This Metropolitan Life

Wow, it’s been ages since I’ve updated. I guess there wasn’t much to write about on Thursday night, and I’ve been busy most of the weekend.

Friday

Friday night was nice. I had dinner with my parents in our hometown. We went to a quiet Middle Eastern restaurant and I filled up on Greek salad and Middle Eastern sausage and a big plate of three different kinds of grilled meats, plus a grilled onion, a grilled tomato and a grilled green pepper. It was exactly the kind of low-key Friday night I’d wanted. Also, my bank account balance was below zero, and although I’d deposited a paycheck, it wouldn’t come through until after midnight, so I couldn’t really spend any money.

After dinner we went home, I played with the puppy, and we gathered together on the couch for a nice, heartwarming, family-values-inducing evening of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. Yup, the show with Ice-T. More importantly, the show with that hot guy from Oz, the guy with the hawk-like nose and the close-set deep-blue eyes. I’d look up his name, but my computer is too slow, and it would be a hassle.

It’s always nice to spend time in my pretty suburban hometown. I could see myself moving back there someday — when I have enough money, when I’m ready to settle down with someone, when I have no more need to be in the thick of urbanity. If that ever happens. And anyway, the town is just 30 minutes from Manhattan by car. Who knows.

Saturday

Since I’ve been thinking about radio lately, I think I’ll recount my Saturday This-American-Life Style.

Act One. Saturday morning. I wake up in my brother’s old bedroom. I go downstairs and look through the newspaper. My mom decides to make pancakes with bananas in them. I haven’t had pancakes in months. Mmmmm… pancakes.

Act Two. After taking the bus and the PATH train home to Jersey City, I have an afternoon of Sparkiness. We meet up in Williamsburg (Brooklyn, not the colonial one in Virginia) and have the best burgers in Brooklyn. It would have been cute if they’d been called Williamsburgers, but they weren’t. Still, they were delicious. Good call, Sparky!

After lunch and conversation, we wandered down to a small park by the East River and looked out at the Manhattan skyline with the Hasidic Jews. (Um, they weren’t part of the skyline. I mean they were sitting in the park.) Then we made our way over to a mini-mall and read some free newspapers while Sparky nursed his congestion with what he claimed to be very bitter tea. He didn’t seem to like it too much.

We walked down to the platform at the Bedford Avenue Station on the L train and parted, thus beginning:

Act Three. I wandered around the Village for a couple of hours, including a 90-minute stint at the Chelsea Barnes and Noble.

Act Four. I went to the Chelsea Clearview Cinema by myself and saw Mulholland Drive, David Lynch’s new film.

Whoa.

It was great, great, great, until maybe the last 25 minutes. Then it got weird, weird, weird.

Like most of David Lynch’s work, the movie was very anticonfluential, as David Foster Wallace might say. (And that sentence was very pretentious, as some of you might say.) But it had some highly entertaining set pieces. I’d go see it — he’s a terrific filmmaker. Just don’t expect any plot resolution. “Twin Peaks,” anyone?

(By the way, I can tell how embedded The Simpsons has become in our culture. Whenever I think of “Twin Peaks,” I picture Lisa Simpson dancing around a room inside Chief Wiggum’s head, chanting, “Burns’s suit! Burns’s suit!”)

Act Five. Act Five was kind of lame. I met a friend and his friend at XL in Chelsea. XL is very shiny and sterile and filled with a strange mix of people. They’re all dressed like Chelsea-types, but for some reason, collectively they’re not as good-looking as the guys at the other Chelsea bars. I’m not sure why.

Anyway, I got home around 1 in the morning, fiddled around on the computer, and eventually went to bed. It was a day of variety, of juxtapositions — pancakes and David Lynch; Williamsburg and Chelsea and the suburbs; Sparky and XL.

I may see another movie today. Movies are one of the best solitary activities, I think.

This entry feels kind of lame for some reason. No big dramatic existential questions. I basically had a pretty darn good day.

That makes for boring writing, but enjoyable living.

Wow, that sentence says a mouthful, doesn’t it.

And I’m Linda Wertheimer

(Note: I’d be watching “The West Wing” right now, but I can’t pick it up. I don’t have cable, and ever since the World Trade Center collapsed, my over-the-air reception has sucked. Dammit. I’m a “West Wing” junkie. I’m getting cable when I move.)

Yesterday my dad sent me an e-mail that said, in part: “Have you written anything lately? I think that you may get inspiration from current events.”

Grammatically a little awkward, yes, but it made me wonder once again if my parents know about this site. I’ve blogged from my parents’ house a few times in the past, and I’m sure I’ve somehow forgotten to delete all traces of the URL. On top of that, they could very well have come across the AP article through Google or elsewhere. Dad, if you’re reading this, I know you can be kind of crafty, so you’re probably going to put me in a position in which I must either tell you I have the site or lie to you about it and feel guilty. You’re not going to come right out and tell me you know about it. You’re testing me. You’re taunting me. Ugh. If you do know about the site (which, if you’re reading this, you do), that’s okay. If you don’t know about the site (in which case you’re not reading this), maybe I’ll tell you at some point. I guess it wouldn’t be a big deal either way.

Anyway.

I talked on the phone with my former therapist this evening in order to get some information about the practice of psychotherapy. It seems that if I decide I want to do this, I should get a Master’s in Social Work (M.S.W.), a two-year program. Before I do that, I should probably do some sort of volunteering — work for a hotline or something. I think I’ll look into that.

And yet I’m not totally sure I want to be a therapist anymore. I’ve been souring a tiny bit on the idea lately, but I tend to do that. Barbara Sher, in her book I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was, at one point discusses the idea of “divers” versus “scanners.” Divers are people who like to delve deep into one particular subject, immerse themselves in it, find out everything about it, specialize. Scanners, on the other hand, love life’s inherent variety. They are perfectly happy flitting around from topic to topic — playing the violin, learning about gardening, exploring medicine, whatever. I’m pretty sure I’m a scanner. I’ve never in my life been able to settle on one thing. American history, classical and choral music, writing, computers, soap operas, comic books… on and on. I’ve wanted to be a journalist, a therapist, a history professor, a choral conductor, a writer. I was pre-med for a year and a half and found biology and organic chemistry very interesting (well, I liked the lectures; I hated the labs). I went to law school. And so on.

But last night while in therapy I had this revelation. I have a latent fantasy. So latent I didn’t really acknowledge it until last night, because it seemed too frivolous. I don’t know if it’s just a passing fancy or not, but it would be so great to work for NPR or a local NPR affiliate such as WNYC. If I could live my fantasy, I’d be like Robert Siegel or Noah Adams of All Things Considered or Ira Glass of This American Life — covering important news stories, interviewing interesting people, dealing with Important Things and Quirky Things. Or I could do weekly commentaries. I don’t know — it’s just a vague idea right now. Seems like a good career for a scanner like me, though. Plus I used to act, and sometimes I miss performing.

Radio doesn’t pay very well, I don’t think, and I’ve never touched a piece of radio equipment in my life. But I’ve always been fascinated by radio. I remember an Ernest Hemingway story where a wounded soldier is lying in a hospital bed and he flips around the radio dial, picking up stations from faraway cities. There’s a scene in Michael Chabon’s recent novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay in which a character is in Antartica and passes his time listening to radio broadcasts from all over the world. It’s always seemed so romantic to me. And a radio show is so pure — you use only one sense to process it.

I’ve always been a fan of the “Today” show, too. For some reason I’ve never really been interested in “Good Morning America” (on ABC) or the various incarnations of CBS’s morning program, but “Today” has always really done it for me, even though I don’t have time to watch it in the morning. I don’t know why it has my loyalty, though. Perhaps it’s the chemistry they all have. Perhaps it’s Katie. Perhaps it’s Matt. But even when it was Jane and Bryant I used to be a fan. I used to fantasize about being a national TV anchor, like Bryant Gumbel or Tom Brokaw or whoever, getting to travel all over the world and report on earthshaking events or do a special week of “Today” broadcasts from Africa or whatever.

Except I wouldn’t really want to be in Tom Brokaw’s shoes these days.

Oh, that reminds me. A choice quote from an article in Sunday’s New York Times:

[Two Manhttan post office workers] said some customers caused them additional anxiety by cracking distasteful jokes. “They’ll say something like, ‘Here comes anthrax!’ and put a letter in front of you,” Ms. Thomas said. “They really shouldn’t do that.”

No, they shouldn’t.

Anyway, I think I’m going to look into volunteering at a radio station.

On a final note, I’d just like to remind y’all that negative comments and destructive criticisms are not welcome here. Comments are for encouragement, support, helpful suggestions, intelligent remarks, and so on. I didn’t set up this website so people could tell me what they think is wrong with me or give me a public dressing-down. You have a gripe — you wanna give me a lecture — e-mail me privately.

By the way, Verdezza, you rock.

Kthxbye!

Undergrads

Tonight I got to travel into the past. My old college a cappella group, the Academical Village People (AVP), was in town for Fall Break. They performed tonight at the Virginia Club, which is housed in the Yale Club, near Grand Central Station.

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for these guys. Recently I wrote about that night, long ago, when I got into the group. The last time I saw them was way back in April 2000, so this was going to be a treat. I figured I’d probably see a few of my fellow NYC-area alums, too.

The night began with some weirdness, though.

I walked from my apartment to the PATH station, and when I got to the platform, I saw Wes, who was also waiting for the train. It was the first time I’d seen him in more than five weeks — that rotten night at the Phoenix — and it was the first interaction I’d had with him since our phone conversation last week.

I went up to him and said hi.

He was on his way into Manhattan to return an item of clothing to Brooks Brothers.

He looked so good. Blue-gray eyes, blond hair, completely clear skin, shiny teeth… nice neck, nice broad shoulders…

Suddenly I just wanted to get away from him. It felt mildly painful to see him. And I felt totally awkward. I had no idea what to talk about. I think he felt the same way.

But we made small talk.

Fortunately we didn’t have to wait very long for the train.

We continued to make small talk throughout most of the 15-minute trip. There were a couple of awkward silences, each of them ended by a conversational nugget that popped mercifully into one of our heads and then thankfully out of one of our mouths.

When we finally got to 33rd Street, we both got off, said goodbye, and parted ways.

And that was that.

Hm.

Anyway, I soon got to the Yale/UVA Club, where I ran into three of my fellow AVP alumni. We took seats in the front row — there were probably about 60-70 people in the audience in total.

There were actually three a cappella groups performing in this show: in addition to AVP, the UVA Hullabahoos (a men’s group, also in town for Fall Break) and the Columbia University Metrotones (a women’s group) performed.

I hadn’t seen a college a cappella group perform in a year and a half. It was so nice to sit back, watch them sing, and let the mellifluous music and funky vocal percussion wash over me. It had been ages. Wow, I used to do that, I thought.

It was particularly nice to watch the two men’s groups perform. Particularly the Hullabahoos. My gosh… seventeen college guys, all between the ages of 18 to 21, and almost all of them were gorgeous. I mean, Christ, look at them!

The guys in AVP weren’t half bad either, and I suppose I should have been more partial to them, since I used to be in the group. But in the category of looks, the B’hoos had them beat.

You know how you can see a bunch of guys (or a bunch of women, depending on your predilection) who are all attractive? But they’re each attractive in a different way? But they’re still all attractive? You’ve got yourself a cornucopia of gorgeousness. Well, some of them are gorgeous, while some are cute and some are adorable and some are hot, but really, it’s all the same thing. For instance, you’ve got the short cute dark-haired guy. You’ve got the tall, gorgeous, slightly grunge-looking blond guy. You’ve got the guy with perfect teeth. You’ve got the other guy with perfect teeth. Whether with blond hair or brown hair, wavy hair or crew cut, tall or short or medium in height, whether ethnically Scandinavian or ethnically Italian or descended from an FFV (a First Family of Virginia, i.e. WASPy old money), whether clean-cut or slightly edgy-looking — they were all just so frickin’ wonderful to look at.

Or maybe it had just been a long time since I’d been around so many younger guys. So fresh-faced, so energetic, so wholesome-looking… my god, have I become old? I’m only 27. I’m not old, am I? No. But I sure feel old around college students.

I turned out I knew one of the Hullabahoos, actually. He was the roommate of a guy I’d dated for two months back in the spring of my last year of law school. I’d been 25, and my boyfriend had been 18. (We’d decided that we were boyfriends — yeah, it only lasted for two months, but I’d been out for less than a year at that point, and what did I know?). He’d been a first-year college student — quite a drastic age difference, at that age at least. I always felt like I was robbing the cradle. In fact, between the two of us, I was the only one who was worried about the age difference; he didn’t care at all.

Anyway, the roommate — the one who was there tonight — had also been gay. They’d been randomly placed together as first-year roommates, and they’d both turned out to be gay. It was nice, because when the boyfriend and I were dating, the three of us used to hang out together a lot.

After the show tonight, I went over to him and we gave each other a big hug. He was happy to see me. It had been more than two years. He’s in his last year of college now. He rarely sees my ex anymore — they were roommates for two years and then wound up moving in separate directions. So I didn’t get much of an update on the ex. But it was still nice to see this guy.

Later on, we four old and decrepit AVP alumni were standing around outside talking when the current AVP guys showed up. I was talking with one of them — a guy with whom I’d sung in the Glee Club back when I was in law school — when another of them came up to us. It turned out he knew my name. He’s currently singing in the Glee Club as well as in AVP, and apparently, he’d heard stories about me.

You mean there are stories about me that are running around the Glee Club?? Oh my god. I started wondering what kind of stories there could be. Perhaps there was a story about my incessantly long farewell speech to the group before my last Finals Concert, the last concert of the year, the night before graduation. Perhaps it had to do with my being gay — I had been very out during my last year at UVA. Perhaps it had to do with living in the Glee Club house — I’d lived there during that final year. Or perhaps people just remembered me more because I was one of the few graduate students in the group or because I’d been a member for so long (five years in total). I really have no idea.

But since I’m a gay male, and sice I was standing here confronted by a relatively attractive 21-year-old guy, wishful thinking set in immediately. Okay, so let’s see. Maybe he’s gay and he’s heard stories about me, since I was one of the few openly gay people in the Glee Club, and so he’s intrigued about me. Maybe that’s what it is. Hmm… is he gay? I can’t tell. He doesn’t *seem* gay. But then again, neither do I. Well, maybe he’s just one of those enthusiastic Virginia Glee Club overachievers who’s enthralled at the idea of meeting any past Glee Club members. There sure were some people like that when *I* was in the group.

Then he told me that he thought he’d called me last year during the Glee Club Phone-a-Thon. And I realized that he had indeed called me. Every year the Glee Club members call all their alumni to try and raise money. I recognized his name, and I realized that he’d been the one who’d called me. That was an entire year ago. And he still remembered me?

Well, I guess if you’re in two different singing groups, and you realize that there’s a guy who’s an alumnus of both of those groups, you’re bound to remember his name. It probably has nothing to do with being gay at all. He probably doesn’t even know I’m gay.

You know, sometimes wishful thinking can really fuck with your gaydar.

Afterward, on my way home, I tried to imagine how he saw me — how any of the current AVP guys saw me. When I was an undergrad at UVA, I would have thought that any alumnus in his mid-to-late-20s was living a foreign lifestyle. Working a full-time job? Living in a big city? Wearing the modern professional outfit, a nice button-down shirt and nice pants? And with a bag slung across his chest? And carrying around a cellphone?

And now I’m that guy. Wow.

How did I get here? Just yesterday I was thinking to myself that even though it’s been more than two years since I left Charlottesville, it still feels like yesterday. In the back of my mind I feel like I’m still living a post-UVA life — sort of like how after the Cold War ended, we still referred to the world as “post-Cold-War” until the mid-1990s. Life was lived in reference to a previous event, not in reference to itself. It took a while for the new era to gain definition on its own terms.

Now, I don’t totally live in reference to the past. For the most part I’ve been living in the present (and sometimes in the worrisome future). But every so often I think back to UVA, and it really does feel like I’ve just left. And yet, in other ways, I’ve moved so far away from there in only 26 months.

Occasionally it would be really nice to go back and live that kind of life again, though.

Ahh… life in school.

Life among the fresh — and young — and exciting — and, especially, cute — undergrads.

Sigh.