Public Introspection

Oh What a World...

This is being in good spirits: getting up on a Sunday morning, having coffee with an old friend and mentor (old as in from the past, not old as in on in years... I don't wish to offend...), waxing poetic on perspective and growth and personal space and subways and tourist attractions and the road behind us, grabbing two cream-cheese-laden bagels and schlepping back home on a gorgeous yet frigid New York winter mid-day, listening to a little Rufus and thinking about how far you've come.

I have turned off the TV and declared today "Get Out and Know You're Alive in New York" Day.  Please celebrate accordingly.

Even if you're not in NY, it's okay.  It's the knowing you're alive part that's important.

Cue the tubas...

It's Not Everyday...

There is nothing like being told that you're phenomenal at something.

I always wanted to be a child prodigy.  Doogie Howser was my hero.  Praise from grown-ups has always been quite the drug to me, and as a child prodigy, you not only get constant praise from grown-ups, you can out-do them at everything, too.  For a precocious, competitive, self-centered child, this is pretty much the dream: be awesome and have all others revel in, wonder at, and generally envy your awesomeness.

Sounds a little like a god complex... Hang on while I call my therapist...

I've always had people telling me I was good at stuff, which as I grow older I realize is not the norm for most, sadly.  Now, don't get the wrong idea.  I'm not good at everything.  Things I suck at: most sports... OK, all sports... walking in high heels... smiling on a regular basis... keeping things like closets, dressers, cars, desks - large spaces that accumulate junk - clean... matching pitch on the first try...

Speaking of needing therapy... So, I have a degree in hitting stuff (read: percussion), but regardless of the concentration of my music studies, all music students, to some extent, are required to sing a bit, at least in a little torture experiment they call "sight singing/ear training."  This is a nice 2-3 credit course that lasts the first two years of your undergrad, and it is hell on earth for, well, folks like me.  You learn how to sing in solfege, which is not all the fun that Julie Andrews would have you believe.  You live through exercises like singing scales and intervals and strange 20th century music excerpts with little more to hang on to than the professor playing a chord or two of the key and your own prayers that your voice won't crack, because if it does and you stop singing for a split second, you're going to lose the tonality and have to ask the teacher to play it again, and in my case I'd usually already asked her to play it three or four times and change the key because I really only have about seven or eight notes in my whole range...

I realize some of you stopped reading all that because it stopped making sense unless you've been there.  The fact is, most of you who might have been there don't feel my pain.  I've been a musician nearly my whole life, trained and paid for it, and the pain of standing among peers whom you are in constant competition with and being embarrassed, nay, humiliated, on a daily basis in a way that can only be likened to that "show up to homeroom naked" dream we've all had made me forget over and over again any shred of talent that I might have ever had in any aspect of music which, for a time, I thought to be my calling.  My classmates laughed at me under their breaths, and my teachers kept me after class on a regular basis, asking me what else I might consider majoring in.  I felt stupid and worthless and more sad than any of those people would have ever imagined, and I had never known that feeling to that extent.

But to be told that you are good, great, or maybe even phenomenal at something can ignite the same blaze of emotion within a person on the other end of the fuse.  There's a magic formula to it though: you have to believe it yourself, at least a little bit.

I knew I was bad at sight singing.  I knew it was something that I would most likely never be good at, and that was disheartening enough without it being confirmed by people who actually knew what they were talking about.  There's an episode of Friends wherein Ross makes a list about Rachel, whom he has always loved and who had just recently revealed feelings for him, and his most unfortunate current girlfriend Julie, who's nice enough that they've made the step of adopting a cat together; i.e. things have gotten serious.  The list is to help Ross decide whether or not to end his relationship with Julie and pursue Rachel.  On Rachel's side, things are listed like her selfishness, her chunky ankles, and her status as "just a waitress."  On Julie's side, only one quality: she's not Rachel.  The list, of course, falls into Rachel's hands (way to go, stupid Chandler) and she takes offense, which I used to never really understand.  I mean, by the time she reads it, Ross has already picked her.  He wants her, as he later explains, "in spite of" all those things, just because she's her.  Rachel counters that we all have these things, terrible things that we hate about ourselves that we kid ourselves into thinking sometimes that no one else notices - please, God, don't let them notice - and the moment that we realize that someone does, it can be devastating, especially if these things are being used as reasons to pass us over.

On the flip side, if you think you might be good at something or possess some quality that you think might be, just might be worthwhile and someone confirms that for you, it's like letting being let out of a cage, giving you the freedom to own that strength and do something with it.  It's empowering and enlightening and an extraordinary thing to do for a person. 

So, thank you, sincerely; and I only hope to pass it on.

Wake Up, Already...

Art scares me sometimes.  Inspiration can be quite frightening.  The urge to respond, to do something because of art can be overwhelming, especially if you're not sure that you're capable of the appropriate response.  If you're not sure that you can do enough, you wonder what's the point in trying, and when you begin to wonder that dangerous, annihilating little thought, well... You might get the urge, rather, to hibernate. 

I saw Spring Awakening on Broadway last night.  It was phenomenal.  Important.  Catchy.  All the good things that a musical should be.  Well, unless you feel theatre should be wholesome.  It was about as wholesome as a deep-fried Snickers bar.  But so good.  The theme that ran throughout was the driving desire that humans have to feel something, anything.  It's why we do anything that we do - sex, drugs, rock and roll.  Fight.  Run.  We want to feel our decisions, our impulses, our experiences running hot in our veins, not just washing over us like a lukewarm bath.  We want to feel, and yet... This civilization, this generation is plagued with a chronic boredom.  How, in an age of complete overstimulation, do we ever get bored?  So bored that feeling something seems so out of our grasp that we give up trying.  We start forgetting how badly we need to feel something.  Our lives cease to intoxicate us; they merely, instead, sedate us. 

I enjoyed the percussion in the show, of course.  It wasn't anything revolutionary or even particularly showy - in fact, it reminded me of jam sessions with friends in my past wherein we tried to breathe life and sincerity into the church music required of us.  I envied the drummer.  I know absolutely nothing of his life besides a short and clouded bio in the Playbill.  His life may or may not be a suitable trade, but for two and a half hours a day, five on weekends, I'd trade him.  I know what it is to feel when I'm in his shoes.  When I gaze into certain eyes, when I look out on particular expanses, when I turn up the volume and wail away, when art moves me to intoxication... I feel human in the best way.  For years, in the church, I was told that feeling human was precisely what we are to avoid at all costs.  Maybe that's good advice, within reason.  But when it drives you to hibernation, you have to wonder why we were made human in the first place if it was all such this tragic mistake that we were meant to run away from it, hiding.  This sort of sleep is not restful or useful. 

Evel Knievel, God rest his soul... He got it.  Some might call him a fool, but he felt things.  True, some of the feelings were bones breaking, but nonetheless... A lot of people out there could use the exhilaration of a good bone break. 

Or something better...

In Keeping With the Original Theme...

So, everyone at work yesterday starting making fun of me (in a friendly-enough way) about my overuse of the word "hey."  Apparently, I attach it to the front of nearly everyone's name, every question I ask, every statement I make.  Well, maybe not every one.  But, hey, it's enough that they started noticing. 

That, combined with one of several really good conversations I had at work yesterday, made me think more about how unknown I am here in New York.  There's one person here, who I live with, who knows me.  There are a few others who know a few facts.  But I was talking to a co-worker yesterday about how transparent we can be without even knowing it, and how what's going on inside our own heads can show on the outside much more than we figure sometimes.  I told her, "I feel like I come in here every day the same, with my game face on, such that no one can tell if I'm having a bad day or not.  But I'm sure I let my bad days show more often than I think."  Early on in my tenure here in NYC, I had a talk with my boss about how all of my employees think I'm "too nice," and how ironic that seemed considering that I don't think I've ever been told that in my life.  Composure has not always been my strongest suit, and I'm proud of the fact that I can now say that a longer, slower burning fuse has become one of my greatest assets. 

All that to say, I've come to a place where maybe I don't speak my mind as much, I don't hurt people's feelings as much, I'm even-keeled and can even border on "nice."  My co-workers don't notice things like, "Man, that Weedle is sure a jerk."  They notice things like me saying, "Hey, can you do me a favor?"

It all makes me wonder if I'm holding back or holding it all in, and if there might be a healthier balance?  It's not unlike the deconstruction of faith that I, along with many friends, find themselves buried in, working through.  You start with what you think is right, what you were dealt.  You start unraveling it until it's an unrecognizable lump.  Then you mold it back into...something. 

I think that too nice is my lump. 

A Question of Beverage Ethics...

I understand that enjoying a caffeinated treat at my place of employment can set you back a few bucks.  And I completely get that this is a luxury that not everyone can afford.  I mean, I know the economy is crap, everyone's on hard times, whatever. 

But my thing is - if you can't afford it, then just don't go.

That's right.  Don't go.  No one's going to notice that you don't have that special paper cup on your desk.  Tell your friends that are going that you're trying to cut back, or you have work to do, or that you're taking some political stand.  They'll think you're cool.  Or, hey, save up your change and go every once in a while.  That's how luxuries are supposed to be.  Heck, we'll let you hang out even if you don't buy anything.  Come by just to say hi.

But, please... Spare me from having to tear your face off when I see you do this: Order three shots of espresso (3 ounces of liquid) over ice in the largest cup (24 ounces) and then go to the condiment bar and fill your cup with free milk.  It's inconsiderate, not just to those of us who make our living making beverages so you don't have to do-it-yourself all sneaky-like, but it's also inconsiderate to the guy who actually paid for his coffee and just wants a little milk to top it off, but he can't, because you just wasted it all on your cheapskate DIY latte. 

Oh, and another thing.  Don't do it every single day, and don't offer to do the same for your friends.  It makes me want to puke.  And, let's just imagine that I ran across you doing this very despicable act just this week, and I made an off-hand comment about your cheap little trick, and you responded with some hubristic comment about it being cheap AND stronger this way.  Well, it's not stronger.  It's exactly the same.  It's just, well... Scroogey.  Tacky, even. 

So, this holiday season, as you come in from the cold, friends, and make the decision to spend some of your hard-earned cash on a little treat for yourself, know that you are appreciated.  You are investing in the lives of the fantastic kids that work behind these counters, in giving them a paycheck, providing health benefits, and boosting the stock that so many of them count on for future savings.  We love our customers; we really do.

But you, you know who you are.  You should be ashamed.  And as soon as I figure out a way to thwart your menacing ways, I will.  Mark my words. 

What would your mother think?

Facebook and MySpace and Typepad, Oh My!

So, I figured I could upload my pictures for the umpteenth time, or just do this...

Pics from the summer: http://okbu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2012047&l=e29bc&id=79802235

Pics from the fall: http://okbu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2016487&l=75c45&id=79802235

Enjoy!

Thanks, A Little Late...

Even though I wasn't particularly trying to, I woke up the other day feeling very grateful.  Actually, I didn't wake up from sleeping to this sense of gratitude; it just struck me, mid-day, out of the blue.  I was walking around in my store, putting away boxes or cleaning or doing some very ordinary task when it struck me just how very ordinary it all felt.  I am living in New York City, managing a store for a major corporation in a hectic business district, having moved away from home, truly away, for the first time in my life, paying New York rent and surviving in the center of the universe... And it's finally starting to feel ordinary, which, as I've known, is what I wanted all along.  I used to visit New York, hating being a tourist here yet longing to be here in just this very ordinary capacity.  I wanted this to feel like some sort of home.  I always felt like I belonged here, that is, until I actually moved here.  I then began feeling like I belonged anywhere else.  Until now.

Finally.  And for this, I am grateful.  I was beginning to wonder...

Too Much Information...

So, my boss loaned me a book.

I started reading it on the train home, and after dinner this evening, I thought about taking it with me to the powder room when I was anticipating a particularly long stay.  I asked my roommate if she thought my boss would think it weird to know where I'd be reading the book.  Her response?

"She probably did the same thing."

Ew.

You know, I don't need to know everything...

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

You know.

It's red cup week.  It's begun.  And I'm here to tell you, I don't believe in much of anything related to magic, superstition, or other hocus-pocus hooey.  I did believe in Santa Claus for an abnormal stretch of time.  And I toss spilled salt.  And I say "knock on wood" and actually do so.  OK, so I've got some quirks.  But seriously, compared to my mom, who, on New Year's rides around the house on a broomstick after standing on a chair eating seeded grapes to ensure travel and wealth... I'm not a hooey-swallower.  But these cups.  There's just something about them. 

I woke up today happy.  I didn't have a great week.  I was at work too much, and not because I was just having such a good time I couldn't tear myself away.  (I've had weeks like that, too, just not here.)  I didn't get enough sleep, and I think I still have a piece of glass in my finger that I acquired on Wednesday putting away some disgusting bottled peach tea that I don't even like.  (It hurts to type.)  Now, I didn't have the worst week ever, not even the worst week of anyone I know, certainly.  But it wasn't good enough to wake up as happy as I did today. 

Except for the red cups. 

And it's cold, finally.  I love sweaters and gloves and pink noses.  And trees here in NY don't go from luscious green to dead overnight, as they're known to do back in Okieland.  They're starting to turn lovely shades of golden amber and flaming red.  And they've put up THE tree, the big Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.  And I'm going to see the Rockettes next week in the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.  Anything referred to as a "spectacular" has a certain amount of promise, right?

And everywhere you look, there are red cups.  The Coffee Kingdom switched over this week, and it has served as a reminder that even on weeks when I have to do the worst parts of my job, there are still special parts of it that I love, love, love.  I think that I played along with the whole Santa thing for so long (long after stupid Travis Hartley ruined it for me, stupid boy...) because I loved the idea of waking up to the newness.  Santa brought all these new shiny things to unwrap and marvel at and play with, and I love new things.  Every year, we, like elves, decorate the stores overnight and trade out the boring, everyday white drabness with tinsel and garland and RED.  And this week, with this transformation, this job that has been such a drag since moving here felt new in a wonderfully familiar way.

Winter is often described as this season of hibernation, holing up and waiting for the bitter cold to give way to the promise of spring.  It's never felt that way to me.  I'm tempted to say something here about it actually being the most wonderful time of the year, but I'm afraid that all my normal, cynical friends might disown me for being disgustingly cheesy, so I'll refrain. 

But c'mon.  You go walk around New York City, drinking a peppermint mocha in a red cup and watching it all unfold and try to be glum.  Just give it a shot.  I mean, I even walked through Times Square today without cursing at a single disoriented tourist.

I'm telling you, they're magic...

It Was a Little Sad, For, Like, a Nanosecond...

A life has ended in Astoria.

After more than a month of terror, the life of Rico, my first New York apartment mouse, has come to a tragic end.  Well, not that tragic.  Not for me.  I mean, I'm sitting in the living room one night, and the little sucker up and walks right across the LIVING ROOM FLOOR.  In broad daylight.  Feet from my feet. 

Ballsy devil.

He's named Rico because when we moved in, there was a little name plate above the door buzzer that read "Rico."  We left it there for whatever reason.  It seemed fitting to use the name for the "other" roommate.  Pretty much worst roommate ever. 

The first time I saw him, he was hanging out in the burner on my stove.  Then in the sink.  Not to mention the little pooplets all over my kitchen cabinets.  As if I didn't have a hard enough time talking myself into cooking as it was.  Poop doesn't help matters.  Or give you much of an appetite.

I barely had the nerve to set the traps and clean up the first round of the poop trail.  Thus, Rico is lying in state in my cabinet under my kitchen sink.  I realize that that's pretty disgusting, but what am I supposed to do?  Touch him?  There's not a long enough pole in the world, forget ten feet.  (My dad suggested some long pliers.  Ha.  Funny stuff, Dad.)  So, I left a note for my hopefully compassionate super; I'm not sure if that's at all in his job description.  I also offered money plus train fare to one of the guys that works at my store to come all the way out here and get him.  He agreed.  Whoever gets here first.  Big winner.

Big winner.