Why I love New York!
Showing posts with label Celebrities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Celebrities. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Why Doesn't He Live In Albany??
My brush with fame today. I don't think I saw a single Secret Service person. Which is probably what they wanted me to believe!!
Details here.
Details here.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Interlude
When I lived in Trenton, I worked out in the same gym where the following guy did;
I knew his name was Remy, but that's about it. Pretty cool that he's made it to the cover of THE premiere muscle mag, and was staring back at me as I browsed my Barnes & Nobles comicbooks on my break last week.
In that same gym, this following guy, at the same time, worked out there too;
That's Ty Treadway. I've posted about that experience at the old blog. Both Ty and Remy, at different times, exchanged that "What's up, dude" head nod with me on at least one occasion -- each.
I'll be signing autographs between 2 and 7 pm at the B&N on Lincoln Center. '.'
Meanwhile, good looking men, right? Go on and admit it. ;-))
I knew his name was Remy, but that's about it. Pretty cool that he's made it to the cover of THE premiere muscle mag, and was staring back at me as I browsed my Barnes & Nobles comicbooks on my break last week.
In that same gym, this following guy, at the same time, worked out there too;
That's Ty Treadway. I've posted about that experience at the old blog. Both Ty and Remy, at different times, exchanged that "What's up, dude" head nod with me on at least one occasion -- each.
I'll be signing autographs between 2 and 7 pm at the B&N on Lincoln Center. '.'
Meanwhile, good looking men, right? Go on and admit it. ;-))
Monday, August 20, 2007
The Street Terrorism Begins ...
Down in my Dane Cook YouTube post, the center clip shows Dane's take on crying. The tagline of that segment is, "I did my best! I did my best!"
Well, I DID do my best. And no I haven't wept buckets of muscular tears about it, but ... I got my first parking ticket since moving back to NYC. Street terrorists.
The ticket is for being within 6 ft. of a fire hydrant. It was the only spot available on a Saturday night. And I don't think I was much closer than maybe 5 ft. 4ft. at the least. It's a spot I've seen others do. Heck, I've done it before and gotten no ticket.
So I marked it "Not-Guilty" and sent it in. Fire trucks would have been able to use the hydrant -- I wasn't blocking it. I was doing no one any harm at all. Let's see what happens. To me, it's a blatant scheme to raise money for NYC. And that money is $110.00. Do they really think I should be happy to pay $110.00 because of 1 or 2 feet of space? (Well, given the price of buying parking spots, they most obviously do).
It's ludicrous. I refuse to regret this decision of moving here, but let me just reassure you--it does have it's downsides. In addition to the accident increase of my insurance, it also went up $840 per 6-months because I moved here too.
But ... I did my best--ahHUHU-HUH-- I.. I did my best--HUHUhhh-AHUHHHNN---
:)
Oh! I forgot to mention--I walked by David Hyde-Pierce yesterday on the Upper West Side, on Broadway! His clothes were casual, he had on a baseall cap (no specific team, just the style), and was talking on his phone. Can I tell you, about 90% of all celebs I walk by on NYC city streets are talking on their phones. I'm beginning to believe there's no one on the other end. I think it's a tactic they use to keep from being interrupted as they go to and fro. Ally Sheedy was not on a phone when I saw her walking her Greyhound-thin type dog on Central Park West a few weeks ago. But I left her alone anyway.
Well, I DID do my best. And no I haven't wept buckets of muscular tears about it, but ... I got my first parking ticket since moving back to NYC. Street terrorists.
The ticket is for being within 6 ft. of a fire hydrant. It was the only spot available on a Saturday night. And I don't think I was much closer than maybe 5 ft. 4ft. at the least. It's a spot I've seen others do. Heck, I've done it before and gotten no ticket.
So I marked it "Not-Guilty" and sent it in. Fire trucks would have been able to use the hydrant -- I wasn't blocking it. I was doing no one any harm at all. Let's see what happens. To me, it's a blatant scheme to raise money for NYC. And that money is $110.00. Do they really think I should be happy to pay $110.00 because of 1 or 2 feet of space? (Well, given the price of buying parking spots, they most obviously do).
It's ludicrous. I refuse to regret this decision of moving here, but let me just reassure you--it does have it's downsides. In addition to the accident increase of my insurance, it also went up $840 per 6-months because I moved here too.
But ... I did my best--ahHUHU-HUH-- I.. I did my best--HUHUhhh-AHUHHHNN---
:)
Oh! I forgot to mention--I walked by David Hyde-Pierce yesterday on the Upper West Side, on Broadway! His clothes were casual, he had on a baseall cap (no specific team, just the style), and was talking on his phone. Can I tell you, about 90% of all celebs I walk by on NYC city streets are talking on their phones. I'm beginning to believe there's no one on the other end. I think it's a tactic they use to keep from being interrupted as they go to and fro. Ally Sheedy was not on a phone when I saw her walking her Greyhound-thin type dog on Central Park West a few weeks ago. But I left her alone anyway.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
This Mental Illness Among Us
(Originally 4/20/07)
My challenge is to face the world with mental illness. No, not just my own (which again, I'm relieved to note that I don't have a disorder which needs to be treated with medication, although sometimes I feel like I do, but I have some tendencies and hurdles which have adversely affected my development). I'm referring to all the mental illness everywhere.
This morning I got hit with a double-whammy. In my beloved fangroup, a member re-exposed her ugly side and wrecked my whole morning. She gave herself permission to turn the forum into a cesspool. She railed against another member who hadn't even been the object of her initial ire. She did this in the name of defending her actions against someone else whom she called immature, and with that action, she blew her own actions out of the water. She apologized before for rash and incindiary speech but she'd never done this before, which makes me think her apologies aren't worth the 1's and 0's that they're made out of.
Then I leave my house (HAHA! "my" house.) get in my car (BWAHAHA! "MY" car) and turn on the radio to hear some guy calling in to cuss someone out, saying that he was going to catch up to someone and really give it to her good--threatening and extremely nasty. I though he was calling the radio station but they were just playing his recorded message. Turns out it was Alec Baldwin, cussing out his own daughter, who is no more than 11 or twelve. And it turns out that the recording was given by Kim Basinger, as a defense for her own side in their custody case.
WHAT AN UGLY WORLD I LIVE IN.
I spend so much time in fantasy because it tears my heart out to have to face this miserable condition we suffer from. (Yes, "we". Like me in my car, for instance, when I can't say civil things to people just because they linguered at a traffic light for 6 picaseconds longer than I would have liked them to.) I'm taking responsibility for this tenderhearted weakness I feel like I have, but it does have a root cause. When I said in an earlier post that my mother treated her patients better than she treated me, I was totally not kidding. My mother would curse me out at the drop of a hat. She'd curse anyone out. Somehow, I developed a total fetish for a woman who cussed out their man, but at the same time, a phobia when I'm on the receiving end. No, a real I-can't-be-in-a-relationship phobia. I would walk on glass to prevent an argument. I had one girlfriend who never argued with me. Her I should have married. Yet I fear I probably would have been the abuser in the relationship, because again, I'm no saint.
I know I need to get over this. I can't be giving this much power to people's words. I've sold a good twenty-five years of my life away for a peace that doesn't really exist, and it hasn't improved my life at all, because I'm still vulnerable to negativity. I still crave, puppy-like, approval and acceptance. I can still be devastated by the harsh word from a loved one.
My challenge is to face the world with mental illness. No, not just my own (which again, I'm relieved to note that I don't have a disorder which needs to be treated with medication, although sometimes I feel like I do, but I have some tendencies and hurdles which have adversely affected my development). I'm referring to all the mental illness everywhere.
This morning I got hit with a double-whammy. In my beloved fangroup, a member re-exposed her ugly side and wrecked my whole morning. She gave herself permission to turn the forum into a cesspool. She railed against another member who hadn't even been the object of her initial ire. She did this in the name of defending her actions against someone else whom she called immature, and with that action, she blew her own actions out of the water. She apologized before for rash and incindiary speech but she'd never done this before, which makes me think her apologies aren't worth the 1's and 0's that they're made out of.
Then I leave my house (HAHA! "my" house.) get in my car (BWAHAHA! "MY" car) and turn on the radio to hear some guy calling in to cuss someone out, saying that he was going to catch up to someone and really give it to her good--threatening and extremely nasty. I though he was calling the radio station but they were just playing his recorded message. Turns out it was Alec Baldwin, cussing out his own daughter, who is no more than 11 or twelve. And it turns out that the recording was given by Kim Basinger, as a defense for her own side in their custody case.
WHAT AN UGLY WORLD I LIVE IN.
I spend so much time in fantasy because it tears my heart out to have to face this miserable condition we suffer from. (Yes, "we". Like me in my car, for instance, when I can't say civil things to people just because they linguered at a traffic light for 6 picaseconds longer than I would have liked them to.) I'm taking responsibility for this tenderhearted weakness I feel like I have, but it does have a root cause. When I said in an earlier post that my mother treated her patients better than she treated me, I was totally not kidding. My mother would curse me out at the drop of a hat. She'd curse anyone out. Somehow, I developed a total fetish for a woman who cussed out their man, but at the same time, a phobia when I'm on the receiving end. No, a real I-can't-be-in-a-relationship phobia. I would walk on glass to prevent an argument. I had one girlfriend who never argued with me. Her I should have married. Yet I fear I probably would have been the abuser in the relationship, because again, I'm no saint.
I know I need to get over this. I can't be giving this much power to people's words. I've sold a good twenty-five years of my life away for a peace that doesn't really exist, and it hasn't improved my life at all, because I'm still vulnerable to negativity. I still crave, puppy-like, approval and acceptance. I can still be devastated by the harsh word from a loved one.
Between The Moon And New York City II
(Originally 4/17/07)
High. Life.
The beginning component was that I trusted what I'd heard from Childhood Bud II to believe that she wouldn't make the night difficult after reading what I'd written. I think she was flattered, actually. Plus, upon re-reading it, I didn't actually propose marriage, so I guess it was okay after all.
As for a narrative on the night in question, I'm actually at a loss for words. I might not be completely primed to give the telling yet, even though it's four days prior now. I guess it was all sweeping grandeur that kept me breathless for a little while. And then there are questions I have which I'm afraid of asking. They come under the heading of, What Do I Do Wrong?
Thing is, I haven't heard from Childhood Bud II since Saturday. That was the next day and I was supposed to reconnect with them and go see "The Color Purple" on Broadway, which was an invitation made by the trip originator --Childhood Bud II's boss. We were getting along pretty well and they all seemed to enjoy my company, and from that came the invitation. So I was feeling accepted and liked and thought I'd found a new social outlet. But when the next day came, and I was in NYC looking for parking, Childhood Bud II texts me and says, "I think my boss forgot to get you a ticket." This was about two hours before the show started. So yeah, I was not going to the play.
So the whole Friday seems lost in a bit of Saturday seaspray. The waves of doubt are lapping on the shore, repeating the susurrus of "What did I do wrong?" Should I have met up with them anyway, even though I wasn't going to the play? Should I have tried to kiss Childhood Bud II goodnight when we went back to the hotel? Should I have spent the night in her boss' nephew's room? Or Childhood Bud II's room? Should I have tried to kiss her when we danced?
Always the mystery of "What did I do wrong?" What misstep am I guilty of now? At what point did I fall short of the knight in armor, bright, faithful and true?
And in these foamy regrets come the time when I think I really should just switch orientation and take the passion of my hero-worshipping into that last forbidden arena. Because when I'm in the moment with a woman, I always seem to pull away. That last bit of energy that seems to propel others into those memorable embraces usually feels to me like fear, doubt, and faintheartedness. A gray miasma that enshrouds my heart and brings the corners of my face down.
But what would it be like with another man? How would it be any different? How would my admiration of masculinity translate any better into a physical relationship than what I've done with women? Am I proposing that the presence of breasts and the tucked-away promise of a vagina is what makes me lose heart? But the presence of chest hair, rock-hard abs and broad shoulders would be my impetus?
That doesn't seem to gel. The problem I have is with intimacy and trust, not body parts. There are guys who I could just as easily make a pass at, as I could have done with Childhood Bud II (to get my face nice and slapped), which I haven't done. Mostly because I don't want to be homosexual (not, though, because I'm disgusted by it--except for that whole anal aspect wherein doody lives, so maybe yeah, a little disgusted). But then again, also mostly (how can there be two "mostlies"?), I'm just as afraid of the rejection from a dude as I am from a gal.
That's what it is. The rejection. The several thousand different ways the other person will be able to wrinkle their noses at me and laugh. Why I didn't rate enough of a presence for Childhood Bud II's boss to have remembered me the next day and get a ticket for me to join them. Why Childhood Bud II has not responded to my e-mail, or stopped by here to read all this.
Bleagh. This was supposed to be about the good time I had Friday night. Ashford and Simpson sang. The Rev Al Sharpton spoke. When he arrived he took some attention away from Yolanda King, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s daughter. Commissioner Ray Kelly came and spoke. Senator Chuck Schumer opened the night.
The honoree was Dr. Suzan Johnson-Cook, having her 50th birthday and they really rolled it out for her. Within limits. For instance, it was black-tie, but there was a buffet for food. In was in The Supper Club, but the building seemed old and coated in too many layers of bright gaudy paint. There was a live band, but we didn't escape the night without doing the Electric Slide, which transformed the dance floor into a choreographed marvel, I must say. And Dr. Sujay (as those in the know called her) came off her pink lounge chair to lead our table in the last dance. (Childhood Bud II's boss must have made a hefty contribution to own that table, and so the honoree honored her publicly).
To have all these people come to see her and speak for her tells of crazy mad influence. The woman, according to speakers, broke a lot of barriers and garnered a lot of admiration. First NYPD black female chaplain. Appointed by Clinton on a race relation White House committee. Etc, etc, etc. All before 50.
As for us, we arrived fashionably late in an Escalade. My "date" let me tempt her to the dance floor at least twice. She liked dancing and her biggest complaint were the shoes she'd bought the night before. She had pretty red toenails. We rode back to the hotel in a pedalcab, taking our lives literally into our own hands. It was like dashing into traffic blindfolded. We laughed and screamed and laughed some more. In the entourage was the author of two books--books about relationships! She's in her thirties and very pretty. Since my "date" wasn't having any of me, I considered this woman as a maybe.
Yet, without that Saturday follow-up, it's all gone in a haze. I'm now neither here nor there on the matter. Nothing lasting seems to have come out of it.
But it was nice while it lasted.
High. Life.
The beginning component was that I trusted what I'd heard from Childhood Bud II to believe that she wouldn't make the night difficult after reading what I'd written. I think she was flattered, actually. Plus, upon re-reading it, I didn't actually propose marriage, so I guess it was okay after all.
As for a narrative on the night in question, I'm actually at a loss for words. I might not be completely primed to give the telling yet, even though it's four days prior now. I guess it was all sweeping grandeur that kept me breathless for a little while. And then there are questions I have which I'm afraid of asking. They come under the heading of, What Do I Do Wrong?
Thing is, I haven't heard from Childhood Bud II since Saturday. That was the next day and I was supposed to reconnect with them and go see "The Color Purple" on Broadway, which was an invitation made by the trip originator --Childhood Bud II's boss. We were getting along pretty well and they all seemed to enjoy my company, and from that came the invitation. So I was feeling accepted and liked and thought I'd found a new social outlet. But when the next day came, and I was in NYC looking for parking, Childhood Bud II texts me and says, "I think my boss forgot to get you a ticket." This was about two hours before the show started. So yeah, I was not going to the play.
So the whole Friday seems lost in a bit of Saturday seaspray. The waves of doubt are lapping on the shore, repeating the susurrus of "What did I do wrong?" Should I have met up with them anyway, even though I wasn't going to the play? Should I have tried to kiss Childhood Bud II goodnight when we went back to the hotel? Should I have spent the night in her boss' nephew's room? Or Childhood Bud II's room? Should I have tried to kiss her when we danced?
Always the mystery of "What did I do wrong?" What misstep am I guilty of now? At what point did I fall short of the knight in armor, bright, faithful and true?
And in these foamy regrets come the time when I think I really should just switch orientation and take the passion of my hero-worshipping into that last forbidden arena. Because when I'm in the moment with a woman, I always seem to pull away. That last bit of energy that seems to propel others into those memorable embraces usually feels to me like fear, doubt, and faintheartedness. A gray miasma that enshrouds my heart and brings the corners of my face down.
But what would it be like with another man? How would it be any different? How would my admiration of masculinity translate any better into a physical relationship than what I've done with women? Am I proposing that the presence of breasts and the tucked-away promise of a vagina is what makes me lose heart? But the presence of chest hair, rock-hard abs and broad shoulders would be my impetus?
That doesn't seem to gel. The problem I have is with intimacy and trust, not body parts. There are guys who I could just as easily make a pass at, as I could have done with Childhood Bud II (to get my face nice and slapped), which I haven't done. Mostly because I don't want to be homosexual (not, though, because I'm disgusted by it--except for that whole anal aspect wherein doody lives, so maybe yeah, a little disgusted). But then again, also mostly (how can there be two "mostlies"?), I'm just as afraid of the rejection from a dude as I am from a gal.
That's what it is. The rejection. The several thousand different ways the other person will be able to wrinkle their noses at me and laugh. Why I didn't rate enough of a presence for Childhood Bud II's boss to have remembered me the next day and get a ticket for me to join them. Why Childhood Bud II has not responded to my e-mail, or stopped by here to read all this.
Bleagh. This was supposed to be about the good time I had Friday night. Ashford and Simpson sang. The Rev Al Sharpton spoke. When he arrived he took some attention away from Yolanda King, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s daughter. Commissioner Ray Kelly came and spoke. Senator Chuck Schumer opened the night.
The honoree was Dr. Suzan Johnson-Cook, having her 50th birthday and they really rolled it out for her. Within limits. For instance, it was black-tie, but there was a buffet for food. In was in The Supper Club, but the building seemed old and coated in too many layers of bright gaudy paint. There was a live band, but we didn't escape the night without doing the Electric Slide, which transformed the dance floor into a choreographed marvel, I must say. And Dr. Sujay (as those in the know called her) came off her pink lounge chair to lead our table in the last dance. (Childhood Bud II's boss must have made a hefty contribution to own that table, and so the honoree honored her publicly).
To have all these people come to see her and speak for her tells of crazy mad influence. The woman, according to speakers, broke a lot of barriers and garnered a lot of admiration. First NYPD black female chaplain. Appointed by Clinton on a race relation White House committee. Etc, etc, etc. All before 50.
As for us, we arrived fashionably late in an Escalade. My "date" let me tempt her to the dance floor at least twice. She liked dancing and her biggest complaint were the shoes she'd bought the night before. She had pretty red toenails. We rode back to the hotel in a pedalcab, taking our lives literally into our own hands. It was like dashing into traffic blindfolded. We laughed and screamed and laughed some more. In the entourage was the author of two books--books about relationships! She's in her thirties and very pretty. Since my "date" wasn't having any of me, I considered this woman as a maybe.
Yet, without that Saturday follow-up, it's all gone in a haze. I'm now neither here nor there on the matter. Nothing lasting seems to have come out of it.
But it was nice while it lasted.
Did You Hear It Crack Again ...?
(Originally 1/24/07)
Corrine Bailey Rae;
Permitted to sing on stage with the jazz band when business was slow, it was there that she discovered a different type of music that sent her on a different musical path: "I kept hearing this jazz and soul stuff and I realised I loved that music too." It was there also that she met a saxophone player called Jason Rae, whom she eventually married in 2001 at the age of 22. "I was Corinne Bailey. I added on Rae, my husband's name, when I got married. There's no hyphen; stops it being posh!"
I was going to post about how I discovered that I actually love this woman. I've been putting it off for days, what with everything else going on. Then I discovered she has a MySpace page and I was going to start the ball rolling.
No, seriously. I was going to reach out and make a connection and try to make it really happen. Because I think as long as she smiles that smile at me and crinkle her eyes the way she does, I would be able to withstand anything. I saw a half-second clip of her taking a bow after a song and she smiled and I nearly fell to my knees. And I was thinking, well if Dame Judi won't have me, and if Jennifer Hudson is shouting out her boyfriend every time she wins an award, then I might as well go with my true love.
What makes me think these beautiful women are sitting on the roadside waiting for me to drive by? There aren't like me, an old timid wreck who ...
Ah, nevermind. Whatever. I have some better news for the next post...
Corrine Bailey Rae;
Permitted to sing on stage with the jazz band when business was slow, it was there that she discovered a different type of music that sent her on a different musical path: "I kept hearing this jazz and soul stuff and I realised I loved that music too." It was there also that she met a saxophone player called Jason Rae, whom she eventually married in 2001 at the age of 22. "I was Corinne Bailey. I added on Rae, my husband's name, when I got married. There's no hyphen; stops it being posh!"
I was going to post about how I discovered that I actually love this woman. I've been putting it off for days, what with everything else going on. Then I discovered she has a MySpace page and I was going to start the ball rolling.
No, seriously. I was going to reach out and make a connection and try to make it really happen. Because I think as long as she smiles that smile at me and crinkle her eyes the way she does, I would be able to withstand anything. I saw a half-second clip of her taking a bow after a song and she smiled and I nearly fell to my knees. And I was thinking, well if Dame Judi won't have me, and if Jennifer Hudson is shouting out her boyfriend every time she wins an award, then I might as well go with my true love.
What makes me think these beautiful women are sitting on the roadside waiting for me to drive by? There aren't like me, an old timid wreck who ...
Ah, nevermind. Whatever. I have some better news for the next post...
First Dame Judi, Now Jennifer Hudson ... :(
(Originally 1/16/07)
... out of the running. No, wait, they both are still awesome, but when Ms. Hudson was accepting her award last night, she thanked her boyfriend. Well, at least she didn't thank her 'fiance' or 'husband'. I wonder who he is? Someone who has been with her for years or someone in the industry? Because she has really gotten herself looking amazing lately. Her face is shaped like a heart now instead of a cantaloupe. But I thought she was fine in both cases. I liked her way back when.
More to the point, she like so many women, thanked her 'boyfriend/husband/fiance/lover'. How many guys thank their girlfriends? A man might thank his wife, but never the girlfriend. Infer what you will from that.
In related news, Childhood Bud senk me the following link and note in response to my last post;
more and more people are living alone.
NY Times Article
don't know what it means about our society, but I think a lot of this has to do with the collapse of institutions that used to bring people together...--
What I noted was that the article was about women who had relationships already. They were not "alone" per se, they were just unmarried. If they didn't have men, they had children. However there was one particular woman who lives on the eastside, is my age, never been married, can afford to live by herself, and is a woman of color. Holla! I love travelling and I'm all about parlor games, Ms. Jamison.
The article correctly points out that nowadays, women are making enough money to live without men and the need to be married for their financial ends to be met, but it's obvious also that they want to be with someone. As Jennifer Hudson's acceptance speech illustrates, as well as every chick-flick and TV chick-show does, women want signifant relationships. It's a big part of who they are. In my twenties and thirties that only made me squirm. I thought it was a flaw. A neediness that would choke the life out of me.
I know better now. Women preserve the best part of humanity. If it weren't for them, we'd have been emotionally extinct a long, long time ago.
... out of the running. No, wait, they both are still awesome, but when Ms. Hudson was accepting her award last night, she thanked her boyfriend. Well, at least she didn't thank her 'fiance' or 'husband'. I wonder who he is? Someone who has been with her for years or someone in the industry? Because she has really gotten herself looking amazing lately. Her face is shaped like a heart now instead of a cantaloupe. But I thought she was fine in both cases. I liked her way back when.
More to the point, she like so many women, thanked her 'boyfriend/husband/fiance/lover'. How many guys thank their girlfriends? A man might thank his wife, but never the girlfriend. Infer what you will from that.
In related news, Childhood Bud senk me the following link and note in response to my last post;
more and more people are living alone.
NY Times Article
don't know what it means about our society, but I think a lot of this has to do with the collapse of institutions that used to bring people together...--
What I noted was that the article was about women who had relationships already. They were not "alone" per se, they were just unmarried. If they didn't have men, they had children. However there was one particular woman who lives on the eastside, is my age, never been married, can afford to live by herself, and is a woman of color. Holla! I love travelling and I'm all about parlor games, Ms. Jamison.
The article correctly points out that nowadays, women are making enough money to live without men and the need to be married for their financial ends to be met, but it's obvious also that they want to be with someone. As Jennifer Hudson's acceptance speech illustrates, as well as every chick-flick and TV chick-show does, women want signifant relationships. It's a big part of who they are. In my twenties and thirties that only made me squirm. I thought it was a flaw. A neediness that would choke the life out of me.
I know better now. Women preserve the best part of humanity. If it weren't for them, we'd have been emotionally extinct a long, long time ago.
Monday, May 7, 2007
These Dreams
(Originally Nov 23 2005)
I just woke up from a vivid dream where I was my Alter Ego.
<-----
I'm sure playing CoH yesterday for eight hours had something to do with it. I love the game so much I didn't get enough.
I should have gone into the city yesterday for church but it was cold and grey and raining. I worry that the the rejection letter I recieved from the church's counseling department might also have something to do with it. They are having a hiring freeze. I do hope that isn't a lie--after all, they are a church. And if it isn't a lie, how close was that! I almost got hired by a church! That would've been AWESOME.
So last night, in my dream, Professor X was piloting the X-Jet with us X-Men in it. I was New Mutant. Patrick Stewart was in the role. He had some kind of seizure and began to crash the jet. The other X-Men got out but Prof X went down with the plane.
My Alter has the power of kinetics. That is, he can sling energy around--take it from people, give it to others, heal with it, shoot villains with it, use it to bounce himself insane distances, or bounce others for away from him. With some type of combination of our powers, we helped the Professor crash the jet somewhat safely--it was a loud, exciting ride which saw the thing plowed up into a house on the Long Island shore.
I, for some reason, was the first and only person on the scene to see if the Professor was okay--I bounced to the scene faster than the others could reach. I supposed the others were in contact with me through headsets or something. The Prof. was okay. He didn't know what had happened to him and was kind of embarassed. In the house no one was hurt. There was an old woman who had escaped her bed, and her mother poodle with its four chubby puppies. A black one, a red one, a grey one, and a white one. While I was marvelling that the house's occupants were alive, the Prof. walked to the bathroom to check himself out. Just then I realized and brought it to his attention.
"Professor? Why can you walk?"
He looked down at his legs and smiled, again embarassed. "I don't know."
I remember in the dream that Patrick Stewart had strange teeth. They were different from his normal strange ones. Patrick, in my mind, does not have Americanly big teeth. They seem small and he has gaps. But he became a sex symbol in the 90's because of his commanding presence and bald head. In the dream, I remember acting like some schoolgirl with a crush. When the professor discovered he could walk, I scrunched up my hands against my face and squeee'd.
I had said, "Well, I won't tell anyone, but you know...it's going to become kind of apparent..."
Then I woke up.
I just woke up from a vivid dream where I was my Alter Ego.
<-----
I'm sure playing CoH yesterday for eight hours had something to do with it. I love the game so much I didn't get enough.
I should have gone into the city yesterday for church but it was cold and grey and raining. I worry that the the rejection letter I recieved from the church's counseling department might also have something to do with it. They are having a hiring freeze. I do hope that isn't a lie--after all, they are a church. And if it isn't a lie, how close was that! I almost got hired by a church! That would've been AWESOME.
So last night, in my dream, Professor X was piloting the X-Jet with us X-Men in it. I was New Mutant. Patrick Stewart was in the role. He had some kind of seizure and began to crash the jet. The other X-Men got out but Prof X went down with the plane.
My Alter has the power of kinetics. That is, he can sling energy around--take it from people, give it to others, heal with it, shoot villains with it, use it to bounce himself insane distances, or bounce others for away from him. With some type of combination of our powers, we helped the Professor crash the jet somewhat safely--it was a loud, exciting ride which saw the thing plowed up into a house on the Long Island shore.
I, for some reason, was the first and only person on the scene to see if the Professor was okay--I bounced to the scene faster than the others could reach. I supposed the others were in contact with me through headsets or something. The Prof. was okay. He didn't know what had happened to him and was kind of embarassed. In the house no one was hurt. There was an old woman who had escaped her bed, and her mother poodle with its four chubby puppies. A black one, a red one, a grey one, and a white one. While I was marvelling that the house's occupants were alive, the Prof. walked to the bathroom to check himself out. Just then I realized and brought it to his attention.
"Professor? Why can you walk?"
He looked down at his legs and smiled, again embarassed. "I don't know."
I remember in the dream that Patrick Stewart had strange teeth. They were different from his normal strange ones. Patrick, in my mind, does not have Americanly big teeth. They seem small and he has gaps. But he became a sex symbol in the 90's because of his commanding presence and bald head. In the dream, I remember acting like some schoolgirl with a crush. When the professor discovered he could walk, I scrunched up my hands against my face and squeee'd.
I had said, "Well, I won't tell anyone, but you know...it's going to become kind of apparent..."
Then I woke up.
On My Last Day As A New York City Resident
(Originally Oct 1 2005)
...I nearly bumped into Phillip Seymour Hoffman. If you hadn't heard of him, you soon will. His movie "Capote" has opened today admist rave reviews. I doubt I'll ever see it. But at least I know where the star of it actually lives. Yeh, I was mulling and lurking as usual today, delaying my return home after researching an apartment for a call-in client (who wants a no-fee, 2-bedroom apartment for under $1600 in Manhattan, and doesn't want to rent anywhere in Harlem. What a shame. I just made a presentation today for crazy mad cool apartment with a BACKYARD in East Harlem this morning. Go check it out.) Anyway I got off the sbway near my usual haunts (back when I was a Starbucker), and wandered a little while, and from around the corner came Mr. Hoffman--looking as normal, regular, and splotchy as any pale unattractive New York white guy can look. He was, in fact, so underimpressive that I almost said something to him, but he ducked his head slightly and I read that to mean, "Yes, I am, but please, I just want to go home right now." And then I turned around, and into the building he went, and in greeting his doorman, went upstairs.
Isn't that just crazy? Maybe it really IS crazy. Maybe I'm just hallucinating because I'm insane with grief at having to leave New York. Strangely, though, my eviction notice hasn't arrived yet. I technically do not have to leave until the Marshall -- Sheriffs-- somebody tells me to leave. On another bizarre note, the Marshall's note that I DID recieve today informed me that my car was sold on the auction block. The sale thereof went to pay tickets, and the letter was for me to call them to see if I have any refund coming to me. I assure you, I do not have any refunds. In fact, I'm sure I still owe money, and that the sale of the car didn't cover half of it.
RIP my car. Hard to believe that this city took my car and is kicking me out on top of it...and that I still want to live here.
Word to the wise--NYC is no place to be if you have no money. Or, if you are an idiot. Or if you're me.
But it's great for stargazing.
...I nearly bumped into Phillip Seymour Hoffman. If you hadn't heard of him, you soon will. His movie "Capote" has opened today admist rave reviews. I doubt I'll ever see it. But at least I know where the star of it actually lives. Yeh, I was mulling and lurking as usual today, delaying my return home after researching an apartment for a call-in client (who wants a no-fee, 2-bedroom apartment for under $1600 in Manhattan, and doesn't want to rent anywhere in Harlem. What a shame. I just made a presentation today for crazy mad cool apartment with a BACKYARD in East Harlem this morning. Go check it out.) Anyway I got off the sbway near my usual haunts (back when I was a Starbucker), and wandered a little while, and from around the corner came Mr. Hoffman--looking as normal, regular, and splotchy as any pale unattractive New York white guy can look. He was, in fact, so underimpressive that I almost said something to him, but he ducked his head slightly and I read that to mean, "Yes, I am, but please, I just want to go home right now." And then I turned around, and into the building he went, and in greeting his doorman, went upstairs.
Isn't that just crazy? Maybe it really IS crazy. Maybe I'm just hallucinating because I'm insane with grief at having to leave New York. Strangely, though, my eviction notice hasn't arrived yet. I technically do not have to leave until the Marshall -- Sheriffs-- somebody tells me to leave. On another bizarre note, the Marshall's note that I DID recieve today informed me that my car was sold on the auction block. The sale thereof went to pay tickets, and the letter was for me to call them to see if I have any refund coming to me. I assure you, I do not have any refunds. In fact, I'm sure I still owe money, and that the sale of the car didn't cover half of it.
RIP my car. Hard to believe that this city took my car and is kicking me out on top of it...and that I still want to live here.
Word to the wise--NYC is no place to be if you have no money. Or, if you are an idiot. Or if you're me.
But it's great for stargazing.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Six Feet Under; The Unabridged Version
(Originally August 2, 2005)
I have never seen a single episode of this show. However, my favorite radio talkshow host, Wendy Williams, threw this out during her broadcast today--that the main character died of a burst brain hemorrhage. That main character was/is played by Peter Krause, who had/has been enjoying a new bunch of successful years since his cool little show "SportsNight" on ABC was cancelled many moons ago.
So what'd I do upon hearing this news? I went streaking to their site and commenced to spending three hours reading all the shows' synopsi.
And what did I learn? That this woman, on whom I had a major crush when I handed her her latte at Starbucks, played THE character who's obituary appeared on the side of numerous buses and train stations, in this city, making me wonder just what in the world was really going on on that show.
What really blows my mind is that when I met her and made her drink, and fell in love with how physically beautiful she really was in person, and even had the nerve to flirt with her a little bit, that she had just finished a part on "Six Feet Under" that had been so substantial that they made her character's death a key factor in the advertizing of the show. AND I HAD NO IDEA. I was still in love with her from her guest spot on the "X-Files" lo a million years ago. If I had known, I sure would have had a lot more to flirt with her about. Like namely, I'd have asked her what it's like to be walking down the street and suddenly see a bus going by with a big homage to the character you've played.
What's even more crazy is how two totally unrelated events can actually be related. For all these many months, I've had the memory of those big, white, stark, "Lisa Kimmel Fisher, 1967-2003" signs haunting me, while the memory of a seconds-long dalliance of an adorable Lili Taylor was in the same head and I never knew the two were so strongly linked to each other.
Life.
Huh.
I have never seen a single episode of this show. However, my favorite radio talkshow host, Wendy Williams, threw this out during her broadcast today--that the main character died of a burst brain hemorrhage. That main character was/is played by Peter Krause, who had/has been enjoying a new bunch of successful years since his cool little show "SportsNight" on ABC was cancelled many moons ago.
So what'd I do upon hearing this news? I went streaking to their site and commenced to spending three hours reading all the shows' synopsi.
And what did I learn? That this woman, on whom I had a major crush when I handed her her latte at Starbucks, played THE character who's obituary appeared on the side of numerous buses and train stations, in this city, making me wonder just what in the world was really going on on that show.
What really blows my mind is that when I met her and made her drink, and fell in love with how physically beautiful she really was in person, and even had the nerve to flirt with her a little bit, that she had just finished a part on "Six Feet Under" that had been so substantial that they made her character's death a key factor in the advertizing of the show. AND I HAD NO IDEA. I was still in love with her from her guest spot on the "X-Files" lo a million years ago. If I had known, I sure would have had a lot more to flirt with her about. Like namely, I'd have asked her what it's like to be walking down the street and suddenly see a bus going by with a big homage to the character you've played.
What's even more crazy is how two totally unrelated events can actually be related. For all these many months, I've had the memory of those big, white, stark, "Lisa Kimmel Fisher, 1967-2003" signs haunting me, while the memory of a seconds-long dalliance of an adorable Lili Taylor was in the same head and I never knew the two were so strongly linked to each other.
Life.
Huh.
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