Train of Thought: Day 4

It is important to bond with family. It is said that when you die, the entire family, all creatures before you, greet you in the Purgatorial state of the unknown.
I would to like to see all of my ancestors reincarnated, on the other hand. I would like to cherish my familial history as pets. A little caravan of dog-aunts and parrot-uncles, good-for-nothings, marching behind me, a smiling menagerie. I would like that.

I write this because I have time to think on 17 hour train-rides from the District of Colombia to Chicago. I have much time.

Leaving Philly was easier done that said. Grandma would have been angry if I didn’t make eye contact with her and yell my goodbyes and Aunt could not Stand (right?) my contentions, but she waved me off lovingly, just the same.

We had seats this time. We have many seats. We have a whole train to ourselves when we get to Chicago, Alas, that is tomorrow.
It’s odd that through years of mutual verbal abuse, my dad and I have hardly quarreled during our trip. I can’t call it maturity or growth, though it most definitely is, because I have a pride and a narcissism that doesn’t trust silence more than I can throw it.
Who is this imposter that can have civil conversation? My friends will be surprised and saddened, lest I fall into old habits.

And of course, I will.

In the dining booth we ate with a Boston-grown, tough-as-nails truck driver with silly, flippant mannerisms and his geeky French traveler that was severely misinformed about American landmarks (“You’re from Oregon? He’s going that way to see Mount Rushmore.”). The two just met.
My dad somehow mustered over an hour of truck-driving knowledge with the Bostonian. It was impressive. I was stuck out of the conversation because "the young folk" don't know much. My dad patted me on the back and used my ignorance as an example. I stamped my feet, cried about how much of an adult I was, and realized my place.

I tried to make conversation with the tall Frenchman but I relapsed into Spanish several times. He laughed, Frenchie, but our exchange suffered. And I want to be a diplomat with these chops?
Better line up for fast food work, Joel.

The lights went out in the Midwest. I’m passing major attractions, but I can’t tell.
Oh, right. I’m writing in the present tense now. I forgot to clarify that. No mistake. I’m in the present right now.

Instead of wandering amazed in Sandusky Ohio’s amusement parks, I can see metal rods from afar between pages of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses.

It’s getting late, wherever I am. I wasn’t sure if time flew in the Midwest.

Train of Thought: The Evening of Day 3

When you become an adult, no one, or most often no one, stops you from waking up at noon. You’re just lazy. You’re a slob if you do, but you are free to do it.

I woke up at noon and sat back until four in the backseat of a used car with a broken seat-belt running errands in South Philadelphia. My dad and his sister bought me an acupressure wristband because I ran out of Dramamine. I can’t handle Philadelphia driving. Speed bumps are dismissed and stop signs are ignored completely. It’s like riding shotgun in a go-kart with poor brakes.

Lucky for me, I’m a fool and believe that acupressure works. The placebo effect is sufficient.

We dined with cousins and first cousins at a fine Italian restaurant, Stanniccio’s (what a name!) where we spent so much that we were gifted free orange cello, a liquor.

I don’t know if it’s clear to you that I am afraid of alcohol and, actually, all things mature and adult, but I am. That’s an exaggeration, but I don’t drink. I’m still holding onto some semblance of innocence that was completely spent around the time my first long-term girlfriend lied about her pregnancy,

But I don’t drink.

I was served the alcohol and most of my relatives pushed me to man up, with the exception of my aunt,

“Joel, it’s fine if you don’t to drink it as long as you know that we won’t love you if you don’t”

Or something.

I moved the shot glass around the table, grimacing and weeping, but I succumbed to the pressure (acupressure) and knocked it down.

From there, I cut my hands on the broken glass of the bottles I smashed to suckle every drop of alcohol I could find. I flipped the table when it went dry. I had to be knocked unconscious by the maître’D and THEN the police were called.

The worst thing was,

I didn’t even like the taste.

In the evening, my dad and I sat on my aunt’s porch and I listened to him wax nostalgic. We tried to sing harmonies to “Summer in the City” by the Lovin’ Spoonful and cackled as attractive women strode past. I was sober, too.

My dad stopped me as I was explaining my views on alternative fuel or the fall of the nation-state or whatever and said,

“Joel, this is a song. This moment is a song.”

It took him five minutes, but he found it.

We listened to it as I welcomed adulthood.

Train of Thought: Early Day 2

As I had already overstayed my welcome at student housing and Ronny’s apartment, I woke up in some hotel on 33^rd and wandered, groggy, to Penn Station with suitcases ripping open with t-shirts.

Here’s a note for the uninformed: Don’t pack all of your t-shirts. You won’t wear them, or, you shouldn’t wear them.

Also, second note, if you don’t know locations or directions in New York, likely every major city, you shouldn’t necessarily expect assistance from train, plane or mass transit staff. They have better things to do and enjoy misleading the general public.

We followed poor directions so we almost didn’t make it onto our first train to Philadelphia. My dad and I somehow lacked intuition and were far enough back in the line for the conductor to personally bark at us to “Get on the Train! We’re Leaving Now, You damned Fools!”

He looks more and more like a whip-wielding Egyptian in my memory.

Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe He’s unfair.

We loaded half of our luggage into someone else’s compartment and wandered the train for seats.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Yes. He’s coming right back,” they all said.

Ladies, you liars, we’ve already seen the rest of the train. You are alone and you should be, you fraud.

We were left with one seat in the lounge car. Because I am not ageist, I stood next to the garbage can and smirked at the lounge attendant (she prefers Snack Specialist). She didn’t say much to me, I assume because I look like a 19-year-old in a band that’s not very good.

With this much excitement early on, when I arrived in Philly, I was overpowered and napped for the rest of the day.

Train of Thought: In and Around Day 1

I haven’t written a series of blogs successfully since Spring Break 2007, and then barely, at that.

I was proud of myself for having some sort of journalistic integrity describing the lucidity of Las Vegas as a teenager, but like most of my early writing, it turned to mush quickly.

I get ahead of myself, see.

My first year of college is over. I am officially not as ignorant as before.

My dad and I decided that the best way to travel back home this spring would be by train. It’s an experience. I’ve told this to people (not friends, just strangers) and I’ve received mixed reactions.

“Trains are stupid. They’re for illiterate pansies.”

That was harsh and irrational.

“I like trains. Good for you, Joel.”

Thank you, stranger.

We saw Hair on the night before we left for Oregon, with Philadelphia, D.C. and Chicago stops in between. My dad laughed louder than the rest of the crowd. That was embarrassing, but only at first. I forget how loud I am. I cried at the majesty of ‘60s culture while my dad assumed the role of unseen Hair characters from memory.

We danced onstage at the end and I was almost ashamed of my dad’s interpretation of the Rain Dance, but I accepted his lineage when I noticed I was the only dancer on the off-beat.

Thus is life.

And I don't even drink coffee

When I was younger, not much younger than today, I had some friends that were desperately uncool. To put a face to a name, sweat pants and roosting chickens as pets.
I was in 7th grade and kids were cruel.

I wasn't cruel, or I was, but only to those assholes that watched wrestling and smelled poor.
That's hardly cruel, right?

But really, I had innocuous friends that sometimes hampered on how many drinks I was offered at parties
or how many parties I was invited to

or whether or not I was ever going to be invited to parties
(I wasn't).

I was socially awkward, then. Or I was too smart for my own good.
I love to hear that latter phrase. It was something that my teachers told me when they doubled as life coaches. It meant that I told jokes I didn't fully understand, liked music that wasn't in my generation,
and that I was socially awkward,

but I could write one hell of a worksheet.

I wasn't exactly an outcast with my braces and developing taste for girls with low self-esteem, back in seventh grade. I wasn't a pariah. I was geeky, sometimes bullied, sometimes violent.
I was sorting myself out,
but I had friends that in low places that didn't need me, but wanted to socialize with me.

And, of course, who am I to say no to friends?

It's a thought now: maybe I missed out on something then. Maybe I could've been a different person because of my choices. Probably, I wonder and sigh.
Then again,
It was middle school. There was nothing else going on. It's a joke to regret childhood.
Seriously.

But now,
I sit in a cafe, asking myself how shallow I've become.
How many of my friends are cool wastes of time and how many are those innocuous mouth-breathers and latchers-on?
Have I gone shallow?
At what point do I stop myself from embodying pretense?

I can't brush this off as I sip at my latte.

Invest Well.

My professor told me a classical research paper was a case study.
"This is a compendium. The intro is great. The conclusion is great. You might want to fix the middle, though."

So I'll give some case studies.

I was walking onto the subway today to get to work. I usually walk, but I planned my day ahead of the time and I planned to struggle to eat a chicken gyro on the street while carrying my folders in my hands and check my email ten times (Just in case!).
I planned these things ahead of time. You can't go back on plans, you know?

I stumbled down the stairs and there was a woman at the bottom of the first step, waiting for eye contact to capitalize.

(When I was researching the independence movement of Oregon, Washington, and California ((Cascadia)), I came across a story by the founder of a thinktank in Seattle called the Sightline Institute. He bought a bunch of oranges, too many, at Pike Place and handed them out to the homeless he passed. There was no dilemma about the ethical, Christian ((He is a minister)) need to help by giving change. Problem solved. No more homelessness. I have since made this my mantra.)

So I glide awkwardly down the stairs and make eye contact. She was asking for change.
Before she pleads, I put my finger to her lips. No, Say no more. I was prepared with a trusty piece of fruit.
I hand her a banana and she looks at it. What is this queer piece of yellow?

"I want change. I'm trying to get out of the city. My apartment, it's really..."

What? You don't want my fruit? How can you not want my fruit? You people LOVE my fruit........
Shit. I did it. I made them the other. I've tried not to do that. Suddenly, it's a You People situation. I can't look her in the eye, now.

But I do, anyway. "I'm sorry, I only have fruit to give."

And then, after work, I met another man. He did the walk-and-talk move. It's amateur, but if you do it well, you get what you want. He even put his hand on my arm.
"Hey, you seem like a nice guy, can you spare me some change?"

He didn't know about my fruit policy, obviously.

I stopped and looked him square in the eye. "I'm sorry. I can't give."
I mean, I have the ability, but I'm on a street corner where you could run and steal my things. It's not a race issue. It's not a class issue. I shouldn't give you money. I don't put too much importance on frugality but theft would greatly inconvenience me.

"Not even a dollar?"

"Look, man, I am sorry, but I can't give today. Have a good day."

Speaking of Thrilling

Yesterday, Saturday, there was a car bomb in Times Square.
I say car bomb lightly because it was propane tanks, tubs of gasoline and fireworks.
Al-Queda has claimed responsibility for the event. I don't know what they're doing, but ground bloom flowers aren't threatening. Bombs are threatening.
I don't know.
I heard that there was a bomb in Pittsburgh today, too. At the end of a marathon. Another failed attempt.

I don't want another 9/11. (This is the age of the understatement.)

I was at work in Times Square, 42nd Street, when we were informed to stay calm, be ready to guide patrons West to safety.

It was an odd day for me. We were ushering a dress rehearsal for our next show and I decided that meant business casual instead of uniform.
To me, business casual means oversized suit jacket, size-too-big dress shirt and brown pants.

All but one other coworker was in blacks on the day that a terrorist plot foiled four blocks away.

Isn't it funny that these are the things we think of when calamity strikes?
I looked different and was uncomfortable.
That's silly.

I seemed to be the only person with his heart racing. I was jittery and shook every time the doorbell on set rang.

I guess New Yorkers are acclimated to disaster.
Business as usual.

Most of the theaters in the area closed. The Square was evacuated.
My theater stayed open without interruption. Nope, business as usual.

It was exhilarating. Oooooo! Terrorism!
Even now, I can barely begin to imagine what would have happened had their been an explosion.
I want to take this seriously. I'm supposed to take this seriously, but there's a part of me that thinks he's going to live forever and he hasn't left yet.