while you’re waiting in the ER. You can try to never let yourself be alone, because you think that if you’re going to collapse again, at least you’ll have someone there to catch you.
Or, the next time your heart wants to explode you can just tell yourself that you’re fine, that you’ll be okay, because while your relationship of heart and sleeve may be in need of immediate separation, you know you’re tough. And it’s okay if you look it.
Remedy: steer clear of mumbling drunk men (who may or may not be able to see more than they should), drink more vodka sodas (at $8 a glass, but don’t stress!) and hope for the best.
That’s what it sounded like anyway, because he was one too many pints in the bag to be taking the time to properly annunciate things, but when I looked at him quizzically (read: squinted my eyes) he repeated himself and this time it was clear – I look tough, and he wanted to know why.
I didn’t have an answer for him, and truth is I didn’t have an answer for myself. After slurring more to me about why I shouldn’t look so tough (“do you always?”), I started to think about why we all have our own walls that we put up around ourselves, walls that we’ve had for so long that we don’t even see them anymore, leaving it so someone else, a stranger with drunken blurry vision to see it clearer than you do.
It’s like when you lapse into a panic attack (see “matter of the heart”) and you suddenly begin to feel everything you couldn’t before. And you weigh your options. You can go to the emergency room, but given Murphy’s Law you’ll get over it while you’re waiting in the ER. You can try to never let yourself be alone, because you think that if you’re going to collapse again, at least you’ll have someone there to catch you.
Or, the next time your heart wants to explode you can just tell yourself that you’re fine, that you’ll be okay, because while your relationship of heart and sleeve may be in need of immediate separation, you know you’re tough. And it’s okay if you look it.
Remedy: steer clear of mumbling drunk men (who may or may not be able to see more than they should), drink more vodka sodas (at $8 a glass, but don’t stress!) and hope for the best.
October 11, 2006
At the end of the day, you sit down quietly and think to yourself: who am I?
If you’re lucky, you have an answer.
Tonight I sit and it’s far from quiet - especially with 72nd street outside of my window. A plane crashing into a building just down the street this afternoon, doesn’t leave one much room for quiet thoughts.
When I found out at work someone said “how does this happen again?” I have no idea. But I do know that death and disaster are in our midst all of the time, and we never even notice. A lot of miles on the highway without failing brakes, a lot late nights walking home from a bar alone without an altercation, a lot of planes than land safely on their respective runways.
After weaving past the cops and police cars and news crews and onlookers that were congregated just outside of my apartment when I came home, I thought about chance and how I don’t really know what it means. How some people get into planes that crash into buildings and some don’t. How planes crash into some buildings and not others.
Sitting here now with the loud and soon-to-be-forgotten sounds of the day’s events coming through my window along with the pulsating sound of the down-pouring rain, I ask myself a question and can’t hear the answer - because the rain is so loud it’s almost like it’s raining right here in this room, hitting then bouncing up off of the floor as the water spreads, rises, and eventually, engulfs.
Tonight I sit and it’s far from quiet - especially with 72nd street outside of my window. A plane crashing into a building just down the street this afternoon, doesn’t leave one much room for quiet thoughts.
When I found out at work someone said “how does this happen again?” I have no idea. But I do know that death and disaster are in our midst all of the time, and we never even notice. A lot of miles on the highway without failing brakes, a lot late nights walking home from a bar alone without an altercation, a lot of planes than land safely on their respective runways.
After weaving past the cops and police cars and news crews and onlookers that were congregated just outside of my apartment when I came home, I thought about chance and how I don’t really know what it means. How some people get into planes that crash into buildings and some don’t. How planes crash into some buildings and not others.
Sitting here now with the loud and soon-to-be-forgotten sounds of the day’s events coming through my window along with the pulsating sound of the down-pouring rain, I ask myself a question and can’t hear the answer - because the rain is so loud it’s almost like it’s raining right here in this room, hitting then bouncing up off of the floor as the water spreads, rises, and eventually, engulfs.
October 6, 2006
My specialty is living.
I sometimes feel like my life isn’t real. Like my life isn’t really happening to me. It takes something sort of drastic or out of the ordinary to make me realize, but when it happens it hits me and there I am, looking around the sides and over tops of buildings to the sky and feeling like I’m living someone else’s life.
I’m walking the streets holding a box of books and packages of press kits for work, searching for a cab at 6:30 PM on Friday, the Friday before a long weekend, and all the cabs are full. The streets are jam packed - what gridlock really means - rush hour and everyone is rushing and no one is moving anywhere.
So here I am, covering blocks, my arms getting heavy, trying to, on street corners, position the box and packages against my hip so as to have one free hand to hail down the already full cabs. I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I’ve found that a good rule of thumb (whatever that means) in New York is, that at the exact moment you’re starting to feel embarrassed or ridiculous (which for me is quite often) say to yourself “This is New York. I can do whatever I want.” It’s amazing the power two words can have.
Drivers shake their heads at me as they wait at red lights, passengers stare at me mockingly as they inch by. I’m suddenly talking to myself, suddenly becoming John McEnroe and saying things like “You cannot be serious,” shaking my head and thinking, “This is New York. I have to be able to get a cab.” Because I’m on a mission to deliver above mentioned items to The Palace Hotel and I already know I don't get paid enough to be doing this.
I finally hail a cab and the driver is tired and has just unleashed his last passenger and is ready to turn off his light. He sees the state I’m in and makes an exception, almost rolling his eyes when I tell him I have to go to the East Side in rush hour traffic on the Friday before a long weekend.
Along the way he talks to himself and eats a burrito and I stare out of the window, my arms tired (is it time to start lifting weights?) and watch the people on the sidewalks, the warmly lit restaurants with the Friday night crowd just arriving for drinks and dinner and a night out on the town. The bars full of suits and skirts, all people wanting to drown away the last five days and the last five hours and maybe even the last five minutes.
I make it to 50th, give the Talking (and somewhat crazy) Driver $15 ($3 tip), slide across the back seat and try heft the load out of the cab without falling over. A man in a navy blue suit and a power tie holds the door open for me and barely waits for me to make my less than graceful exit before pushing his way into the backseat, the smell of single malt scotch thick on his breath.
The Palace is what the name suggests, and when I stumble into this grand hotel, lost and overwhelmed, in my Casual Friday jeans (and black turtle neck sweater) I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. This is New York. In line at the concierge, the man in front of me is complaining about a lost reservation and his wife looks at me with an apologetic smile. She’s decked out in vintage Chanel and cradling her Hermes bag in the crook of her elbow. I want to tell her she can get carpal tunnel for holding her bag that way, but then again, that might just be the pain talking that’s shooting from my own forearms down to the tips of my fingers, the weight of the 20lb box getting heavier the longer I stand here listening to this man carry on with “Roger” about his “very seriously made this two months ago” reservation. Roger finally gets around to taking what I’ve come to give him, just when I feel the sweat start to drip down my back, even though he calls someone in “Mail Box Services” to make sure it’s okay. This is The Palace I want to tell him. This is New York.
Outside on the street my arms feel like they’re still holding the weight of the boxes - but maybe that’s just the left over weight of this past week leaving its lasting impression. I start the walk up to seventy-second because I have $1 left after my cab ride and generous tip and can’t afford anything more. As I make my way up Madison, passing all of the warmly lit restaurants with all of the people sitting down to dinner, I feel for the first time today, the chill in the air, the chill telling me that fall is here and that I missed summer saying "see you next year," on it's way out the squeaky screen door.
There. That’s when it hits me. In this moment walking on Madison Ave, couples holding hands passing me on the street, twenty-five blocks from home, I feel like my life isn’t real, like my life isn’t really happening to me. Like someone in some distant city in some distant town is living a life that makes more sense. But soon the feeling starts to rush back to my limbs, and as I get closer to home I look around the sides and over the tops of buildings to the sky and realize - this is New York.
I’m walking the streets holding a box of books and packages of press kits for work, searching for a cab at 6:30 PM on Friday, the Friday before a long weekend, and all the cabs are full. The streets are jam packed - what gridlock really means - rush hour and everyone is rushing and no one is moving anywhere.
So here I am, covering blocks, my arms getting heavy, trying to, on street corners, position the box and packages against my hip so as to have one free hand to hail down the already full cabs. I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I’ve found that a good rule of thumb (whatever that means) in New York is, that at the exact moment you’re starting to feel embarrassed or ridiculous (which for me is quite often) say to yourself “This is New York. I can do whatever I want.” It’s amazing the power two words can have.
Drivers shake their heads at me as they wait at red lights, passengers stare at me mockingly as they inch by. I’m suddenly talking to myself, suddenly becoming John McEnroe and saying things like “You cannot be serious,” shaking my head and thinking, “This is New York. I have to be able to get a cab.” Because I’m on a mission to deliver above mentioned items to The Palace Hotel and I already know I don't get paid enough to be doing this.
I finally hail a cab and the driver is tired and has just unleashed his last passenger and is ready to turn off his light. He sees the state I’m in and makes an exception, almost rolling his eyes when I tell him I have to go to the East Side in rush hour traffic on the Friday before a long weekend.
Along the way he talks to himself and eats a burrito and I stare out of the window, my arms tired (is it time to start lifting weights?) and watch the people on the sidewalks, the warmly lit restaurants with the Friday night crowd just arriving for drinks and dinner and a night out on the town. The bars full of suits and skirts, all people wanting to drown away the last five days and the last five hours and maybe even the last five minutes.
I make it to 50th, give the Talking (and somewhat crazy) Driver $15 ($3 tip), slide across the back seat and try heft the load out of the cab without falling over. A man in a navy blue suit and a power tie holds the door open for me and barely waits for me to make my less than graceful exit before pushing his way into the backseat, the smell of single malt scotch thick on his breath.
The Palace is what the name suggests, and when I stumble into this grand hotel, lost and overwhelmed, in my Casual Friday jeans (and black turtle neck sweater) I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. This is New York. In line at the concierge, the man in front of me is complaining about a lost reservation and his wife looks at me with an apologetic smile. She’s decked out in vintage Chanel and cradling her Hermes bag in the crook of her elbow. I want to tell her she can get carpal tunnel for holding her bag that way, but then again, that might just be the pain talking that’s shooting from my own forearms down to the tips of my fingers, the weight of the 20lb box getting heavier the longer I stand here listening to this man carry on with “Roger” about his “very seriously made this two months ago” reservation. Roger finally gets around to taking what I’ve come to give him, just when I feel the sweat start to drip down my back, even though he calls someone in “Mail Box Services” to make sure it’s okay. This is The Palace I want to tell him. This is New York.
Outside on the street my arms feel like they’re still holding the weight of the boxes - but maybe that’s just the left over weight of this past week leaving its lasting impression. I start the walk up to seventy-second because I have $1 left after my cab ride and generous tip and can’t afford anything more. As I make my way up Madison, passing all of the warmly lit restaurants with all of the people sitting down to dinner, I feel for the first time today, the chill in the air, the chill telling me that fall is here and that I missed summer saying "see you next year," on it's way out the squeaky screen door.
There. That’s when it hits me. In this moment walking on Madison Ave, couples holding hands passing me on the street, twenty-five blocks from home, I feel like my life isn’t real, like my life isn’t really happening to me. Like someone in some distant city in some distant town is living a life that makes more sense. But soon the feeling starts to rush back to my limbs, and as I get closer to home I look around the sides and over the tops of buildings to the sky and realize - this is New York.
October 1, 2006
A Grown Woman Talking to Her Computer
You’ve seen it all. You’ve seen (and have accepted me for) all of my insanity. Me talking to myself, talking at you knowing you can’t respond because you’re what? A screen? A lovely screen of course, but a screen nonetheless reflecting back at me how bad my writer’s block really is, how bad of a writer I really can be. ("Besides, don't most brilliant writers go through lots of versions?!").
Well you've seen them all, all of the pages over the years and the hours and days and weeks spent pouring my soul and heart and thoughts out to you every day, the sole witness to the inner-workings of my brain.
I curse at you, scream at you, on occasion shake you for some inspiration to come out, for a good name for that character from Connecticut (I'm bad with names): Sara? Lindsey? Val?
You watch as I pull at my hair and take lots of deep breaths and drink endless cups of coffee and talk to myself and stare at the wall and stay locked up in my room with you for hours listening to the world happening outside of my window wondering why I’m in here living the lives of people who live inside you instead of those yelling and talking and honking their horns out on the street.
But I keep hitting the keys and you’re always there, something I can count on (no matter how much I scream at you), to appreciate and reflect and accept every little thought and every little sentence and every little chapter that zips from my heart to my brain to the reflexes in my hands.
You're stupid (a fool!) for sticking by me, but I thank you anyway because maybe someday your loyalty will mean something to someone somewhere and it will all be worth it.
But for now I’m sorry, I don’t know of anyone from Connecticut with a name like Val.
Well you've seen them all, all of the pages over the years and the hours and days and weeks spent pouring my soul and heart and thoughts out to you every day, the sole witness to the inner-workings of my brain.
I curse at you, scream at you, on occasion shake you for some inspiration to come out, for a good name for that character from Connecticut (I'm bad with names): Sara? Lindsey? Val?
You watch as I pull at my hair and take lots of deep breaths and drink endless cups of coffee and talk to myself and stare at the wall and stay locked up in my room with you for hours listening to the world happening outside of my window wondering why I’m in here living the lives of people who live inside you instead of those yelling and talking and honking their horns out on the street.
But I keep hitting the keys and you’re always there, something I can count on (no matter how much I scream at you), to appreciate and reflect and accept every little thought and every little sentence and every little chapter that zips from my heart to my brain to the reflexes in my hands.
You're stupid (a fool!) for sticking by me, but I thank you anyway because maybe someday your loyalty will mean something to someone somewhere and it will all be worth it.
But for now I’m sorry, I don’t know of anyone from Connecticut with a name like Val.
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