Leaving New York And The Stars At Night

I mostly like New York, and whenever I leave, even if it's only for a few days, I tend to at least have one maudlin moment, and usually it's at the transfer point to the air train. There's something about seeing the train lines in winter that's quintessentially New York to me, and seeing the snow covered, dark early morning station in Newark really does it, even if they are technically in New Jersey.

Of course, the one thing that I hate about returning to New York is losing the sky. Nearly anywhere else the stars are so much more beautiful at night. I love lying on the beach, or standing on a snowy terrace in Vermont, and really being able to see all that.

The Real Dominican Republic

Here’s all I can tell you about the real Dominican Republic: When it rains, it really rains. I’m told by several resort employed locals that the weather the last few days has been very unusual. I’m on the eastern tip of the island, and their has consistently been a strong wind coming in of the ocean. Every few hours this is accompanied by a 15 minute monsoon, usually a pretty sneaky monsoon. I think it knows that we want to be at the beach, and takes advantage of that desire. The upside is this forces the Europeans to retreat from the pool, thereby abdicating their stranglehold on the beach chairs. It must be some residual colonial spirit or something.

Other than that, I can’t tell you jack shit about the D.R. I’m pretty sure I’ve covered more ground than most visitors to Punta Cana though. For one thing, I’ve spent time at 4 of the 5 RIU resorts located in the complex. I may make it to the 5th tonight, but it’s a long walk, and I’m not sure Disco Pacha is going to be entertaining enough. I’m actually staying at the poshest resort, or the 2nd poshest, I don’t really know. I was originally at the Riu Taino, but after seeing the Riu Bambu, I decided to complain about the subpar accommodations. For some reason, that got me the serious upgrade to the Palace Punta Cana., which is really nice.

One of the amazing things about this place is that because it is all inclusive, I haven’t really spent any money, in fact I haven’t even touched any local money, except for briefly this afternoon when someone offered me a coin as change and I said she could keep it. For all I know, it was a Czeck crown.

The one time I have spent money is on a snorkeling trip to Catalina Island. It was a fun day, and I saw an eel, a squid (or an octopus) and a flat thing I don’t know the name of, in addition to the usual array of colorful Caribbean fish. Snorkeling has become about my all time favorite thing, and I’m going to sign up for the Y scuba class sometime soon. I may try to schedule one more snorkel trip tomorrow.

Other than the snorkeling trip, my trips outside the resort have been limited to running; and I’m going to post a couple of my routes on facebook right after this goes up. On my first longer run, I saved a baby turtle who looked like he was never going to make it into the water, the surf was kicking his ass. Miia, you would have been proud of me. I realize the turtle would have probably benefitted from the experience of getting to the water himself, but after a passing horse flipped him on his back, I knew my actions were right. My other run took me into a slightly poorer resort area, where the locals were pretty amused by my attempt to kill myself at the hottest part of the day.

And that folks is absolutely everything I have learned about the D.R. this week.
(that and the fact that a Coco Loco is so much better than an iced coffee in the morning)

Write Now

A long time ago I was going to be a writer. I wanted to be a writer, not because I had so much to say, nor because I had stories that needed to be told, but because I enjoyed it, and because it was something I was very good at. I know the latter reason, not because my mom told me, or because I was frequently published, but because occasionally women were attracted to my very bad poetry. If you can write poetry bad enough that women will fall for you because of it, you have what it takes to be a writer

The reason I talked myself out of writing, at least creatively, was because I thought I had no stories to tell. Nobody I knew had died tragically (except for Richie Ligargeski (sic) and I was out of town when he was run over by a drunk driver the summer between 9th and 10th grade), I had experienced no great romances (something I still haven't, but maybe romances just arn't that great) and I had had no big experiences (though in retrospect this was not true, they were just things I wouldn't write about).

So, I studied journalism, which led to the internet, which led to computers. I put writing off to the side, I said I would tell stories one day when I had some. From time to time, I would come back to it, journaling, blogging, the very rare attempt at journalism, the even rarer attempt at something truly creative.

And then I stopped.

I stopped nearly two years ago, not for any particular reason, though maybe in part because I drink too much. I just noticed one day that I was writing next to nothing. It was no longer a part of my life, it was as remote as an old girlfriend, or a city I used to live in. For the last year and a half plus, I've written about as much as I've been in Miami, or as often as I've spoken to J, and that is not enough.

It's bothered me lately, for the last few months actually. It's bothered me because writing is one of only three things know I do very well (the other two are kissing and loyalty) and I don't like neglecting the art. It's also bothered me because, and I know how stupid this sounds, there are some really bad writers that I get exposed to. There are people who do write and are just awful, and if you're writing anything at all that worships the dark of night and you are not Anne Rice, I'm probably talking to you.

For the record, every writer should have an Anne Ricesq phase, but get it over with when you're young. Get the damn cat poems out of the way too. Anyone over the age of 25 writing about how they feel lost in the cowl of evening's coat or some shit like that, oughta be drowned in pulp.

I like that bit about the coat though.

However, I think I'm going to start writing again, and if I do, I have to be honest, in part I'm going to write about you. Remarkable things happen to people in the course of regular life; simple fears lead to destructive behavior, destructive behavior leads to dead ends, dead ends lead...Where do you go from a dead end? It's one of many things I have to think about. Dead ends are fantastic though, aren't they? They're not quite as good as wherever you are when you stop falling, but they're still something.

Anyway, that's all for now. I believe you're allowed one declamatory post here and there, and this is mine.

No cat poems though.

A Day In My Life January 2007 (Art School Project)

I woke up to thoughts that I didn't feel great and could have slept longer and that I probably should not have drank half a bottle of wine before bed, this is not unusual these days, what's unusual is when I don't wake up feeling one of those two way. My inability to figure out how to deal with this will intermittently anger and sadden me throughout the day. I will consider going to therapy.

The dog greets me from the couch with a happy wagging tail, I scratch her head and she smiles and I love her for this even though she will later seem uninterested in peeing, a tactical mistake on a freezing cold morning.

In the bathroom, I read about something I will quickly forget in the NY Times Magazine, it might have involved that senator from Virginia. Online, I skim the morning tabloids and peek at the times, nothing interesting at brooklynian, tomato emailed me in response to my suggesting we get drunk and while she's game, I no longer am. I read something I will quickly forget on slate.com, I remember to check out fbofw.com, something I feel a little guilty about enjoying. The dog and I watch part of a bad bad episode of star trek, the dog does not mind. I feed her 6 ounces of kibble and head to the shower.

Outside, while walking the dog a man roller blades by me very very fast on ice slick streets and another man thinks he's crazy, I nod my head and say "That's For Sure!" We stop at Connecticut Muffin for a large coffee and a cheese danish and I think for the eightieth time I really need to replace that carafe that broke last week. At home I scramble some egg whites to go with my danish and settle down for a hodge podge hour or two of email, telephone, and the occasional game of online scrabble played at the speedy pace of 10 or less minutes per game, the mouse on my backup computer is really not up to the task.

I head out again, this time for the subway en route to clients who depend on me to keep them on the technological rails. The dog is not happy to see me go, but I have headphones on so if she whines I can't hear her and I am glad for this. I bundle up and even though it is not deathly cold, I don my gator which allows me to walk the streets and feel warm. I think about spending a few days in Florida this weekend, and this may be a very good idea I will revisit tonight or tomorrow. I stop and buy a gatorade I will nurse all afternoon and descend into the subway.

On the train I read the science section from last week; it includes stories about hospice, how sperm swim, and how to use forced migration to benefit species facing extinction and later on the way home later when I finish this, I wonder why I read science so religiously. At 23rd street I get off the train and check voice mail and I realize 6 hours later that I have forgotten to return the message.

I reorganize a long neglected email system increasing productivity for a small literary concern. I like the people I'm working for a lot and they ask smart questions and do what I suggest which makes them so so so much better than some clients. When I'm finished a few hours later, I have a cobb salad at Cosi. I think about how salad is no longer considered all that healthy and think about going to McDonald's instead. The girl behind me at the Cosi talks too loudly. On the way home, I restart a book about a family of circus geeks that I started a few months ago and then got sidetracked from.

Back in Brooklyn, I lift weight, I stretch muscles, and I steam and when I steam I think of Kevin Spacey in American Beauty thinking "This is the best part of my day." I love the schvitz. I talk to EY briefly about our possible trip next week. As I leave the gym I bump into someone who I used to see at the hash and we may get a drink sometime. I'm not really so sure I want to go out and get a drink ever again but I am sure that this is not really true.

I head to the tea lounge where I write these words and fail to resist the urge to edit too much as I go along. There is a girl sitting next to me for the last hour and she looks vaguely familiar but we don't do anything besides exchange a smile here and there and I watch her laptop for her when she gets up for a minute. Eventually because I want to tune out the sweet and tender hooligans sitting nearby, I'll put on my headphones and listen to the only music I have on the ibook, Morriseys first and best solo work Viva Hate.

On my way home tonight, I will buy asparagus for dinner and blueberries for breakfast. I will get home and the dog will be so happy to see me that she will practically insinuate herself into me. I will call an old friend I have neglected, K2, and I will drink a half a bottle of wine, and if I'm lucky someone will read me a story before I fall asleep.

This Song Is Not A Rebel Song

So...

I'm sort of over Park Slope, and by extension, maybe Brooklyn. It remains to be seen whether this is a passing disinterest or the real thing, but at the moment I'm just not feeling it. I don't believe in this place anymore.

Before I go any further, if you don't know, there are many many things I love about this neighborhood. You'll have to take my word for it. Assume that my natural predilection for negativity has at long last won out, though it may just be temporary.

It's the provincialism that's sort of worn me out. Brooklynites constantly pat the borough (and themselves) on the back, a behavior which our Borough President has mastered to the point of obsessive compulsion. It isn't completely new, it was started by my parent's generation, a group that fled to the suburbs, maudlin for the stoops, spaldeens, and sports teams of their childhood. Maybe this is what we receive in return for cursing Walter O'Malley who took the Dodgers to California.

I think until then, Brooklyn never felt the need to pat itself on the back. Those were some big hits Brooklyn took in the 50's and 60's though. It was tough after that, the Brooklyn of Vinnie Barbarino. Still, Brooklyn came back.

Of course, the Brooklyn that everyone loves doesn't exist without Manhattan, and this is where the provincialism gets ridiculous; most of it is done at the expense of Manhattan, the center of the universe. This is patently ridiculous, it's like stabbing yourself in the heart.

There are some great neighborhoods in Brooklyn, but part of what makes them great is that they are in a sense bedroom communities. They are retreats from the turmoil of Manhattan. Park Slope is one of these and a very nice one at that. In fact, it would be a very nice place anywhere, but it is what it is, and it's a bedroom community.

It's not just the provincialism though, it's the entitlement and the way that everyone believes they are always right and always the center of the universe. This needs no great explanation. It's just annoying.

So.
(sorry this is kind of disjointed)

Haven't Had A Dream

Some days I'm not sure what I'm doing exactly. I didn't do much today. I got stood up by a client. I did some reading about css and cms, wrote emails. If you spent the day in the office, I realize this doesn't seem so bad, but I have too many days like that. I feel pathologically lazy sometimes and there are so many things I want to do.

I need to start a new business because, well because I want more money to be honest, but also because what I do is largely uninteresting to me. I don't hate it, but well I want to do more.

I need to volunteer more. There are all these people that have so much less going for them than me, and I want to spend more time with them. I would have really liked to have done something with the developmentally disabled for a living, but it didn't work out like that. So, I need to volunteer. I used to, but I get distracted easily.

I need to cook more. I'm going to make a nice corn chowder tomorrow or Sunday, whenever I have the time.

My friend loaned me a guitar because I've been without one for a while. I need to get past bar chords this time round.

I need to read more, write more, learn more. I don't seem to ever have the time for this. I feel stunted intellectually these days. I know someone who I think stopped learning and I think this has contributed to his decline. This scares the living fuck out of me.

Damn, I'm in a mood today, ugh. Sorry I have nothing more interesting to write.

Link To My Secret Blog About You

http://www.quickbyte.net/thisonesboutyou

Menopause

They actually have a term for male menopause, andropause; if I remember correctly it refers to the decrease of testosterone that apparently begins about 20 minutes after you figure out how to meet women on a regular basis. These are the kinds of things you learn when you google medical terms, something I do about every two or three months. I do this because I have an undiagnosed condition that when I describe it, invariably brings about the response, “ It sounds like you have menopause.”

This reaction doesn’t bother me as much as it sounds like, I’m just trying to beat you to the punch. It is pretty unlikely I have either menopause or andropause, though I sometimes wish I did, because not knowing is incredibly annoying. Incredibly annoying actually describes the totality of my symptoms such as they are.

Basically, every few months I seem to lose control of my ability to regulate temperature. I get hot and cold, I sweat profusely, I feel like I have a fever, I am tremendously fatigued. This is usually brought on by some sort of cold or whatever, and I generally can’t tell where the real bug begins and whatever the hell is wrong with me ends. Basically my metabolism and immune system go completely out of wack and I feel like useless shit. This goes on for several weeks in varying degrees and then slowly disappears. It has been going on every few months for over 2 years, though it used to happen to a lesser extent whenever I got a cold for at least a few years beforehand.

Other than menopause, popular diagnoses include Epstein-barr and chronic fatigue, neither of which really make sense. I have baffled 2 PCPs and an endocrinologist. I plan on seeing a new PCP and maybe an infectious disease guy next week.

I only mention all this because it is keeping me from doing the things I want to do and slowly driving me crazy.

On the plus side, I’ve lost 5 pounds in the last week or so.

Jumping Someone Else's Train

I really like trains, they’re the one form of transportation that I can really relax and enjoy. Plane’s are an abomination, cars are insane, and buses take the one aspect that makes cars enjoyable, the fact that it’s you and the robe, and dispose of that for something far far worse. Trains though, we get it right there more often than not.

Amtrak, 5pm. I’m heading north to Boston, on an uncrowded commuter train. My only real complaint is the lack of wireless, but I’m not surprised by that. If you take this train often enough you know how to bring your own access, but it’s still disappointing. The ticket was pretty expensive too, $96. I could have flown for less on JetBlue or taking the FungWah bus for $15. I’m told it’s $15., but I can’t imagine how it can be that cheap. Those busses must get damn good gas mileage.

The train is alright though.

I think I’d like to take the train out to EXY’s wedding in Oregon this summer making stops along the way. EXY talked about this too, about doing this with a group of people. It’s kind of cool that we are so much on the same page on some things.

Here’s the funny thing about this trip. I’m going to Boston to see someone I barely know. Someone I spent a few hours with on New Year’s morning, and that I thought maybe I would see once again at the wedding, or maybe at another party in the interim.

It’s really kind of crazy, but it’s worth it one way or the other. The weekend might be fantastic, it might be a complete disaster. It doesn’t really matter because it’s interesting. You spend so many weekend doing the same thing you did the weekend before. It’s a familiar ramble, you go to the same pubs, meet up with the same friends. You go to a party because it’s a party and you know, something might happen!

(This makes me think, exactly what are those lyrics in “How Soon Is Now” but I don’t have a copy on my laptop and as mentioned, I’m not connected to the global whosis…)

So, I went to a party and something happened and here I am on a train to Boston banging on my keyboard about it. Sure, more interesting things have happened, but they don’t every weekend.

I Saw The News Today Oh Boy

"I'm looking for someone to spend lazy Sunday mornings in bed drinking coffee, reading the NY Times, and (of course) snuggling." --- This is a sentiment that I read again and again on JDate, not as often as "Don't bother me on Sunday, I'm watching football!", but often enough. Interestingly enough I never read either of these statements on nerve.com, the only other online dating site I ever frequented. You can draw your own conclusions as to exactly what that indicates about the women on these paragons of online dating.

Anyway, women that wrote the latter statement were automatically dismissed from consideration, but I always thought I would like to spend more mornings in bed with someone reading the NY Times. The more I think about it though, the more I realize it would prove incredibly disruptive for me, as like most readers of the Sunday paper I have developed my own little routine for how I go about this otherwise mundane task and I shudder to think at would happen if someone else were sharing my copy.

The first and most important task is chucking a whole chunk of the paper in the gah-bage. I particularly relish throwing out the automotive section as I have never ever been the slightest bit interested in it. I'm sure that anyone in bed with me would agree with this decision, but , most of the ads go with it, real estate too, unless there's a good cover story on a neighborhood I'm interested in. Most women I know would probably want to spend more time with those ads, even those of you who claim to not like shopping. So, now I have all these Goddamn ads getting spread out in the sheets and this is not the morning I had planned on.

From there I hit the sports section, which I consider a warmup for my favorite sections of the paper and this is where I think things would really get out of control. After sports, I go for the "City" section and "Week In Review". These are two of the most popular sections and I've seen people clutch these very carefully when sharing the Sunday Times. This kind of shit is a recipe for relationship disaster.

I could go on, but I don't think I can stand to think abotu what would happen if the "Book Review" or "The Magazine" were fought over. No, I think I'm gonna look up one of those girls who likes to watch football on Sunday. Most likely, a girl like that has little interest in the Sunday Times. With her glued to the tube, there will be more room in bed anyway.