A City, Largely Civil

People say that New York is a rude city. A recent survey of major metropolitan areas, however, indicated that New York is among the most polite cities. It's without a clear answer--this question of rudeness in NYC--but I have to try to define New York's manners once and for me.

The other day, I said 'bless you' to a chubby guy on the train after he sneezed. He didn't say thank you. He sniffed, though, which may be the hard-hearted New Yorker's show of appreciation. Or perhaps he was being uppity.... maybe it was a haughty sniff. Or maybe he's a coke fiend. In any event, I thought the lack of response was poor form.

There's a guy that sits on a stoop outside of my apt. building on some days, the apt. building next to me on others. He looks to me like a pre-stapled John Popper. He's always wearing a sharp shiny suit, a fancy fedora with a multi-colored feather--a kool kat throwback to the days of doo-wop. He's big and also very heavy. When I walk by him, I often nod, and try to smile, but his big-ness and jazzy-ness make me tentative. I feel like if I said hi, he might respond with a raspy "beebopskeedididlydoo” and suppress the ensuing cough with a white monogrammed jazz hanky he keeps in his breast pocket.

Several months ago, I saw an exchange between two city-dwellers on a sidewalk. One was a man, the other a woman. The discourse between them was heated, and involved two kittens. The man was leading the kittens around on leashes, which was not something the kittens were used to: they were walking erratically, their paws splaying wildly, puzzled by the invisible force that kept pulling them back to the straight and narrow. A woman stopped, and began to scream at the man: “Why are you doing that?” she said. “Because I can,” he countered. “You make me sick,” she said. The man (in so many words) grumbled that the woman should go somewhere and love herself, and continued his odd feline Iditarod though the Upper East Side.

A woman on the street in Brooklyn last week asked me to pick her motorcycle up off of the pavement. Actually, I don't think it was hers, because she didn't look like the hog-riding type – she was probably in her late fifties, squat with a spasmodic, dusty-blonde hair and an Eastern European accent. “Eckkss-cooz me, can you help me leeeft at motorcycle?” she said to me, pointing at it – as if she meant to direct my attention to the appropriate supine vehicle amongst all the phantom impostors. Naturally, I obliged. With my business casual-appropriate leather shoes and a hearty grunt I lifted it upright, and found myself standing in a pool of gasoline. I thought as I crossed the street that I may have just been an accessory to some sort of grand theft--at the hands of a Baltic Bonnie, whose Clyde may have been off enjoying his AARP discount at IHOP.

It occurs to me that there is no clear answer to whether New Yorkers are rude. Sometimes, clearly, they are rude. Other times people assume they will be rude, or are intimidated by them, perpetuating a prophecy self-fulfilled. Sometimes it’s righteous indignation, or just plain New York eccentriCity. About the only thing that seems clear is that there are a number of dangerously overweight people in Manhattan, and that kittens don’t like to be leashed.

Shortly after my experience with the motorcycle, I sat back down in my cubicle at work. Almost immediately, a sharp smell arose in the space, which I recognized immediately as petroleum. My shoes still held the odor from my brief Samaritan cameo in the streets of Brooklyn. As familiar as the smell was, it held a new meaning for me – I had the smell of kindness on my shoes, my small contribution to fueling the engine of urban amity.

Cranial Toga

My brain is not built for efficiency, and I've been dealing with that for a long time. While sitting at my desk at work, for example, I might start to write an email to someone. About one sentence into that email--and in the middle of a word--I will immediately be struck by the idea that I need to call someone. I pick up the phone, punch a few numbers, and then put the phone down again, remembering that the person is out of town. I get back to my email --what was I writing again?--and stop dead when I realize that I have to pick up my dry cleaning. I can't pick up my dry cleaning at that moment, mind you, so the thought is misplaced--but it stops my mental momentum nonetheless. My mind, in some ways, is like a kid in a candy store -- wanting every piece all at once, and often getting none.

The book I read recently -- the one I referred to in the previous post 'In the Eyes of Another' -- attempted to break down the processes and chemicals in the brain, in order that the reader might better understand them. In reading that book, I learned about brain waves. Three, in particular: Alpha, Beta and Theta (Delta is basically just deep sleep). Once I was able to wipe the giggling-sorority-pillow-fight daydream that attended those three Greek letters from my head, I got to wondering if mastery of these waves might be a worthy use of my time. I decided it was worth a try.

Alpha waves represent relaxation/reflecting. Beta ones represent full engagement and alertness. Theta is a daydream state; I may have been in this state while I was tickling the girls in the aforementioned sorority house. In assessing this phrenic trinity, it was clear almost immediately that each has its own purpose, and if I did things right, I could control my mental amplitude and frequency to suit my needs.

This is easier said than done.

Beta would be my ideal work mode. So, I would be at my desk, and I would try to speed up the frequency of my brain waves, but lower their amplitude. In the midst of it, I would realize that I have no idea how to do this. I would just stare straight ahead, and think of bullet trains and other fast things. But I knew this was not really the answer. And then Theta came along.

Theta was clearly the bully in my brain. He runs the show. As I was trying to bring myself to a Beta state, Theta would come crashing in, the drunk frat guy trampling my concentration.

theta-theta-bo-BETA-banana-fanna-fo-meta-me-my-mo-meta------THETA! this is the gibberish that runs through my head. And before long, I'm staring blankly at my tape dispenser and wondering what makes tape stick.

I didn't want to give up that easy, so I attempted to center myself in Alpha. I would take a deep breath, and try to clear my mind. Theta would break down the door of my rumination, and belch. Suddenly came the tune from ‘Rock Me Amadeus’:

I’m a theta, I’m a theta, I’m a theta, I’m a theta…….—Rock me I’m a Theta!!

I was trying to master all three, and Theta was making it impossible to manage any of them. Theta was the one that made me think of dry cleaning when I should be writing emails. Theta was the one hijacking my attentions. To use an Animal House analogy, Theta was the Bluto of my brain.

So, I let it all go. I let Alpha, Beta and Theta go and party together in my brain; do their own thing--an 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em' capitulation. Hopefully, they will someday find a way to work together and find the middle ground that works for all of them. Until then, I'll have to hear their distant, resonant chants of 'Toga! Toga! Toga!' while I try to figure out what makes tape stick.

That Nice Killer Who Answered My Phone

Even at age 32, my mother worries about me.

A couple of months ago, she tried to call me from her cell phone, but apparently did not have my new number in her phone. She had my old number in my phone: one with a Pittsburgh area code. I had changed my number to a New York one about three months earlier. She dialed, oblivious, and:

"Hello?" a man answered.

This is not my son, she thought. This is another man. She panicked, but regained her composure.

"Hello? Is this Phil's phone?"

"No, this is my phone."

It's your phone because you have killed my son and unceremoniously discarded his carcass! I will hunt you down, you bastard! thought my mother, as she stalled for time.

"Huh." Where is my son?? "I am trying to get in touch with him, and this is the number I have." Why have you killed him?? I will kill your babies!!

"Well, this is my phone. I'm not sure what to tell you."

A lover of Court TV, my mother's mind swiftly moved to clues: Did this man have an accent? Yes! Yes! He had an accent -- an Hispanic accent, of some sort! That's it! This man was Hispanic! That's a lead in the hunt for my baby's killer!

"I did just get the number, though... just a few days ago. Maybe it used to be his number. Are you sure you have the right number?"

Knowing herself, my mother couldn't be sure. She asked what number it was, and realized at once her error. I was, most likely, alive. She and the Hispanic man got to talking and after a few minutes of pleasantries (my mother can make a friend of anyone), she hung up.

She called me later, and relayed what had happened. I asked her what the rest of the conversation was like, after she'd realized that I was not dead at the hands of a man who had answered his prey's cellular telephone.

"It was nice," she said. "I just kept thinking to myself 'This is such a nice Hispanic man that didn't kill you.'"

So, my mother frets on, always thinking of me in the Big City. She sees me surrounded by big buildings and honking horns and millions upon millions of people of various nationalities, languages and accents who -- on a blessed, daily basis -- don't kill me.

Reflections

Okay, I wrote this yesterday, but blogger was down. So here, a day late, is my b-day post.

Today is my birthday. I have been told by many people that birthdays are a time of reflection. As such, I will reflect now, here on my blog.

Thirty-two. That's how old I am. I looked into it -- Albert Einstein was a Professor of Theoretical Physics in Prague when he was 32. He become a Professor of Theoretical Physics only after he was named Professor Extraordinary in Zurich when he was thirty. So, he was well on his way to becoming the most important mind in modern science by the time he was my age. (Please note: I would like to lay claim, for the record, to the name Professor Extraordinary as nom de plume in any future writing, theatrical or professional wrestling careers).

Jerry Rice, widely regarded as the greatest receiver in NFL history, had already cemented his place in football lore when he was 32. He had 112 receptions that year, and ended up catching 10 passes for 149 yards and 3 touchdowns in the Super Bowl, which his team won.

Jesus, I think, had made wine from water, turned a small picnic lunch into a fish-and-bread banquet for the masses, and had actually walked across water by the time he was 32. He told a dead guy to get up and do something, and that dead guy did it. Jesus. Now that’s a 32-year old with chutzpah.

So, of course, as I think about myself at age 32--as I reflect--I think about where I am on my timeline. And about whether I could've caught 112 balls from a dead guy I told to throw passes to me. I wonder if I could find my own Special Theory of Relativity; or at least theorize that I am relatively special.

I went to Bay to Breakers a few weeks back. For those that don't know about it -- it's basically a big 70,000 person party that moves. I dressed up in a mullet wig and a suit, got gloriously drunk, and walked across San Francisco. I had an absolute blast--a soon-to-be 32 year old, having a GREAT time with friends, and looking around at tens of thousands of people all doing the same thing. It was far from the Nobel Prize, the Super Bowl or the Sea of Galilee, but MAN....that was a great day.

So I reflect, and realize that I am working hard on my own timeline; on making my own way and having fun when I can. I bet Einstein never walked 7 miles and did a keg stand in a mullet wig, after all. Although he did have that sweet ‘fro.

And then I get to reflecting on the most important reflection to me. The one that'll hopefully be looking back at me in a mirror many years from now, all gray and wrinkly and uncommonly wealthy, thinking about me when I was 32. And as that reflection reflects, I hope he laughs out loud—a deep, bounding belly laugh--thinking of all the great days before and after today. I hope that reflection, all those days away from today, is wearing a ridiculous-looking wig.

But it's today -- and today's my birthday. It's a pretty great day, too… no wig required.

The Beelzebubbies will remind you

My temp job right now is at a big and boring corporation, and is not one that I want for the long-term. I am okay with (and thankful for) it for now, because it allows me to live in the city and I know it's temporary. I have been asked by people here if I would like to stay on at the company. And even though there is a comfort in the familiar, there hasn't been a moment where I have seriously considered it. I have a better idea now of what I'm looking for in a career, and this isn't it. I consider this a paid patience internship.

But it's nice to get those reminders of why I'm not going to keep this job, if only for entertainment value. The ones that drive the point home with the subtlety of a jackhammer.

Picture something, if you will: It's a drawing. A bright, colorful but simple drawing of rolling green hills, blue skies, flowers and a larger-than-life sun with visible, symmetrical rays--just like you used to draw in the second grade for Sister Mary-Prozac. There are children in the drawing. Not children exactly--more like the big-eyed spawn of Teletubby-Satan tryst. These children are climbing a ladder to the sun, and are flipping a light switch, which ostensibly controls the sun. In the field below them, amongst the myriad flowers, is a rainbow leading to a pot of gold.

What I have just described might sound like an elementary school art project. It might sound like the winner of the 2nd Grade "Where Does Happiness Live?" Drawing Contest sponsored by your local Fire Hall. Or it just might sound like the drawing that a child might do for their Mommy, to show Mommy how talented they are and how much they love Mommy.

But it's none of these things. It's actually the first thing I see when I get to work in the morning.

It's a poster reminding employees to "Go Out of Your Way!". The pot of gold says "Employee Recognition". Inside the rainbow, the word "Advocacy" is repeated over and over again. And inside the sun? "Add some sunshine to YOUR customer's day!" At the bottom, it says "This Advocacy Message Brought to you by Operations".

So, if I am reading this code correctly, Operations is telling me that if I advocate it will lead to employee recognition, thus allowing me to go out of my way, resulting in sunshine for my customer. Of course, this could also just be the drawing of an unraveling schizoid, prophesying the imminent arrival of an army of Beelzebubbies that will blot out the Earth's sun, killing everything good in the world (including my customer).

Nah, I don't really need a reminder. But I love things that make me laugh.