New York timez pt. 1

I have survived my travels back and forth between the coasts of this so-called great land. (Oh it’s plenty great all right, but we must all question clichés now and again.) What do I really have to show for it? Not much. Just a bundle of neurological memories which may or may not exist, giving me the hallucination of a journey. Little evidence outside my skull. But there is also the matter of money disappearance from the bank, however virtual all moneys are, my unestablished locale from the Long Beach area in those six days, an email printout of a ticket, and those pictures on my camera.

The supposed story of my recent New York travels:



PRELUDE
I’ve been going stir crazy. Matter of fact, I can’t really recall a time when I wasn’t stir crazy. But for six months straight I have not traveled more North than Van Nuys, more South than Mission Viejo, more East than East L.A., or more West than the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I am trapped by gravity, ready to escape to distant lands but only able to drag across short distances. The last time I went anywhere far was a drive to San Francesco and even that isn’t so far.

School was bugging me. I just let myself get overwhelmed too easily, and for what? It’s all meaningless in the end. Don’t let me sound so morbid, it’s a fun ride and I suggest everyone to make the most of their short lives via any and all education. But nothing is worth stressing out over, it’s just a silly human experience. Would that I would follow my own advice. School and work are easy, even with the handicap of no car, but it’s mainly just the issue of film class. This is a tired subject I’ve gone over, but for the benefit of any new readers, suffice it to say that everytime I have taken a film class for the past two years I have gone through a period of immense self-doubt and am constantly on the verge of dropping the class though sheer overwhelmingness. And in the end I make a few short crappy yet moderately hopeful movies, and life goes on. Well, there I was again. Questioning why I do what I do, what is the point, I’m no good, I’m trash, you’re better, no scratch that you suck, everything is rot, nevermind it’s all okay. Along the lines. Actually, in the end, I got a camera and I got actors and I even got ideas, and the shooting commenced in one short half-day. Matter of fact, earlier I was at the school editing lab finishing it up my little piece, albeit late, but better than never, so they say.

And Spring Break approacheth. This must be seized! I had to get out of Long Beach, by any means. Luckily I got a few hundred dollars from tax season, but more importantly I got a few very nice checks from the state’s financial aid department. Oh to finally be an official resident of California, making it all worthwhile. I researched places to go. Tokyo. Amsterdam. Hawaii. London. I wanted to go somewhere very far away and somewhere I’ve never been. But in the end I only had so much money and so many international contacts, so instead I *settled* for New York. Not that one settles for New York, that is the town of towns. The archetypal American city that defines all else. If I must stay within the continental U.S., that’s the place worth going. Revisit old haunts and discover some new ones. 314 dollars spent on Expedia.com and thusly decided; no turning back. I organized the days off work, caught up on what I could: (Sunday was Easter and no work for once, helped me to catch up) watched my Netflix, wrote my story until I reached ten thousand words, read my comics, showered, shaved, laundered, packed, mailed some letters, workout one more time (argh I’ve been so bloaty lately, not right), cashiered a relaxed Monday shift, and forced myself to fall asleep at early early early by midnight that hazy Monday.



DAY ONE

My spiritual journey of running away in search of here begins. I woke up at 6 and actually didn’t fall back asleep. Really, it’s not so hard to wake up early when there is something important to be done. It’s that tricky self-motivation, when nothing is scheduled but I want to be productive, that usually amounts to me sleeping until noon. But not today. I caught the bus down PCH and went to the train stop, up North on the Blue Line then West on the Green Line. Made fairly good time; only took abouts an hour to get to LAX. I am not a fan of airports. Waiting in line is the pits. At least I have my iPod. Hate to be bored. Had my novel too.



The book I brought with me was Neuromancer by William Gibson. I read it when I was 18 or so years back, and to be honest I barely understood it. The first cyberpunk book y’know, but written in such intense technical language besides the stylistic approach. This go-around I followed the plot better but it was still tricky. All the week on airplanes in mid-air and subways underground I picked at the book until I was done, but it was not easy. Other entertainment that helped: my new Gameboy Advance that Adrian bought me was put to great use. I beat the Naruto game, though it wasn’t so hard, and started my adventures in Zelda: the Minish Cap. Also brought my sketchpad that I only used on three occasions. And I brought a notebook in case any bits of creative inspiration lightninged into my skull while I was in the creative center of the universe; and I sadly didn’t get any writing done. My new story comes slowly. Mostly though, the iPod was best for alleviating boredom. I refuse to be bored you see, I require constant media bombardment at all times, otherwise the thoughts become unbearable. ADD is a wonder.

So now I learn they take away your waterbottles and toothpaste in airports these days. I had my special Tom of Maine toothpaste no fluoride poison, now I had to but evil Aquafresh. It wasn’t even whitening. Still, I’m sure I’ll survive. Overpriced waterbottles also a factor. I had to buy quite a few waterbottles this trip because orangey New York tap water does not need to be in my system.



Waiting around in the airport. I hope that the future of our society is not being foreshadowed in the form of airports. The constant loudspeakers of “report anyone suspicious, do not leave bags unattended”, must have your tickets available, hyperintense security, take off your shoes, workers have photo I.D. at all times. Imagine if a mall was the same experience as an airport. That might be the fascistic future we face. I hope not.



As for the plane ride, once the lines and security waiting commenced, I don’t like flying either. I’m rather sensitive, and not just emotionally so, but my skull is sensitive to air pressure. My ears pop and then next day I can’t hear anything and its just no fun at all. Oh well, the price we pay for convenient cross-country transportation. When we layed over in Chicago, and there appeared to be an overbooking. They asked for volunteers to give up their seats for later flights and get 400 dollar vouchers. I thought about it and concluded it might be fun to stay the night in Chicago. Hell, I had no specific appointments it wouldn’t matter where I was as long as not home. I volunteered and had to wait until we boarded to know for sure. While waiting around I called my ailing great Aunt Gloria who recently moved to Chicago, but it was probably too last minute to organize a dinner or anything. And when the flight was boarded they didn’t ask for me so I guess the overbooking wasn’t an issue after all.

Finally, landing in LaGuardia! I lost three hours going East, it was now nighttime. Yet another thing that sucks about flying is that it takes all damn day, and you pretty much have to minus that day from doing anything other than traveling. From LaGuardia I caught the bus to the train taking it down to Brooklyn. 24 dollars for a Metro Card unlimited for a week (and that’s what you pay for gasoline per week at the least). 24-hour trains, I love New York.



There was a hostel I found out about online and I rather like Brooklyn so I checked it out. The day before I called and they said reservations wouldn’t be necessary. When I got to the address circa 11:20 it was a bar. Huh? Only a Tuesday night and they were totally crowded. I talked to them and sure enough they had a hostel upstairs. So I paid and got a key and went up. They didn’t seem to take the hostel aspect of their establishment very seriously, it wasn’t that nice a place, but the bar part seemed fun. The Cherry Tree, for future reference. I went upstairs to the third floor and caught my bearings for a moment, letting my stuffed bookbag drop to the ground, away from my tired back. I only brought what I could fit in one reasonably sized bag, I needed to travel light and most of all I hate waiting at the baggage claim. I was tired but then again it was thee hours earlier in my time, so I contemplated what to do. Should I take a shower and get the airline grime of me? Or should I go down and drink the night away while the moment was sill opportune? I put off cleanliness and went downstairs.

A cute bartender called me by my name, apparently noting me when they took my ID for the hostel stuff. Well that seemed a good sign. I talked to her, Annie (and half-Asian!) and she introduced me to a friend of hers (less cute) who was moving to California. An agent girl who works in comedy moving to Malibu, and there was nice conversation. Actually, I spent a lot of time in New York talking to people about LA. It was a bit disconcerting, the whole point is to get away from all this, but the topic of LA kept coming up. Like I’m such an expert, like this is my true home. But everybody used to live here or is interested or whatever. And constantly talking about the film industry too, another of my moderate expertise but I thought I was running away from it. Talking and talking, LA and what is God and some stream-of-consciousness writing with another fellow, and buying alcohol and buying alcohol, it was rather fun. New York bars, you do know, are open (legally) until 4! Eventually I checked out a bar across the street, a bit more chill there. Had more conversation with another LA-related girl named Annie. Of course cards were exchanged. This was a nice pep talk, drunken inspirationalisms on how easy it is to just move to New York and this is where you need to be. I must agree, it is easier than we think. I know its expensive there, but I talked to one musician fellow about 500 dollar rents in Hollywood and he said he paid less than that in Brooklyn (albeit probably sharing it with ten roommates), but is fucking doable. Perhaps if I want to be such an inspired artist I do need to move there already. Give me time.

I ended up staying at the other bar until 5 and I was damn drunkenly exhausted. I’m not very good at drinking, I must admit. Then when I went back I was locked out, though knocking at the bar did let me in. But then I found out that I was locked out of my room too! What a rip, some crazy woman locked herself in there. I slept somewhere else but I was scared for my bag and mostly scared for my charging iPod.

DAY TWO

Wednesday morning, lovely comicbook day, and I woke up after six hours. Much of this trip was a good training exercise, I drank way too much, I didn’t sleep enough, and I didn’t eat too good either. So I went up to go to my room and I was still locked out. What the fuck?! This lady that locked herself in there was some kind of bitch. I waited so long knocking while she was in there talking on the phone and ignoring me. This whole setup of the hostel was weird; the keys worked on some rooms but the main entrance was locked and I couldn’t do anything about it. Eventually she left and I got my stuff. I tried to shower but there was no hot water, further frustrations. I was not going to stay at this hostel any longer. I checked out and went to another reserve place I’d heard about in Chelsea.



Took the train there, finally in Manhattan. This other hostel cost four dollars more but it was nicer, and I finally got to shower. I wandered about Chelsea and Union Square and East Village, going to an occult bookstore recommended (but it was more of a New Age bookstore but that’s okay). Eventually I called Marguerite and asked what there was to do. Marguerite was my only contact in the city. Jeremy didn’t end up meeting with me, lazy-ass stuck in the Midwest. Rushkoff and no other famous writers wanted to hang out, and thus I was mostly alone. I knew Marguerite from Myspace and the last time I was in the city we met. And she’s a bit political into the 9-11 activism scene.



Being the 11th, the New York 9-11 Truthers had a tiny rally to organize. I met with Marguerite and followed these guys through the city into Time’s Square. Time’s Square, by the way, I’m so tired of and don’t want to see again. Tourist BS that I saw too much of (just like Hollywood blvd but bigger and shinier and emptier. At least Hollywood blvd has dancing and ghetto). As for the 9-11 Truth movement… I don’t know. What’s really the point. I think most Americans these days really do accept that the 9-11 attacks where an inside job and our government covered something up and they lie to us everyday to get us into wars. Everybody knows but we’re still apathetic. But what does non-apathy bring? I don’t know. A doze guys in Time’s Square yelling “9-11 was an inside job!” and passing out flyers and Infowars.com links, well it’s nice but what does it really do? I tried to be nice and hand out flyers, but it felt so insincere. I didn’t fit in with these people. And I really have come to the conclusion recently that while that the NWO obviously exists and the world is manipulated differently from behind the scenes via intelligence agencies and occult secret societies and international banking and what have you, I just don’t think they’re as omnipotent as they are portrayed to be. I think they are having lots of internal problems and always have. They fuck up the world domination plans all the time and that’s just the only conclusion I can make if I’m going to be optimistic about the future of this planet. Anyways, I’m happy to talk about the issues if someone approaches me, and that’s the only way anyone learns anything is if they want to learn it, but I can’t be part of shoving a point of view down people’s throats. Ultimately activism is a one-way statement directed inwards, its all about ‘look at me, look what I stand for.’ But most people ignore it and it doesn’t do much to change minds. It’s interesting though that these conspiracy theories are now a permanent fixture on the city, all over the place you see stickers and flyers.

Perhaps I’m just a lazy American and I’m responsible for the blood on my government’s hands. Maybe. But I can’t help being tired of fighting the invisible. It’s not a denial of information, I fully support everyone being made as aware as possible. But to let the horrible suffering reality of the world drive up your being… it’s just not something I want to do. I’d rather be a little bit stupid and focus more on my own nonsense than worry so much about the problems of the world. I’m sorry.

Anyways, I’ve been growing more skeptical lately. The more one researches this New World Order/Illuminati stuff one has the choice of being a hardcore paranoid or a hardcore agnostic (to paraphrase Robert Anton Wilson). I’ve been getting more and more agnostic. The memetics behind our thinking, the psychologies and the immense selectivity of our perceptions, it’s so much more subjective than we think it is. People believe anything and they just don’t respond to logic. Sure it’s obvious to say about the brainwashed masses. But this too includes the ‘truth-seekers’ and you and ME. It does. How do I know anything is real, any information source not suspect, anything in this universe as an objective reality? Some lies are obvious, but the subtle ones are all-pervading too. Bottom line: light is both a particle and a wave and I’m not fit to explain that, so why should I believe in anything to the point of letting it stress me out? Really.



One cool thing about the little rally was meeting Marguerite’s friend Marshall, this lawyer guy, very intelligent. It’s rare to meet challenging minds. We all went out for pizza and drinks through the night, and had the best conversation. Not just on no-plane theories and Bohemian Grove population control, but all about the nature of selective reality and RAW shit and cyberpunk literature as a model for new post-government society. (and I really do believe in the coming global anarcho-capitolist future. Fuck governments, it was a stupid idea whose time has come. Let’s privatize everything and learn to be adult human beings who take responsibilities for ourselves. Remember, mass media tech is human evolution, the military industrial complex is burning itself out and farewell to good riddance. I could be wrong though.)



Afterwards I went back to the bar in Brooklyn. It was emptier. I talked to Annie and I don’t think that was going anywhere. Another lovely strikeout for Ray! I guess part of her bartending flirty tip-getting talents is being really good with names. Still, I gave her a card.

DAY THREE

I had to wake up at the early hour of 10:30 to make it to an appointment with a psychic healer. Yeah, that’s right. My Dad is all excited about this healer character Zeev Coleman, an Israeli guy that supposedly went to the mountains where Moses was or something. Nevermind that Moses didn’t literally exist, he’s just a character. My Dad went to him before for healing and said it worked, that he got a weird mystical ‘tingly’ feeling.



First of all, when I woke up I wanted to rebook another night but they said I couldn’t. That sucked, I had to take my bag with all my stuff before finding another place. So I went uptown near where Central Park starts and all the tall buildings are, and I went to Coleman’s office. It was raining, cold horrible painful rain, and I bought an umbrella from a street vendor that soon turned inside out permanently broke the cheap piece of crap. But I made it to the office building and met this Coleman guy. They put on a stupid dvd and then Coleman took me to his room. He and his assistant seemed like nice enough people, an older Israeli guy. Maybe I’m prejudiced against Israelis (especially myself), but I usually get a bad vibe from all of them. He interviewed me first and I was kind of giving the whole situation a chance, opening up to him a bit. Talking about problems with women and being stressed and money and how I want to have more energy if I’m going to become a motivated writer. He said that he would help me with confidence. He gave me some obvious advice on jobs and goals, nothing too profound. At this point in the interview it seemed like he was squirming, like he wasn’t sure what to make of me. Coleman remembered my Dad who is a believer, but I was more skeptical. I talked about meditation but I didn’t care what he saw of my aura. One thing he said was that 2012 will be a good year for me. Oh, I replied, like the Mayan calendar end of the world thing? And he had no idea what I was talking about. Yep, at this point I concluded this guy does not have mystical ability and did not have occult education. He even name-dropped Barbara Streisand as a client of his like I’m supposed to be impressed, which is just hideously lame.

I laid down on and he did a simple hypnosis technique. You’re relaxing, you’re going down the elevator, everything is happy. It was so stupid. ‘You’re good with the girls, you are confidence’ he said in his Ivrit accent. It was all just so silly. I think he used a feather or something to generate a tingly sensation (the one my Dad thought was so amazing). Basically what this ordeal amounted to was the equivalent of taking yoga classes at Cincinnati State community college. After class we’d lie down and the teacher would narrate relaxation exercises. It’s the same thing, its very simple guided meditation. Some psychics believe their psychics and some are knowingly devious. I hate to be such a pessimistic skeptic, but I think Zeev Coleman is knowingly a bullshit artist ripping people off. I think he knows he’s full of it and just does anything to take people’s money. Them Israelis, and I hate to stereotype, but I keep coming across this. I just don’t want to know how much my Dad paid for this thing.

My father has always had no idea on how to help me in anything. He has always been completely clueless. Problems could always be solved with drugs, be it Ritalin or Prozac (with his fucking junkie background, he has no right to be a parent), or hospital lockup for head problems, and the bare minimum was all required through high school and early twenties, and it was all just a waste. Did he really think seeing this psychic was going to help me in anything? I’m sorry Dad, I know you mean well, but you just have no idea what’s going on sometimes. I mean, my father always loved me and worked hard and meant to do the best, but he just did it all so badly most of the time. Although when I was broke and he paid my rent that time… that was really cool. But as an adult that era needs to be over, I do not need my parents for anything. In my more cynical days sometimes I think that people like my parents should be sterilized by the government, they just shouldn’t be allowed to breed and project all their problems onto the next generation. But that’s just a defeatist attitude in blaming my faults on my Dad, I need to force myself to stop thinking that way. No more whining about my childhood. The only thing I have a right to be resentful for is that I wasn’t raised multi-lingual, everything else I can deal with grownup.

Anyways, I ate lunch/breakfast and proceeded to call some other hostels. I ended up going to one way Uptown on 103rd, and when I got there they let me pay for two nights. At least for one day I wouldn’t have to worry. This was a big hostel more like a hotel but dorm beds and I hung out for a while. I bought an international phone card and called Adrian, always good to hear from that cat. Ilana called me too, apparently she needs some money, and I happily have to give it to her. Such is family. I met some guy at my room, a bit creepy, who wanted to impart all his wisdom of New York to me. He was going to show me around East Village and Greenwich Village but I got tired of waiting for him and left, which was a relief because I did not really want to hang out with him.



Ah the Village, the great counter-cultural nexus from which all others spawned. I went back to familiar St. Mark’s Street and walked back and forth. Walked up to where the Korova Milk Bar was but it wasn’t any more. Then headed west and checked Greenwich Village and that NYU area and new fun clubs to scope. One interesting tidbit, I stopped at a comic store to see what was new this week and Optic Nerve finally came out this year. It really is a beautiful comic. I wrote Adrian Tomine a letter and just out of curiosity I checked the back page… lo and behold he printed an excerpt from my letter. I told the teller at the comic store but they didn’t seem to care much (and I think the girl that worked there didn’t like me because maybe I creepily stayed in the pornography section for too long, but dangit only in New York does every comic store have a porn section to browse through) It’s only an indie comic and Tomine isn’t so famous, but it is always pretty cool to see you’re name in print. Go buy Optic Nerve 11 and see. Although, it’s a pretty dumb letter, now that I mention it I’m embarrassed. I didn’t expect him to print it!

I continued around this new Greenwich Village area. One time I pronounced it “Greeen-wich” but that just shows my bumpkinness, its ‘grehn-ich’. Hung around Washington Park and wandered into an NYU building. That campus is really interesting in that its so urban in the middle of the city; most schools are too open-spaced. There were some girls selling pizza raising charity money and I bought some pizza. I wanted to make some New York friends and talked to them for a while, and one girl was a film major too. But I sensed I was being annoying and eventually gave up. Next it was time for dancing. I killed some time hopping in from bar to bar on MacDougal street; I was waiting until it was late. I had read about some nightclubs in New York and I wanted to check one out in the area. Once it was dark and I was tipsy enough I went there and danced for a few hours. Only five bucks cover charge though it was mostly empty. I drank way too many appletinis and White Russians, and while the blazing techno music was nice while I moved, as soon as I sat down for a moment I felt so sick. I felt awful and called it a night at only 1.

Here’s where it gets a bit gross. Inside a subway station I vomited on myself a little bit. Later on I tried to wash my jacket but most of the time it didn’t smell too good. While traveling North from the village I had to transfer around Time’s Square to get back uptown. So I decided to appropriate a pornography store while I was good and inebriated.




[censored]




I wish I hadn’t vomited on myself.


to be continued...