Thanksgiving In The City

I have to say this last week has been all kinds of wonderful; my parents and brother arrived early in the week and I have been able to spend some much needed family time with them.  I knew how much I missed them, but I didn’t realize how much I missed the individual moments we share.  Moments like my brother making us cry with laughter with one of his observational comments.  Watching my dad beam with joy as he crop dusts an entire subway car, then as he sees the collateral damage he has inflicted on his family, suddenly bursts into uncontrollable laughter.  Or my personal favorite--catching my mom doing something she knows she shouldn’t be doing and seeing her turn into a little girl who got caught.  As I write this down, I’m realizing the Hartman’s are just a bunch of kids… I think I like that; maybe that’s why we are so close.  Because of that closeness, I could imagine this Thanksgiving being very lonely without them, but fortunately they came to the city to celebrate my first Day of Turkey.

I suppose this years Thanksgiving actually started Wednesday evening.  My mom wanted to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons being blown up.  This is apparently a thing to do, although I had never heard of it, I was willing to try.  Well, so was all of New York.  My brother, mom and I rode an over stuffed subway to the staging area of the parade where we were greeted by hundreds, if not thousands of people, shuffling their feet (as one could not take a full step), in an area that spanned 4 blocks by 1 block.  The balloons were being blown up on multiple streets, and to keep some sense of order we were only allowed to walk in one direction in a giant square. 

Now my mom has a cane because of a knee surgery, but I can tell you my mom doesn’t see the cane as an instrument to help take pressure off the knee, but rather as a tool that is used to point at objects, and more importantly, a pass to get away with shit she shouldn’t get away with.  As she jockeyed with other spectators to get prime position for pictures of Spiderman, The Pillsbury Dough Boy, and others she would delicately cut people off and then offer the cane as an excuse.  Sometime the excuse was offered apologetically, other times helplessly; it all depended on the person the excuse was being offered to---I’m telling you she’s good.  Little kids were no match for my mom; she had carefully crafted and executed a plan that was unstoppable---the cane!!!

We had only made it down one of the blocks before we decided to cut out.  The crowds were really getting too intense and that one block itself had taken about an hour.  Maybe next year I will plan it out better and be more prepared.  But, even though it was overcrowded, I had a great time; it was nice to see my mom’s excitement.  She really does get like a little kid as her face lights up with wonderment…its one of the things I enjoy most about her.

Leading up to actual Thanksgiving Day, the big debate (at least in my mind) was what the hell are we gonna eat???  God knows fitting a full sheet of cookies into my oven is asking too much, let alone a turkey.  We kinda decided to make reservations at some sort of restaurant, but I felt slightly uneasy about that.  All of the menus I had looked at were over priced, and the food just wasn’t our style.  We aren’t fancy eaters so I don’t think any of us would have been content after the meal---just full.  I had to sit and think about what I like about Thanksgiving and make that happen.  Well it finally occurred to me that my favorite part about Thanksgiving was the leftover sandwich.  I mean the meal itself is okay, but the sandwich a few hours later is where the real joy of Thanksgiving is.  Knowing this, I decided to go straight to the happiness and make Thanksgiving sandwiches.  Problem solved—Thanksgiving saved.

An hour before the parents arrived at the apartment on Thursday I started to warm the homemade meal (including all the fixings) lovingly prepared by Trader Joe’s.

Soon after, I answered the phone to a slightly frantic mother who was quietly yelling, “Get your ass down here now and open the door before your father and I get shot.”  What she actually said was, “ Hunny, please just come down stairs and get us.”  But I could hear what she really meant by her tone so I jumped up.  When I got down stairs and outside, I could see what had caused my mom such great concern… I’ll call them neighbors; she’ll call them thugs.  People in the neighborhood (neighbors) decide its okay to blast their parked car stereos and gather around them as if it’s an outdoor club.  Well because they were at my stoop my mom and dad decided to walk away from the danger after being dropped of by the taxi.  I couldn’t find them at first, but eventually found them across the street awaiting their private escort who would ensure them safe passage through the gang.

They made it upstairs safely, and when they entered the apartment we had officially reached maximum occupancy for the room-5.  Any more people could warrant a visit from the fire marshal.  We shuffled around the apartment and gave them the grand tour.  I think they liked it, but I was more than sure they were grateful they didn’t have to endure the conditions for more than an evening. 

We then transformed the living room into the grand dining room.  This is accomplished by un-stacking the two cubed coffee tables and placing them in front of the couch.  This creates a formal dining space with dimensions of 2 feet by 4 feet.  But don’t think we can sit on all sides of this massive table—the room isn’t wide enough.  So desk chairs are brought in from the other rooms and placed some distance from the table.  Welcome to New York City.

One by one we made our sandwiches.  Sourdough toast with a healthy coating of mayo, topped with a thin layer of mashed potatoes, two spoonfuls of stuffing smashed on the potatoes, freshly carved turkey nestled on top, a drizzle of gravy, and a dollop of cranberry sauce before another mayo slathered slice of toast gets placed as the crown.  I don’t know why all Thanksgivings aren’t like this.  We all enjoyed our cozy meal much more than any fancy meal we could have bought.

After dinner, Kevin, my mom, and I walked to Central Park and strolled around in the rain by the reservoir, while my brother and dad took advantage of the couch and the football game.   When we got back it was apparent that both of them had fallen asleep, thus proving football is not that entertaining.  After pumpkin pie was served, we pulled up some favorite YouTube clips and laughed at people.

First Thanksgiving in NYC—success.

It wasn’t until late Friday night that I realized I hadn’t once thought about what I was thankful for.  I guess the opportunity had been lost in the business of the holiday itself.  So… among many things, I am grateful I get to call these wonderful people my family.  I love you guys.

Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Oh what a friend can do for the soul.  It’s no secret I have a wonderful set of friends; the problem is most of them are three thousand miles away.  And while Skype and other social mediums have made moving away from them infinitely more bearable, it just doesn’t replace the simple warmth of an embrace or the smile two people can exchange not with their mouths, but in the depth of their eyes.

In the last two months, I forgot what that connection was like.  I’ve walked around this crowded city never alone, yet still lonely.  I know people here, I like people here, but I’m missing those who know what I’m thinking.  Those who know what tricks I have up my sleeve before I even think to use them.  Those people who I don’t mind when they laugh with me or at me, as long as I get to see them smile.

Don’t get me wrong, things are good here, but as I was talking to Shauna (someone I see far too little of) we discussed the City’s ability to play with emotions.  The best way to describe it is… the highs are higher, but the lows are even lower.  When something good happens to you, you feel like you have 8 million of your closest friends to share it with.  But when you’re just the slightest bit down, the city kicks you in the face.

Think about it; if you have a down turn in a relationship, you don’t necessarily want to be around happy couples.  If you just lost your job, you don’t want to celebrate someone else’s promotion.  This doesn’t mean you’re mad at the fortunate ones, it just means you want some time to wallow –alone.  Not gonna happen in New York my friend; remember I said, “lonely, but not alone”… never alone.  Subways are filled with loving couples stealing kisses.  Restaurants have their seats reserved with people celebrating success.  And bars are overflowing with friends laughing the day’s events away.  Everywhere you look will send you into a deeper pit than you ever intended on descending.

Thankfully, yesterday marked the start of The Great Friend Migration of 2010.  Over the next few days, Kev and I have 8 friends coming into town to see us and celebrate Halloween in the city.  First to arrive was Geoff and Breezer, who are actually going to be houseguests for two of the nights they are in town.  Last night I was so anxious to see them, I walked to the subway stop to greet them.  When I found them, I got my embrace, and I got my deep smile.  It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I had been missing a close connection.  How can a friend make you feel better than you are?  I’m not quite sure, but I think it happened just when I needed it to.  We spent the night catching up, eating greasy Chinese delivery, and sightseeing.  But, most importantly laughing.  Sometimes laughing when nothing was said because our bonds exceeded the confinements of language.

I spent last night sharing my joy with 8 million of my closest friends.  Friendship is a powerful bond.  I can only hope I return the joy others give to me.

Dumb Ass... Use The Rail

Last night I washed a load of whites.  Not really a big deal, but since my whites were cleaned yesterday, today I was allowed to put on my white thermal top to wear to Starbucks.  It didn’t look like it was too cold out so all I would need was the white thermal top, paired with my light gray jeans, and of course white shoes to tie it all together.   Gathering my laptop, audition folder, and side bag I left the house with a certain enthusiasm; a spring in my step if you will. Well that spring, sprung right out seconds later when I found myself flat on my ass in the middle of the sidewalk. 

You see Chazo (pronounced Chah-zo), one of Mickey’s henchmen, is in charge of keeping my building up to standards.  Up to standards includes mopping all the hallways, stairways, sidewalk, and stoop.  Now when I opened the door of my apartment, the strong smell of bleach alerted me to Chazo’s presence.  Knowing Chazo had recently been through with the mop meant caution was in order.  I even grabbed the rail as I descended down the flight of stairs to get to the first floor.  Safe on the first floor, I continued to spring through the bleach soaked hallway towards the doors that lead outside.  I made it through both doors almost arrogantly with a confidence that exudes… “I know how to walk.”  But it was the stoop that got me.

I decided to conquer the recently sprayed and mopped stoop with no help from the rail at all; rails are for old people.  My god it’s only a stoop.  Just four little steps that have decades of paint on them.  Decades of regular (I would say high gloss) paint, no “non-skid” paint here, just good ole high gloss paint that has created a wonderfully smooth surface---for a stoop.

My right foot led the way.  I went from threshold to sidewalk in record time.  Luckily time slows for the individual who is going through embarrassment.  In this nanosecond I felt my right foot touch the top stair then ever so gracefully rise into the air to reach my left foot (which was already in the air because it had confidence in the right foots ability to stay on the ground).  I remember thinking, “Shit, this isn’t good.”  Next, my ass decided to land on the top stair.  I believe its thought process was… hell if the feet aren’t gonna be grounded, I guess I should.  So good at being grounded was my ass that it decided to be the one part of my body that hit every single stair on the way down.  My arms flailed, my legs kicked, but my rump held steady.

Now laid out on the sidewalk, in a puddle of water, that contained all the dirt from the now clean stoop-- I had time to evaluate.  Not paralyzed, nothing broken (except my pride), I started to look around to see who witnessed this spectacle.  Immediately a car drove by and the driver saw the look of horror on my face.  Then I made eye contact with an old lady about 20 feet away.  The look on her face was slightly confusing.  On one hand, I felt she was looking at me and thinking, “dumb-ass…should have used the rail.”  But then her look also could have meant, “Been there… hope his hip is alright.”  I guess I should just be happy she didn’t offer me her cane.

I got up and realized my very white outfit was now very dirty.  I could have gone up stairs and changed but I wasn’t about to risk going up the stoop.  I wore my dirty white outfit for the rest of the day and took pride in my tumble down the stoop.

Dumb ass…use the rail.

Good Bye Belly Lint... Hello Chilled Towels

God knows I love to exercise at the gym, but in the past few years, I have to say it's been getting less and less appealing.  The gym I had in California was a well known gym with many locations.  When I first started, it was rather nice, but then they started to build a few super premium gyms and in the process, they let their others go to shit.

I mean really... why was it hard to find a working treadmill that didn't have gum in the cup holder.  When your water bottle and towel have to compete for space with gum, hair, and probably belly button lint as well, you get a little grossed out.  Sure you can blame the guests and call them pigs, but I kind of look at it like this... when I go into a gas station bathroom and there is shit on the toilet seat, I don't worry about cleaning up the piss I left behind.  However, if it was clean in the first place, I would have done my job to keep it clean by wiping up my urine spillage.  Or at the very least, if I pissed on the seat, I would have strategically, with my foot, lifted the seat into the upright position as to appear to not be the one who actually pissed on the seat to those patrons using the bathroom after me.  

Oh and don't even think about using the locker room restrooms to take a dump; it is far too dirty to drop a bomb in there.  I couldn't possibly subject my poop to that sort of torture.  And then there’s the showers; when you take a shower only to feel dirtier than you were right after the workout (but now with a slight tickle of athletes foot and jock itch), you know something is wrong. 

Though these were my general workout conditions, I knew I was moving to New York so I stuck it out with them rather than deal with a new membership.  When I got to New York, I knew I wanted to go with a higher end gym that I had tried out before, but logic made me try out a more economical gym that was closer to the apartment.  This economical gym was exactly what I expected; slightly trashy, over crowded, and lacking any ambiance or style.  But, I was there to workout, not hangout so none if that mattered.  Yep... none of that mattered until I went back to the high-end gym for another free trial.

My god what a difference money makes. Clean showers, in which one (being me) can walk around sandal-less with no chance of catching the foot or the jock itch.  So clean, so stylish, plus designer products from Kiehl's to use at leisure, as well as complimentary (if complimentary means only paying the extra hundred bucks in monthly dues) mouth wash, hairspray, hair gel, deodorant razors, cotton swabs and more.  One could feasibly save on rent and forgo the apartment bathroom and just use the gym's amenities.

Past the locker room, the equipment is all state of the art, or at least that’s what I’m told.  All I know is they all work very smoothly and are gum/ belly button lint free.  I'm almost appalled at myself for having the audacity to sweat in facility such as this.  It really is dreadful, but at least they have staff to wipe up after me if I miss a spot.

The studio rooms are all immaculate, which means I won't be blowing some chicks hair wad away from my hands as I'm in Downward Dog.  Each mat is cleaned and sanitized so I don't have to worry about getting ringworm, or having to schlepp around my mat throughout the city.  In addition, there are designated studios for various classes, which means I no longer have to splash in sweat puddles left behind from the 9 o'clock spin class during my 10 o'clock yoga class.

Now if all this wasn't enough to turn me, let me tell you what did turn me... Cold Eucalyptus Towels.  At the end of every workout, I drag my sweaty ass over to the towel fridge---yep, a fridge dedicated to the storage of towels, soaked in water touched with the essence of eucalyptus, and chilled to 39 degrees fahrenheit.  Heaven!   As stupid and self-indulgent as this may sound, it was the reason that sent me over the edge.  Sign me up baby; I want the chilled towels.  Plus they supply all of your towels for everything else like bathing, swimming, and sweating, which makes a difference when you are carrying these extra items throughout the city in a backpack.  Especially after a workout when they are all wet and ripe.

No I didn't get a job as a membership salesman as you might be thinking, but I did sign up for a membership and I plan on getting my money's worth.  Hell, I might even stop in when I’m not working out—did I mention the Cold Eucalyptus Towels???

Bed Bugs... The New Herpes

No, really... don't let the bed bugs bite.  In New York right now it is no joke.  Bed bugs have become an epidemic that isn't going away.  I first saw a poster for bed bug awareness last year in Times Square on a massive billboard.  I remember it very clearly because it was a huge picture of a magnified bed bug.  It was also the first time I thought, "Wait, they really exist...it's not just a cute saying parents tell kids before sleep?"

With a little research, I learned this insect is about the size of an apple seed and not the size of the 14-story building as I saw in Times Square.  They like beds because the can hideout all day in the fibers then sneak their way up when they sense your body heat at night.  And this is when they strike, when you are in bed, asleep and of no threat to them.  They aren't stupid like mosquitoes, they suck your blood when there is minimum risk of you slapping at them.  What's most disturbing is they can live for up to a year without feeding on your tasty hemoglobin.  This makes them basically indestructible without actually throwing out the mattress, burning the sheets and praying they didn't get into your closets or even worse, your couch too.

So bad has this situation become that it seems people are treating it as the new herpes.  Once you've got it--you've got it.  The stigma stays with you for the rest of your days.  Just the other night, I heard my over boisterous neighbors on the street yelling out (yelling is their form of communication, it’s a funny language pattern---talking seems to be out of the question), "guuuurrrl... You got beeeeed bugz, haaaaa haaaa bitch!!!"  Oh and to clarify, this young lady was laughing at, not with, the girl who had been infected.  I felt bad for that scarlet lettered harlet.

Not wanting to be scarlet lettered ourselves, one night Kev and I actually turned around and went back home as we were heading towards a movie theatre to see Eat, Pray, Love.  Sure it may sounds like we are overreacting (we often feed off of each others weaknesses, and can easily become agoraphobic if we are allowed to spin out of control), but if you take in account businesses such as AMC, Hollister, and even Bill Clinton's office have been shut down for days because of infestation, it becomes a real threat.  One, I don't want bed bugs, but even more so, I don't want to sleep on/with the chemical pesticides that are used to kill the bed bugs.  I don't trust the solution enough to risk the problem.

It's gotten to the point where I don't want my fibrous clothes like wool, touching other people fibrous clothes for fear of hitchhikers.  Imagine my fears as I go on background calls and am forced to hang my stuff up on racks with other people’s clothes. I told you extras were humdingers... you know 90% of them have been infected with the new herpes and I don't want that percentage going up with me.  

To add to my fear, just this morning as I was walking to the subway station on my street, there was a couch and a mattress on the curb with "BED BUGS" loudly written on both with red marker.  Red means danger!!!  Had I known this breeding ground was there, I would have taken a different street.  Or, at the very least I would have inconspicuously changed the side of street I was on as if I saw a gang ahead.  You can never be too safe; I don't know how far they can jump... do you?

I wish I could end this blog entry with a happy ending such as, "And then they all died... The End."  But unfortunately, I'm gonna have to leave with, "Be afraid, be very afraid!!!"  And don't be surprised if you come over my house and I make you do a Dustin Hoffman type scrub down from Outbreak before entering.

5:00 am Wakeup Call

Who smokes weed at 5:00 am???  No really... who the hell is up even socializing at 5 in the morning?  Is it because I'm 30 that this time seems like a horrible time to be up; I think not.  I have always stood by the belief that being up for sunrise is a horrible idea.  Think about it, if you are still up when the sunrises, then clearly you've had too long of a night and you're probably way too intoxicated to enjoy gods gift to insomniacs.  But let's say no stimulants were involved and you were just having a wonderful all-nighter with a lover--- you’re still fucked for the rest of the day and your sleep schedule is going to be thrown off for the next week.  Not a good idea!!!

How about if you’re getting up before the sunrise... still a bad idea.  Who wants to be up that early?  In this case, you know you didn't get to bed early enough to get adequate rest so your puffy eyes look like hell.  Plus, if you're like me, you'll keep hitting snooze until that last critical minute before you must leave.  There's the time you'd like to be up to properly get ready, then there's the critical time; the time when one must leave in order to not arrive late.  Too often during my snoozing I start cutting things out of my morning ritual to get that extra 9 minutes of sleep.  First is the shower.  But really how dirty can I be?  I probably took a shower the night before so that's not a biggie.  Next could possibly be ironing clothes, but who am I kidding--I don't iron. Next thing I cut out is a biggie.  Starbucks: I like the ritual and it stops the chance of a caffeine headache by noon.  But look at the positive, already I have given myself 3 extra snoozes.  The last trade off for a snooze is the teeth. Yep, vulgar as it is, there have been times when I decided the next 9 minutes of sleep would be more valuable than hygiene.  And you know what judgers--you've probably done it too, plus Trident Peppermint Whitening does a great job at masking my hellaciously rank morning breath.

Good god where was I going with this... oh yeah, it's not a good idea to get up before the sun because it leads to a lack of sleep, which is a leading cause of people who walk around all day with no showers, caffeine headaches, wrinkled clothes, and dragon breath.  Again, no one should be up for sunrise.

But back to my original point: who smokes weed at 5:00 am?  Well apparently my neighbors do.  And they must smoke quite a bit because at 5:00am, I was awakened by the skunky smell of cheap weed wafting through my windows.  Wafting... who am I kidding, it was billowing into my room on the second floor.  It woke me up for Christ's sake.  It was so bad I got the munchies.  As I giggled my way into the kitchen, I decided it was a good idea to make a peanut butter and jelly burrito. Yes, burrito.  I took out a flour tortilla, slathered it with way too much peanut butter, added just a dollop of jelly, and then folded it (not wrapped, because wrapping would make it a wrap and not a burrito) into a double closed-end burrito.  I ate every delicious bite while still half asleep and wondering when the hell my neighbors were gonna sleep.

Now my feelings towards weed are neither positive nor negative.  I don't enjoy the smell, but I don't mind if people smoke it to unwind and relax.  I really don't mind it when people use it to get their appetite back.  I do however mind when people are smoking so much that it gives me an appetite.  God knows I don't need another reason to eat.

Enjoy your weed people, just not at sunrise and not under my window please.

You're Dead To Me

Yesterday was another early morning for me, 5:00 am to be exact.  It was the day of my return to the work force as well as my big screen or little screen debut.  But don’t get too excited, its not like I’m launching an acting career or anything, I just booked a job as an Extra, or I guess for a more P/C term “Background Artists.”  For those of you who don’t know what an Extra is, it’s basically the people behind the main actors in any given scene.  They never speak, are rarely focused on, and are often heard saying to there friends, “No, I swear I’m in it…the guy hailing a cab, two blocks down, as the camera pans left.  That’s totally me!!!”  Truth be told, it’s not a bad gig for some people.  If you’re union, you get paid decent, there are benefits if you book enough gigs, you get fed for free, and it’s not laborious.  That being said, I don’t think its for me; it has very little to do with acting, there is a lot of sitting and waiting… which doesn’t work for me.  I’m fidgety and may have been just slight touched with ADHD, and I don’t like people.

Well, let me clarify that last point, I don’t like new people at first, especially theatre people.  They/we require way too much energy to be around.  Always wanting to be in the spotlight.  Always fighting other people for attention and “one-upping” each other.  I just don’t have that skill in me so it’s hard to be around a group of these people.  And Extras by trade, love to talk.  I think its stems from having to not talk or fake-talk while the cameras rolling.  As soon as the director calls cut, these guys open there mouths and start giving there life stories to everyone as if they didn’t just give their life story to everyone on-set yesterday.  Number 7 (Yes, we are given numbers not character names), I don’t care to hear that your wife left you and your new girlfriend has a great rack you are still paying for!!! 

Now not all Background Artists are bad, some (you know who you are) make a living in this profession, and treat it as such, a profession.  They go to work, do their job, and understand their role in the big picture.  They also have no time for asshole rookies who disrupt the process and potentially hold back million dollar projects.  It’s a shame some bad Background Artists give Background Artist in general a bad rep because it just promotes the ill treatment and lack of respect for the good ones by everyone on-set.

Now onto the actual day of work…I woke up at 5 and suddenly got nervous about not having enough time to get to the transport van by 6:15.  Oh yeah, if your project is filming outside of the city, they usually provide transportation to the set.  Not wanting to be late, I got ready quicker than usual.  I even cut out a Starbucks run, which is highly unusual; I would much rather be late to an important event than miss out on my Iced Venti Quad, Extra Ice, Splash of Skim, Espresso.  But this was my first day so I decided to bite the bullet and forgo my happiness.  Good thing too, because the trains were running behind and I arrived at the van in Union Square at 6:14. 

I can’t tell you how happy I was to skip my happiness so I could get into a van at 6:15 and no, not leave as I had expected, but wait.  Wait 32 min for other Extras who can’t take there job seriously.  I could already feel the caffeine headache taking hold as my body slowly fought the unintended withdrawal.  At 6:47 the asshole we were waiting for arrived, unapologetic, and even slightly pompous as if we should have thanked him for showing up.  So self-important was he that he took shotgun (much to the drivers dismay), even though there were still many seats available in the back of the van.  Going forth, we will refer to him as “The Actor,” for clearly this man was mis-booked by his agent and should have been the star of this shoot and not a mere Extra.  As he sat his elite ass in the seat, he cleared the drivers cup holders of waters and walkie-talkies to make room for his coffee (no doubt, the coffee I should have been sipping on, and the coffee he got while we were all waiting for him).

Holding for this day’s filming locations was an hour outside of the city at a State Park Beach, and I spent that entire hour burning a hole through his head with my nasty little look.  When we arrived at holding, we filled out our paper work, had our clothing approved, and were shipped off to one of the filming locations for that day.  Usually, at holding or location there will be food and beverages; important because I could then get some caffeine in me to battle this now ragging headache.  But as luck would have it, my particular location didn’t have a food or beverage truck.  Shit, we didn’t even have an ice chest or water.  Even shade would have been nice to slow the dehydration.

Actually, we didn’t even have a chair to sit in, which is funny because I remembered thinking the night before, “I really don’t want to be sitting in a chair all day.”  Well after 3 hours of lying on concrete and sitting on curbs, I would have loved to have a nice comfy—metal foldout chair to park my butt.  What were we doing for those 3 hours, you ask?  Well…nothing, absolutely nothing.  The crew hadn’t even set up the scene to be shot, so we just sat and watched them or tried to sleep on concrete.  It wasn’t until 11 am that someone from crew came over with sip-size bottles of water.  Remember I said Extras don’t get much respect on the set, well this is proof, for 3 hours we sat in the sun with no water, yet they were hiding some the entire time.

As I slowly dehydrated, on the ground, in the sun, with no caffeine I was given even more affirmation as to why Extra people just aren’t my people.  In boredom, we all congregated and started to chat.  The conversation started at the ex-wife and the tits, and slowly progressed into sports.  Oh god, sports…I enjoy going to a game and having a beer or eight, but when it comes to spouting off stats or even watching them on TV, you can count me out.  I just sat there and in a desperate, pathetic attempt to not look too out of place, I kept uttering the phases, “I Know,” “Right...,” “Unbelievable, isn’t it?.”  At some points I didn’t even know what sports they were referring to.  Clearly out of my element, I just wanted to be with people who knew that Cats was the longest running musical until it closed in 2000 and eventually gave way to The Phantom of the Opera.

At 12:15 the food truck arrived and we were on break until 1:15, having accomplished nothing to that point.  But you have to remember, some Extras see this as a blessing by getting paid for nothing.  I see it as a waste of creative energy.  Hell, I wouldn’t even mind helping crew set up the scene, but that is a major no-no for crossing union lines.

After lunch, we were finally sent to makeup.  For my scene, a group of us were to portray car accident victims, this means getting all bloodied up with various viscosities of red substances that stain the skin; oh, joy!  I sat in the chair for a while, and apparently the makeup artist did a number on me.  Of the 8 others that got torn up with makeup, mine was the best because everyone was commenting on how great mine looked.  10 minutes of this goggling at my face made me a little cocky.  I started to take the compliments personally as if I had actually done something.  I got so arrogant that I was sure, when we got to set the director would take one look a my face and say while pointing…”Him there…number 10, lets do a close-up feature on his face---I love it!”   Hahahahaha , when I got to set the joke was definitely on me.  The director looked at all of us, arbitrarily placed us on the street by the car, amongst the wreckage and said, “This one here, put a blanket over this one.”  That person he was referring to was me.

I spent the next half hour lying on concrete, in the sun, under a blanket, in a dreadfully uncomfortable position, my un-needed makeup itching, with no coffee.  And just to remind me how unimportant I was, every time the director called action (which is funny in itself because my action was DEAD), very large mosquitoes (big enough to bite through blankets and clothing) would bite me and steel my blood.  But, ever the professional, I stayed still, fighting the urge of protecting myself from malaria to make sure we got the shot.

When we got the shot and the director yelled, “It’s a wrap,” I learned that what we had been working on all day was going to amount to a total of 20 seconds of viewing pleasure.  I also learned this wasn’t been shot for the big screen, not even for the TV screen, we were just doing something that was going onto the computed screen.  Yes folks, I did all that so I could make a grand appearance on a webisode.  So if you happen to turn on your computer at the right time, to the right site, for 20 seconds you may recognize the sole of my size 11 Brooks, Adrenaline running shoe with the logo taped over.

On the subway ride home, people stared at my blood stained skin as if I had some sort of disease.  It didn’t help that the 10 mosquito bites began to itch, thus solidifying the notion that I was infected with something.  I couldn’t help but think that during my time in college, I was never offered a class to help me prepare for this.  Thank god I spent thousands of dollars on my University of California, Irvine degree in Drama so I could have days like this.   

I Run Because I Can

I went to bed early last night because I knew I had to be up by 6am to run in my first NYC organized fundraiser run.  This particular run happened to be the Susan G. Komen Race For The Cure 5K in Central Park; but that’s inconsequential because I’m just in it for the exercise and chance to share in the experience with a community of runners. 

Running in organized runs such as Turkey Trots on Thanksgiving, or Super Bowl Runs in Redondo Beach have been a favorite of mine for the past few years because it allows me to get together with friends way to early in the morning, bitch about the weather, run the race, and then justifiably pig out after at breakfast.  It’s somewhat of a tradition back home and I look forward to making it a tradition in my new city.

Well, I must have been really anxious to start this tradition because I woke up at 5am, an hour before Kevin was supposed to come in and wake me.  With my newfound time, I decided to hit up Starbucks then head down to the registration booth, which opened at 7am.  As I jogged along the park on Central Park West towards the booth, I started to realize today’s race wasn’t going to be just a race; it was going to be bigger than that…an occasion really, which I hadn’t anticipated.

I first noticed all of the volunteers that were gathering and figuring out their particular piece in this puzzle.  Hundreds of volunteers were changing into their recognizable blue shirts, ready to make this day as smooth as possible for all the participants and donors.  I passed by the start line, which included a speakers platform, balloon arch, and of course news vans eager not to miss the action.

I filled out my paper work, grabbed my jogging number, and took my souvenir t-shirt.  All of which took less than 5 minutes because the other participants hadn’t arrived yet. 

Time: 7:05; race start time 9:25.  Now what?  Starbucks?  Nope, already did that.  Go back home?  Nope, 30 blocks is a little far.  Luckily, I happened to notice a map of the race route through the park.  On it showed different stations like the “Sponsors Expo” and the “Survivor’s Village” in the middle of the park so I decided to go check it out. 

On the way over I watched even more volunteers doing much more than required.  They seemed to be inspired by something much bigger than the act of volunteering in itself.   I also started to see participants filter in; some were alone and some came in groups. Some in regular running attire, some with themed shirts that had the name of the person they were there to support.  If they were lucky, that person was with them and wearing pink…the symbolic color of a cancer survivor.  If they weren’t as fortunate to have that person wearing pink next to them, they carried that person in their hearts and memory.

This is what I wasn’t prepared for; I wasn’t prepared to feel instantly united with a group of people, both as a runner, but more so for the cause.  I found myself putting my souvenir shirt on, which is abnormal, because they usually never make it on my body before becoming just another rag.  But this, this was different; this was bigger than the races before.  I suddenly wasn’t here for exercise or for comradery, I was here for all of my family and friends who have been taken or touched by cancer.  I was here for those who weren’t.  I was overwhelmed.  I found myself walking—wandering really; fighting back the tears because it hurt and I didn’t want to go there… not now.

I ended up at a street bridge overlooking Bethesda Fountain, the famous Angel fountain; it seemed fitting.  There, supported by the rail, I let myself go.  I started to cry, and let myself feel this moment.  It oddly felt good to hurt.  It took me back to mile 17 of the marathon I completed a few years back.  Again, to raise money for cancer, but specifically I ran in remembrance of my grandma.  Somewhere around mile 17, still 9 miles to go, my mind tired and body hurt, I read a sign held up by a lady on the sidelines that read, “You’re running because we can’t…god bless you.”  I ran that next mile sobbing and pain free.  It was the most heartfelt thank you I ever received and I can only hope she’s wearing a pink shirt wherever she is.

Although not embarrassed by my tears because I was with people who knew what each tear meant, I waited at that bridge until I had some sense of composure before leaving.  I headed over to “Survivor Village” and hung out on the edge to listen to the guest speakers and hear the voice of honored survivors and co-survivors (those who went through the ordeal as a partner of the survivor with cancer).  It was inspiring to hear their stories and accomplishments.  It was a club you’d never want to be in, but a club more emotionally powerful than any other in the world. 

The statistics were amazing as well; 25,000 participants were expected on this morning.  20 years ago $15,000 was raised at this event, last year over $4 million on this one day.  20 years ago, breast cancer survival rates were at 74%, today 98%.   Susan G. Komen is well on their way to putting themselves out of business with a cure, and they couldn’t be happier.   I was proud to be a part of it.

The race started with pink shirts in front and then 5 minutes later the rest of us started.  Central Park West was shutdown with runners, celebrities, and politicians, but more importantly, moms, daughters, sisters, friends; some in pink, some in spirit, but still very present.  I jogged and had very few episodes along the way.  I felt more pride than anything.

I finished the race and began my walk home.  Because home was 30 blocks from the finish, I had time reflect on the morning.  I started to cry again.   I couldn’t help but mourn the time stolen from me and my loved ones, who were taken from me too soon.  Too many pivotal moments in my life were lessened because their smile was taken by this quite monster.  My focus soon shifted to the ones I love who have survived; the ones in my life that can rightfully wear that pink shirt and I’m just so goddamn grateful they are still here and their smiles aren’t missing from my life. 

On my last block it started to rain.  I didn’t mind.  It merely reminded me that those smiles I do miss continue to walk with me.  It let me know my they were crying too, but just tears of joy because those of us down here are making a difference.

I run because I can.

How I Knew I Was Home

I’m back home, but please let me tell you how I know I’m back home.  As I descended from the Air Train into the subway station at JFK (oh and yeah, I no longer take a taxi from the airport…I’m just too damn cheap to spend $60.00 to get car sick in the back of a car that smells of a man who has spent the last 12 hours simmering in his own juices—sometimes it’s a delightful curry stew—other times not so much).  But I digress; as I entered into the subway station, a lovely lady exited her car and shouted with great enthusiasm, “GODDAMN, MOTHER-FUCKER!!!”  It could have been at me or it could have just been her way of saying she’s happy to be alive.  Either way it made me smile and confirmed my plane did in fact land in New York City and I was home.

But the confirmations didn’t stop there.  About 20 minutes into my subway ride from the airport, I noticed the door in between my car and the next car open.  Now this is never a good sign because it means either someone is fleeing from the police or we have a traveling salesman.  Now a traveling salesman, as I call them, are really the businessmen (or women) of the underground…those who possess that entrepreneurial spirit but only where the sun can’t reach. This happened to be a salesman and not a fleeing man. 

Now to properly deal with a traveling salesman you really have 3 options…

1.     Have your earphones in and pretend you don’t hear them. 

2.     Start talking to yourself while adding in a slight twitch---this is preemptive action because it scares them off before they even approach you (crazies don’t like interacting with crazies, the combined force will be too great).

3.     Pat your pockets and shake your head no as if you have no money; this can work too, but you run the risk of being called a liar and being chased down the street.

In order to choose the appropriate action, you must first gage the salesman and what they are offering.  This particular salesman was offering goods I had never seen before.  Usually, its candy to help keep an underprivileged “kid” (really an adult) from growing up in a gang.  Or even better a person that is oh-so generously selling the feeling of charity and goodwill to the giver because they are offering nothing in return—I like this entrepreneur  because he or she knows the value of having no overhead in their business and just flat out asks for money.

The item this salesman chose to sell was batteries; yep, that’s right…batteries.  I believe he had 7 batteries all together.  If memory serves, there were 3 AAA batteries and maybe 4 AA’s, so he did have a wide selection to choose from.  He also had a good sales pitch, “Duracell for dalla.”  What an amazing deal…your choice AA or AAA for one dollar!!!  I did however suspect that these batteries might have been used. Like my dad always says, “If you can’t make an honest dollar…make a dollar!”   Even if he was buying at wholesale prices to stock his warehouse, how could he afford to sell them at a dollar a piece?  They were also suspiciously packed in a slightly browned Ziploc baggie, not the original packaging as I’m used to.  It was for these reasons I decided to pass on the purchase, but had I had my portable CD player from High school or my Walkman from elementary, I might have splurged.

Now that I made my no decision it was time to decide which action to choose.  Quickly too, because he's heading my way.  Since I didn’t have my headphones on already, option 1 was out.  And since I really haven’t practiced the art of talking to myself and twitching in public, I decided to go with number 3 and risk being called a liar.  Well this time it went over pretty well, good thing to because this salesman had both of his legs and could have chased me for a while.  In retrospect, I suppose this salesman was used to hearing “no,” after all he was in a very competitive field.

He moved on to the next car and shortly after I was at my stop.  As I carried my 43.2-pound bag up the stairway to the street, I was pleasantly greeted with a cool breeze.  The heat wave was over and now I was standing at the corner of the park just a few blocks from home.  Suddenly, and without warning my face twitched and “funny-face” paralyzed my cheeks.  I was no longer in control of my facial muscles and my hands were full so I couldn’t cover up my silly look of happiness.  Funny face…yet another reason how I knew I was home. 

It was my first time returning home and I couldn’t wait to get in the apartment.  I was greeted by Kevin, who was just as happy to see me, as I was to see him.  He had set up my room as much as possible so I would feel like the apartment was complete and then cooked me a great dinner as we exchanged stories of our adventures.

GODDAMN MOTHER-FUCKER, I’m happy to be alive.

Stay Out of The Splash Zone

A quick little story about Savannah... 2 days ago, after seeing a show,  Justin, Kevin, and I arrived at Steve's to take Savannah out for her evening walk.  Lately, she has been pretty good about not doing her business on the floors in the apartment when left alone, but it had been over 4 hours since we last saw her so we were expecting the worst.
Fortunately, when we arrived everything was clean and dry.  Now for the tricky part... you see Savannah, like all other puppies gets extremely excited when visitors arrive.  And when she gets excited, her little bladder struggles to hold in the pee she has already held in for hours.  So I cautiously and nonchalantly approached the dog and her wagging tail as she laid on Steve's bed.  Next, I gently grabbed her and picked her up (vagina out--as to stay out of the spray zone) to carry her down stairs.
Much to Kevin's dismay (because he would later be sleeping in that bed), we found a rather large wet spot on the comforter. Well Kevin whined, and off in the distant bathroom, the sounds of Justin's evil laugh took hold.  Through the bathroom door, Justin had caught wind of what had happened to Kevin's bed.  And through the bathroom door, we caught wind of schadenfreude (German word for: joy in others pain) at its finest.
A good laugh was had and Justin came out of the bathroom just as I was lugging Savannah to the front door (still vagina out mind you, to take no chances).
Justin approached Savannah as if to congratulate her on the triumphant peeing of the bed.  And just as he did, he entered the splash zone.  Yes my friends, Justin, who had just laughed his schadenfreude ass off at Kevin had entered the splash zone.  Sensing this, Savannah began to wag her tail to start the process.  Next she let go of her bladder muscles and let gravity take hold.  Soon the pee was spraying out.  And just in case the initial spray didn't get Justin, which it did, she made sure her tail acted as one of those old sprinkler that go..."choo, choo, choo, choo, tatatatatatatata, choo, choo choo..."  It was priceless.  The dog had successfully pissed on Justin's face and I was overcome with a case of schadenfreude.
On the way down the stairs, Savannah gave me a little kiss on the cheek as if she was saying, "you're welcome."
What did we learn today?  Vagina out and stay out of the splash zone!!!

The Floors Were Dry, But I Wasn't

Well today I was caught in my first summer downpour.  After brunch at a slightly over-rated spot on the westside (nothing has yet to compare to Kimmie's on the other westside--California that is), we took the subway down to Midtown to take over our Savannah shift as Kevin had left his post with the puppy a few hours earlier.  The weather had been on and off cloudy and maybe a few sprinkles here and there, but definitely nothing to blog about and for sure nothing to carry an umbrella over.  But looking back on it, I remember seeing a lot of smart New Yorkers carrying their folded umbrellas as if they could smell the imminent danger--or who knows, maybe they just listened to the weather report.
Unfortunately, Steve lives a good distance from a subway stop and sure enough when Justin and I arose from the subway station it was raining.  Not too hard, but enough to get you wet.  We looked at each other, smiled, and decided to jog.  Everybody else had there big, tent like, canopy of an umbrella umbrellas, but us two idiots just kept on running.  We were machines, dodging puddles left and right; spiderman-ing from one awning to the next.  Then we struck gold; we could see it across the street... an entire block with scaffolding that was clearly meant to protect us from the elements as we journeyed on.  All we needed to do was ford across two intersections and we were safe.
We did it, and just in time because as we arrived at our safe-zone the rain started to come down even harder.  Soon the water was past the curb and starting to flood the sidewalk...thank god I can swim.  We decided this momentary monsoon would soon pass, but it didn't--it just got harder.  At this point (still 5 blocks from our destination) we decided to sit on a stoop and wait it out.
Enter, "The Bitch."  And on cue she arrived, dragging her unhappy dog.  Most people that had just arrived under our safe haven quickly folded their umbrella and gave us a look of..."Whooo, its crazy out there," and we would share a smile together, because we were all it together.  So, accustomed to this pattern of interaction, I readied my smile when She Devil entered the scaffolding.  But this little gem of a human folded her umbrella, and to my smile replied with a visual, "Yes, I'm a bitch."  I gotta give her credit, at least she knows he she is.  Immediately my smile ran away, but she didn't.  She just kept staring at me with her ugly soul.  Then she opened her mouth and exclaimed, "You're in my way."  Wow, apparently I had been sitting on her stoop and my whole ass had been taking up the entire 4 foot wide staircase.
I stood up, not wanting to fight, yet oddly yearning to scratch her eyes out.  As the dog was angrily yanked up the stairs behind her, we made eye contact.  You could see in this dogs eyes that he desired to be put down years ago even though he was in tip-top shape.  The dog wanted--nay, needed my help to be set free, but unfortunately there was another dog that needed my help and her name was Savannah.  And if I didn't get to Savannah soon I'd be picking up pooh and mopping up piss off a hardwood floor. So off Justin and I went.  5 more blocks, 4 wet shoes, and 2 soaked shirts later we arrived at Steve's to tend to Savannah.  She's a lucky dog and I'm a damn good Doggy God Father.
Oh and the floors were clean :-)

Savannah Rose

So one of the great things about having friends with a dog is being able to love the cute things to death and them leave them when its time for them to shit.  Or better yet, watch them pick up the shit with that itsy-bitsy baggy.  I mean it’s even better than being a grandparent because grandparents still have to change diapers.  

Well I had to open my big mouth when I first met Steve’s dog Savannah Rose, a beautiful 4 month old black lab.  Yep, I casually said, ”Oh you’re so cute, I can’t wait to babysit you.”  In that brief moment Steve jumped on my sign of weakness; immediately I was named “Uncle Ryan.”  And a second after that I was yet again bestowed the title of God Father, and once again this God Father was not officially Church sanctioned.  Nonetheless, Steve made sure I was more than a casual stranger to dear Savannah so when the time came to take care of her, the guilt would be overwhelming.  

The time to take care of her came sooner than expected.  The text came at 11 am yesterday, “Can you take care of Savannah, no pressure?”  Thrilled at the opportunity to leave the city with his boy, Steve jumped at the idea of going Jersey overnight.   Well what was the God Father gonna say???  I said yes, and 24 hours later what did I have in my hand…hot, steamy, fresh Savannah shit.  Separating my delicate hand from this excrement was only a thin piece of plastic that I quickly flipped inside out and knotted to capture the pungent essence of Savannah.  I was slightly disgusted, but then she smiled and laughed at me with her tongue hanging out and I figured it wasn’t all that bad.

I can’t wait to get my own puppy and pass the joy of picking up pooh onto some other unexpected God Father.

Have fun in Jersey Steve.

A Breeze Off The River

Life has slowed down considerably lately, which is nice, but uneventful.  I haven't been called a liar, the air conditioner keeps plugging away and really only one cockroach has been allegedly seen in the apartment.  I say allegedly because the two tenants of the apartment (Kev and I) didn't witness the said cockroach.  Mr cockroach was witnessed and reported by our house guest Justin.  And when I say "reported," I mean...screamed like a little bitch, then broke into laughter as the little guys scurried away.  The perpetrator first appeared in the bathtub region of the bathroom, then quickly fled the scene.  I just hope he found our place too clean and uninviting for his taste...the cockroach that is---not Justin LOL.

Since things have slowed, we have had more time to spend going out with friends and meeting even more friends.  Last night one of our friends recommended a little Latin restaurant downtown call Boca Chica.  6 of us headed down there, grabbed a drink and had a wonderful meal.  What was nice about this place was the amount of effort put into the food.  You could tell the food wasn't just whipped up; it was started hours beforehand and slowly cooked to a flavorful peak that was brought to the table.  It was also nice to have a latin meal that wasn't smothered in cheese to cover up the lack of substance.

At the end of the meal, we all sat at the table, bellies in hand, contemplating what to do.  After very little deliberation, Brooklyn Bridge was one the agenda.  And this is why I love New York... doing something like walking the Brooklyn Bridge isn't a chore to plan out; its just decide and go.  So we went.  We hopped on a subway, got off at the first Brooklyn stop and walked to the East River. 

At Brooklyn Bridge Park, we stopped for a few minutes to admire what man has created...a bridge that has been an enduring symbol of America with hundreds of towers stealing the sky behind. 

So great was the view at this spot, that we saw at least a dozen professional sized cameras and tripods trying to capture an image of a lifetime.  A couple taking what seemed to be engagement photos, because the looks on their faces have never expressed more love before or will never be that genuine again.  And to top it off, we watched the final moments of a wedding set against this extravagant backdrop with the N Train on the Manhattan Bridge adding the soundtrack.

From there we hoped on the bridge and walked it.  Such a neat experience to walk towards home on the Brooklyn Bridge.  The sun was down and the temperature was perfect---I never thought I would say 80 was perfect, but it was.  There was a slight breeze off the river...or was the a slight breeze generated from the 6 car lanes 15 feet below me---either way it felt good.  The Statue of Liberty was off to the left; her flame still quite visible despite the distance.  It was one of those New York moments that I will probably never do again for me, but will try to create for others because it was just that nice.

Central Park Jog with Mama

Now what I really wanted to write before being called a liar...
Yesterday was a slow apartment work day.  Kev and I had decided to take a break from building, buying and cooling the apartment because we were getting a bit burnt out.  Plus Mama was coming in from California in the morning and the cable/internet guy was due to come a 11am.  Since we were having a slow day I decided to go on my first jog through Central Park since moving here.
This is kind of a big deal because since I have moved here, I haven't exercised once.  Now the problem with this is two fold, and let me tell you why.  1st fold: I like to exercise.  I like the way it makes me feel; I enjoy the sense of accomplishment after a long jog or hard bike ride.  I also enjoy the community of exercisers.  Although my type of exercising is largely a solo sport, there is a sense of community among us.  Theres a certain look that only two sweaty people can share.  A nod if you will, that lets each other know: "nice day for sweating."
2nd fold (didn't think I'd get to it did you) is I'm an eater.  I come from a long line of eaters.  A type of people that like to eat.  And no, not for sustenance, but for the shear love of food.  It has plagued and blessed our people for generations.  Nothing makes us feel better than that second cheeseburger or that extra scoop of ice cream.  On the flip side, nothing makes us feel worse than that second cheeseburger or that extra scoop of ice cream.  My brother somehow has managed to escape this hell.  I feel bad for him; he will never know the joy we have to endure with food.
It is for these reason that exercise is so important to me.  So when given the window of possibly to go for a jog, I decided to take it.  I even decided to treat myself to a new pair of my favorite running shoes to commemorate this occasion.  After all, my old ones showed little sign of support, and smelled as good as 300 miles could smell.
Justin said he would go with, so around 7:30 we headed out to Central Park.  We entered the park at the corner on 110th.  It was better than I had imagined.  Suddenly we were in a current of the Central Park trans-exercise Jet Stream.  Cyclists, runners, Road bikers, joggers, walkers, and speed roller bladers all converge on one closed down road that zigzags throughout the entire park.  All types of people: hard core, casual, fully clothed, very little clothing (thank god, its inspiring!!!), little people, big people ( I saw one guy with toned calves the size of ham hawks---they were huge).  I was in the NY exercise community.  And it wasn't just us soloists; the path took us to 3 separate baseball facilities, a huge swimming pool and a tennis club.  All of which were full.  When this city wants to get out, it gets out.  And its no wonder...in a city filled with concrete, steel, and glass why wouldn't you want to get out and stretch your legs in a place as close to nature as your gonna get.
We continued our jog around to the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir.  It was one of the most beautiful lights I've seen the city in.  The sun was setting, fiery clouds were set on a backdrop of blue, the reservoir was making duplicates of the surrounding trees, and the city skyline that frames the park revealed the tips of Empire and Chrysler.  Is there a better track than this...I think not.
The jog was an overwhelming success in my book.  I got to spend some much needed time with my mama on my first jog.  Plus, he only had to scoff at me a few times for checking out the other shirtless boys.
I wonder if they run shirtless in the winter as well???

Liar, Liar

I was just called a liar.  I know, I'm shocked too.  I am many things, including a fibber, but liar...my friend you have gone too far.  I woke up this morning around 5:30 for some reason and couldn't go back to sleep so I decided to do a little writing.  Since Kev was asleep in the living room, and Mama (thats the affectionate name Justin and I have for each other) was in my bed, I decided to leave my comfy and now cold apartment (the air conditioner is working its ass off) and go to my local Starbucks.  And if that one is closed, I will go next door to the other Starbucks.  I will continue door to door until I find a Starbucks that is open so I can do some writing.  Luckily my Starbucks was open, but it was on my way to Starbucks that I was called this vulgar name.
You see as I left my front stoop and the theme from The Mary Tyler Moore Show played (for some reason it just plays when I leave my apartment), I was passed by a man.  But this man wasn't the problem; it was the man a half mile down that I needed to worry about.  This man that I was currently dealing with put me in a great mood.  He simply said "morning" as we quickly passed by each other and made eye contact.  That simple, unexpected "morning" was enough to put a grin on my face and make me feel all was right with the world.  Well, all thats wrong with the world was now a quarter mile out.
He saw me coming, and like any good salesman, he had a pitch.  He started off with a question; a classic really..."can I ask you a question?"  I was hooked; so hooked that I kept walking right past him and said "sure."
At this point I recognized a few things about this man: his red basketball jersey (I'm sure he was an athlete of sorts), and the fact that clearly he was not up early, he was up late.  At 6 in the morning this man had been up all night on all sorts of fun drugs and now he was cranky.  But, being the salesman that he was, he continued to pitch.  I couldn't imagine what he wanted, so I was captivated and continued to walk away.  Now mind you at this point my body had sent that all familiar "danger" signal out.  You know the one...your body is overcome with a flood of adrenaline that lets you know "shit, I'm gonna die soon."  Its that fight or flight response that I must tell you is always flight with me.  You won't catch me choosing fight first; good god I don't want to get hurt.
Well he continued to pitch his idea with me and now I'm realizing this man is a traveling salesman because he's following me.  Another burst of adrenaline; now I'm the one on drugs because I'm now at peace with dying.  As he proceeds with his presentation, I realize he needs a little work on the actual wordage he is using because he is not being very clear or concise.  What I imagine my traveling salesman wanted to say was, " My friend, I have had a very long night.  Would you be so kind as to help me out.  I require another hit to get rid of this nasty withdrawal headache I have been suffering from for over 2 hours now.  Could you please lend me some change.  I'd gladly pay you back on Tuesday.  Thank you so much.  Oh by the way you look good today and I love the Theme song!!!"
What he actually said was " mumble mumble CHANGE, mumble mumble." To that I replied with my standard, "Sorry, I don't have anything on me" as I pat my pocket for a visual reference.  Luckily this time I really had nothing in them because I love looking like an asshole when I go to the visual reference portion of my response and you clearly here the jingle and clang of keys or boat loads of coins.
Usually, this response I have gets me a half assed "god bless" at worst, but this time I got a persistent one.  He was on the chase and was determined to call my bluff.  It was at this point that time slowed and he uttered the words (and I quote), "mumble mumble mumble LIIIIIIAAAARRRRRR mumble."  I was shocked and appalled.  So shocked and appalled that I sped up my pace from fast to leg chafingly fast.
It was also at this point I noticed his funny walk.  At first I thought this was just his signature stumble, but as I glanced down to better identify this new move that was sweeping the nation, I was surprised to see an artificial leg.  An ill fitting artificial leg at that.
Well suddenly all the adrenaline stopped flowing and I almost got a little cocky.  I mean, he was already trailing behind at this point.  And given the fact he had an ill fitting leg, clearly my flight response would be more than adequate should the time come for me to run.  So in a gesture rooted in taunt, I slowed down to admire his moves.
In the end, I was telling the truth...I only had 20's in my pocket asshole :-)

Sweat in the City

Yesterday marked the anniversary of my first full week in the city.  It also marked the return of the heat and humidity.  The first few days in the city were quite hot. But, as luck would have it, the city cooled for about three days to allow Kev and I to do all of the work that goes along with moving into a new apartment.  It cooled so much we had decided our cute little railroad apartment on the Upper West Side would not require an air conditioner for the remaining weeks of summer.  That was one deciding factor; the other element in that decision includes no place having an air conditioner to buy.  We checked everywhere we went: Best Buy, Target, Home Depot, and Bed Bath and Beyond.  Sure, they all have Dyson’s new $300.00 bladeless fan for sale (and I admit its pretty cool), but they can’t stock some air-con???

Once it cooled off in the middle of the week, I believe we happened to stumble across a pile of air conditioners at Rite-Aid.  And funny enough these air conditioners were an exclusive product of Rite Air---they bore the Rite-Aid name.  Which might give some indication as to why there was such a plethora in stock.  But in any case, it had cooled and we had made the decision to do without.

Well then came dinner time.  Since it was our first full week, and the apartment had been pretty much settled, we decided to go spend a special gift card on some ingredients to make our first meal in the apartment.  Spaghetti, meat sauce, and fresh garlic bread were on the menu.  So around 9pm, Kev fired up everything.  And I mean everything; 2 burners, and a stove for the bread.  450 degrees in the oven and I think about 150 of those slipped out into the apartment.  Working against us was the fact it had slightly rained earlier and the sun had since turned our block into a sauna, plus this night had been particularly still with no cross breeze.

Once the meal was completely prepared we sat down to sweat.  I think there was some eating involved too, but I believe it was mostly to sweat.  Actually the meal was quite amazing.  It was great to have a home cooked meal, and I had bought some cheap sparkling wine, poured into Starbucks cups, that was quite refreshing.  When the meal was over and all the food had gone, the sweating continued. 

It had gotten to a point where moving was out of the question.  Even blinking was more of an insurmountable task that one didn’t want to take on.  Then suddenly out of nowhere Kev puts on his shoes.  The look on his face said it all…he was leaving the moist, musky heat of our apartment to venture out 3 blocks to our local air conditioning vendor—Rite Aid.

20 minutes later, I gathered the strength to go down stairs and help him.  I walked a block and in the distance I could see a little boy with a brand new toy.  He had carried his new purchase at least half way and still had a smile on his face.  I took over and carried the air conditioner back to its new home.  Their we sloppily threw it in a window with a cupcake pan to support it on the sill and turned it on.  And after 10 minutes… we were still hot.  Oppps, I turned it to “Hi Fan” not “Hi Cool.”  A simple correction and 10 min later we could feel the cool air changing the temperature of each individual bead of sweat.

We slept last night with the living room cut off from the cool air, leaving only the bedrooms to be our oasis.  When we woke, not a drop was to be found on our dry bodies.  But in an odd turn, Kev woke up with a sore throat; a small price to pay for a cold nights sleep securely wrapped in blankets.  Oh what a week.

Mickey Corleone

So I was told to go see Mickey.  Apparently Mickey is the head super for all the apartments under the same ownership on my block.  He leads a crew of guys that make all the repairs on the buildings and keep up on general maintenance.  Well, he is also lord of the keys.  I was given his number and told to call, so I did.  A man answered, his accent told me he’s a Russian immigrant.  No, I just lied, his accent was so damn thick, I couldn’t tell what the hell he was.  I just know I said “what,” and “I’m sorry, can you repeat that” about 8 times.  Eventually, I gave up and just said “ok,” and “Mmmm, Hmmm” to every thought he was trying to convey. 

What I did get out of the conversation was: meet at 235, or was it 239... shit it might have been L35.  Oh well, I decided just to go to the general area and see what happens.  Sure enough, first person I saw that looked like they might have an accent I proudly call Mickey.  Nope, not Mickey.  But, he too had an accent and was able to point me to the building in which Mickey had his office, well dungeon really. 

I got to the stoop of the building and headed down the stairs into the basement—I told you it was a dungeon.  It was where all the crew would get there daily orders and make repairs to necessary equipment.  It was Mickey’s very own laire.  As I descended into the depths, I came upon two doors.  Not knowing which to choose, I went with my gut, (and the one that I heard a familiar loud accent coming from).  I knocked twice, but surely Mickey couldn’t hear anything over the thickness in is own voice so I decided to peek my head in.  I slowly opened the door to a room that looked like a mechanic’s shop; lots of tools and even more grease.  I took in everything with a look of "good god" plastered on my face. 

As I scanned the room I came upon a man yelling into a walkie talkie.  I’m sure he considered it talking because he didn’t look mad, but the decibel levels were definitely at the yelling threshold.  Now mind you, my head is in the office but my body is still out the door.  I don’t know if Mickey has rules, and I certainly don’t want to break them on day one.   We make eye contact and he stares at me while continuing to yell.  Now any other human being would continue to talk, but would at least motion me to come in or put up a hand to say wait…not Mickey.  Mickey is playing with my head; he decided less is more and makes no motion at all. So I stay put.  Head-in, ass-out not wanting to invade his space, yet not wanting to cower out.  I was in Mickey purgatory and he was loving every minute.  When he got off the walkie talkie he said “Yawwww???”   What the fuck is “Yawwww???”   He couldn’t say how can I help you?  I guess he knew the depths of his accent and figured the least amount of words to decipher would be best.  I took this as a sign to enter.

As my ass entered into the room that my head had been blessed to be in 5 minutes earlier, I rounded a corner and saw the one sacred thing this man had in his office—a poster of Al Pacino in The Godfather.  Clearly, when Mickey grew up he wanted to be Michael Corleone.  I mean look at the similarities Michael-Mickey, Crime Boss- Crew Boss.  I was asked to sit down; I just wanted the keys.  Suddenly I felt I was being interrogated by the father of a girl before prom.  I was on my best behavior: good posture, well spoken, and a slight smile—not too big, I don’t want Mickey thinking I’m “funny” or anything like that. 

Eventually, after a long stare down he asked to see my ID so he could release the keys.  He then proceeded to give me a break down of things that need to be taken care of.  I was able to understand a good 1/3 of what he said so 66% of the time Mickey’s going to think I’m a failure when it comes to doing what he asked me to do.  Oh well, he released the keys and that’s what counts.  In truth Mickey turned out to be a nice guys—just rough on the edges. 

Yawwwwww!!!!

The Long Road Home

A few days ago we received the keys to the apartment.  Shortly after, I learned not only do I have a place to rest my head every night, but I also have a place to do my stinky business.  Yes folks, its true: we have a bathroom…a private bathroom, and its pretty damn clean too!

On Friday, the 13^th (don’t ruin it with your superstitious thoughts) we were notified all of the paper work was approved and we could pick up our keys from “Mickey” (more about this guy later).   So Kev and I proceeded to lug our over-weight luggage down 3 flights of narrow stairways to get to the street.  It would be the last time we had to carry all 8 of our bags at once which was thrilling, yet still didn’t make the job any easier.  We sat in front of Steve’s building in Midtown and waited for our cab to take us home.  We were slightly obscured by park cars so Kev headed out to the street to hail one.  Success, and right away; Kev managed to get the first one passing by.  The cab slowed, and rolled down his window, but I don’t remember him actually stopping.  You see, when the cab finally passed the car that was blocking us, he got a panoramic view of Mt. Luggage.   As quickly as he slowed down, he sped up, claiming “no room.”  Whatever, I’m sure his cab smelled. 

It wasn’t more than a few minutes more when a cab driver with the balls to take us on would arrive.  He was actually very nice…well he stopped—and stayed at least.  As I uttered the address, I couldn’t help but note that this series of numbers that marked a small minuet spot in New York, New York was my future home.  These numbers represent the place I will sleep after a hard day.  The place I will make meals on holidays.  The place I will skype my friends and family to make sure they know I still love them.  A place to cry and laugh.  My home.

I don’t think our cab driver knew the significance of this trip, but I sure as hell did.  We drove up the West Side and eventually found our way onto Central Park West.  I got a glimpse of my corner of the park; it was beautiful.  Spectacular really… it was just so vibrant.  There were people everywhere and the trees were overwhelmingly green.  I pictured myself biking, jogging, and laying out with the rest of New York.  It felt good; it felt right.  Sure it’s all the way to the top and way over to the left, but it’s the place where I will enter the park each day when I need a break from the city.

We then turned on our street and a wave of giddiness took over; I made “funny face.”   I’m not sure if anybody else has ever gotten a case of the “funny face’s” or if I'm the sole sufferer, but, it usually occurs in times of great excitement when it would be inappropriate to scream out with joy or break into song.  It’s at these time my body is overwhelmed with positive energy and I have to explode.  In order for me to not die, I must make “funny face.”  Now most people have never seen my funny face because I usually bury my face in my hands when I get symptoms, which is exactly what I did in the cab.  I buried my face in my hands, made what I can only imagine as a hideous face, and uttered “AHHHHHHHHH” very quietly to myself.  Crisis obverted; I’m still alive.

And now I’m home.