Unibrows, low-lifes, and garbage compacting...

Ah, more New York happenings. Today feels like Friday. It's not Friday, but I've asked several of my co-workers and they all agree that it feels as if it should be Friday today. I wonder what tomorrow will be like. Perhaps we'll all just sleep in and forget to come to the office... Oh, that would be delightful.

I'm a little pooped because last night I was at the gallery until 9:15, manning the front desk for a benefit party and auction for Pure Vision Arts, an advocacy/representation group for artists with developmental disabilities. While I totally support the idea, and think it's really great that there are people dedicating themselves to helping artists who might have trouble getting representation otherwise, the evening in reality was really, really, really awkward. It was me, a bunch of caterers and organizers, two other people who work for the gallery (one of whom, who lives upstate, had just contracted Lyme disease a few days ago and we were basically trying to make sure she didn't pass out the whole time), and 200 guests. About a third of the guests had developmental handicaps ranging from Downs Syndrome to autism. It was... well... awkward. But the event was catered, I got paid overtime for doing very little, AND they had Perseco. So it's all good. I'm just a little tired today.

But, nevertheless, I've seen and heard some fun things in the past two days so I thought I'd post them for your entertainment!

1) Last night, during the event, I was in the lobby of the building talking to the night front desk man, George. He's great. While we were discussing home prices in New York versus Puerto Rico, a delivery man came in with a late dinner for someone on one of the upper floors. I don't know where this guy was from - he was white, spoke very good English, but had a heavy accent of some sort I couldn't quite identify. He was mostly bald on top, with salt and pepper hair around the sides, and the most AMAZING Unibrow I have ever seen. The thing was utterly glorious. I can hardly do it justice with words, people. Now, I am not exactly a fan of the Unibrow look, but when something is done right, you have to give credit where credit's due, and let me tell you - this Unibrow was the Platonic Ideal of Unibrows. It was thick, dark, and made a perfect V on this guy's forehad right between his eyes. Perfectly symmetrical. If Spok had a Unibrow, it would look like this man's. I was in awe. I didn't say anything to him about it, because I have a feeling he hasn't cultivated it purposely and he might be offended if I said anything. But, wow, I really wanted to shake his hand.

2) On my tired, several-Perseco-ed way home, I just got on the first train to come to 59th and Lex, without looking to see if it was a 4 or a 5. Turns out it was a 4, and I ended up at Yankee Stadium, really pissed off and tired and waiting for the downtown train along with every idiotic Yankee fan ever. Usually I identify with Yankees fans and try to appreciate their zeal, but last night I was NOT in the mood. I ended up getting on a train next to this dorky older guy and his 13 year old son, who was asking kind of annoying questions to his dad, who was then mumbling the answers unintelligibly. But I did catch this little gem of conversation:

13 year old boy: Dad, how long is this train ride going to take?
Dad: Well, it's about 10:15 now, and we're at 161st street, so I'd say, depending on the low-lifes, we'll get home around 10:45.

...I can't fathom what low-lifes would have to do with the length of a train ride. Maybe he meant the MTA? But then you'd think he'd say "The low-lifes at the MTA." Certainly there were lots of low-lifes among the people leaving the stadium, but they were all already on the train and couldn't hinder it from going whatever speed it wanted. I'm stumped.

3) This morning on the 5 on the way to work, two very tall guys got on at 125th Street and stood in the doorways of my car. They were being kind of loud and annoying, almost as if drunk, but it was 9:15 in the morning. Not that I'm judging anyone who's durnk at 9:15 in the morning. But... seriously. Anyway, at some point I looked toward the one guy and noticed a giant streak of SPIT runnng down the door and onto the floor in front of him, where it was forming a big frothy puddle. DUDE! If you have to spit THAT bad while you're on the train, go OUTSIDE and spit BETWEEN the cars! Don't f-ing spit on the FLOOR! God! The subway is filthy enough with all kinds of mysterious grime and dirt - the last thing we need is somebody spitting on the door AND the floor at 9:15 in the goddamn morning! I was so angry. Sometimes I really want to just get up in people's faces and yell at them about common decency and respect for one's fellow man, but... eh... I'd probably lose the fight. This IS New York.

4) I had to run to the post office at Rockefeller Center today to drop off a package. On my walk down 6th Ave, I passed a bunch of guys who were bringing large metal grates of some sort out of a back door of a building and across the sidewalk to a truck. I just tried to get past them without getting knocked down by one of the grates, but as I went by I heard this horrible crunching, grating, squealing noise, and turned to see tha the truck they were loading was a GARBAGE truck! There were a bunch of guys around it, loading the metal grates into it one by one and watching them get crushed by the giant compactor in the back of the truck. Funnest thing ever!!


And, lastly, from our friends at OverheardInNewYork.com:

Texting teenager: Is there two "L"s in "Fordham"?
Teenager's friend: Uhh...just one, I think.

Spring in the city!

It's just lovely out today, which is welcome after a few days of unseasonably cool weather, and everyone is out in their favorite spring dresses and shorts and flip-flops and such. This morning, getting on a crowded 5 train in the Bronx, I was stuck behind a very tall, large (big-boned, shall we say) woman who seemed excessively awkward while stepping into the car. She was in flip-flops and a light brown cotton sun dress, and I vaguely resented her for probably having her day planned around lounging in the park and going shopping while I had to sit inside the gallery and not even see the sunlight. I was annoyed and thought some vaguely mean thought about this woman, then forgot all about her once I got in and got a spot. However, at the the next stop I managed to nab a seat and found myself sitting facing her from across the car while she stood in the doorway.

I noticed her feet - they were huge. Which made sense, I supposed, given her height and breadth. But they were nicely pedicured. Whatever.

I turned to my book and read for a few minutes before the strangest voice broke through my reverie - it was like a Monty Python member dressed up as a granny kind of voice, but minus the British accent.

I looked up again and realized the tall awkward girl was in fact a very tall man in a strawberry blonde wig that did not in any way compliment his complexion. But I immediately liked her more than I had - you go, girl!

2 days till I leave for a short vacation on the beach! Wahooooooo!

So far today...

It is 11:30 am. I have been at work for an hour and a half. And already today, I have seen:

1) the biggest German Shepherd I have EVER seen in my life, on a leash held by a similarly large police officer;
2) a man on a fine spring morning wearing a crushed purple velvet blazer;
3) a chihuahua so fat its legs looked like they were only about an inch and a half long;
4) two homeless people with a shopping cart just as decked out as their bodies were in hand-crocheted... everything. Multi-colored. Multi-yarned. Multi-crocheted.
5) And this article about Cheerios being a drug.

Hm.

Well, there it is.

I have been unable to write, as I noted earlier, all week. I just. Can't. And today I've been really pushing myself to think of something, to put something cohesive together and just f-ing DO it. The advent of a tragedy in my life has forced me to re-evaluate a few things, namely the things I have control of in my own life, and I've realized that I am very, very frustrated with my lack of discipline and work ethic. Disappointed, mostly, because I have been blessed with an unstoppable drive to assert myself creatively on my world, but simultaneously have found myself possessed of a paralyzing fear of failure in my endeavors, and a lethargy that arises directly as a result of that fear. I am always tired, too tired to do the things I want to do, because if I were to energize myself and do them I would face the possibility of them going unrecognized. For example, I never paint things to keep, only to give away. When I do paint something for myself, I never finish it, always telling myself "Oh, that needs to be touched up a little before I show it to anyone." It's the same with stories. Poems don't even get started anymore.

What's really unfortunate is that, the more I look at my few finished projects and accomplishments, the more I realize that they are, in fact, quite decent. Some of them even border on GOOD. But I'm stuck at a place of uncertainty. New York, especially, is so intimidating in the depth and breadth of possibilities for a creative individual to earn a name and perhaps even a living, but I am absolutely terrified of moving forward to a point at which I could claim myself to actually BE one of those creative individuals on a professional level. No matter how much I create, I have never once voiced the assertion: "I am a writer." or "I am an artist." These are dreams for me, goals that if they were to be reached, would carry on their backs a weight too huge to imagine - the criticism and analysis of a public beyond my own, already severe and even punishing, critiques. Because, while New York is rife with opportunities, it is also a place with millions and millions of dark corners in which hide the failures of those who attempted to be heard. It's terrifying. Debilitating.

And so, rather than really trying to succeed, I continue to let myself languish in fear and self-indulgent criticism, telling myself over and over that I'm not good enough yet to make my debut. I never finish anything, letting my ideas pile up on top of each other. Ideas for ventures, businesses I could run on my talents, never get far enough to even advertise them. "I could paint murals in people's houses! I'll put them up in my apartment, take pictures, paint in friends' places, take pictures, and post them online! I could make a living that way!" Or "I could paint cups and saucers and sell them online!" Or "I could take commissions for paintings on canvas!" Or "I could have written a way better article on this for that blog!" or "I could really be a writer." But I don't DO it. Because I'm always too busy, or too tired, or too overworked, or too underworked and listless, or whatever. It's always something.

But the quote on Jenelle's Gchat today, "Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense -- the creative act" is making me think. A lot. Here I am making excuses, perfectly aware that they are only that: excuses. Painfully aware. But not changing the situation. I've been sitting her all day bemoaning how I'll never make a name for myself as a blogger if I don't WRITE anything, but again, I haven't been writing.

But then, a few minutes ago, something magical happened. There is indeed a muse. And he walked into my gallery. And he was a tall older man, probably from a Nordic country based on his accent and physique. He had a beard of mostly-salt and a little pepper. He was wearing a tasteful, but nonetheless plaid, suit. And he was also wearing... get ready... a FUR BERET. I am not kidding. He is still in the gallery as I'm typing this. In his fur beret. It looks like fox fur. I dont' even know where one would go to purchase such a splendid thing as this. I never would have even thought for a moment that somebody made these things. But behold. It is here. And it is glorious.

And when I saw it, I said to myself, "Well, there's your blog post for the day. It has nothing to do with anything, but it's remarkable enough to warrant a blog post, no doubt about that." And so I set in to write about it, and lo, I have instead bared my soul. And it feels good.

More Halloween musings, and a religious pamphlet I approve of!

Last night was Halloween. In case my rambling passage from yesterday passed you by. I'm not sure what exactly I was trying to say - obviously. But I was tired and annoyed at the day in general by the time I wrote it and wasn't thinking clearly enough to write anything worth reading. Still, I think there's a little nugget of truth in there somewhere if you dig for it.

Anyway, here I am, shamefully, at work the day after Halloween. I absolutely love Halloween and I wanted to be out till dawn last night, rocking out my fabulous Jessica Rabbit costume (still haven't come across a decent Maleficent costume I could afford... sigh...), then come in here today hung over enough to show what a blowout night I had. But alas, I was thwarted in my attempts at being ultra-NYC-party-fab-cool. By my shoes. As always. I don't know why I always seem to think I can get away with wearing ridiculous cheap shoes - they always kill me.
We stood out at the parade for an hour and a half, waiting for the Project Bueller ((http://projectbueller.tumblr.com/) float to go by, and by the time it passed and we had run after it, singing "Twist and Shout" and reveling in the fun, my feet were so sore that I had to hold on to Connor's arm to walk. So we ended up, rather than floating from bar to bar on the wings of our awesome costumed-ness, sitting barefoot on our friend's couch in Stuyvesant Town. Not that the party was lame or anything - it was actually a pretty great soiree- but I was definitely shut down by my shoes. Didn't want to go anywhere.

Why do I, and other women, keep doing this? Sure, my legs looked good in the 6-inch heels, and sure, they complimented my costume, but for God's sake, why did I think I would be ok to walk around in them all night without my body rebelling against the completely unnatural position into which they forced my body, and the loss of blood circulation they inflicted upon my toes? Why did I think a pair of $10 shoes from Danice in the Bronx would carry me around effectively all night? For that matter, why do we think the ridiculous shoes we buy, regardless of price, are ever a good idea? They are sometiems just as bad to our bodies and comfort level as foot binding was to Chinese women. They have become an implement of female torture in Western society, put into a positive light by the fact that they turn men on, and make women look oh so good. Popularized for women by Catherine de' Medici in the 1530's to increase stature and make one look fashionable, high heels have become a symbol of sex appeal in modern culture. Not only do they reek of sex, but women seem to have turned the logic of trying to attract men around, making the ability to walk confidently in stilletos and other crazy heels a matter of self-confidence and strength. Every day in midtown I see women walking around in five-inche stilleto boots and pant-suits; high-powered business women totter around in less-than-pencil-thin pumps, feeling fabulous because they think/know they look good and they can totally 'handle it.' And by 'it,' of course, I mean discomfort, difficulty balancing, and being forced to walk more slowly than normal in order to pay attention to where they place their feet. WHY?

The funny thing is - I'm ranting on and on about this, and I don't have an answer. Nor am I going to stop wearing heels. To be honest, I don't wear them nearly as often as many women, especially here in NYC, but I do have several pairs of 3-5 inch heels ranging from platform chunky versions to stilleto boots that I have to veer around subway grates and holes in the sidewalk in. And I will continue to wear them because... well... they make me feel awesome and sexy.
What can I do?


Also:
On my way into the subway this morning I was handed a religious pamphlet. Knowing I'd have a while to wait on the platform, I took one, thinking it would be a good laugh. But it was, surprisingly, well-written. And, bizarre-o faith language and fallacy-laden logic aside, it actually made some pretty good sense. It was about how salvation isn't a sure thing, and how even those who have been born again and who are very "good" practicing Christians must keep their eyes open and work at it to be sure they've been assured salvation. I don't really pretend to understand all the finer points of the reasoning in there, or the Scripture, or what have you, but I found no bad grammar, no misused punctuation, no nonsense sentences, no badly used words... In short, it was well written and appeared to have been edited by someone who knew what he or she was doing. There were a few standout sudden changes in point of view, but beyond that it was impeccably put to paper. I was cheered.

I am by no means a Christian, but I have no ill will toward the religion. It works well for some people, and like most other religions I think it's just one way of looking and experiencing the Great Mystery we all seek. And it's not a bad way to go. If you want, you can be an emotional Christian who falls down on your knees in passion and praises your God, or you can be an intellectual, ephemeral, philosophical Christian who uses very important and well-laid out theological texts for study and contemplation, or you can choose from any number of different paths to "salvation" between those two extremes. It's a wide open way of looking at life and what it means, and I think that's great. But I have read some pamphlets in my time that have turned the idea of being a Christian into this ultra-low-brow, horrendously conceived, and badly executed miraculous cure-all for all the ills of life. I have read misspelled words, grammar that a five year old should be able to correct, and arguments that simply made no sense, and I have grieved for Christians who seem to know what they're talking about relying on the skills of some hack who can hardly communicate what he wants for dinner, let alone the finer points of faith and religious dogma. It's just sad.

So Kudo's to Robert Lehigh, editor of "Bible Helps" pamphlets from Hanover, PA. I commend you.