July 29 There's nothing like midsummer malaise to evoke reclusive tendencies. Nausea helps, as well. Breaking through it required the help of a gleaming, monolithic city. How convenient it is to have one forty minutes away. The past four days were spent savoring the appeal of the Big Apple. My past experience with Lyme Disease and other shitty ailments kept me from wanting to leave my bed, let alone the state. Going to the theatre several times a year, I never ventured far beyond midtown, and never gave much thought to my surroundings when I did. Only recently have I begun to appreciate all the city has to offer, while feeling well enough to pursue it. It seemed further away without the ability to navigate it. Feeling comfortable now, and with money to burn, that's what I spent all weekend doing.
12:16 pm
Thursday, my mother and I each had a reading by an astrologer she knows. Astrology is subject to various interpretations, to be taken with a grain of salt. I can get through my day without knowing where the planets are, and a square between the moon and a mercury retrograde will not keep me under the covers. To be honest, I do not even understand the influences of houses and degrees. It was all in fun. The reading was fantastic, as many of must be. Carole's also psychic, and before I mentioned my tentative plans, she told me 2003 is the perfect time to transfer to a different school. Smashing! Certain planetary movements in August, October, and December are expected to spark social interest, increasing the emphasis of interaction. Writing, said Carole, pervades my chart. When she read my tarot cards, there was one with a picture of a little bird leaving the nest, one for good health, one of two adults alone (not like I want to think about what goes down when I'm gone), and the wish card. We also laughed about what a joke "American Idol" is.
I walked up Broadway feeling lucky, simultaneously falling in love with the Upper West Side. Whimsical and unique, it has character void from its wrought-iron ridden, ivy-enveloped Eastern counterpart. Moderate commercialization was balanced by quirky little boutiques and a plethora of cafes and restaurants. After I spent an hour transfixed by the breadth of the 82nd Street Barnes and Noble, my Mom and I ate at a place called Popover's. Accented by velvet, yellow, and worn teddy bears, it's known for its giant, flaky rolls, served with strawberry butter. A cab and an express bus later, I was still swooning over the scenery. My eighth grade teacher voted me "Most Likely to Live in New York City," while Em was something like, "Most Likely to Pack Up and Move to Paris." Mrs. Knapp was onto something, even if she is a muppet.
Em and Wuyul (I know I spelled it wrong) joined me for Friday's Conan O'Brien taping. Cameron had the tickets, but could not go because he is juggling demands and delinquents at Camp Tommy. The show was not as funny as the June 26th one, but Conan is always great. Skits parodied European-imported summer television. "American Effigy," Beer or Antidote" (cut from the TV show), and "Actividos Homeroticos" were more entertaining than guests Chazz Palmineri, Andy Kindler, and Beth Orton. Another scenario, "Scandinavian Dentists" locks five dentists in a cabin with a single handgun. The one who does not shoot himself wins a large cash prize. After Conan, we went to Friday's. Chain restaurants are less appealing to me than enthralling ethnic places, but it was the right day and there was no wait.
Again I came home elevated by gritty metropolitan romance. I looked for colleges closer to the city than Bard, more as back-ups than serious options. I did not sleep well and was groggy Saturday, but was easily wheedled into spending the night at Em's friend Em's apartment. Bridging the Upper West Side and Spanish Harlem, it is a small, furnished place whose mirrors outnumber bare walls. Once I shook the notion of being in a pint-size Versailles, it was more fun than I expected exhaustion would allow. We talked and laughed a lot over pizza, cookies and a Robin Williams special. Though there was no discerning the mattress from a slab of marble, I slept for a blissful seven hours. Ronn and Em did not get up until noon. Before then, Em and I went to the deli and ATM across the street, read, and anticipated real college together.
After all bathed and I did a few asanas on the living room floor, we headed down to the Lower East Side. There was time before we met the others to go to Blue Man Group for Ronn's birthday. I yearned to go vintage shopping: I am sick of wearing boring clothes in juniors' sizes. Overcome with curiosity I am, without the sense to keep from getting lost downtown. Of course, Ronn and Em did not care to shop, and it was Ronn's day. We browsed novelty shops, then went to Pomme Frites. Though the name is French, it's Belgian. Not limited to the best fries ever, Pomme Frites offers an array of distinctive sauces. There's pineapple mustard, mango chutney, sweet chili sauce and sun-dried tomato mayo, and of course, ketchup. If I spelled it "catsup" like Amelia Bedelia, would you still love me? Pardon the digression, I am temporarily losing my mind.
As the tickets were purchased late, we were scattered about the theatre, but in twos. Blue Man Group was amazing, unlike anything I have ever seen. If you can believe it, everyday of my life is not brimming with silent blue people beating paint-splattered drums, regurgitating twinkies, and teaching me the history of fractal art. It was wildly inventive, unconventional, and every other laudable adjective I am sure reviewers everywhere have used and abused. Strobe lights, black lights, gumball spit art, hippie karaoke, and rolls of toilet paper strewn throughout the theatre were the culmination of sensory overload. Not wanting to stick around once lassitude superseded stimulation, I jumped in a cab to catch the eight o'clock bus.
Experiencing the transitory jolt of a time-killing iced mocha, I watched the sky darken. In my lap, I had remnants of my summer's most exciting weekend, my journal, and a commitment to preserve as much as I could.
Let me tell you, it's hard as shit to write a poem on a jiggly, bumpy, pothole-hitting bus.
Today is none so exciting: I get my teeth picked at until my gums bleed, petrifying any potential wisdom teeth into never showing themselves. The fun had to end sometime.
