A good day all around

I'm thinking of naming it Margot.

The thought crossed my mind the moment the tall, but aging man stepped into the train car. 

"SANTA!" ... If Santa was an old Jewish man who walked with a limp. 

The bearded man in the crisp black suit that covered his round belly leaned heavily on his cane as he attempted to sit, and finally plopped right next to me. After fuddling with his bag, he took out a piece of shiny paper foil and a set of small tweezers and began to fold. I was instantly fascinated. Within 10 minutes, it was clear he was making a tiny origami horse, complete with texture for the mane and tail. 

I'm sure my face glowed like a child's, and I thought I heard him chuckle to himself as he put the finishing touches on the pony. Then, much to my delight, he turned and said, "Here you go," handing me the paper art. I thanked him enthusiastically -- like I remember doing when I finally got "Charlie Brown's Christmas" on DVD ... last year. After the bestowing of silver animals, he made his exit, but not before he made my day.  

Shameless self-promotion

Humility is overrated, anyway. 

Right? 

I've developed a twitch.

My thumb ticks back and forth involuntarily like the needle of a compass that can't decide which millionth of a degree more is due north. I can't decide if this is amusing or annoying. 

Stay tuned. 

Art appreciation

A friend's photos. 

Sarah Boyle, check her out.

Horoscope

Remember: Three can keep a secret if two are dead. That said, you know what you have to do.

- This week's Onion horoscope 

Friday morning

The aging transvestite stands on the steps of the subway screaming at a man entering the turnstiles, waving her head back and forth as she snarls. 

"I don't need you, bitch." 

He mumbles something and keeps going. 

"Do you hear me? I don't need you, (slew of other explicatives)." 

She rushes down the stairs as he's hustling toward the entrance stairs of the train, puts one hand on her hip and the brushes the other through her long weave. 

"He's a homo! You hear me? You're a HO-MO!" 

She's screaming at the top of her lungs. He's practically running to get away from her. 

...You know it's going to be a bad day when your tranny is screaming at you in public before 9 a.m. 

The future beckons

In the afternoon, "all-seeing" New Yorkers call to unsuspecting tourists who roam the avenues wearing that look of "you could probably take me for all I'm worth." The collapsable wooden signs promise absolute clairvoyance concerning about what's to come. As I weaved in and out of groups of middle-aged moms donning walking shoes and ankle socks, I accidently ducked into the path of an olive-skinned woman with bright blue eye shadow and long reddish finger nails.

Oh, crap.

"Your aura is red, dear," she said tsk-tsking.

Normally, I tune out the Midtown bustle, but this is something I had heard before. Two years ago, I interviewed a psychic for a piece I was working on, and she "had a vision" while talking to me.

"You have a red aura."

"I like red." (Sarcasm abound)

She went on to reveal more about my future including the what-I-think-every-young-woman-wants-to-hear: a love story finessed out of thin air.

"You'll bump into the man you're going to marry on a train, but you'll already have met him. He'll be a photographer, at least in hobby, maybe even for a living."

This still makes me laugh, and she was obviously playing off of what she could already assume about my life: I was unmarried, a writer who enjoyed the company of other creative-types, and someone who had just told her that she was interested in working in a major city. Still, today's aura forecast was familiar, so perhaps a bit more credit is due.

Excerpt

"I'm not much but I'm all I think about." 

- Michael Gizzi's "New Depths of Deadpan"

Handwriting and Character

While poking through a stack of books this weekend after brunch, I found this little beauty. From 1923, it matches up every possible human emotion with its appropriate handwriting sample and analyzes the penmanship of historic figures: Napoleon, Elizabeth l, William Penn, the like... 

My choice chapters: 

1. Samples of Sensuousness 

2. Samples of the Magnanimous 

3. Special study of the Capital "M"

4. Determination in Horizontal Strokes

5. This Writer is a Sexual Voluptuary

It's written in a lyrical way, the kind of writing that was acceptable before we tore up the English language with commas and contractions and the overuse of appropriate pronouns. It is one of the most romantic things I've ever read, probably because it's one of the most oddly fascinating. But perhaps the most peculiar is the Copyright: All rights reserved, including that of the translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. Because clearly, those Scandinavians sure are lax in the area of literary propriety...

The unfortunate fact: We have no use for this book in modern society. Our every correspondence is no longer entirely dependent on penmanship and we have almost no need for it. I can go days without writing more than a few sentences at a time by hand, and when I do, it's almost always for pleasure rather than necessity. When did free-hand writing become a simply a hobby? It's heartbreaking. 

A resolution: This week, I will buy a nice pen and scrawl on paper. Trees be damned! 

Enthralling.

Channeling Patrick Swayze

Anyone seen "Ghost?"

Cosmic translation

"It's time to reach for the stars." - Today's horoscope

Drinking on the roof later?

On America

"The British don't dislike Americans because of the Revolutionary War. They dislike Americans because they're fat and a bit dumb."

-Roommate

Date night jitters?

The young man sat across from me clutching a nicely wrapped bouquet of pink roses and wore a nervous look that made me curious as to who these flowers were for. Florals can speak volumes about your love life.

Flower varieties:
I-Love-You Flowers
You-Look-Really-Nice-Today Flowers
Just-Because Flowers
I'm-Sorry Flowers
I've-Liked-You-For-Ages Flowers
Get-Well-Soon Flowers
Hi, Mom Flowers
I'm-Trying-Too-Hard Flowers
Happy-Birthday Flowers
I'm-Sorry-I-Forgot-Your-Birthday Flowers

Me, I prefer the I-Bought-My-Own-Damn-Flowers Flowers...

On foriegn relations

"Hey, can I write, "Suck on that, Japan" in my blog?"

An ever-universal tone

The inflections of being annoyed with your parents over the phone seep through any language barrier. 

Tuesday at the office

Live blogging of the reading of Dan Brown's latest affront on writing, "The Lost Symbol."

What an awful novel. What a fun day.

Sunday morning bed-in

Stay in bed. Grow your hair.


... Beatles Rock Band hangover.

Excerpt

"It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man - you were not ever going to be as famous as a movie star but what you had was probably longer-lived; you were never going to have the power of a man of strong political or religious convictions but you were certainly more independent. Of course within the practice of your trade you were forever unsatisfied - but I, for one, would not have chosen any other."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald in "The Crack-Up"

Writing's on the wall

Well, ain't that the truth.
Sigh.

I spent a rainy afternoon rummaging through a basement of books and inhaling the musk that can only be found in the presence of aged leather. I wish I could purchase it as a scented candle.

Thursday Night In, the soundtrack

Warm bars of soft jazz via saxophone sift in through the walls from the neighboring building as the clamor of  the train donates percussion. It's a lonely sound, but I've got a warm blanket and a stack of magazines to keep me company. 

On realty, On sexual orientation

"Maybe I should find a lover. It would be easier than finding an apartment." 

- Roommate 1

"I think I'd go straight for Obama."

-Roommate 2

The last of summer accoutrements

A long, yellow surf board ran along the center of the train car, reminding me of how much I'd rather be at the beach; book in hand, drink readily available, sun for the soaking. It's fall. Time to switch mind sets. I should be thinking cashmere and apple cider, but all I want is more time in the water. 

My clock must be slow. 

Cavities inevitable, vol. ll

"Bliss" by Allie Townsend

Coming soon.

Teeth beware.

Free Dove hot chocolate in the office. 

Loft + Hostel = Loftstel

the ny/ny digs. 

Extra letter brings debate

b: i'll brbr.

me: beaming rules blast righteous? bouncy rats bake runny?

b: hahaha. bill receive buffalo ribs

me: beating rocky, be real?

b: burp, rice brings ruptures

me: be relevant, buy ruffies? 

Not-so-live blogging my train trip East

View from my perch

South Bend, Ind./11:30 p.m./Departure 

A packed car means I'm in an aisle seat next to a girl who wouldn't acknowledge me for 10 hours. (Off to a great start.) 

There are a few things to be learned about sleeping (or attempting sleep) on trains. 

1) The lights are never off. Bring a blindfold, or you could end up sleeping with a fleece pullover draped over your head. Boy, can that get a little toasty.

2) The annoying omnipresence of HEY I'M AWAKE SO I'LL JUST CHAT LIKE I'M OBLIVIOUS TO THE MASS SLEEPING OCCURRING ALL AROUND ME types. Earplugs saved my sanity and possibly that man's life. 

3) Yes, you're uncomfortable. Just deal. No matter how much I pretzeled myself inside my seat, I couldn't sleep for more than an hour in the same spot. Luckily, I had 18 hours to grab a full night's rest. 

Elyria, Ohio/4:21 a.m. 

Too early to be awake. Why are you yelling, man in the Amtrak uniform? Dear God, why? 

 

Erie, Penn. / 6:54 a.m. 

This trip is doing interesting things to my eating habits. Time to break out the snacks. I down a half of a peanut butter sandwich and shift my body into "The Lazy Cactus." 

Positions in which you can seat yourself on a train: 

1) Aforementioned Lazy Cactus: Legs should be straight out resting on the foot rest while arms are resting behind your head. (Comfort level: 5.5)

2) The Curled-Up Cat: Knees should be parallel with your waist, while you lay on your side. This is only possible for up to 20 minutes. (Comfort level: 4)

3) The Frumpy Flamingo: One leg is bent at the knee, cocked to the side, and tucked behind your other leg. Arms are wrapped your pillow which is tucked under your chin. (Comfort level: 7) 

Rochester, NY/9:50 a.m.

My seat mate finally leaves without so much as an "excuse me." I sprawl all over my new two-seat train haven just to prove that it's mine. I mark my territory with my sleepy limbs and drift off.

Albany, NY/3:00 p.m.

I decide to make my way to the dining car for a soda. It's not as quaint as I pictured it, but there is much less cigarette smoke. The food is all prepared and put into freezers before it's heated and shoved onto plates. The waiter is a younger man from Philly who talks like he's just lived the longest day of his life.

I have a two-dollar Coke, which was just poured into my glass straight from the can, and sit down with three strangers. Something's floating in my glass. I suck it up, and play dumb. Next to me is a boy - probably 19 or 20 - from San Francisco who is visiting family in Queens. He talks about his girlfriend every other minute. It's cute. For 10 minutes. 

The couple sitting across from me are native New Yorkers. They're fast-talking and charming. The man is witty and funny, but his comedy is subtle, not overarching or searching for a laugh. Just simple. They're returning from a wedding somewhere upstate and are fascinated that San Fran and I rode the train all night. They also seem fascinated by the midwest in general. I think they're surprised by my calm attitude about moving to their city, and our similar disdain for all-things Time Square. 

We spend about 35 minutes continuing our chat, but never exchange names. 

No Idea, NY/4:00 p.m.

MOUNTAINS! 

Croton, NY/5:15 p.m.

We're scaling the riverside, looping around the banks dotted with large, luxurious homes that sit importantly over the mini-cliffs above the water. There's too much to look at. I'm not getting enough reading done. On a train for nearly 20 hours and I've only read about a hundred or so pages. I feel unimpressive. 

NY, NY/6:00 p.m.

We're on the outer rim of the city and I'm anxious. We're thundering through tunnels under highways and peeking out next to parks. We're close. 

Penn Station/6:25 p.m./Arrival

Chaos. Wondering how I'm going to navigate a train station with suitcases in tow. A man instantly yells at me for being in his way on the escalator. A homeless man is hustled by NYPD's finest. Good to be back. 

Working on my street-cred

I live within a ten minute walk to Jay-Z's childhood home, the Marcy Projects. For explanation, please refer to "BK Anthem." 

This could get interesting. 

Live from the L

A antithetic mix shuffled onto the train, which sat at a dead pause, breaking at the end of it's line. Seven minutes to go. 

The boy with almond-colored skin pulled his guitar out of it's black cloth case and began to strum. A man with tousled brunette locks and a matching shaggy beard rose from his corner seat and after just a few sentences, the two christened themselves a temporary musical duo. The slightly disheveled man sang in a beautiful, low tone that scratched as the guitar played a sweet tune. It was Bobby Darin's "Simple Song of Freedom." 

"So come and sing a simple song of freedom

  Sing it like you've never sung before

  Let it fill the air

  Tell the people everywhere

  We, the people here, don't want a war"

No applause as the music faded, just a handshake between two strangers who went back to their separate corners of the subway car as the train finally started up again. 

Hell yes.

Up for a national Pacemaker Award. 

On nutrition

"Fava bean? Is that a person?" 

- Knowledgeable grocery clerk 

... I think you're referring to Flava Flav. And no.