"Almost cut my hair; it happened just the other day. It was getting kind of long. I could have said it was in my way. But I didn't... and I wonder why I feel like letting my freak flag fly. I feel like I owe it to someone." -- Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young
I have ridiculously thick, riotously curly hair -- the kind of hair that a person can lose a hand in. When it's cooperating, it flows over my shoulders and halfway down my back in loose, glossy ringlets. When it's not cooperating, my head is covered in a vaguely triangular cloud of brown.
For the last few months, my hair has been more cooperative than usual thanks to Living Proof frizz products -- and as a result, I praise them to anyone who will listen. Developed by a team of biomedical engineers, they contain a novel polymer that seals the hair shaft against moisture better than silicone does. I don't have fierce loyalty to many beauty products (cough except for Tarte Flush, Too Faced Lip Injection Extreme, Hope in a Jar, and Kiehl's leave-in conditioner cough), but Living Proof's curl-making cream is an essential part of my daily routine. I've been able to ditch my arsenal of serums and treatments as a result of it; I get out of the shower, comb in my leave-in conditioner, smooth on a little frizz, and let my hair air-dry. Et voila.
The stuff works miracles, but having great hair in mid-summer in New York City in the rain needs more than a miracle. Thus, while my curls looked okay yesterday, they didn't look as good as usual.
I arrived early for an 8PM dinner reservation, so I killed some time by wandering around SoHo. I browsed through Michael Kors, J. Crew, Banana, Victoria's Secret, then eventually found my way to Sephora. Directly inside the front doors stood an enormous display of Living Proof products, and I approached the pyramids of bottles to see if they were offering anything new.
Almost immediately, a salesperson swooped down on me. "This is a fantastic new line, and you have the perfect hair for it! It will tame your flyaways and frizz, define your curls, give you shine..."
I let the guy ramble on for a few minutes, then when he paused, I gave him my most brilliant smile. "I actually use these products. I'm wearing that one right now."
"Oh," he said after a moment's pause. "Sorry?"
I thanked him, left, and headed back towards the restaurant. I had a good story to tell my dinner companions.
"After years of living in the city, I assumed that if my friends and I ever got our fairytale endings, that would be the end of the story. But real life always has a twist." -- Carrie Bradshaw
The mid-summer sun shone warmly over First Avenue as my colleague and I left our building for a mid-afternoon caffeine run. A crowd was gathered just outside our doors, and after sidling to the front of it, the reason for the traffic jam became clear: despite the sun, the skies and streets were slick with pouring rain. My colleague and I glanced at each other, smirked, simultaneously pulled jewel-toned mini-umbrellas out of our bags, and continued on our way.
We were paused at the corner of our block, waiting for the light to change, when it happened. A bus sped through the yellow traffic signal, crossed in front of us at top speed, and sent a sheet of puddle water straight at us. Neither of us were quick enough to lower our umbrellas against the deluge or even jump back out of its range, so we were completely drenched by it. We're talking wet hair, dripping hems, splatter-painted dress pants, and semi-transparent blouses here.
I spat a mouthful of puddle onto the sidewalk as my colleague stared after the bus, water dripping steadily from her chin. "That's never happened to me," she said. "I've seen it happen in movies and on TV, but it's never happened to me." I concurred; the opening credits of Sex and the City flashed through my mind. The light changed and we continued on our quest for coffee, soggier and strutting slightly less than when we started out. With my luck, I thought, watch me run into Mr. Big, Aidan, Smith, or Dante while I'm drenched and disgusting.
We entered the coffee shop and, luckily, it was full of middle-aged women. My colleague placed her order with a squat, smiling lady, then she stepped aside to make room for me at the counter. I tried to catch the barista's eye, but she moved away and headed towards the shop's back room.
Six and a half feet of olive-skinned, muscular man took the barista's place at the counter. He flashed me a brilliant smile with at least one dimple, tossed back his glossy black curls, and asked for my order in a stereotypically perfect French accent. I mumbled my request for a fresh mint tea -- my 'cute guy, ignore really hard' instinct had kicked in by that point -- and I fled the scene as soon as humanly possible.
Halfway back to our building, my colleague started laughing. "We got soaked by a bus, then we went to a trendy Upper East Side coffee house and a hot French guy appeared out of thin air to take your order. I believe we just had a Carrie Bradshaw moment." I chuckled and revealed that I had been thinking along the exact same lines.
Ten minutes later, as the fabric of my pants dripped little puddles onto the carpet under my desk, I thought of all the times I've openly laughed at women for moving to New York City in an effort to become like Carrie. To be honest, though, my ten minutes in her shoes felt like time well spent.
"Though we may not know it now, things are never gonna be the same. Here on Second Avenue, I tip my old top hat to you. I hope you find somebody who will love you like I do... and our time is running out and we still have to say goodbye. Goodbye Philadelphia." -- Peter Cincotti
I have so many things going on in my life that I feel deserve blog entries of their own, but between a massively increased workload, a sorrowful goodbye, a cautious hello that turned into an angry goodbye, and an anticipated hello that never actually materialized, I'm too physically and emotionally drained to put pen to paper with any semblance of heart. I'll try though, and if any of these half-assed snippets spark my desire to write more, I'll expand upon them another day.
Oddly enough, my hellish recent existence began with the most relaxing five days I've spent in recent memory. I went upstate for Fourth of July weekend -- far enough upstate that my cell phone barely worked, internet access was nonexistent, and my pager was as good as a paperweight. For five days, I let people cook for me and clean for me, amused myself by reading, crocheting, and taking ten-mile aimless hikes through the woods, and talked nonsense until three in the morning with two of my oldest friends. I felt closer to nature and more appreciative of the beauty of life than I have in a long time.
Then I had a very long workweek. And a very long half of the next workweek. After my Nth fourteen-hour workday in a row, I went out with my cousin and had my pedicurist paint my toenails blue. (The color is called Dating a Royal, actually.) I haven't had blue toenails since I was about eight years old, and I'm not entirely sure I had them then, either.
I went to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the film version of my favorite J.K. Rowling novel, on Friday and again on Saturday. Friday's viewing was a muted early-morning affair with Rutila and Saturday's viewing was a raucous all-day spectacle with thirty of my college classmates (including Q, Charles, and Wink). To kill some of the three hours we spent waiting on line outside the IMAX theater, we patronized a farmer's market and loaded up on quick breads and fresh fruit. I bought a carton of red currants, and when I got home around midnight, I pulled a recipe out of my ass and used them to make Sunday morning breakfast.
Red Currant Mini Muffins
3/4 stick salted butter, softened 2 tbsp citrus-infused olive oil (or 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil and 1 tsp citrus zest) 1/2 cup sugar 1/4 tsp vanilla extract 1 egg + 1 egg white 1 tbsp baking powder 1 cup flour 1/2 cup confectioner's sugar 1 tbsp whole milk 1 cup red currants (or blueberries), stems removed
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Beat butter, olive oil, and sugar until fluffy, then beat in eggs and vanilla. Add baking powder and flour and mix until incorporated. Stir in red currants. Spoon into greased or lined miniature muffin trays; cups should be 3/4s full. Bake for 18 minutes or until muffin tops are browned. When muffins have cooled, remove from trays and arrange on a plate. Add milk to confectioner's sugar and stir until a thin glaze forms, adding more milk if necessary. Drizzle glaze over muffins and allow glaze to harden. Alternatively, you can dust the tops of the muffins with powdered sugar -- these are pretty tart so they'll need some sort of sugar on top.
Makes thirty miniature muffins. (This will also make a dozen regular muffins -- bake for about 25 minutes instead.)
Today, I went to New Yankee Stadium for my fourteenth Old Timers' Day, the once-a-year event where retired Yankees greats put on their old uniforms, line up on the field, reminisce about the good ol' days, then play a few innings for old time's sake. On Old Timers' Days back in the mid-1990s, my father used to point out the ballplayers of his youth -- Nettles and Gossage and Jackson and Dent -- and say to me, "Sooner than you realize, you'll be sitting here with your kid, Tino Martinez and Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera are going to be playing in the Old Timers' Game, and you're going to know how I feel right now." I scoffed for a decade, then the first two players from Yankees teams I watched as a child, Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, showed up on Old Timers' Day. Last year, David Wells, Paul O'Neill, and Tino Martinez took the field. This year, Chad Curtis, Charlie Hayes, and my precious, cherished, beloved Mike Mussina (who won 20 games for the Yankees just last year) joined the ranks of "old timers." I'm starting to realize what Dad meant more than a decade ago, though I can't pin down the emotion just yet. I have some time before Jeter and Rivera are up there, though, and I don't plan on facing my thoughts until that day comes.
"Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers." -- Draco Malfoy
Two years ago this month, my friends and I waited on line for our copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows dressed in outfits specially chosen for the occasion. One of my companions wore a cloak, Gryffindor scarf, and prefect badge while another sported an "I Heart Ron" t-shirt. My style has always been a bit more understated, though, so in honor of my favorite character, I fastened my hair back with a Slytherin necktie and wore a simple grey t-shirt with the words "Property of the Half-Blood Prince" calligraphed in scrollwork across the front.
In preparation for this week's release of the film version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I decided to dig up my old t-shirt. Problem was, I couldn't find it. Anywhere. That turned out to be an easily rectifiable problem, though.
First, I dug this old, faded, $7 H&M tank top out of my closet...
"I told you that our love would last forever, and even that the tears would end for good. I told you that we'd get through any weather. Baby, that didn't work out... but we did the best we could." -- Jamie Cullum
My musical tastes have always tended towards artists whose lyrics speak the contents of my heart. They come and go and change over the years, but one man has been a constant presence in my soul, iPod, and journal entries since I first heard his voice. His name is Jamie Cullum, and I grew to love him during the summer of 2004 when my place of employment, Barnes & Noble, played his album Twentysomething around the clock for an entire month.
From a journal entry dated 08/17/2004:
My "Currently Playing" was on the air in B&N during the entire month of July, and I never tired of listening to it each day. Jamie Cullum is an amazing British singer and pianist -- kind of a cross between Billy Joel, Bowie and Harry Connick Jr. -- and he has an unbelievably sexy voice. Too bad he looks like he's ten.
A year passed before Jamie garnered enough attention in the United States to play any shows here, and I was fortunate to see him live at Irving Plaza on his first trip to New York.
From a journal entry dated 10/12/2005, which morphed into a concert review that still appears on Jamie's official website:
I spent 2+ hours tonight standing ten feet away from Jamie Cullum the world-renowned British jazz pianist who has redefined the genre and never records a flop. He is 25 years old, looks like he's fifteen, acts like he's anywhere between five and fifty.
He crooned, he keeled, he growled and whispered and scatted and shrieked and moaned. Every note was perfect, every syllable was impeccably executed in that soulful, raspy, incredibly sexy voice that belongs only to him.
He tickled the piano keys with symphonic precision, only to bang on them with his fists a moment later. His hands would move slowly, gently, deliberately, then he'd stop and begin poking out rapid patterns of notes with two fingers. At one point he played the instrument with his feet and his forehead. Then he sat on the keyboard. Then he reached inside the lid and started plucking the strings. Then he stood on the lid and took a flying leap onto the stage.
The man can go from Harry Connick Jr. to Radiohead, from a rap to a disco tune, from straight jazz to Lerner and Loewe in two seconds flat without the slightest hesitation, which isn't as simple a feat as one would imagine.
I saw Jamie live again a few months later and the mastery of his performing style remained just as impressive as when I first saw him. Between then and now, I always gravitated towards Jamie's lyrics to commemorate moments of upheaval, change, and comprehension in my life. I cut an unhealthy ex out of my life on New Year's Day on 2006 and quoted Jamie when I told my friends about it:
"If there's one thing I must do, despite my greatest fear, I'm gonna say to you what I've felt all of these years next year."
I turned to Jamie again on March 28th of 2006 to help me work through some romantic confusion:
"Who knows the answers? Who do you trust? I can't even separate love from lust."
He even provided the soundtrack for my 20th birthday:
"Love ain't the answer, nor is work. The truth eludes me so much it hurts. But I'm still having fun and I guess that's the key. I'm a twentysomething and I'll keep being me.
I had the privilege of seeing Jamie Cullum perform live for a third time last weekend. (Many thanks to Rutila!) His music has grown more pensive lately -- his new album contains songs about self-reliance and longing and reflection, which shows that Jamie and I seem to have matured along the same lines. However, though "If I Ruled The World" and "Gran Torino" touched me, it was an old song -- the first Jamie Cullum song I ever heard back when I was seventeen years old -- whose newfound relevance to my life left me dumbstruck. The Quote of the Day borrows from it, and it can be heard in full below.
"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me... and I'm feelin' good." -- Anthony Newley
Praise of the mundane will have to wait a while, since my past two weeks have been extraordinarily life-changing. Last Wednesday was my one-year anniversary at my job, and the following day, I left for my first-ever business trip. This was no run-of-the-mill jaunt, either: I got to spend six days at the largest cancer conference in the United States.
"For now there's life. For now there's love. For now there's work. For now there's happiness. For now there's comfort. For now there's friendship." -- from Avenue Q
Six other study coordinators were also selected to represent our department at the conference. We took turns driving, attended each other's poster sessions, stayed up until three in the morning confiding in each other, made each other breakfast, ironed each other's suits, sunscreened each other's backs, shared straws and clothing and bathrooms and beds, flirted and fought and compromised and laughed and took care of each other. Strangers often marked us as friends, relatives, or married couples... and we never made a correction or clarification.
"Anti-angiogenesis really works in TCC!!!!!" -- one of the presenting MDs
On the last day of the conference, I sat alone in the back of the biggest lecture hall I've ever seen and listened to three of our best discuss where our field is headed. A stupid grin was plastered on my face the entire time; two of the three speakers discussed my team's work as pivotal to the future of cancer care. My commute, my long hours, my diminishing knowledge of engineering... all of it became blindingly insignificant when I realized that the data flashing across the room's three projector screens was collected and abstracted by my hands. "I'm finding who I am! And for the first time, I have no doubts! Yes, for the first time, I understand!" -- Phil Collins
The day before the lectures, I stood in the exhibition hall for four hours. Six feet to my right sat an MD from my team and between us stretched a poster representing her brainchild and my data. Doctors, scientists, statisticians, and pharmacists asked me dozens of probing questions about our work... and I was able to answer them, converse with them, share laughs and oncologic commentary and moments of enthusiasm with them. I've amassed more knowledge about this stuff over the past year than I ever thought possible, and when asked to put that knowledge to the test in front of the toughest crowd imaginable, I was able to deliver. Once my initial nervousness subsided, I began to operate with a confidence so genuine that, one week later, people can still see it in my eyes.
"Time can never mend the careless whispers of a good friend. To the heart and mind, ignorance is kind. There's no comfort in the truth." -- Wham!
A long time ago, I wrote about the regulars, the people I encounter every single day on my commute. I've never mentioned Metro Man until now, though; he's almost always the first person I greet every morning, and he certainly deserves a blog entry of his own.
Metro Man wears an orange jacket, he stands at the foot of the staircase I use to ascend to the N train, and he hands out free copies of Metro newspaper. Every morning, he and I have the exact same conversation:
Me: Good morning. Him: Good morning lady. [tries to hand me a newspaper] Me: No thank you. Him: [mutters something unintelligible]
Metro Man's mumbles never sound the same twice; hell, they never sounded like anything. For months on end, I listened very intently to Metro Man to try and determine what the hell the guy was saying to me. I'm no stranger to hopeless causes, though, and this certainly qualified as one.
I gave up trying to comprehend Metro Man's speech a long time ago, but I kept my optimism. Instead of trying to understand the guy, I've turned his rambling into my very own private joke. I have zero idea what on Earth he's actually trying to say, so in my mind, that gives me license to invent my own interpretation.
As a result, Metro Man takes a few moments out of his day to try and tell me the secrets of the universe. Last month, he named Kennedy's assassin, the location of Bigfoot, and what's stored at Area 51. A week ago today, he whispered the location of Jimmy Hoffa and what happened to the dinosaurs. Yesterday, he taught me how to achieve perpetual motion. And today, he told me I looked really pretty in my summer dress.
"Nothing you have said is revelation. Take my blues as read! My consolation: finding out that I'm my one true obligation." -- Tim Rice
I don't work on Fridays, and since I'm lucky enough to have a few friends who share the same fortunate employment situation, we were able to spend the entire day lazing around midtown. After stalking an actor friend at his place of business having lunch at Ruby Tuesday's, discussing the men in our lives, and planning a camping trip or three, we caught a showing of Star Trek in IMAX.
The film is new, it's different, it screws canon to high heaven, it completely rewrites Star Trek history... and I loved every minute of it. The new cast kicked ass, the new Enterprise is stunning, Eric Bana made the sexiest villain since Khan, and the writers were able to include Leonard Nimoy in the film without campiness or contrivances. (Not to mention that I finally see why Rutila has loved Zachary Quinto for so long... he's talented, he's insanely hot, and his scenes with Zoe Saldana were way more intriguing than I thought they would be.)
We took a long walk after the film, went shopping for sheet music, and ended up meeting my coworkers at Butterfield 8. I had a few glasses of whiskey and a few laughs, scared off a few cocky bankers with the phrase "biomedical engineering," and handed my phone number to a couple of un-cocky scientists who didn't frighten so easily. I argued with a man who claimed that my straight hair and oversized sunglasses made me look exactly like Megan Fox. I watched the Yankees game, cheered and yelled and booed appropriately. I stood chest-to-chest with one of my colleagues -- a Twins fan -- as we screamed in each other's faces about whether or not Mariano Rivera has played his whole career for the Bombers. (I was right, of course; Mo is indeed homegrown.) Five of us went to Taj after that, then we went to a dive bar across the street after we were thrown out of Taj for wearing sandals, then we went to another dive bar half a mile away to sing bad karaoke. I hailed a cab on Park Avenue South a little after one in the morning, and while stuck in traffic, I watched a man throw a lit cigarette into a trashcan. He panicked as the contents caught fire and ran away as half a block's worth of garbage began to blaze. I could hear the sirens in the distance as my cab approached the Queensborough Bridge.
On my ride home, I thought about my incredibly full day and night -- the people, the moments, and, of course, Star Trek. And despite everything that happened over the course of the day, only two things really stuck out in my head: my lunchtime conversation and my in-your-face Mariano Rivera argument. The rest of the events and the individuals were interesting in their own right, but they were mentally expendable. To use a Star Trek analogy, they were my Redshirts -- or to borrow the term popularized by Family Guy, they were my Ensign Rickies.
For those unfamiliar with Trek lore, it's a fact of life that, on every away mission, the random dude in the red shirt always bites the dust first... and no one ever seems to care. It happened in the original series, it happens in the sequels, it happens in the old movies, and it happens in the new movie. And more and more nowadays, I'm starting to recognize Ensign Rickies in my own life -- people who serve a purpose at the moment, but if they were to encounter Nomad, the vampire cloud, or the orbital platform and vanish, I wouldn't be too devastated.
The complication lies in separating the truly expendable from the diamonds in the rough -- after all, Scotty wears a red shirt too. Thus, on Friday night, I made a conscious effort to fight the urge to only focus on the Spocks and McCoys of my day and take notice of the anonymous ensigns too, regardless of how little interest I initially showed in them. I thought things through, followed-up... and was pleasantly surprised. Twice.
"Then the night turned cold, colder than the moon. The stars were white as bones. The stadium was old -- older than the screams, older than the teams. There were three men down and the season lost and the tarpaulin was rolled upon the winter frost." -- Paul Simon
Last Saturday afternoon, I paid my first visit to the new ballpark where the New York Yankees play their home games. I can't verbally call it (and won't refer to it in print as) "Yankee Stadium," which should give you an idea of how I feel about the place.
That sounds a little cruel. The Yankees' new home is a beautiful -- no, downright stunning -- ballpark. Photos of Yankees legends are plastered everywhere, most notably in the Great Hall (where soaring thirty-foot high banners portray the greats in black-and-white on one side and color on the other). The fair portions of the field are the same dimesions, even down to the short porch in right. The exterior is resplendent with gold leaf and shining white limestone and cathedral windows and looks like Yankee Stadium did before its 1975 renovation. The facade crowns the seats instead of the scoreboard and Monument Park has been restored to center field, just as they looked in 1923. Most of the dirt was carted over from across the street, so today's Yankees technically play on the same soil that Ruth and Gehrig and DiMaggio and Mantle did. The new ballpark is perfect, but nevertheless, it didn't feel right. I spent three hours sitting in a seat that's technically mine but felt nothing like my beloved Section 9, surrounded by forty thousand strong while a majestic deserted ballpark quietly rotted a few hundred feet away. I cheered and chanted and enjoyed the game, but I was always acutely aware that Yankee Stadium is supposed to sit on the opposite side of 161st Street.
The architects and designers of the new stadium tried VERY hard to pay homage to the history of the Yankees, but at best it all seems a bit cartoonish and at worst it feels like a slap in the face. To illustrate the former, consider that the foul territory has been cut in half to bring expensive seats closer to the diamond, the cathedral-esque exterior hides a shopping concourse, the gleaming white facade hangs over "cheap seats" that have been halved in quantity, and Monument Park is hidden under a corporate-branded sports bar.
I'll use a longer example to illustrate that slap in the face. When Thurman Munson, the famed catcher and former captain of the Yankees, died halfway through the 1979 season, none of his teammates could bring themselves to clean out and reassign his locker. It sat in the clubhouse untouched, looking exactly as it had the last time Munson hung up his jersey, for the remainder of that season... and the season after that and the season after that. For the next thirty years, Munson's locker was only disturbed for cleaning; the clubhouse was renovated around it, lockers were assigned and deserted and reassigned without heed to it, and subsequent Yankees captains were relocated to the locker next to Munson's. It was a private tribute made and maintained by those who shared a special bond with Munson, whether by friendship or by the ties of pinstripes. But when the Yankees moved across the street after the 2008 season, Munson's locker had to be moved as well.
The current captain of the Yankees dresses next to an empty locker before every home game, but it's not Munson's. The space adjacent to Derek Jeter's locker stands empty as a tribute to all lost legends... while Munson's locker stands upstairs in a museum, encased in glass, visible to fifty thousand people a day.
It's a perfect microcosm of everything that's wrong with the stadium itself. MyYankee Stadium, with its rickety frame and uncomfortable seats and peeling paint and quirks and nuances and undeniable baseball magic, has been replaced with a Stepford Wife fascimile and put on display for the world to gawk at. The Yankee Stadium I called home may not have had cathedral windows, but I worshipped there for fifteen years, poured hundreds of prayers into those walls, and emerged with just as many secrets and divine inclinations.
I'll get used to it eventually. I'll keep going to the games, and as my time spent in section 211 starts to approach my time spent in Section 9, I'll start to build a new set of memories to cherish and a new set of prayers to live by. But last Saturday, for the first time in my life, I sat in Yankee Stadium and felt homeless.
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