The Phone Zone

From my perch at the bar where I now work, I have an almost unobstructed view of 44th St. @ 9th Ave. And, almost every shift I work, through the floor to ceiling windows, I am treated with a free show.

Yesterday was no exception. The double phone stand (I'd write "booth" but the phones aren't enclosed) directly across from my bar top has so much action going on, and, seemingly, none of it phone-related. At around 4.30, a man in his 60s with white hair and casual clothes, stopped at the phone stand, and, making a show of rummaging through his front pockets for change, made a motion toward picking up the phone receiver. After quickly looking over both his left and right shoulders he then took out a lighter and lit up some sort of pipe. His back was mostly to me, so I could only imagine his drug of choice. He took two or three successive hits before putting the drug accouterments back into his backpack and going on his merry way. I came out from behind the bar, so that I could have a better look at the guy. And, strangely, he never blew any smoke out of his mouth as he scooted on down the street. Weird. Was he not smoking pot? Maybe crackheads don't exhale.

A couple of weeks ago, at about the same time of day, (don't these fools want to wait until cover of night?) some well-to-do, banker-looking dude decided that he just couldn't wait until the next bar/going home/what-not until urinating. The phone stand became his personal urinal. I don't know why, but I was more offended by the pisser than the smoker, and, instead of just gawking, I threw a pen at the glass directly behind him as he relieved himself. He turned around to see a wall of glass and the entire (there were very few of us) restaurant staff studiously contemplating the ceiling tiles.

Das Deutsche

Als ich etwa 20 war, fing ich mit der deutschen Sprache an. Waehrend der folgenden Jahren habe ich ab und zu jede Menge Deutsch beide studiert und gelernt aber auch, leider, verlernt. Vor einem Monat hat mein Freund mir gesagt, dass es eine Moeglichkeit gaebe, dass er eine Stelle in Zuerich bekommen koenne. Die Nachrichten hat mich so sehr gefreut, weil so 'was sicher bis jetzt nie vorstellbar waere. Traeume von einem neuen Leben auf Deutsch

werden entwickelt. Eine Chance meinem Freund SW Deutschland zu zeigen wuerde frueher als spaeter kommen. Ich sah alles ganz klar: wir beiden in der Tuebinger Altstadt, Einkaufsbummlen in der Koenigsstrasse in Stuttgart, neben dem Fluss in Esslingen, und, aller Wichtigen, bei Freunden zum Kaffee und Kuchen in Wurmlingen.

Klar wollte ich auch mein Deutsch verbessern und der Freund wollte ueberhaupt einiges lernen. Wichtiger vielleicht waere, dass zur Zeit ich nicht mehr in den Staaten wohnen moechte.
NYC ist, mehr oder weniger, gar nicht schlecht, aber immer noch ein Raetsel, wenn ich mich daran denke. Wir beherrschen dieselbe Sprache, benutzen auch dasselbe Geld, aber irgendwie sind wir doch verschiedene Menschen. Daran liegt genau das Problem. Wir sollten doch mehr aehnlich sein, oder? Ein Staat, verschiedene Menschen sei das Motto Amerikas.
Einfacher waere, wenn ich doch in einem anderen Land mit einer anderen Sprache, mit anderem Bargeld, u.s.w. wohnen wuerde. Wenn es dann irgendeine kulturelle Misverstaendnisse gaebe, koennte ich ja sagen, "Ach! Ich bin doch Auslaenderin und deswegen...!" So eine Ausrede habe ich hier in der City nicht. Das macht mich einigermassen frustriert. Wie die im Sudwesten sagen, "So issch das Leben, ebe!"

London calling...

"It's February, anything can happen," said Lynn, a member and regular film-goer at the theater where I work. She was referring to the weather. Over the course of a few days last week, NYers experienced 40-60-30 degree weather. I'd gone from wearing a thick coat, to wearing short sleeves to wearing a thick coat, scarf, gloves and surly attitude.

Great change can come in all forms in Feb., I have recently found out. And, in a matter of months, say two-ish, I'll be leaving the "Big Apple" behind for a new life in the UK.

There's much to do. -much to donate, sell, toss out, and agonize over taking. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of such a big life change, but, thankfully, I have my recent uprooting from CA to serve as guide. I'll still feel at times that I don't know what in the heck it is I'm doing with my life, but, maybe, I'll feel better this time around about not knowing.

Because of my impending departure, my love-hate relationship with NY city is quickly becoming a relationship of intrigue. There's suddenly now much to see and do before I go.

Here's a short list that I compiled last night in my head:

Eat at the Russian Samovar
Really, really visit the Bronx Zoo
Walk or bike across the Brooklyn Bridge
Take a "circle" ferry around the Hudson and East Rivers

And, silly as it may seem, here's a list of things that I still don't want to do:

Visit Ground Zero
Go to the top of the Empire State Building
Eat a pretzel from a street vendor
See the musical "Spiderman"
Take a carriage ride through Central Park

"Spa-TAHN" and other jazz.

I went with a dear work pal out tonight for dinner in the 'hood. Having an abundance of food choices around the UWS, we weren't quite sure where to go. After a few rounds of emails, we decided on a place that was in the vicinity and boasted a nice-looking website.

Snotty, balding, concierge-like, older host and his younger, thin chiquita-minion who could have really benefited from a breath mint (not eating all day just gives you shit breath and a crap complexion, sister) were not the least of the restaurant's shortcomings.


Our well-meaning yet clueless waiter named, um, "Sirilliam" told me when I asked after their tap beer selection of a great new German beer they had called, "Spa-TAHN" (apparently it rhymes with 'baton'). Excuse me? "Spa-TAHN"? I asked if this exotic beer were spelled, "S-P-A-T-E-N." He nodded. Then I asked if I could correct him on the pronunciation. It's "SPAH-ten" I said. (I could have gone further to include the actual German way of saying any word beginning with an "sp" is "schp," but I didn't want the dude's head to explode.) I then asked him what kind of Spaten--lighter or darker. "Oh, no. We don't have any light beers. It's a darker beer." Having already lost trust in his ability to know beer in the slightest, I decided to give up on ordering anything dark/light/foreign/domestic at all.

Our food came in good time. I ate with gusto my beet salad and sucked down tasty yet small mussels. My pal didn't really like her "Aged" burger, and, at 18 bucks a pop, she really should have. Boo on you, Aged. The service, slow but well-meaning, could have used a shot in the arm. And, as you'll read, better training not only in how to pronounce product names, but also how to open said product!

The real fun came during the end of our stay when the table next to us ordered a bottle of red wine. I happened to look their way as our waiter extraordinaire was managing to strangle the bottle open with a choke hold that would have killed a cat in mere minutes. The bottle's label was facing away from the customers as old what's-his-name was jerking the wine key back and forth as a way of forcing the cork out. Never mind that he actually had a two-hinged wine key that, had he known how to use properly, would have done most of the "heavy lifting" for him. Not wanting to prolong the agony, I looked away before he'd finished extracting the cork, only to hear my seat-mate say, "Oooh, he's spilled wine on the customer!"

Going back to...

I didn't get more than three hours of sleep last. And, having just gotten off of work from the movie house with my bar gig to go to this evening, I should

be asleep. Or, actually, I should be resting my eyes because that's probably all I could manage at this time of the afternoon.

For some reason, I am currently reminded of what people here on the East Coast affectionately call my home state. Mind you, I had no knowledge of this particular pet name until leaving CA and landing in NYC. For those of you who don't know, and, really, I suspect that I may be the only CA transplant who doesn't, let me give you a hint: LL Cool J. (Thanks, LL, you douche.)

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard from someone say, "Oh, you're from Cali?" I'd be able to buy a lot of Kit-kat bars right about now. It's like I'm from some Southeast Asian island nation with a population of just under 200,000. Where the eff is Cali? Is that just next to Nevadi and below Oregoni?

I'm mean, it's like finding out someone is from Shreveport, LA and responding with, "Oh, you're from Weeziana?" WTF? Why abbreviate a state's name like that?

So as not to offend NYers more than I already have since relocating here just a little over one year ago, I don't say anything when people call it "Cali" unless, of course, I think that they might be interested in knowing what natives actually call their state. If not, then I keep my lip buttoned. -don't want to be known as that "bitch from Cali".

Broadway Brats

At first, I was grateful for the full presence at my new bar job last night. All night, I had small groups, solos, and duos with which to occupy my time. Small talk was made; laughs were had. Until, that is, the Broadway folk showed up. Let me be clear: one out of six was a sweetheart who, before her posse of five began to trickle in, was chatting amiably and comfortably with both other customers and me for the better part of twenty minutes. She was to meet a B'way producer to talk "shop." I had an inkling of who it might be, and was none too delighted when the man in question showed up. "Boy-Toy" is a hard drinking, very sharp-tongued, and fairly catty straight man who is a "regular" at my current bar gig. He suffers no fools; you know when you've made that list, let me tell you. Fortunately, he had his "work meeting" to contend with, so not much attention was directed my way, at least, for the first hour of his stay. After that, he found it funny to call me "lesbian" instead of using my name. The name, in fact, he greeted me with on his way in that night. Is it my short hair? Is it because I don't fawn over him like his young starlet-types? Does he really think that adolescent crap like that is funny?

Sadly, none of his crew batted an eye (the "nice one" was lost in talk with another in the group, and didn't notice, I should like to think) as he referred to my alleged sexuality, but made sure to note that, hey, he'd "go down on me." That was the icing on the shit cake, for sure.

Terrier in a fox fur

I've been tending bar for the past 10 years, and can safely say that I've almost seen it all. There were the group of Tongans who tried to play "pass the ID" thinking that I wouldn't realize that the guy offering up his driving license was standing next to the guy whose card it actually was. Then there were the two young men reeking of weed, in exceedingly baggy pants, stiff baseball caps, and mouths full of gold-looking caps who decided to bypass the bar altogether and slip into the large back room where nothing but empty pool tables stood (the ball & rack rental was at the bar). My jaunt to the entrance of that area was quicker than theirs, so, upon meeting them, they proceeded to curse me out for having the gall to ask for ID. As it turned out, one person was of age, and one wasn't. At the minor's request to go ahead and "call the mother@#$kin' cops" because he refused to leave the premises, I did just that. Given our litigious society, it was suggested by the arriving officer that I make clear the of-age young man was welcomed to stay, but his friend had to leave. Of course, they both left.

Apart from ID games, there are always those who, when having drunk too much, get randy. The ubiquitous couple joined at the mouth while barely sipping their drinks at the bar is a real crowd-pleaser. "Get a room!" always pops into my head at that point. Honestly, I didn't come to work to see two (usually unappealing) jerks get it on. I have, at times, said to various offending couples, "you're in a public place." That usually just serves to make them mad. -kinda like hitting a hive with a stick. Then there was the gal who was giving a guy a hand job in one of the darkened booths as I came by to pick up their glassware. For that one, I came back to the table with a cup of ice, slammed it down in front of them, and loudly said, "cool off, hot stuff! There aren't enough condoms to go around!" Humiliation usually kills the sex vibe.

Having gone through zany bar adventures that would make most people not want to show up to work the next day, I didn't think that working in a box office would make me feel exactly that way. It may not be about under-aged drinkers trying to pull a fast one, or drunk couples coupling, but it's about the never-ending curve balls that people throw you that really make the head spin.

Two days into our last film series, Dance On Camera, I worked a not-very-busy box shift. Many dancers, students of dance, and teachers of dance came to see the films. All of them seemed to be entitled to some sort of discounted ticket or another. There are different price types, and different codes to key into the system, but it's the same pain in the ass.

At one point during my shift, a young female comes to the window and asks for a student ticket to see whatever was playing at that point. I asked to please see her ID, as some of the dance company kids are entitled to two-for-one deals, and that sort of thing is best said to those who are actually entitled, so as not to piss off those who aren't. She said this: "Um, I'm home-schooled, so I don't have a student ID." Well, knock me over with a feather, sister! I hadn't noticed just how young she was. I guess home-schooled kids can be poised beyond their years, if not always socialized necessarily all that well. She got her discount, to be sure.

The next customer who came to my window was an older woman in heavy make-up wearing a floor-length fur coat and carrying a small terrier. The terrier, a tired-looking Toto wannabe, was shaking all over. I had heard that some smaller breeds shake, so this shouldn't have been so surprising except for the fact that the pooch was also wearing a fur coat! The tailor-made piece had a lovely, wide collar and was beautifully fit. At that point, I thought two things: the coat probably cost more than any of my adult-sized, non-fur coats, and I will never be in a position that affords me to wear a tailor-made fur coat.