Can't Blow

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day and I am supposed to be marching up 5th Avenue in New York City with the Pipe Band. But I can't blow.

(Insert ALL jokes here...)

I can't blow my pipes enough to keep them going. Because of the residual Bell's palsy, I cannot make the seal around the blow stick with my lips. Air gushes out and without enough pressure there is no sound.

The pipe major suggested I "fake it" because he knows I want to be a part of it all. There is nothing more frustrating to a piper than faking it for miles. I cannot do that.

So I have to practice PATIENCE. If I had a tattoo for 2009, that would be the word I would have tattooed on my forearm. PATIENCE.

So tomorrow is my feast day and I will enjoy it as I can and trust that one day I will be able to play bagpipes again.

Looking forward to GREENER pastures tomorrow.

The End

New York City Woman

This woman in sweat pants and wearing headphones was walking in front of me on my block. She had a giant Zappo's shoe box in her left arm and drying cleaning in her right hand. I thought: "This is a New York City woman."

St. Francis in the Dessert, er, Desert

My pal Charlie had a dinner party at his house and it was such fun. Again, after 40, dinner parties are my favorite thing of all in life. And someday I will host one?

He invited me and his friends Bill and John. I had never met Bill and John. It was a cozy meal for four in Charlie's swankily designed designer apartment. He did it himself. Besides having been a singer/performer and a Taryeton cigarette model, he was a designer - interior and furniture. I have none of those talents so I am always amazed.

Bill, me and Charlie in the den. (Still dress like a farmer and need to get more "Big City.")

Bill is a Professor of Italian Renaissance Art History at Columbia. I asked him about Bellini's "St. Francis in the Desert" at the Frick Collection (because I JUST saw it and it took my BREATH away - please see March 8th 2009 blog entry to prove I am not a total pretentious bastard. Besides, this is what we New York types talk about at our dinner parties. No more film grosses for me!)

I said, "Bill, Bellini's 'St. Francis in the Desert' at the Frick is considered to be the finest Italian Renaissance painting in the United States. What do you think about that?" He agreed. And he spoke about why. It was amazing to discuss emotion, intellect and physical reaction to art. I felt like Marilyn Monroe to his Arthur Miller...

The Moon and New York City on the way home. My dad grew up right around the corner from here.

Eats Shoots Leaves

As my friend Susan says, "The two things one should never sacrifice even during down times are travel and education." That is a total paraphrase and a COPY EDITOR would so talk to the fact checker to make sure it was a direct quote. If not, it would be changed on the page.

I know these things and more because I took a one day copy editing class. It was fantastic. Taught by Cheryl Della Pietra who, if she ever googles (not capitalized when used as a verb) this blog, will have some red pen things to say about it! I was so struck by her because she had such a sincere and infectious enthusiasm for grammar and structure and style. She was amazing. I wanted to put her in my pocket like a thesaurus.


I loved the copy editing exercises, but I failed the must not fail if you want to be a copy editor spelling test miserably. Annoint, supercede, supoena, occassion, liquify, descicrate, irresistable, battallion, occurance etc. I spelled them all incorrectly so you could not immediately think "What an idiot, that is so obvious." Now you can figure them out yourself.

The course made me realize that I need to be a writer and have someone else copy edit me! But I so did love the love of grammar and am in total agreement that we way overuse the M dash nowadays -- at least I think so.

Leap and the Networking Will Follow.

When you are flush with high school graduation fever and you along with all the other doe-eyed lads and lassies are throwing mortar boards to the wind, you never expect your future to contain attending a seminar entitled: "I Lost My Career. Now What???"

Especially one containing THREE question marks.

That is exactly what Sue and I attended this morning. It was given by international speaker and motivator Jason Alba, Founder and CEO of Jibber Jobber. He is career management expert. And he became one by making himself one. I have to say it was a good presentation and my resistance to his ideas was only out of FEAR and not out of, "That is a lame ass idea, mister."

He thinks one needs to see oneself as a brand. Not a new concept, but a worthy (and sometimes cringe-worthy) one. He thinks one should have a professional blog to support said brand and one should publish in one's field and be an expert. A lot of marketing jargon, but I have to say it was a great morning and filled my head with a lot of thoughts, including "I am an expert at nothing."

And Seinfeld already mined that area.

Afterwards Sue and I decided to post-game at Petite Abeille, a Belgian restaurant in Tribeca. Just in case there were networking possibilities with decision makers from Brussels.

Here was one of the great successes of the morning. Sue deduced that the breakfast sandwich for $4.50 had all the ingredients of the breakfast for $12.50 less the mesclun salad. A huge savings that could be put towards career software or a Jones of New York interview suit.


The Belgians were kind and let us discuss our futures over java refills for what seemed like the time it would take to fly JFK to Antwerp.

When in France - via New York

Had French class tonight. I was way less confused than I was last week, but the batard gave us a pop quiz! What is this, high school? I am here to learn cool stuff, not be ganged up on. Of course I am only defensive because most of it was on the articles: le, la, les, du, de la, un, une, des etc. And I SUCK at the articles. Frankly, I don't care what is masculine and what is feminine. And that is why I am home alone wearing a Snuggie. (une Snuggie?)

I clearly am not giving enough importance to what nouns are penile and what are vaginal, and though I was fascinated by the partitive when we covered it, I am so past that now. I just want to sound cool and get ooh la las from native speakers.

Articles, schmarticles.

I have to admit that my thought is: "if I say un poire instead of une poire those cool French people with the cool friends and dinner parties that I will be at will be so into my witty banter in French about a pear and will not give two figs that I screwed up the gender of the article!"

This is the belief that will keep me from advancing beyond "the pencil is yellow" for the rest of my jours.

I truly want to get good at this language. I really, really do. I podcast stuff, I read Le Monde on-line. I talk to French people on the bus. I am into it. But those pesky articles and verb conjugations.

They will just hold you back from skiing in Charmonix and having coffee around Les Halles.

Why can't they just drop this nonsense so I can speak the language?

Bleecker - Does It Get Any?

There are just those days. But they pass. And when they do, you feel better, but you are still one day older and nearer death.

**********

I went to see this one man show tonight at the Bleecker St. Theatre in NOHO called "Sleepwalk with Me." It is a about the life of a comedian who has a sleeping disorder. Mike Birbiglia. I write his name because he told us he has Google Alert for whenever people like me (or the New York Times) write about him. Hey Mike! Good job!

So far, I have found this Google Alert tool sadly unnecessary.

I see stuff because I am on this quest to figure out what I want to do next. What my PURPOSE now is. I await my LUKE USE THE FORCE moment. I have been hanging out for that one since the film was first released.

I have been feeling good lately, but then I hear Mike is 30 years old, has been on Letterman and has his own off-Broadway show and a girlfriend and maybe cats. His banter turns to wah-wah as I realize I have none of these things. NONE. This show is now all about me. And I am forty something with the SOMETHING now glaringly substantial.

I think, "I don't want to have to do stand up on college campuses at my age. I would hate that."

Hopes to be the comedian I never knew I wanted to be are dashed this very night. Who forgot to tell me to pursue this earlier? Huh?!!

Earlier today I had two coffee meetings which one does when one is out of work and the person they are meeting is out of work.

Or else you meet in their office.

Which is not usually Starbucks.

The first was with a former colleague and it was delightful. The second was delightful too, but with a young guy who works in media ad sales and wears a suit and a wedding ring and no wrinkles. I thought I was all digital media savvy until I spoke with this sport. He was aggressive, knowledgeable and on his way to a job interview. I felt this big. He was super nice, but it didn't stop me from thinking, "Why didn't I go into computers like my mom told me to?!" But I quickly knew that I would never have so then it got me thinking "Why didn't I go into dance/writing/television/advertising copy writing/international whatever when I was the age of two 5th graders?!

I go home to do my French homework. I am taking a class taught by an homme who has his whole vie ahead of him. I look at the assignments (which are due tomorrow) and think "Damn, this is a LOT OF HOMEWORK. And it is HARD. QLF?!

Then I think "How OLD are you?" Don't you want to actually learn to speak this language this time and not just survive it? Quel un jerk je suis.

So I did it. And it was half-assed. What, am I going to be a stand up in Paris?

Jamais at this rate.

Dash it all. I am here now. Broken, exhausted, unilingual and unpublished. How can I compete?

My left eye won't close entirely and I can't even play bagpipes. Not even badly.

***************


I have always loved Bleecker Street ever since I was a kid. I love walkng on it to this very day. I remember this song by Paul Simon from when I was very wee:

Bleecker Street (1963) By Paul Simon Fog's rollin' in off the East River bank Like a shroud it covers Bleecker Street Fills the alleys where men sleep Hides the shepherd from the sheep Voices leaking from a sad cafe Smiling faces try to understand I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand On Bleecker Street The poet reads his crooked rhyme Holy, holy is his sacrament Thirty dollars pays your rent On Bleecker Street I head a church bell softly chime In a melody sustainin' It's a long road to Caanan On Bleecker Street From Wednesday Morning, 3AM (1964) Copyright © E. B. Marks Music Corp. (BMI)

Why didn't I become a modern day troubadour when I had the chance?! Arrggghhhh!