New York #$%!ing City

Andy and I were walking Henry and he tells me the following story--when he first arrived in New York 3 years ago, he left his wallet on the bus. Not knowing what else to do he waited for the bus to come back around on its route so he could get back on and see if his wallet was still there. Naturally his wallet was still there, or this wouldn't be a story.

Sunday I went to brunch and left my bike chained up outside, only I managed not to tie it around the post. "Oops!" I exclaimed. "Well, you can tell I'm a natural blonde!" A line I HATE but I didn't know what else to say and I'm not going to criticize myself for doing that.

Tuesday morning out by my bike this delivery man is unlatching his bike for the day, "This your bike?" He asks. I'm late. No coffee. Umm. "Yes?"

"Oh, look, look!"

He's grabbing my chain and moving it around, I'm thinking to indicate he'd WASHED THE CHAIN. As if anyone...whatever. You're catching on to the theme here. The thing sat unfettered OVERNIGHT. My God!

I pushed on from there to teach yoga in the West Village, run some errands, then back East for a meeting. Lo and behold, at the meeting I grab for my wallet. Gone. I ride back over to the West side, check everything out. Go home. Message! The lovely lovely Michelle is calling to tell me she's found my wallet, no money. Unfortunately, one of the errands had been to get a big pile of cash, but still.

And that's New York Fuckin' City in 2007.

Salvageable?

Once again I had sex too soon with someone and now I wonder if it's salvageable. What to say?

"Honey, I'd like to fuck you again but I need to assess the relationship potential first?"

Well, maybe that's exactly true, but then doesn't it feel like a job interview? And exactly what AM I looking for, once I've decided to have sex. I know I'm attracted to the dude. He has hair, teeth, a job... I suppose if I'm wondering whether or not he's going to contribute to my life, how he makes me feel...ugh. Here again. My husband made me feel great and wow did I manage to fuck that up. It's like, I'm back in 8th grade. I had a HUGE crush on Mike Fllanders. Totally in love with the guy. Wrote his name over and over, stared at him in class. Literally burned with desire that had no idea what it was for. Smart was his aphrodisiac. Always is with me.

He comes up to me one day and compliments my outfit, says I look nice. "Accidents happen," was my reply. Oy.

But typing this I think, uh, did I not end up in the EXACT SAME SPACE with my ex-husband? Doubting the veracity of his affection? His love? Why could I not accept that he really did want to please me?

On to the ricochet pattern...am I now looking for that special someone who makes me feel crappy, so I can know the worst is not yet to come?

Can we just call that the first step, recognizing it, owning it? And can I skip right on past to acceptance so I can be done with THAT?

So I guess that is what to "look" for. But how to do that without alerting him that's what I'm doing? I have never before not slept with a guy after having slept with him until I felt better about things, and I have no idea how to negotiate that shit. I"m thinking I don't want to put it as written above, do I need to put it any way at all, or do I just say, GREAT time, thanks. I have an early morning. 'Night!

OK, out of those two options, the last one's the best. I just know that's gonna be hard for me. Because goddamnit, I like sex, too. I miss the days of sport fucking, I do, but I fear they really are gone.

The Misanthrope

A misanthrope is a hater of humankind.

It's also a play by Moliere, currently on at the New York Theater Workshop, which I had the privilege to see last night. It goes without saying, perhaps, that the level of acting here makes me want to write theater reviews again. And the adaptations on this were genius--everyone around the table talking on the cell phone, and photographing life's little horrors. Brilliant! And the way the lead actor handled the cop who came over when they rushed outside in the big finale--my GOD, fantastic! However, it's the content of this particular play that compels me to write.

The main character is horrified by the duplicity all around him, and yet loves the woman he finds the worst offender. He seems to be suggesting you can be right, or you can be happy. When the two most virtuous characters pair up, the sentiment is more one of relief than happiness. It reminded me of the first episode of this season's "Californication," where David Duchovny is telling his ex- that she doesn't want to marry Bill, because he's everything she never wanted, and we know he's right. So, between 1622 and 2007, the tragic state of love has remained. This is the impetus for all great art (Momus, "Art is only making do with substitutes."), thus the fear behind my book.

My book espouses the lover and the beloved view, like Carl Jung I'll say, as opposed to Osho, that I am every character in my dreams. Like Pema Chodron I ask, what is the difference between my dream and my reality? OK, collective agreement. Fine. But can that make for a satisfying end to my classic fairy tale? The separation of the head and the heart is always the trouble. More love is always the answer. Usually that comes in the form of a person, can it be convincingly otherwise? Well, I've gambled everything to find out. Back to typing.

Donate rice

It doesn't even ask for your email!

http://www.freerice.com/index.php

Mommy Dearest

I have actually found myself with a copy of Why Men Love Bitches in my possession. Oh, the irony is not lost on me.

But I'm combing through it anyway, maybe there's a tip in there somewhere, right? Lo and behold, I've come across something genius--my attempts to "mother" the men in my life have been not only counterintuitive but DETRIMENTAL. Somehow I've been operating under the incorrect assumption that this would be a way to show I cared. Besides the fact that, for the most part I don't, as it turns out, this is actually how I'm setting up the dynamic I'm so eager to break. CHRIST! Now I just have to get a date to find out if it'll solve the problem. I am willing to believe it will. The other options are grim...

Off for a weekend of meditation!

sweetness & lite

I've come to a point in my life where I'm having a hard time relating to people if they are not on some kind of spiritual path. At the base of all things, there is a lightness, a lack of gravity. An understanding of things as they are--impermanent.

And here is a mistake I've caught much sooner, I hope, than I caught on with punk rock. I remember the realization that just because a guy shaved his head or sported many safety pins or listened to Dag Nasty, he wasn't necessarily smart.

Luckily, smart's dropped down a few notches on the "icoulddohim" scale, though stupid remains a dealbreaker.

While a lack of interest in things spiritual is a dealbreaker, I'm in search of the sweet spot between camped out on the path and able to talk about it. The former reeks of a deadly earnest-y, the latter unable to truly do the work.

And perhaps I've just seen my own flaw in all this--but it's where I remain. If I accept things as truly impermanent, how can I mourn the loss of anyone or anything?

The Dalai Lama speaks of the ability to hold the world's sorrow in your heart even as you continue to love, which must include me. To acknowledge the sorrow means that it, too, is OK.

HH the DL

So I got to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama when he was in town Friday. This is one of the things I so love about NYC, how it has turned this area of my life on its head. In New York, eventually, everyone comes to you.

He was lecturing on emptiness, 70 verses by Nagarjuna. The thing that's persisting with me now was a glancing reference to the Buddha's teachings, the idea that there were levels taught to his various students. Not all students were equal. As I'm writing a piece on whether or not Al Jazeera English should broadcast in the U.S., I'm struck by the conflict. I want to believe, to trust, that everyone has the capacity to make up his or her own mind when presented with all the information. And yet, this is not the way the world works now. It is not the way the world has ever worked. Twenty-some years later, I continue to be amazed each time I run into information such as this, information that parallels the great teaching of my Buddha my mom when she told me: Life isn't fair.

Take a swing

So my lover of one week and one day says to me he likes to put his neck on the chopping block and hand a woman the axe.

Really? God, why?

To see if she'll take a swing.

As I stemmed the gushing flow from the place of impact he turned around and left me with, I thought to myself, such a shame he's made it a test.

What a hypocrite.

I certainly don't want to see his neck or his weapons, why on earth would I crack out mine? That's the trick, right? Finding the sweet spot. Vulnerable with a safety net? Yikes, I am so given over to reckless behavior and competitive ways, well, it's a miracle I ever got married.

I put my neck out in that situation, not to see if he'd take a swing, but because I was ready. I wanted to be vulnerable. I still will. Bandage, please. Next!

In which my male friends show me how to be a nice guy

Or do they?

Harry Met Sally and told the truth, but she never 'fessed up. Of course women don't need to be sexually attracted to male friends, but they do need those male friends to be sexually attracted to them.

So I'm torturing myself because I want want want this guy to call me. At this point a text would be a welcome signal I'd invaded his consciousness.

My dear friend Eric, the first man to make me feel likable in the wake of G's stealth, intercontinental departure, would not have been so attentive had he not been attracted to me and I know it. He persists in sweetness I believe because of the possibility we might, ya know, do it. But we won't. That's my call, and I know it. If I wanted to I do believe it would not have taken much to get him there.

My problem is that when I am sexually attracted to an available man, bang! Yup. Bang. There's no chance to figure out if I'd even like to be friends. So here I am, trying it differently, and in just a few days I'm thinking well, just get the dude in the sack. FUCK IT. Do I not want to be friends? I have enough friends, don't I?

Or can I credit myself with the paradigm shift? Have I found the place where lover and loved have merged and it is I and I am it. So hum.

Codependent some more

YOS: My christ, I can not believe I'm here again. How is it that I continue to be stymied by my codependency?

Dr: Perhaps it's your continuing inability to change behavior.

YOS: You mean like sleeping with someone the first time I meet them?

Dr: For example, yes.

YOS: But for fuck's sake, a girl's gotta get laid, doesn't she?

Dr: You did not have sex with that man.

YOS: Well if I had a blue dress...

Dr: That's not the point.

YOS: So there is a point?

Dr: You teach people how to treat you.

YOS: Not that old saw again.

Dr: You are so afraid of your own neediness that you project to the world a person who can forge on regardless.

YOS: But it seems like whenever I do express my needs I'm spurned. I told that boy that not calling hurt my feelings.

Dr: That just made him feel bad. Everything you said made him feel bad. You are so far on the lookout for yourself you won't let anyone else do it for you. And he was lovely. Very present and there for you, very attentive. At the show he kept clearing space until there was an elbow free spot for you to stand. But you couldn't trust that.

YOS: I hate myself.

Dr: Now we're getting somewhere. Time's up.

Om Shanti

Somehow I've been having a text affair with this guy who I think does not actually know who I am.

Reason: he once sent me an email that said something like, do you have a reply?

To which I replied, do you have the right person?

First I search to be sure I wasn't supposed to have a reply. I don't think he wrote back. And yes, I mean I don't think he wrote back. I just have no idea. That's the good and bad thing about dating in the aughts, someone has to be a truly colossal asshole to stand out.

Out of nowhere I get a text from him, do I want to go see Rilo Kiley? Well, I want to see a man my age (older, even!), who invites me out of the blue to go see Rilo Kiley. I fucking love that. But I have plans. I want to cancel the plans. I mean, I really want to cancel the plans. The sad truth is, but for the nagging fear he's gotten the wrong gal, again, I probably would have, which of course means, I did not.

So today I'm looking and looking, SURELY there must be a show coming up for which I can still get some flippin' tickets. MSTRKRFT! Awesome. But where's Studio B? And am I going to search that out on my own. This is what a boyfriend's good for; christ, I can't even get the neighbor up for tea. Whatever happened to ticket man?? So I text him--can you get tix 2 c the stars?

Weirder still...

He texts back and says, thanks for thinking of me, I have a ticket there for you, Mercury Lounge, 19 Oct.

Huh? That's not where I see the Stars playing. I have them on the 18th at Town Hall. Is this guy a charlatan or some kind of crazy ticket savant/wizard? Hmm.

I text back, after considerable debate with myself, How will you know if I come? You do want me to come, yes?

I think that's a fun text. Hell, I'd like to get that text. I'd make a counter offer to that text. But I got...da da da duuummmm...nothing.

So I'm back to thinking this guy has no idea who the hell I am. Or he's on crack. And so goes another day of perfectly viable sexual power, w a s t e d.

An Open Letter to Mr. Brad Pitt

Dear Mr. Brad,

I hope that some day, when the giant flame of your star has burnt, your oeuvre will be dug up and re-examined.

Take The Assassination of Jesse James by the, whatever. The title's too long. No matter, you're in it and that's what we're talking about. You.

There you are, making the bold choice of a rugged look without the obvious prosthetic or fat suit, props that so often that engender acclaim. Bold.

Your wife in this is Mary Louise Parker. Is she going to speak at all? Or did she take this role for the same reason I would have, namely, she gets to "play" your wife. Of course, it's MLP, so she's not getting any further with that than I would, old Ang' is not losing any sleep over that one. But ya know, those co-stars are gonna keep getting younger. Paul Newman's done it, But I'm not so sure, despite the newfound love for motherhood, just how far Angie's come since wearing the vials of blood and sucking face at an awards show with her own brother. Take the news last week, even old Jen's laying bets. I hope poor old Jennifer Aniston isn't getting dragged out every time you change relationships? Not that you're changing anything. Are you?

Wow, Casey Affleck is AMAZING. And Sam Rockwell. Wow. "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind" was so good, and now look at this performance. That other guy is great too. I kinda have no idea what's going on, but, thank God, you're back again.

Look at you with those kids onscreen. Is that why you and Jennifer broke up, she couldn't...ya know? Mmm, I'd love to have you pick me up and twirl me around.

Look at that, they did put a scar thing on you. No, two! Wait, one. Bold. Can you sing "reunited." We both are so excited now we're, re united hey hey..

Dude, I wrote my book in 30 days

From the match.com file.

6 Sept: I respond with mild interest to an email from a man to whom I'm not that attracted except he's crafted an email that manages to be grammatically correct and funny, albeit it's been a week or more since he sent it. With blistering speed he replies, what took you so long, etc. etc. He's funny. I reply and a repartee is born. Back and forth multiple times a day.

8 Sept: Said man, aka "autumnchill", sends his morning dispatch to tell me he's about to go on a date and so I shan't be hearing from him. Is this a joke? Not moved to care I send my phone number and tell him I've sworn off pen pals.

24 Sept: AC writes to tell me it's over with him and that over woman, and between him and NYC women in general, but he's willing to grandfather me in. Do I have a car? (AC lives in CT.)

Do I have a car? I he fucking kidding me? I live in the greatest city in the world, and this man wants to know, do I have a car? Do I write back and tell him he's a pompous ass, or just let him figure that one out? I mull on this a couple of days.

25 September: My birthday.

26 September: Left in a magnanimous spirit from birthday festivities, I write AC to brush him off gently. I lead with a joke, maybe not good, then go on to say, gosh, I've kinda turned my life upside down to move to NYC and write this book, so I just don't think this is good for me at the moment. Again, with blistering speed he responds, not to say he's sorry to hear that (a note I could do without as well), rather, to inform me he wrote a book last year in 30 days, Oct 2005 he adds--validating the claim, naturally. He discusses his agent, the vicious world of publishing, how he won some $125 award. Upshot? NOT published. Mind you, this goes on for SIX PARAGRAPHS. Oh, and yeah, last year, between trips--this is while working and parenting full time--he popped out another one.

And that's how I was saved from wasting potential years with a colossal ass.