My New Year’s resolution this year is to be meaner to my cats. Last night I woke up with the boy, Rory, sleeping on my pillow. And I don’t mean he was just clinging to a corner — he was sleeping dead center as if it was a special pillow purchased at a fancy pet store. Once I was awake enough to realize what was going on, I pried him loose, threw him to the foot of the bed, and reclaimed the pillow for myself. He made a sound that was half-purr, half meow, did a Yoga stretch and sauntered back to the pillow, waiting for me to settle down. Convinced I was finished fussing, he circled a few times then collapsed onto my face in a smothering ball of fur. This time, I did what I should’ve done in the first place and threw him off the bed entirely.
Although I’m describing the events of last night, I may as well be telling you about the previous night, or the night before that. One of the drawbacks of having an apartment with an open floor plan is the distinct lack of doors behind which to lock annoying pets, otherwise my resolution would be a lot easier. As it is, I still have a few details to work out.
Speaking of New Years, Deborah and I were in bed long before midnight. Deborah isn’t drinking these days and generally speaking when she stops, so do I. Instead of a bottle of champagne, we bought a bottle of sparkling pear juice and a couple of frozen pizzas. The girl at the check out counter laughed. “Better than my night,” she said. “I’m here working.”
“What time do you get off work?”
“Nine.”
“Oh, that’s plenty of time,” I said. “A couple of hours to rush home. put on your silver tights and tiara and get somewhere before the countdown. In fact, it probably even gives you enough time to be choosy about who you kiss at midnight.”
She agreed and laughed, but I haven’t seen her yet to ask how things went.
Photo courtesy of Wade Schields
When the loosely organized local vintage motorcycle community, of which I am a loosely organized member, got word that the critically acclaimed British documentary “TT3D: Closer to the Edge” about the infamous Isle of Man Tourist Trophy motorcycle races was going to have a short run at a Manhattan movie theater, the group made plans to see it. When, for some reason, the theater pulled the movie from its schedule, Corinna, who runs the weekly moto-themed movie night Cine Meccanica at Otto’s Shrunken Head, took it upon herself to make it happen anyway, DIY style.
After sorting out the logistics, Corinna sent an email confirming that the movie would be shown at Matchless, a motorcycle-friendly bar in Brooklyn that has a projector and screen and often shows motorcycle races on Monday nights.
I arranged to meet my friend Wade for dinner ahead of time. Wade, like me, is underemployed at the moment and dinner at 5 o’clock wasn’t a problem for either of us. Although Matchless is a couple of miles from my apartment, it lies directly in the path of my local bus route. The bus schedule being as it is — for entertainment purposes only — makes it impossible to predict how long a ride will take. Twenty minutes? An hour? I gave myself a little extra time, but the ride was quick and I was early. Wade, however, came from Manhattan and after a few connections, had to walk a few blocks from the subway. He was soggy and wet, shook off the rain and took a seat.
Wade is a photographer and he hired me to assist on a recent photo shoot. It was an admittedly boring tabletop shoot for a cosmetics company but he was happy to have the work, and was hoping to get more of it. So was I.
“Thanks again for hiring me to assist,” I said. “You really didn’t need two assistants.”
After the shoot, Wade’s other assistant, Kiritin, told me she was glad I was there to keep her from falling asleep. But, of course, if I hadn’t been there, she would’ve had more to do.
“I think I actually did need two assistants,” said Wade. “We ran late even as it was.”
“True,” I said. “Either way, I was happy to have the work. Things are starting to feel desperate. I wish I had something I could sell on ebay.”
“It’s barely worth it,” said Wade. Wade has an impressive collection of vintage motorcycles — four BSAs and a Triumph– along with a variety of spare parts to go with them. Although he’s determined not to sell any of the bikes, he’s been cleaning gas tanks, wheels, carburetors, etc, and putting them up for auction. “By the time you clean, photograph and ship everything, it’s hardly worth the trouble.” In addition to motorcycles, he also collects fine art photography and he told me about some signed prints he recently sold on ebay for half of what they’re worth.
We had a couple of beers and ate some food, then got our check and prepared to leave. “Shit,” I said, pulling out an insufficient wad of bills from my wallet, “Speaking of low funds, I’m a little short.”
“I can cover it if you want to go find an ATM. I’ll meet you at the bar.”
Photo courtesy of Wade Schields
The rain was coming down hard and by the time I got cash at an outdoor machine and walked to the bar, I was soaked. A couple of guys followed me inside, carrying motorcycle helmets. “Not a very nice night for riding,” said Wade, nodding toward the guys.
“Not a very nice night for walking, either,” I said, shaking out my hat.
For the most part, the people featured in the move are from the UK and their accents made them difficult to understand, but with the added din of the bar, it became nearly impossible. “They should have turned on the closed captioning,” I said. Regardless, despite the noise and the distractions of people bumping into me from all sides, ordering beer and food and asking, “Where’s the toilet?” the movie was — in movie-critic parlance — spellbinding. It really was.
Tourist Trophy motorcycle racing at the Isle of Man began in 1907 and since then, there have been over 240 deaths. The movie focuses on the 2010 season and, statistics being what they are, it’s not surprising that a racer dies in one of the 2010 races. The racer’s surviving wife is philosophical about it and, at one point, says something like, although it’s a cliché, it’s true that people can die any day at any minute from any number of things. It’s something you hear people say all the time, “Hey you can get killed just walking down the street.” Point being to do what you love and live life to the fullest.
After the movie, I called Deborah to tell her I was on my way home. “Just waiting for the bus,” I said.
The bus was nearly empty when it arrived and it didn’t make many stops. By the time we hit Driggs Avenue and Broadway, I was the only passenger. The bus idled at the intersection for a long time. Siren lights lit up the busses foggy windows. The bus driver got off the bus. I walked to the front of the bus and poked my head out the door to see what was happening. The intersection was cordoned off with police tape.
When the bus driver returned, I asked him, “What’s the story? Are we going to be moving soon?”
“The police marking off the ground with chalk,” he said in broken Polish. “Like a…a…a…fatality.”
The driver gave me some alternate bus options, all of which involved multiple transfers. I was still a mile and a half from home but I decided to walk. Standing at the corner of the intersection, I could’t see much. A garbage truck, a few police cars, siren lights reflecting on the slick pavement, rain catching the light of the street lamps. I didn’t see an ambulance, I didn’t see any chalk.
The cold rain got under my collar and began to trickle down my back. I pulled my coat’s zipper tight around my neck and walked home. Within minutes I was utterly drenched, but I didn’t mind. I was going home to a warm bed, a hot cup of tea, and a wife who loves me. I was alive.
Deborah sent me a link to a story she found the next day with details of the accident.Katharine Yun, NYU Grad, Struck And Killed By Sanitation Truck In Williamsburg
You can get killed just crossing the street.
Well over a year ago I did a freelance gig for a production company that was contracted by Radio City Music Hall to create video set elements for the legendary Radio City Christmas Spectacular. (Now in its 79th year!). I worked a solid three months in the sweltering heat of the summer creating animatics for a wintery North Pole scene featuring candy and elves and snow and presents. (In case you don’t know what animatics are, they are animated mockups designed to sort out as much of the look, feel and timing of a sequence in order to work out as many kinks as possible before shelling out a lot of money on 3D animation.)
When my mother told me she was planning to take my niece to see The Radio City Christmas Spectacular, I told her not to buy tickets until I checked to see if I could pull strings and get her a discount.
“Okay,” she said, “two tickets for me and two for yourself if you and Deborah want to come.” I was curious about how how my work turned out, but attending the show didn’t interest me much. I asked Deborah if she wanted to go, but she was even less interested.
“We’ll do whatever we can to help facilitate your travels, mom, but I think we’ll pass on the show.” Bah, humbug!
As a small cog in a gigantic wheel, I couldn’t get a discount. ‘”Sorry, mom, no luck. So much for being a big shot.”
“That’s okay. There’s been a change of plans, anyway.” It’s difficult for my mom to get around these days and she had second thoughts about fighting the New York City holiday crowds. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
I didn’t give the show any more thought. At least not until the other day, when I was surprised by a last-minute invitation to the Christmas Spectacular’s opening night, along with passes to the after party. I had to decide right away. “What do you think, Deborah, you want to go?”
“Okay, why not.”
A colleague of mine would meet us underneath Radio City’s marquee an hour before showtime with the tickets. It was dark and rainy and, as showtime neared, neither of us felt like leaving the apartment. That happens a lot — too much these days — but we drank some coffee and pushed each other to move.
Deborah injured her foot recently. She’s not sure what’s wrong with it, and is waiting to see a podiatrist. In the meantime, she tries to stay off of it as much as she can. We arrived a few minutes early, and waited in the crowd that was smushed together under the awning, out of the rain. Deborah’s foot began to ache. “I should’ve bought some aspirin,” she said.
“Wait here, and I’ll go find some.”
I had to walk several blocks before I found a deli that sold pain relievers. Three dollars for two pills? Are you kidding? Outrageous! I didn’t have time to argue so I paid the extortion money and headed back to the theater. When I found Deborah she was standing next to a middle aged woman with long frizzy hair dyed jet black. Deborah nodded toward the woman and gestured to me that the lady was nuts.
“Who, her? Why what happened?”
The woman had been standing in the middle of the packed crowd with an open umbrella. Deborah got her attention, “Excuse me,” she said, pointing upward toward the awning. “You probably don’t need your umbrella.”
The woman’s eyes widened, her nostrils flared and she began to shake. “I am an actress!” she said. “I need to protect my hair from the humidity. Why don’t you mind your own business!”
Did she really say that? Deborah looked around to see who else might’ve heard the exchange.
“I was trying to be polite,” Deborah said to the woman.
“Well, you weren’t very, so mind your own business,” she said again.
“Listen, I was just trying to be helpful. You don’t have to be a fucking bitch about it.”
“No, you’re the fucking bitch.”
Deborah looked around again, and caught eyes with another woman standing nearby who just shrugged and smiled and did her best not to get dragged into anything. Deborah laughed. The actress mocked her laugh. Deborah shook her head and and that’s when I showed up.
“I think therapy is helping,” said Deborah. “Before, I would stewing about something like that for days. Now I can just call a woman a fucking bitch and be done with it.”
Progress!
We sat with Bob, a fellow freelancer who worked with me on the animatics, and his partner, Jim. Deborah was thumbing through the program and came across an ad for Peter Pan starring Cathy Rigby.
“Cathy Rigby?” said Deborah. “Isn’t she like seventy years old?”
“She’ll never grow up,” said Bob. “She’s Peter Pan.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Deborah. “She used to do Tampon commercials.”
We laughed at the thought of Peter Pan doing tampon commercials.
“Don’t worry Peter, you can still go swimming and do all the things you always did.”
“They have wings!” said Bob.
The show itself held no surprises — an over-the-top, candy-colored, seizure inducing schmaltz-fest. Until the end, of course, when they put on the famous “living nativity” scene featuring live animals and little baby Jesus. The scene is introduced by Santa Clause who, predictably tells the audience not to forget the true “reason for the season.” In other words, never mind all the time, money and effort that went into the previous hour and fifteen minutes, the true meaning of Christmas is this: real live camels!
What can I say about the after party? You know how it goes, showgirls, ingenues, glamour-pusses. Snorting cocaine off well-toned asses, sipping champagne from shoes. Well, okay, maybe not.
I ran into another colleague of mine, Adam, who worked in the theater non-stop for the past three weeks doing final tweaks. He said he became so comfortable wandering around the empty theater that he was upset to see all these people in off the street invading his home.
“What kind of changes have they been doing?” I was curious to know.
“Remember the animated sign that says THE ROCKETTES that rises from beneath the stage? Well it was supposed to be an actual sign, a set piece. The thing was built and everything, but they were having trouble figuring out how to get it on and off stage so at the last-minute they decided to make a 3D animation instead.”
“Pretty soon the entire show will be animated,” I predicted. “The Rockettes and everything. It’ll be The Radio City Christmas Spectacular Movie…In 3D.”
“They’re halfway there already.”
“Seeing that I’m sure as hell never gonna get any work dancing, I guess that’s good news for me.”
There’s not much to say about the after party, really. Free food and drink is always good. Half the people were totally decked out, the guys in festive suits, the women in sequined dresses. The other half, myself included, were schlubs. Various Rockettes could be seen posing for photos, instantly snapping into toothy showbiz poses as soon as anyone lifted a camera. Bob spotted a young woman on the other side of the room wearing a hat from the wooden soldier routine. “She’s gonna get in trouble,” I said, then did my best impression of a 1930s choreographer: “There are a hundred girls out there hungry for your job!”
Deborah spotted her favorite Rockette. “There’s my girl!”
“Go ask for her autograph,” I said.
“Ha, yeah,”
“Go say hello,” said Bob. “She’ll be flattered to know she stood out.”
Deborah thought about it for a second or two but just laughed and shook her head, no. “She’s not as magical in real life.”
Recently, I attended the New York premier for a movie called Cargo, written, produced and directed by some friends of mine. I was an extra in a club scene, but I don’t think I made the final cut beyond perhaps a few frames of the back of my head. Actually, I’m not even sure the head I saw was mine since I don’t really know what the back of my head looks like. (And honestly, the older I get the less I want to know.)
My truck, on the other hand was impossible to miss. It had a featured role and even got to do an action scene. (The movie was shot over a year ago, but I’m still finding small pieces of the rear window caked in fake blood.)
I was so late to the premier that I nearly didn’t make it. When I arrived the ushers were seating a group of Russians that had been waiting on stand-by. I literally got the last available seat. When I sat down, my phone buzzed, but I didn’t notice it. My friend Paul was texting me from the other side of the aisle.
Although knowing my truck was featured made me especially excited to see the finished product, I worried it would make it difficult to enjoy the movie purely as a movie. Thankfully it was a compelling film and I got caught up in the suspense without even trying.
It wasn’t until everyone began filing out of the theater that Paul finally got my attention. “Hey, Jamie, what are you doing here? Did you work on this movie or something.”
“A peripheral player, as usual,” I said. “Although my truck had a principal role.”
“Was that your pickup?”
“Yeah.”
“They bought you a new window, I hope.”
“Hell yeah. How about you? What are you doing here? Do you know these guys?”
“I know the publicist.”
The lobby was crowded with people discussing the film and standing in line for the chance to congratulate to the filmmakers who were standing against the wall being photographed. Paul and I made small talk while the crowd slowly carry us past the cameras, through the front doors and onto the street. Standing under the marquee, I realized I should probably go back inside to offer congratulations, too, however, I was afraid that if I went in, it would take me an hour to get out again.
“What are you doing now? Are you heading back to Brooklyn?” I said, hoping we could split the cost of a cab, although in retrospect it was a silly notion. For one thing, Paul was unlikely to splurge a few extra bucks on a cab but also, it wasn’t even 10:00 yet. A mover and shaker like Paul was just getting warmed up.
“A friend invited me to a burlesque art party,” he said. “Are you up for it?”
“A burlesque art party? Sure, yeah, why not?”
It was a nice night, and as we walked from 13th Street to SoHo, I called Deborah to let her know I’d be late. At the same time, Paul called his friend to see about getting me on the guest list.
“Victor?” Paul’s said. “Vector?” The street noise on Paul’s end and the music on the other end made it difficult for Paul to hear. “Text it to me.”
The text came through. I was to pretend my name was Hector Alvarez while Paul was given a Jewish-sounding name. “I don’t think I can pull that off,” I said, and we debated over the names. It turned out not to matter because, when we finally arrived, Paul’s friend simply met us outside and led us past the doorman. “They’re with me.”
“Todd, this is my friend Jamie,” said Paul, and then it dawned on him. “Wait, you guys know each other, don’t you?”
It turned out we did. All three of us had worked together on the Stephen Sprouse exhibit at Deitch Projects.
“Todd actually lived near you for a while,” said Paul.
“Where do you live?” said Todd.
“In Brooklyn, near the Navy Yard.”
“Ah, okay yeah, I used to park my RV over there. I lived in an RV for a couple of years. It was a good deal. Just me and my dog.”
“Yeah, you and that fucking dog,” said Paul. “I still have teeth marks from that fucking thing. I visited Todd at the RV one night, Since I’d never met the dog before, Todd decided he better put a muzzle on him. A pit bull. He’s ferocious. A soon as I walked in, the thing came flying at me and tore into my leg.”
“He couldn’t get the muzzle on in time?”
“No, I mean he bit me through the muzzle. Right through the fucking muzzle.”
The gallery was filled with elaborately costumed performers, some danced on pedestals, some acted out abstract scenes on the floor and a few others mingled with the crowd. Essentially, the whole gallery space was a stage and we had to keep moving to avoid being absorbed into the show.
Todd introduced us to a short Asian girl dressed in some sort of Thai ceremonial garb. “Ah yeah, the married girl,” said Paul. They had met at a bowling party a few months earlier where Paul spent the whole night working his moves only to hear her say at the end of the night, “Okay, time to go home to my husband.”
The girl giggled as Paul told the story.
We were introduced to a couple of more dancers and given inside information on a few others. “That one is a thirty-year-old virgin. Don’t tell her I told you that.”
When a guy in a blindfold took to a nearby pedestal and began to strip down to a saggy pair of underwear in slow motion, we decided it was time to snake our way to the rear of the gallery where a makeshift bar was set up to sell cups of wine for 5 dollars each. Paul’s friend got us each a free cup.
“Five bucks?” said Paul. “That’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”
“It’s a fundraiser,” said Todd. “They’re trying to raise money for the gallery.”
I felt a little guilty, but I took the free wine anyway. Cups in hand, we slipped into a back room were it was quiet enough to talk. A grainy black and white video of a dozen dancers frolicking in a park was projected on the wall. “If you see a naked guy in this video,” said Todd, “That’s me.” He broke into an unsteady dance routine.
A good looking couple sat on a couch under the screen, making out. “Are they part of the show?” I asked.
Todd shrugged.
A drunk guy stumbled into our little group and pointed into the other room where one of the female dancers was in line for a drink. “I’m gay,” he said, “but look at that ass! It’s so perfect, I want to bite it!”
“Is it making you question your sexuality?” said Todd.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, look at it!”
Although I was fairly certain he wasn’t one of the performers, he began to twirl and totter around the room, mumbling about that ass until he collapsed on the couch where the couple was kissing. “Did you see that ass?” he asked them, sounding half asleep. “Perfect.”
Halfway through a second free cup of wine I called it quits. “YOu want this?” I said, holding the cup out to Paul.”
“It’s really bad, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take it.”
I said my goodnights, made vague plans to hang out again, and went outside to flag down a cab. No luck, so I walked.
What have I been doing, you ask? Well, I haven’t been writing, obviously. Or maybe it’s not so obvious. My mother asked me if I was hard at work at my second novel. Since I hadn’t been writing on my blog, she imagined me holed up in my apartment, feverishly writing thousands of words a day — perhaps surrounded by balls of crumpled paper like in the movies — closing in on the denouement. She sounded disappointed when I told her no.
“I haven’t been writing anything. I’ve been busy building a guitar.”
Notice I said “building” not “making.” I think my mother misunderstood at first, thinking that I started with a block of wood from the lumberyard, sanding and shaping a revolutionary new instrument that would make the angels weep. For all I know, she may have even thought I chopped down the tree.
“No,” I said. “I don’t have the equipment, let alone the skills, for making a guitar from scratch. I bought a pre-made body and neck. As far as the fundamental construction goes, all I had to do was glue the two together. But that’s not to say there isn’t work involved — or that there isn’t ample opportunity to screw the whole thing up.”
But so far so good.
I thought about chronicling the entire process step by step, but since I’m out of the habit of blogging every little thing I do see or hear, the idea came too late — I’d already missed out on too many photographs to do it right. Besides, the finishing process is a rather long drawn out procedure — the final clearcoats are supposed to dry for several weeks before final polishing — and drying paint is about as interesting to read about as it is to watch.
While I’m here, I may as well tell you a story, for old time’s sake.
Deborah and I walked to a nearby restaurant for brunch one recent sunny Sunday morning, but the place we decided on hadn’t opened so yet so we walked a block further to a place we’d never been to before. It was busy and the hostess sat us in the back at a small table for two next to a coat rack.
As I looked over the menu, Deborah grabbed my wrist and whispered, “Look at the guy that just walked in.”
I did the old “look the wrong way first” trick to avoid being obvious, then looked toward the door to see a man, about fifty, who looked like a southwestern Indian casino mogul. He was wearing a giant black felt cowboy hat, black snakeskin boots, and was taking off a camel overcoat revealing a gray suit that had obviously been tailored to fit him, though from the style of it, it had been tailored in 1974. He walked toward the coat rack and as he started to hang up his overcoat, it brushed against Deborah’s shoulder.
“Please,” he said in a thick Spanish accent. “forgive me.”
His hair was jet black and his eyebrows, too and at first I assumed it was a dye job, but when I realized that the color matched the thick hair in his nostrils, and the long ones in his ears, I wasn;t so sure. If it was a dye job, you had to admire his attention to detail. The blackness of it all gave him the look of an ink drawing, and although I don’t think it was, his face looked like it had been dusted with charcoal.
As he fussed with his coat, trying hang it in a way that wouldn’t interfere with our brunch, I noticed it was stained at the hem. It wasn’t a new stain, however. In fact, it looked like it had been there for years. Decades, even.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Deborah, “It’s fine there. We’ll keep an eye on it for you — make sure no one walks off with it.”
“Oh,” He smiled. “if someone want to take it they are welcome. And if they change it for another, even better. Maybe something with a mink collar.”
I could picture exactly the coat he wanted.
Deborah’s laughed.
“Your laughter,” he said, smiling, “it makes me believe my words are funny.”
Deborah laughed some more.
“My brother tells me my words are tragic.”
He tipped his hat and then walked to the bar and took a seat alone.
