Re:start

3/8/10

I leave for Colt's early in the afternoon. He's thirty blocks away but a day that looks and feels like this would be wasted on the subway - so I walk over to the water and head south.

It's our intention to meet up with Kaitlin at MoMA and see the Tim Burton exhibit. I've been seeing ads and flyers for it everywhere - black and white concepts covering a vast but always darkly humorous terrain of art. None of us hesitates, though, when the suggestion of heading to the park instead comes up. We've spent too long in the dark. We need the vitamin D. We need the fresh air. We need a new plan - meeting at Strawberry Fields - and we set off.

As we near the park, parallel thoughts merge; I haven't eaten today and we're two blocks from Shake Shack. A new plan is formed, a new meeting point texted to Kaitlin.

I soon realize we're headed the wrong direction and have to turn us around. And send a new text to Kaitlin.

Now we're well on our way - but lying across our path is the indomitable Patagonia.

As unlikely friends, Colt and I sync up in unlikely ways; I enjoy climbing, he worked at a rock gym. He wants to go kayaking, I own a kayak. I enjoy camping, he loves Patagonia. We stop at the store (new text to Kaitlin), and rush the tee shirt section - plain tees with the retro label blown up on the back. I want to be camping NOW. Waiting for summer is a pain only exploring this store can ease. Shirts. Pants. Coats. Socks. There is almost too much to take in. I'm overwhelmed. It's practically a relief when Kaitlin arrives and we head to Shake Shack.

I head downstairs to grab a table and leave my order on Kaitlin's iPhone. My fingers, unused to the iPhone keyboard, spell out an interesting order - a "Double ShakeNurger" and one "Vanilla Milkshake, Fried." I grab some mayonnaise from the condiments bar as I go down and yell at them to get lots of everything. We'll need it.

I don't know how they've carried everything down - seven little cups of ketchup, a pile of napkins, eating utensils...and it wont be until we're leaving that I'll notice a second condiment bar. It's right next to our table.

We focus all our energy on the buzzer that will tell us our food is ready. We all stare at it. We are that hungry. The people at the next table stare at us, staring at our buzzer. The people at the table after that all stare at their phones. They are not hungry. But they are not interesting either.

It buzzes. I jump and run. The tray is at the counter waiting, but it doesn't look right. Three milkshakes, yes, but only two fries and two burgers. But No, says the server, that's what it says on the receipt. And it does - so I take it downstairs. That's definitely not right, says Colt, and he heads back up to order more. Kaitlin and I inhale our burgers while Colt's still ordering and I text him to order another burger. Kaitlin texts him to order more fries. He comes back with the buzzer and I decide I need another milkshake. It's back upstairs for me, ordering two. The server betrays a laugh; even as I pick up our second round of food, we are ordering more. We leave the place so fat... but so happy.

We finally make our way to the park, leaving two wrong turns and an awkward moment involving the "Mvseum of Natvral History" and a mentally challenged kid behind us. Kaitlin snaps a photo of "Imagine" at Strawberry Fields and we meander inwards, toward the east side, settling on a small hill in the sun.

For a long time it is all we need just to lie there in the warm light. Then music is brought out and the situation is even better. Then Colt and I are climbing trees. Soon Kaitlin joins us and we find a natural cradle in a low-hanging branch. It scoops her up like a long-fingered hand and as she lies in it I rock it back and forth. It looks like heaven so I try it. It is. Colt tries it. Kaitlin tries it again. No one can get enough.

Kaitlin reads to us from Slaughterhouse-Five as the sun turns amber. She reads about the Tralfamadorians, aliens that can see in 4-D. Even if I can't see like them, I am so glad to be out here in this world - not in the monochrome 2-D of the museum. Winter is leaving New York. The cold and the gray and the white that make up Winter is sliding off the face of the city. Out here, the color is coming back. Out here is where life is. I like it here.

11:26: It's a Fine, Fine Life

Monday morning. I'm at the corner of Grand and Baxter when my phone goes off. It's Joey.

Hi, Joey.

Hey, are you there yet?

Nearly. You?

I can't find it.

I can see him on the wrong side of the street, a block away.

I see you. Cross the street.

Together we find the studio, sitting right where Hopstop said it would be. We enter the building and an awesome, industrial, cage-like elevator takes us up to the top floor and the doors open up to white, white, white. We've arrived in heaven.

It was a Saturday evening. I don't remember what I'd been doing - I'd had rehearsal till six and then gone and done something food-related, probably. Whatever it was I got off the subway at my home stop - Columbus Circle - and in an act of habit pulled out my phone for the messages I'd missed while underground. New Voicemail. I skipped the first two messages (people I'd been meaning to get back to) and went straight for the third, the new one. Hi Sam, it's Ryan from PR, it began, I'm calling because we've got an interesting publicity opportunity for you.

I didn't think much of it. We'd just filled out a questionnaire - Would you be willing to be in this publication or that publication, Would you be willing to sing the national anthem at a baseball game, etc. - so I thought it was gonna be something run-of-the-mill.

We'd like you to take part in a photoshoot for Vogue. (Sharp intake of breath). If you're interested, you and nine others from the cast will appear in the February issue in a fifteen to twenty page spread mixing photos and editorial (stop breathing altogether).

I started hopping up and down right there at the intersection of 8th and 60th. I didn't even know what to think, how to react, what to do. I was just hopping up and down. Up and down. The excitement was physical, visceral, consuming. I was going to be in Vogue.

We enter the studio and everything is bathed in white. High white walls, vaulting white ceiling, white morning light streaming through the giant east and south-facing windows. It's a big barn-like space, with a couple of side rooms and a loft. A set has been constructed in the big center of the space - basketball hoop, streamers, balloons. The girls are already there, hair in pin curls. The rest of the guys arrive and we sit in the back of the space, on the couches by the food (lox sandwiches, hot chocolate, coffee, OJ, fruit, muffins) in an early morning daze. We've not been allowed to style our hair, the girls weren't allowed to come in wearing makeup. We look like something the cat dragged in, sleepy and unkempt.

One by one the hair, makeup and costume people come for us, and over the course of the next hour magic happens. People return to couches severely altered. A girl leaves looking the worse for wear, bags under her eyes, and returns stunning, if not piecemeal - face perfect but hair a mess and still in sweats. Then a boy comes back, hair perfectly coiffed. Slowly but steadily we're transformed. My cheekbones are suddenly sharp, my jaw masculine, my hair combed up and back in that could be fifties or could be eighties. I don slacks, sweater, shoes. The tiny digital cameras we've brought come out and snapshots are taken of friends in groups and pairs, solo portraits with Isaac Mizrahi in the background.

The real photography is nothing like what I'd expected. Arthur, the photographer, sits in a chair smoking a pipe, camera on a low tripod in front of him. He's been in this business more than twice my lifespan and is completely likable, loud and funny. He's on the older side but not remotely out of it, even if his references and jokes are a little out of date.

A tableau is set up and he takes a single photo. He looks at it on the lcd screen, and calls for adjustments. This person needs to move left, that person needs a more upright pose, somebody go fix that girls hair. Five minutes later, another single shot. More adjustments. This continues through six different tableaus, and I find it remarkably easy. Intoxicatingly easy.

Soon enough, the photos are over, and I haven't even broken a sweat. Everyone get out of your costume, we're told, and then lunch.

The breakfast was delicious, but lunch is a feast. Chicken and mushrooms, shrimp and rice, salads, sandwiches, beautiful deserts and chocolate covered strawberries. I go back for seconds, thirds, and - yes - fourths, followed by desert. I've done no work and I'm being fed for it. I can't believe my luck.

I leave the studio with Joey. Sam, he says as we get back in the elevator, we've got to find a way to break into this business. Looking back at how ridiculously fun and easy my morning was, I couldn't agree with him more. Yes, Joey. I don't know how. But we're gonna find a way.

11:17: Enter the Monomanus

I made pasta the other night - It was one of many battles I've had with my kitchen in recent weeks. In hopes of proving the validity of cooking in general I've decided to make a list of the pros and cons surrounding it.

Pro: Roasted Carrots

I never really learned how to cook. It's the fault of no one, really, but now that I'm on my own it would've been nice to have picked up the skill somewhere. Anyway - I decided to roast vegetables to put in my pasta. I looked up how to do it online ("This simple cooking method helps preserve the nutrients of the veggies" - score.), and tried it out. Roasted carrots are curious. Cooking them as I did in olive oil, the outside - which had browned in the cooking - had a nice savory flavor but the inside was sweet. They weren't perfect for the pasta but were delicious nonetheless.

Con: Bloody Carrots

Midway through chopping my first carrot, I noticed a pinkish tinge on one of the slices. The other side, I found, had a wash of crimson on it. Then I noticed two, three, four others...and oh, look at my left finger. A long horizontal gash at the tip. Bleeding profusely. How do I not notice these things when they happen? I ran to the bathroom, cleaned it up, put a bandaid on it.

I bought bandaids five days ago - a box of twenty. There are six left. Cooking means war.

Con: Burns.

Along with the carrots and later some corn, I roasted eggplant. It took longer than I expected it to (google said it would only take half an hour...NOT.) and by the time my eggplant wedges were done my pasta was boiling and onions already sautéed. I took them out with my right hand (using a potholder, of course) and set them down on what little stovetop was available.

There is a clock that rests on top of my stove. A big, round, silver one. When I used my hips to close the oven door, the stove shook and the clock fell forward off its perch and hit the hot pan of eggplant. The pan flew out and caught me both in the palm of my empty left hand and on the stomach, and clattered to the floor.

I assessed the situation: I had first degree burns on my my hand and stomach. Eggplant was all over the floor. My big round silver clock was nearly on the burner that was heating my soon-to-boil-over pasta. Priorities: quick: save the food. Nursing my hand, I scooped up the salvageable eggplant and got it on the counter. Then saved the clock. Then dealt with the burns. My left hand was now completely out of commission. And the noodles were boiling over.

Pro: Roasted Eggplant

Unlike carrots, the flavor and consistency of roasted eggplant is the same all the way through. It has a light, earthy flavor that was easily distinguishable from the other flavors in my pasta but was nowhere near overpowering. I've decided it's probably better to peel the skin off as it isn't terribly easy to bite through, but it's definitely worth the effort.

Con: Being One Handed is Harder Than I Thought.

There were the obvious frustrations trying to finish my pasta with one hand; opening the jar of sauce is a good example. But the real problems came later, when I decided to take an after-dinner shower.

I'd been able to sort of fake the use my left hand throughout the evening, using my four remaining digits and the back of it and such. But stepping into the shower my cheap bandaids fell right off and the hot water made my hand sting and throb. So I committed to doing the entire shower solely with my right hand. Shampooing was frustrating enough. I had to first figure out how to open the bottle and get the shampoo in my hand (my knees and teeth helped out a little). I lathered it through my hair and rinsed all with one hand. Trying to wash the left side of my hair couldn't have looked more awkward; I stood crooked so as to avoid the hot water hitting my burned stomach and thrust my left hand out across my body to avoid the same. Meanwhile my right hand arced up over my head to wash the left side. It was quite a picture.

The lid on the facewash was even harder to open. Having dealt with it (again aided by knees and teeth) As I set the closed bottle down the facewash spilled out of my hand and onto the tub. I repeated the maneuver with better luck, and felt empowered by my one handed skill.

Washing one's right armpit with one's right hand is extremely difficult. While I can actually reach my right pit with my right hand (by folding it in like a chicken wing), there's no mobility once folded and I found myself slapping the washcloth uselessly against my armpit. I tried a different approach - I bent over sideways so the cloth would sit on top of the pit and wiggled around trying to scrub it with the couple of fingers that could reach. Result: Mostly unwashed armpit, minor forehead/tile collision.

Pro:

My pasta was really darn good. It was fettuccine with roasted corn, eggplant, and carrot, some sautéed onions and garlic, and chicken, all in a sun-dried tomato alfredo sauce. It wasn't the most orthodox combination of ingredients or flavors, and I'd probably do most of it differently if I were to do it again. But man I had to work for that pasta. It took nearly three hours to make, and literal blood sweat and tears went into it. Sitting down with a glass of milk and a movie at dinnertime, I couldn't have asked for any other dish.

10/20: Chocolate

I've been back in New York thirteen days, nine hours, twenty-four minutes. One would think, in that time, that I would have gotten some stuff done. Read a book, maybe. Or gotten myself to a ballet class. But no. Perhaps I'm selling myself short; I've purchased and assembled a couch, dresser, coffee table and desk (and as of yesterday, a queen-sized bed) - and considering they came from IKEA that's no small feat. But aside from that I've not done much, and the sloth was beginning to wear on me when I woke up on Wednesday. This day would be different, I decided, rolling out of bed. This would be the day I finished all those little things. Beginning with the garbage. I gathered up a massive pile of plastic and paper scraps left over from my furniture-assmbling marathons and forced it into the only thing that would hold it; a leftover IKEA bag. It was somehow fitting, I thought, trudging to the other end of the hall in my sweats and bare feet. Complete the IKEA circle. The garbage, the massive bundle, wouldn't fit down the chute all at once - I was forced to take it out, bit by bit, crammed as I was in the tiny garbage closet. I kept the IKEA bag. No need to throw it away. I left the garbage closet, ambled (still groggy) back to my apartment, stood in front of the door. I was in my XXL sweats reserved for comfy mornings. My feet were bare. And I'd forgotten my key.

I stared at the door. Just stared.

My sister and I often joke about the face my mom made once when she was given an information overload. Her eyes got big, her head tilted back, she stared at us from behind her nose, as though processing from the lee side of it. I'm sure I looked much the same at this particular moment. My phone, wallet, shoes and - of course - keys were on the other side of the door. I stared at it and stared at it, willed a plan to form, some solution to the problem. There's always a solution. Always.

The solution, this time, was waiting. Having locked myself out over the weekend, I knew the door was impervious to credit cards; I had the beat up Duane Reade card and cuts on my fingers to prove it. Also: I had no credit cards: they were locked inside. Had I pliers and a safety pin I could pick the lock. Once again, I was out of luck. Sweatpants and an empty IKEA bag aren't really conducive to breaking and entering.

I sat, back to the wall. Here I would sit, I decided, till my roommate Viktor came home.

That lasted about a minute. No way I could just sit that long. Viktor might return at one for lunch or he might not. He might not come home until after rehearsal, at seven. I had no idea what Viktor's number was and my cell was barred by my massive green apartment door. So I had no way of knowing what he was up to. No way, no how, was I sitting there. Staring down the hall I saw one of the doors ajar. One of our neighbors, I remembered, had just moved out. Maybe he'd left something. Anything.

I tiptoed inside. Empty cardboard boxes and used rolls of tape dominated the small apartment. On the floor lied the sports section of the New York Times. It was a start. On the windowsill, a Hershey's chocolate bar. And hanging on the wall - a phone! I didn't know Viktor's number but I quickly realized that when my mom called and asked for it a couple weeks ago "for emergency purposes" she may have been on to something. I picked it up. No dial tone. Damn.

Barefoot or not, I decided I'd go enlist the help of the doorman. I knew he didn't have a key but he did have a phone. After explaining my situation (no, you DON'T have a spare, we tried this weekend, remember?) I was granted use of the phone. No luck. Tried a second time. Voicemail again. I'll be back, I said.

Upstairs again, I did a more thorough check of the empty apartment. Chips in the cupboard, paper still on the floor. Frozen cauliflower in the freezer. Eighteen beers in the fridge. Eighteen beers??? A knew plan involving eighteen downed beers and a one man dance party in the empty apartment was eager to form in my head. But I set it aside. Instead I stuffed the unopened groceries, canned goods and ice trays (I'd been meaning to get some) into my ikea bag, grabbed the paper and chocolate, and hunkered down outside my door.

I learned about sports. I learned more, perhaps, than the entire accumulation of my past knowledge of sports. The mets had gone through a cavalcade of pitchers during Tuesday's game. In football, athletes were making fashion out of sweatbands. There was soon to be a major golf shakeup in Kentucky. I embraced it. I owned it. I ate my chocolate. I relaxed. This day, I decided, would be the calm before the storm. Tomorrow I would get motivated. Tomorrow I'd clean every inch of the apartment. Organize the drawers. Dust the closet even. But today - today I would relax. I was content. I was sloth - and for once I loved it.

I did eventually get ahold of Viktor - and he eventually did come home. But it didn't matter really. I was the epitome of relaxation and of calm. I was Buddha. I was floating in a sea of tranquility. I could have done it all day.

There is always a solution. When that solution seems worse than the problem itself it goes overlooked - and the problem seems insolvable. We are then faced with two choices: live with the solution or live with the problem.

I escaped this. I made the problem a solution in itself. And it worked.

10/15: Shaking Angles

I woke up Friday with nothing on the agenda. This was hardly surprising, considering I'd been back in the city for four days with no job, no school, and hardly any money. While I was puttering around the apartment my phone went off - it was my friend Michael, a photographer who lives out in Brooklyn and seems to know half the population of New York.

Sam, want to perform tonight? He said.

Well... I... sure, why not?

And with that I was set to perform, at a place I'd never heard of, for a performance artist I'd never seen, doing god-only-knows what. I was only a little worried about what I'd gotten myself into. But nonetheless, I was excited.

I arrived at the National Arts Club at 4:57 - three minutes early. From the outside, the club was nothing to speak of; a townhouse in a row of townhouses off Gramercy Park with an awning boasting it's name in an outdated font. A small woman (french - one of many foreigners I'd meet that night) met me inside the door and guided me through a maze of galleries and hallways, finally emerging not far from where we'd begun. She presented me to the choreographer (Canadian).

Ten minutes ago, he said, I'd have needed you.

Great. Just great.

I wandered over to a bunch of normal-looking people. It seemed I was to be a "pusher," a pedestrian involved in the act the title would suggest - pushing. We stood in a back hallway like sheep. After awhile a man walked in: Bald, crazy glasses, high-wasted pants that seemed two inches too short at the ankles and (of course) sporting crazy shoes. He honed in on me.

You, he said in a mild Russian accent, I have something else for you.

He guided me to the "backstage" area, which was really just the end of the gallery blocked off by a piano and already packed with dancers and other performers.

So. Will you be naked or in your underpants.

Welcome back to New York.

Underpants, I said feebly.

Let me see them. Quick, quick take off your pants.

I decided to embrace the situation, and let fly my shoes, pants, shirt.

Yes, those are good. His inflection was such that I couldn't discern whether it was a question or a statement. I didn't have time to ponder it though, because he'd grabbed me by the arm and led me over to a small white laundry basket with twelve hundred strands of white beads ziptied to the rim.

Sit, he said.

I did. As the laundry basket was lifted over my head I suddenly realized it was a costume. And it was mine. I was now standing, in my underwear, in front of twenty dancers, with a laundry basket over my head.

I'd thought that was ridiculous.

I was wrong.

Andrey - as I later learned the artist's name to be - led me into the performance area - a long narrow gallery split lengthwise into stage and viewing area.

So. You spin spin spin down the stage and then you dance here. Okay? That is what you do. Let me see. Good. More spinning. Like this. Then on the second show (we're doing this twice? Thanks for the heads up, sparky) you smash your costume like this. Don't do it now. Second time. Big Smashing. Like this.

Come show time, I found myself packed into the back hallway with forty or fifty other performers. None of us was being paid and people seemed to have come from all reaches of the globe for it - A french dancer who'd worked with the choreographer more than a decade ago, a stocky russian woman wearing bags of shredded paper on her legs, a homeless guy in white go-go boots. Andrey came rushing through the crowd. He found me.

You! You! What is your name? Sam? Hi Sam. Come with me. Here put your costume on. Now. Stand here (He faced me toward the back wall) until it is time to go on you stand here.

My portion of the dance was the last, about half an hour into the show. So I stood. And stood. Facing a wall. With zipties sticking into my eyes. The things we do for art.

Apart from the whole zipties-in-the-eyes-thing the first show went off without a hitch.

The audience went wild - but not half so wild as the second audience would get.

In show two, you'll remember, I'd been instructed to destroy my costume. At show time I stood facing the wall and waited obediently until it was my time to go on, spun down the performance space, and danced in place, waiting for a cue.

I heard the rip of the cardboard close by and in seconds things turned to mayhem. Beads, garbage, fabric and cardboard went flying as we destroyed our costumes. Screams and yells erupted from the audience as bits of everything - fly swatters, newspapers, shredded paper - flew at them. I engaged in a tug-of-war with the guy next to me, both of us in our underwear tearing up a giant foam and cardboard contraption he'd previously been wearing. This lasted for what couldn't have been more than three minutes but we milked every second of it for all it was worth. Exhilarated, scraped up, and tiptoeing among the remnants of the show we made our way back offstage. Next time I get an offer like that - no details, no idea what I'll be doing - I'll be saying yes without a second's pause and praying it's half as ridiculous as this was.

eight/twentyseven

A Lesson on Fairness

Did Grandpa ever tell you about the chickens? says my mom. When he was little his family had a small coop, and it was his chore in the mornings to go out and feed them. There was a particularly nasty chicken that was always biting him and it made Grandpa - who was still quite young - terrified of going in there. His dad scoffed at him and told him to buck up. It was only a chicken, for godsakes.

But he got over it? says my sister.

I'm not done. says mom.

Okay. Sorry.

   One morning your grandfather was gone - I don't know why - and his father sent Grandpa's little sister out to feed the chickens. She came back whining; the attack chicken had bitten her.
   And her dad told her to buck up too?
   No, he went out and shot the chicken.