Here it is January 1st and I'm kind of wondering what Annastatia did New Year's Eve. Because what I did was sit at home, listen to music and play computer solitaire. I know her brother's here from Albany, but did she go to a party and meet somebody, go to Times Square and meet somebody and should I worry? (Yeah, I should) There's nothing tying us together so there's no reason she shouldn't or couldn't hook up with someone, right?
I like her. I like her a lot. How can I get up the nerve to tell her when I'm worried I might scare her off. I'm pretty sure she already knows how I feel, this sometimes tongue-tied writer who's interested in her. Hell, I know she knows. She stand there with a knowing smile on her face when we're talking. I'm trying to engage her attention, get something she's interested in.
Since we've been having dinner together she's started to open up more. It's easier (and more fun) to have a conversation. I somehow felt we'd made some sort of breakthrough on her birthday, when she kissed my cheek at the station. I KNOW that sounds like a school kid with his first crush, but I feel more like somebody sidling onto thin ice, unsure of how long the ice'll hold. Especially after I read her a poem I wrote that she asked "wasn't that a little daring?" Unsure of how to proceed and not wanting to ruin anything I destroyed the poem. When I told her that she said, "but that's art!" (Glad somebody thinks that about my writing. Sometimes I feel like the Captain Beefheart story where Cap. said "Good art takes time." and to the band'-"and so does this shit."
Next time we talk I'm going to remind her of the February 5th Malcolm Mooney opening at White Columns. It's a Saturday and she (says) she doesn't want to leave her house then. I think this might be good both for her art and us.
That's one of the things I'm not certain about, those little things I can't stop wondering about. She won't leave her area weekends, I've never seen her drink anything stronger than tea (she's Ukranian, not that that means anything, but...) and I haven't seen her eat anything such as chocolate or cake-though she does mention her grandmother's cake with fondness. On the other hand she hasn't seen me do any of these things either, but I don't because she doesn't.
I'd love to see her paintings, maybe even help her kick start her art. I even suggested she do something for my next book. It'd be a shame for her to waste any talent she has. That's one of the reasons I suggested the Mslcolm Mooney opening. It'd also be a way to take her somewhere over the weekend.
Oh well. I'll probably see her Monday. We'll talk then and see what transpires. Probably I'll still be scared shitless (again)
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
NOW WHAT?
I forget who first made the statement-if you want to know if a politician is lying ask them if they understand women. If they say yes they'll lie about other things.
Anastasia and I finally get out for her birthday some five days after the event. We wind up in the Indian Cafe on 107th and Broadway. Living as I do near Curry Hill, this' the type of place that reinforces my theory that it's the company as well as the food that makes a date. Firstly we spend more time there then usual, a couple of hours as opposed to the usual one. It seems as if I'm pulling teeth when I try to pay for everything. Lately most of the women I've dated have gone Dutch, which I both appreciate and feel a little insulted by. I finally get her to understand that it's her birthday, and I'm paying for her and that's that.
When we get to Times Square I'm waiting for the N train with her. She understands (I think) that I feel it's a safety thing and I'm appreciative of the extra time I spend with her. The train starts to pull into the station when she does something she's never done before. She gives me a big hug and kisses me on the cheek. Startled, I reciprocate.
My trip downtown is entirely airborne. I feel as if we've crossed some type of barrier. It's impossible to sleep, so I put down the poem that's in my head.
She comes over to the stand the next day all smiles (as usual) and I read her the po-em, as her accent would have it. She sees it as a little daring. To which I said if you really think that I'll destroy the copy I've got.The one thing I don't want to do is hurt her. My first thought is that it's not at all daring, as I explain to her. To myself I think, baring your soul to anybody you're interested in is daring. I think I made her understand.
Throughout this budding whatever I've been a perfect gentleman. I've never tried to force myself on her, nor did I make a big thing about not having her phone number. (Though the day I had to cancel a date it would have been easier than going through the CU phone service. She even complimented me on doing that. That should have showed her I need her number) I've never even made an issue about her not coming into the city for a weekend date.
Like I said, I don't think there's any problem. But thanks to the holiday and the weather I probably won't see her until Tuesday or Weds. We'll see then.
Anastasia and I finally get out for her birthday some five days after the event. We wind up in the Indian Cafe on 107th and Broadway. Living as I do near Curry Hill, this' the type of place that reinforces my theory that it's the company as well as the food that makes a date. Firstly we spend more time there then usual, a couple of hours as opposed to the usual one. It seems as if I'm pulling teeth when I try to pay for everything. Lately most of the women I've dated have gone Dutch, which I both appreciate and feel a little insulted by. I finally get her to understand that it's her birthday, and I'm paying for her and that's that.
When we get to Times Square I'm waiting for the N train with her. She understands (I think) that I feel it's a safety thing and I'm appreciative of the extra time I spend with her. The train starts to pull into the station when she does something she's never done before. She gives me a big hug and kisses me on the cheek. Startled, I reciprocate.
My trip downtown is entirely airborne. I feel as if we've crossed some type of barrier. It's impossible to sleep, so I put down the poem that's in my head.
She comes over to the stand the next day all smiles (as usual) and I read her the po-em, as her accent would have it. She sees it as a little daring. To which I said if you really think that I'll destroy the copy I've got.The one thing I don't want to do is hurt her. My first thought is that it's not at all daring, as I explain to her. To myself I think, baring your soul to anybody you're interested in is daring. I think I made her understand.
Throughout this budding whatever I've been a perfect gentleman. I've never tried to force myself on her, nor did I make a big thing about not having her phone number. (Though the day I had to cancel a date it would have been easier than going through the CU phone service. She even complimented me on doing that. That should have showed her I need her number) I've never even made an issue about her not coming into the city for a weekend date.
Like I said, I don't think there's any problem. But thanks to the holiday and the weather I probably won't see her until Tuesday or Weds. We'll see then.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
brooklyn book bash
I usually don't use blogs like this. Correction. I never do blogs like this. But seeing as this was my first book fair I decided to put down my impressions.
September 12 dawned cool and wet. I decided to hit the 79th Street flea before I went into Brooklyn. Found some good CDs too; Carpenters, Smiths, Geri Allen, a few others. Hit the cell to call Vern before I went underground. She wasn't feeling that well, but was still on her way. Okay, all was normal.
Hoping they'd let me into Brooklyn w/out my passport, as my "Where Is Hip" says. Got lucky as the fair was right outside the Borough Hall station. Took me a while, but finally found Seventh Story/Fractuous Press. The 2 women at the station said Vern wasn't there yet, but as they knew me from Columbia we chatted a while. One said she tried to get Vern to stay home, but hadn't received an answer. I wandered around, and found that most of these small presses aren't that cheap. By the time I got back to the stand Vern had arrived (yeah Vern!) and we set up Fractuous' stand. Next arrival was a 'zine editor whom I'd try and date if I was some 20 years younger. Oh well.
I was slightly bemused when somebody asked me to sign Blonde, Blue-Eyed and Handsome. Talked to a couple of people who were reading it were amused. I think that's where my strength lies. I see the funny side of things...
Which I couldn't do for long as it started raining. We covered up as best we could (I should be an expert, right?) and sold a few more books.One person who'd seen me at the Ding Dong wanted me to do an improvisational piece with a laser harpist. That's the type of thing I'd love to do.
Saw the cover, obi and pages of Mr. Manners. Vern was getting it together. My 2nd book! I've had a lot of editors, but she's the best I've worked with so far. For her birthday I'll get her either a 50-hour day or a time compressor, but she'll have to make do w/ a paper cutter.
Wandered around and picked up a book by the vocalist with the New Bomb Turks. Good book. One of the people at the stand is the owner of my fave CD store, Academy. He was surprised when he heard I had a book out, and when I said I was working on a book on NY rock he said he wanted to see it. Publishing opportunity?
Grabbed Vern and myself lunch at Tim Horton's. They've got surprisingly good food, and they're Canadian. So's Vern.
Raining in ernest, so we packed up for the day. Everybody went to Watt Street to dry out books and I went home. Hoping to hear from the laser harpist and zine editor sometime over the week. Considering how many people showed up in the rain, this must be a total blast in nice weather.
September 12 dawned cool and wet. I decided to hit the 79th Street flea before I went into Brooklyn. Found some good CDs too; Carpenters, Smiths, Geri Allen, a few others. Hit the cell to call Vern before I went underground. She wasn't feeling that well, but was still on her way. Okay, all was normal.
Hoping they'd let me into Brooklyn w/out my passport, as my "Where Is Hip" says. Got lucky as the fair was right outside the Borough Hall station. Took me a while, but finally found Seventh Story/Fractuous Press. The 2 women at the station said Vern wasn't there yet, but as they knew me from Columbia we chatted a while. One said she tried to get Vern to stay home, but hadn't received an answer. I wandered around, and found that most of these small presses aren't that cheap. By the time I got back to the stand Vern had arrived (yeah Vern!) and we set up Fractuous' stand. Next arrival was a 'zine editor whom I'd try and date if I was some 20 years younger. Oh well.
I was slightly bemused when somebody asked me to sign Blonde, Blue-Eyed and Handsome. Talked to a couple of people who were reading it were amused. I think that's where my strength lies. I see the funny side of things...
Which I couldn't do for long as it started raining. We covered up as best we could (I should be an expert, right?) and sold a few more books.One person who'd seen me at the Ding Dong wanted me to do an improvisational piece with a laser harpist. That's the type of thing I'd love to do.
Saw the cover, obi and pages of Mr. Manners. Vern was getting it together. My 2nd book! I've had a lot of editors, but she's the best I've worked with so far. For her birthday I'll get her either a 50-hour day or a time compressor, but she'll have to make do w/ a paper cutter.
Wandered around and picked up a book by the vocalist with the New Bomb Turks. Good book. One of the people at the stand is the owner of my fave CD store, Academy. He was surprised when he heard I had a book out, and when I said I was working on a book on NY rock he said he wanted to see it. Publishing opportunity?
Grabbed Vern and myself lunch at Tim Horton's. They've got surprisingly good food, and they're Canadian. So's Vern.
Raining in ernest, so we packed up for the day. Everybody went to Watt Street to dry out books and I went home. Hoping to hear from the laser harpist and zine editor sometime over the week. Considering how many people showed up in the rain, this must be a total blast in nice weather.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
CENTER OF THE WORLD
We've all got different ways of getting thru
Men act Manly, act like they don't care (but they do)
Women go all girly, oh you shouldn't have (oh yes you should)
Maybe we don't make a big deal of it
with presents, cake, favors and pin the tail on the donkey
But we'd still like to be noticed by other than our family
Shown that we mean something to our friends
Get all fussed over
and for that day be
Center Of The World
Men act Manly, act like they don't care (but they do)
Women go all girly, oh you shouldn't have (oh yes you should)
Maybe we don't make a big deal of it
with presents, cake, favors and pin the tail on the donkey
But we'd still like to be noticed by other than our family
Shown that we mean something to our friends
Get all fussed over
and for that day be
Center Of The World
Thursday, September 2, 2010
ON RESPONSIBILITY
Still the wheel of blame blindly spins, and blind justice again pins blame everywhere but where
she should. Another child loses her (invulnerable) life and society again avoids the right choice.
Let's run this down, shall we? A 17 year old ambassador's daughter, by her own admission in love with getting and being high, climbs a 34th story balcony to snap a photo of herself and plummets to a 6 AM demise. Blame gets spun, for some there's none.
While some fault lies with the bar that served her, its unrealistic to totally blame them. As the owner of a Columbia area deli states, you see IDs from every state in the union and overseas and verification is hard if not impossible. College age women nowadays empathetically do not look like those I went to school with and in order to imbibe will claim a different birth date. I stopped a local bar from serving my then 17 year old niece, who had both the looks and ID to pass for 21. To blame the apartment owner is equally wrong, for as with the bar, how is he to know his guests' age?
Missing in the blame game are the by now grieving parents. While Daddy was off playing ambassador and Mommy was off doing whatever, their daughter was indulging in a hedonistic lifestyle that led to her untimely demise.
In death she also had a full house. Being attractive, rich and white meant the media turned its full attention on her. Had she been of merely average looks, black or Hispanic there would have been considerably less media attention.
On an equal level I blame the media. We are bombarded with the news that the smirking cebultard Paris Hilton has gotten off on yet another possession charge or that the celebrity train wreck Lindsay Lohan is crying that well-deserved jail time will cut into her film career. Those reading these gossip column tidbits disguised as news feel that they also deserve the breaks the glitteri are getting.
Consider this a wake up call for society to shift blame from the schools, government and police to where it justly belongs. Its way past time for society to put the blame on non-caring and non-present parents.
she should. Another child loses her (invulnerable) life and society again avoids the right choice.
Let's run this down, shall we? A 17 year old ambassador's daughter, by her own admission in love with getting and being high, climbs a 34th story balcony to snap a photo of herself and plummets to a 6 AM demise. Blame gets spun, for some there's none.
While some fault lies with the bar that served her, its unrealistic to totally blame them. As the owner of a Columbia area deli states, you see IDs from every state in the union and overseas and verification is hard if not impossible. College age women nowadays empathetically do not look like those I went to school with and in order to imbibe will claim a different birth date. I stopped a local bar from serving my then 17 year old niece, who had both the looks and ID to pass for 21. To blame the apartment owner is equally wrong, for as with the bar, how is he to know his guests' age?
Missing in the blame game are the by now grieving parents. While Daddy was off playing ambassador and Mommy was off doing whatever, their daughter was indulging in a hedonistic lifestyle that led to her untimely demise.
In death she also had a full house. Being attractive, rich and white meant the media turned its full attention on her. Had she been of merely average looks, black or Hispanic there would have been considerably less media attention.
On an equal level I blame the media. We are bombarded with the news that the smirking cebultard Paris Hilton has gotten off on yet another possession charge or that the celebrity train wreck Lindsay Lohan is crying that well-deserved jail time will cut into her film career. Those reading these gossip column tidbits disguised as news feel that they also deserve the breaks the glitteri are getting.
Consider this a wake up call for society to shift blame from the schools, government and police to where it justly belongs. Its way past time for society to put the blame on non-caring and non-present parents.
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