Going to a Salon

This past Sunday, I went to a salon. The artist's kind. My friend Anna, a writer who lives just a block from me in Park Slope, met the host at MacDowell last summer. Jerome Kitzke is a musician and percussionist, and he has people over to his apartment in Inwood (way, way at the top of Manhattan, in the 215's) every once in a while to share their work.

I can't quite say "salon" without a little smirk—it sounds a bit too highbrow bohemian for this struggling fiction writer, who still, most definitely, doesn't think of herself as an artist. But the afternoon was amazing: laid-back, open, and inspiring. We heard a composer, Cindy, play a suite of six original pieces on the baby grand—and the theme, appropriately enough, was inspired by Colorado wildflowers. Another group performed the kernel of an opera project, with ancient Mayan flutes and ballet dancers. One woman sang "Rejoice Greatly," from the Messiah, to practice for a Christmas Eve concert. Anna read a few pages from her novel-in-progress. We nibbled on apple cider donuts and fresh mozzarella. As a newbie, I didn't present anything—not least because I went into it feeling intimidated by all these "accomplished" artists. But I promised Jerome that I would share something at the next salon. Fake it till you make it.

Crazy Piano Guy

Saturday night, 12: 32 a.m. After spending a wonderful and funny and stormy afternoon with Mitzi and Wendy (which involved lines at tkts, coffee and brown betty at Grounded, smirks and songs like "It Sucks To Be Me" at Avenue Q, and pho at Bao), I walk down into the Union Square subway station to wait for the Q train. There's a dude playing a *real* piano down there—everything from "Billy Jean" to Billy Joel to A-ha to Journey (don't stop believin'!) to The Entertainer to Mozart to "Heart and Soul." The piano is on a cart. There are some straps. I sooo want to know how the hell he gets a piano into subway station, but he's too busy at the keys.

Apparently he's the Crazy Piano Guy. There's a good story about him here, and a slideshow here. He keeps four pianos in storage around the city, all convenient to busk-worthy locations. I hope I run into him again (I suppose that means choosing stations with elevators, huh? He's not that crazy!).

As the crowd grows (thanks to the fact that the Q is in no hurry to arrive), CPG breaks into a massive medley—playing each song just long enough to get a laugh, then moving to the next with a huge, full-body glissando. The piano shakes. Because some of the panels are missing, you can see its insides (these are city pianos—they've been around). People three tracks over gaze at us wistfully: Even though the sound carries through the whole station, you just want to be right there. To see those fingers fly. When my train finally shows up, I'm tempted to miss it on purpose just to hear a little bit more live music.

It makes me pine for my little piano back in Boulder. But I'm not crazy enough to move it into a 4th-floor walkup.

Barbès

Last night we—Christie, Julie, Veronica, and I...plus George, a videographer who worked with Christie on a great project in Vietnam—went to a very cool spot in Park Slope, about 10 minutes from my apartment. Up front, Barbès feels like a wine bar: narrow, low lights, tall stools, lots of bottles. In back, it's a small performance space: worn wood floors, red pressed-tin ceilings, plastic prayer flags, a couple tables, a carnivalesque mural, a few chairs, a neon sign that says "Hotel D'Orsay," and enough room for a band and about 40 people. Almost every night, 7 days a week, people perform here. Guzheng players. Mexican brass bands. Gypsy swing. Guinean jazz. Old-timey twang. We got to listen to the Stagger Back Brass Band, which was described like so: "An entire carnival distilled into musical form or a drunk who's had too much coffee, Stagger Back Brass Band specializes in intentional self-destruction, rumpus-raising booty-beats, and lovely melodies for high-wire acts. We encourage costumery and dress-uppery...."

Our little group didn't engage in any dress-uppery, but we did raise a bit of rumpus. We had a collective New York moment when we started thinking about how we were in this little bar, and there are little bars all over NY, with bands and little crowds, playing music of all kinds, and dancing and drinking, and this shit happens all the time.

Just wanted to post a few (grainy) cell-phone pics. It felt like the kind of place I'd go to every night, if I could.


.
(Christie, Julie, me, V)

Out and About with Christie

My great friend and writer extraordinaire, Christie, is in town this week, and we've had an awesome time! Here's what we've seen so far—on a walk from my house in Park Slope all the way to Chinatown. And beyond.

My stairway on the way outside. Nice color, yes?


Annie's garden on Union Street:


Something on the wall:


City sunflowers:


Morning glory (near the Gowanus Canal):



A huge-ass ginkgo tree. A tidbit about these from a great Talk of the Town: 'Each fall, the mature female—as dioecious gymnosperms, ginkgos come in genders—produces ovules that, once fertilized, develop into bunches of seeds, each consisting of an inner kernel encased in a soft, fuzzy skin. The seeds look like green cherries and contain butyric acid, the smell of which has been variously described as “rancid butter,” “sour milk,” “sh*tberries,” and “dog crap.”' They are beautiful, though!


Church on Smith Street:


Cables on the Brooklyn Bridge:


Christie on the Brooklyn Bridge, with the Manhattan Bridge behind:


We discovered a street for ourselves:


Dr. Toothy:


Chinatown:


Long beans in Chinatown:


Fall is still lingering in Central Park!


Outside the American Museum of Natural History:


[insert photo of Rick Moody here—we went to a reading at Brooklyn College.]
[insert photo of a Franny's pizza pie here. Some say it's the best in NYC!]
[insert photo of Julie here. She met us at the museum and spent the rest of the evening with us—three Colorado girls here in the big city, alternately wowed, thrilled, and overwhelmed.]

Alphabetical Africa

For class today, I had to read the Walter Abish book Alphabetical Africa. And the structure's the thing: The first chapter contains only words starting with A, the second only words starting with A or B. Etc., all the way to Z, at which point Abish goes back from Z to A, condensing his now-expanded plot—which inevitably involves getting rid of many characters (including himself, as "I).

A taste:
"Ages ago, Alex, Allen and Alva arrived at Antibes, and Alva allowing all, allowing anyone, against Alex's admonition, against Allen's angry assertion: another African amusement...anyhow, as all argued, an awesome African army assembled and arduously advance against an African anthill, assiduously annihilating and after ant...." Yes, it was ARDUOUS to plow through.

There's this group called OULIPO, the Ouvroir de Littérature Potentielle, or Workshop of Potential Literature—a bunch of writers and mathematicians (many French) that create work using arbitrarily constrained rules. Such as Abish did in this book.

This is all well and good for discussion. But in this particular tutorial of mine, we do in-class writing in the style of the writer we're reading each week....so far, the list has included Calvino, Shelley Jackson, Robert Coover, Raymond Carver, Barthelme, and some others. And today it was Abish. Our prof, Jonathan Baumach, asked us to write for 25 minutes in a sort of Alphabetical Brooklyn conceit—using A through E. Of course, I knew my protagonist would have to be ME. The E.

Then Baumbach left the room.

We all laughed, then tried to get to work, each telling highly restricted stories. Giggles broke out every few minutes as someone thought of another ridiculous sentence. For humiliation's sake, here's my piece. Exactly how I pulled it together on a piece of yellow paper. I have to say, it was a really fun exercise—putting limits on the way you can use language sometimes actually opens up more possibilities.

Especially for unintended absurdity! (There is a Continental car service, and I live on 7th and Carroll, but I haven't had a near-death experience in Brooklyn yet. Bad coffee? Maybe....)


E
Evelyn argues. Evelyn’s anger an arrow at Bob. Bob a bagel baker at a Carroll corner. Bob bakes bad bagels. Evelyn aggressively awake after bemusing dream, descends. Attempts crossing. Cantankerous Continental car company driver almost causes accident, ends Evelyn’s existence?

Bad day. Crying. Bawling. Burbling.

After bagel anger and argumentation, Evelyn asks beggar at convenient bodega: As a Brooklynite, can Bob be a bastard? Can Bob be bollocks? Or barely bored? Beggar asserts affirmatively: Aaaaaaaah. Beggar burns down doobie. Ash.

Evelyn ambles down avenue, a bitter Brooklynite. Coffee cold. Bagel bad. Almost dead. Evelyn antsy—classwork due.

Babies everywhere. Babies and children and cute dogs. Babies, again. Babies, babies, babies. Do Brooklynites bang in bed constantly? Yes. Agreed. And everywhere: cars, envelopes, cheese, black boots, collars, eyeglasses, apples, Americanos, bars. And also apathy.

Evelyn barters: Can Bartholomew, barista, brew additional coffee? Coins. But an awkward dearth. Barista Bartholomew concurs: Coin dearth. Aha. Big deal. Boss don’t care: Americano cup coming! Child cries. Bartholomew’s evil eye, aggro. Child afraid. Evelyn appreciates. Appreciates coffee anew, and child’s azure eyes, all big and blue and agua. Evelyn drops coins, can’t be bothered. Ambles again. Attempts again eating bad bagel, but bread breaks.

Bye-bye.

Car beeps. Evelyn bends down: a can. Examines.

Ants. Dirt. Candy. Detritus. Also, cold air, baking aroma, doubleparking: all Brooklyn. Dog breeds and caterwauling cats. College. Canvassing. Beards. Egos. All Brooklyn. Big blue bays and coffee carts and energy drinks and dynamism and alcohol and booze and beer and drunks drinking. All Brooklyn. Evelyn elated. Evelyn cheerful. Evelyn discovering an epiphany. Evelyn as adopted Brooklynite, content despite atrociously bad bagel and almost-death experience. Evelyn doesn’t care about dirt, about dust, about crowds—because Brooklyn is currently best

Bad day ended. Better day begins.

Baumbach class ahead.

Times Square

Last night, on the way to see The Seagull, I passed through Times Square. It was about 6:40 pm, and there were a few election results on the big screens. The big screens, I should say, that were everywhere: scrolling and fading and bleeding and flashing. People were looking up, taking photos of the screens, taking photos of themselves in front of the screens. People were watching a huge CNN screen, and when the CNN cameras trained on them, they erupted into screams. Times Square at night always has a particular humming energy, but this was different.

Yes, I escaped into a theater rather than glue myself to the television! Nothing like a restless, clashing, depressing play to take your mind off the making of history. (It didn't take my mind off writing, though. In Trigorin's longest monologue, he says: "No sooner have I finished one story than I am somehow compelled to write another, then a third, after a third a fourth. I write without stopping, except to change horses like a postchaise. I have no choice. What is there brilliant or delightful in that, I should like to know? It's a dog's life!" What if I were so compelled....)

At intermission, we checked our phones. Someone yelled out "He's got Pennsylvania!" Clapping. Then it was back into the drama.

At about 10:30, when we were let out, the crowds in Times Square were even bigger....and the election tally was in the 180-to-50 range. We felt confident enough to take the W down to Union Square and grab dinner at Republic. The kitchen was almost closed. There was a little bit of pressure to order, like, now. The food flew out of the kitchen. The place emptied. As we drank wine and checked our phones again, someone dropped off the bill and said, "Some of us want to watch the election results." 'Scuse me! More wine. Beef skewers. Eggplant. And we checked our phones again: Just like that, we'd won. (We. How strange does that sound?) When people someday ask me, "Where were you when history was made?" I can say I was being watched by nine impatient waiters and cooks at an echo-empty New York noodle joint—and sharing it with a great friend.

But out to the streets! People were dancing. Taxis engaged in honking conversations. Cyclists rolled by, yelling and ringing their bells. We high-fived strangers. It was a beautiful warm night—perfect, it turns out, to duck into a straight-outta-Mad-Men subterranean speakeasy bar called Little Branch, where there are pressed tin ceilings but no TV's, and they crack the ice with the back of little metal spoons, and the bourbon cocktails take long minutes to make and much longer to nurse, and halfway through the first one someone starts playing 50's tunes on the piano.

By the time I got back to Park Slope, it was too late for anyone's good, but Veronica and I watched TV and shook our heads with amazement and got four hours of sleep and then woke up to make sure it really happened.

It did. It happened. And how cheesy and weird it feels to be proud to be from this country again.

Running NYC

After (a few) months of (haphazard) training, plus three weeks of kill-me-now-I'm-stir-crazy-and-paranoid tapering, I finally got to run the New York marathon yesterday! I thought I'd give the full report. Or as full as I can make it before staggering to the bathroom for more Advil.

OK, it wasn't—and isn't—so bad (though I'm limping around today)! But that's what always seems to happen with these long races. You build up some miles in training, you dread the torture of 26.2, you sometimes wonder why you're doing the whole endeavor, you get worn down, you pound the pavement on the course on race day—swearing that it SUCKS and you'll never do it again—and somehow make it to the finish line, after which you start swearing it was AWESOME and wonder how long you'll wait until you try again.

I think I might wait a while, though!

But here's how everything went down:
My mom took the bus from Boston on Saturday, and I cooked up some pasta and laid out my gear (old sweats to toss right before the start, power gels, safety pins, a magazine to read, hat, gloves, garbage bag to wear at the start, barrettes, socks, watch, etc etc!) and we spent way too long debating whether my cell phone (and alarm) would switch to EST so I could get up in time. We finally decided it would. Turns out it didn't matter—it was one of those nights when I woke up about every 20 minutes, wondering if it was morning yet, feeling so relieved it wasn't. All I could think about was: I can't believe what I'm doing tomorrow. I tried not to make this marathon a big deal (hence the few months of haphazard training) but, in the end, it's still a f-ing long way to run, and there's no way to get around how tough it can be!

I finally just decided to get out of bed and get ready. It was a chilly morning—probably not even 40—and windy when I walked out the door in darkness. I took the Q train to downtown and jumped on the Staten Island Ferry, where all the runners got to catch a view of both the sunrise over Manhattan and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, where we'd start the race. Inspiring, and frightening: the bridge looked enormous. After the ferry, it was on to a shuttle bus to the start village. Yes, a village, since almost 40,000 people ran NYC this year, and those 40,000 people need porta-potties, water, coffee, bagels, first aid, trucks to take their bags to the end, tents, maps, information people, real estate to lie on while killing time, and loudspeakers—which made race announcements in a half-dozen languages. This marathon is known to be very international, and I noticed people from all over: Italy, France, Netherlands, China, Russia, Spain, Canada, Brazil, Britain, and Australia. I sat/paced/read/stared/paced for well over two hours before getting the call to line up. Again, thinking: WTF?? What am I about to do? But the energy was amazing. People were so excited. It helped me get excited.

Wearing my haute-couture garbage bag—it was now about 45 degrees, and still windy—I jostled with the masses toward the start, then tossed the bag. As we ran up the bridge ("up" is right!), they blasted "New York, New York" and you could see Brooklyn and Manhattan and everyone was yelling and taking photos of each other and singing along. It was one of those moments! Cheesy, but true: I even started singing at these lines. Couldn't help myself: "These little town blues/are melting away/I'll make a brand new start of it/in old New York/If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere/It's up to you, New York, New York!"

Then it was down to business, sort of. The business of trying not to trip on the other thousands of people all around me, including some dressed as lighthouses and some dressed as Borat (yes, in the flourescent green banana hammock). The first two miles went up and over the Verrazano, then dropped into the southernmost part of Brooklyn: Dyker Heights and Bay Ridge. Huge crowds met us there, and for a while I just took in everything, especially since I'd never been to this part of town before. I was feeling great, the kind of great you feel when you've just jogged a couple miles fueled by adrenaline and fondness. Great enough that I knew I was going out too fast, but being a dum-dum, thought maybe I could sustain it. (More on that later!)

The race goes for miles up 4th Avenue in Brooklyn, through Bay Ridge and Sunset Park and then into Park Slope, my 'hood. I looked for my mom, but the crowds were four-deep and the road was six lanes wide—and still packed with people. Along the sides, bands played for us—the requisite theme from "Rocky", along with big-band jazz, rap, cheesy hip-hop, good hip-hop, kazoos, drums, house music. It helped. Even when spectators were cheering for other people ("Go, Ian!"), it helped me.

Still feeling great, we turned onto Lafayette and ran through Clinton Hill, then turned again onto Bedford into Williamsburg. Around here, mile 11 or 12, I started to feel tired. Crap, still a long way to go. My right knee was hurting in a totally new spot (it's hurt in all kinds of spots before), so I chowed some Tylenol (taped to the inside of my race number) and ate a gu (gross but necessary for survival) and tried not to think about the Queensboro Bridge. Everyone says it's one of the toughest stretches—a big hill up, and a big hill down.

You'd think the course would be flat, but noooo....

We went through Greenpoint, then over a small bridge into Queens, where the crowds picked up again. I was starting to feel it ("it" being ouch-knee, oww-ass, etc) even more, just over the halfway point. Wasn't sure how the rest of this thing would go! Moments of slight, dull panic. Up the Q-boro Bridge, it was eerily quiet (they don't allow spectators on it) as we climbed for almost a mile. I kept reminding myself of another thing everyone says: Coming off this bridge, into Manhattan, and looping down the off-ramp onto 1st Avenue, is incredible: the crowds are enormous. This would be worth it, right?

So down we went. Down proved to hurt the ol' quads, but gravity felt SO nice. And then we were in Manhattan! It was almost like it was almost over, like I'd arrived, but it was barely past halfway. (Did I say crap?) We circled onto 1st and went through an underpass, where all the runners screamed and the crowds screamed and everything echoed off the walls. Up 1st, the spectators were waving signs and standing on ladders and yelling and playing music out of their apartments. At this point, I was hoping it would give me a little extra oomph. I was still on a decent pace—I didn't really have a plan for the race (again, minimize those hopes!), other than maybe to try and stay at a 4-hour-marathon speed. And I was a good bit under that. Would it last? (I'm sure the suspense is killing you.)

Being faster than your pace is great and all, until you realize there are still TEN miles to go. Miles you're not sure your training plan has prepped you for.

I tried to tell myself that it was "only" ten miles to go. And I think it worked, because I just plodded along. Only now I was staring at the ground more than taking in all the sights and sounds. 1st Ave goes straight for four miles, so you can see way up ahead: a sea of runners. I took a glance back at one point: a sea of runners. Somehow, even this can be energizing—you're all in this together, you're all hurting at least a little bit, you're all afraid of what your body might or might not do in the miles ahead. I've never hit The Wall, but there's always a first time, right?

Around Mile 20, we went up and over another bridge into the Bronx, covered about a mile, then turned back down into Manhattan. I kept thinking HOMESTRETCH, as in, I'VE HIT IT! but from here to the finish line, it's still 5 miles. Look at the ground, look at the ground. Is this The Wall? No, it's just good old exhaustion. At this point I knew I'd make it, though I know I was paying for my pace at the beginning of the race. Yes, it's yet another thing everyone says: don't go out to fast. And I said, Yeah, yeah, of course I won't, I know that. Duh. Yet I did. Fortunately, I didn't hit any sort of Wall—I just pooped out a little bit, which I figured was perfectly understandable.

Mile 23-24: Suckage. Climbing 5th Ave for almost a mile. Not that steep, but steep enough to feel like my legs were cement. From about the Bronx on, I was following some guy in an orange-and-blue-checkered singlet with his nickname, "Bags," written on the back in black Sharpie. I hung with Bags, who was steadily thudding up the hill. Must. Stay. With. Bags. When we turned into Central Park through the Engineers' Gate, the route was flat for a little while, then rolled up and down for a mile or so. I went on ahead of Bags (thanks, man). Suddenly I heard a shrieking: Evelyn! Evelyn!! My mom had somehow spotted me in the madhouse. She'd wedged herself between a potra-potty and a metal barrier, and I managed to give her an enthusiastic smile. If nothing else, I knew she knew I'd make it (because I also know she thinks marathons are kind of stupid)!

OK, so at mile 25, you know it's all gonna be fine. My legs were pretty much killing me and it felt like things (my form, my facial expressions, my mental state) were getting ugly, but right then my friends Jon and Steph spotted me. Another little boost. Along Central Park South, the skyscrapers cast everything in shadow, and it smelled like the horses who pull carriages through the park. Ominous. And stinky. I don't know if it was uphill, but it sure felt like it. That's what 26 miles will do to you, I guess.

Then we made a final turn back into the park, and they had a countdown: 400 meters to go. 300. 200. Of course, whoever designed this route decided to put a steep, short, and insulting hill right before the finish at Tavern on the Green—but, at least for me, adrenaline and desperation carried me up it.

And then it was over! I hate to say "before I knew it," because while I was running, it seemed like it was an eternity, an eternity filled thousands and thousands of monotonous steps. But suddenly, according to my original plan, it didn't seem like a big deal. (Yeah, finishes will do that to you—suffering is forgotten quickly.) My time ended up being a 3:48, which was a lot quicker than I thought, but it turns out my strategy worked out almost perfectly: Train *just* enough, scare yourself that you haven't trained enough, set low expectations, and then exceed them. Yes! Other than the pain part.

A guy next to me kept saying, "Holy shit! Holy shit! I can't believe I just did that! Do you believe you just did that? Holy shit!" I agreed with him. I scarfed a bagel, ate some salt that a medic handed to me so I wouldn't cramp up (yes, nasty), and then met my mom near the Museum of Natural History. She brought me flowers. We were both so happy and relieved to see each other!


Looking mighty tired, but a hell of a lot warmer:


Putting on a dry shirt, for the cause (it says "Obamathoner." Thanks, Veronica!):


My biggest fan! Thanks, mom.


What a load off my mind and body! Now I can truly relax and enjoy New York—knowing that I've run all the way through it. I'll never look at the city the same way again.