Seven is the Loneliest Number

I went to Chicago this past weekend to visit my brother.  On night #1 he graciously took me to a gay club to play wingman and get me laid.  Also he bought me about 10 dirty martinis.  I saw a cute guy and decided to approach him.  A few years ago I might not have been so bold with a stranger.  But I’m older and I have something I never used to have: confidence.  So… I took one last sip of confidence, placed the empty cup on the counter, and walked up to the cute guy.  Unfortunately, however, someone else had spilled their confidence on the floor in front of the cute guy.  I hit the puddle, flew 10 feet in the air and landed on the dirty floor.

But I got up.  And I laughed it off and I asked him to dance.  He looked me up and down, said “No.”  As he walked away he elegantly circumvented the puddle of vodka tonic I had just gone swimming in.  I went back to my brother, who had seen and who eyed me with pity, and I laughed about what had happened as if it were no big thing.  After all, put yourself out there a lot and you might get rejected sometimes.  And no use crying over spilled self, right?  It’s nothing, I repeated to myself, to lose my head over.

The very next day my brother  introduced me to a deliriously handsome gay guy in his building.  I appreciated the gesture.  I said “Hi” and shook his hand and that was the end of it.

Later on I asked my brother if he was serious about introducing me to that dude.

“What?”  Zack asked.  “You don’t think he’s cute?”

“Man oh man,” I said.  “He’s a 10.  Too cute.”

Now, I’m cute and I’ve always been partial to thinking, re: myself, that there’s just something about me.  I think I’m great!  But come onnnnn.  A 10?  What was my brother thinking?  Was he so heterosexual that he couldn’t properly apply the 10-point system to men?  Or was he aware that this guy was a 10 and just couldn’t rate me because I’m family.

Later on I got to thinking about the 10 Point Hotness Scale.  This guy my brother introduced me to stuck in my mind.  Not in any sexual way, of course.  The overwhelmingly beautiful are about as sexy as the overwhelmingly ugly.  But what must it be like to be a 10?  To have that too-many-teeth smile.  To be hot enough to get anyone.

Most people I know would call themselves 7′s, only because it’s the sole respectable rating one can give oneself.  Anything higher would be laughably egotistical and anything lower would seem like a plea for a compliment.

Upon further examination I came to the conclusion that there is really no such thing as a 1, 2, 3, or 4.  Anyone that ugly is probably deformed and thus exempted from cruel sexual objectification.  I’ve never called anyone a 5 either.  5′s are so plain that one just doesn’t think of them numerically.  Thus, most people that come under the scrutiny of the 10 point system are likely 6s, 7s, or 8s, numbers which represent the varying shades of the average, nice look of a human being.

And what is a 9, I couldn’t help but wonder?  Is a 9 just a 10 with an unsightly mole or birthmark?  Is a 10 always one glaring flaw away from being demoted to 9?  And yes, it is a demotion.  All numbers from 1 to 9 are evenly spaced.  The distance between 9 and 10, however, is much more vast.  It is, to some effect, unmeasurable.

Because the number 10 represents not hotness, not sexiness, not prettiness, and not cuteness.  It represents perfection.  That’s why it would only take one flaw to knock a 10 down to a 9.  A 7 can probably have a bad breakout one month without losing a point.  It’s far less delicate.

I went over to a friend’s place where we smoked 10 joints and watched 10 episodes of SATC and ate about 10 frozen waffles.  I left feeling great and returned to my brother’s apartment.  As I approached, though, I saw someone out front.  It was him.  The 10.  He was outside the building smoking a cigarette.  And then he went inside.

So very beautiful.  So very 10.  All of a sudden I felt like a 4 and I realized it.  1-9 are meaningless ratings.  The only one that counts is 10.  Perfection.  Too many teeth.  Every other rating is just relative.  Relative to how close we might be standing to a 10, or how much we might foolishly let the idea of perfection get under our skin.

I thought back to Thursday night and winced.  I had tried to laugh off the fact that I fell down in public and that I was rejected, but I could no longer do so.  I faced the fact that while it was funny in a Charlie Chaplain kind of way, it wasn’t funny.  It kind of sucked.  It kind of hurt, both my ass and my feelings.  I smoked one last cigarette and put away the embarassing memory and decided that I was done with the rating system.

I took the elevator up to my brother’s apartment, located on Floor 11.  As I fell asleep I took comfort in the fact that I was above it all.

Are We Getting Boring?

When I was very little my life revolved around fantasy novels.  Alice in Wonderland.  The Chronicles of Narnia.  And most special to me of all, The Wizard of Oz.  These books were important to me, and I think that in some way they still are a part of who I am.  And I mean that in a more profound sense than the simple fact that I did, in the end, turn out to be a friend of Dorothy.

In these books characters are able to escape the world of the ordinary by means of the ordinary.  A rabbit hole, a dresser or a storm is the gateway to a new world and a new quest.  Most importantly of all, the young character was the one, selected from among every other child in the world, to have this unique and magical experience.

When I was older my fantasies changed.  Though they were still outlandish, they had at least entered the realm of the possible.  I read Kerouac and Hemmingway.  I dreamed of someday escaping the mainstream.  Bumming around the country.  Socializing with other starving artists and writing poetry of scraps of tree bark.

Today the word fantasy conjures a different set of images.  More specifically, the kind of images that one deletes from their computer history seconds after viewing.  My non-latenight computer fantasies are even duller.  I want a cat.  I want a nice apartment.  I want respectable clothing and a steady job and a nice relationship.  Somewhere along the line I stopped wanting to have an adventure that would separate me from the rest of the flock.  Somewhere along the line I simply started wanting what everyone wants and what everyone is supposed to want.  A nice, ordinary life.  A comfortable life.  Stability and security.  Some money in my pocket and some more in the bank.  Maybe a briefcase.  Maybe some adopted Asian babies with nice Jewish names.

The transition into non-magical thinking has been seamless.  With graduation came new and unfamiliar concerns about money and housing and logistics.  With new concerns came new dreams.  With new dreams comes a new sense of self.  I hardly realized it as it happened but every so often when I find myself starry eyed over the fantasy of returning home from my nice job to my nice apartment to my nice boyfriend (in the fantasy he doesn’t even get a face.  I don’t have crushes on specific people anymore.  Just hypothetical boyfriend-prototypes) I have to wake myself up, wonder why I don’t dream of living an ex-patriot writer’s life in Paris anymore, and ask myself the dreadful question, have I become boring?

In high school, the thought of being ordinary is the worst thought of all.  Life in high school is pretty boring, after all, and most of us wouldn’t be able to make it through were it not for dreams of future glamour and grandeur.

When I open my closet, I hope to be able to find an outfit that makes me look cute in an understated way.  I don’t want to look fashionable or original with my clothing.  I just want to look nice.  And I certainly don’t hope to find a gateway to a snowy alternate universe hiding behind my cardigans.

But then I remember that despite it all, I’m somehow happy this way.  And I can’t feel bad about being happy.  From an aerial view I might just be another dot marching among the hordes of New York City commuters to my 9-5 job, but from down here things look good and feel good.  Most of the time.

And maybe, just maybe, the message of all those fantasy novels was reverse of what it seemed.  Maybe L. Frank Baum and Lewis Carroll weren’t trying to tell us that the ordinary needs to be escaped, but that the very things that are transcendent and special in this life are to be found in what we otherwise might view as our humdrum, boring, conventional lives.  Every closet a portal to another world, every rabbit hole an opportunity for adventure, and every person capable of being the unique and special hero of his or her own conventional and ordinary life.

And in the meantime, I still have some work to do.  A faceless boyfriend to put a face to, a cat to buy, apartments to hunt for, and jobs to apply to.  And honey, that is more than enough quest for now.

 

Valentine’s Day Post

Seeing as tomorrow is Valentine’s day, this blogger would like to write a post to express my gratitude and affection for the love of my life.  He needs to hear this, because he is having a rough time these days.  And though we have an on again/off again Ross & Rachel kinda thing going, and though most people agree that this tall, thin, brooding love of mine is bad for me, he needs to know that I love him.  Deeply.  Come what may.

His name is Cigarette.

It’s a family name.

In less than ninety days, a new bill will go into action banning NYC smokers from canoodling with their smokey lovers in public spaces such as parks and on bridges.  While a cigarette-filled walk over the Brooklyn Bridge is a delightful New York Experience, I don’t much care about the bridge aspect of this bill.  It’s the parks.

Most of the smokers that I know plan on quitting someday.  I sure do.  And most of us don’t necessarily feel proud of being smokers.  Because so few people treasure their smoking as an essential and permanent part of their identities, there is a lack of a voice for smokers.  After all, when choosing a cause to fight for, why would I pick smoking?  It’s a deadly and disgusting habit, when you get right down to it.  I don’t really feel like fighting for it.

But this is America.  And this is New York City.  What I do feel like fighting for is freedom.  The decision to ban smoking in parks is, well, groundless.  Yes, second hand smoke can kill.  But it’s outside.  There is no lack of places to sit where people are not smoking.  Don’t like the smoke?  Move two steps away from it.

Lot’s of things are lowering life expectancy in New York City.  It’s hard to imagine that the smog from over ten million cars in NYC (and that is a low-end figure) is good for people.  Yet we’re allowed to drive.  We spend our days in dank subway tunnels.  We live and walk in crowded, dirty streets.  The city is filthy.  The germs are ubiquitous.  And New Yorkers are fine with this.

But not smoking.  Because smoking has become a moral issue.  People look at smokers and they are bothered.  Not from fear of second hand smoke.  But honestly, from a sense of “I know what’s best for you more than you do.”

Smoking taxes rise.  Smoking bans are passed.  The already poor of New York empty their pockets for their daily smokes, the NYC budget is fattened off the tax money, and smokers are made to feel like second-class citizens for making a choice that others deem unwise.

Banning smoking in restaurants and bars was about second hand smoke.  Banning smoking in parks is about shaming people for their life choices, and about creating a government that is free to enforce moral imperatives that are not based on the protection of rights, but on the opinions of arrogant activists.

I’ll never raise my voice to defend cigarettes.  Nor will I raise my voice to support Big Macs, or the sale of lottery tickets which rob the poor based on impossible promises, or to defend people who make out on subway cars and make that annoying smacking noise when you have nowhere to run, or to congratulate the ignorant masses of the world who make decisions that ultimately don’t help themselves or anyone else.  But I’m not going to lobby the government to issue bans on things that don’t affect me but come into conflict with how I, personally, live my life.

Because I’m not a prick.  And I’ve got better shit to do.  Hear that, Rob Reiner?

 

Snooze and the City: On Wake Up Calls, Exes, And Getting Up to Smell the Coffee

Tired of spending upwards of eleven dollars a day on designer vegan sandwiches, and knowing that I have trouble motivating myself in the post-work hours to shop for any kind of food that isn’t stuffed with pimento and surrounded by booze, I made the decision to wake up very early in the morning and do my grocery shopping before heading to work.

I should have known better.  Experience has told me that I can only really get out of bed when I absolutely have to.  If I can put it off, I most certainly will.  Snoozing is just way too easy, and my half-asleep self is very unconcerned with the chores my nighttime self comes up with.

Needless to say, I spent my lunch hour buying a thirteen dollar meal and then, after work, supped on a cocktail olive with a vodka/vermouth marinade.

My roommate and I, with whom I drank my early-eveningcap, got to talking and smoking and talking and drinking.  In the course of four drinks and 12 cigarettes on any given weeknight we can cover any amount of topics ranging from religion to race relations to boys we love to girls we hate and more.  But one subject that always manages to come up is the subject of exes.

I’ve never been in any very long-term relationships, but I’ve been in serious relationships and I’ve been in relationships that were very meaningful for me.  Still, not long term.  And one wonders what the use is of having a boyfriend for a mere six months if he has to linger as a torturous and painful memory for much longer than that.  And all exes bring up bad feelings.  Even the good ones.  Because if you don’t resent them, you miss them, or you miss and resent them at the same time.

Charlotte York, Sex and the City’s patron “Rules Girl”, says that you get half the total time of a relationship to mourn it.  But what if it takes longer to move on?  Are we then obsessive?  Stunted?  Delusional?  Believe me, in the wake of a great love and an even greater heartbreak, I have asked myself these questions and called myself these names.

Are we supposed to rush into recovery, or is it ok to hit the emotional snooze button?  We all have to wake up eventually, of course.  And the ten – fifteen minutes of sleep one achieves in “snoozing” is neither restful REM sleep nor is it productive morning activity.  Likewise, there comes a time in the course of any break up where we are no longer mourning, and yet also not quite moving on.  The half-sleep feels good enough.  And procrastination is an unparalleled delight.

At the end of the day, or rather, at the beginning of the day, it’s never my alarm that gets me out of bed.  The alarm can be silenced, snoozed, or thrown out the window.  But something always happens, something from within, to truly rouse me from bed.  Sometimes a cigarette craving.  Sometimes the image of a cappuccino from Variety will float above my head.  Sometimes I need to pee.  Other times I just close my eyes to continue sleeping and then realize that sleep has nothing left to give me.  That it’s time to wake up.  Time for something new.

Similarly, what get’s us over someone isn’t a buzzing alarm, isn’t an annoyed and bored therapist or friend or anything like that.  It’s wanting to feel like yourself again.  Wanting to meet new people again.

Rules like Charlotte’s “half the total time…” can give us comfort, and alarm clocks have their place in this world as well.  But when it comes to getting out of bed, or getting out of a funk, or getting over a hunk… it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.

After all, the greatest wake up calls are those you can’t ignore.  The ones that come from within.  And as for the snooze button… I don’t think five more minutes ever ruined anyone’s life.

 

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Spirituality is for Single People

Yesterday I made an impulse purchase.  A deck of Tarot Cards.  Today I’m at work.  It’s 11:20 AM and at 3:00 PM I will be having a one on one meeting with my boss to find out if, like half of my team, I will be laid off.  You can see why I felt the need for the Tarot Cards.  For a little bit of guidance from the spirits.

I’ve always enjoyed the occult.  I was a practicioner of Wicca, neo-pagan feminist magic, when I was in fifth grade.  Since then I have probably seen a psychic at least once a year.  Do I believe in these things?  Yes and no.  But at certain moments in my life I find that I am at least willing to suspend my disbelief.

Of course therapy is an option for guidance.  But in therapy you have to talk.  And with a psychic you have to listen.  And with a therapist you have to pour over the past, the little incidents and traumas and successes that have somehow conspired to make you who you are today.  With a psychic you get a sense that you are not an accidental conglomeration of incidents, traumas, and successes.  Of neurons and fixations.  But rather a person on a mission.  Guided by spirits.  Safe.  Protected by the ~cosmos~.

I asked a friend of mine, whose mother is an amateur Tarot reader, how often she asks her mom for readings. “Well,” she said.  “Once every couple of months.  Every week when I was single.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “Spirituality is for single people.”

By which I mean new age spirituality is for single people.  And unemployed people.  And anyone who is desperately uncertain and curious about the future.  It is a comfort to think that one can lift the veil and see inside one’s own karma and destiny.  It can be genuinely helpful too, I think.  But after my roommate Clare read my cards last night, I found that I felt the same way as before.  Frightened that I will lose my job.  Frightened that the other jobs I’ve interviewed for in the last weeks will want nothing to do with me.  Frightened that my fate, no matter what any horoscope or Tarot card says, will not show up on time.

Because no matter what the cosmos has in store for me, I doubt I’ll gain access to it through any New York City medium or deck of novelty cards.  And if I lose my job today, the only Cosmos that will bring this blogger any solace will be the ones you can get at a bar.

But if my bartender happens to not only be a mixologist but an astrologist as well, I’ll listen to what she has to say.  The platitudes of a psychic, that all things happen for a reason, that even being born into this world  happens for a Cosmic purpose (rather than just assuming that our parents drank one too many Cosmos one night) is a nice thing to think every once and a while.  And if you can suspend your disbelief for even a second and trust that the person offering the vague, comforting spiritual prognosis for 25 bucks a reading is actually the real deal… I suggest you do so.

After all, in this economy, in this city, in this world… reading the newspaper can be a bit… grim.  We’re lucky that the Newspapers at least throws us 30 words a day, right after the crossword puzzle, to assure us that there is a reason… and that everything will work out according to some perfect astral design.

Bright, Shiny and New (York)

They say that New York would be a great city if they ever finished it, and it’s true.  The city probably wouldn’t feel the same without the scaffolding, the constant repairs, and the never changing sense of change.  The must have named it New York for a reason, after all.  New Yorkers, it seems, are obsessed with New.

One thing I’ve noticed about New York Culture (not so foreign to me, a native New Englander) is the love of talking about the weather.  Praising it, complaining about it, going on and on about it.  It doesn’t matter if it rains, snows, or if the sun is shining.  What matters is that the weather is never the same, for long.  It’s always new.

Sitting on my new sheets in my apartment the other day, I started using my semi-new iPhone (whose novelty grows less by the day) to find a new job and a new apartment.  I texted my friend to go and get a Dirty Martini, my new favorite drink, but he was busy going to see a new apartment.  He then mentioned that he had started reading the Bible, an undoubtedly old book.

What made you do that?  I asked.

Well, he explained, It was free for his new Kindl.

All around me I began to notice the perpetual pursuit of the New.  And I couldn’t help but wonder… are we ambitious or are we restless?  Are we getting what we deserve, or are we novelty junkies?  What is it about New York that makes us want New, New, New, New…

Perhaps it’s a side effect of the winter.  Long and harsh as it is, city dwellers are no longer free to revel in the simple joys of a walk through the park with a good friend and a cup of ice coffee from a cart.  Perhaps the warm breezes of Spring will draw us into the streets from the Apple Stores and we’ll be able to enjoy Same York as it is for a moment.

Perhaps in a city where everything changes so quickly we just subconsciously acclimate to the pace.  I know I’ve started walking faster, more angrily, as if I actually have somewhere important to go.  But in all this reckless and speedy pursuit of the New is a desire for the Old.  We may run through jobs and apartments but that’s only because we want to find our careers and our homes.

And once we have all that, well, it won’t matter how much things change around us.  We’ll have an enclave away from change.  The only question is… will that day ever come?  Or is the pursuit of the New a lifelong endeavor until we’re old and hit that most daunting and New rite of passage… Death.

Perhaps, perhaps.  But then again… maybe it’s not such a bad thing.  So I want new things… so I want a new job… so I want a new apartment.  Those are just things after all.  Material, which can be so immaterial when it comes down to it.  There’s still nothing better than sipping your new favorite drink at your new favorite bar with some of your oldest friends.  And that kind of novelty never wears off…

Oh man do I watch too much SATC.  But hey!  That’s one more thing I don’t constantly need updated!

On Disagreement, Homophobia, and Name Calling

When I wrote my last post, which was in defense of a certain Navy Captain who made certain homophobic comments, I recieved a certain comment.  Now, I always appreciate comments especially from my readers who are people that I don’t know personally. But I love a good debate and I have a response to this comment. And my response will be the subject of this post. If, as a result of this, my reader feels alienated. I apologize. But I encourage you to comment again.

The comment: You make some very good points. But why if someone doesn’t agree with homosexuality are they considered to be scared of it? That’s name calling just as
well. People do have a right to disagree and should not have to be called names for doing so. Now I wasn’t aware that I said in my post that people who “disagree” with homosexuality are scared of it. Of course, I did use the word ”Homophobia.” Homophobia, as a word, is different from the other words it is often grouped with. We have “Racism, Sexism, Anti-Semitism” etc and then “Homophobia” which is a phobia and not an ism.
These words should all be phobias. Hatred of another race or another sex is generally generated from fear. Think of arachnophobia. The fear, not the terrible movie. When someone says, “I hate spiders,” they mean to say that they fear them. And when someone fears homosexuals or women or black people it is not the same “fear” that we feel about the Blair Witch. It is the fear that who we are and how we live is being threatened or called into question by someone else being who they are. Not all people who abhor the homosexual lifestyle are homophobic. Having known many religious Jews, I
know that some people are simply against the practice of
homosexuality because it conflicts with their religious
worldview. Personally, these people have been my
friends. They don’t accept my lifestyle ideologically but
they are not threatened or fearful of it either. Now, let’s look at
the word “disagree”. My reader mentioned that someone might
“disagree” with homosexuality. This is a lingual
impossibility. “Disagreement” and “Agreement” are both
responses to opinions. When we say, “I disagree with you,” we
mean to say “I disagree with your point.” We cannot disagree or
agree with facts or things. Homosexuality is a fact.
People are homosexuals and have homosexual sex. This exists
and cannot be touched by agreement or disagreement. Only by
approval and opposition. What can be agreed with and disagreed with
are attitudes and opinions regarding homosexuality. These
things are in the realm of opinion. The assertions that
homosexuality is morally wrong, morally fine, inherent from birth,
or a conscious choice… these can all be agreed or disagreed
with. But one cannot simply disagree with homosexuality.
There was an ad for Prop 8 in which two parents were concerned for
the wellbeing of their child who had brought home a book from
school called “King & King”. A gay fairy tale.
After discussing how inappropriate it was, they mourned that they
would be called homophobic. They thought that was unfair, and
that it was the sort of bullying that these homosexuals were
supposedly against.
Similarly,
according the quoted comment, it is name
calling to say that someone who “disagrees with
homosexuality” (which we can take to mean that they do not approve
of it) is homophobic. I have to disagree with this statement.
There is a wide gap between name giving and name calling.
Name giving was the first responsibility of Adam in Eden. It
is our job as human beings to find the proper names for
things. Names that are not slanderous or inappropriate but
accurately communicate meaning. Homophobia might be the wrong name
in a few senses. It might not be fear, because it is
hatred. It might not be hatred, because it is fear. It
might not be ignorance because it is willful blindness and it might
not be willful blindness because it is ignorance. But to not
approve of homosexuality, to think that it is wrong, to “disagree”
with it is what we talk about when we talk about
“homophobia.” This is not an act of name calling but of name
giving. We who actually are homosexuals don’t always have it so
easy. We don’t feel comfortable doing very basic
things. Bringing partners home to our families. Holding
hands while walking down the street. If we are fortunate to
find someone, who knows if we will be able to have a family, or to
even enter into a legal partnership (call it what you will) that
protects us. These are called equal rights. And I don’t want to
protect the feelings of those who don’t want to help me have the
same rights that they have. I don’t think I should have to
refrain from name-using because it may be called
name-calling. A racist doesn’t have the right to not be
called a racist. A homophobe does not have the right to not be
called a homophobe. But while society has decided that racism is wrong
(for the most part this is the accepted, if not practiced, view) we
still discuss homophobia as if it were a matter or taste and
opinion. Some people like coffee and others tea. Some
like gays and others don’t. It’s not a matter of taste. It’s
a matter of rights, and as the last few months have shown, it is
also often a matter of life and death. And I can’t imagine why any
single person would try to deprive any other person from equal
rights, with a vote, with a petition signed, or with the failure to
speak out on behalf of equal rights, without it being from fear,
hatred, or ignorance. If there is a way to love gay people and not
fear or hate us and yet still oppose our lifestyle legally…
please let me know. Sorry if I’m getting carried away. But
that’s just the way it is. One more quote… from George
Eliot…. “What do we live for, if it is not to make
life less difficult to each other?”