Post for My Banana Bread Friend

THANK YOU FOR THE BANANA BREAD!

My craving is now satisfied.

:)

reading in a cemetery

Happiness is reading a good book outdoors. This is especially true on warm, sunny days when there is green grass to rub your feet on and a spring breeze to cool your face in.

In years past, I have always marked the start of spring by bringing books outside and reading. I've read in parks, on roofs, balconies and by poolsides. I've turned pages sitting by the shores of Lake Ontario and Lake Erie, and I've even done some serious reading on the deck of an ocean liner.

But I have never read in a cemetery -- until today.

I know it sounds creepy. I even got asked about it today, by an old woman hauling her even older mother along the gravestones. "You're reading in a cemetery?!" she asked, in total amazement. Well no, wait. That wasn't the first thing she asked me. She wanted to know where the public bathrooms were located, and then broached the subject of reading-among-the-dead.

"Yes, I'm reading in a cemetery. It's the only place nearby with some grass, flowers and where I can hear birds." And besides, I added in my head, there's walking paths and benches all over the place in this place. People jog here everyday. What's so weird about reading?

But apparently jogging is okay. As is wandering aimlessly with backpacks on your back, which is what I saw several people do. (All with glazed expressions who vanished into the restrooms for long stretches at a time.) Even holding hands and looking romantic seemed to be okay. Just ... not reading?

The woman was shocked that anyone would want to read in a graveyard. I mean, really. Horrors. I didn't have the heart to point out to her that she was far more morbid, hauling around her corpse of a mother with her. The pair trundled along at a snail's pace, with the younger one shaking her head in despair at me the entire time. I couldn't wait for them to get to the bathroom, pee, and fall into the toilet and drown.

After the Doddering Duo left, I had my shady little patch of graveyard back to myself. Sort of. I had parked myself on a bench near the main entrance, because it seemed the safest place to sit. A beautiful tree had been planted to stand guard over the bench, and flowers were blooming all along the pathway in front of me. The place was begging to be sat in, noticed and appreciated.

Birds were singing, squirrels were rustling in the bushes, and the workmen on duty were joyfully speaking to one another in Spanish. It did not feel like a burial ground at all. Even the visitors were smiling, and most weren't even dressed in black. Lots of kids running around, parents sighing, a couple or two smiling at one another.

When I had first moved into the neighborhood, the local cops had told me the cemetery was open to the public. "Lots of people go hiking in there," one of them told me. "I mean, I don't advise doing it after visiting hours, but it's safe during the day. And real pretty."

And real pretty it was. At one point I walked until I found a duck pond, and stared at my reflection in the rippling water. Ducks were honking at me and nosing by my feet for food, making me feel guilty for not bringing them bread crumbs. Spring blossoms were everywhere, in a profusion of purples, yellows and reds -- like cotton candy fluffs, electric colored and satisfying to look at.

Back at my reading perch under the tree, one of the groundskeepers walked by and gave me a big smile. A genuine one, not one of those creepy-old-man-who's-going-to-hit-on-you ones. "You picked a great day to read here," he told me in passing. He then went on to tell me other good reading spots in the cemetery, and I assured him I would explore them all.

cows: i keep forgetting they're sacred in india.

"If a driver hits a ... cow, the vehicle and its occupants are at risk of being attacked by passersby. Such attacks put the vehicle's occupants at significant risk of injury or death, or at least incineration of the vehicle."

-- Travex Report on India

In traffic and on roads, "the cow always has the right of way."

-- CultureShock!

and other funny things ...

1) Cows, camels, goats and elephants are all fairly typical sites on Indian roads.

2) Monkey bites are, apparently, a common malady among tourists.

3) I've read several times that sidewalks are not really there to be walked on, but are instead used by the homeless as places to sleep, by merchants as places to sell wares, and others use these 'walks as parking lots, taxi stands, lunching spots and more.

4) Asking for a hamburger is grounds for getting punched in the face.

(And oh man, I love beef!)

I am leaving in less than 2 months. Ahhhh. I just got back from my school's travel clinic, after being vaccinated for typhoid, hepatitis A and getting prescribed my malaria pills. I have to go back for further shots next week ... lucky me.

At least the doctor gave me cute bandaids and Gatorade. Oh -- and I'm the brand new owner to the World Health Organization's International Certificate of Vaccination. It's bright yellow and hurts the eyes -- but apparently you can't (literally) leave home without it.

mr. homeless man

Me, I'm pissed off. I've been wandering around the Lower East Side for the past fifteen minutes trying to find a subway stop, it's cold out and some bum I walked past just announced "white people should burn in hell." My right ear is sore from having my cell phone jammed up against it for the duration of a six minute argument with a friend, in which I finally told him to "F--- off," -- which, by the way, he most righteously deserved.

So now, I've finally found my way to the elusive subway stop and I'm crying. Just a little bit. Nothing major, a few tears in the wind type of thing. I'm not sure if it's because I'm upset or because it's so damn cold out. Either way, I'm wondering if my mascara is going to start smearing, which would increase the shit factor of the entire evening.

As I'm digging my metro card out of my business-card-holder-that's-not-a-real-wallet, I notice a homeless man standing by the steps down to the track, holding out a change cup. He doesn't rattle it at anyone, and is just holding it in front of him rather lethargically. The man does speak up, though. A lot. At any person who walks by. "Dollar? Dollar? Money? You got money?"

I am irritated. There are thoughts in my head along the lines of 'get a freakin' job, dude.' (I'm still waiting for the day when I snap and say that to someone.) A few people within the homeless guy's range are giving me funny looks, and I think it must be out of sheer curiosity -- is that girl just standing there? Or is she crying? And if she is, why the hell is she standing next to some crackhead who's bothering everyone within shouting distance?

Finally, I have my subway pass firmly in hand, and I start to make my way to the stairwell. Old Mister Homeless, though, has decided he needs to ask me for some cash.

"Dollar?"

And suddenly, I feel nice. So I say, "No, sorry."

"Two dollars?"

This is turning into some kind of reverse bidding war. I'm annoyed, but also amused at how brazen this guy is to stand around and ask people for cash. Not change. Dollars. In multiple amounts.

I shake my head at him, starting down the stairs slowly.

"You upset about something? You need me to cheer you up? I'll cheer you up."

Now I start to laugh. The situation is too absurd, too New York. One minute ago I wanted to stab someone I'm close with, and now a complete stranger is making me smile.

"I'm good, thanks. But I appreciate it."

(See how nice I can be?)

"Alright, well, you come back if you need cheering up. I'll cheer you up. You know where to find me."

The minute I see how full my train is, the shit factor creeps right back up again. The only seat left is in that little row posted as 'Reserved for the Disabled and Elderly' or however the MTA likes to express their elitist seating rules. A quick scan of my fellow passengers is evidence enough that there are no disabled/elderly/whatever folks around, and so I snag the seat -- only to be stuck between some record industry guy who has a really puffy jacket on and an old Chinese man who keeps accidentally bumping me with his elbow.

Between the over sized clothing and newspaper reading senior, I'm a cramped, squished up and exhausted ball of human flesh. The only good thing about this ride back home is the smell. Yes, I said it. A subway car smelled good.

Like banana bread.

So now I'm back in my apartment and craving some. Home baked, too. Preferably made by the hands of my mother or sister, and put in the oven with lots of TLC.

(Anyone want to overnight me some banana bread? Your karma will thank you.)

the cat who wanted in

There was a stray cat today who was sitting in front of the entrance to my apartment building. She was a tiny little black and white cat, skittish, skinny, and with a scabbed over nose.

I was going to bring her some cat food and let her eat, but my super Eunice beat me to it. Even though the landlord has repeatedly told both of us to not feed the stray cats in the neighborhood, there's always a few that I can't help but want to adopt/feed/cuddle.

Later on I noticed a pigeon had moved into the kitty's place, and was now peering into the lobby with beady little eyes. He had a feather stuck to his head and looked disgruntled. I have to admit. I was not half as inclined to feed Mr. Bird as I was the cat. Pigeons are rude, poop, and constantly peck at things.

Anyhow, this is my entry for today. I had to share about the little kitty cat, though. I have a huge paper due for school and class tonight -- needless to say, I am less than thrilled. Wish me luck!

i'm on tv

Screen captures from my televised March 22 '06 television gig in Pennsylvania on Stories, Wisdom and Recipes. Performed all Irish tunes with violinist Mark Woodyatt. Please note that these photographs will be taken down after a certain duration -- I only have them up because I'm too lazy to email them to family.

They're also (obviously) really fuzzy and bad quality -- I haven't mastered the art of photographing from a television set yet. Any suggestions, hit me up. Just remember, however, that I'm not trying to make fine art or anything with these photos.

Tunes covered over the duration of the show:

Trip to Sligo -- traditional jig
We're Bringing the Summer With Us -- ancient traditional melody (pre-Christian era)
Shebeg, Shemore -- O'Carolan tune, originally a harp solo, which we turned into a duo
The Butterfly Jig/Swallowtail -- fast paced, traditional tunes.

would you like to be in a police line up?

My friend Dan drove in from Long Island yesterday to come see me for an afternoon over his spring break. Within five minutes of parking his car, locking it and stepping onto the sidewalk along my street, he was asked by a complete stranger --

"Yo, so man, do you want to be in a police line up?"

I hadn't had a chance to say hello, and Dan was already was getting pressed into police duty.

The group of neighborhood guys who asked him had a slightly thuggish look, or, as I like to call it, 'I'm From Brooklyn and Refuse to Wear Well Fitting Pants.' (Wasn't the whole baggy pants thing out like, 5 years ago? Anyway.) They had on their baseball caps and one or two of them had freshly glazed over eyes, probably thanks to the copious amounts of marijuana a few of them smoke. I have the pleasure of smelling them and their drug of choice every time I walk by their apartment.

You have to understand that my friend is a lovely guy, and just very ... suburban. When I finally had a chance to give him a hello hug, he asked me in a slightly panicked voice, "What kind of neighborhood do you live in?!" For Dan to sound surprised -- or anything different from his usual infamous monotone we all love so much -- is a pretty big deal. So, I knew the boy had to be a little shaken up.

Fifteen minutes later, after a pit stop in my apartment, we were back outside again and bumped into the same crowd of guys, who were still attempting to press hapless souls into police line up duty. Apparently there was a promise of cash moneys, always a good incentive in this part of New York, since no one ever has any. However, how much they were offering to pay probably was no match to the question of 'What Happens If You Get Chosen Out of the Line Up -- And Aren't Guilty?'

Scary, scary.

Ponce photos

Ponce

If Ponce were a woman, she'd be an old and weary one -- still beautiful, but past her prime. A woman colorfully dressed, perhaps in pink or sky blue, with striking features and skin that sagged loosely off the bone. She'd probably be the type to still get her nails done every week, while forgetting to pay the electric bill on time.

In a way, Ponce is a beautiful older woman. She has that run-down, lived in look that is so attractive in all great dowagers. Ponce has a certain something, a nobility, a genteel decay, that is both lovely and sad, all at the same time.

When I first found out I was going to Puerto Rico, I had no idea about the country or anything in it. The only city I'd ever heard about was San Juan -- and that was only from the Real World and my mother's thirty year old memories from her trip there.

Even after checking out brochures and tourist guides, I was left with the impression that life started and stopped with San Juan, and that Puerto Rico was an otherwise staid, boring little place with nothing else to offer. Sure, a few beaches and rum filled drinks were touted, but otherwise the guidebooks left off anything about 'the rest' of the island.

And so, when my mother told me we were going to be staying in a little town called Ponce, I asked -- where is that?? She didn't know anything about it either, except that it was cheaper, supposed to have a nice beach, and less touristy than San Juan. (And oh boy, does my mother have a thing for avoiding touristy places -- a little personality trait that I've seemed to pick up along the way, as well.)

On one of our first full days in Puerto Rico, me and my mother set about exploring our temporary new home. Together we spent several hours exploring the alleyways, sidewalks and shops of Ponce. My mother even dared to drive -- a feat that she (nor I) would ever recommend to the uninitiated. Mom nearly had a heart attack. Twice. (Drivers in Ponce apparently don't believe in a)following traffic laws, b)using any signals except car horns and c)obeying speed limits.)

We went on a free trolley ride, giggled at the cheap crap for sale that every white person within 50 miles was lined up to buy, and ate yummy homemade ice cream that rapdily ended up melting out of cones and onto our arms. Part of the time we simply sat in the shade of the central plaza, watching all the people go by. They came in so many beautiful shades, from light creams to dark browns -- it was almost like being here in New York.

And, of course, I loved every minute of it. I took dozens of photos, which became a mini addiction for my day in Ponce. I literally walked around like a madwoman, crossing traffic clogged streets to capture a pigeon on film, or a gutted house.

This was also the place where two very hilarious things happened to me, and which I will write about in the next entry. An old grandmother tried to auction me off to her (very, very attractive) grandson, and, just before that, a man walked into a tree while staring at me. All I can say is -- good stories to tell when I'm old and wrinkled someday.

a cityflip photo

It Felt Like Spring Today!!

photos to welcome in spring ... taken at the end of summer '05 at the good old family homestead -- i miss rural living like craaazzzeee.

happy day

everyone was smiling just like this today.

Today has been happy.

I don't mean that I'm particularly overjoyed about anything, or that I've been blissed out on life these past 24 hours. It's simply that everyone, everywhere, seems grateful. Peaceful. Pleased to be alive.

Instead of a seething mass of angry New Yorkers, Manhattan is, for the time being at least, a cheerful place. People are strolling along the sidewalks with smiles on their faces and laughs in their throats; bums aren't viciously shaking their change cups at passers-by. (They seem more cheerful than anyone, content with standing around looking stoned and amused with the world.)

Even those witchy, bitchy Upper East Side grannies are nicer than usual. Earlier this afternoon hell froze over when one of them moved her (highly over sized) bag off the bench seat next to her so that I could sit down. Who knew one of those escargot fed would ever deem me, a member of the dirty masses, as being worthier than a $1500 purse?

Equally shocking was the moment a Duane Reade employee spent about five minutes exchanging pleasantries with me over toilet paper. Seriously. I asked the man (a very nice, dread locked guy from Jamaica) if they stocked any, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of the friendliest conversation I've had with a stranger since I've lived in New York.

Granted, I did catch him checking me after we had ended our conversation, so that might have had something to do with it, but I like to think otherwise. Oh, and for the record -- yes, Duane Reade stocks toilet paper. (And shitloads of nail polish -- I spent about 20 minutes there trying to decide if/what color to buy.)

Not only is New York a happy place today, it's also a frisky one. While I was walking to one of my usual subway stops a Mexican man poked his head out of a building window and tried to chat me up en espanol. Too bad I don't speak any and can't keep a straight face when things like that happen.

So, all in all, it is nice to be in a place where people are simply happy. I even got to visit with my father and brother today -- a fairly rare occurrence. We had lunch at a nice vegetarian place on 6th Avenue -- not too expensive, yummy, and home to good bubble tea.

I'm back off to Manhattan again tonight for a music lesson, which would normally suck (commuting), but should be decent with all this happiness floating around.

bored? read this post

I'm bored, you might be bored, the world is bored. This is the remedy.

.Art.
http://www.francis-bacon.cx/ -- Francis Bacon, disturbed Irish artist
http://www.nyclondon.com/ -- R. Gardiner, black and white photography
http://www.abcgallery.com/G/gauguin/gauguin.html -- Gauguin, my homeslice
http://www.michaelkenna.net/ -- Michael Kenna, photography
http://www.davidlachapelle.com/ -- David LaChapelle, pop icon
http://www.moriyamadaido.com/top.html -- photography, this time from Japan
http://www.herbritts.com/ -- Herb Rits
http://www.staff.uni-mainz.de/gehring/Schiele/SchieleGalerie0.html -- Egon Schiele
http://www.ctaylorcrothers.com/ctc.html -- Taylor Crothers, who's doing my pics in March
http://www.uelsmann.net/ -- Jerry Uelsmann, surreal photography

.Friends.
http://devocat.blogspot.com/ -- Devon, good guy, good musician, and a bad ass.
http://www.davidabrahamrosen.com/ -- He has a portrait of me on there, if you can find it.

.Other Things.

http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/astropix.html -- Astronomy Pic of the Day -- thanks dissent.

http://cuteoverload.com/ -- I started a cuteoverload revolution among my friends. See why.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/ -- PostSecret. An addiction of mine.

http://www.villagevoice.com/nyclife/0523,cheapchownow,64696,19.html -- <3>

.Last but Not Least, My Celeb Gossip Blogs ... lovelovelove.

http://bestweekever.blogs.com/

http://dlisted.blogspot.com/

http://www.egotastic.com/

http://www.gawker.com/

http://www.idontlikeyouinthatway.com/

http://www.jossip.com/

http://www.perezhilton.com/

http://trent.blogspot.com/

http://www.thesuperficial.com/

smile

"Hey gorgeous, smile."

This is the first thing that anyone has said to me all day.

It's eleven o' clock, sunny out, and bitter cold. I'm frowning and wrapped up in my black parka, annoyed at myself and late for work. One week on the job and I'm already finding it a pain in the ass to get to 83rd Street every day.

A young man is looking at me expectantly, pausing in his work of loading the back of a brown van. He's there all the time, a daily fixture on my street, but we almost never talk. There was one time last summer when he told me I looked "real nice in green," but otherwise we've kept our street relationship a simple mix of either a) ignoring one another or b) nodding politely and sometimes saying hello.

But today he's decided to Tell Me To Smile. And he's saying it in such a friendly, eager way that I can't help but crack a grin. He nods encouragingly as my lips turn up, and when I start laughing he smiles back at me.

"There, that's better."

I keep on walking by, almost past him now, but just as I'm about to leave I tell him, "Thanks. I needed that."

His response?

"Anytime. Have a great day."

Sometimes this city isn't so bad after all.