Wednesday, 26 February 2003

Tuesday, 25 February 2003

What do you miss? Is it something you chose to give up and now regret? Or did it leave you without your consent, slipping away like youth? Were you faced with a choice, such as between cities, and it was only possible to choose one? Did you expect to miss it? Do you prefer the familiar empty space it creates in your chest, or would you rather feel nothing? Do you want it back unconditionally, or is there just a quality you miss about it, such as the way she tried to keep a straight face when telling a joke, or the way he looked at you when you were in the room? Do you avoid thinking about it, or do you turn up the volume when that song comes on? Or perhaps you are caught in between, far from the easier-to-manage extremes, and instead are sitting in a tangled mess of fence that broke beneath you long ago.



The Onion as a prophet.

Sunday, 23 February 2003

On Friday I hadn't planned to go out, but somehow I ended up seeing a band with a girl I barely know, upstairs in a club in Brooklyn where I'd never been, pulled up on top of a bench so that I could see the crowd-level stage, a padded, bouncy bench which moved underneath my feet as if there were someone inside of it trying to get out. On Saturday I'd planned to go to Luxx for a friend's birthday, but I hadn't planned on hanging out with a random collection of people I'd never met (none of whom had met each other, either), and I hadn't planned on seeing the sky begin to brighten as I was going to bed. On Sunday I'd planned to spend time with my friend Eric (who's visiting from Chicago), but I hadn't planned on spending so much money on dinner, and we hadn't planned on being the white people who cleared the dance floor in a club beneath the Chelsea Hotel. I am planning to do more careful planning, which includes plans to Stay at home. Spend less money. Be productive. Sleep.

Thursday, 20 February 2003

Like almost everyone else that I know, I initially didn't want a cell phone but I eventually gave in, and now (roughly one-and-a-half years later) I find myself ridiculously attached to it, since I rely on it to make plans and long distance calls and to get unlost. So on Monday, when my phone temporarily died, I suspected I would feel exaggerated-ly disconnected, but instead I feel a little bit free and elusive, kind of like the time I moved to Scotland and didn't tell anyone for a few days. Not that I'm not ready for it come back to life.



So today the weather was in the 40s, maybe it was 50, even; the sun was out, and people were gracefully moving around the sidewalk snow-mountains as if they were a normal fixture, an expected something that needs to be side-stepped, like a telephone pole or a mailbox. Everyone had also wised up to the death puddles, the ones that look deceptively shallow (thanks to the crumbs of snow skating on the surface), and chose to avoid them by employing the surrounding snow-mountains as staircases.

New York seemed to be in an unusually good mood today. When I ran an errand at lunch, I saw (and became part of) strangers exchanging jokes and greetings and held doors. In the drug store, I heard an 80s song I haven't heard in years—one of those lite FM songs that I like only because I thought it was good when I was 7. From the middle of the store, I heard the pharmacist immodestly singing along in the back, and in the front, I passed another guy who was whistling along. The choreographed dance on the countertops must have happened after I walked out the door.

Tuesday, 18 February 2003

We watched her conversion from virgin to whore, a process we all expected, and one that only took two days. I must admit I helped spoil her, tromping through her dry, fine powder yesterday with Stef, jumping in her skirts and kicking her to the side. From sparkly white to yellowish gray to salty brown. By the time I left work today, she stood quietly out of the way, just next to my path rather than under it, forming a jagged wall sculpted by shovels. Her revenge is felt in the damp subways and beneath slippery boots.

Sunday, 16 February 2003

Sort of by accident, I've been introducing friends from different areas of my life to each other, marrying independent relationships so that I am no longer the sole joint that holds them together. It's been less of a conscious move to form triangles and squares and pentagons out of my friendships, and more of a way to see my friends, to bring pieces together that are normally scattered, in hopes that they will like each other for some of the same reasons I like all of them. Last night I invited some of those pieces over, and, fortunately, they formed a surprisingly smooth puzzle, albeit one that will probably be assembled exactly once. We spent a few hours at my place, eventually leaving for an electro-clash club that's around the corner, shedding and acquiring some of the pieces. The evening went at least as well as I had hoped.

I'd gone to the protest earlier in the day. It was good, of course, to see so many people—different types of people—congregating in the cold because of their concern for the world. More cops than I'd ever seen before, standing in formation with their legs in upside-down Vs, one shiny black shoe touching the next, and decked out in riot gear: helmets with clear shields, night sticks and plastic zip-tie handcuffs hanging off their belts. Of course there were lots of homemade signs, lots of energy, spurts of chanting. The organism was spread out over several streets, and, as a result, it was impossible for me to appreciate its size. I was disappointed that I didn't get to hear the speakers, which is the part that means the most to me, and I felt much more like an onlooker than a participant, signless and camera-laden. Still, glad I was there.

Now, Sunday, and the snow is pouring out of a hole in the sky, not down, but directly horizontal, as if gravity has been reworked. Twelve to 20 inches...? The plastic on the building-in-progress outside of my window is shrieking as it's being whipped around, but everything else is silent. My friend Stef, who's visiting from Raleigh, is likely not going home tomorrow.

Wednesday, 12 February 2003

Angela lives in a bright yellow house in the Hollywood hills, on a steep and narrow street a short walk from the infamous letters. On Saturday morning, Ryan-Scott-Angela-I hiked a path that looped the hills; it started with dirt decorated with horses and transformed itself into pavement lined with curvy, smooth houses. We walked in a staggered formation, giving in to the inevitable pairing off of the multi-person walking unit. It was only a few days ago, but it was a different season, and I already forget what I was laughing about.

Before it started to get dark, Scott and I left Hollywood for Venice Beach to film a little "movie" he had in his head, which involved me following him with the camera down the speedway, and me sitting on a stool in a cafe, pretending to be cool and detached. I won't bother trying to explain the story or even tell you my lines, because it wouldn't make much sense to you either, but I will say that it was surprisingly fun. Ariel agreed to help out and do some of the filming, which was brave of her, as she'd met neither of us before. When we were finished, she and I got a drink and squeezed lots of words into a short amount of time.

I stayed back in Hollywood that night, back at Angela's, where I ate a really good meal and got reacquainted with someone I haven't really known for years and climbed up a steep staircase with a flashlight and sat in a metal chair on a patio that seemed to hover above nighttime Los Angeles. The next morning, Angela drove me back to winter/cat/work/subway/snow.

Monday, 10 February 2003

Friday, still in LA. Catherine had the good idea to make reservations at Largo to see Jon Brion, a producer and musician who plays there every week. In addition to reservations, it took ten dollars to get in and a minimum of ten spent on food, which was not hard, since a single glass of wine was worth seven, and each entree easily surpassed ten. The five of us (Catherine, Ryan, Scott, Raphael, me) sat in a leather C booth at the edge of the stage, just under the speaker, and ate our pasta dishes in near darkness.

It didn't bother me that my food was drowned in powerful shards of garlic, that I couldn't see what I was eating, or that it was too expensive for what it was—or, I guess I mean I stopped caring about those things once Jon Brion started playing. Aside from being an amazing musician and singer, he was funny. And aside from that, he was an incredible improviser. Responding to a few yelled suggestions from the audience, he effortlessly turned Billie Jean and Somewhere Over the Rainbow into a single, coherent song. Later, the audience requested the apparently regular "sing along" segment (during which we helped him sing California Dreamin' and I'm Looking Through You).

His main specialty seemed to be this trick in which he played and recorded a riff on the drums that would loop after he stepped away. He would then calmly hurry to the piano and do the same thing—play and record, in sync with the drum riff he'd just produced. Then he'd pick up his guitar and play it like a bass, record that, follow it with the rhythm guitar, and then play lead guitar and sing while all five pieces he'd just created were playing simultaneously. Watching this process reminded me how absurd music awards shows are, how the mildly talented stage whores are awarded for being the very best in the industry, while the truly proficient are known by far less people. Though perhaps they want it that way.

The five of us played musical chairs, moving around in our anti-social C until everyone had a chance to sit by everyone else, until we finally slipped out hours later.

[the conclusion of this trip, I hope, tomorrow]



Gulf War 2 projection (done in Flash). It's a game, sort of. Just keep clicking "continue."

Sunday, 09 February 2003

The flight attendants are chatty. The burgandy-haired plump woman with the painted-on eyebrows and fake blue eyes might want to know where you're from and if you're Italian, 'cause you look just like this Italian friend of hers. She might nudge you and wink and tell you, "I can sell ice to Eskimos" and produce a hearty laugh. Thankfully, she did neither to me.

Then there's the effeminate male flight attendant with the closely cropped hair who has buttons pinned all over his apron (one says something about "hatred" being a bad thing), and I get the impression he is more amused by his own talking than his audience is, which doesn't seem to bother him. He just chided a person for trying to throw away an empty plastic bag that read "I [heart] LA.," telling the people within a seven-row radius how he really does love LA, and how that bag might aid him in letting people know. A minute later he traipsed by wearing the bag folded over his apron like a bib over top of his button collection. "See?!" he said, as he walked by.

An hour later, he walked down the aisle, swinging the bag over his head in a figure 8. "It's all about you," he said, pointing at the original owner. At the end of the flight, the plane learned over the loudspeaker that he had just won an award for his biscotti recipe in the Pilsbury Bake-Off, an announcement that was met with light, scattered applause.



I passed through three stages: hating it, having an understanding for why people live there, and not wanting to leave. Not that I think LA and I are especially compatible; for the past few days, though, I have learned how to overlook the offensive parts, and to briefly suspend my guilt that clings to the consumption-lifestyle of shelling out money liberally and cruising around aimlessly. Aimlessly, with open windows between my bare arms and the sun and blue sky, with a cleverly hidden CD player perched on the hump between the driver's and passenger's feet.

Thursday. I sat in the grass in a park in West Hollywood. Not a terribly exciting thing to do, but it had occurred to me how rarely I've had that opportunity in the past several months, thanks to weather and relieved dogs and a general lack of grass. I sat in the grass between tennis players and Russian card players, gently pulling up blades with my fingers while discussing cities and plans and while thumbing through key chains.

Later, Ryan took me to the Getty, where we were pulled to the top of a hill by what seemed to me to be a sort of Disneyland subway, safe and clean and slow. It was a low-smog day, so we were able to see both the tall buildings of downtown and the ocean relatively clearly, once our eyes had adjusted to the blinding white outdoor patios. We strolled through two exhibits, in addition to the museum grounds themselves, which I guess could count as a third. We saw Dorothea Lange's photography, which was mostly composed of closely cropped black-and-white images of people in harder times, full of deep wrinkles and sad eyes and furrowed brows, and something called "The Passions," which was an incredible exhibit of LCD screens whose images would slowly morph while you patiently watched. It was a study of human emotion, and, without the help of sound, you could tell with some accuracy what the people were feeling, and you could see the awkward transition of the human face that is sometimes accidentally captured in still photography.

Post-Getty. Ryan, Catherine, and I sat on a crest of sand in Venice Beach and watched the easily accessible sunset before going to the Stones concert, which was in the arena where I was told the Lakers play. It was strange seeing TVs displaying the NRDC logo in such an outwardly corporate venue, seeing sporadic people wearing the NRDC staff badge and not knowing who they were (most likely West Coast-ers), and even stranger seeing people I knew from New York and DC. Ryan, Scott, and I looped the arena twice before committing to our seats, amusing ourselves by playing PPPS.

Bill Clinton, whose profile I had a clear shot of from my stage-left seat, spoke for about five minutes about NRDC and global warming and how the Rolling Stones were the best rock band ever. Most of the crowd cheered between each phrase that he uttered, whether appropriate or not. Faint were the boos and the smell of smoke, which drifted down from the section above me halfway into the first song.

Mick is 59, and is incredibly energetic. He moves like an unusual, limber animal, sticking his chest out and jabbing his arms and elbows and skinny knees into the air like no one I've ever seen. Keith bends over and lets his guitar swing in front of him like a giant necklace, or perhaps more like an albatross, as it appeared to weigh him down considerably. At one point he accepted the microphone from Mick, and proceeded to gurgle something into the mic that I could only guess at. They played for almost three hours; my friends and the talkative women in the bathroom whom I overheard agreed that it was impressive.

[more tomorrow]

Thursday, 06 February 2003

The flight was long and hot. I changed planes in Detroit, where I caught a glimpse of the reddest sun I think I've ever seen; it loomed like a giant angry laser over a near-perfect grid of industry. It was the second part, from Detroit to LA, that was cramped, warm, and antsy. And now that I'm here, I'm struggling to remember this part of the planet, and if it ever felt normal to me. I don't think it did. Perhaps it'll look different once I've had a chance to absorb it; right now, I feel foreign outside of the dark, nicely imperfect, tall New York.

Wednesday, 05 February 2003

Find someone to feed the cat.
Change the litter box.
Take out the trash.
Pack lots of forgotten warm-weather clothing.
Remember to bring my cell phone, binoculars, plane tickets, concert tickets.

In less than an hour, a quick, quiet taxi driver will hover in the middle of my street until I emerge with an enormous green unit of belongings, a camera, a computer, and reading material. Then we will speed off to LaGuardia in sparse, Wednesday-afternoon traffic, and he will deposit me on the sidewalk with my canvas children. From there I will cross the United States thousands of feet in the air, on a cheap airline I've never heard of before, and I will land in Los Angeles, where I'll spend the next four days. Tomorrow I'll use my complimentary pass to see the Rolling Stones play (a concert they're giving for my organization, to increase awareness of global warming), I'll see Bill Clinton introduce the band (apparently from relatively good seats), and I'll meet some people I know from the Internet and elsewhere. I'm going to spend unusual amounts of time in a car.

Sunday, 02 February 2003

I don't really mind carrying an army bag full of clothes around the block, reading for a couple hours in a cold, plastic chair, or giving up a few quarters for clean clothes. I don't even really care that the washing machine takes an unusually long 54 minutes. What bothers me are the people who scream at their kids when their mouths are just inches from my ear, the kids who ram the rolling baskets into my legs repeatedly, tripping over my tucked-in legs as they run in circles around the machines, and the people who obliviously slam their finished bag of laundry into my head as they walk past me.



So, finally, I've put up some pictures I took last September and October, pictures from Coney Island and the NY Aquarium. There's a description on the photos page, and there are more pictures on the way, relatively soon.

Saturday, 01 February 2003

It's strange seeing a room that was once yours decorated by other people, their furniture pushed up against walls in ways you hadn't considered. Since my last place was essentially a giant open space (without much wall-space to dictate the arrangement), there are even more options for variation, ways to make it unlike mine. It's also strange how you can feel possessive about a place even though it no longer belongs to you, and even though your replacements have been there much longer than you ever were. Not that I regret leaving.

There was a party at my old place last night, an event that made it hard to pull myself from my bed this morning in time to see the parades in Chinatown. Parades plural, because there were several pockets of lions and drummers, all moving in different directions in the midst of the crowd. The lions were powered by people—one person in the front, their body sticking up through the lion's fat neck, and another underneath a train of cloth, pretending to be the lion's ass. They moved quickly and jerked in practiced rhythm, back and forth, up and down, making it easy to forget that the lion was, by itself, an inanimate mask. Behind every lion was a loyal percussion army, slowly walking in line behind their respective lion while marrying cymbals and beating giant drums with short, thick sticks.

Sometimes Chinese kids carrying long wooden poles would press back the people as to make room for the lion entourage, and sometimes it just plowed through the center without any help, with a pack of people trailing behind it. Lots of Chinese people, of course, though not exclusively, and lots of beautiful ornate satin, poking out from beneath long, thick coats. Lots of firecrackers, kids throwing powder in the street to produce a satisfying bang, stomping on it forcefully when it needed encouragement. Lots of paper lamps, red and gold, and fish carved out of colorful stone. Lots of cameras, and lots of spiky, gelled hair.

At one point I just stood in the middle of a crowded intersection underneath a paper accordion dragon and let the chaos pass by me as if I were a drain. It seemed to be the best way to see everything, to stand still, rather than move with it and become part of the organism.

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