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.

Puerto Rico: Part I -- Adopted On the Plane

Puerto Rico '06

(as promised a few weeks back)

I should have known from the start that this was not an ordinary place.

It began harmlessly enough on the plane. A late night flight, it was full of locals on their way home, and no one was speaking a word of English. Between the crying babies, impatient parents and grandmothers with too many bags, the plane was in utter chaos before taking off. Air stewards kept trying to hurry everyone along, practically shouting their pleas of "faster, faster" over the intercom.

When, finally, we were all settled in, I found myself sitting next to a nervous looking old lady. She was whispering a prayer under her breath, hands folded neatly in her lap. I felt bad for her, knowing what it's like to hate flying, and after rummaging around in my luggage, found a bag of pretzels. I smiled and offered her some -- food, after all, cuts across all language boundries and fears.

There was an immediate change in her. She smiled at me gratefully, snatching up a handful of pretzels, nodding her thanks. Not sure if she spoke only Spanish, I smiled back. And then, suddenly, it turned out my Elderly Friend not only knew a little broken English, she loved using it. My left ear was filled up with all sorts of awkward and unfinished phrases such as "Name?" and "Where from?"

The plane flight was over 3 hours from JFK, and the woman spoke almost the entire time -- despite the fact it was close to 5am by the time we landed. She occasionally patted my arm and told me I was a nice girl, and that I would, of course, love Puerto Rico.

It turned out my new friend had lived in Rochester, New York for many years, a place I had lived in for entirely too long while attending music school. We both agreed it was too damn snowy, and not very nice to live in. After that, we were officially bonded, and she decided to take my future into her own hands, telling me "not to marry too young," and make sure to "go to school."

By the time we were circling over the Ponce airport, she had already handed my mother her home address on a slip of scrap paper. We must, she insisted, look her up while in town, and then kept asking when we would.

At the airport she followed us through the airport, helpfully pointing out baggage claim and telling us what sites to go see. Although a little overwhelmed by all the madness in the airport, (people jostling, families screaming with glee at the new arrivals, babies everywhere) my mother made assurances we would come see her if possible.

All this, and we'd barely stepped foot in Puerto Rico yet. I'd already managed to be adopted by a Puerto Rican grandmother, and after stopping by the car rental booth, realized that all the appreciative smiles of the men in the airport were directed at me. (Hell yeah, I realized right then that was a place I could get used to.)

Further adventures posted later ... and they include yet another PR grandmother (who practically tried to marry me off her to her grandson), a pelican attack, and nearly being brained by a coconut.

the chinese schoolgirl battle: icq vs msn.

The scene: Downtown/Brooklyn N Train.

The time: 6:15pm.

Characters: (all Chinese-Americans between the ages of 13 - 15)
Schoolgirl #1 (aka: Ms. Mole) -- plump, plain, bland looking host to a dark brown chin mole.
Schoolgirl #2 (The Talkative One) -- loud, short, an expert slurper of juice.
Schoolgirl #3 (Shorty) -- 4'8" ... max. Doesn't talk.
Schoolgirl #4 ("I'm Nondescript and therefore hard to describe,") -- nondescript. Hard to describe. Evidently boring since I can't remember anything about her other than she was there.


Scene:
(SG#1)(loudly, in my ear) ALL CHINESE PEOPLE USE ICQ.
(SG#2) OOOH YEAH, THEY TOTALLY DO. I DON'T THOUGH. I USE MSN.
(SG#1) OHHH ME TOO. MORE CHINESE PEOPLE SHOULD USE MSN.
(SG#2) WHY DON'T MORE CHINESE USE IT? I TALK TO FRIENDS FROM HONG KONG ON IT.
(SG#4) mumblemumble ... anyone use Photoshop? ... mumblemumble.
(SG#2) PHOTOSHOP? I HAVE THAT. IT'S COOL.
(SG#1) NO WAY, HOW DO YOU GET IT?
(SG#4) blahblah ... talking about Photoshop ...

(5 minutes later ... I shit you not.)

(SG#1) SO, WHY DO ALL CHINESE PEOPLE USE ICQ?
(SG#2) I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T. I TALK TO FRIENDS FROM HONG KONG ON MSN.
(SG#4) mumblemumble ... anyone use Limewire? ... mumblemumble.

(A few more minutes later, pulling into the Atlantic Ave station.)
(SG#1) I REALLY LIKE MSN.
(SG#2) ME TOO! I TALK TO FRIENDS FROM HONG KON-

(Dialogue cut off as I beat a hasty retreat.)

End Scene.

saturday night drive

Driving into Manhattan late at night, jazz on the CD player --

lit up buildings everywhere, cars going 50 miles per hour.

The river is on my right, a black Bentley is directly ahead, and to my left, a bright neon blur of apartments and coffee shops. Traffic is pouring in from off the George Washington, that tricked-out-Halloween-happy bridge covered in spooky lights. Cars, vans, Uhauls. Gas and wheels, siphoning off into the city. Manhattan, one big set of lungs, inhaling everything that passes by.

This north part of the city is cold looking, closed off and bricked in. No one is out in their cars, on their feet, with dogs to be walked or dates to be led home. It's quiet.

In the background a tribute to Miles Davis is playing, a performer blowing out sounds in rushes of hot air. Note after note after note afternote. Kind of like this upper Manhattan landscape -- building after building after building.

Further towards Midtown, things start to feel more alive, more energetic. The road is jumping beneath the car, bumping me one way, tossing me another. A man driving with New Jersey plates rushes by, cutting off traffic, meeting the honks of others with a raised fist.

Signs for Lincoln center start showing up. This way, this way -- herding tourists into the right direction. Follow the arrows to Balanchine and Mahler, to the cultural mecca of the Western world.

Down in the West 60's I see a sign advertising a living messiah, a man promoted by the Jewish Women's Council. He looks down at the cars -- at me -- with heavy lidded eyes, airbrushed and happy, fifty feet high.

The cars keep passing, the jazz keeps playing, and I stay in my seat, looking out the window. At the Chelsea Piers, where a rich looking woman in bitch boots is walking a poodle. At an Asian couple looking at the water, holding hands.

Canal Street. City Hall. Brooklyn Bridge.

Turn to the left and I'm out of Manhattan again, as quickly as I entered it. Jazz still crooning, cars still rushing at 50 'per hour.

Things go quiet once again, and as I sit back in my seat to close my eyes, I think --

"and this is the way to spend a Saturday night."

Yes, it's Official.

I'm going to India and Nepal, as of May 15 '06. 3 weeks.

Yay.

snow sensationalism

Well, the weather forecasters are certainly a smug bunch today. The blizzard they've all been salivating over for a week has finally come to pass. The only thing on the local television stations here are creatively titled programs such as 'BLIZZARD WATCH '06' and 'WINTER FURY.' All I can say is that watching news anchors interview people shoveling their driveways isn't too entertaining.

I honestly wasn't expecting any snow. Actually, let me rephrase that. I was hoping there wouldn't be any snow. It would have been nice, -- so, so nice -- to have seen all those forecasts proven wrong. Then I wouldn't have had to sit through the blitz of winter coverage I've already sat through for the past several hours. It has been a day of the weathermen triumphant! It hath snowed! In Biblical proportions!

So, anyway. While there are bombs going off in Iraq and god knows what else going on in other parts of the globe, I'm stuck with coverage on pesky little snowflakes. That, and traffic reports every 7 minutes. (Thank you, ABC.) If there were a nuclear meltdown New Yorkers wouldn't even know. The news would be stuck on the traffic and weather. Seriously.

I do have to hand it to the elements, though. This is a pretty fierce storm. I went outside for about 2 minutes to throw out some trash and got blasted with arctic hell. The wind is gusting hard -- 50 mph in some places, at least according to the ever unreliable media. The worst is the fact that wind + snow = pain. (Anyone who has spent time upstate will know this very well ... and if you haven't, be grateful.)

some cash would be nice ...

Finding a job in this city is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. To do anything you have to have previous experience -- and I mean a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g. To be a waitress, employers want at least 3 years of restaurant servitude. Dog walkers are required to have previous poop scooping jobs under their belt, not to mention a license (what the hell?) and an apartment in Manhattan. (I guess people don't have dogs in Brooklyn?) Even jobs under the 'adult' section -- which I only go to in moments of desperation to reassure myself that I will never stoop so low -- demand "experienced ladies."

(um, ew.)

I've been on a few job interviews now, and discovered the 'New York Bitch' syndrome, also present on the Upper West Side and art galleries everywhere. This phenomena is found among wealthy, middle aged Caucasian females. They wear well tailored skirt suits, have faces that look like they've been pressed under an iron too long, and a no-nonsense-get-out-of-my-way attitude. Oh, and they love having power over the weakling masses. (In this case, me.)

I seem to warm and butter them up well, but apparently not enough to thaw their frozen insides. They rattle my resume in front of my face, pert and smiling through alligator teeth, letting me know with a well placed glance that my clothes are about $500 too short of being acceptable.

(got Chanel?)

Then again, when I think about it, working for malnourished socialites isn't really my thing. I think it's safe to say that the feeling of dislike between me and the New York Bitches is mutual.

So, here's an open plea to whoever reads this thing. Need an employee? I'm a fast typer, have office assistant and editorial experience, I'm good with computers, a classically trained musician, and what the hell, I'll throw in the fact that I'm pretty cute, too.

In all seriousness, the minute I get a stable job, I'm posting a long, drawn out HALLELUJAH on my blog. My entire post will go like this: HALLELUJAH!HALLELUJAH!HALLELUJAH! Only, instead of three hallelujahs, there will be about a thousand. In addition, there will be a list included of all the wonderful crap I can buy with my first paycheck.

Ah, to have a job!

hopstop's scathing reviews

I'm back again, and this time with posts from that mother of all websites, hopstop.com. They have a section where people rate the various subway lines in New York, and after browsing around some reviews on the train lines I always take, I had to post a few as proof that when I whine about the MTA, I'm not the only one!

On the R train:

"If you're travelling from Brooklyn to Manhattan late night on a weekday, take anything else. The F, a cab, a pogo stick, a stray dog. Anything."

"Worst train ever. Please pull from line."

"its so dirty i should get paid to ride."

Overall Rating: 3.2 out of 10.

On the D train:

"it's a slow moving shithole !!!"

"this train needs a serious transit makeover"

"They need a 0 for this category."

Overall Rating: 3.9 out of 10.

On the N train:

"N = not kidding, it really is this damn bad."

"sometimes, waiting for the N takes longer than a retarded child trying to solve a differential math equation."

"Waiting for an 'N' train is like experiencing time in slow motion."

Overall Rating: 3.9 out of 10.


Well ... no one else likes my train lines, either. All I can say is, at least I don't live on the G train route -- that only got a 2.2 rating. (Beware the green line!)

And to my beloved D train -- I still love you, even if no one else does!

puerto rico: suburb of brooklyn?

Well.

Here I am, after a break from this blog. I haven't liked my past several posts, finding them to be uninspired and downright shitty -- at best. Sometimes words don't want to come out, and instead they sit there, heavy in my chest, like rocks.

I suppose, like everything, words don't always have to be my friends.

But, here I am again, after a break and a trip to Puerto Rico. I've been told not to write about my 'Rican adventures since this is a "New York blog," so instead I'll write about Noo Yawk and stay on topic. Well, sort of. I'm going to write a little about Puerto Rico in this, because it is truly a beautiful place and an amazing one, at that. (To any Puerto Ricans reading this: You are lucky, lucky, lucky to live in such a warm place! Oy!)

So. Puerto Rico. New York City. Related?

Oh yes.

Let me put it this way. My first hour on the island and I'd already met a person from Brooklyn. Born and raised. I hadn't even gotten out of the airport yet and here was someone telling me how B'lyn is their native stomping ground.

Then there was the guy at the Tibes Center outside of Ponce that was from Brooklyn. Born and raised. The man at the gas station my mom had to ask for directions after driving around for several hours trying to find the right highway exit. The kid in downtown Ponce who once hailed from Brooklyn. Born and (partially) raised.

Detecting a pattern here?

When I turned on the tv in my hotel room, the first thing I saw was Channel 7 news, beamed in live from New York. And then ... two more channels of New York goodness. I had to laugh when I saw how crap the weather was in my home state compared to Ponce, but then, after a few minutes, I realized ... wait a second. I'm in Puerto Rico. Where's the local news?!

I finally found it, but by then I had gone through several more channels of babbling New Yorkers. It was an odd feeling, sitting on a bed in the middle of Puerto Rico while watching mainland news.

Anytime someone asked where I was from, my reply of " Brooklyn," was met with smiles and knowing nods. I felt like I came from some sort of suburb of Puerto Rico. People who had never even been there were asking me what part of town I hailed from, more confident in New York geography than me.

It's funny because I always knew there was a large Puerto Rican population in New York, and especially in Brooklyn and the Bronx. Since my neighborhood is mostly Mexican, however, it's easy to forget this fact. My trip reminded me of how international my city really is.

I would go back to Puerto Rico in a heartbeat, and probably will sometime again in the future. Perhaps this time I'll get some good tips on Brooklyn living from the islanders, and learn things about my city that this Btown local doesn't know.

Note: Photos of my Puerto Rico trip can be found at http://community.webshots.com/user/flipinpr

(some) new york things to do.

This post is dedicated to all things NYC. If you're planning a trip here, wish you were, actually live here, or are just curious about NYC, these are things worth checking out.

Culture:
American Ballet Theatre
American Museum of Natural History
Broadway Information
Brooklyn Academy of Music
City Ballet Company
The Cloisters
Dance Theatre of Harlem
Ellis Island Museum
The Frick Collection
Lincoln Center
Metropolitan Museum of Art
Museum Of Modern Art
New York Philharmonic
Off Broadway Online
St. Patrick's Cathedral

Landmarks/Things To Do
Brooklyn Bridge
Brooklyn Botanical Gardens
Brooklyn Naval Yard
Bronx Zoo
Central Park
Central Park Zoo
Chelsea Piers
China Town
Empire State Building
Greenwood Cemetary
Little Italy
Manhattan Bridge
New York Public Library
Olympus Fashion Wek
Prospect Park
Rockefeller Center
South Street Seaport Museum
Statue of Liberty
The Strand Bookstore

Times Square
Trinity Church

Sports
New York Giants
New York Jets

characters from the subway

last exit before the underground.

a beautiful moment

this is a beautiful moment.

a beautiful moment that smells of lightly burnt rubber and whiskey piss.

a beautiful moment of standing and waiting.

on the platform.

standing and waiting.

i don't know the time.

somewhere between 1:15 to 2am, maybe.

i know i left the bar at 1:15.

but ...

no watch on my wrist.

cell phone gets no signal.

no clocks on the wall.

no definite time.

it is so late it is early.

the hour has emptied out the subway system.

there are only four other people waiting on the same platform as me.

two of them are a couple.

they hold hands and kiss and do couple things.

the other one is alone.

like me.

she has an ipod, headphones plugged in, dead expression on her face.

gives a half hearted head shake every now and then.

a passive listener.

and me,

i'm passively watching.

i look over the edge of the platform, down to the rails.

smile at the electric rail. the third one.

the infamous one.

the rail men die on.

there are rats down there.

they like these quiet hours. use them to their full advantage.

running, running, busy little rats.

sniffing at torn mcdonald's soda cups. chewing stale popcorn. ignoring candy wrappers.

you seem some interesting trash down there.

little bits of lives, strewn away.

ready and headed for the gutter.

what the rat's don't get, anyway.

i've learned that watching rats is a way to forecast when a train will arrive.

the big eyed whiskersnouts will run off the track the minute they feel a train approaching.

it's the vibrations.

the big eyed whiskersnouts feel them in their feet.

noise of

(scurryscurry)

and as they scurry away

i scurry forward,

waiting for the sleek train to come take me home.

biographical sketches on late night travelers

baby's momma

across the tracks is a woman with a baby in a stroller.

she isn't looking at it, and it isn't looking at her.

the mother has on large gold earrings.

i can see them from here.

doorknockers. literally.

(do they hurt, i wonder?)

she looks bored. tired.

unprepared to be a mom.

the couple

he is gross.

fat.

not gross because he is fat, but gross because he is acting like a swine would.

kissing his girlfriend.

fondling his girlfriend.

shaking off her shy giggles and coy acts of pulling away from him.

he sees me looking and we make eye contact for a moment.

unexpectedly.

and then he goes back to his girlfriend, only rougher this time.

they sit near me the train ride back to brooklyn.

i catch him looking at me several times and i want to say -- look at your girlfriend instead, mister --

but i don't.

because this is new york. because it's late at night. because, even though i find their actions repulsive, we're bretheren

of the late hour.

old man

he is sleeping with a newspaper over his head.

there is no clearer or more effective method of saying:

leave me alone.

drunk europeans

loud.

arrogant.

all male.

insists the american subway system is dumb because they can't figure out how it operates.

i don't bother trying to explain.

he has paint on his pants

he has a strong face. bold features.

handsome.

he looks like an old aztec god of some sort.

striking.

faintly dangerous.

his hair is graying.

a single golden wedding band on the proper hand.

crucifix on a small delicate chain around his neck.

chapped hands.

closed eyes.

empty paint splattered bucket by his feet.

wearing pants to match.

he wakes up right before his stop.

magical timing.

a very new york movie

Yesterday I watched one of the most visually arresting films I have ever seen. A true New Yorker's movie, Pi (thank you Darren Aronofsky) depicted my city brutally and beautifully -- unromanticized yet lovingly.

I'm not going to sit here and say the movie had no flaws. Because, well, it did. The storyline ended up being stretched to the point of distraction, and at times things got pretty unrealistic. But, -- and this is a big one, -- the film was truly a work of visual art. New York has never looked grittier and more human.

One of the first things that got under my skin (in the most positive way possible) was a scene centered around the New York subway system. It brought to mind every late night experience I've had underground. Eerie, enchanting, dirty. The stranger standing on a platform across the tracks, the need to be aware and alert of everything going on around you ... the fact you're standing underneath tons of earth and skyscraper, sweating and sticky sweet with the smell of fuel and burnt rubber.

(grunge.)

Another wonderful aspect of the film was how claustrophobic everything felt. Sometimes living here is like that. Too many people, too many cars, too many things going on around you. The repeated scenes with seas of foreign faces and cars made me feel like saying ... yes. It is like this. Everyday.

How neighbors interacted was another incredibly New York thing about the film. You hear things. You listen to their lives, every minute detail. You get to know them and love/loathe them. Sometimes they are friends, and sometimes they are enemies.

Ah, so New York. So, very, very New York.

And, folks, this is my entry for today.

Happy New Year.