Hot shows

Marx The Spot is going to be a great show. And I wouldn't mention it on my blog till after I reserved my ticket first:

Monday, April 23
8:00 p.m.
UCB Theatre
307 W. 26th St. (corner of 8th Ave. and W. 26th St.)

The cost is $5.

Meeting moment of the day

I work in a *very large* publishing company, with offices all over the U.S., as well as international offices. We are undergoing a companywide quality initiative.

Today was the *kickoff* of the initiative, and me and my department coworkers were among the 400 participants listening in via conference call to a meeting that was taking place in a Midwestern city that shall remain nameless. PowerPoints were provided to us via the Web to accompany the highly enthusiastic explanations of "six sigma," "change agents driving the culture," "working smarter, not harder," and so on.

Then a PowerPoint came up with a little animated graphic of a kicking karate guy, and we heard a woman on the conference call shrieking with laughter: "Look at that little karate guy! Ha! Ha! Ha! Jeeeezus! Ha! Ha! Ha! Holy shit!" and so on--we started laughing too.

"Could participants on the conference call please be sure their phones are on mute," the change agent a thousand miles away said, not acknowledging the utter ludicrousness of the tiny karate guy and his determined tiny kicks.

As I walk down the street . . .

. . . people point at me and say "There goes Crazy-Hair Tony!"

O.K., nobody does that. This is New York: I could walk for hours and not see anyone who has any idea who I am or who could possibly care about my hair. I had a slight trim 6 months ago, and things are very much untrimmed now. I wish my hair grew faster, because then I could have made up my mind faster about whether or not to cut it. A consensus is forming that I should.

So here's the question: Should I get my hair cut on Tuesday because I’m meeting an author and ought to make a better impression than I otherwise might (as opposed to, for example, giving the impression that I have not heard of this thing called a haircut and would not know where to get one) or should I get my hair cut in Paris--which will also make me look for a while like I got my hair cut in Paris?

I know most of the people who read this blog, and I invite you to leave a comment answering the foregoing question. If you don’t know me, you could always guess at an answer. Lord knows, I’ve taken surveys on other people’s blogs where I was just guessing.

À la recherche du pain perdu

I had dinner at the Mercer Kitchen with my two birthday friends last night. Somehow the people milling about the corner of Prince and Mercer and flowing in and out of the ground floor of the Mercer Hotel and down into the Mercer Kitchen all look like movie stars, record moguls, and models--yours truly excepted. And some of them probably actually are those things.

I started with the pea soup and for and entrée I had the barramundi--which I didn’t know was a fish until last night. I had only previously thought of it as a Lower East Side bar--whose name always struck me as implying a pun of something. The barramundi came with lentils. That was probably a healthy meal, in addition to being delicious.

The dessert menu listed “banana pain perdu.” Even with my limited French I can figure out that “banana pain” is “banana bread,” but perdu? Something idiomatic was going on (surely not “lost bread”). I turned to my friend R. G. Sand, who explained that “pain perdu” is what the French call French toast--yes, bread burning in hell.

So, R. G. Sand, the boulangeries of Paris await! (And, yes, kaseumin, I will be thinking of you.)

Strange . . .

. . . I just feel so happy today. No reason. I’m going to have carrot cake with my lunch--which is typical. I’m working like mad to get a week ahead at my job--because in 10 days I will be in Paris for a week. Tonight I’m having dinner with two friends to celebrate their birthdays (which are just a couple of days apart). And I feel great!

Where are they now: Brooks Brown

NPR, May 22, 1999

NPR, April 18, 2007

Apparently I am not . . .

. . . the only person who does not know how to be me:

- - -

I realize we are all ONE, yet I still feel that I am an individual being. I feel such pressure to try to eradicate the notion that I am an individual. I try to force myself to see that I am the same being as everyone else. I have not slept a decent night's sleep in three months and have the worst kind of headaches and full body energy spasms because I don't know how to be "me", since I am told there is no "me". I no longer know how to "be" because my mind keeps coming in and saying "no, this is wrong, you are not enlightened, you are still believing that you are an individual". [LeonardJacobson.com]

- - -

I’ve spent my entire life living for other people. Whatever someone needed, I was. I was best friend, sister, mother, and much much more to so many people. I lost myself in the service of others. The only place I found freedom was in my writing, but then others caught on that that’s what I was doing in my spare time, so then I took on the role of teacher. (Which I don’t mind so much because researching the art and technical aspects of writing is how I got to where I am today.)

I guess I’m saying that after years of that, I don’t know how to be me. I don’t know what that means. I know some things I like, I know how I like some things to be done but I just don’t know who I am. [The New Australian]

- - -

I don’t know how to love me,
How can I set myself free?
Am I really that deserving?
To live so happily?

I don’t know what to do with myself,
I don’t know what to be,
I don’t know how to let go,
I don’t know how to be me.
[Carolyn Uhm]

- - -

I don’t know how to reconcile who I am with who others think I am. I don’t know how to be me when others would prefer that I not, nor how to deal with the stress, hurt and alienation brought on by the feeling that whatever I am is just not good or loveable enough. I don’t know how to take all the pieces that make me “Tere” and make it all fit together. [A Mom, a Blog, and the Life In-Between]

- - -

it's really hard for me to make friends, and i don't know why, before i was adopted i had lots of them. also it's really hard for me to have a boyfriend, all the guys that end up liking me.. i turn away from them. it's really hard for me. it seems that i've been away from people so long( being an olny child in all) i don't know how to be me in front of people. and it makes me really nervous. i have really good friends at church and all. When i'm around them i do fine but when they're not there, i don't know how to act. i'm also affraid to tell people what's wrong. every time they ask i lie and say i'm doing fine just so they can go away. iam really, really not happy. i am also sorry about not writing this all in order, anyway please give me advice. I really need some, noone i know seems to care about how i feel. So please help. [Ask helpmebrenda!]

- - -

I can't do that, I can't be myself. Ask me to do anything but don't ask me to be myself. I'll be Queen Victoria but I don't know how to be me. [MuppetCentral.com]

- - -

had tea with ray at sushi train tonight.

interesting.

my first proper 'date' with a 'stranger' since andrew broke up with me. it's weird. it's as if i don't know how to act. i don't know what to do. i don't know how to be me.

it's quite embarrassing actually...

he asked to see me next weekend... not sure about that one yet...
[thoughts extracted...]
- - -

i'm afraid of you and being myself around you and that doesn't make sense. i feel sometimes so insecure, which you would never believe if i told you. and that is exactly why i cannot ever tell you this. but it makes no sense. i am insecure, and hide things from you like how i am constantly looking at the world as if i had a camera - angles and positioning, and i can never stop, it is always there, ever since i was little - and how i wish eating was more avoidable and how beautiful you are in the almost-light and that is why i turned off the lights, not because i wanted to sleep. and yet even though i am afraid of my body in some ways, and would never remove my layers myself, i don't mind when you peel them away. because that means you want to, and i'm not imposing myself. everyone loves us and i think the problem is i don't know what us means. i don't know how to be me but i am afraid of being us, and this grey area in the middle is appeasing nobody's need for gossip. [the sound of smiles]

- - -

I couldn’t have said it better myself. Fellow Don’t Know-ers,
thank you for being so beautiful. When all else fails, I turn to How To Be A Person, but that’s just
me.

What Tony is reading

Now that I have finished The Namesake I want to see the movie. Usually I go to movies alone, but maybe I'll find someone to go with this time. That’s not something new; I went to movies alone when I was married, too. I don't expect anyone to care about all the same things I care about. But, I suppose, if I got to know more people could eventually end up knowing at least one person for each thing I care about.

I'm going to Paris in about three weeks--with a couple of people who care about Paris. I'm brushing my French; I am so bad at French! I need to buy a map of Paris too, because I can't find the ones I already own. Anyway, what better time than now to read Edmund White's biography of Marcel Proust?

Here are a few random things I remember from chapter 1 of Edmund White’s Marcel Proust: Proust’s father was awarded the Legion of Honor for figuring how to keep cholera out of France. André Gide regretted rejecting Proust’s manuscript of À la recherche du temps perdu (which some people consider the greatest novel of the 20th century; so, take heart, aspiring writers—don't give up just because you get rejected). Proust got invited to all the best parties in Paris because he was the funniest man in Paris. Apparently sometimes he got to laughing so long and hard people who didn't know him thought he was a weirdo. (As an aside, I have only read the first part of Remembrance of Things Past (Swan’s Way), C. K. Scott Moncrieff’s translation--parts of it were laugh-out-loud funny.)

OMG! OMG! . . .

. . . Last night I shared a plate of friend string beans with an awesome food blogger!! I've never had fried string beans before! And I owe it all to The Secret. You see, I taped a picture of a fried string bean to my ceiling and woke up and saw it every morning until it came true. Now I have to tape more pictures to my ceiling. Oh, there's more, but you sort of had to be there--and if you weren't one of the four people who were, some of these sentences don't seem to be connected. But they are! The important thing is that there are people in this world who are totally cool: They are smart, they make you laugh, they are talented, they make you think and you're glad you met them. Last night I met three people like that.

EDP or con artist

Rather than leave comments on their excellent blogs, I'll opine here and mention a couple of anecdotes.

First a comment: When a person is actually crazy, it might not be a good idea to call them crazy within their hearing. This is why, for example, the New York City Police Department uses the term "EDP" when discussing an EDP within earshot of an EDP. (A news cameraman once told me that years ago the police used the term "psycho"--which had about as much calming effect in tense situations as throwing gasoline on a fire.)

O.K., another comment: The actresses involved don't comment on the acting ability of the crazy lady. I don't think the lady was crazy; I suspect she was pulling off some kind of con. She might also have had a confederate who kept him- or herself unnoticed. Cons that have been attempted on me (and people I know) often begin with some kind of violation of a social norm (personal space, for example). The person pulling the con might be annoying or "crazy" or "helpful" or in need of help in some weird way. Sometimes the annoying or "crazy" behavior is merely a distraction to facilitate pickpocketing by a confederate. If you have ever experienced this weirdness, it's like being in a twisted parallel universe. I'll cite two instances (I could cite more, but I'm prone to longwindedness enough as it is.)

Anecdote 1: One morning as I headed down into my subway stop (79th and Broadway) I saw a man reeling down the steps ahead of me. At 8:30 in the morning he looked totally drunk. Or perhaps he had a medical condition that made it difficult for him to control his nerves or his muscles. I headed down the stairs, passing him with plenty of clearance. One of his flailing hands lightly flailed me as I passed. And I heard a plastic sounding clatter and saw that he had dropped the pair of glasses he had been holding. My inclination is to let strange drunks deal with their own problems. People who a mentally or physically challenged resent help if they perceive it as condescension. I kept moving, entered the turnstile, and took my usual place along the platform.

Mr. Drunk was not one bit drunk when he caught up with me on the platform about 45 seconds later. He was a lot younger than me, bigger, and stronger--and the muscle or nerve condition that caused him to teeter perilously as he descended the stairs a minute before was gone. He was rock steady.

"You made me drop my glasses!" he said, holding the sleeve of my coat. "And you broke them," he said, holding them up so I could see the crack in one of the lenses.

This being New York, we were--apparently--invisible on the crowded morning rush-hour platform.

"I'm sorry," I said. By the way, I wear glasses. I am hopelessly nearsighted without them. Now maybe this guy usually carries his reading glasses loosely in his swinging hands while he walks down subway stairs during rush-hour--or maybe he doesn't. One thing is clear, he was able to find me without putting them on. And another thing, his hand flailed at me on those stairs. He knocked his own glasses out of his hand

"What're you gonna do about it!" the guy said.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. I have never been a person who thinks on my feet. He was a pretty tough guy and I'm thinking, He's not going to take a swing at me on a crowded subway platform is he? I hope he's heard the thing about not hitting someone wearing glasses. My train came. I slid onto it and the guy did not pursue me.

Once the train doors shut, I saw him *run* out of the subway exit. My conclusion: It was a con (shakedown really). Most wimps like me would've have given him $10 or $20 and apologized and counted our blessings that we didn't get punched.

When I got to my office I called my precinct. They couldn't care less and didn't even suggest I come in and fill out a report.

On an evening six months later, as I walked down Broadway I saw the guy again. In the light of the Pricewise window his hand winged out and brushed against my coat. I heard the hollow clack of the glasses hitting the sidewalk. I kept walking as if I was oblivious. He didn't pursue me this time. I didn't bother calling my local precinct.

Anecdote 2: A Japanese friend of mine bought lunch as a busy McDonald's in the Times Square area. As she made her way up the stairs with her tray of food a nice teenage girl coming down the stairs said "Oh, let me help you. Your tray is going to tip." And the nice girl rearranged the drinks on the tray and went on her way. That was all the time it took for another nice girl, coming up the stairs behind my friend, to steal her wallet out of her purse and head off into the crowds flowing through Times Square at lunchtime.

So, all you helpful people, people in need, and attention-demanding crazies, BACK OFF! This is New York.

Adorable Balls . . .

. . . is going to be a great show. And I wouldn’t mention it on my blog till after I reserved my ticket first:

Monday, April 2
9:30 p.m.
UCB Theatre
307 W. 26th St. (corner of 8th Ave. and W. 26th St.)

The cost is $5.