Daniel

I hadn't seen Daniel in over ten years.

I first met Daniel on the first day of my junior year of high school. I was in a new school in a new state. Daniel and I had the same homeroom first thing in the morning, which took place in a rehearsal room in the music building. Dan was an extremely talented jazz pianist at 17. He had performed professionally since he was a child. One day in homeroom he put headphones on my ears and told me to listen to a song he wrote. I wasn't sophisticated in jazz appreciation, but I was so impressed that what I was listening to, music that could be on the radio, was written and performed by Dan. "Do you hear the melody?" he asked excitedly, and I nodded with awe, not quite making out the melody entirely, but trusting that he was a genius. After that morning I played my copy of his four songs on an endless loop on my Walkman, as I trudged up and down the hills of San Francisco to rehearse my community-theater musicals. I wish I still had that cassette tape.

When I was studying acting in Boston, Dan was also there studying music. I remember meeting him once somewhere near the North End, seeing some music and catching up. Then we both moved to New York. I'd occasionally see him play with one of his various bands at different East Village dives. One frigid winter day I bumped into Dan while holding hands with the bassist of one of his bands. I could see on Dan's face that he was hurt. Intermittently throughout the years, Dan couldn't hide his crush on me. I wasn't the only one he held a torch for, so I didn't take it very seriously. Sometimes it made things awkward. Sometimes it didn't.

One time he took me to hear some music at a famous club near NYU. We agreed to meet beforehand at Dojo Restaurant, an inexpensive Japanese-influenced eatery. I didn't know the East Village very well. On my way there, I bumped into a co-worker from my temp job. Upon telling this co-worker I was going to Dojo on Mercer St., he said, "Wait, Dojo's on St. Mark's." I thanked him for steering me in the right direction and then proceeded to wait forever in confusion at Dojo on St. Mark's. This was before cell phones made this sort of thing extinct. Finally, after asking someone, I learned that there were two Dojos and when I finally made it to the Mercer St. Dojo, Dan was about to give up on me. I felt really bad. It was an honest mistake but I have always suspected that a part of me actually didn't want to meet him, and I was unconciously rebelling. That might've been the last time I saw him.

Cut to earlier this week. We'd found each other a couple months ago through our respective websites and began catching up via e-mail. He had married and was back in the Bay Area. He had a CD out and I bought a couple. Listening to it threw me right back into my 16-year-old self listening to a crude cassette tape in awe. When he learned I was coming to San Francisco for Christmas, he did all he could to see me. Even though his mom had just had an operation and was in the hospital, and he himself lived in a suburb in Marin County, and his wife decided not to join us, he drove 45 minutes into the city to spend time with me.

It was pleasant and surreal and intense. He was about 30 pounds heavier than the last time I saw him but because he was quite skinny before, he looked much better. He had the same non-confrontational, shy way about him. We talked about being kids and growing up and childhood issues and sex and love and artistry and being fucked up. I noticed that when he asked me about my love life he didn't look at me. He told me a lot about his feelings about his marriage. We had drinks at an old high school haunt; our jaunt down Memory Lane was quite literal. Without his saying so directly I pieced together that he was sexually molested as a young kid, a couple times, by two different people...men, I think. It's affected his sense of self, sexually and otherwise, ever since. He was very trusting in telling me all this and I am very protective of his trust. On the way home he attempted to analyze why he confided so much in me that night. He wondered if it was to stave off any attraction he might still have to me; "the more I share of myself the less anxious I'll be in her presence." He said he thought it worked.

I was happy to spend those two hours with Daniel. He reminded me by his mere existence that I am unique, and that growing up kinda rocks.

Daniel my brother you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won’t heal
Your eyes have died but you see more than I
Daniel you’re a star in the face of the sky

- Bernie Taupin

Tony Bennett got it right

I knew this was going to happen. Even though I've been coming to terms with my love for New York, and even though my first couple of days with my family here had me feel nothing but displaced and homeless, the jet lag has worn off and I've been relaxing a little bit. And tonight I was walking home from a Christmas party on a foggy, damp, mild evening, admiring the houses and the stars and the Christmas decorations, and it hit me as I knew it inevitably would: I love San Francisco.

When I first moved to San Francisco from Queens, New York in 1986, it was such a far cry from the small-town mentality of Flushing, the opposite of everything I knew. It seduced me right away. It put me in touch with the new-age-gay-loving liberal I always was inside. I felt at home here, I met my lifelong friends here, the ones who would grow up to be artists, and I could live up to my true potential here. I strongly attached myself to it so much so that I practically denied my New York roots. When I moved back to the New York area in 1992, thus began my long journey of understanding where I came from and what it all meant. And I knew that at some point while I was visiting San Fran I would put forth a list of what I love about this place. This list can only be partial and limited to existing vocabulary.

Why I love San Francisco:

- The stars.
- The fog rolling in.
- It's a metropolitan city with a beach.
- Its very friendly citizens.
- Wherever you drive there's a view.
- Ghirardelli dark chocolate squares with raspberry filling.
- Lovejoy's tea house.
- Amoeba, the used CD store in the Haight.
- My ample access to Filipino food, and great Asian food in general.
- The bar at fisherman's Wharf where the Irish coffee was invented.
- Local delights such as Just Desserts and See's candy.
- KKSF, the "smooth jazz" radio station that is my mom's favorite.
- Hills, hills, hills. At night, the houses on the hills look like candles blowing in the wind. I love driving upward on a hill, where what is beyond the top of the hill is unknown and mysterious. I love walking down a hill at night, arms crossed in a slight chill, inhaling the fresh ocean air.

Why I don't come home for Thanksgiving as well

Christmas Eve morning.
The players: Me, Mom, Bro, Bro's Girlfriend (BGF).

Me: When should we have Christmas Eve dinner tonight?
Mom: I don't know, Thanksgiving ended up being early, like three.
Bro: That's because we didn't eat all day.
Me: So we don't have to announce a time to the rest of the house? Just start making stuff?
Mom: I don't know, maybe four or five? But we like to open presents afterward.
Me: So?
Mom: So if there's a big gap of time between eating dinner and opening presents, that'll be weird. Oh, I guess we can play Scene It in between.
{BGF looks at me confusedly.}
Me: Why would there be a gap?
Mom: We could eat later like eight and then open presents right after.
Bro: But we're going to BGF's family's after.
Me: Hey, we don't have dessert for tonight.
Bro: We'll have it at BGF's.
Me: Oh. Why don't we open presents when we return from the party? {to BGF} The tradition is, we open presents on Christmas Eve as close to midnight as possible.
BGF: Oh.
Me: That's why Mom's trying to avoid opening them at 6 PM or something.
Mom: We can't open them up after we come home if the others are asleep.
Me: Oh.
Bro: Or if I want to stay at the party later than you guys and I take you home early just to come back.
Me: Why don't we open presents tomorrow morning like a lot of other people do?
Mom: Why don't we play present-opening by ear?
Me: Well, if we're playing that by ear, what time should we eat? Which was the question in the first place.

End of Act One.

Escape to Alcatraz

My dear friend Michael flew in from L.A. late Monday night, the night that the transit strike was threatening the city. Midnight came and went and we thought, "Whew, all is fine." I knew, however, when light broke the next morning, and I was awoken by car horns outside my window, that the strike had begun. One look outside at the standstill traffic confirmed my fears. Luckily, Michael and I had nowhere pressing to be that day. I did have a class that evening that I realized I was ambivalent about. I used the strike as an excuse not to go to the class, a class that wasn't canceled and that I'd already paid $75 for. The woman on the phone sounded very disappointed in me. But I just didn't want to go. Sometimes we need to learn $75 lessons.

On day two of the strike, I packed my bags and ventured outside. The traffic seemed completely normal and I was optomistic. I flagged a cab right outside my apartment building that had someone else already in it, which during this unusual time was completely normal. I told the cabbie I was going to Penn Station, he told me it'd be $15, and I climbed in. There was a checkpoint at 96th St. Between 5 AM and 11 AM, no cars can venture southward into Manhattan at that point without four people in the car. It is there at 96th St. that the cabbie waited at the corner for more passengers to need him. I waved a woman in who was tentatively eyeing the cab. She needed to go downtown as well. Then the cabbie got out of the car to do some legwork marketing and got one more passenger. We were free to pass. Below the checkpoint, traffic was glorious. It took a tad longer than usual but my timing was awesome. At Penn Station a woman knocked on the window to talk to the cabbie. "I need to go to Chambers St.," she said. "Okay, it'll be $15," said the cabbie. "Fifteen dollars? What if my friend wants to come too? Don't you need to go downtown," she asked the woman behind her, who was obviously a stranger and shook her head no. The woman turned back to the cabbie. "Fifteen dollars?" The cabbie said, "It's $10 to get in the cab and $5 more dollars per zone you enter. Chambers St. is two zones away." "Oh, this is not a good situation," the woman said desperately. "I only have $11. Can you please help me? Can you please help me?" The cabbie let her in. I'm glad he did.

I left the cab, observing the long line of people waiting to get into cabs. As I started on the escalator down to Penn Station, oh the sea of humanity that was emerging from under the ground into the city streets. I was so happy I was going the other way.

Now it's day three of the strike and I am 3,000 miles away in my adopted hometown of San Francisco. It's gray, rainy, and actually humid here. My family had earlier this year moved into a strange, unfamiliar house with other people, and although I slept fairly well, my mind is still at home. As I wrap Christmas presents and laugh with my brother I just want to hang out with my cat and continue bonding with my fellow citizens of the crazy city of New York while braving the cold. I am enjoying the company of another pet here though, little Benny, a black and white shih tzu who makes me smile.

The holidays are so weird and surreal. I just want to disappear.

Stay home, part deux

After the false scare last weekend, looks like the transit strike may actually happen this Tuesday. That means no subways or buses. Talks are apparently going nowhere fast. Wow. That would be really, really inconvenient. My friend from L.A. arrives Monday night for several days. I leave town Wednesday. I'd have no idea what to do.

My blog helps people

My blog helps people. I'm not just saying that because I'm a humantarian. I actually got feedback about this. My blog helps people. And by "people," I mean my friend Cindy, who just told me today as we sat waiting to watch The Chronicles of Narnia (those beavers KILL me), that my blog helped her. Firstly, by reading that I had bought a multi-pack of lip balm to stash in various convenient places this winter, she did the same. Then, reading about how I love cheese, she got an idea of what to get me for Christmas. And I've already eaten most of it: two divine cheeses I'd never tasted before plus fig jam and cute, little toasty crackers. So, read my blog, won't you, and figure out how you, too, can buy me things as a result. I'll be waiting.

Pedophilia

Why Daniel Radcliffe gotta be so fiiiiiiiiiiiine? Why? I was already crushin' on him in the last movie, the third one, Prisoner of Azkaban, when his voice dropped an octave and his features became angular and more manly. Then I saw Goblet of Fire, and in one scene he takes a bath!!!! And...I think there might have been dialogue...or something happening...that furthered the plot...I guess...but all I could think of was, "Damn, I could hit that!" So inappropriate. If only I were born in 1990.

Holly-day C-zen

Why is it so much easier to shop for the random people in my life but not my closest family members? I went shopping today and it was like boom, boom, boom, done, done, done, check off the list...I got presents for a woman and a dog I hadn't yet met, my brother's girlfriend, the hosts of an upcoming party, it was so easy. But my own mother, my own brother, it's like nothing's good enough or something. I'm supposed to know them well and therefore not get them something dumb like a mug with a cute saying on it. It's gotta be something that elicits gasps of, "You know me! This makes total sense!" Those are harder to find come crunch time, especially when I'm hoping the right present will make itself known to me and I have no ideas of my own.

Lost when it comes to Lost

I'll be on the phone with my Mom. "So, are you watching Lost? Are you following it?" I'll be catching up with a friend in a movie theater. "So, are you watching Lost? We ended up with three First Season DVDs by accident. Wanna borrow one? Huh? Huh?"

I never watched an episode of Lost while it was on the first season. But I did discover it in reruns over the summer. I'd watch stand-alone episodes and love them, and it was an extra delight that I know two cast members. So, it would be especially exciting to catch their characters' back stories. But the pressure as the second season began was to know the entire first season in its chronological order. The DVD release made this possible. I still hadn't gotten it together. Then the second season started. The world is abuzz. Someone else I know joins the "castaways," making that three people I now know on the show. Still can't get it together. Too overwhelming. Felt like a total hypocrite to try to watch the second season without being a total devotee to the first. With all the movies I have available to me to watch and to vote for this award season, I've decided that in February of '06, I will finally borrow the first season DVD from someone and catch up from the beginning.

I couldn't help tonight however, catching a new episode and watching the whole thing, back story be damned. I still understood all the relationshps. They're lost. There are bad people. They're looking for each other. They're dirty. No one's losing weight. Where do they go to the bathroom? Why is Gilligan always getting in trouble?

Walking time bomb

There's a guy at work, Brendan. Young guy. I'll guess he's 26 at the oldest. Decent looking guy, friendly, open to conversation. Here's the thing. He's a repressed-anger machine.

Example #1:
Brendan: So tomorrow's Thanksgiving and I was planning to buy wine to bring to my friends' place for dinner but someone just told me that I should probably get the wine today 'cuz the liquor stores may be closed tomorrow.
Eileen: Oh, that's interesting. That might be true. I don't know for sure.
Brendan: But I'm going out tonight and I didn't bring my backpack and I don't wanna lug two bottles of wine all over town!
Eileen: Yeah, that sucks.
Brendan: Do you really think stores will be closed?
Eileen: Uh...I have no idea but it's a good guess.
Brendan: Should I get the wine now then? But then I'll have it with me! I'm meeting friends tonight!
Eileen: Why don't you get it today and leave them here at the office and pick them up tomo...
Brendan: Because they still haven't given me my own key to the office! I thought of that already!
{Brendan subtext: Why do I have to do everything on everyone else's terms?}

Example #2:
Brendan: So, what was he all braggin' about?
Eileen: He just got Dirty Rotten Scoundrels!
Brendan: I...don't know what that is.
Eileen: Oh, I'm sorry. It's a Broadway show. He's leaving work to rehearse next week.
Brendan: Is that a musical?
Eileen: It is.
Brendan: Hey, if I were interested only in getting into commercials, how would I do that? 'Cuz back in D.C. I only did the occasional commercial here and there when someone needed someone to do really stupid, whacked-out things. I wouldn't mind just being the absolute idiot in commercials. What would I have to do to do that here?
Eileen: Uh...hm.
Brendan: Or are you just gonna tell me to "go to class?"
{Brendan subtext: People are always condascending to me.}

Example #3:
Eileen: We had an employee here recently who would type what she was listening to and read a magazine at the same time. Talk about multi-tasking. It was incredible.
Brendan: Wait. That's true?
Eileen: Uh, yeah. I saw it with my own eyes.
Brendan: 'Cuz someone else told me that when I first started and I assumed they were just full of shit.
{Brendan subtext: Complete strangers lie to me.}

Example #4:
{Background info: our office offers its services to TV producer clients to help them put together a news show, so we usually work with bits and pieces of interviews; hardly an entire, edited program}
Brendan: I've got a tape of a show that's already done.
Eileen: Yeah? Ah, well...
Brendan: Why do we get those?
Eileen: I don't know, just sometimes they want those transcribed.
Brendan: But the show's already done! Why don't they do it themselves?
Eileen: 'Cuz that would mean more work for them.
Brendan: SO?
{Brendan subtext: I'm always taken advantage of.}

Example #5:
I happened to giggle at something on my computer and Brendan leaned over and said, "Shut the fuck up."
{Brendan subtext: No one can have a good time while I hate myself. I'll let her know this and pass it off as my "sense of humor."}

So today, I was leaving the office as he was arriving. Today's high was 26 degrees. I was putting on the sweater, the long coat, the scarf, the hat. He came in and we said hi. He had on a thin jacket. Zero accoutrements.

Eileen: Are you warm enough in that thing?
Brendan: No, not at all. I had no idea it was gonna be this cold when I left the house. It was 13 degrees this morning.
{Brendan subtext: Everything is completely out of my control and therefore I have every right to be grouchy every day.}

Brusha brusha brusha

I clip my cat's nails. I brush his hair. I take him to the vet once a year. Now I'm trying to step up and get into a teeth-brushing routine. At the last vet appointment, the doctor pulled back Oscar's top lip and said, "See that? That's gingivitis."

Bad mama! Bad mama! That's gingivitis!

But see, I live alone and Oscar's about as big as me. Trying to stick something to rub in his mouth just isn't easy. The last three days have been a comical struggle as a big, white-n-brown furry sausage squirms around while I stick my finger in his mouth with a finger brush that has toothpaste on it. And I'm not getting to brush where I want, which is the top sides of his teeth. That's further back than I always aim for. It ends up amounting to Oscar eating the toothpaste with no brushing getting done. And he hates that I forced myself into his mouth too. Which, you know, I can appreciate. So much for gaining his trust. There must be a better way.

Stay home this weekend

In New York City this weekend, the temperature will be very low, and the transit workers may strike. Which means no bus or subway service. The local news is making a big deal out of this, as they probably should. It's scary. I don't bike, I don't skate, I don't unicycle, and who would do those things in subzero temperatures anyway? There will probably be a shortage of cabs. I need to go to work! I need to shop for Christmas presents! I need to meet friends! Hopefully it's all just the right amount of scare tactic needed for this thing to get worked out as urgently as possible. Being a member of three unions myself, I support the workers' need to do what they need to do. But man, I'm completely reliant on these modes of transportation. Who isn't?

Can't stand the heat? Don't eat the meat!

I went to Bodies: the Exhibition at the South St. Seaport this morning. It's an exhibit of real human insides, preserved from cadavers. There are a few of these touring the country, and apparently they have nothing to do with each other. This one is rumored to be the exhibit that used Chinese cadavers that hadn't necessarily donated their bodies to science. In every room, my friends and I kept whispering, "Asian. That guy's Asian. It's gotta be true, right? They all look Asian." Sure, they didn't have any skin, but we were positive they were all Chinese. Allegedly.

I learned the hard way that whenever I got up close and personal to a glass-encased organ or other, eager to learn some new piece of information about digestion or reproduction or circulation, when I got right up there, nose-to-glass, I got nauseous. Because this is squeamish stuff. Fascinating, but repelling at the same time. So, I needed to be a safe distance away and not examine cancerous polyps up close. I learned some things:

1. The gallbladder looks like a penis.
2. The liver is frickin' HUGE.
3. Arteries look like hair.
4. Our lungs are sit much higher in our chest than I thought.
5. Cadavers enjoy playing baseball, conducting orchestras, and hitchhiking.
   

It reminded me later of my high school, sophomore-year biology class. Pairs of us were assigned a dead baby fetus pig to dissect. And it wasn't just one class of "cut it open, look inside, run on home." It was an entire semester. We cut it open, looked at stuff, and stuck it in a bucket of formaldehyde until next time. Oh, that smell. I also remember our teacher made us name our pigs.

Mine was Cinderella.

Can't you see I'm RELAXING HERE?

I have a great memory of my pal Cindy and I gettin' our chill on in Central Park. I don't even remember when this was; maybe the summer of '04? We had it all planned out. We had a blanket to lay out on, and a book or two each. We had aaaall the tiiiiiime in the world. Cindy's a very sweet-natured, considerate, friendly human being, and there was a lot of book-reading silence punctuated with passionate discussions about human behavior or whatever we were reading about, alternating with more book-reading. We were trying not to be annoyed with the big group nearby who decided to play frisbee practically on top of us. At one point we were deep in discussion, laying on our stomachs, when a frisbee almost hit Cindy in the head.

Beat.

"Not cool! NOT COOL!"

It just makes me giggle that as angry as Cindy was, and rightfully so, I think she said it twice because they didn't hear her the first time. So the second "not cool" was a louder, "Goddammit, you made me say it twice" exclamation. And she's angry so infrequently that the energy totally shifted. They were total idiots.

Oh! I just remembered that at this same outing, I witnessed someone carrying a backpack running across the grass in a hurry, and minutes later a police car drove up, and policemen were talking to a guy whose arm was in a cast, who I speculated was mugged by Running Guy not minutes ago. Classy.

And there were also some especially cute Daschunds romping in the grass.

Just another day in Central Park.

Cawffee tawk

Being a native New Yorker, I was always a fan of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I don't know what it was about it, but it was yummy. Then I wasn't around it for awhile, there weren't many of them, I moved to California where they don't exist, Starbucks took over the planet, et cetera. Now "DND" is trying to be the poor man's Starbucks and opening chains all over New York City. So of course, I've got a new one in my neighborhood. And I'm partaking. I've even got a couple bags of whole beans at home from the good ol' DND. However, I'm noticing something strange. When I buy a cup nowadays, the coffee is...just okay. Then when I get to the bottom inch of liquid, it's really watery and no longer drinkable. This is a consistent, disappointing phenomenon. Did I never drink to the bottom before and therefore didn't notice it? I'm not sure. It's strange, though.

Helpless

It was late at night and the reception of James and Lisa's wedding was in full swing, though winding down for me. I'd hugged James, my long-time dear friend, goodbye. I'd hugged Lisa, who I didn't know well, goodbye. As I walked out the door into the nippy night air, I actually felt my heart break and I burst into tears which took me by surprise; it was so quick, instinctual. Deep down, I knew that this was the end. Today's wedding and reception marked the end of my friendship with James as I had known it. Lisa had negative-zero desire to get to know me and as a result I was already seeing James less and less. The sealing of their union began the mourning of my friendship's demise.

What lengths does one go to to keep this from happening? At first I went into survival mode. I fought to keep things the same. This, after all, had nothing to do with a decision made by James and myself to go our separate ways. It felt so unfair. But unfortunately the only thing to do to honor my long history with James is to climb into the back seat and ride it out. It happens. It. Happens. I fucking hate it, though.

One day off

Most of the year I only have one day off per week. That day off is so special, so deserved, so needed, that I usually try as hard as I can to make it so that I don't schedule one darn thing on that day. Not a thing. Not brunch, not a show, not a late-afternoon coffee. I love to do those things, but I'll do 'em during the week with everything else. Because on my day off, I only want to shop for myself, watch TV, and cook. Maybe I'll put in a DVD. Maybe. I mostly just enjoy being in my pajamas until 2 PM when I finally venture out for some air and a fun purchase. Or groceries. But I can't wait to come right back and veg. Oh, if only it could be forever!

I love cheese

I can't help it. I really love cheese. All kinds. Cream cheese on bagels, on Triscuits. Cheddar cheese on burgers, on nachos. American cheese by itself in a sandwich, with mayo and raw onion. Ricotta cheese on white pizza, in cannolis. Feta cheese on salads, parmesan cheese on pasta. Old Amsterdam, smoked gouda. Hard cheese, soft cheese, bleu cheese, Stilton.

The only thing I don't like is goat cheese. I don't know why. It doesn't seem right that I actually don't like a cheese. I want to like it. But I don't. Nope. Keep hoping I'll like it, but don't.

When I was a young child in Flushing, Queens, my grandmother would take me to Vito's Pizzeria on Roosevelt Avenue, order me a slice, and run an errand while the loud, old, kind Italian men kept their eye on me. I'd sit on my knees in the booth facing away from the table and people-watch. My absolute favorite thing to do while hanging at Vito's? Peeling the cheese off the pizza and eating it by itself. It felt so wrong it was right.

Vito's still exists, by the way. But like every pizza joint in New York nowadays, it's light, it's bright, it's airy, and they've got 26 varities of toppings. I'll always savor my memories of a dark, simple, friendly pizzeria of the '70s with their 50-cent slices where the only time you ventured is when you ordered a Sicilian.

Xmas marks the spot

AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR
RRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't want to clean my apartment for my houseguest.
I don't want to figure out what to get anybody.
I don't want to shop for groceries.
I don't want to bake the brownies I thought to bake for a party.
I don't want to spend any money.
I don't want to give of my time.
I don't want to take a plane trip to California.
I don't want to meet new people.
I don't want to reunite with other people.
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to have to think.
I don't want to do.
I just want to be.
I just want to hang out.
I just want things to be taken care of by magic.

The accidental movie premiere

Originally sent to some folks as an e-mail on September 14, 2005:

So as many of you know, I have been invited to see a number of free screenings of films that haven't yet been released. When I got an invitation to see Proof, since I loved the play so much, I immediately made a reservation for myself and a guest. It was going to be at the Ziegfeld Theater, which is this wonderful NYC movie theater with a long history. Screenings are usually shown in screening rooms in office buildings, so this was gonna be a treat.

I asked my friend Rodney to join me and told him to meet me at the theater a half hour before the screening began. He got there early and called me to say there were throngs of people there. That sounded strange for a small industry screening. As I got closer to the theater I noticed the marquee for Proof was already up, which was weird since the movie hadn't opened yet. Then I saw the red carpet and people with cameras. Then Rodney said he saw Anthony Hopkins enter the theater. We were at the premiere and didn't even know it.

Waiting in line to get our free tickets, as it dawned on us that we were at a movie premiere wearing t-shirts and jeans, hearing cheers up front upon the arrival of some celebrity or other, we lamented that we were probably going to be sat at the back of the theater since we have nothing to do with the making of this film. When we got our tickets and saw the seats were assigned, I was almost resigned to this fact.

Inside we made our way to the concession stand and saw rows of soda sitting on the counter and a sign that said, "Complimentary Pepsi and popcorn." That was when we officially freaked out. Our starving actor/ghetto Filipino selves ran for it. Soda in hand, I was like, "Excuse me! Excuse me! Miss?! Where do we get the popcorn?" The lady calmly pointed and said, "On the table behind you." Rodney was gone in a flash. I'm like, "Yo, get two! Rodney!" Ah, free food bringing out the best in me.

Giggling like two schoolgirls, we showed our tickets to an usher who walked us toward the front...and kept walking...and walking. We ended up having amazing seats, seven rows from the front. We looked around and were surrounded by other casually-dressed stunned people who also didn't know why on earth they were at a premiere.

A man came to the front and spoke into a microphone. I was like, "Oh, my god. That's Harvey Wein..." "Hi, I'm Harvey Weinstein." Applause. "I'm the President of Miramax for only two more weeks." Laughter. "After that I'll be the dog catcher for Miramax." (Huh?) Then he went on to thank the Manhattan Theater Club, Gwyneth Paltrow, the screenwriters and several producers, some of whom stood up to our polite applause. The director, John Madden, spoke briefly. Harvey then informed us that tonight will be the unveiling of The Weinstein Company logo at the top of the movie. "Jake Gyllenhall and Hope Davis send their humblest apologies for not being here tonight, but we are pleased to introduce the two people who make up the heart of the movie, Gwyneth Paltrow and Anthony Hopkins." Sure enough, some rows behind us stood said Paltrow and Hopkins, smiling and waving while Rodney and I applauded and giggled our faces off.

"You should text Gwynnie and ask her where the after-party is." "Tony's not hanging around afterward since he has an early flight tomorrow." "Eileen, we worked so hard on this movie, we deserve to just celebrate tonight. Relax." And on we went like that all evening long. The lights go down and the movie begins. The first logo before the Miramax logo is The Weinstein Company. Somebody says, "Yay," and leads us into applauding the logo. It was Gwyneth.

So there it was...our not-really red carpet moment. Only in New York, kids.

124 minutes

I'm not a casual movie watcher. Netflix wouldn't be cost effective for me. I don't buy DVDs, because I usually don't watch something more than once. I'll watch hours of TV but a movie is a commitment.

So it's a fun, novel, and exhausting experience I'm having right now watching practically a movie a day. I'm seeing a whole bunch of new and not-yet-released movies, because I'm on some fancy schmancy committee that gets to nominate movies this year. No, it's not the Academy, and no, I don't get to do this every year. So, this season is very special. Every other day I get some UPS or FedEx package with DVDs. Christmas indeed! If I don't watch these movies at home, I'll bring a guest to a swank, small screening room in a glassy office building, where hob-nobbing with the popcorn-eating, preview-watching bourgeois is only the stuff of bad dreams. (I now understand the private screening room, by the way. "Bah," I used to scoff while watching MTV's Cribs. "The wealthy and their private screening rooms, who needs 'em?" Oh, man. It's the way to go. When I get a mansion, I'm installing one in that sucker.)

I'm also frequently invited to screenings where afterward the stars and director of the film will be there for a Q&A. I've never been to one of those, and they sound intriguing for about two whole seconds, but there are just so many films and so little time, that staying for a Q&A is just asking a lot of me, Russell Crowe and Ron Howard be damned. My brother once said, "You don't go to those? I'd think it'd be your own personal 'Inside the Actor's Studio.'" He had a point. Then I thought of James Lipton, and decided that my brother just drove me further away from the Q&As.

In fact there are so many movies I'm trying to cram in so little time, that every minute counts. I came home tonight and had a late dinner. I decided I should watch one of the DVDs just to get one more out of the way. But two hours! Again, a commitment. Oh, I could watch Oprah til 2 AM, but a movie until 12:30??!!! Kill me now! So I had the great idea of checking out each disc to see how long each movie was and watch the shortest one. The first one I looked at said 124 minutes. That means nothing to me. My brain likes to just stop at "Ninety minutes equals an hour and a half." Beyond that is actual math. So, I'm going, "Uh, that's more than an hour and a half but less than...dammit! Is any one of these 90 minutes?" The next one I opened was 122 minutes. "Uh, more than 90 but less than...argh!" Then it all went up in smoke when a bunch of DVDs didn't give the length of time at all. Anywhere. Frustrating. Here I am, ripping plastic and sticky strips from hell off of plastic DVD containers, just looking for numbers! Work with me, people! You want me to vote, don't you? I found one 92-minute one, decided I didn't want to watch that one after all, and put in one whose length was unknown and watched it through til the end, til 1 AM. I was just delaying the inevitable by that fruitless exercise.

The movie was two hours and nine minutes. I don't know how many minutes that equals.

Two smart things I've done for the winter

1) I bought a multi-pack of lip balm and put one in three different coat pockets, and my purse.

2) I bought fingerless mittens, which on a cold day, allow me to:

1. Play with my ipod
2. Talk on my cell phone
3. Continue typing on any given keyboard at lightning speed.

Einstein got nothing on me! Bring it on! Bring. It.

A short semantics lesson

"Philippine" is not an adjective.

"Philippino" is the incorrect spelling of "Filipino," which is an adjective.

"The Philippines" only has one L in it.

Thank you for your time.

Hair drama

Yesterday I got a haircut. It had been eight months since my last one. Later in the day, with every step I took, my hair literally bounced. I was in my own shampoo commercial! I wanted to swish my head from side to side in slow motion.

I've been going to Pamela for years. She's cut my hair twice a year for over a decade. I don't know her well, but I enjoy being loyal to her. My hair always looks good no matter what little different thing we do, and we're about the same age, and I like that. Yesterday was no different than any other. We talked about movies and the holidays, interspersed with not talking at all. Toward the end, she busted out the hair dryer, turned it on, and said in my ear, "Before you go, give me your updated information. Like in an envelope. Discreetly."

I had just seen Syriana the night before, so I suddenly felt thrust into my own political thriller where oil and bombs and foreign countries and torture and death were involved.

I knew what was happening. A handful of years ago Pamela was leaving her previous place of employment and wanted to secure some regular clients, so she took down my phone number and I followed her to her next place of employment. I think she wanted to do the same thing again now, but she wasn't allowed to do so openly, so as to lure clients away from her employer. "That's so funny you just said that," I told her to wide eyes, "I was just wondering as I sat down if you were thinking of moving on anytime soon. So, we're psychic." "You're psychic," she corrected. As she blew-dried my hair I was thinking of the best way to do this. I'll just slip her tip and my business card in one of their envelopes and we're home free. What would happen if she got caught? Would they rip her fingernails off one by one? Would they throw her to the street without a coat in the dead of winter? Then, I don't know if it was because she was happy to know I was planning to stay loyal to her, or because we shared a funny psychic moment, but she then chatted away like she'd never chatted before. I couldn't keep up. Chatty, chatty, laughy, chatty, chatty. Did we just bond over something?

The time came to pay and leave. I gave her a thumbs up and she said out of the side of her mouth, "That's the boss," giving a head-nod toward the front desk. Oh, okay. I went to the closet and put on my coat. I took out a business card and hid it somewhere more accessible in my purse. The Boss rang up my sale. I asked him to break a $20 bill. I put cash and my card into a envelope and gave it to Pamela, adrenaline pumping. "See you in two weeks," she said extra chipper, and I said, "Okay," and as I walked away I wondered what the heck she meant by that, because she wasn't going to see me in two weeks. Did she mistake me for someone else in that moment? Or did she mean two months? It was totally bizarre.

And as I walked away I decided to play George Clooney and walk faster and faster looking up at buildings while the hair salon burst into flame behind me to my utter knowledge and expectation. I'm a CIA agent. Behold my bouncy hair.

Why Clarissa and I are no longer friends

Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be a supporting player in someone else's one-man show?

"But Eileen," you ponder, "there are no supporting players in a one-man show."

Exactly.

Peruse if you will, excerpts of conversations.

Starring Eileen and Clarissa.

Eileen: Hello?
Clarissa: Hiiiiii! It's meeeeee! How ARE youuuuuuu?
Eileen: I'm fine. How are you?
Clarissa: Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me!!!
Eileen: Well, I'm entertaining family from out of town right now, so...
Clarissa: Ohhhh! That's awesome! My my my my my me me me me me me! What should I do? Me me me me me me me!
Eileen: Well, I don't know, sorry you're going through that...
Clarissa: I know! I can't believe it! Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me and my shit! Oh, and also, you'll never believe who called me, me, me, me, me, me, me! So, what are you gonna do today with your family? Tell me, me, me, me, me, me!

**************
Clarissa: Hello?
Eileen: I'm fucking pissed.
Clarissa: Why? What happened?
Eileen: I had this great interview and I was excited about it but they turned me down, and I work so hard and for what? Sometimes this business fucking sucks ass.
Clarissa: Ohhhhh. So anyway, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me. And tomorrow, me, myself, and I too! I hope you want to join us/me!
Eileen: I don't think so.
Clarissa: Are you mad at meeeeee? Maybe me, me, me, me, me, me! Let me know!
Eileen: Well, sometimes I feel like you're not there for me when I need you.
Clarissa: Ohhhh nooooo! I feel baaaaad!!!! That's the last thing I would want! I hope that you and me and me and me and me and me and me and me forever and ever!

Hello?

Hello?

Random act

I was on the subway once. I was sitting across a few people, two of which were young guys. They weren't sitting together. At one stop, a lot of people got on. One of the young guys stood up, seemingly so that an older woman and her male companion could sit down. The young guy who stood up went to hang out by the door, near the other young guy, who just sat slumped over and was quite fidgety. "Thank you," the older woman said, but the standing guy was busy eyeing the sitting guy. "Thank you," she tried again, this time getting his attention. He nodded at the woman. I looked to where the standing guy was staring. Was the sitting guy reading something? Was something on the floor ?

The train left the station toward the next one. I kept looking right at Standing Guy, mostly because he happened to be across from me. So, I was still looking at him when out of nowhere he began wailing on Sitting Guy right where he was sitting, just punching him as hard as possible again and again. Sitting Guy wailed like a baby, his arms over his face, trying to be as fetal as possible, screaming, "Why? Why?" the entire time. The rest of us on the train were in shock. Do they know each other? Was this a joke? Was this real? Will someone die? It was that typical New York mix of cool and caution while the wheels turned at the speed of light in our brains. Some of us moved away from the violence. Most of us stayed right where we were, as if only the apperance of a gun would make me give up my seat.

As the train slowed down at the next station, Standing Guy ended his assault, waited calmly at the door for it to open, and walked out. Sitting Guy was crying, his eye was swollen and bleeding, and he didn't know whether he should stay on the train or follow Standing Guy out. He got off the train and I watched as he stood helplessly at the bottom of the stairs looking after Standing Guy. The doors of the train closed and I noticed Sitting Guy's hat sitting abandoned on his seat.

I too felt assaulted.

Ode to nature sounds

I recently bought a machine that emits "nature sounds."
At night, I wear ear plugs to keep out the street noise.
But I turn on the nature-sound machine too.
So I turn the volume up on my nature-sound machine,
So that I can hear it with my ear plugs on.
If you take the ear plugs off,
The nature sounds are really loud.
Irony.
All in the name of sleep.

My favorite nature sound is
Ocean Waves.
However, there are birds chirping with the ocean waves.
Therefore, I can't fall asleep to Ocean Waves
Because it doesn't seem right to me that birds would be heard at night with the ocean.
I could be wrong about that.
But what do I know. I don't sleep by the ocean.
So, instead of sleeping to Ocean Waves, I snooze to it.
Instead, I sleep to
Rain.
I also like to sleep to
Summer Night.
Basically a bunch of crickets. In fact, they should call it
Just Crickets.
I also like
Rainforest.
But there's a LOT of birds in Rainforest, so that's more of a daytime sound as well.
My fantasy's gotta fit the sound.
If it's nighttime it can't sound like daytime.
Very important.
All in the name of sleep.

Frustration is...

...sitting around at your office job with nothing to do because there's no work, and it's almost Christmas, and you don't get paid by the hour but by production, and you hope that something comes along quick, because the week of Christmas you're not even gonna be in town making any kinda money at all, and nightmares of temping or waiting tables dance around your pretty little head, taunting you gleefully, and the newbies approach you tentitively with horror in their voices, asking, "What do you do when there's no work? How am I supposed to pay my bills?" And you look at them with a mixture of compassion and competitiveness, because you feel their pain and yet you hope they're so scared off they quit, 'cause then there will be more work for you. Not even the fancy schmancy Sharper Image office massage chair keeps the looming fear at bay. Fuck that chair. You've got a quota to make.