Legendary.

(Long Time)s Square

Teenage boy tourist: Times Square is by far the coolest part of New York. It's almost like heaven!
--Times Square

http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/archives/008387.html



Unless you live here, Teenage Boy Tourist, then it's like hell!

I can't believe I work in this mess. It's nuts on a day to day basis but when I walked out of my office today for lunch I couldn't move. AT ALL! Finally I found a way to elbow and nudge and just plain walk into people to push them faster, and the next thing I knew I was surrounded by a bunch of ugly people with tapered jeans and bad accents. I hate tourists.

Man. At least the holidays bring empty subway cars north of 59th street, but Times Square between Christmas and New Years? I officially work in every New Yorkers' personal hell.



Thug: Just push them out of the way. They're tourists, they'll love it.
--Times Square
http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/archives/008387.html

All I Want for Christmas is a Redskins Win

"It's weird, don't you think? The things we have year after year?" my aunt said as she scooped 9-layer dip onto her Frito. I smiled and watched as she took a bite and I reached for the crab dip. My mother sat next to me on the couch drinking wine. It was a commercial break.

I reached for my Diet Coke because my stomach has been in knots since my plane touched down at Reagan airport two days ago and I saw the city of Washington. This was not a holiday I was looking forward to. I've had more cokes and ginger ales this week than I had when I was diagnosed with your generic stomach flu in elementary school. The commercial break ended. Our eyes turned towards the TV.

The Redskins were up. Up, like, winning, and all I could hope for was a win, just one, please, I prayed over and over, I really need this. I looked at my aunt. She had just told me if I could come up with $2600 by March the season tickets were mine. And for the first time, well, in my life, I didn't want them. I thought, I can't come home for that. But, I told her, I don't want them out of the family. Never. She opened her mouth and started to sing, "All I want for Christmas is a Redskins win..." and I smiled.

I looked around the room. My brother and I yelled at the TV, the refs, at Gibbs telling him to challenge the play. My grandfather yelled at the TV - they need to be more aggressive, they wouldn't lose the time out. My aunts chanted and screamed, and of course added in the obligatory Riggins reference and baseball comment, "Alli I know you hate the Yankees, but if you could just find out where Derek Jeter lives you could wait for him outside his place and he would marry you." She never understands me when I reply, "I'd rather die."

I guess it wasn't until when my grandmother started to yell at the TV that my endless diet coke sipping stopped. Our lead dropped quickly, but something about hearing her voice raise and rattle off stats about how the Skins play well in domes and how they need to be passing to Cooley made me fill a bit with hope.

Terrified of where we come from, yes, many of us are. Freud would have a field day psycho-analyzing any family during the holidays, but there is nothing like watching your grandmother scream at the television, at a football game, on Christmas eve day. I think it's only then when you can really get it. This time of year the loss may really really hurt, but it's the love that keeps us coming back for more.

All the news that's (not so) fit to print

Last Tuesday I experienced the worst New York City has to offer: the hangover. Having double-booked myself at two holiday parties the night before (all you can drink tequila followed by all you can pay for beer... sidenote: it's rather alarming how much beer you think you can afford after you've consumed nearly a pitcher of margaritas), I knew my Tuesday was going to be a little shot.

Now, let's get one thing straight. I have been hungover before. A lot actually, and I spent pretty much all summer up drinking 'til super late then working all day, and then up all night, repeat. So I know how to handle But, see, New York... New York is the kicker.

Yes, The NYC public transportation system is the best in the world, but I'll tell ya what. Morning rush hour on the subway with a hangover? No go. I couldn't even listen to my ipod or drink my coffee or open my eyes for that matter. And of course it happened to be that jam packed morning where its so crowded the only thing to hang onto is the collar of the jacket the person in front of you is wearing.

I managed to make it with no incident, but as soon as I walked into work the trouble increased. My co-worker was blasting his music, I had an email from my boss saying "this is going to be a day" and I couldn't even scroll down my outlook without getting motion sickness and wanting to vomit all over my desk. Then, the phone rang.

I looked at my caller ID. It was our super high profile NY Times writer. He calls often and my co-worker always thinks I'm talking to my best friend.

"ALLI!!!"
I grumbled. "Please don't yell."
"How ya doin?"
I grumbled again. "I'm pretty hungover," I said with my head in my hands, wondering why I have zero sensor when it comes to what may or may not be an unprofessional thing to say/do.
"Hey, no joke. I was out last night too. I'm tellin you Alli, you gotta go for the egg and cheese. The egg and cheese is key. I just finished mine."
"I just ordered one. It's on its way."
"Good girl. What was it?"
"Tequila."
"Ah, yes yes. Well, I'll tell ya... this time of year is nuts."
"I know."
"I saw a guy on the subway this morning all dressed up in his fancy suit lookin' a little weary, drinking a diet coke."
"Totally. I have my diet coke right next to me. I can't even drink coffee."
"ALLI! Listen. You gotta drink real coke. That's what we do here at the New York Times. Real Coke. Fix ya right up."
"I don't like real coke."
"It works."
"OK, but I dont like it."

Finally our banter ended. A half hour the writer calls back.

"How ya doin?" he asks.
"I think we're gonna be ok."
"Good. Just checkin'" and he hung up the phone.

That's a funny thing about this city... just when you think you're one in millions and you want to fall away and die, you realize 10 people - fancy or not - within 25 feet of you are probably feeling the same way.

Your qualifiations do not fit those we are seeking at this time

I have recently decided that the most dangerous thing any human being can believe is that they are special. It's obvious in New York, when you are one of a hundred on a subway car at rush hour, one of a thousand in your office building between 9 and 6, but harder to realize when it's one on one and someone looks at you in that way that makes you feel like you're the only two people on earth.

Well, you're wrong. There are over 6.2 billion people on earth and no longing gaze will change that, not even when you smile that droopy-eyed half smile and whisper, "What are you looking at?" and the other whispers "Nothing special" and smiles back at you. They're not being playful, they're being honest.

That's what I've come to learn.
You are nothing special.

See, you'd think this was a depressing thing, but believing that you are special, especially in someone else's eyes and then realizing your wrong is pretty much the most depressing thing in the world.

For the last two weeks I've started emails and reached for the phone to yell things like:
I can't believe you would treat me like that
Why dont you act like a man and...
Fuck you
I can't believe you didn't pick up the phone
I don't think we were ever friends to begin with
You hurt me more than anyone I have ever considered a friend has in my entire life

and my personal favorite: I am not a person you can do this to.

That's the best one because I even cried really really hard and threw thrings really really hard and my roommate sat on the floor in front of me while I did so, and I screamed really really loud, "I am not a person he can do this to!" and as soon as the object hit the floor and that last word came out of my mouth and I caught my breath I realized, but wait. He did. I am that person he can do this to.

So, you see, I'm not that special after all. Chances are you're not so special either, and together we're not that great. We're just one of 6.2 billion selfish bastards more concerned with making our life as easy as possible instead of taking the higher ground and looking out for eachother. Hell, I bet even Ghandhi had at least one bad day.

***

So, naturally the only way to get over it is to go out, get drunk, and spend the night with someone.

You see, because when you live in a city of millions and millions, and millions of those are out on any given night and you walk into a bar filled with people and you narrow it down to one, chances are still very very high that that person will be very much like the someone you once thought was special. And that other tall blonde, she's like you too, and even the curly haired red head is probably not that far off either.

Every compliment that give you is something you've heard before.

"You feel like an old pair of jeans." Of course.
"You have amazing hair." Yes.
"I feel like I can say anything to you." Yup.
"You smell really great." True.

And everything they do for you is something that's been done before.

"I bought you coffee. I remember how you like it."
"I want to take you out for tapas."
"I want to make you eggs."

And everything they say is that stupid cliche.
"I swear I'll call you."
"We'll do lunch next Thursday."

So you just nod your head and say "uh huh" and put on your shoes and walk away back out into the streets where you're just one of a million (not to be confused with one in a million).

No matter how much it hurts there will always be someone who likes coffee, always someone who likes the same beer you do, always someone who can talk about baseball and always someone who will want to kiss you. And sometimes, they will call.

But hope, I think, is the most delicate substance on earth. So easily shattered, it's not even something you can hold onto without breaking, and if you can't hold onto hope what can you hold on to?

It's all about luck I think. Right place, right time. And in New York, there are hundreds at the same place and time as you.

New York City and the Tundra: icons of holiday spirit

http://www.gawker.com/news/nannies/a-good-nanny-is-hard-to-find-especially-if-youre-a-racist-222727.php

The Sunday Ticket

Just when you think you live in the greatest city in the world, one of the 8 million residents will undoubtedly prove you wrong.

My friend who has NFL Sunday ticket is now employed, so I have not been able to CROSS WATER (gasp, I know!) to get to his apt (in Queens, gasp!) on Sundays to watch the games. It's great because we order greasy food, drink beer and even though he's a Cowboys fan (gasp, I know!) he still lets me watch the Redskins game on the big TV. (we rearrange his few TVs so we can watch 2-3 games at a time).

Anyway, he is employed so on Sunday mornings I tend to grab my cup of coffee and figure out which of 8 million bars in town I can watch the game, and rally a group of people to come with. This morning I called a new fave bar (where they have all you can drink domestics, and all you can eat wings and rib tips on Monday nights... yes, the bar is so good even I, the fancy beer drinking vegetarian enjoys it) to see if they would be playing my game...

"Look," I said to the chipper girl who answered the phone, "I know you're going to be showing the Giants/Carolina game today, but is there any possibility you'll be showing the Skins/Eagles game at 1...?"
"Um! I dunno! But if you call back in 20 minutes my manager will know!"
I, on a desperate search to find my boys (I hate living outside DC during football season...) pressed, "Well, do you have NFL Sunday ticket, and do you often show a variety of games on Sunday afternoons...!?"
"Um! Well! I dont know what NFL Sunday ticket is but if you call back in 20 minutes my manager will have today's schedule!"

Um.
What?

How can you work in a sports bar and not know what NFL Sunday ticket is? I thought the world's smartest people lived in New York. But then again... most of them are Yankees fans.

Gays Gays Gays

Every male in my office is gay. This isn't too odd considering I do work in theatre. It's frustrating because you hardly meet anyone at work, but it's also great because who really wants to date anyone you work with in the first place, and when everyone is gay you generally get to participate in various verbal and physical activities in the workplace that would warrant sexual harassment lawsuits in most other places.

I will not list those activities here.

This morning, disgruntled by the gay state of affairs, with one cup of coffee too little in my veins, I began to set up our conference room for a meeting about 5 major producers would attend.

My co-worker (gay) followed me into the room with a handful of cups and placed them on the table quietly.

(sidenote: several weeks ago this co-worker and I planend a suicide pact wherein which we would enter said room and shoot eachother in the face and collapse dead over said table. Because we work in PR, something else came up and we had a reschedule. We have yet to confrim the date/time in our outlook calendars)

As he placed the cups on the bloodless conference table, I pulled out a bottle of cleaner and mindlessly started wiping away fingerprints when my coworker says to me quite softly, "I love that our office is so gay even our cleaner is called Fabulous. Next thing you know our dish soap will be called 'Girl can SANG!'" and walked out the room.

I burst into laughter. With permissable work-hour flirtation and fondling, and a biting sense of humor maybe working with the gays is pretty fabulous afterall.

Please Turn Down the Jennifers

It is the job of most of the people in my office to check Youtube.com on a regular basis. This is not my job. I rarely have time to check websites for fun (though my co-workers call it work), because I'm usually too busy trying to keep my boss far away from a nervous breakdown. The ironic thing is, is that the better I get at that aspect of my job the closer I myself get to a nervous breakdown.

That is, until sometimes I hear a certain song (because my co-workers youtube musicals for work), that draws me up out of the chains of my desk and over to a co-workers desk to stare at the most recent youtube find. This happened today.

I rose up out of my chair, walked around the little wall that separated us and saw one of the best performances I've seen in life - on a computer screen.

Its odd when my office - a Broadway press office - can't stop talking about a certain show. Usually it's all work work work and one night's smash success on the great white way fades faster than a chorus girl's cocaine buzz. Dreamgirls, the movie musical, changed that for my office, and today, watching the original, the one and only Jennifer Holiday's performance at the 1982 Tony awards drew not only me, but each of us out of chairs and to the computer screen where we saw a single woman give her soul away on stage. Magnificent.

I returned straight to my desk, turned up my volume, youtubed Ms. Jennifer myself and instead of checking my stupid emails and fighting fires and avoiding someone's nervous breakdowns I watched, again, his huge voice on my tiny screen. That is, until the last note faded away and i checked my outlook and we had an office-wide email from my boss entitled "Please Turn Down the Jennifers." No body, only subject.

You'd think that a little heart in PR would go a long way. The thing is, you can't ever show it, you have to sit there in front of your screen. "Its work," you say, when in fact it's the little piece of something that could be called work, but is life, real life, that keeps each of us human - never to be turned down.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sq4uc9b2s1o