| august | Useless Is Just Something Beginning With
You
August 12 9:25 PM Currently Playing: Duran Duran, "I Take The Dice" Kind of funny: Though I don't hold out much hope for finding Mr. Right (assuming such animal exists) on an Internet site, I've dipped in and out of one for a while now. Today, turned out there was some guy with major 80s new wave music nostalgia there today, so I sent him an email. We're now corresponding about the coolness of Duran Duran and Psychedelic Furs. There's a lot of common ground to cover, assuming he's interested enough to just send more than one reciprocal email. We'll see. So, in honor of the occasion, Duran is on. Apparently they've re-formed for an upcoming album (and by "re-form," I mean all of the band, not just Simon and Nick) and will be touring. I am so there. Feeling a bit, well, useless these days. When you define a lot of yourself on your job, and the job changes or shrinks or alters in some way, things can get a little fuzzy. There's not much Work work (as in, work from the job that pays my salary) and at the moment, my editor at the Reporter has been too busy (most likely true) and hasn't called in a while. But there's an upcoming event I always contribute articles to, and we should have gotten assignments by now, so I'm both not distracted (that is, reading into things) and non-assigned. It's frustrating. I have, however, sent out clips and so forth to two more possible freelance places: Moviemaker (a magazine) and Zap2It.com (an Internet site, due). The Moviemaker people may be interested, so we'll see. I really have to keep freelancing. I need to be useful. I need to feel I have a career. That I'm good at something. The only real bright spot is my French author friend Marc has contacted me about doing writing on HBO's The Wire and about soaps for an upcoming book about American television, to be published in France. His publisher also publishes real fiction, so I'm looking for a way in there. It is tres amusing that I am published in a language I can't read (I contributed to Marc's last book on American TV). And I did manage to squeeze an assignment out of the Boston Phoenix, after many years of not doing anything with them: Alternative Press had connected me with this guy Josh Frank, who's making staged musicals based on the band histories of The Pixies and the Modern Lovers. I focused on the Pixies for AP, and got a quote from Frank Black about what he thought; realizing these are Boston bands I knew the Phoenix should bite, and they did. So I called Josh again. We talked, and I asked if he might have a contact for Jonathan Richman (my old long lost friend Pete would shit his pants at this point). He put me in touch with a guy named Joe Harvard (not his real name, duh), a longtime Boston muso now based in Asbury, NJ. (And that's rather understating it all: He was in on Fort Apache very early on; looks like he helped start up the Middle East, and so on, all things which mean something to local Bostonians and not a hell of a lot elsewhere.) He's got a web page with all sorts of recollections on it. We had a fabulous long discussion about Boston and the scene and I think he got the impression I knew more than I really did about the whole thing, but I let him go on, because he was funny and interesting. At the end of it, he decided I was a mensch and gave me all sorts of tips about talking with Jonathan for the record (JR is apparently freakish about being quoted properly; he hates anyone assuming anything about his quotes and prefers not to be interviewed than misquoted -- and apparently JR also loves really bad puns), then gave me JR's number. I called, got the wife, got Jonathan. (Here, Pete would die of a fatal aneurysm.) Jonathan would have been a very lively interview subject except he knew basically nothing about the musical except to know that it was happening, and asked for details. Rather than try to describe it myself, I read him some of Josh's statements and he weirded out: "Ah, if I knew this was about all of the Lovers I would have told him to contact them...." and so forth. Anyway, it was an unsual conversation. No quotes. He had to talk to Josh. I left a message again today after Josh called me following that chat. We'll see if Mr. R. calls me or not. So this all sounds very exciting and interesting, but it doesn't quite engage the ever-active brain cells for every hour of the day. I need more writing. Must ... write ... feel ... talent (such as it is) ... atrophying ... Got a call from a market research company tonight. Recently I agreed to participate in occasional MR via phone on what music I'm listening to (they seem disappointed I'm not fully into Blink 102.7 or WPLJ and that I prefer NPR, but took me on anyway) because I like to screw with the results. The thing is, I bet most people are doing this, which proves MR is a crock. Which I knew. Anyway, now I get called for this stuff, and tonight a guy with a super-heavy accent who had a hard time deviating from the script wanted to ask me about what grocery stores I go to. I think I screwed unintentionally with those results. They had questions like: "What do you think of the deli counter at your store, on a scale of 1 to 5?" And I had to say (a few times; he didn't seem to get it), "I don't eat deli." Same for "meat and poultry." What they never got around to asking was "how do you feel about the lack of individuals roaming the store to help you locate products who can speak English?" Or "How do you feel about the fact that there is about a foot of space between the cash register line and the end of the aisles?" or "Do you like that little water sprayer that sprinkles the lettuce?" (I do, actually.) Those, I could have given essay answers on. As I say, MR is a crock.
Darkness Falls August 15 9:34 PM Currently Playing: Pet Shop Boys "How Can You Expect To Be Taken Seriously (Classical Mix)" August 14 started out pretty good. Our good buddies Duran Duran have apparently scheduled a gig for August 27 at Webster Hall in NYC, a gig which, despite going on in 12 days, has not sold any tickets I can find out about, and simply reeks of industry special people. I may need to lie a bit and pull some strings. This must be done. Then, as I was being given instruction on how to put articles up on the work website by the gal who's now got the luckless job of covering my former show, the Internet connection failed. Then I got a call from the Managing Editor of our sister publication, asking if we were having trouble getting on the Internet. Then the lights in my office flickered. Then they died. And then, so did the power in the whole city. And most of the Northeastern seaboard. It was just shy of quarter-past four. It's funny how information gets disseminated. Everyone immediately leaves their offices to see: "Is it just me?" And that becomes "It's also the 9th floor." And "It's all of Madison Avenue." And the truly weird: "It's all of the city." And the impossible: "It's the whole Eastern Seaboard." A glance out the window: People are outside, on roofs, on balconies. The traffic lights are out. The streets are emptying of cars, filling with people. Our minds all begin to work as one hive: Is it bad? How bad? How long? Can we go home? Should we go home? How are we getting home? Our mail guy told us if we wanted to leave, we had to take Stairwell C; that's where the emergency lighting was. I asked the Princess if we could go and she seemed truly astounded I would ask -- by now it was 4:30, and I leave at 5 normally. "Why?" she asked. Well, without phones, computers or, pretty soon, cooled air, I couldn't think of a single reason to stay. Cell phones were brought out; most didn't work. I found the small AA-powered radio I keep in my office; it was working but reception was bad and most of the stations didn't seem to know what was happening yet. NPR was operating on phone lines, their backup generator having also failed. Finally, after a confab with the Head Cheese, the word was given: You can go home. I assembled: Carry cup with lid, straw and fresh cold water. AA-powered radio. Dirty dishes from lunch. Threw the backpack on, wished I'd worn sneakers but figured what I had on -- sandals -- was better than heels, and headed down ten flights with one of the art directors. On the street, already filling with people who have more or less one plan in mind: flight. My thoughts were back in 1977, with an incident I only remember from the cover of Time magazine; the chaos that ensued when NYC hit darkness with no power and the looting began. I had no plans on sticking around that long. Jackson Heights was easily 5 miles from where I worked -- 38th Street to the 59th Street Bridge, then up Northern Blvd. approximately 50-70 blocks -- so the only thing to do was walk. I wasn't sorry I was alone -- at least, alone in the throngs.
It meant I could weave through the growing crowds heading more or less
in one direction, or clogging the gutters waiting for buses. At first I
considered getting a bus I knew would drop me off within blocks of home,
but as soon as I saw one or two go by packed to the gills like the buses
in India (sans the people hanging out windows, of course), I gave up and
figured I might try a Queens bus once I was on the other side of the bridge. I just followed the crowd to the upper deck. Unseen authority
voices seemed to indicate we shouldn't go that way, but it was too late
-- I wasn't doubling back to join the really big crowds on the lower deck.
A mass of us took up one lane on the bridge while cars and the occasional
van drove by. I nearly clambered into the back of one -- it had stopped
and a few people flocked to the driver: "Queens? Queens?" And in they went.
I wouldn't have fit, but I wasn't ready to be locked in kneecap to kneecap
with strangers. The bridge was pretty cool -- clearly needs a paint job
-- and the view was nice. The sun wasn't too bad, just relentless. I fell
into step with a 30-something French woman named Sylvia who lived way out
there, past Jamaica, and she was also walking. I offered water and a stop
off if she was still with me when we got to Jackson Heights. We realized our mistake in taking the upper roadway when the off ramp curved off to the south, then forked. She took the Western fork, which would have brought me too far south, and I continued on the off-ramp with a young man whose name I never got. At the bottom of the off-ramp we passed by Silvercup Studios (where they film most of the HBO series) and saw a bus ahead. Not too full. 19A. I could have sworn 19A literally went by my apartment. (It doesn't; that's 19B, but I was close.) So we ran for the bus, which we learned would go to Ditmars and drive by my old place of residence -- and end up on 82nd, near the airport, a walkable distance home, and infinitely better than the expected 50 to 70 blocks otherwise. From there, it wasn't a bad walk and I got home -- about 2 and a half hours after I'd left work. When I left, around 4:30, I figured if I got home by 7 that wouldn't be too bad, and I got in about 6:45. There's something about semi-apocalyptic situations that gets me moving. I've read so many stories and kept in the back of my head for so long that things can just go to pot at any minute that when it comes down to it, it never seems surprising! This was hardly the equivalent of 9/11 or even something much worse; yet, it did require a certain mindset. I later heard that Head Cheese's assistant, who lives in Brooklyn, didn't get home until 1am. My walk was far easier than that. And it was neat seeing parts of Queens I'd never seen, getting a lay of the land. After disembarking from the bus I walked through several working-class neighborhoods, and people were sitting outside, sucking popsicles, wading in their rubber pools, firing up grills. I must have looked hungrily at a kid who was playing with a water hose; the mom asked if I needed water and I said I was fine (I was. Having the presence of mind to bring that water from work was true genius). Once I got to Northern Blvd. the absence of traffic lights was more daunting, but every other intersection or so civilians (or maybe off-duty cops) with large yellow "X" marks made from tape on their shirts were directing traffic. I told the one who helped me cross "Thanks." I guess I could have offered to get him a soda, but it was too late. Many shops were already closed, and people were lingering just out front of bars, cafes and some bodegas. I beelined home and realized there was pretty much shit all to do there. It's funny how when things go dark and you can't change it except to light a few candles how your options narrow. I set up candles and went through the free Times I'd gotten that morning, walked the dog (who hates steps and hates dark hallways, the latter of which I can understand) and listened to NPR. I got my neighbor-who-works-at-the-sister-publication's number from information and called (I figured that was less spooky than knocking on her door) and the managing editor, who lives in Westchester, answered. She was staying over. We agreed to share information in the morning -- neither of us knew if we'd be working the next day, and their magazine had never closed out, so they were even in a more dire situation. Fridays were quiet for us, since we closed on Wednesdays -- but for her magazine, they might not even be able to come out. Bloomberg said he was expecting lights would be on "within the hour" when I finally conked out around 11. I left on the window fan in case it happened while I slept.
I woke up with the alarm and ... it wasn't on. So today was pretty abysmal. I had an 8pm flight home to DC, since Buddie isn't doing so hot, and while things looked OK in the morning, they cancelled by 3pm. The office never opened, so we had a "free" day, but free to do what? The dog-sitter picked up the dog in the morning; after the cancellation, she brought her home. I went out foraging for anything cold, although the fridge was doing an okay job with most of the food and water, then came back. Read several hundred pages of Stephen King's Rose Madder. Slept. More than once. Showered. Read some more. Got up to take a second shower around 5, stepped out and -- the fan was on. Hallelujah! It really wasn't too bad, overall. I'm not surprised at the snide reaction from lesser-developed countries (including the ones we've invaded yet been unable to "develop" since fighting ceased). I'm amused that we were shouting Blame Canada! while the Canadian prime minister sniped that Americans never take responsibility. I'm fascinated at the way it's played in the press -- how civilized we New Yorkers were in the face of this crisis, how kind everyone was to each other. I'm not saying that wasn't how it went -- I barely saw my own neighborhood, but didn't see a lot of that here -- but it is interesting to be in the story and then hear the story portrayed elsewhere. I say, want to see how civilized we are, deprive us for more than a day. Then the adventure becomes life, and the fun goes all the way out of it. But for a day? I can handle it. It's also nice to see who checked in, and who didn't. If I'd had phone numbers for the right people, I'd have called Cheryl and the Cute Adam Schlesinger Clone, but I didn't. So here we are. I signed on to get email and it appears my editor/friend at the Reporter is leaving. Not a surprise, but it leaves me even further adrift. I always worry when one of them leaves -- the shelf life doesn't seem long -- because I worry the new one won't ever give me anything to do. And I swear I'll really want to throw myself off that 59th Street bridge if that goes away within weeks of the whole "real job" adjustment. A friend told me this all could be the sign that it's time to make major changes, either slowly or abruptly. But I just feel stuck, and subject to everyone else's whims. Not unlike the power outage. Nothing you can do, sometimes, except put one foot in front of the other. Better photos from the incident here.
Darkness Falls
Hey, cool, the gay couple won The Amazing Race! In your face, you homophobes. On an unrelated but perhaps not so much so note, how much would you pay for tickets to see your high school crushes play again in a small theater on a Wednesday evening? Well, here's a formula for you: It's four times as much as I expected to pay, yet half as much as I was ultimately willing to pay. More soon. Next. Ticketmaster sucks rocks. Which I think we already knew, but it's a monopoly if you want to get tickets for most shows, and so, there you go. I got myself on the Duran Duran mailing list via the Web site, I got the "secret password" to be able to get tickets the day before the general public, I had a T-1 line at work, I was ready at 10am, I had my account info in the system, I put in for 2 tickets (hell, I could sell the extra or get Actor Boy to come), I went through the hoops to get to the final page where it says "charge your card" and -- noticed that there was no price on the tickets. The whole charge, allegedly, was for $12 or so, the amount of the gouging fee Ticketmaster was inflicting on me. I was afraid: If I bought now, would it be declared invalid? I tried a second window, holding the old one open, and finally went back and clicked "charge." And nothing happened. I got an error message. And for the next 15 minutes, that's all that happened. Finally, it came up on the Duran site: The system had crashed. Then, the system was coming up in 5 minutes. Then, it was over. This went up on the Duran site: "Tickets for Duran Duran at "The Ritz" at Webster Hall sold out in TWOThen, this came in the mail from the Duran people that night: From: Duran Duran
When no one had called by midday yesterday, I thought, I bet I'm getting shut out again. And I went to Ebay. Yup, people were selling tickets for $400. Just the tickets! And then -- there was one guy who had "Buy It Now" for only $200. Plus FedEx of $12. Yeah, you know I went there. This is officially the most I've ever spent on a concert ticket. But I'm so psyched I can't stand it. Now I just have to squeeze in amongst a million other psyched Durannies and get a good spot to stand and I'm set. This makes me anxious. The show's at 8; the doors (I think) are at 7. I need to be there by 6. We shall see. This, of course, assumes the guy sends the tickets. He's got a really good high rating on Ebay, so I feel confident, but his email said he'd be sending them Fed Ex on MONDAY. It's THURSDAY. Hello? I asked if he could send them tomorrow for delivery Monday, and so far, no reply. Talk about your close shaves -- I won't know until Tuesday if I'm getting screwed, or getting excited. The good news is I get out of work a little early; the Princess understands such things. In totally unrelated news, the Evil Publicist of The Show I Once Covered reaches from the grave: David Fumero is leaving the show. She promises us that if we don't publish the information for one week, he'll give us an exclusive interview. Cool. So today, she rescinds the interview request -- requiring us to remake two pages at 4:30 the day after we close the news section because now we have to put the news story in -- and says he's annoyed at something I wrote that made him look stupid, so he's not talking. Bitch! Howling bitch! It rankled, so I went back to my notes: I haven't had an interview with him from which things were published since October of 2001. I know he told me he liked that article. And I know we've talked -- though not for print -- since. We haven't even done a cute little item on him. (He's not all that interesting.) I presented this to the Princess (who wasn't being judgmental, but these things bother me) and she and the new show editor reminded me that Evil Publicist probably just made that part up to cover her ass -- because she hadn't checked with the actor first. I need hexing power. That woman needs to be taught a lesson. And in other utterly otherwise unrelated news, the reason the Reporter has been a little sluggish is my editor is leaving. Minju is cool and based here in NY, but really wants to move on. The excellent news is that she's recommended me to her bosses to take her place. And when I spoke to Head Cheese in L.A. I asked if I could send a resume in and she told me to go ahead. (She also said she was editing a piece that "I wish to God I'd assigned to you," which is awesome; on the other hand, the conversation went on for 30 seconds longer than it should have and I got this whole "why am I still on with you?" vibe that Minju says is totally typical. Head Cheese at my current gig is like that; she has a weird eye-rolling thing she does which I think is not intended to be literal eye-rolling, yet comes across as very off-putting.) So I'm crossing fingers there. The longer I do the current job, the less savory it is. Not because of the people on the job, but the whole thing has gotten stale. Anyway, Minju, in her final weeks, has assigned me a few pieces -- and I need the cash! -- so the other day I actually interviewed Glenn Close, which was cool: When I was 16 I went on a date with a cutie named Ben to see Jagged Edge and was genuinely spooked when the killer put his hand through a window to get to the doorknob towards the end. That was before we all "expected" a false ending. Close is kind of the queen of false endings: Witness Fatal Attraction. Anyway, it was for a short piece about her getting a Gotham Award, so we didn't get into really deep matter ... but that's probably for the best: She wasn't terribly fascinating, and had an odd truly over-the-top manner that made me wonder if she hadn't had a drink or two. That ought to make her role in the remake of The Stepford Wives interesting. And I go home to Maryland for the weekend tomorrow!
Vroom Vroom
Doing some catch up, slowly..... Did this last weekend. Then came Mars day. It is apparently a very big deal when the fourth planet from the sun is closer to earth than it'll be for another 60,000 years or something, so you couldn't swing a dead cat without hearing how momentous this was. And if I'd had a telescope and/or a clear sky (the city sucks for celestial observations), I'd probably have been more wowed. As it was, I just made note that Wednesday the 28th was quite the Major Events Day: I had an interview for a new gig (will not say more to avoid any jinxing, at least for now) which I felt went rather well. And then:
My Ebay purchase arrived! I left work before 6! I stood
in line for an hour with a nice Scottish chick named Fiona and a heavyset
guy named Chris or Dave! The band came out one hour and forty minutes after
the announced start time! They were hot,
hot, hot.
And about 4 minutes after they started, I was hot, hot,
hot. Sweatin' to the oldies, I tell you. I ended up standing next to the
big guy who'd been in line with me and I just jumped around and screamed
and sang the lyrics and acted like a total goon for the entire show. I
went ballistic when "Is There Something I Should Know" came on, re-discovered
that "Notorious" is a great song, wove my hands around mystically during
"Ordinary World" and filled in the live-patter from Arena during
"Planet Earth" and "Girls On Film" ("That means money, honey!") And boy,
did Simon look great. He tends towards pudgy and with dark hair that's
just rather unappealing; here, he had his pecs done up right and was blonde
and seemed even a little tan. And what a little bunch of poseur entertainers
they still are: Simon came on stage to truly ear-splitting screams and
stood there before everyone with no expression for at least a full minute,
as if drinking it all in again.
And as per usual at these general admissions shows, I was surrounded by idiots. Don't come near me if you ain't dancin', you little poseur audience members. I will bump you. You will be in the way. And don't come to the damn concert if you're going to use your cell phone during it and hold it up to whoever is on the other line. Or, if you're going to do that, get in the damn back. All I can say is, get out of the way. I'm dancin' here. For posterity, the set list: Friends of Mine
Which, by the way, was pasted on Simon's shirt when he came back from the break -- a long-sleeved black shirt with the set list on it. How rockin' was that? Apparently someone said "Reflex" was on it while "White Lines" was not; other than that, all I can say is I want that T-shirt! Joelle, the copy editor at the mag who also went, says she heard it was part of a backstage goody bag. Rats. What a night! I wore heels to be able to stand above others' heads and while the feet did pretty good, I was pretty wrecked for at least two more days after that. But no rest: my friend from high school, Lynda came to visit Friday afternoon for the weekend. She wanted to do two things: Walk the Brookly Bridge and visit Coney Island. We did both (and got fairly damp in the process). Here's that whole story. As August comes to a close.... |
So
I started walking. Sipping. Heading to the bridge. I'd never walked over
any bridges from Manhattan to Queens or the other way around.
We
agreed that 
