Ego over-easy, hold the bacon.

Yeah.  So.  Here I am, back in Arizona, and it’s nearly the end of 2011.  Most daring and adventurous year of my life, fo’ shizzle.  (Don’t worry, I can talk that way now.  I lived in New York.)

It’s been four months now since I returned to the wild west, but it seems like years since I last walked the streets of Manhattan at night, feeling the subways roar underneath my feet, or hanging around Union Square and watching the pre-Occupy youth of America dance merrily up and down the concrete steps, or expanding my cultural literacy by visiting important historical monuments; such as the subway grate that blew up Marilyn Monroe’s skirt...

But now that I’m back, my energy level has plummeted.  I need my walking city back.  Lexington Avenue became my treadmill, and without it, well, I am beginning to look (and feel) like a typical westerner again.  But the one thing I noticed in particular, the very night I returned to Flagstaff, was the marked stillness in the air around here.   I didn’t realize how the air constantly swirls about in New York City, day and night.  You get used to it swirling around you, rising and falling, passing through your body, brain, and soul – like throngs of overcharged neutrinos or something – whispering in your ear, screaming around your heart, motivating you to Get Up, Get Out There, and Achieve!  (Spot on, Elizabeth Gilbert.  Spot on.)  And there I was, suddenly finding myself back in my little mountain town, sitting inside my little forest home, listening to the quiet, feeling the still, and really, truly understanding something that I’d sort of known all along:  THIS SUCKS.

And that was just the beginning.  

You see, just after I'd returned from my very last meal on the very last day of my very last walk around the Upper East Side, I was getting ready to turn in my key and haul my suitcases down to the street and hail my very last cab to take me to La Guardia for the very last time, when I decided to check my email.  The Upright Citizens Brigade finally wanted to interview me early next week for that internship I so coveted.  Fantastic! – I thought.  I quickly fired back an email saying thank you for contacting me and I would be happy to schedule the interview via Skype or phone, thinking nothing of the possibility that this might not fly.  (Actually, it never occurred to me that it might not fly; it seemed so simple to me.  Modern technology, baby!  Yeaaah!) 

I told Gary about it and he tried to tell me that it’s okay if I decided I wanted to stay in NYC for the next three months to do the internship, but I was already completely immersed in the mindset of heading home to see him and my lovely dog and my sweet soft kitty and my mom and my friends, and my plane ticket was burning up in my hand, and I had just spent the last couple of weeks working so hard at mentally preparing myself to leave Manhattan by that point.  So I sent my reply, got on the plane, and flew home, thinking I’d spend a week or two with Gary, get the internship, figure out housing, and fly back for a few more months.  Yup – as we say in Arizona, No Problemo! 

The next day, I received a reply from UCB.  They didn’t want to interview me via Skype and there were plenty of other qualified candidates who had no problem coming in for a one-on-one, and please apply for next semester, they said, because I had a “stellar resume”.  Well…. crap. 

That was when I realized: as a result of living in Manhattan and doing two internships simultaneously and feeling right jiggy with myself for being so brave and adventurous and daring, my ego had somehow gotten blown WAY out of proportion to the actual size of my head.  What was I thinking, that they’d be so enthralled with my resume and electronic correspondence that meeting me in person would no longer be necessary before deciding I was just perfect for the job?  That I somehow stood out from ALL the other applicants and would be oh-so-worthy of them going out of their way to accommodate ME and my unconventional meeting request?

I guess when you spend a significant amount of time (and money) working for free, it tends to go to your head.  You start to expect, and feel entitled, and maybe even border on begrudge.  And then you get the rude awakening.  You’re lucky to even catch someone’s attention, much less convince them to allow you lend your time and talents for nothing in return, other than a possible reference to something that does pay, and/or the experience with which you can pad your resume.  And in this economy, you really ARE lucky to get someone to pay attention to you, especially if it might lead to knowing someone who knows someone who knows someone’s cousin who works at NBC, or Comedy Central, or HBO, or some really cool company in Seattle – or wherever you’d like to end up. 

Part of a church on the UES.   Yeah.  I know.

So I spent the next few months trying to figure out what to do.  Should I apply for the next semester as they suggested, and go back to NYC and continue to dangerously deplete our savings while taking another enormous chance on an internship that might or might not lead to something better?  Or should I just stay safe and cold in Flagstaff and keep sending my resume off into the ether, applying for jobs that I never hear back on and that always seem way out of my league because of the simple fact that I don’t know anyone who works for that company, who can put in a good word for me and help my electronic application rise to the virtual top of the virtual stack? 

And then, some time in late October, out of the blue, I got a call to do some temporary freelance video production work for the local corporate scene at W. L. Gore.  SCORE!!!

So that’s what I’m doing now.  This should last at least through the end of March, possibly even April, and it’s actual paid work in an actual professional environment and I can actually call myself a professional video producer.  Or, um… writer/producer.  Or… media developer?  I still don’t really know what to consider myself (other than lucky as hell, that is).

This is where they trap your spirit.

So.  Yeah.  Here I am.  The year is ending.  Another year is beginning.  I have an Honor’s degree in Electronic Media and Film, and a part-time job doing real-live production work for a real-live company that gives me a real-live paycheck.  Not too shabby.  I miss New York City and all its swirling airs and trademark sounds – of subways screeching and people trampling and taxi drivers constantly honking at no one (and everyone), and DAMMIT how upset was I that I just missed the Occupy movement (OH yes – that would have been one doozy of a documentary under my belt, had I been there to immerse myself in the crowd day and night with camera in hand), but I was there with them in spirit.  I think part of my spirit is still back there, probably caught up in those air-swirlies particularly around the East Village and Tribeca, because ever since I left, I feel a little less awake, a LOT less energetic, and a hella lot less full of myself.  The ego has been reeled in, given a harsh talking to, and put in time out, indefinitely. 

So along with the New Year, I need to also ring in – and reel in – the rest of whatever I left there in spirit, because I’m going to need that back.  And maybe I’ll make it back there somehow, or maybe I’ll end up in the Pacific Northwest.  Or San Francisco.  Who knows?  But my New Life in New York, temporary as it was, has given me a different perspective, a transformed sense of humility, and a renewed self-confidence that has been reconstructed with less ego and more appreciation. 

Do something scary, risky, and gutsy with your life every now and then.  I highly recommend it.

Earthquakes and Sabotage

So here I am, a week and a day away from my scheduled flight to return to Arizona, and I am living in two parallel worlds.  World A, where I return home and get to hang out with Gary and Ang and my various wacky friends and everything is back to ‘normal’ (except, of course, that I no longer have a “day job”), and World B, where I really just don’t want to leave New York City.  Like, ever again.  It hurt to leave the first time when I was just here visiting as a dorky tourist, and now that I’ve been living here amongst the Sovereign Nation of New Yorkers (that’s sort of the opposite of the People’s Republic of California) for three glorious months, I know that when I hail that final cab to take me to LaGuardia, I’m going to feel my skin being ripped away from my bones, dragged along Lexington Avenue, and snagged in the spurs of the Triborough Bridge as the taxi rolls farther and farther away from the Manhattan skyline.

Whoa, that’s like, really melodramatic.  And kinda gross.

What I’m trying to say is, it really will feel like a part of me is being ripped apart, because so much of me wants to stay here.  And when I get home, I’ll have, like, lesions on my soul, man.  No, really.  Stop scowling and rolling your eyes.  Your face could freeze like that some day.

But hey.  Some people leave their entire hearts in San Francisco.  So at least my heart will be completely intact by the time I return to my sweet husband, because I left it back in Flagstaff for him to take care of.

I know – sappy, isn’t it?  You’re getting nauseous, you say?  It’s because you keep rolling your eyes.  Stop it.

But seriously, folks, it’s been a wild ride.  Lord knows I wish I could stay, but the job search is just going to have to continue from the comforts of my Arizona mountain home with my dog at my feet and my cat splayed across my keyboard (she does that; you know – cat) while I Google myself silly looking for more job openings to grovel about.

*cue angelic choir music*

For a few days, however, there was a snag in the now-implemented Fallback Plan.  I saw an internship opportunity arise with the Upright Citizens Brigade.  A DREAM internship, in fact.  Well, dreamy enough – it basically involves working as a production assistant and filming their performances, editing their comedy shows, doing general administrative stuff, that sort of thing.  I was all like, wow – that sounds completely AWESOME!  And based on the fact that the UCB is pretty much the most nationally recognized and well-respected comedy venue in the whole wide world (that’s what their website says anyway), I thought, this could be IT!  The experience and “connections” with the real-world entertainment industry that I’ve been waiting for.  Yes, folks, these kids are in cahoots with the likes of SNL, Comedy Central, and all the important people in the world like that. 

So I hunkered down and applied.  Wrote up a beautiful cover letter based on the job description exactly, and the more I wrote, the more I realized, wow – I really am qualified for this; they just might call me! 

So I polished off the cover letter, attached the resume, and sent it off.  Then I sat there and stared at my “sent” box for about an hour, all giddy with myself.  All the while having horribly mixed feelings about having to leave Gary behind in Arizona for another semester, but thinking that this could be the big break we’re looking for – the one that might eventually lead to getting us BOTH out of Dodge and on with our lives together.

And then, just yesterday morning out of the sheer blue sky, I suddenly realized: the email describing the internship gave explicit instructions to write a cover letter based on what you expect to get out of the internship.  My cover letter just described why I’m insanely qualified.  Not one sentence did I provide that gave them any inclination of what I expected to get out of it.  So basically, I sent them a cover letter that just said, “Hey!  I couldn’t follow directions even if I was standing in the middle of Times Square and looking for Broadway, but I think you should trust me to run all your video equipment and let me play around with your show footage anyway!”

*slapping forehead repeatedly*  Stupid!  Stupid!  Stupid!

My excuse:  I’ve written so many cover letters over the past two months that I think I got locked into that way of thinking, and literally could not see the sentence in the email notice that said, and I quote, “If you are interested, please send (so and so) your resume and a cover letter detailing what you'd like to gain from the internship.”  I saw everything but that, as I dutifully and industriously tracked back and forth between Word and my email client, consulting the email repeatedly to make sure I addressed each and every point of the position and why I’m just hands-down the perfect candidate, baby – yeaah.  It was made for me, this internship; oh, beHAVE.

OR, there’s another possibility:  “Self-Sabotage”.  The ‘SS’ of our subconscious that gets in the way of what we think we want out of life, and says, “Naaah, you’ve gone completely bonkers, lass.”  (my subconscious is apparently a surly Irishman who’s always hopped up on Guinness)  “Who the heck are ya,” he went on, “…to think you could hang with the likes of people who might actually know people who know people like Amy Poehler -- or that you should even dare to think of yerself as one of the It crowd, the cool kids, the class clowns that ye so admired in grammar school.  Get over it and go home to your husband, lassie, and buy yourself a house dress… and for God’s sake, learn how to wax the floors.” 

My subconscious is a very talkative, very cynical drunk.

Sigmund Freud is the dude who came up with the whole “self-sabotage” term, but he also snorted hordes of cocaine and said that dreaming about boats meant you had an unconscious desire to have sex with your aging psychology professor who smokes cigars – or something like that.  So, you know, I’m sticking to my first theory that I got stuck in the mode of writing traditional cover letters and could not be rehabilitated to write this particular one any other way.

On second thought, self-sabotage at least sounds a little more glamorous…

Oh well.  That was fun.  So back to Plan A – which of course coincides with World A:  Going home to the husband and pretending that everything’s going to be okay.  That something will “come up” and I’ll magically find that “big break” that I need to get hired somewhere even without having networked sufficiently (the UCB might actually have turned out to be a most fantastic networking opportunity, but, alas, I blew it).  Flagstaff doesn’t exactly have that “network” of connections that could get me hired at NBC, MTV, HBO, or any of those fancy places that I so covet.  (It’s just a coincidence that all of the employers I mentioned are based in New York City.  No, really.  Shut UP!) 

But in addition to the internship application, I did actually apply to a few positions that I felt were worth my time to pursue.  And if one of them calls me for an interview, I’ll be on a plane back to NYC so fast that… that you can turn the light off in your bedroom and I’ll be on that plane before the room gets dark.  Eat that, Chuck Norris. 

So I’m sure you’re all dying to ask, “Didja feel the earthquake?”  Heck yeah I felt it.  In fact I was in a basement office located inside an old building in the TriBeCa district on Worth & Broadway, just a couple of blocks from the Court House.  It was like a weird rumbling at first, then the floor sort of swayed back and forth for like, what seemed like 10 seconds or so.  Everyone was all, What the Hell?  And then one of my co-workers checked twitter and everyone was going nuts, so we knew it wasn’t just somebody spiking the coffee again.

The dynamics of how each person dealt with it were very interesting to observe.  Michael the Film Producer is from New York.  So he was the most weirded out by all of it.  The other two in the office at the time, Andrea and Matt, are both from California and were like, pshhh – whatev.  I, for one, was just busy thanking my lucky stars that it was natural caused, and not something else, being as how we’re inching up closer to that 10-year anniversary, plus whatshisbutt got “murdered” by us not too long ago, so there’s been a few threats out there – for real.  And not just against Letterman.

Then I heard that people were being evacuated (or more like evacuating themselves) all over Manhattan and the outers, but especially down in the Financial District (really, can ya blame ‘em?).  I wasn't sure what to think of this, though.  Seems to me that if there’s a minor earthquake, stuff will be falling down around you from a lot higher up if you’re hanging around outside.  If you’re inside, the books jiggle on the bookshelf, the coffee cup might go kerplunk and then kercrash.  But there are gables and steeples and spires all over the City, not to mention the precariously placed cement gargoyles and statues that literally loom on the edge, just waiting for an excuse to lop off their own head a la some scene right out of “Prophecy” and crash down on some unsuspecting sinner-monkey.  Nope, I’d prefer to stay inside, thankyouverymuch.  If the shaking continued or got any worse, of course, I’d start to wonder at the integrity of the building itself, but the little quakes like that are the ones that cause the pointy and plastery stuff on the tops of buildings to come crashing down.

"Just gimme a reason.  Any reason."

No one was hurt, according to the 6 pm news, so that’s good.  They say to expect aftershocks and whatnot… okie-dokie.  But when I got back to my room, everything was still exactly in its place.  I didn’t even have any books go jiggly off the shelves, and my coffee cup was intact exactly where I’d left it.

So there you have it.  I was in Manhattan when the quake hit.  You can tell people whom you want to impress that you know me if you want.  No autographs, please.

Subway Madness, or "Walking the Yellow Line"

Ah, the subways.  Any New Yorker will tell you how much they hate them.  But secretly, these blessed yanks adore those snaky tin cans brambling through the boroughs.  I can tell.  I see them hang their heads in feigned indignity as they ride the Downtown, the Uptown, and the Cross-town, but I know the truth.  If it weren’t for the trains, they’d have to drive, taxi, or (God save us all), take the bus.  And for every smelly, scary, or otherwise ungodly (in a variety of ways) train car experience, there are just as many trains you’ll happen to be riding on that make you go, “Hmmm.”  You can explore your deepest, darkest nightmares or witness the sweetest, most delicate validations of humanity – and you never know which one you're gonna get – that’s what makes it interesting.  Life is like a tunnel of subway trains…

Like the ride I took from Queens back to Manhattan one day.  It was on a mid-afternoon Tuesday, so everyone who was on the train either worked some sort of swing shift, or was in school, or a homemaker, or who knows?  But this was an interesting group.  Usually I hang my own head and stare at the ground, just to fit in… and to avoid the “wrong” kind of eye contact (whatever that is – I still haven’t quite figured out what they mean by that in the New York for Dummies book).  So for some reason I decided to glance up, and noticed that everyone was smiling.  I thought, well that’s kind of creepy.  But then I followed the twinkling gazes to a stroller in the middle of the car that contained the cutest, silliest toddler that I – or anyone there besides his parents – had ever seen.  And he knew it.  A little boy in a red shirt and tiny little bluejeans, gawking up at people, grinning, giggling, and just grokking the whole scene for himself – and he was in control of that subway car, I guarantee you this.  There was even this really big, kind of scary-looking dude with gang tattoos all up and down his arms and neck and sort of a general “I’m a Bad-Ass Mo-Fo, don’t mess wit me” look about him who was… wait, is he giggling? 

Yes, he was.

And making peek-a-boo face.

As this went on, the train made another stop, and an older couple hobbled on – he with an accordion, she with a guitar, and they proceeded to stand and play some sweet, upbeat Mexican folk song that kind of reminded me of home, actually.  It was charming.  There are a lot of people wanting money from you in the subways, and you kind of feel bad passing by (most of) them, but to this couple I would definitely fork over some hard-earned.  And I did so as they passed through the car to illegally move into the next one and play another song.  I wanted to follow them.  But that would have been, you know, weird.

The next thing I saw was what prompted me to break out the notepad and start chronicling everything I’d seen that day.  Wait – I built that up too much, didn’t I?  Yes, I sense you’re expecting to read about something really amazing – some spectacle of revelation that somehow brought me one step closer to understanding the truth of life.  Not really.  It was just this guy – this 30-something Latino-looking man (sitting) who tapped a slightly older white woman (standing) on the shoulder and graciously insisted that she take his seat.  That kind of thing, I can fairly attest, rarely happens where I come from.  There’s too much division.  Too much animosity.  And not enough trust.  But there was something so sincere, so civilized, so NEW YORK about that scene.  I had to start writing all this down and plan my next blog accordingly.

Of course, I’ve also been in subway cars where I was literally standing between two men who were about to start a fist fight.  I’ve been in smelly ones.  I’ve been in exceedingly crowded ones.  I’ve seen a woman sit alone in a corner and cry silently to herself.  I’ve seen couples fighting with each other.  I’ve seen a mother verbally abuse her little girl and strangers try to step in, heightening the situation but at the same time giving that poor child a message that she’s not all by herself with that woman when she’s in public (did I mention how New Yorkers take care of their own?).  And then there’s this little jerk who’s been on the news for riding the 4 or 6 (my Upper East Side train) and following women out of the subway, approaching them for directions, and then suddenly throwing them down on the ground, grabbing them under the skirt, and then running away.  I hope they catch that little snot before his life is put in grave danger – you know, for trying it with me.

There’s this other aspect of the subway that makes it alluringly creepy, and that’s the train track itself.  If you’re brave enough to step onto the Yellow Line that borders the platform and the track and look over, you’ll see all sorts of interesting things.  Among the discarded Metro Cards, you might see a doll’s head.  Or a foraging mouse.  And always water… there is ALWAYS standing water on the tracks.  I’m not sure why.  And the sounds… oooh, the sounds.  The screeching.  The echoes.  The turnstile alarms.  The (useless) loudspeaker.  I say (useless) because you can never understand what they’re saying, which makes it all the more eerie in there.  All you hear is some humanoid voice going “JIDSAOM FNANFANAB AKWHOWIHAHU SAGHAWAUW SKOONA” and you only figure out later by your own observations that the humanoid was trying to tell you that the train is delayed, or canceled, or just that it’s one station away… 

And then there’s the Yellow Line.  Let me tell you about the Yellow Line…

If you step onto the Yellow Line, you’re on the edge.  On one side, there’s the nice, flat, concrete platform of safety.  On the other, a black, watery trench where the tracks are laid.  Sometimes, when the station is crowded and you’re just trying to get out of the subway, you have to Walk the Line (apologies to Mr. Cash) and just hope to the highest heaven that there aren’t any nut cases around you who might decide it could be fun to just “bump” into you and push you into the trench. 

Yes, I fear this.  In my head.  Often.

If you get pushed into the trench, it’s sort of a long way down, and you’re going to need some help getting out.  So like, what if you get pushed in there while the train is coming?  Uhhhhhhgggggh!  I shudder to think about it.  While Gary was here, we were taking the subway one day and there were some delays announced (at least I think that’s what they said) due to a “police investigation” on the track going the other way.  That night on the news, I learned that some poor woman had passed out in the subway station, fell into the trench, and a train had hit and killed her.  No one was able to help her out in time, of course, because to jump in after someone – especially someone passed out cold – would be putting your own life in grave danger.  I can’t imagine what it must have been like for those who witnessed it.

So I steer clear of the Yellow Line as much as possible.  The trains come in fast and hard, and the operator can’t exactly stop it on a dime.  Subway deaths happen more often than we think, I’m sure.  Just like the Grand Canyon jumps, they probably happen so often that they’re just not reported very much.

But one night, one freaky, surreal, semi-psychotic night, I decided I HAD to go out – if only to temporarily escape the screaming, giggling ninnies on my dorm room floor.  I started at Grand Central.  I wanted to just be out on the town for once, maybe have a drink, but not feel all weird like I was in a bar alone, so I thought, Grand Central – perfect!  I can pretend I’m waiting for a train – everyone else will be doing the same – and I can relax and just enjoy my own company!  So I ordered my signature Vodka cran.  

The gods of Grand Central could not protect me from myself...

By the time I paid the bartender, I’d gotten it into my head that I was going to HAVE me some of that New York pizza, dammit all, and I wasn’t going to find any at Grand Central, so I headed down Park Avenue toward Union Square.  I passed by countless kitschy little restaurants, pubs, and hip hangouts where everyone was having a great time – with each other.  I was texting Gary and sending random pics of the city to him and my friend Angela back home, but the loneliness really started to grind its way in this time. 

By the time I got to Union Square, something snapped.  My brain had started quoting Kerouac and Ginsberg and suddenly remembering everything I’d read of their New York observations – and their heated hungry beat voices grew very, very loud in my head.  I found a Starbucks and fired up my iPod and posted some obscure tribute to Hunter S. Thompson that even I don’t really understand, but people seemed to “like” anyway.  I found some great pizza in the Square (not that signature brick oven stuff, but it was really good), gobbled down a large slice, and reemerged into the concrete jungle.  That’s when things got really warpy. 

I hadn’t had that much to drink, so something else was definitely going on.  I started to get defensive, angry, even militant.  A drifter hobbled up to me begging for money, which usually works on me if I have some small cash, but this time I looked right at him and said, “Sorry, I don’t have anything.”  He gazed up at me with shocked, accusing eyes and I just looked him dead in the face and returned the accusing stare, and he gave up and walked away.  I thought to myself, did that just happen?  Who has taken over my body?  Because that’s completely not like me. 

The full moon hanged itself over the buildings, and the warped Square now began to spin. 

Stop the Square!  I want to get off!

I actually lost my balance at one point, had to lean against a building, and wait for the episode to pass.  I started to panic – what was happening to me?  Then I remembered, a long time ago at NAU when I worked with an instructor of a Hotel-Restaurant Management course.  She had a section in her course that described Culture Shock.  I remembered the symptoms – disoriented, defensive, easily provoked; all a built-in defense against overwhelming feelings of isolation and loneliness in a strange place.  It hit me – maybe I had culture shock.  A mild form of it, of course; I didn’t go ballistic and start fights with people or anything.  But once I realized what was going on, I began to relax a little and went to sit on the steps of the Square and listen to the musicians and the conversations around me.  I knew I would be OK if I could just sit for a few minutes and calm down.  I texted another obscure note about it on Facebook, which prompted the husband to call.  I sat on the steps and talked with Gary for about a half hour, and that brought me back to reality.

So I found myself some yummy frozen yogurt and headed back for the subway.  I was still a little woozy, but that something that had “snapped” was still a bit… snappy, and I found myself walking the line.  Yes, the Yellow Line.  You know, just for funsies.  Something I never do.  Like, ever.  And that’s when I took that photo you see at the top of this blog.  See?  The train is coming and everything!  Yep.  I was a bit cracked that night.  No, not crocked.  Cracked.

Um, it helped that the subway was virtually empty and that no one was likely going to push me over the edge (save for myself)... but that’s beside the point.  I NEVER walk that Yellow Line if I can help it, crowds or not.  And there I was, like some burnt out, used jet trash version of Dorothy, skipping along the dreaded path of danger and taking pictures.

But I’m still here; I survived the subway, I survived the minor culture shock ordeal, and I survived the Yellow Line.  Next thing you know, I’ll be jaywalking.  *gasp!*