Only the everyday raconteurs at The Moth StorySLAM could present a soporific story about fibbing and translate that into “I tell lies because there was no communication in my childhood home.” Last night my brain was a bit addled by lack of sleep, but my attraction to storytelling never seems to pall.
Cerulean sky above me, open water below me, and alacrity within me. My ride on the East River Ferry to Governors Island was the most insouciant adventure I’ve had in months. It was so relaxing. I drifted away from a city of harried business people who were probably scurrying from one office to the other. My feet were shod in sneakers for a 5k race around the island and the sweet tunes from last night’s Radiohead and Caribou concert were still ringing in my ears.
I remained sanguine about my chances of winning the race, even though I never exercise. Never. Still, I felt as though if I really wanted to win I could. That was a delusion. I was at the back of the pack and incapable of overhauling even the oldest of runners. My handsome friend, Daniel Alvarez, remained the cynosure of all eyes on the field when it was announced that he was the second place winner.
We played with my football and then traipsed from one picnic site to another, looking for the post-race celebration. As we sat and joked, in that moment I was completely happy with my life and the people in it.
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I stopped by the office of ABC’s “The Revolution” yesterday to visit my old boss, who has become an avuncular figure in my life. Executive Producer Rob Dauber is a man who feels it all. “Mad to live, mad to be saved…never yawns or says a commonplace thing.” I like to think that’s why we get along so well. I feel it all, too. I love passionately, mourn longingly, and hate vehemently. In sad times, I can sometimes wake in the morning and feel tears on my face. It’s so commonplace for me to be emotional, even in recess. I imagine that this is not the norm but I do think people who work in television are a different breed of people. We walk around battling a constant feeling of misanthropy, yet a deep desire to be admired. It’s hard not to mistrust people when you are constantly dealing with guests. Afterall, their performance on the set is the grading system for your job. However, there’s also a hope that after they step off the stage, you’ll feel great about what you’ve produced. But you’re only as good as your last segment. So you ruminate in your sleep about the next day’s work and hope that the inner battle of hate and love once again stays in balance. Rob and I chatted only a little about work. We mostly talked of life. When he hugged me and said it was “so good to see you”, I knew he meant it. A lot of times in media, people say things they don’t mean. At that moment the only feeling in the room was love.
Of withdrawn people, trains have many. After a long day of work noone wants to fight over a seat while the leaked sounds from a stranger’s headphone rain over them. I can’t even decide what’s worse- having someone read over my shoulder as I survey the morning newspaper OR having a tired traveler shapeshift into a bobble head as I pray their final resting place doesn’t include my shoulder. It’s clear to me that I’ve become a bitter commuter…unbelievable Schadenfreude when I see a train door close on a six-member family that’s trying to push into my crowded train
I had to travel on the train for 2.5 hours on Tuesday for an evening show in Cortelyou, Brooklyn. My friend, Jennifer Cipperly, is an amazing producer in NY and she invited me to the show. Apparently there is a clown arts resurgence happening in Brooklyn. I was privy to some relatively embarrassing performances, but creative, nonetheless. The Sycamore Bar Basement in Brooklyn is reputably the home to the clown underground world. The patrons at the bar/front of the house were handsome and cool, while the performers in the basement were awkward and full of unbridled energy. I can’t think of another image that better represents the echelons of society. After the show a former clown talked to me about why they’re just not enough mimes in NYC, then Jennifer and I went upstairs and drank with the bartender and his friends until way after closing time. On my 4 a.m. train ride home, I thought about how I knew so much about the mind of the performers I watched…but so little about the bartender, yet I still strangely thought he was cooler. Image is one hell of a thing. Overall, all the clowns and comics who performed were talented and I wish them the very best.
I received a really nice text message from Jennifer the following day: So good to see you…Thanks so much for trekking to deep BK with me.
I really think that the road to a friend is never long.
