Devil Monkey Boy

Brought to you by Johnson & Johnson

2005-12-05T22:22:00.000-05:00

Today a drawer sheared the skin off the knuckle of my middle finger. There was a lot of blood for such a small wound.

As I walked away from Shanna's desk, bandage in hand, she stopped me. She said something about the men from Argentina and their videoconference. I didn't really hear her until I walked away. I just nodded my head as I stared at my finger. Red flowed into the tiny wrinkles of my finger. "Shanna, I'm going to come back when I'm not bleeding," I said.

The blood soaked the generic Eckart bandage. I watched as tiny pink dots appeared through the translucent material. These combined into an amorphous pink blob. Eventually clotting set in and dispelled my fears of hemophilia.

By the time I got home and washed my hands, the bandage was done for. When she moved out, my ex left behind some Blue's Clues Band-Aids. Six months of nicks, cuts, abrasions, and blisters brought me down to two, then one after today's injury. Blue was made of sterner stuff than the cheap work bandage. He was opaque, inscrutable. He gave no hint of what might be happening beneath the surface. No clue, no matter.

Tomorrow morning I will shower. The Band-Aid will become unpleasantly damp, if it doesn't fall off altogether. I will dress the cut in the last of Blue's Clues.

I am prone to the sort of superficial injury that a Band-Aid can treat. I guess I'm lucky like that. I could be prone to the type that sends you to the hospital. But my hurts have usually been of the minor sort. Wash it, wrap it, and let time do the rest.

There really was a lot of blood for such a small wound, but nothing Blue and I couldn't handle.

Climbing the Maple

2005-10-26T16:02:00.000-04:00

In August of last year, I decided to move to New York City. I can safely say it was the toughest decision I've ever made. Tough because I love my friends. Tough because I love Minneapolis. Tough because I fear change. So I wrote this post to my LiveJournal, both for myself and for my friends. Tomorrow will be the one year anniversary of my arrival in New York, so it seems like a good time to revisit what I said then. As it turns out, it is just as true now.

--------------

When I was growing up, we had a maple tree in our front yard. This tree was a thing of beauty. It was the tree that taught me what trees are, or at least what they should be. It had a thick trunk that rose about six feet or so before the branches exploded outward in every direction, supporting a perfectly coiffed arboreal Afro. It was the kind of tree that made perfect strangers return with their camera. This happened mostly in the Fall, but occasionally in the Spring, Summer, and even once in the Winter during a magical frost-covered day.

I was a climber from a very young age. On family vacations, my mom would feel a cold rush of panic as I scampered up, down, and across rocks... to the edge of cliffs... over safety railings... and so on. At home I had to content myself with trees and scaling along the edge of my neighbors' split-level. Confined to my own yard, I had two options: the apple tree in the back, or the maple in the front. Actually, that's not true. When you're three feet tall, you only had one option: the apple. It was a good enough tree, and resulted in a yearly bounty of apple sauces, pies, and ammunition for neighborhood wars. Its welcoming branches offered many steps and handles, so that even the most novice climber could join in the fun. And fun it certainly was, but not very challenging.

I don't think I spent much time agonizing over the fact that I couldn't climb the maple. I was a kid. When you're a kid, there are lots of things you can't do, so you keep busy with what you can do. But that near-mythic tree loomed large in my mental landscape, next to a crudely painted sign that read simply, "Someday."

It was summer, and we had family over. It was probably my birthday, given those particulars. But that's not what I remember. I remember standing in front of the tree. I reached up, and the tips of my fingers brushed the lowest branch. "Yes," I thought. "Finally. I can make it. If I jump, I can make it." I didn't make it on my first attempt, but I got close enough to know with certainty that it could be done. Finally I found myself with my arms around the thick bough, hanging there. I hadn't really thought past that point, but it seemed like the thing to do would be to pull myself up. Tough to do when you've got pipe-cleaner arms, though not quite as bad when you've got a pipe-cleaner body to match. A battle of wills ensued between me and that harsh mistress, Gravity. We've fought many times over the years, and I've rarely come out the better for it. But this time, I was the victor. I found myself sitting on the branch, legs dangling on either side.

What was it about that day? If I had tried the day before, I probably would have succeeded. But I didn't try then. I just wasn't ready to try. I climbed the maple when I was ready to climb the maple.

--------------

At the end of October of 1996, I went to New York City for the first time. The city didn't scare me, not initially in any case. I'd been to London, Paris, Rome... big fuck-off modern metropoli, and foreign to boot. I was ready for New York. Ready enough for a tourist, in any case. Plus I had two excellent guides in the forms of Cordelia and Christopher.

The seed was planted on that very first visit. "What if...?" the question began. It usually ended there, too. It was an idea too overwhelming to even give inner voice to, let alone speak aloud. Over the course of the following years, I visited D and Chris many times. Their friends became my friends, and their city my city. The seed slowly grew. "What if I moved...?" I was finally able to venture. But the very idea scared the hell out of me. I could visit, sure, but to live there? Still, there was something that kept me coming back to this idea. The city sells itself. Each visit added more entries to the Pro column, plus one or two on the Con side of things. The city sells itself, yeah, but it's also its own worst critic.

Eight years later, I'm standing here looking at what that seed became. Maybe I could have climbed it last year. Maybe I could have, but I wasn't ready. Am I ready now? Hell, I don't know. I might not be ready enough to succeed, but I'm ready enough to try. I could slip and fall. I could skin my knee. I could break my arm. It might be a mistake, but it's a mistake I'm willing to make.

Nearly eight years to the day from when I first visited, I will be moving to New York City. I can't say how long I'll be there. Months, years, longer? Your guess is as good as mine.

I love Minnesota, and I adore Minneapolis. It's fun. It's comfortable. It's home. I have many good friends here. I'm going to miss them terribly. That will be the hardest part of leaving here, the hardest part of living there.

But I need to go. I need to try. I need to answer that question, "What if I moved to New York?" If I don't answer it now, I don't think I ever will. Life gets you where you need to be when you need to be there. So here I go.

Once again I'm eying that branch. If you look at the whole tree, it's always seems too big to climb. But if you look at the branch, that first and lowest branch, that's when you realize it can be done. "Yes, finally," I'm telling myself once again. "I can make it. If I jump, I can make it." Wish me luck, friends.

It's not goodbye. I'm just taking the long way around.

Video Killed The Video Star

2005-09-14T14:17:00.000-04:00

"By the time this is over, you're going to be sick of this song." That would be the director. Also, the producer, cameraman, grip, best boy, craft services, and my roommate, David.

It's a Sunday afternoon, and we're at the MTV offices. These are the offices, mind you, not the studios. They look like so many other offices, with the exception that most places don't have filing cabinets labeled 'Viva La Bam' and 'Pimp My Ride'.

My ride has been good and well pimped. It's a mailcart pressed into service as both a prop and dolly. David has fastened the camera to the cart with an array of tape that would make MacGyver (or maybe Rube Goldberg) proud.

My direction is this: I am to deliver mail while lipsynching the male parts of "Daisy Chain 4 Satan" by My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult. My expression should be passive, unemotional. Considering the wailing and screaming of the song, this takes some getting used to.

I breathe. David starts the music. And, we are rolling.

The woman, whose footage has already been shot, says:

I live for drugs, it's great
I freaked out very very badly
I freaked out on acid
I'm the White Rabbit

Then I start screaming. Of course I can't scream. Too emotional. So I open my mouth like I'm breathing with a headcold, nasal passages all stuffed up. Then the words:

Here where I sit alone lost
Here I will dream
Why give me a drink
I need a think now
I have to rid my stinkin' brain

I drop mail at random cubes. I pull up some sense-memory crap of crap office jobs. And... cut.

Second verse, same as the first. Different hallway, same song.

I live for drugs, it's great
I'm the White Rabbit

Black boots, highway broads
Dope forever, forever loaded

It flows better. I work on my pacing, slowing my steps. Another cut.

We run through again.

Live for drugs, great.
Freaked out very very badly
Acid
White Rabbit

And again.

Drugs
Freaked
Acid
Rabbit
Lost
Dream
Drink
Think
Stink

I lose track after the fourth run. David was right. I am sick of the song.

Finally we finish. He's got enough footage in the can. Now he'll begin the editing. My part is done, and so ends my brief life as a video star. We head back to the crib for Courvoisier and Cristal.

"She lives for drugs," I say, as we exit the Paramount Building.
"That's great."
"You know who she reminds me of?" I ask.
"The White Rabbit?"
"Yeah. The White fucking Rabbit."

Ted Leo

2005-08-26T22:06:00.000-04:00

Two good days in a row. It feels fishy, like the other shoe is going to drop at any moment. I do remember a time when this wouldn't have been suspect. It's too soon to tell, but maybe those days are here again.

My coworker brought in some RAM for me, effectively doubling what I have. This is a big deal, since my PC uses the Betamax of memory.

Then he did me another solid by letting me know that Ted Leo and the Pharmacists were playing tonight at the South Street Seaport. Ted Leo's one of my favorite discoveries from the past year, so I was mad chuffed to see him in person, for free, on the most beautiful night of the summer.

Ten months in and I finally saw a live band. I'm not sure what took me so long, but I hope it's the first of many.

Trick or Treat, Smell My Fete

2005-08-25T21:43:00.000-04:00

I have never felt so at home in this city as I do right now. The day was perfect by every measure. Even work. Yes, even work.

Then I left work and went out for drinks with the crew. Este was there. Our Waitress, the only one I'd grant a capital W. She took care of us.

We toasted and razzed the interns. After Jay spent an hour on his drink: "Hey, we can't all be doctors. Some of us gotta be nurses." I'm not usually the trash talking sort, but sometimes you've gotta. Besides, we kid because we love. I'm going to miss those kids.

Tomorrow we may go out again. One last hurrah.

On the way to the train station I passed Racquel, Monique, and Geraldine. They pegged me for drunk even though I held it together. We laughed as we ambled down the street. All was good.

Now I'm on the train home, sobering slowly. One more stop to go. Days like today, this city is easy to love.

Swanson's TV BloggerTM

2005-08-24T23:06:00.000-04:00

I have a nice, lovely post trapped on my Blackberry. My dead Blackberry. Rather than wait for it to charge up enough so I can send it to myself, I have decided to post this lame-ass post. See, I had a mind to post every day this week. Think of it like this: blogging is like eating a meal. Ordinarily, I peck at the best thoughts of the day, leaving the lima beans and mystery meat untouched. I eat what I want, when I want. But when you decide to post every day, you are basically saying, "I will clean this plate, cauliflower and all." That's the only way to explain this post.

Wow, that was a tortured metaphor... about a tortured post. The worse the metaphor, the more apt it becomes. Blech. This is all getting too meta for me. Jesus, a pun too?

I'm embarassed to hit "Publish Post".

And yet...

Shakabuku

2005-08-23T22:29:00.000-04:00

I have a friend who lives as far away as you can and still be on the mainland and on American soil. Or close enough as makes no difference. She has been there for eight years. Eight difficult years. She came with inspiration, hope, and passion. Seeking same.

Recently she had a moment. You humans in the audience will know what I mean when I say "moment," or you will if you really think about it. I mean one of those moments that change our outlook completely, those moments that give us a swift, spiritual kick to the head. Those moments that either affirm or challenge our current course. In this moment, L.A. became its better angels. It became a place of wonder again. It became a place filled with dreamers. But most importantly, it became a place she belonged.

I could have shed a tear right then, as I read her words. I could have, but I'm a manly, masculine, male-type, stoic sort of man-man, man. I'll admit my lip quivered a bit, and a big geyser of happy welled up from somewhere near my sternum. Okay, fine. If that makes me a big softy, so be it. But I'm a sucker for a good story.

And that's what L.A. is, it's a good story. In her own words, "It's a place for dreamers...and those who dare...and people who will put everything else on hold to tell a story."

She's out there telling a story and living one too. It's just the sort of thing that gives me inspiration, hope, and passion. I live in Bizarro L.A. I live in its mirror image. Mirror images are not opposites, despite what lazy writers may say. Mirrors show ourselves reflectedly strangely.

I am ten months into my life here. Three hundred odd days. Some good, some weird, some filled with hope or passion or inspiration or some combination thereof. I've had moments that affirm and moments that deny. I'm not so much waiting for that Moment, as living vigorously on my way to it.

When that moment comes, I hope to hear it say, in a strong, clear voice, "Yes."

I don't yet know the question.

But I will.

"No, Mr. Heeyurt, I expect you to die."

2005-08-22T17:39:00.000-04:00

I power up the PC, my face inches away. The fan fires up with unexpected vigor. It ejects a cloud of dust right at me. As I cough and back away, I fear that I have stumbled upon a Blofeldian poison gas trap. Damn you S.P.E.C.T.R.E!

In the minutes that follow, I do not fall asleep or succumb to a lethal neurotoxin. I am forced to conclude that it was only dust after all. Still, it behooves me to remain ever vigilant, ever true.

Sacrilicious

2005-08-22T17:23:00.000-04:00

The signs on the tables say, in flowing script, "Ram Bam." Which is odd, since you generally don't see the name of the great medieval Jewish philosopher on the tables of New York eateries. Oh sure, there was that one time I saw "Maimonides" at Gray's Papaya, but frankly I blame the booze.

I pass a few more tables before I realize my mistake. "Raw Bar" not "Ram Bam." Raw, as in raw oysters. As in shellfish. As in bottomfeeders. As in decidedly unclean and un-K. Ram Bam would be pissed.

I can't help but laugh as it hits me. I am subconsciously sacrilegious.

STA

2005-08-22T15:12:00.000-04:00

There's this little game I like to play. It's called "Spot the Asshole". The way it works is this. I will be out in the city. Walking or sitting, it makes no difference. Then I'll detect that certain odor. It smells like Fatty Arbuckle took a great big steaming dump then lit it on fire. And I'm not talking about Fatty as he was, but rather Fatty these 70 years dead, decayed, and now somehow animated to defecate.

Ugh.

Where was I? Oh, right, zombie Arbuckle's lighting a doody. So I smell that smell and commence to play...

SPOT!

THE!

ASSHOLE!

(The above works best if you imagine it in the voice of Wheel of Fortune's audience. I work best if you pay me in Service Merchandise gift certificates and Toblerone.)

This game rarely lasts long. All I need to do is find the guy with the cigar. He (yes, always he) will be puffing away and wearing a big shit-eating grin, which is really pretty appropriate, come to think of it.

I give him my New York Stink-Eye. It's a baleful gaze that can mean many things, depending on context. In this case it says, "No, I don't care if it is a Cohiba, you inconsiderate fuck. You are an ass. If you've a shred of courtesy, you'll put it out or go far from any living soul." They almost never do. I suspect part of their pleasure comes from the fact it's at the expense of others. Either that or they' re mind-numbingly thick. Take your pick. Obliviousness doesn't absolve asshole behavior.

It would be one thing if these stogie-smoking shitbirds were a rare species, but as I write this I see three of them in the park (one of these upwind from his family, exhaling into his daughter, nice). Spot the Asshole would be more fun if I didn't get to play so damned often.

Cacophony

2005-07-26T20:41:00.000-04:00

A signal too complex. 120dB, 91 degrees Fahrenheit, wind 6mph, 20 feet below sea level, .05 blood alcohol content, and countless tons of gleaming mass transit. Latch on to any one thing and you might know it. Two and it fills you up. Three or more and it's too damn much. And then there's color, form, dialogue, wisps of plot, a cast of hundreds, and all that other shit that can't even be quantified.

Stop.

Where am I? The 2 train, post Happy Hour. Brooklyn now, Borough Hall, bladder full. 67mph, if I had to guess. Truth is, I have no idea. No more clue than guessing the number of jelly beans in the jar. 986? 6894? 3.2356 x 10⁶? Do I win? I never knew then. I don't know now. Fast is all I know, and drawing swiftly home.

Now Hoyt, now Nevins, on Dancer, on Prancer. Atlantic Avenue, my own sweet AA. More than 12 steps down, more than 12 up. Then out, and blocks to go, blocks to go before I sleep.

The sky didn't fall, and neither did I

2005-07-16T20:11:00.000-04:00

Today I wore my "Gowanus" shirt. In the coffee shop restroom I saw that my bag's strap was blocking the "w". Lately I've been all about removing W's, but "Go anus" wasn't exactly the slogan I planned to champion.

The day didn't exactly shake out as planned. I was supposed to go skydiving this morning. As of yesterday evening, the forecast called for heavy clouds at best and thunderstorms at worst. That would mean either bad skydiving or no skydiving. Rather than trekking upstate on a gamble, we decided to reschedule. I've waited 32 years to do something this foolish, I suppose I can wait another month. On the plus side, another month means more time to rope other fools into this harebrained scheme.

The clouds arrived on schedule, but the rain did not. It turned out to be perfect weather for relaxing on the fire escape and wandering around the Slope. Which is precisely what I did. I would have explored Gowanus, but with the t-shirt on it just seemed a bit much. Maybe tomorrow. Go anus!

Two Fridays

2005-07-09T01:56:00.000-04:00

I'm in the Village and I'm just another asshole. All around me a sea of guys in striped shirts. They outnumber the women, two, three to one. I am just one of many. I hate the scene and am thoroughly out of my element.

There is one girl who sidles up close to me on her way out. She breathes in my ear, "Hey there, handsome" as she presses against me. A moment later she is gone. It's just a tease. It means nothing. As meaningful as a line of coke.

I can't be here. I'm not going to make any meaningful connection. Walk away.

Time was, a place like this would fascinate me. I'd come. I'd watch the pretty girls. Maybe I'd even talk to one or two. Now, I can't stand the bullshit. It's all just a front, an eminence front, it's a put on.

--------------------------------------

A week later, I get a call. It's Gabrielle. I don't hear the ring, because my phone's still on silent. I just hear the beep from the voicemail message.

She's in the neighborhood, going to have a drink at a local pub. I look at the television. Matt Damon can't remember who he is. He fears he might be a killer. I sympathize with his existential dilemma, but, hey, we've all got our own problems, buddy. I pick up the phone.

I find Gabby at an unnamed pub with a green facade. It's on Fifth and seems friendly enough. G's at the seat at the corner of the bar. I sit and order a Red Stripe. Same beer that I was drinking at my place, yet it tastes so much sweeter here, out of a pint glass.

We nurse our beers and run through the important topics: life, work, love, jumping out of planes and landing back home again. At the bottom of the glass, we find our way to the next venue.

It's a GLBT bar on 4th Avenue, my street but not necessarily my crowd. And yet it's more my crowd than those East Village meat markets. At least here I can actually talk to a person. It's relaxed and groovy, as Mister Izzard would say.

I return from the bathroom. Gabrielle has met someone. I miss her name in introduction. Gabby does too. Later, I will acquire it on G's behalf. Lori, or Laurie, or something like that. They hit it off. Lori's attractive, interesting, and 32. She seems to be into Gabby. I play wingman, as best as I'm able. On the way out, they exchange numbers. I cheer for G. But silently, because I'm subtle like that.

I echo Iceman as we part in front of my place: "I'll be your wingman any time." No striped shirts tonight, no assholes, no fronts. Just me, beer, and a friend. That'll do nicely, thanks.

On this day, in 1973

2005-06-28T14:48:00.000-04:00

The heavens have not opened up. No rays of sunshine to light upon my face. No animated bluebirds on my shoulder. That's the truth. It's actual. Everything dissatisfactual.

No matter how many times I have one of these things, I still expect that my birthday will be somehow different that the days that precede and follow it. But, of course, it never is. It always fits the mood of the times. My last two birthdays were two of my best ever, certainly my best since adulthood. They raised the bar, which is fine if you're doing the limbo but not so good if you're doing hurdles. These days I'm jumping hurdles, in Limbo. And that's something else entirely.

Those birthdays were a product of their times, and their magic doesn't carry over.

This won't be thirty, surrounded by all of my closest friends and family. It won't be thirty-one, bowling and in love. But neither will it be nineteen, learning of my parent's impending separation. And it won't be twenty-one, working sixteen hours for a thankless bastard. It'll be thirty-two, somewhere in between. It'll be now. It'll be okay.

Que tal, Mister Heeyurt?

2005-06-23T23:38:00.000-04:00

"How are you today, Mister Heeyurt?" The staff of the W Hotel speaks excellent English, with the exception that they all, to the last man and woman, insist on adding a very long extra syllable to my name.

My English is, como se dice, 'not so good' this morning. I mumble something in response. Whatever I said, it prompts Jorge to smile and set the American Breakfast on the table. The American Breakfast consists of eggs (scrambled), bacon, potatoes, and whatever other choices I made when I placed the room service order late last night. It all seemed like a good idea at the time. That time has passed. It's morning, and there's no more tequila in my system. The American Breakfast turns mi estomago. I settle on the toast and the juice.

The American Breakfast, as with all things offered by the W Hotel, is ridiculously expensive. It costs more than I spend on groceries some weeks. This is one of the things I probably have in common with Jorge. I give him a decent tip. He leaves. The tip and the breakfast get billed to my employer.

I step into the shower. There is no boundary between the shower and bathroom. The floor simply slopes gently toward the drain. I turn on the water. It sprays at me from three directions. I look out the window. Mexico City begins twenty floors beneath me and ends somewhere past the horizon.

The sunrise is as beautiful as I have ever seen. Rich purples and vivid yellows, and it breaks my heart to know the cost of it. From the airport to the hotel, we took a taxi. A giant Suburban that dwarfed the hundreds of cars all around us. All running, speeding, exhausting. All of them contributing to the smog that makes my eyes burn and the sunrise so unnaturally lovely.

Today, on the way to the office, we take another Suburban. We are seven today, six chatting merrily and me. The commute isn't even close to the real Mexico City, but it's as close as I get. We pass palatial estates, ringed by ten foot tall walls. They are guarded by the "middle men". There seems to be three classes of people: the rich, their security guards, and everyone else. It's the middle group's job to serve as the wall between the first and last.

I work for the rich. It was never more clear than when I stepped into my room at the W Hotel for the first time. "I'm working for the bad guys," I said to myself. "I have to be. The good guys don't have this kind of budget." I never entirely shake that feeling the whole time I'm there. I try to drown the feeling in Herradura Reposado, smother it in filet mignons, but it always comes back, gasping for big breaths of polluted air.

Out the window of the Suburban, I see guys in banana jumpsuits. There are always guys in banana jumpsuits. They walk up and down the roads, selling phone cards. The phone system is fucked up, so most people rely on the cards. There are other people walking the roads too. They sell flowers or candy, or sport bulletproof vests and revolvers.

Tonight at a club I am surrounded by the pampered sons and daughters of the rich. They are beautiful and happy. Their hairstyles come from anime, their attitude from wealth. There will be no banana jumpsuits in their futures, unless it becomes the fashion trend of the fall season. They have cell phones, whose bills they will never see. They too ride in Surburbans. And tonight, like me, they will rest beneath 500-thread count sheets. If I'm lucky, I will drink enough to sleep as soundly as they do.

In the morning, I wake. It begins again beneath a Technicolor sky.

So, how are you today, Mister Heeyurt?

My eyeballs are hot. Should they be hot?

2005-06-13T22:44:00.000-04:00

The tale you tell depends on when you do the telling. It depends on other things too, but mostly that. Example: the tale I would have told about Mexico City would have been very different back on Friday when I returned than it will be now. That tale would be filled with playing hard, working hard, luxury and toil. Today, as they say, is another story.

There's something angry in my stomach. It doesn't like company and has evicted its fellow guests. It cares not a whit about what the landlord thinks. Did it come from Mexico or is it Brooklyn local? Is it the same thing that makes my legs weak and rubbery? Or is that the heat? The stress maybe? Something else?

There was work foo that ought to have been done in my absence, but it was not. My PC army has deserted. Have they gone upstream, gone native? Kurtz, with Intel Inside? Or maybe they went back to their families in Topeka? Or was that Wichita? Doesn't matter. They are gone. I need new recruits. Uncle Zan needs you! There are few takers in today's political climate. They know they will never return. They will maintain their post for years at a time, under the cover of a lawyer's desk. They will burn out, their motherboards crying copiously as they are put to rest with the thanks of a grateful company and fuck all else. Or perhaps they will survive, limping on with a sputtering fan, a fragmented hard drive. Theses sad few will return without fanfare, to a Help Desk that does not want them, doesn't know what to do with them or where to put them.

See, I told you the story depended on the when. This one wasn't about Mexico at all. Maybe next time. Now there's a war on. Good lord, the heat! The rhetorical questions! The tortured metaphors! And there is never, ever enough water.

Bizarro City

2005-06-13T22:43:00.000-04:00

There are little drops of water floating in the air. It's not mist, but it feels like it. It's rain that can't be bothered to fall to earth. Precipitation without velocity.

This guy just pointed at me as he walked past. It was a "Hey, buddy, good to see you again" point. I have never seen him before. He was wearing one of those mesh jackets that the guys in the Wall Street pits wear. In a city this size, the question isn't: do I have a doppelganger? It's: how many do I have? Everywhere I go I see Evil Twins of the people I know. This is Bizarro City, and we am the Bizarros.

The day I didn't see Basquiat

2005-06-13T22:39:00.000-04:00

Saturday night I see an ad for the Basquiat exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. The last day is Sunday, so I resolve to go.

A little after 1:00 and I'm out the door. It's sunny, just a little hot away from being perfect. I head down Union. At Grand Army Plaza, there's a Battle of the Bands. "Hey, bands," I think. "Why y'all always gotta fight? The love you take's equal to the love you make." They fight on, play on. I stop and get a hot dog. The vendor splashes scalding water on me. Just a few drops, but not pleasant. I'm too hot already to make a fuss. I withdraw to the shade of a rotunda and devour the dog.

The processed meatstuff gives me a boost. I continue on to the museum. The line does not look promising. I go inside. The air conditioning is my new best friend. At one point, the line let's me stand directly over a vent. So this is how Marilyn felt? The line moves on, and a "Special Patrolman" urges us forward. He stalks up and down the line in his polo shirt and shorts. We are to "keep moving" in "single file". He takes his job very seriously. He's an ass. I start to suspect that "Special" is being used in the same sense as applies to "education" or "Olympics".

There is no guide rope for the line, yet it manages to hold its snake shape as people cycle through. At some point someone, probably Special Patrolman, imposed its current form. Since then, the DNA has passed down from generation to generation, mutating slightly, though still resembling an orderly queue. I wonder if this is someone's art project. If not, it should be. I briefly ponder the feasibility of acquiring some NEA grant money.

It moves along at a nice clip. Not nice enough, though. I turn a corner and see it wend its way into the horizon. Then the voice from on high, "Please be advised that there is a one to two hour wait to see the Basquiat exhibit once you are inside the museum."

I do the math. I look outside. The day is hot, yes, but beautiful.

I walk out into the blazing light. Goodbye, Jean-Michel.

Lucky me, lucky mud

2005-05-30T15:16:00.000-04:00

These periods of growth sure are fucking exhausting. It reminds me of being a kid again, smack dab in the middle of growth spurt, needing sleep all the time, eating like a Shetland. This is just like that, except, y'know, not. Not physically, anyway. But the mood is the same. I know I'll be better for it eventually, but at the moment I just need a nap.

I haven't been writing the past two weeks. Not at all. It hasn't been for lack of things to say, just lack of the energy with which to say them. Time, also. Now it's Memorial Day. I have some time to sit back and reflect.

I read Cat's Cradle again last week. It was the fourth or fifth time. My readings usually coincide with some period of upheaval in my life. As it happens, this time was no different in that regard. It got me thinking about purpose. We do things for reasons, because we delight in the fiction that we're reasonable creatures. I came here to New York for a reason. Though not without some uncertainty, I felt pretty good about that reason. Life looked at my reason and laughed. Turns out, the reason I'm here isn't the reason I thought. But does that mean there's no purpose to it? No, I said after a moment's deliberation. It was, in truth, the only answer that'd prevent me from heading down to Hot Topic to buy a wardrobe of black t-shirts. No, there's a purpose to me being here. I'll be damned if I know what it is, but I believe in it. So, here I am. As Brother Void says, "I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm doing it as hard as I possibly can." That sounds about right.

Here are the last rites of Bokononism. They are nothing but a pack of lies, yet they some of the truest words I've ever read. If I had to choose today, I'd want them on my tombstone.

God made mud.
God got lonesome.
So God said to some of the mud, "Sit up!"
"See all I've made," said God, "the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars."
And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around.
Lucky me, lucky mud.
I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.
Nice going, God!
Nobody but you could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have.
I feel very unimportant compared to You.
The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.
I got so much, and most mud got so little.
Thank you for the honor!
Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.
What memories for mud to have!
What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!
I loved everything I saw!
Good night.
I will go to heaven now.
I can hardly wait...
To find out for certain what my wampeter was...
And who was in my karass...
And all the good things our karass did for you.
Amen.

Disaster Recovery

2005-05-11T19:28:00.000-04:00

Virginia is for lovers, but not the part I saw. Based on my experience, Virginia is for office buildings. The phrase of the day is disaster recovery. That's why we're here. In case of emergency, the DC office will relocate to Tyson's Corner, VA. Tyson's Corner reminds Jeff of boxing. It reminds me of chicken.

When all hell breaks loose, our DC people will seek refuge in the 10 PCs, phones, monitors, etc. that we have stashed there. With but a phone call, offices will be prepared for their immediate use. In this way, they will recover from disaster. I try not to dwell on the absurdity of this notion.

Disaster recovery is the phrase that rolls off the tongue. It is the phrase we use in common speech and in many emails. But officially, the preferred nomenclature is business continuity. Like most euphemisms, it's not untrue. It just focuses on one aspect of the truth while obscuring the big picture. It sidesteps the 'why'. If I were to interpret business continuity literally, my going into work every goddamn day would contribute to this cause.

We tested every piece of equipment, then stashed them safely away. As we did it, I thought about the futility of our day's labors. In all likelihood this gear would never be needed. I can't remember another time when futility made me feel so optimistic.

Let the disaster recovery suite sleep under blankets of dust. Let it dream its way to obsolescence. Let Virginia be for lovers.

Underground Lair

2005-05-06T22:15:00.000-04:00

My eyes are hazy, my brain is too. I am prone to suggestion at this hour. The red-lit sign says, “NEXT STOP BEASTIE HALL”. I blink and the Beastie has become Borough. I cast my eyes downward, to my breast pocket. I give my iPod a chiding look. “Shame on you. You know how confused I get in the AM.” It just serves up Interpol, unrepentant.

This is the 4 train. Not my train, not my people. Today I go to White Plains, which means Grand Central, hence the 4. It seems cleaner here, quieter, also faster. I never have reason to take it these days. Work is strictly a 2/3 affair, and the 4 pretty much sucks on the weekend if you live in Brooklyn.

I take back some of the nice things I said about the 4. We reach Fulton and the car's population doubles. Then one stop later at City Hall they all disappear. I blame the Lex. For a moment I feel like Superman. My stomach grumbles and the moment passes.

Grand Central approaches. Up, up, and away!

Scurvy Dogs

2005-05-06T12:16:00.000-04:00

Thanks to the wide availability of orange juice, we've all but eliminated scurvy in this fair town. Would the same could be said for piracy. Sadly no citrus will cure men's hearts of this affliction.

Pub on the Meadow

2005-05-06T10:52:00.000-04:00

Here I am, reporting live from our annual client party. All names have been changed to protect the corrupt. Crofter Gain and Tree (again, not my real company's name) has rented out Metropolis' famous Pub on the Meadow (located on the edge of the equally famous Nexus Wood) for the shindig. I did my part, which involved the highly technical task of setting up two laptops and two printers. Frankly, I'm not sure why they needed me. I think I'm here to soothe their nerves more than anything.

Hey, I spoke too soon. I actually did something tech-esque with one of the printers. I feel so important. Here's a bit of irony: I am here to make sure the laptops and printers work. The laptops and printers are for the printing of nametags. Everyone here has a nametag, except me. Nobody gave me one. I don't know if it's an oversight or intentional because I'm not a real employee of Crofter Gain. Part of me feels slighted, but the greater part revels in my anonymity.

Hey, again I spoke too soon. The marketing babes just addressed my nametaglessness. I professed my contentment with the current state of affairs, and they agreed it was an enviable position. And yet I currently have a nametag. Why? Well, I got tired of being asked by well meaning Pub employees if I was here for Crofter. Might as well just wear the badge and go where I please. If you've noticed a certain verbosity creeping into my prose, you can blame the martinis. When I get drunk, I get wordy. More wordy, that is. The servers are offering trays of what they call 'Crofter Martinis'. They are red, the company hue, and taste of strawberry. They will be the drunk of me, I've no doubt.

The guests have started to arrive. They are white men in suits. But then again, aren't they always? I know very few people. That's fine. I'm not here to mingle. I'm here to make sure two nearly foolproof devices remain proofed 'gainst fools.

I just witnessed a great bit of privileged efficiency, or was it efficient privilege? Two tourists, middle-aged women, just wandered into the patio where I am sitting. Patrick, one of the suited agents of the Pub, briskly strolled behind them as they wandered through. He did not make a fuss. He simply followed them and then, as they neared the gate, he moved around them to graciously open it and sweep them out. He just kicked them out and made it seem a courtesy. I have to admit, the man is good. I hate these bastions of class, but I have to respect mastery of one's craft.

Last night I went to Target to get an ironing board and some shoe polish. As I walked out of the store with the ironing board under my arm, I felt pretty damn cool. Suddenly I questioned it: why so cool? Why do I feel this way now? Then it hit me: the ironing board. The way you carry one is exactly how you carry a surfboard. Now I have never in my life carried a surfboard, but three decades of media consumption have imbued the act with innate coolness. So much coolness that even I vaguely similar act enjoyed a halo effect from it. Never mind that the item in question was more Alice than Moondoggy, I felt cool, even after the source of that feeling became clear. So I strutted down Fourth, board under my arm, preparing myself to hang ten or permanently press, as the case may be.

Postscript: Today I felt the coolness again. "Okay, what now?" I look to my hands. There's a coiled loop of network cables in my left. Cable, lasso. Me, cowboy. Here we go again. Saddle up and ride! Heeeyaa!

Fire drill

2005-05-04T18:03:00.000-04:00

There's a fire drill here at the White Plains office. People are lining up to head back up. Not me. I'm in no rush. Once I finish here, I head back to the city to finish the day at headquarters. No sense in hurrying.

White Plains. It doesn't seem much like a plain. After all, I come from the Great ones. But it sure does seem white. More so than the city, at least, but I guess less so than the Great Plains. It's all a matter of perspective. Mine's a bit different than it was 6 months ago.

I wonder if I'll ever be able to go back home again. I can't, so the saying goes. I feel too Minnesota for New York, but soon I suspect I'll be too New York for Minnesota. When this is all over, will I even have a home?

The past few days, as recorded over lunch

2005-05-04T18:01:00.000-04:00

The crackhead stumbled into Tata's holding a knife, a big-ass fuck-off knife. “This is how it ends,” I thought. “Stabbed by a junkie while buying ginger ale.” But no, she just happened to be holding the knife. She wasn't doing anything with it. Hell, she probably didn't even remember it was there. Tata, for his part, seemed unconcerned. He mumbled something familiar but cautionary to the woman and handed me my change. I scooped up my items and got the hell out. I don't care what kind of week you've had: a shanking isn't likely to improve it.

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On Saturday, I saw a man walkind down Douglas carrying a long stick with bags of cotton candy fastened at the end. The man was selling cotton candy... in the rain. Fuck plastic bags blown in circles by the wind, that is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

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Buddha is drunker than I've ever seen him. To put this in context, I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen Buddha when drinking hasn't been involved. I have seen the man drunk, and this was something else entirely. He was plowed and angry, stumbling, incoherent. He will not walk. He insists on a car service. Cousin Kim and I walk the 12 blocks to the next bar. He beats us there. He is already almost asleep at the table. Marcus and David are there. They keep him from getting thrown out. Earlier in the evening, Kim says, “You need to leeead.”. She's right. I do. Buddha is too far gone, and she doesn't know the way. It sobers me up. I need to stay clearheaded. I am able to sweet talk Buddha where the others are not. All of them have too much history with him or too little. Is the evening fun? Not really. But it's interesting. I feel in control. For the first time in a long time, I feel in my element. I see my charges safely home, then I sleep or what passes for it these days.

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The next day Buddha, Kim and I are on a boat tour. We motor south, Jersey on the right and Manhattan on the sinister. Our tour guide is an old native. He reminds Kim of Joe DiMaggio. He was on the last tour she took. His patter is lively, peppered with digs against Iowans living in the Village and government handouts to sports teams. He's a little cheesy, but I decide I like him. "America" by Neil Diamond plays on endless loop in my head. I tell the others, and Neil spreads to them as well. I feel a little guilty, but mostly I'm glad to have the company.

On the way back, Captain Joe has exhausted his spiel. We watch the buildings roll past, in silence. We're silent, I mean, but I guess the buildings too. The Norwegian Dawn is heading out to sea. Buddha is going on a cruise for work in a few months. He is dreading it. “What would I do on a ship like that?” he asks. “Hang on the Lido deck, drink at the Copacabana lounge, hit on Charo,” I say. My only knowledge of cruise ships comes from the Love Boat. That and the Poseidon Adventure, and I didn't think he'd be thrilled about saving Shelley Winters. No, Isaac and a little coochie-coochie are more his speed. This seems to cheer him.

The ship jostles slowly into port. On the boats and on the planes, we're coming to America. We're coming to America. We're coming to America. Today!

Long forgotten

2005-05-04T16:42:00.000-04:00

I have neglected this little online outpost for awhile. The whole mobile blogging thing didn't work as seemlessly as I had hoped, but I have found a purpose for this blog regardless. This will be the sister blog to my LiveJournal. There will be no online quizzes, no linkblogging. Just pure, unadulterated rambling.

Crackberry

2004-12-07T22:00:00.000-05:00

I never really wanted a Blackberry. We sold them at AT&T Wireless, so it's not like I was ignorant of their existence or possible utility. But I made a decision that I did not need to be that wired. I did not need a BB or one of the many similar mobile data products. I once made a similar decision when it came to cell phones. But then, as now, work intervened. I have been given a Blackberry to use for business purposes. For now it is fairly benign. I don't have to carry it unless I'm at work. For now. I know how these things start. Today it's a toy, tomorrow it's a tool, finally it's a tether.

In the meantime, I mean to subvert this technological marvel for my own nefarious ends. I have decided to give mobile blogging a try. I have enough idle moments scattered throughout my days to make it a worthwhile endevour.