Routine

Nothing worse than watching something beautiful turn to shit right before your very eyes. The hometown that is. I remember lying on an empty 18th floor penthouse apartment, with a bag of chips and a blanket, spending my first night here. I surveyed the cityscape from the suburbs with admiration, hope, and intimidation. I can get no closer, now I live amongst the buildings I so admired, and they have become tombstones in a cemetery.
I watched the Jerry Seinfeld documentary Comedian. Shot in New York, it chronicles the balls to the wall move of starting from success and moving backward. Rather than build on his material from one of the most popular television shows in history, Jerry starts with nothing, developing an act in small clubs throughout Manhattan. Juxtaposed with this, is the aggressive drive of a young comic, who lives in New York and barely scrapes by, developing material in a similar way. Both are hungry, and both of them live in New York.
The varied scenes of comedy clubs in the east and west villages brought a pang of recognition to my heart as I watched it. Especially the river of yellow, rolling up and down the avenues, the taxi's, chirping their horns in a never ending procession. It made me miss New York, and simultaneously loath the hometown. Anyway. Something wonderful happened over the weekend, now it doesn't seem so far away.

Prologue (low, in New York)

What follows are my compiled posts from seven days in New York city, August 2004. I tried to chronicle my daily activities, but as the days wore on, the experiences came too fast and frequent to record with any sort of emotional value. I imagine that it will take quite some time for my mind to get a handle on everything that went on there, so if the posts seem somewhat erratic, its because I started to get lost in an endless sea of pop culture references, people, and cold gin. All names, and some places, have been edited to protect the innocent from random google searches. Some details and events I have also left out, as some things are best left unsaid, and ultimately, not shared. It is not the mandate of low's to leave anything left out, but, truthfully, it was all just a little too much to get down into the laptop. As things slow down in my hometown, you can come to expect the usual introspective, emotional, and ultimately self deprecating material that you have come to expect as a reader of Lows. Enjoy.

First I Take Manhattan...

Remember me? I used to live for music. Remember me? I brought your groceries in. It's Father's Day, and everybody's wounded. First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.

Leonard Cohen - First We Take Manhattan

It must really stink in here. My room, at a hotel in mid-town Manhattan, where I arrived late last night and vomited all over the bed three times, is the size of a closet. The flight into JFK was surreal, I sat in the middle isle, the lights turned out, drinking can after can of Canadian in the dark while watching sappy movies on the TV mounted into the headrest of the seat in front of me. Surrounded by sleeping Asians on route to New York from Hong Kong, I was moved to tears a multitude of times by the most benign sense of affection playing out on the small screen above my food tray.

Once I cleared customs I was on my way to Manhattan, in a yellow cab, it was foggy, and I could faintly see the lights of the Empire State building just before sinking into the mid-town tunnel. Upon arrival, I handed over 700$ for my week stay to the desk clerk at the hotel, put my bags in the room, checked my hair, and headed out to Park Avenue.

This is a city. It smells, it's dirty. There are no alleys here. They pile the garbage up right out on the sidewalk. There are trucks running up and down the avenues all night long. City workers, pull off manhole covers and peer into the cavernous spaces under the streets with a BIC lighter at 1am. Ambulances park on the sidewalk, and cops with sweaty brows survey the scene. It's true what they say, this city never sleeps.

I started at a very hip club underneath the W hotel. It had many private rooms hidden by red velvet curtains and a small bar at the front of the underground space. My first drink in Manhattan was a double gin and tonic, after the tip, it came to 25$. I had one more, single this time, and decided to find somewhere a little more within my budget. I stumbled upon a simple little place, the name I don't recall. More gin ensued and I chatted up a bunch of waiters from an uptown west side restaurant. They promised me a night I wouldn't forget, and kept saying that we will hang out with the Arabians, so after I got the number to one of their cell phones I started to realize just how drunk I really was. Which was very drunk. Once my head was beginning to sink closer and closer to the bar, I decided to leave at once, before things got ugly. Walking back up Park Avenue, the legendary park avenue, in which, before now, was only a sought after property in Monopoly that my brother and I would argue over, it began to really take hold, I am in New York. And that's when things got weird, gross even, no, actually fantastic. Really, it depends on how you look at it.

I don't remember much beyond crashing onto the hotel bed. I had a drunk on the size of the Chrysler building, it was understandable, and being in New York, perfectly acceptable, So when I awoke in bed to the sound of vomit splashing all over the comforter, I did nothing but laugh. I passed out for another hour or two, my knees on the floor, my head on the bed. Thankfully there was a sink in my room so I somehow managed to pull the sheets off my bed and wash them in the sink with hand soap.

It was utterly disgusting, yet strangely fulfilling, after all, I was worried that I would retreat to my hotel room nightly to watch TV by myself, so I as I scraped all the barf off my comforter with the hotel soap, I felt that I was treating New York with the enthusiasm she deserves, and this was only my first 8 hours in the city.

The Itinerary

I am terrified to let housekeeping into my room. It's destroyed. All the sheets have been ripped off the bed, exposing stains on the floral printed mattress that are always lurking beneath the surface. The place is a mess, and my clothes are strewn all over the place.

I sleep all day and venture out in the evening. I walked over to Chelsea and ate at the Empire Diner, one of the first diners in manhattan, and the chrome art deco dining car was empty while I browsed the New York Post and listened to the Mets game on my radio. As the sun began to fall I needed some cheap grimy digs, the Subway Inn, voted by Citysearch as the best dive bar in New York, sounded perfect. So I took the uptown 6 train to my seat at the bar. It was hot. and the place stunk. The bartender was Irish, with a thick accent, I sat in between two guys who looked oddly similar, but they did not speak. Instead, they pounded the bar, air drumming in sync to The Who, playing on the jukebox behind us. I drank there for a couple hours and decided on a pub crawl through the lower east side. I took the 6 train back downtown and walked blindly into a bar of which I do not recall the name. The bartender had an amazing collection of vinyl that he played on the turntable in the corner of the bar. I met two sisters who were from Seattle and we talked about Vancouver, Seattle, and Brooklyn, where one of the girls just took an apartment. Our conversation was interrupted by another woman, who had just gotten back from Texas. She said she was in love, and was going back there to get married. Good luck with that one I thought, as I pleasantly smiled. We all exchanged email addresses and I bid my friends farewell.

I decided to move on to Delancey's because of the roof top garden patio I had heard so much about. When I walked in I inquired as to its location with the two girls sitting at the bar. Everyone is so nice here, these two ladies were gorgeous, "we go out every night," Hannah said in her New York accent. She grabbed a piece of paper off the bar and wrote down the places I should go to each night I was here. We were then joined by another fellow, and as he went to the bar to get more drinks, Hannah leaned over to me and said, "oh my god, he's so hot, but I have a boyfriend," I smiled and noticed her hand stroking his arm as he returned with a round of fluid for us all. They were off dancing somewhere and I was left alone with her friend Caprice, from Brooklyn, she was a footwear designer and as she told me this I looked down at my flip flops and realized I had made a huge mistake. Couldn't have been all that bad though because we made plans to meet for dinner in greenwich village over the weekend.

The evening began to get pretty blurry at that point. I don't remember how I wound up in a cab, but I do know that I was lead out the door and put there. What did I do? Lying in the black vinyl back seat, I thought about the events that unfolded that night, and I uncontrollably yelled, "holy fuck." My driver didn't flinch.

Lit Up

It's a soggy night here in the Bronx,
the air is thick and heavy,
but the mood of the crowd is light.

-- Yankee announcer John Sterling

I dug myself out of bed about 2pm, had two pieces of pizza from the slice shop on the corner with a coke, and went back to bed. Realizing that the Whitney would be closing at 6, I hustled uptown on the 6 train and saw the Ed Rushca retrospective. The deadpan humor and documentary nature of Ruscha's photography, drawings, and paintings was more than enough to think about for the rest of my hiatus from reality. Gallery hopping was kept to a minimum.

Looking at my map outside the Whitney I noticed that directly across Central Park was the dakota building, John Lennon's old apartment, and of course, the scene of his murder. I cut through the lush greens of Central Park and shortly arrived at the sidewalk so loaded with karma, history, whatever you want to call it. I still remember being ten, arriving for dinner at my grandmothers place and looking at the newspaper lying on the couch with the image of this building on the front page. I must say I didn't think I would ever set foot upon this sidewalk.

It was getting late, and I had to get to the Bronx. I had a little trouble navigating the trains getting to Yankee Stadium and barely made it to my seat before the first pitch was thrown in the Yankees and Angels game. Again, to be in the company of such overwhelming history, was intoxicating. I sat and looked out over the stadium and imagined the legends that had played here. It really sunk in, when later, after taking the train back to my room to change into some clothes more suitable for late night clubbing, I was sitting in a small bar in the east village, where the walls were filled with old pictures. Directly across from my stool was a picture of Babe Ruth, standing in Yankee Stadium. Above that, a picture of Joe Dimaggio and Marilyn Monroe, arm in arm, smiling. They were such a glamourous, beautiful couple.

I sat and drank, looking at all the pictures, chatting about Canadian and American idiosyncrasies with some metal sculptors from Brooklyn until about 230. Then following Hannah's itinerary from the night before, I went to Lit, a dark cavernous underground club that had concrete floors and brick walls that lead into all kinds of seedy looking corners with leather chairs. They played awesome music, everything from Prince, to Nitzer Ebb and Danzig. I was told by the bar back to sit down as I was in his working area, all I saw him do was fold beer boxes and put them into a plastic bag. I complied and wound up sitting with Raenna, who was with some much older looking friends or relatives from Boston. Raenna just got back from a four year stint in London, she now lives in Brooklyn, sells stuff on Ebay, and drinks vodka with cranberry. There is something very liberating about being in a place where no one knows you, so as I was leaving the club, I decided to hit the dance floor on the way out. I slopped my hard healed shoes around the floor, with my gin and tonic in hand, and a smile on my face I won't soon forget.

Walking back to my hotel up Park Avenue, at five o clock in the morning, the Empire State building poking up between the cityscape every so often, I went to McDonalds and had a cheeseburger. There were two transit workers dozing in the corner, and I kept trying to sneak their picture without them noticing me. My ode to the working man. Work? What the hell is that.

The Gentle Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

I had the most vile meal in Times Square last night. Popeye's Chicken, it was hot, dirty, and it stunk. When I lifted a piece of the fried chicken to my mouth, a stream of grease flowed out of it as if it was relieving itself onto the black plastic plate. I was terrified to eat the coleslaw since it was made with mayonnaise, or anything else for that matter, so dinner was very light. Times Square was packed, Saturday night, no locals. Massive buildings with steaming cups of noodles, the front end of a Cadillac, and a giant atm machine, all jutting out from the hard edges of the endlessly lit facades.

From there I made my way to Grand Central station, and walking into its main concourse, was an impressive, if not glamourous impression on the influence that architecture can have upon the senses. Massive, the ceiling reaching tall to the heavens, and its roof painted with an image of the winter constellations, where the most intricate and beautiful chandeliers are there to meet you half way from the earth to the sky. Open spaces like this have a natural sound, and the sound of Grand Central is one of a low decibel din, it's the sound of people traveling.

I took the 1 train downtown, for a pub crawl through Greenwich Village, old world charm, with thin cobblestone streets, and brick row houses, now affordable only to a select few. I started out with a drink at the White Horse Tavern, where Dylan Thomas nearly drank himself into a hospital bed, the small corner pub was filled with icy yuppies, and the doorman, sitting on the closed patio stuffing his face with some kind of pub food wouldn't let me sit to have a cigarette, what an asshole. Sad how things never stay the same.

I walked through the village, to SoHo, and Don Hill's, where every band playing sounded and looked like The Strokes. Everyone in the crowd had black scraggly hair, tattoos and tight rock shirts, oh, and you have to have a nice white belt, with riveted holes in it to complete the sameness of the masses. But, I like tattoos, and The Strokes, and gin, so I sat at the bar and had a good time anyway.

Like every other idiot tourist I decided to stop at CBGB's just so I could say I was there, and to get a shirt. Knowing full well that the place has become no different than any other tourist attraction in New York, and that the staff must hate the fact that they work at a t-shirt factory. The place unfortunately has become a caricature of its once dominant force of the international punk scene. They still host local bands, just starting out though, it's just not the place to see and be seen like it was in the late 70's. I decided to annoy the bartender immediately with directions as to where I could get a t-shirt. I mean, why beat around the bush. To her credit she was very friendly and after I bought my first souvenir in New York I took a cab back to the hotel.

At five thirty in the morning I started to feel light pangs of the loneliness I have been so oppressed by in Vancouver, of which I have virtually been free of here in New York. Must have been the fried chicken.

Take Me Out to the Crowds

You never get anywhere, doing whatever you do,
unless you give it all you got,
and baseball is the same way.

-- Ken Burns, Baseball

Lying in my hotel room in New York, with a nasty bout of insomnia, watching the epic burns documentary on baseball for the umpteenth time, I really wonder about myself. I have been trying to give it all I got for about 8 years now, and I don't think I've done anything at the level just described to me by the glowing box at the end of my bed. I will try again this winter, I think, but maybe I have already accepted another defeat. I should have went out, but I just don't have the energy to face the crowds alone tonight.

Epilogue

I love airport bars, and flying under the influence. I have my laptop on the bar at Terminal 7 as I write this. There is something wonderful about the fact that within a few short hours, everyone sitting around me will be distributed throughout the world.

Earlier, I took my last drink at Desmonds, on Park Avenue, and I raised a glass with Brian, an Irishman. We drank to New York, Ireland, and Canada. He bid me farewell, and as I stood out on the street with my luggage, smoking, I tried to soak up as much of Manhattan as I possibly could. I know it won't last though, my time there has already begun its passage into history. It is only a memory now, removed from reality and the dullness of the present. The whole trip will eventually fade away as the years slip by, but strange moments will linger, things that are intangible to the present. Moments that can only be understood from a distance.

I really was hoping something wonderful would have happened here, maybe a job offer or something, I even had a perverse fantasy of falling in love. Something that would give me the excuse, or the impetus to never come home. But, alas, in a few short hours I will return to an empty apartment, without anyone to greet me. This is my reality, and this is the present. The thing is though, something wonderful did happen there, I just don't know exactly what it is yet, ask me in a few years.

Left to my own devices, I probably would.

Love Low.

Toot Sweet

-- Courtesy of Setsuko's Barbie Dolls

I found the past. I was looking for a jacket, but found a dress. I held it in my arms, limp and thin. I buried my face deep into its folds, my nose searching, yearning for any trace of left over scent. It was empty. I slipped the dress back into the green plastic bag so it could resume its ageing. Cocked and loaded, it rests in the back corner of my closet, waiting for another chance to remind me. The bloody jacket isn't here.

FAQ UP

Dinnner was everything I knew it would be...

Why aren't the noodles, fully cooked in the specified time?
Why are the noodles, macaroni or rice gummy?
Why is the consistency thin and watery?
Can you prepare half of the package?
Why isn't the sauce saucy enough?
Why are the noodles or macaroni too soft?
Why are the noodles or macaroni starchy?
Why isn't all of the liquid absorbed when cooked in the microwave?
Why are some of the pieces of noodles or macaroni chewy when cooked in the microwave?
Why did the product spill over onto the floor of the microwave?
Can I reheat leftover Tuna Helper in the microwave?

--Courtesy ofBetty Crocker

Red Sox

tito at the helm
decisions made in haste
again disaster

sacrifice, never
sabermetrician? hell no
james curses the man

windmills signal go
runners barrel toward the dish
stop them, death at home!

and lastly,

once proud achilles
now off to senior circuit
stretched thin on wife's work

--courtesy of yanksfan vs soxfan

In Secret

For Bresson, and Paris

Troubled as the future was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant hope.

--Dickens In Secret

Yet another night in bed. The compassion club paid a visit earlier, I sat and sipped tea, smoking hash, while the sound of 50,000 people collectively screaming at a football game across the street filled the empty space of my apartment.

Friday night, and the city hums with the passion of the workers. From my mattress, I imagine myself travelling through avenues and streets, gathering the secrets that have been washed from the concrete maze by the light rain, before they trickle into the sewers.

Intermittent yelps from the diners and drinkers below pass through my open window, and over my naked back, oh how I wish to join you, but my stomach will not allow it.

The hours funnel into one conclusion.

Night Vision

Happier times, Curt Kobain...

I am just finishing a 36 hour stint in bed, my guest the entire time was gut wrenching pain. Despite my inability to cover a Nirvana song with reasonable success, as it turns out, Kurt and I have something in common after all, chronic stomach pain. Except for an attempt to get to my office this morning, I have been lying in my bed for what seems like an eternity. The heat of my laptop burning my loins day and night. I was delirious, I had thoughts, I had visions.

Lying there, I began to wonder. If I died, how long would it take until someone found me? Cobain lay in his garage attic in Seattle for days, until the cable man found him, and he was an international rock star. I lay in bed for almost 2 days straight, the phone rang once. It was a telephone survey call. I wanted to talk, I guess, keeping my new friend on the phone with queries as to the weather in his part of town. I envisioned my corpse rotting, unnoticed for weeks on end. The other tenants finally getting the landlord to do something about the stink from down the hall. A coroners gurney wheeling my covered body out the front entrance. The locals chatting idly as they watch the horror, "Such a nice mannered boy, must have been drugs," the stories would mutate into something fantastic. And then, finally, a new family, viewing my recently emptied home with scrutiny.

They say in times of intense physical trauma, or mental stress, that you can have visions. I've seen it in cliche, inappropriate representations of first peoples culture in the movies. You starve yourself in the bush or something like that for a few days, and get visited by your spirit animal, and you figure it all out. I don't know if it's true or not, but I was visited by a hamster. Fitting. It was at the edge of my bed, it was digging, franticly digging into the mattress. It stopped for a second, it looked at me, whiskers twitching, sniffing the air as insanely as it was digging only a moment earlier. Then it went back to ripping a hole in the mattress, where it crawled inside and never came out. I awoke a few hours later, without realizing I had fallen asleep. The mattress was fine, no holes.

The cramps are just starting to subside now, a day and a half after the whole mess started. I think I'll go get a Big Mac, maybe play some guitar. I am alive, if anyone was wondering.