When you are small, you are invincible. Cuts heal, scars disappear and tears turn to laughs very quickly. I think this is best illustrated by my friend's two year old son, Adam. While running around on the playground he bit the dust, hard. You can see it: his legs are only twelve inches long and that's including all the space taken up by feet and knees. So it's not really running, it's more like bouncing on chubby stubbs with flailing arms. Adam was running full speed, eyes taking in every ray, cheeks pulled back in a manic smile, drool flying everywhere. It was a little like a smiling, fleshy jackhammer without an operator. Stumble and THWAP! Pancake Adam.
After taking a moment to visually check-in with his mom, he decided not to cry and then used a combination of hands, feet and head to right himself and continue his touring-the-playground via seizure. I didn't see his face but I'm assuming he was smiling even wider now that he had kissed the pavement. If I was running proportionally as fast as Adam and then hit the ground, I would take a day off to go to the doctor and sip Advil cocktails until I couldn't see straight.
As I put children up on a pedestal, let's get something clear: I love getting older.
I love driving; I love drinking (not at the same time). If I want to see my sisters, I buy a ticket and go. Gray hair? Awesome. Gray is Gregory Peck, Steve McQueen, George Clooney and my dad. I'm fine with Gray. Hell, I can't wait for the gray on the right side of my head to convert the brown on the left. I have an iPhone, a drumset, a sweet watch, three earrings, a tattoo, and every episode of Battlestar Galactica on my macbook. If I want pizza for lunch like I do today, I'm going right the fuck outside to buy the best pizza in a four block radius. Suck it, Adam. And PS, have fun waiting twenty years to get laid.
Next Post: Invincible, pt 2: the dark of grey. You can safely assume at least three more posts before I get to "Her and Me and the End." That story keeps shedding it's skin and growing longer.
4/21/09 - Edit: changed title to indicate there are only two parts to this essay.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Wednesday
There is something about the rain.
I woke up at 7:40 a.m. My alarm goes off at 8:00 a.m. Waking fantasies of coffee (between dreaming fantasies of dragons) rolled my smile over the rest of my body rendering sleep obsolete. The people who warn you not to drink coffee right out of bed have never had it fresh-ground.
My neighborhood is very windy. The petulant child pulls paper out of the garbage cans and tosses it about. I decided to pick up all the trash I could on my way to the subway. After an hour or so, I made it to Ditmars Boulevard. On the train, I gave my seat to a frizzie-haired woman. She was not pregnant or old.
I’ve had my job for one year. Once seated in my office, I spent the next two hours doing absolutely everything. I got it all done. The director called me for my annual evaluation where I was told that despite my wardrobe and stainless steel garnishes, I was a “top notch employee and an example for the rest of the staff.” I was given a raise. When the ceremony was over, I walked outside to drop a letter in the post box. A scream! I turned to see a woman proclaim her stroller toward Second Avenue. I sprinted to the infant, scooping her out of the stroller with my left hand while grabbing the handle of the cart with my right. No bulls will run over young Lucy today. I went back to work, consoled my boss over the death of her aunt and was given the rest of the day off.
The M15 bus runs south on Second Avenue. Entering the bus, the only open seat was next to a Latino man. Three blocks later, he began to teach me Portuguese. Thirteen blocks later, I knew the same vocabulary as the average Portuguese teenager. Thirty blocks later, I decided to hop off and told Jorge (his name was Jorge), “Foi um prazer conhecerte, meu amigo.” In English: “It was a pleasure meeting you, my friend.”
There is a fantastic falafel place at Broadway and 17th. I walked there and bumped into Matthew Broderick. He mentioned something. I mentioned something else. He mentioned something about New York. I laughed and we sat down together in Union Square Park to eat. We talked about Election and Ferris Bueller. He asked me about being in a band. I asked him about executives at HBO. A husband and wife eating lunch nearby stood up suddenly. The man was huffing in and out and the woman was rubbing his back. Eyes bulging now, he grabbed at his throat and she screamed, “Somebody help!” Luckily, Matthew Broderick carries an Epi-Pen with him. He popped off the cap and stabbed the needle into the man’s thigh. Crisis averted. The four of us then went to the afternoon showing of Watchmen in IMAX.
Watchmen is a long movie. To ease the stiffness of sitting for three hours, I padded to Chelsea to meet my friend Claire for dinner at her father’s restaurant. Halfway through the meal, she mentioned the chef’s name off-hand:
“…Mark Lupino.”
“Mark Lupino!” I said.
“Mark Lupino,” she said.
I knew Mark from restaurant work in Saratoga after college. Before I knew it, Claire, Claire’s father, Mark and I were all Elaphanting through red wine. We laughed, drank cappuccino, exchanged phone numbers and laughed some more. Mark hailed a cab for my ride home to bed.
7:40 a.m. Lovely rain.
Next Post: Me and Her and the End.
I woke up at 7:40 a.m. My alarm goes off at 8:00 a.m. Waking fantasies of coffee (between dreaming fantasies of dragons) rolled my smile over the rest of my body rendering sleep obsolete. The people who warn you not to drink coffee right out of bed have never had it fresh-ground.
My neighborhood is very windy. The petulant child pulls paper out of the garbage cans and tosses it about. I decided to pick up all the trash I could on my way to the subway. After an hour or so, I made it to Ditmars Boulevard. On the train, I gave my seat to a frizzie-haired woman. She was not pregnant or old.
I’ve had my job for one year. Once seated in my office, I spent the next two hours doing absolutely everything. I got it all done. The director called me for my annual evaluation where I was told that despite my wardrobe and stainless steel garnishes, I was a “top notch employee and an example for the rest of the staff.” I was given a raise. When the ceremony was over, I walked outside to drop a letter in the post box. A scream! I turned to see a woman proclaim her stroller toward Second Avenue. I sprinted to the infant, scooping her out of the stroller with my left hand while grabbing the handle of the cart with my right. No bulls will run over young Lucy today. I went back to work, consoled my boss over the death of her aunt and was given the rest of the day off.
The M15 bus runs south on Second Avenue. Entering the bus, the only open seat was next to a Latino man. Three blocks later, he began to teach me Portuguese. Thirteen blocks later, I knew the same vocabulary as the average Portuguese teenager. Thirty blocks later, I decided to hop off and told Jorge (his name was Jorge), “Foi um prazer conhecerte, meu amigo.” In English: “It was a pleasure meeting you, my friend.”
There is a fantastic falafel place at Broadway and 17th. I walked there and bumped into Matthew Broderick. He mentioned something. I mentioned something else. He mentioned something about New York. I laughed and we sat down together in Union Square Park to eat. We talked about Election and Ferris Bueller. He asked me about being in a band. I asked him about executives at HBO. A husband and wife eating lunch nearby stood up suddenly. The man was huffing in and out and the woman was rubbing his back. Eyes bulging now, he grabbed at his throat and she screamed, “Somebody help!” Luckily, Matthew Broderick carries an Epi-Pen with him. He popped off the cap and stabbed the needle into the man’s thigh. Crisis averted. The four of us then went to the afternoon showing of Watchmen in IMAX.
Watchmen is a long movie. To ease the stiffness of sitting for three hours, I padded to Chelsea to meet my friend Claire for dinner at her father’s restaurant. Halfway through the meal, she mentioned the chef’s name off-hand:
“…Mark Lupino.”
“Mark Lupino!” I said.
“Mark Lupino,” she said.
I knew Mark from restaurant work in Saratoga after college. Before I knew it, Claire, Claire’s father, Mark and I were all Elaphanting through red wine. We laughed, drank cappuccino, exchanged phone numbers and laughed some more. Mark hailed a cab for my ride home to bed.
7:40 a.m. Lovely rain.
Next Post: Me and Her and the End.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Laughed Myself Wide Open
I don't smoke. I have, however, smoked quite a few cigarettes and I've enjoyed most of them. Usually alone, sometimes with a band or at a bar, never more than one or two a day. I would buy a pack, smoke half of them over a week, give the other half away, wait four months, repeat. There may have been three times in my life where I bought more than one pack in a row and smoked more than two cigarettes in an evening. At those times, I was a "smoker." And it wasn't all fantastic. There were a few in there that, when coupled with the shouting, dancing and imbibing, lead to a lousy day-after. Those nights usually came at the end of the week, and lead to the four month hiatus.
People hate smoking and I don't blame them. Smoking will kill you as slow and steady as the tide. It is also likely that smoking has done considerable damage to a member of your family. But it feels so good and all your favorite people are doing it. Well shit. I don't smoke because it's a little disgusting and it hinders my ability to run, jump, and play the drums. I rarely ever criticize someone for smoking, although I usually encourage others should they decide to quit. Either way, it's from the perspective of someone who has been there and done that.
I loved smoking; I was addicted to Twitter.
There is something amazing about millions of people posting completely random and unique thoughts every second. The web is lit-up by trends. People flock electronically. Current Events? The definition of current events is rewritten: I mean right the fuck now. Not a report tonight on what happened hours before. And some of my favorite authors, actors and comedians are doing it - people who I've always been curious about...
And yet, with the beautiful diamonds comes the scratchy dirty straw. First, there is constant updating and overflow of mundane information. Second, most web trends are pop-culture related. Not a whole lot of Ghanaians thumbing away on their iPhones. And my favorite people? I still don't really know them. Following them around is a little self-centered on their part and stalkerish on mine. And just who were the ten random people following me?
Yesterday, I deleted my account. My last cigarette didn't feel that good. I left work and laughed myself wide open. Like an unmoored boat, I drifted around midtown smiling and tilting. Listened to music, watched some people, sent a text. The sun went down and I rolled towards the subway.
I don't twitter anymore because after the novelty of throwing random things on the internet wore off, I began to feel a little trapped: I was compelled to post every hour regardless of what I had to say. It wasn't fun anymore; it was simply something I did. Still, I have no intention of criticizing it's power as a connecting force. Maybe in twenty years, I'll join the 2029 twitter equivalent. Whatever I do, it will be from the perspective of someone who's been there and done that.
Next Post: "Wednesday"
People hate smoking and I don't blame them. Smoking will kill you as slow and steady as the tide. It is also likely that smoking has done considerable damage to a member of your family. But it feels so good and all your favorite people are doing it. Well shit. I don't smoke because it's a little disgusting and it hinders my ability to run, jump, and play the drums. I rarely ever criticize someone for smoking, although I usually encourage others should they decide to quit. Either way, it's from the perspective of someone who has been there and done that.
I loved smoking; I was addicted to Twitter.
There is something amazing about millions of people posting completely random and unique thoughts every second. The web is lit-up by trends. People flock electronically. Current Events? The definition of current events is rewritten: I mean right the fuck now. Not a report tonight on what happened hours before. And some of my favorite authors, actors and comedians are doing it - people who I've always been curious about...
And yet, with the beautiful diamonds comes the scratchy dirty straw. First, there is constant updating and overflow of mundane information. Second, most web trends are pop-culture related. Not a whole lot of Ghanaians thumbing away on their iPhones. And my favorite people? I still don't really know them. Following them around is a little self-centered on their part and stalkerish on mine. And just who were the ten random people following me?
Yesterday, I deleted my account. My last cigarette didn't feel that good. I left work and laughed myself wide open. Like an unmoored boat, I drifted around midtown smiling and tilting. Listened to music, watched some people, sent a text. The sun went down and I rolled towards the subway.
I don't twitter anymore because after the novelty of throwing random things on the internet wore off, I began to feel a little trapped: I was compelled to post every hour regardless of what I had to say. It wasn't fun anymore; it was simply something I did. Still, I have no intention of criticizing it's power as a connecting force. Maybe in twenty years, I'll join the 2029 twitter equivalent. Whatever I do, it will be from the perspective of someone who's been there and done that.
Next Post: "Wednesday"
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