Ahh! I have too many jobs!
September 22, 2008
I am occasionally stupid.
It's just about 5:30 am, and I'm chilling at the JFK International Airport after having spent the night - or at least a few precious hours of nighttime - in the nearby Days Inn. For $128.
"But Mark," you cry, "weren't you supposed to leave yesterday? From the Newark airport?
Why, yes. That was the plan.
Woke up promptly at 10:00 yesterday, and got myself showered, packed and generally organized while the rest of the house slowly woke up. Tried calling Linda, re: picking up the Bronx guitar, but there was no answer. Called Nadia to warn her the guitar thing might not work out.
When everyone else was up and alert, the whole gang of us - ooh, let's see if I can do names: Luke, Kate, Tom, Tracey, Andres - headed over to the Life Café for brunch. There was a nice circularity to that: the first and last place I visited on my NYC debut.
Just as we're finishing, Linda calls. It's about 1:30. We arrange to mee at, like, 149 St or some shit.
Quick trip back to Luke's for my suitcase. Whirlwind goodbyes. I briefly consider an online check-in, but figuring out the printer seems like more trouble than it's worth. Stop by the Pourhouse to drop off Kim Marie's gift (a blank notebook, for her memoir). Long-ass subway ride to the Bronx. Long-ass subway ride to Penn Station. Long-ass NJ Transit ride to Newark Int'l. I roll in around 4:30; flight schedule to leave at 5:25. I scramble, sheepishly, to the Air Canada counter.
"You're late," she tells me. "The flight is closed. I can't check you in."
It takes a few minutes for the message to sink in. Yes, the plane is still here. No, you can't make a run for it. Yes, the flight is closed. No, I can't check you in. No, neither can anyone else.
Well. Shitballs.
A woman rolls up next to me, same situation. She tries the freak-out approach. I try the nice-guy approach. We are equally unsuccessful.
No direct flights until same time tomorrow. No connecting flights that will work. Oh, but there's a 7:55 leaving from JFK tomorrow morning!
... whoopee! ...
Before I leave my new aircare friend, I clarify: "If I'd been here, like, ten minutes earlier, I could've checked in?" Yes. "If I'd done a mobile, paperless check-in on my Blackberry, from the train, instead of reading FFWD articles online, I could've moseyed right on to that awaiting flight?" Yes. That would have been a very smart move.
Call Mom. Call work. Call Luke - "Hey buddy, feel like sharing your pull-out couch for one more night?"
Ooh. Yeah. About that...
Turns out, after I left, Luke had a conversation with his condo-owning, London-dwelling brother. Who didn't know Luke was hosting couch-surfers in his pad. Who is not particuarly taken with the idea.
Okay! Onward!
Long-ass NJ Transit ride back to Penn Station. Long-ass subway ride to JFK. I sit next to a couple of gentlemen, who carefully adjust their (respectively) bleached-blonde, long-banged and brown faux-hawked hair an discuss Fashion Week at length. As I continue to eavesdrop, I learn that one or possibly both work in theatre, and are networking to get a shot on Broadway, or TV, or whichever comes first. The blonde, clearly the alpha, "needs all the fans he can get", so he doesn't talk about politics or religion on his video-blog, which, btw, he feels has been lackluster for the past couple months, but he feels obligatedd to keep updating.
They take, then proceed to admire and evaluate, several subway self-portraits. They've clearly done this before. I don't have their mad photo-posing skillz.
Short-ass AirTrain ride. I loudly announce that I'm in search of a cheap hotel room, end up at the Days Inn, and I spend the evening channel-surfing, mostly between Men in Black II and, um, Men in Black. I order a too-large mushroom and jalapeno pizza and two Coronas. I regret the peppers, but not the beer.
I sleep for a couple hours, dream that people are using my bathroom. Wake up at 4:00. Catch the 4:30 airport shuttle.
Which brings us up to date. Except, of course, those two days I've skipped over.
I'm gonna get me a fuckin' muffin.
---
I just had an egg & cheese croissant, some mango juice, and a fuckin' muffin.
So, flashing back, I ended my MOMA experience with a trip to the bookstore (where I nearly bought The 1,000 Journals Project, then... didn't) and ventured to their neighbouring exhibit, part of the special pre-constructed architecture collection. They actually went ahead and built... five? ... structures in the soon-to-be developed lot next to the gallery. I really enjoyed that aspect of it, taking a time- and site-specific opportunity to flesh out a project. The buildings themselves, though, were to my eyes unremarkable. The experience of walking through them was eerily like condo-shopping. People were continually opening drawers, or pointing into a room and whispering to their companion. "Look, hon. Wouldn't our sofa look amazing in that bare, mass-manufactured room?"
The whole experience was uncomfortably reminiscent of driving through a Calgary suburb, with cookie-cutter houses off the assembly line. Shudder.
I had dinner with Eliyanna, who I met at the wedding, at a fun little diner/café called PUSH. It was our server's first day, and she was resultingly scattered, but still cute. Eliyanna is awesome. We talked about sex conferences, and our wildly different appreciations of Spring Awakening, and politics, and her wife's Disney World fixation. She overpaid for her meal (for which I, the cash-deprived tourist, was most grateful) and hailed me a taxi going in the right direction. I learned how to distinguish occupied, vacant and off-duty taxis! It's not rocket science, but I hadn't clued in without guidance.
Off to PS 122! I'd been thrilled to discover, while walking home one night, that this world-famous performing arts venue was, like, next fuckin' door to Luke's. It's a public school-cum-performance space, with a really kick-ass vibe. I ventured through the somewhat labyrinthine hallways and emerged into the first performance site, a small black-box theatre. The seats were curtained off, and the audience - mostly standing, though there were two benches - surrounded a square, demarcated with a series of wooden structures. Wooden picture frames, stretched with white projector screens, were scattered around the edges, and a web of canvas rope hung from the ceiling.
So, yeah. My kind of set-up.
A woman split from the crowd and began a wide-eyed exploration of the square. A projection covered the floor, and we were introduced to The Passion of Joan of Arc.
I first saw the film at the final Mutton Busting Festival, when the Summerlad played a live soundtrack. I found it very off-putting then, and no less so now. There are nigh-constant close-ups on Joan, looking desperate, grief-stricken, pained, tortured, hopeless, confused, etc. Cut to a crowd of judgemental, angry men. Cut back to Joan. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum.
Granted, the film has a cool-and-weird history. The first version was lost to a fire, then the second version, spliced together from outtakes, was also lost to a fire. Years later, a third version is found in the closet of a mental hospital.
Like - shit, yo.
That, in large part, was the subject being tackled in The Passion Project. The square was surrounded on all sides by some pretty impressive projectors. The perormer spins and scurries about the space, thrusting frames in the air to pluck a face from nothingness - a judge, an accusor, Joan. She hangs a fram,e then holds up another, hangs it, takes them both down, holds up another, hangs it. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum.
Okay. There were solid elements. Often, a static, hanging frame would depict an observing judge or a member of the crowd, which by association positions us as members of the mob. At the end, she hangs all the frames, roping them together into a flaming pyre as Joan burns. The fragments of film, drawn from all three versions, nicely represent the film's own fiery demise(s). And it was created and directed by a dude who works with the Wooster Group. Let's face it, that's neat.
But it was boring. The dazzle of technology and the performer's technical aptitude wears off, and you've got a mournful woman desperately thrusting screens in the air to campture images of another mournful woman. Over and over again.
Such a cool concept. Such a great execution. Why couldn't it be more interesting?? Alas.
Then, down some stairs into a larger studio and Southern Promises.
I was surprised, given the venue's reputation, to discover a comparatively traditional theatre piece. Proscenium, script-based, the whole deal.
[SPOILER ALERT]
The story beings with the death of a slave-owner, who frees his slaves in his will. His wife reverses the will, then rapes the main male slave. Her brother-in-law comes to help her free the slaves, then professes love for her and they get married. He rapes the wife of the previously-raped slave. Shit goes south, white lady gives birth to black baby. Black lady is sold, black baby is murdered, white lady is murdered, black man escapes thanks to a large box and the U.S. Postal Service.
It was actually quite good. Shocking stuff - some very harshly racist portrayals, including liberal use of the word 'nigger', and profoundly disturbing scenes of violence, sexual and otherwise. My thoughts kept going backstage: actors who treat each other so horribly on stage, night after night, must have incredible bonds of trust and respect.
I'm not sure why this show was chosen for a space known for multidisciplinary innovation - unless I'm putting my own biased lens on PS 122 - but it was challenging, and politically important, and totally worth seeing.
Then! A few blocks southwest, for a performance of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, by the New York Neo-Futurists, as recommended by Ms. Amanda Middleton.
All I knew about the show, going in, was that it was touted as '30 shows in 60 minutes', performed by the NYC branch of a Chicago-founded group. Sketch?
I arrived relatively early (y'know, early by my standards). Having pre-bought a ticket, I was put into a special short line and given a toy. I got all four balls into their respective holes, which bonded me with the other four pre-purchasers: an elderly couple from hawaii, and a young couple. He works on Wall Street, which was apparently been crazy lately! Go figure.
Enter the Kraine Theater, under the KGB Bar and above a comedy club. A cozy little theatre. The rest of the audience files in slowly; the price is $10 plus the roll of a dice. As we enter, an earphone-clad woman shouts "What's your name?", then ignores your answer and scribbles something on a nametag. My name was "Mashed Up". We're given menus: 30 items, each with a different title. At the end of each "play", they say "curtain", at which point we shout out numbers. The performers snatch the first number they hear from an overhanging clothesline, and perform that scene.
It was a nightmare evening for them. First, the sound didn't work, forcing them to run sound from an on-stage portable stereo. Then a pipe starts leaking - a pretty hardcore leak - on the audience, leaving them to monitor the water level of hastily-placed buckets on top of everything else they're already doing.
Despite the various and extensive setbacks, the show was one of the highlights of my trip.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
New York Journal - Part Six
Blogging is an excellent avoidance technique.
September 20, 2008
Phew. Problem with journaling is that life keeps on happening, with no time to write it all down! Which, y'know, is ultimately good, but it leaves me a lot to catch up on.
So. Um. After L'Image, I wandered over to Boog City, a literary festival/book fair. I missed the event, arriving just as the crowd was dispersing. Two people were waiting for the rest outside; turns out the woman had read! I apologized for missing her performance. She said it was okay. On an unrelated note, she has a sailor suit.
I tagged along for the post-reading diner visit, which was attended by one Jessica Smith, a Facebook friend I'd never met in person. She is cute and quirky. I bought her book or, more specifically, her omelette.
They were definitely writers, maladjusted in particularly writerly ways. I can't identify right now exactly which ways those are - maybe it's been too long, or maybe their eccentricities are too vague to define. You can tell writers from actors from dancers, though. There's just... something.
I walked Jessica to the subway, waved to her from the opposite platform, picked up some beer, and went to bed.
... oh, and bought some frozen yogurt.
---
Aaaaand now I'm in Le Gamin Café, no real idea of where exactly, near the HERE Arts Center. It is enormously difficult to pee in the street here! People everywhere!
Had dinner with Janette at The Park, this wicked place in the West Village with an indoor garden and a killer atmosphere. We're not sure of the nationality of our server, Simona.
My server here is Russian! But I don't know her name. She seems scared of my chirpiness.
So! Uh. Yesterday! Went to MOMA in the afternoon, which was cool but reminded me that I'm bad at museums. I spent the first little while in my usual internal rant - Why bring all these works of art under a single roof, removing them from all context, dulling their unique allure through endless hallways of repeating canvases? I made what I thought was a very apt comparison between MOMA and IKEA (endless hallways? get it? c'mon.), then amused myself by taking pictures of tourists taking pictures of Andy Warhol paintings.
While I can't say that my cynicism completely left me, I have to admit that I became quite absorbed in some of the galleries. My art history needs some serious brushing up, but it was pretty fucking cool to stand in a room with original Picassos.
I was more in my element in the special collection - more context! It was an investigation into pre-constructed architecture, and the alleged revolution that pre-construction had in architectural practice. I was less than impressed. While, again, my knowledge of the subjet is severely lacking, the emphasis on cost-efficiency and productivity seemed more capitalistic than artistic, and the resulting structures were... well, kind of spartan and ugly. Plus, the architecture that has really impressed me (see: Water Centre) is entirely reliant on and respondant to its environment, so I had to question the quality of factory pre-fabricated structures. That being said, it provoked some very interesting questions, and I hoep to investigate the subject further.
I wish all my gallery experiences could be ala Chris Cran in the Lab, with personal anecdotes and wine. Not a reasonable expectation, perhaps, but one to strive for.
Also, experimental artists are assholes. Soup cans? Groceries? Narrow painted strips of red? Ballsy motherfuckers.
Also, if it says right on the blurb that the soup can paintings were originally displayed atop shelves, why not mount some fucking shelves?
I don't know if the music playing is Spanish, Italian or "other". Definitely not French.
September 20, 2008
Phew. Problem with journaling is that life keeps on happening, with no time to write it all down! Which, y'know, is ultimately good, but it leaves me a lot to catch up on.
So. Um. After L'Image, I wandered over to Boog City, a literary festival/book fair. I missed the event, arriving just as the crowd was dispersing. Two people were waiting for the rest outside; turns out the woman had read! I apologized for missing her performance. She said it was okay. On an unrelated note, she has a sailor suit.
I tagged along for the post-reading diner visit, which was attended by one Jessica Smith, a Facebook friend I'd never met in person. She is cute and quirky. I bought her book or, more specifically, her omelette.
They were definitely writers, maladjusted in particularly writerly ways. I can't identify right now exactly which ways those are - maybe it's been too long, or maybe their eccentricities are too vague to define. You can tell writers from actors from dancers, though. There's just... something.
I walked Jessica to the subway, waved to her from the opposite platform, picked up some beer, and went to bed.
... oh, and bought some frozen yogurt.
---
Aaaaand now I'm in Le Gamin Café, no real idea of where exactly, near the HERE Arts Center. It is enormously difficult to pee in the street here! People everywhere!
Had dinner with Janette at The Park, this wicked place in the West Village with an indoor garden and a killer atmosphere. We're not sure of the nationality of our server, Simona.
My server here is Russian! But I don't know her name. She seems scared of my chirpiness.
So! Uh. Yesterday! Went to MOMA in the afternoon, which was cool but reminded me that I'm bad at museums. I spent the first little while in my usual internal rant - Why bring all these works of art under a single roof, removing them from all context, dulling their unique allure through endless hallways of repeating canvases? I made what I thought was a very apt comparison between MOMA and IKEA (endless hallways? get it? c'mon.), then amused myself by taking pictures of tourists taking pictures of Andy Warhol paintings.
While I can't say that my cynicism completely left me, I have to admit that I became quite absorbed in some of the galleries. My art history needs some serious brushing up, but it was pretty fucking cool to stand in a room with original Picassos.
I was more in my element in the special collection - more context! It was an investigation into pre-constructed architecture, and the alleged revolution that pre-construction had in architectural practice. I was less than impressed. While, again, my knowledge of the subjet is severely lacking, the emphasis on cost-efficiency and productivity seemed more capitalistic than artistic, and the resulting structures were... well, kind of spartan and ugly. Plus, the architecture that has really impressed me (see: Water Centre) is entirely reliant on and respondant to its environment, so I had to question the quality of factory pre-fabricated structures. That being said, it provoked some very interesting questions, and I hoep to investigate the subject further.
I wish all my gallery experiences could be ala Chris Cran in the Lab, with personal anecdotes and wine. Not a reasonable expectation, perhaps, but one to strive for.
Also, experimental artists are assholes. Soup cans? Groceries? Narrow painted strips of red? Ballsy motherfuckers.
Also, if it says right on the blurb that the soup can paintings were originally displayed atop shelves, why not mount some fucking shelves?
I don't know if the music playing is Spanish, Italian or "other". Definitely not French.
New York Journal - Part Five
I cut my finger on a brand-new knife yesterday. It hurts to type.
Ouchie.
September 19, 2008
I'm now in a cute little Italian place near Luke's apartment. Interesting how I feel the need to situate each journal entry. Maybe that's why I never journal at home. "I'm in the bedroom. I'm in the living room. I'm in the office." Of course, with these entries, I'm always drinking, itself a kind of monotony.
Last night was cool! Check out L'Image at FIAF, which is huge. Chatted with the gallery curator afterward; apparently the cultural program alone has 50 employees. Fuck!
The theatre - which I guess is usually a catering hall - was laid end-to-end with sod. I wound up sitting cross-legged in the grass, presumably because I'm a hearty youth whose body is built to withstand such trials.
They're playing Frank Sinatra. Awesome.
A fly has tumbled to my table. It seems disabled. It buzzes, and shifts awkwardly, then lies still. A tragic figure, and I'm not sure that I can make its trials any less ... y'know ... trying.
So, L'Image. It was an impressive production, wherein a dancer, an actor and a media artist collaborated to dramatize a short story by Beckett. I quite liked the story: a disturbing and vivid portraid of a suburban (?) scene, a man, a woman, a field, a dog.
The problem: the elements didn't cohese. First, a projection of the translated text (in English) scrolled Star Wars-style up the wall. Partway through, a woman standing arm's-length from me, covered in tape and wires, started conducting an invisible symphony with subtle movements.
(Later, in the lobby, I asked about an incongruous sound mid-show. "I relaxed my hand," she admitted sheepishly.)
Then, the projection cuts and she folds into a fetal position for the rest of the show.
The actor picks it up. She speaks the text in its entirety, this time in French, complemented with sporadic and understated movements. She, too, collapses to the floor.
The dancer, this whole time, has been splayed on the grass as though he'd fallen from a far distance. He comes to life, leaping and spasming in startling, electric movements. His hands come to life and explore his body, eliciting a yelp when they reach his penis. He becomes a dog, traps his own pant leg in his jaws and leaps about.
Then he finishes, and bows, and the show is over.
All told, a thousand times more compelling than Spring Awakening. But for chrissakes, why not mix the movement-based music with the frenzied dance? The dance with the actor's dramatization? here is a performance that deserves a closing ensemble song-and-dance number. Instead, we get three translations/interpretations of an identical text, treading a predictable path.
Ouchie.
September 19, 2008
I'm now in a cute little Italian place near Luke's apartment. Interesting how I feel the need to situate each journal entry. Maybe that's why I never journal at home. "I'm in the bedroom. I'm in the living room. I'm in the office." Of course, with these entries, I'm always drinking, itself a kind of monotony.
Last night was cool! Check out L'Image at FIAF, which is huge. Chatted with the gallery curator afterward; apparently the cultural program alone has 50 employees. Fuck!
The theatre - which I guess is usually a catering hall - was laid end-to-end with sod. I wound up sitting cross-legged in the grass, presumably because I'm a hearty youth whose body is built to withstand such trials.
They're playing Frank Sinatra. Awesome.
A fly has tumbled to my table. It seems disabled. It buzzes, and shifts awkwardly, then lies still. A tragic figure, and I'm not sure that I can make its trials any less ... y'know ... trying.
So, L'Image. It was an impressive production, wherein a dancer, an actor and a media artist collaborated to dramatize a short story by Beckett. I quite liked the story: a disturbing and vivid portraid of a suburban (?) scene, a man, a woman, a field, a dog.
The problem: the elements didn't cohese. First, a projection of the translated text (in English) scrolled Star Wars-style up the wall. Partway through, a woman standing arm's-length from me, covered in tape and wires, started conducting an invisible symphony with subtle movements.
(Later, in the lobby, I asked about an incongruous sound mid-show. "I relaxed my hand," she admitted sheepishly.)
Then, the projection cuts and she folds into a fetal position for the rest of the show.
The actor picks it up. She speaks the text in its entirety, this time in French, complemented with sporadic and understated movements. She, too, collapses to the floor.
The dancer, this whole time, has been splayed on the grass as though he'd fallen from a far distance. He comes to life, leaping and spasming in startling, electric movements. His hands come to life and explore his body, eliciting a yelp when they reach his penis. He becomes a dog, traps his own pant leg in his jaws and leaps about.
Then he finishes, and bows, and the show is over.
All told, a thousand times more compelling than Spring Awakening. But for chrissakes, why not mix the movement-based music with the frenzied dance? The dance with the actor's dramatization? here is a performance that deserves a closing ensemble song-and-dance number. Instead, we get three translations/interpretations of an identical text, treading a predictable path.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
New York Journal - Part Four
Urgh. There have been better mornings.
Let's cheer up through another fabulous, adventure-filled blog post!
September 18, 2008
I feel great!
My schedule is getting crammed, and it's killing me! Slutty Puppets or experimental Beckett? Wooster Group rehearsal or ANGER/NATION? Bowery Poetry Club or Boog City Book Fair? Madness!
Saw my first Broadway show last night: Spring Awakening. It starred the older brother from Weeds. It sucked.
I like musicals; they're cheesy and excessive and fun. But the songs had no heart, and the narrative was uncomfortably moralistic, and there wasn't an ending, just an ensemble song-and-dance number that didn't resolve anything. Boo.
It's kind of nice to see crap on Broadway, though. A reaffirmation that I need innovation and experiment. Screw the mainstream!
Except for Rent. And possibly Avenue Q.
The bartender's finger is bleeding. Go team sanitation.
I'm attracted to dark pubs. Perhaps I should adjust my preference?
After that veggie burger I just ate, the answer is an unqualified yes. Need to start eating better, Hopkins, you motherfucker.
---
May be time to go off booze for a while.
Just checked out the Luxe Gallery, which had a comforting familiarity. Very New Gallery... no, more Stride. Anyway, a very artist-run vibe. Had some neat photography and video going on, especially this antique music video machine thing playing a ridiculous film shot in a wrestling ring.
I wish I were having more, y'know, life revelations or whatever. Well, I've had one. No more publicity. Keep working with Ghost River, keep publicizing my own shows, but that's it. I don't enjoy it. I get stressed. Time to stop.
I like the freedom here. I have my own schedule, and no expectations. Not realistic in "real life", tho. I put down roots, and I need income. Need to balance the day job with life.
Maybe Swallow-a-Bicycle can start paying. That'd rule.
Tonight: The Image by Samuel Beckett, in (presumably) its original French. Cool? Fingers crossed.
Then, maybe a movie.
Let's cheer up through another fabulous, adventure-filled blog post!
September 18, 2008
I feel great!
My schedule is getting crammed, and it's killing me! Slutty Puppets or experimental Beckett? Wooster Group rehearsal or ANGER/NATION? Bowery Poetry Club or Boog City Book Fair? Madness!
Saw my first Broadway show last night: Spring Awakening. It starred the older brother from Weeds. It sucked.
I like musicals; they're cheesy and excessive and fun. But the songs had no heart, and the narrative was uncomfortably moralistic, and there wasn't an ending, just an ensemble song-and-dance number that didn't resolve anything. Boo.
It's kind of nice to see crap on Broadway, though. A reaffirmation that I need innovation and experiment. Screw the mainstream!
Except for Rent. And possibly Avenue Q.
The bartender's finger is bleeding. Go team sanitation.
I'm attracted to dark pubs. Perhaps I should adjust my preference?
After that veggie burger I just ate, the answer is an unqualified yes. Need to start eating better, Hopkins, you motherfucker.
---
May be time to go off booze for a while.
Just checked out the Luxe Gallery, which had a comforting familiarity. Very New Gallery... no, more Stride. Anyway, a very artist-run vibe. Had some neat photography and video going on, especially this antique music video machine thing playing a ridiculous film shot in a wrestling ring.
I wish I were having more, y'know, life revelations or whatever. Well, I've had one. No more publicity. Keep working with Ghost River, keep publicizing my own shows, but that's it. I don't enjoy it. I get stressed. Time to stop.
I like the freedom here. I have my own schedule, and no expectations. Not realistic in "real life", tho. I put down roots, and I need income. Need to balance the day job with life.
Maybe Swallow-a-Bicycle can start paying. That'd rule.
Tonight: The Image by Samuel Beckett, in (presumably) its original French. Cool? Fingers crossed.
Then, maybe a movie.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
New York Journal - Part Three
Okay, seriously. Last one for tonight.
September 17, 2008
Oh god. My head. Oh god.
I was drinking for nearly 12 hours straight yesterday. Been a while since I've done that.
The wedding was lovely! To be continued.
I'm in a vegetarian restaurant, I forget the name, sitting next to an uber-depressing old couple. They're, I dunno, 65 or 70 years old. He doesn't say much. She says plenty. She asked him three times, in slightly different words, if he wanted to share a salad, then expounded on the details of the salad. When he stepped away to take a phone call (she gave him permission to take it outside, then prompted him to leave the table when it rang), she asked the server if there had been renovations to the restaurant since her last visit, three years ago. They had changed the lamps, and painted. She relayed this information to her husband upon his return. They ate in silence, interrupted only by her occasional question, "Do you like it?"
It just seems like they've been together so long, there's nothing left to talk about, which blows my mind. Politics! The impending stock market crash! Gossip! Arts! Bowel movements! There's an infinity of topics to discuss. Silly people. I hope I don't end up like that.
---
I'm now sitting in a park in the East Village. Some lady with a microphone is behind me, ranting about Satan and baptism. Some dude came up to me, said, "I'm sure this nice young man is on the internet. Are you on the internet, young man?" Then, "Are you religious?" Then he handed me a small flyer, with a list of anti-religion websites and books. Hilarious. Love it.
Lady with two dogs is on the bench near me. She's talking to "David", who she thought was trying to avoid her. Whether he was or not, they're chatting now. In New York accents. He called her a putz. Awesome.
Another dog-walker stopped to talk to her a few minutes ago. He introduced his dog. "He ain't had a woman in five years!"
Now she's alone on the bench, giggling to herself.
Got a fuckin' mosquito bite on my fuckin' elbow.
So yeah, the wedding was lovely. The ceremony was in the Secret Garden, a beautiful spot in the north-east corner of Central Park. It was short, and heart-felt. Jania was gorgeous and, yes, glowing. Chris was a handsome devil. A beautiful couple.
I met some cool people, who walked and subway'd with me to the Zipper Factory, a tavern/theatre, for the reception. I hit it off with Nicholas, Eliyanna, Helen and Janette, so hopefully our paths cross again! Also had a really nice chat with Kevin, the AD (?) of Rapid Fire.
Had some really intense conversations throughout the evening. Theatre, politics, sex trade, HIV, MS, brain tumours. Heavy stuff.
Split a cab with Eliyanna, then popped in to the Village Pourhouse for a nightcap. Started a really organic conversation with the bartender, Kim Marie, and all of a sudden we're in a bar down the street, and she's buying me tequila shots and telling me her life story. Very cool woman. She's an actor, taking a Master's in criminal psychology, raising her twin nephews. Fuck. So impressive.
Spent most of the day hungover in bed. Puked last night. Feeling a little better now. Hope it lasts.
September 17, 2008
Oh god. My head. Oh god.
I was drinking for nearly 12 hours straight yesterday. Been a while since I've done that.
The wedding was lovely! To be continued.
I'm in a vegetarian restaurant, I forget the name, sitting next to an uber-depressing old couple. They're, I dunno, 65 or 70 years old. He doesn't say much. She says plenty. She asked him three times, in slightly different words, if he wanted to share a salad, then expounded on the details of the salad. When he stepped away to take a phone call (she gave him permission to take it outside, then prompted him to leave the table when it rang), she asked the server if there had been renovations to the restaurant since her last visit, three years ago. They had changed the lamps, and painted. She relayed this information to her husband upon his return. They ate in silence, interrupted only by her occasional question, "Do you like it?"
It just seems like they've been together so long, there's nothing left to talk about, which blows my mind. Politics! The impending stock market crash! Gossip! Arts! Bowel movements! There's an infinity of topics to discuss. Silly people. I hope I don't end up like that.
---
I'm now sitting in a park in the East Village. Some lady with a microphone is behind me, ranting about Satan and baptism. Some dude came up to me, said, "I'm sure this nice young man is on the internet. Are you on the internet, young man?" Then, "Are you religious?" Then he handed me a small flyer, with a list of anti-religion websites and books. Hilarious. Love it.
Lady with two dogs is on the bench near me. She's talking to "David", who she thought was trying to avoid her. Whether he was or not, they're chatting now. In New York accents. He called her a putz. Awesome.
Another dog-walker stopped to talk to her a few minutes ago. He introduced his dog. "He ain't had a woman in five years!"
Now she's alone on the bench, giggling to herself.
Got a fuckin' mosquito bite on my fuckin' elbow.
So yeah, the wedding was lovely. The ceremony was in the Secret Garden, a beautiful spot in the north-east corner of Central Park. It was short, and heart-felt. Jania was gorgeous and, yes, glowing. Chris was a handsome devil. A beautiful couple.
I met some cool people, who walked and subway'd with me to the Zipper Factory, a tavern/theatre, for the reception. I hit it off with Nicholas, Eliyanna, Helen and Janette, so hopefully our paths cross again! Also had a really nice chat with Kevin, the AD (?) of Rapid Fire.
Had some really intense conversations throughout the evening. Theatre, politics, sex trade, HIV, MS, brain tumours. Heavy stuff.
Split a cab with Eliyanna, then popped in to the Village Pourhouse for a nightcap. Started a really organic conversation with the bartender, Kim Marie, and all of a sudden we're in a bar down the street, and she's buying me tequila shots and telling me her life story. Very cool woman. She's an actor, taking a Master's in criminal psychology, raising her twin nephews. Fuck. So impressive.
Spent most of the day hungover in bed. Puked last night. Feeling a little better now. Hope it lasts.
New York Journal - Part Two
Hm. This has become rapidly addictive. I think I'm procrastinating.
September 15, 2008
Oh god. My legs. Oh god. So tired.
There are a lot of very public ads for strip clubs. On taxis. Billboards. Very weird and discomfiting.
(Is that a word?)
I'm in Brasserie 360 ... somewhere in NYC. Somewhere on 60 St. Which runs east-west, because avenues run north-south. Fucked, hey? But I'm learning.
Times Square freaked me out, as I should've expected. Too corporate, too touristy, too busy. I arrived just as the fact that I hadn't eaten all day began to dawn on me, and just as my legs started to object strongly to anything but lying down for a nap.
I still need a nap, but I think I'm going to drink more beer instead.
Sleep tonight. Lots of sleep tonight.
---
Okay. I'm in bed.
Next time I vacation, I need to sleep before I leave. A full night's sleep, not this "accidental two hours" bullshit I keep pulling.
My schedule for the rest of the week is filling up, and I'm scared to even investigate further awesome art events, lest my head explode with overstimulation. If there's too much to do in Calgary, there's definitely too much to do here!
Had a nap in Central Park today. That was pretty cool.
Okay. Sleep now.
September 15, 2008
Oh god. My legs. Oh god. So tired.
There are a lot of very public ads for strip clubs. On taxis. Billboards. Very weird and discomfiting.
(Is that a word?)
I'm in Brasserie 360 ... somewhere in NYC. Somewhere on 60 St. Which runs east-west, because avenues run north-south. Fucked, hey? But I'm learning.
Times Square freaked me out, as I should've expected. Too corporate, too touristy, too busy. I arrived just as the fact that I hadn't eaten all day began to dawn on me, and just as my legs started to object strongly to anything but lying down for a nap.
I still need a nap, but I think I'm going to drink more beer instead.
Sleep tonight. Lots of sleep tonight.
---
Okay. I'm in bed.
Next time I vacation, I need to sleep before I leave. A full night's sleep, not this "accidental two hours" bullshit I keep pulling.
My schedule for the rest of the week is filling up, and I'm scared to even investigate further awesome art events, lest my head explode with overstimulation. If there's too much to do in Calgary, there's definitely too much to do here!
Had a nap in Central Park today. That was pretty cool.
Okay. Sleep now.
New York Journal - Part One
Well. Here we are.
I've been meaning to start a blog for some time now, partially inspired by the fabulous Melanie Jones, but I've been having a hell of a time actually taking the leap. Maybe I'll get into that particular problem in a future blog post!
In the meantime, to get my blogging career kick-started, I'm going to cheat and post some journal entries from my recent week-long trip to New York City. Starting with:
September 14, 2008
I'm in the Life Café (as featured in Rent, apparently, though I'm ashamed to admit I can't remember it), about to drink a Sixpoint Brownstone - on the house, because I killed the keg.
A bit darker than I wanted, but not bad.
"Bill Murray wuz here" in December 2004. Neat!
I'm couch surfing with some dudes named Luke and Malik, and it's pretty chill so far. They have a kick-ass penthouse, with two rooftop patios. And a giant TV! And they've been super welcoming; I can only hope they'll enjoy me as a guest. I'm their first surfer, so I need to make a bitchin' good impression.
Fuck. I keep dripping beer on the page.
So. Wow. New York. I'm pretty overwhelmed. So many people, so much life and vibrancy. And a lot of fuckin' buildings, a veritable seascape of them.
I snagged a wicked marinated tofu sandwich for dinner, on Malik's advice. There are veggie options all over the East Village. (I'm in the East Village! I sort of know what that means! Holy shit!)
God, I need to travel more. It's so revitalizing. I feel so goddamn jaded at home. Here, I'm nobody. So refreshing.
The streets and shops are bustling, and it's almost 10:30 pm. What is Calgary's problem?
I don't know where to start here. Tomorrow, I think I'll just walk and see what happens.
I just got pie! Yay! Apple pie; how American of me.
I need to vacation without Calgary jobs hanging over my head. Paris was carefree; all I had to worry about was the Hard Rock, and I barely gave two shits about that place. Here, I'm racking up long distance charges for gigs I barely give two shits about.
Ahhh. My life is nuts, in the sense that it should be way nuttier.
A dude just took my empty plate. I didn't realize he was a server. Mucho disconcerting.
I watched Iron Man on the plane, which pretty much ruled, and The Happening, which was as atrocious as the name implies. God. "The Happening". M. Night Shyamalan should have retired after The Sixth Sense.
What's the deal with Gwyneth Paltrow? I used to think she was huge. Pepper Potts is fairly significant in the Iron Man mythos, sure, but it's hardly a star-studded role.
There's a Life Café t-shirt, but it doesn't grab me. Plain text. I want more exciting, illustrated shirts. A dude on the plane was wearing a hoodie covered in trees, with a cartoon monster peeking out. It was striking and I wanted to tear it from his torso.
I'm in New York! Holy shit!
New York is so drenched in pop culture. It plays an integral role in - what? Marvel Comics, Rent, half the Hollywood films made in the past ten years.
I think I'll visit Ground Zero. It's a site that has greatly affected my life. Why not see it in person?
It's really hot here. I wish I'd brought shorts. I wish I had fashionable shorts.
Alright. Back to the couch!
I've been meaning to start a blog for some time now, partially inspired by the fabulous Melanie Jones, but I've been having a hell of a time actually taking the leap. Maybe I'll get into that particular problem in a future blog post!
In the meantime, to get my blogging career kick-started, I'm going to cheat and post some journal entries from my recent week-long trip to New York City. Starting with:
September 14, 2008
I'm in the Life Café (as featured in Rent, apparently, though I'm ashamed to admit I can't remember it), about to drink a Sixpoint Brownstone - on the house, because I killed the keg.
A bit darker than I wanted, but not bad.
"Bill Murray wuz here" in December 2004. Neat!
I'm couch surfing with some dudes named Luke and Malik, and it's pretty chill so far. They have a kick-ass penthouse, with two rooftop patios. And a giant TV! And they've been super welcoming; I can only hope they'll enjoy me as a guest. I'm their first surfer, so I need to make a bitchin' good impression.
Fuck. I keep dripping beer on the page.
So. Wow. New York. I'm pretty overwhelmed. So many people, so much life and vibrancy. And a lot of fuckin' buildings, a veritable seascape of them.
I snagged a wicked marinated tofu sandwich for dinner, on Malik's advice. There are veggie options all over the East Village. (I'm in the East Village! I sort of know what that means! Holy shit!)
God, I need to travel more. It's so revitalizing. I feel so goddamn jaded at home. Here, I'm nobody. So refreshing.
The streets and shops are bustling, and it's almost 10:30 pm. What is Calgary's problem?
I don't know where to start here. Tomorrow, I think I'll just walk and see what happens.
I just got pie! Yay! Apple pie; how American of me.
I need to vacation without Calgary jobs hanging over my head. Paris was carefree; all I had to worry about was the Hard Rock, and I barely gave two shits about that place. Here, I'm racking up long distance charges for gigs I barely give two shits about.
Ahhh. My life is nuts, in the sense that it should be way nuttier.
A dude just took my empty plate. I didn't realize he was a server. Mucho disconcerting.
I watched Iron Man on the plane, which pretty much ruled, and The Happening, which was as atrocious as the name implies. God. "The Happening". M. Night Shyamalan should have retired after The Sixth Sense.
What's the deal with Gwyneth Paltrow? I used to think she was huge. Pepper Potts is fairly significant in the Iron Man mythos, sure, but it's hardly a star-studded role.
There's a Life Café t-shirt, but it doesn't grab me. Plain text. I want more exciting, illustrated shirts. A dude on the plane was wearing a hoodie covered in trees, with a cartoon monster peeking out. It was striking and I wanted to tear it from his torso.
I'm in New York! Holy shit!
New York is so drenched in pop culture. It plays an integral role in - what? Marvel Comics, Rent, half the Hollywood films made in the past ten years.
I think I'll visit Ground Zero. It's a site that has greatly affected my life. Why not see it in person?
It's really hot here. I wish I'd brought shorts. I wish I had fashionable shorts.
Alright. Back to the couch!
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