Oscillator Emancipator

The blog posts here vary from prewritten selections, to planned, or spur of the moment. I’ve posted two in the past two days, after almost a week of accruing planned posts. Rather than edit and post the rest of what I am sitting on, I want to address two conversations I’ve had tonight.

First, Alyse posted this quote on her blog: “I’m a romantic; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald. I don’t really know Alyse. I know her brothers. I was a fixture at Evan’s during highschool. I lived with Brandon in college. Alyse and I never talked, save for random bits of nonsense I’d throw at her and her friends when I felt like they were occupying my space and time.

Regardless, this has been a year of new friends. A frightening thing. Mia noticed that being what Malcolm Gladwell calls “a connector” requires that I have a constant in-flow of passionate and fresh relationships. I guess I live this. I do long for the older ones though, wishing right now for both my mother to be in Connecticut and Maggie to answer her phone.

Rambling, rambling.

Alyse asked me where my tedium was. I am not one for tedium, meaning my life is constantly moving and I don’t associate tedium with how I behave. I spent forty minutes doing the dishes, but there was a musical and thoughtful quality to the experience. It wasn’t tedious. It was enjoyable. I was doing it for me as much as my roommate. I felt like I was offering the room something. I took care to conserve water and destroy every speck that clung to our dinnerware. I basked in the contribution that was my chore.

What requires work for me, then? I love my job. I am surrounded by great people. I care devoutly about what I do. That isn’t tedium. It is my survival. My friends, they require attention. That isn’t something they ask of me. That is something I understand and long to consistently deliver. Nothing tedious there. I smile when I reach out just to say hello. I live for being able to come to their aid. When I am sought out I adore it.

What I find tedious, but what is irrevocably me: emotions. Alyse documented my mood swings on Friday. She mentioned that I change moods quicker than anyone else she knows. As I’ve talked about, this is due to rapid cycling. I am extremes, if not one end then the other and sometimes within moments. Only exhaustion has a way of tethering me to normalcy. Emotions are a tedious chore for me. They, however, fuel absolutely everything that I do and every interaction I have. I am not ambivalent.

And my opinion of the Fitzgerald quote: be afraid.

The second conversation was with my friend Lauren. She had found my location on google Latitude, something I will reject you on if you try to find me with. I was at 14th Street. She was close by. I was with Paul so I didn’t really look at my phone, despite waiting for a text from Winona regarding Marc Jacobs. We didn’t get in. Standing room was removed and I wasn’t alerted. When this happens, the list is double checked. We were put on by a friend at the company that manages the list. This is my secret. This is how I finagle fashion week. Anyway, this particular list then gets sent to Marc Jacobs and uncomfirmed names get chopped. Now I know.

I fought very hard and then made text messages to anyone and everyone that could rescue us. Paul went to Starbucks and I smoked with Michael Pitt at the designer/model entrance. We share two close friends and he sensed my need, but really, at the Armory, there is nothing that can be done. If it had just been me, this wouldn’t have been a terrible let down. As Paul was with me, magic was required. He deserves nothing shy of it. I am really capable of pulling off a great deal. And tonight  I failed. I pulled him from class and let him down. I had no magic. I was just David. We went to Trader Joe’s. Lauren alerted me she knew I was by.

At home, reviewing my BBMs and SMSs I found her message. I asked her how she was. She responded: at the moment or in general? I told her I didn’t believe in “in general.” Now, I have to ask myself: do I believe this? My favorite question to ask of people is are you happy? I suppose this confirms my opinion, but not truth. I know people that are generally happy. I’ve seen them, conversed with them and even befriended them. I love some of them. This, however, is not how I function. I am a moment to moment, case to case person. My default is not a happiness setting. My default is neutral and everything else is in reaction. I spend very little time in neutral. Thus, my heightened life and my skepticism toward those generally happy folk.

Perhaps they should be writing a blog for me.

Somewhere I read the phrase oscillator emancipator. I think it was regarding music. I may have made this up? Anyway, the trade for an emotional oscillation emancipation would be the sacrifice of my art and lifestyle. So rather than search for an article on being generally happy, I’ll strive for magic and deal with let down. I’ll continue to ask “are you happy?” I’ll value the answer and let the answer effect me, as I do with everything else of value.

Antics, Valentine’s Day, Watchmen

So this past week was rather antic filled.

Monday night saw Robert and I grace the Eldridge, Antiik and Beatrice. It was a terrible way to start a week. I was almost not rested for work on Tuesday. However, not only did I manage, I’d argue this was my company’s most successful week. We had a clear and clearly defined course of action. We met. We executed. We sought information and applied. It was a great week.

Tuesday was Anchor Bar and I have great hope for the future of this party. This is an opportunity for Chris, Chris and myself to introduce artists to the world. To our community. To expand our community. All while having fun. Anchor Bar opened its doors only to us and our friends. It was a great party.

Wednesday, to be honest, I’m not sure I remember at this juncture. I am living a very sleepy Sunday right now and forty minutes spent doing the dishes has drained me. Thursday night was Zombie’s at Pratt. They will sneak up on you and then knock you into a half-life oblivion. From there: Maritime Hotel, as well as Kiss & Fly. Lydia Hearst wrote in the book that I picked up yesterday that Kiss & Fly is one of her favorites. I know why. We all did a great job and had a wonderful crowd.

Friday was a more real sort of fun for me. I entertained at home. With Paul and Crissy, Kindall and her sister, Alyse and Sean… as well as my roommates we cooked and ate a Friday the 13th dinner. Together we destroyed six bottles of wine. I put on, for only the fourth time in my existence (!) a dress and played with Star Wars action figures. I got very depressed for some reason. This happens when I get overly performative and have polished off a bottle of wine myself.

Afterward, I scooted down to The Box, but was there thirty minutes before the rest of my party. I was too early for the show, so I ambled around, spoke to the bathroom attendant and chatted with my friend Janet. The rest of my party, when they arrived, were told that they needed to pay fifty dollars each cover charge. We chose not to stay. Robert went home. My other friends and I saw JUSTICE at Webster Hall, then went to Le Royale. I was still depressed from the end of my homemade party.

I’ve never truly enjoyed Valentine’s Day. There has always been a snag, or a let down. This year was different. From the moment my Valentine accepted me, I knew the occasion needed thought. It all executed perfectly. All of the elements were a surprise to him. We attended Dr. Sketchy’s burlesque drawing class. I sensed he would like it and was greatly relieved that he truly did. I was out of my comfort zone. I do not like to be bad at things and I cannot draw to save my life. But I had so much fun and was with the one person I wanted to be with. It was fantastic. From there, we went to Red Bamboo. My Valentine is a vegatarian so I thought this would be the perfect location… and I had been craving vegan wings since November 4th. I wasn’t prepared for the wait, so we ordered and then ate at my secret downtown hiding spot. It was all perfect for me. We then parted ways. I napped and we met up once more to do what we do best: dance.

At 4AM we ended up at the 10th precinct, but it was in support of friends. We were all there together. The hour or circumstance did not matter. I was simply happy. Then there was Brooklyn and finally brunch. Thank you, Valentine, for that day; for being a first once more.

Since, I’ve been reading Watchmen. It was a gift over a year ago. Pressure from multiple close friends and the exquisite media attention finally urged me to open it. It is an absolute masterpiece. The art and copy are both profound. One page draws you to the next as you are swallowed whole by all of the characters. It is a swirling mass of steampunk hysteria. (I think steampunk means… well, anacronystic? As in, this takes place during a third Nixon term in a similar but not exact New York City. Hmm, anacronystic is not the word. But the definition I gave is mildly correct.) It now stands as one of my favorite literary works. Erstwhile, it stands as one of my favorite artworks. Hopefully, it will also grace the top of my favorite cinema list. A creation so potent might be very easy to fuck up while transitioning to a new media. I beg that this not be the case.

Fashion Week: Furstenberg

The Diane von Furstenberg show ran an hour and thirty minutes late today. The show itself was under ten minutes long. None of us might ever see those outfits outside of that runway. This is Fashion Week, however. I respect the designer tremendously and worked with the people at DVF while helping dress Robin Wright Penn for the Cannes Film Festival.

Fortunately, I had both a gift bag and a seat to keep me sane during the wait. My seat, although far back, provided a perfect view of almost all in attendance. (There was a back to back center aisle right on the runway. Clearly, I could only see one side.) But that wait, that hour and a half before the models walk, that is the real show. It, in essence, is what Fashion Week is about. I went alone today, which meant I could truly take advantage. I was forced to communicate. Hand out my card. Find out why everyone else was there. Chat about Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn. I eavesdropped, talked fashion and Barbie. For some odd reason, I was a part of the fashion community.

The lights dimmed. The models walked. I oscillated between thinking DVF was still a visionary – binding something that felt traditional with dreamful haute couture, and believing her slightly out of touch. The dark browns and blues were lovely. The animal print and product garments where exquisite. The hats, however, these organic mossy knit numbers, kept not one foot on the ground. And because of that, because they weren’t for me what I associate with Diane von Furstenberg, they flopped. It was quite the spectacle though and to see the beautiful designer walk down the runway afterward, stopping only to grab hold of Diana Ross and collect flowers from her grandchildren, was momentous.

All together, the runway show was good verging on great. The experience, however, was spectacular.

And Diane Sawyer is hot.

A Stroke

I observed an elderly woman having a stroke on the sidewalk today. I was walking behind her and a companion. The street was busy. She paused. There was no convulsion, only the pause followed by a twist. Losing control of her body she slowly rotated forty-five degrees on rubber band legs. As they wrapped about themselves she dropped. The initial brunt of her weight struck her younger companion before she rather gently bashed the pavement.

Three of us ran to her aide. Her companion dropped to her side. One gentleman untangled her legs. The other two of us took out our phones. The first man propped her up against her companion. We waited on making a call. Why? I saw her face. It was blank. She was staring with unfocused eyes. If there hadn’t been a faint quivering to her lips I’d have thought she was dead.

The kneeling Samaritan told the other phone toter to call 911. The woman’s companion, who I could now see was a middle aged man, called us off.

Wait, he said. He shouted to the woman. She was responsive, but in a way that made you believe she was screaming out from a cavern someplace deeply embedded in a muffled part of her mind. There was almost no sound or movement, but such fear and urgency. She might not even have been addressing us.

The other man with a phone asked if the companion knew the lady. She was a grey and pruned creature, but full. She was his mother and he requested we didn’t call anyone. And then in a panic he said that he takes care of her and no one can know about this. He begged.

He begged.

Like Ahab & My Grandmother the Looter

After a fight where I called my brother a cunt around 3AM, I’ve had family on the brain. Here are two quick stories:

I found an Article* on my father’s boat while googling him earlier. My favorite quote: “But Tom, are you legal?”

The casino failed after one summer. The boat ultimately sank, well after the time we had it. Still, my father is ambitious. I love the man, dearly. Yes, for his knack at actualizing unrealistic things long enough for me to make them into my stories, but also because he is a loving father.

The Europa Jet, 1993 from New London Loft

I was just on the phone with my cousin for 23 minutes, a long call by my telephone talking standards. Jill, a mother of two, was raised more like my sister. Her mother and mine are siblings, and indulged in the giant Italian-American clan style upbringing. I was very close with all my cousins, but Jill most especially. She was there for me when I lost homes, when I needed employment and even when I sliced off the tip of my finger.

My mother was up from Florida yesterday and met my brother in Connecticut. The two of them, with my grandmother in tow, visited Jill and her family. I was just alerted that as Jill was preparing a care package for my brother to take to college, my grandmother Marie would reach in and pull things out… for herself. Now, Marie is constantly giving Scott and I care packages and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was stealing from Jill simply to give to Scott or me later. But still, Grandma looted.

Marie Tortora, aged 93

The 15th Pt. II

Introduction

For the first few weeks I knew Maggie, I repeatedly asked our mutual friend Brandon if she hated me. I was a very youthful and bubbly, previously sheltered, annoying sort of kid. She was a student leader, a year older, and although a social figure at Fordham, she was very selective about who her actual friends were. She did not hate me. She just took her time to truly warm to me, and that lead to a connection that I think runs unmatched, as best friends are concerned.

I’m going to be very selective in the anecdotes I chose to share, and hopefully dedicate as much time to the being that is Maggie, as I do to how I was effected by her.

My first real experience with Maggie as a friend, and I may be wrong as we have had so many, was seeing Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. Maggie and our friend Colleen had tickets to a midnight screening. Both had already pegged me for the fiction/fantasy dork that I not-so-secretly knew myself to be. I had settled in for a nap but all the lights in my dorm room were on. The next thing I recall is being awoken, from across the room, by Maggie and Colleen. Their third guest had dropped. There was a ticket for me if I left immediately. I dressed and we were out the door. E-walk? E-walk, we all wondered. We had no idea where the theater was. We hopped in a taxi and went to twenty third, or even Union Square. Everything happened so quickly. We were not in the right area. We ran. And ran, passing a homeless man with his pants at his ankles. The streets were dark. The air was cold. And at some point, we all made our way to Times Square and found the theater. Midnight movies in Times Square theaters are always an eye opening experience. Things are shouted and often times thrown. You are uncomfortably close to your neighbor. You don’t know if you are actually watching the film or the audience. Regardless, for four hours we were transfixed. It was more than an emotional experience for all of us. A movie-going experience that was tough to match, and might not ever be overshadowed.

Student Activities

It was Fordham’s student activity programming that really brought Maggie and I together. Two specific events require mentioning. Fordham flew Maggie, myself and two others to Cincinnati, Ohio for the NACA Conference. It was springtime of my freshman year and we were selected due to our active roles in the community. It was there that I got to connect with Maggie, in a city belonging to neither of us and in the face of unending stimulation. We hunted out winged pigs and had private audiences with artists like Teitur. It was the first time I felt like we were in it together, whatever it was. Mutual discovery and mutual appreciation form a firm, concrete foundation. Our history is rich with such.

The summer between my sophomore and junior year, Maggie and I were both representatives at JASPA. It was a large Jesuit conference held at the Rose Hill campus. It meant a great deal of work for both of us, in addition to our summer jobs in the Office of Student Activities. For a short while we found ourselves living in the Bronx, playing host to leaders from the nation’s Jesuit schools. Being Lincoln Center students we approached the situation thinking we were better than everyone else. We quickly learned that just because we bitched and got what we wanted, that didn’t make us better than others. We found filthy spoons and squatters in the Bronx campus, as well as scattered pills and bricks with notes. Seriously. We made fast friendships with many others. But it was the time away from JASPA during JASPA that reflects the true nature of our friendship. On a Thursday night, we quickly packed up everything we needed and headed back to Manhattan. Together, blocks away from the Lincoln Center campus and our apartments, we watched the midnight screening of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was a much anticipated and joyous occasion and there was no one else in the world I would have wanted to see it with. Then back to the Bronx we went to rest up, and then work, and then return to Manhattan for the release of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. It was another midnight release. Another dork-related event. Another sincere and genuinely happy moment of my life. With book in hand, after comedic drama and anticipatory tears, together, once more, we traveled to the Bronx. Maggie finished reading the book before I did.

Maggie has a love of faith and tradition, of honesty and reality. She is someone who values childhood, and managed, in the most incredible way possible, to mature to adulthood without sacrificing any of what made her a beautiful youth. She both grew up and retained all the splendor.

My Girlfriend

My grandmother believes that Maggie is my girlfriend. This is OK because my grandmother loves Maggie to death. My mother used to believe Maggie was my girlfriend, until I was forced out of the closet. My mother calls Maggie the little pixie. Our time as a “couple” was equal parts glamorous and sincere. She was my date to TRL as  I competed for the title of World’s Largest Harry Potter Fan. A year later she was my date to the next Harry Potter premiere. She was my date to the Russian Tea Room after Valentine’s Day. She was the person who bore the weight of my unending bouts of unrequited and oft times weird love. She has a remarkable ear, and incredible patience as I often struggled to enact her correct advice. She saw me through adjustments off medicine, new medicine, and mixed medicine. Like any true girlfriend, she told me to get a fucking job and said, wouldn’t it be nice if your check said IFC on it? She sent me packing to the IFC Center and it turned out to be one of the most valuable work experiences I ever had, at the best theater in Manhattan.

I remember the day I realized I was obsessed with Maggie and I think about it frequently. I had left class and knew I had no plans for the night. I called her. She didn’t answer. I got confused and walked outside, calling her on the way. She didn’t answer. I walked around outside and called her twice more. I then felt light and lost. She called. I think I only mentioned calling her four times, but I am pretty sure it was six. I don’t do this to everyone, and I no longer do that to people I obsess over, but for some reason on that day I needed her, just to spend time with.

Perhaps our greatest date was our trip to Buffalo. We drove there and back again. It was my introduction to Maggie’s family.  I don’t know what you know about the city of Buffalo, but it is perhaps the last warm and welcoming urban environment. It was Autumn and chilly and perhaps my most beautiful weekend away. The drive was long and had a never ending Sony BMG soundtrack. (Unless that Louis XIV album is not Sony? Though the Franz one certainly was.) Maggie’s family explains her. They are loving, positive and real. They are incredible storytellers and it’s impossible to share their company without smiling and believing the world to be a safe place. We got drunk at the Buffalo Irish Center. Maggie’s father’s band performed. We danced. I met every bloody Irishman in the city. We traveled to Niagra-on-the-Lake, my first ever trip to Canada. We had beer and bangers and mash at the Angel Inn. It all, her city and her family, stands a relic of early America: the beauty of European tradition melted together with American ideals. Their sense of history and family and value knot tightly together. They welcomed me.

The Scar: A Comedy

I was naked in a hot tub pretending to be a porpoise. Maggie, Brandon, Texas Stephanie and I had all had a great deal to drink. We watched fog roll off the tree tops into the field of Brandon’s backyard. Everything was heightened and hilarious. Maggie left the hot tub to pee. We all lost track of time. And then she returned, her hand over her forehead.

“Hey guys, buzz kill,” were her first words. In retrospect, this is absolutely hysterical.

Maggie proceeded to show us the gash on her forehead inflicted by an ornate ivory toilet paper holder. We contemplated slapping a bandaid on it and tossing her back in the hot tub. (This is a joke.) Instead, after a thorough inspection, we went back to my house and woke my mother. Pam alerted us that the emergency room had to be our next stop.

So, drunk, I got back into my car and drove Maggie and Stephanie to the Waterbury Hospital Emergency Room. From the fake fingernail tapping receptionist to the inattentive interns we floated around the ER. We finally found ourselves placed in a room and had an initial consultation. They could stitch her up right there or we could wait for the plastic surgeon to come in and do a thorough job. He couldn’t come til six in the morning. It wasn’t that much after 1AM when we heard this news. Stephanie and I, drunk and antsy, prayed that Maggie would consent to a patch up job and we could be on our way. We also knew that whatever she wanted we wanted, and if we were in her position we would need support. You don’t fuck with someone’s face. Maggie chose to wait for the plastic surgeon, who I personally recommended (as he was the father of a classmate of mine from high school.) One of my favorite phrases fits here nicely: thus began the wait.

We watched television. The three of us. Under hospital lights. Very aware that we were losing our drunken state and entering a hangover, while awake. We chart the night based on my mood swings, which were all associated with Burger King commercials. The first time the cheesy tot commercial aired, I was attempting optimism. The second time, I was a raging maniac. The third time, I went for a walk to fight claustrophobia. The fourth time, I was a Negative Nancy. The fifth time I was loopy, beyond loopy. I was insane. The sixth time I was in hysterics. The seventh time I was exhausted. All the while Maggie sat up in the bed, holding her forehead. Stephanie, she very well could have been a figment of my imagination. Then the surgeon arrived.

I am terrible with doctors, so I stood as far away as I could. Stephanie opted to hold Maggie’s hand. She informed me that every time the needle tugged Maggie’s flesh together, she could feel the pull through Maggie’s hand and into her whole body. Had I been evaluated at this point in time, I would have been found clinically insane.

The surgery rapped. We waited out the rest period. Then the three of us got back into my car and began the ride home. It was 10AM.

As we got off my exit, haunted by the cheesy tot commercials from the all-nighter, we actually stopped at Burger King. Seriously. We were all starving and all ornery. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. By 11AM we were all asleep.

My mother woke us all up the next morning, also known as, a few short hours later. We had planned a day trip to the Yankee Candle Factory Store in Massachusetts. It is a wonderland and one of the happiest places in the world. Maggie and I had so looked forward to this trip. So, in pain and drugged out, she dressed and we all went on a car trip over an hour away to shop for candles and Christmas goodies (at Easter time).

Spousal Abuse

When I graduated from Fordham and before I left for Puerto Rico, I lived with Maggie in Astoria. It was for only a few months and I spent more time out of the apartment than in. There were graduation parties, party parties, work, the birth of my friendship with Owen and the entire city of Manhattan pulling at me. It was a terribly difficult transitional period where I acted more like a child than a college graduate. We struggled. I was a cheating husband. I was a disloyal friend. I indulged in base activities and ignored my confidante, or only reached out to her when I needed help. She was a forgiver and a giver. And teary eyed, one night, she confronted me. I had two weeks or so left in New York City. She informed me that she was going to be missing me for the next few months that I’d be away, but she’d already been missing me for the past few.

If I can say I had my lost years, it would have been the months in such close proximity to Maggie, where we were – as people – never more distant.

The Departure

On April 15th, Maggie left New York City. She returned to Buffalo. At Cosmo, a classy little drink corner frequented by Fordham undergrads, she told me she would be leaving. It was a move for personal happiness. She needed to see her sister grow up. She longed for a community less brutal than our city. It was not necessarily final, but opportunities needed to be explored elsewhere. She shared with me that I had a home now, and a job and she felt comfortable leaving me in the hands I was in. She was a guardian angel, at times a mother, always a best friend. We had a few months together before she left and I did not use them to the best of my ability.

We still speak with regularity (that being almost every single day), many days at great length, and she has come to visit. Once, we went on a much anticipated adventure to City Island, walking through cemeteries and hanging out with seagulls and in grocery stores. Once, for a reunion of our annual Thanksgiving party; a celebration that means so much to me, a tradition early in the making with our dear friends the Teich-Rennstich family. It is a successful attempt at growing up and realizing the holidays must be shared with family… and family is defined by heart not blood.

My heart belongs to Maggie. Her influence and patience stun me. My inability to see her torments me. But, and I laugh when I say this, being friends with Maggie is like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget how. It’s impossible.