Went to wrong airport.
Scrutinized at security.
Flight delayed.
Missed connection.
Left package with gifts in overhead.
Waited 30+ minutes on hold to talk to Delta's lost & found. They will call me if they find it.
Everyone tells me it could have been worse.
It's good to be here, nevertheless
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Holiday Humbug Harumph
Via email, from me to my mother:
Would you prefer something that smelled like Lavender or Lemon & Coriander?
Her reply:
No
My reply:
What do you mean no? That wasn't an option. It either or b.
She wrote back:
Still no
Would you prefer something that smelled like Lavender or Lemon & Coriander?
Her reply:
No
My reply:
What do you mean no? That wasn't an option. It either or b.
She wrote back:
Still no
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
It's Nice to Be Noticed
craigslist.org >> Missed Connections >> M4M
Date: 2008-11-30, 3:19PM EST
i was leaving the gym as you were headed in (about 2pm)
you: taller than i am, dark hair, red Coney Island tee shirt. possibly the hottest guy i have ever seen me: 5'11, dark brown hair, brown jacket, rushing out the door
if there is a chance your the type of person that reads these things any of it sounds familiar shoot me an email.
Date: 2008-11-30, 3:19PM EST
i was leaving the gym as you were headed in (about 2pm)
you: taller than i am, dark hair, red Coney Island tee shirt. possibly the hottest guy i have ever seen me: 5'11, dark brown hair, brown jacket, rushing out the door
if there is a chance your the type of person that reads these things any of it sounds familiar shoot me an email.
* * * * *
I am the type of person who reads these things.
That Saturday I had worn my "I Survived the Coney Island Cyclone" T-shirt that I had slept in the night before. A constellation of red splotches formed a mini-dipper across the right side of my face. (The effort to pop some pimples had left me worse off.) My hair looked good. I had gone to bed with Khiel's Drawing Paste on my forehead and the residue that got into my hair and made it look thicker.
When I shared the posting with my husband Mark, I pointed out that I am "possibly the hottest guy (this guy had) ever seen."
"I know that already. Why do you think I married you?"
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Overheard at the Rally Against H8
If it had rained, we might have skipped it. But by the time I got to my friend Clive's apartment, he had to agree: "The weather is too agreeable not to protest."
So we took 1 train down to City Hall and joined the Protest Against Proposition 8. Whiteknot.org organized several thousand gays around the country to simultaneously to protest the hangover after the revitalizing victory of Barack Obama.
We emerged from the subway, disoriented by police barricades. Volunteers instantly rescued us: "Walk ahead four blocks and cross."
"Thank you," I replied. I turned to Clive,"This is all post-Obama. In a week, they managed all this with protesters and volunteers and all by using Facebook."
We meandered our way across the street and into the crowd as people shouted into bullhorns indecipherable objections and waves of cheers swept along the crowd like a random wave. The police had siphoned us into a sliver of the sidewalk. Somewhere there was a focal point with speakers but we could neither make out their words or see them whatsoever.
We stopped and let the crowd parade by us.
Two young men stopped in front of us, happy to have found each other. (This scene would replay itself over-and-over with different casts for the next hour.)
"Oh my god," said one young gay to the other. "High School Musical 3. You. Are. Going. To. Love it!"
"Seriously?!"
"Totally! It's the best of the series."
"Thank god."
Clive laced his arm through mine and smiled.
He let go and took out his camera, trying to capture the homemade signs. It's one of the major bonuses of a gay protest, particularly in New York. There were the obvious "No H8" or "Separate is Not Equal." But better than that were the "Always a Bridesmaid, never a bride (by law)" and "Gay is the New Black" and "Hate Makes Baby Jesus Cry."
I hadn't gone to a protest since the RNC appropriated New York for their convention. The last time I volunteered for a presidential candidate, it was for Michael Dukakis, but I somehow ended up Richmond performing menial work for the candidate Obama.
I'm not dedicated or reliable when it comes to activism, but the ground has shifted and there is an opportunity for change. The rain had stopped that afternoon, clearing the way for our tenuous resolve.
So we took 1 train down to City Hall and joined the Protest Against Proposition 8. Whiteknot.org organized several thousand gays around the country to simultaneously to protest the hangover after the revitalizing victory of Barack Obama.
We emerged from the subway, disoriented by police barricades. Volunteers instantly rescued us: "Walk ahead four blocks and cross."
"Thank you," I replied. I turned to Clive,"This is all post-Obama. In a week, they managed all this with protesters and volunteers and all by using Facebook."
We meandered our way across the street and into the crowd as people shouted into bullhorns indecipherable objections and waves of cheers swept along the crowd like a random wave. The police had siphoned us into a sliver of the sidewalk. Somewhere there was a focal point with speakers but we could neither make out their words or see them whatsoever.
We stopped and let the crowd parade by us.
Two young men stopped in front of us, happy to have found each other. (This scene would replay itself over-and-over with different casts for the next hour.)
"Oh my god," said one young gay to the other. "High School Musical 3. You. Are. Going. To. Love it!"
"Seriously?!"
"Totally! It's the best of the series."
"Thank god."
Clive laced his arm through mine and smiled.
He let go and took out his camera, trying to capture the homemade signs. It's one of the major bonuses of a gay protest, particularly in New York. There were the obvious "No H8" or "Separate is Not Equal." But better than that were the "Always a Bridesmaid, never a bride (by law)" and "Gay is the New Black" and "Hate Makes Baby Jesus Cry."
I hadn't gone to a protest since the RNC appropriated New York for their convention. The last time I volunteered for a presidential candidate, it was for Michael Dukakis, but I somehow ended up Richmond performing menial work for the candidate Obama.
I'm not dedicated or reliable when it comes to activism, but the ground has shifted and there is an opportunity for change. The rain had stopped that afternoon, clearing the way for our tenuous resolve.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
An Ark without a Sail (Moscow, August 1998)
The Moscow River passed before me so still and dark that it almost appeared motionless, as it stretched out in either direction. The office building was so close to the water edge that, looking out from a conference room window, I easily fell into the illusion that it was floating on top of its filthy waters.
Every time I looked out at the river, even for a moment, it lulled me into an inertia that felt particularly Russian. Perhaps it was the way the water darkly reflected the late-summer’s perpetual twilight. It anestitized the mind and imagination. The sun would not set till at least ten o’clock tonight, which made the day seem unending.
My work day had finished. From that conference room, I taught Russian attorneys and their secretaries, who worked for an American law firm, how to use Microsoft Word and email. I had come to Moscow three weeks before – in late July, after working my way through the Firm’s offices in Singapore and then Istanbul. It was my eighth month abroad.
I knew the curriculum by heart, and also every potential question my “students” would ask and my responses to them. That left lots of space in my mind to contemplate where to eat dinner, or what sights to see at the weekend, or to stare out the window.
On the opposite, and almost distant-seeming, shore I could see a Russian Orthodox church topped with baby-blue onion domes flanked by rows and rows of plain cement Soviet-style housing blocks. To me, this represented the tension of modern Russia, as a beautiful imperial-style church tried to coexist with those ugly relicts of Soviet utility.
Year before I had become fascinated Russia’s constant aching turmoil, to its almost absurdly poetic struggle. This attraction led me to study its history and language throughout high school, and then college. So to live and work in Russia, even for just four weeks, fulfilled a latent wish of mine.
Still I felt burned out, tired of computers and training, so bored repeating the same lessons every day, so I keep looking out the window at the Moscow River and writing email.
My friend and co-trainer Karen sat in the conference room adjacent to mine. I sent her an email:
“I am drowning in the Moscow River.
Are you ready to leave?”
Every time I looked out at the river, even for a moment, it lulled me into an inertia that felt particularly Russian. Perhaps it was the way the water darkly reflected the late-summer’s perpetual twilight. It anestitized the mind and imagination. The sun would not set till at least ten o’clock tonight, which made the day seem unending.
My work day had finished. From that conference room, I taught Russian attorneys and their secretaries, who worked for an American law firm, how to use Microsoft Word and email. I had come to Moscow three weeks before – in late July, after working my way through the Firm’s offices in Singapore and then Istanbul. It was my eighth month abroad.
I knew the curriculum by heart, and also every potential question my “students” would ask and my responses to them. That left lots of space in my mind to contemplate where to eat dinner, or what sights to see at the weekend, or to stare out the window.
On the opposite, and almost distant-seeming, shore I could see a Russian Orthodox church topped with baby-blue onion domes flanked by rows and rows of plain cement Soviet-style housing blocks. To me, this represented the tension of modern Russia, as a beautiful imperial-style church tried to coexist with those ugly relicts of Soviet utility.
Year before I had become fascinated Russia’s constant aching turmoil, to its almost absurdly poetic struggle. This attraction led me to study its history and language throughout high school, and then college. So to live and work in Russia, even for just four weeks, fulfilled a latent wish of mine.
Still I felt burned out, tired of computers and training, so bored repeating the same lessons every day, so I keep looking out the window at the Moscow River and writing email.
My friend and co-trainer Karen sat in the conference room adjacent to mine. I sent her an email:
“I am drowning in the Moscow River.
Are you ready to leave?”
(To read the rest, click here.)
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Staycation - Oct 6-10, 2008
This week I...
...went to Housing Works twice,
saw "The Duchess,"
went to the gym five times,
shopped at Sahadi's twice,
stocked up at Costco,
waited for FedEx to deliver thirty pounds of ground chicken,
waited for the contractor to examine the water damaged ceiling,
fasted while watching Exodus,
shook visibly while watching "An American Crime" and couldn't lose a feeling of dread the rest of the day,
fast-forwarded through Lifetime's Coco Chanel telefilm so I could watch Shirley MacLaine's parts,
cleaned out the cedar chest and took it to transported it to my brother-in-law's apartment in East Williamsburg,
finished digitizing the LP "Gone With the Wind modestly sung and played by the creator of its words and music Harold Rome" - bought via eBay,
digitized another eBay win - the LP "Gigi - Songs from the Motion Picture" as sung my Tony Martin and Gogi Grant,
went with Mark to buy his coveted iPhone (and lost him to it for the week),
had drinks with my friend Andy (at Musical Mondays at Splash) after not seeing him for almost two years,
helped my friend Evan celebrate his 40th birthday at his champagne party,
and said goodbye to [title of show] at it's third to last performance.
At the end of this week there were still stacks of books unread, a DVR full of movies captured from TCM, and many movies missed that I had intended to see.
My parents tell me they will never retire because "what would we do all day?"
...went to Housing Works twice,
saw "The Duchess,"
went to the gym five times,
shopped at Sahadi's twice,
stocked up at Costco,
waited for FedEx to deliver thirty pounds of ground chicken,
waited for the contractor to examine the water damaged ceiling,
fasted while watching Exodus,
shook visibly while watching "An American Crime" and couldn't lose a feeling of dread the rest of the day,
fast-forwarded through Lifetime's Coco Chanel telefilm so I could watch Shirley MacLaine's parts,
cleaned out the cedar chest and took it to transported it to my brother-in-law's apartment in East Williamsburg,
finished digitizing the LP "Gone With the Wind modestly sung and played by the creator of its words and music Harold Rome" - bought via eBay,
digitized another eBay win - the LP "Gigi - Songs from the Motion Picture" as sung my Tony Martin and Gogi Grant,
went with Mark to buy his coveted iPhone (and lost him to it for the week),
had drinks with my friend Andy (at Musical Mondays at Splash) after not seeing him for almost two years,
helped my friend Evan celebrate his 40th birthday at his champagne party,
and said goodbye to [title of show] at it's third to last performance.
At the end of this week there were still stacks of books unread, a DVR full of movies captured from TCM, and many movies missed that I had intended to see.
My parents tell me they will never retire because "what would we do all day?"
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Reconstruction (Warsaw: Late Winter/Early Spring 1997)
Krzysztof sat next to me in the waiting area of the Okęcie International Airport. We had said almost nothing to each other all morning and well into the early afternoon. His English was as good as my Polish. That might have been frustrating except that we hadn’t been saying much to each other for almost two months.
The terminal had morphed into a purgatory after the first two or three hours of aimless waiting. My flight back to New York had been delayed by a spontaneous luggage handlers' strike.
Well, that’s Solidarity for you, I thought.
From the airport public address system, I heard “Nowe Jork.” Krzysztof tilted his head towards the broadcast in an expression that was both hyper alert and furiously concentrated. I looked at him, searching his reaction for good news. His face became apologetic, and that told me that my status had not changed. I offered a small smile to thank him for the effort.
I'd met Krzysztof at the Kozla Pub. I picked him out of the crowd because he looked like someone else, someone I was missing very much.
It had been the 1st of March, my third week in Warsaw. I was a young man, 27 years old, outside the USA for the first time in my life. The Kozla, unmarked except for a single lantern above the door, nestled into a row of 18th century looking, brick artisan houses in the Stare Miasto, or the “Old Town.” It was a misnomer to call the town "old," as it had been rebuilt from the rubble that was Warsaw at the end of World War II. The Poles used whatever money they could raise to make it as an exact replica of itself, as it once had been. Unlike the rest of the city, it presented an old European, fairy tale charm. Every cobble stone on the very dark and quiet street was a reproduction.
The door to Kozla opened into a shocking orange foyer followed by a curved staircase down into the basement. Handsome men squeezed up and out while others replaced them below. The “Grease Megamix” played loudly as I walked down the stairs and through the flirting crowd to the bar.
That was when I saw a ghost. Or I thought I so. Almost as a reflex, I reached out and grabbed onto his forearm.
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
The terminal had morphed into a purgatory after the first two or three hours of aimless waiting. My flight back to New York had been delayed by a spontaneous luggage handlers' strike.
Well, that’s Solidarity for you, I thought.
From the airport public address system, I heard “Nowe Jork.” Krzysztof tilted his head towards the broadcast in an expression that was both hyper alert and furiously concentrated. I looked at him, searching his reaction for good news. His face became apologetic, and that told me that my status had not changed. I offered a small smile to thank him for the effort.
I'd met Krzysztof at the Kozla Pub. I picked him out of the crowd because he looked like someone else, someone I was missing very much.
It had been the 1st of March, my third week in Warsaw. I was a young man, 27 years old, outside the USA for the first time in my life. The Kozla, unmarked except for a single lantern above the door, nestled into a row of 18th century looking, brick artisan houses in the Stare Miasto, or the “Old Town.” It was a misnomer to call the town "old," as it had been rebuilt from the rubble that was Warsaw at the end of World War II. The Poles used whatever money they could raise to make it as an exact replica of itself, as it once had been. Unlike the rest of the city, it presented an old European, fairy tale charm. Every cobble stone on the very dark and quiet street was a reproduction.
The door to Kozla opened into a shocking orange foyer followed by a curved staircase down into the basement. Handsome men squeezed up and out while others replaced them below. The “Grease Megamix” played loudly as I walked down the stairs and through the flirting crowd to the bar.
That was when I saw a ghost. Or I thought I so. Almost as a reflex, I reached out and grabbed onto his forearm.
(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)
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