Spilling Catch-up
3/17/2009
Niagara Falls, ON, Canada
I awoke in my queen size bed in the Howard Johnson’s that I had checked in at the night before with a sore throat and a slight swollen-head feeling, and upon noticing it was 7am, called my mother to thank her for the final “Fuck you” she had given me as I left for a new chapter of my life in New York. She had been beset by a cold the week before, and I suppose I simply didn’t get out quick enough to escape it. Either that or I had taxed my throat belting out showtunes during the 6 hour drive from Grand Rapids to Niagara Falls, but I didn’t think that was the case, although I hoped none the less. No, the fuzzy feeling in my head accompanying the rawness in my throat heralded impending illness with each dizzying pulse at my temples. Naturally, being the foresight-lacking idiot that I am, I had left all of my cold medicine with mom and dad. Sometimes I think decisions like that are pre-determined. I’m fated now to walk into a store to buy medicine, and whatever was supposed to ensue that otherwise would not have, will, because for some reason I thought a few boxes or bottles of cold remedy would overload my car. I could easily chalk it up to stupidity, but it’s far more pleasant and encouraging to think that, in some respect, I am being guided. Not controlled, per se, but nudged every once in a while. Life is crappy, but life’s shit makes for excellent literary fodder.
Howard Johnson’s didn’t offer any breakfast, continental or otherwise, but rather just a sign directing you to a Denny’s across the street, whose meal prices were uncommonly expensive, conversion rate notwithstanding. HoJo was not the only one of its ilk on this street, so I walked a block or so to the Day’s Inn and partook of their free breakfast. I learned this trick when I lived in Denver while my parents visited. They stayed at a place that had a marvelous free hot breakfast buffet, and nobody batted an eye when I arrived in the mornings and settled down to join them. There were enough places around that, if I had been so inclined, I probably could have made a weekly circuit of them, with no one being the wiser; Marriot on Wednesday, Holiday Inn on Thursday, Comfort Inn & Suites come Friday, and so on. I reasoned that the food would probably be tossed anyway, and that I was only taking what would end up in the dumpster. Still, it was really stealing, a habit I wasn’t keen on cultivating to any significant extent. My excuse for today was that I didn’t want to mess with the exchange rate or tipping waitstaff. Nobody at the Days Inn questioned my presence there. I wondered if I’d make a break for it if someone did confront me, or perhaps just sound convincing enough when they asked for my room number. The least attractive option was playing stupid: “This isn’t the Howard Johnson’s? My goodness, I am so terribly sorry! I guess I had too much to drink last night,” or some such nonsense. There really are people that daft out in the world, and I could play the part persuasively enough when necessity arose.
Clients have said that I exhibit an aura of honesty, and I believe this to be the reason why the customs officer at the border crossing into Canada did not bother to check my ID, and the hotel desk clerk my AAA card. Normally I don’t abuse this genial aspect of my character, and wonder almost if it would tarnish or fade if I did indulge in shifty practices. I’d make a good con if my conscience didn’t kill me first.
There is a large ferris wheel outside my hotel room window, shrouded in mists from the falls and silhouetted by the rising sun. This place is a tourist trap, filled with the same gimmicky crap any other family destination is plagued by. Bizarre little museums like Ripley’s Believe It Or Not or Louis Tussaud’s Waxworks, a waterpark, a marine land, a haunted house, the ubiquitous Rainforest Café, Planet Hollywood, Hardrock Café, and other such restaurants where the brand is what you pay for, never the food. Souvenir shops are not overly present, though, which is nice, and there is quite a wine district not far from here, featuring ice wine. I pity the people who have to come in the dead of night and even deader winter to pick the grapes.
I wonder where I can find an inexpensive salon to get my hair and nails done around here. The internet will tell me! Oh, Great Internet, bestow upon me the knowledge of a nearby hair and/or nail salon! Well, you would if I could get a decent connection. I will probably be luckier downstairs; make a wi-fi waif out of myself after I check out, and loiter in the lobby.
The nail salon, I imagine, was your typical Asian-run nail salon; I really have no idea, I’ve never been to one that I can recall. The experienced proved quite pleasant and relaxing, though a bit awkward, my being 28 and it being my first time getting a pedicure.
I paid the owner in US currency, reminded by her that the two were about equal. Gads. Will Canadian currency ever be equal or greater in my mind? Growing up, it was always the ‘funny money’, dreaded because it was of lesser value and never worked in vending machines. I blame our usage of Canadian currency in Michigan as if it were US currency for the current economic crisis. Surely we were creating massive debt for ourselves that amassed so gradually, nobody could have seen it coming!
I wanted to find an inexpensive hair salon, and naively believed that by driving around aimlessly I would find one. Well, guess what, nay-sayers and non-impulse-types? That tactic worked out really fucking well! I happened upon a cute little house painted in purple and emblazoned with a glittery silver sign that read “Xcess Hair” on Lundy’s Lane. Despite the house-turned-garish-advertisement exterior, the interior of the establishment proved cozy, clean, and unpretentious; I don’t believe I have ever felt so comfortable in a hair salon! A blond and very kind gay man named David shampooed my hair and gave me a killer hair cut, all the while regailing me with tales of his growing up a gypsy, and never really settling anywhere until he hit Niagara Falls, which managed to tether him down for the past several years. Prior to his being a hairdresser, he crossed the continent as a flight attendant. We both agreed that, given the long, tempestuous winter, the Caribbean would prove a far better place to meet and converse. Having been the benefactor of such wonderful discourse and service, I imparted upon David a large tip, and went on my way a little too eagerly, I feel, for the gentleman was one that, I feel now, could have become a dear friend. I just have nothing but a fondness for him in recollecting the afternoon, and am saddened by the circumstances of our meeting, because how do you say, “You seem neat, I’d like to know you better, even though I’m driving far, far away?” That sort of statement can seem AWFULLY creepy after meeting a person so briefly. Mayhap I’ll send him a letter or postcard all the same. I cannot say I felt so inclined to keep in contact with the fellow at the time, but that was probably due to my desire to get out and see the Falls (and show off my ‘do!).
Niagara Falls collectively, aka Horseshoe Falls and Rainbow Falls - an effervescent sensation not unlike that of thousands of soda pop cans being opened continuously, blanketed in effulgent radiance; this is what it is like to stand on Table Rock and be assailed by the spray of the Falls on a day resplendent with clear blue skies and benevolent sunshine. The cold and occasional gusts of wind cannot detract from the spectacle of tourists from all nations made giddy by the grand vista, thunderous chugging sound of flowing water, and lawn sprinkler-like precipitation. We are children dancing on the precipice of a natural masterpiece.
The thousands of gallons of water stampeding over the wide cliff and trampling the rock below did not deafen me, nor make the ground beneath my feet shake in any fashion that I could detect, and this surprised me some. I expected to have to shout over the tumult, but it instead adopted a slow, patient fury that hummed with intensity, and never faltered noticeably in consistency. The water flowed with frightening yet almost silent alacrity over the edge of the wide canyon, a rich green color lending it a living exuberance.
As I walked south along the western shore, a rainbow evinced itself from the white froth and spray, delicately ethereal at first, then bolder and more distinct, belied only by its illusive reputation. This rainbow, grand in its length of arc, proved far less ephemeral than others of its ilk; one end flitted ahead of me like a beckoning imp as I walked, while the other cautiously followed, like a shy but curious youngster, skulking about the river’s edge and tiptoeing over the stones collected there.
I walked the a great length along the western shore, but before I could embark upon any sort of tour or touristy 4-D film ride, my developing cold got the better of me through heady, throbbing, feverish rushes and fatigue. I had planned on driving into New York state that evening after observing how Niagara celebrated St. Patty’s Day, and overnighting a bit in my car, but that plan fizzled when confronted by an immune system taxing my reserves in order to stave off the latest microbial invasion. Jenni’s place in Brooklyn, according to mapquest, was only 7-8 hours away and, according to my memory, promised a warm, flat place to sleep. I trekked back to the HoJo garage where my car was parked, blanketed in a fog of river spray and a mental haze of prodromal Picornaviridae. The street I chose for my return journey (Clifton Hill), in stark and sensuously violent contrast with the grandeur of the nearby Falls, crawled with boardwalk-like wolf dens attempting to entrance passing pedestrians with running lights, blinking neon signs, verbose animatronic barkers, space-age sound effects, and radioactively bright fiberglass signs promising THRILLS, CHILLS, and SPILLS to the children they found so easy to prepossess. If I had to brave this gaudy gauntlet with a young child in my custody, it would probably place in the top five of my worst living nightmares, but that’s just me. Being escorted into and promptly out of this wonderland of distraction by a bitchy, anti-materialist wouldn’t be any picnic for the kid, either.
I neglected to call Jenni and inform her of my plans to show up crazy early Wednesday morning for two reasons: 1. I was still adjusting to my anxiety/depression meds, and courtesy for others got buried by the bizarre rationale my brain churned out as a result (I can live without ‘em, but life’s just easier with ‘em, and they cost $ 10 now for a 3-month supply) 2. I didn’t want Jenni talking me out of it. I was gonna go, and that was that!
Again, no trouble was had at the border, and I passed to my mixed disappointment and relief quite speedily through after answering some questions about where I was headed and why I endeavored to head there. Disappointment because it was too easy, and relief because I really didn’t want anybody rifling through all of the junk I had so carefully contrived to fit into my Mazda Protégé 5. Even managed to get the bicycle in, too! Thought for sure I’d be strapping that hillbilly-style to the top rack, being too cheap to buy an actual Yakima or whatever. Do they have laws against that? Doubt it. Probably just makes it easier to get the bike on and off, and I simply wasn’t game to blowing $100+ dollars on a once-in-a-great-while kind of trip for my bike; that money would have to go to the parking tickets I would receive in Brooklyn!
Driving west from Buffalo, then south from Syracuse into Pennsylvania’s Poconos proved uneventful until Jenni called, asking when I would be arriving. I informed her of my uncouth and discourteous decision to drive down early, and that I was at that very moment in Pennsylvania on the verge of hanging a left toward New Jersey. We collectively estimated that I would arrive at her dear domicile around 1:00am. I would have been perfectly comfortable, stubborn imbecile that I am, sleeping in the car once I had arrived, so as to not disturb Jenni at that early hour. Poor logic, but I staunchly blame the meds!
I breezed through New Jersey, briefly getting lost around Newark after going the wrong direction at a fork in the interstate. I managed to meander around a bit and find my way back to the expressway without too much trouble. Getting lost never bothers me, unless I’m late for work.
Eastern New Jersey roads as they course eastward toward the Holland Tunnel proved nerve-wracking to navigate. No, that’s putting it too lightly. Downright terrifying, that’s what they were. Ever since my harrowing journey briefly into Manhattan and from thence to Brooklyn, I have labored to come up with a situation to liken the experience to. I kept getting the image of marbles jettisoned in crazy directions down labyrinthine tunnels and pathways…. and then it hit me. Perhaps there’s a better metaphor or simile to be had here, but this one rings true for me: Pinball Machine. I in my vehicle, a careening shell of metal tonnage with a soft and mortal center, rocketed across six-direction intersections and down twisted metal tunnels that forked repeatedly, too terrified to acknowledge signs and hoping against reason that the car in front of me was leading me through the tangled urban jungle to the sought-after Tunnel. Other cars merged out of the massive metal briar patch, then sped down other routes at forks, often crossing diagonally right in front of me and disappearing as seamlessly as they had appeared. The choreography was balletic, save for the silently screaming (my voice had given out at this point from 6 hours of singing along with my ipod) mass of jelly in the Mazda Protégé 5, convinced that it was not going to turn fast enough and smash headlong into a massive metal pylon; the grace and uncanny silence of it all belied the carnage that would ensue should someone fatally miss a beat.
Fortunately I was able to keep my head enough to reach and pass through the Holland Tunnel. Battery Park was surprisingly quiet, and quite a relief to find lacking in traffic. More than once I thanked God that I had opted to drive into the city at such a late hour. I do not recall much of the Battery Tunnel, only that afterwards I took the wrong direction on the expressway, and had to get off and turn around, which, given Brooklyn’s crazy street layout, was also quite petrifying. With an immeasurable sigh of relief did I park my car (illegally near a fire hydrant… moron) and crawl up the steps to Jenni’s abode. She ever-so-graciously welcomed me in, provided me with an air mattress, and bid me a good night as I was lulled to sleep by Ocean’s Twelve playing on the TV.
3/18/09
Wednesday arrived with balmy sunshine that talked my feet into dancing as I leapt off of the C train and onto 51st street, headed for The Daily Show studios. Another afternoon with Jon Stewart and crew! I sang a showtune or two as I cavorted, happily oblivious to anyone who might have stared. Compared to the freezing weather I put up with the first time I endeavored to wait in line, this day was idyllic! A queue of about 50 people lay ahead of me, which was also delightfully less than my initial experience. While waiting, I struck up a long conversation with a 27-year-old college dropout named Meredith from New Jersey, who was taking advantage of her being laid off from working as a telephone solicitor for a motorized scooter chair company. We shared life histories and made the time fly by faster for both of us. Other than the weather, the only thing different about the studio was the interns, one of which was rather cute. Paul Mecurio sauntered out to warm up the crowd soon after we were seated (myself in the same exact seat as last time!), toying with members of the audience and giving props to a gentleman in the VIP section who had been to the show almost 300 times. As Paul did his schtick, I fumbled with the questions that Ethan had helped me devise to ask Jon Stewart in reference to the Jim Cramer interview.
#1: “I enjoyed your interview with Jim Cramer. But blaming CNBC for the irresponsibility on Wall St. is like blaming CNN for the lack of WMDs in Iraq. Are you planning on interviewing any officials from the agencies that are actually charged with regulating investment firms (the SEC or NASD)?”
#2: “Understandably, you came across as very irritated about the stock market during your interview with Jim Cramer. Yet I thought it was ironic that just as you chastised Cramer and CNBC for having the gall to suggest that people invest their retirement savings in corporate America for the long haul, you chose a public podium and some choice expletives to do so, thereby suggesting to your audience that they not invest in stocks. It seems like you ridiculed Cramer and CNBC for providing financial advice to their audience yet turned around and did the same thing yourself, only that unlike Cramer and CNBC, investments are not your expertise.”
#3: “Your disgust with Wall Street came through clearly during your interview with Jim Cramer. You seemed to infer that investing in stocks for the long term is “bullshit” due to the malfeasance of corporate executives. So I was hoping that since you feel so strongly about the subject, perhaps you would enlighten us about the investment strategies you recommend, which I assume will not include investing in, lending money to, or working for any publicly traded companies, like Viacom (owners of Comedy Central). “
Ultimately, I opted for question #3.
When Jon made his entrance and said he had about a minute and a half for questions, I raised my hand and was the first person he called upon - only it looked from my vantage point like he was pointing to the side and above me, so after standing excitedly since he had pointed vaguely in my direction, I looked around to see if anyone else had raised their hand, then turned back and asked sheepishly, “Me?”. John paused briefly, then shouted, “No!” and quickly pointed into another section of the crowd, joking. I pleaded that he come back to me, thanked him politely, and told him I had to read the question to make sure I didn’t flub it, a request to which he kindly acquiesced. Upon reflection, I think I may have altered the first sentence just a touch to sound, well, more intelligent, but nothing much. After dramatically reading the first line and embarking upon the second, Jon reeled as if he had been struck a massive blow, not anticipating the verbose nature of the question. He recovered, took a few deep breaths, repeated the first sentence as if getting a taste for it, and beckoned for me to continue. I started from the top again, and as I progressed into the body of the question, Jon began to sink against the desk like a man suffering a heart attack, pleading in a Woody Allen-esque manner, “Can I, uh-can I just---just, uh---get a---word in---edgewise?” to which I responded with “Nope! No! Let me finish, sir, let me finish!”; quite comical. Unfortunately, I was so focused upon reading my question that I didn’t look up to see what Jon was doing while the audience roared with laughter. At last I finished the question, and looked down to see Jon pathetically creeping after a pen rolling towards the back of the stage, shoulders slumped. Upon realizing that I was finished, he complimented me on how well-thought-out the inquiry was (thankyou, Ethan), and said he believed it to be the lengthiest question he had ever been asked during pre-show. Zing! I was thrilled. He then proceeded to say that he had been surprised by the coverage that the interview had received, and that he had merely tried to point out that there were things that CNBC, as a 24-hour financial news network, ought to have been reporting; that there was this dangerous, not-well-illuminated side to the market that was detrimental to long-term investment, which they really didn’t acknowledge as existing. He also mentioned something about the media harassing his brother a little bit as a result, who works on Wall Street. Other questions were posed, such as “What are your picks for the Final Four (March Madness?)”,“Do you actually know Stephen Colbert?”, among many others. This latter question prompted Jon to tell a story about how, in his household, they use a Stephen Colbert bobblehead to make “Yes” or “No” decisions. Soon, though, time ran out and it was time to tape the show.
And what a show! Two takes with Aasif Mandvi bedecked with a python (the first was funniest, but the snake looked dead, so they did another after the guest, Nandan Nilekani had been on), a bit with Larry Wilmore, a separate intro for the Global Edition, and best of all, a toss with Stephen Colbert! Stephen appeared on the monitors hung above the audience (sharpening his hayfork), and he and Jon shot the shit for several minutes, from which I supposed the actual toss would be gleaned, but to my surprise, they did the toss separately after their comic chatter. Too fantastic!
After the show, some other audience members complimented me on the question I had asked Jon, and Nandan Nilekani was just wandering around out front. I started to approach him to thank him for a good interview, but some other businessy folks whom he seemed familiar with got to him first. I dined at the City Lights Diner, the same place where Jenni and I had stopped to eat before going to the Colbert Report in January; they’ve got great food and I loved listening to the locals chat. Then I hopped on the subway to meet Jenni at school. Unfortunately, the security guard in the foyer of the building denied me access to the seventh floor, so I texted Jenni and patiently waited for her to get out of class. A bit awkward, as the guard was clearly not up for conversation. My memory at this point is hazy, but I am pretty certain we simply caught a train home and went to bed. Had I checked on my car, I probably would have noticed a parking ticket, but alas, no.
On Thursday, I felt like absolute shit from my cold, so I went nowhere; it was a day of fevered slumber punctuated by brief moments of waking and devouring handfuls of organic “Flax Plus” cereal and re-inflating the leaky Eddie Bauer air mattress. Jenni ever so kindly brought me a red pepper and some orange juice on her way home.
On Friday I accompanied Jenni’s roommate Olivia and Olivia’s boyfriend Brendan (tool) to the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), where I was soon after abandoned and left to my own devices. I meandered about the 5th and 6th floors, taking in what was featured there. Of note was the temporary exhibit dedicated to Martin Kippenberger, whose work I respected but had difficulty connecting with. There was one piece that spoke very loudly to me, entitled “Now I'm Going Into the Big Birch Wood, My Pills Will Soon Start Doing Me Good”. The disjointed reality one feels walking through it, coupled with the oversized pills, is a sensation I find sadly quite difficult to articulate without being there again; I may well return before the exhibit closes in May. I also wonder about the significance of the repeated images of an egg, a cross, and a frog in his “Fred The Frog” series.
I will continue this effort to catch up to present day, as present day slips away, later on.
3/23/09
When people don’t know where their next meal is coming from, that’s when the real creative growth process begins. People fear this state of misery and suffering, and goad themselves into thinking if they just sacrifice their dreams for security, they can avoid it, and instead lead long, monotonous lives nestled in their comfort zones, punctuated and perforated by stereotypical family vacations. News Flash: although I oversimplify and belittle a wee bit too much, I do so to hammer home the point that there is no security. NO SECURITY! None! The rug can be pulled out from under these people just as easily as any other person. Those we think of as brave and courageous (well, yes they are) are those who are able to embrace the suffering, take it into themselves, and recycle it into their passion and their drive.
Maybe one day I’ll be brilliant, too.
The ants are sneaking sand into my shoes again
From foreign lands I have yet to tread
They implore me to travel, unaware that the
Wanderlust in my wallet could be dead.
*Note - I am not as concerned with money these days as this little poem would suggest; I am thankfully pulling away from that state of mind.*