Father's Day

I recently read a quote spoken by Woody Allen during a press conference for his latest movie, Whatever Works in which he described the New York City he fell in love with but never existed for him:

"The New York that I grew up loving was, ironically enough, the New York of Hollywood movies, where people would live in penthouses with white telephones.  I grew up in Brooklyn and I never knew New York as it really existed.  I only knew New York the way it appeared - with people popping champagne corks and elevators raising into the apartments directly.  And so that's the New York I have depicted in my life, and it's how I try to live my life.  And it's caused me a lot of grief."

My New York isn't quite this New York, never mind the fact that white telephones are no longer exactly a symbol of living "the high life." My New York is infiltrated by this concept, a certain desire for winters spent looking at Macy's holiday windows while snow is falling or ice skating at Rockerfeller Center (never mind the fact that Bryant Park is free, it hasn't been in all the movies, nor does it have a giant Christmas tree).  However, my New York is more based on a passionate love of lights seen from the West Side Highway late at night, or the smell that rises up from the sidewalk before a summer downpour.  My vision is a miasma of scents that invoke nostalgia for things I've never experienced.  I don't know how much this has to do with Woody Allen, but so far I think I've tried to live my life this way, and since I'm not even sure what the idea is, or what I'm nostalgic for, it has definitely caused me a certain quantity of grief.  

My grandparents have been Brooklyn jews their entire lives, and I doubt they know how to be anything else.  I think someone could identify them as Brooklyn jews no matter where in the world they were, even if the person had never heard of Brooklyn or of jews.  They had four sons, each of which grew up in what they describe as a very Brooklyn boyhood - something full of baseball cards, climbing fences, comic books and the occasional street fight.  A combination of the ideal childhood and violence.  I am fond of seeing each of them as an embodiment of different facets of this, viewing them as if they are characters on a TV show; four brothers, each a different stereotype, part of a whole New Yorker, each manifesting some how in me.  There's Michael, the oldest, depressed, resigned to a job he hates while he thinks about creative projects and displays a curiosity in everything yet in the end really knows nothing.  My father is the second oldest, street-smart, wirey and thin as hell, seems like he is capable of getting out of anything or away with anything.  Then there's Kenny, who I see as my mentor, the most sarcastic  man I know, who won't put up with shit from anybody and I feel truly embodies the smartass New Yorker.  Lastly is Billy, the youngest, naive, good natured, who made quite a bit of money and lives a comfortable life in New Jersey.  Almost a traitor in his Jersey happiness, really.  Depressed, adaptable, stubborn and sarcastic, naively hopeful.  

Can you tell that I just spent all day with my family?  

I've noticed that as soon as the first raindrops of a storm start to fall, or the first crash of thunder sounds, sirens can immediately be heard nearby.

It's Only Been Three Days? What?!

I have recently discovered (recently being in the past two days) that I am not cut out for office work. Or rather, I'm not cut out for an office job that solely consists of sitting in front of a computer and processing information. This is exactly what I've been doing for the past three work days and it's killing me. I don't know how I'm going to last this summer. On the up side, everyone here is very nice. It's mostly women (and one moderately attractive Hispanic man named Gabriel. I don't know how old he is but I'm betting it's younger than 36).

The woman in the cubicle next to me is playing what sounds like "adult contemporary radio" which essentially means that I'm being forced to listen to things like Los Lonely Boys (so very contemporary) and Faith Hill. No, no I don't love the way you love me (loooove me).

Welcome!

So, yesterday I moved into my apartment on West 162nd street, a location that features not only my lovely roommates Stephanie and Conrad, but also creaky elevator, a youth carrying a baseball bat (hidden behind his back; very clearly for beating folks with) and a street preacher with a megaphone every Sunday.  Our third roommate, Patrick, has yet to arrive and in his place we have Colin, a trumpet-player attending Juliard and one of the students we are leasing the apartment from.  

The move-in process was hectic, but after a brief flurry of people and an excessive amount of double-parking my belongings were suddenly shoved into my little room.  And so my unpacking adventure began.  It continues to this very day.

The apartment itself is much nicer than I thought it would be (I will probably post pictures later) and the main room/kitchen has an open feel as well as lots of light.  The evening itself was mostly uneventful...until bed time struck.  The sheets that I brought were not large enough for my bed.  The definition of uncomfortable: sleeping on a sheet of plastic encasing your mattress.  The plastic sticks to your legs.  It isn't fun.  At all.  

My mind feels completely dead right now but I haven't done anything much today except walk around Union Square with Stephanie and meet up with Conrad after he was done with work (rhyming is cool, I swear).  

There is an ice cream truck outside and it is taking most of my will power to not run after it screaming like a child (which isn't necessarily out of the ordinary for me, but it's best if I avoid it in public, I think).  

Stephanie is shopping online and keeps turning the screen to me and just saying "pretty" whenever she discovers a new sweater or something.  Yes, yes it is pretty.  Congratulations.