floating

At this time next week I will be on a plane to California. I will have presumably been up all night finishing the last two academic papers I will ever write (assuming I never have to do jail time and attend mandatory classes). Julia will be in Ambien-ville next to me, mumbling incoherently about terrorism and asking me every half-hour or so if we're there yet. My attention will be split between Jet Blue's legendary personal TVs and trying to look out the window without nudging my drugged wife. Either way I'll feel delightedly light headed, from both the cabin pressure and having completed my master's. It feels like a month from now.

down with NYP

Last night our good friend and benefactor, Joe, took us to see John Williams conduct the New York Philharmonic at Lincoln Center in an evening in celebration of the film score. Normally I have a hard time enjoying classical music in large concert halls – it always feels like a celebration of wealth, and I and I can’t help but wonder how the music might come across in a low-lit club at 2AM after I’ve had a few. Although, that argument makes a lot more sense when discussing a string quartet than the monstrous posse of musical bad-ass-ness that is the NYP.

This night was special, though, because:

1. Martin Scorcese and Steven Spielberg were co-hosting the event and
2. Our seats were second row, center (prime foul-ball territory)

As soon as we sat down I realized we were in for a treat. Being that close to a world-class symphony (even when they’re just warming up) is incredible. Everyone plays their instrument as if it is merely an extension of their body, and they all look confident and slightly homely at the same time, which is not easy to pull off.

The first half of the program was presided over by Scorcese and featured the music of Bernard Hermann, who composed the music for Citizen Cane, Vertigo and Taxi Driver (all of which was performed), amongst other films. Occasionally a huge screen was lowered and Williams would conduct live to a clip of a film or a montage. Having sliced and gesticulated my way through two semesters of conducting in music school, I fully appreciate how difficult this must be. Scorcese was dignified and professorial. Despite looking even more like a cartoon character in person (he’s really short), he was the epitome of class and told a touching story about working with Hermann, who passed away the night he finished the music for Taxi Driver. As Scorcese would take his seat next to Williams before each piece, his back to the symphony, he would close his eyes and lean his head back so as to better listen.

Listening to a symphony from our vantage point, you really don’t have access to the natural acoustics of the hall and lose a liitle bit of the brass (both of which are fine by me), but instead you get to hear the natural sound of the strings, which is about as emotional as a listening experience can get. The musicians seemed to be enjoying themselves for the most part, which makes sense considering that they were playing relatively easy music, at least some of which had to resonate on a sentimental level.

The second half of the evening featured the largely celebrated collaboration between Spielberg and Williams. Spielberg took the podium and began: “Movies. [dramatic pause] Flashes of light on the screen…” and so on. He was funny and charming, but undeniably fascinated with himself (not that I can blame him). I felt like I was watching a friend’s dad go on a little too long during a Bar Mitzvah toast. But following the understated and reserved Scorcese must have been tough.

He redeemed himself soon after, by talking us through the opening sequence of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (the River Phoenix/bad guys chase scene) without music and then having the symphony play along with the same clip. It was a pretty convincing display of just how powerful music can be in a film. After that, they played music from Schindler’s List, Jaws and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. They closed by playing along to the entire closing sequence of E.T., which was incredible (Am I officially old, now that I get choked up by certain films from my childhood that I barely remember? Just wondering).

But the evening wasn’t over yet. In a move that would make any self-indulgent rock band proud they played THREE encores: some music from Munich (pretty, but an odd choice), the NBC Nightly News theme song (funny and familiar) and the theme from Star Wars, which brought the house down and had much of the string section grinning ear to ear.

This post should probably have included some hyperlinks and could have benefited from more editing, but it’s 1AM and I have miles to go before I sleep.

the new york doctor's office

I didn’t used to hate going to the doctor. I guess I never looked forward to it, but my current “issue” is a relatively new one. You see, I grew up in the suburbs, where doctor’s offices were immaculately clean and modern. They were staffed with well-groomed and coldly attractive receptionists who deftly operated multi-line phones and while entering data into spreadsheets. The waiting rooms always had the current issues of a variety of magazines and the temperature was always a little cold, which felt oddly comforting. All the doctor’s equipment and devices seemed to be the latest models – you just knew you were in good hands.

Having lived a few places since then, I’ve had some good doctors and some bad ones, but nothing has prepared me for the New York Doctor’s Office Experience. I just naturally assumed that New York would have the best doctor’s offices, in the same way that it has the best slice of pizza or the best hate crimes. But was I wrong.

A doctor’s office in New York is essentially an apartment. You have to be buzzed in, as if anyone would ever try to go to the doctor that doesn’t belong there. Maybe this is for people who don’t have insurance, I don’t know. The receptionist will remind you of your elementary school secretary or your great aunt. Her blouse will most likely be stained and her hair will be a color that only occurs in fruit. Looking around, you will actually wonder if you are in your great aunt’s apartment, as most of the furniture will be older than you. Taking a seat on a sagging couch that was once a brighter shade of lime, you will glance at the dusty end table to your right and see a dog-eared Time Magazine announcing Bill Clinton as “Man of the Year.” Reading about the dot com boom, you will try to ignore the sounds of the receptionist fumbling with the rotary dial phone.

Eventually you will be called into an examining room that would be perfectly adequate in a developing nation. Walls with chipped paint and a floor in need of a good sweeping might not be health hazards, but they are surely not comforting. Glancing around at the tools and equipment, you will start to panic (don’t get me wrong – I love old vinyl and certain fashion trends from the sixties, but I like my syringes and stethoscopes modern). At this point the doctor will come in, shake your hand and comment on your jumpiness and short breaths.

See, I’ve been having minor chest pain for the last couple of days, which is probably nothing, but regardless, I should have myself checked out. But I really, really don’t like going to the doctor. And don’t even get me started on hospitals. While I was writing this post I got a call from my current doctor’s office about the appointment I made for today. Apparently the doctor is home sick and I’ll have to reschedule. I don’t blame him.

a list of the ten worst coworkers or bosses I've ever had (in no particular order):

1. The guy who called in a bomb-threat so he wouldn't get in trouble for being late again.

2. The boss who ate the same lunch every day (one slice of bologna on wheat bread sans condiment) and whose catch phrase was “just to let you know.”

3. The guy who stole a potted plant from the lobby.

4. The 300-plus pound female cook from West Virginia who openly drank on the job and once grabbed my ass and exclaimed "now THIS is what I'm talkin' about" to the delight of all the waitresses (I was sixteen).

5. The guy who smelled like wet dog.

6. The boss who shamelessly referenced her husband's inability to find work as of late when asked about a previously promised raise (they owned a brownstone).

7. The semi-famous chef who sexually harassed the entire staff (regardless of race, gender or age) but didn't find it funny when I re-wrote his press-kit bio as if he were a sexual predator on the run.

8. The girl who bartered the company’s services for free drinks and appetizers from a bar around the corner while we were on the clock (that was awesome).

9. The creepy boss who looked like an albino frog, and would close his eyes and lean his head back while talking during our weekly "one on one" meetings.

10. The middle-aged woman with two kids who spent hours flicking rubber bands at me and sent me pornographic email (she was married to a cop).

gag order

An unseasonably cold and rainy Monday morning is hard enough to endure - the least I think I should be able to ask of my fellow subway passengers on this or any other morning is relative silence. That, however, was not in the cards today. Two women around my age got on my train at Bergen St. (the stop immediately after mine) and began talking. As is the case every morning, at the next stop, Jay St./Borough Hall, about half the people on the car got off, while the rest of us scrambled for seats. If you don't get a seat at this point, you're basically standing up for half an hour, so learning how to box out the elderly or less physically fit is crucial, as is avoiding eye contact.

While I settled into my seat (which a middle-aged woman with a big backpack may or may not have had her eyes on) the two women continued their conversation while taking the seats directly behind and next to me. I was now in the crossfire and spent the rest of my commute turning up the volume on my iPod, getting gently bumped by the elbow of the louder and more obnoxious of the two women and resisting the temptation to test the real life application of some of the choke holds I've learned in jiu-jitsu over the last year. In my mind I saw myself gently letting go of this woman as her unconscious head bobbed forward, announcing to my fellow passengers, "It's O.K., she'll regain consciousness in a minute without knowing what happened." as they burst into subdued applause.

But being the avoider of conflict that I am, the best I could muster was passive aggressive angry looks and sighs, none of which were acknowledged. But this got me thinking - in lieu of the recent additions to the subway rules, why not make it illegal to talk louder than a whisper between the hours of 6-10AM? Would anyone be opposed to this? It would even solve the awkward situation of running into someone in the morning on the train and having to endure forced conversation. You would simply whisper, "call me, let's get together" and that would be that.

I enjoy starting my day in silence. I don't even like talking to my wife in the morning, so there's just no way I can handle listening to "he's like almost fifty - that's old enough to be her father" or "for real, son, I'm saying, I was mad angry, yo" before I've had my coffee. It's bad enough commuting to Midtown East (Manhattan's most boring neighborhood) and watching all the remotely interesting looking people get off the train one by one.

I guess the obvious solution here is that I need to find a way to either work from home or become a freelance something (which is basically why I'm in grad school). It's either that or wind up a headline in the NY Post that someone carelessly leans into someone else's personal space to read on the train in the morning. I can see it now: "Commuter Committed" or "Nine to Fiver looking at Five to Ten".

first things first

I've been wanting to do this whole blog thing for quite some time, and now that it's been brought to my attention that this would be a good way to showcase my writing "ability" for potential freelance work - well, here it goes. Of course now I had to choose a name, which took all day on Thursday as I neglected my usual duties at work: reading assorted basketball and MMA (mixed martial arts) websites and hiding in the bathroom while playing games on my cell phone. The two best names I came up with (Jew Jitsu and Aggressively Passive) were already taken, and anything else I could think up didn’t seem to work. Conflict Averse doesn't exactly roll off the tongue and Fear of Violence sounds like some S&M dungeon thing. So I bothered assorted friends and family. My friend Fez recommended several borderline anti-Semitic ideas, the best of which, Jewkbox, was already taken. My cubicle-mate, Ileen, came up with Fein Whine, but the abbreviated version of my last name just feels a little too Third Reich for me. So I eventually settled on Guardedly Optimistic, which was a phrase I used once in a pep talk to Julia. She took it and used it for a short story title, and now I have taken it back. As Julia put it, "It's the only blog name you came up with that doesn't suck."

So I'm hoping to use this as a way to become a more disciplined writer (and figure out how to correctly use a comma along the way) and that maybe knowing that people (both of you) are reading what I write here will help me be more patient with my "real" writing and less likely to prematurely send it to people in the hopes that they'll tell me how funny I am. I can't help it - I'm a praise junkie. Praise Junkie, that's a good blog name.