cut and run

etiquette

2005-10-15T07:41:00.000-07:00

What does one write in a card to an ex-boyfriend who has recently attempted to commit suicide?

Three weeks ago I found out, via email, that my very first boyfriend, the person who rocked my world at the ripe age of 15 and 16, had tried to commit suicide. For the past three weeks he has been in critical condition, in a semi-comatose state. This morning, after making a check-in call to his hospital, I learned that he is now in “good shape” and, as much as I can surmise, on the road to recovery.

I have heard suicide referred to as “the ultimate act of selfishness”. I beg to differ. Another way to look at it is that if a person has been so out of their head miserable for so long, then perhaps the rest of us (who are in a “normal” mental state) just cannot fathom the hell in which that person has been living. And, perhaps those who think it a selfish act are themselves being selfish by viewing it through the lens of their own suffering; by judging the action by the impact it has taken on them.

I bring up the idea of selfishness because that is exactly the descriptor that could be used in regards to my own reactions about his suicide attempt. Yes, I cried for him and for what he had done. I cried for the fact that he himself would, in a healthier state of mind, think it such a stupid thing to do. I cried because if he did die, it would be such an utter waste.

But sure enough, when I heard the news about him, the steady stream of thoughts that came to my head, objectively, had more to do with me than they did with him. I thought about whether my actions, despite the fact that we were together 12 years ago, as teenagers, had any role in the misery he must have felt for god knows how long. The audacity, one side of my brain told me--- how self-important are you? I also thought about what I could and would have done differently and if it would have mattered.

So now that we are past the introspection and sadness, let’s get back to the practical part: what DOES one write in a “get better” note to a friend recovering from a suicide attempt? “Get better soon”? “Glad you are still here”? Life’s pretty ok after all”? Every option seems somehow grotesque and completely wrong.

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So now, I am finally finishing this blog. My ex-b has been released from the hospital and in recovery. I did send him flowers, with a simple note, and we have responded via email. He is doing well and I have realized, consciously, that there isn’t any sort of etiquette when it comes to these situations. There can’t be when emotions run so high. It is enough that you are there.

The right mix

2005-10-15T07:17:00.000-07:00

I am someone who has had the good fortune of never really having to deal with tragedy directly. And, I have done my best to avoid any sort of real drama in my day-to-day life to the extent that it is possible (note content of prior blog entries). I tend to approach life as if I were a machine with the goal of reaching fine tuned efficiency in my motions and momentum forward. With fluidity and efficiency being my goal, I tend to try to fit in as much as possible, of what I want to fit in, and distractions from that direction are seen as taking away from the direction I want to be going. I don’t like the way that sounds, and I don’t like the kind of person who would think and live that way, but I do like myself and I know that to an extent, my brain does work that way. It is the way I am. For whatever reasons.

But I have, finally, learned along the way that sometimes the distractions are the best part of life and more often than not, they are the experiences that truly bring enrichment. Because they knock you out of your world and give you a new perspective on it. I have finally realized that I have not failed or let myself down if I do not end up accomplishing all that I set out to do or if my path changes direction now and again. And I see that there can be as much value in not doing as much as there is in doing.

I think that finding the right balance between doing what comes naturally to you, in the life and routine you have created for yourself, and exploring new ways of living is one of the keys to getting it right; whatever right is. Not to be a cheese, who lives with machine-like efficiency, but I just got a forward from my aunt with quotes from the Dalai Lama and one of them struck me: open arms to change but don’t let go of your values.

F@%K!

2005-08-01T13:41:00.000-07:00

I went running the other morning and left my ipod behind. I was looking forward to running sans music, as I used to do in my more spartan younger year. Also, the touch wheel (is that its real name?) on my ipod is currently not responding to my touch. I am therefore unable to listen to any other music beyond the 12-15 songs within the last playlist to which I opted to listen before the touch wheel went to pot. And while I am usually a huge advocate of heinously overplaying music, even I have my limits.

In the end, I am glad that on this particular day I chose not to listen to my latest greats just one more time, because man oh man- what an open air treat my ears had in store for them!

I was about halfway around the loop in Prospect Park, with Grand Army Plaza being my entrance point. It was a pleasant, albeit humid, morning; the sun was out and the birds were chirping and the park was luscious, green, and ripe with running activity. All of a sudden, out of the blue and green there came a vulgar, hate-filled shriek: “Yeah, why don’t you go F@%K yourself!!!”

With saucer eyes and mouth agape I turned to see what the ruckus was all about. And what I saw was hilarious--- a brown Chevy Lebaron suddenly appeared to my right, cruising uphill in the farthest car lane. Its windows were rolled shut. Behind the car was a male biker trailing close behind. The biker used his right hand for handlebar support and the left hand (and this is where it gets precious) he reserved for use towards violently shaking his upturned middle finger at the car up ahead.

F@%King fascinating.

the quickest blog i've cut thus far...

2005-07-17T17:01:00.000-07:00

I inadvertently dropped my cell phone into a cup of beer during a party over the holidays. I remember watching the scene play out in slow motion as my cell phone tumbled out of my hand and into one of what seemed like an endless array of half empty cups of alcohol, which were surrounding the countertop over which I was hovering as I stuffed leftover pieces of carved meat into my ravenous mouth.

After that episode, my phone was beer logged and didn’t work for a couple of days and that, quite frankly, blew. But then my phone miraculously reincarnated itself. And now it is only on humid and rainy days that my phone acts up--- kind of like those people with knees that are negatively affected by the rain. On those days (this day being one of them), the phone is workable but the screen becomes digitized so that it isn’t obvious who is calling me when it rings. I thought of getting a new phone, but then I realized that I kind of like this new element of surprise.

At a time in which technology allows us an ever greater amount of control over whom and what we let into our own personal worlds, most people refuse to pick up their cells if they ring but the number isn’t recognizable. But whatever happened to social spontaneity? Remember when we used to have real home phones that didn’t display numbers and we picked up the phone even though we didn’t know who it was that was calling us? Cell phones make things a lot more convenient, but they also allow us to hide within our own little protective bubbles, for better or for worse. Perhaps there is value in being caught off guard now and again, even if it means that our lives become a little less fluid and that we are forced to deal with people and situations from which we’d rather shy away; sometimes we have to face our own demons.

the heat has gone to my head

2005-06-29T20:07:00.000-07:00

I’ve recently had cause to stop, pause, and reflect on the fact that an entire year has passed, no slipped, by without my even realizing it. I specifically remember it being last summer. That frame of time was followed, in my recollection at least, by a very cold, drunken, and hyper-extended holiday period. Then all of a sudden--- poof--- there I was this morning, standing in a sweltering inferno of a subway station thinking that it would be more comfortable to set my skin on fire than to stand one minute more waiting for the F train. Hot damn--- another summer in the city is somehow upon us.

I didn’t immediately ponder all the wonderful, terrible, unique, interesting, engaging, disappointing, happy, and sad moments that I have probably experienced, without even realizing it, each and every day of this entire year that has suddenly passed; moments that one might argue make up life itself, and make it worth living. No, I thought about how far I had come this past year, and in some ways not so far at all, specifically in the way of love and work, and in that order.

I realized that we are taught that years are like Lego blocks, and as each one passes, that we should build upon the previous block of time, moving in a linear fashion onwards and upwards until we ultimately create the Lego land of our dreams; one that is even better than the one we wanted, but perhaps never got, for Christmas. We are also given a set of instructions, which dictate that we can do whatever it is we want within each of our own Lego lands, but that there should be four big constructs on which we focus our architectural energies: work, love, family, and home. We are told that it is these four constructs, like a four-square meal, that will provide us the necessary framework for sustaining personal growth, development and hopefully, happiness.

The Big Four are comforting in a lot of ways--- they act as cultural barometers, established to help us roughly gage our own personal levels of progress. But they are also very limiting--- and assumptive. Life isn’t always linear and as my mom always says, "it happens in cycles". Though I fear sounding a little too…shall I say, “Burning Man”…I am realizing that sometimes you have to tear down some walls, even start from scratch, before you can make steps forward; that with progression comes regression, and that this back-and-forth motion can even be healthy--- a sort of wetting of the feet.

But back to my initial realization on the fact that quite simply, time passes us by all too quickly and that sometimes you can look back and feel like you have no major, or even minor, blocks to show for yourself; that a few too many areas within your own little Lego land don’t even have a spare plank of wood to help mark their presence. My mom is a wise woman and another one of her favorite sayings is that, “you might expect to have it all, but don’t expect to have it all at the same time.” Perhaps this, and the knowledge that no two Lego lands shall be alike, is another comforting life guidepost to keep in mind.

tiny bird

2005-05-20T14:53:00.000-07:00

I generally don’t like it when it rains. Yeah, sure, it’s great for the green stuff and it legitimizes staying in your pajamas and on the couch for long stretches of time. But I don’t like staying on the couch for long stretches of time. While acknowledging that this might be abnormal, I think that most people, aside from those bastard freaks who prefer cold weather to hot and salty foods over sweet, would agree that rainy days generally blow.

First of all, they are depressing. I don’t know why --- something about lack of sun inhibiting vitamin D production (just a guess) --- but I do know that they are especially depressing when you are a Brooklyn-NYC commuter heading into work on the F train on a Friday morning. My tiny, wretched, $5 umbrella dripped water all over the leg of one of my fellow subway riders; that made me feel badly.

In fact, just looking at my umbrella makes me feel badly--- it looks like a small, frail black bird with a broken stick leg. Umbrellas are horrible in general. I always feel like I am going to cause someone’s eye to get poked out when I use one, especially when trying to maneuver through the cramped streets of NYC.

Becky said that her friend David only uses those big transparent umbrellas that are dome-shaped. These umbrellas kind of coat your body and better protect your top half from the rain. They also allow you to see through them, minimizing the chances that you will eye-stab a fellow pedestrian. The downside of this umbrella model being that you look like a big wanker when you use one. But, function must trump fashion when it comes to rain protection. Or must it? I mean, there must be an umbrella-maker out there who is cut from a bigger, more grandiose cloth--- an umbrella maker with a greater vision. There must be an umbrella maker who can see beyond pretty colors and designs to create a modern umbrella that is hot to look at and highly-functional as well. But, perhaps he/she is plotting an even bigger breakthrough in the umbrella market. There could be mood-elevating umbrellas on the way! Tanning booth umbrellas! Umbrella jump suits! Umbrellas with rear view mirrors! Umbrellas with motion sensors! The possibilities are quite simply endless.

love train

2005-05-06T06:49:00.000-07:00

Through several reputable sources, with New York magazine and Becky both being high on the list, I have learned that the F subway line has been officially dubbed the “love train”. And apparently, it is the first car of the F train in particular that serves as a hotbed of lust and love connections for single-but-looking NYC commuters.

I have traveled the F train many a time and after hearing the lore, have even boarded the first car, with a gleam in my eye, hoping to witness a make out scene akin to that of a frat house after hours party. But no luck- I’ve never run into anything close; not even someone macking (is that how to spell?) on someone else. The closest I’ve come to seeing F train love happened this morning, when I had the good fortune of being seated across from a new, in-train advertising campaign for Bud Light. It’s really provocative work, featuring ethnically ambiguous young adults in sexually-charged poses centered around various Bud Light bottles (e.g. women stroking enormous stand alone Bud Light bottle while man next to her holds second, smaller but erect, bottle and looks on). All of this goodness against an airbrushed blue background with sliver of moon, meant to capture the essence of the Bud Light logo, which lights up the characters’ world.

let there be love

2005-05-02T12:14:00.000-07:00

New York is a concentrated city and whether you are on the subway or in the street, sometimes it’s hard not to overhear conversations being had around you. More often than not, the topic is “relationships”, with various personal anecdotes teetering around this fulcrum point.

That's a realization that came to me a few weeks back. I was in Prospect Park at the time and jogging uphill, fittingly, right before the turnoff at Grand Army Plaza. I passed a couple of women walkers who were thoroughly entrenched in discussion about an email correspondence with a male friend (“so, if he signed it “best”, does that mean that he’s trying to keep me at arm’s length?”). I instantaneously rolled my eyes but then caught myself, realizing that their conversation sounded a hell of a lot like too many that I have had with my own friends. I am an over-analyzer to the core, as are a lot of women and perhaps, a lot of men as well. There seems to be no sport more enjoyable, more inherently alluring, than over-analyzing interactions between members of the opposite sex, whether they be face-to-face, on the phone, or online.

I got to thinking that perhaps these days girls and guys are doing too much talking, too much thinking, and not enough doing. At that point I had just moved to Brooklyn and didn’t know any better. After being here for about a month, I have come to realize that there are many happy couples in the world, and they have all congregated in this particular borough, with plans to procreate.

smoke and mirrors

2005-04-14T06:07:00.000-07:00

I got into work a bit early this morning and the hallways are still very quiet. I can hear the fellow two doors down from me interviewing a young female, who is probably about to be a college grad, for a position at the agency. He just asked her to talk about any trends that she might have recently noticed, no doubt in an attempt to identify whether she is a person who is outer-aware and curious. This came after he asked her to name some ads that she liked and disliked. I heard her ask whether she could get back to him on that.

Fair or not, that last request may hurt this girl's prospects; she is looking to work in advertising afterall. But, I feel for the girl. Interviewing blows, and hearing a live one brought me back to that scene in “Reality Bites”, in which Winona Ryder fails to land a job at that newspaper because she can’t define “irony” on the spot. At least Winona was asked for a tangible definition. The advertising industry lends itself extremely well to personal bias and subjectivity. If you don’t learn to run with your gut from the get-go you’ll kill yourself perpetually wondering whether you answered the hypothetical question “right”.

those who are vapid

2005-04-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

While realizing that this might be a gross overstatement, in the context of the work world, and in terms of a morale-productivity continuum, there are three buckets of people.

The first bucket includes the gung-ho types who are fundamentally into their career or whatever it is that they do to earn money. They care, they want to do well, and they are generally trustworthy, good, and hardworking people. They also happen to be “into” whatever project it is that they are working on at that moment in time- perhaps it is a great assignment or perhaps they just like their line of work that much.

The second bucket includes people who are fundamentally into their work and career path, similar to the first bucket, yet they aren’t into their current assignments. They have momentarily lost their motivation, for whatever reason, and their minds are elsewhere.

The third bucket, and the one that truly fascinates me, contains people that work really hard at creating the illusion that they are hardworking and career-inspired. Often they maintain this shenanigan for a lengthy period of time, perhaps for their whole working lives. They seem into it, they seem professional, and they seem to keep the ball rolling. But, there is something about them that seems artificial and off, and makes you want to run screaming rather than have to work with them. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I have realized that these people are hard to be around because their sole existence relies upon them overcompensating for something that was never there to begin with.

swoop

2005-04-08T15:15:00.000-07:00

swoop

Last Wednesday I found myself in Minneapolis on a “business” trip. Business in quotes because the word cuts a far too serious image for what I do--- advertising.

There are two Minneapolis-based hotels that are preferred by my agency. One is old school and luxurious, the second is new, “hip”, and stark. I prefer the latter but got booked in the former. No big whoop, I was only there for one night.

My cohort on the trip was booked in the hip hotel and we planned to meet the next morning at the obligatory Starbucks off of its lobby. I got to Starbucks a little bit early so that I could indulge in the Home & Garden section of the Times, along with a big fat latté and defrosted raspberry crumble cake thingy, pre-departure. It’s the little things that matter most.

As I was settling into an article on Hilary Swank and Chad Lowe’s Oscar-winning NYC retreat, Graydon Carter, the Editor-in-Chief of Vanity Fair magazine, happened to amble through the door of that particular Starbucks. After recovering from my initial shock, I pulled myself together enough to give Graydon a sort of halfhearted smirk smile as he walked by my table. I then went to work putting my New York Times in a strategically visible position and even debated pulling out my New York Magazine, to add to the literary spread. This, I was sure, would telepathically communicate to him I was a fellow New Yorker and a comrade, also trapped in Minneapolis, the City of Lakes. I then began fielding texts to friends and family about my “star” citing. Judging by their responses, my texting contacts were measurably less impressed; even after I informed them of Graydon Carter’s identity.

As Graydon added the necessary accoutrements to his hot brew, I fantasized about him coming over to my table and striking up conversation, perhaps even asking if he could join me. Realizing that this wasn’t going to happen, I deliberated about whether to get up and introduce myself. Despite my penchant for a good story, I considered the fact that no one wants to be bothered by a complete stranger, especially pre-coffee. Besides, what was I going to say to him? While Vanity Fair is a sexy magazine with celebrity-meets-politics appeal, its lengthy articles don’t work well with my increasingly short attention span. And while I have always been fascinated with Graydon’s remarkable swoop of hair, as well as with his pompous persona, I didn’t see as how that gave me much to work with in terms of a conversation starter. Maybe I should have gone with, “Hi, I’m Ali. It seems like your ego’s as big as your hair, but it’s working for you--- go with it!"

As Graydon walked out the door and out of my life, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was feeling so disappointed. Did I think that if I had introduced myself to him, he would have been so taken with me that he would have swept me into his seemingly glamorous world, just like that? Would I even want to be there? Or, was it just the idea of it, the flattery of it, which turned me on? Would exchanging words with Graydon have made the situation more real? Is that why people get autographs--- for proof? Or, did I just want a better story to go on?

Thoughts that I pondered, as a baby stared at me, on my return flight back to where I belong…..

flames

2005-04-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

They say that you can call yourself a New Yorker after you’ve lived in the city for five years. I don’t know who “they” are that made this rule, but apparently I make the cut.

I started out on the Upper West Side nearly six years ago and since then I have relocated roughly every two years (save for a brief but hellish stint in a commercial space on Canal with seven guys as housemates; it was a misguided decision on my part but I was drawn in by the absurdness, as well as the Real Worldness, of the situation at the time). I have made my way through the West Village, to the Lower East Side and now, to Brooklyn.

While I have moved downwards and eastwards from a geographic perspective, I continue to move onwards and upwards in terms of quality of life. Each of my apartments has had its pros and cons (save for the above-mentioned Canal street debacle, which was just heinous all around), but they have all fit my needs and wants, and the stage of life that I was in, at the time.

My place in the West Village was tiny tiny, but at least I had a legitimate room (versus a pod made of temporary walls and featuring a take-out window, to allow “fresh” air to breeze in from the living room). And, I was smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood filled to the brim with charming little restaurants and bars; perfect for me as I began to court food, drink and dining out with heightened intensity.

The Lower East Side provided me with a break in rent and the much needed experience of living alone, not to mention amazing and accessible restaurants. The LES is known for its “hipster” appeal--- apparently it has a great music scene, as well as tons of bars. Truth be told, I will never be a hipster, despite the wacky clothes. Good food and drink with friends, or alone, was always what turned me on and a bar or two after that a lucky strike extra.

As of this past Thursday I have relocated to Brooklyn--- Boerum Hill to be exact (but not too exact). I have moved in with my good friend Becky (otherwise known as Pink Pelvis) and her two very lovely Colombian roommates. While I may be in the midst of a “honeymoon period”, so to speak, so far so good--- I am enjoying the company and adore our spacious, charming apartment. The change of scene was also much needed on my part, as well as was another cut in rent.

I am superstitious and I want to say that I knew it was going to be a dreamy new living situation as soon as the moving van from Schlepper’s pulled up to my apartment. But, that would be a lie. In all honesty, I just want to tell this story:

I was sitting in a coffee shop/bar on Clinton and Stanton--- the one without the sign but which I believe is called “Lotus Lounge”--- waiting for the arrival of Schlepper’s. When they called and said that they were running about an hour and a half late, I muttered “bloody hell” and was quickly inspired to move from my cappuccino to a Bloody Mary. I wanted to sooth my nerves as well as to take advantage of the bar’s 4pm start for happy hour, perhaps for the last time. Time passed and I received a call telling me that my two moving men would be arriving in a few minutes. As I left “Lotus” I saw an enormous, bright orange Schlepper’s van approaching my apartment. I quickened my pace and greeted Moving Man #1 just as he lowered himself out of the van and to the ground. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hi there- I think you’re moving me. My name’s “Ali”, what’s yours?
Moving man #1: “My name is “Fire”.
Me: Fire huh? As in…(cut to me interpreting upward-moving flames, utilizing my hands and hissing noises)?
Fire: Yep, that’s right. And damn, I saw you walking there on the street and was just about to yell out the window to you, “Damn girl, you are F-I-N-E. Fine.”* Now I’m really glad that I didn’t do that.
Me: I'm glad you didn't either, Fire.
*Do keep in mind that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, running sneakers and a knit cap; there was nothing fine about the way that I looked, though I appreciated the positive feedback.

For the record, Fire and Moving Man #2, Juan, did an impeccable job and even let me ride over to Brooklyn with them in their big van. Juan had a fun time trying to convince me that it was the first time he had ever driven a commercial truck.

evil cake hater

2005-03-29T09:33:00.000-08:00

The phrase "cut and run" tends to be used conceptually and in reference to dating, or to the lack thereof. Last night, I found myself cutting and running in a much more literal sense. I went to a relatively new watering hole for a co-worker’s birthday, called “Employees Only”. It’s a bar that has received some good press lately for its stylish scene as well as for its signature cocktails. The drinks were fine, but beyond the skinny waiters and the in-house fortune teller, there was nothing particularly special about the place.

I will also say that I developed a strong distaste for the owner of Employees Only, who appears to be an evil hater of cakes. I know this because I had a cake with me last night and it caused him to have an immediate and extreme negative reaction. The cake I had was a carrot cake that I had made for Easter. It hadn’t been eaten by my family and I thought it would double nicely as a birthday cake for my co-worker. Sure, my co-worker is Jewish and the cake was decorated to look like an Easter egg but cheers to breaking down silos.

After a couple of drinks, and in discussion with some co-workers, I decided that it was time to pull out the “birthday” cake. I asked a congregation of waiters if they were ok with us serving the cake and also, if they had any candles. The waiters were only too happy to oblige. One of them was just about to hand me a candle when a dark shadow emerged over my right shoulder and barked, “No, you can’t serve that here”.

I turned around and came face to face with a stern-looking man outfitted in a getup that was head-to-toe swing band era, complete with tipped hat. The man, we’ll call him “the evil cake hater”, had a dead pan expression on his face. In the context of my request (to be able to serve birthday cake), it seemed obvious to me that he must be a fellow customer who was merely joking around. As it turned out, he was the owner and he was dead serious. The evil cake hater proceeded to make me two offers: I could pay $25 to be permitted to serve the birthday cake or I could order a dessert, made by E.O., in replace of birthday cake. I’m not sure if the candle would have been included in either option because I opted for neither and put the cake away, for the time being.

A little while later, my friend and co-worker Sarah tried again to gain favor with the evil cake hater. We thought it worth a shot; in case it wasn’t so much the cake that he disliked as much as me personally. But alas, Sarah’s request for permission to serve the cake, sans charge, was refused as well.

For our third and final attempt at serving the now famed Easter/birthday cake, we enlisted the help of our skinny waitress. A few of us finally snagged a table across from the bar and we figured that as long as we kept ordering drinks, we should be able to serve the cake free of charge. We felt vindicated by the evil cake hater’s coldhearted denial of our request. Our waitress was willing to play along with our game, but she asked that we be discrete. This was a difficult task for a bunch of advertising hacks, but Sarah and I worked like champs, trying to disseminate the cake as quickly as possible (me slicing, she serving) to the rest of our team.

We were down to the last slice when suddenly the evil cake hater again loomed like a black shadow behind me. This time he began to yell at me like a cake hater that was evil AND crazed. He ranted on, telling me that I behaved like a child by serving the cake after he had refused my requests four times in a row (I counted three, for the record). His conclusion, he said, was that he had to treat me like a child in return. With that, he scooped up the remnants of the cake for disposal and asked me to leave the bar immediately; I accepted. Just like that, it was a cut and run.