A Momentary Half-Knotted Hero

Yesterday, I went to a job interview at the Empire State Building. I've been going on job interviews since I arrived in New York, but it's great to go to one in such an iconic building. When I arrived, the building was encased in fog, adding mystery to the already heavy stature of an edificial legend. Built in 1931, that building has seen the Depression, world wars and the rage of giant simian romantics. I haven't seen any of those things (without the help of Peter Jackson).

Since I was going to an interview later that day, I rolled a tie up and put it in my bag that morning. I didn't want to wear it to work, lest I reveal my obvious search for another job, and I didn't have time to go home and change into a suit. So, when I arrived at the ESB, I needed to find a place to put on my tie.

There was an alcove full of pay phones in the lobby. What better place to make my transformation from disenchanted cube-jockey to self-starting and vigilant job candidate? I ducked into the alcove and got to making the necessary knot. I felt like Superman, in reverse. The tie was red, even.

As I was completing my transformation, I heard a voice behind me.

"Can you help?" said the meek, heavily-accented young man in glasses.

Sometimes people need heroes in half-knotted ties.

"Yes. I will help." I answered dutifully, admiring the crap out myself.

"I call Turkey." He showed me his calling card.

Having been through the same frustration in another country, I could empathize with his plight. Plus, the people of Turkey have been going through a lot lately, and had been so kind to me when I was there (see previous entry Crossroads). This was my opportunity to give back. I read the instructions on the card, and pointed to the numbers on it that he needed to dial.

He seemed to be trying, but made an "eha" sound. It hadn't worked. I tried to show him again. It didn't work again. My cape was becoming threadbare. I gently took the card from him, and took control of the situation. If you want something done right, after all, it's best to take responsibility away from the bespectacled and confused foreigner.

I entered the correct access numbers and codes... and a-ha! It worked!

Now he could call whomever he pleased, and let them know of the kindness of American strangers. "Now. You call Turkey."

"Turkey?" he said, with a hopeful, arched brow.

"Yes," I nodded slowly, pleased. "Turkey."

He dialed two numbers, shrugged, and said "Ehhhhhh... try... again??"

Unfortunately, I had to go to my interview. I tried to tell him exactly what to do, and I wished him luck -- both in a language he clearly did not understand. On my way out after the interview, I looked in the alcove again hoping to find him chatting pleasantly with Turks afar. He wasn't there.

I walked out the revolving door, and there across the street in a storefront window was a bright neon "S" -- of Superman fame. Clearly the store sold overpriced souvenirs, but I saw it as a jab by the universe at my failed heroism. I started to make excuses ('it's not like Superman speaks Turkish!), but I realized that's something a hero wouldn't do. So, I just promised myself to keep trying to make things better for myself and others, and walked up Fifth Avenue slower than a speeding bullet, leaping tall curbs in a single bound.

A Worst Case Scenario: Mr. and Mrs. Awful

There are two celebrities in particular who bother me: Paris Hilton and James Blunt. There are reasons for my disdain for the former; the latter just annoys me a great deal, for no definitive reason.

But there is a part of me that worries that somehow, through strange coincidences and a shared spotlight, that Paris Hilton and James Blunt might meet.

That part of me carries the scenario through to its hypotheticals--maybe they would start talking, and then maybe they would start dating. She would swoon over his sensitivity and broodiness, and he over her striking simplicity and misunderstood heart. She would call him Hot, he would call her Beautiful. They would co-create a line of cell phone accessories.

My mind races. I see them laughing together on the set of The Simple Life 9 (shudder). I see him serenading her on Oprah (shiver, shiver, dry heave). Barbara Walters invites America into their home to talk about their private lives. The horror takes hold.

Then... what if they got married? It would be televised on Fox. They would have a giant pink wedding cake and Rod Stewart would sing "Have I Told You Lately?". Then they would laugh and jump onstage for a duet of "I Don't Know Much, but I Know I Love You." and just to be quirky, Paris would sing the Aaron Neville part.

And... no, no, no.... what if they BREED??? What if they reproduce and create an army of vapid and vacuous little Bluntons? Surely there would be a Nostradamus quatrain about such an event -- we would be prepared for something like that, right? Are these things that will be, or only things that could be??? Spirit, say that these events may still not come to pass!!!

Ahem. Pardon me. Sometimes I get a little carried away, I guess. But it COULD happen. You know that, don't you?

The Flautist Jazzy Stoop

I have finally started talking to the jazzy-looking guy who sits on my stoop. I think his name is Tom, but I can't really remember--so for now, I will christen him Jazzy Stoop. You may recall from a previous post; he's an ample guy with a sartorial sense all his own. I described him as a pre-stapled John Popper in a shiny suit. Now that I have seen him a bit more, I'll amend it -- he looks like Jackie Gleason and dresses like a retired pimp. He's got stoop-style.

We've had short conversations so far; nothing too involved, since we're still getting know each other. I have tried to glean wisdom from him, without seeming too eager for such.

On New York:
"This is the best city in the summer. Better than Paris or Rome. Best for music and musicians, especially."

On His Music:

"I play the flute."

On My Listening to His Music:

"You've heard me."

I haven't heard him, but I said I had. I guess he assumed I lived at the front of the building, and pressed my ear to the window nightly on the off-chance that I might catch the upward sail of enchanting woodwind music.

In any event, I'm hoping to get more wise-nuggets from the flautist Jazzy Stoop. If anyone has any suggestions on what to ask him about, let me know. It should be something that can easily be worked into conversation, though. I don’t think I could handle a Jazzy awkward pause.

Have you seen the Dum Dum Drum?

Walking to work the other day (I recently moved to another office, which is only a 10 minute walk from my apartment), I saw a group of people with buckets of Dum Dum lollipops. They were handing them to passers-by, which is not an uncommon practice in Midtown. People hand you things all the time. I once got 5 free bottles of water on a hot day just by saying that I had quadruplets at home.

Anyway, I didn't get a lollipop. But I was captivated by the mascot, the Dum Dum Drum. It was an anthropomorphic bass drum; the kind that people used to play in high school marching band but with a big smiley face. The Dum Dum Drum looked happy.

I thought about, on a temperate day, how nice it would be to be the Dum Dum Drum. The only person you answer to is the 4 year-old tugging on your costume. You get to wave your arms like an idiot, which is only really possible when wearing such a costume. You get all the free lollipops you want. And, if you were an angry sort of Drum (which I am not), you could give people the finger inside the Dum Dum Drum and they wouldn't even know it. Anyway, thinking about all of this, I think I was a little jealous of the Dum Dum Drum.

I'll bet Dum Dum Drum doesn't even have a 401k or any kind of plan for his life after lollipops, though. Next time I see him, I might say "Life isn't always going to be fun and games. You need to think of the future, Lollipop Man." And then I'll take my seven lollipops and be on my way.

From the mouths of soiled babes....

Children are so honest. This past weekend, I met a friend's young daughter at a family gathering in Pittsburgh -- she is probably two years old or so, blond and energetic with scene-stealing glow about her. I spoke with her a few times during the course of the day, mostly answering questions about where her mother was, where her father was, and who I was.

At one point in the afternoon, she strutted into my field of vision as I was talking with a few people. She was walking with a graceful sort of purpose, unlikely in a girl that age. As she went by, she looked up at us -- and with a toothy grin and a whaddya-gonna-do shrug, said simply "I pooped."

That kind of honesty has power. I will say this now: If I ever saw a politician admit on camera that he had just pooped, I would vote for him regardless of party or policies.

A Rock in My Shoe

There are things I have learned about New York City. The following is one of them.

You are always hurrying, but you should never be in a hurry.

Nothing can be slow in New York. Doing things slowly makes you conspicuous, it makes you suspect, and it can get you trampled or shanked if you do it long enough. It behooves you to adapt to New York City's pace, and so you do. Your step quickens, and you become impatient. Inevitably, the pace of New York becomes a part of you. I have actually walked across a street in the wrong direction just because there was a Walk signal. Standing still is like having a rock in my shoe--it's irritating, and I'm going to fix it as soon as I can.

However.....

New York does not allow for swiftness. There are too many people, too many cars, too many of everything. Except in the most miraculous of circumstances, point A and point B have a very wide and unforgiving chasm between them. If you are catching a cab or driving, there is always an insane amount of traffic. The subway usually comes at regular intervals, but it's by no means a science, and you can't count on it. I've been burned many times by accepting the typical subway commuting time as granted, and being late because of that. I pace back and forth in the subway, willing it to arrive. When it does, Murphy laughs at me from behind his Law --because it isn't the right train.

Even the sidewalks in NYC are congested, especially where I live in Midtown. Generally they have two imaginary lanes, one in each direction, each favoring high pedestrian speeds. But not everyone adheres to the rules of foot traffic, and not everyone is from New York. So they walk slowly. Sometimes, unnervingly, people walk in groups four across (leaving you no room to pass them) at a pace rivaling that of a Roofied snail. When you are in a hurry to get somewhere, these stops and starts are maddening. I know that I shouldn't get frustrated by something as simple as an Arkansan family stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to gawk at the Producers marquee. But I can't help it. The pace is a part of me now, and whether I like it or not, slow southern families are a big pain in my ass.

So, I'm learning to allow way more time than I think I will need to get where I am going. I am learning to walk at a comfortable pace, and try to be patient when my way is blocked. I am going to try to make my peace with transit sloth, and find my ambulatory Zen. But this is New York, after all--so, I'm not going to get too carried away. I'm not going to walk barefoot just to keep from having rocks in my shoe.