Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Doggy Daycare

I babysat Jessy's Maltepoo puppy yesterday. Marley was a little more "poo" than "malte": really fucking cute but really fucking incontinent. I would take him outside and stand there as he sniffed and looked around for two hours (magnetically attracting all females within a 2-block radius), and then as soon as we come back into my apartment kid immediately squats, trembles, and decorates my rug. I built a penitentiary for him in my kitchen but he cries when he's left alone so I had to hang out in the pen with him. I got them cute-cellmate-who-pisses-on-the-floor jailhouse blues. I was actually going to custom tailor a diaper for him out of a small plastic bag but as I was looking at it trying to figure out where to cut the holes he pissed again; I was forced to abandon my preventative efforts for corrective measures and haz mat cleanup. Also, what's up with cute puppy stinkypoo? I had no idea that a baby animal the size of a football was capable of emitting such foul odors. Hell hath no fury like the aroma of Marley's ass. I involuntarily gagged several times, and cleaning up poo is a difficult endeavor when one is dry-retching uncontrollably. It wasn't all misery, though. When I figured out puppy industry rule number four thousand and eighty -- that you can't take your eyes off of them even for ONE SECOND -- I was able to make a dive for his ass wielding a Ziplock bag and catch his carpet art like a touchdown pass. I did dance an endzone jig after that victory, but I didn't spike the ball. I was so pooped myself last night by the time Jessy picked Marley up I was thinking about cancelling dinner plans on the west side with my friend Jon. My ravenous hunger outweighed my exhaustion, however, and I hit the road. We had planned on soul food at Aunt Kizzy's Back Porch in the Marina, but arrived too late and were banished to a forgettable NY Pizza joint. (Wrong guess, Julie! By that time we were both too hungry to drive back to Venice for a few slices of Abbott's superior pie.) As we sat down I sensed a disturbance in the force and squinted: "Do you smell ass?" I asked Jon. "I swear I can smell dog shit." It was very faint, and he didn't know whether he smelled it for real or because I suggested it. I couldn't see any brown stains on the bottoms of my shoes, inside my zippered hoodie or on my lap (the latter two being known Marley haunts), but I was still suspicious. I never located the source of my unease and as the night wore on, it evaporated...either that or my olfactory sense became inured to it. In either case, all yesterday's linen is in the washing machine right now, and my kicks are in the sink.

Conclusion: while I'm undoubtedly a Marley fan, my love for puppies in general -- at least for the time being -- is reserved for those who have been properly house-trained.

Monday, January 26, 2004

What Bush doesn't want you to know

The Oreo Cookie idea for ending world hunger, improving the education of our country's children, and covering the cost of our healthcare. Who can argue with logic, reason, and common sense?

Click here -- it's more important than ice cream

Saturday, January 24, 2004

New York Stories

My first day in the city I walked from Times Square to the Met through Central Park. I'm lucky I didn't bust any bones slipping on all that ice. I ruminated on the Modern art, the Greek sculpture hall and the Micronesian/Melanesian exhibits. On my way back, I collected some karma by helping two old ladies across some streets. Much later on, just for kicks, Julie and I decided to peep a strip club off Times Square. Dirty, stupid, and nasty: as it turns out there were no kicks to be had and we returned to the W for drinks at the bar.

My second day I walked south to Union Square. Want to hear something foolish? Even though it was below freezing there was a farmer's market right there on the north side of the square. Who are they fooling? That shit ain't fresh. But I bought an organic chocolate chip cookie, a ginger snap, and a brownie. Then I went to that Coffee Shop and ate some of that pao de queijo and meatloaf while I did a crossword. Then that night I got the blue cheek (see "Blue Man Shoes" journal entry) and the red face from getting all liquored up at the W bar. Again.

The next day was Chinese New Year. Gung Hei Fat Choi, everybody. I took the N R train to Chinatown, where I asked two separate street vendors in my broken Cantonese where I could get some legit won ton mien, and they both pointed me to the same joint: Sun Say Kai on the corner of Baxter and Walker. It's one of those tiny honey-colored restaurants with ducks and pork legs hanging in the window, and where you have to share your table with strangers. I had the siu ahp won ton mien with the chow mien noodles thrown in for good measure, and it was no joke. While I sucked my duck bones a few lion dancers showed up at the door, along with their coterie of benevolent society members. There was much banging of cymbals, drums and gongs while the proprietor of Sun Say Kai brought out the symbolic cabbage head and oranges. After paying my $4.00 bill I bundled back up and headed back out into the streaming sunlight. I followed the mythical dancing beasts to Grand Harmony restaurant on Mott Street, between Canal and Hester. While the revelers shot off countless firecrackers and confetti cannons and the elder parade organizers snapped at the younger uniformed ones for smoking while they held back the spectators with broom handles, I snapped off a roll of B&W 120mm film with my Holga.

Afterwards I walked back up Broadway to the W, stopping again at Coffee Shop for a hot toddy (the drink, not the bartender). The wind was so strong that the snow was falling horizontally, north to south down the canyon of Broadway. Appropriately enough, everyone was getting Chinese eyes, squinting through the biting flakes. When I emerged again into the cold with a belly full of whiskey, the snow had stopped and the setting sun had turned the sky a smoky shade of pink. It's amazing what a little whiskey can do for your day.

That night I returned to Mott Street to dine with Julie, Steve, Mack, and Jin Ah at Joe's Ginger. I can't recommend this place enough. I've had better Shanghainese rice cakes, but the crab and pork stuffed dumplings simply cannot be beat. Yeah, they're even better than Din Tai Fung. That's right, I said it: as far as I'm concerned, these are the best Taiwanese-style dumplings in the Western Hemisphere. You think you got a contender? Bring it on. We'll have a dumpling kumite showdown, and my money's on Joe. And then after that, we hit up the bar at the W again, like the boozers you know we are.

Don't Step On My Blue Man Shoes

On January 21, I walked to Coffee Shop on Union Square for lunch. I love that joint. The waitresses and bartenders are hot, and the food and atmosphere remind me of my local gourmet diners in L.A. -- the 101 Coffee Shop and Fred 62.

That night, after dining on tapas at Azafran in south Tribeca, Julie took me to see the Blue Man Group at the Astor Place Theater on Lafayette Street. We shuffled around between parked cars in the cold outside the theater for a few minutes before the show to get our heads right. Our seats were the first row in the mezzanine, and as I took my place a kid in a black t-shirt approached me and asked how tall I was. When I replied, he asked me to follow him to the rear of the upper level. As other guests (including Julie) moved past us, he delivered what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech.

He told me that he needed to find someone for a job, and depending on how I answered a few questions I may be the one to fill it. Question number one regarded the size of my shoe (10) and number two was whether or not I was claustrophobic (no). He informed me that in about an hour and a half, the Blue Men would enter the audience for the second time, looking for someone. I would be chosen. He quickly ran through the entire routine, dictating exactly what would happen to me while I was on and off stage, assuring me that contrary to appearances, I would never be in any danger. I was growing nervous and more than a bit paranoid, but how could one resist an opportunity such as this? I accepted. After changing into some shapeless black sneakers and assuring my man that I wouldn't cover up the blue T-shirt I was wearing with a jacket, I returned to my seat and told Julie what was going down. And then I waited. And was entertained. No, I was more than entertained -- I was enthralled. I laughed out loud and gasped and yelled and interacted.

The first time I met Julie was at The Blue Man Complex Rock tour last summer at the Shrine in downtown L.A. It featured the Blue Man Group jamming with rock musicians, and though it was good, it was nothing compared to this show in Lower Manhattan. After approximately an hour and a half, I felt a presence next to me. Sure enough, while the audience was distracted by something onstage, one of the Blue Men had silently wandered up to my seat like a curious insect. With his inquisitive alien head cock, he stared down at me and offered his hand. I took it. I think he may have raised my arms as the spotlight operator and a cameraman focused on me, to give the audience a chance to give me a cheer. I was then whisked up the steps to the back of the mezzanine and then down the stairs at the back of the theater. We bounded up the center aisle and his two indigo cohorts helped me up onto the stage. From then on, the experience was an adrenaline-pumped blur. The blue-skinned entertainers helped me into a white jumpsuit and, looking into my face with that adult-baby gaze, one of them marked my cheek with a blue dot. I was then fitted with a spray-painted motorcycle helmet ("with the blast shield down I can't see a thing") and my world went dark. They then guided me backstage where events got even wackier, but nothing was ever out of control. I think I'll skip what happens next. I don't want to ruin the show for those who haven't seen it, nor do I want to spoil the magic for those who have. But within five minutes I was back onstage, my head emerging from a solid block of orange Jell-O (I was now holding the dark helmet) while my body unfolded from a small black box. My white jumpsuit was now covered with blue paint and I stood in triumph next to a large white canvas splashed with blue prints of a familiar-looking body. I never really had time to be nervous -- the bright lights kept me from seeing the audience. But I could hear their reaction and was thrilled.

After the show I was so elated by the experience that Julie and I walked halfway to the subway line before I realized I was still wearing those atrocious black trainers. On the way back to the Astor Place several people who'd seen the show smiled at me or patted me on the back. "Good job!" one of them said as I walked through the doors. "I didn't do anything," I thought, "I was merely the tool of the artist: a prop. I was a paintbrush". I approached one of the Blue Men in the lobby and said, "I have Blue Man Shoes". He verbally directed me (they CAN speak!) to the girl with whom I needed to make the footwear exchange. Eventually Julie and I made it back to the W on Times Square. As we walked into our room I glanced at myself in the mirror. I'd brushed most of the remaining flecks of orange Jell-O from my face and hair, but I still bore the mark of a blue smear of paint across my left cheek. Like a child home after a night of trick-or-treating, I had the urge to leave it there. But realizing that out of context it looked like a sloppy mascara job, I washed my face before going downstairs to the bar. My brush with destiny as a blue paintbrush was over.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Yesterday I flew into Jamaica...

...Queens, that is. After arguing with my mini-cab drivers about the cost of a trip to the JFK Comfort Inn I was dropped off at my ghetto-ass destination at 03:00 in the morning. Last night, however, I spent at the W off Times Square. That joint is butter. I don't think I've ever stayed in a nicer hotel. While I did bring my laptop, the cost for utilizing the broadband in my room is $15/24hrs, so I'm now at an internet cafe where I can take care of all my spam deletion and bill paying needs in a half hour for $1. I won't be on much this week, but I hope I'll have some stories to share when I return to the wesside on Friday. Until then, MyFriends, I bid you adieu and I hope that you're warmer and cozier than I am.

Yours,

XopherInNYC

Friday, January 09, 2004

Big Fish

I felt like I wanted to cry but I didn't. As with many of Tim Burton's films, I found his latest offering lacking in emotional resonance. It was a bit too predictable, and a bit too simple for my palate. I wished for more of an arc in the main character, more depth of character in general, and just some good old fashioned melodramatic punch. Every once in while I like to get punched in the belly by a film: I want my heartstrings to get yanked, and I want to leave the theater a quivering mess. Tim Burton just can't do that for me. His films are visually driven, which I can definitely dig...but why not make stunning eye-candy that also touches the heart. On the Burton scale, I would say this film rated better than Planet of the Apes and Sleepy Hollow, but not quite as magically touching as Edward Scissorhands or as funny as Pee Wee's Big Adventure. Ouch, I can't finish this review because I'm too hungry.

Sunday, January 04, 2004

The Da Vinci Code

I just finished reading this book last night. While I found it predictable and formulaic at times, for the most part it was really difficult to put down. It was the closest thing to a modern Sherlock Holmes story that I think I've read. As a matter of fact, I can think of a few parallels to A Study In Scarlet: a murder; an overarching mystery framing many smaller puzzles; and most notably, a fascinating disclosure of secret societies and religions. A few years ago I started doing a lot of research on the origins of Christianity -- I still have a lot of unread books on the topic. I also started retyping and cataloging all my old art history notes -- I think I made it into the high Middle Ages before my ardor for that undertaking wilted. After reading this book I feel like kick-starting both of those projects. Anybody have any ideas on how much of the religious and historical theories behind Dan Brown's novel were fiction, if any?

Sunday, January 04, 2004

"Sunday morning I'm waking up
Can't even focus on a coffee cup
Don't even know who's bed I'm in
Where do I start
Where do I begin"

My cough sounds to me like a death rattle. It tears my eyes and works out my abdomen. After a week in NYC I need a vacation from my vacation. I'm beginning to tire of the guest room in my parents' house, and now that the holidays are over my friends here in VA are returning to work. I'm the only one still at play, and I'm ready for my return to the Best Coast tomorrow.

My last few days have been a blur. The Da Vinci Code, the train ride from Penn Station, east coast Chinese food. Scrabble at Dave's house (I don't care what his cracker-ass 1968 Random House dictionary says -- bo is a Japanese fighting staff and a weta is a giant grasshopper from New Zealand). Before that it was walking all over Manhattan: The Brooklyn Bridge, Lever House, Seagram's Tower, The RCA Building, Rockefeller Plaza, the Central Library, a coffee shop on Union Square, The G.E. Building, The Chrysler Building, The Empire State Building, Grand Central Station, El Greco at The Met. My TJ friend Kerry is now an architectural historian, so my perambulations around the city were accompanied by her knowledgeable commentary. Back at Mack's crib in Jersey City we introduced her to the evil addiction of Halo. Great Korean food. Shitty Thai food: my som tham was like American cole slaw and my Panang curry was as mild as Wonderbread. Watching the fireworks over Brooklyn and the harbour on New Year's Eve. Sleeping on a couch in a two bedroom apartment filled with five old friends. Being forced to have my picture taken in a snaking line at the Empire State Building.

Now, for one last day I'm back in Vienna, VA. My father just left for the airport, my mother and sister are at a funeral, and my dog is using me for my ball-throwing talents. My eyes are tearing, my stomach muscles are tight, and my throat feels like it's filled with gravel. And I can't even focus on my tea cup.