I am...a New Yorker

[Previous entry: "A Troublemaker"]

Tuesday, May 21, 2002
So. Very. Sore.

Music...it's been too long.

A man n his 40s with a little girl's bike covered n alumnum, Christmas garland n every color. Yes, it had a little, girly basket, just like the man a few days ago.

Fettucne carbonara at the Tick Tock dner.

The feelng n my feet.

When I became an old lady.

I am...pooped!  I spent Monday with my friend Tracey, who is visitng from L.A. We had met up at the Port Authority (42nd Street @ 8th Avenue) on Saturday and walked down to the Village (West 8th Street and 6th Avenue). By the time we had dnner, I was pretty much spent; the scrumptious desserts at Uno capped off the food coma, so we said our goodbyes early.

. . .

Afterward, I went to a party for Webster's friend Mary Ann, who was visitng from Boston. The apartment was huge and gorgeous, the people were funny and smart and the food was delicious. I fell nto a friendly-knda-love with Mary Ann the first time we met. She is just such a warm, friendly, happy person. She's not just stupid happy, either. You have the impression she knows what goes on n the world, but still keeps a positive outlook.

I thnk I have met her at total of three times, but Saturday night as we hugged our goodbyes, she said, "I love you." Would that we were all that open and effusive and meant it so sncerely. We, all of us, should have the courage to say that, especially now. (Note: Netra thought Mary Ann was hittng on me, so my apologies if the writng is unclear...she is a friend.)

. . .

Of course, I'm still a curmudgeon where some of use are concerned. One of the women at the party asked me what direction I was gong and if I wanted to split a cab. As it was up n the 150s and after 1 am, I figured I'd go ahead and splurge, especially snce I didn't know the way to the subway. I didn't even know the way to the subway from Webster's apartment. To my surprise, we got a yellow cab n a few mnutes, neither of us wantng to deal with the hagglng of a gypsy cab. After a few mnutes, she gave me $10 and I figure that's about what her share is to the Upper West Side. I look to see if I have a couple of sngles to give her, when she demands a $5.

She proceeded to complan and nsist that she wasn't screwng me over for the next 50 blocks. She claimed she never would've taken a cab, because she wasn't above takng the subway like me, but that I'd nsisted. A lovely crock of shit, that. If I'd had her sussed better before we left the party, I would have taken a cab by myself down the West Side highway, which would have been far less expensive than takng motherfuckng Broadway down 142 blocks! On and on she went n this sort of behavior I noticed after my birthday party -- the preemptive strike wheren the fuckwit turns the situation around and somehow makes themself the victim.

When we reached her block, she declared that the meter was "7 bucks, so I don't owe you anythng."  She'd conveniently rounded down from $7.40, and failed to add the 50 cent night surcharge and her portion of the tip, for a total of $9-10.  I would've probably taken $6-7 happily, although most New Yorkers would pay even more than their part of the ride.  I wouldn't mnd splittng some of the difference, but the fact that she nsisted on $5 and acted like I was screwng her was just nfuriated and she didn't shut up about it until she got out of the cab, to boot. Maddenng!

. . .

Sunday was the day of many stairs. First there were the 12 to the dnng room at home, leadng to the Great Dnng Room Bruhaha of 2002. Later, I went to see Mary Ann sng at St. Thomas Acqunas church n Brooklyn (hope to get to that more fully n another entry), and ended up at a weird, elevated subway stop that required 4 flights down, then 2 flights up to exit.

I only mention Mary Ann's concert n this entry for two reasons: the copious stairs and the fact that this friend from the party told her all about the cab ncident. I never would have mentioned it, to save our mutual friends the embarrassment. Although it steamed me at the time, I wasn't gong to go and dwell on it enough to tell outside parties the next day. Bottom lne -- don't be like that, be like Mary Ann.

My street

My street is one of those n the village that looks almost like the New York where Meg Ryan movie characters live. Apparently, I took either few photos durng our record-browsng trek throughout the village, or else I took most of them with my still camera. One store had all the orignal Monkees vnyl on the Colgems label. I only have the Rhno rereleases from 1986. The same place had a bunch of releases by "Davy and his band," which was clearly the Monkees and I've no idea why the mysterioso change of band name and weird album names.

My other favorite fnds were some orignal New York Dolls vnyl and a rerelease of a Runaways album when Michael "Mickey" Steele (later of the Bangles) was n the band. Concidentally, I first met Tracey through members of Dramarama who'd bumped nto her backstage at a Duran show n 1987. I actually thought she was Michael Steele, because the Bangles sang "If She/He Knew What She/He Wants" with Duran that night.

. . .

Lookng at records all day and gong to my first concert n ages brought back those heady days, of backstage memories n Hollywood durng the late '80s and early '90s.  I don't know if it was the era or my own age, but it was a magical time.  Almost Famous came close to relayng that sense of fndng home and family among other wayward, yet impossibly nnocent, orphans.

Imagne that story contnung from age 15 to 25 and you have a snapshot of 1/3 of my life. John told me once it was an honor to have watched me grow up and I'm sure it's an even more odd thng for John and Tracey to have known me half my life and to see me on my own n New York.

. . .

Chnese back rub

I found the $10 Chnese back rub sign amusng.

Tator Card readng

But not nearly as amusng as the prospect of a "Tator card" readng.  Are the cards made out of potatoes?  And what the hell is a Plam?

We kept walkng, until we reached Astor Place, land of 1,000 Starbucks, as I needed to take a bit of a break. The bigger Starbucks there is airy and comfy, so there we rested and rejuvenated. I tried to pee there, but there were two girls waitng n lne and I gave up when there was no progress after 20 mnutes. I went to the Starbucks across the street, that was a Pasqua, and flashed my Frappacno to get the bathroom key.

. . .

Although we'd fnally reached the East Village, with its own concentration of record stores, we realized we didn't have time to check it all out. Instead, we went up to the Hammersten, to see what we could see, which was nothng.  I am spoiled by all those years of always knowng someone who knew someone n Hollywood and gettng access to sound checks and backstage without even thnkng much about it.

Alas, I don't have any connections of any knd n New York (not even of a more mundane variety).

Then we went down to Gramercy Park to pick up the tickets from Tracey's friend. By that pont, my thighs were achng from all the stairs and walkng, so I begged that we take a cab back to the Hammersten.  So we did.

Headlner Pete Yorn played drums for the Jukebox Junkies, who I thought at first were Sloan, but I was mistaken. Their sound was quite melodic, so Trace and I enjoyed them as well.

Who should I see behnd me at the show, but the girls from the Starbucks bathroom lne?! I recognized the one, even though she had her hair cut after I saw her earlier n the day. It's a small town, after all.

I managed to take one shot of Sloan before my achng feet and thighs demanded I sit down.  Excellent website they have, by the way. I see thngs like that and it feels like my design skills will never get to where I want them to be.

I could really get nto a band that performs dressed n animal costumes, not to mention whose members get nterviewed as moose.

. . .

I sat along the railng for the bar, where they kept the kegs. Toward the end of Pete Yorn's set, a couple consistng of a big, beautiful woman and a lovely Blanepear who was quite smitten with her sat next to me. It remnded me of Blanepear, naturally and also of another such couple.

I had a tarot (note: not "tator") card readng n New Orleans and the guy and I talked for over 3 hours. At one pont, he went on and on about the woman he was smitten with and how he didn't know how to approach her. At one pont he told me she was approachng and I'll be damned if she wasn't this big, beautiful, brown woman.

Maybe the problem is all n my head. After all, the Greek thnks I'm hot. I thnk part of me is still very much n the Empire, redneck country that it is, and just assumes that my color, my short hair, my size and even my ntelligence will naturally preclude anyone from beng attracted to me, snce they have been used time and time agan as excuses for rejection. I have to remember that everyone I meet isn't a small-mnded twit and that I should, as Netra advised, give them some credit. Maybe the loss of Blanepear from my life will brng that message home to me, fnally. Of course, it's all a matter of perspective, so it's impossible to say who's the fuckwit here and it's probably a little bit me, a little bit him.

Yes, the Empire State Buildng is still red, white and blue. Just when you start to forget, it's a steady remnder.

[Next entry: "Already Torn"]
[Index] [archives] [bio]
[Wish List]

Powered By Greymatter

All text and images 1992-2002 Erica