drums... drums, in the deep

So, I finally got hired full-time at my non-profit job. I had been looking for a job elsewhere for the last 6 months, but it never happened. Finally, one of my co-workers got a new job and I was offered her vacated position. It's more pay and I'll have health benefits for the first time in nearly 2 1/2 years.

I fucking hate getting older. Suddenly things like health insurance have become a big deal as I've become more and more aware of exactly how fucked up the healthcare industry is in this country. Gives me a goddamn headache. So, I'm full-time now and that means that I can finally save a little money for the big move.

That's right. After 5 and a half years of living in NYC, Kat and I are planning to move. Colorado, most-likely. Fort Collins, quite possibly. Both Kat and I were born in Colorado (separated by 8 years). We both left at a young age and our memories are dim, but last summer rekindled things and now we're looking to move there. We have friends there and Nebraska, and it'll be an ideal place to recharge our batteries with some outdoor activities (I am particularly psyched about learning snowboarding).

I have no idea what the fuck we're going to do for a living. I've been looking for teaching work in the hope of gathering a little experience and teaching a community college after we move, but there's a glut of broke artists looking for work in NYC. I so badly want to get back into the arts, but I'm at a loss and have no idea what Colorado has to offer.

The reason we're thinking about Fort Collins is that it's a college town and is gaining a rep as a hip, cheap place. Boulder is too expensive and white for my tastes. People keep telling me I should move to Denver because I live in a city now, but why would I want to live in a smoggy city that isn't as dynamic and interesting as NYC and has no public transportation? If I wanted to live in another NYC, then I'd stay put.

As a result of this big event, Kat and I have posted a list on our refrigerator of all the things we want to do before we leave. Despite the unaffordability, I really LOVE this city and will have a very hard time leaving it.

I'm starting to freak out even as I write this.

It's time for another chapter in this life. It'll be six years this summer and it's time to acknowledge that the Dream just isn't gonna happen in this City. I'm tired of being broke, living hand-to-mouth, and going nowhere with my career. I'm ready to go. Kat is ready to go. We need new possibilities and a little more nature in our lives.

hip deep in Life

It feels like it's been weeks since I've written anything on this blog... hold on a minute. That's because I haven't.

My evenings and weekends have been chock-full of Business as I prepare for my month-long hiatus from the Cave, and the City. June 3rd is the official wedding date and June 5th is the beginning of our month-long tour of America's national parks and gas stations. Most of the big stuff for the wedding has been taken care of, so now we are in Anxious Waiting stage. Meanwhile, I am trying to teach myself the intricacies of Adobe Premiere, After Effects and Encore as I scramble to complete a wedding DVD for my friend, Eliot (the fellow who got married in Sweden last summer). So there's that, and the short story I've been knocking around for the last 4 months, and the Japanese kanji characters I was trying to teach myself as a part of another ongoing project, and the book on Mutual Funds that I checked out of the library 3 weeks ago because I wanted to learn about investing, and the copy of "Everything is Illuminated" that I've been reading on the subway to and from work, and then there's that tiny little detail of the wedding that hasn't been completed called the VOWS...

...

So, when I realized that I'd been neglecting my blog on top of all the other stuff, I decided that I HAD to take 15 minutes out of my workday (I'm sure no one will mind) and touch base... Or, I could just ramble.

digging for my Bliss

I've been running jangly for the last few weeks. I can't get a grip on anything. I destroyed my 4-month-old iPod Nano/birthday gift last week. What should have been a smooth, 'Pick up item/put item in pocket' maneuver turned into 'pick up item/try to get better grip on item/launch item across the room and under the dresser'. Last night, I lost all motor skills and got waxed in a game of Madden 2005. I became so irate, I had to stand on the fire escape in 30 degree (F) temperatures and 20 m.p.h. winds to calm myself. That took a good 15 minutes to get over a computer game.

Defeatism is in full bloom and the stench would fell a Pollyanna. I can stand outside myself and observe the irrational behavior, yet still be utterly unable to control it. My focus goes off in brilliant, red and blue fireworks as thoughts shimmer and crackle with insipiration then instantly dissolve into blackness. Mania is swinging the pendulum wide and for the first time ever, I've actually entertained the notion that, perhaps, I might need some form of medication... now, all I need is health insurance.

Of course, the City has done little to improve my mood, either. I've noticed that many of my friends have been feeling the same, anxious irritation. New York City is feeling unaffordable even for the full-timers. Many people have glanced up after a few years of earnest, nose-to-the-grindstone effort and can't figure out why they chose to move here in the first place... or why they should stay. Rents have continued to skyrocket, even in the few years I've lived here. Moving to New York has felt like drilling a well. As I start digging deeper and deeper, I fret about whether I chose the right spot and whether I should try another place. A little deeper, I start to think that if I did stop, then I'd be wasting all the time/money I've put into it. So, I throw myself into it all-the-harder, thinking that I'm just being a chicken-shit and losing my nerve. Nowadays, I'm starting to wonder whether I've just dug myself a really expensive hole to Nowhere.

For our honeymoon, Kat and I are going to roadtrip America. We've wanted to do it for years, just as an adventure. Now, it's starting to look like chance to find if there's somewhere in this country where an artist might find a way to both live and work on his art. My parents are so desperate to get us out of the City, they've eagerly offered to lend us a car and help pay for the trip. We're planning on visiting friends and relatives in Nebraska and South Dakota, then check out Colorado, Washington, California, the Southwest and who knows where else before returning the car. Kat and I were both born in Colorado so there's a part of us that thinks Colorado might be the place we'll end up, but who knows? Maybe we'll stay a bit longer and finally strike water in NYC so we can start building.

But the hole keeps getting deeper.

murder by BIOS

My computer died yesterday, and I killed it. I've spent a lot of time in front of a computer monitor and I've read more than a fair number of hardware and software guides. I took BASIC and Pascal programming classes in high school, taught myself SQL 4 years ago, but I always feel like I don't know enough. Murder always feels a step outside my tunnel vision of knowledge- there's always something that I could miss. I killed partially out of ignorance. I was playing with a gun I didn't know I was loaded called a system BIOS. Unfortunately, the manufacturer of my motherboard neglected to tell me that they were handing me a loaded firearm.

I built my computer three years ago. I'm very proud of it. I had never built a computer before. I did the researh. I studied a number of techie websites, including the fantastic Tom's Hardware Guide and My Super PC. I picked out the components and, for less than a thousand bucks, built a smokin'-yet-affordable system:

Intel P4 - 2.4GHz Processor
ASUS P4PE motherboard
Corsair 512MB memory
Western Digital 120MB 7200RPM hard drive
Gainward GeForce4 Ti4200

Looks great and technical, doesn't it? I went from a crap-ass Dell 'laptop' with a failed battery and floppy drive to an unbelievably fast and stable system completely of my own creation. I could cruise through Battlefield 1942 or Medal of Honor smooth as silk... not counting the occassional dirty look from Kat.

The Achilles heel of the system, however, was the O.S.. Eight months ago, Windows 2000 started giving me error messages. It had developed a glitch wherein Explorer would crash after closing file folders. I lived with it for a while, tried Googling the problem, performed a few tweeks, then endured a little more. Finally, I decided that it was time to start anew. I had a new, 160 GB hard drive to hold my new media files and now was a good time to format the new drive and re-install my system software.

The last 2 weeks have been spent on backup. On Saturday, I unplugged the Beast, hauled it out from under my desk, wrangled the dust bunnies from its innards, then carefully installed the new drive. I'd been dreading the whole process of formatting and re-installing Windows, but by that evening, I had a renewed system with a new, formatted hard drive, and an internet connection. Life was good. It was the easiest installation I'd ever done... then I made the foolish mistake of speaking out loud and telling Kat.

Sunday morning, I was up early and eager to go. I was convinced that I could have my Adobe Creative Suite and iTunes fully installed before Kat even knew the bed was getting cold. I peformed the Dance with Windows Updater and re-booted the system a few times, without incident. I went to ASUS's website to find the newest drivers for my motherboard. As I clicked through, I noticed that there was this convenient, new utility that proudly told me that it could perform a BIOS update without the aid of flash disks.

'Fantastic,' I thought, ' I can update the BIOS, reboot then install Adobe. I ran the utility, chose the newest BIOS, then started the update. The meters filled, telling me that my old BIOS was removed, that the new BIOS was being entered then the install was confirmed- no, wait a sec.

Error.

Did I want to RETRY the installation or EXIT and cancel the installation?

I clicked RETRY, watched the meters do their thing then... another error.

'Ah well,' I thought, fuck it. Best not get too greedy. I'll do the BIOS update some other time.

I EXIT from the utility, then Restart Windows to... a blank screen.

Huh.

I hold down the RESET button on my PC case.

Blank screen. The machine is running, the fans are turning, but nothing is loading. Nothing. Blank.

RESTART.

Nothing.

Oh shit.

RESTART.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh-

Nothing.

I scrambled into the bedroom where my Flintstone-era laptop lies. It was slow, but I had a simple ethernet connection going and right then, it was all the technology I had in the world. I went to ASUS's website. Troubleshooting. I swore. Forums. More swearing. I'm Googling.

Kat peered over the rim of the covers at the tall, sweaty boyfriend who's swearing like a sailor under his breath.

"Are you all right, sweetie," she asked from somewhere between a dream and the adrenaline-fueled reality where I was living.

I dragged my computer out from under my desk. With the motherboard instructions in my hand, I'm threading my hand through the maze of wires, carefully extracting the pin jumper from one set of pegs, and sliding them onto another. Supposedly, I am clearing the CMOS from my drive, but I felt like I was about to turn into one of the apes from 2001: A Space Odyssey and start hopping around hysterically around the Monolith.

I plug the monitor and keyboard back in and turn on the power.

Nothing.

I take it apart. Try it again. I plug it in, turn it on.

Nothing.

I try removing the motherboard battery - the power supply that keeps the BIOS alive in the motherboard. I plug it back in.

Nothing.

I have a boot disk. I install a floppy drive, enter the boot disk. I plug it back in.

Nothing.

CD-ROM boot disk.

Nothing.

I'm pleading, negotiating, offering my first born for the return of functionality.

Nothing.

I'm telling Kat all about the CMOS. I show her the directions and explain what I'm doing and ask her to read the directions and tell me I'm doing it right. She even holds the flashlight as I try to reset the CMOS for the upteenth time.

Nothing.

Kat Googles. Can't find anything new.

Finally, I had to Admit that... I did it. I had killed my computer with a poisonous BIOS.

Well, what's a credit line if you can't use it, right? I haven't ordered from Newegg in so long... maybe it's time to catch up on old times.

rockin' our World

"An object at rest will remain at rest until an unbalanced force acts on it.
An object in motion will remain in motion until an unbalanced force acts on it."
-Newton's First Law of Motion

One of the easiest selling points of Conservatism is comfort. Societies are always changing, whether we like it or not, and there is a fantasy held by many that things can (and should) remain 'As Is'. This often arises from an erroneous belief that there was a 'Good Old Days' where things were simpler (meaning better) and that Things are getting Worse because people (insert caption of 'Liberal') keep trying to change things. Not all conservatives are inert, but it is a core belief that lies beneath many conservative talking points.

Why am I rambling on about this? No reason.

A couple weeks ago, a friend e-mailed me an invite to a global warming lecture. It was with this guy named Andy Revkin, a noted (or so I've been Told) science journalist for the New York Times and was being hosted by the Rainforest Alliance. Kat and I showed up in our eco-friendly garb - denim, concert T-shirts, steel-tipped Doc Martens, and nice, vaguely-hippie clothes. Our first cue that we might be swimming in strange waters was when we stepped off the elevator and were greeted with a sea of nametags. Kat had been listed as my guest so she was relegated to pencilling in her name. I hadn't a suitable pocket to attach my tag so I clipped it to my belt buckle and headed inside.

The room was stuffed with khakis, business shirts and dress-pants. Kat and my nametags looked woefully inadequate beside the corporate names and titles that began with the words Vice President. Many looked as if they had just shared a taxi from the East Side where they had just attended a U.N. summit on deforestation. Fortunately, awkwardness can be overcome with an adequate dose of alcohol and/or pills and the Rainforest Alliance provided free wine and beer exclusively for that purpose... that's what I choose to believe, anyway. Kat and I huddled near one another for comfort. Our previous notion of an environmental meeting involved refreshments provided by a vending machine accessed "down the hall and to the right". If it wasn't for a diorama-style room of glossy testimonials to fighting deforestation and supporting self-sustaining businesses, I'd have thought I was standing outside a board meeting for an Upper East Side non-profit group (also known as the 'Thing To Do When You're Rich and Bored').

I stared at the shiny, bright handouts and my first thought was 'This doesn't look like recycled paper'. Fortunately, my friends arrived and bailed me out of further observation. I had more primal needs to attend. The lecture was going to start and the gravy train of foccachia snacks, chocolate-dipped strawberries and free wine would soon dry up. I had to make my move. I approached the dour woman who manned the bar. I smiled pleasantly and offered my wine glass and a nonchallant play for a refill. The woman offered a "eat hot death, deadbeat" glare, then begrudgingly offered me 1 inch of red wine... somebody was a little bitter about working overtime.

Kat and I scored a pair of fold-out chairs in the back and set our paper-plate booty on our laps. Despite our spoils, now was the moment I secretly dreaded. Although I am passionate about the environment and do my best to spend my money as eco-friendly as possible, I am gun-shy about environmental lectures. They tend to make me feel ineffectual and angry. Lecturers often talk about atrocities of such scale and in lands so far away, I feel like I've been trying to piss on a forest fire. When I go to an environmental discussion, I want it to be focused and, preferably, local. I want to be able to wrap my hands around it and affect it and mobilize myself against it. It's not that I don't want to affect international issues, but I believe that the best way to get others to change is to live as an example and do it first in your own back yard.

So... how was the lecturer?

Over the years, my tolerance for bullshit has dropped to zero. I have even less patience for politicians and corporate PR. They wield masks that present me well-crafted lies and dreamy appraisals of how they want me to think as they prey that I'm not intellectually curious enough to learn any more than they have fed me. Political/scientific journalists are, sadly, cut from much of the same cloth. In order to stay on the Inside and, hopefully, find an opportunity to break the Big Story, reporters must convince the Public, and the Insiders, that they're probably (wink wink) on the Right side while maintaining the facade that reporting is a non-partisan act. It's the same delusion that documentaries are non-fiction. We all hope that the responsible reporter will convey the 'truth' of a moment, but these things cannot always be found without pointing a few fingers and making a few enemies.

Mr. Revkin offered no finger-pointing on this evening. Before he began his lecture, he had to read a disclaimer that anything he said did not represent the opinion of The New York Times. Thank God for that, otherwise I'd think that he was speaking the opinions of an inanimate, corporation and not speaking as a regular human being. He told us about how busy and tired he was from following hurricane news over the last 3 weeks. He told us how journalism isn't good for environmental reporting because it happens slowly instead of in big, catastrophic bangs. He told us that we need to educate our children better if we are going to have any hope of properly addressing global, environmental issues. Basically, he showed us that he was burnt out, frustrated, world weary and needed some sleep. He was a notch off of completely cynical, but I'd give that a couple years. I didn't find myself pissed off at the end of the lecture, but I wasn't exactly raring to get out there and have babies so I could educate them, either.

The wine and snacks were good, though.

Volunteering at the Howl Festival

The last weekend was the final Movement in the 3rd Annual Howl Festival. "Howl", for those of you non-poetics, is the poem that Allen Ginsberg wrote that happened to revolutionize the poetic world and embolden the a whole generation of writers who would later be known as The Beats (and a few generations beyond). Even today it is a powerful piece and very appropriately named. There is no underestimating the profound effect "Howl" had on so many artists.

Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:

1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.

The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.

The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.

M.I.A. in Central Park - as viewed by an angry man

I haven't willingly listened to a commercial radio station in years. I have been held captive in offices where bitter, heavy-set secretaries voice their Displeasure with the world by cranking up a scratchy, transistor radio to piercing levels so we can all enjoy "On the Dock of the Bay" for the eight billionth time (this song also finds heavy rotation among hobo crooners on the subway). Abrasive commercials, pseudo-DJs, the heavy rotation of 10 songs, Over and Over and Over- how could I NOT miss it? Nearly as punishing as their broadcasts, commercial radio stations love to promote/sponsor concerts while displaying a staggering lack of understanding of both entertaining or their core audience. On Sunday, Kat and I subjected ourselves to the laminated sheen of commercial concert bliss at a Central Park Summerstage show featuring M.I.A.

Kat's theme music for the last few months has been M.I.A. If you don't know what M.I.A. is, I forgive you. 'It' is a Sri Lankan/Brit woman who raps world issues over fantastic Indian/techno style beats. She completely rocks and is on the verge of being consumed by the American Hipster Hype Machine who loves to worship it's God, then dismantle It at the first sign of national attention. Kat has been using M.I.A.'s debut album, Arular, as her personal theme music for the last few months and had this date circled on her calendar for weeks. Getting me out of the cave was no easy task. I was in the midst of a Hate-The-World phases wherein mania strikes and I cannot write or focus on anything. Eventually, I become irritated by everyone and am reduced to performing cross-hatch, pen drawings for hours on end or picking off Nazis with a sniper rifle from the comfort of my computer chair. Kat has seen plenty of these episodes and quickly dismissed my protestations - she wouldn't be denied. So, at 1pm we boarded the subway and hauled our asses down to Central Park.

Central Park really is an amazing place. It's easy to forget that when you have to cross it twice a day, 3-5 days a week. The park is Huge and on any given day, there are thousands of people from dozens of nationalities doing thousands of different things. Impromptu roller skating rinks shared spaces with jazz bands, frisbee games, pot smokers and crazy people - it is one of the best places in the world to people-watch. On Sunday, there also happened to be thousands of people standing in line to see M.I.A.. Kat and I immediately abandoned all hope of getting into the small, outdoor theater and staked out a spot on a woodchip-as-lawn area with the growing mass of eager fans. It was a people-watching smorgasbord. Hula-hoop dancers enjoyed the Indian-techno tunes while a bearded, dreadlocked soul danced solo for a good hour before an atractive pair of pretty, Indian women joined him. Soon, there were 15-20 people spinning and hip-swinging -hula-hoops and frisbees were flying everywhere.

Then the radio station DJs took the stage. They asked the crowd a half dozen times who they were there to see (M.I.A.) and were they ready to go crazy (yes). They turned over the DJing duties to DJ Rekha who did her best to destroy all momentum for dancing fun. Can someone explain to me how these people get their jobs? It's always a relief to have DJs play something different but I have two words for you - beat matching. If people are grooving out to a song, then you'd better have something that they can fold their rhythm into when it ends. Playing an energeitic groove then following it with a slow, disjointed beat Kills the Momentum. Could you Please quit turning the music down every 30 seconds to complain that the audience isn't as enthusiastic as you want them to be? Last note - quit explaining what kind of music you are going to play next. I don't care if you think that you're gonna 'get hardcore, now'. This DJ must've told us she was 'getting hardcore' three times as if she kept loosing her hardcore and was trying to re-start the engine.

Have I mentioned that I've been having some anger issues, lately?

All right... fine. I'm complaining about the opening act. The real reason Kat and I were bruising our asses on tree roots was to hear M.I.A., right? So, how was she?

Well, you'll have to find someone else to answer that. Two and a half hours after the concert started, we were still waiting for M.I.A. We had endured DJ Rekha, Mr. Vegas (a reggae DJ who equally sucked) and Diplo. This was interspersed with a cavalcade of radio jockeys who would not stop asking us who we wanted to see (M.I.A) and were we ready to go crazy (yes). Kat's ass was hurting, the cute, Indian women had abandoned the dancing an hour into the concert and our people-watching had morphed into a lot of people looking around at one another and wondering 'Can I go now?'.

I had a writing workshop back in Inwood at 7, Kat had lost her groupie zeal and we figured that we'd endured enough.

Alas, I believe that Kat and I will have to wait for the Hype to fade before we see the Experience that is M.I.A.

tap... tap... tap...

Summer is hitting NYC hot-and-heavy today. I'm camped out in front of a fan with shades drawn, windows closed, and my air conditioner lying dormant. People bitch and moan about hot weather, but it's just a matter of getting used to it. When I was laboring in 100° F (37° Celsius) heat among the ruins of Ayutthaya, Thailand, I watched groundskeeping women go about their work wearing heavily-layered, dark clothing from head-to-toe while Kat looked like her head was about to spontaneously combust. Hell, even an anglo fella like me has gotten used to it. I spent a summer in the San Fernando Valley, enjoying 95° F (35° C) temps in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Of course, I was unemployed for that summer so I had a LOT of time to get used to the weather along with far too many vodka and orange juice libations. Working in an office makes it hard, though. You spend the day in overly-cooled environments then try to go without when you get home. It's a vicious cycle. Vicious, I tell you. Fortunately, I have the advantage of only working three days a week.

Actually, it Would be fortunate if someone were willing to pay me to endure heat.

Can you tell that I'm trying to avoid work? It feels like people can tell. I've already done all the dishes in the apartment. I've scoured Craigslist for writing jobs in search of gigs that don't involve writing for somebody who has a 'great idea' and wants somebody to ghost-write it for him/her. I've read my bookmarked blogs, scanned the New York Times, checked the Fed Ex tracking site for the umpteenth time in search of minute-by-minute progress on the 160GB hard drive that I'm expecting Any Moment Now. I've even tapped out on my circuit of porn websites and when THAT happens, buster, you know that it is Time to get started. If I start playing Call of Duty, then I'll know that I've completely given up on the day.

Last night, I vowed to Kat that I would start sending out my poetry to contests and publications. Today was to be Poetry Day wherein I would cease the word-fucking of poems I wrote 3 years ago and finally get a few of the sons-o-bitches out the door.

Yep. Just about ready to get to work on that.

I wonder if the Bowery Ballroom has booked anybody new in the last 6 hours...

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!

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?

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.

ahh, spring! time for Rail Rage

WARNING: Portions of this entry were obtained under extreme duress (rush hour on the 'A'). Comments heretofore written may not represent the author's feelings under other environmental conditions.

I hate cars, particularly in big cities. I loathe trolling block-upon-block, scanning for a parking space. I despise the high insurance rates. I abhor (c'mon thesaurus!) all the hours wasted in traffic jams where I've been reduced to the 8 millionth repeat of some pop song or the lay-thinking of nearly every talkshow host. And, I don't like to drive. This might be a High crime against the soul of Americana, not to mention the implications for familial betrayal. My brother is a huge, Ford man. He could spend all day/every day, driving around in his truck and he'd be in bliss (this boy was born to be a cop). In addition, he and my dad are performance motorcycle (a.k.a. Crotch Rocket) enthusiasts. While I download music videos and the occasional porn video, my brother streams vids of guys doing wheelies or peeling out for a quarter mile straight... and probably downloads the occasional porn video. My brother burns his motorcycle vids on a CD then rushes to my dad's house. With the focus of a Kennedy-assassination theorist, they examine the speedometer and odometer that the video has carefully included in daredevil performance. Then, he and my father debate the theoretically-credible limits of consumer-level crotch rockets as I strain to remember the last time I'd performed a proper oil change on my car.

I blame my dad for my un-American affliction. I do this because 1) it's fun and exceptionally easy to blame your parents and 2 ) he was an Army soldier that got the clan stationed in Germany for the bulk of my high school years. Sure, I got to see amazing works of art, exposed myself to the resonant rhythms of rich, ancient cultures and, as an adolescent perk, watched European women sunbathe naked. But what of my love of cars? What about being raised as a good enthusiast of chrome wheels and torque ratios? Huh? Huh?! Huh, motherfucker?!!! How could my father ruthlessly subject me to a world of easy, clean, public transportation when he knew that I would be returning to a country that lives and breathes cars? I mean, the whole frigging country is built to virtually require the ownership of a car (except for urban swatches of the Northeast). In Germany, if I wanted to meet a friend at the movies, I jumped on a train, bus or streetcar. I never learned that valuable sense of isolation that American kids in the suburbs felt or the burning shame of begging Mom for a ride or, later, the keys to the family car. When I moved to New York City, eagerly sold my car. After years of insurance payments, car repairs and the mind-numbing stream of endless hours along America's butt-ugly freeway system, I was ready to cut the cord. With that said, I wish I had a car. I don't want it to get around in the city. I want it to Escape. The crush of humanity is getting to me and I need Out. It's the beginning of summer and all of us New Yorkers are sick to death of one another. After huddling in our caves, our cave-like, work cubicles, and finally our hurling, subterranean, sardine cans, we strain at the first sign of warmth and sunlight. Nowhere does our derision for our fellow man issue forth with such a viscous burning as during rush 'hour'.

Rush 'hour' is an inherently hostile act. Nobody wants to do it. It isn't a picnic to do the morning commute, but we're all usually still a little too tired to make much of a stink about it. It's not like anybody's just burning up to get to work as Early as possible anyway. If you're on my train at 8:20 or later and you're heading anywhere below 59th Street, you know that you're probably not going to make to work by 9am anyway so you'd might as well stake out a seat and hit your snooze button until 59th Street.

Going Home, however, is when the need for Escape gains it's keen edge and the Commute becomes a physical imperative. Not only do you have to go where you're going, but you Have to be there Now. For all of you already living in the Unaffordable neighborhoods below 100th Street or the hip (and also unaffordable) neighborhoods just across the East River in Brooklyn and you would like to argue otherwise - go Fuck yourselves because you don't know what the Hell you are talking about (please review disclaimer above). This is Deathrace 2005 and Losing is only a missed subway train away. Human roadblocks choke the staircases in a passive-aggressive attempt to Foil everyone who really cares about getting home. The MTA has lazily, yet somehow purposefully, fucked up somewhere downtown again. Instead of getting the 'A' train that you so righteously deserve, you are dealt a steady stream of body blows in the form of 'B' and 'D' trains. Some undeserving, trashy smarm darts ahead as the arriving train has barely begun to regurgitate it's growling, SUV-babystroller-toting excuse for humanity. The smarm darts into a vacated seat even though you know that they'll be getting off two stops later where you will be out of position to snag it and you need that spot because it's gonna be another 45 minutes away from home and you're about ready to lose your shit and pummel the fuck out of that self-righteous, oblivious ass-monkey who Has to spread his legs That wide and take up 2 seats because his balls are Just That Damned Big!(again, please review disclaimer above)

I am so Totally over Her

I know. I suck. Logically, it goes against my most-fundamental beliefs as an artist. But there I am, doing it virtually every Monday. ***Big Breath Here*** I read the Top 10 List of Box Office performers from the weekend.

There! I said it. I finally admitted it. That's the first step towards recovery, you know. I'm practically cured. I don't need those numbers. I was able to kick smoking, movie collecting, and fast food. Surely I can... quit... if I wanted to...

In my defense - I don't, in any way, believe that these statistics reflect the quality of a particular film. I would never ascribe to the hideous belief of many Americans that a high-score at the box office means that a movie is any better or worse than any other. I do it because I am always waiting for Big Failure of the Enemy. When a crap-ass movie like XXX: State of the Union opens with a multi-million dollar campaign push, I'm just begging for it to fail. It's like watching NASCAR. You don't want the entire race to fail, but there's a part of you that can't wait for a really good wipeout.

This year has made for a very satisfying track of the box office. Ticket costs are up, advertisements in theaters are pissing people off, mainstream movies are flooding the multiplexes and revenue is DOWN. Even the obnoxious success of the Star Wars prequel has not succeeded in reviving the box office. And now, they're hoping that The Longest Yard and Madagasgar are going to save things over the Memorial Day weekend?! Oh yeah! This is gonna be good. This is the year that Hollywood goes down! I can't wait until -

...

I'm doing it again. I'm skidding off the road and into the realm of stupid. I have become one of those friends who keep saying, "I'm totally over her. God, it's such a relief to be free of her. Really! If she hadn't broke up with me, I'd have done it first. So what did you see her doing? Really? Well I don't care. Why the fuck should I care? I'm totally over her."

Bad breakups die hard and this one really has to die. Like, now.

The Bermuda Triangle of Manhattan (thru May 1st)

I can't remember names for-shit. I recognize faces. I can usually remember where/when/how I met them, but not the name. I also have a terrible habit of swapping first and last names when I’m talking about art,sports, film or music with people. I’ll keep saying Reggie Jackson when I’m meaning Reggie White or, out loud I will be in the midst of a baffling (to others) diatribe about Buddy Guy while I can clearly see that I'm pontificating about Buddy Holly... in my mind’s eye. The thing that really pisses me off about my memory, however, is my habit of repeating stupid mistakes that I’ve already learned the hard way. Let’s take, for example, ohhhh I don’t know… how about the film industry? After receiving my film degree at Undergrad USA, I moved to Los Angeles with screenplays under my arm, a wealth of film knowledge in my brain and a dream in my heart that I'd be the next Martin Scorsese, David Lynch or (at least) Steven Spielberg. For the next 2½ years, I learned what sort of culturally-rich Synergy bubbles forth when you combine drug-heightened egos, millions of dollars of dispensable wealth and the façade that Studio Executives are conducting ‘business’. The subsequent depression induced by this lesson required a year of rural seclusion (involving far too much alcohol and pinball), $25,000 of grad school (shiny new degree, same result), years of girlfriend therapy and a move to New York City before I could feel a little better about human nature. So, now I’m 8 years removed from my South Cali Exodus... which is just about long enough for my selective memory to kick in. Having forgotten how much I loathe the big-studio industry, I obliviously sauntered down the darkened alley of the TriBeCa Film Festival and signed up as a volunteer.

It must have seemed a good idea at the time. Perhaps I thought that I’d meet a few film lovers like myself (always in my quest for community), see some artsy films that were too edgy or foreign to find distribution, and, maybe, slip into a cool, festival party with an open bar. The TriBeCa Film Festival started in 2002 and has quickly become a plausible mid-Spring excuse for distribution reps to visit New York in between their vacations to Park City, Colorado (Sundance) and Cannes, France. My introductory meeting for the eager volunteers involved a cute, frazzled coordinator who read a hand-out to us which threatened instant expulsion from The Cool Club if we were to shove our scripts in any celebrity’s face or stalk anybody. A week later, I received a re-worded Riot Act in a tiny hotel ‘suite’ (labeled VOLUNTEER PLANET in a typical display of hyperbole), which I had to sign. In addition to granting the staff to flog me and remove my badge for any violation of said Act, I also handed away all my rights to talk about any part of my life that might bear witness to the habits of Robert DeNiro/Corporate Sponsors/the Business while exercising the Privilege of volunteering at this Ostentatious Display of Fame. Of course, I had ZERO chance of learning anything juicy about anything while breaking down sponsor ads and standing outside shindigs with a cameraman's bag, but it must have been comforting to know that They could act the fool in front of the help and not worry that it'd come back to bite them.

Already, I could feel the familiar, unsavory taste in my mouth. I was handed my ‘uniform’- a black T-shirt with a shoe store advertisement larger than the festival logo. I also received a super-cheapie “backpack” that I could fill with Lower Manhattan shopping ads, LUNA Nutrition Bars for Women (only 1, please) and Sucralose-flavored, sugar-free Altoids®. I’m not saying that I was expecting a TriBeCa Film Festival Gucci bag or a bottle of Absolut, but considering the fact that 2,000 volunteers were putting thousands of man hours into a festival that generated $65,000,000 for Lower Manhattan last year (according to Access Hollywood), I’d think that they could offer a better deal than a free glass of wine at a restaurant so expensive, I couldn't afford a side salad.

For those of you who don't know Manhattan, TriBeCa stands for 'Triangle Below Canal" Street. At one time, it might have vaguely resembled a triangle, but real estate salesman have slowly expanded the neighborhood boundaries until now it's more of an inverted trapezoid. Roughly speaking, TriBeCa's borders are: North - Canal Street, East - Church Street (flexible), West - West End Highway and South - Vesey St (WTC area). It was warehouse district until fairly recently. TriBeCa is now a cloistered community of aged celebrities, galleries and middle-aged men in black leather jackets. There’s still a bit of old-city feel stuck between the cracks of the cobblestone streets and it's nice to walk down streets called 'Debrosses' instead of 'East 57th'. As I sat in one of the volunteer offices, I could still smell a faint odor of oiled machinery and textiles. I find myself getting really sad and nostalgic when I spend too much time in these spaces. It feels like there's some residue from all the life and kinetic energy that filled those spaces and now it's just bouncing against the drywall and computers that occupy them now.

I don’t want to linger too much on my experiences at the festival. My experiences were, for the most part, dull and far less interesting than any other kind of volunteering I would have found in the City. Of course, not everyone sucked. There were a number of really cool people who’d done short films and New York City-based films. They are, easily, the most important contributors to the festival, though they were considered to be along the periphery of the festival's focus. The only real community I got to know lived amongst the volunteers and staff. The bond was mostly of the sort you’d find in a hostage situation or amongst those who just love to talk about Who they Saw. I’d also forgotten that people who work events rarely get to enjoy them. I didn’t get to see a single movie. I did, however, meet 3 wonderful people at the festival, got into my open-bar party and met enough jackasses to provide me another 8-year reminder of why I despise the Hollywood Scene. At one point, I was witness to a red-carpet premiere that underscored what an Ostentatious Display of Nothing the whole machine really is. I have never been much for celebrity and the few people I’ve wanted to meet in my life have been under whelming experiences. One thing I have retained since my L.A. days is that if you want to kill your idols, just meet them. Trust me, they’re people – eating, sleeping and shitting like the rest of us.

Now, if I can just retain the other lessons...

not-for-profit Temping

I promised myself that I wouldn't do it. It makes me crazy. It runs contrary to every fiber of my being. But I did it. I got another office, temp job. I'm working at this mega-huge non-profit organization that takes in millions of dollars from Upper East Siders and uses it to clean up vandalism in Central Park so that property values stay sufficiently high. Like all non-controversial, bigwig non-profits in this city, they love to throw a pretentious, yearly dinner and/or luncheon to provide an arena for ostentatious displays of wealth... and to raise money. This is the 3rd non-profit that I've worked since I moved here and it never ceases to amaze me how much disposable income lives on the Upper East Side. This event is so exclusive, you've gotta know somebody if you want the privilege of spending $500 per ticket or, up to $50,000 per table. They're based on the southeast corner of Central Park so I get to walk across the park every day. There isn't a square centimeter of the park that doesn't feel like it's untouched, but damn, it's beautiful. Daffodils, crocuses and forsythia are in full bloom.

This is the first job that I've hade on the Upper East Side. I am regularly seeing people that might as well be living on Mars for all that I share in common with them. It's a culture of toy dogs and plastic surgery that'd make sense to nobody outside their inner circle. The younger women are long, thin, blond, beautiful and virtually non-sexual. They look like laminated models that are still living in the pages of a fashion magazine. And such anger. It must be the backwash from all the reindeer games that society people play with one another.

Interestingly, I've had very few sightings of the millionaire husbands that mate with these specimens. I would never be so gauche to expect a dual-sighting. Occasionally, I get a glimpse of a potential sighting as some man in an Armani suit strategizes with another over a cell phone. The discussions normally involve somebody making a 'move' in a board meeting somewhere and what the potential fallout might be. It's all very arcane and utterly childish in it's tone. I suspect that most of these husbands work in the Financial District and eat their lunches in those restaurants with dark wood and tinted windows that I could never possibly enter, much less afford. They don't go out at night, unless it's to catch a taxi or elongated car. Much of the Upper East Side looks like an abandoned theme park at night. Entire blocks lie dormant until someone with a dog-ornament emerges with a cellphone surgically-attached to one ear.

I know... I'm being bad. But hey, when you're earning low wages at an organization raising tens of millions of dollars and handing out door prizes of equivalent value to your yearly rent, it can be a little demoralizing.

scoping the Scene with Cat Power

I had a great time. I want you to remember that as you read this. I know that my set up might have all the trappings of a great, overarching diatribe but really- no, really - I had a good time.

So... went to see Cat Power last night at Southpaw in Brooklyn. I'd never been to this venue before and after getting out at the wrong subway stop and walking from the dark side of Nowhere where an icy wind always awaits you around every corner, I was not in the best mindset. Once I got inside, had a vodka tonic clipped into my frozen clutches and got settled in a seat (!), I was happy. Southpaw is a good place. The Mercury Lounge (where I was the previous night) was a square box of the barest design. I don't knock venues like that. They keep the ticket prices down and normally attract only the more-devoted music fans, but even at 6-foot-3, I often find myself planted behind the shoulder blades of some huge guy who, innocent as he may be, has become my personal lunar eclipse. In Southpaw, they had a couple levels of risers with nice, heavy railings. Even the most elfin groupie can scope a decent spot out in the early hours and effectively avoid having a hard-earned spot ruined by a monolith in steel-toe boots.

I should have known I was going to be in trouble when I saw that 'The Village Voice' had listed the Cat Power concert as one of their picks-of-the-week, but I wasn't prepared for the Scenesters. I have mentioned the Hipsters before, but with the introduction of this new term, some clarification is necessary. Hipsters are NYC folks who show up in fasionable spots and order $10 drinks because they saw them on 'Sex and the City' or think that it makes them look good. If the drink has Grey Goose or Skyy Vodka, then bonus points can be scored. They wear bohemian, fashion-labelled clothes and pretend that they have anything resembling a handle on life because they are living in neighborhoods that once graced the heels of Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. These individuals are often annoying, but not evil. Their tragedy for the average Joe is that their deep wells of dispensible income will quickly drive rent and alcohol prices through the roof in an otherwise-cool area.

Scenesters are evil. They are the reason that I don't work in the film industry anymore (along with a couple of other things). They are also a good reason to not go to Irving Plaza or Roseland Ballroom or any other venue sponsored by Clear Channel. Once a band starts to break it big, their gigs become Events, and are immediately infected with the Scenester. They show up with no purpose other than to network with other people and, maybe, fuck the hot new thing that just started working at the agency/record label/publishing house/TV or movie studio. The vast majority of them work in the entertainment industry with the lowest rung being operated by agent mailroom interns and rising up through record executive. The concert-going Scenester M.O. is to show up mid-way through the opening act's set, buy a drink, find a conspicuous place to stand, then talk during the set about things like expensive vacations, restaurants, and other concerts he/her has ruined and 'insider' platitudes regarding their profession.

Well, the Scenesters were in full force on this night. Although probably not the best move for his career, the guy opening for Cat Power (I never got his name) made angry jokes regarding the clusters of indifferent Scenesters who were giving no love (except to themselves) that night. At one point he even tried to pick out a female scenester in the crowd who stood in his direct eyeline and never once turned to the stage. Despite the whooping of a sympathetic few, none of the Scenesters ever acknowledged him. The clatter of networking got loud enough to drown out his singing for the second half of the set. Finally, the guy tore through his last two songs with enough growling and shouting to make them pretty good.

I'd always heard that Cat Power's shows were a mixed bag. I didn't exactly know what that meant but I was intrigued. Half an hour after the opening act pressed his fedora over his eyes and stormed off stage, Chan Marshall made her appearance. The lights dimmed, the crowd went wild and a distracted, irritable, attractive woman took a seat in front of a huge piano. Now, I think that she was attractive. She was thin and dressed in appropriately-casual dress with gorgeous long, dark hair, but she hid behind it. Her bangs completely covered her eyes. Most of my mental image of the evening involves a microphone and a nose peeking out from behind a hair curtain. She pulled out an electric guitar and slowly strummed a few chords. Slowly, the sounds of a song came together. She leaned into the microphone and suddenly, there it was - the husky voice of Cat Power... and it sounded good. For anybody who've not been to a number concerts, it's hard to know what you're going to get when you see a band live for the first time. Some bands are record bands. Their songs are highly-produced or their voices have a layered, mixed sound, that just doesn't translate live. The vocals are weak and drown out beneath the guitar or the bass. Or worse, they sing so far out of tune that you wonder they even sang on their own record. Then, there are those bands who sound amazing live, but when you rush back home with their newly-purchased record, they don't have any of that coiled, nervous energy that made their music leap from the stage. Well, Cat Power turned out to be that very rare musician that sounds great both live and on a record AND she took the hat trick because her live show sounds just different-enough from her recordings to make it a unique experience .

So, I'm sure that you're thinking that it was the phenomenal performance of Chan that carried the night and left me feeling so good about the evening. She peformed all of her greatest hits from "You Are Free" and left the crowd rocking, right? Well, no. Chan did something that I've never seen before - she sabotaged Every Single Song she played. It was like reading a Beckett play where every joke is robbed of the payoff. Every time there was an opportunity to get a perfunctory round of applause, Chan would jump into another song and stifle it. She would play the first few bars of a song that the audience was pining to hear, then she would stop or fold it into something else. It felt like I was sitting in on that step in the creative audience when you try some new ideas out in front of your friends, just to see how they'll react to it... but she was doing it in front of a paying audience. She would play part of a musical phrase, then stop, set the guitar down, and try something different out on the piano. The Scenesters didn't know what to do with themselves. The event was actually becoming a real Event in which the perfunctory rules of engagement no longer applied. Shouting out requests, clapping encouragement for the beginning of a song they wanted to hear, cheering the self-deprecating mumblings of the artist - none of it worked. Chan just kept singing or strumming or plunking notes on the piano with a surrealistic thought process to guide it. The Scenesters began their retreat within the first 15 minutes. Prime positions in the room vacated and the temperature dropped 10 degrees from the draft of an exodus through the front door.

With all pretension abandoned, I settled into a beautiful set of music. It reminded me of my childhood when I would sit on the floor beside my mom's piano and listen to her play the highlights of songs that she could remember or fragments of sheet music she'd thumb through. If I offered to sing for a bit, she'd actually stick with it until I couldn't remember any more lyrics. At the end of her set, Chan stood up from her piano and mumbled "It'll be better next time. I promise," before slinking from the stage. Some fans tried to whistle and clap her into doing an encore, doggedly refusing to abandon the rules of engagement. But the rules were not being followed this night.

Thank God.

a little Credit in the straight world

This is the last week of my unemployment. I don't have a job but I have finally succumbed to the grey, listless world of Temping. The day that I left my old job, I vowed that I would never return to the cubicle-and-fluorescent habitat of Administrative Assisted Hell... well, at least not in a non-arts business. I've really had it with temping. I have done it far to long. That 8 A.M. phone call from the agency, followed by the shuffling search for the street then office then supervisor then lackey-who-needs-help which takes you to the dirty looks as you check your e-mail in between mind-numbing re-ordering of files or answering telephones and talking to angry people because you're not the one they wanted to talk you then the awkward begging for lunch then more of the same then the mousy knock on the supervisor's door to get your timesheet signed so you can dial '9', pound the agency's number in the keypad and send off an official notice of where you wasted your existence for the last 8 hours. The aching in my right hand has risen to a slow growl... Damned that numeric keypad!

New York City is a unique world for the job-searcher. It seems as if every interesting job suffers from one of three ailments - nepotism, unionization or favoritism. Businesses can, and often do, suffer from all three ailments but at least one is present. Multiple family members work ticketing offices in the City. Nobody, not even the snob-arts up at Lincoln Center can avoid it. I know the value of unions. They're critical when you are dealing with corrupt and/or impersonal corporate interests. There are some places and some positions that have been saved from unions. New York, however, has taken many unions and turned them into art forms. Look, when some art grad grabs a job at Pearl Paint, the largest art supply store in the city, he/she isn't expecting to earn a fortune, but when the pay is $8/hour AND you have to plug in union dues, then somebody's earning something and it sure-as-shit ain't the clerks. Favoritism is an old acquaintance of mine. We go way back. I've stood on the outside looking in and I've even gotten a few gigs in L.A. based on the same criteria. For the entertainment industry, it's a way for a film/TV crew to get help that isn't gonna bitch and moan when they're pulling 16 hour workdays or getting screamed at by a spoiled producer. In New York City, it is often a way for semi-competent people to rise through the ranks of various professions without ever really getting any better at what they do. When you get into upper management, this is one of the best way to move around, especially if you can piece together good severance packages along the way.

I find it interesting how American culture treats the arts in such a dismissive manner, yet there is no shortage of people desperate to work in it. Finding any job in the arts requires extensive experience In The Field, significant salary sacrifices (which are exponentially-worsened in NYC) and a time-immersive availability that only an twenty-something, trust-fund single could ever hope to meet. Otherwise, how could a person really be fluent in Mandarin and Spanish, have at least 7 years of gallery experience and afford a $12-15 an hour job in Manhattan (don't forget that you need to be available nights and weekends :)). I've seen people working gallery jobs in SOHO and the Meatpacking District. They're not THAT skilled. All you have to do is sit in front of an iMac, look pretty and ignore anybody who doesn't look money enough to afford anything in the shop. My three years of film production experience, combined with my summer theater management experience, along with my 3 years of marketing analysis, and my playwriting skills pretty much add up to Jack-over-Shit. I guess that being a Renaissance Man only worked during the Renaissance... and only when there was affordable housing.

Bitch bitch bitch

Moan moan moan

...have I covered everything?... oh yeah-

Whine whine whine

As my girlfriend said, so effortlessly destroying the extended rationale of my last post, "Maybe you'll feel better about others when you feel like you are accomplishing something in your life."

fallen from the grace of Hoops

The NBA All-Star game was on last night. For the first time in years, I sat in front of a television and watched a basketball game... well, the first half. Sports watching is a rarity for me these days. Last year I watched bits and pieces of the NBA finals so I'd have something to talk about at the office the next day. It's difficult to picture myself 11 years ago as the raving basketball enthusiast I was. I was in my final year of college at the University of Iowa and I had the best basketball seats that 5 years of student-ticket priority could purchase. I would skip evening classes if the Hawkeyes were playing and after a home game, I would be hoarse from the whooping and screaming. I entered every tournament pool and would read strategy books on offensive and defensive philosophies so I could spot the difference between a 2-3 zone and a box-and-one. I knew coach and player tendencies - I would have made a hell of a oddsmaker if I had been a gambling man. When the NBA draft approached, I'd scout out rookies and try to anticipate Jerry West's every pick and trade (I was a HUGE Lakers fan). What happened to that person? How could that same individual shut off the TV at half time and go read a book?

The natural answer is to blame the basketball culture. Nobody calls travelling in basketball anymore. It's no longer exciting to watch basketball players dunk when virtually every player on the court can do the same, plus 99% of them are considerably taller than me and even I could do it (albeit, no longer). The basketball skills shown by the Lakers, Sixers and Celtics of the 80's has completely disappeared from today's game. Athletes and owners fixate upon raw talent and not at all on skill. Athletes have become fixated upon the narissism of their highlight reels and 7-figure salaries. The endless pump to sell shoes and beer becomes irritating once you get old enough to realize that your identity doesn't hang upon your footwear and major-label American beer, for the most part, tastes like crap.

This argument is great for casual conversation and it's the tactic I take from the bar stool, but it's really just bullshit. The dunk was banned in the NBA when towering, 7-foot tall players started showing everybody up in the 60's, while Earl "The Pearl" Monroe shocked basketball in the 70's with his gliding style, causing fans to scream "showboat". Basketball, like all things, must evolve to survive. If it doesn't, it dies. The special quality of seeing a high-flying dunk diminishes over time simply due to repetition. I've spent years watching Dominique Wilkins, Michael Jordan, etc. perform stunning dunking maneuvers. Let's be honest, there's only so many ways a human being can stuff a ball through a hole. These dunks are new for younger fans (also known as the fanBASE). There are still great, skilled, basketball teams, like the Detroit Pistons of last year who shoved the ego-driven, pickup gameplaying of the Lakers back down their throats. The narcissism and money-making of athletes is simply a ripple in the wave of today's American culture. I see the same behavior in music, film and every 'reality' show on television. Marketing is marketing. Mars Blackman- I mean, Spike Lee, shilled for Nike and Jordan while Magic Johnson/Larry Bird hawked Converse. For a kid trying to get drunk, Coors might take like hamster vomit but if it gets the job done and affordable...

The truth to my lost love might lie in how I watched the Super Bowl last month. It was the middle of the third quarter and the announcers were driving me crazy with their lazy banter. None of them acted like they had any insight and had instead decided to rely upon their sparkling personalities to fill every second of airtime. When the announcers weren't gabbing away, we were being treated to highlights of the SAME GAME that I had been watching for the last hour. Hey, I might have a little problem with keeping my attention focused on a task, but I remember the touchdown I saw only 10 minutes ago. Unable to take it any longer, I shut off the sound and spent the rest of the quarter watching a silent pantomime of a football game. I had become my father.

Dad was a great sports fan back in the day. Boxing and football were his meat-and-potatoes. He would set a small wicker basket of mixed nuts on the table next to his La-Z-Boy then, with a nut pick balanced at the end of the armrest, he would crack nuts, dump the shells in the a soup bowl that lay between his legs and pop nuts in his mouth. He loved the ritual of watching football games, but gradually, a malice crepted into the comments that rose over the cracking of the filberts and almonds. Frustration and disillusionment touched his voice as he lamented the smarmy hype-machine of Don King and the big-money fights where Cassius Clay (NEVER Ali in my household) and Larry Holmes, my dad's Idols, were paraded out long past their prime and pummelled for national television and the promotion of a Bright, Shiny, New fighter. Non-Madden sports announcers made his blood boil to the point that I spent hours begging him to turn the sound back on so that I could listen to the game. Finally, the wicker basket found a permanent home on a kitchen counter and my dad spent his hours in the garden or out in the tool shed.

At some point in my life, I had discovered that there was something more to doing than watching. The emotional investment I weaved into the accomplishments of my team felt like a waste of energy. There would always be another year and another championship to win and the fact was that they were never MY team. Their accomplishments weren't my own, no matter how emotionally-invested I was. No one is going to remember my role in the glorious upset of the Lakers over the Portland Trailblazers. Granted, going to a game has the activity of effort and being THERE for the event, but the endless afternoons/evenings spent in front of the television were just a waste. I sat through the first half of the All-Star game telling my girlfriend one statistic after another about the older players that I had watched years ago. Grant Hill gliding through the air at Duke before blowing out his knee in Detroit, Shaquille O'Neal looking like a man among children at LSU and always waiting to move on to the NBA, Magic Johnson hitting the last second shot to beat the Celtics, Larry Bird... and I suddenly realized how much time I had spent and how much I knew and exactly how much it Totally Didn't Matter. I was reliving moments that were other people's lives. I could recollect the highlights of their lives nearly as well as my own. What about my life?

Suddenly, I realized that I didn't miss sports... and I had something else I'd rather be doing.

the collective experience of snow

Though it was touch-and-go for a while, I have miraculously survived the cataclysmic event known as BLIZZARD 2005. For hour upon hour, New Yorkers (as well as virtually everyone in the northeast) had the ability to watch the snow come down on no less than 6 network stations. It just feels so much more real when you can watch the white stuff coming down on network (and cable) television in addition to the event happening only feet away. Every channel had roving 'reporters' who pointed out the fact that it wasn't JUST snowing outside our window, but all over the New York/New Jersey area. I watched one reporter as he took a plastic ruler, walked over to a snow-plowed drift and announced that the snow was so deep he could lose his ruler trying to measure it... Then he stuck it in the snowbank and lost it.

A news report on the weather is the easiest slam-dunk-of-a-news-report on TV. Older people love to obsess over the weather both because the risk of falling is greatly heightened and... well, they just love it. My grandmother saved all of her calendars because she liked to record the high and low temperatures every day. For outdoors men, the weather is a big deal. My dad hunts and is constantly buzzing around his rural property so knowing the next day's weather can be a good idea. In addition, my parents live in the the middle of nowhere so a moderate snow storm can mean 24 (perhaps even 36) hours of inconvenience. People who might live on a remote mountaintop in Colorado can get stuck for weeks. Hey, I've seen The Shining - I know that extended snow storms can result in a dangerous bout of cabin fever. This, however, is NYC. Doing an investigate report in Chelsea to report on how 'disrupted' people feel is a management choice that, from a reporter's standpoint, should be reserved for public-access television (along with extended diatribes regarding Star Wars memorabilia and/or corporate police-states).

As the hours of live, satellite coverage began to pile upon one another, it became evident to me that something far different than the average news report was being conducted. I wanted to call it narcissism, but that felt simplistic. It isn't solely about being seen on the tube. If a neighborhood robbery, murder, or fire makes it to the local news, the entire neighborhood can feel validated. Events gain a reality. There's something about being near an event that gains attention outside the community. A person might show up for work the next day and when somebody mentions that they saw it on the news, an immediate street credibility goes to anybody who can claim relations. He can can say that he was there (or at least in the vicinity of 'there'), present during or around the time of the event. When a local event reaches the national news, you hit the Big Time on the Validity List. Friends and enemies from across the country learn of the event and relate it to you because you were THERE... or at least in the vicinity of 'there'.

What an inane report like the Chelsea incovenience report does is give a significance to life. That restaurant you went to 3 months ago is sitting in the background of the shot. That weird guy who works at the newspaper stand gets 2 sentences of fame as he talks about how pretty the snow looks. Your life experiences connect up with some larger, macro-experience that every schlump watching the local news might relate to and, thus, confirm.

I'm as guilty as any other American. When a student shooting happened in my college, science building, I raced home like every other soul and glued myself to the local and national news to see my moment in time get validated all across the country. I would sit in those dorm hall groups, talking about the incident and try to manufacture some story that might put myself somehow closer to the danger of the event. 'I just saw that student in the hall the week before.' 'I was supposed to have a discussion class on the second floor that night but our T.A. cancelled it at the last minute.' Never mind that I had never met the student in my life or that my discussion class was on Thursday and not Tuesday, when the incident occurred. The important thing was that I was CLOSE to it.

Why do we do it? Why do we watch ourselves? Is it because we just can't get enough of the things we've seen before or which never directly affect us? I keep thinking of a quote from Joseph Campbell on his PBS series The Power of Myth.

People say that what we are all seeking is a meaning for life. I don't think that's what we're really seeking. I think what we're seeking is an experience of being alive... so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.

With all the media I take in every day, I feel as if I am swimming through an manufactured reality. I have this constructed atmosphere of music I carry around with me. My computer games render abstracted realities of sports and first-person shooters. Film and television allow me to watch other people engage life in clearly-defined, tangible trails of narration. How can a person expect to process events of his/her life in any sort of present fashion? With jobs, debts, expectations, career tracks, and relationship commitments, how many rapturous moments of life do I experience? On the other hand, hundreds of times a year I vicariously experience it through rock n' roll, movies, games, and televised sporting events.

For those of us not listening to ourselves our fulfilling our needs, how unnatural is it to need our experiences to be confirmed and re-lived on T.V. - perhaps the primary place of our simulated raptures?

Pippin enjoys his First Snow