December 28th:
I am finally aboard Delta flight 729. An east coast blizzard has terrorized manhattan, and I’ve been in Utah for four extra days eating leftover Christmas cookies and anxiously checking the New York Times for weather updates.
I didn’t mean to cry when the ticket agent called yesterday, telling me my flight had been canceled for the 5th time. The tears just sort of materialized without warning. I hadn’t even realize they existed until I felt them spilling over my cheeks, hurting dads feelings.
“I didn’t know you hated it here so much,”
“I’m sorry daddy. You know I don’t hate it here. I just really need to get home.”
Home.
This was the first time I had called it that, New York I mean.
For the last four months living in New York had felt like an extended holiday. Manhattan and I were a blossoming romance, in the premature, infatuation stages of our relationship, just getting to know one another.
We had finally moved past that.
This city is no longer my lover, but my companion.
Were facing east now, my direction of choice. Outside the window it is black, and all that is visible are hundreds of runway lights laid out geometrically on the pavement. It reminds me of the designs I used to make on my light bright as a child.
The pilot puts the plane in gear, and gravity pushes me into the back of my seat as we pick up speed.
After my plethora of delays and cancellations, I feel like the present is too good to be true. I am waiting for the plane to come to a screeching halt, or for an unwanted announcement from the cockpit.
Instead, I hear the landing gear retreat to its airborne home. I peer out the window once again, and the dim lights of Salt lake city flicker below me.
***
Laguardia airport is full of holiday traffic and relieved passengers who have been stranded at their previous destinations.
I am anxious to get back to my apartment, but the taxi line stretches past four terminals, wrapping around the edge of the building.
I feel defeated by transportation. Someday, we will think ourselves from place to place, with the assistance of an advanced technological gadget, and I hope it’s in my lifetime.
I feel a tug at the back of my jacket.
“Car ma’am. $35. You can skip the line?”
I spin around to find the source of the foreign voice. I glance downward, my eyes meeting a petite man who’s shorter than myself, with tussled black hair and oversized jeans.
“Sorry to bother ma’am, but I have a car. It leave into the city now. I give you a good deal and you have no wait.”
I immediately commence an inner dialogue between my capacity for common sense, and my desire to be at home. It goes something like this:
Desire: Sweet deal! $35!? You would pay thirty bucks for a yellow cab, and you’ll have to wait in this ridiculous line for two hours.
Common sense: It’s late. It’s dark. Where is his car? If this is legit, why isn’t everyone hitching rides with Ecuadorian midgets?
Desire: Because people are silly, and it’s your lucky day. What’s the worst that could happen?
Common sense: I can think of a few possibilities. What if he’s part of a South American drug ring, and he wants to kidnap you and ship you to El Salvador to work on some sort of farm?
Desire: That dude? He’s bite size! Even if that were the case, I’m sure you could take him!
Common sense: He could have a posse.
Desire: Quit being lame, and get your ass in that car.
(Why is it that desire always wins?)
“Alright sir, where’s your car?”
“ I go get it now. You wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”
I watch as he hobbles off with a not-so-subtle limp.
Desire chimes in again: Yep, you could definitely take him.
Five minutes later he returns, followed by an attractive boy, about my age or a little older with a guitar on his back. He is unkept, in a cool 90’s grunge sort of way, and is sporting a leather jacket.
“Alright desire,” I say to myself, “Now you’re just showing off.”
Together, grunge and I follow the little man around the building, behind the terminal, and across the parking lot. I am becoming distressed as I trek through piles of snow left by plows large enough to be ski slopes, but my fellow hipster passenger seems blasé about the journey. I decide I’d better play it cool.
We reach our destination and load our guitars into the back of the suburban, climbing into the back seat.
Neither of us speak for six awkward minutes. I finally say:
“So.. You’re a musician?”
“Yep,” he replies, looking at me like I just asked John Wayne if he was a cowboy.
“Awesome.” I say, feeling a little embarrassed and lost for words, a phenomenon which doesn’t happen all too often.
Five more minutes pass.
He breaks the second span of silence with a question.
“How long have you been delayed for?”
“ Umm.. a few days. I had 5 canceled flights, you?”
“I had four. It sucked ass. I offered to give the lady behind the ticket counter a grand to get me back. She wouldn’t take it.”
“Wow, pretty desperate to be back in New York, huh?”
“Yeah, I have too much going on right now to be stuck at home.”
“I hear you,” I agree, nodding my head, “It’s nice to be with family, but any longer and I would have snow shoed, or hired sled dogs to get me here.”
“Yikes, that bad at home? Where are you from?”
Utah, I respond.
He laughs and says that explains a lot
The next 10 minutes are a standard get to know you session, where I determine the following:
My hunky, new friend is Ron Pope. He is a professional musician and New Yorker who just finished a tour, and a contract with universal records. He has a large fan base, especially in the city, and just started a new band and produced a hit single.
I have heard of him and his music before, but pretend I havent.
He asks what I do and I become nervous, the word professional, or even profession, isn’t in my autobiography. I consider lying for a split second, then opt for the truth,
“ I just finished school this year, and moved out here simply because I wanted to. Right now I am in transit, trying to figure things out. I am hoping to save, and travel, and write. We’ll see what happens.”
Ron is an artist, and he can sense my apprehension.
I wait for the guidance I know he’s about to give me, like some great kung fu master, or yoda
“You don’t have to be nervous about that you know. Doing what you love is all that matters in this life. It’s cliché, but you can’t buy happiness. When I was your age, I was playing music on the subway every day. My parents used to chastise me, and be like, “Ron, what the hell are you doing? You’re a fuckin’ street bum.” But, I just knew that music was my life, and I had to do that, you know? Then one day, somebody appreciated what I did, and things changed. But, even if that hadn’t happened it wouldn’t have mattered. This is my life, and I want to live it passionately.”
I don’t respond. I just smile. We both know that he is right, and that life is an experience, not a mountain we climb. We cannot conquer it, we can only live it to our satisfaction.
The driver pulls up to my apartment too soon, and I tell Ron thanks for the advice and promise I’ll come see a show sometime. As I walk up the steps I am happy to be back, and revived from my encounter, which reinforced every reason why I love this place.
It feels good to be home.
***
January 7th, 2011
I am already in Manhattan with no plane to catch, so I am embracing the incoming storm and bone numbing chill as it stings my face and creeps through my jacket.
Ashley and I enter the cornerstone tavern for some relief from the weather.
The bartender is Irish, and I can tell by his accent that he is from Dublin.
I begin chatting to him about the place I miss so much, and we reminisce about our favorite pubs and Irish sausage.
The band on stage is playing covers of 90’s rock songs and asking for requests.
“Third Eye Blind” I yell audibly.
“I think we can do that”, says the lead guitarist, “but, only on one condition. You have to let me wear your awesome vest while I play.”
My vest, which was a gift from my mother, is loud fashion at best. Lengthy faux fur envelops the entirety of it. It’s apparent that no animal could have produced such a thing, except for, according to my younger brother, The abominable snowman.
I absolutely adore it.
I tell him that it’s not a problem, and climb on stage assisting him with one sleeve while he stretches his arm into the other.
“Thank you dear.”
They begin strumming the three chords which make up one of Third Eye Blinds yesteryear hits. Ashley and I dance and since loudly while onlookers mock. We really don’t care. We never do.
“I’ll never let you go, I’ll never let you go…………”
***
Outside, the city is blanketed in a fresh coat of fluff, and we stop to admire the pristine, cleanliness of it. As we glance around us at the white lampposts and mailboxes, we realize that the streets are empty, except for us. All is silent in sound and in sight.
“This looks so strange, doesn’t it?” I say
“It really does,” replies ash.
Quiet and solitude are things you never experience in a place that always exhibits life. By 7am, Fifth Avenue will be bursting with men in suits, public busses, delivery guys, and flashing lights.
We celebrate having the city to ourselves by lying on the ground and making snow angels side by side on the snow covered pavement.
January13th
I remember seeing this same painting on an overhead projector in 8th grade. The whimsical darkness of Van Goghs starry night had me mesmerized, even at age 14.
I had strategically waited to view this masterpiece at the end of my tour inside the MOMA. I planned my visit of the museum a bit like I would a visit to an amusement park. The smaller, less thrilling rides first, working my way up to the bigger stuff so nothing would lose its thrill along the way.
13 Pollock’s, a dozen Picassos, and a few Monet’s later, and here it was. Imagination on canvas.
I stare into the paintings depth for at least ten minutes, without moving. It is vivid, yet surreal, and I become lost in every brush stroke. I feel like crying, or jumping up and down. I know that neither are socially acceptable here, so, instead I do what is. I update my facebook status. I key in:
“Next time I’m at the MOMA, I’d like to pitch a tent, and camp under Van Gogh’s starry night.”
I once read somewhere that Van Gogh, who produced over 2,000 works of art in his lifetime, didn’t even begin painting until his late twenties.
Here I am, worrying about my feats at a childish age of 23.
Van Gogh has left me feeling young and alive, and ready to live.
I'm left with this thought,
While most of us will probably never excel to the heights of Van Gogh, there is still much time for us to create our masterpiece.
I have heard of him and his music before, but pretend I havent.
He asks what I do and I become nervous, the word professional, or even profession, isn’t in my autobiography. I consider lying for a split second, then opt for the truth,
“ I just finished school this year, and moved out here simply because I wanted to. Right now I am in transit, trying to figure things out. I am hoping to save, and travel, and write. We’ll see what happens.”
Ron is an artist, and he can sense my apprehension.
I wait for the guidance I know he’s about to give me, like some great kung fu master, or yoda
“You don’t have to be nervous about that you know. Doing what you love is all that matters in this life. It’s cliché, but you can’t buy happiness. When I was your age, I was playing music on the subway every day. My parents used to chastise me, and be like, “Ron, what the hell are you doing? You’re a fuckin’ street bum.” But, I just knew that music was my life, and I had to do that, you know? Then one day, somebody appreciated what I did, and things changed. But, even if that hadn’t happened it wouldn’t have mattered. This is my life, and I want to live it passionately.”
I don’t respond. I just smile. We both know that he is right, and that life is an experience, not a mountain we climb. We cannot conquer it, we can only live it to our satisfaction.
The driver pulls up to my apartment too soon, and I tell Ron thanks for the advice and promise I’ll come see a show sometime. As I walk up the steps I am happy to be back, and revived from my encounter, which reinforced every reason why I love this place.
It feels good to be home.
***
January 7th, 2011
I am already in Manhattan with no plane to catch, so I am embracing the incoming storm and bone numbing chill as it stings my face and creeps through my jacket.
Ashley and I enter the cornerstone tavern for some relief from the weather.
The bartender is Irish, and I can tell by his accent that he is from Dublin.
I begin chatting to him about the place I miss so much, and we reminisce about our favorite pubs and Irish sausage.
The band on stage is playing covers of 90’s rock songs and asking for requests.
“Third Eye Blind” I yell audibly.
“I think we can do that”, says the lead guitarist, “but, only on one condition. You have to let me wear your awesome vest while I play.”
My vest, which was a gift from my mother, is loud fashion at best. Lengthy faux fur envelops the entirety of it. It’s apparent that no animal could have produced such a thing, except for, according to my younger brother, The abominable snowman.
I absolutely adore it.
I tell him that it’s not a problem, and climb on stage assisting him with one sleeve while he stretches his arm into the other.
“Thank you dear.”
They begin strumming the three chords which make up one of Third Eye Blinds yesteryear hits. Ashley and I dance and since loudly while onlookers mock. We really don’t care. We never do.
“I’ll never let you go, I’ll never let you go…………”
***
Outside, the city is blanketed in a fresh coat of fluff, and we stop to admire the pristine, cleanliness of it. As we glance around us at the white lampposts and mailboxes, we realize that the streets are empty, except for us. All is silent in sound and in sight.
“This looks so strange, doesn’t it?” I say
“It really does,” replies ash.
Quiet and solitude are things you never experience in a place that always exhibits life. By 7am, Fifth Avenue will be bursting with men in suits, public busses, delivery guys, and flashing lights.
We celebrate having the city to ourselves by lying on the ground and making snow angels side by side on the snow covered pavement.
January13th
I remember seeing this same painting on an overhead projector in 8th grade. The whimsical darkness of Van Goghs starry night had me mesmerized, even at age 14.
I had strategically waited to view this masterpiece at the end of my tour inside the MOMA. I planned my visit of the museum a bit like I would a visit to an amusement park. The smaller, less thrilling rides first, working my way up to the bigger stuff so nothing would lose its thrill along the way.
13 Pollock’s, a dozen Picassos, and a few Monet’s later, and here it was. Imagination on canvas.
I stare into the paintings depth for at least ten minutes, without moving. It is vivid, yet surreal, and I become lost in every brush stroke. I feel like crying, or jumping up and down. I know that neither are socially acceptable here, so, instead I do what is. I update my facebook status. I key in:
“Next time I’m at the MOMA, I’d like to pitch a tent, and camp under Van Gogh’s starry night.”
I once read somewhere that Van Gogh, who produced over 2,000 works of art in his lifetime, didn’t even begin painting until his late twenties.
Here I am, worrying about my feats at a childish age of 23.
Van Gogh has left me feeling young and alive, and ready to live.
I'm left with this thought,
While most of us will probably never excel to the heights of Van Gogh, there is still much time for us to create our masterpiece.
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