How New York Am I?

Last week was a bad week. Droning on about my own life on the phone outside of a Soho restaurant, my whole world changed. Actually it didn't, which is the primary problem. Jon Bon Jovi walked out of the restaurant I was standing in front of. He (no shit) flipped his jacket collar up and continued down the street ahead of me. And all I thought was "why is his head so big? Could it be that all that voluminous wildcat hair he's famous for having is just excessive amounts of skull?". Here was the front man of the modestly eponymous band "Bon Jovi" (BTW "Slippery When Wet" was my very 1st independent cassette purchase circa 1986, which makes this ALL the more upsetting).

You're probably asking yourself, "What is the issue?". Well, I'll tell ya. I used to get excited about celebrity sightings. I used to feed off of them. Once, in Seattle, I had a chance encounter with Conan O'Brien trying to pass as a "normal" and HELL NO did I let him get away with it. I quietly asked "Conan?"; he nodded a little irritatingly. That was it, but that was enough. I was high as a kite for the rest of the year. Why? Because it was exciting to me. New York City has stripped me of that childlike wonderment and untouchable status of the celebrity. NYC has also stripped my ability to buy peanutbutter or fresh produce from the grocery store, but that is minor in it's effects compared to the death of my unhealthily, obsessive joy.

When I saw the JBJ, I didn't even take the time to interrupt my own conversation to tell the person on the other end of the call. Nor did I remember to tell anyone that I'd seen him for nearly a week! I have now become NUMB to the affects of celebrities. How New York is THAT? Celebrities walk around NYC like regular people. Who do they think they are - regular people? US weekly begs to differ, presenting in every issue "Stars: They're Just Like Us!". See, it IS weird that celebrities cross the street, just like us. Or pump their own gas, just like us. That's why it's news. So why is it that I should NOT be affected by Bon Jovi thinking he can just walk down the street like a "normal"?

Bon Jovi, if you're reading this, we BOTH missed out on the experience of my excitement and for that, I'd like to make it up to you. I will now listen completely non-ironically to "Slippery When Wet" as an homage. Oddly enugh, "Livin' on a Prayer", "You Give Love a Bad Name" and "Never Say Goodbye" are songs that still resonate in my life 24 years later (actually much more so now, than in 1986). Thank you, Jon for your timeless relevancy, and good luck buying hats directly off the shelf.

Herman's Story

Meet Herman. Herman was found in my favorite bakery earlier this October. Wanting "pigeon ew" out of my bakery, I chased him back into the street. That's when I saw that he had a broken wing and foot to match. I felt for the little guy, but again, ew.

I hate birds as much as anyone else. Piegons especially. I also hate watching things suffer and feeling that there's nothing I can do about it. I do, however, love finding things that challenge my ignorance about the two latter, while also finding that humanity won't always let you down.

About a week after I'd first spotted the pigeon (whom I have lovingly named Herman), NYC temperatures dove astonishingly low for the time of year. During a chilled torrential downpour, he was spotted wing-drag limping in front of my work, with apparent difficulty of finding shelter, warmth and food. It pulled my heart-strings and I thought "maybe he'll die tonight and I can stop feeling sorry for him". Because that's what good people think. We all want to be ignorant to resolutions of things we can't change or be bothered with finding a way to change.

I started doing a bit of research online about resources for wild animal rehabilitation. Wanting to find a place for Herman to go before I was the captor of an NYC pidge, I posted on a wild bird forum and found my email inbox almost immediately flooded with resources (and when I say flooded, I mean 5 responses - about 5 more people gave a shit than I thought would). A man named Dan called me almost immediately and gave me the number for a place called "The Wild Bird Fund" (www.wildbirdfund.com). He referred me to a woman named Rita, who after a long-winded "what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-a-pigeon" descriptive message, returned my call almost immediately and said she had time to view him.

I made an appointment for the following Monday and had to find a way to care for him for the next 48 hours. For 48 hours he lived in a Coors Light box in my closet - safe from Tarzan (my kitteh'z) instincts. It was dark, dank and lonely in my closet. I imagined him longingly staring through the door slats, journaling word by word Anne Frank style, hoping this little fucker will win a Pulitzer and I can ride his tail feathers to the top. WEEEE!

I fed him wild bird seed and changed his Coors Light box liner twice a day. The following Monday, Herman and I hopped on the subway for our hour long ride to the Upper West Side, where Rita works at the Animal General. After a short exam, Rita explained to me that Herman was likely only 8-10 weeks old, having not even grown his tail feathers yet (guess I won't be riding them to the top anytime soon). He had probably been hit by a bike, the impact breaking his wing and foot. She told me that his wing had healed itself well, while not completely enough to fly and he may never fly again. Wings need to be reset within 48 hours of a break to ensure full rehabilitation. She then explained that she was actually glad I didn't bring him in earlier, as she would have suggested euthanization due to his age and the expected extreme pain of a rehab. Herman is a tough little guy, healed himself well and has hopes of surviving now. Any earlier rescue attempt might not have given him the chance to prove his survival skills.

After explaining to her that I was not going to be able to foster him during his rehabilitation she offered to house him in the hospital for a few days. She had spoken to Dan the Pigeon Man who had originally referred me to Rita, and he had offered to foster and rehabilitate Herman. If his wing is able to repair itself enough to fly again, Dan will call me to pick him up and take him back to the place that I'd found him (as pigeons form monogomous relationships and stay with their families - Awww). If he wasn't able to regain his ability to fly, Dan offered to sponsor his entry to the Berkshire Conservatory - a home for disabled wild birds in upstate NY. The cost of admissions is $360 and Dan offered to pay the cost in full.

I nearly burst into tears in the vet's office, so overwhelmed with the good and generosity of people and the ability to feel powerful and positive in the face of discouragement. I'll have to remember that when I feel like something cannot be accomplished.

I wouldn't say I'm so pigeon-tickled that I'm one loaf of bread and a grocery cart away from sitting on the steps of a Public Library, letting pigeons shit in my hand, but these organizations are phenomenal and they are changing the world one Herman (scratch that), one Delores at a time.

When God Wants to motivate me, he sends me Adrian Grenier!

I woke up this morning to a beautiful and crisp fall day. Regardless of the environment's perfection, I resisted my morning workout. After an hour long debate with God, my skinny side, my sleepy side AND my inner fat kid, God told me he'd meet me half way and make it worth my while if I just got out of bed and went jogging. Whatevs, my sports bra is already half on.

I ran my usual path down to Fort Greene Park, here in my neighborhood. The entire park is only about a 1/2 mile 'round, yet after a winded loop and stair-run, I reached the top and not "kind of", but "completely" wanted to die. Moderate to consistent smoking habits and a change of season head-cold all working against me. However, all the sweat, wheezing and mismtached running socks in the world could not stop God from coming through on his promise (he's not a liar; it doesn't sit well with him).

A young man with a wild set of curls, who was also working out at the top of the stairs, approached and said "Good workout?". Why yes, ADRIAN GRENIER, I am having a good workout. Feeling like the wimpy guy trying to impress the girl, I had a second wind and ran off for my second (or third, as far as he knows) loop around the park. At the top of my second stair run, Mr. Man was still there (waiting, perhaps? Probably not). I nodded, he nodded and after a brief conversation with myself in my head (Oh God, I hope it was only in my head), I decided to leave the park before him, running off to enhance my mystere'. Delores Grenier - It has a nice ring to it.

P.S. when I told my bodega guy about my sighting, he said he'd never seen "Entourage" because the Bodega doesn't have HBO. Why? Cablevision doesn't issue businesses HBO/Showtime/Cinemax because of porn. We both agreed it would be weird if he was watching porn when I got my morning coffee.

P.P.S. After telling this amazing tale to local friends, it is apparently widely known that Adrian has purchased a home in Brooklyn and is getting a lot of publicity for his eco-friendly ways. Bravo, Greenier.

Feast of the Giglio

While planning another night watching TV and excessively updating my Facebook, I stumbled across this gem: The Feast of Giglio.

1 sausage sandwich, 3 zeppole, 1 zeppole fried oreo, 1 under-spirited dacquiri and a ride on the Gravitron = best night of worst ideas. Thank you great people of the Feast of Havemeyer Street - for this, I love you.

More Information Here: http://newyork.going.com/event-614005%3BFeast_of_the_Giglio

iMPERFECTION pERFECTED

I got a new tattoo. I did. Sometimes I just go from day to day wondering why mediocrity is so prominent in my life; why I haven't ever just perfected something. I've slid by being really good at being bad at things. Relationships, careers, education and cleaning my room have all fell by the wayside to my daydreams, my wonderment of what my life is supposed to be like (as opposed to the creation of said life). That's when it hit me. I am good at something (remember?): Being good at being bad at things. I've embraced it, marked myself with pride that it's totally okay to be me.

And that's why it doesn't bother me when people question the quality of my piece by asking if I tattooed it on myself, or got it in prison; I laugh. Fuck, I did it again. Imperfection perfected. It's perfect.

Subway Art 2

Pegis.

Subway Art.

Subway art is my new favorite kind of art. From demonic transformations of Nicole Kidman, to seeing a poster of Haley Joel Osment with a senor mustache and the eloquent words of "Shit Bag" written across his cheeks, this art always amuses me.

I'm SO lucky

I arrived at Union Station today to be greeted by several people in their underpants. The first was a man taking his pants off on a subway bench. The next, a grown man wearing spidey underoos and a tie (thank you for all the classy). Then 40+ people exiting the F train in their underpants, warm jackets and sensible shoes. Let's not be foolish, disrobed panty partiers, it was snowing outside.

This. Made. My. Day.


Full article here: http://www.blufftontoday.com/node/26407