But.

Gothamist posted a pretty funny and, frankly, dead-on snippet from The Onion on Thursday citing, "3 million New Yorkers reportedly left the city because they realized the phrase 'Only in New York' is actually just a defense mechanism used to convince themselves that seeing a naked man take a shit on a park bench is somehow endearing, or part of some shared cultural experience."  Following this, a long string of comments both accusing the article and praising it–– expected: thus is the nature of the thread–– proceeded into a debate between two women, one with a kid, the other sans.  The debate had, at it’s core a debate that’s been happening for a very, very, long time in this here New York City:  The immigrants (both international and domestic) versus the born-n’-raised New Yorkers.

This is a debate that will never be resolved, lets face it: there will always be transplants who have a difficult time adjusting to a place that functions just fine without them and there will always be those born within the city’s confines who feel deserved of something from it, from “knowing” it better (do they? Debatable).

Through out this debate, I feel it is important to recognize that this is a city we’re talking about, a place, not a culture.  The city is the product of its inhabitants, which are always in a state of flux.  Well, is there a culture?  Of fucking course there is. 

But.

It comes in waves and in temporal movements and this is what fuels the debate: what outlines New York’s culture? 

There is no consistency to New York’s traditions other than bagels and pizza–– but oh wait, here come the empanadas and Halal stands.  Neighborhoods have complex histories full of such depth neither Bobst or NY Public could hope to contain.  Brooklyn is for the most part unrecognizable from what it once was.  Little Italy?  Eaten by Chinatown.

New York is in a completely perpetual state of transition.  We have no idea what it’s going to look like in a few years let alone tomorrow.  It’s this uncertainty, this unexpected quality that makes New York what it is.  That’s the beauty of New York and (cue the waving American flag in the wind) that’s the beauty of America.  We are constructed of immigrants: wise, jaded, been-there-done-that immigrants (or the product there of defending it or rebelling against it) or wide-eyed and brand-spanking new transplants for whom it's really too early to call.

The wise will always be trying to warn and regale the wide-eyed, who should listen because history informs us, but the wise will always forget having ever been wide-eyed. 

In other words, everyone is talking but no one is really listening.  Commentary.

Commentary.

   re: comentary

   re: cOmEnTaRy!

   re: !!1!com

   re: so much comry

           re: i know! RIGHT?

You know what?

You shit on that bench, naked man.  God bless America.

Something's Gotta Give

At the bar across the street–– a place that wishes it were something it could never be but I love it anyway ––I sit with my brother over a beer.  Between finishing up the first draft of a feature-length screenplay and debating the next series of illustrations I’ll be concocting, a sledgehammer of a truth I’ve been reluctant to address comes slamming down upon my head.

            “You can’t try and do it all,” My brother dryly utters.

            You just can’t.  I can’t.  My big dreams of directing are mixed up with writing and art direction; my big dreams of having a piece hanging in the MOMA one day are complicated by marketability and trend.

            At the end of the day those dreams will boil down, reduce into a thick, bitter, sludge until it burns, begging for intervention, the charred remains of what-could-have-been instead of a perfectly cooked reality.

            The folks were asleep and I went into the living room to paint–– no, write, no paint.  Write.  I was reminded of the bar, of those words, and the decision that I’m reluctant to make.

            There’s a career down one of these paths.  Both paths have something to be gained from, but not at the same time.  Absolute dedication and effort cannot be divided in two.  I watch as my loving boyfriend packs his bags for Africa for two years; I sit and wonder what it must feel like.  What it must feel like to be so focused, so straightforward in your goal.  His path is complex, but clear.  I, on the other hand, am not quite sure what I want out of life or what to make of this whole “career” or “artist” thing.

            I’ve been falsely confident so many times it kills me to think about it.  Do I have what it takes to be a filmmaker and an illustrator?  And what the hell good is that going to do for the world at large?  Will it ever make a darn tootin’ difference?

            I look to my brother, eyes round and wide and nod to him.

            “You’re right.”

            “Something’s gotta give,” He says.

            It’s been a year since I got out of school and I thought by now I’d be set.  Circumstance has it out for me, I suppose.

            We both drink our beers.

Keanu Reeves, a foamy latte, and reality.

Keanu Reeves passes down the street in front of me, huffing away at a cigarette, presumably in between takes of a film he’s shooting next door at The Music Hall.  His look is serious and deadpan, what one would expect from said actor.  Was he calm, or stressed–– It was impossible to tell.

I’m sitting at the coffee shop watching from the window.  My laptop’s out and I have the intention of working on a script.  Next to me, I overhear a man making a pass at a woman.  He apparently knows Mr. Reeves.

The guy was a former writer and producer.  He’s been in the business for awhile and is a transplant from LA, temporarily I’d imagine.  I think to myself: “this might be it––this might be my luck-of-the-draw in!”  I listen closely for a break in conversation so I may ask him questions about his profession, my intended profession, perhaps even ask if he knows of any job openings by chance.

He leaves though to go smoke a cigarette.  In the mean time I prepare myself, take out my business card, comb my hand through my hair, try my damnedest to look half-way decent.  It’s been a long day, and my, did it show.

He comes back in, and off the bat I stumble my way through “Hello, my name is… I am a… How did you…”  Despite my verbal inadequacies, he listened.

Well, apparently he slept his way into the industry after ten years of desperately working grunt jobs.  Great.  He jests (but not really) and continues to suggest the virtue of persistence and a hard work ethic.  I nod, thank him, and turn back to my computer to write and foamy brown latté to sip.  I sit there, slightly destroyed but shrug it off.  I sip my latté and the foam accidentally finds its way to my nose.  I had not noticed it until I saw my reflection in the mirror.

The man continued his pass at the lady.  Keanu Reeves left into the Music Hall.  I sat there with a freshly browned nose.

A Special Thank You to U.S. Airways.

We reached the airport. I popped out of Duncan's cobalt blue SUV to retrieve my luggage.


Suitcase was in hand, backpack in place, I thanked him for the ride and bid farewell. We split ways and I entered the Savannah airport which, is typically only modestly filled, however, on this particular Saturday, St. Patrick's day, it was a mad house.


I got in line to hand over my luggage to the same people whom, months earlier, I witnessed slamming my acoustic guitar with a vengeance in it's half-opened soft-shell case, onto the luggage-loading conveyor belt. This time, however, I wouldn't even get that far. I turn to my right to see my flight to Pittsburgh cancelled on the departures board.

A flight on Tuesday at 12 PM was the only way out. I called Duncan for a ride.

I was picked up and shortly thereafter made plans for that evening. I was lucky to be one of the 100,000-stranded-until-Tuesday with a place to actually stay, so I took whatever I had coming, which was an entire hammered city of angry locals and feisty tourists. Shoulder to shoulder people, beers in hand, yelling until the sun came up; it was astounding. What does one do in this situation?

Why, join the stumbling masses, of course.

I found Johnny, a coworker and friend from the Tea Room, selling beers with his sister, Jessica in a T-shirt shop on River Street. They decided to cash in on the drunken herds. They succeeded with flying colors. So Johnny slips me some beers and Duncan and I join the parade.

Several days later after the hangover wore off I arrived at the airport yet again, this time via Ned. No problems this time around though. One transfer in Charlotte, NC where I sketched several things and wrote out a few ideas.  Meanwhile at the gate, a woman screamed and cried at the top of her lungs about god-knows-what and eventually got arrested and escorted. Over the phone she cried to a nameless individual, "THE POLICE ARE TAKING ME, OH GOD, NO, WHY!!"  So on and so forth.  


Finally, I ended up in a very cold Laguardia.

I did this en route to NC. About the pit-looking thing in front of the flag on the left page: I inadvertently stabbed myself from the nib of an exposed fountain pen on the plane while searching for a drawing tool. I didn't have a napkin to wipe the blood off, nor at that moment could I leave my seat, so I ended up killing two birds with one stone and used my blood as a temporary drawing tool and my notebook as an impromptu napkin. I was hoping that who ever was sitting next to me didn't see what I was doing. I must have looked like a serial killer.