There are many things I've said and done that I've forgotten about. Even though my apartment is not large, there are many things I have that I've likewise forgotten about.
Let me explain:
I was rummaging in the back of a closet the other day, looking for a particular hat. I did not find the hat. Instead, I found an entire set of matching luggage, given to me by a relative long ago and promptly stuffed out of sight. Heavy, cumbersome, and covered in an unfortunate pattern, I would never, ever use these bags. Why, then, had I kept them in my limited storage space?
I pulled the luggage out and laid them all on the floor. I unbuckled, unzipped, and opened every compartment. I found 8 pennies, a safety pin, two bobby pins, one dried up lipstick (jungle red) and a letter with mysterious handwriting on the envelope.
Inside was a sheet of paper with handwriting scrawled on both sides, an artifact from the pre-digital era. From what I could make out, someone whose name I didn't recognize was in hiding from authorities, and asking for assistance in obtaining travel permits.
I go to the kitchen for a large knife, and cut the luggage up into small pieces. I wrap the pieces in some canvas, tie the ends securely, take them outside, and throw the bundle onto a passing truck. I watch as it gets further and further away, until eventually it becomes a speck on the horizon. I blink my eyes and it's gone.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
How I Met the King of the Jungle in NYC
I never realized that fictional characters live and walk among the rest of us. I never expected to meet one. And I never thought I would touch one and make him bleed.
Let me explain...
I’ve been in the Brooklyn shop for a few months and learning to ink freebies on volunteers. One Saturday I come in dressed to paint the walls and clean up. Unexpectedly, a middle-aged Puerto Rican man is sitting in the work station playing the bongos with fierce concentration, as if he were standing in front of the Pearly Gates and his admission to Heaven depended on his performance. With a jerk of the head the shop owner beckons into the back room and hands me a scribbled note. It says: “Sometimes in this business, you have to deal with weird people. This is your first paying customer. Don’t worry about anything and just do the best you can.”
I take a deep breathe and go out to meet him. Bongo Man says he is Tarzan and lives in the jungle in a tree. He keeps slapping the shop owner on the back and shaking his hand, calling him, “my fren, my fren, my FREN,” and then laughing manically. He does the Tarzan yell, “ahhhh aaaah-a aaah-a aaaaaaahhh aah-a aaah-a aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” He does it more than once.
Tarzan wants a tattoo that looks like the slashes Bruce Lee gets fighting with the razor sharp claw man in “Enter the Dragon.” Three slashes on his chest, black outline & filled in red, with a little black shading at the edges. He has a beer which I make him throw away, but while I am setting up I see him fish it out of the garbage.
As I work I ask him to move and sit in different positions, to accomodate the tattoo machine. He says “yes mami, anything for you” and says how much he respects women and how much he loves his wife. As soon as my boss leaves the room, Tarzan says I have a nice booty. Then he tells me a story about how he fought a shark while he was fishing in Puerto Rico, how he prayed to god to save him, and that’s why he’s alive today.
When I’m done he bends down on one knee and kisses my latex-gloved hand, which is covered in blood and ink.
Let me explain...
I’ve been in the Brooklyn shop for a few months and learning to ink freebies on volunteers. One Saturday I come in dressed to paint the walls and clean up. Unexpectedly, a middle-aged Puerto Rican man is sitting in the work station playing the bongos with fierce concentration, as if he were standing in front of the Pearly Gates and his admission to Heaven depended on his performance. With a jerk of the head the shop owner beckons into the back room and hands me a scribbled note. It says: “Sometimes in this business, you have to deal with weird people. This is your first paying customer. Don’t worry about anything and just do the best you can.”
I take a deep breathe and go out to meet him. Bongo Man says he is Tarzan and lives in the jungle in a tree. He keeps slapping the shop owner on the back and shaking his hand, calling him, “my fren, my fren, my FREN,” and then laughing manically. He does the Tarzan yell, “ahhhh aaaah-a aaah-a aaaaaaahhh aah-a aaah-a aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” He does it more than once.
Tarzan wants a tattoo that looks like the slashes Bruce Lee gets fighting with the razor sharp claw man in “Enter the Dragon.” Three slashes on his chest, black outline & filled in red, with a little black shading at the edges. He has a beer which I make him throw away, but while I am setting up I see him fish it out of the garbage.
As I work I ask him to move and sit in different positions, to accomodate the tattoo machine. He says “yes mami, anything for you” and says how much he respects women and how much he loves his wife. As soon as my boss leaves the room, Tarzan says I have a nice booty. Then he tells me a story about how he fought a shark while he was fishing in Puerto Rico, how he prayed to god to save him, and that’s why he’s alive today.
When I’m done he bends down on one knee and kisses my latex-gloved hand, which is covered in blood and ink.
Friday, January 11, 2008
How to Look Into the Future
Ever go to see a play in a big theater, but could only afford the seats way up in the balcony with a partially obstructed view? You can’t see the whole stage because a pillar or something is blocking the way, but you fill in the bits you miss with your imagination. It’s like that. That’s what looking into the future is like.
Some people think about where they want to go in life, and plan out written goals. This type of person likes to make lists, on paper which gets folded up and hidden at the back of their socks drawer. Other people like to be spontaneous, taking each moment as it comes, one day at a time. Still others never think about this at all and wake up one day to find themselves in some situation or other and not sure how they got there. I am the first type of person; I like to make lists and think about the future. If you were to look in the back of my socks drawer right this very minute, you would find lists there. Lists about the future. You make a list and it becomes a map to a place that doesn't exist yet.
Let me explain:
I have a Masters degree in painting, suitable for wrapping yesterday's fish. I decide it is high time to arrange for a meeting of art and commerce in my life, so I make a list. I come to the realization that people are less likely to spend money on art for their walls, and more likely to buy art for their skin. Being the last person in the western hemisphere to use a paper Yellow Pages, I call all the tattoo shops, and happen to find the only one in New York City looking for an apprentice.
The tattooist is a grown-up street punk. Big eyes peer out from behind a full body suit of tattoos and multiple facial piercings. She is quiet and reserved. She teaches me to set up and sterilize the equipment, and I watch her work. For my part of the exchange I clean up and run errands for no pay.
I practice on fruits and vegetables. My first attempt is a heart and scrolled banner that says “mom” on a large dakon radish. I give it to my mother, who keeps it until furry, green mold devours my efforts.
After 3 months she closes her shop and I find another apprenticeship deep in the heart of Brooklyn. Somewhere, in the back of a sock drawer on a folded up piece of paper, a new road appears on a map.
to be continued...
Some people think about where they want to go in life, and plan out written goals. This type of person likes to make lists, on paper which gets folded up and hidden at the back of their socks drawer. Other people like to be spontaneous, taking each moment as it comes, one day at a time. Still others never think about this at all and wake up one day to find themselves in some situation or other and not sure how they got there. I am the first type of person; I like to make lists and think about the future. If you were to look in the back of my socks drawer right this very minute, you would find lists there. Lists about the future. You make a list and it becomes a map to a place that doesn't exist yet.
Let me explain:
I have a Masters degree in painting, suitable for wrapping yesterday's fish. I decide it is high time to arrange for a meeting of art and commerce in my life, so I make a list. I come to the realization that people are less likely to spend money on art for their walls, and more likely to buy art for their skin. Being the last person in the western hemisphere to use a paper Yellow Pages, I call all the tattoo shops, and happen to find the only one in New York City looking for an apprentice.
The tattooist is a grown-up street punk. Big eyes peer out from behind a full body suit of tattoos and multiple facial piercings. She is quiet and reserved. She teaches me to set up and sterilize the equipment, and I watch her work. For my part of the exchange I clean up and run errands for no pay.
I practice on fruits and vegetables. My first attempt is a heart and scrolled banner that says “mom” on a large dakon radish. I give it to my mother, who keeps it until furry, green mold devours my efforts.
After 3 months she closes her shop and I find another apprenticeship deep in the heart of Brooklyn. Somewhere, in the back of a sock drawer on a folded up piece of paper, a new road appears on a map.
to be continued...
Thursday, January 3, 2008
What Dinosaurs Do in Winter
Big companies are dinosaurs. Gigantic brontosauri with tiny heads towering at the end of mile long necks, so far above the feet it can't see where they are stepping. Over-large and small-brained, they trundle and trample, never suspecting the imminent arrival of the mother of all meteors, followed by a long, cold darkness. The business world is a giant restaurant where bigger fish eat smaller fish in a chain ending only with bracken. The bracken is us. We are the bracken. Bracken that gets folded in like pancake ingredients and thrown on a hot griddle sizzling with burning fat.
Let me explain:
It is a cold day in January, the frozen vomit surrounding Penn Station sparkling gaily in the sunshine. The speedy guy with the home-made spectacles zips past me muttering to himself, a tiny bit faster than usual. He always wears the exact same outfit: camouflage pants and special self-engineered glasses, featuring miniature dental magnifiers attached to the sides of his wire frames, sticking out like tiny rear-view mirrors in fan-like arrangements.
I've forgotten my building ID so I flash my Metrocard at the security guard with the dyed mustache. Hurrying down the long, carpeted hallway to my pod I pass the usual bunch. There's the guy who who wears cowboy boots with a large stetson hat over a bright yellow smiley-face yarmulke. The woman with a vast, spherical head and permanent scowl across her too-low eyebrows, an ever-present bowl of candy at arms length, emminating a sound of sugar-crunching that makes my teeth tingle unpleasantly. The creepy guy who quietly comes to stand behind you, breathing softly through his nose and waiting. The fluorescent lighting and computer monitors cast a sickly glow, rendering corpse-like the rows of faces. Glazed eyes catch up on youtube in procrastinating attempts to avoid repetitious and pointless digital tasks.
Back at my desk I see the pop-up message announcing a special meeting is called. We obediently file into the conference room. The managers all have water balloons. On signal, we all start running. If you get hit, start packing your things. The ones remaining dry get to keep their jobs.
to be continued...
Let me explain:
It is a cold day in January, the frozen vomit surrounding Penn Station sparkling gaily in the sunshine. The speedy guy with the home-made spectacles zips past me muttering to himself, a tiny bit faster than usual. He always wears the exact same outfit: camouflage pants and special self-engineered glasses, featuring miniature dental magnifiers attached to the sides of his wire frames, sticking out like tiny rear-view mirrors in fan-like arrangements.
I've forgotten my building ID so I flash my Metrocard at the security guard with the dyed mustache. Hurrying down the long, carpeted hallway to my pod I pass the usual bunch. There's the guy who who wears cowboy boots with a large stetson hat over a bright yellow smiley-face yarmulke. The woman with a vast, spherical head and permanent scowl across her too-low eyebrows, an ever-present bowl of candy at arms length, emminating a sound of sugar-crunching that makes my teeth tingle unpleasantly. The creepy guy who quietly comes to stand behind you, breathing softly through his nose and waiting. The fluorescent lighting and computer monitors cast a sickly glow, rendering corpse-like the rows of faces. Glazed eyes catch up on youtube in procrastinating attempts to avoid repetitious and pointless digital tasks.
Back at my desk I see the pop-up message announcing a special meeting is called. We obediently file into the conference room. The managers all have water balloons. On signal, we all start running. If you get hit, start packing your things. The ones remaining dry get to keep their jobs.
to be continued...
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
How I Made Red Cha-Cha Heels and Earned $1000
New York City is a glittering, expensive place where tiny slivers of mica schist sparkle in the pavement, and rain-soaked traffic light reflections blot out nighttime stars. People with swish jobs and regular paychecks traipse around in new clothes, eating delicious food in fancy restaurants, acquiring entertainment and culture in a run-around schedule of New York minutes. Snap snap snap. "You look FABULOUS darling. Are those new? I want those flame red cha-cha heels. Mwah, mwah. Got to run. Love ya, mean it!" Some of us can only look with our noses pressed up against the window, fogging up the glass with envy and the vapors of withheld saliva. Some of us don't bother any more and simply stay at home.
Let me explain...
One time I was working down on lower Broadway, in an area that morphed over a couple of decades from industrial warehouses into artist lofts and galleries, and is now a gigantic outdoor shopping mall. We New Yorkers call it, 'Soho.' The only thing to do during lunch break is shopping. Or, if you're like me and your money goes out the same day it comes in, window shopping. This is what we call working freelance.
My friend Cocito sat with me, back to back, in a tiny, windowless closet we called our office. He wouldn't let me use my computer because he was desperately trying to purchase Madonna tickets over the Internet, and had all the office computers jockeying to get in. He was all afluster and close to hyperventilating as he jumped from station to station with his credit card clutched tightly in his hot little hand. I stood back and well out of the way; no use trifling with an individual in pursuit of the gay man's holy grail.
Later, when we were able to relax into our work day, the project manager, Miss BoBally, gave me a photograph of a barefoot girl who needed shoes created from pixels. Naked feet were too enticing for publication in certain markets and they must be covered. "La Madre de los penguinos!" I exclaimed. This was not the first time. But today, I was inspired as if from above, and proceeded to clothe the feet as I saw fit, in a pair of flame red cha-cha heels. My memory filters recall a bonus of $1,000 for this spectacular feat of digital painting. I've remembered lots of other things that never happened, however.
to be continued...
Let me explain...
One time I was working down on lower Broadway, in an area that morphed over a couple of decades from industrial warehouses into artist lofts and galleries, and is now a gigantic outdoor shopping mall. We New Yorkers call it, 'Soho.' The only thing to do during lunch break is shopping. Or, if you're like me and your money goes out the same day it comes in, window shopping. This is what we call working freelance.
My friend Cocito sat with me, back to back, in a tiny, windowless closet we called our office. He wouldn't let me use my computer because he was desperately trying to purchase Madonna tickets over the Internet, and had all the office computers jockeying to get in. He was all afluster and close to hyperventilating as he jumped from station to station with his credit card clutched tightly in his hot little hand. I stood back and well out of the way; no use trifling with an individual in pursuit of the gay man's holy grail.
Later, when we were able to relax into our work day, the project manager, Miss BoBally, gave me a photograph of a barefoot girl who needed shoes created from pixels. Naked feet were too enticing for publication in certain markets and they must be covered. "La Madre de los penguinos!" I exclaimed. This was not the first time. But today, I was inspired as if from above, and proceeded to clothe the feet as I saw fit, in a pair of flame red cha-cha heels. My memory filters recall a bonus of $1,000 for this spectacular feat of digital painting. I've remembered lots of other things that never happened, however.
to be continued...
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