fight for your right to review

Too busy lately to post as much, but complements of Ileen, here's a great article. I think this guy's on to something. I'd love to fight Tarantino. If he tried any of that Kill Bill stuff on me I'd just take him down and choke him out.

attention screenwriters, novelists, etc.

If ever a real life story begged for a "based on a true story" adaptation, surely it is that of "Lightning" Lee Murray.

blue belt

Last night I finally got my blue belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I’ve been training for fifteen months, or eight, minus time off for injuries. Lately in class I’ve been peripherally noticing when Renzo (who’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met) comes in, since he’s the one that hands out all the belts – I knew I was due. I hadn’t been to class in a week, and it showed. Now that I’m training in higher level classes, it’s harder when you miss time – you get gassed much more quickly. Also, the classes are an hour and a half instead of an hour, with a lot more sparring. Oh yeah, and there’s no air-conditioning in the gym.

Early on in class, I took down my friend Brody, which knocked the wind out of him. While he was getting a drink of water, he mentioned something to Igor and Rolles (both of whom are Gracies and instructors) about how I was throwing him around, I guess, and they gave me a thumbs-up.

Towards the end of class I was absolutely drenched in sweat and breathing heavy. My friend Kris (who accidentally bruised my ribs about a year ago) and I were going half-speed, just waiting for class to end. With about five minutes left, Igor comes over and has Kris get up to start working with someone else, and then gets down on the mat with me. Right away I knew that this was my test. Somehow I summoned the strength to defend myself until the end of class, while he toyed with me in the same manner that a cat does with a dying bug. When we finished I realized that a lot of people had stopped to watch.

After class, Renzo gave out three blue belts, one of them to me. As is the custom, he shook my hand and smacked me on the back with the belt, and then I got hugs from all the black belts. Surprisingly, he remembered that I had been hurt in a tournament last year and mentioned how pissed he was that I got screwed over by having to fight more fights than the guy that beat me (and nearly ripped my arm off at the elbow). Afterwards, all of my classmates came up to congratulate me. Having watched and congratulated many of my friends after getting their blue belts, it was a pretty cool feeling. Today I feel like I was beaten in alley last night.

recommended album of the week

Artist: Jimmy McGriff
Album: Greatest Hits
Available on: iTunes, Amazon
Listen to when: You’re the lead character in a film and things are finally starting to look up.

I usually can’t stand greatest hits albums. Maybe I’m a music snob, but I think throwing together songs by an artist that were recorded in different settings, with different musicians and engineers with seemingly no regard to what the listening experience will be like is a crime. Here I make an exception, though – this is a damn good album. More importantly, as my father always notes, organ-jazz is a genre plagued with some downright awful repertoire (cheesy covers, sappy ballads, Christmas music, etc.), so it’s really tough to find albums that are good all the way through. Jimmy Smith, the undisputed king of the Hammond B3, put out an astounding amount of schlock, and even his best albums usually have a song or two that make you wince.

Jimmy McGriff’s sound is a little dirtier than Smith’s, and his music is enjoyably more down-home and soulful. This doesn’t feel like a greatest hits album – his sounds is distinct and consistent, and the sidemen are mostly there to complement him. Every cut on the album grooves hard. It’ll make you want to keep driving or get up and dance or go out and get you a job. Everything’s gonna be O.K. – let Uncle Jimmy take care of you.

david and spiderman

Our downstairs neighbor, David, is a good guy. He likes to sit on the front stoop in the evening and drink a beer or read the paper. Over the last year I’ve gotten to know him about as well as you can know anyone through casual, neighborly conversation. At first I mistook his tone and Ivy League pedigree for snobbishness, but I can now say that he’s a genuinely nice person (and probably a little lonely). We always talk about getting together and having a drink, but it never seems to materialize. David works as an art director for major motion pictures – an incredibly demanding and stressful job. At times there are up to two-hundred people working under him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to get off on that sort of control, though. He’d always much rather ask what I’ve been up to lately than talk about himself. When I can get him to tell stories, he does so in the same matter of fact manner that someone who worked in a bank or a corporate office might. It’s always refreshing to meet someone successful who has maintained their modesty, especially in the arts.

Right now, David’s working on Spiderman III, which is filming in New York. Last week I stopped and talked with him for a while and he told me about the shoot they’d been working on in Chinatown. For six straight fourteen-plus hour days, a massive crew shot a scene that will be on camera for a total of less than three minutes. As much respect as I have for him and anyone that works in the field, nothing could be less artistically appealing to me. Needing so many people to do the same thing over and over again would just suck the life out of it for me. I can barely handle playing in a band – the thought of working creatively with that many people is horrifying. Way too many cooks in that kitchen.

Last night they were shooting a scene just around the corner from us (apparently one of the perks of being an art director is that you can shoot in your own neighborhood). During the day they blocked off many of streets in the neighborhood while they set up. In the afternoon, Julia and I saw David outside the Cobble Hill Cinema, which was in the middle of being transformed into Stuyvesant Town Cinema. Although David was in the middle of giving someone instructions, he took the time to say hello and invited us to come back at night to watch them filming.

I stopped by the set before and after meeting my old friend, Gabe, for dinner. It was quite a spectacle – there was a huge neighborhood crowd, many of whom were helping themselves to the crew’s buffet table. The amount of lighting and assorted machinery was staggering – there had to be at least twenty trucks full of gear, taking up parking all over the neighborhood. I think I walked past the SUV that Tobey Maguire had just gotten into, because it was surrounded by screaming teenagers trying to take pictures before it sped off. There was a huge smoke machine, pumping continuously, and people talking into headsets hurrying in every direction. I didn’t see David, but I’m sure he was in the middle of the chaos, just doing his job.

trying

I have a hard time with plays. A few months ago we saw Doubt, with second row seats (complements of our benefactor, Joe), which was excellent, but other than that, I couldn’t remember the last time I really enjoyed a play. Up until this weekend, that is. We went up to Hartford, CT to see our friend Lena in Trying, which was fantastic.

The two-person play is about the generational/personality conflict between an aging and difficult former Attorney General and the young, earnest Canadian secretary who has the unenviable job of assisting him with his daily affairs. Lena played the Saskatchewanian secretary (say that five times fast) and did an incredible job. Playing opposite her (in the role based on Francis Biddle) was Michael McGuire, who was simply amazing. With believable dialogue and an incredibly life-like set (minimal stage settings just don’t do it for me), everything felt very real. At no point during the show did I have to force myself to concentrate – a play-going first for me. Even a shocking amount of audible flatulence from a crowd with an average age of seventy couldn’t sway my attention.

Knowing firsthand how difficult forging a career in the arts can be, Julia and I are very proud of Lena for her perseverance and refusal over the years to become another bitter actor in New York. Julia, having grown up with Lena, was understandably emotional after the show.

With success comes trying times as well – Lena is stuck in Hartford (the poor man’s Worcester) all summer. The Playhouse is only a couple of blocks from the apartment building they’re putting her up in, but due to all the shady characters that roam around the city, she has to get a ride home at night. The poster from the show (and Lena's smiling face) hangs in almost every storefront and restaurant window in town, which freaks her out (we got a kick out of it).

So if you’re in Hartford over the next month or so (maybe you’re in the market for a stolen car or have tickets to a WWE event at the Hartford Civic Center), you should definitely go see the show. It’s not like there’s anything else to do.

ding ding

A few friends of mine train Muay Thai kickboxing at the Church Street Boxing Gym. On Friday night they took me uptown to see some fights put on by the gym. The last time I saw live boxing was a memorable experience: my father took me to see an up and coming Riddick Bowe fight journeyman Elijah Tillery at the old D.C. Convention Center. The fight ended abruptly when a round went about a minute long (for some inexplicable reason), and the fighters kept throwing after the bell. Tillery kicked Bowe twice before being flipped over the ropes by Bowe’s volatile manager, Rock Newman. He landed on a ringside table, was knocked unconscious and wound up permanently injuring a woman sitting at the table who would go on to work for my mother ten years later. There was a rush toward the ring from within the raucous, general admission crowd and a brawl started soon after. While my father whisked me away to safety, someone was shot and killed outside. It was a long time before they allowed professional boxing in D.C. again.

There were no brawls or shootings on Friday, but the evening was entertaining nonetheless. I can’t imagine there being a more testosterone-infused crowd than the one that comes out for boxing/kickboxing. There is a lot of chanting and yelling, hip-hop blasting between rounds and fights, and ring girls showered with catcalls. The only thing missing was scraps of raw meat thrown out to the audience. They did have hot dogs, though. And beer, of course.

I briefly considered wearing my Renzo Gracie Jiu-Jitsu shirt before realizing that this was an idea with more negative than positive potential. I probably would have been fine, but without the anonymity that I usually enjoy. There was a large contingency of Extreme Jiu-Jitsu loyalists, who my friend Ryan referred to as the Kobra Kai of the local Muay Thai scene. When one of their own was in the ring, they all chanted "Ex-treme! Ex-treme!" while crossing their arms in X-formation.

The event was held in the huge basement of a church, because that’s a perfectly appropriate place for people to beat each other in front of a rowdy crowd. I guess there’s always someone on hand to give last rights, if necessary. The room, while sufficient in size and layout, lacked air conditioning, making it an almost unbearable place to stand shoulder to shoulder with bloodthirsty fans. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for the fighters, many of whom gassed after only a round.

The fights were entertaining for the most part, but why anyone would present boxing and kickboxing on the same card is beyond me. Kickboxing, with its knees, kicks and lack of referee intervention simply blows boxing out of the water. Five years from now, when the UFC has fully eclipsed boxing and is finally receiving favorable mainstream media coverage, this will be one of the main reasons. One of the few Muay Thai fights ended via vicious knockout from a head kick that left the recipient needing medical attention and the crowd wanting more. There were several competitive fights, including two women’s boxing matches, one of which involved a woman so furious with her corner-man for throwing in the towel that I thought she was going to hit him. The main event featured my friends’ coach who, after entering to the theme music from Conan The Barbarian in traditional Muay Thai attire, quickly dispatched of an overwhelmed opponent with a series of brutal knees.

After saying goodnight to my friends, I headed out, sweat-soaked, into the night. Manhattan air had never felt so refreshing. I was glad I went, though, and plan on doing it again, but only for a full night of Muay Thai. One of my favorite things about living in New York is the incomprehensibility of all that’s going on. On any given night you can walk by a church without realizing that hundreds of people are watching two combatants pummel each other in the basement. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

recommended album of the week

Artist: Eliades Ochoa
Album: Sublime Illusion
Available on: iTunes, Amazon
Listen to when: Driving, Entertaining, Drinking

This got lost in the wash of post-Buena Vista Social Club albums, but in my opinion, it’s the gem of the lot - much better than the Buena Vista album. Ochoa is a traditional Cuban acoustic guitarist and singer and this album is Cuban son at its finest. The coros (choruses) are catchy and the groove is always there, but never overpowering. There is no piano, which frees up Ochoa’s guitar to play the montunos (repeated, syncopated phrases typical to Cuban music, traditionally played by the piano) while his raspy voice floats over the lush accompaniment. The album is beautifully recorded – a rarity for good son albums, most of which are either rough, older recordings or polished new releases with blaring, overwritten horn-lines. Enough music talk, here’s what you need to know: every time I play this when people are over they ask me what it is. This would be one of ten albums I’d bring to a desert island. Buy it. Put it on. Have a drink.

memorable running experiences

Year: 1987
Place: Rockville, MD
Distance: 3.2 Miles

The first race I ever won. I was either the second or third best runner on the cross-country team, but Peter Goyer (a tall, lanky boy nicknamed "Big Mac"), who was the top guy, wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t realize I was winning until about halfway through. This was also the first race my dad ever saw me run. After I won, my brother, who was about three feet tall at the time, ran in circles around me from excitement. I now considered myself a runner.

Year: 1992
Place: Potomac, MD
Distance: .25 Miles

Having endured a junior high/early high school running career marred by injuries and poor practice habits (I hated running then, actually), I was at a new school and decided to give it another go. After a few weeks of practice with the track team, I was chosen to run the half-mile in a meet. Warming up I felt a tightness in my hip, which I chalked up to nerves. After the first of two laps, a jarring stretching sensation shot down my leg, followed by a popping sound. I collapsed to the track in pain. My coach came over and asked me if I could finish the race - I guess the team needed the points or something. After standing up, I collapsed again. Later that night at the hospital, I found out I had an avulsion fracture of the hip. After missing a week of school, I came back walking with a cane. That day the Rodney King verdict was announced and, in protest, students pulled the fire alarms in almost every period. The school had no elevators, so I had to walk up and down the stairs in excruciating pain all day. To this day, whenever I hear the name Rodney King I wince.

Year: 1994
Place: Georgetown, Washington, DC
Distance: 50 yards

I was working at Urban Outfitters and enjoying the never-ending staff social scene that it provided. I left a party at an assistant manager’s house a couple of blocks away from the store, walking to my car around midnight. After crossing over Wisconsin Avenue I saw two guys approaching me with their sweatshirt hoods pulled down. I knew what was about to happen but it was too late to do anything. One of them flashed a gun and the other asked for my wallet. I only had one dollar on me, which I told them as I handed my wallet over, and asked them if they wanted the beer I was carrying. "You lyin', nigga," was the response as they walked off. Seconds later, having realized that I was in fact not lying and that there were no credit cards in the wallet, they turned around and yelled back at me, probably wanting to shake me down. But it was too late – I was already running, faster than I ever had before, to my car.

Year: 1997
Place: Boston, MA
Distance: 6-9 miles

After a disastrous first semester at music school I stopped practicing and started running again for the first time in years. I bought a pair of short-shorts (because I figured that was what real runners wore) and began running every day on the esplanade around the Charles River. Within a week or two I was running up to nine miles a day. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore nasty shin splints while watching crew teams practice. At the end of the summer I got a call to work in the percussion department. Within days I began practicing for hours at a time and completely stopped running. Through the running and then the practicing I managed to hold off an inevitable breakdown until winter.

Year: 2005 - present
Place: Brooklyn/Manhattan
Distance: about 5 miles

After finding out about a miracle-working running-shoe store that analyzes your stride via treadmill, I purchased a pair of running shoes that cut down on the shin-splint pain that had kept me from running for years. Older and wiser, I am now able to appreciate the meditative calm that running provides. Of course I’m running in supplement to my jiu-jitsu training – zen is best served as a healthy side to violence. I began running around the neighborhood or up to Prospect Park, before settling on the run across the Brooklyn Bridge and back as the perfect run. Enjoying the view and undoubtedly showing up in the background of photos taken by tourists from all over the world, I weave my way between clusters of pedestrians and angry bikers.

Year: 2005
Place: Zurich, Switzerland
Distance: about 6 miles

An hour or two after arriving in Europe for the first time I wasn't sure what to do with myself. Julia, still woozy from her pharmaceutical in-flight cocktail, took a nap, so I decided to go for a run. Cranking Jazzanova's remixes on my iPod, I headed out with no idea where I was going – now a ritual when traveling. Eventually climbing to the top of a huge hill, I wound up at the University of Zurich, where the students were all on summer break. I stopped at a lawn at the top of the deserted campus to take in a breathtaking panoramic view of the city of Zurich and Lake Zurichsee. Realizing I had disturbed two teenagers smoking a joint, I took off back down the hill. I ended up getting very lost after the sun went down, but after a few minutes of panic (Should I ask for directions? Wait, what language do they speak here?) I found my way back.

Ole, ole, ole, ole...

Why are you reading this? You should be watching The World Cup. If you're stuck at a desk like me, check this out (click on "continue to joga TV" in the bottom righthand corner, then scroll through the movies on the right). During the awesome "Brasil Team" clip, Ronaldinho (the Michael Jordan of soccer) plays pandeiro. At least I can say I do one thing better than him.

a family wedding

I married into a big Italian family. In comparison to my small and scattered extended family it felt like some sort of large fraternal organization - one in which my love for wine and humor earned me an instant good standing. My first Christmas dinner with the extended clan was a life-changing experience. Eating a meal that was larger and longer than any I had ever had before, I was in heaven. The antipasto was a meal in itself. After dinner (and many glasses of Uncle Mike’s homemade wine), someone decided it would be funny to have the drunk Jew dress up as Santa for the one kid who still believed. And so that night I held a small, frightened child on my lap and asked her what she wanted for Christmas, while the aunts, uncles and cousins stifled their laughter, thus cementing me a spot in family lore.

Years later it feels like they’ve always been my relatives. I’ve watched children grow up, people get married, babies appear out of thin air and many a smart kid start drinking. I pass along gossip and dole out advice like eveyone else. Christmas has become a cherished tradition - a marathon of eating, drinking and poker that I run once a year. Last summer when Julia and I went to Italy, I was welcomed by an endless onslaught of relatives who were even more appreciative of my eating and drinking abilities than their family across the Atlantic. For three weeks straight I ate myself into a food coma. In our pictures from the trip you can watch as I grow plumper by the day.

Yesterday we went to cousin Eugene’s wedding, which, despite being held in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York on a Sunday evening, was a blast. The whole crew was there, trickling in late due to the long trek and awful traffic. The service was more traditional (Catholic) than what I’m used to (I feel uncomfortable in any religious setting, even my own), but the priest was passionate and sincere. At one point he spontaneously grabbed a bouquet from a shocked bridesmaid to make a point about the uniqueness of beauty. There was an unconfirmed story circulating that he was actually a former priest, now married, but he fooled me.

During the cocktail hour, which was held in a beautiful garden with a mariachi band in full garb (Eugene married a wonderful Columbian woman), I caught up with everybody, while we took advantage of the open bar and someone broke out cigars. After photographing the bride with her extended family (about fifteen people), the photographer, having no idea what he was in for, started to round up Eugene’s extended family. His mouth dropped open as about fifty of the seventy-five or so people at the wedding congregated together. Talk about a deep crew. After about fifteen minutes of wise cracking and shuffling around, we arranged ourselves, cigars and all, for the pictures. Laughing, arms around each other, we yelled assorted nonsense to the camera - it was an intoxicating and warm feeling, vodka and cranberry aside.

The reception was a non-stop dance party – even an aunt with a bad hip was shaking it out in the middle of the floor. Drenched in sweat I escaped to the bar, where the priest saddled up next to me.

"How’s it going?" He asked.
"Not too bad, and you?" I replied.
"I can’t complain," he said. "and after another I’ll complain even less."
"Careful," I said, "if you have too many the complaining comes back."
"I know," he nodded, "everything in life is balance."

character study: eric

I met Eric when I started studying music at the local community college. He was the first in what would be a long line of musical friendships in my life where I tried to ignore assorted personality flaws and disturbing habits in appreciation of talent, with the hope that some of it might rub off. Eric was a drummer, like me, except he was really good. Even looking back now, my standards having been raised considerably since then, he was still a badass.

Eric was six feet tall, a bit overweight and slightly hunched over, equally frumpy in sandy-blond hair and dress. He looked like a mouth-breathing Nordic janitor. He was friendly yet competitive, but since I was so blatantly his musical inferior he didn’t see me as a threat. It felt good to bask in his supreme confidence and I learned quite a bit through watching him and picking his brain. He was the only person I knew at the time that talked about music even more than me. Both of us had gigging experience, unlike the vast majority of our classmates, but mine had come with mediocre jam bands, whereas Eric had played with professional Brazilian and Cuban musicians. I was in awe. We were about the same age (21 or so), but I had already been to two colleges (quantity over quality) and this was Eric’s first experience with higher education, or as close to one as he would ever get.

In our jazz ensemble class I got to watch him play up close and he would help me out (he was surprisingly gentle with his critiques), but in our music theory class he sat next to me and cracked bad jokes the entire time. The elderly, timid teacher pretended not to notice, but everyone else in class shot us constant dirty looks. For someone as neurotically self-conscious as myself it was a nightmare. Like many prodigies, Eric was forever locked in adolescence.

It would be appropriate now, without going any further, to mention Eric’s most memorable trait: he smelled incredibly and uniquely bad. Some days it was worse than others, but the smell was always there. I have never had a particularly strong sense of smell - a trait I am more than happy to have, as people tend to notice foul smells much more often than pleasant ones, especially living in New York. But Eric’s smell was inescapable. It didn’t smell bad in a typical B.O. or hippie manner - it was sharper, more cutting. Any attempt to explain it in words falls short, but if pressed, I would describe it as a combination of skunk and overflowing ashtray, although even that feels too kind.

At a school recital after Eric sat down next to me, my girlfriend shriveled up her nose and covered her mouth with her hand while looking at me in search of an explanation. I shrugged and brought a finger to my lips in one motion, making sure Eric didn’t notice. On the drive home we tried to figure out how or why a person could smell so bad. Maybe he never washes his clothes? Maybe he never showers? Maybe he keeps corpses laying around?

A few weeks later the mystery was solved. Eric had occasionally referred to “his apartment” in conversation, which was another way that I felt connected to him, since most of our classmates still lived in their parents’ basements. One day he invited me over after class to listen to music and jam. Eric lead me into his parents’ house and, without breaking stride or introducing me to his mother, out into the backyard. She angrily shouted something after us about ferret cages, but it wasn’t clear.

Eric’s so-called apartment was above his parents’ garage. After climbing a long, homemade wooden staircase we entered a large, unfinished loft-like area with pink insulation foam on the walls. I was instantly assaulted by a smell similar to Eric’s, but far greater in intensity. I have never had a headache come on so quickly or with such force. I imagine that nerve gas attacks the senses in a similar, unforgiving manner. Trying to remain conscious during a brief tour of the apartment (drums, stereo, guitar, old couch/bed, TV) I discovered the source of the smell: Eric’s makeshift closet was a large hole in a wall, where his clothes hung, surrounding two large ferret cages, one stacked on top of another. The bottom of each cage was covered, wire to wire, in dried ferret feces. As the creatures scurried back and forth over their own waste it all became clear: every single garment Eric owned reeked of ferret shit.

Somehow I managed to spend fifteen minutes or so up there before forging some lame excuse and flying back down the steps, through the bushes next to the house and out to my car. I raced home to shower with all the windows down, hyperventilating and seeing traffic in double. Did he have any idea what he was doing to himself? How long had this gone on for? Did he have any friends? If so, did they just ignore the smell? Should I arrange an intervention? One thing was clear: if this was what it meant to be a great musician, I just couldn’t hack it.

A few months later, after he had dropped out of school, we lost touch; I can’t say it bothered me. I often wonder what happened to Eric and if he still smells so bad. It has crossed my mind that if he never took the appropriate steps to bring his living situation up to non-biohazard conditions, he might have died. Of all the bizarre musicians I have known since then, he was the most tragic. It was a shame, really – he meant no harm, but he caused so much.

ramblings

First off, complements of Matt, here’s a photo of the missing arm from the grappling dummy. It’s still sitting a couple of blocks away from our apartment, enduring rain and dogs. The saga continues…

I spent all day yesterday customizing my brand new myspace page, which I put up as a means of getting more readers (and to meet available twelve-year-olds). If you’re on myspace, hit me up.

Complements of my cubicle-mate, Ileen, an excerpt from the passive Cuban protestor’s sign today:

"served in military for bay of pigs"

Yet another reason not to mess with that dude.

A few days ago I helped my friend Mark move a bunch of his stuff into storage. Being a musician/producer like myself (albeit a successful one), he had an obscene amount of gear and records. Flustered, mid-move, he exclaimed, “If it wasn’t for music, I’d just have some clothes and a laptop.” Here’s the final result of several hours of sweat and pain:



Finally, having gone stir-crazy from writing too many cover letters, I made an evil monster out of a plastic fork. It’s safe to say I need a more challenging job.

cuban food, cuban man

One of the few joys of my workday is lunch. I gave up on the company caffeteriette after one too many post-digestive stress experiences. Midtown East has a wealth of bland options and someone handing out flyers aggressively on every street corner for all of them, but no one pulls the wool over my eyes. Now I’m on a steady rotation of three to four places. My mainstay is the decent sushi place around the corner, which has a two roll/miso soup/salad lunch-combo for a mere $7. A few months ago a Sophie’s opened around the corner. Sophie’s is a mini-chain, express Cuban lunch place. Basically someone wised up and took the classic NY Cuban/Puerto Rican restaurant with rotating daily lunch specials (with two sides) concept and added such luxuries as a competent staff and cleanliness.

Anyways, the place is a goldmine and the Pernil (roast pork) with rice and beans is dangerously good. I’ve had to cap myself at one visit per week. Fortunately, I eat lunch on the early side, so I get to avoid the throngs of people that shove in every day and still can’t figure out where to stand and wait for a table without blocking the take-out line. Sometimes I feel like a running back scrambling for an opening, getting out of there and then back to work, clutching my hot food-football close to my chest, weaving this way to avoid flyers and that way to avoid free samples.

This human traffic pales in comparison to what happens when the 7-train stops at Grand Central, though. It gets pretty ugly, the jockeying for prime positions closest to the doors in the front car. And once those doors open there is a full-on stampede for the stairs. If you’re any deeper than about twenty feet back, you’re basically stuck like herded cattle – as unpleasant a way to start the day as any. These are always the times when I start wondering why no one has bothered to suicide-bomb a train yet. I know, it’s awful.

So I end up being one of the freaks that speed walks/runs to get up the stairs and then the huge escalator first. At this point, gasping for air, I now have to dodge the aggressive free daily-paper pushers (because everyone wants reading material right after they get off the train, right?) as well as all the people handing out restaurant flyers and pamphlets.

Just past this barrage stands one of my favorite people in New York: the passive Cuban protestor. He’s in late middle age with deep-set eyes and a receding hairline that gives way to slicked-back black hair. His chin is lifted in confidence. Morning after morning he stands just outside the subway entrance, silently holding a crudely hand-written poster-board sign with an ever-changing variety of anti-Cuba/anti-US messages. The handwriting is that of someone who has had little formal schooling: unsure lowercase with the occasional unnecessary capital letter. It’s tough to read through the whole thing while running late to work as usual, but I can always catch a sentence or two:

“attention us. government You might want to check the background criminal History of one of your Top officials”

or

“I Am a Cuban born in1948 there. Crimes have been committed and There should be consequences.”

This man is confused at best, and probably much worse, but I hold him in high regards. First of all, he gets to work before me every day and appears to never take any time off. Second, he obviously feels quite strongly about whatever it is he’s trying to say, but doesn’t feel the need to get up in anyone’s business to do so. The rest of the neighborhood could really learn something from him.

A few weeks ago there was a man handing out flyers that read “Sophie’s Cuban Cuisine” right next to him. I wonder if either of them realized the irony. It’s quite an American thing, really – we’ll willingly take the best that any country has to offer, while ignoring all the other stuff. Maybe they could join forces – the Cuban man could get a nice, laminated, correctly punctuated poster that would read, “Cuba: Love the Food, Hate the Politics. Eat at Sophie’s.”

shadow man

For the past year or so, someone in our neighborhood has been tracing shadows with chalk on the sidewalk; it’s a simple and beautiful thing. The subjects are consistent: trees, parking meters and bicycles, but each tracing always feels different. The chalk is white and the work is either done late in the day (for longer shadows) or at night (using street lamps). I have a lot of respect for people who can create anonymously. It’s the plateau that all artists, musicians, writers, etc. should strive for, really – to be able to make art without the need for external approval. Mind you I say this as a confessed praise junkie. If It were me doing the chalk tracings I’d have to write the link to my website next to every one.

Anyways, I always wondered who this artist was and what the process involved. Last week I found out. Sitting by the window at the new, more spacious, but still fantastic Zombie Hut, having a few drinks with friends, a guy on a bike wearing surgical gloves stopped right in front of us and began tracing a parking meter and its two guard posts. The entire process took about a minute, but it was fascinating. He apparently knew some people there, so he briefly chatted with a couple of smokers outside before hopping back on his bike, presumably to go trace some more, leaving his work behind.

the grappling dummy

About six months ago I decided to build a grappling dummy, because that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. I was frustrated, waiting for my elbow to heal so I could get back to my jiu-jitsu training and had seen a couple of pictures online of grappling dummies for sale. They all cost well over $100, so I decided to make my own. Not surprisingly, Julia was appalled.

I used two pillows for the torso and rolled up old sweaters and jeans for the arms and legs. It took a roll and a half of duct tape to cover the thing. The result was a fairly heavy, disproportionate but disturbingly life-like dwarfish creature. The entire process took less than an hour. I never actually practiced with it, but it provided some good comedy. I would leave it in Julia’s chair, the arms draped on her keyboard, or prop it up sitting on the floor like a passed-out drunk. It was the classic one-day stupid project that I obsess over.

The dummy was crammed onto a shelf in my closet in what looked like a very painful position – sort of an extreme, contortionist/fetal-position thing. I thought it looked funny, but Julia repeatedly told me that it disturbed her and asked me to leave the closet closed. It probably reminded her a little too much of a Law and Order SVU episode.

A couple of nights ago I made a deal with Julia: I would get rid of the dummy and let her use the shelf for storage if we could get rid of the dresser-turned-storage-cabinet that sits awkwardly in our living room. In the middle of the night, after checking first to make sure that no one was on the block, I snuck the thing out and dumped it with the trash. On my way to work the next morning it was still there, waiting to be picked up, and I got a kick out of wondering how many confused people had done a double-take on their way to work that morning.

A couple of hours after I got to work Julia called me to let me know that the dummy was still there. I assured her that it would be picked up with the trash, and that even if it wasn’t, it was O.K., because no one saw me take it out. By the time I came home from work it was gone and I had completely forgotten about it.

Later that night, on my way out to meet some friends for drinks, I was walking away from our apartment, talking to a friend on my phone and telling him where we were meeting. I looked up and, walking past me, was a harmless-looking woman in her early thirties, talking on her phone and carrying the dummy under one arm. I almost tripped when I saw her. One of its legs and one of its arms were missing and she carried it in the same nonchalant manner that one might carry groceries or a yoga mat. She was heading back toward our apartment, which meant that she must have taken it somewhere else earlier. My only guess is that she took it to the gym a couple of blocks away for a self-defense class of some sort, but even that seems contrived. I guess I’ll never know what she’s using it for, but as my brother said, it makes the story better. I’m just glad it’s getting some use.

memories of family cars

make/model: Nissan Dotsun 210 Wagon
color: dark red
lifespan: 1983-89
nickname: The Vomit-Mobile
memorable feature: no air-conditioning (we lived in Washington, D.C.)

The first and last new car my family has ever purchased. It was made to hold four, but my parents had a middle seatbelt installed so the three kids could all fit in the back – one of the only truly evil things they ever did. This lead to several cramped, miserable family trips.

On one such trek to see our relatives in Long Island for the first (and last) time, my brother, over-excited about the vacation, threw up for the entire ride. Once on the side of the road, once in a Roy Rogers, but mostly in the car. On either side of him, my sister and I hung our heads out the window. I fashioned a makeshift gas mask by molding a grape fruit roll-up over my nose. We never did get the smell out of the car.

It had black and dark grey vinyl interior, which meant that when left in the sun, it would heat up to the point that it would cause near third-degree burns. There were several melted crayon stains on the back seats. I also remember the feel of old chips and crackers crunching beneath my feet on the floor.

make/model: Dodge Caravan
color: blue
lifespan: 1989-1991
nickname: Blue Thunder
memorable feature: non-functional right-turn signal

The first in a long line of cars brought from family friends and con artists. It was still a major upgrade over the vomit-mobile, with more square footage and air-conditioning. Every now and then the sliding side door would pop off the hinge, requiring a trip to one of the several mechanics in town with whom we were on a first-name basis. This will always hold a place in my heart as the first car I drove after I got my license. Unfortunately, it died on me two months later, emitting more smoke than something that has not exploded should. Waiting for my mom to come rescue me with the hazards on, I couldn’t figure out why people kept honking at me. Then I realized that because of the broken turn signal it looked like I was waiting to make a left turn.

make/model: Pontiac LeMans
color: white
lifespan: 1991-94
memorable feature: required multiple unsuccessful air-conditioning surgeries

A poor man’s Honda Civic, it was by far the sportiest thing we had ever owned. The car was sold to us by close family friends who actually tried to talk us out of buying it. It handled much like a go-cart. Riding shotgun, you always needed to keep an eye on your legs, as the dash was prone to leak Freon from the temperamental air-conditioner. It goes down in history as the only family car not to die from natural causes: my sister totaled it in a collision with a UPS van. Not a UPS truck, a UPS van.

make/model: Dodge Grand Caravan
color: maroon with a gold racing stripe
lifespan: 1992-2000
nickname: The Enterprise/Old Bitch-Ass
memorable feature: too many to name

This was my high-school ride. It earned its nickname due to the improbable number of people I could bring to a party or rave (sorry mom and dad). The sliding side door also often popped off the hinge, but sometimes I could get it back in place. At one point it was held shut for a few days by a jump-rope. On New Years Eve of 1993, my friend Chad friend spilled a forty of St. Ides in the back, creating an odor only eclipsed by the vomit-mobile.

When I left for college the car was inherited by my dad (who used it for gigs) and my brother (who used it to drive to school and re-named it). My dad took out both the middle and back seats, creating enough room for him to slide his keyboard and amp in and out. Then he had the problematic sliding side door welded shut. But sometimes neither of the front doors could be unlocked, so he would have to crawl in through the back. Around this time the tape deck started eating tapes.

Eventually the springs in the back door stopped working, creating a potentially life-threatening crush every time you let it fall shut. My dad solved this problem by keeping a shovel in the back and using it to prop the door up. Slowly everything in the car stopped working except for the engine. By this point my dad was leaving it unlocked in the hopes that someone would steal it. Finally it died, having lasted for an astounding 160,000 miles.

make/model: Honda Accord
color: unfinished grey
lifespan: 1993-1995
nickname: lucky
memorable feature: engine sounds

Before I went to college I cashed all of the bonds from my Bar Mitzvah and emptied my savings account to buy a car so I could drive to visit my girlfriend. Staying within the family tradition of irrational automobile purchases, I bought the car (a 1986) for $2,700 from a man named Nabil in a Toys R’ Us parking lot. The day after I drove up to school in Ithaca it began emitting blue smoke. It needed a new engine. A month after the new engine was put in, my girlfriend broke up with me.

The car lived on for two more years. The only time it handled well was when it was cruising over 70 MPH. Otherwise it sounded like an airplane about to take off. When the brakes started to fail, I began using the emergency brake instead (one out of every twenty stops or so). One time a parking attendant refused to drive it back down when I came to pick it up, barking in a Jamaican accent, “You a magician? How you drive a car with no brakes, man?”

I was about to give a friend a ride home from the grocery store one day, and when we got in the car, I put it in reverse and stepped on the gas. There was a loud thump and the speedometer went up to 80 MPH while the car stood still. It accumulated several parking tickets over the next few days until my dad found a mechanic who towed it away and gave us $50 for it.