June CBAs

The Creative Begging Awards are back! I was worried at the end of May that I wouldn't find as good contestants this month as Elmo, Obama and, of course, our current champ, Mr. Random African American. But I should have known that I'd have nothing to be nervous about -- there's truly an endless supply of crazy in New York City, and I'm happy to say that the beggars really stepped up their game these last few weeks. So without further ado, here are the street pitches that really shone in June...

NOMINEES
1. Emperor of McDonald's: this scraggly man stands at the corner of Delancey and Essex outside of a McDonald's and holds the door open for everyone who goes inside. If no one's entering, he'll shout phrases like "I am the Emperor of McDonald's and I command you to buy McNuggets!" or "The Emperor of McDonald's ain't lovin' your attitude!".
2. The Joker: A guy in Times Square gets dressed up in a flamboyant purple suit and paints his face to look like Heath Ledger from The Dark Knight. When he walks up to tourists, completely stoic, his one-liner is: "Put a smile on this face."
3. Voodoo Lady: I've only seen this woman once, but her temerity was outstanding enough to earn her a nomination. Two young guys were on the edge of the sidewalk trying to hail a cab when she came up and jostled them aside. They were sort of confused, especially when she started wiggling her fingers and muttering something at the traffic. Ten seconds later a cab showed up and she opened the door for the young men. Poor guys tried getting in, but she wouldn't let them. "I summon cab for you," she huffed, "you owe five dollars." The guys just shoved past and crawled in; she gave the cab the finger as it sped away.

To vote for who you think deserves the June CBA, leave a comment on this post. Poll closes on July 1st at 12:00a.m..

Good luck to all the nominees, and may the best beggar win!

Next to Normal

Chalk another Broadway hit up on my musical scoreboard. Last night, myself and two friends went to "Next to Normal" at Booth Theater on 45th. And it was one of those rare experiences -- most certainly the strongest I've had with a live show -- where I have to admit, in spite of all my macho testosterone hormones pleading me not to, that I was moved.

The score and libretto tell the story of how Diana Goodman (Alice Ripley, Tony Award winner for this role) battles with bipolar disorder and how it affects her suburban family. I have never witnessed such a powerful singing, acting, and story triumvirate. The lead voices were light years beyond what I'd heard on Broadway so far, and the rock opera tunes were funny at times, sad at others, and absolutely gut-wrenching when they needed to be. By the end of Act 1, I didn't see a pair of dry eyes in the theater.

Cover your ears, Elton John, because I really believe "Next to Normal" was robbed of the 2009 Best Musical Tony by "Billy Elliot" (which some of my friends who have seen both shows completely agree). But I guess that happens to the best contenders. There is, however, consolation in knowing that "Next to Normal" is one of only eight Broadway musicals ever to win a prestigious Pulitzer Prize. So take THAT, American Theater Wing.

* * *

Later on, after hanging around the stage door and getting four of the stars' signatures, myself and my friends headed down to the Lower East Side for some after-show food. I was promised the best meatballs and crepes I would ever have.

And Oh. My. God.

The Meatball Shop, despite having the name of a raunchy gay strip club, delivered the tastiest meal I've ordered in New York thus far. The fresh apple salad and mashed meatball sandwich with mushroom sauce was a late night, heavenly Eucharist. And the hot honey-butter crepe that followed was ten bites of delicious coronary heart disease.

At one point between meatball sandwiches and butter crepes, it hit me.

No, not diabetes.

A thought. The thought that my weekends and evenings and interests are definitely different from those of the happy drunks who were rolling by the restaurant windows outside. I mean, it was Saturday night in New York City's Lower East Side. The nightclubs were buzzing, the party buses were bouncing, and all over the sidewalks the boys and girls gone wild were... well, going wild. Meanwhile, I had just finished watching my tenth Broadway show and was happier than I'd been in a long time just sitting and chatting with a couple cool theater friends over meatballs and salad. Don't get me wrong, I love a good party. But last night highlighted the single best thing about New York City: everyone can do whatever they want and have the time of their life.

There is no "weird" or "stupid" or "bad".

There's just diversity. So while what some of us do or who we are might not necessarily be the definition of "normal", there's nothing wrong with leading slightly different, next-to-normal lives, either.

Ivanka Freaking Trump

The title says it all.

Yesterday, my favorite Trump child tweeted that she would be in Madison Square Park this afternoon to help promote a new Hewlett-Packard printer. I didn't care if it was HP, BP, or KY who was putting on this event -- all that mattered was that I was going to get to see one of my biggest celebrity crushes.

So at 10:30 a.m. I told my co-workers that I was taking an early lunch break. You should have seen their faces; one of them was still eating her breakfast.

I literally sprinted to Madison Square Park (it's medium distance from Penn Plaza) and arrived about quarter to eleven. There was a modest size crowd already brewing, but no Trump daughter yet.

Twenty minutes passed... still no one...

I kept checking my watch, knowing that my hour lunch break was ticking away fast. And then, from the gates of heaven (actually from behind a wall) walked Ivanka Trump. She was with Bill Rancic, Donald Trump's first ever Apprentice winner, and both were smiling and confident, ready to say a million nice things about HP's new printer-whatsit. They gave a quick little back and forth welcome, then handed out some coupons to a dozen lucky bastards who got to go up on stage.

Now. I could describe and compliment and extol Ivanka at length, but why don't I let my pictures say a few thousand words instead?

I shoved myself to the front of the professional photographers to get the best shots I could. They all had ginormous lenses and tripods and microphones, and there I was, front and center, with a tiny little Best Buy cam.

At the end of the press junket, interviewers continued to swarm Ivanka on stage. At this point I saw Bill standing off to the side -- perfect opportunity! I waved and pointed at my camera; he smiled and strolled right over, shaking my hand immediately. I asked how he was doing and how this season's Apprentice was going. He didn't spill any secret info (too bad), but I did end up with these awesome pictures.

Special thanks go out to the security guard who took these two shots. In the first one, I was half way through removing my sunglasses when he snapped prematurely; we all agreed it looked purposeful and totally awesome.

Ultimately I would have loved to get a photo with Ivanka, but she was surrounded by impenetrable hordes of paparazzi most of the time. In retrospect, after having hours to think over this ordeal, I probably could have shouted something to catch her attention (something about how I love her book "The Trump Card", or even a comment about the new Trump SoHo Hotel or a compliment on her personally-crafted designer jewelry), but, honestly, everything happened so fast that my wit and charm couldn't keep up. I know, I know. Hard to believe, right? But in addition to that, I think there's always a little fear in meeting someone you really admire, too -- like you don't want to say something so incredibly stupid that the thought of it will embarrass you for years and years to come.

All in all, it was a damn good day. But if there's something I'm learning from meeting all of these crazy celebrities, it's that success doesn't rub off. If I really want to be on the other side of the red ropes one day, it'll take a lot of hard work, ambition, and sacrifice that few can even fathom. We can't all be born Trumps, but that just makes the mountains we climb that much higher and the views at the top that much more spectacular in the end.

In the Subway...

I watched a ten pound rat play with an iPod size cockroach.

Revolting? Or cute?

Stealing and Dealing

Today was the official launch of McGraw-Hill's internship program. To kick it off, we got to skip work and visit the executive floor of their corporate headquarters for introductions and schmoozing. The company's top dog Controller was there to present a comprehensive spiel on his role with mergers and acquisitions, and interns all across the country were tuning in via video-conference to catch a glimpse and snag a sound-byte of the key success factors senior management might whisper through the phone lines. A lot of interns were eager to ask their burning business questions. Admittedly, I went because "refreshments" was italicized on the invitation.

Now whether one thought the Controller's speech was boring or intriguing, whether the desserts were too sweet or too salty, or the microphones were too loud or too quiet, everyone agreed on at least one thing:

The top floor of 1221 6th Ave has a breathtaking view.

The windows that line the walls showcase New York at its finest. The canopy of the concrete jungle is spectacular from above, towers of glass stretching out like a valley of steel hoodoos. The Statue of Liberty wades in the south waters off Ellis Island; the Empire State spire pierces the clouds from Midtown South. Kanye West's ego takes up half of Tribeca.

So the view was definitely a highlight, and I can't wait to go back for the other intern events they have planned there.

In other news, I was robbed tonight.

Two greasy bozos off 52nd charged me $8 for a terrible banana split. They didn't even have bananas -- flippin' ridiculous! If either of those two workers are reading right now, listen up. I understand you have to make a living, but here's the deal: buy some proper stock and change that pedophile tune you're pumping out your ice cream truck speakers. Business fact: sales and creepiness are inversely related.

The last thing I have to share tonight -- a surprise, if you will -- is... wait for it...

My brand new Manhattan haircut! I spent a good two hours on Sunday scouring Yelp online for a well-rated salon, and finally settled for a place called Jean Perre (mostly because it sounded French).

And, lo-and-behold, it was French.

My barber, Raphael, was a tall, slim fellow with bone-tight tweed pants. I didn't hear most of what he was muttering, and I'm pretty sure he didn't understand a word that I said. That, or he didn't care.

I was plopped down in a chair right beside the front window so that everyone walking by could see what was happening with every snip. Raphael's three favorite tools were his sheers, his blow-dryer, and his cell phone. In that order, from least to most important.

The cut lasted fifteen minutes, fourteen of which Raphael was chatting to someone about Paula Abdul on his iPhone. When he hung up, he sent me to the sinks to get a shampoo from his cute hair-washing mistress, and when I came back he was already a quarter done buzz-cutting another customer. But have no fear -- he sloshed some gel in my hair with his right hand while continuing to razor the other man's scalp with his left, and then I hopped out of the chair to pay Woman #2 at their register.

This place had haircuts down to an assembly line. An awkward, gossiping, semi-inefficient French assembly line, but, hey, chacun à son goût.

So is it the best haircut I've ever had? Of course not. Is it shorter than it was when I walked in? Yup, and when the average haircut in New York is $70, my wallet and I are perfectly happy with Jean Ferre's $25 steal.

And trust me, I need that extra cash to cover for sub-par banana splits.

Weekend Update 2

Live from New York, it's Saturday Evening!

Alright so maybe it's not quite "night" yet, but I thought I'd shoot off a quick blog before I go out. I've got a short break now (just back from the NBC Studio Tour with a bunch of new intern friends) until I head out to see Red at the Golden Theater with another intern buddy.

Interns, interns, interns -- I'm surrounded by interns. And it's great! Some from publicity departments, some from entertainment companies, some from production houses, and a few from ad agencies. Most of us are pretty new to New York; it's like a colorful cast of quirky characters, and it's never boring.

I met a lot of these people yesterday at McGraw-Hill's volunteer event. We were sent up to Washington Heights to help Bette Midler's parks foundation with some outdoor maintenance work. Seventy or so of us were split off into a bunch of smaller groups and given little tasks to do. My group's mission which we chose to accept (we didn't actually have a choice) was weeding.

I didn't expect a lot of fun to come from a hot day of weed wrangling (if I had wanted that, I would have stayed in Saskatchewan), but it wasn't so bad. In fact, I had a blast.

We were in the shade most of the time, chatting and sharing internship stories while grooming the gardens. A giant mutant butterfly decided to make my hat his new home, and, no matter how much I moved about, he stayed planted on top. It was the first thing everyone noticed when I started talking to them. But I was cool with it -- in fact, it was a great conversation starter.

One girl asked if he had a name. I said it was Jeff.

So Jeff, my new wingman (literally), and I enjoyed the rest of the afternoon chatting up a bunch of volunteers and interns around the park. At 2:00 the crew said we could go home early, so Jeff and I parted ways and I took the subway back down to Midtown.

When we got to Harold Square, I introduced one of my new friends to Iced Cappuccinos from Tim Hortons. An instant hit. Then the two of us split in separate directions for a couple hours until I got a phone call from them saying that they'd rallied their troupes and were off to the Museum of Modern Art.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself at MoMA. After exploring most of the exhibits, we took a bus down 5th to 8th for a bite to eat. Unfortunately, the hot-spot we wanted to go to had an hour and a half wait, so we decided to keep exploring to see if we could find anything else.

Anything else turned out to be Osso Buco, a fancy but fairly-priced restaurant in Greenwich Village. The waiter was awkward, the food was delicious.

After dinner, we had a sudden insatiable urge to see Toy Story 3. We tracked down a theater only to discover that the ticket price was $18... a little too rich for our blood. So, pending an apocalypse, we might try again on cheap Tuesday.

Aahhh! So much to blog, so little time. What else can I cram into this post?

Strolled down the Broadway street market this afternoon. Fell in love with Washington Square Park. Saw a peg-leg pigeon. Had my first New York hot dog. Survived my first New York hot dog. Forgot my keys in my apartment and got locked out, a situation solved by my half-Asian, all-awesome roommate. Finally found out where Hell's Kitchen neighborhood is. Stayed the hell away from Hell's Kitchen.

That's all the time I have for now -- keep checking in! I was going to thank you for being such a great online fan club, but the more I think about it the more you're like my adorable online stalkers.

But that's cool. Please, keep stalking.

To Die for Tie-Dye

The past few days at work I've been doing a lot with the Animations department. They've designed a series of educational games that are meant to engage third to fifth graders on a gamut of topics ranging from prefixes to suffixes, and everything in between. Today I sat in on a meeting where the Digital department (my department) was meeting with the Editorial department to go over the newest tweaks and details of the video games.

Now, what my manager has belabored time and time again is that the different departments have different ways of looking at things. For example, Digital is concerned with computing functionality while Editorial is worried about content; Design is interested in visual attractiveness and Marketing is obsessed with commercial appeal. I'd been warned that since everyone has different interests, these meetings can get... well... heated.

She was right.

At 2:00 we went in and took our seats around the conference table. The online animation videos started, and almost immediately someone from Editorial piped up "Why is that farmer so ugly?".

Indeed, the video that was playing featured a cartoon farmer who was teaching his livestock about grammar (don't ask why). He was dressed in a plain yellow T-shirt with blue pants and a pitchfork. And apparently he was too ugly to handle.

So Design scribbled down some notes, grinding their teeth in silence. The video kept playing. Fifteen seconds later, someone hollered "there's a Playboy bunny on that cow's thigh!"

Everyone in the room squinted at the animation, turning their heads and, eventually, agreed that one of the cow's spots resembled the Playboy bunny logo. Since that would obviously brainwash children into becoming pornstars, it had to be changed.

When we got to a part where the cartoon characters were explaining compound words, all hell broke loose. There was a fifteen minute diatribe over the correct spelling and history of the word "T-shirt". And after concluding that T-shirt was an inappropriate compound word for the exercise, we were scrambling to come up with a suitable replacement.

One woman loved "blast-off", but it didn't fit with the food and clothing theme. "Milkshake" was shot down because it might encourage obesity. "Popcorn", "done-up", and "hairpiece" were actually scowled at.

Gathering up some courage, I managed to throw out "bow-tie", "shoelace", and "T-Rex". They were all zapped dead in the thundering brainstorm.

Then something made me spit out "tie-dye".

Instantly, two women threw up their hands and cheered "That's it!"

The smiles spread across the room, half a dozen pens rapidly scribbling down "tie-dye" in their little notebooks. People leaned back in their chairs, relaxing, and took a few easy swigs from their coffee cups, smiles returning to their faces.

Suddenly, from the back of the room, there was a faint "Now hold on..."

Everyone turned to see the oldest woman in the room crossing her arms. She was squinting, pursing her lips.

The whole room fell totally silent.

"I'm not a fan," she finally said.

The NEXT ten minutes were spent arguing the appropriateness of tie-dye shirts -- dictionaries, news articles, and tie-dye market research was even brought up! The argument kept going back and forth; we eventually concluded that Editorial would speak to their higher managers about the issue, and that this topic would be tabled until a future meeting.

As we all left the conference room, tensions high, I whispered to my manager, "I never thought I'd be fighting so hard for tie-dye."

She whispered back, "The battle's not over yet."

Tony Tony Tony Tony Tony!

What a star studded night! This evening marked the 64th Annual Tony Awards, and New York was abuzz. If there's a place to be for this all-out theater extravaganza, Manhattan is it; Times Square transforms into a giant stadium equipped with live feed, and Radio City Music Hall blocks off most of 50th for its celebrity packed red carpet.

And speaking of celebs, here's the list of the people I saw, flesh and bone, only thirty feet away from my drooling face...

Catherine Zeta-Jones. Denzel Washington. Michael Douglas. Angela Lansbury. Idina Menzel. Constantine Maroulis. Alfred Molina. Billie Joe Armstrong, Mike Dirnt, Tre Cool. Will Smith. Bebe Neuwirth. Michelle Williams. Viola Davis. Christopher Walken.

Whew!

The weather was crummy, but that probably helped with crowd control. I was able to squeeze my way to the front-ish row and get a good view. I knew I couldn't stay for the whole red carpet, though, because I had to boogie it over to Blondies for the less-formal-but-just-as-awesome awards party. It was tough; celebrities are like crack to me. I kept telling myself "only five more minutes, five minutes!" Well before I knew it, five extra minutes turned into forty. But at about ten to seven, I finally had to rip myself away from the camera flashes and hightail it on Subway 1 to W 79th.

So Blondies, typically a sports bar, closed its doors tonight to host Broadwayspace.com's private Tony's party. Which was awesome. Only in New York would a sports bar shut down to host a theater event -- and what an event it was! I deem tonight one of my favorite nights in New York thus far.

The evening was hosted by Kyle Riabko and Annaleigh Ashford, two Broadway stars currently lovin' it up in Hair. They did NOT disappoint. Every commercial break, they'd give out tonnes of prizes (sometimes through raffle, sometimes trivia questions) and they had costume changes, Wii matches, and jokes aplenty. Highlights include Annaleigh coming over and taking bites of our chicken fingers, Kyle comically enlightening the audience about Saskatoon, Saskatchewan (it's where he grew up!), and Annaleigh giving her own made-up Tony acceptance speech. The food and drinks were nonstop, and the crowd was so friendly you'd think everyone were best friends.

We even got goody bags on our way out. Score.

But all good things must come to an end. Back to work tomorrow, though I feel this week might zoom by pretty quickly. For example, on Wednesday I get to go on a community projects work day with my fellow interns (cleaning up some rundown schoolyards with a volunteer organization that Bette Midler started a decade ago), which should be a good grounding experience. I know Bette won't actually be there, but that won't stop me from quoting Hocus Pocus once or twice.

Take care, readers, and have a great week. The weekend'll be back before we know it.

Weekend Update

Live from New York, it's Saturday Night!!!

*Cue intro music*

Temperatures are hot over here on the East Coast. Rain was supposed to drop more than the Dow this weekend, but luckily the clouds turned out to be big girly teases. Good thing, too, as I did a lot of outdoors stuff this afternoon.

Firstly, can I say how awesome the weekend feels after working Monday to Friday, nine to five? I haven't had a steady schedule like that since high school. Sleep has never felt so good, free time has never been so precious, and nights out have never seemed so promising. Once the weekend hits, the world isn't just wide open. It's conquerable. And I intend to master as much of it as possible.

So what's on this weekend's docket? Well, some new theater friends and I hit up a couple shows (Hair and Chicago), and tomorrow night is the Tony Awards. Myself, a magazine intern, and an MTV intern got tickets to a party at Blondies (hosted by Broadway sensations Annaleigh Ashford and Kyle Riabko), and so -- after some red carpet -- we'll be heading over for all you can eat/drink wings/pop.

This afternoon was pretty awesome; Jesus and I met up at Madison Square Park's Big Apple BBQ for some pulled pork sandwiches. The lineups were insane -- at one point I made a joke to myself that there should be a "fast pass" lane (those who know Disney theme parks know what I'm talking about) and, I kid you not, I looked over and saw this:


That's how crazy these people were about their pulled pork sandwiches. They needed fast passes and NYPD crowd control. Weight Watchers wouldn't have hurt most of them, either, but I managed to keep that tidbit to myself.

After we got our sandwiches, we wandered around the park and enjoyed the view. Twenty steps down the path, I bumped into a naked man.

Literally.

He was a human size statue. Turns out that there's a "modern art" exhibit going on in which some artist has made stone replicas of his naked body and placed them all around downtown New York. There have to be at least three or four dozen of these things, most of which are on tops of buildings staring down at the passing pedestrians.

Now I don't care what anyone says, but that's nucking futs.

It's a bit like a cheesy horror movie. Everywhere you turn, there are naked statues staring at you. You spin a corner, hoping to escape, and then look up and see one on the building above, pointing down with its inappropriate bronze parts.

Trust me. The hottest circles of Hell will freeze over before I cement my naked body and put it on display for tourists to take photos with and pigeons to crap on. Besides, even if I was convinced to go through with it for the sake of art, I wouldn't waste my money making four dozen tiny statues and scattering them around the city. Nooooo, no, no. I'd make one gigantic statue and stick it on top of the bloody Empire State Building so that you could see that beautiful beast from freaking Long Island. And I'd position it just to the South so that Miss Statue of Liberty could get a good view.

What else, what else, what else...

I had a magical falafel from outside Radio City Music Hall last evening. Apparently these mysterious carts only appear late Friday nights, like mystical New York caravans that pop up to grant all your greasy wishes. Thanks go out to the Phillips family for recommending this one -- glad I gave into my midnight craving.

And speaking of street vendors, guess who was seen visiting one sometime yesterday afternoon? Give you a hint: her name starts with Lady and ends with Gaga.

Yep, Mother Monster was caught on camera not too far from my apartment. I'll have to keep an eye out for her in the future, though I suspect spotting those outfits wouldn't be difficult. After all, here's what she wore just to grab a hotdog:


That's it for now. Chicago's soundtrack is still looping in my head, so if I get to bed quickly there might be a chance Roxie Hart makes a special cameo in tonight's dream sequences. Take care and all that jazz.

Devon out.

Dear Tourists of New York City:

It has come to my crotch's attention that you swing your arms too much when you walk. As you know, the sidewalks are often packed with people -- please be more attentive to those around you, both in front and behind.

And while we're on this topic, could those with umbrellas lift them high enough so that the rest of us can shimmy through without getting whacked? I came thiiis close to losing my eyeballs today. Three times.

Failure to comply with this notice may result in legal action. I've yet to sue anyone, but I hear it's popular in the land of the free slash home of the brave.

Sincerely,

Soaking wet, semi-violated New Yorker

Lunch with Jesus

Last week I met another intern at work, a Canadian no less! He's a college senior, a casual musician, and an all around cool guy. Oh, and his name is Jesus. So today Jesus and I grabbed lunch in the cafeteria and had a great chat about our internships over fried chicken and cheesecake. He told me where to find great New York restaurants, the hottest concerts, and some sweet deals. So I'll probably have to check those tips out sometime -- I mean, who am I to argue with Jesus?

What else have I been up to lately...?

Well, I semi-spontaneously decided to check out the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater last night (a comedy club-esque improv place on 26th). The 9:30 Sunday show is always free, which is great, but I knew I'd probably have to go a little early to grab my tickets.

So I showed up at 7:30.

The line was already a hundred people long.

I sighed a deep breath and slumped to the back. Within twenty mintues, the line had almost doubled. At 8:15, they started handing out tickets; I got within ten people when the employee announced that pre-tickets were all gone. The rest of our line transformed into the standby queue (we were pretty much guaranteed entrance, but we'd have to wait outside the theater for another hour and we would be standing during the performance). Well, like any obstinate theater-goer, I waited.

It was in this standby line that I started talking with the people ahead of me. Turns out that the girls right in front were recent acting grads and, believe it or not, SNL interns. We chatted and had some good laughs, and before I knew it the hour had passed. The theater doors opened and everyone flooded inside -- I zoomed through the halls with my new acquaintances (who clearly knew where they were going) and followed them right onto the stage floor itself. Even though the regular tickets sell out hours before, few people know that standbys can actually sit on the edge of the stage. Had I not met Girls A, B, and C, I would have been standing at the back, craning my neck to even catch a glimpse of the actors. Instead, I was on stage :^)

The show was on-par with the best improv I've ever seen (easily as good as "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" and Second City). I don't know how these guys do it, but every line is gold. My favorite was far-and-away a guy named John who, for all you TV nuts, plays the character Lutz on NBC's "30 Rock". Ridiiiiiiiiculously funny guy.

That's about it. Work is going well (I finally got my V-Card). Yesterday I bought four cartons of blackberries for $2; today I ordered a free strawberry milkshake to my apartment just because I could. I discovered this video. I'm meeting more interns, making more friends. Planning things with Jesus. So yeah -- seventeen days down, seventy left. I know it'll go quicker than I can possibly imagine, so here's hoping those next seventy days are filled with just as much fun as the ones before them.

From NY to NJ

Apparently New York City isn't big enough for me, so tonight I took off to Newark, New Jersey for a few hours.

Firstly, can I say how stupid it is to name a city "Newark", especially one that's within a ten minute drive of New York? I know that they didn't have cars back in 1693, but what were those slurring alcoholic settlers thinking?

"Where are we, gents?"
"S'Newark, methinks."
"New York, you mean?"
"Close enough."
"But where are the people?"
"Stop asking questions and keep drinking."
"Ok."

Moving along... so today I remembered that a show I wanted to see was closing this weekend at NJPAC (New Jersey Performing Arts Center). Since it was so last minute, I had to brave the weird shoals of NJ alone. Tickets were only $30, but the round-trip cab rides would have worked out to about $100. Not optimal. So I did what any good twenty year old male with no parents around to solve my problems would do -- I complained. Loudly. My roommates, much more skilled at New York travel than I, heard the cries for help and answered with the following solution:

NJ Transit.

Up until this point, I had considered cabs, subways, buses, and feet the only affordable modes of transportation in NY. I'd been completely oblivious of the Amtrak and train systems. Living only two blocks away from Penn Station (not to mention working inside of it), I can't believe the railway never came to mind. So I Googled Penn Station; and what, you may wonder, was the price of a one-way adult fare?

$5.00

That settled it. I didn't know where to line up, what trains to use, which stops to stop at, or who to pay, but I was getting to NJ for $5.00 and that was that. I slithered through the first queue I saw and bought a one way ticket to Rahway.

Did I know where Rahway was? Nope. Did I ask? Nope. I made an educated guess, took my ticket, and wandered down to find the gates.

Cut to one hour later: I'm on a train talking to a lovely family of loud East Indians. We're rocketing towards Rahway (I still have no clue where that is), but for some reason I'm not too worried.

The train traveled through pitch black tunnels most of the way, so I couldn't really see where we were going. My ears popped at least three or four times, though. Was Rahway 20,000 leagues under the sea? Or on top of some mountain? If it was, I'd never know until I got there...

But turns out my hunch was right. Rahway is a platform at Penn Station in Newark, and fifteen minutes after leaving New York our car arrived safe and sound. I shook hands with the loud East Indians and took off a separate way. I knew the theater was only five or six blocks from the train station, so I asked a cabby for directions and just started walking.

Ten minutes later, I was at one of the most beautiful theaters I've ever been in. My seat was maybe the best seat I've ever had (center of front orchestra), and the show was hilarious. Similar to my first class flight experience, however, I experienced something quite different from sitting somewhere that I wasn't used to. See, the people around me were "old money" (mostly tux'ed up men escorting botox'ed wives). They only cracked small smiles at the funniest jokes and rarely clapped at the end of a song. No cheering, no standing ovations. Meanwhile, I happen to think the show is shat-my-pants funny, so there I am in the middle of the hob-nobbs screaming with laughter while they're all politely patting their ivory gloves.

Regardless, the two hours flew by. And as the final curtain fell, audience clapping, I was just starting to think about the fact that I was in NJ with no train ticket home.

Could I have called a cab? Yes.

Was I about to spend $50 when there was a possibility of going back to the station to scrounge up another $5 ticket? No.

So I started walking back to Rahway in hopes that I'd catch an 11:00 train home. Needless to say, I did. So I'm pretty proud of myself.

When I got back to the apartment to write this blog, I Wikipedia'ed Newark to get the 1693 date I referenced at the start of this post. And after delving into Wiki's highly reliable well of information, I also discovered that Newark is consistently rated in the top twenty of the United States' most violent cities, with a crime rate of 553.5 per 100,000 people. Should I have been wandering around by myself at night, even if it was just four blocks? In retrospect, probably not. I mean, it's way more dangerous than tiny little Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, right?

...right?

Actually, no. According to Canada's 2007 census, Saskatoon's violent crime rate is 1606 per 100,000 people. Almost three times worse than Newark.

I think bigger cities carry a certain stigma about them. The bigger the wolf, the badder it is. But in all honesty, bad things happen everywhere -- you just have to be smart with what choices you make and try not to stray off the bright path to grandma's house.

And May's CBA winner is...

Random African American!

The votes were neck and neck, but in the end it looks like love prevailed. All the guy wanted was a hug, after all, so I think I'll give him one next time I see him.

In other news, I started my internship :^)

The office is a five minute walk from my apartment, which has all the other office folk extremely jealous -- most people's commute is about an hour. The department I'm in is relatively tiny compared to the mammoth corporation as a whole, but it certainly serves an important function. Due to privacy reasons, I can't really blog about the details (though if anyone from Area 51 is reading, I'll consider trading secrets), but I can say that my daily duties have something to do with... wait for it...

Computers and textbooks.

Damn. I've said too much.

In all seriousness, my favorite part of work so far is the people. They remind me of the cast from The Office. In a good way. And I'm ecstatic about finally having a job that has absolutely NOTHING to do with the general public!

What's that? You want butter on your popcorn?

Get it your f@*&ing self.

Moving along... I share an open bullpen with three other workers, two of whom are quickly becoming good friends. They're funny, young, and fiercely intelligent. I tried my Litmus Test of American Ignorance and asked if they knew who Canada's President was; they laughed and went on to name all of Canada, Britain, and Australia's past three Prime Ministers.

The third woman who shares our workspace hasn't said a single word since I started. She sits at the desk closest to the window, always with her back to the rest of the room, and types furiously away in total silence for hours and hours and hours. I haven't even seen her take lunch. She just types away, all afternoon and -- since she's already at her computer when I arrive in the morning -- I assume all night, too. During the two days I've been there, I think she's completed six novels. About what, no one knows.

Something else I'm really impressed with is the level of security of the office building. Just to get through the front doors, everyone has to flash their badges at a row of body guards.

Oh, pardon me. Our badges aren't called "badges"; instead, due to the v-shaped stripes on the back of them, they're called V-Cards. [Insert your own joke here].

Since I don't have my V-Card yet, I have to get a giant visitor's sticker slapped to my shirt every morning. But a lot of good it does, because once I get off the elevators I can't enter the office section without V-Card encryption anyway. Needless to say, I have to bang on the glass doors like some desperate floozy in hopes that someone will feel sorry enough to come take me in.

That's about it. Now that my job's started, I suspect these updates might be a little less frequent. Keep checking in, though, and consider becoming a follower. It takes two seconds and it's totally free! Plus, not to pick favorites or anything, but I do love my followers just a smidgen more than non-followers. And I don't mean to beg for support or anything, but I will end off with a slightly adjusted award-winning piece of advice:

Follow this blog or you're racist.