NYCweboy

In Any Storm, A Port

Yesterday wound up being a ten hour workday at Starbucks, mostly because of weather and unpredictability; it's odd, when you consider Westchester a part of New York City's environs, to realize that when you get 60 miles north of the city, the weather changes almost completely.

Thus a fairly rainy day in the City became an icy treacherous mess for northern Westchester, shutting most major highways, and even key connecting routes: unlike many suburbs, Westchester is not - by design - heavy with major roads, and thus traveling between towns, especially east-west, is accomplished on what can often seem like winding back country roads... except for the gated million dollar homes off of them.

Starbucks has a toehold in many of the towns of Central Westchester - more along the Harlem line than the Hudson, for those familiar with Metro North - and it's been a pretty successful strategy. Near, or even in, the train station hubs along the route, we get both commuters and the families who stay closer to home and visit the village hub to shop and, in the old fashioned sense, be neighborly.

So yesterday, while all around us was chaos, there was an odd, cheery welcoming feel to the workplace. Stranded travelers came in to wait out the storm, share stories and compare notes on the roads. Regulars hung out, some longer than usual, rather than brave the cold rain and icy sidewalks. But things were slow enough that we could operate on a bare bones staff, and accomplish some key tasks.

I mention this because it was odd to feel safe yet disconnected, unconcerned and yet worried, ultimately, about how I would get home. Everything we heard came through a filter - we saw no car accidents, witnessed no hours-long traffic tie-ups - but it felt very real and immediate. And thinking about it once I did get home - when the temperature rose and the rain was just rain - I realized it was nice to have a port in a storm. And to provide one, for others.

If, On A Winter's Night

I managed to get in four hours of work today at the 'bucks, and still made it into Manhattan to hear a coworker sing at a church service (well, I got there late, but what I hears was lovely).

There was something wonderfully WASPy about the whole trip - from the train ride through Central Westchester to the nice Manhattanites at the Presbyterian church. And walking to the church from the subway, I felt very much in my element, as I do every so often wandering around Manhattan these days; the familiar feel of a place Iused to live, and in some ways have never quite left behind.

After the concert, walking to a little coffee shop (well, I do drink our product, too), I had a chance to see the city on a winter night, and take in some window shopping.

I've come back to window shopping; for a while there, it seemed frivolous, inconsequential, unrealistic. But a couple of weeks ago, I got to wander along Madison Avenue in the seventies - the highest of high end shopping - and I was reminded of the simple pleasures of taking in the pretty sights of the windows.  The fun of Dior and Valentino, not to mention Dennis Basso's over the top furs. The serious style of Ralph Lauren's Polo mansion. The luxe appeal of Tom Ford's new shop. All that and more (did I mention window shopping for a Mercedes?), just by walking briskly to Grand Central Station.

It's easy to forget that hard times do not require denying oneself every joy or pleasure in life. No, I can't buy a $200 shirt (as if I ever could, or did), but I can look at them, take them in, and figure out styles that will do what I need at a lower price point. Visual stimulation, the pleasure of seeing beautiful things... these belong to all of us, not just the select few.

As hard as the times are, I find myself looking up, not down, seeing the good and not the bad, and finding simple joys in the simplest things - a free music concert, a leisurely stroll by the beautiful windows, a moment to savor an inexpensive cup of coffee. Life is still full of possibilities, and the holiday season still provides surprises and wonders. Keeping faith in that... could make the best of a cold winter's night.

The Soft Bigotry Of... Well, Soft Bigotry.

It's a rough end of year for The Gays.

When election day passed and we faced another loss on gay marriage, this one an especially cruel result in Maine, I debated what to say. And while I waited ("dithered" now belongs to Obama, apparently), there started a harangue from the right about intolerant gay activists.

And still I struggled. But this week, the icing arrived when the New York state Senate voted down a marriage equality bill that had already passed the Assembly.

When Prop 8 failed, I was one who noted the failure of gay marriage to find support in the black community; I take that back: the problem, apparently is finding enough of anyone - at least anyone's who not gay or one of our friends.

The failure of gay marriage in Maine and New York has many angles, but all come down to proving why "I'm not intolerant" types like Rod Dreher and Jeff Jacoby - who both accused gay advocates of negativity and namecalling - have it backwards. Those who accuse the gay marriage opponents of intolerance and bigotry have it right... the challenge is making such bigotry both socially less acceptable and to make clearer why that is. Until then... treating gay people badly... well, that's just what happens. And it's hard not to be angry about it.

Two Princes

Tonight, I realized how humbled I am in the presence of my nephews. I mean, just dumbstruck by their fascination with the simplest, smallest things, their inquisitive minds, their wide open acceptance. They are miraculous, and I am entirely small in a universe that could bring their existence into being.

This came to me, sitting on the floor of the front hall at my sister's, as my younger one - the little star - used a pair of electric mixer beaters to teach himself drums. While doing a little dance. And learning to sing. I was helpoing and encouraging... and then I just stopped... as I said, dumbstruck. I am humbled in the presence of a two year old.

The older one (MANU, The Most Adorable Nephew in the Universe) had some sort of stomach bug, and nearly missed out on Turducken #2 (#1 was last year), but since he seemed to keep down soup, it seemed mean to tempt him with a full table. The Little Star, meanwhile, was content with sweet potatoes and a little chicken... but he got mad when he saw that everyone else's sweet potato dish had marshmallows (he's developed an intolerance to eggs). That, and the brussel sprouts were his enemy.

Some years I worry about the balance of things - we've gone way overboard in food, some years there's the uncomfortable silences - but this year we got the balance right. The food was good... but it wasn't all about the food. The family gathering was enjoyable, never uncomfortable. And the conversation was political at times, childlike at times, but always free and easy and relaxed.

But in the end, my day and evening were about two awesome little boys, in all their wondrous youth.  I am one lucky Uncle. And that's way more better than Turducken and pie.

No Thanks (To You, Or To Me)

This Thanksgiving seems to have unleashed a particularly strong strain of sincere, slightly maudlin sentiments along the lines of "what I'm thankful for" meant, I think, to be a reminder that we have, you know, so much to hang onto in these tough times. You know... let's be thankful for family, our health, our great golden retriever, Barky... and on and on.

All due respect to Mom and Apple Pie, but I think no one should be allowed to get off so easy.

As nice as it is to step back and take a moment to be grateful for, you know, all we have, it's also, you know, not really what Thanksgiving is, as a national holiday. Thanksgiving is, really, a story of survival, about being thankful not for our individual good fortune, but for the power of a community to hang together through incredible adversity and manage something quite so basic as to live and see another year.

It's the kind of desperation that makes stuff like being thankful for that new Kindle we just got (Karen Tumulty, via twitter) seem a bit, well, shallow.

I don't want to seem sour or (too) churlish, but I feel like as a nation we really need to be shaken out of especially self interested, self satisfied complacencies just now. More than ever, it seems, we need a reminder that this isn't about just us, or our immediate circles of friends and family. And part of that, I think, is someone saying, enough with the "thanks for all I still have." Try and think about the people who don't.

This year, more people are unemployed than in the past 25 years (among black men, unemployment is the worst since the Great Depression). People are still losing their homes, their jobs, wondering how they will put food on the table and care for their kids. We are losing more people in Afghanistan than ever, with the likelihood of sending yet more troops there. This isn't about you, or me, or all that we have.

It's insidious, the way we have moved from seeing something as simple as a day to be reminded of the struggle that came with settling in a new land has become an easy, self-satisfied moment of personal gratification. So much of what we have lost - our sense of community, our sense of valuing not what we have, but what we give away to others - hasn't been taken from us... it's been set aside, made easy by celebrating ourselves first, and worrying about others less. And less. And less.

Today, my boss will spend her day working in a soup kitchen giving food to others, as she has for many years. I am humbled by the simplicity of the act, by the fact that she does it, by herself, just because she feels she should. It is the highlight of her day. Her act reminds me that I don't do nearly enough, and makes me wonder why I don't do more.

And yes, today I will be grateful to spend time with my nephews, to be with my family, to share in a wonderful meal. I'm thankful that we have survived another year, and have the chance to go on, and do more. But this isn't a day for cheap, easy sentiment; or to just eat without abandon. We've survived... but we won't survive a whole lot longer if we don't figure out how to think less about ourselves, think more about others, and do something for people who need help. Those are the values, and the America, I'd like to be thankful for. And proud of. And we're so not there... no thanks to me. Or to us.

Time To Hit The Road To Dreamland...

Over time, I find myself becoming a big proponent of naps. An hour here, a couple of hours there... lying down and closing one's eyes, as it turns out, allows one to return to the day, revived and rather refreshed.

I rediscovered the nap somewhere in my thirties - I was never a big fan of the "disco nap", gay culture's notion of an early evening snooze prior to going out. It never felt organic, and too close to actual bedtime (especially in New York, where gay nightlife, still, really kicks off around 1 in the morning). But the afternoon nap, on a day off, did wonders for evening plans like dinner and a movie. It reset the day, and got the night off to a good start.

With age, and wisdom, I feel closer to being able to really listen to my body, to take the nap when it's needed, even if it interrupts other plans (like blogging, as it did for five days). Without naps, my early mornings are next to impossible, and I would be rendered unfit for human contact.

So today has been a take it easy day - a late breakfast with J, a blog post on music, time for a nap, and then a terip dwontown for lunch and an exploration of the Walters Art Gallery, truly Baltimore's finest moment in art and culture; it's thanks to the summer film series at the Walters in my Junior High years that I learned to love classic films, and to want to be a film critic like Pauline Kael.

Now J is napping, and I have a moment to blog before the evening commences. No dancing tonight, maybe one of those movies I like so much - since my contact lens died between yesterday and this morning, and I am now a weboy in glasses, not my favorite look. Rest, relaxation, the chance to pursue my passions for writing and culture... life is good, at times like this. As good as a lively daydream. Time to hit the road.

 

 

You Make The Sun Shine Brighter Than Doris Day

Returning to writing happens in its own time; I've known that for more than the three years of blogging time I've had, but it still surprises me.

I can't really say what was holding me up - the 8 days of early rising, the stresses of working hard each day in varying circumstances (literally one day to the next in a different setting), or a certain "why do I bother" malaise that settled in after about day 4. Whatever the case, shaking off the "writing blues" was not as simple as finishing work yesterday and starting up again; I needed some more down time, and, apparently, some actual physical shaking to to find myself once more.

I'm here in Baltimore, once again, visiting my pal J, the Betty to my Joan, my best friend, the inspired photographer and poet. The trip, as these things are, was mainly spur of the moment, but included plans to go dancing last night. We're older now, J and I, but dancing was part of our intial bond and our pride and joy... and the dance floor, still, is our favorite common ground. 

Going out dancing, these days, is a highly variable experience; we're older, and the body can't do what it used to... which can be a frustration all its own. Then there's the question of finding the right room, the right music, and a deejay who knows what to do. Between us, J and I find the most common ground in our past - music from our misspent youth, the hight point of eighties and nineties dance music, with a little seventies thrown in. But the rarity of our evenings and the mix of elements means the stars rarely align.

Last night, though, they did, spectacularly. On our original dance floor, J and I found a sustained mix of the "oldies", a fun crowd, and an ace mixer. Sure the hits were, as J says, "Cliche!", but a good time was nonetheless had by all. From "Knock on Wood" to "You Spin Me Ropund (Like A Record)" in its original monstrous mix, to "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" leading right into "Mickey" -  we're still catching our breath over that one! - a good time was had by all.

It was the kind of night where you'd (here's where J insists I have the pronoun wrong), where I'd stay on the dance floor even if the song was "Dancing On The Ceiling." And I did. It was also the night for discovering that we were not alone in our continued fondness for

... or Jessie, or Jessie's friend Rick. It's so hard to choose.

Stumbling out into the cold Baltimore night - because, it turns out, J and I have never agreed on "Love Shack" like I thought we did (me, brilliant... him, nice in spots but overplayed as badly as "I Will Survive") - we were happy, sore, joyous... and free. Like the wild children of our youth. Like those twenty-somethings we'd once been, living in oblivion, heedless of the time, our daytime selves, our worldly concerns. Back when the recovery time was shorter and no one said "I have to be up at 5." And, in that moment, whatever it was holding me back... simply melted away. It's time to write, to get back to doing the things that bring me joy. All thanks to the dance floor and my friend, who does, still, put the boom boom into my day.

 

 

And Then We'll Do It Again... 8 Days A Week

I'm on Day 4 of an 8 day Starbucks run, and they're all opening shifts, a real overload of a reasonably good thing. I'm putting this up so that hopefully some people will understand the light, erratic posting.

Almost any worker, certainly almost every Starbuckian, will tell you 8 days with no break is too much. Life as a Starbucks server, never mind a Shift Supervisor,is a real energy drain, and most people need thge time to rest and recover. Hence the reason why so many like Starbucks work as a part time option - even when the economic result isn't necessarily all you'd want it to be.

These "be grateful you have a job" times really do put the remaining workers to the test - what we can put up with, what we're willing to endure, and what's beyond our limits. I'm working in two stores, both with generous, sensitive managers who are willing to be especially creative and flexible in solving staffing challenges. As with so much, I'm pretty lucky... and I can't imagine having to put up with the impossible trade-offs others have to make, choices that - for a woman with children, for instance - can seem pretty bad, all the way around.

I've been surprised, over and over, to discover that I realy do like what I'm doing, that I'm enjoying life at the moment, and that, at times, the balancing act really does work properly and I can write as I like, while fulfilling my basic earning needs at a job that satisfies me. I like (most of) my customers, and I've learned a lot about good coffee. At 4:30 in the morning on the fourth day, though, all of that can be hard to see. And mostly... I'd like a chance to nap. And hopefully, some time this afternoon... I'll get that, and a chance to write some more.

When Autumn Leaves Start To Fall...

I'd love to say I got tons of work done, but my days off were pretty much what I thought they'd be - a lot of resting relaxing and recuperating away from the online grind (and I have the 900 backed up e-mails to show for it).

I also raked a lot of leaves.

Leaf raking is a chore, no doubt about it; but after a (dull) morning of political talk and catching up on my new obssession (USA's White Collar), I was ready for manual labor and a new project: clearing a plot to expand our garden and plant bulbs.

I'm no plant person... but gardens of colorful flowers... I can do. And I want to do. And that makes the leaves a necessary, not altogether unpleasant, step along the way.

Making the piles turned out to be surprisingly speedy and easy... it's the bagging, I realized that's the headache. When you get to bag 4, and still everything seems chaotic and undone... it's hard to see the endpoint. But I just kept bagging away, and reducing the piles one by one.

In the end, six bags total, it was worth it: the spot is identified, and the trip to get the bulbs, and the dirt, is next on my list. And without the ground cover, the beauty of our wild, untamed, fading garden as it moves from fall to winter is actually kind of striking. Fall's colors - the riches of gold and bronze and red - look especially nice against the expanse of uncovered lawn, itself dying away.

I don't love fall - or the fading light now that we've fallen back in time - because it symbolizes that moment when leaves fade, and fall and the cycle of death to rebirth moves to... well, death. I believe in love and life and light... and that's why "endless summer", or maybe "eternal spring,"  I think, may be the season I want most. But I like seasons, and the change of seasons... living in the Sun Belt, always warm, never a cold day or enough rain or the thrill of first snow... that just feels wrong. Always has.

Six bags, and a lovely back yard later, the autumn leaves continue to fall, the light fades, the days grow shorter and colder and the year moves to its conclusion. And as I resume my writer's journey, and plan a garden for next spring... it's nice to have the distractions of the rest of life, for a moment, to remind me - remind you and all of us - that we are more than our politics, our disputes, our national and world problems. And what we can do, when it seems like too much, is rest, recover... and rake. It's not the worst way to pass the time.

Love Is A Wonderful Thing

It was one of those parties no one really wanted to see end, the one where you don't notice that your feet hurt, or your bra is digging in, or you're running on exhaustion... at least until you get back to your room.

I don't think I've seen Red quite so glowing, floating through the scene armed with the widest smile ever. There's nothing like my redheaded pal when she's happy, but this was waves of happiness emanating outward in all directions, eliminating everything in its path. And that, I realized, was a room filled with love.

Even the usual wedding stresses seemed to vanish - in part because Red, as she does, found a bunch of professionals and simply expected everyone to be on their game - and there was nothing, no cross moment, no moment of high stress, no fainting in the middle of the vows. Planning, clearly is key... as is a vision of what one has in mind.

It was a wedding in the best sense - a real reflection of the couple getting married, all the things they wanted, and pretty much nothing they didn't. It was a big sprawling blended family, traditional in some respects, and completely unbound by tradition in others. I'm not sure I've seen a wedding where the bride dirty danced to Usher one moment, or used Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" for a chaste, romantic slow dance. But that's my Red... and she's unstoppable. And undeniable.

In the end, for me, the whole experience will always be slightly bittersweet; there was too much personal drama in my own life for me to really relax until the festivities began, and the world of bridesmaids - a chance to see the theater of wedding from behind the curtain - wasn't as seamless and fun as I would have liked. Expectations, of course, are everything, and I probably started from a position of dreaming too big. But nothing, really, can overcome the force of a love so strong, the moment when love is all around... and I'm happy to let love rule. Love is a wonderful thing, indeed. Here's to the happy couple, and may they keep spreading joy.