In black and white

I leave in five hours for Tokyo, which is very exciting.

You know what else is exciting? The fact that as of today. I’m a PUBLISHED AUTHOR.

You can see my very first published short story in this month’s issue of Mothering Magazine (which you can buy at Barnes and Noble) or, you can just download the PDF from my website.

Last night in NYC

They say live in New York once, but not so long it makes you hard. But I say that if you stay hard for more than 4 hours, it is important to seek immediate medical help.

So my time has come to leave. But how can one say goodbye to something as dynamic, something as unique, something as electric as New York City?

One can’t.

So I’ll just have to say a “See you soon. I love you, New York. And you’ll always be on my mind. Even when I’m in bed with San Francisco.”

Packing up and shipping out

Ah, the fun of moving. Packing all my shit into boxes and shipping it across the country. I find that the more often I do this, the lighter I’m able to stay because this battles my strong propensity for packratism.

This week, I’ve been going through all my shelves and marveling at all the objects I’ve managed to acquire in my short time here. Pink leg warmers, two dozen Christmas sweaters, a cowboy hat, dozens of concert tickets, and a stuffed penguin named Terryl, to name a few.

Many of these keepsakes I’m bringing, but there are parts of my past that I’ve finally decided to let go. Namely, the Mexican ceramic Tweety bird that I’ve been schlepping from house to house for the past ten years. I mean seriously, I’m 30-years-old, I think it’s time to let Tweety go.

(Okay, the actual truth is that his head fell off. Otherwise he’d be sitting in a box right now on his way back to San Francisco)

Wasabi Miso Edamame

Today while I waited patiently for my Japan Rail Pass to be processed, I spent some time reading through my Guidebook. Did you know that Japanese uses four scripts? And, unlike our measly 26-letter alphabet, each script uses thousands of characters. Thousands! All pronounced differently depending on context.

They also use different numbers. How will I know how much things cost? Or what address I’m looking for? Or how many beers I’ve had?

I was beginning to panic as I read through the language section of my guidebook. Until I suddenly arrived at a page where the Japanese words looked familiar. Hamachi, unagi, nigiri, toro… I know these words!

My heart calmed. Turns out I DO speak Japanese. And I should be able to get by just fine as long as all I do is order sushi.

Here are some examples of how I expect my conversations in Japan to go:

Hotel desk: “日本語 政治”
Me: “Sashimi.”

Policeman: “化学和言葉”
Me: “Ummm, yellowtail?”

Train conductor: “和言葉 政治”
Me: “Fatty tuna. Fresh water eel. Thank you.”

Japlan

I leave for Japan in five days.

Japan. A country where I’ve never been. A country where I cannot speak or understand even one word of the language. A country where I’m pretty much illiterate. Should be quite an experience.

In my usual travel style, I haven’t spend any time preparing for this trip – making an itinerary, or, as I like to call it, a “Japlan” (I’ve trademarked this term. You can use it, but you’d have to pay me).

I did buy a guidebook and I’ve been carrying it around with me, hoping the information will seep through my hand, up my arm and into my brain. When I do thumb through it, it’s confusing – all the city names sound the same. Plus, the truth is that I feel like I won’t know where I want to go until I get there and survey the scene.

Luckily for me, I have travel buddies who are much more organized. Cate and Jolanka have spent the last week Japlanning and already have reservations for hotels, activities and the like. This means that I’ll actually have a Japlan for the first ten days I’m there (thanks, Cate) and then I’ll spend the last ten days on my own, wandering around Nagasaki, staring blindly at Japanese characters and wondering if what I’m eating is beef or sea urchin.

If anyone would like to volunteer to teach me a rush-course on Japanese, feel free.

Appreciating what I've got before I've lost it

There is nothing that makes you love a city more than impending departure.

And there is nothing that makes a city love you more than the thought of losing you.

Suddenly my phone is ringing off the hook, friends are coming out of the woodwork and New York, as a city, is being remarkably well-behaved.

I wonder if I could live my life on the constant brink of leaving. It would be stressful and sad, but I would be in continuous appreciation of my surroundings. I would make sure to enjoy the moment and repeatedly thank the universe for the beautiful trees on my street, the wacky energy of Union Square, the history-seeped tin ceilings of the local pub, the creaminess of the cheese in the cannolis… I could go on.

Oh, New York, I can’t leave you.

And San Francisco, I just can’t stay away.

Once again, torn between to lovers.

All professional and shit

My website is finally done. Now you can totally hire me. Check it out!

Solution

I think I’ve come up with a solution to my problem.

Bicoastalism.

If I can’t choose between California and New York. Why not have both? Crazier things have happened. I just spoke with my boss about it and it just might work. How great would that be?

And if this company had to fly me out for meetings and put me up in fancy hotels, so be it. Okay, maybe I’m taking it a little too far now, but still. I would love to spend my summers in New York with the warm nights and countless free concerts. The cold months, I’ll wait those out in sunny San Francisco.

And the occasional fall in Japan.

Second thoughts

Am I really ready to leave New York? No. But will I ever be ready? Am I just getting last minute cold feet? Should I stay for another fall? Another winter? Another spring? Or return to California, the land of no seasons?

Can someone please answer all these questions for me, because I just can’t make this decision.

Of course, I’ve already bought my plane ticket, told my boss I’m leaving and told a new girl she could move into my room, so I guess my decision is pretty much made. But still, I’m having doubts. Could I call it all off? Do I want to?

Bicoastal

I hate making decisions. Especially big ones.

So when it comes to something like California Vs. New York, my mind is reeling. To stay or to move? To continue my life as a New Yorker or return from whence I came? So I've decided to make my decision based on song lyrics.

California knows how to party, but New York, New York is a hell of a town.

California Dreamin', but no sleep till Brooklyn.

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway, but I left my heart in San Francisco.

So start spreading the news. I'm leaving today. Actually, I’m leaving in two weeks, and, despite the fact that I made this decision myself, it’s making me extremely sad. I guess I’m currently in a New York state of mind.

The funny thing about family reunions…

No matter how old you get, as soon as you’re back with your family, you fall right back in to your old role. I may live in New York City. I may be a successful advertising copywriter. But as soon as I’m back with my family. I’m just one of the “big kids.”

Californians in Wisconsin

My family arrived in Milwaukee last night for a family reunion. Things are a little bit different here than they are in Berkeley and New York. Half my immediate family is vegetarian, and it has not been easy for them to find dinner.

I consider myself a very open minded eater. But I still suffered the following conversation with the waiter manning the breakfast buffet this morning.

“Do you have any skim milk?”

“No.”

“Ummm, two percent?”

“No.”

“I’m not even going to ask about soy milk.”

Blink. Blink, blink.

But really, what can I expect from a state that has restaurants with this menu. Please note the line at the bottom assuring that all sandwiches are served with a “generous portion of butter.”



Steak is $3.40? Welcome to America’s Dairyland.

What’s the word?

Every city has a word, according to the book I’m reading (Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert – totally interesting, you should read it). The city’s word communicates the essence of the city. The subject that’s on anyone’s mind at any given time. There is also a theory that every person has a word. A single concept that defines them. And if these words don’t match, the person will never quite feel at home in that city.

In this book, the author writes about her four-month stay in Rome. She could never be a real Roman, she decides, because her word doesn’t quite match the city’s. She loves Rome, but the word of the city, as explained to her by an Italian friend, is “Sex.” This is what the city is about, according to this one Italian. It’s what it runs on, it’s what everyone thinks about. All the time. (Maybe I should think about moving to Rome).

He then asks her what New York’s word would be. She thinks about it and then comes up with “Achieve.” I can agree with this. The general motivation I’ve observed in New York is to get ahead – whether that’s getting to the next promotion at your job, the next level in your salary, the next biggest apartment or just the next seat on the subway.

So what, I wonder, is San Francisco’s word? I discussed it with Gordon on Sunday at the previously mentioned café. I figured he’d have an unbiased opinion since he’s lived in both cities an almost equal amount of time and is from neither. He threw out the word “be” for San Francisco. People there are pretty content to express themselves and be who they are without judgment, he reasoned.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot as I’m trying to make the decision to stay in New York longer, or move back to San Francisco next month, as I originally planned. Although I love New York in many, many ways, my word is certainly not “Achieve.” If anything, it’s probably “Lazy.” (If you are a potential employer, please disregard this last sentence.) If this word theory has any relevance, I would choose “be” over “achieve” in a hot second. But of course, these are vast generalizations and only vaguely true.

I’ve been thinking about other city’s words. Paris, of course, would be “love.” Los Angeles, don’t be angry for the generalization LA pals, but “image.” And dear old Berkeley, my hometown. If Berkeley had a word it would be “Sock Monkey Placenta.”

Sock Monkey Placenta

I spent my Sunday hangover on Gordon's couch, playing with his sock monkey.


“I grew up with one of these,” I told him. “Only, our sock monkey had a uterus.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ya know, for the sock monkey fetus,” I explained. “We had a baby sock monkey that fit in the uterus with a detachable placenta and umbilical cord.”

Gordon stared at me.

“With a snap,” I continued. “The cord was attached to the baby’s belly with a snap. Also, the baby had a Velcro mouth that could attach to the mommy sock monkey’s Velcro nipples when it needed to nurse, of course.”

It wasn’t until I had said all this out loud that I realized that perhaps this would be considered strange by many people. Perhaps not everyone’s mother was a home midwife and needed tools to teach young, soon-to-be big brothers and sisters how their newborn sibling would arrive. Perhaps not everyone’s sock monkey had a uterus and Velcro nipples.

"We lost the cord and placenta," I told Gordon over coffee as we sat in a café later that day. "My mom isn't much of a seamstress, so she had to hire someone to make a new one."

“So, let me get this straight,” Gordon confirmed. “Your mother had to call someone up and say: ‘I’d like you to sew me a new sock monkey placenta. We seem to have lost ours.’”

“Yes.” I took another sip of my iced latte. “Is that weird?”

A helluva town

Oh New York, how you toy with my emotions.

Yesterday morning, as I hiked two miles up 3rd Ave through 99 degree weather with someone else’s barf on my limbs, I was ready to write you off as broken and inefficient. Yet last night, in the heat of a midsummer Central Park sunset, my sweat and pride mingled with that of thousands of other concert-goers. Our voices swam together through the humidity with a band that, to me, represents New York: the Beastie Boys, in their “Open letter to NY”:

“Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten
From the Battery to the top of Manhattan
Asian, Middle-Eastern and Latin
Black, White, New York you make it happen

Brownstones, water towers, trees, skyscrapers
Writers, prize fighters and Wall Street traders
We come together on the subway cars
Diversity unified, whoever you are.

I see you're still strong after all that's gone on
Life long we dedicate this song
Just a little something to show some respect
To the city that blends and mends and tests”

And at that moment I wondered how I could ever go back to California. Because that’s the point of New York: it tests. Living here is a constant challenge, a never-ending battle. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. It’s too crowded. It’s too expensive and too fast. But that’s what brings everyone together. That’s what makes it so cool.

And I love it.

Not working

This city doesn’t work.

I’m not trying to be critical of New York; I’m sure that if I had 8.2 million people living in me, I wouldn’t be able to function properly either. But it’s gotten to the point where I can do nothing but shake my head with a sad and knowing smile at the number of obstacles that arise monthly to prevent my coworkers and me from doing something as simple as getting to our office.

Last month, of course, we had the pipe explosion, causing the entire neighborhood to evacuate and putting into effect a “Freeze zone” – four square blocks though which no pedestrians nor traffic can pass. This Freeze Zone happens to stand directly in between my subway stop and my building and I learned last night on the news that it will be in effect until October. OCTOBER.

This morning, because of a little rain, every subway station and train line was flooded. Okay, so it was a pretty major storm – I was awoken at 6:30am by a torrential downpour and thunder that sounded like it was coming from my livingroom. In my half-asleep state, I was fairly certain that the world was ending and had I been more conscious, I would have run into Cate’s bedroom to sing about a few of my favorite things. But still, EVERY LINE? It’s just rain, people, get it together!

This flooding completely destroyed the morning commute. My roommates and I kept the local news on all morning for MTA updates, but the anchors kept repeating, “You should probably just stay home.” Advice I took happily until about 10:30am when I decided that I really should attempt to get to the office.

My harrowing journey involved taking the wrong train (because the right one wasn’t running), getting barfed on in the subway (but that’s another story for another time), getting off at Union Square to attempt to take a bus (with a giant mob of people). And ultimately just giving up and walking two miles through 99 degree humidity to the office.

I arrived shortly after 12, covered in sweat (and vomit), to see the rest of my coworkers arriving around the same time, also drenched in sweat (not vomit). They used various tactics to get here – those with cars drove, some took the ferry. That’s one thing I will give New Yorkers – they’re resourceful.

Here’s what cracks me up about all this… the client that my team works for is in San Francisco. And it seems that every time we have a project due, some ridiculous malfunction occurs (“Oh sorry you didn’t get that PDF last night –an underground pipe exploded, sending a cloud of asbestos-filled steam hundreds of feet into the air and thousands of people home in fear. Will have it to you by the end of the day, barring another collapse in our city’s 100-year-old infrastructure.”) They must think that we’re just giant flakes. Why? Because shit like this doesn’t happen in California!

Then again, the Beastie Boys aren’t giving a live outdoor concert tonight in California, but I’m going to see them in Central Park in just three hours, which is why New York rules!

Always copywriting

“When did I become so cynical? I suppose it’s part of getting older.”

“I don’t think you’re cynical. If anything, I’d say you strike me as optimistic.”

“Maybe I’m somewhere in between… cyninmistic. Is that a word?”

“Not sure, but it sounds delicious.”

“I’m sure it’s trademarked by some gum company.”

Summer Home

This weekend I managed to escape the oppressive heat that New York City has become to enjoy a leisurely weekend in the burbs of Long Island. It was complete with a friend-filled barbecue, fun-filled drinking games (which every respectable 30-year-old should be sure to play often) and best of all, the second annual day in Southampton.

As we strolled down the ridiculously gorgeous beach to admire the habitat East Coast Wealth, I contemplated which house I would purchase when I saved up my first five million. The options are vast and varied as the ocean they overlook.

Would I choose to spend my summers in a lovely Spanish hacienda by the sea?



Or perhaps I would prefer the comforts of a Transylvanian castle in the dunes.



Or there’s the option of shoving three barns together, adding some custom windows and calling it home.



Then we came upon a beachfront property that looked much closer to my current price range – one bedroom, natural setting, only steps from the sand. In fact, it was on the sand.



It's not a bad option to consider. It's all about location, right? And all of these summer homes had the most important feature in common: the view.



You’re all welcome to join me next year at my home in the Hamptons. Be sure to bring a sleeping bag.

Abbrevs

I don’t know if all industries are like this or if people in advertising are just very rushed, but they abbreviate everything here.

It’s not “Initial set-up” and “final set-up,” it’s ISU and FSU.

It’s not “Healthcare Provider,” it’s HCP.

And it’s not “Business Reply Card,” it’s BRC.

So when someone asked me “Is the HCP BRC in ISU or FSU?” I just stood there thinking, “WTF?”

You’d think it would be a pound or two at least.

Have you ever thought of weighing yourself previous to voiding your bowels, and then weighing yourself again after? C’mon, it sounds like a gross thought, but don't tell me it's never crossed your mind.

I tried it a few times as a kid. It was during my experimental phase of “What happens when I freeze this can of Coke?” and “Does this lotion taste as good as it smells?”

Disappointingly, the difference in weight was negligible. The freezer experiment resulted in an angry mother and hours of cleanup. And the lotion? No, it did NOT taste like vanilla and jasmine. It tasted like evil.

The third of the three R's

I can handle the mobs and the crowded subways. I can handle the extreme weather and the exploding steam pipes. But the one thing I really can’t handle about New York City is the lack of environmentalism I’ve found here. And I’m not even a dirty, tree-hugging hippy, I just care about the earth as much as the next socially responsible guy.

I was reminded of the lack of environmental interest here the other day when a San Fran friend was in town and innocently asked, “Where’s your compost?” I regretfully informed her that unlike San Francisco, New York doesn’t provide its residents with special green containers for biodegradable waste. “So where should I put this?” She held out the peel that she’d just removed from her banana. “The garbage,” I sighed, the weight of global warming guilt heavy on my shoulders.

But even the compost I can sort of forgive. You know what I can’t forgive? The fact that the giant, skyscrapers filled with millions of intelligent working Americans simply don’t recycle. I hope that I’m wrong. I hope that the three large Manhattan ad agencies where I’ve freelanced in the last year are the exceptions to the rule. Because I’m not just talking about throwing out cans and bottles, but paper. PAPER. Do you know how much paper is used at an ad agency? I couldn’t give you an exact figure, but I’m sure we go through a number of trees daily. Do you know how much of it gets thrown in the garbage? As far as I know, all of it.

I just read on the NYC government site that all commercial businesses must
* prominently post signs notifying employees about what and how to recycle.
* place labeled recycling containers where designated materials are routinely discarded.
* keep designated recyclables separate from garbage.

And yet not one company that I know of follows any of these mandates. Well, I've decided that I'm going to MAKE this company recycle. I’ve already called the government and the office manager. This company didn’t know what they signed up for when they hired this Berkeley-born Copywriter.