I WANT MY HOUR BACK

I’m part of a service that offers tickets to Broadway, off-Broadway, and off-off Broadway shows, for a nominal fee. It makes risk-taking almost painless… well almost. I’m under agreement not to slam what I see, it goes against the purpose. So I’ll be as obscure as possible.

Cara and I saw something that was supposed to be scary, and well, since we’re both suffering from colds we thought a bit of entertainment might help things out— I usually go to movies. That’s what we should have done, but once we bought the tickets we were committed. Oh lord was it bad. It was supposed to be scary, suspenseful, about ghosts, unsolved murders, curses, crime and generally creepy stuff, some of my favorite things. It had all the subtlety of an Ed Wood film. Some people have no sense of what’s really scary, I mean disturbing, unsettling. It’s about suggestion, timing, intensity.

This was garbage. People yelling for effect, pointless lighting, miscasting, plot holes, and that discomfort that comes from seeing something really really bad, the kind of thing that makes you embarrassed to be part of because it actually debases and devalues you for the time invested. Nothing washes that taste out of your mouth, not even a post-show so-so organic meal afterwards.

SPACE

I work at home as a freelancer. I’m not thrilled with hours of time spent alone but I like the schedule right now and really need the time to regroup, Enough said on that. At some point every day I leave the studio and head downtown, always to workout, and sometimes to see movies, eat, drink coffee or just wander around, anything to get the hell out of my own head after sitting with it all morning. I need people. New York has no shortage of this.

That said, I’m not particularly fond of Christmas or its crowds, and as with things here I’ve mentioned before along the lines of problems of public toilets or price gouging, I think the lack of personal space once you leave the safety of home is the hardest thing to accept or—more importantly— deal with.

I came from a region that whenever you went somewhre you could pretty much count on a space for you, whether it was a restaurant, coffee shop, bus ride or audience seat. There were rare occasions of maximum occupancy, but I got spoiled showing up whenever I felt like and getting what I wanted when I wanted.

Here I’m a cog in the wheel, or something more like one of those ball bearings that’s packed in greased and lined up in a hub. What I want is pointless; it’s what I get. That old saying “Instead of getting what you want when you want it, try wanting what you get when you get it” is horribly accurate and still offers no consolation when all one wants to do is leave the house and sit somewhere else downtown.

To be more precise, I wanted to go someplace with my laptop and work on my novel, just for an hour or so, not that long. I ended up, much like I did looking for a toilet, in several Starbucks and also Whole Foods with absolutely nothing to show for it. It’s like being a man without a country. You wander and wander and you start to realize that you should have never left home in the first place. Oh sure, I could hang out at the YMCA (there’s always room there) or a library or museum. But that’s not the point. I leave to be surrounded by energy, someone else’s and not mine. I want electricity. And well, that’s just too bad.

Ceaseless frustration left me defeated. I went home like a good boy and didn’t ask questions. The lesson is that sometimes the city is generous and gives you most, or everything you want, and other times, well other times you’re a traveler, taking up the briefest amount of space, a spirit, something ghostly passing through, transparent and terrestrial.