Monday, October 29, 2007
Homecoming
A while back my aunt from Seattle decided she would come in and visit my grandparents last weekend. My parents quickly followed suit as did I, a sort of impromptu family reunion. (I can’t remember the last time when all of my father’s side of the family were in the same place.)
Friday, the date of my departure, things were not looking well – a dizzy spell on the Subway, bad weather, and feeling like I was going to pass out all spelled disaster. Nonetheless, I went to the airport for my much-delayed flight and asked them to just book the ticket for tomorrow. They refused. So I endured the La Guardia delays and got into Chicago late that night.
It was well worth the travel turmoil. (On my way there I managed to finish “The Sun Also Rises” and have to say that switching from Steinbeck to Hemmingway was like sitting in a sauna for three hours, then jumping into a snow drift.)
Unlike other trips to Chicago when I usually stay with Anthony, I spent a night with my brother and did some catching up until about 4am. Tiring, but well worth it. Saturday was a real whirlwind. We did some shopping that morning then went out for a family lunch then to my grandparents’ house for sweets and coffee.
I have to say hanging out with my aunt was really fun. She’d always been a “cool” person, having married a famous jazz musician ... whenever her relatives/friends/musicians were in New York she put them in touch with me to hang out and we had a ball. But I’ve never really known her, per se. She’d been alienated by my grandparents – she rarely visited and vice-versa – along with her son, cousin Mike, and his child, their only great grandchild. . . The Japanese are hard-core. She also has stepchildren who I’ve never met.
This arrangement seemed to have worked. But in more recent years she seems to wants us to know her life. So she took me through pictures of her granddaughter, home, stepchildren, their wives and her new boyfriend.
So it was a really nice visit. Not too much tension – at least new tension. We all got through the datwell.
Then it was time for another reunion of sorts. College friends, old friends, a new friends and my parents got together for a night out. We decided to meet at the bar of one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. At first, we hugged and chatted, but as the hour grew later, and as we had margaritas, every new guest (they are notoriously late) was greeted with a tremendous cheer as they walked through the door. It was hilarious. Being the best of friends -- we all stood up in eachother's weddings -- we talked for hours catching up and telling old war stories. Before we knew it we’d drank pitchers of margaritas and the restaurant was closing.
Despite one having a flight out to Saudi Arabia, another with a newborn child, another with a husband waiting, and myself having to have breakfast with my old next-door neighbor, we carried on elsewhere. First to see Val at Cocktail, then to Side Tracks, then, eventually, to Roscoe’s where it was just Anthony and me. We then met up with others before finishing off the night at Hydrate. UGH I think I got to be around 6 am -- I haven’t done THAT for a while. The rest of the day was rough. Though I’d originally had a late-night flight home, I took the 1pm flight back to New York, crawled into bed, and slept for 12 hours.
What a visit.
Pictures to come.
Friday, the date of my departure, things were not looking well – a dizzy spell on the Subway, bad weather, and feeling like I was going to pass out all spelled disaster. Nonetheless, I went to the airport for my much-delayed flight and asked them to just book the ticket for tomorrow. They refused. So I endured the La Guardia delays and got into Chicago late that night.
It was well worth the travel turmoil. (On my way there I managed to finish “The Sun Also Rises” and have to say that switching from Steinbeck to Hemmingway was like sitting in a sauna for three hours, then jumping into a snow drift.)
Unlike other trips to Chicago when I usually stay with Anthony, I spent a night with my brother and did some catching up until about 4am. Tiring, but well worth it. Saturday was a real whirlwind. We did some shopping that morning then went out for a family lunch then to my grandparents’ house for sweets and coffee.
I have to say hanging out with my aunt was really fun. She’d always been a “cool” person, having married a famous jazz musician ... whenever her relatives/friends/musicians were in New York she put them in touch with me to hang out and we had a ball. But I’ve never really known her, per se. She’d been alienated by my grandparents – she rarely visited and vice-versa – along with her son, cousin Mike, and his child, their only great grandchild. . . The Japanese are hard-core. She also has stepchildren who I’ve never met.
This arrangement seemed to have worked. But in more recent years she seems to wants us to know her life. So she took me through pictures of her granddaughter, home, stepchildren, their wives and her new boyfriend.
So it was a really nice visit. Not too much tension – at least new tension. We all got through the datwell.
Then it was time for another reunion of sorts. College friends, old friends, a new friends and my parents got together for a night out. We decided to meet at the bar of one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. At first, we hugged and chatted, but as the hour grew later, and as we had margaritas, every new guest (they are notoriously late) was greeted with a tremendous cheer as they walked through the door. It was hilarious. Being the best of friends -- we all stood up in eachother's weddings -- we talked for hours catching up and telling old war stories. Before we knew it we’d drank pitchers of margaritas and the restaurant was closing.
Despite one having a flight out to Saudi Arabia, another with a newborn child, another with a husband waiting, and myself having to have breakfast with my old next-door neighbor, we carried on elsewhere. First to see Val at Cocktail, then to Side Tracks, then, eventually, to Roscoe’s where it was just Anthony and me. We then met up with others before finishing off the night at Hydrate. UGH I think I got to be around 6 am -- I haven’t done THAT for a while. The rest of the day was rough. Though I’d originally had a late-night flight home, I took the 1pm flight back to New York, crawled into bed, and slept for 12 hours.
What a visit.
Pictures to come.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I went to see a revival of Mingella’s production of “Madama Butterfly” at the Met last night. It was thrilling: The potent combination of personal relevance, glorious singing, staging and visual effects created the elements for the perfect storm. It hit me like a ton of bricks.
For those that don’t know the story, Butterfly is selected by an American officer as his wife. She is 15. She falls deeply in love with him and renounces her religion and people to become an American wife. He then leaves Japan and promises to return (though never intends to).
I know it sounds cliche, but as the NY Times puts it: "On paper “Madama Butterfly” is an easy target: bathetic and filled with unashamed attempts at audience manipulation. In the flesh it is devastating. Puccini aims straight at your heart and defies your attempts to get out of the way."
The second act was where I completely lost my cool. As she waits for him to return, she tries to shrug off doubts from her friends, servants, and, of course, herself. This all comes to a chilling climax in the aria “Un Bel Di,” where Butterfly explains/demands to Suzuki that he will return. The music breaks into a fantasy-like melody while she imagines what they will say and how they will be reunited. Though the words of the aria are hopeful, the music eventually grows dark “He will come. He will come.” Then, full throat, she soars to the top of the soprano’s range, as though begging the heavens themselves by singing: “I, with secure faith, wait for him!” With that we know she's being torn apart.
His ship was spotted and they sit out and wait for him to come to the house. And it is there that they wait, and wait. Then the famed humming chorus begins and the three of them wait. The music and image were so powerful, and end the act. I’m sure we were all thinking why those fucking house lights had to come on so suddenly - to bring ourselves out of that hypnotic state. I needed more time, more time to collect myself.
We were so drawn in by Butterfly singing out her hopes, anger, frustration, and fear that when she saw the ship come in, the audience actually broke out into applause. It was weird. We all know the story, we all know why Pinkerton has returned and Butterfly’s fate, but the performance was so believable that we, still, no matter how many times we’d seen the opera, wanted it to turn out differently. We still care about Butterfly.
And this is why, after a century, it still sells out: We see a little bit of ourselves in her.
Bravas!!!!
The devastating death of Butterfly (innocence), performed by Patricia Racette in this marvelous production.
For those that don’t know the story, Butterfly is selected by an American officer as his wife. She is 15. She falls deeply in love with him and renounces her religion and people to become an American wife. He then leaves Japan and promises to return (though never intends to).
I know it sounds cliche, but as the NY Times puts it: "On paper “Madama Butterfly” is an easy target: bathetic and filled with unashamed attempts at audience manipulation. In the flesh it is devastating. Puccini aims straight at your heart and defies your attempts to get out of the way."
The second act was where I completely lost my cool. As she waits for him to return, she tries to shrug off doubts from her friends, servants, and, of course, herself. This all comes to a chilling climax in the aria “Un Bel Di,” where Butterfly explains/demands to Suzuki that he will return. The music breaks into a fantasy-like melody while she imagines what they will say and how they will be reunited. Though the words of the aria are hopeful, the music eventually grows dark “He will come. He will come.” Then, full throat, she soars to the top of the soprano’s range, as though begging the heavens themselves by singing: “I, with secure faith, wait for him!” With that we know she's being torn apart.
His ship was spotted and they sit out and wait for him to come to the house. And it is there that they wait, and wait. Then the famed humming chorus begins and the three of them wait. The music and image were so powerful, and end the act. I’m sure we were all thinking why those fucking house lights had to come on so suddenly - to bring ourselves out of that hypnotic state. I needed more time, more time to collect myself.
We were so drawn in by Butterfly singing out her hopes, anger, frustration, and fear that when she saw the ship come in, the audience actually broke out into applause. It was weird. We all know the story, we all know why Pinkerton has returned and Butterfly’s fate, but the performance was so believable that we, still, no matter how many times we’d seen the opera, wanted it to turn out differently. We still care about Butterfly.
And this is why, after a century, it still sells out: We see a little bit of ourselves in her.
Bravas!!!!
The devastating death of Butterfly (innocence), performed by Patricia Racette in this marvelous production.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Moving to Brooklyn was no trivial decision. Until now, Brooklyn represented endings, some good, some painful: No more of the exciting Manhattan life, no more quick commutes to work, no more paying ridiculous amounts of money for rent, and an ending to a relationship on the rocks.
Thank God there is a sort-of make-shift family that has adopted me here. Perhaps sensing I may be feeling somewhat isolated (we never speak of such things), Rob insisted I throw a housewarming party. And being the matriarch of this family, his endorsement of the event guaranteed its success. Weeks ago he started to round the troops, as did I, to attend. The guest list grew to a point where I actually decided to have the event catered. Rob and friends spent the weekend here to help prepare, and to help me explore Brooklyn nightlife. That’s when the family starts to work.
A great time was had by all, and those that showed up were the cream rising to the top: People brought with them plants, wine, cards, and – most importantly, cheer and encouragement. People from all walks of my life had a tremendous time together.
If “diamonds are forever” than I have to say there was 20 carats of it in that place.
Now it's time for beginnings.
A sampling of my finest attendees (left to right, top to bottom): Lisa, John, Joe, Rob, Anthony, Garret, and Mary
Thank God there is a sort-of make-shift family that has adopted me here. Perhaps sensing I may be feeling somewhat isolated (we never speak of such things), Rob insisted I throw a housewarming party. And being the matriarch of this family, his endorsement of the event guaranteed its success. Weeks ago he started to round the troops, as did I, to attend. The guest list grew to a point where I actually decided to have the event catered. Rob and friends spent the weekend here to help prepare, and to help me explore Brooklyn nightlife. That’s when the family starts to work.
A great time was had by all, and those that showed up were the cream rising to the top: People brought with them plants, wine, cards, and – most importantly, cheer and encouragement. People from all walks of my life had a tremendous time together.
If “diamonds are forever” than I have to say there was 20 carats of it in that place.
Now it's time for beginnings.
A sampling of my finest attendees (left to right, top to bottom): Lisa, John, Joe, Rob, Anthony, Garret, and Mary
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
So I’ve finally gotten a taste of what it’s like to live out here in Brooklyn. In my Manhattan days the components of my life were like one seamless, living, breathing thing. Out here in Brooklyn, they have shattered into pieces. Where I used to roll out of bed, hop in the shower, then shoehorn myself onto a rackety subway for a few minutes before getting to work, I now get up a 6, and read a good 30 pages of “The Grapes of Wrath” on a luxurious express bus before getting to my desk. Though I used to sweat out a workout on a tread mill right by home, I now go for a jog along the harbor and have a spectacular view of the Verrazano Bridge and the ships coming in from their long Atlantic Journeys. And though I used to hang out with colleagues/friends and not worry about how much I drank or how I was getting home, I now decline things like this because of the trip back and my state of mind (drunk) while on that journey. In short, there’s work and there’s home, and the two are very different places that not longer collide – each is thought of and planned separately.
Am I happy? Absolutely. Though the inconveniences of living out here abound, every little interaction is more pleasant, not so rushed and done with a Brooklyn pride. T-shirts do not say “I Love New York,” but read, simply, “Brooklyn,” with the love and pride implied.
This place is the real New York. It is not filled with transplants of over-ambitious, pretentious folks from Odaho, but with real New Yorkers. They know that this was the borough with the first museums, opera houses, and culture when Manhattan was, well, nothing. Though I am also reminded every day as I commute into “the city,” as they call it here, that this mighty Manhattan— with its sky scrapers, business and culture— still reigns supreme. But I can’t help but think that though the outer boroughs of this city are not New York's heart, per se, but are, rather, its soul.
Images from the shore, steps from my new digs.
Am I happy? Absolutely. Though the inconveniences of living out here abound, every little interaction is more pleasant, not so rushed and done with a Brooklyn pride. T-shirts do not say “I Love New York,” but read, simply, “Brooklyn,” with the love and pride implied.
This place is the real New York. It is not filled with transplants of over-ambitious, pretentious folks from Odaho, but with real New Yorkers. They know that this was the borough with the first museums, opera houses, and culture when Manhattan was, well, nothing. Though I am also reminded every day as I commute into “the city,” as they call it here, that this mighty Manhattan— with its sky scrapers, business and culture— still reigns supreme. But I can’t help but think that though the outer boroughs of this city are not New York's heart, per se, but are, rather, its soul.
Images from the shore, steps from my new digs.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Breaking up is hard to do, or so the saying goes. But in a city like New York there are professionals in even that. As you may have guessed, I’ve recently stopping seeing someone over the weekend. I would spend some time lamenting the loss, but the more interesting thing – at least for you – is the art of the break up conversation. The delivery of the news of his decision was done with such deft diplomacy that it, at least at first, made wonder if we were broken up at all. The whole conversation went something like this.
Part I: Small talk
Him –I’m going to see a show tonight with friends. I had a great day. (etc. etc.)
Me – Yea, I’m on my way into the city now (etc., etc., etc.)
Part II: You’re wonderful
Him – I feel really bad about yesterday (we got into an argument) and have to say it was just an awful day. You see, the rest of the time we spend together had been so perfect and I’ve been on cloud nine-- but yesterday was a shocker.
Me (naively) – Yea yesterday did suck, I guess we shouldn’t talk politics – obviously hit a raw nerve.
Him – We’ve had such great times and yesterday was pretty bad. I just want to thank you for those three weeks we did have that were great. [Very smooth, right? What a transition!]
Part IV: “Rationale.”
Me (not so naively) – What are you saying?
Him – I just don’t think this is going to work in the long-run. We’re just bad together. Yesterday was pretty bad. I was awful. We were just boring together. Etc., etc., etc.
Me [devistated]– Uh. Er. Yea, we are bad together. OK. [At this point I’ve been talked out of the relationship and find myself agreeing.]
Part V: “You deserve better”
Him – you need someone who’s going to treat you better. You are a wonderful person and a great, great, guy.
[At this point I just want to get off the phone, but then there is the final nail in the coffin.]
Part VI: Let’s be friends
Him – I really want to know you. I hope we can still keep in touch, hang out and, well, know each other.
So there you have it. The perfectly executed break-up. Sure, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. It’s been a while since I’ve been officially dumped, and I have to say he gets points for actually having the conversation. . . I think, at least in NY, if it’s been under one month you can just stop returning calls to signal disinterest. (But I’ll have to check with Emily Post on that one.)
Am I upset? Sure. But more at myself than anyone else. For some reason my relationships are like recent Space Shuttle landings -- trapped by gravity, heat shields fail, and then burn up in the atmosphere before landing -- and I have to stop that.
Part I: Small talk
Him –I’m going to see a show tonight with friends. I had a great day. (etc. etc.)
Me – Yea, I’m on my way into the city now (etc., etc., etc.)
Part II: You’re wonderful
Him – I feel really bad about yesterday (we got into an argument) and have to say it was just an awful day. You see, the rest of the time we spend together had been so perfect and I’ve been on cloud nine-- but yesterday was a shocker.
Me (naively) – Yea yesterday did suck, I guess we shouldn’t talk politics – obviously hit a raw nerve.
Him – We’ve had such great times and yesterday was pretty bad. I just want to thank you for those three weeks we did have that were great. [Very smooth, right? What a transition!]
Part IV: “Rationale.”
Me (not so naively) – What are you saying?
Him – I just don’t think this is going to work in the long-run. We’re just bad together. Yesterday was pretty bad. I was awful. We were just boring together. Etc., etc., etc.
Me [devistated]– Uh. Er. Yea, we are bad together. OK. [At this point I’ve been talked out of the relationship and find myself agreeing.]
Part V: “You deserve better”
Him – you need someone who’s going to treat you better. You are a wonderful person and a great, great, guy.
[At this point I just want to get off the phone, but then there is the final nail in the coffin.]
Part VI: Let’s be friends
Him – I really want to know you. I hope we can still keep in touch, hang out and, well, know each other.
So there you have it. The perfectly executed break-up. Sure, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. It’s been a while since I’ve been officially dumped, and I have to say he gets points for actually having the conversation. . . I think, at least in NY, if it’s been under one month you can just stop returning calls to signal disinterest. (But I’ll have to check with Emily Post on that one.)
Am I upset? Sure. But more at myself than anyone else. For some reason my relationships are like recent Space Shuttle landings -- trapped by gravity, heat shields fail, and then burn up in the atmosphere before landing -- and I have to stop that.
