Today’s soundtrack: I am the Mothership Connection
Today at 10:22am: jaywalking



On Saturday the Writer’s Workshop needed volunteers to move some bookshelves around. I had nothing better to do, and the Workshop’s always been good to me, so I woke up early and strolled uptown with headphones on and a good playlist coming through them.

There is nothing like taking a long walk in the city, it really clears your head. Seeing the things you do between streets, the lives being conducted from corner to corner, you feel anything is possible. From Houston to 23rd Street you will see the full range of the human condition: the homeless to the rich, the lucid to the insane. Couples and loners, tourists and locals. The beautiful, the ugly, and people that are undeniably both.

Brand-new buildings and pre-war tenements. Hot dogs and potato-chip racks, and a block later, gourmet foods you can’t pronounce. The odd sensation of hearing a foreign yet familiar language; you hear it all the time, but can’t understand a damn word.

Cops cruise by, ambulances rush to private emergencies. A bicyclist weaves through taxis. A Humvee limo whips past. Underneath your feet, the rumbling of the subway, for those who can't afford Humvee limos.

At the Workshop a crew of roughly twelve showed up. From high school kids to cats in their 30s or 40s. I was in the mood to work, to do heavy lifting but there wasn’t much to be done. With so many of us, the moving went quick.

A long splinter entered my finger while I was helping move the portable stage. I treated it like most problems (meaning I completely ignored it) until a half-hour later, when I went to wash my hands and saw this dark sliver of wood embedded well beneath my skin. Tried fishing it out but I might as well have been trying to remove my spleen.

I went at it with a pair of Swiss army tweezers Jeannie gave me--and made a grand success of pushing the splinter deeper into my finger. I thought about that scene in First Blood where Stallone cauterizes his own wounds with a survival knife. Inspired, I cooked an Exacto knife with my Zippo (I don’t know, to sterilize it) and tried cutting into my finger. Unfortunately the splinter was in my right hand and, like Republican politicians, I’m no good with the left.

“Edward’s really good at removing splinters,” said Jeannie. What an odd skill to have; sounds like something you learn in Elf Camp.

I held out my hand like a beggar and Edward took a crack at it. Focused like a surgeon.

One minute turned to five, and I gritted my teeth when he switched from the tweezers to the Exacto. But Jeannie didn’t lie, the kid had skills, and eventually he ripped the splinter out. Dude it felt like he was removing a metacarpal.

“My god, look at the size of this thing,” he said, holding up the splinter. “You were like, Passion of the Christ.” I examined the splinter, and sure enough the goddamn thing was so big if I had two of ‘em I could use them to eat noodles.

So now Edward’s on my list of Fellow Survivors I Must Band Together With in a Post-Apocalyptic Manhattan Wasteland. He makes the short list. Incidentally auditions are still open for a singer, a cook and an Assistant Mutant Killer if any of you are interested.

Note: Assistant Mutant Killer doesn’t mean you kill mutants at a junior level, it means you assist me in my duties as Head Mutant Killer.

How will I kill mutants, you ask? I will lure them into revolving doors and press hard at the right time. I got shit under control, Ace.

Today’s soundtrack: we’re coming back
Today at 9:02am: I don’t like waking up early on a Sunday, but sometimes you gotta



This is so much fun! All of youse sending in your bedroom photos. Thanks! We’ve got enough now.

In the interests of a more instant gratification, I’d like to do another photo-collection with a different subject matter for us here on LJ, to be posted more or less right away. While Theme’s first issue will hit the stands end of next week, it will be a couple months before the bedroom-spread issue drops and we can all see the results.

So, for those of you willing, please take a photo of your cell phone being held. It can be open, closed, held however you like. Please e-mail it to

hipstomp(ignore this part in parentheses)@gmail.com

with the subject line “cell.” Soon as I get enough to make a collage, I’ll put it up, hopefully by tonight.

Can you think of any more interesting collage-topics it would be cool to see? Maybe I’ll do one every week. Ideas for future collages, off the top of my head:

- frame a window, and whatever’s beyond it
- the inside of your refrigerator
- an overhead shot of your workspace (better make that home workspace, so nobody gets Dooced)
- your dinner, right before you eat it
- the interior northwest corner of your domicile
- a shot of your morning coffee
- turn your television on right now and take a photo of what’s on
- take a photograph of your camera (no faces please) in a mirror

(These are just ideas, so no submissions for these yet, please.)

What do you think? If you have any good ideas, please post them in the comments.

Today’s soundtrack: Mrs. Cool rides out in her aged Cadillac
Today at 11:02am: eating donuts I didn’t pay for



Got a digital camera? Good, ‘cause I need your help (yes, you) for this photo project I’m doing. It’s for the cover of a magazine called Theme. I’ve been editing for them and we’re putting together a photo collage of average people’s bedrooms. Each shot will be reduced to a thumbnail and we’ll string them all together. I think it will look pretty cool.

If you’re so inclined, please snap a flick (don’t worry about resizing it) and e-mail it to

hipstomp@gmail.com

with the subject line “bedroom.” You don’t have to give your name or any of that stuff. Just need anonymous, random pictures of bedrooms. The angle and state of the room is totally up to you. If you’re worried I'm going to do something weird with it, just send it to me from some bullshit e-mail address.

Thanks! All contributors will receive a small dose of good karma in the form of fine motor coordination. There is something you’re destined to accidentally knock off your desk and break in the next month or so but if you send this photo in, me and one of those gods with nine arms will see to it it doesn’t happen. Cool?

Theme will be hitting newstands in major cities next week. Check it out! Will post further details if it becomes available online.

Today’s soundtrack: don’t pass the recipe around
Today at 6:52pm: riding the rails



Every other day I’m at the post office, ‘cause I’m selling all my shit. Fucking fire sale. I’ve sold most of my books on Amazon and now I’m unloading the CDs. I drink tap water and use half as much toothpaste. I’m selling the whip next month and I’ve canceled my health insurance. Drastic times, drastic measures.

On my way back from the post office I stopped on the street because I saw a sign that said “$96 Million Dollars.” Lotto sign at a newspaper stand. I don’t normally buy Lotto tickets, but the drawing’s tonight and what the fuck do I have to lose.

A buck later I had my dream. Folded it in half carefully and put it in my pocket.

The 7-train ain’t running out of Grand Central anymore, so to get to Flushing I have to take the N to Queensboro Plaza. I don’t care for the N or the R; the six is my train.

Lam talked about how you form relationships with your train lines. For him the seven was always so reliable, always there when he needed it; lately it’s become unavailable. I picture Lam breaking up with the train and then it chases him going “Baby it’ll be different next time!”

The 7-train stations in Queens are aboveground, like in Chicago. From Queensboro Plaza you can see the skyline. Sure it’s freezing out but I’d rather shiver in fresh air than be waiting in the fucking tunnel. Nothing but rats and feces down there.

I look down the track, waiting for the train. Praying for the express. Throw me some good luck! Today’s my lucky day. Train comes. It’s the local.

I went into Queens to catch up with Francis and Logan for dinner. Logan swears by Joe Shanghai’s, even though their Manhattan branch is overrated and packed with tourists. I’m hoping the Queens branch is better but we didn’t have a chance to find out; hostess said the wait would be an hour.

Instead I dragged them to a teahouse on Main where I know the club sandwiches are good.

“Why would you come to Flushing to eat club sandwiches?” asks Logan, incredulous. Bit of a gourmand.

“I like club sandwiches,” I point out. Around Logan I revel in my unsophisticated palate. Lately I’ve been eating oatmeal to get by and my tastebuds have adjusted accordingly. At this point I could eat the cardboard container it comes in and be okay.

The club sandwiches are better than okay, and afterwards we hop into Logan’s car. He drags us to Western Beef, the supermarket.

Place is fucking huge. They’ve got an entire section where the whole thing is refrigerated, like some kind of fucking penguin habitat. You enter through these vinyl curtains and right away BOOM your nipples get hard. Mostly meat in there, most of it bloody. Feels like a slaughterhouse.

The grocery might be called “Western Beef” but it’s still in Queens; the aisles are labeled by ethnicity. Korean, Indian, Dominican, Colombian, Jamaican, Chinese. I love Queens. I was born here. I always wonder if I will come back to die here.

It would be ironic if I passed in the same hospital where I was born. I would have started and ended my life in the same building, my first and last breaths drawn at the same GPS coordinates. All the experiences in between, just filler. You kill time, then it kills you.

Logan buys his fancy cheese or meat or whatever the hell it was--Mr. Upper West Side, don’t you know--then we cruise up Northern Boulevard. Three guys in their thirties driving around on a Friday night. Francis is outta smokes so we stop at a 7-11.

There’s another Lotto sign up. “You guys buy a ticket yet?” I ask.

“What’s it up to?” Logan asks.

“Ninety-six mil.”

The three of us head inside to get a ticket each. Making the standard pact that should one of us win, we’ll cut it up three ways. And I’ve still got the other ticket in my pocket from before.

Back at Francis’ house, I’m getting out of Logan’s car and I slam the door on Francis’ fingers. It was an accident, didn’t know he had his hand there.

Within seconds his middle finger turns black and looks fucked-up, though he says he doesn’t think it’s broken. Upstairs in his kitchen, he breaks out the first-aid kit. Logan goes through it looking for Advil.

“Cipro?” says Logan, uncovering a pack of pills.

“The fuck you get those?” I ask.

“Got some friends,” Francis explains. Good friends to have. After 9/11 and that anthrax shit, Cipro was harder to come by than an honest mechanic.

Francis pops a couple pills and puts his finger on ice. Logan drives me home.

At my desk I put CDs in envelopes, IM some, wait until midnight. Then I break out my two Lotto tickets and log on to their website.

The news ain’t good.

Well, at least my finger ain’t fucked up.

I continue wrapping CDs.

Today’s soundtrack: you're afraid to pay the fee
Today at 9:02pm: rolling my eyes at a histrionic cashier



I kicked Miranda in the elbow, slugged Eric in the back and got punched in the nose by Franz. My foot is killing me from that elbow hit and my nose is somewhat discolored. I get sloppy when I’m gassed, which is when all of these things happened. In future I ought not take three classes in a row and conclude them with a sparring session.

My instinct is to stay off the foot, particularly since I have to teach again tomorrow, but I was craving panini after class so I limped over to Pepe Rosso’s on Sullivan. Called ahead so it would be ready.

On Broome I passed the Sunrise Mart (Japanese supermarket with café seating) where I often buy hot coffee in a can. Have you tried it? I love it. They heat the cans up in this special anti-refrigerator. Used to drink this stuff all the time when I was living over there. I don’t even really like the taste, but I drink it now to remind me of then. It’s funny how the smallest, most innocuous moment can turn into a kind of profound mnemonic flashpoint later.

Passing Sunrise I happened to look inside and see a familiar shaved head sitting at one of the tables. He was hunched over a hot tea, and looking the way one looks after a long day at the office or several hours in the gym. I backtracked and walked inside.

“What’s up, killer.”

Lam looked up, slightly dazed. My guess is he just came from the gym. “Hey,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”

“Heading over to Pepe Rosso’s to pick up my dinner,” I said. “You gonna be here for ten minutes?”

“Do your thing,” he said, making that frenetic Chinese gesture that looks like you’re sweeping crumbs away from you with your fingertips.

So I went and picked up the chow. Ever been to Pepe Rosso’s? The counterguy is totally surly. Usually that’s a sign that the food is fucking awesome (people treat you like shit when they know they can get away with it), but the pasta here, while okay by New York standards, ain’t gonna change your life. I normally wouldn’t come here but it’s the only panini within range.

Sandwich in the bag, I limped down Sullivan. When I take my first step it looks like I’m trying to swagger with some gangsta lean, but my truncated second step gives it away as an injury.

Back at Sunrise Lam was going through the grocery section. “Can you help me pick out some seaweed?”

I looked at the brands, they had about ten varieties, and picked the one that said $1.29 on the price tag. “Can’t beat the price.”

“Do you know the difference between brands?”

What am I, Jacques Cousteau? “The hell should I know.”

He selected one different from the one I’d chosen and paid for it. I got some enoki and we sat down at the tables in front.

Wound up getting into a long conversation about wimmen. Sometimes you talk about broads and it’s like taking an architecture course--there’s history to be considered, and some practical concerns to be addressed but it’s mostly theory.

I’m usually careful not to type things like “broads” in here because although that’s the way I talk, I worry strangers reading this will take it the wrong way. Well, so much for that. Take it how you want. Censoring yourself is bad and ultimately pointless. I used to write a column for a website and no matter how innocuous I thought the subject matter, I’d frequently receive nasty e-mails from conclusion-jumping malcontents. Whaddaya gonna do.

Today’s soundtrack: beautiful faces and loud, empty places
Today at 8:52pm: crossing Houston



I read the e-mail wrong, so I showed up at the bar at 9pm. There was live jazz and a roomful of strangers where I expected to find friends. A cell phone call later I found out the crew wouldn’t be arriving ‘til ten. With an hour to kill, I took a seat facing the glass and stared out at frozen 7th Avenue, nursing my gin like Florence Nightingale.

The band was behind me so I couldn’t see ‘em, but the meandering sax provided a good soundtrack to the street life taking place outside the window. It was like looking into an aquarium filled with Manhattan. Bundled-up pedestrians tramping past, blinking streetlights, newspapers on the sidewalk, moving cars in the background. A taxi cruising for fares. A couple hugging each other and walking.

On the other side of the street I could see a mish-mash of buildings stacked up like Lego blocks, peppered with scores of warmly-lit apartment windows. Dozens of lives taking place inside these little yellow rectangles.

I saw a woman’s head in profile. Judging by the angle of her gaze she was either on a laptop or playing the piano. Periodically she would turn her head and look out the window at the street below. She divided her time evenly between conducting her unseen task and staring at 7th Ave. I wondered which was the focus and which the distraction.

Downstairs from her place was a pharmacy and a tavern. Places you go to remedy things.

With no one to talk to, I whipped out my little yellow notepad and began scribbling this down. The couple next to me looked over and murmured something to each other. I know, who the hell goes to a bar to take notes.

Eventually the fellas rolled in, joined shortly by the girls. Shedding of coats, ordering of drinks, a raising of volume levels. Laughs exchanged, conversations to follow, questions to answer. The little territory I’d staked out by the window was now fully colonized.

I told my friends I was meeting up with a girl tonight, which was true at the time I said it, but ended up being false an hour later when she stood me up. Well, whaddaya gonna do. I’ve been stood up before so I know the drill: you act like it’s not a big deal, and you drink a little more.

I react to every setback in life the same way: A small shrug followed by “Well, whaddaya gonna do.” I think if I got shot in the spine with a railgun or had my arm hacked off by a Samurai I’d lie there face-down on the ground and say “Well, whaddaya gonna do” to the pavement.

Someday in the future I’ll know what I’m gonna do, then I won’t be able to say this anymore.

Today’s soundtrack:
well, just a little piece
baby you know what I mean
Today at 5:02pm: running out of Gatorade



I hate this contemporary, Rumsfeldian way of speaking where you ask a question and then answer it yourself. Example: “Does that mean things will be difficult for us? Yes. Does that mean we’ll quit? No.” It’s irritating and it displeases me, and when I have servants I will tell them so constantly.

Why don’t you just say “Things will be difficult but we won’t quit.” It’s shorter.

“Does it make you a douchebag if you answer your own questions out loud? Yes. Are you capturing my attention? No.”

It snowed twice in Manhattan today and both times were surprising. There was nothing about it in the weather, or at least that little WeatherBar thing at the top of my screen. I rounded the corner of Broome and thought one of the sweatshops around here had an explosion; it looked like all these pieces of cotton were blowing around in the wind.

Apparently there was a local explosion of some sort, later in the evening. I taught twice at Hapkido today and on my way out I saw like, literally twenty fire engines scattered all over Canal Street like a “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” bug.

Three or four fire engines is no big deal, you see it every day; twenty is scary. I checked my phone to see if today’s date was 9/11 upside down or something.

I reached for my camera, then remembered I never bring it to Hapkido. Because some guy snuck into the lockerroom and scratched “Fuck KARATE” into one of the bulletin boards. After I saw that I figured the same person is capable of rifling through my bag and stealing stuff so I never bring anything of value there.

The firemen said a plastics place had caught fire. I didn’t smell anything but I’m sure it smelled terrific. I know because there’s a machine shop underneath my apartment, and twice a month they turn on what sounds like a buzzsaw and immediately afterwards my apartment fills with the smell of burning plastic. For the first five minutes it’s terrible; for the second twenty minutes it’s bad; after that you can’t smell it anymore but you lose the ability to do math.

I was never great at math to begin with; I somehow managed to defy my DNA imperative. I blame it on my attention deficit disorder. It’s an exquisitely cruel irony that the thing preventing me from being good at math is abbreviated “ADD.”

Jesus. I’m on a funk jag, and Average White Band’s “Cut the Cake” is the best thing to happen to me in a while.

If you can listen to “Cut the Cake” without standing up at your desk, pushing the chair back and shuffling around then you are made out of wood. Like Jake Gyllenhaal.

Yes he is, and you know it.

Today’s soundtrack: the moment I could win
Today at 6:02pm: choking out a 6’2 guy. I practically had to jump to get up there



“Do you have plans for tonight?” asked a female friend, one who’s got a boyfriend.

“Yeah, I’m watching 24,” I said. I love that show.

She made a sympathetic noise, and I couldn’t figure out why until after we’d hung up. Ah, today is Valentine’s Day. But as per my disconnected-with-society lifestyle I’m not paying it much mind. I’m not a big holiday guy, and if Santa’s not welcome in my house, Cupid can fly into my picture window and produce a loud thud.

Plus, the initials for Valentine’s Day are VD.

On previous Valentine’s Days I’d been eager to have a date, but now I can’t see the point. The last time I went on a February 14th date I took her to this great little restaurant on Bleecker called Acquario. It was one of those places I had filed away in my personal stash of fantastic-romantic.

It closed down a couple years ago. As did Limbo Café, The Pink Pony, Beard Café, Nine, and a bunch of my other haunts. What’s even worse than when a favorite spot closes down is when it keeps the same name but mutates into something else. Read: Caffe Della Pace on 7th Street. A damned shame.

Anyone who lives in the Village know if Cucina Della Fontana or La Lanterna is still there? They used to be on the list too. If they’re still open and you give a damn about dating, take your man or woman there. (For both places, request a table downstairs, trust me.)

After Hapkido and before 24 I run up to the deli on Spring for my dinner.

Maybe it’s the same if you’re Greek or Irish or black or whatever, but anytime I walk into a place staffed by an older guy of my ethnicity--in my case, Korean--I can be pretty sure he’s going to blow up my spot. They have no problem getting into your business or loudly blurting advice better given behind closed doors.

The weathered ajushi behind the counter takes one look at me and pulls my card: “Today Valentine’s Day! Where is your girlfriend? Why you not spending whicha girlfriend?”

’Cause the bitch crazy, I almost say. Couple people on line behind me. “Uh...maybe next year,” I say.

“Not this year? What happened? You don’t have girlfriend?”

Come on, pops. Just ring up my chicken roll and gimme my fuckin’ change....

Raining like a bitch outside. In front of the deli my umbrella dies in my hands. It’s been popping inside-out all day, like it’s trying to impress me by showing me it can do that, and now it collapses all dramatically. I’ve got one attention-whore of an umbrella.

So I get a little wet on the way home. But I’m past the age, or am no longer in the frame of mind where occurences like this are depressing to me. Certain types of jazz used to depress me, too. Then you get a little older and you can’t remember what you were thinking back then.

24 was just okay tonight. Good god, is there no magic left in my life?

I can always rely on Cia to get good photos!

(From The Economist)

Christo and Jeanne-Claude's The Gates in Central Park
February 12th-27th 2005

New York is in a tizzy over the Christo and Jeanne-Claude's latest environmental artwork. For two weeks, Manhattan's Central Park will be lined with 7,500 saffron-coloured vinyl gates (a hue remarkably similar to Jeanne-Claude's hair), each 16 feet high and hung with fabric panels. These vivid arches create a majestic passageway, criss-crossing the park's 23 miles of pedestrian walkways. Killjoys who tsk-tsk the city for endorsing such a project should note that the artists have paid for this $20m artwork themselves, using money earned from Christo's drawings and collages.

The Gates are expected to attract quite a few tourists. Those frustrated with the project's short shelf-life (after 26 years in the making) should note that brevity is part of the point. As Jeanne-Claude once said in an interview: “The fact that the work does not remain creates an urgency to see it. For instance, if someone were to tell you, ‘Oh, look on the right, there is a rainbow.’ You will never answer, ‘I will look at it tomorrow’.”

Today’s soundtrack: if you hear any noise, it’s just me and the boys
Today at 4:02pm: wearing out my shoes



I like taking pictures like this--

--because I’m not trying to capture the building, I’m trying to capture the light. Though technically I can’t. Like when they search for viruses in people; they can’t see the virus, so they look for the antibodies. The presence of antibodies indicates the presence of the virus. And for me, light doesn’t exist without a city building to bounce it off of.

I took that picture a couple weeks ago (and no, it’s not photoshopped) but today I was snapping flicks in Central Park. Everyone’s talking about The Gates. More people have said “Gates” this week than during the Microsoft antitrust trial.

Central Park has been wrapped by Christo and his wife. I did a shittily inadequate job of shooting it but I won’t apologize, because I am an amateur photographer. And being an amateur is like being in love, it means never having to say you’re sorry.

I had to be in the studio for a (professional’s) shoot today, so by the time I made it up to the Park the light was already gone. I knew the photos would come out all muddy but I took ‘em anyway. It’s so aggravating when you compose a shot you’re happy with but the light just isn’t there. A professional could cope with it, I suppose. I can’t cope.

Here’s the map of the whole thing, from the Times:

In other news I’ve had a headache for four days straight. I think I have a brain aneurysm. There’s this pressure in my head and it feels like if I move too fast it will explode.

Anyways here are a few pictures of The Gates:

I’ll put better ones up if I can return sometime before they take it down. It’s only up for sixteen days. This project cost $21 million dollars and it has a shelf life shorter than frozen lasagna.

My head is going to burst. They’re going to find me dead at my desk, the police and my landlord will break the door down.

Today’s soundtrack: Manhattan est belle, mais...
Today at 10:02am: trying, and failing, to hustle up some clients



So I’m kind of disappointed. I’ve been listening to Madeleine Peyroux’s “J’ai Deux Amours,” her reinterpreting of the Josephine Baker classic, and I looked up the lyrics.

My French ain’t great but it’s enough to get the gist--turns out the “two loves” these ladies have been singing about are “my country” and “Paris!” This whole time I thought they were involved in some complicated love triangle, probably isosceles. Instead it’s some weird blend of patriotism and urbanist passion.

Then she even says Paris is better than Manhattan!

...Though I guess I can concede that. I’m still in love with the song. I too have “deux amours,” the first is this song, the second is Ella Fitzgerald’s “How Long Has This Been Going On” (the live version from Ella & Duke At The Côte D'Azur where she says “Thank you ladies and gentlemen, okay?” at the end).

Today’s soundtrack: what a break, for heaven's sake
Today at 11:02pm: buying a beer for a guy who is hopefully older than 21



I still get nervous before shows, can’t help it. I have to avoid drinking coffee for hours beforehand or I get the shakes. The thirty minutes leading up to the show are always the worst, and I usually need to go sit someplace by myself. Do you know what it’s like to get up in front of a roomful of people all looking at you expectantly?

On The Brady Bunch, Mike Brady told one of his kids who had a fear of public speaking to imagine the audience all sitting there in their underwear. A) that’s perverted, and b) it doesn’t work.

Plus, take a look around you. A good ninety percent of us are simply not that attractive. Can’t be helped; the dismal arithmetic of genetic happenstance can’t be denied. Hell, some people are so ugly it’s hard looking at them with their clothes on. Do you really want to see these people nearly naked?

Mike Brady’s an architect; the hell does he know about public speaking? T-square jockey.

Of course, sometimes you do a reading and the crowd is so small it doesn’t matter. Back in December I did a gig at Vassar College with F. Omar Telan. Funny cat. Anyways the show was ill-promoted, I think eleven people showed up. I’ve had more people over to my house for dinner. Also the auditorium-type space we were supposed to perform in was occupied by some class watching a movie, so we did our readings in a classroom.

Here at Bowling Green State University, I’m hoping for bigger numbers. The whole point of me being up here is to try to effect some kind of change or spark ideas, however temporary. The more people the better, and damn a case of nerves.

“The attendance might not be as high as we’d hoped,” one of the organizers confesses. “We’re competing with another event, and it’s, um, across the hall in the other auditorium.”

“Ah,” I say. “Who’s the speaker?”

“Yolanda King.”

King, as in Martin Luther.

Well. There’s nothing like competing with the daughter of a civil-rights legend.

To my surprise, our auditorium fills up rapidly. There’s gotta be a hundred kids sitting in there. I can be fairly certain no one’s ever heard of me, so I guess the other speakers, Brian Leung (author) and Jennifer Tseng (poet) have followings. Right now I’m just Rain (this space empty).

“Lotta people in here,” I say to Brian. A creative writing professor is within earshot.

“Well, I told my students their attendance was mandatory,” he says.

“You’re not supposed to say that in front of us,” says Brian, feigning irritation.

I stand at the front of the room and look out at the sea of faces. The front-third of the room looks happy to be here. The rear two-thirds look like they’ve been forced to attend which, of course, they were. Well, what can I do; “the hand you’re dealt,” and so forth.

Brian, Jennifer and I take seats at the front of the room, close to the podium, so we can run up there when it’s our turn. I sit on the side nearest the aisle, because I have the bladder of a six-year-old girl and will surely need to use the bathroom at some point.

“What’s the order?” I ask.

“You’re last,” they tell me. I’m pretty neutral about the order. Last can be good, last can be bad. First is always reliably hard because you’re getting the audience cold. You know what I mean? Try talking to a girl the second she gets to the bar, or try talking to her after she’s been there an hour. There’s definitely a difference, even without the cocktails.

Uh-oh! Something has been shuffled. At the front of the stage is a podium, and next to it is a table with three chairs.

nooooooo

It’s been decided that Brian, Jennifer and I are to sit up at that table while one of us is on the podium. That’s bad because each of us has thirty minutes to speak, meaning each of us will also be sitting in front of the audience for sixty minutes. And no matter how good the readings are, it’s difficult to sit still and look attentive for an hour.

If you’re chilling in the audience it’s fine, you can even sleep (as it looks like some of the students in the back are already doing), but when you’re on stage everyone can see you. Plus there goes my bathroom break.

Well, whaddaya gonna do. “The hand you’re dealt,” and--wait a minute, I already said this.

Jennifer does her thirty minutes, Brian does his, and I do mine. The waiting part is hard but everything else goes fine. There are a couple hiccups in my set--I’m a little too short for the podium, and I manage to knock the microphone over at an awkward point in one of my stories--but overall I got no complaints. The audience, whom I worried was dozing off, turned out to be pretty attentive.

After a brief Q&A the faculty advisor, her husband, and a group of students take us all out to a bar. It’s really nice of them and at the same time it breaks all my bar paradigms. Back home there’s only one of three reasons to be in a watering hole:

1. To catch up with the crew
2. To meet girls
3. To get blind stinking drunk

In this situation here the first isn’t possible, the second is verboten and the third is probably not a good idea. So I install paradigm 4: Have drinks and socialize with new acquaintances. A learning experience! I think of the old cliché: I came here to teach, but I was the one who learned....

Back at the hotel I'm alone in my room, eating vending-machine Combos and lying in bed half-naked with the laptop on my chest, watching a previously downloaded episode of Battlestar Galactica with more than a passing interest.

I’m aware that writing that sentence will dramatically decrease any imagined attraction a female reader I could potentially meet in future might feel for me. The logic of trying to meet women says you should always make yourself sound good, and here I am shooting myself in the foot...with a Cylon laser gun. But I don’t care, because I’m Now Guy.

Today’s soundtrack: what a dunce I was before
Today at 3:12pm: It goes higher than channel 13!



I write these Ohio entries in case you’re interested in knowing what it’s like to speak at a college. It’s also possible you don’t give a rat’s ass, in which case you shouldn't have even read as far as this sentence.

The student they sent to retrieve me was a white kid from South Florida, Karl. Nice guy. Spent a year studying in China, and during his recounting of the tale he enunciated names like Shendong or Shanghai in ways I’d only heard Chinese people pronounce them. He had sharp eyes and a goatee; he kind of looked like a bounty hunter who was really good at chess.

He also drove a manual, which I respect immensely. (If you’re reading this from Europe, Karl and I are like, the only two people in the United States of America who drive a stick. Everyone else drives an automatic with a cheeseburger storage compartment where the clutch should be.)

Judging by the drive from Toledo to our destination, Ohio is completely flat. I bet if you stand on a ladder you can see California.

We reached Bowling Green inside half an hour. Karl installed me at the Best Western and said he’d be back in twenty to take me someplace, I wasn’t sure where.

My room had two queen-sized beds. Perfect for carousing with whores! Unfortunately I didn’t bring any whores. I find if I don’t make a packing list I always forget something.

Twenty minutes later I showed up in the lobby and met the faculty advisor and Brian Leung, one of the other speakers. Let’s look at the two of us speakers for a moment: Brian’s a professor in California and he has a book out. I’m a foundering writer with five jobs unrelated to writing, and the only books I have out are from the library. I get the feeling someone backed out of this gig and then the Workshop called me.

Theresa, the faculty advisor and Karl took us to town for lunch with one of the student leaders. The town was small, one of those places Rand & McNally probably got around to last, but completely serviceable. A strip with a couple of restaurants and such. It was dead-nuts cold outside. You’d think after coming back from Canada I’d be used to it, and you’d be wrong. I know my ancestors came from Korea but I’m thinking they took frequent trips to Hawai’i.

After lunch they dropped us off at the hotel again. I love hotel rooms. I took most of my clothes off for no good reason and flipped through TV channels, fascinated by cable--I’ve never had cable TV in my life--then flipped through the pages of what I figured I’d read tonight. I always bring a stack of potential material, about 100 pages of different stories and excerpts, because I learned the hard way that you should lay your eyes on an audience and size them up before deciding what to read.

Then I untucked all the sheets from bed #1, set my cell phone alarm and went to sleep. I’d woken up at four that morning, which might’ve been fine except I went to bed at three. And airplane sleep is just about the worst sleep you can get. I’m convinced there’s a plane (in the astral sense) of Hell designed around this principle. There’s a special wing staffed with imps and sponsored by Boeing.

Forty-five minutes later I woke up and experienced the usual disorientation: Where am I, have I killed somebody, whose pubic hair is on my pillow. Okay, so there’s some things about hotels I don’t like.

But plenty of things I do like! Unlimited hot water, man. Fucking awesome. I got in the shower and washed the airplane germs off me for twenty minutes. I set the water pressure at the level you use to blow rioters off of sidewalks.

Next up was a dinner with students. Theresa brought Brian and I to a steakhouse-type place. I don’t like to eat before gigs because I get nervous on stage, and you have to watch out for things like mashed potatoes or other things that will give you explosive gas, but I had a little conflict of interest:


- Directive #B4: NO EATING BEFORE GIGS. UPSETS YOUR STOMACH.

- Directive #A3: ALL FREE MEALS MUST BE EATEN.


Needless to say, Directive #A3, and Now Guy, won.

There were sixteen students at the table, and Brian was a total pro at engaging them. Warm and sociable, and he knew when to rotate. He was also wearing a freshly pressed shirt, different in color from the one he’d had on in the afternoon. I looked down at what I was wearing, which was an Old Navy sweater I had on yesterday...and the day before. I wanted to sneak a smell but I couldn’t pull it off at the crowded table.

Conversationally speaking, sixteen people means there’s a lot of balls in the air. In dinner situations with strangers I often don’t know what to say, but I had to try. This wasn’t like back in the city where I could just ignore people; I was being paid to come up here and offer something to the students. So I tried not to let my social awkwardness come out and I tried not to stare at girls I found attractive.


- Directive #B6: YOU ARE BEING PAID TO APPEAR HERE. INTERACT AND FULFILL YOUR OBLIGATIONS.

- Directive #B7: BEHAVE LIKE A PROFESSIONAL.

- Directive #B8a: NO STARING.

- Directive #B8b: NO SURREPTITIOUS STARING.

- Directive #B8c: FOR GOD’S SAKE THESE GIRLS ARE IN COLLEGE--THEY’RE TOO YOUNG FOR YOU.

I tried with the conversation. I think I did okay, and I’m reasonably confident I gave the appearance of being completely comfortable.

There were a few moments when I felt uneasy, and, well, that’s why there’s glasses of water on the table. You just take a long sip, it’s like stalling. I do it on dates alla time. Works like a charm.

- Directive #C3: DON’T LIE IN YOUR BLOG--YOU HAVEN’T BEEN ON A DATE SINCE THE CLINTON ADMINISTRATION.


I have so!


- Directive #C4: IT’S NOT A DATE UNLESS BOTH PEOPLE THINK IT’S A DATE.


...Oh.

You can see the nose of the plane
reflected in the propeller-cone thingy.

Today’s soundtrack: Where have I been all these years?
Today at 4:10am: making coffee with my eyes closed



So I get off the plane, and just past Baggage Claim there’s a guy holding up a piece of paper with RAIN NOE printed on it. I had to stifle the urge to take a picture.

Let me back up a minute and stop Tarentino-ing the sequence of events.

I live in the moment, and there are downsides to this.

Seinfeld had this old bit about having two sides to your personality--Night Guy vs. Morning Guy. The gist of it was: When you’re Night Guy you stay up late and fuck around, even though you know you have to get up early the next morning--you don’t care, because that’s Morning Guy’s problem. Night Guy always screws Morning Guy.

For me it’s Now Guy and Months Later Guy; the self-sabotage stretches far longer than a single evening. I routinely, unthinkingly do things I’ll pay for in months, or in the case of smoking, years.

When the Writer’s Workshop contacted me back in November to do a reading at Bowling Green I jumped at the chance, even though I didn’t know where Bowling Green was. (Turns out it’s outside Toledo, Ohio.) Speaking fee, travel stipend, thirty minutes on the mic, January gig. Book your own ticket, they said.

I immediately hopped on Expedia, knowing I could get a ticket for way cheaper than my travel stipend. Then I’d put the rest of the dough in my pocket (at least until Mastercard’s damned APR hellmonkeys took it back out).

I booked a cheap ticket, ignoring the fact that it was scheduled to leave LaGuardia at 6am. Not my problem; Months Later Guy will deal with it.

On the morning of the gig I rolled out of bed at 4am, cursing Now Guy for the umpteenth time. He always screws me. I just have to get through this so I can again become Now Guy.

A 6am departure means I’ve gotta be there by 5am, meaning I have to leave my house at 4:30am. Worst of all I couldn’t even take mass transit, which would only cost me $2 to get to LaGuardia, because at that hour the buses run so sporadically I’d have to leave the house at 3am to build in enough time safeguards. On days like this my life is like an episode of “24,” without the action or drama. Just the deadlines.

Outside the house, the door had barely closed behind me when a vacant taxi rounded the corner. I raised my hand and he stopped. It was 4:30 in the morning. I love living in Manhattan.

The douchebag taxi driver tried to “take me for a ride.”

“Where you going?” I asked, when he flew past Delancey Street. “You just missed the Williamsburg.”

“Ah...we should take the Midtown Tunnel,” he said.

“But then I gotta pay the toll!”

“We’ll beat the traffic,” he said. What a terrible liar.

“What traffic, it’s 4:30 in the morning! I wanna take the BQE. Turn around and get us on the Williamsburg.”

He followed my instructions, silent and kind of pissed-off. Every taxi driver in the world initially thinks I’m a Japanese tourist.

Toledo, Ohio is not the kinda place you can get a direct flight to, so first I had to go Cleveland. The flight was unremarkable, and annoyingly short; soon as I started nodding off, the plane began descending.

At the gate there’s only four other people going to Toledo. We go through the door, then down a flight of steps--and directly onto the runway. What the hell is this?

You gotta be kidding me, I think, as a guy in an orange safety vest points me towards the plane. It’s thirty feet away from me and so small that there’s no staircase-truck leading up to it; the airplane door flips down and you climb up a couple steps.

I get inside and, no lie, I’ve been in bigger SUV’s. I mean it’s longer than an SUV inside, but definitely narrower--I’m sitting against the right wall, and I can touch the left wall with my hand.

For some reason there are not one, but two stewardesses aboard, both blondes in their early 30s. I don’t get it.

I buckle in. The stewardesses take their coats off. One pulls the door shut and the other one fires up the plane.

Aha, they’re not stewardesses--they’re the pilots. Sheesh! I feel embarrassed for making assumptions. Though I have to say I’ve never seen female pilots before, let alone pilots so young.

I’m sitting in the front “row,” so it’s basically like the pilots are driving a car and I’m in the back seat, right behind them. The one on the left takes her cell phone out and leaves it on the dashboard. She moves this big lever-thingy and the plane starts moving.

Takeoff in a plane that small is amazing--it just whips down the runway and practically leaps into the air. It’s like, if Michael Jordan was an airplane.

We’re in the air maybe fifteen minutes when I see the pilot on the left take her hands off the stick. She’s futzing with a digital camera, and starts taking pictures out the window. Then, get this, she and the other pilot start taking pictures of each other flying the plane! Maybe they are stewardesses. Back in Cleveland there’s some pilot named Buck looking confused on the runway and going “Lucinda and Cheryl did what?!?”

We land at Toledo without event. The plane is so tiny they don’t even land it, they just fly it into this big net. Okay kidding.

Like the airplane, Toledo Airport is also tiny. So small that if they filmed Die Hard 2 in here the movie would’ve been over in about twenty minutes. I grab a coffee at some kind of donut counter and am delighted to hear the countergirl has an accent. Slightly midwestern. I love being in a place where the people have accents because then I know I’m someplace else.

Then I head for the exit and run into Moneygrip holding up the sign with my name. My e-mail printout says someone named Karl is supposed to pick me up.

“Rain?” he says.

“Karl?” I say. He nods to confirm his identity, assuaging my fears of being abducted.

Actually I wouldn’t mind being abducted, if only so I could try developing Stockholm Syndrome and see how that goes. I think as syndromes go it’s one of the better ones. You’ve got your SARS, your Toxic Shock, your Tourette’s...I’ll take Stockholm any day.

I thought this was funny, the first and last ones got me:

http://www.livejournal.com/users/sungsdottir/104896.html