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.

getting my Fix (on tour)

After 4 days of eating, spending and touring the city, one of my best friends and his wonderful wife have returned to the Land of Nebraska. Despite the fact that I have seen Eliot 3 times since graduating from college 12 years ago, he is my best friend and one of 3 people I would have to stuff in my suitcase if I was heading to a deserted island along with the books, movies and all those other "Top 3 Things" I'd have to take with me (I might be mixing my clichéd metaphors here). I could have easily spent the entire time hanging out in the cave, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and talking.

On the other hand, Kat and I were excited about showing Eliot and Anna our Wonderful City in what might have been a defensive attempt to justify why we continue to live here despite the exorbitant rent and neurosis-breeding loneliness we regularly endure. It's also True that walking friends around New York City has always been a Botox injection of the Soul- it all looks fresh and New! I get to return to places I love but no longer visit, like the Brooklyn Bridge, the West Village, the Lower East Side, etc.. I also get to see a Vibrant, energetic city through the eyes of a newbie- I see it in that wide-eyed way when I first arrived. Like Botox, however, the feeling eventually fades (which is good because our lips don't look that good when they're poofy).

This time, however, things didn't play out the way I had expected. I never found that renewed sense of Pride in my City. Neighborhoods that I loved had changed. Punk and goth kids no longer ringed the Cube statue at St. Mark's Place. Long, glass-encased facades, featuring overpriced food and chain-stores lined a street that once choked with second-hand record shops, funky T-shirts and underground gothwear and videos. Gleaming buildings of million-dollar apartments towered over tenement buildings. I was pointing along streets that bared no resemblance to the artistic havens they once held. I felt as if I were an old man who pointed at where things 'used to be' and reminisced about ghosts of the past that no one could possibly recognize among the people who frequented those streets today.

I realized that I was living in this city, waiting for times long-lost to return. The revolutions of Abstract Expressionism, folk rock, street poetry, punk, glam, vaudeville, the White Way are long, long gone. And here I am, standing at the bus stop, adamant that one of those buses would realize that it had forgotten a passenger and come back to get me. As I get older, I don't want to be a part of a Movement or find immortality through my art. I just want my best friend to be able to drop in, watch a movie, and hang out... and that'd probably be all the inspiration I'd need.

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...

(almost) springing from the Cave

Winter has finally begun to break in New York. I emerged from my cave a few days ago and discovered that the storage pounds that I packed on for the winter months had not melted away during my hibernation. Unlike my bear bretheren, I continued to eat General Tso's chicken and suck down vodka tonics in a frantic attempt to hold off the inevital depression that hits during a season of short days. Something had to be done.

On Saturday, with torch in hand, I rummaged through the mounds of dead leaves until I found the 15-speed bike my parents had given me for my birthday. I had ridden it every day for the first month, then I went to Thailand, then winter arrived then - the point is that I had a renewed energy and the determination to change my lifestyle and become FIT again! I ambled to the crack at the back of my cave and, with some difficulty, scouted out my biking uniform:

• non-hip biking helmet- to allow me the illusion of personal safety despite the two-dozen gypsy cabs that regularly prowl my steet
• padded biking gloves- to save my palms from personal irritation and look cool in that cut-off, punky-biking-gloves kinda way
• 7-year-old running shoes- to let my feet know that I once again intend on losing 20 pounds and getting those rock-hard abs (they have been known to snicker)
• neon yellow windbreaker- so idiot drivers from 3 blocks away can get a bead on me from long-distanc
  
• water bottle- to provide water in case I get stuck in the desert with a flat tire during my usual, 30-minute ride along the river
• accessory bag- to hold hex wrenches (for repairs), a Metro card (when the repairs don't work) and a quarter (when I discover my Metrocard has expired and I have to call my girlfriend)

With this euphoric inspiration to Do Something, I set out for my first workout. I stepped into the early-morning air, secured my helmet, then stepped on the bike. The front tire was flat... and the tiny, new tire valve didn't fit my bike pump. Stupid new-fangled bikes.

Well, Spring has sprung. It's only a matter of time...

my Aerated head

Last night, I shaved my beard. This morning, I got my hair cut. My girlfriend did the honors. My shoulder-length locks are now resting on the top of the kitchen garbage. Looking at my mass of hair, clustered like the leavings of some springtime shedding, it feels as if I have been born anew. The leavings are so substantial, I feel like I should do something with it. If it was spring, I'd take it over to the park and leave it for the birds to make nests. I'm sure there's a chemo patient somewhere who'd kill for it, but then I'd have to put some effort into this lazy train of thought. I am now sporting a tapered, spiky sort of haircut that allows me to pull off both pseudo-mohawks and conservative looks with just a little gel. I've never been particularly attached to hairstyles... or at least that's what I tell myself. Mania allows me to follow an impulse and easily rationalize the moment.

It's tremendously liberating to shed one look and don another. I hope that this doesn't become the last time that I'll shed the hippie look. Admittedly, I am getting older and one never knows how many rounds of hair growth are left. It's never easy to go through that muddled stage wherein the hair is perpetually disheveled and the bangs are just long enough to get in the way yet too short for a ponytail. Then, there's the aging thing. My genetic history is a little sketchy with the whole balding gene. I have blood relatives on both sides who sport balding and furry scalps. In a sense, it's sad that balding is given negative stature. From the standpoint of evolutionary development, I'd think that it'd be desirable to have less hair. It makes a man that much further removed from primate origins who were entirely covered in hair. If I should one day discover that my genetics have vetoed my future hairstyle plans, then I doubt that I'll be terribly upset.

As for today, I could not be more happy with my lack of cranial foliage. I don't know what it is about haircuts that are so liberating for me. I'm like Jekyll and Hyde when it comes to hair. With short hair, I feel confident, jazzy and open to the onslaught of life's adventures. I also look about 5 years younger with short hair. I usually have short haircuts when I'm fed up with my life and want to make some changes. The last couple of times I cut my hair, I lost 65 lbs. and got a job supervising a summer theater. Long hair arises whenever I start getting into mythology, Tolkien, or hippie culture. I feel older, mature, expressionistic, laid back and comforted by longer hair. It gives me separation from the false, hipster sorts who troll concert venues and bars to be seen rather than to simply be. Sometimes, it's nice to feel older and, hopefully, a little wiser than the budding sort we worship in American culture. When I have a job, I start growing out my hair when I am fed up and feeling like a sell out. Unfortunately, long hair is a fantastic world to live behind when depression pays a visit. That veil of hair falls over the face and I am set apart from the world around me. I can sit in my private space and fondle my internal musings until they are polished from use.

Well, the veil has been clipped away and I'm looking out on the world, younger-looking, hipster-esqe, and no longer a viable rubbing post for our kittens. I've got a concert at the Bowery Ballroom tonight, my copy of Final Draft has been dusted off and fired up, and the wine is staying in the bottle. Baby steps to the desk...

a visual reference

baby steps to the street

I left the cave yesterday. I didn't want to go. I had, in fact, spent the better part of the morning telling myself that I didn't need to go out. I had promised myself that I would get out of the cave every day this week. The cave had begun to take the shape of an very large bell jar and I didn't want two straight weeks of the same old thing.

Last week, I suffered another one of my occupational whiteouts where panic attacks tag-team with gutteral depression to render me essentially inoperable. These incidents usually begin with food cravings. After one or two days, I realize that my comfort foodsare not fulfilling their namesake. As the storm advances on my position, I become disgruntled with my career and where it is headed. I sit down and make sweeping plans for my future as well as all the important modifications that must be made to my personality/body image/personal finances in order for these plans to be realized. With renewed vigor (as well as some Clash or Nirvana for theme music), I sit down and begin to write the first few descriptions of a screenplay that will be sold this summer on my way to winning the Tribeca Film Festival two years from now. Of course, I hate everything I write because I'm not writing like Hemingway or Steinbeck so I jump to my stacks of unpublished poetry and my 2004 Edition of Poet's Market and begin to hammer out where and when I will be sending my poems so that I can win some festivals, gain literary credibility, then get an advance on my first novel that will be written and published in the next year. After 2 hours of editing my poetry and raging about how it has all the depth of the love songs I wrote in 9th grade, I quickly switch gears, squeeze out a little vermillion and yellow ochre, then settle down with the still life oil painting that I've been working on for 2 weeks. After mixing paint for 30 minutes in the fruitless attempt to match the color on my pallette knife with the beer bottle in my composition, I wash my brushes, change out of my turpentine-flavored clothes, and dive into the obtuse life of an Irish Catholic lad in James Joyce's Ulysses. Hmmm... maybe I'll just put that down for a sec and read the "Fables & Reflections" book of the Sandman graphic novels I've got on my shelf. An hour later, I am strumming my accoustic guitar and working on getting that smooth transition from the 'A' chord to the 'D' chord so I can master that David Bowie song, then compose an album that will revolutionize the music world and bring alternative rock back into the mainstream.

Some people might call this a Renaissance Man lifestyle. I think a therapist back in college called it manic-depression.

So, I got out of the cave yesterday. Just when I'd talked myself into playing 4 straight hours of Civilization 3 or Madden 2005, my girlfriend had to call me up and bully me into leaving the apartment. Well, to be fair, all she did was asking me when I was going out and I couldn't think of any of the great rationalizations I'd put together in my head. So, in the end, I took the 'A' train cave to Pearl Paints, bought a few items for my manic needs, took a swing by the East Village to thumb through a few LPs and cruised on over to Avenue A for a few happy hour libations. Ahh! Nothing like alcohol to cure depression, huh? It's good to be cruising along the old career track.

I need a day job.