Traif, a Brooklyn Blemish

The thing one must become accustomed to when dining in the City is the propensity of restaurateurs to regard your patronage as a privilege THEY have bestowed upon YOU. And it makes me sick.

Dialogue with a pretty, often pre-occupied hostess usually begins something like this:
"Um. Hi. Do you need a table or something? Well the wait is going to be about 3 hours, so unless you have a reservation you might just wanna go fuck yourself. Theeenks."

And so it was, a few nights ago when a companion and I wandered into TRAIF on the outskirts of Williamsburg that we were greeted and treated in a similar fashion.

I won't bog down this post with details from the horrific service experience we were subjected to courtesy of a pert, self-important pig claiming to be the owner, but I will mention that the food (though downright stingy in proportion) was interestingly put together, however it took well over a half-hour to be delivered to the table we were SO LUCKY to have been seated at.

Oh, and do you know what TRAIF means? It means any food that is non-kosher. By the way, the restaurant is situated right in the middle of a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. There's something about this that I find to be in poor taste.

My recommendation? How shall I put this? I'd sooner go hungry than ever return.

AfroPunk Festival

August 25 & 26 saw the return of the AfroPunk Festival at Commodore Barry Park in Fort Greene. Headlining acts at this free event were Erykah Badu and Janelle Monae, but the real stars of the weekend were the 30,000 attendees from punks to fashionistas to the fabulous of all complexions.

HOT (damn) YOGA

I got duped into a session of HOT YOGA two nights ago at Yoga to the People on 27th St in Chelsea. "Oh I didn't tell you it was hot yoga?" my friend asked 2 minutes before we entered the studio. If he had, i wouldn't have gone.  I'd never done any yoga before, and I wouldn't think one's first time ought to be in a room set at 110 degrees.  But since I was already there, and I have been looking for ways to improve my fitness, I decided to give it a go.

When we walked into the lobby, there were two sweaty men sitting on the floor whose eyes seemed to cry out, "heeelp ... meee." For some reason I didn't think anything of it.

I got changed, filled my water bottle and then entered the studio.  At that moment I realized I was in for something.  The heat in that room was unlike anything I've ever known.  When it's hot like that outside, the sun is usually beating down on you with bright light.  But this room was totally dark, so my body wasn't quite sure how to respond. The simple act of breathing was disarming because you could actually feel the heat in your lungs when you inhaled.

And it smelled like a sex party.

We were allowed to trickle into the room over the course of the next half-hour or so, I guess to give people time to come to terms with the fact that they'd be spending their Monday evening in an oven.

What happened over the next hour is kind-of a blur. It was challenging in that the poses, stretches and contortions weren't made up of my usual daily body shapes. The forms rely heavily on balance and the engagement of very specific muscles. At one point, my heart was racing and sweat was raining down onto my rented mat as though I'd just stepped out of the shower.

It's a very strange sensation to be standing perfectly still while you're pouring sweat and your heart is beating double-time.

I had to stop once and catch my breath while the class carried on.  I re-joined a moment later, once i realized that while you're in a room set on low-broil, there is no breath there to catch.

I thought I might vomit, or collapse.  And honest-to-God I considered running for the door, leaving and never looking back. But I pushed through.  Ann-Elise, the instructor, later said, "if you're feeling like you might be sick, maybe that means you haven't been very good to your body lately and the real you is trying to break free."

So many times we are tempted to stay inside our boxes of normalcy, never to venture outside of our usual, daily poses. And even when we do, something inside will say, "wait! stop! you shouldn't be doing this."  Yoga is good for the body and the spirit because it is about pushing yourself beyond what you think your limits are.  Your body gets to move in new ways, increasing circulation to remote areas of underused bloodlines. And in your head, you understand better how you do have your own personal limits, but they're never as restricting as you think they are.

I learned something about who I am the other night. The light inside and the untapped potential are dying to break free. And all it took was a solo game of masochistic twister to show me.

Incidentally, at the end of the hour, I lay there for at least 15 minutes, unable to do anything but breathe. When I mustered a little strength, i basically crawled to the window to get to fresh air. Later, when i was able to get up, I walked to the bathroom, stuck my head under the faucet and drank the cold New York City tap water and--i shit you not--LAUGHED because it tasted so damn good.

I'm going back tomorrow.

NYC: The Rat Race Illustrated

Theater Review: Righteou$ Money

published 16 January 2012

One-person plays present a unique level of responsibility for the featured performer.  To carry a play without the benefit of a supporting cast is a test of endurance, focus, and chops for the actor.  Ditto the playwright.  When there is no foil, no sidekick, no comic relief, no straight man-- no gay neighbor--you’ve only got one character: so he had better be an interesting one.  Wolf 359’s production of “Righteous Money” is an example of that sublime and uncommon marriage of good acting with good material. 

Written and performed by the excellent Michael Yates Crawley, “Righteous Money” is an acerbic social commentary and dark comedy that details the psychological undoing of its hero CJ, a television personality and Wall Street power player.

The tiny Red Room Theater has been made over as a soundstage, and we are the studio audience in this live broadcast of CJ’s nationally syndicated financial advice show.  As CJ holds court over his audience of minions, all the while insulting and belittling their very worth as human beings, we learn that he long ago gave up kindness, humility, and all traces of political correctness during his ascent to financial success-- and a TriBeCa penthouse. 

In one brilliantly absurd and telling moment he says to his followers, “When I look into your souls, I see a bunch of (expletive) idiots.”  CJ is so forthright and full of himself, he can without irony claim to look into people’s souls.  And when he then calls those people idiots, it is not so much an affront as it is a warning.  CJ is Ebenezer Scrooge but with mad charisma.

Today has just not been CJ’s day.  Not only was he awoken from sleep by the Occupy Wall Street protests outside his (floor-to-ceiling, soundproof) windows, but his assistant Nathan has also decided not to show up for work, and his guest for the evening, financial guru Suze Orman, is missing in action.  CJ is able to hold it together on the air, though, spouting his appalling financial guidance, and trying during commercial breaks to keep the show afloat.

He admits to sacrificing all emotions and the hope of ever finding love in order to focus all his energies on mounting his wealth.  This is not a fact he mourns; to the contrary, he advises that his audience follow suit.  Why waste time building relationships, after all, when time is money?  Why even bother with conversation when “words only matter if they’re spoken to a broker during trading hours?”

As he is a larger-than-life television personality, CJ tends to speak in hyperbole (“I am God, you barnacle.”).  But as he descends into madness, we see that he has taken every piece of his own callous advice and turned it into this rigid, heartless reality.  However, disclosures about his sex life, the intricacies of his relationship with Nathan, and his recurring Macbethian hallucinations in the teleprompter reveal that there is still at least a modicum of human feeling beneath the façade. 

“Righteous Money” lampoons consumer culture, greed, and lust for the material while showcasing a layered, tragic anti-hero.  It re-casts the American dream as a waking nightmare.  There’s even self-flagellation.  

Having toured several cities around the globe, Crowley and director Michael Rau bring it to New York with polish and style.  It is funny, engaging, and right on the money.  

A Novel Approach

Jeff, Dude. Man.  What's going on, Buddy? Um, wow. Yeah. Is everything OK?

Dear Lonely Jeff,

I'll talk about something with you, but I'm not going to call you.  Do you realize how crazy I would have to be to call you?  You could be a pervert.  You could be a lunatic.  You could be a tele-marketer.  If you really are lonely and just want to talk, I'd like to offer you some advice.

First of all, put yourself in the reader's shoes.  Would you ever answer this ad?  You come off pretty desperate throwing in that "lonely" in the end.  People like happy, upbeat people.  And generally speaking, desperation is pathetic.  And when you inspire pity in a stranger, you put them ill-at-ease.  This is no way to have people warm to you.

If you're a member of some cult or religion trying to lure misguided and impressionable people into your influence, then shame on you. You disgust me. 

If you're looking for anonymous sex and this is your kinky way of going about it.  Hey, whatever floats your boat.  But I hope you're upfront with anyone who calls you.

And if you're genuinely looking for a friend, it isn't easy here in this city of strangers.  It can get very lonely surrounded by 8 million people who simply do not have the time.  So much for the glamour of anonymity.  I gotta hand it to you though: in this post-chatroom age of modern social-media-communication, you've certainly taken a novel approach to the situation.

Good luck!

Sincerely,
The Urban Boy Scout

Street Rage

Walking is a major means of transportation here in the concrete jungle.  When I first visited New York one of the images that stuck with me was that of hundreds of people, like a flock of migrant birds, crossing the street in a mass diaspora when the walk signal shone.

Masses of people however do not share a flocking bird's sentiment of collaborative conjunction.  New Yorkers do not flock.  They dart--and not collectively.  It's an outright fight getting up the subway stairs, navigating potholed and pockmarked crosswalks, walking with a purpose. No, walking with a vengeance.  Nobody strolls in New York City (except tourists in Times Square and Macy's).

Sometimes I notice myself lapsing out of my usual pleasant, tolerant temperament into this angry bilious person with laser beam focus and no time for bullshit.   Just the other evening I was walking from the subway station to my apartment, and some poor pretty drunk girl positioned herself perfectly in my way and only noticed after I had to stop dead in my tracks.  She looked up at me and cooed a flirty, high-pitched "Oooops" hoping I'd smile at her folly or look back at her with admiring eyes.  Instead, do you know what I did?  I walked around her and stomped off shaking my head at her outrageous behavior.  Not only did I not play along with her game, I didn't even acknowledge she existed.  She got in my way.  How dare she?  And then she wants me to think it's cute?  Bitch!

Too much?  Well, that's my point.  And believe me, tonight I got my comeuppance when some guy called me a "fucking idiot" because I got in his way as I exited a subway train.  I'm sure he's normally a nice fella too.  But there's something about periods of transition: anxiety levels rise, pressure sets in: there is simply no time for passing pleasantries in a rat race.

So if you see me on the street, wave.  Smile.  But by all means, please keep it moving.

The Trauma of Special Occasions

identity concealed to protect the humiliated

Recently a friend of mine bravely decided to throw herself a birthday party.  She spent weeks in preparation, getting just the right outfit, hair, nails, jewelry, even deciding to give the party a theme.
This party was supposed to be the coming together of different entities in her life: roommates, old friends, new friends, co-workers, even her lover--all together under the same roof celebrating the only thing they all had in common: affection for the hostess.

Ambitious? Definitely. Impossible? Maybe. Ill-fated? Absolutely.

Everything began to unravel when, an hour after showtime, one roommate and I were still the only guests who'd arrived.  She was beginning to panic.  I tried to diffuse the scene by plying her with soothing speech and cocktails, but those were only band-aids.  The impending doom lay in the possibility that when her lover arrived, no one was going to be there, and she was afraid she'd be humiliated.  (Also she dribbled vodka down the front of her perfect outfit.)
Finally guests began to pour in. But somehow, they were all from the that section of the guest list that you're only inviting just in case no one else comes.  One of them began to inappropriately monopolize the conversation, at one point even likening sex with an AIDS patient to being as morally bankrupt as sex with one's own mother. Don't ask. The point is, this party was going nowhere fast.
And that's not even the worst of it.  But for the sake of time, space and my friend's pride, I won't go on to mention what else went awry.  The lesson to be learned here is that once you reach a certain age, you realize that birthdays are rarely those magical moments that we as children are led to believe they are supposed to be.
Part of growing up is learning to accept that your birthday is just another day.  So is Thanksgiving after all.  And Christmas for that matter.  Often we tend to attach such expectations and lofty objectives to these "special occasions" that when they turn out to be average days, we end up devastated.
Why do we do it to ourselves?  Because we have ideals and hopes and dreams that life--even if only for a couple days out of the year--can be perfect.  And it's hope that makes us human.
So worry not, dear Reader, if no one comes to your birthday party.  Should your holiday plans collapse this Thanksgiving, if your family is far away, or your traditions due to circumstances are somehow impossible to recreate, be happy that today is, after all, just another day.
But take heart in the fact that tomorrow is too.  And keep trying.

Ambitious? Definitely. Naive? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.

Subway B-boys on a Downtown A-Train

Ahh the ubiquitous subway dancer boys! Such fun for the out-of-towners. But look at the genuinely disinterested expression on the face of the girl in the foreground.  New Yorkers take pride in being unimpressed by the impressive.  Search high and low, the only true enthusiasm you'll find in the big apple is on a Broadway stage.

These boys are behind her dancing to undeniably happy music performing death-defying feats of acrobatics on a herky-jerky moving train, and she can't be bothered to have a look.  Why should she? She's probably seen it all.

I however gave them some change, and now I'm making them famous.