Here we are again.  It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve posted anything besides a caption.  And I’m willing to admit that although I do want to show you the unusual, beautiful, gross things that make me love Brooklyn, part of the reason I’m loving the Why I Love Brooklyn series is that I can post without the messy business of all that writing.  Especially because lately the writing has been tough.  Not that I haven’t written.  Since my last real post, I’ve composed seven drafts.  Long drafts.  With images and links.  But they’ve all ended up being these crazy ADD posts, jumping from topic to topic.  Imagine a blog by Dori. 

Awful. So, after finishing today’s episode of Sober House, I realized that I had spent two hours watching the clock and begging the Universe to make it 11:00 already so I could find out what happened with Seth “Shifty” Binzer.  So I started writing a yet another draft.  

It started out being about how I spend every Thursday morning in agony for the two hours (or so) that I’m awake before Sober House comes on.  But by my third paragraph I was writing about the meditation class I took last week. In some stream of consciousness way my brain had gone from writing about my addiction show addiction to thinking about how I have such a hard time focusing to remembering what I learned at the Tibet House and thinking maybe I should “breathe with intention” for a few minutes.  Then I thought, “Half and half.”

I’m going to Trader Joe’s later and we need cream.  Thinking of that became a spiral that went from figuring out a time table for when I need to leave for Trader Joe’s to how much time I have until I have to leave for work, to thinking that I want to have at least an hour at home before I have to leave again to I really don’t want to get up right now to I’m hungry. So, in an effort to avoid hitting the “Save as Draft” button again, I am offering you a list of all the stuff I would tell you about if I could.

• There is a fairly common idiomatic term that is missing from Wikipedia.  I have decided to submit it.
• I love getting coffee in Miami on Calle Ocho even though the woman at the place I like always seems irritated by the fact that I didn’t speak more Spanish than, Buenos días. Un café con leche por favor and Lo siento, no hablo Español.
• Coming out of the closet is not a one-time deal.
• Facebook and “Relationship Status” (A sequel to coming out of the closet is not a one-time deal.)
• I have a friend who met, and subsequently embarrassed herself in front of, Derek Jeter.
• Nightlife: Work until dawn, sleep until 2.
• The success of the infomercial.  (A sequel to Nightlife.)
• If bands and painters can hand out promotional flyers, why can’t I?
• I love catalogs.
• Downtown Fitzgerald, Georgia: Johnny’s Drive-In, Wal-Mart and Lowell Packing Company.
• Flyer guys and their annoying antics.
• Chris the alcoholic gay guy.

What’s in that box?

Location: 7th Avenue & 18th Street

It don’t always suck …

The Tree Sweater

Location: 16th Street between 7th & 8th Avenues

You know, I thought I could handle it.  I have very strong willpower.  I’ll just try it once, for fun.  No harm in that.  It’s not like you become addicted from the first time. I went to the source.  Ok.  I’m ready. Sign me up.

At first it was good.  Fun, even.  Just a different version of the same old crap I had been doing for years.  I’d drop in occasionally.  I didn’t even know how it worked exactly, I’d just piddle around.  But addiction is a progressive disease.  I started checking weekly.  Then daily.  Then hourly … or I would just leave the window open so I could be on the cutting edge of what everybody “Is” at that moment.  Today.  Today I hit rock bottom.  What’s worse, I did it in front of Erica.

Honey … how do I change my profile picture on Facebook?

It was a cry for help.  But I needed to do it. I knew I had to hit rock bottom before I’d be able to start climbing back up. 

Erica: Why?  I like that picture.

Me: You can’t really tell who I am in it.

Erica: Oh … oh really?  You?  Seriously?

I had no choice but to be honest.  I need to change my profile picture so that I, the same person who claims to despise all social networking sites, can be sure that people from high school can recognize me when I contact THEM on Facebook.

I remain ever vigilant in my fight against Poke! and sending plants for your (Lil) Green Patch.

It has a direct link to You Tube.

A time function that works as an alarm, a world clock, stopwatch and a timer.

You can play games on it or set it to check what the weather is in multiple cities all at one time.

It fits in your pocket AND has GPS.

You can check your stocks, figure out what that song is that’s playing in the mall, learn to speak Italian.

Text your friends, take photos of them, send them a glass of beer.

Amazing, huh?  You may be astonished … wondering, “What doesn’t it do?” I’ll tell you.

It doesn’t work as a phone.  

I have been having a love affair with Mac for years. They’re so pretty, they’ve finally worked out the Word issues, you look way cooler pulling out a Mac laptop than you do with any PC on the market.  

A conversation that is probably being held right now all over South Georgia:

Hi.  I’d like to order a Coke.

What kind do you want?

Sprite.

And in the way that Coke=soda, iPod=MP3 player.

What kind of iPod do you have?  

Oh, it’s a SanDisk.

Mac is taking over the world and I say, as long as they keep it pretty, bring it on.  If there is a Mac cult out there, sign me up. Naturally, when I found out I was getting one of the first iPhones, I was thrilled.  

It was the Monday after the Friday debut of the iPhone.  K, my boss at the time, paid some kid $250 to stand in line the first day at the Mac store on Fifth Avenue to get his iPhone.  The kid got in line at 9 in the morning and bought the iPhone at 4:30 that afternoon.  Crazy.  Anyway, he got it that Friday, had been playing with it all weekend, and came into work Monday morning pretty excited. 

K: This fucking iPhone is incredible!  You guys have to have it. Go down to the AT&T store and put them on your AMEX cards.

Me & A: Oh my god!  That’s amazing!  Thank you so much, K! Is it really that great?

K: Why are you still standing here?

We ran up to the 86th Street store and found out that all branches of the AT&T store had sold out over the weekend - as had both Mac stores in the city.  The next morning I showed up at the Fifth Avenue store at 9 and purchased the last one they had to sell for that day. You know how in New York City you can walk around with a live chicken on your head while wearing hot pants and tap shoes, and no one will notice? Carrying the iPhone bag anywhere in the five boroughs during that first month would get you noticed. You could be on a corner, surrounded by break-dancers, a magician, a litter of puppies and an open bar, and still, as long as you had that bag, people would approach you first. 

Oh my god! Is that really an iPhone?

Are you excited?

Did you get it today? 

It was like toting around Brangelina with a nice ribbon handle.  

And I have loved my iPhone.  It’s sleek, it’s cool, it’s easy to use.  Did you know that there is a feature called “Visual Voicemail”? Your voicemail is shown in a list where you can select which message to listen to. Do you know how convenient that is for someone who has issues with listening to their messages?

Plus, having the iPhone the first week was pretty sweet.  We made jokes about recording our own rings: I have an iPhone! I have an iPhone! I am superior! You wish you were me! I have an iPhone! I have an iPhone! For the past year and a half I have loved my iPhone.  I’ve shown it off, I’ve recommended it to others, I’ve sung songs about it.  I refer to it exclusively as the iPhone.  Like, “Would you please hand me my iPhone?” And it is with a heavy heart that I now announce the eminent demise of our relationship.

It pains me to think that I’ll no longer be able to pull out air hockey when there’s an awkward pause in conversation.  I won’t be able to choose a place to eat by shaking the slot-machine styled application that uses the GPS to find restaurants in your vicinity. But, people, I need a phone. And it just doesn’t do that part. In order to make a call from my home I have to be seated in my upstairs window sill, with my back to the glass and the phone in my right hand.  It is also necessary to stay still and look forward.  Otherwise … dropped call.

Cingular née AT&T (the only wireless service compatible with the iPhone) proclaimed, in five-foot-tall letters on billboards in Manhattan that their company “has the fewest dropped calls”. I live approximately five miles from where this billboard was posted.  Cingular, in five foot letters on a Manhattan billboard, lied. (The campaign was pulled soon after it was launched.)

I thought I had progressed beyond destructive love affairs once I found Erica, but apparently, no.  In textbook predictability, iPhone and I have a turbulent, exciting relationship.  When we’re working well together, it’s the best feeling in the world.  iPhone, a source of social interaction and mindless distractions, is great at a party.  It’s never failed to charm all of my friends.

But, iPhone doesn’t bring me into its circle.  iPhone disappears on me or fails to show up for a date.  More often, iPhone is breaking a promise with a flimsy lie and I don’t call it out.  Because every once in a while, iPhone is amazing.  So, I know it’s in there.  I’ve seen it … you know … in flashes.  Brilliant flashes, but they’re inconsistent and increasingly rare.  

I’m being charmed and manipulated by attractively designed kitsch. I love iPhone’s potential, not its actuality. Fantasy functionality is no basis for a lasting relationship.  I’ve got to make a clean break.

Now, don’t you worry about iPhone.  I have a feeling iPhone will be just fine without me.

Everyone has that friend - or those friends - who are always trying to get you to go see their performance. Whether it’s a band or a comedy show, a poetry reading, interpretive dance - they’re doing it and they want you to watch.  Usually they also want you to pay.  

“Come on, man, it’s only $10.”  

So, reluctantly you go.  You’re reluctant, not because you don’t want to support them and not because you don’t want to pay ten bucks, but because they might suck.  You go because you’re a good friend and you take your seat.  The show begins and after a while you realize  that no, this isn’t some warm-up buffoonery. This is actually the act. You zone out and spend the rest of the evening dreading The Wait. 

The Wait happens after the lights go down and you make your way out of the theater/bar/restaurant.  You and the other friends of performers gather in the lobby waiting for the act to emerge from backstage.  You see your thoughts portrayed on their faces … “What am I going to say and how am I going to keep my face from betraying me?”  You could run away, but you don’t.  Mainly because you want to prove that you were there and thereby get a free pass for following shows. “Yeah, sorry. I can’t make it this time, but hey, Linda, you haven’t seen Shane perform yet, have you?  You should totally go!”   Sure, Linda will hate you for this, but what are you going to do?

When your friend the performer finally comes out, you struggle for conversation.  You don’t want to lie outright, so you try to make do with vague, noncommittal comments.  ”Wow, Shane.  You guys have been working really hard.  How did you learn to play electric violin with those chicken outfits on?”  But Shane’s not having it.

“So you liked it?”  (The worse the performance, the greater the performer’s need to hear, “what you really thought.”)  So you lie.   You raise your eyebrows and in the most convincing voice you can muster you tell Shane, “Shane, You were AWESOME!”

“Thanks man!  What are you doing tomorrow?  We’re on at 8.”

“That’s SO cool.  You know who would love to come?  Linda.  You should call her.”

This past weekend I was invited to a dance showcase that my friend, M, was performing in.  She’s a modern dancer and she is truly talented.  I danced for several years when I was younger and from time to time I miss it.  Watching M dance takes me back.  The first time I saw her perform, I actually looked forward to The Wait.  I was excited to see her and tell her how amazing she was.  So when I got invited to watch her again, I jumped at the chance to attend.  

It was a matinee performance in the DUMBO neighborhood of Brooklyn.  Erica was busy so I went by myself. I got there moments before the show began, so I was seated in a window seat.  Literally there was a window with a curtain to block out the sun and a pad on the 8″ deep sill.  (Most chairs are at least 15″ deep.)  I didn’t care though.  I love watching M dance, so I was excited. Right after I’ve gotten settled, the lights go down, dancers take their places and the show begins.  Turns out, M was on first.  As per usual, she was phenomenal. Despite the numerous camera flashes, she did not fall out of her pirouettes and although she complained that she lost focus and her solo was sub-par, I thought she was beautiful.  

There were a couple more performances … one a duet and then a teenaged troupe of modern dancers doing what seemed to be a political commentary on burkas.  Fantastic.  And then, it was time for the kids.

I had wondered why there was a row in the front filled with toddlers in tutus.  I assumed that they were students who had been invited to see the big kids dance.  I assumed wrong.  Act after act after act consisted of one teacher and five to seven children in adorable outfits who scurried around the stage pretending to be butterflies or ballerinas or tree huggers to songs mass-produced by Disney.  The instructor performed the choreography and attempted to get the children to dance with her.  ”Step together, step together, jump jump jump!  Emily! Come over here.  Don’t you want to dance?”  And Emily did want to dance, but she wanted to do it her way. In a brilliant move, the choreographer/babysitter, had included plenty of time for improv.  The group would sit cross-legged on the floor while one tiny dancer got her improv time.  

“Ok Jessica!  It’s your turn!”  Jessica would hop up and begin to skip around the stage, occasionally spinning around, but mostly just pulling at the elastic on her tutu and making faces at her parents in the audience. One kid, the only boy in the children’s production, was incredible.  He seemed to have taken notes from the older dancers and began his improv with emotion and passion.  The audience watched the tiny virtuoso drag himself around the floor, in awe at the feeling this child was portraying until we all realized he wasn’t dancing. He was crying because his shirt was sweaty and he wanted it off.

Around this time I got a text from M.  ”U aren’t in hell w me r u?”  I had to wipe away tears to read it.  I was so mesmerized by the kids … even sweaty t-shirt boy … they were all so excited and proud.  When I was a 16 year old member of Clatina’s dance troupe, I taught children’s classes.  Watching the recital that day reminded me of being that teacher on stage, begging the toddlers to stand in a line.  ”Come on, remember how we did it in class?”  Inevitably, someone would start crying for their mother and I’d end up with a blubbering mess of 3-5 year olds snotting all over their leotards (and mine) while pleading for their parents.  

But there was always The One.  The one girl who had watched Swan Lake and The Nutcracker on PBS.  The One who dreamt of being a ballerina and was not going to pass up her chance.  She stood by me, ushering the crybabies off the stage, and immediately returning to her big moment in the spotlight.  The One would take her spot, point her toe, position her arms perfectly and telepathically let me know, “Hey.  Susan, I’ve got this.  Just move out of the way and let me go.”  

And there was The One, that day in DUMBO, who had waited her entire five years on this planet for this moment.  And she was fantastic. She danced beautifully and beamed at her parents.  ”See me?  I am GOOD!” I longed to be her instructor, tell her how incredible she was and congratulate her parents on having such a brilliant daughter.  

After I met M outside, she apologized profusely.  ”I had NO idea that this was a recital.  They invited us for a showcase.”  She was furious with the management, embarrassed that she had invited me and another friend to see her, thereby subjecting us to over an hour of toddler improv.  She was inconsolable, although I am sure everyone else could see my thoughts on my face, ”That was the greatest show ever!”