Where Have I Heard That Before?

From the New York Daily News:

"Rep. Pete King (R-N.Y.) said the Arizona senator wasn't talking about "real New Yorkers."

"He's talking about Park Ave. and the upper West Side, which is inhabited by the liberal socialites and the media types who, yeah, are certainly elitists," King said.

As it happens, the U.S. zip code that's given the most to the McCain campaign - $909,128 - is Manhattan's 10021, which includes a swath of Park Ave. "

* * * * *

Also this today from James Carville: "The reason Republicans are happy about Joe the Plumber is they're glad they got somebody hanging around a toilet other than Larry Craig."

Andy for GOP Secretary of State

If John McCain wins in November, I think based on my extensive foreign policy experience that he should definitely consider me for Secretary of State.

First off, I was born in the State of Washington, which is on the border with Canada, and I have even visited Victoria. I grew up in Oregon, which is right across the water from Korea, which means that I am familiar with the threat posed by Kim Jong Il. After a year in Los Angeles (which is close to Mexico), I spent nearly fourteen years in Manhattan, which, as everyone knows, is the home of the United Nations.

In high school I traveled as an exchange student to Japan, which is close to China. I also visited Hawaii, which has only been a state since 1959 and so barely counts as the U.S., which is why Barack Obama is only kinda-sorta an American. From 2000-2001 I lived for 10.5 months in Zurich, Switzerland, which is a real diplomaticky sort of place, and I spent a major percentage of my time there as an ambassador for our nation, explaining to the citizens of "Old Europe" why it was that the candidate who received fewer popular votes was actually the rightful winner of the election and assuring them that, despite what they had heard about George W. Bush, everything would be fine. "What's he going to do," I asked them. "Start a war?"

During this time I also sang for the Mayor of Zurich and the President of Switzerland. I have met hundreds, if not thousands, of queens.

In addition to Switzerland, Canada, Japan and the Kingdom of Hawaii, I have also traveled to Mexico, the United Kingdom, Germany, France and Italy. While in London, I saw Buckingham Palace. I speak fluent English, conversational German, passable Italian and can read French. Perhaps more importantly for present times, I have sung in Russian, Spanish and Hebrew. I also took three years of Japanese in high school, and once slept with the son of a Brazilian diplomat. (Okay, twice.) Oh! and a friend of mine is married to woman from Zimbabwe.

I have never been to Washington, D.C., but this just means that I would confirm McCain's outside-the-beltway-box thinking and his maverickyness.

Though I admit I have never served on the PTA, my stepfather was a teacher. I was elected to the Vestry in January of 2008, which means I have held elected office longer than Barack Obama has been the Democratic nominee.

Given the depth and range of my foreign policy experiences, I believe I would make an outstanding Republican Secretary of State. Oh, and as for the vetting process, I assure you that Rocky and Starbuck are up to date on licenses and vaccinations. Thank you.

*******

PS, on an unrelated note, prayers for the people of New Orleans.

Missing You

Almighty and everlasting God, who gave to your apostle Bartholomew grace truly to believe and to preach your Word: Grant that your Church may love what he believed and preach what he taught; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

I've been rather melancholy all day, perhaps because it's the Feast of St. Bartholomew, and my thoughts have wandered to my old parish by that name back in New York City. I definitely feel that I was "led" to where I am now in Portland, but St. Bart's will always be a very special place for me, and I miss the beautiful building, the amazing clergy and my many friends. And, oh yes, I miss the choir, and the seamless liturgy. St. John the Baptist is earnest and sincere and wonderful, but I always have the sense that we're still rehearsing.

All Right, Fine. I Miss the A Train.

I admit it, I never thought I'd say it.

It's a three-day holiday weekend, and I was going downtown to meet up with a new friend -- not a date, the new head of the Oregon chapter of Integrity -- and then to meet up with an old friend afterward (also not a date). And let me tell ya, Daddy wanted to get his drink on, so I left the car at home and took the bus into town. You know, so I could be responsible and irresponsible all at the same time. (Alas, no opportunity for irresponsibility presented himself.)

Here's the thing: in New York, the subway is the great democratizer. Even celebrities have been known to ride the subway. Sure, there's crazy people, but all of the city's vast majority of (semi-)normal people are also on the train. The subway is no weirder than any other part of town.

Not so with Portland's Tri-Met. In the Rose City, the bus seems to be exclusively reserved for the smelly and/or insane.

Case in point: I'm on my way into town just after 7:00 on a Sunday evening. Fifth Avenue this is not; the bus closest to me runs once an hour on Sundays. A few blocks past mine, a pony-tailed stoner gets on and complains, "Yo...dude, I've been, like...waiting, seriously, dude, I totally like checked my watch, I've been waiting like fifty-three fucking minutes for the bus, man, I mean...yo."

To which the driver responded, "It's Sunday...the bus runs hourly."

Stoner: "Okay, yeah, but...like seriously, I waited almost an hour and no bus came by. I'm totally serious, it was like, almost an hour."

Driver: "Yeah, um, because the bus runs once an hour."

Stoner: "Okay, well, but...that's no reason why I should have to wait almost an hour for the bus. I mean, yo."

Then he sat in front of me. He did not smell pleasant. A few blocks later he turns to me and shows me his paper transfer. "Dude! Check out the punches on this thing!"

Me: [perplexed, unsure how to respond, smiling politely but non-committally]

Stoner: Dude, like, look how many there are, isn't that fucking hilarious?

Me: Umm...yeah, okay. Sure.

Stoner: You don't think that's like, you know, totally fucking funny, how many punches there are in my ticket? I mean, yo, check it.

Me: Yeah, that's pretty hilarious.

Stoner: Fuck yeah.

When I reached the bar where I was to meet my new friend, my first stop was the bathroom. Not because I had to pee, but because I had an incredible urge to wash my hands. In fact, I kind of wanted to just be hosed down. I was worried I smelled like B.O. and piss.

* * * * * * * *

So, the last bus for Beaverton leaves at 11:00.

I knew I didn't want to bother with the bus again. I'd just take a cab home. I think I left the last bar around 1:45.

In New York, you can pretty much just walk out of the bar and hail a cab. If you're on a (relatively) quiet side-street, you can walk to the nearest avenue - -with traffic flowing either uptown or downtown, depending on your need -- and hail a cab within, oh, a minute? (Unless it's rush hour and raining.) So, yeah...Portland. No cabs.

In the wee hours of the morning, I used to really hate the A train. Sometimes you'd wait a very long time, and there were some crazy people. There was the guy that barked at me, the guy who hit me over the head with a curled up New York Times while yelling "Fucking cracker!" (I just went to my Zen place and ignored him), and the guy who yelled at the empty seats before throwing up all over himself. (I'd include the guy who mugged me at gunpoint, but that was on the #1, not the A.) But even in the middle of the night, I rarely waited as long as it took to get a cab tonight, and it was a lot cheaper and...well, not necessarily significantly cleaner.

So yeah, I admit it. I moved out here for the sake of convenience, but the A train was much better than the #54 bus.

One Year Gone

The date was actually April 22, but it seems right to observe it on the closest Sunday, since my last day in New York City began with one final visit to my beloved St. Bart's before loading the car and heading off into the sunset.

I wrote a long, rather melancholy piece reflecting on the past year, but then realized I'm not entirely ready to share all of those thoughts. All things considered, it has been a very good year, and leaving Manhattan behind has given me the emotional space to start to wrestle with The Big Question: what am I going to do with my life?

The answer is starting to take shape. Stay tuned.

Stupidity All Around

So, check this out.

On Wednesday an Orthodox Jewish man delayed a United Airlines flight from New York's JFK airport to San Francisco, when shortly before departure he rose, went to the back of the plane and began praying. Flight attendants tried to get his attention to tell him that he needed to be in his seat, but he ignored them and continued praying. Friends of the passenger explained to the crew "that once the prayer is started, it must be finished without interruption."

Okay. Look. Y'all know I'm a religious person and while I follow the Christian faith, I try to respect all of the various ways in which humanity reaches toward the divine. But I have trouble understanding why anyone would worship a god who is so petty, rigid and inflexible that s/he would take offense at the notion that a prayer be temporarily interrupted for pretty darn practical reasons. I don't mean to mock or belittle tradition; as a high-church Anglican, I've got plenty of rituals of my own that are important to me. Still, I am careful not to confuse physical rituals with faith itself. It's lovely that Orthodox Jews pray at certain times, that they stand and face toward Jerusalem and chant words that go back for centuries. All of that is wonderful; it's important to value the traditions that link us to our heritage.

But for Pete's sake, the plane is about to depart! There are perfectly pragmatic safety rules in place. Does someone honestly think that God is going to be mad if your prayer is delayed a few minutes until your physical safety and that of your fellow passengers is no longer an issue? You don't think if you silently prayed, "God, I'm sorry...I know I'm supposed to be praying right now, but can it wait a few minutes? Or, just this once, would you mind terribly if I prayed sitting down?" Or, "Boy, I'm sorry, I know this prayer isn't supposed to be interrupted, but I'm holding up several hundred people and causing a traffic jam on the tarmac at one of the world's busiest airports, I'll have to finish this in a sec, 'kay?" Why would you bother with a supposedly loving, omniscient, compassionate, forgiving god who is as uptight and arbitrary as some hissy-fit-throwing celebrity suffering from massive self-entitlement?

But wait, it gets worse.

So the friends of the passenger explain to the crew that the prayer takes about two and a half minutes. When he's done, the passenger sits down and buckles up.

Too late, they've already called security. They're kicking the dude off the plane. And of course, according to FAA regulations, if you take a passenger off a plane, for security reasons you must also remove their checked luggage.

Do you think that maybe delayed the flight more than the 2.5 minute prayer?

Just Close Your Eyes, and Think of McDonald's

As I approach the first anniversary of the day I left New York (two weeks from tomorrow!), my thoughts turn frequently to the city -- and the friends, most especially -- I left behind. I have a pretty good memory for images, so sometimes I just close my eyes and try to visualize a favorite place in Manhattan and just "be" there for awhile.

To keep these memories sharp, I have developed a bizarre habit that I actually find quite relaxing when I need to take a few moments at work to calm down and re-focus. You see, back in the City, I used to bank at Actors Federal Credit Union, and though they only have one branch in the whole entire world (though, I think they did open one in Los Angeles recently), one of the perks was that you could use the ATM in any McDonald's in New York without a fee. Hence, for the sake of convenience, I carried in my wallet a list provided by the bank of McDonald's in Manhattan that had ATM's. I still have that dumb list, and every once in a while I take it out and try to visualize each specific location. Here are the New York City McDonald's branches I can actually picture:

1. 207th & Broadway
2. Dyckman & Broadway
3. 181st & Broadway
   
4. 125th & Broadway
   
5. 96th & Broadway
6. 71st & Broadway
7. 56th & 8th Avenue
   
8. 54th & 1st Avenue
9. 51st & Broadway
10. 47th between Madison & 5th
11. 46th & 7th Avenue
12. 44th & 8th Avenue
13. 21st & 6th Avenue
14. 16th & Union Square West
15. 8th & 6th Avenue
16. 8th & Broadway
17. Houston & Varick
18. Broadway & Fulton
19. 6 Water Street

Now, I want to be clear. I never ate at McDonald's. Never. Well, okay, sometimes the one at 56th & 8th, on my way to the subway station from Therapy/Vlada/Posh. But that was it. I swear.

Best Argument Against Same-Sex Marriage

Isaac Davis: I got a kid, he's being raised by two women at the moment.

Mary Wilke: Oh, y'know, I mean I think that works. Uh, they made some studies, I read in one of the psychoanalytic quarterlies. You don't need a male, I mean. Two mothers are absolutely fine.

Isaac Davis: Really? Because I always feel very few people survive one mother.

-- from Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979)

Bad Fag

On July 6, 2006, when the New York Court of Appeals handed down its execrable decision in Hernandez v. Robles, in which it denied same-sex couples the "fundamental right" -- in the opinion's own words -- to civil marriage based on the "assumption" (again, quoting) that "marriage is important to the welfare of children" and because the State of New York had a compelling interest in depriving a segment of its own citizenry their rights in order to encourage the other 90-something percent to have responsible relationships, I joined a throng of angry protesters in Greenwich Village's Sheridan Square to give voice to my rage.

Tonight, all across Oregon, same-sex couples and fair-minded supporters are gathered in candlelight vigils to protest the unnecessary delay that was placed on the state's new domestic partnership law.

And where am I?

Home eating a pork chop.

Look, I'm there in spirit, okay? At the New York protest, it was a) summer and nice, b) on my way home from work, c) light out, d) in close proximity to any number of good bars and I didn't have to drive, and e) there was a good chance of seeing hot guys, like Empire State Pride Agenda's Chris Cormier or Search for Love's Joel Derfner (woof!).

In contrast, the Portland location for the vigil is in southeast. For you non-Cascadians, this is the equivalent of Park Slope. Okay, fine, it's just across the river, but it's in the wrong direction and, like Samantha on Sex and the City says, "I don't do borough." I mean, if someone found an ancient pirate map of Portland, over southeast it would say, "HERE BE ANGRY LESBIANS WITH STROLLERS, YAARRR." Not my scene. Did I mention it's: dark, cold and raining?

So here's my candlelight vigil, Beaverton-style. (Like the shirt? I thought you would.) I'm having a lovely glass of Côtes du Rhône and listening to Barbra. Up yours, Alliance Defense Fund!

Sunday Photo Blogging: You are Always on My Mind

Sex and the Kitty

So, I'm feeling a little nostalgic for New York. After spending a wonderful afternoon with long-time friends, I came home, mixed up a batch of cosmopolitans, and popped in my Sex and the City DVD's.

Picture it: I'm in the club chair with my feet on the ottoman, sipping my cocktail, with Starbuck in my lap. Rocky is curled up, as is his wont, in front of the fire. We're watching the episode "Great Sexpectations" from Season 6, when Samantha and Smith have sex for the first time. Samantha is hooting and squawking in ecstasy. Rocky wakes up, trots over to the TV, looks at me, meows, and then runs away.

Gone West

Last night as I was pumping away on the elliptical before dinner, my iPod landed on "Go West," by the Village People, and it occurred to me that today marks six months since I handed over the keys to my apartment, hopped in a van and left New York. (Re-live the magic: The Cats Across America Tour.)

While there have definitely been some moments of anxiety and frustration over the past months, as I reach this milestone I am drawing a deep breath of satisfaction.

Though I am somewhat surprised that professionally I wound up back in corporate finance, I am really excited about my new job; it has everything I was looking for. I found an apartment that was exactly what I wanted, in the area I wanted to live, and it's really starting to come together. I have furniture and everything now. I found a neighborhood church, and while I miss the formality and grandeur of my churches in New York, I've found a place that is filled with truly nice people, a small but dedicated, eager community for whom my orientation is a non-issue.

I am re-connecting with old friends (having lunch with Quinn, KR and Scott today) and making new ones.

Last week after the movie, this new friend and I went for cocktails at a swanky place in Portland's trendy Northwest district. We were discussing the implosion of my opera career (which conversation happens only over a martini) and my reasons for wanting to move to Portland. I talked about the frustration of my last years in New York, not knowing what to do with my life, struggling with my anxiety and panic attacks and wanting things that New York didn't offer. "I wanted to be able to live like this," I said, as I waved the hand that wasn't holding the Grey Goose gayly around the bar.

It may sound implausible, but in the weeks before I abandoned Manhattan, I would burst into tears every time I heard "Go West." It became the official theme song of my cross-country drive. It still makes me cry, but for a different reason: I did it.

Together we will go our way, together we will leave some day.
Together your paw in my hand, together we will make the plans.
Together we will fly so high, together tell our friends goodbye.
Together we will start life new, together this is what we'll do.

Go west, life is peaceful there.
Go west, lots of open air.
Go west to begin life new.
Go west, this is what we'll do.
Go west, sun in winter time.*
Go west, we will do just fine.
Go wes t where the skies are blue .
Go west, this and more we'll do.

Together we will love the beach, together we will learn and teach.
Together change our pace of life, together we will work and strive.
I love you, I know you love me; I want you happy and carefree.
So that's why I have no protest when you meow you want to go west.

Go west, life is peaceful there.
Go west, lots of open air.
Go west to begin life new.
Go west, this is what we'll do .
Go west, sun in winter time .
Go west, we will do just fine.
Go west where the skies are blue.
Go west, this and more we'll do.

I know that there are many ways to live there in the sun or shade.
Together we will find a place to settle down and live with the space
without the busy pace back east, the hustling, rustling of the feet,
I know I'm ready to leave too, so this is what we're going to do,

Go west, life is peaceful there.
Go west, lots of open air.
Go west to begin life new.
Go west, this is what we'll do.
Go west, sun in winter time.
Go west, we will do just fine.
Go west where the skies are blue.
Go west, this and more we'll do .

* Winter sun not available in all west-coast locations.

Starbuck is a Star! (But She Already Knew That)

I knew back when she was still a wee bitty kitty that she had model potential.

And now it's official. Remember that picture about three weeks ago of Starbuck reading The New Yorker? It's going to be published in a book! You know, a real one, that's like, for sale and stuff.

What Pets Do While You're At Work, by my uberfabulous New York friends (and newlyweds) Jason Bergund and Bev West, is now available for pre-order, and is due out in October. It's a humorous photo book, along the lines of their previous work Fat Daisy: Inner Beauty Secrets from a Real Dog and PugTherapy.

Here's me at their wicked cool Upper West Side home a few years ago for a Halloween Party (I came as a Republican tourist). The lovely pooch in my lap is the famous Fat Daisy. Daisy the chihuahua had a torrid romance a while back with a pug named Elvis, and she came down with a case of pregnancy -- 4 pughuahua pups inside that tiny little body! And...how do I put this delicately? She never quite recovered the figure of her youth. But she's beautiful all the same.

What I Need is a Wormhole

I'm sure there are many hot, young, smart, ambitious and talented gay guys in New York City who get together with the same group of friends every Friday night. There just aren't very many of them who end up fully clothed in front of a 54-inch television in Harlem watching Stargate SG-1.

A couple of years ago, through random twists of fate and online flirting, I ended up becoming friends with an extraordinary group. What we shared was a fondness for vodka and a talent for viciously bitchy (but loving) insults. The standard routine was a Friday night happy hour (Therapy was the principal location, but we could also be found at XL, XES, Suite, Vlada or G) and then a schlepp up to a beautiful Harlem townhouse, where at the top of a narrow stairwell adorned with a portrait of an Afro-Jesus, one entered through a magical doorway into a comfortably suburban living room like one might find in Omaha, a genuine rip in the time/space continuum if ever there was one. There we would either watch a couple of movies or, if they were in season, set down to watch the SciFi channel's Friday line-up: Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis and Battlestar Galactica.

Before I met them, I'd never even heard of Stargate. I had little initial interest in it, but I enjoyed hanging out with them, and so over time I learned all about the Jaffa and the Goa'uld and eventually got suckered in by the show's charming self-deprecation. Despite its corniness, there was also something intriguing about the epic sprawl of a decade-long space saga that somehow made up for the nearly invariable formula of the episodes: off-world civilization threatens Earth with annihilation; Stargate team comes up with longshot plan "that just might work"; plan doesn't work; then in the last seven minutes, Captain Carter or Daniel Jackson would figure out some way to use alien technology to thwart the plot, and the extinction of mankind would be delayed for another week.

Even here in my new home 3,000 miles away, I've been maintaining the tradition as a kind of sentimental link to my old friends. Last night was the SG-1 series finale.

[SPOILER ALERT] I had expected a two-hour cataclysmic extravaganza, featuring a grand alliance of earthlings, Jaffa and other alien beings to decisively destroy the Ori and declare the universe safe once and for all (except from the Wraith, who we need to have around in order to keep the Atlantis spin-off alive), or at the very least, a special guest appearance by Richard Dean Anderson. Instead, with a show appropriately titled "Unending," Stargate left the airwaves with a completely typical episode that had zero sense of finality. Indeed, the credits rolled as the SG-1 team headed once again through the Stargate to a new adventure, one we'll never get to see.

And so even though I was never really a big fan, I couldn't help feeling that my link to my friends just got a little bit weaker. I found myself missing them a lot, and wishing I could go back in time and watch this episode with them. I think I've found a way to do it.

Using technology gleaned from the Ancients, I've found a way to use parts of my microwave, dishwasher and vacuum cleaner to create a rough approximation of a zero point module, and then using a really long extension cord, I should be able to supercharge my '93 Mercury Sable to the point where it can propel me not just 3,000 miles eastward, but 24 hours back in time using a program I got from the Asgard which I've uploaded onto my iPod, which I can play through the tape deck. With any luck, in just about 18 minutes I'll find myself yesterday in Manhattan. I haven't quite figured out how to reverse the process so that I'm back in Portland in time for my temp job on Monday, especially since if I get the calculations wrong I could end up in a permanent time anomaly, like Indiana.

The First Day: We're Off

I can hardly believe the day has come.

I had hoped to write something profound as this chapter (or, more accurately, volume) of my life comes to a close, but I am altogether too addlepated at the moment. I just want to say, as I look back on more than thirteen years of life in New York, that the overwhelming feeling is one of immense gratitude. Yes, there has been a lot of pain and sorrow and frustration and loneliness and anxiety and disappointment, but in a way I'm grateful for all of that, too. These years have been rich and meaningful. I am so lucky. I will treasure and share these memories all my life.

Here's the schedule for the day: right now I'm off to the church I've been attending, St. Bart's on Park Avenue, for one last service. I only found St. Bart's within the last year, but it is an amazing place and it was a major factor that had to be weighed in the decision to leave New York. In addition to the gorgeous building, it has a vibrant, diverse, enthusiastic and welcoming congregation, and certainly the most fantastic clergy team I have ever encountered. I have made some great friends there and learned tons, but it was actually through some of the classes I took there that I discerned that New York itself is at the heart of what has been bothering me and that it was time to move on.

Conveniently the rental car place is one block from my church (purely coincidental). Let's all hope I get the minivan I requested, otherwise the purge of my possessions is going to be more dramatic than I'd like to think about right now. Can I tell you, I am far more worried about the drive from East 50th to Washington Heights than I am about the 2994 miles to Oregon? Driving in this city scares me.

Around one, some generous friends are coming over to help me clear out the apartment and load the fan. Everything is pretty much ready, so I hope we can do this in about an hour. I am aiming to be on the road between 2 and 3 o'clock, and plan to drive only as far as western Pennsylvania today, about four or five hours.

It is highly doubtful that I will be able to get online again today until I get to the hotel tonight. Wish us luck!

The Last Night: For Real

I don't even know where to begin, so I'll start with the easy part and give a big thank-you shout-out to my friend Jere of the blog Jere-Rigged. Jere came over yesterday morning and helped me out for about four and a half hours, dismantling furniture, carrying bookcases up flights of stairs to neighbors and helping me carry tons of garbage and junk out of the apartment. If it hadn't been for his very generous offer to help out and the great work he did, I would absolutely be having a total nervous breakdown right now.

Packing up this apartment has been far more work than I ever anticipated. I had an idea in my mind about how much I could fit in the van, but today I set up a mock van interior in my living room and it became immediately clear that a LOT of what I was planning on taking was not going to be able to come, especially clothing. Right now I am just embarrassed and ashamed about everything that I will have to throw out; here I thought I'd been proactive in going through my belongings and giving things away, but I had more than I realized.

There's so much on my mind right now but there's still so much left to do. The packing is done, but there's still a lot of cleaning up. Right now I am filled with remorse over all this stuff I have to throw out, and having anxiety over finding a job and a home in Portland and whether the cats will be okay with the car trip -- Rocky's doing much better now, by the way -- and even occasionally whether I have made a colossal error. I hope someday this is all just a funny story I can tell a cute guy over dinner.

Slight Change of Plans

Okay, so last night wasn't my last night in the apartment. After talking to the vet today about Rocky's freakout, I decided that with all the change going on, me being gone for a whole night right now might make things worse. The mattress went away today, so I'm sleeping on a pile of quilts on the box spring. Rocky is definitely coming around, but still easily spooked. Poor guy. I did acquire some cat valium for the trip, just in case.

We're getting there. I see light at the end of the tunnel -- or, more precisely, the living room floor is starting to reappear. Tomorrow most of the rest of the furniture is going away.

***

This afternoon I grabbed a quick pizza lunch with a friend who came by to acquire my DVD player and some books. He was going to take some bookcases because he currently lives nearby, but has decided to move again so he's not taking on more furniture just now. He rented a room from a lady who never walks her dog, she just leaves newspapers out for him to pee and poop on. "And," said my friend, "the ironic thing is, do you know what she does for a living?"

"No...," I said.

"She's a professional dog walker."

***

I did get my last piece of mail at this address today. The forwarding order kicks in tomorrow. I received confirmation from the post office; the last line of the letter says, "If you do not speak English or you do not understand this letter, please take it with you to your local post office for assistance."

I mean, if you can't understand English, how helpful is that? (Probably just as helpful as the folks at the post office to whom the reader is referred.) It reminds me of the old Looney Toons cartoon with the eye test where the text gets progressively smaller and the punch line is, "If you can read this...you are Chinese."

The Last Night

Tonight is the last night that I will spend in this apartment, which has been my home since June of 1996. President Clinton was in his first term. I barely believe it. My sofa bed went away on Monday and my bed is leaving tomorrow, so after that there won't be anything soft to sleep on. The Fabulous Jackass, who conveniently lives just six blocks away, has graciously offered his sofa for my last three nights in the city. There's still a lot of packing and cleaning to do -- however, we're getting there! -- so I'll go down late each night and come back in the morning and go back to work.

I love my cats. (You're shocked, I know.) They play hide and seek in the pile of boxes, and take turns being "it." Seriously. See the photos below.



Okay, now for less good stuff. I have bad luck with air conditioners, apparently. I got my first air conditioner in the spring of 2002. (Yes, I lived through New York summers with just fans and fortitude for 8 years.) That winter, I decided I should bring the air conditioner inside. Well, I'm not very skilled with air conditioners, so I went to take it out of the window, and this was the result:


Oopsie. Thank God my living room window is over my building's lobby; if it had been over the sidewalk, like most New York apartments, I damn well might have killed someone.* That thought still haunts me. So this time I paid the super $20 to uninstall it for me. (And I've sold it for $35. Net profit: $15. Whoo! )

When my super arrived, I went to put the cats in the bathroom, since the living room window would be open (I'm on the third floor, which is actually the fourth floor). Well...I'm not sure what happened, whether Rocky doesn't like the super or whether there's just been altogether too much coming and going of people lately, but the poor cat FLIPPED OUT. He positively flew around the apartment making this hideous howling noise. I mean, he was truly in a panic. I've never seen him do anything like that. I only managed to get a hold of him when his collar caught on part of the vacuum cleaner. I managed to get him into the bathroom, but he exacted his pound of flesh. Rather literally.


He seems to be okay now. Still, I think he'll be living in the bathroom tomorrow, since I have three different appointments with people coming into the apartment to take stuff away. I'll just put him in there in the morning and leave him there.

For KR, here's a close-up of Starbuck's collar.


**IMPORTANT** TimeWarner is coming tomorrow morning to take away my cable box and modem, so if I can't manage to find a wireless signal, I won't have internet access during the day. I'll be able to check in at night down at the Jackass' place.

* Extra credit reading: there is a funny story out of it. Shortly thereafter I found myself in line at the grocery store -- or, "on line," as New Yorkers say -- behind one of the building busybodies, who was telling me all the latest gossip. I wasn't really paying attention, until she said, "...and then some idiot just threw his air conditioner right out the window, and it's just sitting there in front of my living room. I tell you, the people in our building are no good." I just nodded my assent.

A Fabulous Night on the Town

My awesome friend Audrey, whom I've known since I was 11 (when we shared the marquee as the White Rabbit and the Narrator in our 6th grade production of Alice in Wonderland), is in town for business this week from L.A. Coincidentally, her younger sister Renee was also in from D.C. for a meeting, so we all went for dinner at a chic SoHo restaurant on Sullivan between Prince and Spring.

I snapped the above photo from the cab as we passed through Times Square.

After our fantastic meal, I uncharacteristically declined the offer to share a cab and instead walked up 6th Avenue a little ways.


I don't know whether the Grey Goose went to my head or what, but I'm still having trouble believing I turned down a cab in favor of a ride on the A train, late enough in the evening that it was making all local stops. I don't know how long it took me to get home, I wasn't really looking at my watch, but it must have been well over an hour; the Empire State Building's lights go off promptly at midnight, and I didn't get home until after 1.

Things were fine up to about 125th Street, then we sat in the tunnel for an age and a half, and slowly inched our way up to 145th, where for some reason we ended up downstairs on the D platform. Then we sat, and sat some more. (That's the last time I turn down a cab ride. Actually, come to think of it, it probably really is the last time.) Eventually there was a completely inscrutable announcement, general confusion and consternation, and everyone got off the train. Apparently there was some problem with the switch further up the track, so there was no more A train for the night. Swell. I went up and found a gypsy cab and collapsed into bed.

Then I woke up at 4:30, panicking about everything I have left to do. I am still hoping to find time to go out into the city before I leave and just walk around and enjoy myself a bit, but I just feel so overwhelmed right now. I've been packing and cleaning and chucking for four days now and while progress is obvious, there's still so much left. I decided that rather than lie in bed and have palpitations I should probably get up and do something productive.

And finally, a gratuitous cat picture.

Hurray for Neighbors!

Last night I was lying in bed panicking about how to get rid of my furniture. I'd always felt like I didn't have very much stuff, but I guess I was wrong. I knew I could always take stuff down to the sidewalk and hope for good weather, in which case someone would rescue it before it got rained on. Or peed on.

This morning I hit upon the brilliant idea of putting little signs in the elevators in my building. I warned people that I didn't have particularly fancy stuff, and also that the place was a wreck (see the photo below...) since I was moving. I had low hopes.

Here's what I managed to get rid of today:

2 bookcases
1 file cabinet
1 desk
2 lamps
1 dresser
1 microwave
a plant
a shoe rack
the sofa bed

and...*drum roll* please...

the litter box.

Seriously, this woman came by and said, "Are you taking that litter box with you? It's nicer than mine." And I said...errmmmm, no...actually...

Only in New York.

Also, the boys who came to get my sofa bed? Ding-dong. Cute! Whoo!