There are several great things about living in Chinatown. It's walking distance to the Lower East Side, TriBeCa, and Soho. All the subway stations are close by, N R Q, 4 5 6, 1 2 3, C E, the J....nearly anything I want to get on to go anywhere is here. And the apartment is as cheap as you can get in Manhattan, otherwise known as the burrough that will bleed you dry for rent and then ask you if you could maybe try the other vein.
Some things aren't so great about living here, though.
On my way to work, or on my way home from work, or walking out the door to go to a street fair or go to a movie (ha! at $15 a ticket, who am I kidding, I never go to the movies. That's what Netflix is for), or to go to a bar (far more likely...) I inevitably encounter this scenario:
A Chinese man walking in front of me. This sounds like an OK situation, right? Let me elaborate.
These men invariably walk with both hands behind their backs, like they tell you to do in choir practice. Also, fine by me. Even a little endearing. Additionally, they typically roll their own cigarettes. Economical, right? I can appreciate that. They stick these hand-rolled cigarettes into their mouths and smoke them, while walking with their hands behind their backs. This, I find impressive. I can barely walk and talk on my cell phone at the same time. To walk and smoke hands-free? That's nothing short of Olympian. But, there's more.
They walk, hand-rolled cigarettes between their lips, not ashing, for blocks. The stench is pretty powerful. Which annoys me, but only slightly, because although the smell is awful I understand (and appreciate) that we live in America, where it isn't illegal to smoke in the great outdoors, and if you don't want to hold your cigarette and would rather walk with a stick of ash 2-inches long dangling precariously from your mouth, that's your prerogative.
No, no. That's not what gets me. What annoys me beyond all reason and to a point of near insanity is that, probably because these men have been smoking hand-rolled cigarettes for decades upon decades now (God bless them), they often feel the need to spit. And not just little, lady-like pit-uey's either. BIG HAWKING LOOGIES. Loudly. And longly. It can sometimes take half a minute to get all that phlegm deposited onto the sidewalk where it belongs.
My issue is that I often happen to be walking on said sidewalk, and, crazy me, I sometimes prefer my walking space loogie free.
In all fairness, this blog post is just a response to me completely, utterly snapping over this issue after having lived in Chinatown nearly a year and, tonight while sitting on my roof, my sacred, quiet (aside from the occasional siren and airplane overhead) place, my only outdoor escape in the city, hearing a man SPIT on the ground 6 stories below me. In the middle of my rooftop quiet time. How rude!
So really, I'm being unreasonable here. In all likelihood tomorrow I will realize this and will apologize for my outburst, but for now I will speak out with the fury that only comes from those who have had ENOUGH.
I don't ask for much. But I do ask for a community that's spit free. It's just disconcerting to have to gauge how quickly I should walk against what trajectory I think someone's spit-path will be... Guys, remember all of those out-of-date laws we used to laugh at for different states banning public spitting. Now I see they are quite practical. Spit in the privacy of your own homes, people. Like decent folk.
****
In other news, went to the Hester Street Fair last weekend with my new roommate and had an awesome time. There were lots of cool restaurant vendors and artists, including this one girl who made the most ridculously amazing terrariums. One of them incorporated a sea urchin. I want to buy one on a day I have money.
That's all for now.... trying to keep posting weekly but it is more difficult than it sounds.
Word to the wise: Avoid puddles on the sidewalks at all costs. Could very well be a loogie.
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Monday, May 9, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Training Day
I joined a gym this month. I've thought getting a membership since I moved up here, but I have this thing against monthly payments. Something about that automatic-debit gives me the heebie-jeebies. I also recently joined Netflix, despite it's auto-debit system. It's been a big year, so far. Big steps.
Anyway, with this membership came two free sessions with a personal trainer if used within the first thirty days or whatever. Sounds like a good idea, right? A free thing? Give me that.
So last week I met with my trainer who we'll call Cathy. Cathy is a short, slender (but not skinny), powerful woman. She is toned, has a thousand-watt smile, a tan in the Northeast in mid-January (take from that what you will...), long dark hair, and a raspy voice that reminds me of Phoebe's voice in friends in the episode where she has a cold and tries to sing on stage and use it for her "sexy" voice. The joke here, for those of you who haven't seen the episode, is that Phoebe's voice doesn't sound sexy so much as it sounds like she has a perpetual smoker's cough/rasp...
Our first session is supposed to be half assessment, half workout. Two minutes into the assessment, I realize I do not like this woman. Looking back, I'm not even sure I can put my finger on what first triggered it. Maybe it was that when she asked where I lived in Manhattan and I told her Chinatown she casually mentioned that her soon-to-be ex-husband owned a certain restaurant in the Lower East Side, and because that certain restaurant happened to be where a recent ex had taken me on a first date, I immediately associated her with a vortex of negative things.
If that's the case, then I'm not being fair and she obviously never had a chance with me. But hear me out--whatever it was in the beginning that triggered the vague uneasiness, my suspicions of awful things to come were entirely gratified when I stepped on the scale.
Let me preface this next part by saying this: I am not fat.
I have never been fat. No one has ever called me fat before. I do not consider myself a fat, nor even a chubby, person. Not that there is anything wrong with being either of those things. Just sayin', those are things that I am not.
Did I join a gym to lose weight? Yes. What woman in America doesn't want to lose weight? That's Cosmo's fault. Everyone knows that. I won't even lie to you and say it was "to be healthier," or "more fit," or "more flexible," or anything else that unconvincing and entirely hollow. No. I joined to lose weight and to look better.
But does that mean I feel like now I look like some completely undesirable monster? Well, apparently that's what I should think according to Cathy.
I hopped on the scale. When it leveled out, she asked, "Is that the number you were expecting?"
"Yes," I answered truthfully.
"Really?"
"I weigh myself every day."
"So you're not at all surprised to see that number on the scale?" the bitch asked a third time.
I turned to her. I think I was sort of in shock, really. I can't remember ever having been so subtly and entirely insulted before.
"No. No, I'm not surprised. I weigh myself every day," I repeated.
"Hm." Cathy responded and hopped into her little chair while she crunched the numbers and determined that I, just as she suspected, was "upper-average" in weight. The situation was dire. She really wanted to have me at at least average. Time to hit the mats for some emergency strength training, STAT.
What followed was a forty-five minute workout where I performed lunges, push-ups, squats, sit-ups, etc. while Cathy offered words of advice and encouragement like:
"You're twenty-three years old. This shouldn't be that hard for you."
"How does it make you feel that you're really having a tough time with this right now?"
"Butt out, chest up, legs wide--too wide, no, now you've got them too close. Look."
"See how you're standing in the mirror? Pull your shoulders back. You'll look like you've lost five pounds."
By the time we were finished, my body, but mostly my ego, had taken a HUGE beating.
She shook my hand and promised to reschedule for next week. "Be prepared to be sore tomorrow," she said, grinning. "Drink lots of water. Some people call me from home crying--they can't walk up the stairs."
To answer any questions about how I felt the next few days, yes I was sore, but no, I did not have any trouble climbing up stairs (thank you very much!).
Continuing with my story, we scheduled our next meeting for last Tuesday. Unfortunately, (and not on purpose I swear!) I forgot my workout gear that day. So we rescheduled for today, Thursday. Well, sometime between Tuesday morning and Tuesday night, I became deathly ill with a really bad cold. I spent all day Tuesday and Wednesday popping cough drops and then all night Tuesday and Wednesday night sleeping it off in a cough-syrup induced coma. I averaged about 12 hours of sleep those nights.
Today, I felt much better. So well in fact, that, not wanting to give Ms. Cathy the satisfaction of canceling our workout twice, I decided I'd go through with our next training session despite not being 100%.
Mistake.
Cathy greeted me and then asked how many times I'd been back to the gym since our last workout.
I admitted that I had not, in fact, been back at all. I'd been pretty sore and then gotten sick, but was feeling better.
"You haven't been back at all?"
"Nope." Apparently exercise accelerates hearing loss.
"Ok, well... let's walk this way," she led me to the mats where we warmed up for a few minutes. Then she handed me some weights for squats. It became clear halfway through my second set that I wasn't going to make it.
"What? What is it? Do you need to sit down?"
Yes. Yes I needed to sit down. Immediately. And I did. I could feel the color draining from my face. My ears felt like they were swimming away from my head, it was that woozy sort of feeling. Probably had something to do with my cold. As I was explaining this, Cathy became a bit annoyed,
"Why didn't you tell me you were sick? You could have canceled." I had told her before and she'd ignored it, but that didn't matter.
"I didn't want you to think I was faking," I answered truthfully, although now I'm not sure why I didn't lie and say something more socially acceptable. Must have been the dizziness affecting rational thought.
"What, are you an adult?" she asked in a voice that clearly suggested that I probably wasn't. And that's when I nearly lost it.
The thing is, I don't feel like one most of the time. But I know I am. My rent check says that I am and my pay check and my grocery lists and all of those things point to: adult in the room.
Still, though, I have a student's complex about emailing in "sick." It will probably always ring fake to me to do that, and I expect for it to ring fake to other people as well.
I did not have a freak-out at Cathy. Instead, I pocketed her question for a moment of introspection and reflection later on and said the lie I should have gone with in the first place, "I really thought I was better. Sorry, guess I'm still sicker than I thought."
She told me it was OK. That being sick really throws off your equilibrium, and once she'd had to quit a workout because she was sick, but she was also "working with some pretty heavy weights at a really high intensity." Bitch.
Long story short, we're rescheduling for a half-session some time next week. I've decided it's probably for the best to just go and accept my fate passively in an effort to maintain the ability to noncommittally wave "hi" to her when I pass her on future, solo gym visits. I feel like things might get awkward in that department if I totally go off on her, and I have signed a year-contract, so...
Thoughts?
Snarky, passive-aggressive one-liner suggestions for the next session?
All would be more than appreciated in the comments below.
Also, I realized the irony of the above post juxtaposed with what I'm about to say, but I wrote a couple of health quizzes for Lifetime Television's website, mylifetime.com.
You can take them here and here if you haven't already! And revel in the realization that if you don't pass them, hey, it's OK, because they were written by the fattest of fatties and, in light of that fact, you probably should just do the opposite of whatever the results are, anyway.
Anyway, with this membership came two free sessions with a personal trainer if used within the first thirty days or whatever. Sounds like a good idea, right? A free thing? Give me that.
So last week I met with my trainer who we'll call Cathy. Cathy is a short, slender (but not skinny), powerful woman. She is toned, has a thousand-watt smile, a tan in the Northeast in mid-January (take from that what you will...), long dark hair, and a raspy voice that reminds me of Phoebe's voice in friends in the episode where she has a cold and tries to sing on stage and use it for her "sexy" voice. The joke here, for those of you who haven't seen the episode, is that Phoebe's voice doesn't sound sexy so much as it sounds like she has a perpetual smoker's cough/rasp...
Our first session is supposed to be half assessment, half workout. Two minutes into the assessment, I realize I do not like this woman. Looking back, I'm not even sure I can put my finger on what first triggered it. Maybe it was that when she asked where I lived in Manhattan and I told her Chinatown she casually mentioned that her soon-to-be ex-husband owned a certain restaurant in the Lower East Side, and because that certain restaurant happened to be where a recent ex had taken me on a first date, I immediately associated her with a vortex of negative things.
If that's the case, then I'm not being fair and she obviously never had a chance with me. But hear me out--whatever it was in the beginning that triggered the vague uneasiness, my suspicions of awful things to come were entirely gratified when I stepped on the scale.
Let me preface this next part by saying this: I am not fat.
I have never been fat. No one has ever called me fat before. I do not consider myself a fat, nor even a chubby, person. Not that there is anything wrong with being either of those things. Just sayin', those are things that I am not.
Did I join a gym to lose weight? Yes. What woman in America doesn't want to lose weight? That's Cosmo's fault. Everyone knows that. I won't even lie to you and say it was "to be healthier," or "more fit," or "more flexible," or anything else that unconvincing and entirely hollow. No. I joined to lose weight and to look better.
But does that mean I feel like now I look like some completely undesirable monster? Well, apparently that's what I should think according to Cathy.
I hopped on the scale. When it leveled out, she asked, "Is that the number you were expecting?"
"Yes," I answered truthfully.
"Really?"
"I weigh myself every day."
"So you're not at all surprised to see that number on the scale?" the bitch asked a third time.
I turned to her. I think I was sort of in shock, really. I can't remember ever having been so subtly and entirely insulted before.
"No. No, I'm not surprised. I weigh myself every day," I repeated.
"Hm." Cathy responded and hopped into her little chair while she crunched the numbers and determined that I, just as she suspected, was "upper-average" in weight. The situation was dire. She really wanted to have me at at least average. Time to hit the mats for some emergency strength training, STAT.
What followed was a forty-five minute workout where I performed lunges, push-ups, squats, sit-ups, etc. while Cathy offered words of advice and encouragement like:
"You're twenty-three years old. This shouldn't be that hard for you."
"How does it make you feel that you're really having a tough time with this right now?"
"Butt out, chest up, legs wide--too wide, no, now you've got them too close. Look."
"See how you're standing in the mirror? Pull your shoulders back. You'll look like you've lost five pounds."
By the time we were finished, my body, but mostly my ego, had taken a HUGE beating.
She shook my hand and promised to reschedule for next week. "Be prepared to be sore tomorrow," she said, grinning. "Drink lots of water. Some people call me from home crying--they can't walk up the stairs."
To answer any questions about how I felt the next few days, yes I was sore, but no, I did not have any trouble climbing up stairs (thank you very much!).
Continuing with my story, we scheduled our next meeting for last Tuesday. Unfortunately, (and not on purpose I swear!) I forgot my workout gear that day. So we rescheduled for today, Thursday. Well, sometime between Tuesday morning and Tuesday night, I became deathly ill with a really bad cold. I spent all day Tuesday and Wednesday popping cough drops and then all night Tuesday and Wednesday night sleeping it off in a cough-syrup induced coma. I averaged about 12 hours of sleep those nights.
Today, I felt much better. So well in fact, that, not wanting to give Ms. Cathy the satisfaction of canceling our workout twice, I decided I'd go through with our next training session despite not being 100%.
Mistake.
Cathy greeted me and then asked how many times I'd been back to the gym since our last workout.
I admitted that I had not, in fact, been back at all. I'd been pretty sore and then gotten sick, but was feeling better.
"You haven't been back at all?"
"Nope." Apparently exercise accelerates hearing loss.
"Ok, well... let's walk this way," she led me to the mats where we warmed up for a few minutes. Then she handed me some weights for squats. It became clear halfway through my second set that I wasn't going to make it.
"What? What is it? Do you need to sit down?"
Yes. Yes I needed to sit down. Immediately. And I did. I could feel the color draining from my face. My ears felt like they were swimming away from my head, it was that woozy sort of feeling. Probably had something to do with my cold. As I was explaining this, Cathy became a bit annoyed,
"Why didn't you tell me you were sick? You could have canceled." I had told her before and she'd ignored it, but that didn't matter.
"I didn't want you to think I was faking," I answered truthfully, although now I'm not sure why I didn't lie and say something more socially acceptable. Must have been the dizziness affecting rational thought.
"What, are you an adult?" she asked in a voice that clearly suggested that I probably wasn't. And that's when I nearly lost it.
The thing is, I don't feel like one most of the time. But I know I am. My rent check says that I am and my pay check and my grocery lists and all of those things point to: adult in the room.
Still, though, I have a student's complex about emailing in "sick." It will probably always ring fake to me to do that, and I expect for it to ring fake to other people as well.
I did not have a freak-out at Cathy. Instead, I pocketed her question for a moment of introspection and reflection later on and said the lie I should have gone with in the first place, "I really thought I was better. Sorry, guess I'm still sicker than I thought."
She told me it was OK. That being sick really throws off your equilibrium, and once she'd had to quit a workout because she was sick, but she was also "working with some pretty heavy weights at a really high intensity." Bitch.
Long story short, we're rescheduling for a half-session some time next week. I've decided it's probably for the best to just go and accept my fate passively in an effort to maintain the ability to noncommittally wave "hi" to her when I pass her on future, solo gym visits. I feel like things might get awkward in that department if I totally go off on her, and I have signed a year-contract, so...
Thoughts?
Snarky, passive-aggressive one-liner suggestions for the next session?
All would be more than appreciated in the comments below.
Also, I realized the irony of the above post juxtaposed with what I'm about to say, but I wrote a couple of health quizzes for Lifetime Television's website, mylifetime.com.
You can take them here and here if you haven't already! And revel in the realization that if you don't pass them, hey, it's OK, because they were written by the fattest of fatties and, in light of that fact, you probably should just do the opposite of whatever the results are, anyway.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Melville House Presents The Moby Awards for 2009's Best (and Worst!) Book Trailers
Ah Memorial Day weekend...something about that extra day just makes the skies a little bluer, the clouds a little fluffier, and the pigeon shit on the sidewalk a little less disgusting.
I went for a run in Central Park today. I've only been back there a couple of times since the weather's warmed up and it's still strange to see all of the green.
A few months ago the Great Lawn was covered in an army of snowmen. Now, the fountains are flowing and the pedicabs are out in full-force. I'm always impressed with those guys pedaling human bodies around in what essentially amount to over-sized red wagons painted yellow. Parts of Central Park are really hilly. I've seen some pedicab drivers (pedalers?) hop out at the really steep hills and tug their loads up manually, all the while chatting up their fares about the different sites they're coming to, entirely unwinded. Amazing.
But that's not what I wanted to make my post about. So, moving on--
The week before last I went to an event that, considering all laws of probability and rational thought, should not have existed, but, like so many things in the book publishing industry, went on in spite of all things logical and sane.
This event was the first annual Moby Book Trailer Awards. That's right. Book trailers.
Presented by Melville House, an indie publishing house in BK I've mentioned in a previous post. The event was a red-carpet affair at The Griffin, a trendy bar in the meatpacking district.
(Side note: The meatpacking district used to literally be a meatpacking district in Manhattan. Up until the 80s, it was a slaughterhouse littered, fly-drawing area of town with blood-soaked cobble stones. Now, through the power of astronomical rent hikes and Manhattan's innate ability to reinvent the unreinventable, it's a yuppie's paradise littered in velvet-roped bars and over-priced restaurants, similar to Dallas's uptown.)
The event was an intimate affair with probably about 50ish people in attendance. True to my expectations of meatpacking district fare, my vodka pineapple was a steep $11. Also true to my expectations of that area's venues, the surroundings were very chic, with funky antique chairs and chaise lounges arranged in the center of the room beneath a stunning medley of chandeliers, further glamorized by an array of mirrors strategically placed to best reflect the fixtures' glittering glass.
Kaci and I sipped our drinks and admired the surroundings while we waited for the event to start. Other guests included famous industry bloggers, authors up for awards, and anyone in the publishing industry who RSVPed using a work email address (which is how I, a lowly production assistant, weaseled my way into an invite).
Everyone seemed really excited to see what this event was all about. The industry articles about it had been vague at best, promising only a "red carpet affair" that required "formal dress" for the presentation of book trailer awards and giving the date and location.
Before coming across this event in a daily newsletter I subscribe to from shelf-awareness.com, I had no idea that books had trailers. Silly, silly me. Apparently, in this new age of self-promotion homemade youtube videos by indie authors are the new craze. The purpose of this event was to showcase certain videos, the best of the year, the worst of the year, the least likely to sell the book, etc., in order to generate even more press for this new phenomenon.
When the award show started, a presenter announced the winner for each category and then we got the opportunity to see the winning trailer. Some were really funny. Some were really questionable. And some, thankfully, really made you want to read the book.
Click on the link below and scroll to the middle of the page to check out the nominated (and winning) videos and, if you like, leave a comment or two to let me know which ones you like best!
http://2010mobyawards.wordpress.com/
My two faves were John Wray's trailer for Lowboy and Kathryn Regina's vid for I'm in the Air Right Now .
I went for a run in Central Park today. I've only been back there a couple of times since the weather's warmed up and it's still strange to see all of the green.
A few months ago the Great Lawn was covered in an army of snowmen. Now, the fountains are flowing and the pedicabs are out in full-force. I'm always impressed with those guys pedaling human bodies around in what essentially amount to over-sized red wagons painted yellow. Parts of Central Park are really hilly. I've seen some pedicab drivers (pedalers?) hop out at the really steep hills and tug their loads up manually, all the while chatting up their fares about the different sites they're coming to, entirely unwinded. Amazing.
But that's not what I wanted to make my post about. So, moving on--
The week before last I went to an event that, considering all laws of probability and rational thought, should not have existed, but, like so many things in the book publishing industry, went on in spite of all things logical and sane.
This event was the first annual Moby Book Trailer Awards. That's right. Book trailers.
Presented by Melville House, an indie publishing house in BK I've mentioned in a previous post. The event was a red-carpet affair at The Griffin, a trendy bar in the meatpacking district.
(Side note: The meatpacking district used to literally be a meatpacking district in Manhattan. Up until the 80s, it was a slaughterhouse littered, fly-drawing area of town with blood-soaked cobble stones. Now, through the power of astronomical rent hikes and Manhattan's innate ability to reinvent the unreinventable, it's a yuppie's paradise littered in velvet-roped bars and over-priced restaurants, similar to Dallas's uptown.)
The event was an intimate affair with probably about 50ish people in attendance. True to my expectations of meatpacking district fare, my vodka pineapple was a steep $11. Also true to my expectations of that area's venues, the surroundings were very chic, with funky antique chairs and chaise lounges arranged in the center of the room beneath a stunning medley of chandeliers, further glamorized by an array of mirrors strategically placed to best reflect the fixtures' glittering glass.
Kaci and I sipped our drinks and admired the surroundings while we waited for the event to start. Other guests included famous industry bloggers, authors up for awards, and anyone in the publishing industry who RSVPed using a work email address (which is how I, a lowly production assistant, weaseled my way into an invite).
Everyone seemed really excited to see what this event was all about. The industry articles about it had been vague at best, promising only a "red carpet affair" that required "formal dress" for the presentation of book trailer awards and giving the date and location.
Before coming across this event in a daily newsletter I subscribe to from shelf-awareness.com, I had no idea that books had trailers. Silly, silly me. Apparently, in this new age of self-promotion homemade youtube videos by indie authors are the new craze. The purpose of this event was to showcase certain videos, the best of the year, the worst of the year, the least likely to sell the book, etc., in order to generate even more press for this new phenomenon.
When the award show started, a presenter announced the winner for each category and then we got the opportunity to see the winning trailer. Some were really funny. Some were really questionable. And some, thankfully, really made you want to read the book.
Click on the link below and scroll to the middle of the page to check out the nominated (and winning) videos and, if you like, leave a comment or two to let me know which ones you like best!
http://2010mobyawards.wordpress.com/
My two faves were John Wray's trailer for Lowboy and Kathryn Regina's vid for I'm in the Air Right Now .
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Fresh Ground Pepper Please!
Whew. What a whirlwind weekend.
It is entirely impossible that tomorrow is Monday and the start of a new week. I am not on board with that at all. 6:20 a.m. will most certainly come way too soon.
In any case, the past few days have been a ton of fun. New York is really coming alive now that it's springtime. People are everywhere and it seems like there's been a surplus of interesting events going on in the area.
Last Friday I went to an event put on by Fresh Ground Pepper, an organization that supports local artists of varying mediums. This particular night the focus was music. I realize that I recently published a blog on the NY music scene; even so, these acts were all so completely different from anything I described in my earlier post this counts as an entirely different topic.
I showed up not really knowing what to expect. A friend of mine sent me a vaguefacebook invite to the event which, I noticed immediately, was free. And, if nothing else, I'm a sucker for free. (I'm sure I would have definitelygone anyway to see Greg perform and support him at the show, but "free" helped!)
It turned out to be a really cool hodgepodge collection of talent at a pretty interesting venue, The Tank, a non-profit performance space with stadium seating and sticky floors (probably covered in the only beer available at the concession bar--locally brewed Brooklyn lager).
I was there to see Greg with his group, The Darklings, debut his newly written songs for a much-needed although not-yet-in-existence Broadway musical version of Tim Burton'sThe Nightmare Before Christmas .
They performed the pieces in a group of three, each playing varying characters and miraculously changing their singing voices to fit the different acts. The songs themselves blended fantastically with Burton's existing music and Greg couldn't have picked more perfect performers for his group. They were, most definitely, The Darklings. Coupling the pieces with skeleton-hand gloves and fantastically fuzzy hats, the tone of the performance was a perfect Nightmare blend of light and dark, fun and fear.
I was in awe. Gregory Van Acker is one of the most talented people I know and I cannot wait for the invite when this debuts on Bway.
Another group I thought was really unique and interesting was a twosome made up of James Monaco and Jerome Ellis, called, appropriately, James Monaco and Jerome Ellis.
In their bit one of them performs a monologue while the other plays an instrument. The music works with the pacing of the monologue to make the story's mood more or less intense, frantic, sad, or thoughtful. On Friday night the accompanying instrument was a saxophone, but in this youtube clip, it's a piano. I really liked the way these two complemented one another. It was just a great fusion of good writing and musical talent.
All in all, this was a great show and I'll definitely have to try to make it to more Fresh Ground Pepper stuff this summer.
Bedtime now. Hope everyone's Monday isn't any more irritating than usual.
<3 Leigh
Also--side note. Congrats to all of the new recent grads!! Are any of you moving to New York and interested in writing about it? I'm looking for guest bloggers to view the city with fresh eyes (mine are getting old and tired. I've been out of school a full year now. I'm practically in dentures.)
Contact me if you're interested or know someone who might be! recentgradinnyc@gmail.com
It is entirely impossible that tomorrow is Monday and the start of a new week. I am not on board with that at all. 6:20 a.m. will most certainly come way too soon.
In any case, the past few days have been a ton of fun. New York is really coming alive now that it's springtime. People are everywhere and it seems like there's been a surplus of interesting events going on in the area.
Last Friday I went to an event put on by Fresh Ground Pepper, an organization that supports local artists of varying mediums. This particular night the focus was music. I realize that I recently published a blog on the NY music scene; even so, these acts were all so completely different from anything I described in my earlier post this counts as an entirely different topic.
I showed up not really knowing what to expect. A friend of mine sent me a vague
It turned out to be a really cool hodgepodge collection of talent at a pretty interesting venue, The Tank, a non-profit performance space with stadium seating and sticky floors (probably covered in the only beer available at the concession bar--locally brewed Brooklyn lager).
I was there to see Greg with his group, The Darklings, debut his newly written songs for a much-needed although not-yet-in-existence Broadway musical version of Tim Burton's
They performed the pieces in a group of three, each playing varying characters and miraculously changing their singing voices to fit the different acts. The songs themselves blended fantastically with Burton's existing music and Greg couldn't have picked more perfect performers for his group. They were, most definitely, The Darklings. Coupling the pieces with skeleton-hand gloves and fantastically fuzzy hats, the tone of the performance was a perfect Nightmare blend of light and dark, fun and fear.
I was in awe. Gregory Van Acker is one of the most talented people I know and I cannot wait for the invite when this debuts on Bway.
Another group I thought was really unique and interesting was a twosome made up of James Monaco and Jerome Ellis, called, appropriately, James Monaco and Jerome Ellis.
In their bit one of them performs a monologue while the other plays an instrument. The music works with the pacing of the monologue to make the story's mood more or less intense, frantic, sad, or thoughtful. On Friday night the accompanying instrument was a saxophone, but in this youtube clip, it's a piano. I really liked the way these two complemented one another. It was just a great fusion of good writing and musical talent.
All in all, this was a great show and I'll definitely have to try to make it to more Fresh Ground Pepper stuff this summer.
Bedtime now. Hope everyone's Monday isn't any more irritating than usual.
<3 Leigh
Also--side note. Congrats to all of the new recent grads!! Are any of you moving to New York and interested in writing about it? I'm looking for guest bloggers to view the city with fresh eyes (mine are getting old and tired. I've been out of school a full year now. I'm practically in dentures.)
Contact me if you're interested or know someone who might be! recentgradinnyc@gmail.com
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Ticked-Off Trannies With Knives Premiere Kills at Tribeca Film Fest
I wanted to write about this last weekend, but then terrorists targeted TS and, well, I was distracted.
But, insurgent activity has been minimal since Friday, so I can focus on more interesting NY news, namely, the Tribeca Film Festival held from April 21-May 2 this year.
Israel Luna, a friend of my dad's, actually directed a major film in the lineup: Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives. The film's been the source of big tension between GLAAD and the Tribeca Film Festival. At one point, they even demanded the festival pull the film. Fortunately, that didn't happen and all the controversy just equated to a lot of awesome free press, including an article in The New York Times.
My dad flew in town and took me to the midnight premiere Friday, April 23. I don't want to make anyone jealous (OK, maybe I do...) but there was definitely a red carpet involved. I may not have set foot on it, but I saw many leggy, stilettoed people who did and it was everything I always thought it would be (or at least appeared to be so from my vantage point behind the photographers).
The film itself was fabulous in every since of the word. I don't want to give anything away, but it's basically a revenge story with a Kill Bill/Charlie's Angels/ women-kick-ass-in-general feel. It's about a group of transgendered women who, after being the victims of a brutal hate crime, fight back. Hard.
There's blood. Lots of it. There's also makeup. Lots of it. And, somewhere in the middle of all of that bodily fluid and liquid eyeliner, there's a cast of characters you can't help but love and a story of true friendship. Every girl should hope for friends like Pinky La'Trimm and Tipper Sommore; women with the fierce sense of loyalty and strong stomachs necessary to rip an abusive ex a new one.
The film received reviews on both ends of the spectrum, but those who actually took the time to watch it seemed to be more positive. In his new LGBT blog, legendary Village Voice writer Michael Musto even cheekily recommended that GLAAD give it an award.
The Tribeca Film Fest is over, but anyone in Dallas or the general ArkLaTex area (so, most of my reader base, dear friends!) can still catch Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives at it'sSouthwest premiere at Q Cinema's International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival in Fort Worth, Texas June 5-6.
Also, if you happen to be inthe state of Washington June 12-13, you could make it's premiere at the Seattle International Film Festival.
Check out the trailer below and, if you go, please be sure to drop me a line and let me know what you think of it!
http://www.tickedofftrannies.com/trailer.php
For more information and fab trailers for other movies written and directed by Israel Luna, go here,
But, insurgent activity has been minimal since Friday, so I can focus on more interesting NY news, namely, the Tribeca Film Festival held from April 21-May 2 this year.
Israel Luna, a friend of my dad's, actually directed a major film in the lineup: Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives. The film's been the source of big tension between GLAAD and the Tribeca Film Festival. At one point, they even demanded the festival pull the film. Fortunately, that didn't happen and all the controversy just equated to a lot of awesome free press, including an article in The New York Times.
My dad flew in town and took me to the midnight premiere Friday, April 23. I don't want to make anyone jealous (OK, maybe I do...) but there was definitely a red carpet involved. I may not have set foot on it, but I saw many leggy, stilettoed people who did and it was everything I always thought it would be (or at least appeared to be so from my vantage point behind the photographers).
The film itself was fabulous in every since of the word. I don't want to give anything away, but it's basically a revenge story with a Kill Bill/Charlie's Angels/ women-kick-ass-in-general feel. It's about a group of transgendered women who, after being the victims of a brutal hate crime, fight back. Hard.
There's blood. Lots of it. There's also makeup. Lots of it. And, somewhere in the middle of all of that bodily fluid and liquid eyeliner, there's a cast of characters you can't help but love and a story of true friendship. Every girl should hope for friends like Pinky La'Trimm and Tipper Sommore; women with the fierce sense of loyalty and strong stomachs necessary to rip an abusive ex a new one.
The film received reviews on both ends of the spectrum, but those who actually took the time to watch it seemed to be more positive. In his new LGBT blog, legendary Village Voice writer Michael Musto even cheekily recommended that GLAAD give it an award.
The Tribeca Film Fest is over, but anyone in Dallas or the general ArkLaTex area (so, most of my reader base, dear friends!) can still catch Ticked-Off Trannies with Knives at it's
Also, if you happen to be in
Check out the trailer below and, if you go, please be sure to drop me a line and let me know what you think of it!
For more information and fab trailers for other movies written and directed by Israel Luna, go here,
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