April 15, 2006 11:02 PM
I've lived in Manhattan for the last few years, and I've been spoiled by Giuliani's legacy. Nearly every neighborhood in Manhattan has been gentrified within an inch of its life. Streets are cleaned, the homeless have become less visible, there's no graffiti on the subway trains. There are many nights I opt out of a cab ride and walk home alone, feeling perfectly safe. I assumed the crazies had moved out of Manhattan; they now commute on the Path or MetroNorth.
But I hear of more than a few murders on the local news, of children left alone in the house unsupervised, of young women abducted from local bars. But it all seemed pretty removed from me until I had my own "New York of the 70s" encounter.
I ordered some food from an Italian joint called La Casalinga. I buzzed up the delivery guy to my door. After he handed me the food, I gave him a few bills and waited for the change. As he handed me the change, he looks me up and down.
(As an aside, I'll give a physical description of this guy in case anyone else runs into him. He has dark skin, a scruffy, unshaven face, dark brown hair that's parted in the middle and comes down past his ears on each side. His hair is curly and greasy with gel. He looks as he would in his own mugshot. He's about 5'10", 5'11".)
So he looks me up and down and asks, "Are you a dancer or something?" (He has a Hispanic accent, less "street" and more like "recent immigrant".)
"No, no I'm not," I reply.
"Oh because you have the legs and the feet of dancer." (I was barefoot and wearing cropped sweats.)
Ok... I was getting slightly uncomfortable, but I was flattered and figured it was going to end with the compliment. But no. The guy bends down, and runs one hand over my left foot. I freak out a little, but I try to keep my cool, hoping he would leave. Then:
"Yes, looks just like a dancer's," he says to me.
I back up from the door and start closing it.
"Thanks, thank you."
"You know reflexology? You Chinese," he asks, trying to re-engage me.
"No, no. Korean. Ok, thanks," I said, dismissing him.
"Reflexology," he responds as though he doesn't hear me, "it's a type of Chinese massage."
This guy gets down on ONE KNEE, runs his hand over my left foot, then my right. He fingers a big toe before I take another step back and thank him once more, more insistently. He's still down on one knee, and it becomes the longest few seconds of my life.
"Reflexology is like... and you push... pressure points..."
I'm not really listening to him at this point because to my horror, he has picked up my foot by the heel. He starts to massage the ball of my foot, caressing it a little. I pull my foot back.
"No thank you. That's alright. Ok, no thanks." I don't know what to say; I'm blubbering ineffectual protests against this Latino delivery guy with a foot fetish. I decided to remain polite because who knows what will happen if I piss him off?
I give my foot another firm tug, and before he lets go, he lifts my foot a little further, bends his head over it, and KISSES the top of my foot.
I jerk my foot away this time, remain polite, thank him, and close the door as quickly as I can push it without slamming it in his face. I hear the elevator take him away, and that's when I breathe out.
There's a particular feeling associated with an unwanted, unsolicited touch. It's a sort of tingling feeling right in the touched spot. It crawls up your body, the way disgust only can, and makes you want to take a shower. The tingling turns into a throbbing sensation like a burn without the pain. And it's one of those physical reactions you'll remember forever.
I understand, on a microscopic level, how women might feel when sexually assaulted or abused. A woman is trapped, usually in terror, then in anger. Even in her righteous fury, she hesitates to report anything because what if her attacker knows her address? What if he is the vengeful type? What if she's followed? It is frightening to think of the possibilities.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VIII: Crying and Other Games
December 4, 2005 6:19 PM
I think one of the most certifiably insane things I do is cry. I have the ability (or the insanity) to cry at the most inane things like The Cosby Show, any number of romantic comedies, and commercials for diamond rings and Cheerios. But the inexplicable way I get emotional about 5 minutes of Scrubs and 30 seconds of a DeBeers Diamonds commercial is not just proof of the power of advertising. (Although I am a sucker for a great commercial or a well-designed product.) I'm completely drawn to the way television easily packages a torrent of complicated and interconnected emotions and presents it in a well-wrapped 30 second, 30 minute or an hour long segment that hits you right in the guts.
As ridiculous as it sounds, when I watch an episode of Scrubs, I can't help but wish that life would come in packaged 30 minute segments. Trials and tribulations would last only an alotted amount of time at the end of which would result in a tightly and elegantly tied bow of an epiphany. Everything would make sense. Then after your show would come an episode of Law & Order to put your life in perspective. But there isn't enough capital, sponsors, or products in the world that could ever make that fly. Because no one is really interested in the insecurities and fears that drives the person sitting across from you on your way to work on the 6 train, coupled with the fact that life doesn't come in 30 minute segments.
So everyone just desperately tries to hold onto everything they're afraid of because once that escapes, there'll be chaos. But once in a while one will react to his fears and hope that a commercial break will distract their friends and family from seeing something that had been buried a long time ago. It's difficult to fight your insecurities and act appropriately on a daily basis, but you do it to keep the peace. In the midst of protecting yourself and your privacy, it's the things that you say or don't say that can mess up the delicate balance you already have.
And perhaps Scrubs is not the emotional tour de force of Titanic or a Barbara Streisand song, but it certainly does it for me. It's an excuse for me to cry about the things I want to cry about in life. Does that make me a wuss? I said wuss.
I think one of the most certifiably insane things I do is cry. I have the ability (or the insanity) to cry at the most inane things like The Cosby Show, any number of romantic comedies, and commercials for diamond rings and Cheerios. But the inexplicable way I get emotional about 5 minutes of Scrubs and 30 seconds of a DeBeers Diamonds commercial is not just proof of the power of advertising. (Although I am a sucker for a great commercial or a well-designed product.) I'm completely drawn to the way television easily packages a torrent of complicated and interconnected emotions and presents it in a well-wrapped 30 second, 30 minute or an hour long segment that hits you right in the guts.
As ridiculous as it sounds, when I watch an episode of Scrubs, I can't help but wish that life would come in packaged 30 minute segments. Trials and tribulations would last only an alotted amount of time at the end of which would result in a tightly and elegantly tied bow of an epiphany. Everything would make sense. Then after your show would come an episode of Law & Order to put your life in perspective. But there isn't enough capital, sponsors, or products in the world that could ever make that fly. Because no one is really interested in the insecurities and fears that drives the person sitting across from you on your way to work on the 6 train, coupled with the fact that life doesn't come in 30 minute segments.
So everyone just desperately tries to hold onto everything they're afraid of because once that escapes, there'll be chaos. But once in a while one will react to his fears and hope that a commercial break will distract their friends and family from seeing something that had been buried a long time ago. It's difficult to fight your insecurities and act appropriately on a daily basis, but you do it to keep the peace. In the midst of protecting yourself and your privacy, it's the things that you say or don't say that can mess up the delicate balance you already have.
And perhaps Scrubs is not the emotional tour de force of Titanic or a Barbara Streisand song, but it certainly does it for me. It's an excuse for me to cry about the things I want to cry about in life. Does that make me a wuss? I said wuss.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VII: Hitler on Halloween
October 31, 2005 12:23 AM
Halloween, Candy, & Condoms
Not a big fan of Halloween, but I was mildly turned on by the Boy's rendition of Clark Kent in a state of undress, or more specifically, in a state of ripping off his button-down to reveal a large yellow "S" rippling over his pectoral muscles and... uh, I got a little carried away there.
The only other thing I love about Halloween is those bags of mini Snickers bars. I feel guilt-free eating those bite-sized morsels although in reality I end up eating the equivalent of 6 regular sized bars. But I can get those bags year round which brings me to my original opinion of Halloween: general disdain. Halloween is just a poor excuse for shenanigans and hooliganism. Case in point: on the local news tonight was a story about a 15 year old boy shooting a 31 year old man in the Bronx (and 3 times in the arm and the ass) during a chase that ensued when the boy wouldn’t stop throwing eggs at the man’s purple Dodge minivan. The boy said the egging was a Halloween prank.
That’s the thing about New York: I feel like something completely senseless is always happening around me, at any given moment. I feel like I’m surrounded by characters of a play who represent detailed and specific stereotypes and are capable of, well, craziness. I think I was about to witness one of those instances this evening. As I walked into a corner store to buy some Vitamin Water, three guys walked in right behind me. They all looked conspicuously fashion-challenged in the trendy East Village, and they looked as though they had just busted out of jail. They strutted in like a modern trio of wise men looking for gifts, certainly not gifts for Jesus. The first guy, gruff and unshaven wearing a brown leather jacket and thick black boots, bought a coffee and a blue box of Trojans. I didn’t observe the kind. The second guy picked up a People magazine and folded it under his arm with the cover facing in. The third guy, in a New York Giants Starter jacket, grabbed a box of powdered Entenmann’s doughnuts. I didn’t know what the hell they were going to do with those three items because they all left together, but it looked like they were going to share a good time. Happy Halloween, boys.
By the way, there seems to be quite a bit of product placement going on in my blog. I would like to note that I do not support any of the aforementioned products in any way. But vitamin water is a delicious refreshing drink that can quench any thirst.
October 31, 2005 11:52 PM
Hitler on Modern Art
In a public speech inaugurating the "Great Exhibition of German Art, 1937" in Munich, Adolf Hitler finally actualizes his revenge on his former third grade art class peers for their relentless ridicule of his feeble attempts at drawing the human form.
I think one can get a fuller picture in the biographical full-length animated film by Tim Burton, currently in production.
In the speech, Hitler, clearly an expert on modern art, decided to air his opinion on the entire movement. Please, do not be intimidated by a nearly palpable sense of deep intellect, for Hitler is the epitome of all that is art and culture. Do not be afraid:
“I have observed among the pictures submitted here, quite a few paintings which make one actually come to the conclusion that the eye shows things differently to certain human beings than the way they really are, that is, that there really are men who see the present population of our nation only as rotten cretins; who, on principle, see meadows blue, skies green, clouds sulphur yellow, and so on, or, as they say, experience them as such… in the name of the German people, I want to forbid these pitiful misfortunates who quite obviously suffer from an eye disease, to try vehemently to foist these products of their misinterpretation upon the age we live in, or even to wish to present them as ‘Art’.”
The sage continued:
“No, here there are only two possibilities: Either these so-called ‘artists’ really see things this way and therefore believe in what they depict; then we would have to examine their eyesight-deformation to see if it is the product of a mechanical failure or of inheritance. In the first case, these unfortunates can only be pitied; in the second case, they would be the object of great interest to the Ministry of Interior of the Reich which would then have to take up the question of whether further inheritance of such gruesome malfunctioning of the eyes cannot at least be checked.”
Modern art by A. Hitler. Oh no, he never used air-time to share his lifelong resentment with the entire German nation.
Halloween, Candy, & Condoms
Not a big fan of Halloween, but I was mildly turned on by the Boy's rendition of Clark Kent in a state of undress, or more specifically, in a state of ripping off his button-down to reveal a large yellow "S" rippling over his pectoral muscles and... uh, I got a little carried away there.
The only other thing I love about Halloween is those bags of mini Snickers bars. I feel guilt-free eating those bite-sized morsels although in reality I end up eating the equivalent of 6 regular sized bars. But I can get those bags year round which brings me to my original opinion of Halloween: general disdain. Halloween is just a poor excuse for shenanigans and hooliganism. Case in point: on the local news tonight was a story about a 15 year old boy shooting a 31 year old man in the Bronx (and 3 times in the arm and the ass) during a chase that ensued when the boy wouldn’t stop throwing eggs at the man’s purple Dodge minivan. The boy said the egging was a Halloween prank.
That’s the thing about New York: I feel like something completely senseless is always happening around me, at any given moment. I feel like I’m surrounded by characters of a play who represent detailed and specific stereotypes and are capable of, well, craziness. I think I was about to witness one of those instances this evening. As I walked into a corner store to buy some Vitamin Water, three guys walked in right behind me. They all looked conspicuously fashion-challenged in the trendy East Village, and they looked as though they had just busted out of jail. They strutted in like a modern trio of wise men looking for gifts, certainly not gifts for Jesus. The first guy, gruff and unshaven wearing a brown leather jacket and thick black boots, bought a coffee and a blue box of Trojans. I didn’t observe the kind. The second guy picked up a People magazine and folded it under his arm with the cover facing in. The third guy, in a New York Giants Starter jacket, grabbed a box of powdered Entenmann’s doughnuts. I didn’t know what the hell they were going to do with those three items because they all left together, but it looked like they were going to share a good time. Happy Halloween, boys.
By the way, there seems to be quite a bit of product placement going on in my blog. I would like to note that I do not support any of the aforementioned products in any way. But vitamin water is a delicious refreshing drink that can quench any thirst.
October 31, 2005 11:52 PM
Hitler on Modern Art
In a public speech inaugurating the "Great Exhibition of German Art, 1937" in Munich, Adolf Hitler finally actualizes his revenge on his former third grade art class peers for their relentless ridicule of his feeble attempts at drawing the human form.
I think one can get a fuller picture in the biographical full-length animated film by Tim Burton, currently in production.
In the speech, Hitler, clearly an expert on modern art, decided to air his opinion on the entire movement. Please, do not be intimidated by a nearly palpable sense of deep intellect, for Hitler is the epitome of all that is art and culture. Do not be afraid:
“I have observed among the pictures submitted here, quite a few paintings which make one actually come to the conclusion that the eye shows things differently to certain human beings than the way they really are, that is, that there really are men who see the present population of our nation only as rotten cretins; who, on principle, see meadows blue, skies green, clouds sulphur yellow, and so on, or, as they say, experience them as such… in the name of the German people, I want to forbid these pitiful misfortunates who quite obviously suffer from an eye disease, to try vehemently to foist these products of their misinterpretation upon the age we live in, or even to wish to present them as ‘Art’.”
The sage continued:
“No, here there are only two possibilities: Either these so-called ‘artists’ really see things this way and therefore believe in what they depict; then we would have to examine their eyesight-deformation to see if it is the product of a mechanical failure or of inheritance. In the first case, these unfortunates can only be pitied; in the second case, they would be the object of great interest to the Ministry of Interior of the Reich which would then have to take up the question of whether further inheritance of such gruesome malfunctioning of the eyes cannot at least be checked.”
Modern art by A. Hitler. Oh no, he never used air-time to share his lifelong resentment with the entire German nation.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part VI: For the Love of the Game
October 8, 2005 11:25 PM
So I've discovered that dating, a good dating experience, requires much more than the minimal effort of sex and meals. I've discovered not only do I have to keep up my charming end of the conversation and look ravishing at odd hours of the day, but I have to learn football too.
As the dating situation progressed into the NFL season, I realized conversation wasn't going to happen unless it was about the cover two defense formation of the Ravens. I tried, at one point in life, to learn the game, to decipher the secret language grunted by 11 Neanderthals who wanted to pummel the 11 Neanderthals facing them. But I got easily confused then distracted. The only thing that held my interest was the tight end and the other 10 tight ends on offense. So one could understand my lack of enthusiasm for the onset of the football season. Until I met the Boy.
As soon as I expressed interest in learning the game (a final attempt to find out what attracted millions of Americans), The Boy immediately sat me down in what became an impressive display of patience and persistence. He was like a Mr. Chips or Professor Keating crossed with Joe Gibbs; he made me BELIEVE in football. He explained the game using riveting visuals such as the Eagles v. Chiefs game (great comeback by the Eagles), and during half-time, coins to represent the players. He detailed each position with a finger on the corresponding coin, moving it in hypothetical plays. And suddenly I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I understood the game. The game and I became one.
On Sundays you can find me in front of a TV, my eyes glued to the screen, yelling inane phrases, "That was SO a complete pass!" and occasionally, "Chad Johnson has a cute ass."
So I've discovered that dating, a good dating experience, requires much more than the minimal effort of sex and meals. I've discovered not only do I have to keep up my charming end of the conversation and look ravishing at odd hours of the day, but I have to learn football too.
As the dating situation progressed into the NFL season, I realized conversation wasn't going to happen unless it was about the cover two defense formation of the Ravens. I tried, at one point in life, to learn the game, to decipher the secret language grunted by 11 Neanderthals who wanted to pummel the 11 Neanderthals facing them. But I got easily confused then distracted. The only thing that held my interest was the tight end and the other 10 tight ends on offense. So one could understand my lack of enthusiasm for the onset of the football season. Until I met the Boy.
As soon as I expressed interest in learning the game (a final attempt to find out what attracted millions of Americans), The Boy immediately sat me down in what became an impressive display of patience and persistence. He was like a Mr. Chips or Professor Keating crossed with Joe Gibbs; he made me BELIEVE in football. He explained the game using riveting visuals such as the Eagles v. Chiefs game (great comeback by the Eagles), and during half-time, coins to represent the players. He detailed each position with a finger on the corresponding coin, moving it in hypothetical plays. And suddenly I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I understood the game. The game and I became one.
On Sundays you can find me in front of a TV, my eyes glued to the screen, yelling inane phrases, "That was SO a complete pass!" and occasionally, "Chad Johnson has a cute ass."
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part V: No Subject
August 26, 2008 9:44 PM
Recently I was apartment hunting, and anyone in New York City knows what a painful process this can be. In fact I believe there's a rare edition of Chicken Soup for the Renter's Soul out there somewhere. Many stories can move the average person to tears. My particular experience certainly led me close to tears, not for myself, but for my broker in this rare instance. Shocking but true.
My future roommate and I had an appointment at 11 am to see a listing from Craigslist. The broker, we'll call her Pam, called to say that she was running late because she hadn't been feeling well (sore throat)and that she had to pick up a prescription on her way. We shifted the meeting to 11:15 am. At 11:30 am, she called to say that it had taken her longer than expected and she would be a little later. We ended up seeing Pam waddling up to us in an ill-fitting sundress and lavender flip flops, dry, frizzy hair haphazardly caught in a plastic clip, sporting a not-so-thin layer of sweat on the bridge of her thick nose. It was 11:45 am. And not only did she lack a key for the apartment, but it turned out that it already had applicants.
Despite our rather lackluster first impression of Pam, my roommate and I exchanged glances of sympathy and decided to give her a chance. She claimed she had a lot of great listings that we had to see, and that she wouldn't give up until we filled out an application with her. Ok, she seemed slightly desperate, a little disorganized, but she looked determined.
After spending the majority of the afternoon walking from the East Village to Chinatown and back, making a couple of stops because Pam was thirsty then later hungry, we decided to walk back to her office, check for more listings and regroup. On our way back, my roommate ran into a friend from school.
"Hey, Dimitri! What's going on?"
"Hey! Wow, haven't seen you in a while. What're you up to?"
"Oh my roommate and I are spending the day apartment hunting..." My roommate nodded in our direction.
"Oh, cool." Dimitri nodded his acknowledgement towards me and Pam. "Is she your mom?"
"Oh, haha." My roommate laughed (or more so released air from her mouth uncomfortably). "Uh, no, that's our broker."
"Oh, my bad." (Insert awkward silence here.) "Cool. I gotta run, later."
We both looked at Pam, hoping she hadn't heard. Plastered on her face was a stiff smile, but you sensed it masked far more complicated emotions. We continued in our direction in silence when:
"Do I really look that old?"
"No, Pam," we exclaimed. "No, of course not."
But she wasn't really hearing us. She was too lost in her own thoughts. Her smile (and her makeup) had melted as soon as we had started walking again, and I knew something had died. The worst part was, in that 20 second exchange, I had a snapshot of her life that I didn't want to see. I knew she would go home after work to a messy empty studio, her thick legs veiny and tired from walking all over manhattan that day. She would probably order take out from the Chinese joint next door and settle for some crappy reality tv show in her bathrobe and frizzy hair. And she wouldn't be paying attention to the show because in her head, Dimitri's voice asked "Is she your mom?" over and over again. She would probably pad over to the bathroom through the course of the show to stare in the mirror and trace the bags under her eyes.
My roommate and I left her, claiming that we needed a break from trekking around the city. We promised we'd call her in the evening. She begged us not to work with another broker.
"You guys aren't going to another broker, are you?"
"No, no, Pam, of course not."
We had to leave her. She was too desperate, too needy, and if we spent more time with her, it would rub off on us. And it was depressing as hell.
Recently I was apartment hunting, and anyone in New York City knows what a painful process this can be. In fact I believe there's a rare edition of Chicken Soup for the Renter's Soul out there somewhere. Many stories can move the average person to tears. My particular experience certainly led me close to tears, not for myself, but for my broker in this rare instance. Shocking but true.
My future roommate and I had an appointment at 11 am to see a listing from Craigslist. The broker, we'll call her Pam, called to say that she was running late because she hadn't been feeling well (sore throat)and that she had to pick up a prescription on her way. We shifted the meeting to 11:15 am. At 11:30 am, she called to say that it had taken her longer than expected and she would be a little later. We ended up seeing Pam waddling up to us in an ill-fitting sundress and lavender flip flops, dry, frizzy hair haphazardly caught in a plastic clip, sporting a not-so-thin layer of sweat on the bridge of her thick nose. It was 11:45 am. And not only did she lack a key for the apartment, but it turned out that it already had applicants.
Despite our rather lackluster first impression of Pam, my roommate and I exchanged glances of sympathy and decided to give her a chance. She claimed she had a lot of great listings that we had to see, and that she wouldn't give up until we filled out an application with her. Ok, she seemed slightly desperate, a little disorganized, but she looked determined.
After spending the majority of the afternoon walking from the East Village to Chinatown and back, making a couple of stops because Pam was thirsty then later hungry, we decided to walk back to her office, check for more listings and regroup. On our way back, my roommate ran into a friend from school.
"Hey, Dimitri! What's going on?"
"Hey! Wow, haven't seen you in a while. What're you up to?"
"Oh my roommate and I are spending the day apartment hunting..." My roommate nodded in our direction.
"Oh, cool." Dimitri nodded his acknowledgement towards me and Pam. "Is she your mom?"
"Oh, haha." My roommate laughed (or more so released air from her mouth uncomfortably). "Uh, no, that's our broker."
"Oh, my bad." (Insert awkward silence here.) "Cool. I gotta run, later."
We both looked at Pam, hoping she hadn't heard. Plastered on her face was a stiff smile, but you sensed it masked far more complicated emotions. We continued in our direction in silence when:
"Do I really look that old?"
"No, Pam," we exclaimed. "No, of course not."
But she wasn't really hearing us. She was too lost in her own thoughts. Her smile (and her makeup) had melted as soon as we had started walking again, and I knew something had died. The worst part was, in that 20 second exchange, I had a snapshot of her life that I didn't want to see. I knew she would go home after work to a messy empty studio, her thick legs veiny and tired from walking all over manhattan that day. She would probably order take out from the Chinese joint next door and settle for some crappy reality tv show in her bathrobe and frizzy hair. And she wouldn't be paying attention to the show because in her head, Dimitri's voice asked "Is she your mom?" over and over again. She would probably pad over to the bathroom through the course of the show to stare in the mirror and trace the bags under her eyes.
My roommate and I left her, claiming that we needed a break from trekking around the city. We promised we'd call her in the evening. She begged us not to work with another broker.
"You guys aren't going to another broker, are you?"
"No, no, Pam, of course not."
We had to leave her. She was too desperate, too needy, and if we spent more time with her, it would rub off on us. And it was depressing as hell.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part IV: No Subject
August 21, 2005 12:48 AM
Relationships are incredibly complex. They seem to be a sort of constant dance, intricate footwork, and you have to practice the moves in order to perfect the dance. More importantly, relationships are about timing.
Relationships are much like taking the dance unit in P.E. class. First is the slow dance, junior high style, when your palms are sweating and you're about a foot and a half away from your partner, hands loosely clasped around the back of his neck or her waist. But you're dancing because you have an inkling that you may like your partner although it's not clear whether you LIKE like him/her yet. so you dance a slow dance, careful not to step on her toes, and you have a conversation face to face, wondering if your breath is smelling of the pasta you had for dinner.
If you liked your partner well enough, the next dance to learn is the waltz. It's formal, there are rigid rules as to form and posture, and each of you acts accordingly. You do the coffee waltz, the dinner and a movie waltz, and then the walk home waltz. There is polite formality but an obvious level of comfort; more likely than not, there is a desire to continue.
After the waltz probably comes the mambo or tango or salsa or something just as sensual because sooner or later sex becomes a factor. Something along the lines of dirty dancing. Then it's swing. In many cases, couples opt to reverse the order of the mambo/tango/salsa and swing. This stage is the highlight of the relationship. Swing is fun, fast, complicated, never easy but always a great time.
As far as I took this metaphor, i can't seem to think of a dance for the end. i suppose that's when the music stops, and you realize you're standing on the floor partnerless. You look around, you find the dark edges of the dance floor, and you scan all the wallflowers for another partner. You can either saunter over to the snack table for some punch and a break for your tired feet, or find a new partner and start to dance all over again.
Relationships are incredibly complex. They seem to be a sort of constant dance, intricate footwork, and you have to practice the moves in order to perfect the dance. More importantly, relationships are about timing.
Relationships are much like taking the dance unit in P.E. class. First is the slow dance, junior high style, when your palms are sweating and you're about a foot and a half away from your partner, hands loosely clasped around the back of his neck or her waist. But you're dancing because you have an inkling that you may like your partner although it's not clear whether you LIKE like him/her yet. so you dance a slow dance, careful not to step on her toes, and you have a conversation face to face, wondering if your breath is smelling of the pasta you had for dinner.
If you liked your partner well enough, the next dance to learn is the waltz. It's formal, there are rigid rules as to form and posture, and each of you acts accordingly. You do the coffee waltz, the dinner and a movie waltz, and then the walk home waltz. There is polite formality but an obvious level of comfort; more likely than not, there is a desire to continue.
After the waltz probably comes the mambo or tango or salsa or something just as sensual because sooner or later sex becomes a factor. Something along the lines of dirty dancing. Then it's swing. In many cases, couples opt to reverse the order of the mambo/tango/salsa and swing. This stage is the highlight of the relationship. Swing is fun, fast, complicated, never easy but always a great time.
As far as I took this metaphor, i can't seem to think of a dance for the end. i suppose that's when the music stops, and you realize you're standing on the floor partnerless. You look around, you find the dark edges of the dance floor, and you scan all the wallflowers for another partner. You can either saunter over to the snack table for some punch and a break for your tired feet, or find a new partner and start to dance all over again.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part III: Dry Cleaning and Other Matters
August 7, 2005 1:36 AM
I've been thinking (only on rare occassions if the weather's nice) about relationships and cheating lately. I recently saw a film with several storylines, the majority of which involved cheating in some shape or form. And lately, all the stories I've been hearing about so-and-so's relationships have all been about cheating. Many, if not most, of my friends or acquaintances have all been the Cheater, the Cheat-ee, or the Third (or Fourth, in some raunchy cases) Party in relationships. What's up with this?
It seems as though we've become the victims of our own creations. We've created an entire culture (books, movies, television) that evolves around relationships, spawning unrealistic expectations and illusions of a significant other. We constantly desire to become carbon copies of timeless couples who, through good times or bad, are FICTIONAL. Romeo & Juliet, Scarlett & Rhett, Ilsa & Rick Blaine, Cliff & Claire Huxtable, Sally & Harry, George & Wheezy, ok, maybe not George & Wheezy but you get my drift. It looks as though real, everyday people are just not enough for us anymore. Are humans constantly looking for bigger and better? (I didn't mean "bigger" with any sort of connotation. Figure of speech; "Better" just doesn't go with anything else.)
I'm not sure anyone can ever be completely satisfied with what he/she has. It explains a lot though. It explains the entire chain of Starbucks. Why the hell aren't we content with "coffee" or plain old coffee-flavored coffee? No, we have to have 5 different variations on milk: half & half, whole, skim, soy, organic soy (I might have made up organic soy.) We have to have a hundred different flavors of coffee, and then we have to spruce up coffee itself by fucking with the concentration, the amount, the bean and calling it a hundred different names. I think we might be on the edge of some post-modern break down. We'll end up so evolved that we'll confuse ourselves and have nowhere to go but down.
Hmm... I think my train of thought took an express track to a complete lack of a point.
On a completely random note: I was at my drycleaners the other day when I saw this hideous shirt. By the way, you know you've been in New York for a while when your drycleaner guy greets you by name. I feel very loved.
He said to me, "We'll take very special care of your clothes, ma'am."
I replied in my sultry sex-goddess voice, "Don't call me 'ma'am', Vijay, it makes me feel old. And I'm not that old." (It's true, I'm not.) Then I slipped him a George and a wink. I was feeling generous that day.
He said, "Very sorry, Miss Sandra."
"Just don't let it happen again, Vijay," I said. Then I had him don a loin cloth and fan me with a large banana tree leaf while I sipped a fruity cocktail.
You have to read his lines in an Indian accent though. It's much more erotic that way.
So, I see this hideous shirt hanging in the rotating racks: it was a bright top with mesh, flesh-colored sleeves and all these colorful images that were supposed to resemble tattoos. It was like something a figure skater would wear if he were a member of the Sharks in West Side Story On Ice. I guess some people are really curious to see what they'd look like with tattoos all over their arms. The only thing I'd ever wear on my sleeve is a button or my achin' heart.
I've been thinking (only on rare occassions if the weather's nice) about relationships and cheating lately. I recently saw a film with several storylines, the majority of which involved cheating in some shape or form. And lately, all the stories I've been hearing about so-and-so's relationships have all been about cheating. Many, if not most, of my friends or acquaintances have all been the Cheater, the Cheat-ee, or the Third (or Fourth, in some raunchy cases) Party in relationships. What's up with this?
It seems as though we've become the victims of our own creations. We've created an entire culture (books, movies, television) that evolves around relationships, spawning unrealistic expectations and illusions of a significant other. We constantly desire to become carbon copies of timeless couples who, through good times or bad, are FICTIONAL. Romeo & Juliet, Scarlett & Rhett, Ilsa & Rick Blaine, Cliff & Claire Huxtable, Sally & Harry, George & Wheezy, ok, maybe not George & Wheezy but you get my drift. It looks as though real, everyday people are just not enough for us anymore. Are humans constantly looking for bigger and better? (I didn't mean "bigger" with any sort of connotation. Figure of speech; "Better" just doesn't go with anything else.)
I'm not sure anyone can ever be completely satisfied with what he/she has. It explains a lot though. It explains the entire chain of Starbucks. Why the hell aren't we content with "coffee" or plain old coffee-flavored coffee? No, we have to have 5 different variations on milk: half & half, whole, skim, soy, organic soy (I might have made up organic soy.) We have to have a hundred different flavors of coffee, and then we have to spruce up coffee itself by fucking with the concentration, the amount, the bean and calling it a hundred different names. I think we might be on the edge of some post-modern break down. We'll end up so evolved that we'll confuse ourselves and have nowhere to go but down.
Hmm... I think my train of thought took an express track to a complete lack of a point.
On a completely random note: I was at my drycleaners the other day when I saw this hideous shirt. By the way, you know you've been in New York for a while when your drycleaner guy greets you by name. I feel very loved.
He said to me, "We'll take very special care of your clothes, ma'am."
I replied in my sultry sex-goddess voice, "Don't call me 'ma'am', Vijay, it makes me feel old. And I'm not that old." (It's true, I'm not.) Then I slipped him a George and a wink. I was feeling generous that day.
He said, "Very sorry, Miss Sandra."
"Just don't let it happen again, Vijay," I said. Then I had him don a loin cloth and fan me with a large banana tree leaf while I sipped a fruity cocktail.
You have to read his lines in an Indian accent though. It's much more erotic that way.
So, I see this hideous shirt hanging in the rotating racks: it was a bright top with mesh, flesh-colored sleeves and all these colorful images that were supposed to resemble tattoos. It was like something a figure skater would wear if he were a member of the Sharks in West Side Story On Ice. I guess some people are really curious to see what they'd look like with tattoos all over their arms. The only thing I'd ever wear on my sleeve is a button or my achin' heart.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part II: Manhandled
August 3, 2005 1:17 AM
So I was on the 6 train this morning on my way to work, and I'm minding my own business reading my book. As I was flipping the page, my eyes wandered from the text to the floor of the train and fixated themselves onto a pair of some really ugly feet. Admittedly, my feet certainly aren't any objects of beauty. In fact, if I could replace any one (or two, I guess) part(s) of my body, it'd be my feet. I haven't yet heard of plastic foot surgery, but mine could use a lift and a tuck here and there. BUT I digress.
Back to the feet. I stared at these really awful feet, unable to turn away from the car wreck at the ends of her ankles, when I realized the worst part. These feet belonged to a WOMAN. Not only were they slightly dirty (grime caked between the toes, cracked but woefully painted nails, etc.), but her toes, oh the horror, her toes were these big, bulbous knobs splayed all over her J.Crew sandals.
I looked up to check out what this woman looked like when I was immediately distracted by a pair of MAN HANDS. This poor woman had MAN HANDS as well. We are all familiar with the classic Seinfeld episode in which Jerry is manhandled, and I couldn't help wondering what men felt like around her. I guess most men wouldn't give two shits if those hands were caressing the right (or the wrong, oh so naughty) parts. Then again, I don't think those hands are even capable of caressing; they are capable of clenching large objects in fist-form. I'm not even sure if her thumbs are opposable, or if they just hang lifeless at the sides of her palms like a cruel joke.
I'm probably going to hell for making fun of this complete stranger who I'm sure is a perfectly nice woman. But I suspect I'll be seeing quite a few of you there. Until then... goodnight.
So I was on the 6 train this morning on my way to work, and I'm minding my own business reading my book. As I was flipping the page, my eyes wandered from the text to the floor of the train and fixated themselves onto a pair of some really ugly feet. Admittedly, my feet certainly aren't any objects of beauty. In fact, if I could replace any one (or two, I guess) part(s) of my body, it'd be my feet. I haven't yet heard of plastic foot surgery, but mine could use a lift and a tuck here and there. BUT I digress.
Back to the feet. I stared at these really awful feet, unable to turn away from the car wreck at the ends of her ankles, when I realized the worst part. These feet belonged to a WOMAN. Not only were they slightly dirty (grime caked between the toes, cracked but woefully painted nails, etc.), but her toes, oh the horror, her toes were these big, bulbous knobs splayed all over her J.Crew sandals.
I looked up to check out what this woman looked like when I was immediately distracted by a pair of MAN HANDS. This poor woman had MAN HANDS as well. We are all familiar with the classic Seinfeld episode in which Jerry is manhandled, and I couldn't help wondering what men felt like around her. I guess most men wouldn't give two shits if those hands were caressing the right (or the wrong, oh so naughty) parts. Then again, I don't think those hands are even capable of caressing; they are capable of clenching large objects in fist-form. I'm not even sure if her thumbs are opposable, or if they just hang lifeless at the sides of her palms like a cruel joke.
I'm probably going to hell for making fun of this complete stranger who I'm sure is a perfectly nice woman. But I suspect I'll be seeing quite a few of you there. Until then... goodnight.
The Revival of One Hundred Steps - Part I: My Old Blog
I suppose I should begin at the beginning. The following several entries are from my ancient blog but remain relevant to this new one. They are, after all, my first foray into publishing my thoughts on the world wide web. Whoever you are, enjoy.
First of Firsts
July 31, 2005 7:07 PM
I start this blog in fear of boring people to tears, but then I realize that you can just as easily close this window and forget about my existence. But I hope that you will stick around and be my guest. I like to entertain. And if I could, I'd offer you food because that would show how much I really care. The disturbing part about this entry is I really have no audience right now, and in fact, I have no idea who I'm speaking to. It's a bit like talking to yourself in the mirror. Soothing as you go on and on yet disturbing when you step out of the bathroom and realize that you had an entire conversation with your reflection. Jesus. Somebody please call me.
It is now nearing the end of what I consider a pretty good weekend - I managed to spend more than 3 hours outdoors without spending over $20. It's quite a feat in New York City in my opinion. Saturday was one of those rare summer days in the city- very little humidity, sunshine, and a breeze that smelled like the Atlantic Ocean (it just does, dammit, I'm not trying to be writerly). Took the 7 train to Queens which is a borough I'm beginning to grow a crush on. It's the most ethnically diverse borough in New York City (138 different languages spoken) with hundreds of great restaurants (so I hear), and the best South Asian street food on the East Coast (also hearsay), and lots of cultural activities to offer. It's the home of Hal Sirowitz (last year's poet laureate of Queens and hilarious) and Ashrita Furman, the guy who holds the most records in the Guinness Book of World Records. He currently holds the title for Most Useless Skills (Although Somersaulting May Come in Handy on a Blind Date). In any case, Queens is pretty great.
I went to P.S. 1's Warm-up Saturday series (http://www.ps1.org/) with a large group of guys which has kind of been the story of my life. I was The Girl in my group of high school friends and the one everyone experimented with (I'm kidding!); Julie of The Mod Squad if you will. Warm-up had a great vibe; everyone was relaxed and enjoying the beer and the music, kind of like the Coke Zero commercial without the gay singing (and by gay i mean merry). I liked the DJ, although it wasn't the type of music I listen to regularly, it was the type that I like in clothing stores because it made the clothes seem cooler as though the outfit came with a beat. It was the kind of music that made you want to dance. And dance, they did, these crazy-ass New Yorkers:
photos to come as soon as i figure out how to use this damn blog. friends, please teach this young grasshopper how to work Livejournal. this entry is in dire need of visuals. gracias.
First of Firsts
July 31, 2005 7:07 PM
I start this blog in fear of boring people to tears, but then I realize that you can just as easily close this window and forget about my existence. But I hope that you will stick around and be my guest. I like to entertain. And if I could, I'd offer you food because that would show how much I really care. The disturbing part about this entry is I really have no audience right now, and in fact, I have no idea who I'm speaking to. It's a bit like talking to yourself in the mirror. Soothing as you go on and on yet disturbing when you step out of the bathroom and realize that you had an entire conversation with your reflection. Jesus. Somebody please call me.
It is now nearing the end of what I consider a pretty good weekend - I managed to spend more than 3 hours outdoors without spending over $20. It's quite a feat in New York City in my opinion. Saturday was one of those rare summer days in the city- very little humidity, sunshine, and a breeze that smelled like the Atlantic Ocean (it just does, dammit, I'm not trying to be writerly). Took the 7 train to Queens which is a borough I'm beginning to grow a crush on. It's the most ethnically diverse borough in New York City (138 different languages spoken) with hundreds of great restaurants (so I hear), and the best South Asian street food on the East Coast (also hearsay), and lots of cultural activities to offer. It's the home of Hal Sirowitz (last year's poet laureate of Queens and hilarious) and Ashrita Furman, the guy who holds the most records in the Guinness Book of World Records. He currently holds the title for Most Useless Skills (Although Somersaulting May Come in Handy on a Blind Date). In any case, Queens is pretty great.
I went to P.S. 1's Warm-up Saturday series (http://www.ps1.org/) with a large group of guys which has kind of been the story of my life. I was The Girl in my group of high school friends and the one everyone experimented with (I'm kidding!); Julie of The Mod Squad if you will. Warm-up had a great vibe; everyone was relaxed and enjoying the beer and the music, kind of like the Coke Zero commercial without the gay singing (and by gay i mean merry). I liked the DJ, although it wasn't the type of music I listen to regularly, it was the type that I like in clothing stores because it made the clothes seem cooler as though the outfit came with a beat. It was the kind of music that made you want to dance. And dance, they did, these crazy-ass New Yorkers:
photos to come as soon as i figure out how to use this damn blog. friends, please teach this young grasshopper how to work Livejournal. this entry is in dire need of visuals. gracias.
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