Among all the pressure we're facing at work, I have Jury Duty with which to contend. So as of this morning, I'll be sequestered away for long hours, replete with meager, paltry compensation, lousy take-out, stilted, awkward companionship and little or no access to television, newspapers, the Internet and, worse of all, the Weekly World News.
And don't get me started on if they actually pick me for a trial ;)
Whether it's good news or bad, I'll be back tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy today's other post as a sign that New York City is still Gotham and not Disney East.
Friday, February 23, 2007
File Under: "Introducing Our New BYOB Policy"
Say it ain't so!
Multiple Choice:
a) Bring Your Own Booze
b) Bobble Yolanda's Outrageous Boobs
c) Buy Your Own Bitch
Multiple Choice:
a) Bring Your Own Booze
b) Bobble Yolanda's Outrageous Boobs
c) Buy Your Own Bitch
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Paradise (Not Quite) By The Dashboard Lights
Timing is everything. At least that's what I hear when it comes to Nascar racing, who you ultimately wind up meeting and marrying, and how my weekend eventually transpired.
Sometime after Thursday was in full swing, while I was contemplating my own weirdness and that of others, a friend got in touch with me to see whether I was planning on being around this weekend. He was the second uber-giant (read: over 6/4) friend within the span of a couple days to advise me there was a recently-announced get-together in Chinatown (NYC) and wanted to see if a) I was going; and b) if he could crash at my place.
In the ordinary course, I am usually in the loop when it comes to interstate get-togethers; then again, that's usually because I'm the one (if not one of the two) arranging the get-togethers in the first place. Neither here nor there; I told him I knew about the party but I was planning on washing my hair in its stead. In either case, I haven't (yet, perhaps) made the full-on jump back into weekly hockey, so I didn't have any problem with him crashing at my place, despite wondering whether my friend (6'6) would actually fit in my apartment in horizontal fashion. He's already hung out at my place (he's from California, so him having previously visited my place is not exactly a done deal) so he knew he'd fit on the couch, so I told him as long as he would be okay, his hanging at my place was no problem.
So he arranged to get to my place sometime Saturday morningish, which was fine with me; I had some things to handle but he's low-maintenance. I had a bottle of Diet Coke in the fridge and a high-speed net connection and that was all he really needed. That night was the party, so I did my errands out and about in NYC, he did his thing, we both got ready for our respective plans, he went to the party, I went out and did my thing, and by 4:30 Sunday morning we were both back at my place, weary but the wiser therefore.
He spent late morning Sunday at a prearranged brunch at Dock's on the east side (the site of one of Kaia's and my early dates, and, incidentally, highly recommended although a bit pricey) and I did some work before heading out to do a few more errands and to see a friend who I'd promised some face time.
By the time he got back to my place, it was late Sunday and he was due to leave on Monday afternoon, so we opted to chill a bit Monday morning before a) he got his stuff packed and himself ready to roll; and b) I got myself showered and to the office for a late but relatively reasonable President's Day workday. So we wound up chilling out and I hit the office in the early afternoon; meanwhile, he prepped himself and discovered the airline swapped out one of his flights (most likely a Jet Blue-related snafu) so he wound up staying at my place until late/early Monday night/Tuesday morning.
I had an early-ish morning appointment to address so I knew I'd be a bit late getting into the office, but while I normally prefer getting in before 9, this was the first time since November I'd gone two days in a row without being in the office before 10. It's a relative conundrum; the City agency at which I spend nearly all my out-of-office time was relocating within their building, so while there was plenty to do on my end, it was sort of like treading water waiting for a race to start. There was, is and always will be pressure on me time-wise, but the urgency wasn't quite there because there was nowhere for me to submit papers, call for verification or status of my matters, or even e-mail or fax to follow up on matters that I'd been balls-to-the-wall busy with as recently as a week ago.
On the other side of the coin, the rest of the office is in full-court press mode; we received the newest annual figures recently, and since then we as a unit have been going 110% since. Papers being printed, papers being received, papers being copied, boxes of papers to be separated, ordered, listed and organized are piling up and, for the most part, there's another month of this frenetic pressure until the middle of March. So while my immediate situation is a bit calm -- oddly so, something I'm far from used to -- everything seems to be moving full-speed ahead.
The weirdest part in all of this, especially spending as much time with my friend as I did, was that I spent very little phone time with Kaia. This morning, as I finished my appointment and headed to the office, I gave her a buzz -- despite it being a bit early for her -- just so I could hear her voice. I'm sure some scientific study could explain to me why the busy pace, the pressure and the chaos seemingly, like magic, disappears when I speak to her for the first time in awhile, but all I know is hearing her voice leveled my artificial horizon and set me back to normal, whatever that is.
The epilogue to this, of course, is my friend got back to Cali, I got to my office, and Kaia got woken up a bit earlier than she expected. But she didn't seem much to mind.
Another happy ending, at least for today.
Sometime after Thursday was in full swing, while I was contemplating my own weirdness and that of others, a friend got in touch with me to see whether I was planning on being around this weekend. He was the second uber-giant (read: over 6/4) friend within the span of a couple days to advise me there was a recently-announced get-together in Chinatown (NYC) and wanted to see if a) I was going; and b) if he could crash at my place.
In the ordinary course, I am usually in the loop when it comes to interstate get-togethers; then again, that's usually because I'm the one (if not one of the two) arranging the get-togethers in the first place. Neither here nor there; I told him I knew about the party but I was planning on washing my hair in its stead. In either case, I haven't (yet, perhaps) made the full-on jump back into weekly hockey, so I didn't have any problem with him crashing at my place, despite wondering whether my friend (6'6) would actually fit in my apartment in horizontal fashion. He's already hung out at my place (he's from California, so him having previously visited my place is not exactly a done deal) so he knew he'd fit on the couch, so I told him as long as he would be okay, his hanging at my place was no problem.
So he arranged to get to my place sometime Saturday morningish, which was fine with me; I had some things to handle but he's low-maintenance. I had a bottle of Diet Coke in the fridge and a high-speed net connection and that was all he really needed. That night was the party, so I did my errands out and about in NYC, he did his thing, we both got ready for our respective plans, he went to the party, I went out and did my thing, and by 4:30 Sunday morning we were both back at my place, weary but the wiser therefore.
He spent late morning Sunday at a prearranged brunch at Dock's on the east side (the site of one of Kaia's and my early dates, and, incidentally, highly recommended although a bit pricey) and I did some work before heading out to do a few more errands and to see a friend who I'd promised some face time.
By the time he got back to my place, it was late Sunday and he was due to leave on Monday afternoon, so we opted to chill a bit Monday morning before a) he got his stuff packed and himself ready to roll; and b) I got myself showered and to the office for a late but relatively reasonable President's Day workday. So we wound up chilling out and I hit the office in the early afternoon; meanwhile, he prepped himself and discovered the airline swapped out one of his flights (most likely a Jet Blue-related snafu) so he wound up staying at my place until late/early Monday night/Tuesday morning.
I had an early-ish morning appointment to address so I knew I'd be a bit late getting into the office, but while I normally prefer getting in before 9, this was the first time since November I'd gone two days in a row without being in the office before 10. It's a relative conundrum; the City agency at which I spend nearly all my out-of-office time was relocating within their building, so while there was plenty to do on my end, it was sort of like treading water waiting for a race to start. There was, is and always will be pressure on me time-wise, but the urgency wasn't quite there because there was nowhere for me to submit papers, call for verification or status of my matters, or even e-mail or fax to follow up on matters that I'd been balls-to-the-wall busy with as recently as a week ago.
On the other side of the coin, the rest of the office is in full-court press mode; we received the newest annual figures recently, and since then we as a unit have been going 110% since. Papers being printed, papers being received, papers being copied, boxes of papers to be separated, ordered, listed and organized are piling up and, for the most part, there's another month of this frenetic pressure until the middle of March. So while my immediate situation is a bit calm -- oddly so, something I'm far from used to -- everything seems to be moving full-speed ahead.
The weirdest part in all of this, especially spending as much time with my friend as I did, was that I spent very little phone time with Kaia. This morning, as I finished my appointment and headed to the office, I gave her a buzz -- despite it being a bit early for her -- just so I could hear her voice. I'm sure some scientific study could explain to me why the busy pace, the pressure and the chaos seemingly, like magic, disappears when I speak to her for the first time in awhile, but all I know is hearing her voice leveled my artificial horizon and set me back to normal, whatever that is.
The epilogue to this, of course, is my friend got back to Cali, I got to my office, and Kaia got woken up a bit earlier than she expected. But she didn't seem much to mind.
Another happy ending, at least for today.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Weirdness Must End
Alas, in a genuine tribute to Madame Trouble, I've been racking my brain to come up with a five-spot of what makes me weirder than most people actually reading this post. Judging by the scattered smattering of readership the HoB has amassed, I'd say that's a pretty tall order; and yet, by all accounts, I'm sure if I dig deep enough I can come up with nary a half-dozen. So I'm going to try -- and I'm also going to point out what I find weird about other people. So pfffffffffffft.
First, I've officially switched teams. No, I'm not gay -- I mean that when I was a wee lad, I loved playing baseball and tennis; and I derived endless distraction while being solely focused on football and hockey on TV. Now that I've gotten my pubes, I'd have to say that I almost always watch baseball and tennis when it's on TV, but my preference is to play football and hockey. As for basketball, I used to love it (both playing and watching) as a kid, and now I can't be bothered to do either. So...um...that might be a weird thing.
Second, I've got enough music occupying my apartment -- on CD, LP, hard drive, mp3, iPod, and now in FLAC -- to listen to songs for the next twelve years without repeating the same song twice. So why is it that, more and more, the only time I spend actually listening to music per se is when I'm commuting (via iPod) or in a lounge and just kicking back? I've gotten my PC setup so organized that it downloads stuff while I'm not around -- thank you, BitTorrent -- and yet I spend more time downloading and fussing over music than actually listening to it. The one caveat, of course, is that I spend more time these days with a guitar in my lap, a pick in my mouth and a blinking cursor at the ready in case I want to jot down some chord progressions, lyrics and/or a list of stuff I need to buy at Duane Reade tomorrow.
Third, based on my typical commute a decade ago, I would spend approximately three hours in a moving vehicle heading into or out of Manhattan en route to my apartment. Now, I spend about forty-five minutes -- albeit in a bus -- en route to the office or my apartment. I stopped racing when I got rid of my Audi, so I essentially went from spending my entire commute and a good chunk of my weekends driving to not driving at all. Ever. This is the longest stretch of being a non-driver (ie an owner/operator of my own car/Jeep) that I've ever endured. And while I love driving -- racing, especially (although the way I do the former it's pretty much the latter anyway) -- I don't really miss not having to bother with a car in NYC.
Weird. Sort of.
Fourth, I put garlic in my eggs.
Before anyone gags and subsequently damages his/her LCD display, I've known people to put some repulsive things in/on other foods. There are shitloads of people who flavor their cooked scrambled eggs/omelettes with ketchup; almost all of Europe eats french fries with mayonnaise. And the Irish regularly consume something called black and white pudding, which, in actuality, is code for "herb-tinged asshole." If you've ever tasted black and white pudding -- especially anywhere in the United Kingdom -- you will no doubt be in an excellent position to confirm this.
So me lopping a sliced-up clove of garlic amongst a three-some of Grade A Jumbo's right before they are crepe-i-fied and subsequently omelette-o-fied isn't as bad as it sounds. In fact, I think people who just douse their omelettes with a dab of cheese -- American, cheddar and Swiss for the librarians and the agoraphobes in the house -- are missing the point. Eggs are the unifier of all types of different cuisines, even if you have no idea you're consuming eggs. The fact is lots of savory items go really well with eggs: herbs like thyme, rosemary, garlic and chives; country sausage; sweet/roasted peppers; curry and/or tabasco (just a dash of either); salmon (with a hint of dill); and the ever-popular onion.
I apologize if I've inspired hunger in anyone visiting here; it's just that I've never encountered anyone who consciously admitted to using garlic when preparing eggs for breakfast, and I've always wondered why. If that makes me weird, well by gum, than I'm weird, loud and proud.
Finally, in the five-hole, I survived a plane hijacking.
Yep, you read right.
'Twas a flight from the Virgin Islands -- a two-part connector, the first in the late afternoon and the second in the early evening on a New Years Eve back in the 1980's -- when my family and I boarded a flight back to NYC. After about four or so hours in the air, about an hour out of New York, the captain announced that a gentleman -- a Mr. Ali -- wished to go to Havana, Cuba, and the plane was now en route thereto.
I was still in high school at the time -- in fact, my sister and I were both high school students at the time -- and we were sitting next to one another in the front bulkhead while my parents were across the aisle to our immediate right. Once this announcement hit the speakers, and the entire plane realized this was not a joke, most everyone dispensed -- quickly -- of all their jewelry, especially anything that identified them as jewish. This was right after a TWA jet had been hijacked by some Muslim extremists (as if a nice elderly presbyterian couple would hijack a jet to Chaos Central) and stayed on the ground for around 50 days in Beirut, and when we heard we were going to Cuba, we were sort of puzzled. Apparently, Mr. Ali, the lone hijacker, hadn't heard -- while he was in prison -- that Carter signed an extradition treaty with The Land of Fidel that no longer granted hijackers asylum if they landed a hijacked plane in Cuba. So after a relatively bizarre hour and change in the air -- during which we were first advised to keep our hands in the air, then on the seats in front of us (for us bulkhead passengers, this was a conundrum) and then in our laps -- we began our approach to Cuba.
...On fumes, the pilot observed over the complimentary headphones -- as Mr. Ali, a skinny asswipe who remarkably resembled the late Gregory Hines shimmied from the rear of the plane toward the cockpit with a stewardess in front of him and a .38 special service revolvers in each of his hands -- and when we landed (roughly, and quite certainly the least hospitable landing I've ever experienced as a passenger), we were ringed on the runway, on each side of the plane, with as many emergency vehicles -- lights, sirens, strobes, etc. -- that were viably mobile in the state of Cuba. The plane ground to a halt, and after about ten minutes, Cuban MP's (they were wearing armbands, Smartypants) with Uzis boarded the plane and asked us "Que Pasa?" Rather than rack our brains ("How the fuck do you say cockpit in Spanish?"), we pointed in the direction of the cockpit, so they went and removed from the plane their newest temporary citizen, and that was it. We were escorted off the plane -- reluctantly, we agreed to temporarily leave so they could check for explosives and refuel us -- and since I was still a yoot, I opted to partake of cheeseburgers and ice cream rather than the rapacious cleavage and the promise of free cigars, both of which were ample for us gringos.
Ahh, to be young and stupid.
In either case, the weirdness wasn't being a passenger in a hijacking. What's weird about the story is that I asked permission -- which was granted by Mr. Ali -- to take a leak mid-hijacking. I'm proud to say that everything came out okay that day.
Maybe it's weird that I'll never return to the Virgin Islands ever again. But I think the real weirdness was my unwillingness to hold it in until we were there. Perhaps if I had continually pestered Mr. Ali with a whiny, nasal "Are we there yet?" every thirty seconds, things might have turned out differently -- for better or worse. Or maybe it's just weird that I have a quasi-flashback every time I hit the airplane bathroom.
Is that weird? ;)
First, I've officially switched teams. No, I'm not gay -- I mean that when I was a wee lad, I loved playing baseball and tennis; and I derived endless distraction while being solely focused on football and hockey on TV. Now that I've gotten my pubes, I'd have to say that I almost always watch baseball and tennis when it's on TV, but my preference is to play football and hockey. As for basketball, I used to love it (both playing and watching) as a kid, and now I can't be bothered to do either. So...um...that might be a weird thing.
Second, I've got enough music occupying my apartment -- on CD, LP, hard drive, mp3, iPod, and now in FLAC -- to listen to songs for the next twelve years without repeating the same song twice. So why is it that, more and more, the only time I spend actually listening to music per se is when I'm commuting (via iPod) or in a lounge and just kicking back? I've gotten my PC setup so organized that it downloads stuff while I'm not around -- thank you, BitTorrent -- and yet I spend more time downloading and fussing over music than actually listening to it. The one caveat, of course, is that I spend more time these days with a guitar in my lap, a pick in my mouth and a blinking cursor at the ready in case I want to jot down some chord progressions, lyrics and/or a list of stuff I need to buy at Duane Reade tomorrow.
Third, based on my typical commute a decade ago, I would spend approximately three hours in a moving vehicle heading into or out of Manhattan en route to my apartment. Now, I spend about forty-five minutes -- albeit in a bus -- en route to the office or my apartment. I stopped racing when I got rid of my Audi, so I essentially went from spending my entire commute and a good chunk of my weekends driving to not driving at all. Ever. This is the longest stretch of being a non-driver (ie an owner/operator of my own car/Jeep) that I've ever endured. And while I love driving -- racing, especially (although the way I do the former it's pretty much the latter anyway) -- I don't really miss not having to bother with a car in NYC.
Weird. Sort of.
Fourth, I put garlic in my eggs.
Before anyone gags and subsequently damages his/her LCD display, I've known people to put some repulsive things in/on other foods. There are shitloads of people who flavor their cooked scrambled eggs/omelettes with ketchup; almost all of Europe eats french fries with mayonnaise. And the Irish regularly consume something called black and white pudding, which, in actuality, is code for "herb-tinged asshole." If you've ever tasted black and white pudding -- especially anywhere in the United Kingdom -- you will no doubt be in an excellent position to confirm this.
So me lopping a sliced-up clove of garlic amongst a three-some of Grade A Jumbo's right before they are crepe-i-fied and subsequently omelette-o-fied isn't as bad as it sounds. In fact, I think people who just douse their omelettes with a dab of cheese -- American, cheddar and Swiss for the librarians and the agoraphobes in the house -- are missing the point. Eggs are the unifier of all types of different cuisines, even if you have no idea you're consuming eggs. The fact is lots of savory items go really well with eggs: herbs like thyme, rosemary, garlic and chives; country sausage; sweet/roasted peppers; curry and/or tabasco (just a dash of either); salmon (with a hint of dill); and the ever-popular onion.
I apologize if I've inspired hunger in anyone visiting here; it's just that I've never encountered anyone who consciously admitted to using garlic when preparing eggs for breakfast, and I've always wondered why. If that makes me weird, well by gum, than I'm weird, loud and proud.
Finally, in the five-hole, I survived a plane hijacking.
Yep, you read right.
'Twas a flight from the Virgin Islands -- a two-part connector, the first in the late afternoon and the second in the early evening on a New Years Eve back in the 1980's -- when my family and I boarded a flight back to NYC. After about four or so hours in the air, about an hour out of New York, the captain announced that a gentleman -- a Mr. Ali -- wished to go to Havana, Cuba, and the plane was now en route thereto.
I was still in high school at the time -- in fact, my sister and I were both high school students at the time -- and we were sitting next to one another in the front bulkhead while my parents were across the aisle to our immediate right. Once this announcement hit the speakers, and the entire plane realized this was not a joke, most everyone dispensed -- quickly -- of all their jewelry, especially anything that identified them as jewish. This was right after a TWA jet had been hijacked by some Muslim extremists (as if a nice elderly presbyterian couple would hijack a jet to Chaos Central) and stayed on the ground for around 50 days in Beirut, and when we heard we were going to Cuba, we were sort of puzzled. Apparently, Mr. Ali, the lone hijacker, hadn't heard -- while he was in prison -- that Carter signed an extradition treaty with The Land of Fidel that no longer granted hijackers asylum if they landed a hijacked plane in Cuba. So after a relatively bizarre hour and change in the air -- during which we were first advised to keep our hands in the air, then on the seats in front of us (for us bulkhead passengers, this was a conundrum) and then in our laps -- we began our approach to Cuba.
...On fumes, the pilot observed over the complimentary headphones -- as Mr. Ali, a skinny asswipe who remarkably resembled the late Gregory Hines shimmied from the rear of the plane toward the cockpit with a stewardess in front of him and a .38 special service revolvers in each of his hands -- and when we landed (roughly, and quite certainly the least hospitable landing I've ever experienced as a passenger), we were ringed on the runway, on each side of the plane, with as many emergency vehicles -- lights, sirens, strobes, etc. -- that were viably mobile in the state of Cuba. The plane ground to a halt, and after about ten minutes, Cuban MP's (they were wearing armbands, Smartypants) with Uzis boarded the plane and asked us "Que Pasa?" Rather than rack our brains ("How the fuck do you say cockpit in Spanish?"), we pointed in the direction of the cockpit, so they went and removed from the plane their newest temporary citizen, and that was it. We were escorted off the plane -- reluctantly, we agreed to temporarily leave so they could check for explosives and refuel us -- and since I was still a yoot, I opted to partake of cheeseburgers and ice cream rather than the rapacious cleavage and the promise of free cigars, both of which were ample for us gringos.
Ahh, to be young and stupid.
In either case, the weirdness wasn't being a passenger in a hijacking. What's weird about the story is that I asked permission -- which was granted by Mr. Ali -- to take a leak mid-hijacking. I'm proud to say that everything came out okay that day.
Maybe it's weird that I'll never return to the Virgin Islands ever again. But I think the real weirdness was my unwillingness to hold it in until we were there. Perhaps if I had continually pestered Mr. Ali with a whiny, nasal "Are we there yet?" every thirty seconds, things might have turned out differently -- for better or worse. Or maybe it's just weird that I have a quasi-flashback every time I hit the airplane bathroom.
Is that weird? ;)
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Warm & Fuzzy Amid The Winter Gloom
Despite the warnings that winter, in the form of a Nor'easter, was to yet again rear its ugly head today, the only thing that reminded us winter is here today was the windy chill sweeping through midtown.
So tonight, despite the warnings that the storm was incoming, and confirmation from a friend stuck in a storm in DC (presumably the same one that is visiting NYC sometime soon), I was busy cleaning dishes in the kitchen when I looked up and was surprised to see the snow.
Almost hypnotic in its semi-random, semi-patterned drift, I popped the back window to take an unfettered peek at the flakes as they made crunching sounds as they landed. Within minutes my back windows went from ventilation to a gateway to my back courtyard, which, when it snows, embodies a private winter wonderland, replete with foliage, sodium gas streetlights and little else.
Once my hypnotized gaze had its fill, I answered a ringing phone -- Kaia on the other line, on her way from work to a meeting. I told her what was happening and she & I quickly reminisced about New Year's Eve 2005 (not this past, but the one before) in which we woke up to a surprise snowfall. Between that and tomorrow being Valentine's Day, we dispensed with the normally-expressed mutual sentiments about how shitty it is we won't be seeing each other until mid-March and continued on with our conversation.
I also let her know -- after a bit of prodding from her -- that I came home to a large box from her, and apologized for not getting her anything this year. Of course, tomorrow, when 1-800-Flowers arrives with goodies (and flowers -- duh!) for her, she'll knowingly laugh. She knows me too well to think -- even for a second -- that I would gloss over a chance for me to tell her how much I love her. As much as she loves getting flowers -- and I enjoy getting them for her -- I think we'd both prefer to spend the holiday together. But while our feelings for each other have only deepened with time, I think we both know that until she's here full-time, calendar holidays are secondary for the most part. For us, holidays are days which allow us to wake up late together, order in or prep breakfast together, spend time with each other, and then going out in the afternoon or evening just because.
In other words, Valentine's Day -- at least over the last several years -- has been a bit difficult. After spending a few miserable Valentine's Day holidays with The Freak, I've actually found myself in a place where every day with Kaia is good, even after all this time (like 27 months is so long). The irony is somewhat jarring -- after having spent Valentine's Day with The Freak, so fucked up that she pouted when the lavender roses I got her were the wrong color, I figured I would always have some deep-seated repulsion to this holiday. And yet, despite my other half being on the opposite coast, I'm still looking forward to tomorrow, as much -- if not moreso -- than I looked forward to yesterday or today. It's just that I'm looking forward to her making her way back to New York, or me heading out to San Fran -- more than the day the calendar dictates we celebrate our feelings for each other. So until she's a permanent fixture in NYC, we'll just reschedule it -- so in theory I shouldn't be looking forward to the day at all.
I guess that it's the promise -- of seeing her soon, of knowing where we are and where we're going, and where we've both been -- that sometime soon, everything will be back to normal and we'll go forward. And before that, knowing she's out there and we found each other and that next year I'll be able to wake her up on Valentine's Day by rubbing her shoulders rather than dialing her number.
I like Valentine's Day, no matter where it happens to fall on the calendar.
So tonight, despite the warnings that the storm was incoming, and confirmation from a friend stuck in a storm in DC (presumably the same one that is visiting NYC sometime soon), I was busy cleaning dishes in the kitchen when I looked up and was surprised to see the snow.
Almost hypnotic in its semi-random, semi-patterned drift, I popped the back window to take an unfettered peek at the flakes as they made crunching sounds as they landed. Within minutes my back windows went from ventilation to a gateway to my back courtyard, which, when it snows, embodies a private winter wonderland, replete with foliage, sodium gas streetlights and little else.
Once my hypnotized gaze had its fill, I answered a ringing phone -- Kaia on the other line, on her way from work to a meeting. I told her what was happening and she & I quickly reminisced about New Year's Eve 2005 (not this past, but the one before) in which we woke up to a surprise snowfall. Between that and tomorrow being Valentine's Day, we dispensed with the normally-expressed mutual sentiments about how shitty it is we won't be seeing each other until mid-March and continued on with our conversation.
I also let her know -- after a bit of prodding from her -- that I came home to a large box from her, and apologized for not getting her anything this year. Of course, tomorrow, when 1-800-Flowers arrives with goodies (and flowers -- duh!) for her, she'll knowingly laugh. She knows me too well to think -- even for a second -- that I would gloss over a chance for me to tell her how much I love her. As much as she loves getting flowers -- and I enjoy getting them for her -- I think we'd both prefer to spend the holiday together. But while our feelings for each other have only deepened with time, I think we both know that until she's here full-time, calendar holidays are secondary for the most part. For us, holidays are days which allow us to wake up late together, order in or prep breakfast together, spend time with each other, and then going out in the afternoon or evening just because.
In other words, Valentine's Day -- at least over the last several years -- has been a bit difficult. After spending a few miserable Valentine's Day holidays with The Freak, I've actually found myself in a place where every day with Kaia is good, even after all this time (like 27 months is so long). The irony is somewhat jarring -- after having spent Valentine's Day with The Freak, so fucked up that she pouted when the lavender roses I got her were the wrong color, I figured I would always have some deep-seated repulsion to this holiday. And yet, despite my other half being on the opposite coast, I'm still looking forward to tomorrow, as much -- if not moreso -- than I looked forward to yesterday or today. It's just that I'm looking forward to her making her way back to New York, or me heading out to San Fran -- more than the day the calendar dictates we celebrate our feelings for each other. So until she's a permanent fixture in NYC, we'll just reschedule it -- so in theory I shouldn't be looking forward to the day at all.
I guess that it's the promise -- of seeing her soon, of knowing where we are and where we're going, and where we've both been -- that sometime soon, everything will be back to normal and we'll go forward. And before that, knowing she's out there and we found each other and that next year I'll be able to wake her up on Valentine's Day by rubbing her shoulders rather than dialing her number.
I like Valentine's Day, no matter where it happens to fall on the calendar.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Grammy Over/Under
The Short/Long:
The High Point: Hearing Sting shout "We're The Police and we're back!"
The Low Point: Watching Al (aka Husband of Tipper/PMRC) Gore, co-present with Queen Latifah, the Grammy for Best Rock Album (The Red Hot Chili Peppers/Stadium Arcadium).
The Medium Version: I would have preferred to see The Police perform for the next three hours than pretty much anything that followed their performance of "Roxanne."
The Long Version: Who caught the irony of Al Gore co-presenting an award commemorating a rock album to a band that early in their career frequently took the stage (and album covers) naked? Perhaps if Mr. Tipper had a clue, he might have opted out, but what's more important -- his message and his public persona, or the principles and the stick-up-his-ass stiffness that truly personifies him?
I'm not questioning Al Gore as a guy; I think, like John Kerry and even His Royal Stupidness, George W. Bush, Gore is a good man. However, the irony -- to me, at least -- was not only palpable, but almost comical.
What would have been even more delicious, at least for me, was if Ludicris received an award presented by Gore and his response to Mr. Tipper was "Thanks, motherfucker, you the tits."
Oh well...there's always next year.
The Outro:
Sign The Apocalypse is Upon Us: Scarlett Johansson is recording an album.
Sign The Apocalypse Might Not Be So Close: Rick Rubin is finally getting his well-overdue props. Rick, despite the fact you helped birth the Dixie Chicks' most recently-released Grammy fest, I'll forgive you. Seriously, bro...aside from the facial appearance, you're the tits. Keep up the good work. And shave, babe.
The High Point: Hearing Sting shout "We're The Police and we're back!"
The Low Point: Watching Al (aka Husband of Tipper/PMRC) Gore, co-present with Queen Latifah, the Grammy for Best Rock Album (The Red Hot Chili Peppers/Stadium Arcadium).
The Medium Version: I would have preferred to see The Police perform for the next three hours than pretty much anything that followed their performance of "Roxanne."
The Long Version: Who caught the irony of Al Gore co-presenting an award commemorating a rock album to a band that early in their career frequently took the stage (and album covers) naked? Perhaps if Mr. Tipper had a clue, he might have opted out, but what's more important -- his message and his public persona, or the principles and the stick-up-his-ass stiffness that truly personifies him?
I'm not questioning Al Gore as a guy; I think, like John Kerry and even His Royal Stupidness, George W. Bush, Gore is a good man. However, the irony -- to me, at least -- was not only palpable, but almost comical.
What would have been even more delicious, at least for me, was if Ludicris received an award presented by Gore and his response to Mr. Tipper was "Thanks, motherfucker, you the tits."
Oh well...there's always next year.
The Outro:
Sign The Apocalypse is Upon Us: Scarlett Johansson is recording an album.
Sign The Apocalypse Might Not Be So Close: Rick Rubin is finally getting his well-overdue props. Rick, despite the fact you helped birth the Dixie Chicks' most recently-released Grammy fest, I'll forgive you. Seriously, bro...aside from the facial appearance, you're the tits. Keep up the good work. And shave, babe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
