I have retreated into the wilds of Sweden. I hope to offer some blogging insights to my attendance at a Swedish wedding on July 2nd, but they might have to wait until my return on July 6th.
If you have any dire advice to offer in the days ahead, please feel free to offer a comment or two.
Take care,
Deckard
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Answers for ~JeR~
I'm normally not a big fan of these, but it's a good way to get to know some fellow-bloggers that I admire and vice-versa.
First, the rules:
Rules of the game:
1. Leave a comment saying "interview me"
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions.
3. You will update your blog with the questions and your answers.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview some else in same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed you ask them 5 questions.
All righty then. Let's get to it!
1. If you could choose one song as your personal theme song, which one would it be and why?
That's a hefty question to ask of a rock music fan. There are so many that represent who I was, but what represents me now?
Somehow, the first song that popped into my head was "Sunken Treasure" by Wilco. The words and chords have always rung true for me.
2. Who's your hero? (interpret this any way you want)
Hero... well, first it was Han Solo, then it was Indiana Jones, then I grew up. As inspiring as Obi Wan Kenobi was, negotiating the lava flows and kicking Anakin's ass, I'd have to say that it was my grandmother - my mom's mom. She was the wife of a farmer and survived the depression, took care of 7 children under hard conditions, lost 3 of them before she passed away, and never complained until the last couple years when she couldn't see (she loved to make quilts and knit). She had this unshakable view that beautiful and terrible things could and would happen in life and you dealt with it, then moved on. The amazing thing was that she wasn't callous or in-denial about it either. It was just that she didn't expect life to be fair or give her things simply because she wanted them and cared about them. She was the mold that made me coin the phrase 'a closet optimist'. She was rarely what I would call positive, but if she saw you started getting down on yourself, she'd sneak you a glimpse of hope that'd get you through.
And that frigging woman visited my family and me in every city the U.S. Army stuck us. In the late 70's she braved her first airplane ride to see us in Alaska and in her mid-80's, flew to Germany to visit us. She lived simply on Corn Flakes and green beans whenever she was at home then enjoyed the last laugh by leaving hundreds of thousands of dollars to her children that nobody knew she had.
3. What's your most embarrassing moment? (I know, cliche question, but the answers can be funny)
Oh, ~JeR~.... where should I begin?
Well, I don't know how funny it is, but the most embarrassed I've ever felt In The Moment would have to be the gala party that I attended a year and a half ago with my girlfriend.
Kat works at a not-for-profit organization that has a huge, fundraising gala at the Essex House along Central Park South. It was the first year that the organization was allowing significant-others to attend and Kat was excited because they had an open bar (always a great way to bribe me), a swanky, multi-course meal, and petit fours (tiny cakes and chocolates... Kat's into cute, little chocolatey things). I even performed the incredibly Un-Deckard act of purchasing a suit (my first) for this event. Kat was smitten by the sight of her stylin' boyfriend (I think it was the Cosmos talking) and we had a great evening... until the end.
I have always had a little problem with my feet. If I don't have good arch support, they can start to hurt. Back in 2003, we had a big blackout in NYC, Kat and I were in Queens, and it took 7 hours to walk home. My feet were hurting so bad, I couldn't walk for 2 days. A week before the big gala, I finally broke down and visited a podiatrist. The guy fitted me for a pair of arch supports and a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication.
When I popped my pills, between the open bar course and the dinner course, I had forgotten that one of the warnings that come with my medication was to not drink alcohol when I take the medication. After the dinner and speech-making, I stepped outside with Kat and her co-workers to enjoy my one-per-year cigarette habit.
Then, I woke up on the living room couch. I had NO idea how I got there. My suit was off and covered in puke. I smelled like puke. And Kat was furious - wait, I'm sorry, let me try that again. And Kat was FURIOUS. I had gotten sick on the subway, puked into the petit fours leftovers Kat had meticulously-saved from the gala. Through some miracle, Kat managed to guide me home (NOTE: I am 9 inches taller and 80 pounds heavier than her). She was sure that I had gotten drop-down drunk and was ready to kill me. I got sick at home. Sick in the tub. Then, after sitting up with me for a couple hours to make sure that I didn't pass out or perform some kind of Elvis Presley offing, she undressed me and dumped me on the couch. In retrospect, Kat said that if she'd known that I'd taken the medication, she would have immediately called an ambulance and had me taken to the hospital. I have never appreciated and loved anybody so much as the moment I realized how much Kat had withstood and done for me.
I had never felt so terrible in my life. I thought that I must have been guilty of drinking too much even though I didn't feel like I'd really drank very much. I have never been in a state where I couldn't remember things, much less 6 hours of my life. Midway through the day, I remembered the medication, looked up the warning on my medication sheet and realized exactly how stupid I was.
So, there it is.
4. If you had the opportunity to travel back in time to kill little baby Hitler, could / would / should you do it? (Hey, one weird question out of five ain't bad...)
No, I wouldn't. I've never ascribed to the idea that history could (or should) have gone another way. Even the most heinous acts in history are evolutionary steps for humanity. I don't believe in fate, but there is something about the momentum of a society. Hitler was terrible, but it was a symptom of something much larger. I wish that I point to a person or event and say "That is pure evil!" and remove the problem, but it's a game of Jenga - sometimes you can't know which piece will come out clean and which will bring the whole thing down.
5. What's your biggest guilty pleasure?
Tater tots and aspartame (Diet Crack - I mean, Coke). Time, space and logic warp whenever I get too close to these things. 'Enough' loses all meaning.
First, the rules:
Rules of the game:
1. Leave a comment saying "interview me"
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions.
3. You will update your blog with the questions and your answers.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview some else in same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed you ask them 5 questions.
All righty then. Let's get to it!
1. If you could choose one song as your personal theme song, which one would it be and why?
That's a hefty question to ask of a rock music fan. There are so many that represent who I was, but what represents me now?
Somehow, the first song that popped into my head was "Sunken Treasure" by Wilco. The words and chords have always rung true for me.
2. Who's your hero? (interpret this any way you want)
Hero... well, first it was Han Solo, then it was Indiana Jones, then I grew up. As inspiring as Obi Wan Kenobi was, negotiating the lava flows and kicking Anakin's ass, I'd have to say that it was my grandmother - my mom's mom. She was the wife of a farmer and survived the depression, took care of 7 children under hard conditions, lost 3 of them before she passed away, and never complained until the last couple years when she couldn't see (she loved to make quilts and knit). She had this unshakable view that beautiful and terrible things could and would happen in life and you dealt with it, then moved on. The amazing thing was that she wasn't callous or in-denial about it either. It was just that she didn't expect life to be fair or give her things simply because she wanted them and cared about them. She was the mold that made me coin the phrase 'a closet optimist'. She was rarely what I would call positive, but if she saw you started getting down on yourself, she'd sneak you a glimpse of hope that'd get you through.
And that frigging woman visited my family and me in every city the U.S. Army stuck us. In the late 70's she braved her first airplane ride to see us in Alaska and in her mid-80's, flew to Germany to visit us. She lived simply on Corn Flakes and green beans whenever she was at home then enjoyed the last laugh by leaving hundreds of thousands of dollars to her children that nobody knew she had.
3. What's your most embarrassing moment? (I know, cliche question, but the answers can be funny)
Oh, ~JeR~.... where should I begin?
Well, I don't know how funny it is, but the most embarrassed I've ever felt In The Moment would have to be the gala party that I attended a year and a half ago with my girlfriend.
Kat works at a not-for-profit organization that has a huge, fundraising gala at the Essex House along Central Park South. It was the first year that the organization was allowing significant-others to attend and Kat was excited because they had an open bar (always a great way to bribe me), a swanky, multi-course meal, and petit fours (tiny cakes and chocolates... Kat's into cute, little chocolatey things). I even performed the incredibly Un-Deckard act of purchasing a suit (my first) for this event. Kat was smitten by the sight of her stylin' boyfriend (I think it was the Cosmos talking) and we had a great evening... until the end.
I have always had a little problem with my feet. If I don't have good arch support, they can start to hurt. Back in 2003, we had a big blackout in NYC, Kat and I were in Queens, and it took 7 hours to walk home. My feet were hurting so bad, I couldn't walk for 2 days. A week before the big gala, I finally broke down and visited a podiatrist. The guy fitted me for a pair of arch supports and a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication.
When I popped my pills, between the open bar course and the dinner course, I had forgotten that one of the warnings that come with my medication was to not drink alcohol when I take the medication. After the dinner and speech-making, I stepped outside with Kat and her co-workers to enjoy my one-per-year cigarette habit.
Then, I woke up on the living room couch. I had NO idea how I got there. My suit was off and covered in puke. I smelled like puke. And Kat was furious - wait, I'm sorry, let me try that again. And Kat was FURIOUS. I had gotten sick on the subway, puked into the petit fours leftovers Kat had meticulously-saved from the gala. Through some miracle, Kat managed to guide me home (NOTE: I am 9 inches taller and 80 pounds heavier than her). She was sure that I had gotten drop-down drunk and was ready to kill me. I got sick at home. Sick in the tub. Then, after sitting up with me for a couple hours to make sure that I didn't pass out or perform some kind of Elvis Presley offing, she undressed me and dumped me on the couch. In retrospect, Kat said that if she'd known that I'd taken the medication, she would have immediately called an ambulance and had me taken to the hospital. I have never appreciated and loved anybody so much as the moment I realized how much Kat had withstood and done for me.
I had never felt so terrible in my life. I thought that I must have been guilty of drinking too much even though I didn't feel like I'd really drank very much. I have never been in a state where I couldn't remember things, much less 6 hours of my life. Midway through the day, I remembered the medication, looked up the warning on my medication sheet and realized exactly how stupid I was.
So, there it is.
4. If you had the opportunity to travel back in time to kill little baby Hitler, could / would / should you do it? (Hey, one weird question out of five ain't bad...)
No, I wouldn't. I've never ascribed to the idea that history could (or should) have gone another way. Even the most heinous acts in history are evolutionary steps for humanity. I don't believe in fate, but there is something about the momentum of a society. Hitler was terrible, but it was a symptom of something much larger. I wish that I point to a person or event and say "That is pure evil!" and remove the problem, but it's a game of Jenga - sometimes you can't know which piece will come out clean and which will bring the whole thing down.
5. What's your biggest guilty pleasure?
Tater tots and aspartame (Diet Crack - I mean, Coke). Time, space and logic warp whenever I get too close to these things. 'Enough' loses all meaning.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
reaping just What we sow
Why do people willingly suffer so much compromise in their lives, then Demand that their wedding day be Perfect? Can any soul recall a moment, planned months in advance, that went Just the Way they wanted it and was Perfect? If so, please e-mail me immediately. I went to a wedding last Friday that was Easily the most entertaining, free event that I've ever witnessed. For the bride and groom, it was considered a disaster. Human fallibility, once again, Conspired to bring the best-laid plans to ruin.
A year ago, poor Kat was roped into being a bridesmaid when a close friend and co-worker eagerly announced her engagement with her boyfriend. Kat hadn't been a bridesmaid and knew nothing of wedding culture so she eagerly accepted the invitation. Soon after, Kat's friend got another job and left, then came the familiar progression:
MONTH 1: 'We'll be best friends forever!'
MONTH 3: Oh, we need to do this-and-this-and-this together.'
MONTH 5: 'Ohhh... I'd love to but I've got this thing - but I'll call you!'
MONTH 8: 'Sorry I didn't get back to you in time, but I Miss You!'
MONTH 10: 'Things are crazy. Will send you an update SOON...'
MONTH 13: 'I never got that e-mail.'
Kat had a hard time watching the relationship dissolve away, as all such things do when only one person is available. As her friend became increasingly-invested in buying the Perfect Day, the process only exacerbated the situation. I am an Army brat and have endured these progressions all my life, but you never get used to it - you get clearer at spotting the stages. Kat's situation worsened as bridesmaid duties (expenses) began to mount - the dress she will never wear again, the dowdy shoes that go with nothing else she owns. Kat earnestly tried to keep positive, but when it was announced that the bachelorette party was taking place in Florida, she hesitated. When she was told that it was for only one night and the maid-of-honor tried to solicit her for group-gift money, she pulled out (working part-time and painting doesn't pay the big bucks like it used to).
On Friday afternoon, I left work early, took the 4 line down to Wall Street (the least holy site in Manhattan) and scrambled up and down side streets in search of a church. Only the wedding bells and the white silhouette of an anxious bride preparing for the big walk, pointed me in the right direction. I ducked into a side door, found an empty pew and planted myself at the end furthest from the center aisle.
The details of this wedding are incriminating-enough that I feel compelled to bury them in a piece of fiction far in the future. The previous night's festivities carried over to the wedding day festivities. Let's just say that the following events might have occurred:
groom (hung over from night before) puked During an extended, Catholic ceremony
bride swore blue fire for the next 5 hours
I enjoyed an open bar, salacious gossip, a beautiful view of Brooklyn, and a fantastic meal
bride got revenge by puking at reception
home by 11:30
Ahh... sounds perfect to me!
A year ago, poor Kat was roped into being a bridesmaid when a close friend and co-worker eagerly announced her engagement with her boyfriend. Kat hadn't been a bridesmaid and knew nothing of wedding culture so she eagerly accepted the invitation. Soon after, Kat's friend got another job and left, then came the familiar progression:
MONTH 1: 'We'll be best friends forever!'
MONTH 3: Oh, we need to do this-and-this-and-this together.'
MONTH 5: 'Ohhh... I'd love to but I've got this thing - but I'll call you!'
MONTH 8: 'Sorry I didn't get back to you in time, but I Miss You!'
MONTH 10: 'Things are crazy. Will send you an update SOON...'
MONTH 13: 'I never got that e-mail.'
Kat had a hard time watching the relationship dissolve away, as all such things do when only one person is available. As her friend became increasingly-invested in buying the Perfect Day, the process only exacerbated the situation. I am an Army brat and have endured these progressions all my life, but you never get used to it - you get clearer at spotting the stages. Kat's situation worsened as bridesmaid duties (expenses) began to mount - the dress she will never wear again, the dowdy shoes that go with nothing else she owns. Kat earnestly tried to keep positive, but when it was announced that the bachelorette party was taking place in Florida, she hesitated. When she was told that it was for only one night and the maid-of-honor tried to solicit her for group-gift money, she pulled out (working part-time and painting doesn't pay the big bucks like it used to).
On Friday afternoon, I left work early, took the 4 line down to Wall Street (the least holy site in Manhattan) and scrambled up and down side streets in search of a church. Only the wedding bells and the white silhouette of an anxious bride preparing for the big walk, pointed me in the right direction. I ducked into a side door, found an empty pew and planted myself at the end furthest from the center aisle.
The details of this wedding are incriminating-enough that I feel compelled to bury them in a piece of fiction far in the future. The previous night's festivities carried over to the wedding day festivities. Let's just say that the following events might have occurred:
groom (hung over from night before) puked During an extended, Catholic ceremony
bride swore blue fire for the next 5 hours
I enjoyed an open bar, salacious gossip, a beautiful view of Brooklyn, and a fantastic meal
bride got revenge by puking at reception
home by 11:30
Ahh... sounds perfect to me!
Monday, June 20, 2005
here's Metal in your Eye
Last Wednesday, on the day of my Arlo Guthrie concert, I awoke with a nagging discomfort in my left eye. This wasn't a complete surprise to me as I had suffered a close encounter with a flying object at on Friday. My Saturday was spent on the beach, burning my skin to the consistency of bacon while performing an impersonation of Popeye with my contorted face. That night, I held my eye under the showerhead and Declared Victory when the large, black dot was replaced by a small, red dot and the pain toned down to a dull roar. The War Against Astronomical Medical Bills had been won by yours truly. By Monday, the pain subsided and I was soon telling war stories from my grey cubicle and basking in my homeopathic Genius.
Half-way through my Wednesday exercise in paid alphabetizing (my job), I noticed that the world around me was strobing. My left eye was fluttering in a frustrated attempt to alleviate my scratchy, dried-out eye. Irritation spiraled steadily upward into the second-tier of Oww and I was reduced to holding my eye shut with one hand. The return of Popeye was imminent. Even if I had successfully Conquered the flying debris, it was time to see a health professional. But where does a writer and part-time temp with no health insurance go to alleviate eye-pain? Well, if that writer is in New York City (and he is), then he heads on down to the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary where, for $97.00, you too can have your eyes poked and prodded.
At 8:30 in the following morning, I emerged from the 'L' subway at 14th and 1st Ave. I was confident that this eye issue would be over in an hour and I'd be back to work, perfecting my ABC's and watching my computer clock slowly tick away my life at an hourly rate. From a block away, I spotted the red and blue banners of the infirmary. The architecture was in the style of public buildings thrown up circa 1968 where the first floor is all brick with small, blocky windows and interiors filled with wood panelling, pallid green and cornflower yellow. Inside, three security guards were debating over who-should-say-what during a fire emergency. A caption explained their conversation from a corner of the desk - a sign warning patients that a Fire Drill was being conducted that morning and requested that nobody Panic and accidentally leave whatever line he/or she was stuck in. One of them stepped into my path and, with his Best professional voice of Authority, asked, "Where are you goin'?"
I rambled something about looking for outpatient registration and pointed to my left eye, just in case he needed proof.
"Go straight back and turn to your left." Of course, these directions didn't come with any visual aids so I picked a direction that indicated 'straight back' to the security guard, then proceeded.
"No," he barked, "That way." Again, no visual aid. I picked another direction and was immediately ignored by the guard.
I entered a long hallway, choked with Hispanic and Chinese faces that stood along a snaking path, ending at a wall of 8 bank-teller-style, registration desks. Bullet-proof glass... hmm... okay, Why?
I joined the line and stood patiently. For the next hour. No posters. No intermingling among prospective patients. Not even a protruding wound to hypnotize the bored. What did I do for that hour? I watched the perfectly-coifed hair of FOX News anchors as they laughed and chatted and talked about things that I could not hear or understand. My Bliss was momentarily interrupted when a security guard got into a shouting match with a patient who claimed that he was an emergency case and couldn't stand in line. The security guard told him that he wasn't an emergency case and continued to hold that line even when the doctor appeared and explained to the security guard that the patient was, indeed, an emergency patient. The guard finally relented, though not without a few parting volleys to the patient for being such a 'jerk'. Good times.
I registered, received my red, medical card, and was pointed to a staircase wherein I discovered another room where I could wait for another hour and a half. Fortunately, I could sit and the air conditioning was set to 'Freezing' so I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep and missing my appointment. Elderly, angry men paced in front of corridor doorways where nurses and ophthalmologists would emerge to call patients. Unlike the 60 other people sitting in this refrigerator, these gentlemen need to Get Somewhere and had Obviously been Forgotten. Finally, after a round of vision and glaucoma tests, a tall, willowy ophthalmologist called my name.
"You definitely have a piece of metal in your eye," he said the instant he peered into my left eye, "and I'll need to give you a dilation test." The ophthalmologist glided to a row of boxes and began snatching a bewildering array of bottles and began drop liquid into my eyes. Fifteen minutes (and many high-intensity squirms) later, he had pulled the metal out of my eye, applied a humming device to my eye ("to cover up the hole where the metal was") and written me a prescription for eye drops. I staggered downstairs to the pharmacy, picked up my prescription and headed for the subway.
But there was that little detail about my dilated eyes.
I stepped outside. A quick meeting was held between my eyes and the rest of my motor functions. A vote was held. It was unanimous. My body quickly retreated to the nearest shade and halted all forward progress. I covered my face with my hands and created a tiny slit with one of my fingers. With my hand over my face, I began the lurching steps towards home. I was heading in the opposite direction that I'd intended. Rather than swing around and retrace my steps (thus appearing even more crazed and demented than I was already displaying), I decided to make a break for the 3rd Avenue stop. Walking with dilated eyes on a sunny day is much like walking blind, with brief glimpses of a world that looks like a Monet painting. I finally reached 3rd Avenue, staggered across the street to the 8th Avenue line, and descended into the concrete hole like a 6 foot 3, Mister Hyde.
Then, somewhere between 42nd and 59th Street, my eye anesthesia wore off.
Good God - go tell it on the mountain - did that mutherfuckinsonofabitchin' eye begin to hurt. It might seem difficult to believe that an eye Without a piece of metal in it would hurt More than an eye With a piece of metal, but then again I hadn't been granted an opportunity to compare the two side-by-side as I was now. My walk from 207th Street to my cave was an experience that I will not soon forget. Nor, for that matter, will anyone who happened to watch a tall, ambling figure take a dozen steps with his eyes closed. Stop. Reach for something to brace himself. Cover his eyes with one hand. Make a slit between two fingers. Turn his head from one side to another to find his bearings. Then another dozen steps. Stop...
Four Tylenol, two Cosmopolitans and 3 beers later, I was better. I lay on the couch, listening to Woodstock (the movie) and daydreaming of better times.
Half-way through my Wednesday exercise in paid alphabetizing (my job), I noticed that the world around me was strobing. My left eye was fluttering in a frustrated attempt to alleviate my scratchy, dried-out eye. Irritation spiraled steadily upward into the second-tier of Oww and I was reduced to holding my eye shut with one hand. The return of Popeye was imminent. Even if I had successfully Conquered the flying debris, it was time to see a health professional. But where does a writer and part-time temp with no health insurance go to alleviate eye-pain? Well, if that writer is in New York City (and he is), then he heads on down to the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary where, for $97.00, you too can have your eyes poked and prodded.
At 8:30 in the following morning, I emerged from the 'L' subway at 14th and 1st Ave. I was confident that this eye issue would be over in an hour and I'd be back to work, perfecting my ABC's and watching my computer clock slowly tick away my life at an hourly rate. From a block away, I spotted the red and blue banners of the infirmary. The architecture was in the style of public buildings thrown up circa 1968 where the first floor is all brick with small, blocky windows and interiors filled with wood panelling, pallid green and cornflower yellow. Inside, three security guards were debating over who-should-say-what during a fire emergency. A caption explained their conversation from a corner of the desk - a sign warning patients that a Fire Drill was being conducted that morning and requested that nobody Panic and accidentally leave whatever line he/or she was stuck in. One of them stepped into my path and, with his Best professional voice of Authority, asked, "Where are you goin'?"
I rambled something about looking for outpatient registration and pointed to my left eye, just in case he needed proof.
"Go straight back and turn to your left." Of course, these directions didn't come with any visual aids so I picked a direction that indicated 'straight back' to the security guard, then proceeded.
"No," he barked, "That way." Again, no visual aid. I picked another direction and was immediately ignored by the guard.
I entered a long hallway, choked with Hispanic and Chinese faces that stood along a snaking path, ending at a wall of 8 bank-teller-style, registration desks. Bullet-proof glass... hmm... okay, Why?
I joined the line and stood patiently. For the next hour. No posters. No intermingling among prospective patients. Not even a protruding wound to hypnotize the bored. What did I do for that hour? I watched the perfectly-coifed hair of FOX News anchors as they laughed and chatted and talked about things that I could not hear or understand. My Bliss was momentarily interrupted when a security guard got into a shouting match with a patient who claimed that he was an emergency case and couldn't stand in line. The security guard told him that he wasn't an emergency case and continued to hold that line even when the doctor appeared and explained to the security guard that the patient was, indeed, an emergency patient. The guard finally relented, though not without a few parting volleys to the patient for being such a 'jerk'. Good times.
I registered, received my red, medical card, and was pointed to a staircase wherein I discovered another room where I could wait for another hour and a half. Fortunately, I could sit and the air conditioning was set to 'Freezing' so I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep and missing my appointment. Elderly, angry men paced in front of corridor doorways where nurses and ophthalmologists would emerge to call patients. Unlike the 60 other people sitting in this refrigerator, these gentlemen need to Get Somewhere and had Obviously been Forgotten. Finally, after a round of vision and glaucoma tests, a tall, willowy ophthalmologist called my name.
"You definitely have a piece of metal in your eye," he said the instant he peered into my left eye, "and I'll need to give you a dilation test." The ophthalmologist glided to a row of boxes and began snatching a bewildering array of bottles and began drop liquid into my eyes. Fifteen minutes (and many high-intensity squirms) later, he had pulled the metal out of my eye, applied a humming device to my eye ("to cover up the hole where the metal was") and written me a prescription for eye drops. I staggered downstairs to the pharmacy, picked up my prescription and headed for the subway.
But there was that little detail about my dilated eyes.
I stepped outside. A quick meeting was held between my eyes and the rest of my motor functions. A vote was held. It was unanimous. My body quickly retreated to the nearest shade and halted all forward progress. I covered my face with my hands and created a tiny slit with one of my fingers. With my hand over my face, I began the lurching steps towards home. I was heading in the opposite direction that I'd intended. Rather than swing around and retrace my steps (thus appearing even more crazed and demented than I was already displaying), I decided to make a break for the 3rd Avenue stop. Walking with dilated eyes on a sunny day is much like walking blind, with brief glimpses of a world that looks like a Monet painting. I finally reached 3rd Avenue, staggered across the street to the 8th Avenue line, and descended into the concrete hole like a 6 foot 3, Mister Hyde.
Then, somewhere between 42nd and 59th Street, my eye anesthesia wore off.
Good God - go tell it on the mountain - did that mutherfuckinsonofabitchin' eye begin to hurt. It might seem difficult to believe that an eye Without a piece of metal in it would hurt More than an eye With a piece of metal, but then again I hadn't been granted an opportunity to compare the two side-by-side as I was now. My walk from 207th Street to my cave was an experience that I will not soon forget. Nor, for that matter, will anyone who happened to watch a tall, ambling figure take a dozen steps with his eyes closed. Stop. Reach for something to brace himself. Cover his eyes with one hand. Make a slit between two fingers. Turn his head from one side to another to find his bearings. Then another dozen steps. Stop...
Four Tylenol, two Cosmopolitans and 3 beers later, I was better. I lay on the couch, listening to Woodstock (the movie) and daydreaming of better times.
Friday, June 17, 2005
this land is Our land?
"You don't understand, man. I am nowhere near the threat I'd hoped I'd be!"
-Arlo Guthrie
For most of my life, hippie culture was limited to clichéd Hollywood portrayals of stoned, slow-witted adults who rambled cryptically about wheat germ, pseudo-asian philosophy and some ass-backward idea about saving Mother Earth. I never smoked enough pot to understand The Grateful Dead and Joan Baez's warbled rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" was enough to put me off of hippie, folk music altogether. The best hippie-themed song I heard until my mid-twenties was Mucky Pup's "Hippies Hate Water". I occasionally spotted a hippie here and there, but for the most part I assumed that they all disappeared into rural communes or cleaned up their act and got a real job.
Did I mention that I grew up in a U.S. Army culture until I was 18?
I've grown up a little since those days and my view of hippies improved significantly when I met Kat. Although not a hardcore hippie by trade, Kat is a direct descendent of the lifestyle. I soon found myself hip deep in astrological charts, organic eggs and forwarded e-mails from PETA and Greenpeace. I've befriended quite a few hippies over the years and I discovered that many of my preconceptions of hippies were true (except that most hippies do, in fact, like water but detest aluminum-based deodorant). Like all cultural stereotyping, however, it was over-reductive, and simplified to the point of condescension. Joan Baez DOES suck and I was never able to get into Bob Dylan outside a few of his earlier hits, but there are tons of fantastic, psychedelic, hippie bands that kicked ass (in a peaceful, loving way, of course) and quickly became my favorites: Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, Blue Cheer, 13th Floor Elevators, Country Joe and the Fish, Ritchie Havens, Canned Heat, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. In addition, I gained a great deal of respect and admiration for a lifestyle that engages everyone as individuals and actively questions the esoteric rules and institutions that govern (and regulate) most people's lives. I am, however, secure in the knowledge that I am FAR too high-strung and obsessive to ever maintain such a benevolent demeanor and there is not enough pot in all of Meigs County, Ohio that could get me there. So, when I saw that Arlo Guthrie was kicking off his 40th Anniversary tour since the release of "Alice's Restaurant", I knew where Kat and I had to be on Wednesday night.
Battery Park City is a jut of land on the west end of Lower Manhattan built from the landfill used to excavate for the building of the World Trade Center. It also happens to be the site of shady, real estate deals that were intended to build affordable housing for low income families. They did build the low income housing but they put in Queens. The apartment towers that live in Battery Park City today are high-end apartments with sweeping views of the Hudson Bay, including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and New Jersey. The neighborhoods have that pre-fabbed, soulless feeling, though. At the northern tip of Battery Park City rests an actual park called Rockefeller Park (not enough things named after that family). It was a strange setting for a hippie, folk icon and son of a social-activist musician to stage a concert.
Kat and I have a hard time going out. The best way to trick ourselves into doing anything is to not go home. We took our time getting down there but still showed up over an hour before the start. There was already a crowd starting to gather and onstage there was a rousing folk jam/sound check with The Man Himself at center, manning an acoustic guitar. The whole area had a great, relaxed vibe that instantly took me back to the small-town festivals and bandshell concerts that dominated my Midwestern summers as a kid. It's easy to forget that the hippie/folk music revival of the 60's got it's start in New York City where Ritchie Havens and Bob Dylan plucked their guitars in Tompkins Square Park and small dives in Greenwich Village. Middle-aged women with long, braided hair and tie-dyed skirts danced beside hacky-sack circles and frisbee games. Arlo jammed for 15-20 minutes then retreated to a modest-sized bus.
At 7pm, a folksy group called The Mammals took the stage. Their music wasn't particularly trailblazing, but they set an old-timey, toe-tapping tone and held their own. I recognized a tune from my Buena Vista Social Club CD, a couple of old, folk numbers and some original tunes that echoed 60's folk pieces. For two people who have spent the last 4 years wading through hipsters and scenesters, the crowd was refreshing, and perhaps even more entertaining than the act. A white-hair-and-beard man with oversized sunglass danced a non-stop jig that left me gasping for air. Young and old women twirled and swayed to the rousing banjo-and-fiddle numbers. A short, bearded man in baseball hat and bandana performed a virtual MC act as he bounced to the music then clapped and turned to the audience with a look of 'Aren't they fucking great?! I told you they were fucking great!'
Between sets, a middle-aged guy (sounding like a stoned version of Kramer) gushed about a commune town in Ohio where he planned on living. His friends, long-haired and mellow, gently suggested that a 9 to 5 job might put some much-needed structure in his life. Kat and I glanced about and marveled at the volume of sack lunches that dominated the scene. Most of the audience actually preferred to sit on the grass versus snagging a fold-out chair... and there wasn't a Red Bull or clove cigarette in sight.
I was shocked when Arlo took to the stage, only minutes after the Mammals had left. Where was the diva-like lateness or 30-minute guitar tunings that I had grown grown to expect? Was this legal? Wasn't some form of passive-aggressive behavior Required within city limits? Then, Arlo nearly knocked me out of my seat when he began his set with "Alice's Restaurant". What kind of madness was going on here?! That's supposed to be the Rousing finale! We were supposed to Suffer and Pine for the opening chords so we could Roar and Cheer the release of anticipation! What kind of frigging Performer was this anyway?! Had he ever even Played in front of a live audience?! How could could he possibly go Up after playing his most famous song?!
Arlo didn't kick the tension up and he didn't knock it down, either. This was a loose, casual evening of Music and as the performance rolled from one rise to another, it became apparent that Arlo might know a thing or two about performing and maybe, a little more about what his audience needed than I. Arlo kicked through his better-known songs, played a couple ones from his dad and a Leadbelly classic "Goodnight Irene". He didn't play with coiled urgency that I love in so much of my music, but with a sense of timelessness and quiet observation. For a couple of hours, I was reminded of how important it was to get to know people and not look at the world with an 'Us vs. Them' mentality. I felt better about people and our potential for good and rising to meet challenges.
Then, on Thursday I stood in line for 2 and a half hours so that I could have a piece of metal pulled out of my eye.
I need a mosh pit.
-Arlo Guthrie
For most of my life, hippie culture was limited to clichéd Hollywood portrayals of stoned, slow-witted adults who rambled cryptically about wheat germ, pseudo-asian philosophy and some ass-backward idea about saving Mother Earth. I never smoked enough pot to understand The Grateful Dead and Joan Baez's warbled rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" was enough to put me off of hippie, folk music altogether. The best hippie-themed song I heard until my mid-twenties was Mucky Pup's "Hippies Hate Water". I occasionally spotted a hippie here and there, but for the most part I assumed that they all disappeared into rural communes or cleaned up their act and got a real job.
Did I mention that I grew up in a U.S. Army culture until I was 18?
I've grown up a little since those days and my view of hippies improved significantly when I met Kat. Although not a hardcore hippie by trade, Kat is a direct descendent of the lifestyle. I soon found myself hip deep in astrological charts, organic eggs and forwarded e-mails from PETA and Greenpeace. I've befriended quite a few hippies over the years and I discovered that many of my preconceptions of hippies were true (except that most hippies do, in fact, like water but detest aluminum-based deodorant). Like all cultural stereotyping, however, it was over-reductive, and simplified to the point of condescension. Joan Baez DOES suck and I was never able to get into Bob Dylan outside a few of his earlier hits, but there are tons of fantastic, psychedelic, hippie bands that kicked ass (in a peaceful, loving way, of course) and quickly became my favorites: Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, Blue Cheer, 13th Floor Elevators, Country Joe and the Fish, Ritchie Havens, Canned Heat, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. In addition, I gained a great deal of respect and admiration for a lifestyle that engages everyone as individuals and actively questions the esoteric rules and institutions that govern (and regulate) most people's lives. I am, however, secure in the knowledge that I am FAR too high-strung and obsessive to ever maintain such a benevolent demeanor and there is not enough pot in all of Meigs County, Ohio that could get me there. So, when I saw that Arlo Guthrie was kicking off his 40th Anniversary tour since the release of "Alice's Restaurant", I knew where Kat and I had to be on Wednesday night.
Battery Park City is a jut of land on the west end of Lower Manhattan built from the landfill used to excavate for the building of the World Trade Center. It also happens to be the site of shady, real estate deals that were intended to build affordable housing for low income families. They did build the low income housing but they put in Queens. The apartment towers that live in Battery Park City today are high-end apartments with sweeping views of the Hudson Bay, including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and New Jersey. The neighborhoods have that pre-fabbed, soulless feeling, though. At the northern tip of Battery Park City rests an actual park called Rockefeller Park (not enough things named after that family). It was a strange setting for a hippie, folk icon and son of a social-activist musician to stage a concert.
Kat and I have a hard time going out. The best way to trick ourselves into doing anything is to not go home. We took our time getting down there but still showed up over an hour before the start. There was already a crowd starting to gather and onstage there was a rousing folk jam/sound check with The Man Himself at center, manning an acoustic guitar. The whole area had a great, relaxed vibe that instantly took me back to the small-town festivals and bandshell concerts that dominated my Midwestern summers as a kid. It's easy to forget that the hippie/folk music revival of the 60's got it's start in New York City where Ritchie Havens and Bob Dylan plucked their guitars in Tompkins Square Park and small dives in Greenwich Village. Middle-aged women with long, braided hair and tie-dyed skirts danced beside hacky-sack circles and frisbee games. Arlo jammed for 15-20 minutes then retreated to a modest-sized bus.
At 7pm, a folksy group called The Mammals took the stage. Their music wasn't particularly trailblazing, but they set an old-timey, toe-tapping tone and held their own. I recognized a tune from my Buena Vista Social Club CD, a couple of old, folk numbers and some original tunes that echoed 60's folk pieces. For two people who have spent the last 4 years wading through hipsters and scenesters, the crowd was refreshing, and perhaps even more entertaining than the act. A white-hair-and-beard man with oversized sunglass danced a non-stop jig that left me gasping for air. Young and old women twirled and swayed to the rousing banjo-and-fiddle numbers. A short, bearded man in baseball hat and bandana performed a virtual MC act as he bounced to the music then clapped and turned to the audience with a look of 'Aren't they fucking great?! I told you they were fucking great!'
Between sets, a middle-aged guy (sounding like a stoned version of Kramer) gushed about a commune town in Ohio where he planned on living. His friends, long-haired and mellow, gently suggested that a 9 to 5 job might put some much-needed structure in his life. Kat and I glanced about and marveled at the volume of sack lunches that dominated the scene. Most of the audience actually preferred to sit on the grass versus snagging a fold-out chair... and there wasn't a Red Bull or clove cigarette in sight.
I was shocked when Arlo took to the stage, only minutes after the Mammals had left. Where was the diva-like lateness or 30-minute guitar tunings that I had grown grown to expect? Was this legal? Wasn't some form of passive-aggressive behavior Required within city limits? Then, Arlo nearly knocked me out of my seat when he began his set with "Alice's Restaurant". What kind of madness was going on here?! That's supposed to be the Rousing finale! We were supposed to Suffer and Pine for the opening chords so we could Roar and Cheer the release of anticipation! What kind of frigging Performer was this anyway?! Had he ever even Played in front of a live audience?! How could could he possibly go Up after playing his most famous song?!
Arlo didn't kick the tension up and he didn't knock it down, either. This was a loose, casual evening of Music and as the performance rolled from one rise to another, it became apparent that Arlo might know a thing or two about performing and maybe, a little more about what his audience needed than I. Arlo kicked through his better-known songs, played a couple ones from his dad and a Leadbelly classic "Goodnight Irene". He didn't play with coiled urgency that I love in so much of my music, but with a sense of timelessness and quiet observation. For a couple of hours, I was reminded of how important it was to get to know people and not look at the world with an 'Us vs. Them' mentality. I felt better about people and our potential for good and rising to meet challenges.
Then, on Thursday I stood in line for 2 and a half hours so that I could have a piece of metal pulled out of my eye.
I need a mosh pit.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Episode III - straight in the Eye
On Friday, Kat and I were in no mood to go home after work and spend another evening in the Sweltering Cave. Instead, we opted for a $10.75-per-ticket trip to our local movie theater and witness our last Star Wars movie in the theater - Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. The first trilogy had provided one of the most-significant events of my life - far more than I want to admit considering the theatrical debacles called Episode I and II. The Phantom Menace had been such a disappointment, I couldn't bring myself to see Episode II in the theater (a wise choice, in retrospect). My decision to attend Episode III was akin to attending the funeral of an estranged family member. I hadn't been on good terms, but I felt compelled to pay my respects in deference to better times. Little did I know that I would pay for my decision with eye-watering, teeth-gritting pain.
It has been years since I've really enjoyed an outing at the movies. The culture of movie-going that I enjoyed in my youth is long-gone. Movies are no longer a 'Night Out', where people dressed up, enjoyed dinner at a restaurant, then enthusiastically, and quietly, enjoyed the movie. I grew up in the Golden Age of Pre-Pubescent Film where the stories catered to a young child's excitement and adventure, yet was rarely condescending. That would come later with the introduction of Robert Zemeckis and an influx of cross-marketing and recycling. Also, it's difficult to thing of a movie in New York as a fun, cheap night out - it is an expensive venture with high ticket prices and outrageously-priced, stale and oversized food. And don't even get me started on those refillable beverage containers that could easily perform double-duty as a soda container/hot tub.
Even so, I remain a purist and expect a high level of quality from a first-run theater. I was going to see the visual fest of my final Star Wars movie so it would have to be in a high-end theater -Loews Lincoln Square. It's the best-looking theater in the City, particularly if one of the Spectacle Films is playing in their IMAX theater. Ahhh... stadium seating. On this night, we chose one of their Digital Projection theaters. The quality of digital projection is never as nice as film, but we favored the advantage of seeing an Event film, 3 weeks after the opening, that didn't look like it'd been dragged from the back end of a taxi cab. We had chosen an early show so that we wouldn't be inundated with the usual throng of late-viewers of Spectacle Films who like to spend the movie being unimpressed and pronouncing their findings to the rest of the audience.
We chose an off-center pair of seats about mid-way back. I'm usually That Guy who has to sit in the geometric center of the theater, but age and my disillusion with the Ritual of the Movies has mellowed me. As we settled down with our keg of Coke and bushel of popcorn, Kat turned to me with an earnest look on her face.
"Are you all right," she asked.
"What?"
"I won't be able to enjoy the movie if you've got something going on over there."
"Like what," I asked with as much self-righteousness as I could muster.
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"I'm fine."
Kat scanned the people around us, searching for that person who would start talking during the movie and set me off. "You're going to be good?"
"I said I'm fine." Jesus, you'd think that I was some sort of jerkweed who just snaps at the drop of a hat.
I knew what this was all about. When we went to see The Return of the King, some nimrod, directly behind us, began making snorts of disgust that just became louder and louder until I finally turned around and said (perhaps a bit loudly) "If I wanted the Asshole Commentary, I'd fucking wait and buy the DVD." Perhaps, I was a little more aggressive-sounding than I meant to be, but soft-and-sweet doesn't work very well in this town.
On this night, however, I was in a relaxed, benevolent mood. I had resolved to not analyze the wooden dialogue or George Lucas's need to have every character say exactly what they're doing AS we're watching them do it ("It looks like we're entering the atmosphere", "I'm going to try to shoot those off"). On this night, I was going to be that earnest, wide-eyed, 7-year-old again, sitting in a movie theater in Fairbanks, Alaska, watching this science fiction spectacle for the first time. The lights dimmed, the movie trailers washed over me as Kat and I ate a third of the popcorn before throwing in the towel and reclining into our seats. The movie began and I was There. I watched the opening scene and wrapped myself in that thrilling sense of space and speed that epitomizes a solid, George Lucas film. The first 25 minutes of the film were great.
Then, something landed in my eye.
For the first few minutes, I was convinced that another one of my Evil eyelashes had landed in my eye. I have hay fever and the Only thing that's kinda good about hay fever is the Huge, Long Eyelashes. When I'm not wearing glasses, I get actually get compliments on my eyelashes. But, when an aged, Beloved lash decides when it cannot hang on any longer, it falls... and hurts like a bitch when it lands in my eye. Then, the next 20 minutes are spent in the pursuit of Getting It Out. The moment that I felt that familiar pinch, I knew that the first step was to not Panic, even though the movie theater air conditioning was turned to full-blast and blowing in my face, drying my eyes and making me blink like a strobe light wherein each blink felt like somebody was tormenting my pupil with a sewing needle.
I reached for the saline solution I had stored in my backpack for contact emergencies. I was wearing glasses this night, but I always kept one handy. Kat eyed me nervously as she tried to divide her attention between the projected eye-candy and the writhing mass of Deckard seated beside her.
"I've got something in my eye," I whispered in her ear between needle-jabs.
"Can I get you something," she asked.
I waved off the offer. I had to Get Out. I leapt from my seat, jogged up the aisle and into the restroom. I splashed water in my eye. I cupped water in my hand and dunked my eye in it. I poured a half pint of saline solution into my eye. I leaned over the water-splattered, bathroom sink and desperately scanned in every corner and beneath the lids. Nothing.
I trudged back to the theater and stood in back. I alternated between squirting saline and watching a massive, video game of Wookies and clone troopers as they fought off a droid army made of Legos. I considered sitting in an aisle seat in the back and leaving Kat in peace, but she would soon start worrying about my disappearance. I returned to my seat, casually sipped from the swimming pool of soda and told Kat that I was "Fine" with the most relaxed tone my grit teeth could muster.
One would think that a second eye wasn't necessary to the enjoyment of a 2D film, but the wrongness of that statement would turn out to be one of the many, wise Truths I would discover that night, such as:
1) George Lucas's love scenes, despite popular opinion, do NOT get any better when viewed under torture. It just compounds the torture - a pit AND a pendulum, if you will.
2) Although I was channeling the child-like optimism of a 7-year-old from the 1970's, I could still say 'fuck' and 'shit' on a streaming loop and not fear the Hand of Parental Authority.
3) There are Many exciting, unique, and utterly ineffective ways to try to keep one's eye inert while staring at a flashy, movie screen.
4) Watching a movie through nagging pain gives the movie-going experience a hazy, dream-like quality as everything recedes into the background, making room for my Full Attention to the nagging pain.
The Star Wars Machine finally ground to a halt after stepping through a series of endings meant to say 'This story thread leads to this part in the first Star Wars movie. And this leads to this, and this leads to this...' I might have even indulged in a sentimental tear, had my eye not been already gushing like a fountain in the attempt to Purge the thing in my eye.
All the way home, all that night and all day Saturday was spent in the grips of Blink Pain. It wasn't until Saturday, I stood in a public restroom, that I finally saw the object of my torment - a little, black dot lodged in the colored part of my eye. I spent the day lying on a beach, lobsterizing my body and envisioning an emergency room visit and a pair of jagged tweezers, slowly descending into my eye. That night, I rushed to the shower and stood under the showerhead, spraying my eye... and remarkably, it came out.
So, what did I observed from this experience, aside from the asinine choices an uninsured man will take to remove a lodged object from his eye to avoid emergency room fees? Did I learn something about the consequences of revisiting old relatives? Was there something to be understood in the baffling series of Meetings taken by every Jedi, council member, or military alliance in the Star Wars Universe? Or the value of wearing a pair of sports goggles in a darkened, air conditioned theater? Or the value of eating a tasty meal and buying a small bag of Reese's Pieces BEFORE going to the movies? Maybe Kat learned that one can never really allow for every contingency when dealing with a twitchy, movie-Nazi boyfriend with long eyelashes and no protective eyewear.
Who can ever truly know?
It has been years since I've really enjoyed an outing at the movies. The culture of movie-going that I enjoyed in my youth is long-gone. Movies are no longer a 'Night Out', where people dressed up, enjoyed dinner at a restaurant, then enthusiastically, and quietly, enjoyed the movie. I grew up in the Golden Age of Pre-Pubescent Film where the stories catered to a young child's excitement and adventure, yet was rarely condescending. That would come later with the introduction of Robert Zemeckis and an influx of cross-marketing and recycling. Also, it's difficult to thing of a movie in New York as a fun, cheap night out - it is an expensive venture with high ticket prices and outrageously-priced, stale and oversized food. And don't even get me started on those refillable beverage containers that could easily perform double-duty as a soda container/hot tub.
Even so, I remain a purist and expect a high level of quality from a first-run theater. I was going to see the visual fest of my final Star Wars movie so it would have to be in a high-end theater -Loews Lincoln Square. It's the best-looking theater in the City, particularly if one of the Spectacle Films is playing in their IMAX theater. Ahhh... stadium seating. On this night, we chose one of their Digital Projection theaters. The quality of digital projection is never as nice as film, but we favored the advantage of seeing an Event film, 3 weeks after the opening, that didn't look like it'd been dragged from the back end of a taxi cab. We had chosen an early show so that we wouldn't be inundated with the usual throng of late-viewers of Spectacle Films who like to spend the movie being unimpressed and pronouncing their findings to the rest of the audience.
We chose an off-center pair of seats about mid-way back. I'm usually That Guy who has to sit in the geometric center of the theater, but age and my disillusion with the Ritual of the Movies has mellowed me. As we settled down with our keg of Coke and bushel of popcorn, Kat turned to me with an earnest look on her face.
"Are you all right," she asked.
"What?"
"I won't be able to enjoy the movie if you've got something going on over there."
"Like what," I asked with as much self-righteousness as I could muster.
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"I'm fine."
Kat scanned the people around us, searching for that person who would start talking during the movie and set me off. "You're going to be good?"
"I said I'm fine." Jesus, you'd think that I was some sort of jerkweed who just snaps at the drop of a hat.
I knew what this was all about. When we went to see The Return of the King, some nimrod, directly behind us, began making snorts of disgust that just became louder and louder until I finally turned around and said (perhaps a bit loudly) "If I wanted the Asshole Commentary, I'd fucking wait and buy the DVD." Perhaps, I was a little more aggressive-sounding than I meant to be, but soft-and-sweet doesn't work very well in this town.
On this night, however, I was in a relaxed, benevolent mood. I had resolved to not analyze the wooden dialogue or George Lucas's need to have every character say exactly what they're doing AS we're watching them do it ("It looks like we're entering the atmosphere", "I'm going to try to shoot those off"). On this night, I was going to be that earnest, wide-eyed, 7-year-old again, sitting in a movie theater in Fairbanks, Alaska, watching this science fiction spectacle for the first time. The lights dimmed, the movie trailers washed over me as Kat and I ate a third of the popcorn before throwing in the towel and reclining into our seats. The movie began and I was There. I watched the opening scene and wrapped myself in that thrilling sense of space and speed that epitomizes a solid, George Lucas film. The first 25 minutes of the film were great.
Then, something landed in my eye.
For the first few minutes, I was convinced that another one of my Evil eyelashes had landed in my eye. I have hay fever and the Only thing that's kinda good about hay fever is the Huge, Long Eyelashes. When I'm not wearing glasses, I get actually get compliments on my eyelashes. But, when an aged, Beloved lash decides when it cannot hang on any longer, it falls... and hurts like a bitch when it lands in my eye. Then, the next 20 minutes are spent in the pursuit of Getting It Out. The moment that I felt that familiar pinch, I knew that the first step was to not Panic, even though the movie theater air conditioning was turned to full-blast and blowing in my face, drying my eyes and making me blink like a strobe light wherein each blink felt like somebody was tormenting my pupil with a sewing needle.
I reached for the saline solution I had stored in my backpack for contact emergencies. I was wearing glasses this night, but I always kept one handy. Kat eyed me nervously as she tried to divide her attention between the projected eye-candy and the writhing mass of Deckard seated beside her.
"I've got something in my eye," I whispered in her ear between needle-jabs.
"Can I get you something," she asked.
I waved off the offer. I had to Get Out. I leapt from my seat, jogged up the aisle and into the restroom. I splashed water in my eye. I cupped water in my hand and dunked my eye in it. I poured a half pint of saline solution into my eye. I leaned over the water-splattered, bathroom sink and desperately scanned in every corner and beneath the lids. Nothing.
I trudged back to the theater and stood in back. I alternated between squirting saline and watching a massive, video game of Wookies and clone troopers as they fought off a droid army made of Legos. I considered sitting in an aisle seat in the back and leaving Kat in peace, but she would soon start worrying about my disappearance. I returned to my seat, casually sipped from the swimming pool of soda and told Kat that I was "Fine" with the most relaxed tone my grit teeth could muster.
One would think that a second eye wasn't necessary to the enjoyment of a 2D film, but the wrongness of that statement would turn out to be one of the many, wise Truths I would discover that night, such as:
1) George Lucas's love scenes, despite popular opinion, do NOT get any better when viewed under torture. It just compounds the torture - a pit AND a pendulum, if you will.
2) Although I was channeling the child-like optimism of a 7-year-old from the 1970's, I could still say 'fuck' and 'shit' on a streaming loop and not fear the Hand of Parental Authority.
3) There are Many exciting, unique, and utterly ineffective ways to try to keep one's eye inert while staring at a flashy, movie screen.
4) Watching a movie through nagging pain gives the movie-going experience a hazy, dream-like quality as everything recedes into the background, making room for my Full Attention to the nagging pain.
The Star Wars Machine finally ground to a halt after stepping through a series of endings meant to say 'This story thread leads to this part in the first Star Wars movie. And this leads to this, and this leads to this...' I might have even indulged in a sentimental tear, had my eye not been already gushing like a fountain in the attempt to Purge the thing in my eye.
All the way home, all that night and all day Saturday was spent in the grips of Blink Pain. It wasn't until Saturday, I stood in a public restroom, that I finally saw the object of my torment - a little, black dot lodged in the colored part of my eye. I spent the day lying on a beach, lobsterizing my body and envisioning an emergency room visit and a pair of jagged tweezers, slowly descending into my eye. That night, I rushed to the shower and stood under the showerhead, spraying my eye... and remarkably, it came out.
So, what did I observed from this experience, aside from the asinine choices an uninsured man will take to remove a lodged object from his eye to avoid emergency room fees? Did I learn something about the consequences of revisiting old relatives? Was there something to be understood in the baffling series of Meetings taken by every Jedi, council member, or military alliance in the Star Wars Universe? Or the value of wearing a pair of sports goggles in a darkened, air conditioned theater? Or the value of eating a tasty meal and buying a small bag of Reese's Pieces BEFORE going to the movies? Maybe Kat learned that one can never really allow for every contingency when dealing with a twitchy, movie-Nazi boyfriend with long eyelashes and no protective eyewear.
Who can ever truly know?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
while Waiting for Macy's
Fucking cats...
On Wednesday, our Holy Mattress and Box Spring of Lower-Back Redemption was scheduled to arrive. I had stood our old, tenderized mattress up against the dresser and cleared out the shoes, electronics, packing Styrofoam, assorted, storage bins and life-sized, dust bunnies. Pippin and Sam (our 9-month-old kittens) scrambled from one end of the cave to the other. Their hideout had been un-hid and they were now Exposed to any cat-crisis that might surface. Kat headed off to work while I settled in to a long day. I launched into the blogosphere and began blogging like I never blogged before. Actually, I performed the extended Prologue to blogging - a ritual of virtual-procrastination via re-organizing MP3 files, naming digital photographs that I took 8 months ago and checking out porn websites (But that's just between you and me. Shhhhhhhh!) .
An hour into the Blog-Zone, I noticed that Pippin had been running and pet-flopping solo for the last 5 minutes which, in Blog-Zone time, meant at least a half hour. Where was Sam? I served up breakfast for the cats, taking care to make nice, loud noises with the food dishes. Still... no Sam. I have learned that it's important to play it cool when dealing with cats. If you acted like you needed them, whe-he-hell... that sounds like a good reason to hide. So... I sauntered. Into the living room. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Bathroom? Hallway? Bedroom?
"Sam?" No! Composure, Deckard! Composure!
I checked beneath the dresser. Under the desk. Behind the doors. In the closets. In the shower. Behind the toilet. Behind the refrigerator-
Suddenly, I struck on an idea - toys! Wondrous, loud, freakout-inducing toys! Now, the toys will no longer service the Boredom of others! They shall service me! (this extended Cat Expedition had deprived me of coffee Sustenance well beyond acceptable limits) I scrambled to every corner of the cave, retrieving every toilet-paper roll, wadded piece of paper, dowel rod, ribbon fragment and jangly, fuzz-ball I could find. I kicked them from one end of the apartment into the other. I was the frigging Dick Van Dyke/One-Man-Band of dowel rods, jingly balls (watch the comments, bub) and paper wads. Pippin had planted himself in the bathroom doorway, watch the parade go by and sit this Adventure out. I reached the bedroom with still no sign of Sam.
"Sam," I barked. "Sam!" Fuck it. He'll come. Oh yes, he will come.
I kicked the jingly balls and paper balls against the wall for a couple of minutes then finally ground to a halt. Hot and cold flashes of adrenaline flooded my caffeine-deficient system. What if Sam got out the front door? What if he was wandering through the Wilderness of New York or, worse, had been abducted and forced to sell bootleg DVDs on Canal Street? I pivoted towards the bedroom door, ready race to the front door and Save my Endangered cat!
Then, something caught my eye... high above me and to my left. Comfortably nestled at the top of the old mattresses. I had an Audience... a hideously-Cute and Innocent audience.
Bastard.
Five hours after their scheduled "Window for Delivery", my new mattress arrived...
On Wednesday, our Holy Mattress and Box Spring of Lower-Back Redemption was scheduled to arrive. I had stood our old, tenderized mattress up against the dresser and cleared out the shoes, electronics, packing Styrofoam, assorted, storage bins and life-sized, dust bunnies. Pippin and Sam (our 9-month-old kittens) scrambled from one end of the cave to the other. Their hideout had been un-hid and they were now Exposed to any cat-crisis that might surface. Kat headed off to work while I settled in to a long day. I launched into the blogosphere and began blogging like I never blogged before. Actually, I performed the extended Prologue to blogging - a ritual of virtual-procrastination via re-organizing MP3 files, naming digital photographs that I took 8 months ago and checking out porn websites (But that's just between you and me. Shhhhhhhh!) .
An hour into the Blog-Zone, I noticed that Pippin had been running and pet-flopping solo for the last 5 minutes which, in Blog-Zone time, meant at least a half hour. Where was Sam? I served up breakfast for the cats, taking care to make nice, loud noises with the food dishes. Still... no Sam. I have learned that it's important to play it cool when dealing with cats. If you acted like you needed them, whe-he-hell... that sounds like a good reason to hide. So... I sauntered. Into the living room. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Bathroom? Hallway? Bedroom?
"Sam?" No! Composure, Deckard! Composure!
I checked beneath the dresser. Under the desk. Behind the doors. In the closets. In the shower. Behind the toilet. Behind the refrigerator-
Suddenly, I struck on an idea - toys! Wondrous, loud, freakout-inducing toys! Now, the toys will no longer service the Boredom of others! They shall service me! (this extended Cat Expedition had deprived me of coffee Sustenance well beyond acceptable limits) I scrambled to every corner of the cave, retrieving every toilet-paper roll, wadded piece of paper, dowel rod, ribbon fragment and jangly, fuzz-ball I could find. I kicked them from one end of the apartment into the other. I was the frigging Dick Van Dyke/One-Man-Band of dowel rods, jingly balls (watch the comments, bub) and paper wads. Pippin had planted himself in the bathroom doorway, watch the parade go by and sit this Adventure out. I reached the bedroom with still no sign of Sam.
"Sam," I barked. "Sam!" Fuck it. He'll come. Oh yes, he will come.
I kicked the jingly balls and paper balls against the wall for a couple of minutes then finally ground to a halt. Hot and cold flashes of adrenaline flooded my caffeine-deficient system. What if Sam got out the front door? What if he was wandering through the Wilderness of New York or, worse, had been abducted and forced to sell bootleg DVDs on Canal Street? I pivoted towards the bedroom door, ready race to the front door and Save my Endangered cat!
Then, something caught my eye... high above me and to my left. Comfortably nestled at the top of the old mattresses. I had an Audience... a hideously-Cute and Innocent audience.
Bastard.
Five hours after their scheduled "Window for Delivery", my new mattress arrived...
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
two sun strokes to Go, please
On Sunday, I woke up sticky-hot against the bed sheets to a commotion beside me. Kat had flung the covers off the bed and was purring with excitement. The clouds had lifted in her world, and summer was here! She had been working on her winter depression since the end of the previous summer where the first sign of Fall began a long mope of anticipation of what was to come. Our trip to Thailand in November only served to heighten her loathing of New York winters. My listless attempts to put a positive spin on cooler temperatures and white, fluffy snow had only earned me slit-eyed looks and the faint sound of a hiss. The promise of near-90 degree temperatures had whipped her into a disturbing bout of pep - too early in the morning from such a slow riser as this.
Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).
Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.
Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.
My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.
The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.
To the Park!
Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.
Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"
It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.
Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.
Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).
Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.
Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.
My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.
The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.
To the Park!
Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.
Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"
It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.
Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
MoMA... with the cute mouse ears
Why do Americans suck so bad about contemporary art? I am making a sweeping generalization, but that's the nature of blogging so work with me here. I was an eager victim of the realistic=good mindset until I met Kat. She is a painter and, whenever you really fall in love with somebody you start doing a million little things you never thought that you'd do like shower everyday, wear a belt that matches your shoes, become a vegetarian, moderate your self-destructive behavior, and subject yourself to a whole world of social events you'd never considered in the past - like, oh say, contemporary art. I thumbed through Kat's collection of Taschen and Phaidon books and kept my opinions to myself because I loved my new girlfriend and I really liked the sex so I wasn't about to fuck anything up. Then, perhaps sensing my muted skepticism, she pulled a fast one on me. She took me on a tour of museums all over the Midwest. I followed her to exhibits at the Wexner Center, the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Indianapolis Museum of Contemporary Art, and Pittsburgh's bafflingly-cool collection of museums including my favorite, The Mattress Factory. Lo and behold, I slowly began to realize that art didn't fall off a cliff after Monet and Van Gogh. The boring squares of color that I'd scrutinized in a book of Rothko paintings had become shimmering contrasts of color as I stood in front of one and actually spent a couple minutes Looking at it instead of performing that moseying procession I had mastered over years. I learned that egg tempura-realism wasn't necessarily the epitome of painting and that artists like Tim Hawkinson, John Currin, Egon Schiele, Francis Bacon and Hieronymus Bosch could knock me on my ass without photo-realistic renditions.
I know, many of your are thinking (or perhaps saying out loud) - "Duh, Deckard! What are you, a fuckin' idiot? Where have you been living - under a rock?" First of all, nobody calls me a fuckin' idiot to my face. Second, I am living in a cave, which is in a rock, not under it. Third, my artistic medium of choice for the first 25 years of my life has been film. In addition to the photographic aspect, the bulk of filmmaking has been stuck in naturalistic representations of reality. Yeah yeah, I know about El Topo, Un Chien Andalou and tons of other obtuse art films, but please refer to sentence #2 in this blog. I have written my perspective on good vs. bad art, but it is important to note that I actually View contemporary art before I pass judgment. I have come a LONG way in the last 5 years and much of it has had to do with remaining open to the occassional thrashing of my assumptions. On Friday night, my girlfriend and I participated in the backpackers/broke NYer's Event of the City - Free Admission to The Museum of Modern Art. Kat and I have avoided this outing ever since the MoMA's grand opening in their re-designed building. Part of our avoidance was due to the horror stories we'd heard regarding the endless lines and over-stuffing of the museum. I, however, have also endured a dodgy relationship with MoMA. I'd visited the Manhattan museum back in 2000 when they had just begun to renovate their building but were still willing to charge nearly full price to see a pitiful, handful of paintings. 3 years later, I was similarly-bilked when I trudged out to their temporary 'warehouse' museum in Queens for another token showing of a few paintings. Admittedly, my mood wasn't helped when, mid-way through an Ansel Adams exhibit, the City decided to have their first blackout in 30 years, sending me, Kat and a friend of mine on an 11-mile, hiking trek back to Inwood... in flip-flops.
Well, we finally went and the verdict on the new building is in. I congratulate MoMA for building the most banal, non-contemporary piece of architecture they could muster and still keep a straight face when they call themselves 'Modern'. The building is a series of boxy levels with a high, central ceiling and wall windows that drastically shift the color temperature of the rooms from one wall to the next (kind of important from a consistent-lighting standpoint). There are small side hallways that go nowhere but are just long enough to make you have to walk clear over There to find out. From the outside, it looks like virtually any office building built after 1960. For weeks after it opened, the New York publications debated the boldness of the architecture. Let me tell you what's bold about it. Nothing. It's a space built to truck people through it's halls and along it's escalators as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But let's be honest here, bold architecture doesn't necessarily mean art-friendly. The Guggenheim looks fantastic when you walk in and climb the spiraling hall for the first time, but it's not the easiest place to view art with every person in the museum passing in front of you on the way up or down. The real reason I was at MoMA was to check out the paintings, so... If MoMA was my first time seeing a Van Gogh or Jackson Pollack in person, then I might have been somewhat impressed. Peeking between big hair and baseball caps to get a glimpse of "Starry Night" was not exactly an enlightening experience. I couldn't get over the fact that the vast majority of art in MoMA was limited to pieces created prior to 1970. Everything was really safe and had that 'corporate lobby' feel.
Then, it hit me - I was at Snob Disneyland. I was at a hand-carved, wooden 'rollercoaster-ride' of a movie. I was at a Coldplay concert performed with the New York Philharmonic in Lincoln Center. I was watching 'American Idol: Opera Edition'. I was in a museum where I had zero chance of catching 30 seconds in front of a painting without someone having to mosey right the fuck in front of me.
It was a museum for the person that I was 6 years ago, and once I realized this, I let it go.
I know, many of your are thinking (or perhaps saying out loud) - "Duh, Deckard! What are you, a fuckin' idiot? Where have you been living - under a rock?" First of all, nobody calls me a fuckin' idiot to my face. Second, I am living in a cave, which is in a rock, not under it. Third, my artistic medium of choice for the first 25 years of my life has been film. In addition to the photographic aspect, the bulk of filmmaking has been stuck in naturalistic representations of reality. Yeah yeah, I know about El Topo, Un Chien Andalou and tons of other obtuse art films, but please refer to sentence #2 in this blog. I have written my perspective on good vs. bad art, but it is important to note that I actually View contemporary art before I pass judgment. I have come a LONG way in the last 5 years and much of it has had to do with remaining open to the occassional thrashing of my assumptions. On Friday night, my girlfriend and I participated in the backpackers/broke NYer's Event of the City - Free Admission to The Museum of Modern Art. Kat and I have avoided this outing ever since the MoMA's grand opening in their re-designed building. Part of our avoidance was due to the horror stories we'd heard regarding the endless lines and over-stuffing of the museum. I, however, have also endured a dodgy relationship with MoMA. I'd visited the Manhattan museum back in 2000 when they had just begun to renovate their building but were still willing to charge nearly full price to see a pitiful, handful of paintings. 3 years later, I was similarly-bilked when I trudged out to their temporary 'warehouse' museum in Queens for another token showing of a few paintings. Admittedly, my mood wasn't helped when, mid-way through an Ansel Adams exhibit, the City decided to have their first blackout in 30 years, sending me, Kat and a friend of mine on an 11-mile, hiking trek back to Inwood... in flip-flops.
Well, we finally went and the verdict on the new building is in. I congratulate MoMA for building the most banal, non-contemporary piece of architecture they could muster and still keep a straight face when they call themselves 'Modern'. The building is a series of boxy levels with a high, central ceiling and wall windows that drastically shift the color temperature of the rooms from one wall to the next (kind of important from a consistent-lighting standpoint). There are small side hallways that go nowhere but are just long enough to make you have to walk clear over There to find out. From the outside, it looks like virtually any office building built after 1960. For weeks after it opened, the New York publications debated the boldness of the architecture. Let me tell you what's bold about it. Nothing. It's a space built to truck people through it's halls and along it's escalators as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But let's be honest here, bold architecture doesn't necessarily mean art-friendly. The Guggenheim looks fantastic when you walk in and climb the spiraling hall for the first time, but it's not the easiest place to view art with every person in the museum passing in front of you on the way up or down. The real reason I was at MoMA was to check out the paintings, so... If MoMA was my first time seeing a Van Gogh or Jackson Pollack in person, then I might have been somewhat impressed. Peeking between big hair and baseball caps to get a glimpse of "Starry Night" was not exactly an enlightening experience. I couldn't get over the fact that the vast majority of art in MoMA was limited to pieces created prior to 1970. Everything was really safe and had that 'corporate lobby' feel.
Then, it hit me - I was at Snob Disneyland. I was at a hand-carved, wooden 'rollercoaster-ride' of a movie. I was at a Coldplay concert performed with the New York Philharmonic in Lincoln Center. I was watching 'American Idol: Opera Edition'. I was in a museum where I had zero chance of catching 30 seconds in front of a painting without someone having to mosey right the fuck in front of me.
It was a museum for the person that I was 6 years ago, and once I realized this, I let it go.
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