Rats! the Musical

I'm picturing a cast of 60 in full rat-suit regalia with over-sized grey egg-shaped furry bodies and 10 ft. tails made out of old garden hose wrapped in pantyhose and vaseline.  Sometimes they'll follow run-of-the-mill Broadway choreography, but for the most part they'll just scurry about from one edge of the proscenium to the other, lurking in the shadow of the drop curtains and making a variety of sounds - the types of noises our protagonist, "Nickey" (not to be confused) only makes in his wet dreams and worst nightmares.  Yes, Nickey has nightmares, mostly induced by acid.  He also has AIDS.

Step aside Andrew Lloyd Webber, this 1-b is gonna take you to school.

and 1, and 2, and -jazz hands- I don't hear enough hissing - and 7 and kick-ball-change, finale!

If you're a major Broadway producer and just want to throw a wad of cash at me now, by all means, stop reading.

As for the rest of you...

Rats are a reality of living in New York, and an odd one at that.  They exist throughout the city, and in most locations share this island peacefully and co-habitate with the human minority in close proximity and mutual non-engagement.  In fact, it's exactly how most people (except farm boys) treat squirrels (with the latter shooting them with pellet guns - sorry rural friends, it's true and not as exciting as you insist).

Squirrels are rodents, and during the day they are among us.  We either choose to ignore their scavenging and scampering, or we even delight in the neurotic playfulness we project onto their stuggle for survival.  

But rats... there's very little to distinguish them from their distant squirrel kin, a less bushy tail and nocturnal habits, but what a difference it makes.  Something about rats is positively revolting to most people, including yours truly, but I can't nail down why this is, exactly.  They aren't, as a general rule, slimy.  they do carry disease, but no more so than squirrels and other unsavory urban wildlife.  They're not (usually) aggressive.

But they are sneaky, and I think this is what seals it.

A few examples from my recent time in NY:

Example 1:  I was walking past Madison Square Gardens (which is actually a circular building) about 3 weeks ago.  In front of the entrances, they have large concrete bins with plants in them, each elevated off the ground about 1-2" for some unknown reason.  These are constructed in a roughly geometric fashion from the entrace to the street, so that all walkers pass through them like walking through a checker-board.  And under each bin are an unknown number of rats, between 5 and 100, waiting for their chance to grab scraps or make it to the holy-grail trashcans everywhere.  A car backfires, and waves of rats abandon their refuge and dart toward the next bin, regardless of the people in their way.  It's like watching a small black blanket ripple across the floor.  Usually, you don't see them, but any moment they could come pouring out of the seemingly infinite cavern.

Example 2:  I was walking around Columbia campus late one evening, on my way to the library.  About 15 ft in front of me, a chatting duo of undergrad girls suddenly stopped talking and halted in their tracks near the line of shrubbery next to the sidewalk.  I continued walking toward them, curious about their abrupt alertness and silence.  Then, from 10 ft away, I hear a noise for which I have no perfect reference.  It wasn't a squeek, a hiss, or a _____ .  It was some kind of high-pitched gurgling snarl, and it produced the desired results.  After straining momentarily to hear and identify this odd and terrifying new sound, I was visibly shaken when one of the girls let out a blood-curtling screen and the two rushed past me arm-in-arm.  Apparently, the rat next to them in the bushes decided to give them a piece of his New York mind, and I heard the unsavory rodent's rendition of "go F* yourself."

Example 3:  Again on campus, again in the evening.  I was just thinking about how nice campus looks at night.  They have these old-style street lamps that look like floating orbs of light in a very mystical, the Illusionist, sort of way.  Lost as I was in this entraced ponderance, the odd twists and movement of the couples ahead and to my right went undetected.  As I stepped out in front of a hedge, I had the oddest sensation in my left foot, and looking down mid-stride saw a rat scampering away to my right.  Oblivious to my existence, it had scampered its way directly over my shoe and continued as if nothing had happened.  Now I'm not asking for general courtesy from a rat, no apologies expected for stepping on my foot, but I do expect a little more effort.  Our co-existence is highly predicated on the rat doing everything in its power to stay out of my way and my sight.  If it had simply dodged to the left or right in its bolt, I could have continued quite oblivious.  Instead, I had a creepy, dirty feeling crawling up my leg for the next 5 minutes as I relived the sensation over and over again.  It's not that it was horribly traumatic, I'm no Indiana Jones and the rat was kind enough to stay out of my t-shirt, but then I wasn't crawling down into any old sewers either.  

So those are my Rat Tails (forgive me), and life goes on in the NYC.

Halloween and the even crazier election on the horizon, so stay tuned as more is clearly on the way.

And watch where you step.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Relative Pressure

Yesterday while I was bulldozing through research for an upcoming Theory & Methods of History midterm in the library, I glanced over to a wall of books and lost myself momentarily in the meaningless collage of various colors, shapes and sizes. As my eyes came back into focus (having adjusted from the 10" focal length of my book to the 10' distance to said bookshelf-wall), one particular title leapt out to me. Ok, it was the only title legible from this distance, but was intriguing in its subject as well as its typeset.

"Legends and Lore: Nautical Terms and Tales."

I won't lie, I knew it was wasteful, but I set down my Foucault and mischievously retrieved the dusty cloth-bound hard copy from its resting place. It was filled with explanations of nautical terms which have come into our everyday use (Beat a dead horse, round robin, etc.) as well as those that never caught on (room to swing a cat). I learned about the variety of vessels which do (and do not) qualify as "ships" (requires 3 masts and square sails, technically) and I got a casual summary of the tales of notable pirates, shipwrecks, mutinies and all manner of gruesome adventures on the seven seas. I even learned which seas those original 7 referred to (according to this author, they are: Mediterranean Sea, Black Sea, South China Sea, Red Sea, Persian Gulf, Arabia Sea/Indian Ocean, and the Atlantic Ocean (sic) ).

Then I came across an especially wonderful quote.

"There is no dilemma compared with that of a deep-sea diver who hears the message from the ship above - Come up at once, We're sinking!"

- Robert Cooper.

After a brief moment to think it over (and decide it has much more enigma to it than I often credit 19th century sailors with), I put the book back on the shelf and got back to work.

My dilemmas aren't all that intellectually complex or physically demanding, and while I often feel like a certain weight is bearing down upon my shoulders, I can see that this is all hollow melodrama compared with the plight of the deep-sea diver.

And I'm glad I'm not him.

Weber
:: (lame) Texpatriot

New York Turnaround

There are days when nothing seems to go your way.  When all the traffic lights turn Red at just the wrong time, your coffee lid just won't stay on tight, and the humidity is doing something to your hair which should qualify as a war crime.

These are unlucky days; they happen to all of us, there's nothing we can do about them, and they're not at all what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about the bad days where sole culpability rests unquestionably with yourself.   The days when you repeatedly F#@% yourself through progressively worse choices and stupid decisions.

That's the kind of day I'm talking about:  Thursday.

Rather than extol the long chain of events that led me to a dark place by about 7 pm, let's focus on the last few links and the turnaround (or at least hiccup) on which this post is supposedly centered.

The descent to which I allude is not only a metaphorical one, it coincided nicely with the sunset.  Not the picturesque version, but the kind where shadows grow to encompass everything in sight and spread their icy fingers everywhere.  I arrived at the main branch of the New York Public Library (the one with the lions) around 5:50 pm with every intention of a full night of research and paperwriting.  Imagine my surprise when the door attendant turned me away because the building was closing down.  Apparently, in the city that never sleeps, public librarians don't work late on Thursdays.  

Things go down (further) from there, but let me just say it ends with me paying $8 for

 a disgusting entree of Tofu-and-something as my second dinner of the evening.

And then - lost somewhere underneath Times Square while transferring trains - I came across a magical reversal.  (note: This links nicely with my post of a few days ago, stumbling on the unexpectedly cool).

From down the long hallway separating the 7th and 8th avenue branches of the subway, I heard a wailing cacophony.  Echoes and screeches reached me from 50 yards away, but as I approached I found the Alex LoDico Ensemble. (UPDATE - Video from the actual concert I caught)  It was a drummer, 3 saxophonists, electric guitar, electric bass all under the lead of a very persistent (and sweaty) trombonist, Sr. LoDico.

They laid down a heavy groove while each of the saxes took turns burning up their solos, followed by a literally walk-on vitruoso electric violin (plugged into the guitar amp for extra wah-wah effect).  There was someone there with a video camera, and I just hope and pray it makes it onto YouTube at some point.  For now, you'll have to live with an example of a performance from April 2007.

I won't say it was the most meaningful event in my life, or even my week.  And it wasn't the finest jazz concert I've ever attended, but it was exactly what I needed at the time.

The day continued along its prescribed path - turns out it was more of a speed bump than a turnaround - but at least I had those 10 minutes of unadulterated joy to buoy me up.

No perscriptive solution on this one; You can't always count on a publicly-funded Music Under New York program to save the day.

But when it does, you might as well be thankful.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

 

Soundtrack to Human Motion

with apologies to Jason Moran, from whom I stole this title, I am absolutely astonished by not just the prevalence of iPods (here used interchangeably with all portable personal music devices), but also the effects and ramifications of this iPod-proliferation.  I'm not getting up on a pedestal; this isn't a rant about our social disconnectedness, ear damage, etc.  I'm just blown away by some of the effects.

Take for example a (related) case that I've now heard several friends discuss:  Guy walks down the street in average dress.  He starts laughing, humming, or even talking to no one in particular.  Crazy, right?  It's common enough up here.  But no!  He's on a hands-free-bluetooth-wifi-cyberimplant, and now you look like an idiot for assuming he was crazy.  I've even seen this go the other way - people I'm pretty sure weren't mentally stable wandering around with devices on their ear, and being treated as average passersby as a result.

But I digress - iPod phenomenon.

When I was backpacking this summer, I listened to my brilliant little "iPod" often, in fact daily.  I loaded it with about 1 GB of songs when I left San Antonio, and listened to those same songs for 2 1/2 months while I was "on the lamb."  I won't say that I didn't get tired of some of them, but taken together they form the opus of my travels, and every song from that original playlist is indellibly marked with the remembrance of my time abroad.

So when I say that I'm listening  more than I did all summer, please understand how radical an increase that must be.  And I'm loving it!  As most of my long-time friends (and all former roommates) will know, I'm not someone who has ever permitted silence to reign long in my presence.  I like music in the car, during dinner, while I'm working, etc.  Music keeps me going, and it allows me to be intentional and appreciative of silence when I choose to envelope myself in it.

But today I had a rather mundane epiphany followed by a much more interesting conundrum.  I was walking through Columbia's main library, surrounded by studious 20-somethings and 50 year old books, and something about my mood and the song currently bulleting through my eardrums (in this case, I believe it was Datarock's "Princess") was transportative.  Suddenly, I was watching my own autobiography unfold projected in front of me as if on an enormous canvas screen.  The proverbial lights dimmed, and I was getting the hollywood version complete with THX surround sound.

Ryan Weber, uncut.

This isn't a novel idea.  Soundtracks are used to artificially elevate our emotions during cinema (or theatre) to the level they would theoretically be at if we were really there.  Now, we use music to add meaning/interest to the parts of our lives that otherwise might lack it, such as when riding the subway or walking through a semi-silent library.  Several good jokes have been done on the possibility of personal theme music, notably Family Guy.  So ok, nothing new.

Then I rounded the corner, and popped into the Men's room.

Here's a question for you:  What is the proper theme music for using a public toilet?  Have you ever noticed that most bathrooms don't have background music.  You're expected to go in, do your business, and get out.  No messing about, and no need to keep you preoccupied in the interim, as is the focus for Elevator Muzak.  So what happens when you don't take off your earbuds?

Allow me to paint a scene from a first-person perspective.  There you are, with your pants around your ankles and your knees together as you flex various unpronounceable interior muscles in your own quiet effort that is so routine as to be almost subconscious.  You realize that while your body is doing what it was built to do, and your eyes are fixed on the checkered black and white tile floor, you're listening to a rock ballad, or electro-pop, or bebop.  Whatever it is, it doesn't fit.  at all.  in any conceivable way.

And what would?  What could possibly be the "right" music for this moment?  If you were Clint Eastwood, or, let's be realistic, Judd Apatow, and you were filming an interior-monologue-while-on-the-crapper scene (it can't be the first), what would you go with to fill the silence?

I don't have the answer; I'm not your answer man.  

Weber

:: (lame) Texpatriot

Always Something, NYC

I classify events into two groups:  

1) Events that are so huge, awesome or odd that you make a conscious plan to attend them.

2) Random stuff you happen upon of varying degrees of coolitude and awesomification.

For example, when living in San Antonio I would make plans weeks or months in advance to see an especially good indie band (even drive to Austin for the occasion), but likewise I could be delighted to happen upon the 51st annual According festival on my way out for breakfast tacos.

What I've found in New York is that the two types have become less distinct.  In other words, the things I plan on are not dramatically cooler than those I happen upon, or even less so in fact.  Some examples from my 2 months thus far in New York:

* Central Park free concert w/ Battles (highly recommended by indie-savant Jelly-D).  Upon arrival, I found out the opening band was actually Gang Gang Dance, and was MUCH more impressed with them than the headliners.

* A casual trip to Brooklyn for Shelley's work resulted in not only the discovery of the Brooklyn Brewery, but also the thriving heart of Brooklyn's trendy vintage retail and hipster community.

* the Daily Show, sold out for months, suddenly opens up 4 days of tickets and Shelley snags us some (free) on less than 1 week notice, which is essentially unheard of.

* I stumble into a concert poster for jazz drummer Lewis Nash (playing with trumpeter Jeremy Pelt and pianist Renee Rosnes) taking place the next night on Columbia campus, which means I get to purchase $7 tickets to a mid-tier jazz concert (crazy talk!)

There are other examples, but the gist of it is this:  There is always something cool happening in New York, and while I haven't yet found a reliable method to track these happenings (with the New York Times, Village Voice and the Onion all helpful, but woefully incomplete).  As a result, I am the Titanic to the unique experience Icebergs of this city, and while I don't expect to split in two or kill Leonardo Decaprio, I will continue full steam ahead with the assumption that I can bump into whatever I like to my own benefit.

But just for the record, Decaprio better watch his back.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot

Just Die! -it.

If Mountain Dew is the marketing domain of cool, young, thrill-seeking extreme sporters, then I probably am the perfect Diet-Spokesperson. I'm not cool, I mostly just look young, and my jazz-and-lindy-hop hobbies are about as extreme as no-contact Mini-Golf (sober).

I think I'm onto something here.

"You want me to jump through the burning what in a chicken suit? Sorry, I'm a DIET Dew drinker. On my 15-minute breaks I just surf webcomics from the comfort of my cubicle."

Ok, life isn't that bad. But Diet Mountain Dew is.

Today I was bulleting across campus shuffling library books from one place to another, scanning, reading, and all the other excitement that is a Work Study existence. One bright point - my next stop took me past a large bank of vending machines in Lehman, affording me the opportunity to get a caffeine kick-up. Even better, I was in the mood for a Dr. Pepper - no big problem in Texas, but an odd rarity in most of New York - except in Lehman.

So I dropped off books, picked up books, and got my crisp 1's ready (it takes 2 around here to achieve the required result). Then I wasn't in the mood for DP. No problem, I'll just grab a Dew.

$1 in. $2 in. 50 cents back.

You know what's coming next.

DIET Mountain Dew.

Now there are Diet drinks, and then there are Diet drinks.  Diet Dr. Pepper brags about being similiar to the original.  Diet Coke has made its niche by creating an independent taste.  Diet Mountain Dew is an offense against nature and a sin in the eyes of pop culture.  

The devoted drink MD for several reasons.  

1) Caffeine.  Prior to the energy-drink buzz, MD was one of the few beverages to offer more than 30 g of sugar per serving, and there's no lying - caffeine has its uses, like addiction. 

2) Taste.  Good or bad, thick, sweet or syrrupy.  Describe it how you will, MD tastes like nothing else.  There is no Mr. Pibb or other knockoff, it's Dew or nothing for flavor comparison.  

3) Image.  The least of all categories, it cannot be denied that image is a contributing factor to getting started with Dew.

As you may have guessed, none of these factors remain with the Diet variety.  It has NO sugar, NO caffeine, a totally different taste (akin to festering Sprite), and NO positive association whatsoever.  It's a disappointment in every possible way, except that it is still wet.

I am leaving one important detail out of this story.   I know that I don't need soda. I know it's not good for me, and I know it's a waste of money.  And I thought of all this just before making the purchase, but I still put in the shrapnel, and in the Karmic sense I got exactly what I deserved.

In a city where increased walking, restricted budgets, and decreased tortilla intake are all taking significant chunks out of my waistline, Diet Dew is an unnecessary and revolting life choice.

But it does have its adantages.  It's sort of like the Nicotine patch for Dew Addicts.  Totally unsatisfying, but technically helps reduce the original usage.

Then again, just thinking about Diet Dew gives me the shivvers.  It's not even withdrawl; it's Diet pre-drawl.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it; at least until I get cast to make the rant as a bit part on the Office.  They are still taping that, right?

Weber

:: Keeping it (lame)

Is That a Train Whistle?

First, let me just say a few quick birthdays:

Happy Birthday to Katie Sullivan.

Happy Re-Birthday to Shelley.

Happy Birth Anniversary to Thelonious Monk.

With all that out of the way, the quick update is that I'm now more than 1/3 of the way through my first semester of Graduate study at Columbia University.  As a result, I'm just getting comfortably with my weekly reading requirements, only to now be confronted with the looming aspect of mid-terms.

Ok, I'm in academia, so paper writing, etc. is part and parcel.  What has me on edge is actually how not-on-edge I am.  With about 3 weeks before my first mid-term is due, I'm watching most of my classmates start to freakout about whether or not the topic they've chosen (with prof. oversight) is appropriately broad/narrow.  If they have enough research leads, or if they need to go dig more.  How they will possibly be able to slim the final draft down to a mere 10 pages...

In short, they're freaking out, and I'm not.  Why am I not?  Is it perhaps because, as a slightly older student with some real world experience I've been able to more accurately assess the situation and plan accordingly?  Or is this really a horrifying, brain-melting process that I'm just not aware of yet?  Am I standing on a train track and wondering why everyone else is running the opposite way?

Mid-Terms will be a good trial - I only have 2 of them - for my eventual 4 term papers.  No finals, no tests, no quizes, and no homework.  The days of small, safe grading are well past.

So that's what's on my mind with a full working-weekend ahead.

Hope you're all weathering this world-wide financial crisis, by the way.  Sure, everybody else is freaking out, but I'm sure your accounts will be fine.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Until I can't.

Weber

::(Lame) Texpatriot

Bush Invades Olmos Pharmacy

"Uh, you see, what we have here is what I like to call bhreakphast, he he."

George Bush invaded the sovereign nations of Afghanistan, Iraq, and now my (former) local corner drug store. In what can only be described as an equivalent show of relative force, the Decider descended on Olmos Pharmacy on the corner of McCullough Ave & Hildebrand in San Antonio, TX. The combined might of coalition forces (including Secret Service, ATF, FBI, SAPD, and I'll bet one or two Trinity DCS) surrounded and subdued the former bastion of independence. Greeted, not as customers, but as occupiers, Mr. Bush cleared the former clientelle and quickly ordered his favorite Texas breakfast, "Gimme a bagel and one of them taco things."

As for exactly how close this hits to home, this particular Texpatriot formerly resided within 100 yards of this location, or within the established "Perimeter of Freedom" established for the occasion. Not only was this a favorite breakfast niche, it also served by night under the auspices of the Olmos Bharmacy, featuring such specialty drinks as the almost-unheard-of-brilliance of the Beershake. Believe it.

Asked what brought the President to San Antonio, he dodged, stating instead, "What's important is that the American people know how hard we're working to solve this financial crisis." To a confused press corps, he continued, "By flying Airforce One all the way to San Antonio for cheap, greasy breakfast, I'm saving the American Taxpayers my usual catering costs. And we all know how hard it is to solve self-perpetuating financial cluster-Fu@ks without a hearty breakfast."

Local residents were not impressed - a poor choice of location for Mr. Bush who managed to visit one of the only neighborhoods in San Antonio without dominant Republican support (no evidence of Presidential trips planned to the East side), and certainly marked a serious departure from his otherwise military-heavy agenda.

The trip was brief, serving mostly to promote the locations new paint job, new ownership, and new "Sunday Bhrunch," which Mr. Bush made of point of stressing, "Is the Bhest Bhrunch in San Antonio. You'd Have to be Lo-Co to Miss Out on the Savings, With Meals Starting at Just $4.99"

At a time of intense political discourse throughout the country, and an even more intense campaign of politician personal debasement between Mssrs Obama, McCain, Biden and Palin, this reporter remains confused as to why Mr. Bush felt the need to glad-hand and grovel with the meek of Texas's 3rd largest city while, closer to home, Wallstreet continues to implode and Washington grinds to a halt over rhetoric.

Perhaps he's just fondly recalling the days when he could afford to run around the country campaigning and eating cheap chow without a care in the world - just 4 years ago.

As for me, next time Airforce One is headed South, let me know. With two of the premier taco huts within sight of Olmos, I could use the cover of invasion to make a real Chorizo plunder on the side.

Weber
::(Lame) Texpatriot

Almost-Free Grows in Brooklyn

Having recently finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn as a prerequisite to moving to New York, I was more excited than most New Yorkers to learn that Shelley had an upcoming meeting in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Better/Worse yet, the meeting was set for noon on an otherwise open Saturday. Already planning to make the "trek" with Shelley in a show of solidarity, we logged onto Google Maps to double-check out route.

As most of you know, Google instigated a technology called "street view" a little more than a year ago. While simple in concept, the project involved photographing 360 degree shots from the road for all streets in a given city. This was made possible through some fancy optical logarithms, and more than anything a TON of data collection and organization.

From the comfort of your own cubicle, you can now not only navigate subways and fly through the aerial view, but you can actually re-trace (or, actually, pre-trace) your intended route and note all the appropriate land marks from a pedestrian-eye view.

In this particular case, we discovered that Shelley's rundown warehouse-turned-experimental-theatre was almost directly across the street from the Brooklyn Brewery, which offered seasonal brews on tap and an hourly tour.

Surprisingly, as much fun as the brewery was (the Pumpkin Ale lives up to its accolades), the greatest discoveries came earlier and cheaper. First was Anne Marie's pizza (8th & Bedford), which gets to put its hat in the enormous "best pizza in New York" ring. I'm not backing up the assertion, but I'm putting it out there.

But the best-in-show of this wickedly fun weekend was, in the spirit of the times, just across the street from Anne Marie's: the Salvation Army.

Thrift has always been a _____ (blank) of mine; where blank can alternate between several meanings: hobby, passion, joy, obsession, or weakness.

It's a marriage of both my childish wonder at discovery and my crotchedy-old-man penny-pinching.

Rather than continuing to delve into the psychosis of my second-hand fetish, I'll put forward the results, and you can test the pudding (to see if the proof's in it).


Here's what I scored for $30:

Snazzy Brown Corduroy Blazer
Debonair Khaki Corduroy Hat
Dances with Wolves VHS
Star Wars original (pre-CGI) Triology
The Beginning Stages of... The Polyphonic Spree CD


What makes this most awesome is that:
1) I have a friend in NYC who is among the few anglophones on Earth not to have seen the original trilogy - an offense that shames us all by association.
2) I was just telling Shelley how badly I wanted to see Dances with Wolves, to which she groaned and took solace in the fact that I (at that time) had no possible way to inflict such a proposal upon her.

In short, I made out like a Somali Pirate, and let me tell you, they're making out well these days.

But hey, even if you're just scraping by, at least thrift can help you do so in style.

And Kudos to Brooklyn.

Weber (the lame texpatriot)