Whitened

I've been staring at snow all day.

Why? Because I have a lot of work that needs to get done. And I don't get to stare at snow very often.

What a hammock looks like covered in snow (far right).

Learned

Things that may just prove I'm on my way to being a certified New Yorker:

- I keep a fair pace when walking to the subway, but lately, my pace has been increasing dramatically as soon as I reach the stairs descending into the station. It's like a trigger in my brain goes off once I see the turnstile. All inner monologues cease and I am overwhelmed by the fear of possibly missing the train by a mere second. My body goes into flight mode. I take off in a mad dash for the platform (only to be underwhelmed to find the train is nowhere in sight).

- I've become masterful at running in heels. (See above.)

- I stop at the corner bodega at least once a day for something. But I couldn't tell you the last thing I bought.

- Several nights ago, I wore ear plugs to bed.

Things that prove I'm still an Oregonian:

- When I was walking down the street the other day, a guy in front of me threw a soda bottle in the vicinity of a trash can and missed. I zigzagged into the street to pick it up and throw it away.

Other things I didn't know before moving to NY:

- It's hard to pull up skinny jeans over footless tights. Much bunching ensues.

- Like the rest of the country, people stay inside when it snows. Schools and government buildings shut down. Streets, stores and restaurants are fairly empty. It's becomes a good excuse to slow down.

- Do not go into Williamsburg when you are PMSing. You will be very annoyed by the obnoxiously fuzzy earmuffs, oversized plastic-rimmed reading glasses and see-thru tights worn by hipstaburglers on a 32-degree day.

Gumption

New York is the land of overachievers.

Case in point: If a New Yorker wants to indulge in mindless entertainment, she'll watch The Daily Show, listen to NPR's "This American Life" and read, well, The New Yorker.

Last night, I caught the finale of Jersey Shore. Then after contemplating picking up a book, I decided instead to watch old episodes of The Real World: Hollywood online. Which prompted me think of my time in LaLaLand (and therefore, make judgmental comparisons between my new home and my former home).

When I lived in LA and used to eavesdrop on coffee shop conversations, I'd usually hear people talk about wanting to produce something, or the possibility of writing a script, or the search for searching for an agent. Sometimes, I'd hear friends compliment each other's headshots.

In New York, I've sat next to a woman who produced Def Poetry Jam, a playwright who's working on her third off-Broadway show, and an editor for a fashion magazine who just got back from France.

In other words, in New York, if you make time (note: not "have" time) to go to a coffee shop in the middle of the day, you're conducting business, not writing blog entries with the hope that a publisher will stumble across said blog entries and give said blogger a book deal.

Roomies

When you're 32 and have lived alone for two years, you tend to be a little picky when comes to choosing a roommate. Deal breakers include:

1. Owning a rat and two parakeets. The possibility of the vermin escaping from said roommate's room is less of a concern than the thought of what kind of care, grooming and quality time happens between the adult female and her rat behind the closed door.

2. Being quarantined to my bedroom during meal times and Jeopardy! Having space is one thing. I also get being old and finding solitude in your favorite programs. (I too enjoy a quiet, uninterrupted evening with a jar of Nutella and The Jersey Shore.) But only being allowed access to my bedroom and the bathroom is a little extreme, especially since my favorite home activity is eating, and eating only happens after a mess is made in the kitchen.

3. Having friends over to play online video games. A group of twentysomething dudes sitting on a faded sectional sofa, huddled over their laptops, screaming, "Slay the droid!" is not only irksome, but downright emasculating and a discouraging glimpse into the future of the male species.

4. Being against your roommate getting laid. When "no overnight visitors" is the first demand out of a potential roommate's mouth, you can't be surprised when she adds, "and no cooking meat." No sex and no bacon equals misery and no one wants to live with misery.

Fade

My iPhone forecast for the last week I was in Hawaii: 82, 81, 80, 80, 81, 80.

My iPhone forecast for my first week in New York: 21, 26, 29, 20, 27, 19.

By the time my monthlong stay ended in Hawaii, my friends and family were applauding my tan, saying that my current state was the tannest they'd ever seen me. (Note: I went through a goth phase in college.)

Let's see how long it takes for my tan lines to fade:

Week One in NY

(Thought I'd spare you the more obvious tan line options.)

Brunch

A friend once explained to me that brunch was her favorite meal because it was a legitimate (and somewhat dignified) excuse to drink before noon. To take her theory one step further, I believe brunch is also perfect time-wise because it provides a smooth segue into happy hour, which is my favorite meal of the day. (Yes, several cocktails plus some sort of greasy, cheesy starch for under $20 is a very good meal indeed.) 

This weekend, this particular friend came to town, and the two of us brunched all day long. For two days straight. I wouldn't even bother trying to name any of these other meals we had "dinner," "lunch" or "cocktails." When you're two girls in New York City, wandering around in a semi-drunk, semi-hungover state, stopping to intermittently chat, imbibe and nibble on whatever tickles your fancy, I call that brunching. Or European mimicry.

Saturday's Menu: 

2 ice coffees

2 bloody marys

1 mimosa

granola, berries, yogurt

drunken baked beans, poached egg, bacon

side of bacon

side of hash browns

2 iced green teas

20-ounce passion fruit margarita

20-ounce pomegranate margarita

2 baskets of tortilla chips

bowl of homemade guacamole

1 fresh watermelon martini

1 glass of rose

platter of fruit, cheese and honey

skillet of mussels in white wine and garlic

4 glasses of sauvignon blanc

2 glasses of pinot grigio

Sunday's Menu (Note: We did scale back. At least on alcohol.)

1 ice coffee

2 cups of coffee

1 bloody mary

smoked salmon, creme fresh, capers, pumpernickel bread

rainbow trout, fried egg, dried mushrooms

1 cappuccino

1 americano

3 mini ice cream cones

desert platter (mini lemon cake, mini raspberry mousse and lemon ice cream)

1 scoop of vanilla ice cream

side of hot fudge

side of fries

(We went our separate ways at 5 p.m. I later had a chicken salad, two chocolate chip cookies and another scoop of vanilla ice cream.)

Although the sugar intake increased on Sunday (absence of booze = sugar cravings), look what we did pass up (but were still hypnotized by to take pictures of) between pit stops and hangover hazes: 

Yes, this a Barbie cake. Fabulous. 

Look at all that self discipline.

Kokomo

I realize that it seems rather odd that I'm living in the second largest metropolis in the world, and yet I keep finding myself near the ocean or in the wilderness or at a tourist trap for old people. Call it the "grass is always greener" syndrome or balance perhaps.

However, there was nothing balanced, okay, "greener," or even authentically green about the Water Taxi Beach I visited last weekend in Long Island City. 

It was just plain odd. 

To get here from Manhattan, a free yellow pontoon takes patrons across the East River over to LIC, which is the middle ground (and the more affordable, less overly hip home for artists than W'burg) between Queens and Brooklyn. It sounds inviting, if not, at the very least, surreal: a shoreside margarita hangout with view of the NYC skyline. 

But it was rather disappointing. (Note the rainbow plastic palm tree.)

Don't get me wrong, I expected nothing less than the Velveeta-est of cheesiness. And that I got. Guys with popped collars and meatheads with Old English tats across their stomachs. Chicks with chunky highlights and knockoff designer shades. Bad house music. Even a mom in a thong bikini dancing with her kids in the DJ tent. 

I'll even excuse the girls sunbathing between the picnic benches. 

But what I won't excuse is the shoddiness of it all. It looked like a bunch of sand was dumped in an unused parking lot between old industrial buildings (some of which, of course, are being converted to high rise condos named "The Foundry"). The benches were dilapidated and the bar tents were grungy. The only thing that saved my weak $10 well vodka soda (I even had to ask for a lime) was that before pouring in the half shot of booze, the bartender flipped my plastic cup into the air, caught it behind his back and twirled it. Classy moves studied straight from Cocktail. Except I think Tom Cruise worked with glass, not plastic, and didn't wear a basketball jersey. 

Seated

I read a few weeks ago that romance novelist Nora Roberts had just one rule when it came to writing: 

Ass in the chair. 

I completely agree. That is why not much writing gets done in my apartment. 

I cannot sit still. My right hand and the fridge door are like magnets, my bladder seems to pester me constantly, I step out for impromptu jogs and I take hour-long phone calls. The other day, I even hand-washed some winter clothes. 

However, now that I have to rewrite the 100 pages of thesis I lost in the epic hard drive catastrophe (R.I.P. thousands of Word docs, music files and photos), plus the 60 or so more pages I was planning to add, all by mid-September, I have no choice. Ass. Needs. To. Be. In. Chair. 

So today I was up bright and early (5:30 to be exact) and I ran, showered and arrived at the neighborhood coffee shop by 9. (Public spaces guarantee a better Ass In Chair success rate. I'm too self conscious to peruse the cafe's fridge and frequent their bathroom.)

By 11 a.m., so far I have: 

Eaten: 1 bran muffin (could give me an excuse to get up and use the bathroom later)

Drank: 1 pot of green tea 

Chewed: 4 pieces of gum

Emailed: 2 people

Texted: 2 people

Commented on: 3 photos and 2 walls on Facebook

Searched for: 2 story ideas and the PSU fall class schedule to see if I really can graduate next term, because if not, why am putting myself through this torture

Written: 2 pages of thesis and one blog post

Updates to come.

UPDATE: 1:47 p.m.

Eaten: 1 weird, package of tofu crab cake thingies

Drank: 1/2 a large iced coffee

Commented on: 1 FB post

Emailed: 1 story idea to editor

Texted: 3 people (apparently everyone likes distraction on Fridays)

Breaked for bathroom: 2 times (and no, it has nothing to do with the bran muffin, in case your wondering)

Written: 5 pages of thesis (lots of blanks to fill in, but hey, pages are pages) 

UPDATE: 4 p.m.

Eaten: 1 peanut butter chocolate chip cookie with sea salt (sweet + salty = bliss)

Drank: last 1/2 of large iced coffee

Written: 7 pages of thesis (I do best at deadlines; I wrote five of those jibberish-filled pages in the last hour, knowing I gotta leave for work at 5)

Effed off on: 1 laptop application - Photo booth 

What too much caffeine looks like. 

What the best tasting cookie in the world looks like.

Arty

This is the most picturesque thing I saw at an art opening last night.

I was too busy hitting up the open bar on the rooftop to see any of the exhibits downstairs. Oops.

Camp

Urban people believe camping is more about a state of mind than it is about "roughing it." The rules and constituents are flexible, but you usually have a car, a tent, close proximity to a running toilet, the intention of getting back to nature and the inclination to regress to your spoiled ways. 

This last weekend in the Catskills, two and half hours outside of NYC, this is how I incorporated both my earthy and urban tendencies: 

Things I Like To Do Outdoors (Plus This Weekend's Highs and Lows)... 

1. Hike

High: See above.

Runner up: Bypassing my boyfriend, Mr. Fit-and-Trim Eagle Scout, on the steepest stretch of a 2,000-foot elevation gain. 

Low: Dirtying the seat of my stretch pants as I scooted down the cliff near this waterfall. 

2. Drink 

High: Opening a beer bottle with a giant stone. 

Low: No High Life in the liquor store.

3. Sit around a fire  

High: Watching Jiffy Pop catch on fire and then disintegrate like little critters into the ashes. 

Low: Not getting to eat any of the Jiffy Pop.

Things I Like To Do "In Town" (Or Things That Make Me a Townie)... 

1. Drive to and from the foot of the hike 

High: Taking off my dirty shoes, putting my feet on the dashboard and singing to Danzig. 

Low: Having packed only one pair of socks and putting the same dirty pair back on for another hike. 

 

2. Have people serve me food and drinks 

High: For once, not being the oldest people in the bar. In fact, in the village of Pheoncia, NY, a two-block stretch of five antique stores, we may've been the youngest. 

Low: A place that serves spaghetti and meatballs and curly fries can't make a stiff drink. 

3. Peruse the antique stores

High: Too many. The complete discography of Toto, the taxidermied mink and ammo window display, oil paintings of dolls, dolls that look like oil paintings.

Low: The Wren's Nest, which sold wolf tee shirts and staffs topped with crystals and little metal bulls, always seemed to be closed. 

Show

I like cushy seats and audible conversations so I don't see as many live music as I used to. However, I did go to two shows recently. 

Because its been over 15 years since I started going to concerts, everything that was in style back then (like floral babydoll dresses and baggy plaid) is back in style again, and all the things that never go out of style like pubescent body odor, jackass heckling and testosterone were also still in tact. 

However, when comparing my then (i.e. my concert-going youth in Hawaii, a random stew of whatever 90s punk, ska and alternative acts made their way to an island) to my now (the free, all ages Man Man concert I went to the other day at East River Park on a much larger island called Manhattan), a few things stand out: 

The Pit 

Similarities: Somehow there's always a cloud of dust above the pit, like Pigpen in Peanuts, regardless if people are moshing in dirt or on pavement like they're doing here. 

Differences: In Hawaii, a lot of times moshers were grunts so these bulky Navy guys with crew cuts and steel-toe boots had a lot more aggression to get out than gawky emo kids wearing shirts that say "Broke is the new black." 

The "Music Moves Me" Dancer

Similarities: There's always that weird girl in the corner who flails her arms and gets into her own groove, acting as though she is the only one in the room, while everyone else is acting like rowdy, careless drunks.

Differences: In the 90s, she was more goth and pretended to shun the attention. At Man Man, a band that wears neon war paint and plays the kazoo and the xylophone, she is hula hooping. 

The Dweebs That Do a Poor Job of Pretending to Belong: 

Similarities: Being a social misfit in a group of social misfits isn't as cool as it sounds. 

Differences: In Hawaii, the grunts would almost fit into this category because even though they could kick all of our asses, no one liked them (except a few dominatrix friends I knew). However, in this day and age, as exemplified by the hula hooping girl, we have entered some wonky territory of nerd cool, so in theory, the hacky sack players that gathered by Man Man's last song could reasonably "belong." Just not in my book. To me, a circle of dudes gently kicking around a bean bag pouch is just always going to look plain sad. 

Aerial

From the top of Coney Island's Wonder Wheel, the tallest ferris wheel in the world: 

On my left, half a million people and the Atlantic.

On my right, Brooklyn and beyond.

Circus

Boardwalks are like giant runways for freaks. But I think the attraction has less to do with showboating in front of a large audience than it does with congregating in front of one. 

Compared to the likes of Southern California's flamboyant Venice Beach, the boardwalk at Coney Island--home of the original carney freak show, Barnum & Bailey Circus--was a little tame this past weekend. But a few did get into the groove. 

It's hard to tell from this photo, but the woman in the purple, near the DJ booth, likes to tear it up. (She can also do a mean windmill-haymaker combo.) See two photos below, which was taken three hours later.  

And while I'm all about a dance party, I think the DJ would have had a better turnout if he didn't play rave music.**

However, the macarena was a big hit, so what do I know. 

** Seriously, who not still trapped in 1992 or 1997, still listens to techno? And btw, it was bad back then. This is why I don't do drugs: I don't trust anything that will make infinite oonce-oonce-oonce-oonce-ing sound pleasurable. 

Perspective

Perspective is what I'm trying to get after the crashing of my physical, emotional, and dare I say, spiritual world (and after writing that highly dramatic statement).

Three days ago, my hard drive went kaput. It took with it 100 pages of thesis and whatever other pages upon pages of writing I've never thought to back up or email to anyone. (The wound is too fresh to get past this first thing to start doing a head count.)

I could bitch about this for an entire post, like I have to friends and family, but the truth is, I can't do anything about it. (Plus I'm numb and still in shock. I'm sure I'll eventually hit some uglier stage of grief.)

But what I did notice while sulking around the city the other day was a bevy of good deeds going on all around me, things I never see (not just never notice) on regular basis here in New York. For instance,

* A woman who offered to, not was asked to, help another woman carry her baby stroller up the crowded subway stairs. The mother couldn't speak English, so the woman just picked up one end of the stroller and began walking.

* Passengers digging in their purses and their pockets as a bone-thin blind woman pushed her walker and held out a knitted hat as she sang a gospel song. I have never seen more than one person per train car give a handout before. Five did that day.

I can't say witnessing others worse off than me or seeing humans take care of each other has abolished all remnants of self pity, but it has made me rethink how I could wrap up my entire identity and sense of usefulness in one compact machine.

Disgrace

I love Barbie. I don't care if that makes me a girly girl, some anti-feminist throwback or the sole reason why American women have body issues. Growing up, I wanted to be just like Barbie. She was hot.

Last night, however, as I perused the massive Toys R Us in Times Square, I was a little disappointed in Barbie Land. First of all, there wasn't much selection (and some weird correlation to Thumbelina), and the selection that they did have was rather peculiar.

The Highlights:

Jersey Barbie - Okay, this is actually Malibu Barbie, circa 1971, but check out the orange tan! The see-thru, matching lounge ensemble! The obvious peroxide job! Give the woman some heavy gold baubles and a few of those babies from below.

Williamsburg Barbie - Again, another vintage Barbie, but vintage is oh-so appropriate for W'burg! I think I saw one of these mesh rompers on the L train yesterday. And she even comes with an extra metallic lycra ensemble in case she can't make the L back in time for a quick evening change. American Apparel couldn't have designed a shorter, better fitting A-line.

The Lowlights:

Barbie has made some poor career choices. New and from the "I Can Be A..." Collection:

Pet Sitter. (She can also be a pet boutique owner.)

Host of a TV Cooking Show.

Baby Doctor, not to be confused with Newborn Baby Doctor, which is also available.

While I'm happy that at least this Barbie has a degree, just about every career fun-pack comes with a set of children or pets. See "I Can Be A Soccer Coach" or a "Sea World Employee.") I am disturbed by this not necessarily because I'm turning into a bra burner in my old age (really though, is pet sitter the new preschool teacher and baby doctor the new nurse?), but because if Barbie is indeed beautiful and hot shouldn't she be at least using those assets to do something cool? I mean, cooking host? What girl wants to be Rachel Ray? How about host of a super catty model competition, or how about a reality show contestant who weasels her way to the top by manipulating men and alliances with her looks and underrated cleverness? She "can" at least strap on a guitar and manage her own rock band for chrissakes.

The 80s: Barbie's glory days

Therapy

It wasn't until I heard silence did I realize I'd been without it for two months. It took me an hour and three trains to find it.

On Saturday, I went to the Rockaways, aka the beach in Brooklyn. I packed my snobby Hawaiian attitude (the water will surely be polluted and cold, the sand too crowded and the culture more "street" than beachy - though I'm not sure what I meant by street - Low riders? Spandex and gold chains? Fictitious Brooklyn accents I have yet to hear? ) Anyways, I was completely wrong. If you are someone who is die hard enough to spend an hour on a train to be near the water and/or surf, then you are not pretentious or uber-urban. This is not the orange tan and zebra-striped bikini parade of Miami Beach or Malibu. At 10 in the morning, on the first bright day of the summer, the Rockaways looked like a spot for people who simply like the ocean.

Oddly, the beach culture here in this pocket of NY is one of the most similar to that of Hawaii's I've come across (mostly in terms of style). Bathing suit coverups are simple tee shirts and shorts. The scene isn't a re-creation of every spring break movie with a row of bars wrapped in hula skirts touting margarita specials. Okay, so there are newly-built vacant condos lining the beach (but at least these aren't the couture shops or behemoth villas and shopping centers of Waikiki).

But the rest of the architecture could be out of North Shore or at least near the Alawai Canal. One- and two-story storefronts look sand and sun weathered and taco and sandwich shops (not to mention a stand of the east coast equivalent of shave ice--Italian ices) are literal shacks manned by friendly stoner types and that serve fresh, honest food. There's even a guy who sells gear and rents out lockers so city folk don't have to trek their boards back and forth all summer.

Like with any beach, there's the local surf spot (i.e. the one farthest from the train and closed off by 10 to accommodate for the kiddies)...

...and the one everyone else goes to (where novices piss off locals, and locals usually steal most of their waves anyway.)

But that's as far as my surf observations go. I'm a sunbather, or at least, I use sunbathing as an excuse to act like a sloth. Whenever I get near the ocean, I just stare at it, mesmerized by the tide going in and out until I lay on my towel and pick up my book, which after a few sentences, usually leads to a nap, followed by more staring. I like to think of the ocean as Prozac for my city-obsessive disorder.

Devour

This is a photo I snapped over the weekend.

I like food. I admire food. I'll even go as far as to say I think food is art just to justify why I felt the need to document something I've eaten, oh, I don't know, about 4,000 times! (Really, when did I become this weird, or this obessessed with bacon, half-cooked bacon at that? Sure, it was Sunday, but I wasn't even that hungover.)

Looking back on a year of iPhotos, I came across more than 20 pictures of food items. I know as I've gotten older I'm less apt to take woo-hoo drunk, buddy-buddy pictures (Put up your peace signs! Act street tough and laugh, ladies!), or pictures of me or loved ones standing like statues in front of semi-important arhitecture (like the house from Goonies or my favorite bar in LA), but this isn't because I'm too sophisticated for such endeavors, this is more about vanity (going through iPhotos, it also occurs to me I'm not in my prime anymore, and need to be in significantly less pictures.) Regardless, some of these food photos are outright ridiculous.

But to make a weak argument that there was some sort of point to all this food obsession, I've decided to make a gallery of sorts and let the art the speak for itself (aside from the accompanying titles and mini artist statements). So track my progression, if you will, and see how far I've come as an artist. (Note this is less about the photography, and more about the subject matter.)

"Dainty, delectable, sweet" - How three young women interpret themselves on holiday. (Montreal, QC, May 2009)

"Transgression" - A metaphor for one last horrah, a phase where a young lady says goodbye to junk food consumerism and beer pong keggers, and much like the vehicle her goods were on, has to move forward, feel the air roll through her cabin and take flight, past all the Chinese buffets, tire shops and Wendy's drive-thrus along the I-87, to become the poised artist of the work noted above. (Bumfuck, NY, May 2009)

"Fate" - Moment of awe captured on film. Greeted by three menus and thirty ways to make a peanut butter sandwich at the JFK airport. Also referenced as "Girl Arrives Home." (New York, NY, March 2009)

"Sugar Bomb" - Materials: Zippy's Apple Napple, broken plastic fork. Documentation on how hard it is to eat through 20 layers of flaky pastry with a plastic fork, especially when drunk. (Kahala, HI, December 2008)

"Grassy Knoll" - Inspiration: tequila, the humor of a 13-year-old boy. Process: Spontaneous, collaborative piece that came about after professionally-made artwork was left in a fridge many miles away, and four road-tripping drunks got a hold of confectionary squirt tubes and battery-operated candles. (Newport Beach, OR, August 2008)

Studs

The other night I went to a reading by two of my favorite writers.  Although I didn't recognize Nick Flynn at first, I should've. Not just because I study bios on the back of book jackets (and then Google authors to find out juicy personal information like said author dating Lili Taylor), but because of the obvious self-deprecating swagger of a lit star. This is not to be confused with the bravado of a rock star or the good looking cockiness of a movie star, but instead, the insecurity worn on the sleeve of every writer, that coupled with some sort of acclaim or success, can be used as a means to get laid.  

Nick Flynn and Chuck Klosterman (the other aforementioned writer/reader of the night) are talented writers; they have a way with words. The self they write about in their poem/essay/memoirs--the Flynn/Klosterman character--is often a fuckup. He's bumbling through life like the rest of us and he isn't too sure of himself. But the man who is telling this story--the writer--delivers his flaws with an honest, complicated self-awareness. Striking a delicate balance between the character's struggle to arrive at some sort of insight and the smooth writing that gets the reader to arrive there with them. 

Again, this is talent, and therefore to a writer like myself, this is hot. But I think most women over the age of thirty would find self discovery in general attractive. (He's in touch with himself but he isn't a sap! He's a mess but I don't have to fix him!) Flynn is more this type of writer. Although Klosterman isn't as skilled with language (Flynn is a poet first; Klosterman a journalist), he is better with persuasion. You'll follow Klosterman's arguments and exploratories because he appeals to your common sense and common generational experience. (Is Bono for real of full of shit? People like bad television because it's reassuring; no one cares if it's interesting.) 

The subtle discrepancies between these two lit stars were exemplified in how they entered and where they sat at the bar Wednesday night. Klosterman looked like the caricature on his book jacket (a blond male version of Velma from Scooby Doo). He was parked on the first bar stool closest to the entrance--the place where you had to order your drinks. By the time I did a double take, a petite brunette was in his face praising all of his books. A steady stream of above average looking, modestly-built brunettes continued to come up to him until the reading started. (A friend who once went to a Tin House writers conference said all the established writers there had brunette girlfriends who were in their late twenties/early thirties. I suppose smart girls, or lit groupies,  have dark hair and a few years on them, and why I was here instead of say, backstage at a Bret Michaels concert.)

Flynn on the other hand, showed up five minutes before the show started, which was technically ten minutes late, and headed for the corner of the stage, actually my bar stool while I was in the bathroom. (I felt like a douchebag when I realized this after he took the stage, but not before shooting him a contemptuous smirk when he made some comment about my friend letting him keep my seat warm or whatnot.) Flynn had a more stereotypical I'm-of-the-new-generation-of-irreverent-but-acclaimed-literati look about him. Mid forties, casual buttoned-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Wavy hair, a little too long and greasy. A loner, who'd probably really would prefer to talk to absolutely no one, but has learned how to turn snark into wit over years.

I could go on to describe the reading itself. But it was what it was: self conscious disclaimers, followed by verbalized prose and a plug for their work that'll be coming out in the fall. 

Instead, I'll skip to the part after the show, when girls continued to come up and ask them to sign their books. The writers stayed and chitchatted for a bit but then they disappeared before a band closed out the evening. Which was surprising to me because I thought a seasoned writer didn't know when to leave a bar. Hmph. 

Equations

With summer prolonging its official debut here in New York, I embraced a fleeting a moment of sunshine this weekend and headed over to McCarren Park in Williamsburg to read in the grass. Except I spent more time doing what I do best, people watching, (which is actually best done hungover with friends since the only physical exertion involved is staring and letting immediate judgments dribble out your mouth without a hint of tact or remorse).

Therefore, I present to you, a day in the park condensed in quick judgmental equations:

Guy with two yappy dogs = not single

Middle-aged woman slowly walking her bike on a designated bike path = mother reluctant to return home

Couple laughing while staring at guy in neon sunglasses and purple ball cap = hungover too

Guy with ponytail in black and white bowling shirt and faded black denim shorts, lying in grass with handheld device = misses early Metallica/Legend of Zelda

Girl in gingham plaid, carrying a wicker picnic basket and white fluffy dog = not Dorothy

Gay couple suspiciously carrying a Gap bag when there isn't a Gap for miles = eco-conscious lushes without any other plastic bags around the house to transport the bottle of wine they opened for dinner last night and planned to finish for lunch today

Girl putting down her notebook and glancing at the unopened novel beside her = ready for a nap

Freezerburn

New York's inflation apparently extends to vaguely-named animals and their byproducts.